#it looks fine here but it looked wonky before so

[weaponizedmoth]

Bully shenanigans. Inprnt | All My Art | Ko-Fi

[squinkoblinko]

this guy eats brainz like gum

[arolesbianism]

Decided to draw some hypothetical employee id cards for my upper floor team captains <3

[lailau7904]

So y'all have seen the Williams F1 Logo before, yeah?

well get ready, becaues I am about to ruin your day!

where does one even begin with this. i am sorry in advance. -just a poor learning graphic design student, who simply tried to enjoy their saturday evening

The Logo

For anyone that doesn't know, here's the Williams F1 Logo. Entirely unedited, copied straight from Wikipedia:

Now like many fans, I actually quite enjoy this logo. I like the modern, sharp edges of it and it's simple yet intriguiging design. It's memorable, while also easily recognizable as a W. I also really enjoy the colour choice (this, however, is entirely a personal preference.)

(entire rant under the cut. please keep reading this took years off my life span.)

How did we even get here?

Let's start at the beginning. How did we even get here? Well I, a poor poor learning graphic designer, was watching this lovely video from Mr. V's Garage about bad F1 Logo's over the past 35 or so seasons. Very interesting, I can only recommend it (but you don't need to watch the video to understand this post)!

Now, to cleanse the palette at the end of the video, Mr. V included a top 10 GOOD logos from this time span, it was very kind of him.

On P4 of this "Good List," Mr. V placed the current Williams F1 Logo, as pictured above. At first I vaguely agreed with this, believing that he probably simply hadn't noticed one of the things that's been bothering me about that Logo since the first time I saw it up close.

The first sign of Trouble

So, what is this mystery issue, you might ask?

It's simple really. You don't necessarily notice it at a first glance, but something about that logo seems off. Taking a second longer, you may notice it yourself.

No, I mean it, take a minute and go look at the logo. It looks wonky as hell, doesn't it?

Well I can tell you the first thing that I personally noticed. The arms of the W aren't in line with the bottom half, see:

(Graphic by @girlrussell who was so kind to let me use it, as it is way prettier than the one I made)

It's a crooked W. There is no good explanation for this. The rest of the font is perfectly fine, geometrical shapes.

Anyway, the good person that I am I went to point this out to my partner ( @leftneb ) who proceeded to inform me that he, infact, was not aware about this and was, quote, "never going to unsee that."

Now, the good FRIEND that I am, I, of course, proceeded to rush into our broader F1 friendgroup to make them suffer for eternity.

What's the logical next step to take? Of course, fix the logo in Adobe Photoshop, you know, as a joke.

(Disclaimer at this point, I am not necessarily the biggest fan of Williams Management Team. I enjoy ALL their drivers this season. I do NOT enjoy James Vowels. Be warned.)(Also I am aware that he probably did not have an influence on the logo)

Trying to fix it. Oh god, I was so innocent back then

Trying to fix the logo in Photoshop is the worst mistake I could've made. THE worst path to take. I could've just giggled about making my friends suffer (which I succeeded in, by the way) and moved on. Instead I ruined a perfectly good Saturday evening, and for what? I don't know anymore.

Anyway, how was I gonna go about fixing the logo in the simplest way possible? Simplest way I could come up with: slap the thing in Photoshop and put two, mirrored boxes at each side to make the sides line up. Small issue, how do I make the thing actually even? Fix: line them up at the intersecting point with the bottom tips of the W.

Here's the result:

Hey, anyone care to explain to me why in THE LORDS NAME the arms are different sized? I mean, surely they weren't before. Surely, certainly, I must've messed up.

I double, I tripple checked. I made sure everything was lined up and made sense. But no.

It just couldn't be. Something was uneven in this logo, something even deeper. Something I could not have predicted when first taking a closer look. It was at this point I realized I had messed up. What rabbit hole had I stumbled across? Certainly, it couldn't get much worse.

And that's when I noticed.

(pictured above; my genuine reaction)

There's MORE? (oh god, the top isn't lined up)

I couldn't believe my eyes. This is the PINNACLE of the sport, and THIS was the logo of one of the competing teams? I mean, yeah, we have a Visa Cash App RB or a Kick Sauber or even a MoneyGram Haas which are all terrible logos, but at least they're CLEAN. (this has not been checked. If anyone wishes to ruin a nice Saturday evening, feel free to check them and tell me how wrong I was in the previous statement!)

But you can see that there is no end in sight for this post. I'm sure you're as scared as I was at this point. By now we were sitting in VC, discussing the horribleness of this logo. I had long informed my irl's about this, who take said design classes with me. And it was one of them who pointed out the next thing that had been bothering me, but I had not been able to put a finger on up to this point.

thE DISTANCE, HOW DID THEY FUCK IT?

I'm afraid I have to confirm your fears.

Yes, those lines are the same length. According to Photoshop, they're on the same level as well, so no flunking with angles.

The gaps of the arms to the main W are not the same. They're differently sized gaps.

It was clear to us, this logo is inherintely flawed. They're subtle issues, but once you pay attention you start to notice things. It all looks slightly wonky and off centre. And eventually, you get paranoid, and start comparing other angles and sizes. And you will keep finding things. This has ruined my life.

HOOOOOW

Honestly, I don't even know what to say. Yes, yes sadly those lines, too, are the same length. Just copied over from one side to the other and layed over on the same height. I admit, they're not layed over perfectly. I was honestly holding back tears at this point. But the point still stands, you can clearly see a difference in width.

Honestly, the only way I can explain it is that at some point there was a mess up of distance or proportions and whoever was designing the logo couldn't pin it down and tried to restore the visual balance by making manual adjustments. And in all honesty? They kinda did a good job, if that's what's happened. I mean, you notice the crookedness of the arms, and then maybe the difference in height, but the rest you probably will not notice if you don't spend too much time staring at it. (like some of us) And even those issues clearly aren't noticeable to the vast majority, considering I had to go point it out to a group chat for my friends at least to notice.

what the fuck is THAT?

Now, the thing about doing this investigative work of prooving a team you dislike is worse in more aspects than you previously thought, is that you do a lot of zooming in. And zooming in means you might notice bits that yours eyes simply overlooked before, because they were too small.

Here you can witness the top of the middle point, that, for whatever reason, really wants to touch the top border of the Logo. I'm relatively certain that's the highest few pixel in the entire graphic, considering earlier chapter "There's MORE?" I have no idea why it looks like that or why they thought it was necessary for it to not end in a clean point.

I just actually have no idea how to even describe what is going on on the top of the left arm. That left hand side, again, touches the side and is therefore the most-left-pixel in the graphic. I, once again, have no idea the purpose of this. However the RIGHT hand side also makes no sense, as it is the most prominent corner in the whole logo. There's pointed corners, and rounded OF corners, but nothing that is trying to form it's own colony in a distant land that hopefully isn't this god awful logo. I hope that blob gets away. I really do. You go king.

i'm loosing my mind

Anyway, the only reason I could come UP with those weird "reachy-outy-bits" was to establish the dimensions of the logo? But if that was the case, I don't understand why they managed to keep all the other potentially border touching corners clean?

Like, look. Those are clean, sharp corners with some clearance off the borders. I have no clue why they managed it here but not with the others.

guys. please.

Backtrackig a little bit, going back to the positioning of the arms.

Do I need to mention that those lines are both the same length and the same (mirrored) angle? I really hope I don't, because I don't think I could be making this shit up. Like, once you roughly know what you need to look for it just kinda becomes easy to find.

As said before, I genuinely do think that most of these issues happened in a chain-reaction. For example, the distances between the main part and the W wouldn't be as noticeable (and they do get noticeable once you start looking at it) if the angle wasn't fucked. And guess what, there's more fucked angles here! Which ALSO influence this specific area of the logo!

this is just embarrasing for you.

something something same line copied over and mirrored etc etc

It's not as visible but the angles defintely don't line up here as well. As mentioned before, these issues for the most part all influence each other. It doesn't really excuse the issues, in my opinion as a designer, because a big company like this shouldn't have these sort of issues in their logo.

So let's review;

to sum it up,

i cannot even BEGIN to explain to you how big of a fucking JOKE this FUCKING logo is. because, i thought to myself, to round the post out, hey, why not show ALL the issues i pointed out in one picture? that would round it out quite nicely, wouldn't it?

Yeah well, this logo sent STRAIGHT FROM HELL just could NOT let me rest. I had only done the lines visualizing the crooked arms in PAINT up until this point, i.e. I had only pulled both up individually. To make a nice "rounding out" picture I still had to add them into PHOTOSHOP. so i did. i pulled up the line. i mirrored the line.

THE ANGLE IS FUCKING DIFFERENT

none. and i mean NONE of my friends had noticed this before. i need you to understand that we looked at this thing with FIVE pair of eyes, and NONE of us noticed that until i thought to myself "Oh I still need to add these specific lines to have ALL the issues I pointed out in my SILLY TUMBLR POST in ONE image" and i get THAT FUCKING SURPRISE

I was PLANNING to round the post out with a statement on how obviously this isn't a serious post. Here, I even had it all written out already because I accidentally started writing it in the last paragraph:

Of course, this is nitpicking, and it's not that serious. I'm aware of that. AS MENTIONED most of these would not be noticeable if we hadn't gone specifically looking for them.

yeah, well, fuck that. i just spent two hours seething about this logo. i'm ending the post on this instead.

[ao3topshipsbracket]

Bonus statistics: the Really Funny Graph Awards

As I've pointed out before, it's often hard to notice voter fraud— even in large quantities— if you can't see, not just how many votes came in, but when and in what patterns. Accusations of fraud don't track fraud, they track controversy; the most fraud often happens in polls that nobody particularly objects to, because nobody was paying attention.

Unless you have a graph in front of you. Fortunately, we do! So here's a brief review of the graphs that made it very, very clear to the mod team group chat that someone was playing silly buggers.

Round 1:

Davekat vs Zolu would almost even look natural, if it weren't for that enormous spike at the day 4 mark. But what a spike! And Akeshu vs Supercorp has those spikes in the middle, but the beginning stages of the graph look maybe fine... if you weren't watching for the first two days, and didn't get to see the progression:

Round 2:

This, on the other hand, couldn't be mistaken for natural by anyone. Look at this nonsense. The stairstep lines! The sharpness of the peaks! The sharpness of the dropoffs, which is how you can tell that this isn't just the poll being reblogged by large accounts, it is one person putting in truly insane amounts of effort! The fraud continuing long after Hualian had a significant lead, apparently just to make sure Buddie couldn't possibly launch a counteroffensive! Isn't it beautiful!

Round 4-5:

And once again, Hualian voters— or, well, some particular Hualian voter— goes nuts. Usually in 1-day polls, the votes come in fast enough that even with a graph it's hard to see if anything's gone wonky. Not so here; that bend in both graphs at around the same time, where I can only assume our frauder stopped for the night and went to bed, is a work of art.

Round 6:

No visible irregularities in the graphs (I assume they were just happy with getting to the semifinals?) but I did see this ask pop up:

I didn't see responses from anyone who took them up on it.

Real talk: This sort of thing is the reason I run poll brackets. This is proof that one person with insane dedication and a lot of time really can be the backbone of a fandom. This is, and I know this is melodramatic but I am being entirely sincere here, a chart of human passion.

Davekat, Akeshu, and especially Hualian— someone loves you very, very much.

[st4rlvr]

Home sweet chaos || BCN

The apartment was quiet except for the muffled sounds of cardboard being ripped open and metal tools clinking against each other. Sunlight filtered through the half-assembled blinds, illuminating the chaos scattered across the living room floor: screws, wood panels, and instruction sheets that might as well have been in another language.

“Are you sure it’s supposed to look like that?” Y/N asked, brow furrowed as they squinted at the lopsided bookshelf Chan had been working on for the past hour.

Chan sat cross-legged on the floor, tool in hand, staring at the bookshelf as though it had personally betrayed him. His curls were already falling into his eyes, and there was a smudge of something—probably grease—on his cheek. “Of course! It’s all part of the process, Y/N. Trust me, I’ve got this.”

“You said that an hour ago, and yet…” Y/N trailed off, giving the uneven bookshelf another pointed look.

Chan sighed dramatically, flopping back onto the carpet with a thud. “Okay, fine. Maybe I don’t ‘got this.’” He ran a hand through his hair, letting out a breathless laugh. “Building furniture is harder than I thought.”

Y/N chuckled, setting down the screwdriver they’d been holding. “So you’re telling me you’re a music producer, you can layer a hundred sounds and beats into a perfect track, but you can’t build a shelf?”

Chan groaned, covering his face. “Why are you attacking me in my own home?”

“Our home,” Y/N corrected with a grin. They crawled over to sit beside him on the floor, nudging his shoulder gently. “We’ll figure it out. Together. That’s kind of the whole point of this, right?”

He peeked through his fingers at them, his smile softening as he dropped his hands. “Yeah. Together.”

The two of them eventually managed to get the bookshelf upright—though they agreed it was safest to leave it in the corner where no one could touch it—and decided to abandon the idea of building the rest of the furniture for the day. Exhausted and covered in sweat, they both sat in the middle of the empty living room, surrounded by cardboard boxes.

