#just pretend i published this yesterday and not right now

[blue-unifox]

perhaps......yuour babygirl.........

vibrates

First impression

Funnily enough, Oralech didn't really grab me much at first. Only thing I knew about him was that he had white hair (my friend who got me into Pyre was like "pspsps it has a white haired man just how you like" and I was... INTRIGUED, but that didn't sway me much) and that he was edgy and had some kind of sad backstory. That started to change like... in the process of learning who he was and finishing the game.

Impression now

AAA well you could've noticed by now... 👉👈 I have the old man brainworms now, what can I say. His story just touched me and the fanfiction just made everything worse HJSDJKHSD. I think he is a tragic character and that there's just enough breadcrumbs for further depth?? Like as is, he's pretty flat. BUT WE CAN DEVELOP HIM!! He actually has a kind heart? That was blackened by hatred and pain?? And it all was outside his control??? Sign me up. Also in my opinion he is quite handsome, no I'm not biased at all. i gotta make that post abt why i like him so much... who said that??

Favorite moment

UHHH well out of like all 5 appearances he has... I'd say my fave is where he's talking to Ti'zo about joining him. IT'S SO SAD!!! TWO GOOD FRIENDS ON OPPOSING TEAMS!! Also that scene shows Oralech has some softness in him still... just that it's quickly shoved aside bc of stubbornness (or maybe something else?). Or uhh your love be damned one but its not as good so there.

Idea for a story

SO I have a few ideas as you know... but most of them are ingrained into the coughs many volfralech ideas coughs. Tho I did have an idea for like... post-game situation, where he is the Chief-Physician and some years had passed, but he realizes that doing politics isn't what he truly desires. But also he's been doing this for so long! And helping out Volfred! Surely he can't back down now. So this whole story would be him realizing the importance of self-worth again (and also that he could've just asked to be on a different position and Volfred would've complied, no questions asked lmao). And that would include learning how to use a cane, since his transformation is receding and there's nothing wrong with using mobility aids like that, it's not a sign of weakness.

Unpopular opinion

Uhmmmm despite what i said earlier he's not that pretty...?? SDHJDSDHJSK I mean, have you seen how his face becomes from afar?? it's terrifying, also if u look at his features long enough you'd see they are pretty disproportionate (i love him anyway)

Favorite relationship

WELL.... UM.... old men yaoi I'M VERY PREDICTABLE DHSJDSD They just fit so well together, they're each other's foils, and have a potential for like an actually functional relationship. I like that they have a lot of history between each other and angst, but also hey canon says they become friends after all... It's a dynamic relationship!! And again, potential....

Favorite headcanon

I like to think he can sew (useful for patching up wounds and also he did get those raiments somewhere... so I like to think he just stole pieces of clothing from diff triumvirates and just. sewed those together) and that he needs glasses for that at some point later :3c

[carriesthewind]

The IA's "Open Library" is Not a Library, Yesterday's Lower Court Decision does Not "Hurt Authors," and the Planned Appeal Is (Almost Certainly) NOT a Good Way to Try to Change Bad Law (In Fact, It's More Likely to Make Bad Law Worse)

Ok, so a day later, I'm still mad about this. If anything, I'm even madder. I'm going to write this as a response to the Internet Archive's "The Fight Continues" blogpost, but before we begin, let's get some facts straight:

Copyright law in the United States, especially the law around digital lending, currently sucks. It's really really bad, and anyone with a stake in the game - except the big publishers and e-book services that profit from it - hate it.

That said, copyright law exists as a thing. As I said in a previous post, you *can* try to change it through court cases, but there are certain things you cannot change. And there are certain things you can try to change, but it will be an uphill battle to change them in a positive direction. And notably, as bad as digital lending law is in the U.S., it still could always get worse! And one general rule of impact litigation: if you are trying to change the law, you want to make sure you have the best possible facts. Because the worse your facts are, the worse your case is likely to go.

Yesterday's district court ruling DID NOT CHANGE ANY SUBSTANTIVE COPYRIGHT LAW IN THE U.S. I cannot emphasize that enough. Regardless of whatever you think of the ruling, it was applying already existing law to the facts.

This is because the Internet Archive's "Open Library" absolutely violates existing copyright law. It just does! They broke the law, they had plenty of notice they were breaking the law and harming authors (more on that below) and just think the law shouldn't apply because they don't like it.

