#it's probably been done before but oh well

[formula-ghost]

The Driver (FC43 x fem!reader)

SUMMARY: After years of being with your boyfriend, Franco Colapinto, you should feel secure and ready for your budding future. When old anxieties creep in, will your relationship withstand the pressure?

WORD COUNT: 9.5k 

WARNINGS: Semi-public car sex (reader and Franco are both switches, fingering, p in v). Angst, mentions of cheating. Heavy mentions of marriage, incredibly Champagne Problems coded but I have to stick to the Måneskin theme. Probably incorrect geographical depictions of Spain. Reader has an anxiety disorder/struggles with mental health. Same universe as Supermodel/RYD (in RYD, Franco’s Aston Martin contract is only one year, so we’re just skipping ahead here). 

A/N: You all asked for Franco car sex and instead I gave you emotional pain :) I don’t think I’ll ever stop writing for RYD!Franco, I just love him too much. After this I’ll keep writing for Wildflower and then maybe do a few one shots before the next series perhaps? Either way, hope you enjoy!

TAGLIST: [COMMENT TO BE ADDED TO MY FRANCO TAGLIST!]  @scopeiguess @storyteller-le @xivilivix @htpssgavi @wierdflowerpower @justsisse @uncreativetm  @ncrsbrg @tillyt04 @amz824 @ellelabelle @aliwritex

If you gonna set fire to the night, baby let me be the lighter

If you’re already high and you wanna fly, I’ll be the hit that takes you higher

If you wanna love when you touch the sky, you can be my midnight rider

If there’s nowhere to go when you wanna go wild, I wanna be the driver

After getting his first multi-year Formula 1 contract—complete with a hefty sign-on bonus—there were three things that Franco Colapinto needed to buy. 

The first was a house for his parents. 

He led his mother around the massive home, showing her every little detail that he had noticed when he chose it, all perfectly arranged according to her taste. At first, she wasn’t sure what her son was doing; he had wanted it to be a surprise, so he didn’t tell her anything. 

“Yes, Franquito, the home is beautiful,” she said, craning her neck to look at the high ceilings, the sunlight from the massive windows illuminating her face. “But why would you buy a house here in Argentina? You’re hardly ever home, you can just stay with us in the off season.”

Franco, like his mother, was a pragmatist. He’d never buy himself a mansion in Argentina unless he had retired from F1 and decided to settle down. But his career was just getting started. 

She continued, “I mean, you and YN don’t need this much space—”

“It’s not for us, Mami,” he said, finally letting loose the smile that he’d be fighting all day. He was never able to keep secrets, too much of a chatterbox. “It’s for you.”

“Franco—”

“Mami,” he said, already anticipating her hesitation. “It is the least I can do. I can never repay you for all you’ve done for me.”

“That’s my job. You don’t need to repay me.”

“Maybe I don’t need to, but I want to.”

Tears had begun to well up in his mother’s eyes. She knew it was impossible to stop him. It was every athlete’s dream to make enough money to buy their mother a house one day; she wouldn’t take that from him.  “I’m so proud of you, mijo,” he said, enveloping her son in her arms. “You have made me proud beyond measure.”

It was Franco’s turn now to tear up, though he blinked them away and smiled. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”

“I figured something was up,” she laughed, “this house is too much my style for you to buy it. I think YN would like it, though. How is she doing?”

“She’s good,” he answered, unsure of how to proceed. His mother let him pause, knowing he was about to say something. “I’m… thinking about asking her to marry me.”

“Oh, wonderful!” she replied, her smile now stretching ear to ear. 

“We haven’t talked about it yet, though. So don’t get your hopes up. She might not say yes.”

“Why wouldn’t she?” his mother questioned. “You’ve been together for years, through thick and thin.”

“I don’t know,” he said, scratching the back of his neck in nervousness. “We just…haven’t talked about it. I’m nervous.”

“Well, don’t ask her until you’ve talked about it. But I see no reason why she’d say no.” She reached out to smooth over a piece of his hair that was stuck up at an odd angle. “Take your time,” she continued. “If you all aren’t ready now, there’s no harm in waiting. You have the entire rest of your lives to be together.”

Franco gave her a weak smile, his expression still plastered with nervousness. “But when you do get married,” she continued, as if it was a fact, “I expect grandbabies.”

He laughed, despite knowing that she was dead serious. That would be a bridge to cross later.

For now, he had a second purchase to make: his first real car. 

Franco, despite being a Formula 1 driver, had always been down to earth. When he drove for Williams, they had to fight him over taking the bus every day. Even in his early days, his future had been too unstable to spend all his hard-earned money on something like a flashy car, especially since he’d be away so often that he’d hardly be able to use it.

But now, he knew that the time was right, and he’d more than earned it. So, when Franco woke you up at the crack of dawn to go to the luxury dealership in Madrid to pick up his new car the second that they opened, you obliged him despite the hour being far too early. 

As the salesman handed him the keys, Franco beamed as if he was holding his newborn child, his eyes wide with love and anticipation.

“She’s beautiful,” he whispered, running his hands up and down along the hood of the flashy luxury car.

You stood back, afraid to even touch this car that was more expensive than your net worth. 

“She’s perfect. She’s the most perfect car I’ve ever seen.” He looked up at you, smiling like a giddy child. “Isn’t she perfect?”

You smiled back, amused by Franco’s happiness. “It certainly is a nice car.”

“It’s not just a nice car. She’s a machine.” You chuckled back at him. “Let’s go for a ride.”

You were honestly a little scared of getting in the car. But when Franco crossed over to open your door for you and help you inside, you couldn’t tell him no.

Sitting inside, you had to admit that it was a really nice car. Franco yapped on about the technical abilities of the engine, but it was in one ear and out the other—despite his many years in F1, you couldn’t say you had learned anything about the machines that your longtime boyfriend drove for a living. But you loved to hear him talk, especially when he was this happy, so you nodded as if you were listening intently. 

Franco went to back up the car, putting his hand on your headrest and leaning over his shoulder. The move showed off his prominent muscles and instantly melted you. Even after all these years, it was the little things that you never got tired of. 

He sped along the highways, giggling to himself as he heard the engine rev and felt the smoothness of the ride. His smile never wavered as he increased his speed and weaved through the slower cars. 

He skipped the exit that would lead back to your home, though. “Where are we going?” you asked.

“I want to show you something,” he said, being intentionally vague with his intentions. 

You raised an eyebrow. Franco wasn’t one for surprises; he talked too damn much to ever keep them. If he hadn’t told you before now, it must be something serious. 

He moved his hand over to hold your thigh, another one of those little things he did that still made you crazy no matter how many times he did it. “Trust me, amor,” he said.

Of course, you trusted him. So when he exited the highway and began driving into the Spanish countryside, you said nothing, instead choosing to enjoy the feeling of his hand rubbing soft circles into your thigh as the trees blurred past you and the engine purred.

After a while he finally slowed his speed, bringing the car up to an empty overlook off the main road. Through the tinted windows, you could see that this place was hidden, nestled off by the trees so that you could only get here if you knew where you were going. The view was gorgeous; miles and miles of lush greenery, and in the far off distance, the city that you had just left. 

“Wow..” you whispered. “How’d you find this place?”

“I used to run on these roads out here when I was younger,” he said, admiring you as you admired the view. 

“It’s beautiful.”

“I don’t get to come here much anymore,” he said. “I never thought I’d come back here one day as a Formula 1 driver.”

“Thank you for bringing me here,” you said, leaning over to kiss his cheek. His face had the slightest tinge of blush, so subtle that only you could see it. 

“Come on, let’s get a good look,” he said, turning off the engine and opening his door.

You got out of the car and softly gasped again when you saw the view with your own two eyes, rather than through the tinted glass. It left you breathless.

You sat cross legged next to Franco on the grass, taking in the sights of the countryside around you. For a while you were quiet, just soaking in the sounds of nature. 

Then Franco broke the calmness. “Have you ever thought about getting married?”

His voice was soft, but his words startled you. “Married?”

“I mean, we’ve been together for a while. About time, no?”

Truthfully, you had thought about marriage quite a bit. The mere idea of it scared you. And talking about it scared you even more. 

“You sound enthusiastic,” you joked. 

“You know what I mean.” He looked down, clearly also nervous for this momentous discussion. Still, he kept his voice light and steady. “I love you. I can’t think of anyone else I’d want to spend the rest of my life with.”

“I’d hope not,” you chuckled. But your attempts at diffusing the tension with humor failed.

He adopted a more serious tone. “YN, I want to marry you,” he said. His eyes looked up to meet yours, and for some reason, you felt your heart drop into your stomach. “I’m not proposing right now, but it’s something we should start thinking and talking about.”

You looked out into the distance and took a shaky breath. Why was this so difficult?

“So, talk to me, amor,” he said. 

“You want to marry me?” you asked, your voice small and squeaky.

“Of course I do,” he replied, brushing your hair out of your face. Now there were no barriers between you. “You’re the love of my life.”

You wanted to cry. “I’m scared.”

“Of what?”

“I don’t know. It’s just so…final. What if something goes wrong?”

“Then we work through it, like we always do.” He was right. Your relationship with Franco had certainly had its rocky patches, but he treated you like a queen. You two overcame every obstacle, including your own mind that often worked against you. You often felt like you didn’t deserve someone so patient and kind. 

“Things change when you get married.”

“I know,” he said. “I’m not saying any of this lightly. I’ve thought about it a lot.”

Even after years of loving him, it still surprised you whenever Franco told you that he thought of you. You could never get used to existing in his head when you physically weren’t there.

“What do you think about?” you asked, moving closer to him.

He reached his arm around your waist, resting his hand on your hip. “I think about you, in a white dress. We’d be in the church in Argentina.” You knew the one. He’d gone there growing up, and had shown it to you several times when you went to visit his family. “And we’d have a ridiculous party, into the morning,” he said smiling, leaning his head down closer to you. “And, a while after that, maybe a few months or a year or so, you’d be eating for two.”

You bit the inside of your cheek to stop your eyes from watering. “That sounds…”

“Perfect?”

No. You were going to say real. That sounds real. And it scared you. 

Truthfully, you could imagine the wedding, and the babies, and the many happy years of being Franco’s wife.

But you could also imagine the distance. The exhaustion. The bitterness. 

“Growing up, I never thought I’d get married,” you said, shifting the conversation. “I just… I couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to marry me,” you laughed. 

“I do,” he said. The effect of his words weren’t lost on you; the same words he would say to take the vow. “I want to marry you.”

You had told him a long time ago that your insecurities weren’t something he could fix. He remembered that, and he respected it. But still, it always broke his heart when he realized that even after years of loving you, those old wounds refused to heal. 

“Why?” you asked. Your head was beginning to hurt from holding in all the tears. 

“Why?” he echoed, incredulous at why you’d even need to ask such a ridiculous question. His voice held no malice, though. “Because I love you.”

“Don’t you get tired of this?”

“Of what?”

“Of…me being difficult for no good reason?”

“You’re not being difficult. Marriage is a huge deal, obviously. I don’t want us to rush into it if you’re not ready.”

“What if I’m never ready?”

He sighed. “Then…well, honestly, that would break my heart. I’d want you to work through whatever is holding you back. But I’d be with you every step of the way.”

You looked away into the distance. Part of you wanted to run and disappear in the thick foliage of the Spanish countryside. The other part of you wanted to bury your head in Franco’s chest, finally letting go of all the reservations that had haunted you for years. 

You knew Franco. You loved Franco. You trusted Franco.

So why were you still so afraid?

“Mi amor,” he said, gently guiding your head so you had to look at him. “Do you want to get married?” He tilted his head closer to you. 

You knew what he was asking. Not if you were ready right now, not if you were scared; but deep down, in your heart of hearts, did you want to marry Franco Colapinto?

“Yes,” you whispered. Just as he didn’t have to explain, neither did you. He knew what you meant; yes, but I’m scared. Yes, but I’m not ready. Yes, but I’m afraid I’ll never be ready.

He brought his lips to yours, gently kissing you as you let the few tears that had been welling up in your eyes finally go. When he pulled back, he wiped them away.

“We don’t have to make a decision now,” he said. “We’ve got time. I want us both to be ready.”

You kissed him again, this time more forceful. There was nothing sexier than a man with emotional intelligence. 

He pulled away again to finish his thought. “Just keep thinking on it, okay? We can talk about it as much as you want.”

“Okay,” you said, smiling as he looked at you.

“What?” he asked, his own playful smile dancing across his face.

“You’re so hot when you respect my boundaries.”

He laughed. “Mi amor, that’s the bare minimum.”

“Keep going,” you joked, “I’m so close.”

“Don’t say that,” he said, leaning down to kiss your neck. “I’ll start misbehaving.”

“Maybe I want you to,” he said, sharply inhaling as he gently bit the skin on your neck, sure to leave a mark.

“You’ll be the death of me,” he whispered in your ear, sending shivers down your spine as he nibbled on your earlobe. 

“Get me home and show me how horrible I am, then,” you teased, reaching out to touch his waist. 

“We don’t even need to get home.” He reached up to hold your neck with one hand as he continued kissing up and down your jaw.

“Here?” you said, darting your eyes around. 

“In the car,” he said, his voice already getting breathy. 

“No,” you urged. “It’s new.”

“Exactly. We have to break it in, no? Or bless it,” he said. His hands were beginning to roam underneath the hem of your shirt now.

“You’d never forgive me if I messed up the seats.”

“They’re leather, it cleans easy. I can get it detailed.” He stifled your next complaint with a deep kiss. “No one is ever around here. And the windows are tinted,” he whispered into your mouth. 

You laughed. “You’re a freak.”

“I’m your freak. And don’t lie, you love it,” he said, snaking his hand down to tease its way under your skirt. “I can tell how much you love it.”

You stopped him before his hand could go any further—after all, you were technically still in public. 

“Get in the car, whore,” you joked, before Franco hopped up and nearly sprinted to open the car door and set his seat back as far as it could go. 

He sat in the seat and patted his lap. “You joining me?”

You playfully rolled your eyes, getting up to meet your lover at the car and carefully climb onto his lap, occupying his lips with a deep kiss that he moaned into. 

“Did you plan this?” you asked. 

“Plan what?” he said, a devilish grin across his face. 

“Bringing me out to your scenic spot to fuck me in your new sports car?”

“Wasn’t planned at all. I’m a spontaneous man.”

“Mhm. How many other girls did you bring here before we started dating?”

“Less talking, more fucking, yeah?” he said. You probably didn’t want to know the answer. But that was all in the past. Franco was yours—he had been for years now, and he wanted to be yours forever.

There would be time to think about that later. Right now, all you could think about was the beautiful boy sitting beneath you, looking at you as if he needed you as simply as he needed air. You could feel him hardening beneath you. 

You shifted your weight to straddle him, grinding down on his length, eliciting a sharp exhale from him. 

“You’re so needy today, Franco,” you said as you ran your fingers through his soft curls.

“I’m always needy for you.” He brought his lips back to yours, hungry for the taste of you. His lips trailed down to your jaw and neck. “YN, you don’t know what you do to me…”

“I think I can feel it,” you joked, softly grinding your clothed pussy over the growing bulge in his jeans. 

“Don’t tease me,” he begged, roaming his hands up the hem of your blouse.

“But it’s so fun,” you said, leaning over to whisper in his ear. “I love to see you fall apart underneath me.”

“Fuck, YN—”

“Less talking, more fucking, no?” you said, mocking his statement from earlier. You met his mouth in a kiss, and he moved his hands down under your skirt, running up and down the soft skin of your thighs. When he finally teased his fingers over the wet spot that was already growing in your panties, you softly inhaled, showing your desire for him. 

“I’m not the only needy one,” he teased, breathing in the smell of your perfume and shampoo, his head buried in your neck. 

You softly moaned as he moved your panties to the side and began circling his fingers around your clit. 

“Franco, fuck…”

“What happened to all that talk, huh? Or are you too busy trying not to cum on my fingers?”

All you could do was breathe as his fingers found their way inside of you, pumping in and out to prepare you for his cock. 

“Don’t try to stop it,” he said, “let go. Cum for me.”

You obeyed, your legs shaking as your walls pulsated on his fingers. You whimpered into his neck, steadying yourself by holding him. 

He kissed your cheek, but wasted no time in unzipping his jeans and plunging into you while you rode out the waves of your orgasm. He let out a breathy moan as he felt the sweet warmth of you wrapped around him. 

You were overcome with sensation; the burn of his cock stretching you out, the last dregs of pleasure now mixed with the pain, and the burn in your legs from sitting in the same position for too long.

It was all the more motivation to bounce up and down on his cock, finding a steady rhythm as he guided his hands to your hips.

You rested your head next to his, moaning into his ear with every thrust. The small space of the car may be cramped, but you couldn’t help but appreciate the intimacy of the moment. Franco’s eyes were closed in sensual bliss, his breath ragged as you increased your speed.

You wanted to watch him come undone from the sinful pleasure that your pussy brought him. 

“YN—” he moaned, his hands digging hard enough into your hips to leave bruises, “Oh, God, YN, you always feel so fucking good. So good for me.”

You whimpered from both the praise and the pleasure. You had to slow down—the fast stamina was too much on your legs, which were now burning from the awkward position you were stuck in. 

“I think you were made for me,” Franco whispered. “And I was made for you. See how well we fit together?” He took control, lifting you up as if you were weightless and bouncing you up and down on his own. You yelped at first, then your surprise gave way to bliss as you both chased your release. 

But Franco was relentless in his praise. “You’re my fucking soulmate. I wanna fuck you every day for the rest of our lives.”

“Franco, I’m so close—”

“Cum for me, mi amor. Again.” His own voice was strangled with desire, so close to his own peak.

With a high pitched whine, you obeyed, and the heavenly feeling of your walls contracted around him brought your lover to the edge soon after. 

And when you did both finish, you held each other, too tired to even move from the uncomfortable position from the car. 

Franco was a talker. You always knew that. He loved nothing more than to fill your ears with sweet nothings when you made love. But the context of the conversation that just transpired weighed on you, even with the comfort of Franco’s hands rubbing small circles into your back as you both tried to catch your breath. 

“You okay?” he asked, and you murmured in response, unable to form any coherent words in the aftermath of everything. “Let’s get home and we can take a shower, yeah?”

A warm shower sounded heavenly right now. You awkwardly shimmied your way into the passenger seat and took one last look at the view, thankful that the overlook was still deserted. You sighed as you settled in and buckled your seatbelt, relishing the relief of finally being able to stretch your legs. 

“Hey,” Franco asked as he readjusted his seat and turned on the car. “Are you okay, really?”

“Yeah,” you said. It was true; you were exhausted, overwhelmed, and hurting, but it was all worth it for him. 

He leaned over to kiss your cheek and smiled before putting the car in reverse. 

The third item that Franco had to buy was the ring. 

Truthfully, the conversation hadn’t gone as smoothly as he would have liked. In his dreams, you'd jumped for joy when he’d broached the subject, and you’d live happily ever after.

But despite his disappointment, he understood your hesitancy. He was just as afraid to ask the question as you were to say yes. He knew that your struggles with self esteem and anxiety were lifelong. He knew all this about you from the very beginning, and he loved you anyway. 