“I’ll go grab food,” Chan said suddenly, pushing himself to his feet. “You stay here and relax. I’ll be quick.”

Before Y/N could argue, Chan was already halfway out the door, leaving them alone in the midst of the semi-unpacked apartment. They flopped back onto the floor, staring up at the ceiling with a sigh, marveling at how surreal it felt to call this place home.

When Chan returned, he was carrying two plastic bags of takeout, the smell wafting through the room instantly. “I come bearing gifts!” he announced triumphantly.

Y/N sat up eagerly, their stomach rumbling at the thought of food. “You’re the best.”

“I know,” Chan replied with a grin, settling onto the floor beside them. They spread out the food between them—containers of rice, noodles, and some dumplings that Chan had declared were “non-negotiable.”

Neither of them bothered with plates. Instead, they ate straight from the containers, sitting cross-legged on the hardwood floor, laughing about how this would be a core memory one day.

“It’s kind of perfect, though,” Y/N said between bites. “Even if the bookshelf is wonky and we’re eating on the floor.”

Chan smiled at them, chopsticks paused midair. “Yeah. It’s ours. That’s all that matters.”

There was something about the way he said it—simple and soft, but filled with meaning. The boxes and unfinished furniture didn’t matter. Neither did the mess or the chaos. It was theirs.

Chan nudged Y/N’s knee playfully. “Hey, next weekend, we’ll actually finish the rest of the furniture.”

“Or you’ll just give up halfway through again,” Y/N teased, earning a playful glare from him.

“Hey! I’m learning. Give me a break,” Chan laughed, shaking his head.

They both fell into a comfortable silence after that, the food slowly disappearing between them as the last bit of sunlight faded outside. The apartment still didn’t feel quite like home—yet. But sitting there, side by side on the floor, laughing over bad furniture-building skills and sharing takeout, Y/N realized it didn’t matter.

It already felt like home because Chan was there.

[ouiouimochi]

We should kiss

pairing/s: jiro kirisaki x reader

genre/s: romance, comedy(?), plot of convenience

wc: 800 ish words

warning/s: wonky phone format, no beta we die like zenji sigh, plot holes but you pretend you don't see it, medical shit I say here may or may not be true— but pls do not immediately believe it, PC never catches a break, itty bitty minor spoilers up until episode 9, characters may be ooc

note/s: ngl if yuri sees this, he'd call me a quack and make a point that studying in the med field as I am now just proves how much of a quack I am— 🦆

sigh I should be reviewing but then inspiration struck me

⁠ *✧⁠˖✦ـــــــــــــــــــــﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـــــــــــــــــــــ✦⁠˖✧*

You stood there absolutely confused as Yuri continued yapping about… something. What the actual fuck was he actually saying? The teal-haired male kept droning on while using fancy scientific and medical jargons.

You just nodded every now and then to show you were listening, but you were just doing it out of courtesy if you were being honest. You understood a few but couldn't piece together what he was trying to say.

All you could make of his blabbering was “saliva”, “immunity”, and “Jiro”.

Speaking of which, the other male cut in— you were unsure if it was for your sake or it was just his nature to do so, but you were grateful nonetheless. Until you visibly grew even more perplexed at the stoic male’s words.

“He means to say that we should kiss.” Jiro’s garnet eyes gauged your expression as a barely noticeable smirk crept itself up on his lips. Whether he meant to rouse certain reactions from you or not, you were sure he was snickering behind that deadpanned countenance.

Yuri makes a very disgruntled noise, “That's oversimplifying things, but as concise as always— nevermind that, I've hypothesized this would greatly improve Jiro's overall health.”

You weighed your options, however the Captain of Mortkranken was not yet done as he crossed his arms over his chest.

“Consider the debt you owe us paid when you participate.” His use of ‘when’ instead of ‘if’ solidified the case that you didn't have a choice in the matter at all.

It didn't help that a phantom presence made itself known to you.

“My dear, a loveliest lady such as yourself shouldn't be forced like this even if he's my little brother…” Zenji’s voice dripped with concern, but it made the decision to decline even harder since you kind of felt bad.

You sighed and shook your head, briefly making eye contact with the ghost to reassure him before meeting the eyes of the Mortkranken ghouls.

“Fine.”

Jiro calmly approached you and immediately rested a hand on your lower back. Before you know it, you were eye level with his tired and attractive face. Your eyes widened in surprise.

“Wait, now?—” You last heard a dramatic gasp from Zenji, getting cut off as the tall, usually apathetic purple-haired man just casually locked his lips with yours.

Time slowed as his tongue slipped in to take advantage of your shock— you were just too stunned to kiss back even if you wanted to. You were just screaming on the inside at what was happening.

“Jiro! Jiro!! What on earth are you doing?!?!” Yuri's flustered response echoed loudly in the room, basically screeching at the taller ghoul.

“Is it not optimal to immediately test out a hypothesis when created?” Jiro voiced out logically after pulling away from the kiss, still holding you closely as his eyes looked at his captain’s before locking with yours. You swallowed a lump in your throat.

Your mind was swirling, your whole face basically heating up in embarrassment. You did not expect him to do that at all— in front of an audience well he didn't know zenji was there no less.

Jiro had the gall to laugh, allowing his normally unbothered personality to crack as he enjoys making fun of you as if it became his favorite pastime now. He licked his lips.

“Y-you heathen! Get a room and don't include me in the hypothesis testing!!!” The teal-haired ghoul expressed his distaste of the blatant display of intimacy right in front of his face.

Yuri turns away to pinch the bridge of his nose as he clicks his pen, pointing it at you still in Jiro’s arms— you didn't know why he was still holding you. Any longer, you feared you might grow comfortable.

“You, out. We have reports to record.”

And such you find yourself absentmindedly walking back to your dorm. Your fingers ghosting your lips, remembering the kiss. His lips were surprisingly soft. The way he held you wasn't uncomfortable either. And his tongue—

You shook your head to rid yourself of the thoughts.

‘It’s just another experiment.’

Too bad you actually enjoyed it.

⁠*✧⁠˖✦ـــــــــــــــــــــﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـــــــــــــــــــــ✦⁠˖✧⁠*

sigh

taglist: @ryescapades (hi wifey even if u dunno this fandom *cri*), @minasfwoopyponytail , @akiakabane18 , @rottenzombrainz , + anyone else who wants to be added

[pretty-little-mind33]

Ice hockey!James Potter x fem!reader

Summary: James tries to teach you how to Ice Skate — in the same universe as Dear Reader

Genre: Fluff, smidge of hurt and comfort

Warnings: muggle au, swearing, James is an asshole sometimes, arguments, jealousy, insecurities

JAMES POTTER MASTERLIST

James Potter can be a complete prick. He never means to, not really, but he can be.

You had told him you'd never been ice skating, and he had been visibly appalled. "You're dating a hockey player and you've never been skating?" he'd reprimanded, as if dating him was your one mission in life.

You'd rolled your eyes for the fifth time that day, already annoyed by his attitude, but as he ties the laces of your skates now—his shaggy dark hair falling in front of his eyes—you hide a smile.

He looks up, patting your skates, and grins. "There you go, all done," he stands and pulls you up with him. You wobble shakily on the blades, and James smiles at you fondly. A few of his friends chuckle as you hold onto his arm as he moves towards the rink.

"Honey, don't bend your ankles," he says.

You shoot him a glare. "I'm not doing it on purpose," you say, continuing to hide a smile as you hold onto him tighter, "prick." James laughs as he gently guides you out onto the rink.

The very moment your blades hit the ice, your balance becomes all wonky, and you panic, almost sliding from under James's arms. It's his turn to hide a smile as he pulls you up and glides effortlessly in front of you.

He takes your hands and slowly skates backwards as he looks down at your skates. "Okay, don't you worry, darlin', I won't let you fall," he turns to watch as his friends step onto the ice easily, "Here, look at how Lils does it."

Lily Evans skates next to you, her auburn hair falling over her shoulders, and you watch her. She looks so elegant, and jealousy sits in your stomach. You try to mimic her movements for a while with James being as patient as ever.

Occasionally, he catches you a few times so you don't fall, and you feel hopeless at this. You feel even more helpless when James's teammates and friends call out to him and ask him to skate with them.

They tease him, and he turns to them with a smirk, holding your hands, but you know he wants to join them. "You can go, Jamie, I'll be okay," you say, and you mean it. James looks unsure.

Lily adds, "I'll watch over her, Potter."

Finally, James nods and skates over to his friends. He wraps his arms around them as they act like little schoolboys on the playground. You're truly fine with James having his fun, and anyway, you don't have time to worry about him as you almost trip on your blades, and Lily catches your arm.

It feels like hours pass as your feet start to ache. You've gained a little more confidence and have moved away from the wall, but you still grip onto Lily's hand as she skates with you.

Sometimes, James sneaks up on you to twirl you around. When he does this, you smack his chest as you steady yourself and warn him not to do that again. He didn't listen, and by the third time, it wasn't funny anymore.

You really, really didn't want to fall.

Suddenly, you hear laughter before large hands grip your waist and scoop you up, higher than the previous times. James's laughter drowns out Lily's protest as you squeal. Your boyfriend turns you around, and with a little too much momentum, drops you on the ice again.

You gasp as your feet slide under him, and his smile disappears as you crash to the ground. James spreads his legs so he doesn't hit you with his blades, and you slip forward, almost crashing into the wall behind him. You hear amused laughter from James's friends.

"Shit, are you okay?" James asks quickly, his voice small, as he skates up to you again and this time helps you up with gentler hands. Your own hands hurt from the ice, and your eyes water as you feel everyone staring at you.

It was embarrassing enough to be so bad at something so important to someone you love, but this was humiliating.

Luckily, you'd fallen close enough to the exit of the rink that you could grip the wall and pull yourself out. Quickly, James is behind you as he attempts to take your hand as you walk towards the bench. Your jeans are wet, and when you sit down, you wince from how much your ass hurts.

Silently, you start to unlace your skates as the tears fall. James kneels down and covers your hands with his as he tries to stop you. "Honey, I'm sorry," he says, but you just glare at him. If he had puppy ears, they would be fully laying on his head now.

"I asked you to stop," you sniff sadly and wipe at your tears, "Why didn't you listen?"

James's heart aches, "I'm sorry," he whispers again and looks at you sincerely. "I am so sorry. That was a jerk move, love. Please, come back out onto the rink," James is begging now, and you shake your head.

"No," you say. James looks crestfallen. You look up and see that his friends have gathered around the entrance to the rink and are staring at you both. That makes you feel worse as you drop your skates and slip on your sneakers. You don't even lace them as you stand and rush out to the car.

Tears sting your eyes when you remember you'd both taken James' car and it's locked. Hopelessly, you lean against the passenger door and bury your face in your hands. A few minutes later, you hear a familiar beep as James unlocks the car.

You look up. James is carrying his skates in his hand as he walks over. His friends aren't behind him, and you feel slightly shitty as he walks up, pops open the trunk, and slides his skates inside. He doesn't speak when he closes the trunk and comes over to you. He wraps you in his arms.

You melt into his touch, cheeks burning as you press your nose into his chest. James cups your cheeks. "I'm a prick. I'm sorry. You're allowed to be mad. You told me to stop, and I didn't listen to you," he says as he strokes your hair. "Can you forgive me, lovely?"

You pull away and look at your incredibly stupid, adorable boyfriend. You want to be madder than you are, but it's so hard to be cross with James when he's wrapped his strong arms around you.

You chew on your lip, "I just wanna be good at this—like all your friends," you confess, "I thought you would like me more if I was," you finish and look away.

James frowns and takes your chin in his hand again, "What did you just say?"

You continue to chew on your lip, "You'd like me more if I was. You'd take me on cute ice skating dates, and we'd look cute and—"

James cuts you off with a loud laugh. "What are you on about, Y/n?" he runs his thumb over your lip and then kisses your nose, "Your ice skating skills have nothing, and I mean, nothing to do with why I like you. Why I love you."

Your head snaps up at the words. I love you. You hadn't said I love you yet, and your heart starts pounding in your chest. "You love me?" you whisper, wanting confirmation.

You half expect James to backpedal, to become flustered and panicked, and make up some elaborate excuse as to how his brain had forced his mouth to utter words that sounded like I love you.

Instead, he nods and cups your cheek in his larger hand, "Mmhm," he smiles fondly, "I love you." You feel warmth spread in your stomach, and all your frustration towards him disappears.

You fully melt in his arms now. "I love you too," you say after a moment, and James's shoulders visibly relax.

"I was scared you weren't gonna say it," he mutters, sounding genuinely concerned. You roll your eyes at him but lean up to kiss his mouth anyways.

"You're an idiot," you tell him in between kisses, a wide smile on your face, "But you're my idiot."

Yes, James Potter can happen to act like a complete prick, but at the end of the day, that never matters because he's yours.

Your love.

The person you love the most and who loves you the most.