The Internet Archive's "Open Library" is not a library. Some big ways it differs:

While it pretends to have a one-to-one owned-to-loaned ratio, as the opinion granting the publisher's motion for summary judgement notes, IA concedes that it allows "partner libraries" to add books to its collection and then doesn't check (and has no way of checking) if the book is out of circulation at the "partner library" at the same time it's being "checked out" of the Open Library. In other words, it's like if you took a book, scanned the pages, and then gave the scans to your friend who then loaned the scans out to other people but totally promised they were only lending the scans to one person at a time so it's basically like there is still just one copy! And meanwhile you still own, are reading, and lending out the physical copy of the book. Except instead of one book, they were doing this on a massive scale. NO, THAT'S JUST THEFT.*

Speaking of which, the "Open Library" didn't keep that promise! Their "Emergency Library" just let everyone borrow as many copies at a time as they could! Again, THAT'S JUST THEFT.

Like I'm sorry if you don't like the idea of copyright at all: right now, we live in a capitalist system where authors need to be paid for their work in order to, like, not die. If you take their work, scan it into your computer, and give it away for free to anyone and everyone, THAT'S JUST THEFT.

Also, most authors love libraries! Libraries allow more people to access their books while not substantially impacting their revenue and not impacting their rights! AUTHORS - not just publishers, authors - DO NOT LIKE AI'S "OPEN LIBRARY." Why haven't authors sued to stop this before, why is this the publishers suing? From the above letter: "Even simple copyright lawsuits must be brought in federal court, and often cost hundreds of thousands of dollars. A challenge to the Internet Archive could easily cost millions." Publishers have deep pockets that authors and authors' groups don't. Also, authors who object to AI stealing their work are frequently subject to harassment.

If IA won this case, the new law that would be made is this: it would be legal to steal an author's works.

*I'm using "theft" and "steal" instead of "piracy" throughout this write-up to make it clear what this is. "Pirating books" is just stealing them.

So to sum up the facts above: copyright law in the U.S. sucks, but it exists. Attempting to change it for the better through the court system would be very difficult. Even then, changing the law for the better would likely require a case with good facts. Unfortunately, the law could also change for the worse. Yesterday's ruling did not change any law. The facts in this case are very bad, because the IA absolutely violated copyright law. That is in part because the IA's "Open Library" is not a library; they just steal books. Many (if not most) authors and author's groups don't like that IA is stealing from them. If IA won this case, that victory would mean that anyone was allowed to steal an author's works.

*deep breath*

Ok, let's turn to the IA's statement, "The Fight Continues":

"Today’s lower court decision in Hachette v. Internet Archive is a blow to all libraries and the communities we serve."

The Internet Archive is not a library.

No it's not. It is a blow to the Internet Archive, specifically, because you broke the law and it ruled you broke the law. As stated above, it does not change anything with regard to copyright, including digital copyright, law in the U.S., and therefore does not impact libraries or the communities they serve. If you appeal this ruling, as you have stated you intend to, and the law does change for the worse (which is always a risk of appeal, and a risk that gets worse when you have bad facts), THEN libraries might be affected.

"This decision impacts libraries across the US who rely on controlled digital lending to connect their patrons with books online."

I mean yes, in the sense that "controlled digital lending" isn't normal e-book lending. It's the thing you made up where you steal books and illegally redistribute them.

This genuinely sucks for libraries and communities that don't have other ways of accessing digital books because the current copyright scheme sucks so bad! Real libraries are doing things to try to help, and not just steal from authors! More on that below!

"It hurts authors by saying that unfair licensing models are the only way their books can be read online."

OH GO FUCK YOURSELVES

Ok this line, this line right here? That is honestly why I wrote this whole thing.

How DARE you cloak your theft in the real struggles authors face with unfair licensing models. How DARE you pretend you are on the side of authors when you are stealing their works, and they have made it quite clear that they would like you to stop, please. And how DARE you frame it in this "for exposure" bullcrap that ignores the real struggles that authors have to eat, to get healthcare, to get any sort of fair pay and wages for their work, and instead pretend that all authors should care about is whether or not their books can be read online.

And bluntly? If you - not IA, YOU, tumblr user reading this - if you shared this bullcrap statement and told people to donate money to the IA because of this? If you told people they should steal more books in response (because it's the publishers fault, ignore the real authors who are actually harmed)? How DARE you. How DARE you pretend to be on the side of authors and writers.

"And it holds back access to information in the digital age, harming all readers, everywhere."

Except for those readers who are also authors, and need to eat.

And readers who want to read books that will never get written if authors can't write (because they need to eat).

And also, no it doesn't, because it doesn't change the law. It just applies the law that already exists to you. Because you are not above the law.

"But it’s not over—we will keep fighting for the traditional right of libraries to own, lend, and preserve books."

