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hivemuthur · 1 day ago

Note

I’ve had a thought. You believe Viktor to be Experienced, right? What would his first time have looked like? This could be a request if you wanna write a one shot. Or just like share your thoughts. I’d be intrigued to see what you come up with if you wrote it out tho 🤔

You do like to throw me curveballs (I love that, thank you). Here is some virgin!Viktor take, he's not exactly super freaky but take it as the origin of Freaktor :')

Humble as I Go

viktorxfem!reader explicit! first time, a bit awkward, a bit sweet. Both Viktor and Reader are virgins! There is no specified age for the sake of legalities, but you can imagine them both young.

word count: 3,8K

author’s note: ok, so I've seen some angry post about condemnation of virgins through HC-ing Viktor as a non-virgin, and what I'm saying here is that I disagree with his infantilization in most virgin!Viktor fics. I was a late bloomer so I am literally nobody to tell people when it's cool to start having sex, it's absolutely irrelevant to your maturity. But having him unable to add 2+2 or being completely oblivious to sex in his 30s IS ableist. For the most part, disabled people know their bodies pretty well because they have to, and I can imagine Viktor being pretty well-read as well, him being curious about life. So no, it's not a punch toward people who didn't have sex yet, it's a punch toward those who see a disabled guy and think 'let's make him pathetic.' @rennethen beta read, thank you as usual! Happy (sort of) Freakday :')

—

Viktor stares at his thighs intently, grateful for a moment to regroup. The fabric around the knees is bulging and thinned out, threads threatening to pull—if not today, then tomorrow, or the day after. It’s also slightly damp, soft beneath his fingers where he’s wiped his sweaty palms while waiting for you to come back from the bathroom.

He’s afraid to get up from where you sat him on the bed—he’d slipped in the puddle that gathered on the pavement in The Fissures on your way home, after you’d muttered that your parents were away. And your house is nice. It’s warm and cozy. It’s full of love, with plenty of things that don’t match finding a place beside one another. A wet stain from his ass on your bedsheets wouldn’t bode well for what you’re both so excited for—and frightened of—all the same.

The door creaks, and then your head peeks out. A ghost of a smile lingers on your mouth, and you tuck a strand of hair behind your ear—and Viktor, oh, he can’t help but smile too. He actually laughs, breathy, nervous and quiet, but welcomes the weight of you settling beside him on the edge of the bed, as if your presence alone repels every doubt.

You don’t say anything at first. Just lean into his side, shoulder brushing his, your palm resting between you. His fingers twitch beneath it. “You okay?” you ask eventually, soft.

Viktor nods once. Then again, slower. “I think so.” A beat. “My hands are sweaty.”

You smile into your knees, arms looping around them. “Mine too.”

That gets a laugh out of both of you, hushed and crackling with nerves. You untangle your limbs first and stretch one leg over the edge of the bed, your knee knocking gently into his. His trousers shift as he moves to look at you more fully, and the suspenders tug awkwardly with the motion.

“I like these,” you say, your finger sliding under one of the straps and letting it snap back lightly against his chest.

“They’re necessary,” he replies. “My trousers are too big. They used to be my father’s.”

You hum like that makes perfect sense, which it does. His whole frame still has the look of someone who hasn’t quite finished growing into himself—elbows and knees a bit too sharp, shoulders a little unsure of their breadth. You reach out and brush his hair back from his forehead, and this time he doesn’t flinch, just watches you with wide, liquid eyes.

“I keep thinking I’ll mess this up somehow,” you admit, quiet.

“You won’t,” he says quickly. “Even if we do it all wrong, it’s still with you.”

That makes your throat ache. You kiss him—small and soft, mouths barely moving, just the warmth of it. When you pull back, Viktor’s eyes are closed, but he’s smiling. Your hands drift to the buttons of his shirt, but hesitate, hovering. “May I?”

He nods. “Yes. Please.”

You undo them slowly. One, then another. His skin is pale where it’s usually hidden, collarbones delicate, chest rising and falling in shallow breaths. When you glance up, his eyes are open again, fixed on your face like you’re the most intricate, important thing he’s ever seen.

His hands fumble next, trying to return the favour, but they shake a little and get caught in the hem of your sweater. You both laugh again, leaning forehead to forehead, nerves zinging in the air between you like lightning trapped in glass.

“Wait,” he says, reaching down awkwardly, and peels off his socks like they’ve betrayed him. “I don’t want to wear these for this.”

“They’re not that bad,” you say, but you’re already tugging off your own to match. “There. Even.”

The grin he gives you is crooked and overwhelmed, but he’s glowing with it. There’s no hurry, not really. Just a shared understanding that you’re moving toward something neither of you has ever done, and yet it feels inevitable in the best way.

Your hands find his suspenders and slide them down the slope of his shoulders. The tension in the elastic gives a soft snap, and he flinches, then laughs under his breath. He looks smaller without them, somehow—softer. Less held together.

His trousers sit loose on his hips now, waistband gaping far away from skin and it looks like a second Viktor could fit in them easily. When your fingers find the button, he nods, barely a breath. You undo it, and the fabric slides down, pooling around his ankles with a sigh. You both blink at the sound, then laugh again, quietly—he shrugs, self-conscious.

“See?” he mutters.

“Thank gods for those, huh?” you say, pulling at one of the suspender straps, and Viktor chuckles, air leaving his nose loudly as if he was holding it until now.

You guide him out of the trousers, then pause, eyeing the brace along his leg. “Would you like to—?”

He follows your gaze, then nods, sitting back to unbuckle the straps. “It’s easier like this,” he murmurs, focused on the clasps. “I don’t usually take it off unless I have to.”

“You don’t have to,” you say gently.

“I want to.” His voice is soft, but certain.

You watch as he undoes the last strap and lifts the brace carefully aside. Without it, his leg looks thinner, a little tense—but you only touch his knee, light and reassuring, and his shoulders drop. You lean in to kiss his cheek, and he smiles, just barely.

Then you reach for the hem of his shirt, and he lifts his arms to let you pull it off. It takes a moment to work it over his head—his hair sticks up after, and you smooth it back without thinking. He’s left in his undershirt, but the skin you can see is pale in the light, slender and unevenly freckled. When you run your palms down his arms, he inhales sharply, but doesn’t stop you.

“You’re beautiful,” you murmur, and he ducks his head like he doesn’t believe it, but his smile flickers small and bright.

“You’re not supposed to say that first,” he says. “I was going to say it.”

“You still can.”

He does. Quietly, but steady. “You’re beautiful.”

Then he touches your wrist, tentative, and waits. You nod.

He starts with your sweater, careful with the buttons even though his hands are shaking. You help him with the last one, and then the shirt beneath. His knuckles brush your ribs as he works the fabric off your shoulders. His gaze lingers—not just on your chest, but on all of you, awed.

His fingers trace the waistband of your trousers next, and he looks up again. “Alright?” he asks.

You hum an answer, too full to speak. The zip comes down smoothly. He tugs, slow and a little awkward, and you lift your hips so the fabric can slide off easier. When he gets them halfway down your legs, he stills for a second. Watching your thighs, your knees, your bare skin, as if it’s something rare and precious.

When he finally gets them off, you’re both just… there. Sitting in your underwear, knees bumping, hearts thudding so hard it’s almost funny. You reach for the duvet, tugging it over both of you. Not to hide—just to be close. Wrapped together in the warmth of this.

And then, when you’re ready, you reach again. Gentle. Curious.

“Hi,” you say, and smile.

“Hi,” he echoes, and his gaze never leaves yours.

The covers rest around your hips, pooling softly between you. Viktor’s knees knock against yours again, faint and accidental. Or maybe not. Your fingers graze his, and he turns his palm up, opening it for you.

“I’ve never done this before,” you admit, voice hushed. “Obviously.”

“Me neither.” He huffs a laugh, awkward and fond. “You can probably tell.”

You nudge your shoulder into his. “It’s okay. I think… I’d be scared with anyone else.”

His eyes flicker down, then back up, bright and unblinking. “You’re not scared now?”

You shake your head. “Not with you.”

He exhales like that means the world. Slowly, carefully, he brings a hand to your cheek, thumb barely brushing the skin. “Can I kiss you again?”

You nod, may times, and this kiss is different—shy at first, but it lingers, warmer, his mouth parting when yours does. His hand slides behind your neck. Yours settle over his ribs, thin beneath your palms. The duvet shifts with your closeness, and you both feel it: your bodies pressed together, clothed in breath and nerves.

It changes then—from careful lips to Viktor’s mouth opening a little more, and yours following. The world narrows to the slick, tentative press of tongues. It’s warm, unfamiliar, and clumsy in a way that makes you both stifle little laughs between kisses. His breath tastes like mint and you’re curious when he’s managed to refresh. Yours is all heat. A soft sound slips out of him when you suck gently on his lower lip, and he mirrors it, hesitant but eager.

The sounds are quiet, wet, a shared secret. A rhythm begins to build—just earnest, as if you're both learning at the same pace. His hand slides from the back of your neck to your waist, pulling you in, every touch like a plea for permission. You tip, gently, and both of you laugh as you fall sideways, mouths still pressed together.

Viktor braces himself on one elbow, looking down at you. His curls are a mess. His chest rises and falls in quick little stutters, and your fingers find the hem of his undershirt, then slip beneath. His skin is warm, smooth, and he twitches when you drag your hand along his ribs.

Your legs shift, one sliding against his. The covers slip lower. His free hand trails up your side. Hesitant, at first, but when he finds the curve of your breast and cups it, you gasp—soft and startled and entirely involuntary.

He freezes, then breathes, and you watch his throat move as he murmurs, “I like that sound.”

“Well,” you blush and swallow loudly. “I liked… that.”

His thumb brushes over your nipple through the thin fabric, and the breath that leaves you this time is closer to a moan. His eyes flick to your mouth and linger. Then, shyly, he bends to kiss you again.

You let your fingers drift lower, and wrap them around the hem of his undershirt. He breaks the kiss with a gasp, and lifts his arms in wordless permission. The fabric peels away easily, and when it's off, you pause to look—Viktor’s chest is narrow, ribs visible under pale skin. One of your hands grazes his sternum, and he makes a small, helpless sound in response.

“You’re…” you begin, but it gets lost in a breath. “Beautiful.” His ears go red, and he lowers his head, but he’s smiling.

He mirrors your movement, fingertips brushing the strap of your bra, a question in his eyes. You nod, and reach back to unhook it yourself. When it slips off, Viktor stares like he’s been handed something sacred. His hands hover before he rests one gently against your side, the other cupping you carefully. The sensation makes you shiver, and when his thumb brushes your nipple again—skin to skin this time—you bite your lip.

You tug him back in for a kiss, and while your mouths meet, you shift your hips just enough for your knickers to slide down. You shimmy them off beneath the covers, kicking them away with your toes. He notices. His eyes widen.

“You too,” you whisper, smiling, and he lets out a quiet, nervous laugh.

He pushes his briefs down with both hands, wriggling a little to get them past his hips. They’re snug, but they come off, down to his toes where they tangle, and he has to kick them off. Again, you both let out breathy laughs, pressed forehead to forehead. Now there’s nothing between you. Only skin and heat and everything unknown.

Your palm traces the curve of his shoulder, gliding down his chest, where his heart beats like a second one between you. He mirrors the path, fingers grazing your hip, then your waist, learning you in slow lines and soft breaths. And then, lower.

You hold each other’s gaze when his fingers slip down, brushing through the heat between your legs. The first touch is feather-light, but it makes you tense around the sound it nearly draws from you. His jaw clenches; he swallows, focusing, adjusting, trying again—gentler, more measured.

Your hand finds him in the same moment, wrapping around him with instinct more than knowledge. The sharp breath he lets out doesn’t sound like anything you’ve heard from him before. His hand pauses. He blinks fast, lips parted, stunned by the way your touch makes him falter.

“I—I didn’t know it would feel like that,” he says quietly, wonder bleeding into each word. Your thumb brushes over him and his hips jump. His forehead touches yours, and he whispers, "I might not last that long."

“I don’t mind,” you confess, breath caught.

You’re both still breathing each other in when Viktor shifts, propped on one elbow, looking down at you with flushed cheeks and hesitant eyes. “I… I’ve been reading,” he says, and his voice is so small you almost miss it.

You blink at him, trying not to smile. “Reading?”

He nods. “About this. About how—it might hurt. For you.”

The smile breaks through anyway, teasing, gentle. “Were there diagrams or something?”

The tips of his ears go crimson. “Maybe.”

You laugh under your breath, and it seems to give him courage. His gaze flickers across your face. “Will you let me try something?”

You nod, already breathless at the tenderness in his voice. “Yes.”

His hand glides down your belly, careful and warm, until he’s cupping you again. You’re already soft and slick, the trust between you easing the way, and when the tip of his finger begins to press inside, your body welcomes him with a gasp.

“You’re…” he murmurs, eyes wide in awe. “You’re so soft.”

His voice makes your toes curl. He moves slowly, watching your face the entire time, his brows drawing together in concentration as he slips in deeper, then adds another finger, and you arch at the stretch.

Your hand tightens instinctively around his cock—still warm and heavy in your palm—and the reaction is immediate. Viktor gasps, hips twitching toward you, and then he whimpers, “I beg you, don’t distract me.”

You giggle, trying to find your composure. “Forgive my manners,” you manage, mock-polite, but your voice cracks as his fingers curl just so. “Oh—”

His expression softens into something closer to wonder. “Is that alright?”