[sunlightmurdock]

Trick or Treat! | Firefighter Bradley

spookweek masterlist | firefighter bradley masterlist

Prompt: handing out candy | joining firefighter!bradley at the station to hand out candy to the neighbourhood kids!

warnings: pet names babe / baby, no use of y/n. .word count: 0.7k

Your heels clack along the walkway, past the clumsily carved, flickering Jack-o’-Lanterns. Ghosts with jagged edges and wide smiling faces with wonky eyes, all courtesy of the gang at Station 86.

Your lips twist, almost a smile, finding the precise attempt at a mustache’d face along the left row. Just then, you hear your name from across the lot. The classic red doors of Station 86 are pulled wide open, and Bradley is hustling his way towards you from the back.

“Baby, you made it!” His arms are loaded up with those giant bags of Halloween candy, the largest you can get. As his mouth stretches into a grin, you can see that there’s something different about his usual smile.

He drops the Halloween candy, still bagged up, onto the large fold-out table where two of his buddies sit and continues his path toward you.

“Are those fangs?” You wrinkle your nose, taking in the usual things you find most enjoyable — those fitted pants and the blue of his tight t-shirt against his tanned skin, the red of his suspenders straining against his thick shoulders — and the oversized plastic fangs in his mouth.

He beams, nodding his head as he reaches for you. “What, you don’t like them?”

Next comes the dive forwards, his arms wrapping tightly around your waist and securing you to him as he gnashes the stupid silicone fangs against your neck playfully.

Just as his wandering hand creeps towards your ass, he catches a glance at his next round of trick-or-treaters rushing along the sidewalk toward the station.

“Thanks for coming, babe. Here,” He presses a soft kiss to your cheek and ushers you towards the fold-out table, acknowledging his colleagues. “We’ve got it from here, guys.”

He had told you it would be fine if you had wanted to head home after work. His shift finishes at nine, and then he’s all yours for four days — starting tonight with a scary movie marathon. But, for now you’re happy to share him with the rest of the neighborhood.

Superheroes, ghosts and witches bounce along the walkway with grins on their faces, calling out your boyfriend’s name. With the class field trips to the station, and the station’s regular trips to the school, Bradley has plenty of pint-sized admirers.

Up in front of the mob are two first graders, sprinting ahead while their mothers chat behind.

“Not you two again!” Bradley mocks disgust, wrinkling his face in abject disapproval as two girls, one wrapped in toilet paper and the other wearing a bedsheet with eye holes in, rush him, plastic buckets for candy in hand. They giggle through their costumes as they come to a halt in front of him, looking up at the towering man. Their class had visited the day before yesterday, and the siren had frightened the two of them so bad that Bradley had broken out the Halloween candy a little early. “What do we have here? — A ghost and a…?”

“I’m a mummy!” She declares excitedly, waving her bucket at him.

“You’re a what?” He paints on his best look of fear and takes a dramatic step backwards, earning himself another round of giggles from the two girls. “What brings you all the way out here, little Mummy?”

“Candy!” Her friend answers for her, which they both find equally hilarious.

Bradley settles to his knees, keeping up the dramatics as more children crowd around him. He’s a natural, having them bursting into fits of laughter as he hands out chocolates and lollipops and other small bags of sugar-coated goodies.

You’ve been down to the station plenty of times, and been involved in plenty of events with them. This has always been more than a job to him, and you know he’s proud of what he does — you’re proud too.

But, even after all this time, there’s something about the fact that all of the neighborhood kids not only know his name, but clearly adore him so much, has you grinning as you help him pass out treats.

He catches you, draping a heavy arm around your shoulders during a rare break between herds of kids. Turning his face towards yours, he kisses the top of your head softly.

“Really, thanks for coming — I love having you here.” He murmurs, squeezing softly at your shoulder. “We’re about finished. You have a movie in mind for us to start with once we’re home?”

Just something scary, you think, already looking forward to the comfort of hiding your face in his chest and pretending that you can’t hear his heart beating just as fast as yours.

…

[persefolli]

𝐈𝐦𝐦𝐚 𝐋𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐲𝐚 𝐂𝐫𝐲𝐢𝐧'

𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: 𝐃𝐢𝐥𝐟!𝐉𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐱 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫, 𝐍𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐲𝐚𝐦

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: 𝐍𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐲𝐚𝐦 𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐬 𝐨𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮, 𝐬𝐨 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐬𝐥𝐞𝐞𝐩 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐝𝐚𝐝

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: 𝐌𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐀𝐠𝐞-𝐠𝐚𝐩, 𝐒𝐦𝐮𝐭

𝐓𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭: @iwanttogohomeandtakeanap, @ms5m1th, @18lkpeters, @yukichan67, @laylasbunbunny, @jakesullyscocksleeve, @neteyamyawne, @fanboyluvr, @myheartfollower, @letsloveimagines, @xylianasblog, @papichulo120627

𝐡𝐨𝐦𝐞 | 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

You looked at Neteyam in disbelief, lip trembling as he shielded the girl from your verbal lashings. After all the two of you had been through, he still went to protect his little side piece.

“That's okay.” You nodded. “When you're crying about the pressure of being the oldest in your family, don't call for me. When everyone turns on you don't come crying for me. You're on your own now.” You jabbed at him one last time before walking off.

Neteyam had been a close friend for a long time, but that changed after he confessed his feelings. To his luck you had been feeling the same way. Two years. The two of you were together for two years before he started his training. You understood becoming Olo’eyktan was nothing easy, but you didn't know why it meant he had to be so distant and cold. But that wasn't why. It was because of the new girl.

It was okay though, it didn't hurt as much as you thought it would. Once he began to get distant you sort of prepared yourself to break up with him, but you didn't prepare for another girl to be involved.

Days went by and you found yourself doing a lot of exhausting things to avoid the Sully’s. You probably spent more time avoiding them than actually getting work done. You believed you succeeded in doing so, but that changed one day when Jake spotted you and made a beeline towards you. 

“Stop.” He noticed your figure about to sprint.

You halted in place, not daring to go against your Olo'eyktan's order.

“You haven't been around anymore.”

“Does it matter?” You snapped.

“Y/n you kno-”

“Don't come here trying to explain your cheating son's actions!” You accused him, turning and yelling at him.

“I'm not. I'm quite disappointed that he would do so.”

You fell silent and looked into his eyes. You could tell Jake was being genuine, and immediately, you felt bad for yelling at him.

“I just wanted to say you are always welcome. You don't need Neteyams chaperone to come visit.”

“Thank you sir.”

“Jake. Don't ever go back to calling me sir.” He lightly scolded. 

---

You spent more time working on your crafting skills. It was a nice way to distract yourself for hours, and who wouldn't want their own custom weapons.

Jake found you carving a knife once, and laughed loudly at the wonky shape.

“I've never seen a knife like that before.”

“Shut up!” You hissed and went back to chipping at the wood.

“Here.” He pulled out a tactical knife, a metal one. “I had this when I was in the army. Still pretty useful.” He handed it to you.

“I'm not taking this Jake.”

“Who said I wanted you to keep it?” He said snarkily with a scoff. “Just look at the material for…inspiration.”

Ever since that day Jake gave you a free pass to go through his military gear. Checking out his collection of knives and machetes in order for you to replicate with wood and stone.

“This right here is a fire launcher.” He pulled out a large gun. He handed it to you and you chuckled at the weight it held. You began to hold it like a regular gun but he held his hand up.

“Hands off the trigger sweetheart. These aren't toys.”

“Well you sure as hell got them laying around like toys.”

The laughter from you two attracted the attention of Neteyam. He stood in the doorway of his fathers space, and behind him? The girl he cheated on you with. You went quiet and Jake looked up, and over at his son.

“What boy?”

“Just…wanted to see if everything was okay.” He trailed off looking at you. But you avoided his gaze.

“Everything is fine. Now go.” Jake shooed off Neteyam. He hesitated before walking towards his room with the girl. 

Jake looked towards you and noticed how you had set the fire launcher back down and went back to rummaging through his items.

“Y/n…”

“No offense, but I hate your son Jake.”

He went silent before nodding. “That's okay. I can't tell you how to feel.” A few more beats of silence passed before he spoke again.

“How about I drag this box over to your place so you won't have to worry about any run ins.”

“You would do that?” You began to smile. Jake nodded, standing and packing the rest of his items into the box before closing it.

The next night Jake came and put the box in your main space. “I unloaded the ammo out of these guns. I don't want you destroying your home.”

“You think I'm that childish?”

“No, but I need to make sure you're safe.”

Your heart skipped hearing that from Jake. You looked over at him and watched how his toned arms moved to organize the box. Separating the melee objects from the automatic.

“Jake why do you keep these? You use Omaticaya weapons…mainly.”

“Ah…” He shook his head. “Still can't quite wrap my head around the fact that I'm not human anymore. It's a nice reminder of the life I loved before.”

“How long ago was that?”

“Sixteen years.”

“Damn you're old.” You giggled. Jake threw a stray bullet at your head. 

“Which means you like hanging with old men.”

“Hey that's not true! I mean…most of my friends are my age. You're the lonely one.”

You watched as Jake went silent and turned his head to look back in the box

“I-i'm sorry Jake.” You shifted towards him. “I didn't mean that, you're a very important man and I'm sure you have better things to do. I truly didn't mean it in that-”

You were shut up by the feeling of his lips on yours. The kiss lingered before he pulled away. 

“Learn to watch your mouth, hm?” He said in a dark tone.  You looked him up and down before jumping into his lap, pressing your lips against his again. The two of you kissed passionately, tongues fighting for dominance in each other's mouths. Jake's warm hands ran up your thighs, squeezing your ass tightly as he continued to kiss you. You whimpered into his mouth and he pulled away.

“I’m staying here tonight.” He said breathlessly. 

You nodded and leaned back in to kiss him. Jake felt himself growing hard under you, groaning as he kissed your lips, moving down to your neck, and nipping at your collar bone. Jake used one hand to untie your loincloth and pull it aside, before reaching back and untying his own. His length sprang free and rested on your lower stomach.

“Jake.” You reached down and began stroking him, causing him to let out a low, guttural moan. 

“Hm?”

“Is this smart?”

“I’ve made worse decisions…” He bit his lip. “But it doesn’t look like you want to stop.” He smiled, feeling how your hand never stopped pumping him.

“I was hoping you would be the rational one.”

Jake leaned in and nipped at your collarbone again before licking the sore spot. “This is me being rational. Now hold on.” 

You flipped your hair to the side and placed your hands on his shoulders. Jake grabbed you from under your thighs and pulled you forward, holding you over his dick. You could tell he was gonna be a lot bigger and thicker than your previous companion.

“Jake-” You whispered, feeling his thick tip prodding at your entrance. He shushed you and placed a kiss on your cheek before lowering you down onto him. You yelped and dug your nails into his shoulders, whimpering and whining as he stretched you. 

“That’s it.” He said through gritted teeth as you sucked him in. 

The two of you let out breathy moans as moved you up and down along his shaft. He looked at you with a dazed look, eyes slightly narrowed as he moaned lowly in your face. You kissed him again, but he kept pulling away to graze his lips along your sensitive neck.

“Oh Jake!” You moaned out as you grinded against him. Weaving your hips back and forth on top of him as he held you still, in place. You knew you were being loud, obnoxiously loud, but you didn't care. Let the entire village hear for all you cared.

“Oh fuck. Faster! Faster!” Jake moaned out as he felt himself reaching his limit. You couldn't deny the pit that was building in your stomach either, desperately wanting to burst. You picked up your pace, placing your hands flat on the ground behind you so you could buck your hips a little more harder.

Jake let out a grunt and pulled you up, gripping your ass tightly and slowly pumping you on and off his cock. He let out a hiss and a shiver as he filled you up. You moaned out, expecting him to stop his thrusting after filling you up, but he didn't. He kept his hands on your ass and kept pumping into you painfully slow, almost as if he was fucking his seed deeper into you.

“Jake…Please!” You whined, feeling yourself become overstimulated.

“Not until you come baby.” He nipped at your ear. “Give me one, just one.”

You moaned out as he manipulated your hips to grind against him again, “Oh Jake! Yes!” You cried out. He gripped onto your hips tighter and let out a chuckle once he felt your walls flutter around him, reaching your climax. 

After you finished convulsing, Jake reached his hand up to move the strands of hair from your face.  “You look so pretty.” He said quietly. You leaned in and pressed a kiss to his lips, which he hungrily accepted. Jake pulled out of you and turned around so he could lay you flat against your bed.

Without warning, he sank back into you, causing you to cry out in pleasure.

As Jake began to ravage you, rain began to patter outside, coating your home, and a sulking Neteyam, as he watched the entire scene unfold with tears in his eyes. 

[russilton]

Huh crocheter George... I can see him doing it and he seems like a person that would make stuff for his friends?

Someone gave Carlos a crochet chili? So something like that

Obviously first to like Alex and Lando etc and now I want Lewis to be a bit jealous and offended that everyone seems to be getting something self made from George from him (except of course, it's fine to give something with potential mistakes to your best friend and other friends but to someone like Lewis? It would have to be perfect which means improving a lot before you dare present something....)