You are not a library.

You were not (and are not) fighting for "the traditional right of libraries." Plenty of other organizations are fighting against bad copyright law in the U.S. This court case, however, was literally just about you stealing books.

Like I cannot emphasize enough that you were just stealing and you got caught.

"We will be appealing the judgment and encourage everyone to come together as a community to support libraries against this attack by corporate publishers."

You aren't a library.

Fuck you for borrowing the (justified) hatred of corporate publishers to paper over your bad actions.

Does "coming together as a community to support libraries against this attack" mean giving you money, as suggested by the calls to action at the bottom of this page? Because you aren't a library.

"We will continue our work as a library."

You aren't a library.

"This case does not challenge many of the services we provide with digitized books including interlibrary loan, citation linking, access for the print-disabled, text and data mining, purchasing ebooks, and ongoing donation and preservation of books."

First, and most important: these are all uncritically good and important things that the IA does! Despite the rest of this post, I am really really glad the IA exists, that it is doing these things, and I hope that it will continue to do this things!

You are correct that this case does not challenge those services! Because those services aren't just stealing books from authors, which is what you were doing, which is what this case is actually about!

I'm skipping the statement from Brewster Kahle because it's just more of the same. The statement then invites you to Take Action! by donating to IA and positing themselves as standing up for libraries! (They are not a library.)

But real libraries and librarians are actually fighting the good fight over lack of access to materials, especially digital materials and bad laws, and you can support them!

If you actually do want to "come together as a community to support libraries," and support digital access, may I suggest instead donating to The Brooklyn Public Library's Books Unbanned program?:

https://www.bklynlibrary.org/books-unbanned

While they aren't directly challenging bad copyright law, they are directly fighting back against laws that are much more actively and materially impact people's access to books, including providing free e-book and database access to everyone in the U.S. age 13-21. It's a great and important program, and your donations can really help!

[cattlemons]

hi, if you're okay with writing for him, wanderer x reader hcs? (it can be short and brief!!) /nf

The Archivist and The Stubborn Scholar

TW: Not proofread and the punctuations on this might be kinda yikes (tried my best tho), this particular big boy is 1,7k words big (very short and super brief (❁´◡`❁))

Hope you like this, my first ever nonnie! (I wanna frame you like a first dollar)

I feel like the Wanderer is kind of a tough nut to crack because his trauma wall is 100 inches thick.

At the beginning, he’s really just huffing and puffing and being a total jerk to you (and everyone else). To be honest, you’re just trying your best to tough it out and not cuss him out every chance you get.

Technically, he isn’t a permanent student of the Vahumana; he only comes in to borrow research papers he needs for his own paper and then he’s off again. So, there's no reason for you to see him all that much.

But aside from being a student, you’re also the Akedemiya’s archivist, so you do meet him fairly often. Not that you enjoyed his prickly presence at first. It was quite the nuisance, if anything.

Every time he comes in to borrow something, it feels like he’s purposefully trying to get a rise out of you.

He’s also frustratingly accurate in pressing your buttons; like he knows exactly what makes you tick and explode.

You want to chop his head off.

Luckily for him, you’re closer to Celestia than he is because your patience for him is on par with that of a saint.

“I need a paper on Tatarasuna, but I want it as recent as possible. The closer to ‘yesterday’ it is published, the better.”

Looking away from your own paper, you looked at him like he grew five heads, each wearing a big ‘ol hat. To your defense, you’re only four beats off.

“Look, I know you’re an honored guest of the Archon and only recently started joining in on this research writing business, but you’ve got to learn how we do things here,” you huffed as you searched for a written guideline you have not needed for a while now.

Pulling the paper out of your bag, you pointed and explained the graphic drawn on it.

“First, you go and find out which collection of research papers you need and ask me politely if we have it here in the archives. Then, I tell you if we have it or not before asking if you want it copied and if you need more assistance—”

“Okay, fine. I want Tatarasuna papers and assistance.”

“Please let me finish.”

“Why’d you stop talking if you weren’t finished?”

“You interrupted me?!”

That’s basically how an average conversation with him goes.

But as time goes on, the hate turns into dislike and then into pretend hate and finally into secret like.

At the start of his research, the visits are few and far between, but as the research starts getting heavier, his visits get more frequent too.

He also likes to work on the tables right outside the archival building for “quicker access to papers.”

This is not for the public, but he also kind of maybe perhaps secretly likes looking at the archivist.

He just likes looking at you when you’re confused about why the journal you’re reading is spewing lies. He also likes looking at you when you huff at your paper because the wording is all messed up.