Still, it was times like this when it broke his heart that he couldn’t fix it. 

It didn’t matter. You’d come around eventually, you always did. And you had been honest when you said you wanted to marry him—there was just a lot of stuff in the way, mentally and emotionally. 

So yes, he’d wait a while before he popped the question. But that didn’t mean he had to wait to buy the ring. 

He knew the exact one. You had fallen in love with it years ago, when you had worn it in a PR shoot for one of his high profile sponsors. Though time had passed, he still remembered the sadness in your eyes when you had to give it back after the photoshoot. He had vowed to himself that day that he’d earn enough to get you that ring.

And now he finally had. 

A few days after your conversation, he found the now faded card that he had stuck in his wallet and called the number. When the same brand rep picked up, he exhaled, letting go of his fear.

“Franco! How nice to hear from you. I was beginning to think we’d scared you away.”

“No,” he laughed. “The opposite, actually.”

“Let me guess. You’re ready for that ring?”

‘How’d you know?”

“I’ve been doing this a long time. When a woman looks at a ring like that, and she’s with a man that truly loves her, it’s just a matter of time.”

He had swiped another ring of yours to get the measurements, and he completed the entire order over the phone on his drive back home from a day of pre-season meetings. He had three months before the beginning of the new season, and he wanted to propose before that so you could start wedding planning once the season started. Would three months be enough time for you to think about it? He didn’t know. 

But he couldn’t wait any longer. The giddiness was eating him alive. 

You could tell something was amiss, but the idea of a proposal was the last thing on your mind. 

Franco was hiding his phone from you. Which meant that Franco was hiding something important from you, and he was doing a horrible job of it. 

Your lover was never the type to be quiet or secretive about…anything really. He talked too much. You had to physically restrain him every Christmas from spoiling what he got you weeks in advance. So if there was something that he was truly trying to hide, it was something major. 

And it scared you. 

The thought that you had been holding back for years finally broke through one night where he put his phone face down at the dinner table after his phone lit up with several notifications. 

“Who’s texting you?” you asked, trying to keep your voice innocent despite the rush of dread that was rising in your stomach.

“No one,” he answered, too quickly for your liking. You didn’t respond. 

You knew Franco was attractive. Every girl would kill to have him. He was kind, funny, beautiful, and flirtatious. But he was yours. Right?

Franco had never crossed the line before. You trusted him with your life. But something within you just felt deeply, deeply wrong, and it came spilling out later that night when he tried to touch you. 

His phone was left on the nightstand, untouched since dinner; his focus was on you, running his hand up and down your side, gently dressing his lips to your shoulder as you faced away from him.

“Not tonight,” you whispered, unable to keep your voice from shaking. 

“All you alright, mi amor?” he asked, pulling back your shoulder to make you face him, seeing how you were desperately trying to keep the tears at bay. 

“I’m fine,” you said, biting the inside of your cheek.

Even after all your years together, Franco never quite knew when to press on and when to keep quiet when you said those two infamous words. And he didn’t have much time to think, because you rose from the bed and left the room, mumbling about needing a minute to get fresh air. 

You stepped onto the back porch and took a deep breath, steadying your heart rate and calming your nerves, if only for a moment. The night air was serene; you felt vile contaminating the peace with your anxiety.

Would this last forever? You couldn’t remember a time when you hadn’t felt this push and pull. You wanted to tell Franco to go, to relieve himself of the burden of your mental illness. You wanted to bottle up every insecurity, every doubt, every negative thought into a vault that you didn’t share with anyone. 

But you couldn’t. If Franco left you’d be broken. You couldn’t stop yourself from letting these thoughts and fears control you. In the past, therapy had helped, but you knew this was a weight you’d always have to carry. And that made you miserable. 

So yes, maybe it was for the better that Franco move on, find someone better, more stable, and build a life with her. 

“Mi amor?”

Franco’s voice broke your hopeless contemplation. 

“Talk to me,” he said. 

You just shook your head. He must be so tired of reassuring you, endlessly, knowing that it didn’t help one bit. 

“YN,” he urged, “you know I don’t like it when you try to shoulder everything alone.”

“I’m sorry,” you said. That was all you could say. “I’m sorry that I’m like this.”

“Like what?”

“Impossible.”

“What do you mean?” 

“You know what I mean. We have the same conversation over and over again. Don’t you get tired of it? Of having to reassure me and it never helping? Of me crying over every little thing? Franco, I’m a mess!”

“YN…” he sighed, “When have I ever said any of that?”

He was right. He had never expressed any frustration regarding your mental struggles. He had always been there when you needed him. 

“I’m sorry.”

“Have you just been up in your head, or did something happen?”

You contemplated lying, but you knew better. “You set your phone face down at dinner.”

“I— did you think I was…?”

“It’s not you, Franco. It’s never you. That’s the worst part. You have to deal with all of this and it’s not your fault at all,” you said, not even allowing him to say aloud what you both knew was true. 

Franco took a deep breath. “YN,” he said, calmly, “let’s go back inside and go through my phone.”

“No—”

“Yes,” he commanded. “I want you to be 100% confident that I love you and only you.”

“Franco—”

“Let’s go.”

He had a firmness in his voice that only made your anxiety worse, and immediately you felt horrible for even insinuating anything to the opposite. But he was your rock of reason in times like these when your anxiety took over, and so you followed his command, unlocking his phone when he handed it to you. 

As expected, there was no incriminating evidence, just far too many unopened emails and messages left on delivered. Even his recently deleted texts showed nothing. 

The buzzing that you had been so afraid of turning out to be…emails from a jewelry company?

“I ordered a custom necklace for your birthday,” Franco explained. “They’ve been so difficult, though. They lost the order and then sent me the wrong thing. It’s been hell.”

You handed back the phone with your head hung low, ashamed. “I’m sorry I ruined the surprise.”

“You know I would have ruined it beforehand anyway,” he said. “I’m not upset at you.”

“You should be. You deserve someone who trusts you.”

“You do trust me,” he said, “I know you do. It’s not you that’s saying this.” 

Fuck. Franco really did know you too well. 

“You know why I stay with you, even with all this?” You looked up at him, curious for the answer. He had never been this direct before. He continued, “Well, first of all, because I love you. But even during times when I’m frustrated, I remember everything we’ve been through, when you forgave me and were there for me when I didn’t deserve it. I was so close to losing you and it terrified me.”

Once again, your eyes were watering. He said, “I promised myself that if you really gave me a chance, I’d never forget it. I’d be there for you and be the best boyfriend I could be. Because…” he paused, searching for the right words, “I know that some of why you feel these things is because of how I acted in the past. I’ve done my best to make it right, but some things never leave you.”

“When did you become so damn wise?” you said, laughing through the tears as he smiled and wiped them away. 

“You bring out the best in me.”

The conversation was laid to rest then. Franco held you until you fell asleep, safe in his arms. As he heard your soft breaths even out, he grabbed his phone and frantically searched for a necklace to buy to cover his lie.

He hated lying to you, but in this case, what else was he to do?

The necklace and the ring arrived a few weeks later, right before you all were scheduled to take a flight to Buenos Aires to spend the rest of the break with his family. 

But he had a plan. The break in Buenos Aires would be one to remember—for your “birthday” he was also flying out your friends and family for a few days. He had the whole idea plotted out, with help from many others, to plan a surprise karting birthday celebration, with all your loved ones there. Then, he would propose.

It seemed so perfect—surrounded by all your loved ones, doing a fun activity, the perfect balance between public and private. He knew you’d love it. He knew you’d say yes. 

He was giddy as he carefully packed the two jewelry boxes in his luggage, surrounded by clothes for safe keeping. 

And as the day of the birthday party came closer and closer, he could barely hold in his excitement. Everyone knew but you; he had colluded with every guest, telling them his plan and getting their blessing to finally ask you to spend the rest of your life with him.

Everything was perfect. The day before, you parents and friends arrived, and Franco told you everything but the grand reveal. 

He gave you the present, a beautiful necklace that complimented your tastes perfectly. You split a bottle of wine amongst loved ones, and your parents brought out their own gift: a photo album of pictures that they’d never been able to show Franco. 

You cringed at the embarrassing baby photos and records of bad middle school haircuts, but you couldn’t help the tipsy smile on your face. You leaned your head on Franco’s shoulder as he flipped through the pages.

Franco’s mother got out her own photo albums, showing picture after picture of him as a baby, his blonde curls and toothy grin smiling from ear to ear. 

“You were such a cute baby,” you giggled, and he blushed.

“Were? I’m still a cute baby,” he joked, kissing you on the cheek.  You scrunched your nose and smiled.

You were so in love with this man that it hurt.

That night, when you all retired to your room, he rubbed your back, enjoying the simple quiet between you two.

“I love you,” you said to him out of the blue. He smiled; he said those words often, and you always said them back, but it was rarer, more meaningful, for you to say them unprompted. 

“But it’s not fair. You were a cute baby and you’re cute now. You can’t have both,” you giggled. 

“We’d make cute babies,” he teased, and you blushed. 

“You trying to find out?” you responded, the alcohol in your veins giving you more boldness.

“Not when you’re this tipsy,” he said. “Besides, I need to put a ring on your finger first.”

At the mention of marriage, you sobered up quickly. You hadn’t really been thinking about that conversation you’d had back in Spain—in fact, every time you thought about it, it just made you more anxious, so it had the opposite effect of you actively avoiding it. 

Of course, you were still scared. You loved Franco more than words could say, and that was the problem—it was so good that eventually, it would have to not be good. It was a backwards logic, yes, you had convinced yourself that at some point, things would only be able to go down. 

You didn’t want to lose this beautiful thing you had created. But Franco had said he wasn’t planning to propose any time soon, right? In your mind, you still had plenty of time. 

But Franco did not, and the next morning was chaos.

His phone was blowing up with last minute organizing and words of encouragement from your friends and family in the proposal plan group chat. He was sweating bullets, constantly checking his pockets before you all left for the kart track to make sure that yes, he had the ring. He contemplated putting it in his bag instead, but he didn’t want to lose it, so he ultimately settled on his pockets.

He knew that he needed to stop checking them or else you’d notice and ask. You were always observant, in that way. 

But every time he sat down, the stupid box kept falling out of his shorts. The pockets were too small. He’d just have to check one last time before he left the house and be careful. Yes, everything was going to go according to plan. 

And as you all arrived and he changed into his race suit quickly, all he could think about was the speech he had tried to memorize. You were a woman who appreciated words; he wanted to express how you made him feel, but in his head, he kept stumbling over them. 

YN, you make me so happy. No, too simple.

YN, will you make me the happiest man in the world? No, too cliche.

YN, I never knew happiness until I saw your smile. No, too melodramatic. 

He’d have to figure out the words as he said them. For now, he’d just focus on enjoying the moment with you. 

And that wasn’t hard; you were as giddy as a child as you sped around the track, spinning out and pushing the poor kart to go faster and faster. 

Franco had arranged a tournament of sorts; of course, he had spoken with everyone beforehand to rig you as the winner. 

On your end, you knew everyone was letting you win. You were awful at karting. But it was your birthday event, after all. You didn’t care, you were having fun. 

It came down to the “championship” battle: you versus Franco. Of course, you knew your boyfriend would let you win, as he always did, but you loved the rush of adrenaline as the wind whipped past you anyway. You couldn’t stop smiling as you crossed the finish line and took off your helmet, flipping your hair out. 

You heard Franco stop his car behind you and get out, too. 

“I can’t believe YN won!” Franco’s mother said, smiling wide. 

“Thank you all for so graciously giving me that win,” you joked, looking to all your family and friends circled round, cheering for you. Franco was behind you still. You almost turned to him, but his mother interrupted. “Let me take a picture!”

This was the moment. All he had to do was take the ring out of his pocket and get down on one knee. 

He reached in his pocket and pulled out… nothing. 

His pockets were empty. 

He looked back at his father, the fear of God in his eyes, and patted his empty pockets. No one said a word. 

His mother, now done with taking the picture, leaned over to give you a hug. She sent a death glare to Franco over your shoulder, but still gave him the time to sprint back to the locker room to try and find the goddamn thing. 

He ran faster than his F1 car could drive, cursing under his breath at how stupid he could be. He could still save this, though. 

He found his bag and shook out the contents, frantically searching, until finally, at the bottom of the bag, he saw the box. He must have stuck it there while changing and forgot about it.

He let out a breath with enough power to shake the entire building. He opened the box to get a quick glance just to make sure everything was okay.

Except, everything wasn’t. There was no ring in the box.

He had grabbed the empty necklace box. 

Knowing you were far enough away to not hear him, he sweared very, very loudly. Unbeknownst to Franco, his father had followed him back to the locker room.

“Did you find it, mijo?” 

“I brought the wrong box,” he said, “This is for the necklace.”

His father sighed. “Franco…”

“I know, I know.”

“We can still fix this. Give her the ring at dinner!”

“I guess I’ll have to,” Franco said. He had never been more disappointed in himself. He had ruined everything. 

“Hey,” his father said, “chin up. You’ve still got this. The ring will be the perfect end to the perfect day, okay?”

“Okay,” he said, still not entirely convinced. But you would be wondering where he went soon; he couldn’t stay and mope too long.

His father left him to go relay the information to the rest of the group. Franco took a few deep breaths as he changed, mentally readying himself to see you again. He put on a smile as he saw you waiting for him outside the track with the others. 

“So, we’ll all head back and get ready, then meet for dinner tonight?” his mother said.

“Sounds good,” Franco answered, wrapping his arm around you as he walked you back to the car. 

Thankfully, when you got back to his parent’s house, you immediately wanted to take a shower and wash your hair, giving him time to search the entire room. Which he did, from top to bottom, and he still couldn’t find the ring.

It was just…gone. He had gone through every compartment of his suitcase, every pocket in his clothes, every hiding space. Still, it was nowhere to be found. 

His parents even helped him look, carefully parsing through every possible place until it was too late. You were nearly ready for dinner, and they all had to rush to get ready to make it to the restaurant in time for the reservation. 

Franco texted the groupchat the horrible news—he had fucked up. He had lost the ring. There would be no proposal. 

Kind words flooded his phone, but they meant nothing to the depressed Argentine. He had planned this out so perfectly; how did it end so badly?

And the worst part? He couldn’t even tell you. 

The atmosphere at dinner was more somber than usual. His sister had bought a bottle of nice champagne that would now have to go unopened. He would just have to propose some other time.

That’s what he reminded himself, every time the thought came up and threatened to choke him. Maybe next time he would fly his family out to Spain instead. He wasn’t in any rush. And you’d never have to know how badly he fumbled. 

Well, while you didn’t know the details, you could tell something was up. You mentioned it to Franco on the way home.

“Is something wrong?” you asked, and Franco cringed internally. He was always bad about hiding his emotions. 

“No, I’m fine,” he answered. 

“Well, everyone at dinner just seemed…off.”

“Probably just tired.”

You just hummed to yourself, refusing to allow your thoughts to wander any further. You, too, were tired. When you got back to the house, you both started to get undressed, taking off your fancy heels and jewelry.

You took off your necklace—the beautiful gift that Franco had given you, that you’d now treasure forever—but the box wasn’t on the nightstand where you had left it yesterday.

“Franco, have you seen my necklace box?” you asked from the bedroom. He was in the bathroom washing his face, and only barely heard you over the running of water. The mention of the box just made the whole night worse.

“Yeah, it’s in my bag,” he said, and you raised an eyebrow. How had your necklace box ended up there?

You leaned down to his bag, rustling around until you found the familiar box, though it was heavier than you remembered. 

When you opened it, you were nearly blinded by the glint of a beautiful diamond engagement ring. 

It was familiar; the same ring you had fallen in love with years ago. And it was in Franco’s bag. He had…bought you an engagement ring.

He was going to propose.

You could feel your heart rate increasing by the second. But you weren’t ready. You had only talked about it a few weeks ago. You were scared. 

It was okay, though. It was okay. You would just put the ring back. You’d find a way to hint to him that it wasn’t the right time. You could just fake it. He’d never have to—

“YN?”

You looked up at Franco’s face, widened with shock. You didn’t respond.

“Where did you find that?”

“In your bag.” Your voice was barely above a whisper. 

“I—” Franco was too stunned to speak. You quickly closed the box and put it back in the bag.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t see anything. This never happened,” you said, your voice rapidly talking without even thinking. You got up to leave the room, too anxious to stay seated, talking to yourself even after you were out of earshot of your lover.

Franco sat on the bed and sighed. Now he had majorly fucked up. First of all, how had no one found the ring in his bag, even after 3 people looked in there? And second of all, how did you find it?

But that wasn’t the biggest issue anymore. His plan had already been ruined, but he knew by the look on your face that your surprise was not a good one. He saw that fear that nestled itself into every crevice of your expression. 

You weren’t happy to find that ring. Not because it had ruined the surprise element—you just didn’t want him to propose.

He now had two options. He could do what he knew you’d want: act as if nothing ever happened and never broach the subject of marriage for several years to come, allowing you to shove away all those scary feelings until you’d deluded yourself into thinking you were over it. 

Or, he could do what he needed to do, and talk to you. 

He took a deep breath and followed you outside.

You were sitting on the back porch. Not crying, just quiet, looking out into the backyard. When Franco sat next to you, you didn’t say anything. He reached out to grab your hand, and you let him, softly admiring how he curled his thumb around your palm in soothing circles. 

“The plan,” he began, “was to ask you today. At the karting track. But I brought the wrong box.” He softly smiled at the absurdity of it. “When you were getting ready we were all frantically looking for it. I don’t know how we missed it.”

You just hummed in response, unsure of what to say. You needed to be honest. You needed to say the difficult things.

You began, though your voice felt choked. “Franco, if you would have asked me today, I would have said no.” You felt his hand tense up. “I mean, I would have said yes, because everyone was there. But…”

You trailed off, your words fleeing from you now. 

“I don’t understand,” Franco confessed. “We’re happy. You’re happy with me, aren’t you?”

“I am.”

“Then why don’t you want to marry me?” His voice dripped with sadness, and all you wanted to do was hold him. You turned your head to face him, and the deep sorrow in his eyes nearly brought you to tears.

“I do want to. I just…”

“I’ve done everything I can to be good to you. I’ve tried to always be there. I know I’m not perfect, but—”

“It’s not you, Franco. It was never you.”

“Then why? What can I do?” His voice cracked, seeping with hopelessness and frustration. “If it’s not because of me, then what am I supposed to do?” 

You got up. “Come here,” you said, and led him to the living room. The home was quiet; his parents were asleep, and the vast emptiness of the home was eerie. 

You grabbed the photo album that your parents had given you, and sat down on the couch, motioning for Franco to sit next to you. 

You opened it to a picture of you at your 4th birthday party. In the photo, you grimaced though the uncomfortable sensation of a plastic party hat. “Do you see her?” you asked him. He nodded. 

“I remember feeling like this when I was that little. This…fear. I desperately wanted friends but was too afraid to talk to anyone.”

You flipped to the next page, pointing to a photo of you sitting alone in a park, a forced smile across your face. “What do you notice about this picture?” you asked him.