(Anon I have been working on this for months now- since you sent it, but you can’t complain it’s late or that I made it knitting instead of crochet since you got what is in essence, fic) (un-edited because my wife is sick, there was no planning, just vibes)

word count: 4679

It started as a stupid way to prove to Alex he did in fact have artistic skills. Somewhere between grainy YouTube videos and detangling knots it became a way to decompress between sessions, it made for good practice with repetitive actions and not making mistakes, something in following stitch patterns that isn't that different from memorising turns and breaking points.

Incorporating new colours and designs teaches him to build patterns in his head that help with race planning. It's surprising how much the skills intersect. The only problem that arose was just how many scarves he ended up with.

So, George makes everyone scarves. Everyone gets a scarf. It’s a straight line and easy to follow. He has to get rid of the results of his labour somehow.

Aleix? Scarf. Bono? Scarf. Marcus’ scarf has extra fancy tassels. Riki’s has his first ever pole time embedded in it in little pixelated number shaped stitches. Mike’s scarf is almost as long as he is tall, George finally conceding it was long enough when he ran out of yarn at that weekends race. Shov’s scarf is connected in a loop, when asked, George teases ‘it’s because you’ve been here forever, Andrew.’ and has to duck out of the room and set off running before it gets pelted at his head. Shov does keep it though, along with one George manages to slyly pay Anthony to slip into his bag for Jenson. Toto gets sent home with scarves for Susie and each of his children. His is hidden at the bottom, so George doesn’t have to look him in the eyes when he finds it.

George only has to squint at Fred with red ears and nose, on a chilly Silverstone test day huddled up beside Mick in their boyband style white puffers, before he’s handed a black and silver scarf a week later. It doesn’t matter how much he protests being from a northern circle country, if Valtteri got a scarf so does Fred.

The fact Valtteri’s attempt was one of his earlier ones and has a finger sized hole in it is of no consequence. After all, Alex’s scarf has more holes than it has clean runs, but George just tells him it’s to get him used to the Williams style of living. If James Vowles' scarf is a lot neater, George challenges Alex to go and fight him for it.

Charles gets one in a red so vibrant it almost glows, though it’s not until after a summer break, George wouldn’t be caught dead working with Ferrari red in his garage, even now. Mick’s is a similar red, if paler, patterned with a grid of white stitches, and he looks surprised when George drops it in his lap, but it morphs into his wide bright smile when George just nods at him. Even Nicky receives a scarf in Williams blue with little wonky maple leaves patterned in white down the length of it mailed to him after a particularly stressful season opening. Nicky's girlfriend sends him a photo of him wearing it while they stand in snow up to their ankles. It feels good to know he's doing alright.

Eventually George’s scarves get more and more complicated, new patterns and shapes appearing as he pushes the boundary of his easy little plans, and finds new ways to occupy his mind during the hardest parts of the season. Eventually even drivers George knows a little less well find themselves with an unlabelled gift George gets snuck to them— Yuki and Guanyu both have the good sense to not question it too hard. Esteban texts him a middle finger, but he doesn’t get it back.

Even Roscoe gets a scarf, perfectly shrunk in size for his boxy head, rows interwoven with yellow and purple that he wears proudly as a bulldog can for a modelling photo in his home in LA alongside Angela who’d been more than excited to partake in George’s unspoken mission. The Bulldog looks stylish and comfortable despite it not being even close to the right season for it. He’s a professional after all.

—

Lewis gets nothing, which, y’know, he’s fine with. Roscoe got one so that kind of counts, and he’s been told he’s hard to buy for with his eccentric fashion sense, doubled by the fact he has enough money that even he doesn’t know what to do with it all sometimes. He’s worn more scarves than most people have ever owned, the majority of them handed to him by his stylists and then neatly returned that same week, their loan period from the brands vying for his attention ending without much fanfare.

He’s only kept one or two that particularly held his interest, and while Lewis doesn’t know their exact price, he knows that they probably cost more than one of the team's laptops. While Lewis has long been comfortable with his wealth, every now and then it still catches him, like a missed tag in a shirt, itchy and distracting.

This was one of those times.

When he’d first seen the scarves popping up around the garage, in the early part of that season when they’re still racing in deserts and countries close to the equator, he assumed its a new fashion trend he just isn’t aware of yet. It doesn’t make sense to him the way trends usually do; the heat of the climate combined with the way all of them are so varied and different. The only connecting factor is the handmade air to them, holes and sloppy loops peppered across the lengths. He even starts to wonder if one of the mechanics partners was sending them to races with gifts.

Lewis is used to purposefully distressed fabrics, so it takes him longer than he’d care to admit to realise what’s going on. He really should have noticed when Bono got one, as notoriously intolerant to modern trends as he usually is, but it isn’t until Valtteri of all people texts him a photo of himself with one tucked around his neck and newly trimmed mullet on a cycling trip between races that he finally cracks.

———

[VB sent an image]

LH: Where the hell did you get that thing, I keep seeing them everywhere

VB: This is a moustache Lewis, you should be familiar with the concept

LH: Har har

LH: wise ass.

LH: I meant the scarf

VB: Ask your boytoy

VB: it was him who threw it at my head in Spa last week

LH: George???

VB: who else

LH: don’t call him that- since when is he buying everyone scarves?

VB: but you knew who I meant didn’t you

LH: answer the question

VB: I’m pretty sure he made it, there’s a lot of holes

LH: Since when does George knit?????

VB: these sound like questions for YOUR teammate, I have pedalling to do

VB: 👋➡️🚴‍♂️

LH: what the hell man

LH: did you seriously just ghost me rather than answer

LH: fuck you

LH: and your secrets

LH: I hope tiff beats you

LH: 🖕🏾

[Valtteri BottASS liked a message]

——

The conversation with Valtteri leaves him even more confused than he was before. Despite the fact he now has even more questions swirling around his head, he does not ask George what’s going on. The last thing he wants to do is find out why he’s been excluded from the man himself. Lewis chooses not to question exactly why that is.

He’s also glad he hadn’t asked his stylist to find it for him like he’d planned to, containing his mild embarrassment down to just Valtteri, who he’s reasonably sure won’t tell George he asked about it. Valtteri may deeply enjoy fucking with Lewis, but not enough to have a conversation with George about it. If there’s one thing Valtteri objects to on all levels it’s being involved in… whatever is going on between Lewis and George.

Lewis isn’t quite sure what it is either. They’ve been dancing around each other for years now, Lewis isn’t quite sure when George turned from colleage to friend, and he really doesn’t know where they stand now they’re teammates who spend almost every week together in some form. The formality of clear labels was lost somewhere in the late night strategy sessions and food shared at different tables across the world at every hour of the day, from late breakfasts in Qatar to eyes-barely-open meals at 3am in Singapore. He wouldn’t call George his best friend… but he’s not sure he would call George just his teammate anymore either. He’s George. Whatever that means.

That lack of definition bites him in the ass sometimes, such as cases like this one where he has no idea what he is to George in return.

In his final year with Mercedes it had only gotten harder to figure out where they stood. In the years prior it had been a little easier at least, they'd had their ups and downs as they fought the car and worked hard not to fight with each other, but they'd always settled somewhere level. George's warmth toward him had felt unshakable.

Now it feels like they're both in some kind of pendulum motion, sliding from a desire to keep some distance, to make it hurt less, to an almost clingy need to soak up the time they have remaining together. It feels silly really, it's not like Lewis is retiring, he'll still be there, a couple doors down from George...but he can't escape the reality of knowing it'll be different.

Coupling that with his already complicated and grief heavy emotions about the entire team, and the fact their needs don't exactly line up most weekends, it's been a hard year. Lewis is pretty sure he's pulled George into more hugs this season than he has any other teammate before, but that didn't stop the sting of weeks where George seemed to catch a glance at him and turn tail and run for his drivers room. He doesn't feel particularly emotionally intelligent, but the slip of pain and something pinched in George's too clear eyes had been plain as day.

He knows there's nothing he can really do about it other than let George feel what he feels, but it still felt like a balm when George would grab his hand after a good race with that crazed joy in his eyes he always got, sweat practically flicking off every strand of his hair, and smile so bright it shone reserved just for Lewis, rubbing away any awkward moments from that weekend, like when George had winced when Lewis as squeezed his hand in greeting in Silverstone, mumbling something about sore fingers that Lewis hadn't understood.

Coming into their final races together as they do now, every movement feels amplified, every gesture and discussion hangs with the weight of being potentially his last with his team the team. Thoughts about George and scarves get lost in the heat of desert tracks and a cloying grief he finally has to face head on without the facade of getting through the year. He's not sure he's ever felt this emotional in his life. Leaving Mclaren had been a breath of fresh air and a weight lifted even if he'd loved what they had achieved together. Leaving Mercedes feels like moving away from England for the first time, unsure of what will be on the other side, or if he'll be able to make somewhere foreign and so different feel like his home again. Unsure if he wants to.

George seems to almost disappear behind that. Lewis figures he's giving him time to say goodbye to his team uninterrupted. Despite the fact George had been part of the Mercedes family in a way almost as long as Lewis has driven for them, they both know there's something different about it, and he's thankful for the space. He can press down the guilty, aching and confusing emotions he has about George into a box in the back of his mind to be handled late. He doesn't have time to unpack Georges furtive, almost nervous peeking at him between monitors when he's listening to Shov present their debrief for what might be the last time.

That's does however leave him ultimately unprepared for when George does finally demand his attention, by appearing on the doorstep of his drivers room after they're wrapped up for the evening, qualifying finished and preparations for the race day concluded, with what appears to be a colourfully wrapped lump in his arms.

Lewis is still blinking at the shiny obstacle between them, overhead lights glinting off the chrome coloured paper, when George speaks.

'Sorry mate, I hope I didn't interrupt anything did I?' His voice is oddly high pitched, sounding a little like when Lewis knows he's trying to lie to Toto about how much sleep he's had.

'No man I was just packing up for the night'

'Mind if I come in before you leave? It won't take long I promise,'

Lewis murmurs a quiet uh sure as he steps back, gesturing George inside and then shutting the door behind them as he see's curious eyes in the engineering bay start glancing over toward them. Even Bono, Mike, and Marcus, still clustered in the corner as normal poking away at their laptops seem to be looking over, trying and failing to seem subtle as if Lewis hasn't had over a decade to pick up on what Bono looks like when he's trying to listen to gossip.

In the privacy of Lewis' drivers room George spins around to face him and before he can even ask what's going on, George is pushing the thing he brought with him into Lewis' grasp

The parcel isn't too dense, but there's a weight to it that feels like it has to be good deal heavier than the wrapped scarves Lewis had watched George pass out in the past, and it looks at least three times the size them. Lewis barely has a second to try and figure out what it is before George’s fingers twitch toward him, like he’s itching to pull it from Lewis’ hands and unwrap it himself because Lewis is being too slow. Wordlessly, Lewis holds the package back out, gesturing for George to go ahead, and rather than steal it back out of his hands, George crowds up into his space to start unpicking the paper.

George’s wrapping handiwork has never been strong, but Lewis can’t really pay attention to that when George is this close, towering above him but seeming almost small in his nervousness. The moment feels strangely intimate as George slips those long fingers between his own crumpled tape job, tugging the attached parts free until he pulls back the final fold to reveal his signature woven handiwork.

George steps back then, leaving Lewis holding his presented gift in a cradle of paper. Out of the corner of his eye Lewis sees him twist and wring his fingers together as he watches, but Lewis can barely focus on how George might be feeling as a wave of... something hot and warm rushes over him.

The lump turns out to be a jumper. It's a bright mustard yellow, rich and bold. Or at least, part of it is, the arms and chest in one continuous colour that ends abruptly partway down the torso when one line stops and continues in a slightly paler shade. The difference is almost imperceptible, and likely would hidden entirely if the colours weren’t butted up against each other like this, juxtaposed the way they are. Towards the hem of the thing, the colour shifts again, one step lighter for the last handful of rows falling at the waistline, the changes creating a gradient down the body. When Lewis traces it with his eyes, he can spot small areas in the neck and wrists where the pattern falters, warped patches that correct quickly but don’t quite line up with those around them. Rather than make the whole item look bad, there’s an odd personality to it, a touch of handmade individuality compared to a lot of the pristine items Lewis gets handed by his stylist, not a spec of lint in sight despite the fact they aren’t headed to a closed catwalk, but a dusty paddock.

As his fingers lift the folded bulk of it he spots a little detail along the neckline, a tiny, almost unnoticeable LH in a dark gold colour that would settle in line with his ear. Surely enough on the right side, there's a tiny 44 in the same font, the pair crowning his shoulders. Twisting the woollen form again, he sees there are tiny stars stitched into the cuffed sleeves in the same colour. There's seven by his count, and an eighth peeking out from the inner band where it would press against his wrist.

He's not sure how long they've been stood together now, silent but for the rustling of paper and the jumper as Lewis studies George's work. As he finishes his inspection he becomes aware of the anxious energy practically radiating off George in the silence that the same man finally snaps and breaks.