You nod, panting. “Yeah. Better than alright.”

“Good,” he says, with so much focus it almost makes you laugh again—if you weren’t so full of feeling. “You’re doing so well.”

“You too,” you whisper, and you mean it. Every moment is something you didn’t know you’d treasure. Every breath from him, every careful touch, feels like something precious.

Viktor’s fingers move again, slowly, curling as if he’s trying to memorise you by feel alone. Your hips twitch, and your head falls back against the pillow, lips parted. It isn’t overwhelming, not yet—but it’s building. Warming. Like a fire catching at the edges.

“I like how you feel,” he says suddenly, shyly, as though he’s admitting something shameful. “Inside. Around me.” Your throat tightens. There’s something about his voice—equal parts reverent and surprised, like he can’t believe you’re letting him do this.

“You can—keep going,” you breathe. “It feels really good.”

His lips brush the ball of your shoulder. “Tell me if it stops feeling good. Please.”

“I will.” You smile, lifting your hand to brush his fringe aside, fingers sweeping through soft hair. “You’re already being perfect.”

That makes him fluster, his fingers faltering for just a moment before resuming. He adds a tiny twist to the motion, and the sound that leaves you is unguarded. “Viktor—”

“I like that sound too,” he says, grinning, and then ducks his head to hide it against your shoulder.

You both giggle quietly, your bodies trembling with nerves and affection and something deeper that you’re only beginning to name. Then, he kisses your neck. “Can I try something else?”

You hum and nod, nearly absent and his thumb shifts to stroke you in slow, tentative circles while his fingers stay deep, coaxing the pleasure higher. You cling to his shoulders, skin hot under your palms. It feels good—careful, considered. It’s not polished or practised, but it’s full of kindness, full of him.

And when your hips roll up without thinking, chasing the rhythm, Viktor breathes a shaky “Yes,” into the hollow beneath your ear, like your response gives him permission to keep going. You feel yourself starting to tighten around him, fluttering.

“Gods,” you whisper. “You’re so good.”

“You too,” he says, kissing your cheek, breath ragged now. “You feel… you feel amazing.” His hand has you, fingers deep, careful, as his thumb circles around you slowly. You can feel yourself tipping—your legs tense, your thighs pressing closer around his palm. It's all so much: the warmth of his body against yours, the way he keeps watching your face like he’s afraid to miss even a flicker of feeling.

Your breath catches. “Viktor—”

“I’ve got you,” he whispers. “Let go if you want to.”

One permission is enough for you, and with a soft gasp, you do let go. It rolls through you slowly at first—warmth blooming outward, your muscles clenching around his fingers as your hips jerk. Your breath forms a sound that might be a moan, might be his name. He holds still inside you, except for the slow strokes of his thumb, drawing it out, waiting until your body begins to tremble and soften again. Only then does he carefully slip his hand free.

You’re blinking up at him through the haze, breathless, glowing from within. “You—”

“Did I hurt you?” His brow is furrowed. “Was that alright?”

“It was—” You laugh, dazed. “It was incredible. I think I forgot my name.”

He blushes, his chest rising and falling with shallow breath. You pull him closer, pressing your mouth to his, lazy and grateful. When your hand finds him again, he shudders violently. “You’re so hard,” you murmur against his lips.

He nods, almost sheepish. “Since the beginning.”

Your fingers close around him, and he gasps, hips twitching forward despite himself. He hides his face in the crook of your neck, panting.

“Do you want—?” you begin, but he interrupts with a desperate little sound.

“Gods, yes.” He lifts his head, eyes wide and earnest, “I really, really want to.”

You kiss him again. “Then come here.”

You watch as Viktor reaches behind him, fumbling for where his trousers lay crumpled near the edge of the bed. His hand disappears into the pocket and comes back holding a small, square packet. He blushes when he sees you looking, sheepish. “I, um… thought maybe.”

You smile. “I’m glad you did.” You help him tear it open, hands brushing. There’s a stutter in his breath as he rolls it on, careful and methodical, brows drawn in focus like he’s solving a delicate matter. His fingers tremble.

When he’s done, he looks at you—truly looks. His hair is messy from your hands, lips swollen from your kisses, his whole expression open and tender. “Are you ready?”

You nod, guiding him forward with your hands on his hips, your legs parting to welcome him in. He steadies himself on his forearms, nose brushing yours. “Tell me if I do anything wrong,” he whispers. “I’ve never—”

“You’re perfect,” you whisper back. “I want you.”

He lines himself up, the tip brushing where you're soft and slick. The sensation draws a sharp breath from both of you. And then, slowly, he begins to press inside.

It’s careful, hesitant, and overwhelming—tight and unfamiliar and so incredibly intimate. He gasps, pausing halfway with his eyes fluttering shut. “Oh—God.”

Your hands are on his back, one tracing the line of his spine. “You’re okay,” you whisper. “You’re doing so well.”

He presses the rest of the way in, shallow and shaking, his body curled over yours like he’s trying to disappear into the moment, or maybe into you. For a few seconds, he doesn’t move. He just breathes, and you are grateful for this time to adjust. You feel the warmth of his chest against yours, his heart racing in time with your own.

“It’s—” he starts, then breaks off with a soft, overwhelmed laugh. “You are so good.” You cup his face, unable to say anything. When he finally starts to move, it’s slow and stuttering. He’s trying so hard to hold on, eyes glazed, mouth parted. You kiss his cheek, his jaw, his temple—anchoring him.

“I certainly won’t last,” he confesses, voice breaking. “You feel so—”

“It’s okay.” Your hand slides to the nape of his neck, thumb brushing his hair. “I don’t mind.”

His hips rock a little faster, the rhythm unsteady but full of feeling. Each thrust draws a soft whimper from him, a breathy moan from you. He buries his face against your shoulder, breath heavy. When he comes, it’s with a quiet gasp, his whole body tensing and then melting against you. He clings, arms tight around you like he’s afraid to let go.

You lie there, tangled together in the hush that follows. Eventually, he lifts his head, eyes searching yours. “Did I…?”

You smile and kiss him. “You were wonderful.”

He exhales, dazed and a little teary. “You make me feel like I could do anything.”

“You can,” you say suddenly all serious and Viktor blushes differently this time. His face blushes and his ears, but you are certain his heart does too. He rolls of you, limbs lose and boneless, and pulls you close, arms wrapping snugly around your shoulders until there is space big enough only for you to breathe each other in. Legs tangled and fingers twisted in another’s hair you lay sunken in the sheets. The room quiets around you, and neither of you knows if this was so big only because you don’t know any bigger—but you choose to take it as it is: humbling.

#my writing #viktor arcane #viktor fanfic #viktor x reader #viktor x reader smut #viktor smut #viktor x gn!reader #viktor x oc #arcane #arcane fanfic #ao3 #ao3 fanfic #viktor nation #requests

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dcxdpdabbles · 2 days ago

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Not a request or ask but just a thought dump that a lot of people have amity park placed in the midwest n stuff which is cool, but then they don't give Danny those midwestern behaviors (i am also guilty of this as a midwesterner). I just think it would add a ton of comedy to the situation. Because being from a small city in the midwest with little nightlife and going into a densely populated city in the east coast that feels damn near always awake is like a major change.

Being from the midwest, it's a lot of polite kindness and greeting with big smiles, handshakes, and sometimes side hugs. Its lengthy hellos and even longer goodbyes as you slowly by slowly creep towards the door to leave but ur host just keeps bringing up 1 more thing they just *have* to tell you about. Its saying 'ope sorry' when bumping into someone when its not even ur fault. (I am gonna be completely real, i never even realized I said ope, sorry i just thought it was a joke others had for ppl in the midwest but then I listened to myself and was slack-jawed in horror.)

Its saying 'yall' unironically, even when referring to 1 person. The kindness to go the extra mile for people some times and becoming close friends with coworkers because you dont do anything else with ur life bc its the midwest.

Idk, i just think it would be funny, especially since the majority of the batfam were raised in gotham (typically placed in new jersey) and the difference in accents would most certainly be a giveaway that danny is NOT from gotham. And if his accent didnt give him away then the way he acts with such open kindness and wide smiles would most DEFINITELY give him away that he is NOT a Gotham native. And that makes me seriously giggle. Because in a city that is dealing with new rouges and the typical terrors, being used to rough faces and sneers, the most suspicious ones are the happy ones with wide smiles and open demeanors. And that is why danny gets singled out, not because he was caught going ghost, not because he was found bleeding ectoplasm, not even because of his mad scientist heritage and lack of self preservation, its because hes So Damn Nice And Smiley It Just Cant Be Real.

(sorry this got so long ive just been wanting to share my thoughts with someone and you seemed like a good fit lmao)

I love fics that explore this! Especially when the people of Gotham freak out because only the Joker's men or the people on something smile that wide at strangers.

Danny would consider it rude if people are always rushing, like he's used to people at checkout telling each other short stories, like their grandson graduating. Their daughter is getting married, or hey, I remember that show! - Nothing more than a minute or two, but people in the city don't do that.

They think he's trying to steal or something, because why is he trying to distract them at work? Why is he acting so friendly? It's super suspicious.

(Or something like that because I'm southwestern and that's how some tourists act when they come to my little rural areas lol)

#dcxdpdabbles #mun speaks #Danny's Midwestern is showing

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loversrocktvgirl2 · 2 days ago

Text

my mini multiverse of madness…

Pancakes (Bucky x Reader)

word count: 0.7k

masterlist

You lived in the Avengers Tower. You were on pretty good terms with everyone there—Steve was sweet, Sam made you laugh, Tony made you snicker, Natasha made you feel both safe yet threatened, Clint made you feel comfortable, Thor entertained you, and Bruce made you relax. There was only one person in the tower you had issues with.

Bucky.

It wasn’t even like there was anything wrong with him, he just never talked to you or interacted with you at all unless it was to get on your nerves. It drove you crazy.

You went into the kitchen to cook some pancakes. You’d had a craving for them for some reason, and had decided to make them. When you went to gather your ingredients, however, you found many of them on the top shelves of whatever cabinet they were in. Unfortunately, you couldn’t reach the top shelves.

Steve and Sam, while both being tall, liked to have things at a level they didn’t have to bend down to pick up, but they never put anything so high that you couldn’t reach it. Well, that was probably because Steve and Sam were decent, thoughtful people. So that just left Thor and Bucky. But Thor rarely used the kitchen—it perplexed him and he preferred not to use it, especially after that one time he nearly burnt the ceiling.

So you sighed, frustrated, got out the step stool, and carried it to all of the cabinets, getting the ingredients from high up one by one. When Bucky walked into the kitchen, he smirked. “Need any help?”

You rolled your eyes and turned to look at him. “No. Did you seriously put all of these up here?”

“It’s just autopilot!” Bucky argued with a relaxed shrug.

“Yeah, yeah,” you grabbed the container of salt and carried it down, stepping down from the two-step tall step stool.

“Damn, you’re short,” Bucky chuckled.

You glared daggers at him. “I’m not that shortYou just put things so damn high up that nobody under six feet could reach it.”

“You ever notice how you only talk to me when I’ve done something that bothers you?” Bucky questioned.

You stilled for a half-second. “…it’s not like you talk to me otherwise, either.”

“I’m just making an observation.”

“Just… make it someplace else. I’m hungry, I’m gonna make my pancakes.”

You thought about what Bucky had said, though. About you never talking to him unless he’d pissed you off. And you decided to give him a shot.

So forty five minutes later, you walked into the living room and found him. “Hey, do you uhm… do you wanna have pancakes with me?”

Bucky looked up, surprised, but nodded. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

He followed you to the kitchen table and filled his plate up with pancakes. The conversation was a little uncomfortable at first, but you soon found a bit of common ground over different kinds of breakfast foods and chess. You were horrible at chess. He wasn’t all that much better. But you had found the game in the living room cabinet and pulled it out, playing it at the kitchen table with your sticky, syrup glazed plates. Since neither of you were particularly good at the game, that made it all the more fun. And you were beginning to realize that maybe Bucky wasn’t so bad.

Over the next few days, you found yourself talking to Bucky more often. You didn’t resent the sight of him every time you walked into a room. And the salt? It went back to the lower shelves in the cabinet. He was trying to do something nice for you. It made you smile. You never told him, but he knew.

One morning, when you woke up, you walked over to your mirror, as you did most mornings. A sticky note was on the surface. You pulled it off and read it.

Wanna go out somewhere maybe a little fancier than pancakes?

— Bucky

P.S. Yes, I am asking you out.

The note made you grin. So you walked over to your nightstand, pulled out a sticky note of your own, and wrote: “yes.”

taglist

@spaceycat @vidanand @xo-cench @raikan624

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hitomisuzuya · 1 day ago

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fatui!scaramouche x fem!reader. no smut. scara on the warpath. also soft scara. some descriptions of blood, gore, and death.

i don't have much confidence, so i am going to humbly leave this here. i haven't written something like this before.

scaramouche could taste the fear seeing his squad returning to him. he'd seen them frightened before, but this was different. a different level of fear from them he had never felt before.

there was something off as he took a head count. almost immediately, he saw what was off. you didn't return with them.

what the actual fuck? it was simple recon mission.

"where. is. she?" his biting tone in his words sends a whole new shiver of fear up his squad's spines. it took a moment before someone was brave enough to speak up. and he has a feeling he isn't going to like what he was about to hear.