Franco leaned in closer to look. “I don’t know,” he said. 

“I’m alone. See all the other kids in the background?” 

You kept flipping until you found the first photo of you when Franco knew you. You were fifteen, smack in the middle of your awkward teenage years, in the stands at one of his races. 

“I remember that,” he said. 

“That’s me, spending time with my first real friend,” you said. “I didn’t know it yet, but I had a huge crush on him,” you joked.

“He was going to ask you to marry him today. And you just told him you would have said no.”  

“I know,” you said, trying to be gentle with your tone. “But what I’m trying to say is that you’re not just asking me. You’re asking her. And she feels so alone, and she’s scared to trust anyone.”

Franco sat with the thought for a moment, before getting up to grab his own photo book. He opened it to the first page, and pointed to a photo of him as a toddler, wrapped in a scarf, toothy grin spread wide. 

“And that’s who asked you.”

You felt a knot of emotion in your stomach break. All you wanted was to cry. 

“This goes both ways, YN,” Franco continued. “I understand that you’re scared. But I can’t fix that fear. Only you can.”

The dam broke, your tears flooding forth. He was right. So you told him.

“You’re right. I’m sorry,” you said, and he wrapped his arm around you, rubbing your back through the tears. 

“I’m not perfect either. I shouldn’t have rushed it, I was just excited.”

“Don’t apologize for being excited to propose,” you laughed through your tears. “I should probably go back to therapy.”

“If you think that’ll help,” he said.

“It will,” you sniffled. “I just… I’ve been so afraid that I’ve been ignoring all the signs. I should have seen this coming. You’re never that excited to let me beat you in karting.”

He smiled at your banter. You continued, “But really, you’re right. I’ve just been avoiding this because I’m scared, getting up in my head. I just feel so happy and that scares me, because at some point it has to fall apart, right? You’re never happy forever.”

“You’re not unhappy forever, either. Of course we’d have rough spots. But that’s the beauty of marriage,” he said, “you vow to be there for each other through it all.”

“How did I get so lucky to have you?” you asked, meeting his gaze. 

His eyes were full of compassion and love. “I’m the lucky one.” He leaned down to kiss you. 

You didn’t really believe him. You still didn’t understand how someone so perfect could love you, someone so…broken. But one day you would. You had to.

The next year was difficult. You began your healing journey again—a journey you were convinced you’d be on your entire life. But you’d do it for him, and for you. 

And slowly, bit by bit, the wounds began to heal. 

It wasn’t linear. With Franco’s new contract, he had lots of attention and responsibilities. He was away from home more. He was tired, stressed, more short-tempered. There were arguments. Some days it felt like you took one step forward and two steps back. 

But you made it through. For every argument there was an honest conversation. For every night away there was a sweet gesture or text message to remind you that he still loved you, and from it grew a solid, blooming trust. For every mistake—on both ends—there was an apology and a commitment to be better. For every night of tears, there was a night of laughter with the man you loved most in the world. 

And by the end of the season, you and the relationship were stronger than ever. 

Of course, things weren’t perfect. But the fear that had once held you hostage was an adversary you knew you could overcome. 

Franco kept the ring in his nightstand. You had found it again one day while cleaning. It wasn’t really hidden, as if to say, we’ll get to this later. It was no secret now.  You just put it back in its place and smiled, going on about your day. 

But Franco had been giving the proposal much thought. He decided against inviting anyone again, wanting it to be a tender moment of vulnerability between you and him.

No, he wanted this time to be simple. Honest. 

He just hoped you were ready. 

A few weeks before the beginning of the next season, he took you out to the place where all this had begun; the outlook in the countryside, where he first told you that he wanted to marry you.

This time, he double and triple checked to make sure the ring was there in his pocket. 

The sun was setting over the Spanish countryside, painting the sky rich shades of orange and yellow. The air had cooled with the impending coming of night. 

He opened your car door and set up a blanket on the ground, where you sat and he laid his head in your lap, letting your fingers run through his hair as a way to calm his nerves. 

He took a deep breath as he sat up, and you knew what was coming. Again, he had rehearsed a speech, but almost instantly forgot it the second he opened his mouth. 

“YN,” he began, looking you directly in the eyes, “I… I love you. So much. More than words can say.” He was nervous, swallowing before he continued, letting his eyes wander off to the picturesque view. But he had more important things to be looking at. 

“I can’t imagine a version of my life without you in it. I grew up with you. I want to grow old with you. You’ve made me into the best version of myself. We’ve gone through so many things and come out on the other side so much stronger. And I want this,” he said, reaching out to wipe away the happy tears that now flowed down your cheeks. “I want to be with you. Even though we’re both imperfect, even though we both have our problems to work through, YN, I want to do this with you, forever. I want to fall asleep next to you and wake up next to you. I want to have children and grandchildren with you. I…” he trailed off, not knowing how to finally say what he really wanted to say.

You smiled through the tears. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the ring, flipping it open and showing it to you. 

“Marry me,” he whispered. 

Your smile widened. “Yes,” you answered. “Yes.” 

He kissed you with a fervent passion. When he pulled away, his smile couldn’t be contained.

“She said yes!” he cried out, though you both were alone. “I did it! She said yes!” You laughed at his antics.

In a few weeks, you’d have the official photo shoot where he got down on one knee. You’d show the world the carefully constructed version that was all they got to see.

But this was real. And maybe it was imperfect; maybe he hadn’t really asked, more instructed, and maybe he hadn’t gotten down on one knee, and maybe, yes, you had found the ring beforehand. 

But this was real. In all the ups and downs, the hurt and healing, this love you shared with your now fiance was real. The world didn’t get to see that. 

And maybe that fear was still within you. It was smaller now. And when you had seen that shine of the ring, maybe you had felt it rise within you again. But you knew now that it was just a feeling, something you could control. You didn’t have to ignore it or let it reign you. It was just there. 

It wasn't real though. And this was. The cold metal of the ring slid onto your finger. The feeling of Franco’s lips on yours. The strain in your face muscles from all the smiling. His hand around your waist, pulling you closer as the sun dipped below the sky, leaving you and your lover alone in the dark—yes, this was real. 

And this was yours; he was yours.

For the first time in a long time, you knew you had nothing to fear. 

[moonstruckme]

Hi Mae! I was in a car accident yesterday (car took most of the damage, I’m ok other than bruises and sore muscles) and the whole thing has been a whirlwind of insurance and hospital and half asleep crying. I was wondering if I could request James potter x reader for comfort in a situation like that? I’m going through it rn lol hope you’re having a good day :)

Oh I'm sorry lovely! I had a very similar thing happen a little over a year ago, it's sooooo exhausting even when luckily no one is seriously hurt. Thanks for requesting, hope you're having a good/better day too <33

cw: past car accident, no details but talk of general aftermath of police questioning, insurance, etc.

James Potter x fem!reader ♡ 799 words

The way James half-jogs up to the automatic doors of the hospital, seeming caught between walking and running, feels like someone is pressing down on the bruise of your chest. You wish you’d called him sooner. 

“James,” you call as he comes in, hating how your voice cuts through the taut quiet of the waiting area. It’s worth it for how his whole self softens when his eyes find you. 

He slows to a fast walk the rest of the way to you, the urgency slowly leaving him—which is appropriate, there is no urgency, everything has happened already—like an engine running out of gas. You stand as he nears, and both of you reach for each other before James hesitates. His hands stop midair, his brow tightening for a moment, before they come tentatively to your elbows.

“Hi,” he says, squeezing. “How bad is it?” 

“For me or the car?” you joke. 

“You.” James is feeling too earnest for joking, it seems. “Well, both of you. But you first.” 

You really thought you’d cry when you saw him. Worried you’d make a whole scene, blubbering and inconsolable, but you don’t seem to have any tears left. It makes sense, you suppose; you’ve cried a lot in the past few hours. First the slow, shaky kind right after getting out of your car, and then a real cry when a police officer had pulled you aside to get your version of events. (It had been embarrassing. She’d been nice about it, though.) Now, you wait for the tears to come, but for all your relief at seeing your boyfriend you feel rather dried up. 

It makes you wish, once again, that you’d called James sooner. You’d wanted to, of course, but you’d been nearly certain you’d be even less capable of holding yourself together if he were there, and there wasn’t much reason for him to be anyways. He was at work and you weren’t terribly hurt, so there was really nothing he could have done while you were talking to the police and the tow company and the paramedics and attempting not to drown in an overwhelm of insurance information. The only thing you really wanted him for was to hold your hand.

“I’m okay,” you say, the necessary preface. “A bit bruised up. My chest got the worst of it.” 

Unconsciously, your hand comes to your sternum as if to demonstrate, gravitating towards the center of the ache. James’ hand follows, seemingly just as thoughtless as it covers your own. He can’t see the bruise, but he makes a low, sad sound anyway. 

His care softens your voice. “They said my neck will probably hurt tomorrow, but it doesn’t yet.” 

“Oh, sweetheart.” James sounds really, truly heartbroken for you. “And the rest, it hurts a lot?” 

You shrug. What’s a lot? You know you could’ve had worse, much worse; still, you could do without that frightening soreness that comes with each breath. 

“It’s not too bad,” you say. “I could still hug.” 

It’s the question he’s been dying to ask, clearly. James’ arms are around you in a second, ardent but still gentle, palms pressing to the high and low points of your bag. It’s a good hug. You melt a little against him. 

James tucks his face into the side of your neck, like he’s trying to get as much contact with you as he can. “I wish you’d called me when it happened.” 

“You were at work.” 

“I’d have left work.” 

“There wasn’t anything you could do. I was fine, I just had to…” a little sigh escapes you, exhaustion creeping in now that he’s here “...talk to people. Insurance and all that.” 

James makes a soft, half-agreeing sound. His thumb strokes the base of your neck. “Still. I could have held your hand.” 

A new ache rises in the back of your throat, coming to join the rest. You wind your arms tighter around James. 

After a few, silent moments, he kisses your neck chastely and loosens his hold. “Ready to go home? Anything else you need?” 

You shake your head. “I’m signed out,” you say, so eager you feel like you could float out the doors. You hope you can entice James to lie in bed with you when you get home. You think you’ll sleep until tomorrow. “Let’s go, please.” 

“Alright, you don’t have to say please, sweetheart.” James curls an arm around your shoulders, pressing a smile into your cheek. “We can go. You need one of those wheelchairs for me to take you out to the car?” 

“Ha ha,” you say drily. “No.” 

“Just checking. Think maybe I ought to ask for one, just in case?”

“James. I will take your car home without you in it.” 

“Alright, lovie, I’m coming.”

[wonderjanga]

Yous an Old Bitch

It was about normal day, and Marvel was being interviewed. It was a fairly normal interview. The reporter was asking normal questions and the topic of his age came up. Somehow, after more talking, he for some reason dropped this line:

Marvel: “Listen, if something has a lightning bolt like mine, I probably either made it, or someone inspired it off of me.”

This single line led to a manhunt, looking for items with the bolt. Museums have never been richer.

Person 1: “Did you make this?” *shoves their phone into his face*

Marvel: *pushes the phone away so he can get a better look* “No, it was made for me.” *staring at the photo of an unfinished statue*

Person 1: *enraptured* “Please explain.”

Marvel: “Well, it was a really hot day, and the sculptor guy was taking forever. So like halfway through, I flew out the window and just decided to avoid the sculptor guy. The guy died before he could finish my thing. That’s why the statue isn’t done!”

Someone videoed this and after seeing this, many more people worked up the courage to ask him about their finds.

Person 2: “Captain Marvel, did you make this?” *shows him a photo of a really beat up piece of metal that had a tiny lightning bolt*

Marvel: “Yes actually! That was my first actually good piece of metal work.”

Person 2: “You can do metalwork?”

Marvel: “Yup!”

Person 2: “What was it originally?”

Marvel: *nostalgic* “It was kinda like a tiara only this was before tiaras were things.”

Person 2: “Was it pretty?”

Marvel: “Of course!” *sounds proud* “In fact, it was so pretty that if it were up to me, I’d march right into that museum and restore it with some magic! Though I don’t think the museum would let me.”

Person 2: “Wait, who was it for?”

Marvel: “My wife!”

Person 2: “Huh?”

News that he had a wife spread like wildfire.

or

Person 3: “Did you make the newly discovered cave paintings in China?”

Marvel: “What cave paintings?”

Person 3: *shows him a photo*

Marvel: “Oh. Yeah! Me and a buddy were messing around there. See those symbols?” *points to some symbols*

Person 3: *nods head*

Marvel: “See, that was our language from back then and it basically says that the chief of our tribe sucked. In short, teenage caveman vandalism, only we weren’t teenagers.” *looks nostalgic* “Man, those were good times… I mean, sure, we got stoned to death for that, but still!”

Person 3: *horrified and intrigued*

Also FUCK ME because I had to rewrite this THREE FUCKING TIMES because it DIDNT SAVE. WHATEVER IS UP THERE DOESNT WANT ME TO GO BACK TO MY NORMAL POSTING SCHEDULE. THIS SHIT SHOULDVE BEEN OUT TWO HOURS AGO.

[slimybeth69]

Part 3- Your People

Series Masterlist | Part 1 | Part 2

Summary: After the civilized world you once knew came to an end-- the men that survived... well they just take, take, take. Growing tired of having things taken from you-- you have a hankerin' to take somethin' for yourself... and make him perfect.

w/c~ 8k

content warnings: Reader (no descriptions besides having hair that can be pulled) is in a weird mindset; hears voices, talks to herself. non-con/dub-con (if you're looking for enthusiastic consent, ya wont find it here) smut, cock-warming, unprotected P in V, creampies, oral (m&f receiving), rough sex, dirty talk, pussy and peen pronouns, alcohol consumption (altered mental state). Joel wears a shock collar and other various horrible things that would keep him in check-- and he doesn't fucking like it.

Reader warning- While it looks real pretty, this is a Dead Dove, Do Not Eat. If ya do and then come complaining to me that you ate a dead dove-- I'm gonna fight you. I warned you. I'm coming from a place of love and respect for my readers who have ever gone through anything traumatic and maybe don't want to relive that, it's in here. I try and do it tastefully and respectfully in the best way, i'll mark it with a lil divider where you can skip the part I'm worried about. it's smut but it's sad. There is your warning. I love you.

You gotta sleep, kid. You need it.

Mister-J looks so warm and comfortable… go on and crawl in beside him.

He does look so comfortable and inviting, especially from your spot just out of his reach if you were to fall asleep. His chest rises and falls slowly as he breathes in his sleep. It’s memorizing, and almost hypnotic enough to make you forget all of your fears— forget all of the things that made laying next to him with his arms around you physically excruciating.

S’okay, Baby. You’ll get there, it’ll get easier ‘n he won’t seem so big ‘n scary anymore.

There is a reason he seems big and scary, kid. Your gut is telling you not to trust him, so don’t.

Oh, stop it. If he wanted to kill her, he would have— he would have done it by now. He’s big ‘n strong— he could, and he hasn’t.

That sweet, soft voice does have a good point…

Doesn’t mean he isn’t waiting for a better opportunity.

The dark, serious voice has a point too…

This always happens, the voices say things that conflict one another, but they both have a point. They both make sense but never about the same thing. And they argue. And they’re loud. It’s only when you need them, that you really, really want them to say something that they are quiet.

The little flashlight that had been attached to the backpack Mister-man—

Joel… he has a name. He’s a real person, kid.

You flick the flashlight off quickly so it’s dark again.

Mister-mans, Mister-J… Joel… it don’t matter none, Sugar. He’s yours, and you can call him whatever you want.

You flick the light back on so you can watch him sleep. It’s incredible how calm he is, and how he fell asleep as soon as you laid down next to him after saying he couldn’t sleep.

Sometimes that happens to you though, sometimes you need to touch yourself, and make yourself squirm and moan and come, and then sleep finds you. Sometimes the whiskey puts you to sleep before you even have the desire to do that to yourself.

Whatever Mister-J did with his tongue was so much better than your fingers, wasn’t it?

It most definitely was. It was probably the most incredible feeling you’ve ever experienced. Not that you hadn’t ever experienced it before, but this time…it was soft, gentle— and you wanted it more than anything. That made it feel even fucking better, how badly you wanted to sit down on Mister-mans face and grind down onto his mouth.

He was making out with your cunt. Deep, long, tongue swirling kisses. He would open and close his mouth, and suck. He would lick and lap at all spots you didn’t even know could make you feel good.

When you would take his cock deep in your throat and gag on it, he would moan- loudly-and the vibrations from that were like earthquakes, they touched parts inside of you that were left unexplored by anyone before Mister.

He was perfect.

The idea of laying your head down on his big, muscular bicep was nice until you were actually doing it, and then everything about it felt foreign. It was like sleeping too close to the fire, surrounded by too many blankets.

You had gotten so used to sleeping alone, that the feeling of someone next to you didn’t feel right anymore. It made you sad and you’re not entirely sure why.

So that’s why you’re here on the floor and not snuggled up against Mister-man. It’s like the universe played some cruel joke on you- and you got your favorite food but when you bite into it, it’s rancid.

But your fingers twitch toward him anyway—like roots in dirt searching for water. His arm is right there. His breath is slow and steady.

Go on. He’s warm as fresh bread.

You shift an inch closer.

Dangerous as a snake in the grass.

But his skin smells like leather and sweat and you want to taste him again. Want to run your tongue from the tip of his cock, to the spot just in front of his ear that makes him sigh when you kiss him there.

Crawling—quiet like scared prey— you move until your face hovers over his chest. His shirt rides up just enough to show a scar on his perfectly doughy stomach. And another on his rib cage. It looks newer, still old enough to be a scar, but pink instead of white.

You wonder if it aches when he breathes. If that’s the reason his voice sounds like gravel sometimes.

He’ll crush you.

He’ll hold you.

It sounds like a song the way the sweet voice says it.

You touch the scar with your pinky finger, feather-light—and he doesn’t stir. But then he sighs—a rumble deeper than thunder—and your guts twist.

You scramble back, heart slamming against the back of your throat.

The sweet voice clucks at you.

You’re spooking yourself. 

You’re alive because you spook.

The flashlight rolls under your knee when you shift—plastic clattering loud enough to wake dead things—and Mister’s brow tightens. For one gut-drop second, his eyes flicker open, staring up at you, before he grunts and turns onto his side, back to you now.

He’s mad again? How, and why? What did you do wrong? You had done everything right.

You keep poking that bear and you’re going to get mauled, kid.

He ain’t mad…look’it his hands, Sugar.

They’re not balled up into fists, they’re relaxed. His whole body is. Everything about him seems so at peace.

Your stomach growls loud enough to wake the dead. It’s been a while since you’ve eaten— and then you only had half of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, and some whiskey.

Joel’s boot shifts with a dry scrape of leather—and your lungs forget how air works. But he just mumbles something that sounds like “goddamn horse” with his face smushed against the pillow.

Mister-J talks in his sleep? He’s precious.

He is. It’s hard to contain the feeling in your chest when he sighs loudly, rolling onto his stomach, curling his arms under the pillow.