Yeah, his sadistic tendencies were not wiped away when he pulled his stunt on the Irminsul. You can’t win them all, I guess.

Anyway, it’s all totally because he likes seeing you suffer. You’re on top of his “pain in the ass” list, after all!

Not because you look adorable when you scrunch your eyebrows in confusion.

Definitely not because he knows you didn’t get enough sleep last night (he heard your friend chastise you about it) and you made a bunch of mistake on your paper.

He DEFINITELY DOES NOT find your tired eyes and sleepy yawns cute (like a very angry cat he DOES NOT want to take care of).

But really, he actually believes in this reasoning. He simply thinks it's schadenfreude.

Man’s smart when scheming but dumb bum when anything else.

He does not catch on to his feelings all that quick. In fact, it took him embarrassingly long.

He had to do a lot of soul searching and experience a ton of jealousy to finally realize that maybe he likes you more than he hates you.

Or rather, he likes you more than he originally allowed himself to like you.

Oh no! It’s the consequences of having a heart because a heart isn’t an object but the accumulation of interactions that build the psyche and emotion! Darn, life lesson! (Wanderer, probably)

The Wanderer decided that he’s going to work on his paper in the archive building today. He’s not in the mood to sit in some shitty cafe and listen to incessant chatter.

Wow, he wished he had chosen the cafe instead.

“Hey! Who told you, you can just take a paper out of the archive and waltz your merry way home? Give that back. Right now!”

“I thought we were friends,” Kaveh mumbled in faux hurt as he stretched his hands out to return the paper to you.

“Archivist first. Friend second,” you huffed out, snatching the scroll of paper out of his hands.

The blond proceeded to clutch his chest and make a scene.

Sometimes you wish you weren’t such good friends with the man. At least then, he’d act civil.

Meanwhile, the Wanderer was watching all this from the front row seat; absolutely soaked with friendly-banter-that-he-misunderstood-as-lovey-dovey-affection. Your interaction with Kaveh spilled over into the splash zone of his seat in the archival building and he hated it.

In his mind, he came up with the conclusion that the heat in his heart is coming from a place of annoyance.

Why are you so loud at 7 in the fucking morning?

Why is the blond one also so loud at 7 in the fucking morning?

Why are you even entertaining guests this early in the morning? Didn’t you refuse him any service when he came this early a few weeks ago?

Why is this guy any special?

Somewhere much deeper in his mind, he thought differently.

I thought you were only grumpy with me.

You said ‘friend’ to him, right?

Why does that ease me slightly?

But you treat me like that too… Am I a ‘friend’ as well?

Why does that hurt even more?

After that moment, his visits get less frequent. When he does visit, though, he keeps things brief and… polite?

You even tried to start up a banter; mentioning something you know (on a normal day) would get his veins popping and kick-start a back-and-forth and then some.

To no avail, he stayed silent and just looked mildly inconvenienced.

This confused you to Celestia and back and then to Celestia again and then back again.

He’s honestly not too sure why he distanced himself from you in the first place.

But hindsight is 20/20 because after a much-needed self-evaluation session (by ‘self’ I mean himself and Nahida) he knows it’s because he doesn’t want a fourth addition to his list of major betrayals.

Not that he’ll actually agree with that statement out loud. But inside, he gets it.

Of course, this understanding is between his own person. You, unfortunately, were completely out of the loop.

You thought you had somehow pissed him off beyond forgiveness or crossed some kind of line.

At one point, you thought that the banter was, in a very weird way, flirting.

But maybe you got it wrong. What if he never saw you as a friend at all, let alone someone he might like.

You decided that if a relationship(?) friendship(?) has to die, then it’s going out with a bang.

*(bang = mutual understanding on what went wrong and peacefully going back to being strangers).

So, you visited him one day. Out of work hours too (mmmm how bold).

The knock on his door broke the puppet out of his cluttered thoughts; thoughts of a certain archivist he misses. Grunting as he stood, he closed the book he pretended to read in favor of opening the door.

“Who is it?”

He opened the door just as the ‘intruder’ reached to knock on the door again. He doesn’t know why you thought that knocking needed that much force but he’s certain it’s way too much.

Anger poked at him as he yelled, “That’s going to bruise, idiot.”

It won’t.

“I’m sorry, okay?”

“You should be! That hurts.”

It did not.

“Not about that! I’m sorry for whatever happened between you and me to make you hate me…”

The fuck?

“You don’t have to forgive me or anything. I get that you have some sort of past to make you that way and I probably overstepped somewhere but… I thought we were friends. I thought if you were to revert back to us being enemies again, at least you’d tell me why…”

The Fuck?