'I know its uh, pretty hot where we are but I figured, when you get back home- I mean when you get back to England you can- I tried to finish it earlier but-' George stumbles, words sounding unsure and faux light before Lewis interrupts him

'Did you make this?' He breaths, fingers pressing into the stitches as if it might tell him instead.

'Yeah, I wanted to make something... bigger. I know it's not quite what you're used to with the fashion stuff but I thought...well I don't know what I thought' George explains, words trailing into a lilting mumble. When Lewis' eyes dart up to meet his face, George's cheeks are glowing even in the low light of the one lamp he'd left on, face twisted as if braced for a blow. Like he thinks Lewis is going to be mad at him for this, somehow.

'George...man...'

'Sorry- It's stupid I know, if you don't like it I'll take it back, I won't be mad, I swear-' George isn't looking at him anymore, eyes darting around at his feet and his hands that he shoves into his pockets only to yank them out and wring them together again, fidgeting so he doesn't have to meet Lewis' gaze. His uncertainty makes Lewis' stomach hurt.

'It's perfect'

'I can even save the yarn, it's not actually that hard to unravel- what?'

'It's perfect, George, I really like it' He repeats, grabbing Georges arm with the hand he isn't cradling the jumper with, forcing George to stop trying to climb the walls with his eyes and look at him properly.

'You do?'

'Of course? Did you think I wouldn't like it?'

'I dunno I just- I wanted to make something special.' George rasps, surprisingly wet looking eyes boring into his. That stumps Lewis, and he has to drop his eyes back down to the gorgeous golden knit work, so undeniably a labour of care. It must have taken months, When Lewis was so deep in his own head trying to figure out if George felt anything or was just waiting for him to leave, the man himself was working in secret on something just for Lewis.

'How long did this take you?' He whispers into the space between them, not sure he even wants to know the answer, fingers still wrapped almost too firmly around Georges arm, a little worried George might run for the gates of the paddock if he lets go.

'You don't want to know- since before Imola at least. I normally just do scarves cause uh, they're just straight lines y'know.' George starts tentatively, before the dam seems to burst and he begins rambling 'I had to unpick half of it in October cause I'd counted wrong and it was shaped like a pear- there's still some wrong bits I couldn't fix, sorry about that- and I hope its the right size I had to ask Angela for them and she said they're a couple years old and-'

He continues but now it's Lewis' turn to freeze up, puzzle pieces clicking together in his head as he realises George has been working on something just for him since at least May. For over 7 months while Lewis was absorbed in fighting the car and his own emotions George was working away at something specifically for him, without even being sure if he would like it.

George has started to go off into a tangent about getting knitting needles through airport security when Lewis finally stops him, squeezing his arm.

'Why... why'd you do all that just for me?' He grits out, voice scratching against his raw throat, trying to make eye contact with George so he might read it in his face why the hell George put more effort in for him than anyone else.

'Just for you- Blimey, Lewis, cause I had to say thank you somehow, didn't I?'

'Cause I'm leaving?'

'No! No- 'cause you stayed. 'Cause you made me feel like this is my home too. 'Cause you listened to me and never made me feel too young or not good enough when I made mistakes and you never treated me like the enemy or just some guy across the garage. I know I keep saying it but you probably saved my career-'

'George- you would have been fine without me, you've always been good-' Lewis tries to interject, but George just steamrolls past him.

'Yeah but- you didn't make me figure that out on my own. I learned more in a month with you than three years at Williams. You made me a better person'

'George-'

'Please, I know it's a bit much, maybe, but I just had to do something before you left, so you knew.' George's voice cracks a little over the last words, and Lewis doesn't feel much better, eyebrows furrowed and throat clogging as he tries to choke down the indescribable feeling climbing up his throat and threatening to suffocate him in response to George's frank honesty. He's always been better at being vulnerable than Lewis.

He doesn't know what to say anymore, how to tell George that it was never a hardship to be his teammate, that Lewis was the one who struggled to articulate what George meant to him. That he's going to miss this like breathing and he wasn't prepared for that.

Words have never been his strong suit though, so instead he turns slightly and gently throws the jumper onto the nearest couch, ensuring its landed safely and ignoring Georges noise of confusion before he turns and drags George into his arms.

It's become natural, to hug George, another thing that's evolved over the last couple seasons when Lewis would have sworn himself touch averse for the most part. His arms wrap tight around George, one clutching at the middle of his back as the other skates up to cup around the back of his head, fingers slipping on shower damp hair and George's shirt collar.

George's nose tucks into his neck like routine, cheek pressed hard into Lewis' as he winds a long arm around the shorter man's neck to clutch at his shoulder, the other tugging at Lewis' shirt, gripping like Lewis is going to pull away, as if he hadn't initiated it.

Lewis squeezes harder than he imagines is probably comfortable, but George just makes a wet noise into his neck and digs his head down harder, fingers clutching tighter as Lewis runs a thumb over his hairline. There's a damp feeling growing on Lewis' shoulder but he doesn't care, he's not sure how he isn't tearing up himself, maybe he would be if he wasn't trying to memorise the feeling of how George fits against him.

It crashes over him then, blunt as a hammer, that this is what he's afraid of losing. He's afraid of losing this closeness with George when he leaves, when he's no longer going to be the experienced, advising teammate but just another obstacle on the grid George needs to climb over. He might lose the George who crowds into his space looking for Lewis to celebrate with him this way. He might lose the joy and adrenaline of George flinging himself at Lewis with the confidence that he will be caught, when it might be strange if they aren't teammates.

'I'm sorry' he blurts out, words crawling from somewhere in his lungs, only for George to make a confused noise, trying to pull back and stopping when Lewis only grips harder.

'What're you sorry about' George gets out, words wet and quiet where they are muffled against Lewis' shoulder.

'About this, the hugging, I just-' Lewis starts, but George just laughs at him, damp and a little hysterical, face tilting till their noses are practically brushing so he can look at Lewis from within his embrace.

'The last thing you ever have to be sorry for, is hugging me. You can do it more if you want'

Lewis stares at him for a second, gaze darting over George's lax but wet eyes, and the way his cheek smushes into Lewis' shoulder at an angle that must be uncomfortable but yet he makes no attempt to move away from, and yet another thing clicks into place, very much the theme of the evening. He was clearly teasing, but even Lewis can hear the truth under his words.

He brushes a seeking thumb over the nape of George's neck, dragging across the hot skin there. George shivers, fingers flexing against Lewis back, and that's all the permission he needs to tip his mouth onto Georges, lips slotting together in a kiss he hadn't even realised he'd wanted.

It's hardly picture perfect. George's face is sticky from his own tears and Lewis can taste it on his lips, his own cheeks are hot and itchy, and the angle they're at makes the seal of their mouths messy at best, and yet its the best thing Lewis has ever tasted. The hand George had at his shoulder slips along to thumb Lewis' jaw, pressing over his beard, and Lewis wants to drown in it. All his experience flies out the window in the face of following his gut and holding George as close as he can manage.

The slide of their mouths should really be indecent, wet as it is, and he's starting to think a little about being too loud, when he shifts slightly and George makes a breathy whimpering noise that sends any worries about being overheard right out of his head.

Time melts a little, as they curl together, until Lewis' neck really can't tolerate the angle anymore, and he has to pull back, panting harshly just in time for something to go clattering the the floor outside in the engineering bay, making them both jump and reminding them abruptly that they are in fact still at work, in thrown up rooms with paper thin walls that the cleaning staff are going to want to vacuum soon, as thorough as they are.

'We probably shouldn't be- well- we probably should have figured this out before now' George muses, still sounding awful breathless for an athlete Lewis seen run several miles for fun. They'd pulled apart a little in shock at the noise outside, but he's still gripping Lewis' arm, and there's that bright, beautiful smile creeping across his face again.

Lewis glances just over his shoulder, where the jumper is still lying haphazardly on the sofa.

'I dunno, Man. Better late than never?'

[weirdgenetic-fuckup]

could you write spanking slash?

A/n: When I first read this I thought it was spanking w/ Slash and idk if that's what you meant but spanking Slash is more fun in my head

Warnings: Smut, spanking (with a belt), riding, reader is referred to as mommy (only once I think), angst, mentions of bullying, if you think I missed anything let me know otherwise enjoy!

You had your ways of dealing with Slash's behaviour, he wasn't much for parties but he still went out and would often come back with girls, or at least try to.

You never took it too hard since you never defined your relationship, you lived together, sure, but you brought home just as many guys.

Even so, it was fun to discipline him, and you knew he loved it. Slash was always quiet, an introvert, but no one except you knew him to be a whiny little thing, begging to cum, saying he was a good boy and asking for forgiveness.

To everyone else he had dignity, but he handed it over to you at a condescending glance, dropping to his knees in an instant just for your approval.

There was a girl, Slash didn't know her but you did. She made high school hell for you, and seeing her in Slash's lap at the bar made you furious.

He was drunk, of course, you'd had a few yourself, giving you some extra confidence. You marched right over to him and the girl recognized you immediately, giving you a wide smile.

"Y/n, is that you? Oh, god, it has been too long! How are you?" She greeted, reaching a hand out to shake yours, her other arm wrapped around Slash's neck. He smiled wonky at you but his attention was drawn more to her chest in his face than anything else.

You rolled your eyes at him, of course he'd be easily distracted by tits, this was Slash we're talking about. "I'll be much better once you get off my boyfriend." You stated, crossing your arms over your chest.

The girl paused for a moment, processing your words and she had to hold back a laugh. "Your-your what?" She asked, muffling a chortle by taking a sip of her drink.

Slash took the drink from her and finished it off, wiping a drop from his lip before setting the drink down on the counter. "My. Boyfriend. Get off." You said, reaching for Slash's hand but he pulled it away.

"I'm not your anything." He said with a light laugh, eyeing the girls outfit a little closer. You knew he wasn't your anything, but it still hurt to hear him say it, especially when it just fueled this girls ego.

You felt a hand on your shoulder and looked over your shoulder to see Duff, where he came from you didn't know but you were happy he was here. He saw the tears in your eyes shining off of the bright lights of the party.

"He is her boyfriend." He said, moving to try and get the girl off of him. "He's just wasted."

The girl scoffed and refused to move. "He looks fine to me." She said, brushing his hair out of his eyes. He'd not looked in her eyes once since she sat down, he didn't care about her, just her body.

"If you think that's fine you shouldn't be here at all." Duff got a little more aggressive with it and pulled her off of him. Slash stood and the blonde guided him towards you. The guitarist stumbled but held onto you and let you walk him out of the bar.

Neither of you were exactly sober so you flagged down a taxi and pushed Slash in. He leaned on you the whole way home, leaving kisses all over you, wherever he could reach.

"Who was that girl?" He asked, chin on your shoulder. He smelled of booze and cigarettes, hints of pot carried with him.

"Don't worry about it." You grumbled, arms over your chest. Slash looked at you, in your eyes, it wasn't a lot but it was a reminder that you were important to him, enough so that you were more than a body for a night.

"I am worried about it." He said, giggling. "Not worried, but, you know, curious."

You thought about it a moment before huffing and slumping in your seat. "She was... in highschool..." You started, searching for the right way to say it but you weren't really in much better shape than he was.

Slash gasped and sat up straighter. "No!" He exclaimed, to which you turned to your head, brows raised in confusion. "Fuck, I never knew you swung that way... but you said no to a threesome!" The driver shot a look back at you when he said that.

You rubbed your face in exhaustion, Slash saw the annoyance on your face. "She was just a bitch, always made fun of me and shit." You mumbled, looking out the window as you spoke.

Slash let out a soft 'oh'. "Fuck... I'm getting it tonight, aren't I?" He asked, giggling again. You gave a firm nod.

You were happy he got so giggly when he smoked, he was all cute and smiley while you helped him out of his clothes, keeping his belt next to him on the bed while his shirt and jeans got tossed to the floor beside the bed.

He was on his stomach, you were sitting just as naked on top of him, straddling his thighs from behind, his expensive leather belt folded in your hand.

It didn't take long for his giggles to die down, though. His ass was red and stinging, body shaking as sobs ripped from him. "I'm sorry! I'm so sorry, mommy, I'm sorry." He cried, burying his face further into the pillow in his arms.

His legs kicked as you brought the belt down again and again, counting in your head to a good number. You watched the jiggle of his ass and it made you smile, you saw the marks from his alligator skin belt, the scales were hard on his skin.

"All you had to do was tell her you were my boyfriend." You said through gritted teeth. You didn't need him to hear you, he did but you just wanted to say it, get it out.

"I-I didn't want to lie." He mumbled, looking back at you over his shoulder.

You scoffed at that. "Didn't want to lie?" You hit him with an extra amount of force, it pissed you off that that was the best excuse he could come up with. "You lie all the fucking time, you fucking bastard." He choked as the belt came down again.

"You-you really think I was- I was thinking about that?" He asked, no matter how shaky his voice got, how bad it stung where you hit him, there was still that look in his eyes, an extra spark he never had when he looked at anyone else. There was the look he had for sex, for food, then the look he had for music, and then there was you. He looked dazed, in awe. He never did say anything negative about you, even if he was being especially rough with you he just couldn't bring himself to do it.