"look, sir, everything happened so fast," someone finally spoke up, "there was an ambush waiting for us. we were heavily out numbered, and-"

"talk faster," he spat, crossing his arms. he has little patience for overly long explanations and excuses today.

"they were going to take us all hostage. she exchanged herself for our safety. we begged her not to, but," the words came tumbling out of the frightened underling.

scaramouche grit his teeth. "i give you imbeciles one simple recon mission to gather intel. that's all you had to do. i expressly told you to always make sure she is safe," he immediately starts to walk past them, not even giving them the time of day in sparing even a glare at them.

he is furious.

you are his precious treasure. the one flicker of light in this dark, dark world. you are his, and now the world had the audacity to try and take you away from him.

all because you are too fucking nice for your own good.

"sir, let us at least come with you. we owe it to her, and we know the area already-" the same brave underling tried to help the situation, visibly shaking.

"no," scaramouche spat, looking over his shoulder. "and i swear, if anything has happened to her, i will delete you all. do you understand me?" and with that, he set off. with a deadly purpose.

as for you, you are hanging in there. but barely. you are lying in a crumbled heap on the floor of a wooden cell in the kairagi camp. pain weighs heavy on your body, so much so that hurt to even breathe. it didn't matter how much they hurt you, you refused to say one word. about anything.

nothing about the fatui. nothing about where your camp is. and certainly nothing about scaramouche. and you'd more than paid the price for your willing decision.

you felt scaramouche coming before he'd even arrived. the air charged with so much electricity that it made the hair on your arms stand upright. however, you fell unconscious a few moments later.

"you fools have something that belongs to me," scaramouche says in a low, dangerous tone.

"what? that little tart?" the leader of the kairagi said bravely, although his knees couldn't help but shake a little. it felt like the end of the world was walking right towards him. "she's a tough one, i'll admit. i'm sure you can understand that we deployed some rather harsh methods to get information from her. but she never said one word."

the rage inside scaramouche only over boiled further. "how dare you flap your filthy tongue like that. i'll be taking back what's mine now," if they all could've dropped dead right then, they would've, "you won't live long enough to see me leave with her. nobody takes what's mine. nobody."

he moved so fast no one saw him move before it was over. scaramouche wrapped his hand around the head of the leader, and promptly smashed his head into the wall. he died instantly, bits of brain matter and skull flew everywhere from the impact.

"next?" he said, dropping the body in a careless heap to the ground. "you'll all die screaming, i promise."

the final echoing screams that he promised was what roused you. it even took effort to open your eyes hearing the cell door quietly creak open. "sc-scara..you came.." you began weakly, "i knew you would," you let out a soft cry of pain as you try to sit up. "you aren't hurt, are you?"

"don't move," scaramouche commands, his tone far gentler now. kneeling down next to you, his anger boils over again seeing the state you are in. you look exhausted, and he can see the pain you are in your eyes. you have multiple cuts and bruises all over you. and your breathing is very labored.

your utter trust and faith he would come for you makes something warm flare in his chest. how could he have let this happen?

"look at you. they really hurt you, didn't they? i'm going to pick you up now. bear with me," he said, gently picking you up bridal style in his arms. he felt your body tremble as you wrap your arms around his neck.

"i didn't say anything," you rest your head on his chest, "i didn't even scream," you weakly nuzzle your head into his chest. "are you proud of me, scara?"

"sh, don't talk. just rest," you really are something else. you are hurt, broken, and bleeding a lot. and the only thing you are concerned about was him. putting a hand on your head, he cards his fingers soothingly through your hair before he making sure his hand was covering your field of vision. "and don't you dare look either."

blood and bits of flesh squelch under his sandals. various body parts lay scattered everywhere around him. no one was left alive. scaramouche slaughtered every single one of them, and to him, it still was a punishment too light for hurting you. he didn't want you to have to see all that.

"i'm glad you okay," you murmur, closing your heavy eyes as scaramouche obscured you vision. "i wanted to protect you. more than anything," it took everything you had to cling to him.

"why did you do that? the rest of the squad's lives are poultry compared to yours," for the first time in many, many centuries, scaramouche had been scared. scared he was going to lose everything. again. "don't you ever do something so..so stupid ever again, am i understood? that is an order."

you didn't answer him. you'd fallen asleep in his arms, and he is quite frankly relieved you had. that way, you wouldn't feel any of the pain you are in on the way back.

for a long while, chirps of crickets in the night accompanied his steps. if a long span of minutes went by, scaramouche would suddenly stop and put his hand on your chest, holding his breath until he felt your steady heartbeat.

"yes," his voice is barely above a whisper as he starts walking again, holding his entire world so carefully in his arms, "i am proud of you."

#genshin impact #genshin imagines #genshin angst #genshin fluff #scaramouche #soft scaramouche #scaramouche x reader #scaramouche x y/n #scaramouche x you #fem!reader #scaramouche imagines

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drdemonprince · 19 hours ago

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Holy shit. I’ve never been on Reddit until recently. So I missed the fact that people are like completely feral about you on there. For unhinged reasons like not believing you’re really autistic, mad because you don’t like diagnosis, you being a social psychologist, calling you ableist and weirdly misgendering you as if pronouns were really hard to understand. Why are people like this? I’m just an autistic person who follows a ton of autistic people but most don’t get the hate that you do. I mean maybe that’s like a positive thing because it shows your level of unmasking where you’re ok with being unliked by some? But it’s still shit. I’m sorry people are like that about you. It’s not ok.

awww wow thank you. That's really nice of you to recognize and say. There are several reasons why things have gotten to be like this. One of them is that people on reddit generally adopt a more medicalized understanding of everything from Autism to transness -- and so they reallly hate someone who pushes back against the medicalization of both. There's a lot of conservativism and self-hatred in reddit communities for marginalized groups, and really high respectability standards. The Autism in women subreddit hates me because i have challenged the idea that there's gendered variants of Autism, and it makes them uncomfortable to see trans women, queer people, and men of color lumped in with themselves.

There are also things I have done to contribute to this problem -- I used to fire off hot-take versions of my opinions on Twitter that were very easily misunderstood by those with the intention to do so or no context on the conversation, and there's the fact that I write about and for a predominately masked Autistic audience that has a lot of privileges that higher-support-needs Autistics do not have. People take umbrage at that and I don't really fault them for it, because even I am troubled by the ways in which the online Autistic community caters to those who can speak/mask/neuroconform more than those who are nonspeaking, intellectually disabled, or more visibly disabled in general. If people would really pay attention to my work they'd understand that I'm not the Aspie supremacist dipshit they think that I am, and that I actually do find the exact same things as them concerning, but some of them are just so sick of how overhyped they perceive me to be to really care about the nuances, or they've seen full on hate videos about me made on Tiktok by a few people who stalk me.

There sadly is a small but vocal community of people who viscerally hate me and spend an inordinate amount of time thinking about me and my work. It's sad. I've done my best to detach from the aspects of public life that would force me to deal with all of that, but some people are obsessive enough that it still breaks in.

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motorsportbarbie13 · 3 days ago

Text

Hurricane - Part 2

{“Sometimes,” Max continues when she remains silent, “people just genuinely want to help. There are no strings attached. Not with me. I just don’t want you stressing about money on top of everything else you’re dealing with.” I want to take care of you. Let me take care of you. The words die on his lips because he knows they’re too much. Too much too fast and he doesn’t want to scare her off.}

warnings/notes: talk of toxic/unsupportive parents, maybe some swearing? As always, thank you to @lestapiastrisgirl for always letting me yap about stupid plot ideas and being the voice of reason when I get too unhinged 😂❤️ pairing: max verstappen x emma meyer (OC) word count: 5.4k (oops)

hurricane master list main master list ask me anything

“Max, I am not using your credit card while you’re gone.” Emma hisses, standing in the middle of the kitchen, hands on her hips as she glares at Max Wednesday morning.

From his seat at the kitchen counter across from her, Max narrows his eyes at the tiny blonde, genuinely surprised at the sass coming from her mouth. He’d never really quite understood why some people were so opposed to allowing him to take care of them but in his experience, it was generally those people who needed it the most.

The corner of his mouth tips up and when Emma sees it, her eyes go molten. “Stop smirking at me like you’re going to ignore anything I have to say and do whatever you want anyway.”

“But I am going to ignore anything you say and do whatever I want anyway. Which includes leaving you my credit card while stealing all of yours.”

Emma’s eyes go wide with horror when Max reaches across the counter and plucks her wallet out of the top of her bag. “Max!” She yelps, reaching unsuccessfully for the faded black leather billfold that held all of her credit cards and cash. “I can’t…”

“Can’t what?” He asks, slipping the heavy black card into the front slot while shuffling the other cards around. He sees the panic in her eyes when his fingers brush against the silver and gold cards already there and decides not to push it too far, leaving them untouched instead of making good on his threat. “Can’t grab some groceries because my fridge is empty? Can’t treat yourself to a nice dinner or three while I’m gone?”

“I can’t use your credit card.” She says, eyes fixed on the marble counter that separated her from Max. The words held such weight it felt near impossible to lift her gaze to meet Max’s, even though she could feel the press of his attention pushing heavily into her.

“Can’t or won’t?” Max challenges, lifting his coffee cup to his lips.

Emma lifts her eyes to glare at Max then, struggling to keep from rolling them at him. Picking up her wallet, she fishes out the black card Max had just slipped in there and tosses it back on the counter. “I will not be using your credit card, Max Verstappen.”

Max peers at Emma from over the rim of his cup, brow quirked. This sass was a side of Emma he was unfamiliar with but he didn’t hate it. Not at all. Tucking away that little bit of Emma that he wants to mull over later tonight, he sets his coffee cup down. “Why not? It’s not like you asked me. I’m offering. You need things, right? Need to eat? Until you figure out your next steps…” He trails off, gesturing vaguely with his free hand.

“I’ll figure it out myself.” The words come out sharper than she intends and she winces at how rude she sounds. She can’t help it though. The ingrained mantra, the survival mechanism she’d relied on for years, echoes inside her head and it sounds a lot like her mother: “Figure it out yourself Emma. Don’t be such a burden to everyone. You need to grow up.”

The stubbornness in her voice has something stirring wildly in Max’s chest. Another thing to mull over tonight.

Max leans against the counter, his expression softening as it dawns on him that this is something a bit more deeper than just refusing the kindness of a friend. “Hey,” He says gently, more serious now that he sees how distressed this is making her. “No one is expecting you to figure it all out overnight. You just had the rug ripped out from under you two days ago, it’s okay to not know where you’re going to go next. I’m just trying to help, okay?”

“I know.” Emma mumbles, sliding her fingers through her hair before gathering it up in a ponytail. “I’m just-” She pauses, eyes flicking away from Max’s intense blue eyes. She hated how they pinned her to the spot so easily, reading her like she was an open book, making butterflies stir in ways that she knew was very dangerous. “I’m just not used to it.”

Emma’s admission was small, a tiny crack in the walls she held so solidly in place to protect herself from the outside world, but Max caught onto it so quick. He was good at reading racing lines and telemetry reports, but people were usually a different story. He never really much cared about what other people thought, how they felt, how he made them feel. It took up too much time and space in his head and he just couldn’t find it in him to care, not when there were more important things to focus on. Like winning world championships.

But with Emma it was different.

Every shift in her posture, every dip of her brow, they all meant something to him and he felt like he was going a little crazy every time he oriented himself to her presence the last two days.

“Not used to people helping you?” He asked, gaze intently fixed on those pretty dove grey eyes that he’d been thinking of all last night. He sensed something deeper was going on here, the visceral rejection of his offer spoke of something more at play and anxiety thrummed deep in Max’s gut at the thought of what, or who, had caused her to react like this.

Emma’s fingers twisted the twists of gold that decorated her right hand. A fleeting, unpleasant memory surfaced, completely unbidden: the humiliation of her parents yelling at her back in secondary school after she had needed to ask a friend to borrow a few Euros for lunch on a school trip because she had forgotten her wallet in her locker. Her father had been incensed when he found out about it, raving at her for nearly an hour the evening she had come home and asked for a few bills to pay her friend back.

“You were begging your friends for money? Now everyone is going to think we’re poor and can’t afford to send you on school trips! Why are you always so irresponsible?”

The shame of her mistake and embarrassment of humiliating her family so publicly still lingered all these years later.

“It’s…complicated.” Emma says, voice low. “I was always taught that relying on others just leads to trouble. You end up owing them or they hold it over you as leverage. It’s just easier to do it yourself.”

Max watched as the memory took hold of her right there in the kitchen. He didn’t know what the memory was but he could tell it hadn’t been a pleasant one. The discomfort she felt at his offer was evident in the way she shifted her body away from him, shoulders hunched in on themselves. He could tell there was a deeper story here, a reason the fiery blonde in front of him was so fiercely independent.

It was almost as if she was allergic to kindness.

“Not everyone operates like that, Em.” Max says softly.

Emma’s eyes flick up at the nickname, a reluctant smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. Only Victoria ever called her Em.

And now Max.

“Sometimes,” Max continues when she remains silent, “people just genuinely want to help. There are no strings attached. Not with me. I just don’t want you stressing about money on top of everything else you’re dealing with.”

I want to take care of you. Let me take care of you.

The words die on his lips because he knows they’re too much. Too much too fast and he doesn’t want to scare her off.