Instead of trying to face your fears of crawling into bed with him and falling asleep next to someone else, you crawl on your hands and knees back to the chair across the room. The whiskey bottle is still tucked between the cushion where you left it.

--

Even with almost half of a bottle of whiskey in you, your eyes won’t close. You only know what time it is because the soft whir of the solar powered generator kicks on, and the singular lamp in the corner flicks to life. It’s dark outside now. 

The electric hum from the bulb makes your skin crawl, and your head buzz.

Part of you feels bad for keeping Mister down here like this. He doesn’t even know what time it is, he’ll probably wake up soon, getting ready to start the day. You wonder if he misses the sun, if he ever walked barefoot in the grass and if he misses that feeling too.

When you weren’t allowed outside, you missed the sun. You missed the grass between your toes. You missed being able to jump into the river and swim around with your brother whenever you wanted. There were a lot of things you missed when you weren’t allowed to go outside.

Unscrewing the whiskey cap, you take a swig and relish in the way it burns. It drowns out the voices, but it doesn’t dull the ache between your legs— the memory of his mouth makes you shift in the soft recliner.

In the soft, pale light spilling into the room from behind the aged, yellow lampshade, you can see Mister-J… and how excited he is. He’s on his back, shirt riding up over his stomach again, the bulge in his sweatpants clear as day now.

There is a new voice you’ve never heard before, and it’s not saying anything— only screaming. Loud, and high pitched. It’s excruciating. It’s the only thing you hear now, not even the sound of your own voice telling you what to do, or what to think or say.

When you stand, the whiskey sloshes between your temples. It makes you sway and almost lose your balance, but you press your hand to a support beam that juts out of the floor and into the ceiling.

Heavy, clumsy, limping feet and a swollen ankle carry you to Mister-J.

His cock is hard and heavy in your hand and he tastes just like he did last night. He stirs under your touch—a low groan vibrating through clenched teeth—and your pussy tightens around nothing. Mister arches his hips up against your slow moving fist, trying to fuck your hand momentarily before stilling and settling back down into the mattress. His eyes are still shut tight beneath furrowed eyebrows.

It’s pathetically cute how bad he wants this. How badly he needs it.

The screaming inside your head morphs into static.

Your fingers rub slow circles over damp fabric between your legs while your rib cage starts to feel like a hive of wasps. Everything inside of you is buzzing as you lean over and swirl your tongue around the ridge of his cock.

Wrong.

That dark voice sounds like it’s coming through the static like old radio stations.

You pull your hand away from Mister-J's cock and cover your face with it, trying to hold back the tears that are threatening to spill. This is all wrong, all of it.

S’right. It’s all right.

The static transmutes into tornado sirens.

Your hand finds his cock again and it throbs in your grasp. There is no hesitation when you take him into your mouth with a gentleness you didn’t know you possessed when you’re this intoxicated. Delicate movements and laps of your tongue along his shaft make him moan softly, still slumbering.

Salt and musk take over your senses as he pulses against your tongue—wanting even in his unconsciousness. Your throat spasms around him as you gag, tears hot on your lashes. One hand brushes against his thigh as you move to steady yourself on the mattress while the other slips into your own waistband. Two fingers slide into you with no resistance. You’re so wet that you almost feel embarrassed.

Inside.

The sweet voice sings to you over the cacophony going on inside your head.

Mister’s hips jerk again, involuntary, desperate. A string of saliva connects your lip to his cock when you pull back to breathe. The room tilts—whiskey and shame on your tongue—but you don’t stop. Can’t stop. Not when his thighs were trembling just a moment ago.

After kicking your shorts off, you climb on top. Mister feels so hot pressed up against your cunt. Yours and his breath catch in your throats when you sink down into his lap. Your eyes close to hide from the stretch that burns in a slippery, and shameful way.

The wasps behind your ribs sharpen their stingers as you slowly start to rock your hips against his. Mister’s eyelids flutter but he doesn’t wake-up, not fully. He just hovers in that feverish space between dreaming and drowning. A place you’re familiar with.

Bad. Bad. Bad.

Good. Good. Good.

You want to carve yourself into his bones before the tornado sirens rip your skull apart.

The oven mitts make useless fists at his sides as he arches beneath you, tendons in his neck pulled wire-tight. His hips stutter upward instinctively, chasing more friction, seeking the deepest, warmest parts of you.

His eyes snap open, “The fuck are you—” Mister-man’s voice is rough like sandpaper but you don’t let him finish before you slap your hand over his mouth.

“Shhhh, makin’ you feel good,” you moan quietly, your hips never faltering. His cock slides across a spot inside of you that whites the edges of your vision.

He mumbles something, his teeth scraping along your palm as he does so. It vaguely sounds like, ‘Get off’a me’ or ‘get off on me,’.

“M’tryin’,” you groan, catching your bottom lip between your teeth. Your cheeks are wet, but from tears or sweat, you don’t know.

How can everything make sense up here on top of Mister-J, and still feel so incredibly… wrong?

The oven mitts start to drum against your thighs as he squirms underneath you.

It…hurts? Mister is hitting you? 

Hurting you.

You like it. 

“Knock it off!” You press harder against this mouth with your hand, your fingers digging into his cheeks. It’s impossible to stop riding him, to stop yourself from needing this brutal closeness with Mister. 

You’re being bad. 

You like it. 

His muffled growls vibrate against your palm—angry or pleading or both—but your cunt clenches harder around him anyway. Release is so close, you can feel yourself teeter on the precipice, but you can’t seem to push yourself over.

“Please, please, p-please— jus’ wanna, I just wanna— please, please, Mister-J,” you whine, face wet with perspiration and tears now, they’re flowing freely from your eyes. “I want it, need it—”

“Stop, goddammit—” he shouts at you from behind your fingers.

It makes you flinch but you don’t stop, and your pussy pulses around him. Your hand presses harder, fingernails leaving moon crescents in his flesh mingled with his stubble.

You just want to feel good, to be able to fall asleep once this is all over.

Oven mitts thump and scrabble at your hip, and that only makes your thighs clamp tighter around his waist. You want to swallow every twitch of his cock, everything he can give you– you want it. 

He bucks his hips up into you and touches a place inside you that leaves you gasping for air. “Yes, yes, yes—” you groan breathlessly, leaning forward to lay your body on top of his, resting your forehead against his collarbone.

Mister bucks his hips up into yours again— once, twice, three times and suddenly you’re being shoved off of him, pushed to the side like you’re weightless.

Before you can really even know what hit you, Mister-man has his entire body weight pinning you down underneath him. He has his forearm forced against your neck.

Your thumb instinctively presses against down, searching for the shock collar button but you just end up pressing against your own palm.

The static, and the sirens and the screaming— the voices. It all goes completely silent and the only thing you can hear is the blood roaring in your ears.

Mistake?

Mistake. 

“Got’chya,” He growls down at you, his eyes dark and blown wide.

“Get off me! Get off me! Get off of me!” You scream at him as loudly as you can, “Get off of me! Get off! Off, off, offoffoffoff! I’ll fucking kill you, you stupid fucking sonofabitch- get the fuck off me!”

“Awhh, lil crazy puppy don’t like it?” He murmurs, pressing his lips to your tear stained cheekbone.

Your legs begin to flail wildly in an attempt to dislodge him, push him, get him off. Your hands flying to his face, scratching and clawing at the soft skin, and his vulnerable, delicate eyes. You can’t find the words for how much you don’t like it, so you scream— it’s loud and rattles in the back of your throat as Mister-man clamps his hand over your mouth to silence you.

His breath is hot and ragged against your ear, the oven mitts clumsily grappling at your wrists as you thrash. "Stop—fuckin'—fightin’—," he grits out, but his voice cracks on the last word.

You taste copper—your teeth sink into his palm at some point, his blood smearing your chin. He pulls his hand back back to look at the broken skin, and you clench your eyes shut, flinching away from the incoming blows.

The room tilts and suddenly Joel’s weight isn’t just on your body; it’s inside your head, like pressure forcing memories that had buried deep to the surface like lava from a volcano.

Different hands holding you down. A different room. Different voices in your ear.

“Nononononono,” you whimper in a shriveled voice you don’t recognize. 

“Hey!” Joel’s voice is sharp and grounding.

His arm lets up just enough for you to suck in a shattered breath. You’re both trembling now, your chests heaving against one anothers. His beard scratches your temple as he turns his face away from your clawing hands, but you don’t miss it—there is a  flicker in his eyes when your choked sob hits the air between you. 

Something wet smears your cheek. His blood? Your tears? It’s hard to tell. 

“M’gonna make you feel real good, crazy girl.” His lips brush your earlobe as his hips grind down into yours, the length of him sliding between your folds, the tip notched at your entrance.

“Stop,” you whine, but the force has left your voice. Something about him breathing in your ear, something about the sound he makes as he shifts his hips and slips himself inside of you. The tears continue to fall, even as you gasp and clench around him. 

“She’s suckin’ me right in baby,” Joel purrs in your ear while his hips start to move. 

You can feel every fucking inch of him, every vein, and every single beat of his heart through the slick walls of your cunt. “Oh god,” you groan, your stiff, frightened hands curling in the hair on the back of his head, the other gripping one of his strong, strained biceps. 

You're terrified, but Joel's words and touch are overwhelming you, making your body respond in ways you didn’t know could in a position like this.

He thrusts slowly at first as he sinks deeper inside you. But soon his pace quickens and the slapping, wet sounds coming from between your legs fill the small basement room. "Yeah just like that," Mister groans, his lips ghosting over your cheek. "Take it all, baby girl.”

Your walls clench around him, pulling him in as if eager for more. You feel delirious with fear and an unbidden arousal. Tears stream down your face, but soft moans spill from your lips.

Joel licks at your tears and leaves gentle kisses in their place, his beard scraping against your sensitive skin. "Shhhh, I got you," he murmurs between thrusts.

The room spins and blurs as the pleasure builds. Nothing exists and nothing is real anymore; Mister-man’s weight pinning you down, his cock splitting you open, the sour, sweaty, musky scent of him.

He’s real. He’s real. He’s real. He’s real. He’s real and he’s good. He’s good, he’s good, he’s good. He’s not killing you, not hurting you.

So good. It’s so good.

You turn your head to capture his salty, tear stained lips with yours, opening your mouth to let him in. His lips press against yours desperately, tongue licking at your teeth as he slips inside.

Your body arches up to meet him, craving more of his touch even as fear still coils in your gut. It’s like you’re two separate people wrapped up into a whole. One part of you wants him with everything that you are, and the other is ready to hide, ready to slip into the cracks into the wall and never come out.

His oven mitts move to your waist and fumble with the threadbare shirt you have on, trying to push it up over the swell of your breasts.

“Fuck,” he grunts, nipping at your bottom lip as he pulls away from the kiss. He sits back on his knees, cock still throbbing inside of you while your walls flutter around him.

“Don’t, oh god, no. Please don’t go-” you sob, hands and fingers clawing at his forearms, desperate for him to come back. “P-Please don’t leave me,” you whine sadly, 

Mister says nothing as he places both mitt covered hands inside your shirt where it’s fastened with buttons. He pulls the two pieces of fabric apart like paper. The buttons fly in every direction, scattering across the floor and some landing in bed with you. Joel stares down at your naked body and you feel more exposed than you ever have in your entire life.

“Jesus christ,” he murmurs, eyes tracing every single one of your curves. His mittened hands cups the swell of your tits, thumb swiping over the stiff buds

It’s like you’ve been zapped by the shock collar. Your back arches into his hand, your eyes clamp shut.

“Nuh-uh, watch me,” he growls. He waits until your eyes are on him before he leans over and takes one of your nipples into his mouth. His tongue swirls and teeth graze and bite down.

“Oh my god,” you groan, your fingers gripping his hair tighter, your nails dragging red, almost bloody marks down his arm.

Mister releases your nipple with a wet pop, blowing cool air across it almost like he’s teasing you. Goosebumps erupt across your skin as he takes the other into his mouth, alternating between harsh sucking and tender kisses.

You mewl softly as he begins to thrust again, each movement slow and deliberate. He drives deep inside of you and hits that spot that blurs the edges of your vision again, and again, and again.

You stare up at him in awe- his beard is longer, thicker than it was when he first came here, his hair disheveled and damp with sweat hangs in his forehead. He leans back and pushes the loose strands away from his face with an oven mitt.

Handsome.

He is.

Strong.

Being so gentle.

With you, Sugar. So gentle—

With you.

"Please," you whimper, spine bowing as pleasure coils tight in your belly as his hips snap against yours loudly. “More. Need more…”

He grins down at you, eyes crinkled at the corners, “I’ll give ya’ more, sweetheart.” If you thought Mister was handsome before, when he smiles your heart swells. and the pressure and tightness inside of you feels like it’s about to burst.

He wraps one hand underneath your knee and brings it up, resting your ankle on his shoulder by his ear, repeating the process with the other leg. He grips your thighs, the scratchy fabric of the oven mitts drags across your skin. Joel never lets up, never slows down the brutal, bruising pace he sets. 

A string of expletives and maybe his name more than once spill out of your mouth quickly, stumbling over the words as your body trembles underneath him.

All of the air is pushed out of you as he leans over, pushing your knees up to your chest and starts fucking into you with deep, long strokes. His pelvis grinds against your swollen clit with each powerful snap forward, pushing you closer and closer to the edge.

"I can feel her squeezin’ me," he rasps hotly in your ear, licking the shell before biting down on your earlobe. “Come on my cock, crazy girl.”

That does it. It’s more than enough to push you over the edge. “Oh—” Your head tips back with a silent scream as your orgasm crashes through you like a tidal wave, making your entire body shudder and convulse beneath him. “Fuck… Joel!” Sparks burst behind your eyelids as pure rapture consumes you.

Mister sucks your earlobe as you come, his sweaty temple pressed against yours as the waves wash over you. He’s kissing and licking down to your neck, and bites down hard right over your pulse point, sucking hard enough to hurt. "That's it baby girl," he grunts against the spot he just bit.

It’s like your whole body is on fire, everything is too much, it’s all too good.

You feel a new pressure, a new sensation and it’s familiar, but foreign all at the same time. A new release, it’s different and it’s happening so fast.

“Stop! Oh my— Mist- Joel, p-please,” you plead for some sort of relief. “I’m gunna—”

Joel presses his lips to yours again, silencing you. You twist your head to the side, pulling away from his mouth as he kisses down your cheek to your jaw. “S’okay— let go...”

"I...I don't...can't..." You gasp out between ragged breaths. Hot, wet tears still leak from the corners of your eyes as the intense pleasure builds to an unbearable peak.

“Ya’ can,” he pants, resting his forehead on the side of your head. “Cryin’ only makes it feel better, baby girl.” He shifts his hips, angles them differently and fucks you harder- faster.

“P-Please,” you whimper, unsure if you’re begging him to stop, or to keep going. “S’too much!”

“Shut up,” he growls, nipping at your cheek gently, teeth scraping skin as he pistons into you relentlessly. “Let it happen, crazy girl.”

So you do- body obeying his command even as your mind reels with what’s about to happen. A second climax crashes over you, more intense than the first. It erupts from you in a wet splash against Mister’s lower stomach and pelvis, it drips down the curve of your ass and you feel it seeping into the mattress underneath you.

“Good fuckin’ girl,” he praises breathlessly. “Such a good fuckin’ girl cummin’ on Mister’s cock again.”

You sob in pleasure and embarrassment simultaneously as he fucks you through it, his deep voice rasping in your ear.

“Crazy,” He murmurs. His thrusts grow clumsy, and he’s panting in your ear, kissing the side of your face. His tongue captures the tears on your cheeks again like they’re his favorite drink as your fingers dig into the soft flesh on his shoulder. “Makin’ me fuckin’ crazy,” he snaps suddenly, pulling back and out of you completely.

You whimper at the loss but he presses your thighs together tightly with his hands and forearms, and slips his cock between them, the length siding through your wet folds.

Mister-J kisses your ankle, his teeth biting down on the skin as he groans loudly, warmth spreads and seeps between your thighs, and slick lower lips, the crease where your legs meet your pelvis.

You stare up at him, watching as his eyes close, his brow furrows, his hips jerking back and forth clumsily as he empties himself onto your lower half.

Your legs tremble as he slides his softening cock out from between your thighs. 

That was the most incredible, and intense feeling you’ve ever experienced and you’re not sure if you should love him, or hate him for what he just did to you. The wet spot on the mattress is an embarrassing reminder of what happened seconds ago.

“S’good for ya’?” Mister asks, running one of his oven mitts over his forehead, wiping the sweat away. His eyes move from your face, down your still naked body, his cum smeared across your mound and lower stomach.

You pull your shirt closed around your bare torso, holding it closed with one hand. You use your good foot and the other hand to push yourself onto the cold concrete floor— skin scraping roughly as you shove yourself away from him.

His brows pinch together tightly, and he narrows his eyes on you. “Where’re ya’ goin’?” He sounds… concerned? Angry? Disappointed?

The words don’t find you, thoughts don’t come to you anymore as you hold the shirt over your chest and glare at him. All you can do is scream at him. It comes from somewhere deep and your lungs hurt, your throat feels like it could bleed from how raw it is after.

“Where’re ya’ goin’?”

He watches as tears continue to pour down your cheeks, your face twisting up tightly. You inhale deeply, and it looks like you’re trying to regain your composure.

Then you scream at him. It’s long and loud and hurts his ears, but he stares at you until you’re done. He continues to watch as you scurry away from him in a clumsy, stumbling crab-crawl until your back bumps into the leg of the table. 

You flinch and stifle a sob, and finally take a deep, shaky breath. You use the table to push yourself to your feet, turning away from him finally. You shove the table in his direction, grabbing the shock collar remote before you turn, and limp into the bathroom, slamming the door shut behind you.

The dull roar of the infected grows louder from upstairs. They’re still there, and that means the two of you are stuck together for at least another day or two, maybe longer.

The door opens again, and a metal bucket comes hurdling out of the bathroom and through the air. It hits the wall, and drops to the floor noisily with chaotic, metal clangs until it comes to settle in the corner by the mattress.

The door slams shut again.

You’re broken, he can see it in your eyes almost all the time, but there was a moment when he was on top of you where he thought you might have completely checked out– gone somewhere else, somewhere he didn’t mean to take you. 

Traumatized the poor puppy. Pro’lly in there cryin’.

He’s not worried that you’re crying. Nope. Not even a little. 

Alright- that’s what you wanna keep tellin’ yourself, go right ahead. 

He’s worried he just signed his death certificate. 

Joel wasn’t trying to take anything from you— not like that. You were already on top of him, riding him, but you just looked like you needed some help, like you needed him to take control. Like you didn’t know what you were doing up there, rolling and swirling your hips in any direction. It wasn’t bad, but it wasn’t ever going to get you there- where you wanted to be so badly.

Joel took you there, made you fucking squirt all over him and he took some sense of pride in that. 

Joel helps himself to jerky and bread, he drinks as much water as his body will comfortably allow. For the first time in weeks, he’s actually full. His stomach feels like it’s stretched like he might actually burst. 