“Is it because you know I like you? If that’s the case, you’re not fully wrong but I can just throw that away because I know you’re probably not looking for something like that and that’s probably the bit where I overstepped and you know I’m not even fully invested in it so really I can just stop!”

The FUCK?

So much for mutual understanding. With how things are going, it’s more of an individual understanding.

You got way too nervous and now things are spilling left and right and he’s not even saying anything?! He’s just staring at you like you grew five heads, each wearing a big ol' hat. You took a breath to continue your long-winded mess of a rant when he clutched your shoulders.

“Stop for a second, will you, motor-mouth.”

You clammed up right away, tears leaking out of your eyes.

“Listen, I’m not going to ever say this again but I like you too. It’s shit and I hate feeling it because… because I’ve never felt before, okay? So, stop talking all that crap about throwing important things away, it's pissing me off.”

You fully started sobbing now. He panicked and pulled you in for a very awkward, very stiff, but very loving hug. Snot got on his robe and cape as you cried your emotions out on him.

He found he didn’t quite mind. He could use less snot, sure, but he was glad you cared this much over him. He's never had anyone worry over him, let alone to the point of crying.

Soon, tears prickled his eyes but it's alright because relief found his heart.

By the way, he did say it again. He said it 1,000 times before your eventual marriage and 5,000 more times but with ‘love’ as a substitute for ‘like’.

What a liar.

a.n. My first ever request and I’m so incredibly chill about it (lies I jumped and screamed slightly). Anyway, I’m not sure what you’d like to see so I made this about how you came to be the wanderer's partner. Send in another one if you want something more specific (I’ll literally smile and break my cheek muscles if you do).

[thoughtidtry]

Dress pt.1 - LN

SUMMARY: Lando's best friend can't keep pretending he's not her everything. Not after missing seeing him in person for so long. PAIRING: Lando Norris X LongDistanceBestfriendfem!reader A/N: Inspired by Lando's race win and song Dress by Taylor Swift. First time publishing my fanfics so I’d love to hear what you think! Almost 2K..... I'll do a pt.2 cause I still have more thoughts on Lando with this song. Part: 1 2 3

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Our secret moments in a crowded room. They got no idea about me and you"

Lando couldn't stop smiling at his phone in the paddock, not when you were the one texting him. All the drivers knew about his best friend, who they never got to meet.

"She's a busy person"

He would declare anytime they teased him about meeting you or asked if you were coming to a race. It wasn't that he didn't want you to come or that he didn't want you to meet the other drivers, more he didn't want to share your time. He wasn't lying to them per se you were busy and had moved to America for university as soon as you both had graduated secondary school. It didn't matter he had never actually invited you to a race.

"I'm spilling wine in the bathtub. You kiss my face and we're both drunk"

He could remember the night or well day you left like it was yesterday. The night before your flight, he had stayed over to spend as much time with you as possible. The giggles you made sneaking back into your room after your parents had gone to bed were almost as intoxicating as the wine you had brought back. You both stayed up drinking and reminiscing over the years you had spent together.

Somehow you had both ended up in the bathroom attached to your room. Too drunk to sit let alone stand, you had made yourself comfortable in the bathtub while he was seated beside you leaning up against it. He doesn't remember what was said or how it happened, but he will never forget how soft your lips felt against his or how you sighed after the kiss with a dopey grin as if a weight had been lifted off your chest.

The next morning he woke up in your bed but you were nowhere to be seen. A note on the bedside table along with some pain meds was all that was left.

Tried to wake you to say bye before my flight, but you wouldn't wake up. I don't know how much we drank but I've got a killer headache and can't remember anything so thanks for that. Text me when you wake! Love, Y/N

You had always kept in contact but he never would tell you what happened that night. He didn't want to lose you even if that kiss would haunt him every time he closed his eyes. You managed the time difference well, never judging the other for being up or asleep at random times throughout the day.

Late-night calls when you wanted to tell him something funny between classes changed to funny things your friends had done once you graduated from university. Even the early morning drunken messages he'd get around the time he woke up were moments he cherished. He missed having you next to him. Wished you would come home, but you have your life now in America and found a good job after university.

"All of this silence and patience. Pinning and desperately waiting"

Little did Lando know, the other drivers had stolen his phone and gotten your number long ago just waiting for the right moment to use it. Daniel was the first to reach out and introduce himself explaining Lando had wanted to let you know his phone had died.

You had shrugged it off, with how much Lando talked about the other driver it didn't seem that surprising to you that Lando had given your number to him. It was no surprise to Daniel how friendly and kind you were, but how smart you were was a shock. He never would have imagined their little Lando was friends with a lawyer.