You stared down at him, running the belt over your, feeling every scale over the palm of your hand. "Roll over." You said.

"Huh?" He asked, sniffling.

This time you emphasized your words with the belt, spanking him again. "Roll over." His breath caught but he did as you ordered and rolled onto his back, struggling to hold himself up on his elbows.

His cock was leaky and pulsing painfully, neglected and needy. You were about to solve that.

You moved up the bed and sank down on him, watching closely as his eyes rolled back and he fell into the bed again. He reached for your hips, holding them loosely as you began moving on him, grinding and rolling your hips. His crying didn't stop but it morphed to a more pleasurable one, whines and moans echoing off the walls.

He came quick but you weren't done and he knew it, you needed to cum too. He took a hand from your hip and started rubbing your clit, not doing a great job of it in his static state, you grabbed his hand and moved against it yourself, feeling that familiar knot building until it snapped and you rode out your high on him, feeling him spilling more into you.

You collapsed on top of him, nuzzling your face into the crook of his neck. His arms wrapped around you and his crying quickly died down as he fell asleep as well, holding you tight to his chest.

You went out again the next night, sticking closer to Slash this time. He was drinking less, which was odd but brushed it off as nothing. It was just like every other night, same club, same few bands, same drink.

Same fucking girl. She came back and ignored you, choosing to take a seat in Slash's lap again instead of the free seat on the other side of him. He wasn't drinking as much but that didn't make him sober, a drink was still in his hand it just wasn't his fifth in the last hour.

"Hey, baby." She greeted, again Slash's eyes were drawn away from her face like the dog he was, she wore a dress that exposed more of her chest on the off chance that Slash was there. Same lack of personality, different year. Slash smiled as a greeted but he kept his hands to himself unlike yesterday. "Couldn't get enough of me, huh?"

"You're the one that came up to me." He said. "I think it's the other way around, sweetheart." That nickname stung something deep in you. That was your name, when he was tired and you were cold, seeking his warmth.

"Can you fuck off?" You grumbled under your breath, shooting a look at them.

"Ooh, girlfriends mad, huh?" She mocked, throwing her arms around his neck and pulling herself closer.

"She's not my girlfriend." Slash said. You bit your lip so hard you tasted blood, it took your mind off the stinging in your eyes. Then Slash spoke again and your head snapped to him as the words left his mouth. "She's my fiancée." He looked to you and reached for your hand only to find there wasn't a ring on it.

You had no idea what he was talking about but he looked so sad, brows knit together, lips parted slightly as his eyes met yours. "You took your ring off?" He asked. You stared blankly at him, the girl looked between the two of you, unsure of what was happening. Then, like a train, a realization came over Slash. "Oh, fuck me then, it was a dream." He pushed the girl off and searched through his pocket a moment before handing you a small box.

He didn't want to lie, you weren't his girlfriend in his mind. If only his mind didn't play tricks on him like that.

[buckymorelikefuckme]

a shore thing

bucky barnes x fem reader

i decided to write it hehe

a/n: any and all mistakes are my own! feedback is encouraged & welcomed :) xoxo

Bucky calls your name for the umpteenth time, beyond exasperated as you stumble away, giggling uncontrollably as you evade capture. He's hardly tipsy anymore, having decided to nurse a single beer for the last couple hours when he noticed how heavy you were drinking. Somebody needed to be responsible, he told himself. Even Steve was letting loose more than usual. But, to be fair, they were all on vacation.

“Guys, the taxis are here,” Nat announces, yet again, leaning heavily against one of said vehicles. “Bucky, we gotta go.”

“I’m trying my best here,” he replies. Although, that's not entirely true. “Someone should've cut her off ages ago.”

“Boooooo,” you heckle as you run past him.

Bucky sighs heavily. “Fine. You can stay here by yourself.”

You pause abruptly, almost tripping over your own feet, but you catch yourself before you face-plant into the gravel. “You're leaving me?” you ask in a pitiful tone.

“Yup.” Bucky turns and takes a few steps away, hearing you whine in protest. “Have fun.”

“Noooo, wait!”

Your uneven steps come closer and closer to Bucky and as soon as he gauges you're within arm’s reach he spins around with a smirk. It makes you lurch to a stop, gasping as it dawns on you.

“Betrayal!” you shout, pointing an accusatory finger at him. You try to take off running again, but Bucky is quicker. You're swooped up into a fireman’s carry before you even register your feet leaving the ground. “Ack! Put me down, you absolute caveman!”

Sam sticks his head out of the taxi. “There's room in this one.”

Bucky steers his steps that way, feeling your tiny fists beating his back the whole way, and plops you into the open seat. You let out a cute oof that he ignores as he tries to latch the seatbelt. You're a squirmy little shit though, and he soon finds that the only way he’ll be able to get the group back to the hotel is to enter the taxi himself and pull you into his lap. He quickly shuts the door and finally latches the seatbelt around the both of you, telling the driver to go.

Sam shakes his head in amusement in the seat beside Bucky. “You're seriously the only one who can rally that firecracker of a woman.”

“Hey!” you object with a pout. “I'm drunkies, not deaf. I can still hear you.”

You and Sam begin bickering and Bucky rolls his eyes, but he doesn't do anything to interfere. He's too busy trying to think about literally anything else other than the ginormous mistake he made by placing you on his lap. You, the person he's been in love with for far too long now, who has absolutely no clue of his feelings and sends constant mixed signals.

There are days he's sure you feel the same with the way you look at him, but then the next day you go out of your way to make sure he knows the two of you are just friends. He's losing his fucking mind. He doesn't know if he should tell you how he feels or try to move on.

You're wiggling suddenly, body jostling atop Bucky’s and his mind is forced to return to the present, only to see you and Sam slap-fighting like children.

“I’m so sorry, sir,” he addresses the driver, “I swear they're actually adults when they're not three sheets to the wind.”

The driver waves off the apology with a chuckle. The fight ends with you pinching Sam’s nipple, his cry of pain and outrage making you giggle wildly and throw your head back onto Bucky’s shoulder. After you catch your breath you sit up and wiggle some more until you're sitting sideways and can look at Bucky. Your eyes are glassy and your smile is sly and a touch wonky, and Bucky still thinks you're the cutest, sexiest woman he's ever known.

“Why don't you like me for real?”

The taxi is uncomfortably quiet. Bucky blinks a few times, shifting his gaze to Sam, who’s suddenly very interested in the passing streetlights and palm trees outside the window. Traitor, Bucky thinks. With no help from his supposed friend, Bucky looks back to you.

He clears his throat. “I do like you.”

“No,” you huff, rolling your eyes, “I mean like, like me like me. Like, more.”

Bucky is silent again, his mind whirling with a million questions–the biggest one being what the fuck?

“I'm not sure what you mean,” he says carefully. He hopes playing dumb will work in deterring the conversation, but he should've known better.

“You always just joke about it, but you never mean it. Always get my hopes up.”

“What are you talking about?” he blurts, truly flabbergasted, but he cuts you off before you can reply. “No, don't answer that. You're drunk, okay? You don't know what you're saying.”

You poke his cheek roughly, pouting. “I just want you to like me back, Buck. Wanna kiss you whenever I want.”

Bucky swallows thickly, unable to take his eyes away from yours as you lean in closer.

“Don't you wanna kiss me?” you question, reaching up you play with the hairs at the nape of his neck. “Can I kiss you, Bucky?”

Your lips graze his, a feather-light touch, and he exhales shakily. Of fucking course he wants to kiss you. He's wanted nothing else for the last year. But he doesn't want it like this. He says your name, voice low in warning. You either don't hear him or you don't care.

Bucky’s eyes flutter closed as you continue pressing light kisses to his lips, the corner of his mouth, his chin, along his jaw. He fists his hands where they rest on either side of you, praying for the will to remain strong.

“You're drunk,” he repeats, a last ditch effort in getting you to stop, but even he can hear how weak the protest is.

“I still know what I want, what I feel.” You brush your nose against his. “I want you.”

Sam coughs pointedly beside both of you. “We’re here.”

Bucky is quick to unlatch the seatbelt and help you out of the car. Nat walks over and grabs your hand, Steve walking leisurely behind her.

“Let's go to bed, please,” she begs as she drags you with her.

You begin whining again, reminding Bucky of your inebriated state. He shouldn't have let you kiss him. You're not going to remember any of this tomorrow. Guilt punches him in the gut. He's so fucking weak when it comes to you.

“I wanna sleep with Bucky,” you complain as you resist.

Natasha squawks. “What?!” Her eyes are as wide as saucers, flicking back and forth from you and Bucky. Sam fails to hide his snort.

“His bed is bigger,” you explain, “You take up too much space.”

Natasha gasps. “How dare you!”

You turn to Bucky with pleading eyes. “Bucky, please let me sleep with you.”

“I… I'm not sure that's a good idea,” he replies.

You stomp your foot. “Pleeeease?” Your pout is lethal. “I promise I won't take up too much space.”

Sam puts his hand over Nat’s mouth before she can start yelling, doing his best to frogmarch her into the hotel so they don't cause a disturbance. Steve follows languidly, which is the sign that he's quickly coming down from his drunken high and will likely crash the moment his head hits the pillow.

“You should just sleep in your room with Nat,” Bucky advises.

“I don't wanna sleep with her,” you say, stepping back into Bucky’s space. One of your hands grasps his shirt, the other trailing across his chest. He fights the shiver threatening to run down his spine. “I wanna cuddle you.”

You look up at him through your lashes and Bucky knows he's lost. He sighs. You grin and giggle, grabbing his hand to lead him inside the hotel. He's quiet the whole ride up in the elevator. Your head is resting on his shoulder, humming along to whatever song is playing in your head. You’re still holding his hand.

When you're both standing in front of his room door, Bucky pauses, about to try one last time to get you to go two rooms down to the one you're supposed to be sharing with Nat, but you snatch the key card out of his hand and open the door before a word can leave his mouth. He doesn't trust you to be alone right now, and with Sam babysitting Nat and Steve probably snoring away in his own room, Bucky accepts his fate. He enters the room, closing the door with resignation.

“Ugh, god, these heels are the worst,” you grumble as you trip your way over to sit on the bed. You fight with the small buckle before making a noise of complaint. “Buckyyy…”

“Jesus,” he mutters, huffing as he walks to you.

He kneels in front of you and carefully takes your shoes off. You hum, pleased, once your feet are free, wiggling your toes.

“Why do you wear them if you hate them so much?” he mumbles.

“Because they make my legs and ass look fantastic, duh.”

Well. That's fair, Bucky supposes.

“Can you unzip me now?”

Fuck. Bucky chokes on nothing.

“Unzip you? What are you planning on sleeping in? Your pajamas are in your room,” he points out.

“Can't I borrow one of your shirts?” you ask, blinking innocent eyes up at him.

He doesn't trust it one bit.

“Please, Bucky? My dress won't be comfortable.”

Your pout makes yet another appearance. He doesn't bother pointing out that you wouldn't have this problem if you went to your own room. You'd ignore him anyway.

“Fine,” he grumbles. He rifles through his bag to find a shirt for you, grabbing pajamas for himself while he's at it. “I'll go change in the bathroom.”

He turns to head that way, but you stop him.

“My dress,” you remind him, spinning around and pointing at the zip.

Bucky's pretty sure you could do this by yourself, but he's just ready to go to bed at this point, so he’ll do whatever he has to to get there. He tries not to put too much thought into the action, but his mind can't help but wander, imagining unzipping your dress with different intentions. The more skin that is revealed to him, the more his breathing picks up. He takes note that you didn't wear a bra with this dress, which makes him realize you'll be wearing his shirt with only your underwear beneath it. He curses mentally.

He steps away like he's been burned once the zipper reaches the bottom. “There you go,” he says, voice gruff.

He doesn't wait for your response, quickly escaping into the bathroom before anything else can be asked of him. It doesn't take Bucky long to change his clothes, but he still lingers in the small space to gather his wits, taking his time as he brushes his teeth, and even splashes some cold water on his face. He stares at himself in the mirror for a moment.

“She’ll forget all of this by morning,” he assures himself.

He's not fond of the way that statement makes his stomach twist.

When he leaves the bathroom, he finds your dress pooled on the floor in the same spot you stood as he unzipped it. You're standing next to the bed, fidgeting with the hem of Bucky’s shirt that hangs off your small frame. He raises a quizzical brow.

“I don't know which side you prefer,” you say, unsure.

Bucky feels himself soften at your expression. “I'm good either way.”

You dart for the left side, lifting the comforter and sheets and snuggling underneath them. Bucky's lips twitch, but he resists smiling.

“C’mon, Buck, I want cuddles,” you entice, patting the spot beside you exaggeratedly.

He only hesitates for a split second. It's late and exhaustion is settling in his bones. He’ll worry about consequences in the morning.

You waste no time in invading his space once he's in the bed. You nudge his arm until he lifts it, worming your way under it and placing your head on his chest, your own arm slung over his waist. Bucky goes still, holding his breath until you get comfortable. Slowly, he lets his arm fall across your back, closing his eyes with a heavy sigh.