–-

At first Joel thought you just needed a couple minutes. Maybe you wanted to clean up in the privacy of the bathroom without his eyes on you. But hours go by and he hears nothing coming from the separate room. Nothing. 

It’s silent. Completely. No shrieking or clicking of the infected from upstairs either. 

It’s the lack of control that’s pissing him off more than he would care to admit. Being captive was of course at the top of his ‘things to be pissed off about’ list,  but if he was going to be stuck here with you, he wishes he could at least have a say in what goes on. 

Hasn’t seen the sun, hasn’t had a proper shower in god knows when, hasn’t had a real meal in just as long. If you would give him just a little more freedom, things wouldn’t be too fucking bad here. 

Now you’re gettin’ it. 

You’re making Joel crazy, now he’s thinking about complying?

Y’been complyin’, Mister. Complied real damn good in that bed just then.

Oh fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Shit. 

Has Joel been complying? What the fuck is going on? Why didn’t he kill you in bed? Why didn’t he strangle you, bite your jugular out of your throat. He could have, he felt your heartbeat on his tongue. He could have ended all of this right then. 

But ya’ didn’t! 

He sure fucking didn’t. He was so unworried about killing, that he made sure you came– twice – before he finished. 

Looked so sweet comin’ on your cock, perfect tits bouncin’, fuckin’ pussy was immaculate. 

Joel presses the oven mitts into the sockets of his eyes and groans loudly. 

--

Joel’s eyes snap open at the rattling coming from inside the room. He shoots up, looking around with crusty eyes and blurry vision. He expects to see you but is met with the sight of that fucking opposum sitting on the table with a piece of Joel’s jerky in his clawed little fingers, munching happily on the dried meat. 

“Git!” Joel shouts. The small animal doesn’t even flinch at Joel’s outburst, just continues to eat that precious protein. “Y’little fuckin’--” Joel grumbles, pushing himself to his feet. He stands in front of the table, looking down at it- the opposum- Puddin’. 

He just stares right back up at Joel, chewing quickly and swallowing. 

Kinda cute.

“S’fuckin’ gross,” Joel grumbles. He doesn’t really want to touch that thing, he doesn’t want to get whatever diseases that thing could be carrying. 

He’s got a collar on. 

Puddin’ does have a collar on. Joel imagines you taking your time picking it out for him, going through all the colors and designs. He can see you finding the teal and pink collar, holding it up against his fur and saying it’s perfect. That Puddin’ would be the most handsome opossum this mall has ever seen. 

It makes him smile. 

--

It feels like two fucking days--two goddamn days since Joel saw you walk into that bathroom and slam the door shut practically in his face. 

You’re either dead in there or plotting the most painful ways to kill him. Both choices make Joel sick to his stomach. 

–--

Joel watches you behind the metal grate that keeps the mattress store all locked up nice and tight. He’s on the wrong fucking side! He’s on the mall side and you’re tucked under the covers of your comfortable looking bed. Seven mattresses stacked on top of each other like you’re in some fucking story he’d read to Sarah when she was really little. 

Joel almost wishes he could go back to the basement because this is more dehumanizing than being tied up by the elbows or roped up to a chair. 

The metal chain around his neck is tight, and it digs into his skin. It’s thick,  heavy and has prongs on it– like he’s a fucking dog. A violent dog that lunges, and bites and attacks. 

You opened the door to the bathroom an hour ago with the choke chain in your hand, the shock collar remote taped to the other, and the most exhausted look Joel’s ever seen on anyone's face. Big dark circles under your eyes, disassociated stare like you weren’t even really looking at Joel when you spoke to him in almost indecipherable mumbling.

Joel fought you a little when you padlocked the choke chain to his neck, and added a smaller lock to the shock collar. But he stopped when you said you were gonna take his oven mitts off his hands. 

Where are all the infected? It sounded like there had been a horde of them up here two days ago and now there is not a single sign that they had even been here. 

When Joel had questioned you about what he would do if more infected came, you very confidently said that no one could get in or out that easily anymore; that you had made this place nice and safe for your ‘mister-man’.

Ain’t ever had no one like that before, have ya’?

No.

That had always been Joel’s job; to keep everyone else safe. 

Who made sure that he was safe? 

There had always been give and take with everyone else, even Tommy and Tess. There was love there, sure– but never just someone absolutely and completely tearing themselves open to make sure that Joel was taken care of. 

The only thing you wanted in return was his company. 

Might’a never touched ya’ if you hadn’t asked for it. 

He wonders what your name is. How old you are, where you came from. How long have you been out here…

Joel grabs the metal cord wrapped in some sort of plastic or vinyl material that goes all the way up to the ceiling and gives it a shake as he looks up. You’ve attached it to some other sort of rope or cable that’s been tied from one end of the mall to the other. 

The other end is connected to Joel’s choke chain. 

As soon as your eyes closed he attempted to unclip himself from it but it wouldn’t budge. He tried everything but it was like you welded the clasp closed. 

Joel wanders. That’s all he can do. He’s got more than enough slack to go into whatever store he wants and walk around, inspect.

As he does this his mind doesn’t stop thinking about you. Why didn’t you sleep with him? What did you do while he slept on the bed? Did you sleep? Have you eaten? What the fuck did you do in the bathroom for two whole days?

Joel finds a place where the sun is shining through a hole in the ceiling and faces it with his eyes closed. He could fucking cry. He didn’t realize how much he missed this, how important it was for a person to come in contact with the sunlight. He chokes down the lump in his throat and stands there, following the sun as it moves in the sky, the light coming in at shifting angles and directions. He follows it, stays in the warmth- basking in it for as long as possible until dusk settles and the sky slowly starts to turn pink. 

Joel has his backpack with him. You packed him some food and water, his flashlight. A clean long sleeve shirt in case it got cold. You even threw in some whiskey for him, which he was enjoying sip by sip. 

He pulls his flashlight out and uses it when he goes into an old bookstore. Some shelves are empty; nature guides, atlases, hunting and fishing- basically the entire outdoors section is gone. 

The romance novels are almost bare. 

Who needs those when lil puppy’s got you, right?

There are still self-help books on the shelves, almost untouched and whatever is left looks like it would fall apart in his hands if he tried to touch it. 

Why’s you even in this section?

Joel wanders to the comics and takes a look at whatever is left. Some are in alright condition, wrapped in plastic away from the elements. Some do disintegrate before he can even get them out of their place on the shelf. 

He grabs a Batman comic still in a vinyl sleeve and tosses it in his pack for later. There are tons more strewn all across the floor, some he remembers reading with Tommy as kids. He picks through them, looking for any worth saving and finds two more still in decent condition. 

There are several department and clothing stores that look bare from the outside, but he wanders into one anyway just to see what might have been missed.

There’s an exit to the outside that's been all boarded up, with what looks like every empty clothing rack pushed in front of it. He thinks about moving all those things, breaking through the boards… but where the fuck would he go? Ten feet outside of the mall where the infected were apparently moving through? 

No. 

He’ll stay inside.

He paruses the homegoods section all the way in the back of the second floor and finds a wall of empty shelves except for one. 

It’s filled with books- he reads through the titles: The Beginners Guide to Foraging, An Introduction to Wildlife Rehabilitation, LIVING WITH WILDLIFE- How to Enjoy, Cope with, and Protect North America’s Wild Creatures Around Your Home and Theirs, The Big Book of Skill Makers, The Complete Beginners Guide to Greenhouse Gardening- A Month by Month Planting Book to Grow 365 Days a Year, You Will Find Your People- How To Make Meaningful Friendships as an Adult. There are several Batman comics featuring Harley Quinn and The Joker. 

They all look like they’ve been read thoroughly and many times. 

On the same shelf there is a pink balloon animal made of glass, it has fresh flowers in it, with clean water. It takes him several seconds to realize that it’s supposed to be a bong. For smoking weed. And you’re using it as a vase. 

Joel chuckles to himself and continues to look at the shelf of your important belongings. A couple rocks of different colors, an old makeup compact that has a broken mirror in it. And a small glass picture frame of a family– a mother and a father, a little girl, and a young man but his face has been scratched out beyond recognition. 

On the wall behind the shelf Joel notices lines carved into the wall.

| | | | | | | | | | |

Twelve. Is that how old you were when this all happened? Is that the number of men you did this to before Joel came along? Are you going to add him to this fucking list?

Is that how many months you've been out here?

All of this suddenly feels like someone he can’t see punched Joel directly in the stomach. 

Sad. 

Joel makes his way to a different part of the mall, checking every entrance that he finds along the way and they’re all boarded up better than they were when he used to walk around here before you captured him. He does appreciate the effort you went through to make sure nothing could get in if you weren’t going to give him a weapon, and he couldn’t escape. 

There is an old music and entertainment store where you must get your princess movies and cartoons to watch. He picks through a couple, finding a couple classics that he watched before the outbreak Office Space, Dirty Harry, The Thing, Top Gun. 

He grabs a couple more that he watched as a kid with his dad and grandpa; The Magnificent 7, The Good, The Bad and The Ugly. He grabs the three original Star Wars movies as well– the best ones, the only ones worth watching. The ones that started to come out right before the outbreak– Joel can’t even talk about it. 

He’s done his exploring and now he sits outside of the mattress store waiting for you to wake up and let him back in. As soon as Joel unwraps the sandwich and jerky you made him, that stupid fucking oppossum comes scampering along like this is it’s dinner too. 

“Get the hell outta here,” Joel grumbles, waving his hand in its direction, trying to scare it off– but it persists. 

Inching closer and closer until Joel could kick it if he wanted to. 

Kinda cute in the little collar.

Joel tosses a piece of his sandwich a good distance away and Puddin’ chases after it while Joel digs into his own portion. 

Hours and hours go by, you sleep for so fucking long. He reads all of the comic books that he grabbed and even goes back to the bookstore to look for more. He finds nothing else that interests him so he goes to your bookshelf in the department store and grabs a couple from there to look at. 

He’s flipping through the skill maker book when you finally wake up and open the grate. 

Joel scrambles to his feet, watching as you rub your eyes with your one free hand, the other still has the remote tapped to your palm. 

The two of you stare at each other for several silent moments before you notice the book in his hand. 

“Just put it back where ya’ found it when you’re done with it, ‘kay?” Your voice is deep and filled with sleep. 

Joel nods his head, and puts the book in his backpack. “Yeah, sure– hey where did all the infected go?” He questions as you toss your own pack over your shoulder and head in the direction of the food court. 

“Cleared ‘em out the other day.”

“How the hell did you do that? When? After we–”

“Yup.” You cut him off with a sharp, short response. “Wasn’t that many. Kinda easy when you get high ground on ‘em.” 

Joel eyes dart up to the rafters and wonders how good you are with a bow and arrow. He knows Ellie is a great shot, loves her bow and arrow. “And you moved ‘em all out on your own?” 

“Yup.” 

“How did you even get out of the bathroom?” Joel’s been wondering that this whole time. 

You walked into the bathroom, slammed the door and the next time he saw you was coming down the stairs to the basement. 

He wonders if you’re even real. 

Ohh our lil puppy is real alright.

If you knew that Mister-J was going to ask all of these questions you might not have ever taken the duct tape off. 

Where did the infected go? What if more get in? How did you get out of the bathroom? Where are you going now? When will you be back? Are you okay? Are you mad? What’s wrong? Why aren’t you answering me? 

He’s so nosy! Asking more questions than any of the other guys combined. 

Why does he even care? 

Shhhhh, this is what makin’ friends is, Sweetheart. 

“Used the vents to get out of the bathroom,” you sigh, not stopping or slowing down but Joel keeps up anyway, his arm brushing yours as he walks alongside you.

“What about the infected– you know the spores–” 

“I burn ‘em outside at night when it’s real dark–” you explain to him quickly. “I ain’t stupid. I know ‘bout the spores. I know how the fungus works. I paid attention,” you huff softly as you reach the ladder that takes you up into the rafters and eventually out onto the roof.

Mister is too big, and probably too clumsy to follow you up here. 

“M’just goin’ to get some more food… I’ll be right back– couple of minutes, okay?”

Mister looks relieved when you say this, his face relaxes and he sighs softly. “Okay, just be careful.” 

— -- --- ---

“Is that my shirt?” He asks about the green and red flannel you have on when you come out of the women’s restroom in the food court. Your hair is clean, your body feels refreshed after taking a shower. 

Mister looks good too with his hair slicked back, and his beard trimmed neatly. 

You nod, not taking your eyes off of him. It’s almost impossible when he looks like a brand new man- handsome. He looks like he’s lost weight since he’s been here with you. 

You’ll fix that. He needs to eat more than you, and he wants meat so… you’ll go get it for him. Real meat this time, even if it makes you sad how you have to get it.

“Yeah, I took it ‘cause it smelled like you.” You admit with no shame. That’s exactly why you took it. So you could sleep with it so he could warm up to his new house, with his new friend. 

Mister-J chuckles, and shakes his head at you with a smirk plastered across his face. “Someone told me I stink once,” he says through his laughter. 

This makes you smile because he’s happy. He looks happy, like he doesn’t mind talking to you, he’s not saying mean things. He’s sharing. 

Told ya’ he’d get comfortable. Just had to be patient. We figured it all out eventually. 

“You do stink sometimes, but you smell real, so I don’t mind.” You share with him as you lead him back to the mattress store. He carried the TV up earlier and said he found a couple movies he wanted to watch. They don’t really look like movies you want to watch, but you’ll give them a shot.

Anything for Mister-Joel, perfect, sweet man. 

It doesn’t make this easier. Mister wants to sleep in the bed next to you, said he wanted to warm you up, but now you’re next to him again and it feels like you could burst into flames and tears all at the same time. 

“What’s your name?” He whispers into your ear, his arms wrapped around your waist, holding onto you tightly from behind. 

“Why?” The sirens go off inside your head. No one’s asked you that in so long, it makes your stomach flip and you feel like you could be sick. 

“Told’ya mine,” He murmurs into your hair. 

Joel. 

When you go to answer, the words don’t come because the memories are gone. You can see your mom and dad talking to you inside your head but their voices are on mute. The name never leaves their mouth.  “I don’t remember…”

OFC thank you @pedrospookie for making this cutie banner and letting me scream at about all of this!!

I need to give an extra special shout-out to the couple of other people I screamed at about this. @almostempty @gothcsz( your music recs inspired me) and thanks to @probablyreadinsmut and my unnamed friend who helped me with the TW of the chapter.

I was especially nervous to post this because I didn't want to ruin anyone's day or send anyone into their own spiral. I hope you all are OK!

thank you to everyone who has been reading!! I've never gotten such incredible feedback on a fic before and you are all so nice and make writing this story that much more fun. I LOVE YOU

TAG LIST: @pedrospookie @gothcsz @joelmillerisapunk @sp00kymulderr @paleidiot @goodvampykitten @rosebuds-and-moonlight @diabaroxa @zhazy-blog2 @almostempty @xdaddysprincessxx @tobethlehem @lilac-boo @xkyxkyxxlylcylulucuflfluclu @rav3n-pascal22 @baronessvonglitter @joelmillerisapunk @syd-djarin @probablyreadinsmut @itwasntimethatdidit40 @letsgobarbs @lovehappyloki @joelalorian @pedrostories @evolnoomym @valkyreally @youdontknowe @corazondebeskar-reads @pastelpinkflowerlife @tobethlehem

please don't hate me if I forgot you, I have a hamster brain, ok?

[slytherinshua]

➷　CUPID SOCIETY　( 엔시티 위시 )

      summary . . . nct wish hyung line as cupids in training!!

genre fluff , cupid au , headcanons , nct wish hyung line x reader   cw arrows and potion consumption lol , like usual i struggled with yushi so i'm sorry if his sucks idk why i'm so bad at writing him :') , not proofread   wc 650   request no   note this was supposed to be an ot6 headcanon but i was running out of ideas for maknaes :( i will probably write the maknae line ver of this soon tho!! for now just the hyung line </3 maknae line version now posted   net @kstrucknet @chrimatanet

OH SION ﾐ 오시온

does not take his cupid training seriously at all

once he gets his own bow and arrows this man is a menace

shoots arrows at people for his own entertainment

will play evil cupid

if two people on campus hate each other he’s gonna shoot an arrow at least one of them and giggle while watching them fall for each other

his matches have a surprisingly high turnout rate though

once the effects of his arrows wear off the couple is usually still infatuated with each other

this inflates his ego though

will not use his “skills” on demand for anyone

no matter how much another student offers to pay him 

and his ability to refuse any offer he gets just makes him get even more

and this boosts his ego even more until he’s almost insufferably full of himself

his ego is eventually shut down by you though

when you start to compete with him over who can be a better cupid

and eventually one of your arrows ends up hitting him

the boy is down bad for you from that moment on

perhaps that was your plan the entire time 

MAEDA RIKU ﾐ 前田 陸

riku is the type of student that everyone loves

he’s always showing people around and helping them out

as if he’s been attending the school for decades

knows all the in’s and out’s

is somehow friends with every teacher

even knows secret pieces of knowledge about cupids and their magic

and he really likes to share the things he knows with people close to him

builds up a reputation this way as someone that is impossible to dislike 

and he’s seriously popular with the girls as well

not that any of them land a date with him though

the one thing he does keep secret is the person he’s been crushing on since he first stepped into the school

although he is very talented with a bow and arrow

and can also concoct a pretty strong love potion

he knows not to use his magic on you

it would be wrong to make you fall in love with him like that

and he would feel too guilty about it 

so he stays admiring you from the background hoping one day he’ll get the courage to ask you out

but lucky for him he won’t have to wait too long :)

TOKUNO YUSHI ﾐ 得能勇志

he’s quite inconspicuous  

doesn’t talk very much and is quite shy with other students 

so no one really gets to know him well

if they did, they would find out how passionate he truly is as a new cupid

he spends most of his time sharpening his arrows or trying new potion recipes

he even concocts his own potions that have never been done before

he doesn’t have anyone to test them out on, so he has to be his own test subject

they’re usually ineffective despite his attempts at researching

when the potions go wrong, he goes missing from classes for days at a time

you’ve noticed yushi from the sidelines and became curious about his disappearances

you decide to become his friend to find out why

which is hard at first because he’s incredibly awkward and it takes a while to get comfortable with him

but, with persistence, you do 

he tells you about his potions, which you find fascinating 

and finally having someone who is genuinely interested in him and what he’s doing is the push yushi needs to gain some confidence

you become best friends and always hang around each other

eventually, you test out one of yushi’s new potions with him

and it goes a little wrong right

yushi is so used to his potions failing that he hadn’t expected this one to work quite so well

now he has to deal with his best friend utterly enamoured with him every second of the day

but maybe that isn’t such a bad thing

nct wish taglist (bolded could not be tagged): @kangtaehyunzzz,, @eternalgyu,, @lexeees,, @nyukyusnz,, @planetkiimchi,,

@haecien,, @talkingsaxy,, @thesunsfullmoon,, @hursheys,, @mjupis,,

@lilly-cherry7,, @kpopandbookschild,, @taroddori,, @lexeees,, @voikiraz,,

@xikskrrrs,, @cupidslovearrows,, @yvshi

[daddyissuesbecauseofhotch]

Daddy issues || #3

{masterlist}

There’s a knock on your door late in the morning, just as you are sipping the second mug of coffee of the day. A sigh escapes your lips as you close your laptop, not feeling like talking to anyone right now, but knowing full well it would be rude to pretend you’re not at home, especially since the music you’ve been listening to can probably be heard from outside.