Carlos and Oscar followed soon after hearing more about you from Daniel. They both said they wanted to get some stories of Lando as a kid to make fun of him so they begged Daniel for your number and to not tell Lando. You had a laugh retelling stories to them both that you knew Lando would be embarrassed about.

Max and Charles on the other hand had respected Lando's privacy when it came to you until they were added to a group chat with you made by Oscar without Lando's knowledge.

You didn't speak to the other drivers much in the group chat so you had forgotten it existed most of the time. They would send you pictures of Lando doing goofy things every once in a while, but that was about it. Never once did you think to mention it to Lando, it was a little secret look into his world and the photos gave you a way to know he was having fun. They reminded you of all the good times you both had shared together.

"Flashback when you met me. Your buzzcut and my hair bleached. Even in my worst times, you could see the best in me."

Secondary school hadn't started out easily for you, having moved away from all of your primary school friends. As a farewell, you all decided to color each other's hair. You had ended up a platinum blonde which made you stand out even more on the first day of school. Making new friends was hard at first. Most of the time you felt alone in a sea of unfamiliar faces.

It was probably the worst time of your life looking back. At least until a boy with a cheeky grin and sassy comebacks made it his mission to befriend you. At first, you didn't know what to make of the boy. Turned out his friend group had done something similar to yours but had buzzed all their hair off instead of dyeing it. He saw the girl with good grades who sat alone every day not as a freak like everyone else but as someone worth taking a chance on. You had no right to fall as fast as you did, but you couldn't help it. He was funny, kind, and well perfect.

"Flashback to my mistakes. My rebounds, my earthquakes. Even in my worst lies, you saw the truth in me."

As secondary school went on, Lando changed, not as a person but physically. No longer was he the straggly, small, buzzcut kid. He got taller, grew his hair out, and even became charming in a way you would never have imagined. Looking back he could remember getting his first girlfriend and how excited he was only to have his heartbroken.

He dated around more from then on, never getting attached to another girl. By developing a confident and flirtatious appearance he could avoid being hurt again. It worked on everyone as he gained popularity, everyone except you. You saw him for who he really was, always there to catch him when the mask slipped off and he shattered on the ground. Something he would always appreciate you for.

"All of this silence and patience. Pinning and anticipation"

When the drivers had first approached you with their plan you were skeptical.

Would he even want to see me after all this time?

You thought. You two had always talked about meeting again but your schedules never aligned. He always had a race or you had a case that you couldn't miss. They talked about how Lando had seemed down the last couple of weeks while you had been busy with a case, how they thought he missed you, and that they had a race in America soon. Blowing care to the wind you agreed. How could you miss the chance to see him again?

Clutching the hem of your shirt as you walked into the paddock for the first time, Daniel was waiting past security to show you around. Oscar had been able to pull some strings and get you a Race Day VIP pass without Lando knowing. You texted in the group chat and Daniel had been sent to come get you so Lando wouldn't notice. He couldn't stop talking about how excited he was to see the look on Lando's face as you two walked.

"Say my name and everything just stops. I don't want you like a best friend."

Soon enough Lando's laughter fills the air as Carlos holds his shoulder while bending over in laughter as well. You stood still for a moment watching to carve this memory of him into your mind before moving closer.

You smiled a bit to yourself, he was always the life of the party, always finding a way to make everyone around him laugh, and as always oblivious to his surroundings. He was still the same Lando you had fallen for all those years ago.

"Hey, Lan."

You said once you were a few feet away. Lando froze for a moment before turning around to look at you in shock. He couldn't believe you were here. Really here standing in the paddock only a few feet away next to Daniel of all people. He decided he didn't care how it happened only that it did.

Your hands started to shake as he stared at you. You wanted to hug him, kiss him, do something, but you were stuck. Stuck looking at him with hope in your eyes that he would say something, do something. Anything.

Carlos chucked at Lando's state before patting him on the back.

"Well, are you just gonna stand there? You know it took a lot of planning to get her here."

Lando snapped out of his trance, looking in between Carlos and you before breaking out in a sprint straight for you with the biggest smile on his face. He lifted you up by the waist spinning around with you in his arms.

It felt so good to have you in his arms again after all this time. At that moment, he realized it didn't matter how long it had been you were his home and he wasn't gonna let you go again.

[envy-of-the-apple]

Hello! I love your writing, especially that mad dog Drabble! Could you maybe do something similar for Oikawa? Noncon if you’re comfortable with that too. Thank you so much!