“Bucky?” you whisper.

“Hm?”

You nuzzle into his pec. “Love you.”

Bucky's eyes snap open then. His heart begins hammering in his chest and he prays that you're close enough to sleep to not notice.

“Goodnight,” he rasps after a minute passes by.

Your only reply is a light snore. Bucky feels his heart crack in his chest.

~

The next morning, Bucky lies awake, staring at the ceiling. He's not sure exactly how much sleep he got, but it wasn't a lot. You only got clingier as you slept, practically wrapping your whole body around him.

Bucky is a weak, weak man.

Sunlight begins peeking through the curtains, eventually finding its way to the bed and across your closed eyes. A frown forms between your brows and he almost smoothes it with his thumb. The only reason he stops himself is because you groan and turn away before he can.

“Turn it off,” you croak.

“The sun?” he retorts with a laugh.

“Yes,” you reply derisively. “Kick its ass for waking me up.”

Bucky smiles to himself. “Whatever you want, my love.”

It feels like the room freezes in time after the endearment escapes him. With a jolt, you sit up and face him. Bucky can't read your expression, but that's mostly because he's doing his best to look anywhere but your face.

“Seriously?” you gripe. “You're still going to poke fun about that kind of shit even after what I said last night?”

That gets his attention pretty easily. He meets your gaze and hates the dejected look on your face.

“What–what are you talking about?” he questions, thrown.

Your chin wobbles slightly before you scoff, whipping the comforter off your body as you attempt to leave the bed, but Bucky sits up and grabs your wrist to stop you.

“Wait–”

“Let go of me,” you demand, refusing to look at him.

“Not until you tell me what the fuck is going on,” he replies firmly.

You turn to him with a glare. “You're still joking about my feelings for you, even though I made it perfectly clear how I felt last night.”

“Felt? You… you don't feel the same anymore?” He's grasping for straws here. “I thought–I mean, I didn't think you were serious. You were drunk, I…”

“It doesn't matter if I still feel the same or not,” you reply, the fight leaving your body.

“Yes, it does!” he exclaims. “God, of course it fucking matters. If you have feelings for me, I need to know.”

“Have I not made it abundantly clear already?!” you retort. “If you're that fucking dense, then here you go: I'm fucking in love with you, you big, stupid, gigantic ass–”

He cuts you off by dragging your body to his and kissing you. You make a sound of shock, but you don't push him away, so he deepens the kiss, tilting his head and flicking his tongue at the seam of your lips. You open for him with a gasp, your tongue meeting his and making you both moan. He pulls away, chest heaving.

“We're both stupid,” he declares. “I'm in love with you too. I thought you were the one not taking it seriously.”

Your dazed expression begins clearing and realization sets in. “Oh my god,” you mumble as you yank him back into a kiss that has him reeling.

“Do you know,” he starts between kisses, “how fucking hard it was—to be a gentleman last night?”

You giggle. “I was hoping you wouldn't be a gentleman.”

Bucky curses, manhandling you until you're flat on your back. “That can be arranged.”

“Promises, promises,” you goad, biting your lip.

“Exactly,” he replies, lips tugging into a smirk.

~

Needless to say, the two of you have to put up with merciless teasing for the rest of the trip… But it's worth it.

[tasteleeknow]

[ 11:05 ] “You know he loves you, don’t you?” Chan questions as he hands you his car keys. You fiddle with the soft toy that hangs between the keys, tugging at the small wolf’s ears. 

Chan sighs. “Fine,” he says. “Just go.” 

You take a step towards the door before hesitating, lifting your eyes to meet his. You’d have to trust he’d keep this conversation to himself. You could feel it already, the anxiety that would bubble up to your throat the second you left the apartment with this conversation unresolved.

Minho was leaving. He was moving out—across the country—and he hadn’t said a word to you about it. Sure, you didn’t live here. But you may as well have. You spent so much time and the apartment he shared with Chan they’d often joke about when you were going to start splitting the bills. 

“What if he changes his mind?” you ask, managing to keep your voice steady. “If I do something… change how it is now… what if he changes his mind?” 

“Why would he do that?” 

“Because he’ll know me. He’ll get closer and maybe he won’t like what he finds.” 

Chan takes the keys from your hands, halting your fiddling. “Sit down,” he instructs gently, gesturing to the small lounge you’d taken to falling asleep on some nights. You do as he says, folding your hands in your lap as you wait for him to join you. 

He doesn’t. 

You watch as he disappears down the short hallway and into Minho’s bedroom, returning only moments later with a small shoebox in his hand. He doesn’t drag it out. He sits on the small table in front of you and opens the lid. 

It reminded you a lot of the small box you kept under your bed in your childhood bedroom, a collection of miscellaneous things you’d attached memories to as you’d grown. A bracelet from your 11th birthday, a playing card you’d scooped out of the water on your trip to Vietnam, the paper mache rabbit you’d made when you were 8, the key to the padlock you’d used for your locker in high school.

This box was much like that. You don’t recognise anything at first, not until Chan digs out a small clay cat, one of your earliest attempts at moulding clay figures. It was an ugly thing, wonky and misshapen. Minho had snatched it from your hands when you’d announced it was going in the rubbish. “He can’t help being ugly,” he’d said. “He’s mine now.” 

Chan passes the clay cat to you. He’s cuter than you’d remembered.

“They’re all from you," he says. 

You look up. “Hm?” 

“The box,” he clarifies. “They’re all things you’ve given him.” 

You peak into the box, attempting to spot anything else you recognise. There are scattered pieces of paper, some are sticky notes you vaguely remember attaching to his bedroom door on days you’d visited when he wasn’t home. You pick one up and read it silently, ‘You missed me. Unlucky for you. I’ll be around Friday.’ You’d drawn a small rabbit in the corner. 

Chan takes the note from you along with the clay cat. You watch as he places them back inside the shoebox and replaces the lid. “I shouldn’t let you go through it—not without his permission. I just need you to understand.” He places the box on the table beside him carefully, like it’s full of priceless porcelain. “You know him,” he continues. “He doesn’t make decisions lightly. He knows what he wants and when he wants something… that’s it. You’re it.” He sighs. “You know him.” 

You look to his discarded car keys. “You still need milk.” 

“I’ll get it. You’ll stay?” 

You nod. “I’ll stay.” 

—

He leaves shortly after that. Leaves you to pace as you wait for Minho to arrive. He was leaving. Leaving Chan. Leaving you. He hadn’t offered an explanation. 

You jump as he knocks on the door. He expected Chan to be home. He wasn't expecting you. You press your hand to your chest and take one last deep breath before marching over and letting him in. 

His eyes widen a little as he takes you in. You hadn’t seen him in two weeks now. It was the longest you’d gone without seeing each other since you’d met three years prior. You step aside to let him in, pressing your fingers into your clavicle in an attempt to ground yourself. 

“I didn’t know you were coming around,” he says as he takes his shoes off. “Chan didn’t—” 

“He left,” you interrupt. “Chan. He went out because he wanted—I wanted to talk to you.” 

He stands and shucks his winter jacket from his shoulders. “Talk to me?” he questions. 

You nod. “Would you… sit? Please?” 

He looks a little nervous now. You wonder if he can see the same emotion in you. He sits exactly where you’d been sitting when Chan had shown you the box. He leaves his beanie on and you take in the way his brown hair peeks out around his neck. He waits. 

You can’t find it within yourself to sit, choosing to stand across from him instead—leaving the small table between you. “Can I ask you something?” 

He nods and his tongue flicks out to wet his lips. “Mm,” he says. “Anything.” 

“It’s a big ‘something’.”

“Okay,” he says simply. 

“Would you stay?” you ask, tugging on your fingers. Your heart thumps in your chest. “If I asked you to stay, would you?” 

His brow furrows slightly. “I—” 

“Because I need you to stay. Please. I need you not to leave me. I know it’s a lot and I don’t know why you’re leaving and I’m sure it’s very important and I don’t even know if you want to stay here. Maybe you don’t but—” 

“Wait,” he says, interrupting your rambling. You take a steadying breath as he stands. He tugs his beanie from his head and drops it onto the table. His hair stands on all ends. You desperately want to run your hands through it. But you can’t. Your knuckle pops as you tug a little hard on one of your fingers. “Leaving?” he questions, clearly confused. Alarm bells ring in your head. “Why would I leave?”

“Chan said—” you cut yourself off. Oh you were going to wrap your hands around his throat and squeeze so hard he– “You’re not leaving?”

“No. But you thought I was…you said you need me to stay...” Minho says with a smirk, making his way around the table slowly. 

“Forget everything I just said.” 

“Can’t,” he says, his smirk transforming into a small grin. “Sorry.” 

You could tell him you’d seen the box, a small voice in your head offers. Then you’d both be embarrassed. You snuff it out before it can fully form. If it was anyone else… But it was him. You’d take much worse than one-sided embarrassment for him. 

“Alright. Well, Chan had his fun. I’m going home.” 

Minho steps in front of you, cutting off your exit. “Stay,” he says simply. 

“Why?” 

“Because I want you to.” 

“Why?” 

He huffs out a breathy laugh. “Because I haven’t seen you in two weeks. Why is that, by the way? Chan said—” 

“Chan says a lot of things, apparently."

Minho collapses into the couch cushions beside you and throws his arm over the back of the lounge. You join him. “He said you were busy,” Minho says. “That you didn’t have time for us.” 

“I was… sulking.” 

He presses his lips together, failing to suppress a smile. “Sulking?” 

“I thought you were moving out. Chan wouldn’t tell me why he said you’d talk to me when you wanted to. But you didn’t. I thought you were leaving without even talking to me about it.” 

The hand over the back of the couch moves a little, then he begins playing with your hair—gentle fingers fiddling with the strands that fall over your shoulder. “I think it’s my fault,” he says as you struggle to regulate your breathing. “I said something to him a few weeks ago. Something that may have… caused this. I’ll fix it.” 

His fiddling with your hair breaks a barrier, one that allows you to lean a little towards him and fix the strands of hair that stick on all ends. He’s quiet at first, letting you brush his hair out with your fingers. Then, just as you begin working on a particularly stubborn tuft right at his parting, he speaks, “I would never leave you,” he says. It’s almost a whisper. Gentle and quiet, almost like he hadn’t meant to speak it at all. 

“You wouldn’t?”

He takes your arm, stubborn tuft forgotten. “I thought you knew that. I thought you knew that I…” he trails off as his eyes drop to where his fingers wrap around your wrist. 

“Minho?” you whisper. He looks up. “I do. I know.” 

He blinks, a brief moment of panic crossing his features as his fingers tighten on your wrist. 

“I love you, too,” you add quickly, keen to end his anxiety. “So much.” 

He blinks. Once, twice. Then he drops his head, letting his hair fall over his eyes. He takes a deep breath and you watch as he lifts your wrist to his lips. You can’t see the way he presses a kiss to your skin, his long hair obscuring your view. But you feel it. You feel his warm breath as he holds you there for a moment afterwards. 

Then he lifts his head. 

You catch a blur of his smile as he lunges at you, pushing you onto your back as he buries his face into the crook of your neck. He keeps the majority of his weight off you and you bask in the warmth of him for the minute of two he stays like this. Then he’s sitting up again, tugging you up with him and practically lifting you into his lap. You wrap your arms around him, settling yourself comfortably against him as he releases a contented sigh. 

“Did Chan tell you?” he mumbles as he presses a kiss to your shoulder. 

“I knew before that.” 

He groans, dropping his head back. You can see the tiny mole at his jawline: a target. You press a gentle kiss there. “I knew you loved me,” you whisper. “You’re so good at it.. so full of love. But I—I think I was afraid you’d stop, like when you see a stray cat and you’re afraid if you move it’ll startle…that it’ll leave and you’ll never get to try again. Having you as a friend is better than not having you at all.” 

He lifts his head to look at you. You can see the way he’s fighting it, all the emotion. He doesn’t express it with words, but he doesn’t need to. It leaks from his eyes and from his gentle touches. “I don’t startle,” he grumbles after a moment. 

You grin. “‘M’kay, whatever you say,” you whisper before pressing your lips to his for the first time. 

[vulpixisananimal]

<Null> {Mal Du Pays} (Siffrin) [Loop] [(???)]

[(Darkest of night. No moon in sight and stars that hide. The curtains were closed. They were closed, they really were closed. Actors milling about back stage, yet here you are, in the dusty forgotten corridors.)]

[(You woke up and couldn't sleep. Didn't want to. Finally, no annoying voices, just, you. Siffrin. Only Siffrin. Nothing more, nothing less. You stood there in the night for a minute, feeling the winds and the biting chill of the seasons turn to winter.)]

[(You walk to The Kids cooking supplies. You crouch down, and start rummaging.)]

[(You take a piece of carrot, and bite. Crunchy, different, tastes okay. You bite into an onion. Tasty, burns, good. Bread, boring, bleh. Garlic, oh that's a fun taste, strong, VERY strong.)]