“I don’t want to be a burden, Max.” Emma confesses, the words tumbling out before she has a chance to stop them. The ingrained fear, the constant awareness of being an inconvenience to everyone around her, bubbles to the surface so violently, goosebumps erupt all over his skin.

A flicker of something unreadable crosses Max’s face. It looks a bit like understanding colored with a touch of sadness. Like he knows exactly what she’s talking about from first hand experience.

He leans forward just fraction of an inch closer to Emma, not taking his eyes off of her.

“You are not a burden. You could never be a burden.” To me, he finishes in his head. “You just need a little help right now and that’s not the end of the world. Just…consider it. Even if it’s just for the small things. A coffee and some groceries, maybe? Whatever you need.”

Max didn’t press further, just turned around and walked towards his bedroom quietly to finish packing, leaving Emma behind to stare at the card like it might just explode if she even touches it.

But when Max returns a while later, suitcase for the next few days trailing behind him, he notices the card isn’t on the counter anymore.

The silence in Max’s apartment stretched, thick and unbroken. It was a jarring change from the noise of the home she had spent the last three weeks living in and while it was somewhat unsettling. Now, it was only the gentle ticking of the clock in the living room that filled the quiet. The first thing she had noticed this morning when she woke up was how delicious the silence sounded, soft and unfocused as she laid in bed, still and quiet, for a over an hour after she had woken up.

But now, the afternoon stretched out before her, the novelty of having the expansive apartment all to herself until Saturday evening had worn off. A nervous, restless energy replaced it and as Emma sat on the couch flicking through the endless streaming services Max subscribed to, she was itching for something to do, someone to talk to.

Sunlight streamed through the large windows, illuminating the subtle disarray Max had left in his wake. It wasn’t dirty per say, not really messy either. There was just a distinctly masculine lack of meticulousness that left the apartment feeling slightly chaotic, slightly unhinged and most definitely in need of some organization.

Needing to busy her hands, Emma found herself moving around the apartment absentmindedly tidying the pile of racing magazines here, dusting the surfaces of the racing sim station Max had tucked away in a corner, just trying to make sense out of the quiet chaos. It was a way to occupy her hands, to allow her to feel useful during her stay in this borrowed space, while allowing her mind a chance to wander, to try to figure out what her next move was going to be.

Shortly after finishing organizing the cords around Max’s sim rig, Emma’s phone rings. She smiles when she sees Victoria’s name flashing across the screen.

“Hi, bestie.” Victoria’s cheerful voice fills the quiet apartment. “How is Chalet Verstappen treating you?”

Emma chuckles as she pads over to the overstuffed couch she’d spent too long on already. “It’s…quiet. And surprisingly unorganized. I would have expected more out of a Verstappen.”

Victoria laughed on the other end of the phone. “He certainly missed Jos’ penchant for an immaculate house, didn’t he? If it weren’t for the house keepers he has come every other week, it would be so much worse. Anyway, I didn’t call to talk about my dumb brother. What are you up to? Plotting your next move?”

Emma sighed, tugging the gray cashmere blanket up over her legs. It only took a few moments but as she settled back, sinking into the plush cushions, Jimmy hopped up into her lap. Max had warned her his two cats might be a bit standoffish when she first arrived on Monday night. But to everyone’s surprise Jimmy and Sassy took to Emma instantly.

Even now, with Max gone, the two bengals didn’t seem to miss Max quite as much as he had warned her they would.

“I don’t know. I’m trying.” She scratched at the fur behind Sassy’s ear as the other bengal cat came to sit on the back of the couch, cuddled up into her neck. “I don’t think I want to come home.”

Victoria is silent for a moment, letting the words hang in the air. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Emma rasped, knowing Victoria would be sad to not have her so close by. “You know how my parents are. It’ll be nothing but ‘I told you so’s’ for the next decade. I don’t think I could handle that right now, Vic.”

“I know.” Victoria says softly. “They were never your biggest cheerleaders, huh?”

“Understatement of the century.” Emma mutters, running her fingers over Jimmy’s smooth back. “They thought leaving my teaching job was insane enough. This whole nannying fiasco will just confirm all their worst opinions of me.”

“You were so unhappy teaching though, that’s not a moral failure.” Victoria reminds her. Out of all of Emma’s friends, it was Victoria who had had a front row seat to how her parents had treated her growing up. Sometimes it had felt like Emma spent more time with Victoria at the Verstappen household than she did at her own growing up.

“Miserable.” Emma corrected. “I was totally miserable. The kids were sweet, I loved that part of the job. Seeing their eyes light up when they finally grasped a new concept. But the endless grading? The politics between the parents and admin? It was just too much.” Emma pauses, hand skating over Jimmy’s velvet ears as he napped on her lap. “I felt like I was slowly suffocating.”

“So they wanted you to stay in a place that was killing you?” Victoria challenged, knowing that Emma would use her last breath to defend her parents despite them barely wanting to spare her a second glance most of the time.

“They want stability for me, even if how they execute it is a little…misguided.”

On the other end, Victoria sighed but didn’t argue, knowing that Emma was so close to getting away from the toxic home life.

“I just don’t want to go home and have to be subjected to the hours long lectures of ‘we told you so’ and ‘what are you going to do now that you’ve managed to fail again?’ Because Vic, I don’t even know what my next move is and I’ve been thinking about nothing else since Monday night.”

“So if not home, then what?” Victoria asked gently. “Have you thought about staying in Monaco? Maybe looking for another job there?”

Emma hesitated. The thought of staying in the city despite the last 3 miserable weeks with her nanny family was somewhat appealing. It was certainly better than the alternative option that felt like her only way out. “I don’t know. It feels…scary. Staying here with no sense of direction? But the thought of going back home and facing them is almost worse.”

“Okay.” Victoria says slowly. “You don’t have to make any rash decisions right now. You’re safe at Max’s for the next few days. He’s goin until what, Saturday?”

Emma nodded despite Victoria being unable to see her. “Yeah, Saturday evening is what he said.”

“Perfect. Use this time to breathe. Maybe look at some job postings? I can put some feelers out to the people I know in Monaco, maybe someone has an opening for you. If all else fails I’m sure you could find some families that are looking for a piano tutor.”

Emma’s heart rate ratcheted up as she let out a nervous laugh. “My piano playing days are long over, Vic. You know that. It’s been years.”

Emma’s mother had put her in piano lessons the day she had turned 5 years old, insisting that music helped bring out the genius in children. What she hadn’t expected was Emma falling in love with music instead of using it as a means to be better at math. She loved every bit of the piano: learning new pieces, exploring the way it made her feel. In time it became her outlet, the way she expressed herself. Sitting at the piano had been her refuge growing up. It had been her escape, the only place where she could lose herself and sooth out the anxious noise in her brain that was brought on by the criticisms of her parents.

Emma had begged for singing lessons for 12th birthday one year and had been denied. It wasn’t a worthy enough pursuit, her parents said. There was no way she’d ever make it as a professional musician, she wasn’t good enough and it wasn’t a practical career, so there was no sense in paying for lessons anymore.

Her parents sold the piano the year Emma turned 16.

She hadn’t played since.

“Max still has that piano in his living room, doesn’t he?” Victoria asked, a hint of mischief in her voice.

Emma glanced toward the far corner of the living room where a sleek, black grand piano stood, it’s polished surface flaming in the afternoon light. It looked expensive. Untouched.

“I don’t know. It already feels like I’m intruding in on his space as it is. I don’t want to insert myself even further into his life.”

“He wouldn’t mind, Em. Trust me. He’s got more money than he knows what to do with and he’s genuinely a good guy. Besides, who knows? Maybe it’ll spark something. You were always so talented when it came to music. I was always so jealous.”

A flicker of longing stirred in Emma’s chest as she continued to stare at the piano across the room. The memory of her fingers dancing across the keys, the release she found in the music, how she felt when she finally got a particularly challenging piece nailed finally, those warm and comforting memories wrapped around her, encouraging her to stand up and approach the piano that seemed to be calling her name now.

“Maybe.” She murmured, bare feet padding across the hardwood floor of Max’s living room.

There was no sheet music anywhere to be found and the keys themselves looked to be a little dusty. She tapped one of them, pressing down so softly only a soft note sounded from the instrument. The tone sounded off, not significantly so but Emma knew. She knew that the piano hadn’t been played in ages probably, that it needed a good tuning, but she’d handle that later.

“Just think about it.” Victoria’s voice gently pulled her back to the present. “No pressure. Just give yourself permission to breathe. You don’t have to have all the answers now.”

The conversation ended shortly after with Victoria promising to call tomorrow morning to check in. Emma stayed where she was long after she hung up though, just standing in front of the piano, finger tips barely brushing the ivory keys. It was almost as if she was afraid to really touch it, to bring that kind of happiness back into her life. She was afraid if she allowed that sort of thing in again, it would break her when she inevitably had to give it up. Emma had given up enough already and she wasn’t sure she’d be able to survive another heartbreak.

Max slotted the key into the lock, the click echoing in the quiet hallway outside his apartment door. He had intended to stay in Milton Keynes until Saturday evening, placating Horner and Marko and their requests he show his steady presence at the Red Bull Racing headquarters after a rocky start to the season for the team.

The meetings at HQ had been a masterclass in PR spin, something Red Bull was endlessly good at. It was a carefully orchestrated attempt to quell the impending media storm and fan backlash. Liam, while being a talented driver in his own right, had been shuffled back to the sister team. Max was in disagreement with the move and he had made his thoughts on the subject known pre and post China but in the end, it had been Christian’s call. Max understood the team’s desperation for consistent points and view that Liam wasn’t living up to the expectations, but the way they had done it, the brutal way they had only given Liam 2 races to settle in before making such a drastic move, didn’t sit well with Max.

And the sim time he’s been wanting to get in while he’d been in the UK? An absolute joke. He’d barely gotten an hour in the seat between the endless strategy debates and his PR obligations. The car still felt like a temperamental beast, unpredictable and frustrating from one setup to the next.

It was driving him crazy.

So, Max had cut his losses, mumbled an excuse about needing to be back in Monaco a day early, and had practically sprinted to his jet. He wanted nothing more than to spend the next few nights alone, in his own bed, before he had to leave again for a brutal triple header.

He’d expected quiet when he’d arrived home. Craved the comfort and anonymity he had when he was alone inside those walls. Max knew Emma was still there but the thought of going home with her waiting for him didn’t bother him as much as he’d thought. Having been raised by a father who preached about making sure to stay unattached during the height of his career had left a mark on Max. He shied away form deep human connection more often than not and so the fact that he didn’t mind Emma staying with him for a bit longer was a little foreign to him. A little unsettling.

As Max pushed the door open, a hauntingly beautiful melody drifted towards him from the living room. It was slow, melancholic, each note seemed to carry a profound sense of longing with it as it floated towards him. He couldn’t quite place the song, but he could feel the deep sadness resonating throughout the apartment. There was a quiet outpouring of something intensely personal coming from the piano sitting in the corner of his living room and as Max stood just inside the doorway, he fought the urge to slip right back out of the apartment. He felt like he was intruding on something.

Something pulled him towards the living room though and he moved silently, not wanting to disturb Emma if it really was her playing his long-neglected piano. When he reached the archway to the living room, he stopped, mesmerized by the scene before him.

Emma sat at his grand piano, facing away from him. Her posture was slightly hunched, her blond hair tumbling down around her shoulders in loose waves. Her head was bowed, tilted forward just a bit so she could make out the notes on the sheet music in front of her.

Her fingers moved across the keys with a delicate grace that spoke towards the raw emotion in the music. Each note seemed to resonate with a deep sense of sadness, a quiet outpouring of something intensely personal. Max watched on, captivated, as Emma worked through the piece bit by torturous bit. He could almost feel the weight of her unspoken anxieties, the demons of her past that she was still fighting with today, all of it woven into the fabric of the melody she was making.

Max couldn’t see her face but there was a telltale tremor in her shoulders, a subtle catch in the rhythm of the music that suggested she was not only wrestling with her demons but fighting back tears as well. There weren’t any loud, wrenching sobs. Instead, Emma’s posture trembled with the kind of silent, heart wrenching tears that spoke of a soul laid completely bare.

The final notes of the piece hung in the air, fading slowly into the quiet hum of the Monaco evening that filtered through the closed windows. Emma’s fingers lingered on the keys for a few moments, the silence that slipped through the apartment amplifying the unsteady rhythm of her labored breathing. She hadn’t realized she’d been crying until the last few chords but the hot tears that traced silent paths down her cheeks reminded her how much she’d lost in the last few years. The melody of one of her favorite pieces, so achingly beautiful and filled with a gentle sorrow, had somehow unlocked a dam inside her, releasing a tsunami of long buried, deeply guarded feelings.

With a shaky sigh, she finally lifted her hands from the piano, the sudden stillness that blanketed the living room, felt almost jarring. Reaching up to swipe at her eyes with the back of her hand, she turned slightly to see where Jimmy and Sassy had wandered to while she had been occupied elsewhere.

It was then that she caught sight Max.

He was sitting on the large sofa across the room, his long legs stretched out in front of him, his head resting against the back cushions. The dim light from a nearby lamp casting long shadows across his face but Emma could see his eyes fixed on hers, a quiet intensity shining in them as he watched her. She had been so lost in the music, so consumed by her own emotions, that she hadn’t even heard him come in.