You have a deadline tomorrow, and the goddamn wireframe is not done yet, there’s something that’s missing, you know that. Some results you needed for this only arrived late last night, and your boss didn’t give you much time to work on it. Your teammate promised to take a look at it tomorrow morning, so it had to be done and sent today.

But when you open the door, there’s no one in the hallway, not a single soul. And then you look down momentarily to find an envelope on the doormat with your name written on it. Strange, who would leave a handwritten note these days? In the end, you just shrug and pick it up before heading back inside.

“Dinner at six at our place, don’t be late. Jack wants to get to know you, and maybe we could watch a movie together. He also wants you to know there will be enough popcorn for all of us,” it says, and it’s signed by Aaron. But then your eyes move lower to find a postscript. “Okay, that’s all Jack could see, here’s the thing. I also want to get to know you, preferably after I put Jack to bed. There are topics I’d rather not discuss in front of him. And wear my hoodie, I’m begging you. Anyway, save my number just in case.”

Heat rises to your cheek when you finish the letter, and you automatically reach for your phone to save the number he included at the end. It’s ridiculous, really, but you can’t stop yourself. This man has you in a chokehold, even if you’ve only exchanged like a total of five sentences so far. Maybe you would say no under different circumstances, but this time it’s a cute little boy who insists on having you over, who are you to decline?

You return to the wireframe, but five minutes later your gaze shifts to the phone next to your laptop. You should send a text to him and his son to thank them for the invitation. Just one text, that’s all. It would be nothing more but a friendly gesture, a simple text from a neighbor. With a sigh, you pick up the device and lean back in the swivel chair.

You: Thank you for the invitation.

You: I’m your neighbor, by the way.

Aaron: I’m glad you got the letter. Does this mean you’ll come over?

You: Jack mentioned popcorn, how could I say no that?

Aaron: And what about me?

You: Haven’t decided yet.

Aaron: You’re such a tease.

Aaron: Will you wear my hoodie as I asked?

You: I’m thinking about wearing that with no pants under it, it’s almost as long as some of my dresses.

Aaron: Sweetheart, there will be an underage kid in the apartment.

Sweetheart? God, he doesn’t waste his time. Your stomach does a flip upon reading the pet name, and it’s hard to resist the urge to smile like an idiot. He’s an outrageous flirt. You’re fucked. That’s it.

You: Fine, I’ll wear yoga pants.

Aaron: Perfect.

Aaron: But I won’t complain if you take it off after Jack goes to bed.

You: Oh, you want to see me naked?

Aaron: I was only talking about the yoga pants, but if you insist, who am I to say no?

You: You’re unbelievable.

You: Alright, stop disturbing me, I have a deadline at work. See you tonight.

Aaron: Can’t wait.

[longwayaround]

"I'm sorry, I didn't — that wasn't... I'm not handling any of this very well, am I?" He let out a tired sigh. "I'm sorry, I am. I just wasn't sure what to do, that's all. I thought if I let things go back to the way they were, it might... I dunno. Make things harder for you."

Relief coursed through him when she said that she didn't want to be anywhere else. That... oh, he was still worried, he couldn't imagine how they would manage a baby in the TARDIS, but he was sure Rose would have thought about it, and if she still wanted to be there, then maybe they could figure it out.

Maybe he wouldn't have to say goodbye so soon.

"Alright. Alright, good." He let out a small, relieved laugh, and offered her a smile. "I do want you here, Rose. I promise. I just... need to know what to expect, that's all."

Which brought him to his part of this.

"I — John's probably told you this already. If he knew about the baby he'd have told you. Must have. Probably. Maybe not. I've never been very good at this, have I? Erm — what I'm trying to say, what I — I think you should know is that..." He paused, took a deep breath, and then continued. "I've done this before. I had children, grandchildren. And then they all died. In the Time War, they all died. It's just me now. There, that's — I just thought you should know. And I — I know it's different, I know the baby's not mine, and I'm not trying to overstep, I just — I thought. You should. Know."

"I am sure." Rose told him. "I don't need any of that." She looked at him. "I think I would be more upset if you distanced yourself from me. If I am being honest, when you made your excuse to take your stuff to your room, that made me upset. Because it felt like you couldn't get away quick enough." She added.

At the mention of the baby, she started to panic again, and her hand automatically went to the just about hidden bump under a baggy top she was wearing. "As far as I can see...and thats pretty far, I want to stay here. You are right, I can't know what will happen in the future, but I don't want to be anywhere else. As long as you want me here. And the baby."

[malk1ns]

february 1 vs predators, 3-0 win

a shutout? for us? is that allowed?

there is an unspecified age gap in this fic—i don't know exactly how old geno is in it, but he's younger than mario (b. 1965) is. mario purchased the penguins in fall 1999, about a month before he turned 34, and geno can't have been too young to be financially involved in that, so...maybe he's around jagr's (b. 1972) age? that would make him somewhere in the neighborhood of 15 years older than sid. let's go with that.

also in this world he got his hair transplant done when he was way younger and it's thrived ever since. i like picturing him as a silver fox 😋

When Zhenya went in with Mario on putting up money to keep the Penguins in Pittsburgh, he never imagined a day where he’d be spending more time around the team than Lem did.

It was an easy decision at the time. The team was so badly mismanaged, and Zhenya had no desire to see the Penguins forcibly moved because their owners didn’t know how to manage a TV deal or sign sponsors. He didn’t want to move, and more importantly the fanbase didn’t deserve it. He figured he’d put up the money and let the lawyers figure out whatever they needed to to so he could keep playing, and when he retired he’d have a nice little stream of income no matter what he wanted to do.

He had no interest in the care and feeding of a professional hockey organization, not like Mario did. Mario stayed out of the GM’s day-to-day business for the most part, but whenever Zhenya met him for dinner, it was clear that the Penguins still ruled his life, the same way they had when the two of them were playing.

Zhenya stayed in Pittsburgh for Mario while he was playing. Even back when he was purchasing the team, he always assumed he’d move back to Russia, showing up for big events and (hopefully) Cup wins, but living his own life and enjoying himself.

Well, things don’t always work out the way we imagine. One knee surgery, and then another, ended his career earlier than he’d planned, and Mario talked Zhenya into sticking around and helping with player development before he could tuck tail and run back to Russia.

Almost twenty-five years later, and he’s still here. Oh, he travels plenty—there’s no point in retiring if you’re still beholden to coming into work every day, after all. Especially early on Zhenya spent probably more than his fair share of time flitting between tropical islands and enjoying the fruits of being young, athletic, and rich. But Pittsburgh had worked its way into his blood and bones, and he always comes home.

He’s been home a lot more frequently since about 2008.

Attending games as team owner is fun. He has his own box that he gets to invite whoever he wants into, and fans are still so eager to take pictures with him, starry-eyed over both the Cups he brought the town when he and Lem were still playing and his ‘team savior’ status. For years, he and Mario would sit and watch games together, waving when the cameras panned up to them and chatting.

Now, Mario barely comes anymore. Zhenya was more than happy to sell when Ron and Mario approached him about it—he’d still own some shares, he’d been assured, enough to have his opinion considered, but the brunt of decision-making would be removed from their shoulders. Zhenya was fine with that. They made a tidy profit, Zhenya still gets treated like royalty at PPG and anywhere in the league, and the responsibility of running a team that’s reaching the end of its golden age is no longer his.

He’s not clear what, exactly, went wrong between Mario and the guys with FSG. Mario won’t talk about it, and Zhenya doesn’t care to hear anyone else’s side of the story.

The result is, Zhenya’s the most consistent link to the old days that the fanbase has. In Mario’s absence, he’s found himself at more games over the last couple of seasons than probably the previous decade combined. He still watched, obviously, kept up with the team and was there for the players when necessary, but he was a more frequent presence at practice, helping out the coaching staff or chatting with the Euro scouts when they were in town than putting on a suit to sit in his box.

It’s exhausting. Zhenya’s face hurts from smiling politely some nights, and he’s sick of shaking hands with rich businessmen who want to take a picture with him but don’t actually give a shit about what he has to say.

There are perks, though.

His team is back from a long road trip, and Zhenya’s looking forward to seeing them play in person. He’s spent a lot of time with Kyle Dubas this season learning about his plan for the future, and losing is part of it, but as hard as the bad losses are there are always bright spots.

Halfway through the second period, Zhenya gets to watch one of his favorite bright spots in person for the first time in almost two weeks.

He’s always liked watching Sid score from one knee. It’s a statement goal, a fuck-you to a league that spent the first few years of Sid’s career beating the shit out of him and expecting him to say thank you and shut up. He never did.

“Damn,” Hörnqvist says with feeling as Zhenya leans back in his seat and whistles. “I forgot how that looks. How is he still so good?”

Zhenya shrugs, tracing Sid’s path across the ice to go down the fistbump line. He can make out Sid’s sharp smile from all the way up here, and his stomach flips over.

He’s missed watching the Penguins in person, yes. He’s missed Sid more. 

“Robot, maybe,” he says in answer to Horny, who laughs loud and bright.

Zhenya spent a lot of time around the team during the back-to-back years. They had so many injuries, and when Mario gave Jim the go-ahead to fire Johnston in 2015 the team had been fragile. He’d gotten to know those guys really well, and he’s always liked Horny. When he confirmed he’d be in town for his bobblehead night, Zhenya had been quick to invite him to sit up in the owner’s suite.

They’ve been having a good time. Horny’s just as exuberant as he ever was, and Zhenya’s been able to relax instead of putting on a show for whatever bigwigs FSG saddled him with that night. He’s even let himself have a few drinks, wrinkling his nose at the wine on offer but downing it anyway.

Mario’s horrendously expensive taste in wine crept up on Zhenya after all these years, even though he tried to resist it.

He’s distracted the rest of the game, chatting with Horny and leaning around the wall to take a selfie with some kid in the next box over with half his mind down on the ice, on Sid’s fantastic goal and how he looks after a good win.

The Penguins secure the shutout, and when the jumbotron flashes Zhenya and Horny on the screen, the crowd goes wild. Horny waves and flashes his megawatt smile, and Zhenya gestures to him with a flourish, applauding long and loud right in Horny’s ear until Horny’s shoving at him playfully.

It’s perhaps not dignified for an owner to get into a fake wrestling match in his suite while on camera, but the crowd loves it, and Zhenya’s done much more embarrassing things to please the people of Pittsburgh.

He wants to make his way down to the locker room, but that’s not his place anymore, no matter how much he wants to congratulate the guys. Zhenya’s far removed enough from the current roster that his presence makes a lot of the guys nervous, and that’s the last thing he wants.

It’s easy enough to wait by Sid’s car with his hat pulled low over his face instead.

“Forgot where you parked?” comes Sid’s teasing voice, and Zhenya pockets his phone and straightens, opening his arms.

Sid doesn’t even look around the parking lot before he steps into Zhenya’s embrace.

“Missed you, лапочка,” Zhenya murmurs into Sid’s hair, running his hands over Sid’s back. “Long trip.”

Sid sighs against Zhenya’s chest. “Tell the league to not do that to us next year,” he requests with a little whine, sagging into Zhenya’s hold.

Zhenya laughs. The league doesn’t listen to him. They don’t like foreign owners.

“Good goal,” he says instead, stepping back and cupping Sid’s face in his hands. Sid looks tired, which is to be expected, but his eyes are bright. “Everyone in arena likes, Horny says to me how’s he still so good, like, maybe he’s not human.”

Sid grins at that, an echo of the same sharp smile Zhenya saw on the ice. He’s as humble as they come, but Zhenya’s praise has always gotten him to puff out his chest a little. “And what did you say?” he asks, raising an eyebrow and tilting his head.

He flirts like he did when he was 18 and desperately trying to catch Zhenya’s eye when they would stay late to practice face-offs. Almost 20 years later and with a head full of graying hair, and Zhenya’s as much of a sucker for it now as he was then.

“Mmm,” Zhenya says, grabbing at Sid and reeling him back in, taking a big exaggerated squeeze of Sid’s ass. “I tell him I know you’re real boy, I check very carefully almost every day.”

Sid makes a sweet little sound in Zhenya’s ear. “Take me home,” he requests, and Zhenya drags him over to Zhenya’s own car, installing Sid in the passenger seat and tearing out of the player’s garage.

Sid has a lot of responsibilities. He’s carried an unfair burden ever since he stepped into the league, eighteen years old and the weight of an entire league on his shoulders. He’s risen to the challenge time and again with maturity and grace, wise beyond his years and an example for kids all across North America who dream of making the show.

With Zhenya, he has a space to let them go.

It took a few years before Zhenya did more than just look. He felt like a dirty old man at first, although thankfully that feeling has waned over the years, and he refused to touch Sid until after they lost to the Red Wings in a game six heartbreaker on home ice and Sid showed up at Zhenya’s house, red-eyed and shaking and needing to get out of his head.

It’s real, Zhenya knows that. It’s not some latent perversion, although Sid’s youth and relative inexperience had been appealing. Nearly twenty years later, though, Zhenya would dare anyone to call what they have anything besides true love.

That doesn’t mean he and Sid don’t like things a certain way sometimes.

Zhenya drives with his palm high on Sid’s thigh, digging his fingers in and listening as Sid’s breath speeds up the closer Zhenya’s fingers get to his dick. He doesn’t dare look over, but he can picture Sid’s face well enough.

Sid’s hard by the time they pull into Zhenya’s driveway. He lives further back in the woods than Sid and Mario do, tucked into a large copse of trees that makes his house practically invisible from his neighbors, and Sid likes the privacy, the way he can kiss Zhenya in the front yard and nobody will see them.

When Zhenya cuts the engine, Sid practically crawls over the center console to get at him. They didn’t fit in Zhenya’s little sports cars like this even when Sid was younger and not as bulky as he is now, but it doesn’t stop Sid from trying his best.

“Baby, inside,” Zhenya urges, fumbling for his seatbelt and kicking his door open. Sid’s hot on his heels, and when they’re inside the house he pulls Zhenya down into a kiss before they can even get their shoes off.

“I missed you watching me,” he breathes against Zhenya’s mouth, and Zhenya groans, wrestling them out of their jackets and dragging Sid to his office. He knows what Sid wants when he gets like this.

There’s a leather armchair in the corner that Zhenya’s had for longer than Sid’s been a legal adult. It’s huge and broken-in and comfortable, and Zhenya has it positioned so that it has a great view of his trophy case. It’s a nice reminder of everything he’s accomplished, when he wants to relax and read a book in here.

Sid likes it for different reasons.

Zhenya sinks into the chair, loosening his tie and sprawling his legs wide, tipping his head back and groaning as he palms himself through his trousers. Sid makes a desperate little sound from where he’s standing by the desk, and Zhenya cracks an eye open and pats his thigh.

Sid crawls into his lap, straddling Zhenya’s legs and scrambling to undo Zhenya’s fly.

“Shh, shh, calm down,” Zhenya soothes, bringing his hands to Sid’s waist and drawing him down. Sid’s frantic against him, but Zhenya nips at his plush mouth and holds him in place until he calms down, letting Zhenya kiss him until their lips are tacky with spit.

“Please,” Sid gasps when Zhenya pulls back, and Zhenya untucks Sid’s shirt from his pants, undoing each button and kissing at the bare skin underneath. Sid’s skin is covered in goosebumps by the time Zhenya tosses his shirt to the side, and he bats Zhenya’s hands away in favor of getting his pants and underwear off on his own.

Zhenya stays dressed. Sid likes it that way, always has.

A lapful of naked Sidney Crosby is as much of a temptation as it was back when they first started hooking up, but Sid knows what he’s doing now, knows how best to grind against Zhenya to make him arch his back moan. He knows that Zhenya likes the press of Sid’s teeth against his neck, that if Sid scrapes along Zhenya’s sides he’ll shiver and practically beg for more.

Zhenya knows a few things too now, though.

Once upon a time, he liked to have Sid facing the other way. He’d make Sid look at Zhenya’s wall of trophies, everything he did for the city while he was on the team, and whisper dirty promises in Sid’s ear of what he’d do if Sid accomplished the same. Sid used to come like a rocket when he did that, young and squirming in his owner’s lap, desperate to prove himself on the ice and in the bedroom.

Sid’s done everything Zhenya’s ever asked of him. Now, he likes to look Sid in the eyes instead.

There’s a little table with a drawer on one side of the chair, and Sid fishes the lube out and pours some into his hand without breaking away from where he’s sucking on Zhenya’s neck. Zhenya unzips himself, pulling his pants aside enough to draw his dick out from his briefs.

It takes Zhenya longer to get hard now than it used to. He has a bottle of little blue pills in the bathroom upstairs just in case; Sid tried to tell him not to worry about it, but Zhenya wants Sid all the time, and he’ll be damned if he lets his body deny him something that he wants. It’s not a problem tonight, though—he’s hard and wet at the tip already.

Zhenya thinks Sid doesn’t realize that he licks his lips every time he looks at Zhenya’s erection. Zhenya’s certainly never going to tell him.

The first stroke of Sid’s hand makes Zhenya moan, and he has to close his eyes and breathe deep to focus. He only has one per night in him these days, and he wants to make sure he can give Sid what he needs.

Zhenya knows that a lot of what Sid likes in bed is because Zhenya taught him to. It’s a little heady, knowing he’s shaped Sid’s sexual preferences that permanently. It means that when Sid lifts up and lowers himself onto Zhenya’s dick without so much as a finger for prep, Zhenya knows he can take it.

Sid’s always liked a challenge. His nostrils flare and his face screws up as he sinks down until Zhenya’s fully in him the same way they do when he’s shooting the puck from a difficult angle. Zhenya likes watching him like this, working for something, pushing himself to his limits to get what he wants.

When he starts to move, Sid’s thighs shake. He was on the ice for over 20 minutes tonight, after all. Normally Zhenya likes to make Sid do all the work, enjoying the view of Sid riding him in the middle of his office, but tonight he takes pity on him, fucking his hips up to meet Sid halfway, making him gasp when Zhenya gets him just right.

Sid never lasts long after games like tonight’s. He gets so worked up from hockey still, especially when he’s had a dominant game. Zhenya would tease him, but he’s the same.

“Look so good out there,” he praises, sliding a hand up Sid’s thigh and closing it around his dick. “So strong, nobody stops you when you’re play like this. You get to your knee, everyone knows it’s a goal.”

“You like me on my knees,” Sid says through gritted teeth, moving faster. He’s so tight around Zhenya’s dick, and hot, and he’s staring greedily over Zhenya’s body, at the hint of bare throat where Zhenya loosened his tie, his forearms where he’d rolled up his sleeves. “You’d put me there all the time if you could.”

“Fuck,” Zhenya swears, squeezing the head of Sid’s dick and making him gasp. “Yes, I would. You want? Sit under my desk while I do work, suck my dick until I say you make me come.”