[(Spices, too. You taste the cinnamon, thyme, ginger, good and textured, flavored, you cough a few time. Next is some drops of vanilla, peppermint-)]

"What're you doing?" [(You turn around. The Kid is there, it looks like having just woken up.)]

". . . Testing for poison!" [(You lie. What, would you say the truth? The truth that you hadn't gotten to taste something like this, REALLY taste something like this, for a long, long time? No. So you lie.)]

[(The Kid squints at you.)] ". . . Who're you?"

"I'm, Siffrin?" [(You reply.)]

"Nuh uh." [(They cross their arms.)] "'Frins weird but not THAT weird."

"But that's my name!" [(Keep your voice down.)] "Regular old helpful Siffrin, just, helping out?"

"Don't lie to me!" [(The Kid's trying to be quiet.)] "I know you're 'Frin 'cause you're ALL 'Frin but you're not the 'Frin I know!"

"Then just. Call. Me. Siffrin!" [(You're smiling.)] "Why don't you back to bed? Big day tomorrow, kiddo."

"Nuh." [(Big pout.)] "You gotta sleep too, not'frin. AND I still dunno who you are!"

"I said I'm-"

"I KNOW!!" [(The Kid barely contained their shout, then paused, then continued.)] ". . . Lulu's 'Frin, Null's 'Frin, 'Ays is 'Frin, you're 'Frin. Sif'frin got that name 'cause they're around a lot. You're 'Frin but you're also, uhm. . ."

[(You stare at them, still smiling. Then to the pack. You grab a bottle.)] "What's this?"

"Huh? Oh, saffron. 's Spice." [(The Kid shrugs, distracted.)]

[(You pause, then take some out and eat it. . . Tasty, floral, earthy, good.)]

". . . You're a weirdfrin." [(The Kid walked closer.)] "Weirdy weirdo weirdfrin."

"Yup! That's me! Weirdy weirdfrin Siffrin!" [(You turn and smile, holding the bottle up.)] "Saffron?"

"Uh huh."

"Do I really need a nickname if I'm Siffrin?"

"Uh HUH!" [(The Kid said insistently.)] "Same body or not you'd need a nickname!"

". . ." [(You hate it. So confident, mean, cooking good, kind now? The Kid was talking to you, talking to you. . . Normally? Fine. You put the cooking things back.)] "Saffron then. I liked it."

"Ok Saffron!" [(Well and just like that, you two were best buddies again. They helped put the mess away, but handed you the onion.)]

". . . . Onion?"

"You took a bite, dummy, eat it."

". . . Oh, right."

[(You take a few more bites of the onion, eye watering, it's, too much. You put it down.)]

"Heh, stupidfrin." [(The Kid looked so smug right now.)] "Punishment onion."

"Punishment onion." [(You agree solemnly, still smiling. You stand up.)] "I'm sleeping. Good night."

"Uh. . . Night." [(You turned away from The Kid. It all felt so alien, even still. . .)]

[(. . . You may never get used to this.)]

>>>

|You bolt upright. It's the middle of the night, you're, you're in a room, an inn room? Are you traveling? You are traveling, aren't you. You remember a lot of, walking. And before, fighting, no, and, before-|

|Red|

|The blanket feels heavy and inviting, and a second body lying in the bed was warm and soft, but, you had to get up. You stand, wobbly, your body feels wrong, very wrong, and small. Your vision is wonky, just, step by step. You walk to a little side of the room, mirror, mirror, mirror, you need, a mirror- there!|

|You can barely see yourself in this light. You, candle, or, crafted lamp, or- you find a small crafted light. With a spark you turn it on, a soft glow in the corner of a room and, and you look, in the mirror. . .|

|. . . . .|

|. . . . . That's not your face.|

|Your're, young. You look soft. You have messy darkless hair with dyed ends. You have one eye, and had scars down the neck. Your arms were short, you were short. You were breathing faster, you, you, this, you, you KNEW this body.|

|You're crying, no, nononono why, what's going on, why are, you, you remember, do you remember? No you do! Because, because it's, this body, it belongs to-|

"Siffrin?" |A soft, concerning voice came from accros the room. You whip around to see that other person, no, Isabeau. Isabeau was looking at you. You couldn't hide your emotions.|

". . . ." |You, couldn't speak. What, what do you do?!? Why are you here?!? You're and in their body, THEIR body, that body, person, someone, you, ruined the life of. Destroyed. Crushed. A-and, and-|

"H-heyyy it's okay, it's okay." |He was talking so softly. Like, like he cared about you?| "Are you new?"

". . . N-new?" |You finally say, your voice feels wrong.|

". . Haaaave you walked around? Like, this? Before?"

|'Like this' does he mean in a different persons body? Or outside of the house? Of frozen time? Just, answer.| "I. . . I don't think so?"

"Okay!" |He smiles at you.| "Don't, uh, freak out? So uh, youuuu're kind of sharing a body with a few people- oh crab are you okay?"

|Huh? Are you- oh. You touch your cheek, you're crying.| "I. . . I'm sorry, I don't know why. . ."

"It's okay, this stuff's confusing, haha. . ." |He looks away, he's worried.| ". . . O-oh! Sif keeps a journal, I think there's some stuff in there about, all this?"

"O-okay. . ." |You walk back over to your side of the bed with the lamp. There's a pack, yours? You think? After a bit of looking, you find a book you think is right, and open it.|

|. The inside cover has a couple pictures pressed into it. The first is a childs drawing of five figures, the one in the middle has an arrow with the word "You!" pointing to it. The second one is a smaller one with another figure on it. The first page had a big, bold, "DON'T PANIC!!!" at the top. Too late, but you read on, and, Universe willing, you would feel better after.|

|"If you're reading this, you're probably confused on what's going on." The handwriting was neat and deliberate, if this was to be a message to you, well, it was well crafted. "I'll try and explain things nice and quick, but you'll get the idea soon enough."|

|"You're sharing a body with me (Siffrin) and four other people at time of writing. Don't ask why, the brain just, kinda does this sometimes? I dunno." Ah yes, this was making you very confident. "This book we've been using to try and remember things, and note down who else we're sharing a body with."|

|"You see those pictures? That's our family! We're traveling with them all now, and they all know about our whole "body thing", so feel free to talk to them." Ah, that makes sense. The big, tough looking one must be Isabeau?|

|As if on cue, you turn to see him offer you a glass of water. You take it, smiling. He smiles back.|

|Back to the book. "There's some papers on this stuff in our bag if you want specifics, and at the back of the book we've been writing down who's in our little "system." So feel free to add yourself! It'll save everyone a headache." Can't you just, dissapear for a bit instead? "Lastly, we've also been writing down events daily starting on the next page. Leave a note on the latest entry when you read this. K?"|

|"We're all in this together, okay? Welcome to the club. - Siffrin."|

|. . . . You wanted to throw up.|

|You wanted to scream and cry and run away and dive into the ocean. You wanted to punch something. You wanted to see something break. You wanted to see the stars, you, you, you didn't want this. Right? N-no you, you don't deserve to be here. You SHOULDN'T be here. You felt, strange, like, you're not, who you think you are. . .|

|You remember yourself. You remember fighting yourself. You remember, pain, suffering, tears- Oh stars you can't think about that. You got a headache, and were crying more. You drink some of the water, calm, down. You just need water, and to breathe. Breathe in, hold for 1..2..3.........9..10.. And out. . . .|

"You okay?" |You hadn't noticed, but Isabeau had moved next to you.|

|You nod.| "I am. . . Okay. Just, okay."

"Well, uh, I'm here to help, okay?"

|You nod again, then back to the journal. You flip to the back of the book. At the top of the back page was one big title with stylised stars around it.|

|"CONSTELLATION"|

|. . . Oh, a collection of stars. It is what you all were. So, that's the name of your group? Cute. You look at the entries.|

|"Siffrin. He/they. I'll be in charge of the body the most."|

|"Loop, They/them~ Your wonderful, helpful Loop~"|

|"Mal Du Pays. It/its. Protector. Dont hurt the body and we're fine."|

|"Null. He/him. That's all you're getting."|

|"Saffron. He/they."|

|You were a little curious, or worried, why the last entry didn't have more detail. No matter, there were more in detailed descriptions on the next couple pages, too. . . You, you should add one.|

|. . . . . . . . . . . .|

|"Asterion. He/him."|

|The name just, came to you. You don't know why, but, you knew that was your name. Asterion. Oh. . . Or was it Asterius? You felt both were right, but, the first you. . . Liked more. Either a father of a tyrant king, or monster said king was cursed with. . . You didn't put more details in the journal. You didn't want to. And, if you did, you had a terrible feeling they'd. . .|

|. . . . You look at the latest journal entries.|

|Earlier Today: "Got into town! We'll take a day to relax, Wolworth is just a little bit further. Still glad that talk about Saffron went well - Sif"|

|Yesterday: "Fought sadness. Getting repopulated. Very weak. All is good. - MAL"|

|Two days ago: "Well it looks like lovely our new addition made the decision for us! He woke up in the middle of the night and scared Bonnie oh so badly. Eating an onion? Spices?!? Ugh, at least we have a name, now. Saffron. - Loop<3"|

|. . . How. . . Eventful? You have strange, phantom memories of these events. Remember remembering, like you should know it but don't. . . You leave a note under the latest entry.|

|"Woke up at night, not sure why I am here. Isabeau was able to help." You think for a moment. . . "I will not cause trouble, I am just very anxious about all of this. I may hide, but, thank you for the introduction. - Asterion"|

|You stared at the letters you wrote on the page. Reading and re-reading them a thousand times at least. . . They wont find out. They, can't find out. Please, don't find out. . .|

|You take a breath, and hold it, then release. You close the book and put it to the side.|

"Better?" |Isa asks. You drink the rest of the water he got you.|

"I. . . Yes." |You turn off the lamp and lay back down, staring at the ceeling.| "Yes I, I think I'll be okay."

|. . . Eventually, you close your eyes. Isabeau gets closer to you. As if on instinct, you fit yourself into his arms. He's warm, strong, and protective. . . Oh. . If he knew. . .|

|You had no plan. What WAS there to plan. You, lost. You lost one hundred times, in fact. Your title will live down and be remembered by all as one of doom. Oh. .The man who nearly saved a country. Well. . . Oh would it have truly been saved? Would it not just be forgotten in time as your home was?|

|That made it hurt all the more.|

|You, were not, him.|

|You felt with every bone in your body that you were that tyrant frozen in time. But you know in your soul you were not. The memories you have of those bloodiest of battles. . Oh. . They showed a villain who was cruel. So, so cruel. . Oh you could never do such a thing. It hurt to think about. It hurt to remember. And it hurt, it hurt in your stomach when you, you. . .|

|. . . You need, to sleep. . .|

|. . .|

|Your name is Asterion. And you are The King.|

[bratdotcom]

BRUISES AND BANDAGES

( Mark Grayson x reader || you don't know he's Invincible- but you patch him up anyway )

"I never knew you could be so nice." Mark comments as you patch up his hands, watching as you intricately tie little bows on the joints of his fingers. "I'm not that nice." You say, trying to downplay his praise as you tug the gauze on his pinky, looking up at him as you sit on your living room floor.

That stupid smile on his face made your heart flutter. Even with all those bruises on his face, he still looked pretty.

"I'm just looking out for you. Next time, try to actually look where you're walking." You try to lecture him. You try to sound mad that he got himself hurt, but you simply couldn't. To Mark, your words came off as endearing. Even when you tried to deny it.

"Do you have any of those Pochacco bandages?" He asks, smiling down at you despite his injuries. "You want to waste my good bandaids, Grayson? You're spoiled." You say back, clearly not meaning your words. Mark knew that. You knew that. You both knew that.

You get up from the floor of your living room carpet, dusting off your sweatpants. "Stay here. Don't even think about moving an inch, you hear me?"

"I won't, I won't." He reassures, putting his bandaged-up hands up in the air as he rests up against the couch.

You cared for Mark.

And it showed with the little bows you tied on his fingers while he rested his sore back on your living room couch, it showed through when you hurried him inside without a second thought.

"You better not." You shoot him a glance before you slip your house slippers back on, making your way into the bathroom to rummage around in your medicine cabinet for said bandages.

Mark's eyes wander around the decor in your living room. Sure, he's seen it all before but he didn't know where else to look besides directly at you. "Stay still." you steady his face by tapping the side of his jaw gently, making him face you. "You gotta stay still or else this bandaid's gonna go on wonky." Mark quietly studies your features as you cover his cuts with dog-themed bandages you had to restock weekly because of him.

Awkwardly, he says a small "sorry" in your direction, eyes flitting from your face to your hands. "It's fine, Mark. You're gonna make me go broke one day, but it's fine." you pat his shoulder, signaling that you were done with your handiwork.

Not having anywhere else to be besides home, he slides on the house slippers you gave him.

He studies his own face in the mirror near the door, tilting his head from side to side to see just exactly where you put those 'good' bandages of yours.

As he checks his face for damage he sees you in the corner of his eye. "You still look pretty, don't worry." you reassure him, leaning your head on his shoulder. Mark smiles to himself, covering his smile with his hand as he traces over the bandages you put on his cheek.