A jolt of surprise, bordering on panic, shot through her. Her breath caught in her throat. She hadn’t expected him back until late Saturday night. What was he doing here? How much had he heard? What had he seen?

“Max!” The sound of his name left her lips in a startled whisper, his unexpected arriaval making her jump. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic flight of hummingbirds wings against the sudden silence.

She hadn’t meant for anyone to witness that raw, unguarded moments. Shame, hot and prickley, swelled in her chest, painting her cheeks a bright rosy red.

“I’m sorry, Em. I didn’t mean to startle you.” Max replies, lifting himself off the couch before approaching her. He eyed Jimmy, who had leapt up onto the piano bench shortly after Emma had finished playing.

That was an interesting development. Jimmy usually hated strangers.

“You’re back early.” Emma scrambled for something, anything to say to distract herself from the intense way Max was looking at her, like he was really seeing her for the first time.

Max lifts Jimmy off the bench before plopping him down on the floor, taking the cats place next to Emma on the piano bench. It was a short bench, really only meant for one grown adult, so his shoulder brushed hers as his fingers brushed against the sheet music sitting in front of him.

“I wondered what that charge from the music store was last night.” He murmurs.

“I’m sorry.” Her apology is instant, like a reflex coming as easy to her lips as breathing.

Max peers at her then, liking the way the blush colors her cheeks but wishing that it was him making her blush and not the shame of needing help. “Don’t be.” His statement is firm, but not unkind. “I told you to use it if you needed anything and by the way that piece sounded, you needed that music.”

It made Emma’s skin itch a bit at how Max read her so easily. She didn’t want to admit how much she liked feeling seen under his gaze. It felt dangerous, like there was a risk in remaining this close to him. Like if she allowed herself to get used to his kindness and generosity, she’d pay for it with her heart sooner rather than later.

“I didn’t know you played.” Max says when Emma stays silent, her gaze flicking between the music in front of her and Max beside her.

“Up until I was sixteen and then my parents decided my time was better spent elsewhere.” There was a touch of bitterness in her voice that made Max’s skin prickle. Every time he learned something about her parents, he liked them less and less.

“Well, I’d never be able to tell you’d taken any time off. It sounded incredible.”

Emma blushes harder and Max grins. “The piano is a touch out of tune, I’m afraid. It could have been better.”

Max shakes his head, “I wouldn’t have known if you hadn’t said anything to me.” He turns back to the music, flipping to the front of the piece. “Pavane pour une infante defunte” He reads out loud in perfect French before turning back to Emma with a raised brow, “Pavane for a dead princess?”

Emma smiles sadly at the knowing glint in his eyes. There was that feeling again, that itchiness over the fact Max was so easily able to read her. Like he knew her so well already and they’d barely spent any time together. “It was the last concert piece I ever learned before…” The rest of the sentence dies on her lips.

Max’s gaze softened. He could hear the hurt in her voice, remembering the abrupt end to something she clearly loved. The desire to call her parents up and give them a piece of his mind for ripping away something that meant so much to Emma had his fingers itching to reach for his phone. “Before they decided your time was better spent elsewhere?” He asked gently, not wanting to push but needing to understand the shadows that seemed to cling to her today.

Emma hesitated, her fingers tracing the edges of the sheet music as she leaned just a fraction of an inch closer into Max’s warmth beside her. The silence stretched between them, thick and stifling as Max waited patiently for her response. Finally, Emma lifted her gaze to meet his, a flicker of vulnerability in her dove-grey eyes. “Before they decided music was a frivolous waste of time because I wasn’t good enough to make it a career. They said I needed to focus on more…practical pursuits.”

The word ‘practical’ fell off her tongue, bitter as ash and dripping with venom.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Max’s jaw flutter almost imperceptibly. His parents, while demanding in their own way, had always supported his passions, his desire to race cars for a living, even when it had seemed like a long shot. The idea of someone stifling such a clear talent, such a deep connection with something so beautiful, grated on him roughly.

“Well,” He began, low and sincere, “I’m glad you decided to waste a little more time on it tonight. Even though it wasn’t a waste. It was beautiful, Emma. Really.”

Emma’s blush deepens but this time there was a hint of something else in her expression. There was a bit of a flicker of surprised pleasure there in her eyes as she watched Max watch her. Dropping her gaze down to her hands, she flexed her fingers slightly as if her fingers were sore from playing for so long this afternoon.

“Thank you.” She whispered so softly Max was almost sure he’d imagined it.

Max shifted a bit, his shoulder brushing hers once again, the casual contact sending a cool shiver of pleasure down his spine. He ignored the little voice in his head that warned him to keep his distance. He shouldn’t be this interested in his little sister’s best friend. Shouldn’t care what her plans were for the future. Shouldn’t want them to include him.

“So,” He said, turning his attention back to the sheet music, a forced lightness in his tone as he spoke. “A dead princess, huh? Bit morbid for a Friday night, don’t you think?” He shot her a teasing grin, hoping to lighten the heavy atmosphere that had settled between them.

A small, genuine smile spread across Emma’s lips, Max’s lighthearted question chasing away some of the sadness that had clouded her features. “It’s not really about a dead princess.” She explained, tone patient. “Ravel said the title just sounded nice. It’s more about a memory, a feeling of something lost and mourning that.”

Max nodded slowly, his gaze lingering on the slope of her nose, the high cheekbones that he dangerously loved watching go pink at the sound of his voice, the way her lips formed a perfect heart shape as she concentrated. All of these observations were dangerous but not wholly unwelcome.

He was familiar with that sense of loss, of mourning what could have been. What should have been. What could have been.

“Well,” Max began, his eyes meeting hers again as a new understanding passed between them in the quiet of the evening. “I’m glad you’ve found your way back to it again, Em.”

Tag list:

@alessioayla @addy-lol @changetyre @obxstiles @tvdtw4ever @joaofelixml @vickykazuya @47chickens @magnusstan @joannaln4 @nicooolsstuff @wakasays @slutforcoffein @ajordan2020 @widow-cevans @isagrace22 @simp4f1 @chertik-007vvv @mayax2o07 @scenesofobx @a-beaverhausen @glitteryturtledeer @halleest @sltwins @doesgekouwe @unknownmystery22 @honethatty12 @chaoswithus @sarahsobsession @liz140569 @sinfully-yoursss @ilove-tswizzle @lilbitchfromfaraway @irisesinthegarden @i-survived-a-shark-attack @smithieandy @fastandcurious16 @angelluv16 @sinfully-yoursss

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terzosboyfriend · 10 hours ago

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GOD THIS FANDOM IS FUCKING INSUFFERABLEEEEEE!!!!

Here is the context for my rant I am about to do. Ghost just posted it.

You all really need to stop being selfish, and this isn't even directed toward the people specifically complaining about this show being canceled. The number of people in the comment section acting like it is Ghost's fault and blaming them because THEY CHOSE to buy plane tickets and go out to that ritual. Yes it fucking sucks, yes you'll be out some money, but it was your choice to put the risk into making extra expenses for this ritual.

The reaction is the exact same as when Ghost had to cancel a couple of shows in the US for the re-imperatour BECAUSE OF A FUCKING HURRICANE.

None of you actually fucking care do you? You're all just selfish pieces of shit. Seeing just how much this fandom has gone downhill since october, no since MOAC blew up is fucking horrendous.

The way you all are blaming Ghost too for this??? Literally, they're apologizing and STATED IN THE POST that the VENUE can not ACCOMMODATE WHAT THEY NEED. This is the exact same situation as with the hurricanes. Everyone was fucking blaming Ghost because they chose to spend extra fucking money on traveling out to that specific ritual. The number of people who got so pissed from the hurricane at them was actually unbelievable, too. They had to cancel not only for YOUR safety, BUT ALSO, THEIRS.

I understand that it may be upsetting for you because of it, but you're such a piece of shit if you think it's okay to get mad at and blame Ghost. Everyone should know the financial risk that comes with choosing to go to a ritual out of your area. That isn't their fault.

There are also so many people being like "Well they could've at least rescheduled it! Now they're just leaving us behind!" Do y'all not understand the amount of preparation and scheduling that is needed for a world tour? Like seriously? Are you fucking stupid? Like yeah, it would be nice for them to reschedule, but if they don't, it's likely cause they literally do not have the time for it. And even them, THEY JUST ANNOUNCED IT. For the canceled shows in the re-imperatour, it was SEVERAL DAYS before they announced a new date, but it was with the same venues. They would have to not only find a completely different venue in the area, but also the venue would have to have an opening in the near future.

Do y'all just like- lack reading comprehension? Do y'all ever stop to actually think before you post shit like ever? Or are all of you too selfish and self-centered around this band that you think you'd be the special exception?

Honestly I'm so fucking tired of this fandom.

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lotstradamus · 3 days ago

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Do you have any recommendations for things to buy to get into scrapbooking? It sounds really fun and I have so many photos it would be nice to use, but don’t really know where to start.

INSERT SEAGULL INHALING MEME HERE

the kids call what I do 'junk journaling' now (it was just scrapbooking when I was doing it in 2013), and the joy of it is that all you need is a sturdy notebook, a glue stick, and kleptomania. the idea is that you collect STUFF from your day to day and make spreads using the stuff. so arguably you don't have to buy anything beyond something to stick with and something to stick in.

I use a Papier softback spiral bound notebook (like so) for my journal, because my last notebook was a standard run of the mill pretty notebook which fell to pieces due to the strain of all the shit I stuck in it. spiral bound is a winner for me because the spine won't just give up the ghost and collapse. a sturdy journal is CRUCIAL.

unfortunately I am a slave to a hobby and I absolutely love to shop, so I couldn't stop at a notebook and a glue stick. I also got glue tape rollers (great for taping down big sheets of things without making them Wet with the glue stick), washi tape (not for sticking things down as much as for making things look stuck down in a cute way), stickers of all shapes and sizes (ESPECIALLY letter stickers, as I hate ruining a spread with my crap handwriting), and for my birthday I also got an instax printer, so I can print photos on instax film for spreads like a proper little poser. but YMMV on that one.

to be honest the best thing you need for junk journaling/scrapbooking is a good eye for the aforementioned stuff - does your local coffee shop have cute logo sleeves on their hot drinks? pretty paper packaging on your chopsticks? free stickers at your tattoo parlour? business cards for a small business you shop at? did you buy some quirky pasta with a fun packet? can you nab the receipt from your dinner with friends? does the paper bag they gave you have a print on it? does the restaurant have paper place mats they're going to toss once you've eaten? does the bar have branded coasters? does it have a photobooth? every day becomes a little treasure hunt!

scrapbooking is fun, creative, soothing, and doesn't require a screen to do, so it's my favourite thing in the world currently. and collecting junk makes you really AWARE of everything around you and also kind of (CHEESY!!!) makes you see the potential for beauty in everything... like this receipt from the deli is boring and ugly... but when I stick it in my journal with pink washi tape and stick a sticker on it of a cat in Victorian clothing it will shine and remind me of the amazing sandwich I ate... thank you deli receipt!

tl;dr stickers and washi tape xxx

#answered #I LOVE BEING A JUNK JOURNAL GIRLIE

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anjelicawrites · 2 days ago

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Days back home

Paring: John Price x wife!reader Synopsis: your husband John is finally back from deployment.

Warnings: angsty sex, P in V sex, cuddling, idiots in love, domestic John, kissing, handjob, crying, a bit of daddy kink, John is bad at compartimentalizing, John doesn’t know how to relax.

A/N: reader is AFAB, they/them pronouns used when needed.

You hear the rustling of pots and pans from the bedroom. Still half asleep you grab the cricket bat hiding under the bed, thinking Intruders! Before you realize how silly the idea is: are those intruders going to make themselves breakfast while ransacking your home?

Still brandishing the bat, just in case, you make your way downstairs, trying to be as silent as possible in your socks; with your shoulder you open the door connecting the corridor to the kitchen, just a crack, to check who’s at home with you, only to see the back of John’s body, clad in a green T-shirt and jeans, his ridiculous hat forgotten on one of the chairs; he’s making his ‘I’m back home pancakes’ while listening to the radio, the kettle already on the stove.

NSFW and 18+ only please!

“So, this is how I am welcomed back home?” He quips.

You have married the biggest idiot on earth and you wouldn't change him for the whole world.

You abandon the bat next to the door and leap to hug him from behind, smelling him in, feeling his hard body against your own, after too long.

He smells fresh, you know he has had a shower before driving back to you, because he doesn’t want to soil your shared sanctuary with his work; he still berates himself that he and his team had crashed your practice and that those were the circumstances he’s met you.

“You know me, I’m always ready.” You answer, taking another whiff from him, your hands sneaking to his front. “Welcome home my love, I think I will have to have words to whomever is in charge of the rations you eat: you’ve lost weight baby, I will need to fatten you up once again.”

He laughs, under your hands his muscles rip.

“I don’t think Major Williams would survive that.”

Swiftly he deposits another pancake on the pile standing on his left. Before he can pour some more batter on the pan, you lift your arm to his nose.

“Do I still smell like barn? I was on call and was out most of the night. I did take a shower but all I can smell is wet hay.”

His right hand wounds around your wrist, warm and calloused against your soft skin, to keep you still as his nose is filled by the sweet scent of honey; this is an inside jokes of yours, that he sticks to the neutral smell of his army mandated soap, whilst you try every different shower gel you can get your hands on, with various results. This time is nice, he likes how honey complements your natural scent, other times not so much, like the body wash that was supposed to be lemon, but smelled like dish soap, or the obnoxious candy one that’s still hiding somewhere in the guests’ bathroom.