I wrote this awhile ago and then I never got around to publishing it and now I refuse to reread it because i cringe at my old writing but i remember spending a shit ton of time on this so here's my three year old trash fic. enjoy.

(Warnings: dark content, non-con touching, rape, non-con/sexual harassment, verbal degradation, forced orgasms, public-sex, overstimulation) 

18+ content 

 Tutoring Sessions 

You knew Spanish. 

Not an expert by any means, but you could probably get by if you were stranded in a Spanish-speaking country. You were good at it. Decent. 

You just weren’t the teaching type. You could barely learn, let alone, pass your skills on to someone else. Teaching required patience and diligence. That wasn’t you. 

But, really, what could you say when the Captain of the volleyball team himself asked you to tutor him? He looked so desperate too, looking down at you with pleading eyes. He asked for an hour-no-just thirty minutes. All you had to do was correct his grammar, jot a few vocabulary words for him, and maybe teach him extra conjugations. 

Looking back, you should have declined. You should have made any bullshit excuse you could think of. You should have laughed nervously, apologized- have done anything to get out of his attention. 

You shouldn’t have let him coax you into the fourth floor of the library, trapping you with his tall body in an isolated booth. 

At least then his hand wouldn’t be currently rubbing your thigh.

His movements were slow, casual, as his fingers made lazy circles up and down your leg. You couldn’t tell if it was intentional if he was touching you on purpose or mindlessly moving his hands. His face betrayed nothing, solely staring forward at the sheets of paper. 

“So, I just replace the ‘ar’ with ‘aron’?” He asked, his hand slowly moving higher and higher, “Why can’t I use ‘aban’?” 

You bit your lip, “Because it has a definite ending. The-the sentence is ‘they spoke with me yesterday’. The action ended yesterday, that’s-that’s why we use the preterit form.” 

Your breath hitched when his hand trailed underneath your skirt, skimming across your panties. Your hand balled into a shaking fist. 

You wanted to tell him to move, you wanted to shove his hand off you, but you weren’t confrontational. Instead, you elected to push down the feeling of unease in your chest, trying your best to ignore his ministrations, praying that he’d drop his hand by himself.

He didn’t.

“Right, you use preterit form for a definite ending,” He’s murmuring now, a sultry rumble that sends shivers down your spine, “I keep forgetting that." His laugh twinkles through the air. It's a jarring contrast to his warm hands.

“So ‘Hablaron me ayer’?” 

He took that moment to slide past your panties, lightly rocking on your heat. You sucked in a short breath, gritting your teeth. You couldn’t pretend like he didn’t know what he was doing, not when his fingers were sinking deeper and deeper-

A finger tapped on your inner thigh. Play along.

“It’s-it’s ‘me habl-ah-hablaron ayer’. The object comes first-” You flinched when his pointer finger stroked over your hot skin, “And-and then the subject.” 

You wished he’d stop making you talk. You wished you could just push him off you. You wished so many things, things Oikawa wouldn’t grant you. 

“Okay,” He’s grinning now, a little less put together. His breathing is a little ragged, hitching whenever you uncomfortably shift. Though he’s still resolutely staring at the pages before him, his eyes are shining. Eager, “-makes sense,” 

You just realized how empty the library is. 

You can feel his calloused fingers crawling under you, searching for something. His middle finger curls a little, softly brushing over your sensitive clit. 

You stumble forward. He says something, but you’re not listening. Not when his fingers are hovering over your hot button, delving down to push and prod. 

Your reached up to cover your mouth, instantly silencing any noises you knew would come spilling out. He laughs at that, finally finally breaking the act of playing innocent. 

Or maybe it wasn’t such a good thing. He’s looking at you now, a knowing smirk on his pretty face. 

Repulsion burns through you. It’s quickly replaced by humiliation as a wet squelch erupts from the place he’s touching you, making you lurch. 

“I wasn’t expecting that,” He hums in satisfaction, “You already dripping? You must really want this, huh?” 

He stares at you, daring you to reply, knowing fully well you won’t. No, you wouldn’t say anything, you wouldn’t do anything either. You would just sit there and take it. 

Exactly what he wants. 

He’s moving at a rhythm now, rubbing your clit with his thumb as his fingers inch down your folds. Your nails are digging into your trembling palm, but you don’t tell him to stop. You don’t say a word. No, that would be acknowledging what he’s doing. It would make it real-

your thoughts vanish as a slender finger sinks into your pussy. Your sigh is muffled by your clammy hand, digging further into your mouth as he starts fucking you in earnest. He’s going too fast; your mind is spinning. You can’t keep up with the waves of pleasure coming in and out and in and out and in again. 