“Oh my god,” Sid moans, curling forward and bracing himself on Zhenya’s shoulders as he comes into Zhenya’s palm.

Zhenya’s so close that it almost hurts, but he works Sid’s dick through his orgasm, smearing the come back onto his skin until Sid pushes his hand away and starts moving again.

When they were both younger, Sid used to ride Zhenya until he was hard again, agonizingly slow until Zhenya was sweating and begging underneath him. Now, though, they’re both tired, and too old for extended edging sessions, so Sid grits his teeth and doubles down until Zhenya pulls him down and grinds up into him, coming with a grunt.

Neither of them move for a few minutes, breathing hard as they come down. Zhenya rubs his hands between Sid’s shoulder blades and lets his mind drift.

Sid has two years after this season, probably. The team will want him to stick around; he’ll want that too, to have a hand in mentoring the next crop of players hoping to bring the Cup back to Pittsburgh, to stabilize the franchise through the transition. 

Times are different now. When Zhenya was a player, what he’s thinking about right now was so impossible it would be laughable to even think about.

Now, though, he lets himself imagine Sid sitting in the owner’s suite with him, tucked in the chair next to his with Zhenya’s hand on his knee. He thinks of them waving to the crowd, and the way a tasteful gold ring might glint in the arena lights from Sid’s left hand.

They haven’t talked about it, not really. But Zhenya thinks Sid’s probably a sure thing.

[maxdibert]

Did Snape really "deserve to get bullied"? Did the Marauders really have to do that to him? He was eleven years old, finally out of his abusive home for the first time in well, oh, forever, probably excited to be around people like him, and even more excited to be with his best friend at all times. He started getting pranked and made fun of immediately, and this was BEFORE becoming a Death Eater and practicing spells on people. A little, frail, sallow, malnourished boy.

I believe that babies last up from newborn to twelve bc there's no way that someone can look at that fetus and be like, "You'll deserve everything that comes at you in the future because you're horrible." I need to wonder how people in the Marauders fandom think bc, seriously, come on. They always focus on the fifth-year to sixth-year Snape but never the years before that. Would someone come up to a kid and say that they deserve to be made fun of? I hope not.

Nobody. Nobody deserves to be bullied, and nobody deserves to be abused.

Look, right now, I’m handling a case involving a complaint we filed against several police officers for the brutality they used during interrogations. The person in question was dealing drugs—clearly doing something illegal, and clearly not for the first time. But nobody has the right to judge and condemn someone on their own, let alone use violence by abusing their moral, social, or—in this case—legal authority.

What I’m trying to say with this is that even if Severus had been a terrible person (which he wasn’t—because let’s remember that when the bullying started, he was eleven years old and hadn’t done anything, when he was nearly killed, he wasn’t a Death Eater yet and hadn’t insulted Lily, when James stripped him in front of everyone, he still wasn’t a Death Eater and hadn’t insulted Lily), the only “crime” he had committed at that point was being in Slytherin and being poor.

They had no right to take justice into their own hands, to beat him, to abuse him. That’s not how justice works. Teenagers have no business playing vigilante, especially when they’re privileged rich kids with far more social and economic power than their victim.

So I couldn’t care less what Marauder fans or James stans say. First, because what they’re saying is a lie. Severus didn’t deserve it. He hadn’t done anything at that point besides being a Slytherin and sticking with people from his house to survive—especially considering that outside the dungeons, there was a group of privileged brats waiting to beat him up and publicly humiliate him. And second, because even if he had done something, they were in a position of social and economic superiority, and “making him pay” wouldn’t have been an act of justice—it would have been an act of abuse.

[lovelylittlegrim]

Paint it Black

Steddie (Steve Harrington x Eddie Munson)

pre-relationship - 1.4K words - no warnings

———————————————————————

“I like when you paint your nails.”

Eddie startles at the sudden sound of Steve’s voice, even with how softly he spoke. It’s been quiet for a while between them, a movie playing in the background that they’ve both seen before, the voices just muffled ambiance.

He looks up to find Steve staring at him. “What?”

“Your nails.” Steve holds up his own hand, wiggling his fingers like maybe Eddie will understand better if he sees what Steve’s talking about. “I like when you paint them.”

Eddie looks down at where he’s been steadfastly applying black nail polish to his right hand, it’s harder than doing his left but he’s had a lot of practice and he’s damn near perfect at it these days. The layer is even, glossy, not a smudge to be seen.

“Uh, thanks,” he says slowly, unsure what else there is to say. He peeks back at Steve through his bangs.

Steve hums and drops his hand back to the couch, he continues to watch Eddie even though Eddie’s finished.

“Do you want me to paint yours?” Eddie doesn’t know why he’s asking. He’s never seen Steve with painted nails before and… he can’t imagine it when he thinks about it. Steve in his crisp blue jeans and his clean polos, black on his nails. It would look so out of place. Like some dirty part of Eddie rubbed off on him. Tainted him.

“Yeah,” Steve says.

Eddie blinks. “What?”

“You can paint them, it’s not like anyone else will see.” Steve slides off the couch, joining Eddie on the floor at the coffee table. He drops his hands on the stained wood and splays his fingers. “I’ll take it off before my shift Thursday.”

“You’re serious?”

“Why not?” Steve gives a single shoulder shrug, a smile pulling at one corner of his mouth. “It’s not the first time my nails have been painted.”

That makes Eddie pause. “It’s not?”

“Robin paints my toes whenever she sleeps over. They’re probably still purple actually, I haven’t bothered to take it off, not like anyone sees my feet.”

“Oh,” Eddie huffs at the mental image of Steve with his face coated in a face mask and lotion, his bangs pulled up in a little rubber band and Robin painting his toenails every color of the rainbow.

Actually, it’s kind of cute. He wants to see Steve like that.

“So,” Steve drums his fingers on the table. “You gonna paint them?”

“Yeah,” Eddie pulls lightly on one of Steve's hands, drawing it closer to himself. “Don’t move.”

Steve doesn’t. He sits quiet and still, watching Eddie work without complaint. When Eddie’s done he leans back to inspect all of the nails, wiping at an edge here and there to clean it up, uncaring that he’s staining his own thumbs. When he’s satisfied he leans back in and lightly blows at the paint.

Somewhere above him, Steve’s throat clicks, and Eddie glances up at him through his lashes curiously.

“You’re much better at it than Robin,” Steve says after a beat. “She gets it all over my skin, doesn’t even try to clean it up.”

Eddie laughs, air puffing right out of his lungs. “I’ve met Robin so I’m really not surprised.”

He picks up one of Steve’s hands, turns it left and right to make sure he sees the paint from every angle, and makes sure there are no rough patches or opaque spots he needs to go over. He doesn’t know why he cares so much about it looking good, Steve’s just going to take it off in less than twenty four hours.

He drags his thrums lightly over one of Steve’s knuckles and then lets go, his fingers curling in on themself. “All done.”

Steve holds his hands up, fingers spread to see Eddie’s work. “It looks great.”

And it does.

Eddie grins as he twists the polish closed tightly and stuffs it back into his bag. He watches with something close to fond amusement as Steve very carefully settles back against the couch, hands on his knees so he doesn’t touch anything until the paint is well and truly dry. Eddie settles next to him, his own hands already dry enough to not cause a problem but he mirrors Steve and they watch the rest of the movie, making snide little comments about the acting and the plot.

He doesn’t let himself think about the feeling of Steve’s warm hand in his or the feeling of Steve’s eyes watching him so intently.

It’s not good for his health.

—

It’s two days later before he finally sees Steve again, the movies in Eddie hand already grievously late. Robin will chew him out but he knows Steve will waive the late fees with a stern waggle of his finger like a disapproving parent and tell him to do better next time. He’s so dorky, Eddie doesn’t know how the guy was ever cool in highschool except… Well, he does, because even now Steve is annoyingly good looking, better looking in Eddie’s opinion. More rugged even though he’s still so put together, confident in different ways and funny.

The bell jangles loudly when Eddie enters family video.

Robin looks up, eyes narrowing instantly. “You're late, Munson.”

Eddie winces. “Please accept my most humble apology, I was otherwise inconvenienced on the eve of these returns.”

“You mean you forgot until Wayne told you this morning.”

“Yeah.”

She snorts and holds her hands out for the videos. When Eddie gives them to her she says, “I better not have to rewind them.”

Eddie thanks Wayne over and over in his head for having the forethought to do that before forcing Eddie into Robin's clutches. “They are.”

“They better be.”

Eddie takes his time browsing the stacks of tapes. He knows what’s here, he spends most of his time bothering Steve and Robin but Steve’s on break in the back and he wants the chance of seeing him before he leaves.

It’s another ten minutes of staring at Night of the Comet before the door to the back opens and Steve strolls out. He spots Eddie instantly and Eddie grabs the movie he’d been stalking with and heads for the counter.

“Hey,” Steve grins. “You finally returned your movies.”

He holds his hand out for the new tapes and Eddie goes still. His eyes wide as he takes in Steve’s hand.

“Your nails,” Eddie says, ignoring all semblance of a greeting. “They’re still painted.”

Steve glances down at his hands, laughs a little quiet and awkward. “Yeah, does it look weird on me?”

“No.” Eddie thought that it would. That Steve, perfectly put together Steve Harrrington, would look tarnished and sullied by Eddie with the black paint. That he would look tainted by all that Eddie is but… “I like it.”

“Oh,” Steve grins, drags Eddie movie choices closer to ring them up. “Me too, it’s kinda like having you around even when you’re not here.”

Eddie swallows hard. “Yeah.”

It’s just a little splash of black paint, but it makes Eddie want impossible things just to see it still there. He wants more of himself on Steve. His clothes, his rings, himself. He wants to cover Steve in the things that he loves, show everyone that this pretty and perfect boy is something that Eddie Munson treasures.

“Will you paint them again?” Steve asks without looking at him.

“I’ll paint them anytime you want,” Eddie says honestly. He hands over a few crumpled bills to pay as he remembers how easy the moment between them had been. How quiet and perfect. He would probably do anything for Steve Harrington and he’s not even embarrassed to admit that.

Steve’s smile is soft.

“Thanks,” he says and then holds the tapes out to Eddie. He glances over his shoulder at Robin who is doing her best to pretend she’s not watching them. Steve huffs and turns back to Eddie, lowers his voice and leans a little across the counter. “How about tonight?”

Eddie glances back down at Steve’s still perfect nails then up to Steve’s face, his dark eyes watching Eddie just as intently as they had two days ago. His nails don’t need to be touched up yet. “Yeah, I’m free.”

“Great,” Steve says, hand brushing Eddie’s as he hands over a receipt. “I'll see you later?”

“Yeah, yes, I’ll be there,” Eddie stumbles over the words.

When Eddie leaves his head is a mess of want and confusion and hope. So much hope.

[faerghusfucker]

omg hiiiiii hi sylvain what are you doing on my tumblr page teehee 🤭🤭🤭🤭

BALL SYLVAIN IS DONE AT LAST guys i had a really hard time with him lmao. EVERY OTHER MAN IN THIS HOUSE IS LIKE “they don’t really enjoy formalwear so they went with something simple!” but not sylvain!!!! i KNOW this flashy mf is dressing to the nines for this ball, he is ON THE PROWL he is here to GET BITCHES and have a homoerotic sword fight with felix later but shhhh

like i said before, sylvain kinda took it upon himself to give all the guys makeovers for the ball and it ended up as a house-wide get-together in his room because mercedes and annette heard abt it and then dragged ingrid along because they felt bad for her lol. he had that suit jacket commissioned FOR THIS EVENT the second he heard abt it, sylvain is a fashionable guy but i think he loves gaudy shit like that too. no shirt for him because he’s a WHORE and he cannot leave the house without his collarbone exposed. he got zero girls at this ball and blamed it on felix for ruining his vibe. oh well!

i don’t see faerghus as being a land with much of a preoccupation with formal events tbh. it’s such a cold and solemn place that i think if they are having balls it’s for serious shit like coronations and maybe weddings but ehhhh idk. when there ARE balls and such, matthias does not trust sylvain to dress himself. he has servants choose his outfits and he keeps that man WITHIN HIS SIGHTS because. if sylvain is gonna make a bad name for house gautier it will not be on his watch!!! this is the first ball sylvain has been at without his father and so he just fully LETS LOOSE and dresses as slutty as his heart desires and probably pregames this event A LOT (to the disappointment of everyone else in the house). sylvain is the disappointment of the blue lions but he’s MY disappointment

here’s the updated lineup, you can see my headcanons for each design on the posts i made for them :3 they’re in my homepage post lol. ashe is next!!!!!

[theocddiaries]

Rouge: Come on, Abe, it's not that bad. The boiler was twenty years old, it's normal that we have to replace it. Abraham: That's not the point, Rouge. I've been here as long as that boiler, and I'm twice as burned out. Rouge: Oh, please, you're just saying that because you had to chip in and you're in a bad mood. Abraham: No. I'm too bored to even get mad anymore. It's the same thing every day. You don't believe me? What time is it? Rouge: Around noon. Abraham: You forgot your lunch, didn't you? [Rouge hisses.] Abraham: Aha. That means your brother is about to storm in, swearing up and down that he won't cook for you anymore because if you're going to be that ungrateful, you might as well spend money at the cafeteria. And then he'll leave, slamming the door. Rouge: Well— [Shadow enters without knocking and throws the tupperware at Rouge like a frisbee.] Shadow: Here, choke on it. I'm done. Tomorrow, you eat at the cafeteria, because I'm not coming here every damn day to see these miserable people just because you can't be responsible with food I went through hell to cook for you. [storms off, slamming the door] Abraham: And that's just round one. Now, he's so pissed he forgot to ask you for the visitor's pass he needs to leave. That is, unless he punches a hole through the wall, which, honestly, I'd appreciate, because at least something different would happen. Rouge: Oh, come on, Abraham. Shadow is mad at life itself, and the only reason I don’t forget my head is because it’s attached to my body. Anyone could’ve seen that coming. Abraham: Okay, then. Now, Topaz is going to show up late with an excuse that involves two relatives and a vegetable. [Topaz comes running, knocks on the door, and opens it, her face red and panting from the sprint.] Topaz: Hello, Commander. Uh, sorry for being late, but my cousin's rabbit got loose, and her mom and I were chasing it all over Square with a carrot. Hehe, well, I'll get to my post now. [leaves before they can say anything] Abraham: And now, you'll hear Rockwell yelling because someone ate her brownie, only to realize she already ate it herself and then blame everyone else anyway. Rockwell [from the break room]: Where the hell is my food?! I am SICK of nobody respecting ANYTHING in this damn pla-- Oh, wait, I already ate it. I came here for a napkin… You guys are driving me crazy! I don’t even know what I’m doing anymore!!! Abraham: And now you're going to tell me I'm just having a bad day and that I need a hug. [glances at her] [Rouge lowers her arms, scratching the back of her head] Rouge: Well, uh… look, if a job like ours has monotony, that’s a good sign, isn’t it? Abraham: Probably. But that’s not what’s getting to me. The worst part is that nobody here gives a damn about what happens to me. [Abraham gets up, looking downcast, and opens the door, stepping aside just in time for Shadow, who indeed came back to ask Rouge for the visitor's pass.] Shadow: Rouge, please, give me the-- [looks Abraham up and down]: Abraham, are you alright? Abraham: It's none of your business, gossip. [walks off] Shadow: Hope your day gets worse then, asshole. Rouge: That’s one habit I’m getting sick of too…

[thatonetargaryen]

No Tears Ricochet

Sevika x Reader

Alternate Ending of: My Tears Ricochet

Synopsis: After you catch your wife, Ambessa, in the act of ruining your marriage—you decide to visit the Last Drop for a release. Or, in other words, drowning yourself in alcohol. However, a certain woman suggests that there are better ways of relieving yourself.

cw; afab!reader; mentions of infidelity; alcohol consumption; rough sex; face riding; strap use; biting; Sevika is a warning as a whole…; not proofread; men and minors dni

Special thanks to @hell0-ki55y for original prompt. Hope you enjoy! 🎀

…….

You looked at Mel from across the room as she powdered and sprayed her face. She had just got done comforting you for an embarrassing amount of time after what her mother, your wife, Ambessa had done.

Never in a million years would you think she’d do something like that—to you. The vows you had taken before the preacher all those years ago started blurring years ago. However, it seemed they had finally started to deteriorate.

The paramour Ambessa had perched on her lap flashed in your mind. She’d probably purchased the twink from some underground brothel in Piltover. The brothels there were very secretive, and you’d have to get through a few people to even access one. However, the ones in Zaun were out in the open, and anything but secretive.

Zaun. The thought of the place sparked a thought in your mind. It had been years since you visited the place, and from what’d you heard, the place had just gotten worse throughout the years.

However, one key thing that stuck in your mind was a bar. You couldn’t remember the name, or where it was, but you remembered the feeling. The atmosphere, the smiles and warmth everyone shared, the strong taste of the ale on your tongue. And, right now, you craved a little bit of warmth.

You were pulled from your thoughts as your step-daughter laid a hand on your shoulder. Her smile was soft yet cautious—as if the slightest move might break you.

“I’m going to see Jayce now. Are you sure you don’t need me here?”

You nodded your head as you grip her hand in yours. “I’ll be fine, Mel. I might go have a little bit of fun myself.”

Mel’s eyes widened a little bit. She gave you a sly smile, “Well, you better pick up your phone if I call you.”

You playfully pinched the skin on her forearm, “Oh, hush. I am a woman grown. But if you call me, I’ll pick up.”

The both of you shared a laugh, before you pulled her into your arms for what seemed like the hundredth time that night. “Be safe, my love. And don’t do anything you’ll regret.”

Mel leaned into your embrace, catching the underlying meaning in your words. She internally rolled her eyes, but heeded your advice. “You too, Mum.”

And with that, she threw her purse on her shoulder and walked out of the room. You sighed at her absence, but the feeling of her warmth would soon be replaced by someone unexpected—yet welcomed.

…..

The streets of Zaun were alive and buzzing at this time of night. It was no doubt dirty, and you could smell the fumes through your mask. You pulled forward the hood on your head, and held yourself tighter.

The place hadn’t changed much since when you’d last visited it. The air was still muggy, and the people were still as rude and selfish as ever, not that it was any better than Piltover. At least people here had a reason to be like that.

Your eyes darted around you. You surveyed anyone and everyone closely, not wanting to get caught off guard.

You breathed a sigh of relief as you were finally met with the neon lights of the place you walked far and wide for, The Last Drop.

You stepped inside and you the first thing you noticed was the heat that circulated throughout the place. The smell and alcohol, drugs, and sweat evaded your nose and you grimaced.

The bar across the establishment was calling your name, and you answered its call. You got comfortable in one of the beat-up black leather chairs. It was a little wobbly, but you didn’t mind it.

The man behind the bar worked tirelessly as he dried and shined the glasses. His skin was tan and his dark brown eyes moved skillfully as he made the drinks. It was a stark difference from the man you saw just years prior—his skin lighter and his frame even burlier—but you didn’t dwell on it for long.

The two of you made eye contact, and he immediately turned and made his way to you. “So, what can I get you?”