“Any adorable litter of kittens?”

“No, twin calves, pretty fast and incredibly both born alive, and one of the Jenkins’ sheep that kept me up all night. I got into bed a couple of hours ago.”

John turns in your embrace, his big hands finding home on your hips.

“My capable vet, looking after all creatures, great and small.”

“Very funny, mister, I’m in a puddle of laughter.”

But there is a smile on your face that echoes his own: you have missed him, and the small quips you share.

It’s still too cold to eat breakfast in the garden, but there’s enough light that it bathes you both as you two sit at the table by the windows, your legs on his thighs, his hand caressing your calves in between bites as you both demolish the astounding amount of pancakes John has made.

“Go back to bed, love.” He tells you. “I napped on my way back. I’ll do a couple of chores around the house.”

You look at him, taking him in: he’s not antsy, but he’s thrumming with all the nervous energy from combat that needs to be released. There isn’t much to do around the house, but this wouldn't stop John from picking up random jobs, or even call at work to see if he’s needed back at the base, until you know he will simply crash and burn, utterly spent and miserable.

“I don’t think so, mister.”

Neither of you wear the wedding rings usually. You work with animals all day and for John is more of a security breach issue, the chance for someone who doesn’t belong to the small circle of people he trusts, to know about you.

For this reason you’re the ring bearer, keeping your engagement and both wedding rings on a thin, long chain usually worn under your clothes; the other tradition that marks John’s return home is you two exchanging them again.

You have to fiddle with the clasp for a moment, before you can release everything on the table, in between tea mugs and plates.

Your rings look so small in John’s thick fingers. Carefully he picks the engagement one, inherited by the male firstborn in his family to pass down the first son and slips it on your extended ring finger; a smile crinkles the sides of his eyes when you put his ring on his finger, stating your claim once again. He’s so used to be Captain Price that he forgets he has space where he is allowed to simply be John, your husband who has missed you dearly and who wants to make sure you will always have everything you desire.

“The house is fine.” You say with a smile. “The random dead light will not kill us all. Same goes with whatever is going on at the base: you and the boys did your job, now it’s time for others to do theirs. Come to bed with me, I have missed sleeping in your arms.”

John’s body is tired, the small nap on the flight back has barely scratched the sleep deprivation of the last weeks, but his brain is still running, still analyzing all the information harvested, still valuating all the plans he’s come up with, still trying to answer the age old question: will he be able to do better next time?

“I would like my husband back.” Your free hand finds his to squeeze his roughened palm.

“He’s here.”

“In body. Where is his mind though?”

He knows you’re right. When he’s out on the field, or simply at the base, it’s easy to let go of his civilian life; he can’t say the same when he’s home, his brain doesn’t compartmentalize the way it should.

“Not here.”

He pulls on your arm until you sit on his knees, your head on his shoulder, staring at him with half lidded eyes filled with love.

You’re full and nuzzle your face against his chest when he tries to feed you some more, mumbling ‘your loss’ at your refusal: you’re just happy that he’s back, unscathed and that you can have this slow morning where life isn’t intruding and you two can be fools in love.

You fall asleep like this, lulled by the sun shining through the windows and John’s comforting smell, his warmth creating a safe cocoon where you can huddle.

You don’t feel his kiss on the top of your head, nor the silent way he carries you bridal style up the stairs to your shared bedroom, where he deposits you on the unmade bed, careful to cover you with the light duvet; he stares at you and the way you curl on his side of the bed, in your sleep you’re still seeking his scent, even though the pillow must have lost it.

The weight of the chores he knows are waiting for him around the house is pushing him to go downstairs and busy himself, making sure you have nothing to do today and tomorrow; it’s the way he’s been raised, in a house where being lazy was never an option.

Life with you is different, it clashes, sometimes, with his training and his upbringing, with whom he’s become, with his heart missing you, his skin hurting now that it’s not in contact with yours: so easily you break him down and reshape him in the man you love.

He doesn’t jostle your body when he slides under the duvet and arranges your limbs so that you’re hugging him and your face sits against the hollow of his throat, your breath a soft tickle against the sensitive skin there.

A smile finds its way on his face when you wriggle closer to him, almost as if you want to meld your body to his and he hugs your tighter, until there’s no space left between you two, only the cotton of the sleep clothes you’re both wearing.

When he wakes up you’re staring, owlishly, at him: you must have awoken not too long ago.

“I need to do something.” You mumble.

Before he can answer, you wriggle in his embrace to kiss the freckle on his nose, then you nod to yourself, proud.

“I missed doing this.” Your face finds home against the hollow of his throat, again.

His arms curl tighter around you, his nose in your hair to smell the familiar scent of your shampoo.

“I love you.”

His heart still misses a beat when he says those words.

Before you, he had never had the courage to say it out loud to a partner, you have unlocked that in him, not sappiness, but honesty.

The two of you spend the afternoon pottering about the house, him changing a couple of light bulbs and writing down the grocery shop list for tomorrow, before you entice him to lay on the sofa with you.

“You don’t have to earn your down time, you know?”

“I do.” Not exactly a lie, but he’s an old dog still trying to learn new tricks.

“Just saying.”

He moves the two of you around so that you’re laying with your back against his chest so that he can read the book you two have started before his deployment; nothing too high stakes or complicated, a simple story with simple threads he can pick up after a couple of sentences.

“Shall we go to the farmer’s market tomorrow? After we go grocery shopping? Alfred is going to be there with his honey.”

Alfred being your mentor, the vet who had founded the practice you now own who, at the ripe old age of eighty years old, had finally decided to retire and follow his new calling: beekeeping.

“Sounds lovely.”

John likes the old man, he’s straightforward and with a dry sense of humor that reminds John of the captains he had served under when he was a lieutenant.

Seven pages down and a couple of chuckles on your part, you close the book to stare at him.

“I think there’s something going on between my vet tech, Johnny and Simon. Don’t laugh!”

“It wouldn't surprise me. Those two are a package deal, or are each other’s ‘Your friend Steve’”

“You should have told me! I had to ask my vet tech because I felt there was something fishy going on!”

“You didn’t!”

“I did. Asked if the men knew about one another and got lectured about polyamory!”

John’s body is wracked by laughter, so much so that he ignores you trying to elbow him to make him stop.

“It’s not funny John!” He keeps laughing. “You’re horrible!”

His arms lock around you as soon as you try to stand up.

“Where do you think you’re going?” There’s a huskiness in his voice that travels deliciously down your spine.

“Away from my unsupportive husband!” You whine.

His right hand travels leisurely down your body, until he can grab the fat of your thigh to spread you open.

“I think we can reach an agreement, you and I. A way for me to show you how sorry I feel.”

His thick fingers tease the hollow of your thigh, right next where your panties are.

“You should show me, as a proof of your good will.”

His warm lips kiss your neck as his fingers deftly slide under the damp cotton of your knickers.

“As you wish” he growls.

Sleeping back home the first few days is a matter adjusting himself back around you and the quiet of the neck of the woods where you two live: waking up when there’s too much silence or when your body moves next to his, opening one eye, hand ready to grab a weapon that’s not there, only to stop himself before waking you up. There are nightmares, sometimes, that propel him up with a scream locked behind his teeth and his fists ready to strike; those are the nights when he feels remorse at disturbing you with the horrors he carries within himself, those monsters he doesn’t want to bring home to you, but which manage to slither their way inside, scattered away by your hands on his skin and your voice telling him to follow you to the kitchen, that you’re going to make him a nice cup of war milk with honey.

This time there’s no nightmares, only the silence waking him up and the moonlight illuminating your body huddled under the duvet: it’s a warm spring, for the UK, but the nights still carry the chill of winter with them. Without disturbing you, he kisses your exposed shoulder and pulls the covers tighter around your frame, before hugging you as tight as possible, his nose buried in your hair.

Slowly you two approach this new day, your lips on his neck and his hands under your pajamas until his need, and yours, burns too bright to control and he slips inside of you, moaning against your naked chest when your muscles rip around his cock.

He luxuriates in your warmth, when you lock your legs around his waist and tell him not to move, to stay where he is, that you need to feel him. It could be hours when you beg him to move, slow pushed and pulls that bring you to an orgasms that leaves marks down his back, your cunt wounding so tightly around his cock that he spills with a shout.

It’s almost lunch time when you two arrive at the farmer’s market. To John’s dismay you had to use your old truck, the one everyone in the area can recognize, but the road has too many holes for the suspensions of his car to survive.

There’s always a bit of uneasiness on his part, whenever he is out and about with you: he’s trained to look for danger, even when there’s none and his body misses the weight of his weapons, the security they bring him, even more so now that he’s with you, out in the open, where anyone could attack you.

Not that it would happen, being alert is part of who he has become, a nagging guarding dog he can’t put to sleep.

“You happy?” You ask, arms wrapped around his, big smile on your face even though you can feel some lingering stiffness in his body.

“Yes, love.”

He has two jars of honey in a small bag dangling from his fingers, both gifts from Albert who has refused any sort of payment and has roped you two into going to dinner to his place one of these days.

He’s not lying to you when he says that he’s happy. Today the sun is shining, warm against the button down shirt he’s wearing, a trusted beanie to protect his head and you by his side in a nice dress, busy pointing the stalls you want to browse: despite all the food in the trunk, he knows you’ll buy more, just so you can spoil him and fatten him up a little bit, with the excuse that’s homemade and the ingredients are all healthy.

By the time you two walk back to the car, you both are saddled with too many bags and yet he had to convince you to stop buying food, and plants for the garden.

“Do you want to go and eat lunch at that cafe on the river?” He asks after he’s secured all your purchases.

“Are you happy to go?”

You don’t want to push him, you’re well aware that he needs some time away from the crowds to re calibrate; that your man will always be alert is something you have learn to accept, but you could feel him tense up a little too much by the time you were done with the last stall.

“I am.”

Then again, he’s not lying. The guard dog in him still has its bristles up, but John doesn’t want to waste a beautiful day such as today, barricaded at home, not when you look so happy and full of life.

He thoroughly knackered by the time you two make it back home and start putting away everything you have bought. The big lunch doesn’t help with the drowsiness he feels, paired with the sun and the general tiredness left by the last deployment, he’s ready to go lay on the sofa and just watch something inane on the telly, at least for tonight.

He shivers when your hands find their way under his shirt, your body plastered against his.

You follow the shape of his abdominal muscles, more prominent now that he’s lost the body fat you adore so much. Before him, you believed a defined six-pack meant strength, now you know that muscles born from exercise and not aesthetic, come with a healthy dose of body fat, to which you’re now addicted.

“I need you, John.” You purr, kissing his shoulder.

“I’m here.” His voice is gravelly now that your fingers are deftly opening the buttons of his jeans. “Christ love!”

“Let me take care of you.”

Your hand is gently fondling his cock and balls and he’s already a goner: anything you ask you shall receive.

You maneuver his big body to the sofa, where you sit him between your splayed legs, only then you free is half hard cock from the confines of his briefs.

You take your time with him, helping his erection to grow gently, with slow, long strokes from his base to the flared tip, fondling his heavy balls with your free hand, your teeth worrying the soft skin of his nape.

He’s so warm under your skin, his manhood leaking precome steadily on your fingers, his moans music to your ears now that you’re stroking him faster and faster, his strong hips pumping steadily to follow the punishing rhythm you’re imposed him.

“Love!” He groans, after a vicious stroke. “I’m…”

“Come for me John. Make a mess.”

He tenses in your arms, heels digging in the plush carpet as pleasure builds and builds in his gut, his nerves screaming with it, his hands grabbing at your skin desperately, leaving bruises he will kiss, scratching and kneading, moans and curses spilling until pleasure overtakes him, his seed splashing against his belly and your fingers.

“I love you so much, John.” You murmur, helping him ride the last shock waves of his orgasm, milking his cock until his hand grabs your wrist.

He’s panting in your arms, body still shivering, heart beating violently in his chest: you’re going to be the death of him.

His head turns when he hears you licking your fingers and palm clean from his seed, your lips sinfully sucking on your fingers with filthy moans that go straight to his cock.

“Take your clothes off.” He growls.

“Yes, daddy.” You giggle, sliding from behind his burly body.

You make a short work of the dress and your underwear, standing naked in front of him; you feel a special kind of pleasure at being naked while he’s still dressed, long legs spread and arms on the backrest.

He’s devouring you with his eyes, hunger burning wildly now that he’s taken the edge off.

He doesn’t have to ask you to kneel, you do it as if it’s your natural state to be between his legs, tongue busy with cleaning him, kissing his hardening length into fullness again, throat open to receive him.

“Come up here.”

His hand in your hair pulls you up, until you straddle him, wet cunt enveloping his erection.

“I need to feel you.” You beg, drunk already on the pleasure of his head sliding against your swollen clit. “So bad daddy please!”

He has to manhandle your squirming hips until he can impale your body on his cock, molding your hungry cunt around himself, until he can bottom out inside of you, him grunting and you keening like a wounded beast.

“Don’t” You beg when he pushes inside of you. “Let me feel you, please.”

His hands travel to your face, his roughened palms cupping your cheeks to stare into your eyes.

“You tell me when you want me to move, love. Shh, don’t fret. Shh, I’m here.”

His thick arms curl around your trembling body, his lips on the crown of your head to soothe you before you wound yourself up too much.

His voice is deep and calming, like liquor pouring down your throat. It cancels all your needs, your fears of the past weeks; only the gravelly nonsense he’s murmuring in your ear has a place to exist in this bubble, the calloused skin of his hands on the silk of your back tethering you back to him, to the present, where his lips find your collarbone to kiss and nibble and lick, to mark you as his.

“I missed you.”

Tears flow down your cheeks, you’re raw nerves now that your body has wrestled control away from your brain and has thrown to the wind all the reassurances you kept repeating to yourself while John was away.

“I’m here.” He murmurs against your skin. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“John!”

Your hands find his short hair to pull his head back and slant your lips on his, the kiss desperate and deep, filthy and wet with the salt of your tears.

On him you grind, his fingers tight on the fat of your hips to help you move, faster and faster against his body, clit brushing against the thick air around his base, choking on your words with every clench of your cunt around his cock.

“There! There!” You scream. “Please!”

You fuck yourself on him as if possessed, his cock head presses against your G spot relentlessly, pushing and pushing, throwing you into the depths of pleasure when your body stiffens in his embrace, muscles wounding so tightly around his cock that he comes inside of you, thick sprouts against your battered walls, until he’s spent inside of you.

You’re still trembling in his arms, wet face hidden in the curve of his neck; he doesn’t force you to look at him, he shifts your bodies so that he can hold you tighter, grounding you back into yourself.

“You with me?”

Your try to burrow closer to him, to breathe him in until all you can feel is him.

“Yes.” Your voice sounds small and muffled. “I don’t know what happened. That wasn’t the direction I had in mind.”

He kisses the crown of your head again, until you sit back on his thighs and he can see your wet face.

“I have no idea of what has gotten into me. I was scared, all of a sudden, afraid you would disappear.” You bite your lower lip, face turning to the side. “Jesus John, I’m so stupid!”

“No, you’re not!”

His hands are on your face again, sure they wipe away your tears while guilt nags at him.

When he was on his own it was easier to leave, sometimes for months, he didn’t have someone to go back to, someone who had to bear the weight of his deployment as well; he comes back saddled with all he has to do to keep this world safe, but you have to deal with his absence and what it does to yourself.

Swiftly, without jostling you off your perch, he removes his shirt to wrestle you into it, hoping his smell would help you settle.

“Have you been going to the meetings for the spouses?”

You know what he’s talking about, those hours spent with other wives and husbands and partners of deployed soldiers, simply opening up about your complicated feelings and nagging fears when your loved ones are away.

“I have been going, and it helped. I just…”

Your eyes land on his dog tags half hidden by the furry hair on his chest: all his basic information are there, but he’s so much more than that.

“Let’s get you a shower.”

You know John is strong, that his muscles aren’t for show, but you can’t help the yelp that leaves your lips when he stands up with your legs around his waist and your arms by his neck.

“John! You back!”

“My back has never been better, love.” He winks.

His chest hair are so soft against your front, his hands so strong and secure under your arse; you giggle a little when his fingers start massaging your cheeks, kneading the fat with a pleased hum.

He sits you on the small space next to the sink to open the water in the shower and then he disappears, leaving you questioning what the hell is your husband doing.

He pops back keeping one hand behind his back and motions you to stay silent when you try to ask him what is going on.

“Do you trust me?”

Oh, you shouldn’t fall for the amused glint in his eyes and the way his crow’s feet show, now that he’s smiling.

“John…”

“Close your eyes.”

You don’t know what his plan is, what you’re certain is that he’s trying to cheer you up and your heart is swelling with all the love you feel for him.

You feel and hear his hands rucking the shirt off your body, his fingers steady around one arm to help you navigate the small space to the warm stream.

“Are you going to join me?”

“Just a second, love.”

More rustling as you imagine him getting rid of his remaining clothes; he groans when the warm water hits his skin, the sound so low and primal flies to your cunt.

Then you smell it.

Too sugary, so sweet your nose tickles with it.

“You’re going to stink like that for days!”

John smiles.

“And so will you.”

The blasted shower gel banished to the guest’s bathroom!

John is happy to smell like a full bakery just to make you laugh has you hug him and cover his face with kisses.

“You’re so silly, John!”

“And yours. Never forget that.”

#john price x reader #john price x y/n #john price #cod x reader #call of duty fanfic #cod fanfic

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lemotmo · 2 days ago

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What do you think Temu's role is in next week's episode? Apart from the funeral, (though I have fucking idea why he's carrying the coffin and not anyone else from A shift)

(Hopefully his final one!)

Yeah, the choice of him carrying that coffin is just weird. The 118 isn't just made up of Hen, Eddie (will be back soon), Chimney, Buck and Ravi. There are plenty of other firefighters at the station. We see them all the time in the background. It would make more sense that one of them would carry that coffin. He was their captain too.

But for plot reasons I suppose they decided to use Tommy. 🙄

I do think Tommy is there for a reason. We've seen in 15 that Buck and Tommy are back on good terms, but we also know that a relationship between them would never work. One, because Tommy knows that Buck isn't as interested in him as he would like him to be, mainly because he heavily suspects that Buck is in love with Eddie.

And two? Well, he is right. Buck is in love with Eddie. He just doesn't want to see it or even acknowledge it. 🤷‍♀️

But how could they fit that in the episode?

Well, I keep coming back to all the parallels between 7x03, 7x04, 8x15 and possibly 8x16:

I've been thinking about Tommy's arc. It started with him flying his helicopter to save Bathena (7x03). The next episode (7x4) he tried to woo Eddie, but ended up kissing Buck.

Now he, once again, flew his helicopter to help save Chimney and the others in 15. He showed up because Buck called him.

We also know that Eddie will be back in 16. I've speculated before that I think there'll be a convo between Tommy and Eddie. I really think this I'll happen as a parallel to 7x04, where Tommy and Eddie were shown to be friends. We do know that Eddie stopped talking to Tommy when BT broke up, so it might be a bit of an awkward conversation where both feel out of their depth.

Additionally I potentially see Tommy give Eddie some kind of hint as to not wait to long to go after what he wants or something generic like that. Which will undoubtedly puzzle Eddie and might be something that he can't get out of his head in the two last episodes.

So, my current theory for 8x16 is that they will parallel the scene where Tommy comes over to Buck's loft in 7x04. Only this time it won't end with Tommy kissing Buck.

So Tommy shows up at Buck's house after the funeral to check in on him and finds Eddie already there, taking care of Buck because Eddie knows exactly what Buck needs. At the same time Buck will also take care of Eddie, because he lost Bobby too. Tommy will probably also find out that Eddie is staying with Buck as long as he's in LA.

Cue the awkward conversation (+ possible hint) with Eddie I talked about in the paragraphs above. Tommy might then have a short talk with Buck (probably in the kitchen again) that links back to the kitchen conversation after they hooked up.

And that might just trigger Buck to realise that life is too short. He can't just keep denying these feelings he has for Eddie. Cue Buck realising and accepting that he is actually in love with his best friend.

It might even end with a nice Buddie scene after Tommy leaves. Now, in a perfect world it would end with a Buddie kiss to parallel the BT kiss, but I don't think we are quite there yet. It seems a bit too fanficy. And also... Bobby just died. Now might not be the best time. 😫😂

So most probably Eddie will ask Buck if he is okay and Buck will just stand there trying to be normal with the realisation that he has fallen in love with Eddie.

Oh and let's not forgot the Bathena parallel in both episodes either. In 7x03 Buck and Athena had a reunion on the ship with Buck, Eddie and Tommy looking at them.

In 8x16 they'll (hopefully if Bobby is still alive) have another reunion as Bobby will be back. Probably with everyone there to see it.

(Yes, I am a Bobby is alive truther. Trust.😌)

I also don't think that Eddie's realisation will be too far behind once we have confirmation of Buck's feelings. Oliver has expressed his concerns before of not wanting to do the storyline of the bisexual man falling for his straight best friend. So I think they'll try to avoid that by making sure that Eddie will start his own journey of realisation as he starts to get more and more aware that Buck is a part of his joy and happiness in life.

All right everyone, keep in mind that this is just speculation.😋 These are my thoughts about what MIGHT happen in 8x16, based on what we know so far (which is almost nothing) and based on parallels with previous episodes. So please take all of this with a grain of salt. I'm here for the fandom fun, but I'm not clairvoyant. 😉

This might shock you, but I have been wrong before in my spec. 😂😂😂

#buddie #nonnies galore #eddie diaz #evan buckley #911 8x16 #911 8x16 speculation #911 spoilers #911 abc parallels #buddie parallels #t mention #bt mention

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crescencestudio · 5 hours ago

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๋࣭⭑ Devlog #47 | 4.26.25 ๋࣭⭑

no bc we r actually so back brothers ive got FOOD TODAY

We are ALIVEEEEE AND BACK AND BETTER THAN EVER ((FR THIS TIME!!!).

Before we get into actual updates, I wanted to give context on where my life's been at basically the past year. As many of you know, I got my PhD last December (YEAAAA) which meant for the second half of 2024, I was literally in a cave crunching my dissertation. Now, many people (including me) thought after I finished my dissertation, I'd be a lot freer for Alaris stuff. But since this year started, I've been completely preoccupied with some personal matters which kept me from working on Alaris as much as I wanted to.

While the personal matters aren't anything anyone has to be worried about, they did take up A Lot of my time, and I'm really happy to say that I am officially free from those obligations too!!! Meaning for the first time in literally a year, I am NOT drowning. And that time has already been used Very Fruitfully heh....heh....heh.....

WANNA SEE???

Writing has been on a bit of a stall, and the main reason why is something I'll talk about in the Miscellaneous section! But it's nothing to worry about since it's because I want to focus on other parts of the game right now. With almost all of the routes finished, I've noticed that the writing pace I've maintained has resulted in the art and programming aspects to fall a bit behind where I want those parts of game dev to be.

So recently, I've focused more attention on the art and programming components rather than writing. That being said, writing still makes slow but steady progress! Kuna'a's development edits continue to progress, and Etza's route is about to be sent to line editing, which is the last stage of editing for my writing process. This means once Etza's line edits are finished, the four Central routes will be COMPLETELY FINISHED!! Exciting right!!!!

For art, I can't actually show very many sneak peeks since it's mostly been CGs and character design commissions heh. But I am willing to give a slight sneak peeks of these character designs in these two beta screenshots

Sickest character designs by @saffein-e

While these sneak peeks don't represent the final character sprites, they are the OG designs created by bestie Saf. And even from the designs alone, the characters are stunning additions to the cast! I can't wait to draw them in my own style and hopefully do Saf's amazing work justice 💖💖💖 In these screenshots too, you can see some of the newer BGs and hints of overlays that we've added to the game to heighten the visual effects hehe.

I've also been working on CGs for Etza's route and am happy to say our CG count is currently at 26 completed CGs (5 sketched ones) out of 54! Now that I'm making an active effort to Lock in on the art assets, I'm hoping CG and sprite development picks up a bit in the coming months ^^

And finally... for the most exciting news!!!!!

ETZA'S BETA WILL BE OUT MONDAY!!!!

We have finally moved forward on the beta build front, and beta testers will finally get to play Etza's beta! Since I haven't shown much in-game screenshots from the betas in past devlogs, and you all patiently still read them, I thought this month would be a nice time to update you all on how things are looking in Alaris beta land.

In this beta, you obviously get to woo our neighborhood angel

Since it's been a while, this is a reminder of what the game looks like (LMFLSOA). I know for me it's been a while and honestly I forgot how proud I am of the art assets :') I love how everything has come together and how it looks in the game <3

Of course, Important Choices and fun cast dynamics are a few of our Favorite Things

Between the messaging interface, the chapter card, the phone call overlays, and many more little effects and stuff, I forgot how many assets are in this thing. Being able to code Etza's beta has been an amazing reminder of how much work I've put into Alaris over the years ^^

Which brings me to exciting news!!!! I will make the official announcement separately at a later time, but as a reward for people who actually read these things, you're the first to know. With Etza's beta coming out soon, that means the four Central routes will have finished beta testing. And with where things are at, I've made the official decision that...

Alaris will enter Early Access for the First Four Routes!!!

I don't have an exact date for when this will release since it largely depends on how quickly I can art. But I'd like to aim for a tentative Q3 release for the Early Access Build! More details will come when I make the official announcement, but it is extremely exciting to have reached a point where I can even put this out there to people!!!

I hope you all are excited, and I want to thank everyone who has been on this journey with me whether it's as a recent or long time fan!!

Finally, I haven't really had time for market research since I've been in the "Returning the Game Dev" trenches. But I do have other exciting news that I'll make yet another official announcement on later.

Aside from the new Alaris beta, I've also had another small side project I've been working on with some friends (very chill-like) over the past couple of months. It'll be the first Crescence Dark Fantasy entry in my collection of games, and it's definitely a different vibe from what I've put out so far.

Where They Wait will be a new game submitted to Ossan Jam with elements of horror, fantasy, and dark romance :3c I'm so grateful to the team I've worked with and all the work they've put into our little shared baby, and I can't wait for you all to play it! This will also be coming out WELL, Monday too LMAFLIDJLIFJ.

As you can see, we've been hard at work behind the curtain. Since I last talked to you all, we've made a lot of nice headway on the different projects I've had on my plate, and I'm excited to feel like we're hitting our stride on so many things!!!!