You hesitated for a second, your mind short-circuited. You saw no sign of a menu anywhere. “Um…what do you have?”

His eyes darted at your words, noticing your slight accent. Despite where you were originally from, living in Noxus for over twenty years heavily influenced how you sounded today. Especially since you had to speak some of the language almost daily.

He looked at you skeptically, “We have whiskey, beer, wine, y’know….what a bar would usually have…”

You were slightly taken aback at his words, not expecting to be talked to like that. You didn’t remember when someone had given you that much attitude—given your position and the power you hold. And who your wife was.

Your wife.

The thought of her churned your stomach like spoiled milk. Your mood dimmed as the thought of her came to mind. You cleared your throat after an awkward moment of silence, “One shot of whiskey, please. No ice.”

He nodded. “Good, cause’ we ain’t got ice anyway.”

You rolled your eyes at his words as you watched him fill a shot glass with whiskey. The bronze liquid poured into the cup gracefully, and you were momentarily distracted by the sight of it.

The sound of the glass gliding across the table and towards you broke your trance. You nodded at the bartender in thanks, but he didn’t acknowledge it as he moved on to the next customer.

You studied the drink for a moment too long, internally not trusting it.

“You gonna babysit that shot all night?”

You looked up from your drink at the sound of a rough, yet calm voice. You were met with a tall, muscular woman with low, dark eyes. Her jet black hair was pulled into a messy bun behind her head, and her black lips were pulled into a sly smirk. She was gorgeous, yet her physique told you she was a force to be reckoned with. You straighten up, trying to make yourself appear less fragile, but the effort only seemed to amuse her.

You turned back ground in your seat, attempting to ignore her presence. But her eyes bore into the side of your head like lasers, and you fight the urge to kick her wear it hurts.

“So, what brings you to Zaun?”, she asked.

Your breath hitched. How’d she know you weren’t from here? You’d dressed in the most dingy and boring clothes you owned, hoping nobody would notice who you really were.

She noticed your surprised look and scoffed, “Oh, you didn’t think throwing on some raggedy clothes would make you look like one of us, did you? I could smell the Piltie on you from a mile away.”

You rolled your eyes at her remark, and before you could think about what you were about to say, you spoke, “I’m actually from Noxus, thank you very much.”

The woman’s smug look turned to one of surprise—and soon realization—as she recognized your voice. She had seen you before, representing Noxus and your original house in a meeting held in Piltover’s walls. You had defended Zaun’s independence and had buildings rebuilt, ones that were once invaded and destroyed by Enforcers. Your name was spoken in Zaun with great recognition, yet suspicion all the same, not knowing your true intentions.

“Y/N?”, she spoke, almost in a whisper.

Your lips clamped shut as you held your coat tighter. You mentally slapped your forehead.

Her once smug smile returned again, “Hm. Seeing the wife of a warlord was definitely not on my bingo card for this week…”

You sighed in annoyance, wishing she’d just go away. “Look, it’s been a long day. I just came here for a release and a good drink. I don’t have time for—”

“A release, huh?”, she interrupted.

You stopped, taken slightly aback.

Her smile widened as she finally took a seat right next to you, “Next drink’s on me. Name’s Sevika by the way.”

…..

Sevika threw you against the wall, and the throbbing in the back of your head was quickly replaced with a large, rough hand cradling it.

Sevika’s lips crashed into yours with an intensity like no other. Your tongues fought for dominance, her ultimately winning. She grinded her body against you, and her heat radiated from her body to yours.

She picked you up, and you wrapped your legs around her. She broke the kiss by roughly pulling your head back, your hair tight in her grip. “Eager, are we?”

You didn’t respond, and instead pushed yourself against her, hoping the friction would quiet the ache in your stomach.

She threw you against the hard mattress, and didn’t waste any time tearing your clothes from your body.

Your nipples hardened as they were met with cold air, but you made no move to cover yourself. You knew you were beautiful, and you relished in the way Sevika studied your body in awe.

She chuckled, “Not too bad…”

You smirked back, studying the way curly hairs enveloped the space between her legs. “Not too bad yourself.”

The humorous mood was quickly replaced with tension as she reached over for something—a strap. It was thick and lengthy, but surprisingly didn’t look cheap. The material was solid in her hands, and she worked with the skill of an expert as she fastened the harness to her hips.

She spread your legs a little further and scooted herself closer to you. The lube in her hands loosened as she studied the way slick covered your walls and entrance. “Looks like I won’t be needin’ this.”

She plunged two fingers into you, and wasted no time as she pumped her fingers in and out of you at a steady rhythm. Your hips bucked towards her.

She leaned down towards you, and her plush chest pressed against yours. Your moans grew louder with each digit she added. Sevika nibbled at the sensitive skin on your neck, and the coil in your stomach tightened.

Her pace became more hurried and erratic, sensing you were close, and she rubbed the strap against your clit, earning a groan in her ear.

You released yourself with a sigh as you came on her fingers, the wet sound enveloping the quiet room. Your moans quieted as you calmed yourself from your high, sweat dribbling down your face and chest.

Sevika rose from your chest as she looked down at you. She lined her strap up with your slick, loose entrance, and placed a hand on your hip to keep you steady. The two of you locked eyes, and she smirked, “You good?”

You nodded your head sluggishly, “Yeah, yeah…”

Sevika hummed in approval, and in one swift motion, thrusted herself into you. You hissed at the stretched, but the slight pain flew by as she started to move in a steady pace.

Her hips moved back and forward as she thrusted into you at a relentless pace, and your moans bounced off the walls.

She leaned forward, and you wrapped your arms around her shoulders. You moaned into her bare shoulder as the smell of her musk evaded your nose.

The sound was wet skin hitting skin made you clench around her, a tears clouded your vision as you stared at the ceiling.

You dug your nails into her back, drawing blood that caked beneath your nails. She groaned at the action, the sound echoing through the room.

“S—Sevika—”, you choked out as your legs curled around her.

You could feel her smirk as she pressed her nose into your shoulder, “Hm?”

Your nails dug deeper into her back, “I—I’m close—”

Her thrusts became deeper, and she slowed her pace as she pulled at your hair from the root. “That’s it, shit—”

You came with a moan as your back arched against her. You could see the way she bit her bottom lip through your blurry vision.

Your moans quieted as she chased her own high, her thrusts refusing to stop. She kneaded one of your soft breasts beneath her hand, her fingers ghosting over your nipple.

She came with a grunt, the last few of her thrusts harder than the last. She threw her head back as she tried to catch her breath. She brought a hand up to her hair, running her hands through it. Sweat glistened her toned body, the valley of her breasts heaving with every breath. You took a moment to admire her beauty, in its rawest form.

She slowly pulled out of you, and you slightly winced at the motion.

You sighed in relief as you raise up, though you were careful not to move your numb legs.

You whispered as you spoke, “Thanks…I needed that.”

Sevika smirked at you, her tooth gap slightly showing. “It’s nothin’. I didn’t have anything better to do tonight anyways…”

You smirked back, “So, how much do I owe you?”

She was taken aback by your comment, but ultimately went along with the joke as she smiled, “It’s on the house, babe.”

……

I’m finally done with this 😭

I’m sorry it took me so long to post, college has been kicking my ASS left and right. I’ll be updating the Wolf and Dragon series later this week.

Hope you enjoyed 🎀

[craftexchange]

Hi! I’m not someone who normally like, sells or talks about my crafting too much, but this is such a cute idea! Plus, I just learned to knit socks, and I would love the chance to practice more.

The yarn would be what I used for the left hand photo, a reasonably thin multi-strand maroon/blue/white. (I’m low on sock-weight yarn right now because I haven’t done socks before this year, but I unraveled a sweater I never wear (90% acrylic, 10% polyester, machine wash cold and dry on low) so I have plenty of this.

You would just have to tell me 1. Length you want for the ankle (not like, knee or thigh-highs, please, just like your preferred height for a normal every day sock, excluding heel) 2. Circumference of your ankle or calf (depending on sock height obviously) 3. Length of your foot from heel to toe, and 4. Which kind of a heel you want (the left-hand sock is a German short row heel, which you can’t see well with that yarn but is very neat looking and similar to what you find on a store-bought sock. It can be kind of narrow, though. The right-hand sock has a heel flap and gusset with instep decreases, which is common on handmade socks, and from what I’ve read often is more comfortable for people with larger or wider feet). If you have an opinion on how long you want the ribbed (cuff) part of your leg to be you’re welcome to tell me that as well.

It’s been taking me a little over a week to knit one pair of socks, I’m knitting a pair right now, and I have one more lined up after this, for an idea of timeline. For full transparency the two pairs of socks pictured here are both pairs of socks that I have ever knit (not including the unfinished ones on my needles), although by the time I knit socks for any exchanges, I will have knit four pairs of socks, lol. They will be quite simple like these, no cabling or anything which wouldn’t show up well with the yarn I have anyway. But I can put little white accent stripes on them like I have here if you’d like!

Oh, I suppose I could also make amber and pearl earrings:

For some reason I can’t find other pictures in my camera roll even though I have done a few of these. Ignore the tarnish on the hook lol, this one is mine that I’ve worn a lot, obviously I have bright and shiny new hooks for strangers. I would just do whatever sort of design I felt like, but you could tell me if you want something fairly simple like this with just two or three beads or something fancy. It is real amber and real pearls, I have a whole little bag of each plus those little baby manufactured pearls at the top (still “real” in a sense- they’re made of mother of pearl, so it’s like, pearl stuff, just ground up and shaped more precisely into a nice round shape) and as you can see each one is going to be a little bit different but I do match the size and shape as best as I can for a pair of earrings.

I could probably do, idk, up to 4-5 trades? 4-5 of each? Earrings I can knock out in an evening whereas the socks take a bit of time, as I’ve said. I’ll ship within the US.

ISO: nothing in particular? Am I allowed to say I’ll just accept trades that interest me without having specific parameters as to the type of craft? My tastes in most things, clothing/accessories/art/decor/etc tend towards vintage. I like 40s-50s (mostly femme) fashions, and antique furniture. I like plants and outer space and retrofuturism and sci-fi, I garden, I sew. I try to be environmentally conscious in my purchases and use of resources. I like art and fancy pretty things and useful trinkets, but not so much knick-knacks and tchotchkes (well, I do like them, but my surfaces are pretty cluttered already).

OP: @alagaisia

[celestialmantdonna]

As Drax, Groot, Reks and Arvin discussed whether 'beautiful' was the right word to describe Caelen, Mantis was still in the Guardians' bedroom, speaking with Elin.

When Elin took her hand and wept, Mantis gave her fingers a little squeeze.

"I believe you," she said earnestly once the woman was done talking. "You are not foolish. You've done nothing wrong, he deceived you..." Scooting closer, she moved her other hand to place it on Elin's shoulder in a gesture of reassurance. "But I promise you, you will not be alone. My friends and I will help you in any way we can. Your baby will want for nothing." She smiled warmly, though her eyebrows betrayed a repressed urge to cry.

She sat with Elin, offering gentle words of encouragement and a steady hand to hold.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* . ───

While Munoh accompanied Caelen to the smithy, Drax and Groot returned to the halls of the palace, meeting Gamora, Rocket and Quill halfway.

"I have been told we've uncovered a plot against the King and Prince," Drax said.

"Yes, Mantis used her abilities to interrogate sir Azelas. He has been working with the Archadian Empire and planning to murder King Raminas and take advantage of Caelen's inability to stomach battle," Gamora explained. "He also claimed that Mantis' intention was to murder the King, which is why the guard tried to kill her. Manipulation, lies, defamation... He's an honorless tyrant." Her eyes glinted angrily.

"Oh, man– Give me one reason why I shouldn't punch that asshole in the face," Quill grumbled.

"Because I ask you to," a timid voice said before Mantis appeared round the corner... in a green dress.

"Oooh, pretty!" Groot exclaimed, carefully perched on Drax's shoulder.

"Mantis! Hi!" Quill said. "You look–" He was interrupted by Drax's retching and gagging. "Dude! Come on, man, don't be a dick!"

Gamora and Rocket rolled their eyes practically at the same time. Mantis had reassured Elin before sending the young woman on her way, and then she had gone looking for the Guardians.

"Let's go back to our room. We have to get ready ," Gamora said, walking with her hands behind her back.

"Get ready? For what?" Mantis asked.

"Dinner. Prince Charming's invited us. He probably wants to make sure we don't side with the enemy," Rocket replied with a cynical snicker.

"Are you implying he has an ulterior motive?" Drax's tone was somewhat affronted.

"What? Nooo, I would never." Rocket threw his paws up with a smirk. "I'm sure he has decided to invite us out of the pure goodness of his golden heart."

"I am sure of it as well. He is too beautiful to act selfishly," Drax declared with a nod.

"That's not the reason why they organized this dinner. The point of it is to bring the Prince and Princess of Nabradia to safety. We must not mention the invasion." Gamora spun to look pointedly into the eyes of each and every one of the Guardians.

"Uh, why would we? I'm goin' for the food," Rocket interjected matter-of-factly.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* . ───

The team practiced what to say or not say in their room, acting out hypothetical scenarios that could take place during the dinner. They were supposed to 'act natural' in order to prevent the situation from becoming more volatile, potentially dangerous for Rasler.

The Guardians exchanged quick glances when they heard the arrival of the Nabradian ships, and they all scrambled to the balcony in an attempt to glimpse them. When a maid was sent to their room, they all agreed to wear formal Dalmascan clothing.

Even Drax and his sensitive nipples.

Once they were ready, they made their way to the throne room and politely introduced themselves to Prince Rasler and Princess Eswynn.

Another Time, Another Place (A Hollow Universe In Space) || closed with tarnishedxknight

@tarnishedxknight continued from here

The Guardians stood there, letting Captain Basch formally introduce them to King Raminas. They all then bowed respectfully except for Rocket, who only did so because Gamora pushed his head down. They trusted Basch for the most part, as he assured them no one would hurt them after telling them to leave their weapons at the ship. Quill and Gamora were the first ones to leave theirs; Drax didn't want to leave his knives, but did so after Mantis looked at him, while Rocket pulled a comical amount of retractable weapons from his pockets.

As they followed Basch, Mantis had stayed behind for a moment to approach Vossler. She felt much better after Munoh sent her some calm energy, and she smirked at the man. Suddenly, her hand was on his cheek, her antennae aglow. "Whenever you open your mouth to say something unkind, you will wail like a baby. Honestly, it might be more coherent than anything else you have said," she whispered. She patted his cheek twice as if to seal her whimsical behest, and hurried to follow the Guardians as Basch guided them through the palace of Rabanastre.

Quill straightened and cleared his throat to speak to the King. Mantis took his hand; Quill was a little confused, but he allowed it since he knew she wasn't feeling great.

"Your Majesty," he said, once again lowering his voice in an attempt to mirror Basch's formal tone and presence, hoping it would make the King like him more. "We come in peace. We thank you for your time, and we apologize for occupying one of your docks. I think I have–" He stopped talking rather suddenly, and swallowed. "Uh... I think... I have..."

What was happening was that Mantis was frantically reading his thoughts as he spoke, using her powers to interrupt him because he was going to say he had the perfect stuff to make up for it, wanting to show the King some Terran music with the Zune. While Terran music was excellent, Mantis knew not everyone would like it, nor find it an acceptable form of apology.

"I have no excuse," Quill said instead. "And I have to... shut up... now."

[sunshine-overload]

[BSTS] Heath Birthday 2025 4* Card Story

Chapter 1 -behind starless, day-

heath: You’re here pretty early today, Saki.

saki: Oh, Heath-san— Woah, what’s the occasion? You have so many bouquets with you.

heath: They’re for decorating the lobby. I was tasked with going to buy them. I couldn’t carry them all so the store lent me a cart, it would’ve been better if someone else came with me. Sorry for the trouble, but could you open the door for me?

saki: Of course. Do you want me to carry some of the bouquets too?

heath: No, it’s fine. I’m only going to be pushing it to the office.

saki: Right. It’s probably best not to disturb the pile either. They might all fall out.

heath: Ah, actually, could you hold onto this for me? It’s a plum tree branch.

saki: Oh, sure. Will this be displayed in the lobby as well?

heath: No, it’s just something that I picked up myself at the nearby shrine. It caught my eye, I thought it was pretty.

saki: Woah, you’re right, the flowers are in bloom. It is the season for it after all.

heath: On the top of calendars February is marked as Spring, but it doesn’t really feel like it when it’s still this cold.

saki: Risshun, right? The fourth of February is the beginning of Spring according to the traditional Japanese calendar.

heath: Yeah. It falls near my birthday, so I remember it well. Risshun is always printed on the calendar, so whenever I see that it’s coming up I remember my own birthday is coming up as well.

saki: Isn’t that lovely? It’s as if your birthday is bringing Spring to us.

heath: As if I’m… bringing Spring? That’s a nice thought. I can announce the coming of Spring to you.

-time pass, office-

heath: Thank you for helping me out. Um, I actually have one other thing I’d like you to help me with, is that alright?

saki: Sure, what is it?

heath: I have another duty that I need to fulfill. For the rest of the month I’m going to be your butler, so I want to create a nice and relaxing atmosphere that ‘my lady’ will enjoy.

-

Chapter 2 -office-

saki: (Heath-san is taking a while to come back to the floor, I hope everything is ok.)

-cg

heath: Sorry for making you wait, I couldn’t find the pruning shears anywhere, so getting things ready has taken me longer than expected. I wanted to cut the plum tree branch down so I can display it in a vase.

saki: Wow, what a good idea.

heath: I’ve never done this sort of thing before though, so I’d like for you to check everything looks nice for me. The branch is so thin, so I need to be careful with where I cut it… Like this, I think?

saki: That looks good, if you cut the other side down a little bit more too everything will be balanced.

heath: Got it. Next I need to pick a vase that compliments its height… How about this one?

saki: Ah, that one’s perfect!

heath: Alright, it’s complete. Thanks, Saki. I’ll display this vase.

saki: Fufu, I’m glad it turned out nicely.

heath: Having you watching was a big help. This sort of thing is surprisingly fun. I was a little nervous while making the cuts though.

saki: You must be even more pleased that it turned out well then.

heath: Not being able to redo it once it’s been cut. It was a similar type of nervousness to that before getting on the stage. I want to make sure I entertain you with both my shows and my hospitality.

saki: Heath-san…

heath: Call out to me once the store is open. I’ll escort you to your table that’ll be decorated with these plum blossoms.

-starless restaurant area-

heath: Welcome home, my lady. Please come right this way. I prepared this vase in order to bring Spring to you. Is it to your liking?

saki: Thank you for such a lovely arrangement of blossoms. It really feels as though Spring has bloomed.

heath: I’m glad. I’m not very good at this butler service thing, but I’m glad I tried to do something for it in my own way. Your smile just now was the best present I could have received. This has become an unforgettable birthday.

saki: Same here. Happy birthday, Heath-san.

heath: Thank you. As thanks I will grant you anything that you’d like, your wish is my command.

-heath steps closer-

heath: Say, my lady. Did I sound like a proper butler just now?

—end