Until next time we talk, which will be Very Soon with all our exciting announcements coming up. Thank you as always for being patient with me and supporting me!

#alaris #devlog

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lilangeldeath · 2 days ago

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Things I have successfully manifested into 3D

you can believe me or not. i really don't care. i'm in my idgaf era bc when you care too much about what others think, your manifestations will fail because you're giving your power away. that's my personal belief. i will put what came in the 3D and then an example of the desire i persisted in parentheses next to it. these are from various time periods, but all have happened within the past 2-2.5 years once i started actually getting the hang of it all.

four of my friends ("i have mature, caring, loving friends that love me for who i am")

three no contact friends that had drifted out of my life, not from animosity but i missed them (same affirmation + "[insert names] are my close friends and we are always talking" + "[insert names] and i have such a deep connection as friends")

exposing people in my life who were bad for me in some way: trying to use me, manipulate me, lie to me, or just were bad people in the sense that they were toxic and bad for my life because even if they were nice to me, the way they lived their lives were toxic immature messes ("all secrets and lies are instantly exposed to me, no one can hide anything from me, i always know. all manipulators and toxic people are instantly exposed to me for what they are")

job interviews ("every company wants to interview me, they fight over me, they all want me to work for them")

escaping my abusive ex ("i have a safe place to live where my ex cannot bother me any more. i am permanently free of my ex for the rest of my life and now it's my time to shine")

keeping my job when i should have been fired multiple times for attendance, about 5 or 6 times, i had a period of time where i kept repeatedly getting seriously ill, people were passing away, other major life changes and impacts etc it was like the biblical plagues fr and at that time, the company i worked for did not care when those types of things happened to others and would give them the boot in ways that were really messed up ("the people at my job genuinely care about me, want me there, and they know i'm not lying about my life circumstances and will let me get away with whatever i need to in order to heal, rest, and come back to work")

a glow up that changed me from medium pretty/medium noticed to having people in my 3D rave about my beauty and personality ("i am so alluring and beautiful. i am so interesting. i am so magnetic and charismatic. people love looking at me and talking to me. people find me so intriguing and mesmerizing. my beauty sticks in peoples minds like a work of art")

here's my thoughts on how i did this and what i learned about manifestation through the hard and good times:

i really had to dig deep into my self concept and get out of a lack mentality. the lack mentality, fear, and anger led me down a path of things getting worse and worse. my old self was very obsessed with spending a lot of time angry about how hard i was trying both in the 3D and 4D yet things were only getting worse. i had convinced myself back then that there was no point in doing anything other than the absolute bare minimum to stay alive, and that oftentimes there wasn't any point to doing that either.

i feel like i went through a trial by fire, tested again and again to see how strong my faith was, being tested by my own self. i had to find a way to understand my 3D and 4D from my own perspective, as the whole "you cause everything in your 3D, you bring everything upon yourself" was the most annoying mentality i kept seeing when trying to learn about manifestation, as i think it's a chronically online and privileged point of view for out-of-touch people who have never experienced things like systemic poverty, sexism, racism, SA, abuse and more. i was tired of seeing egotistical and narcissistic manifestation content creators go on and on about how everyone is them, and how everything revolves around what they think is the right way to do things. the constant solipsism of victim blaming and lack of empathy for others. there is no right way. that is why i always say something is MY personal belief, not the standard or the rules.

yes i'm aware i keep talking shit on here. and i'm doing so because the vast majority of manifestation content had me so in a tizzy with how hypocritical and contradictory it was that it made me go nuts just trying to follow along. i'm not the type of person that can go along with woowoo shit that makes no logical sense. that's just not me. i am deeply spiritual but also deeply scientific. i believe manifestation, creation, whatever you want to call it, has to do with quantum physics and quantum entanglement, but that's for another post.

you really can create anything you want in your 3D as long as you make it be in a way that makes sense to YOU. for example, i personally choose not to manifest money in ways that seem over the top to me. i grew up in poverty and so affirming things like "i'm so rich, i'm a millionaire, i'm one of the wealthiest people in the world" was so annoying to me because i'm an anti-capitalist and i'd rather spend my time manifesting jobs and opportunities than try to convince myself that i'm a millionaire when i think rich people are inherently evil by nature, because through capitalism the only way you can get rich is by exploiting the less fortunate. that's an example of how i see things.

i don't dislike goddard's work, and i do truly find some of his work very useful and enlightening, i just wish so many people would stop trying to treat him like a cult leader or messiah. he didn't invent manifestation or the law of assumption. these things have been present in every single religion since the beginning of time. it's just new age rebranding of ancient cultures across the world. it's taking a bunch of different cultures and cherry picking them and putting them together to make money. it's like saying L Ron Hubbard invented the idea of reincarnation and that Gerald Gardener invented witchcraft. not saying that everyone who likes/follows the teachings of goddard do this, but from what i've seen in my personal life, many do. the power doesn't come from goddard, it comes from you. and you would have figured out that power anyways even if you never read goddard. we have been manifesting/creating since time immemorial and it's how our species evolved in general. that's my personal opinion. like i said, i find some of goddard's work very helpful and strongly resonates with me, but i think too many newbies get caught up in him like a cult leader and don't truly have any faith in themselves.

my issue in my old self was that i had no faith in myself OR in anyone else. i got tired of doing vaunts, scripting, void state, shifting, writing things down 99 times backwards and forwards, all those other things. it just got annoying and felt like i was being a psycho like jack on the shining writing "all work and no play makes jack a dull boy" over and over. it was just turning into madness instead of me facing what my real problems back then were. and i see a lot of that on here and other sites. you have to be able to get over yourself and grow up. i learned that the hard way, and i'm being harsh in some of what i'm saying to hopefully "break the glass" of illusion on anyone who may be struggling with the same things i did. i am no point of authority or leader of any kind, i just want to share how i think and what worked for me.

i am going to be posting some affirmations and tips that have to do with wavering, persistence, 3D vs 4D etc. and I honestly don't like to use a lot of the buzzwords but what I call these things is very private to me and it will be easier for others to read and understand if i just use the buzzwords. thanks xoxoxo

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em-harlsnow · 3 days ago

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heyy i've never sent an ask before but i just need to tell you that debbie's tiktok is my new favourite thing 😭😭 i genuinely can't stop thinking about them doing different trends and how the fans would react. like imagine a qna with questions from the comments or something with more of the family like a who knows me best: brother/sister vs husband

YES okay. I've been stressed all day and I need this. (Also rewarding myself with writing because I got a result back for some coursework and I was so happy with it)

part 4 of Debbie's TikTok

So Debbie sets up the camera again in the kitchen. Ian and Mickey are less annoyed this time after they realised that she was actually paying them good money for this. She has a list on her phone filled with comments on the introduction to Mickey video.

"Okay, so you're gonna be answering some questions together." Debbie starts. It's the first time the internet will be seeing them together, and she's eager to see the reaction that will come of it. She's going to be careful not to give her audience too much of them, because then she'll get less views and attention and therefore money after they get bored.

"Yeah, you said that." Mickey says.

"She's saying it for the camera." Ian mutters loudly to his husband.

"Alright. I have a list of some of the most liked or most frequent questions asked. The first one is when did you get married?" Debbie asks, ignoring their little comments.

Mickey stares at the side of Ian's head, eyebrows raised.

"What?" Ian asks.

"You better fucking know the answer." Mickey says.

"Of course I do, asshole. Three and a half months ago." Ian answers, smugly grinning in Mickey's face.

"Yep." Debbie says. "It was a really nice day. Next, who proposed to who?" One of the most frequent comments was actually who fucks who, but she doesn't think that's something that should be on the internet. She thinks it's shitty that people think they have the right to know that. She's actually pretty mad that she knows the answer to the question, because it just shows how loud Ian and Mickey are.

"He did." Mickey says. "Because he was being a dick."

Ian sighs. "Yeah, I did."

"Twice." Mickey adds, sulkily.

"We're married, Mickey. And I know you aren't actually still mad about that. You're just looking for something to bitch about." Ian grumbles, flicking Mickey's ear.

"No, I'm not."

"I proposed. And I had a whole speech prepared, but Mickey cut me off. Then he made me repeat it later." Ian says, smiling at the tips of his mouth.

Mickey smirks, leaning back in his chair. He's switched to smug, now. "Yeah."

"Next question was how old were you when you got together?" Debbie asks, planning on letting them have their little arguments and banter and deciding which parts to cut out later. Their dynamic will definitely give her good content.

"I was fifteen." Ian says. "You were... sixteen? Seventeen?"

"Sixteen." Mickey answers. "But that was the first time we fucked, not when we were together."

"Oh, well yeah." Ian agrees. "We were like 18 and 19 or something when we actually got together."

"Yeah." Mickey agrees.

"Okay. So, who's more romantic?" Debbie asks. It's not a particularly long list, but they both talk a lot, so it will make a decent video.

"I am." Ian says.

"Neither of us." Mickey says at the same time.

"I'm romantic." Ian argues, pouting about it.

"How?"

"I made you breakfast yesterday."

"Then you called me fat when I stole your PopTart." Mickey mutters.

"I did not fucking call you fat. I called you greedy, because you were being greedy." Ian says, appalled and gaping at Mickey.

"Maybe you were being greedy by not sharing your fucking PopTarts." Mickey pouts.

"I'm plenty romantic, Mickey. I arrange all our things."

"What things?"

"Like going on dates and shit. I arrange that."

"Yeah? Well I suck your monster dick all the time, so shut the fuck up."

"That's not romantic!" Ian shouts.

"Yes it is! It's something you fucking like. It's 'acts of service'." Mickey replies, eyebrows high on his forehead.

"You read that article I sent you? About love languages?" Ian asks, losing focus on the argument. It's not even an argument, anyway, considering neither of them are raising their voices.

Mickey shrugs. "I skimmed it."

Ian smiles at him. "Thanks."

"Fuck you." Mickey mutters, rolling his eyes when Ian puts his arm around his shoulder.

Debbie scrolls to the next question. "What's the key to having a solid relationship?" She asks.

Mickey grimaces and Ian gives a similar expression.

"Fucking a lot?" Mickey suggests.

"Shut up." Ian says, rolling his eyes. "We don't just fuck."

"We do fuck a lot, though."

"Not all the time." Ian says, widening his eyes at Mickey like he's trying to communicate without speaking. Debbie knows enough about them to tell that it's probably something to do with Ian's bipolar. How when he's low, they don't fuck at all. Or at least Debbie hopes they don't fuck at all. She knows Mickey, knows Mickey would definitely not do that.

Mickey sighs, losing the unspoken argument. "Yeah, fine. We don't just fuck."

Ian turns back to Debbie. "I don't know. There's no key. We just look after each other. We're good at telling each other when we're pissed off."

"Yeah." Mickey agrees, not having much to add.

"The next one's pretty deep, so if you don't want to answer it you don't have to. Or I don't have to put it in the video. But it's for Mickey. One person DMed me and asked how you cope as a partner of someone with bipolar disorder. They said they were struggling." Debbie says, a little embarrassed to be asking so she keeps her eyes down. A couple people DMed her about it.

Ian scoffs a little at the word 'cope', but ultimately stares at Mickey and waits for his answer. Clearly more concerned with what Mickey thinks about it more than the implications of the question.

"How do they know he's bipolar?" Mickey asks, brows furrowed.

"Because his arrest was all over the news." Debbie replies. "I haven't spoken about it on TikTok."

"Oh. I don't know." Mickey replies. "It's not... I dunno. It's just something that's there. It's never been a question for me, we just deal with whatever fucking happens with it. It's like, everyone has some kind of shit. I'll cope with whatever I fucking have to."

"Do you want that online?" Debbie asks. "It's fine if not."

Mickey shrugs, looking to Ian. Ian seems a bit choked.

"Yeah, that's fine. People should probably hear more about mental illness and being happy." Ian says, but his arm around Mickey is strong and tight.

"Okay, well that's the only heavy one. The next one was pretty common: why did it take you ten years to get married? Oh, I guess that is sort of heavy." Debbie says.

Ian bobs his head in consideration. "Well, we were pretty young when we started. Then someone got sent to prison for a little while."

Mickey tuts at him. "False fucking accusations." He mutters. "But it was mainly prison. And my dad."

"Yeah." Ian agrees. "Mickey's dad's a prick. I hate the bastard."

"Oh, no. You've been so subtle about it." Mickey mutters sarcastically.

"It's not like you like my dad any better."

"Are you guys affectionate? A lot of people couldn't imagine you being together or like... couple-y, I guess." Debbie says. "But maybe they won't think that now that they see you together."

"What the fuck does that even mean?" Mickey asks.

"We're married. Obviously we're couple-y." Ian scoffs.

"Do something couple-y then." Debbie orders.

"His arm's around my fucking shoulders. Wouldn't let anyone else do that gay shit." Mickey says, and Ian laughs.

That's great, Debbie decides. Viewers will find that funny. She clicks off the camera and lets them go, starting the editing on the video. She definitely wants to make more content of them in the future. She's planning a video with the whole family, actually, but it will be hard to get everyone free and actually make them all speak one at a time.

-> part 1, part 2, part 3

-> sorry this one's a bit shorter, but if anyone has any ideas for what questions they'd be asked or any comments which people would leave, send me an ask!

#shameless #gallavich #mickey milkovich #ian gallagher #ian x mickey #gallavich fic #shameless fanfiction #gallavich fan fiction #gallavich fanfic #asks

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