Your hand slips and the moan that escapes your mouth surprise you. It was loud and so dirty, you couldn’t believe it was your voice-it was you who made that noise. 

His finger curls, bending in your tight walls and you feel like wailing. Oikawa strokes against a spot deep inside you that has you seeing stars. 

You unconsciously lean against him. Oikawa draws you in closer, forcing you to rest against his shoulder as a second finger sinks into your heat. You whine as it pushes through your sopping walls, completely stretching you out. 

You think you hear him snarl a quiet fuck but you’re not paying attention. Your head is pounding, matching the brutal thrusts of his fingers. It’s devouring you it’s too much and you want to stop, you want to breathe. Oikawa isn’t keen on helping, not when he’s rubbing fast circles on your clit, stretching his fingers inside you when he feels you’re not making enough noise. He wants something from you. 

And you’re forced to give it to him. 

There’s a hitch in your breath, the tiniest pause, before you clench around his fingers with a muffled scream. He hushes you, allowing you to bury your face into his shoulder as he keeps fucking your pussy until you collapse in his chest. 

You’re panting when he finally removes his fingers, wiping the slick haphazardly on your inner thigh. You shift uncomfortably when he pulls away, feeling your hole clench again. The orgasm fades away and all you’re left with is the shock of what you’ve done and utter humiliation. 

He lifts your chin, forcing you to look at him. His brown eyes were dark, coated in lust. He’s sneering at you. 

The kiss surprises you. You weren’t expecting his lips to be soft as he gently melts into yours. It’s so tender, a stark contrast to what he was like before. Maybe it was because you didn’t really put up a fight, your lips falling open when he stroked his thumb on your sensitive skin. 

It’s still intense and when he pulls away, you take your first real breath. 

“See?” He hums, a hand settling on yours, “That wasn’t so bad, right?” 

“Oikawa-” 

He’s pulling you out of your seat before you can finish your sentence, dragging you away from the abandoned table filled with unused highlighters. Your legs are still weak, you stumble around a little. Oikawa doesn’t mind, towing you like he’s carrying nothing but air. 

He slips into an empty storage closet, with you reluctantly trailing behind him. The door closes behind you with a dull thud, and you’re forced to stand with him in the darkness. 

When the light comes back on, he’s towering above you. His chest presses against yours, pinning you against the wall. His smile is manic, filled with a hunger that you know won’t be satisfied with just one taste. 

No, he wants to devour you whole. 

It’s the realization, that he will ruin you, that make your eyes sting. Hot tears creep down your cheeks as your lips waver. 

He coos at that, “Don’t cry, baby. You’ll be okay. I took care of you, right? I made you feel so good?” He shuffles closer and you can feel something hard and stiff press against your thigh. 

“Now you gotta’ do the same for me. It’s a fair trade, right?” 

He’s kissing you again. It’s rough, this time, as he bites on your bottom lip, hard enough to tear skin. Your yelp is muffled as he shoves his tongue into your drooling mouth. You taste the smallest hint of something metallic. 

His lips move down, covering your jaw with soft butterfly kisses that made your head spin. When they find your neck, he clamps down on your soft flesh, licking at biting at everything he could taste. Your breath hitches, a sound that’s in between a gasp and a moan. The sensation of his teeth against your neck causes you to lean your head against the wall, reluctantly giving him room. He purrs at that.

“Good girl.”

His hands are fiddling with your buttons. You barely have time to speak before he impatiently rips your shirt, sending the round objects scattering.

A half-hearted apology is mumbled into your skin. His fingers skitter over your bra, you cry out when his cold hands push the material up to feel your tits.

It’s still not enough. His body is feverish, you feel so hot against him, so pliant, so beautiful. You’re crying, whimpering, softly whispering for him to stop but do you even know how desperate you sound? Your voice sounds so needy, it’s hard to be sated from just touching.

Oikawa yanks down your skirt, letting them pool at your ankles. Your thighs are still glistening from his previous ministrations and your panties are wet, still soaked.

He feels pure euphoria watching them slide down your legs, landing on the ground next to the other piles of clothing.

You’re standing before him, barely clothed, shivering. He gives you a chaste kiss on the cheek, mumbling a soft ‘be good for me, okay’, before he reaches down to his pants.

He doesn’t pull it down all the way, just enough to reach inside and pull out his throbbing cock. It’s already an angry red, a single drop of precum leaking at the tip.

He gives it a few cursory pumps, before he stills.

“I really wanted to see you cum, bet you looked so pretty. Do you mind doing that again, just for me pretty please?”

He grinned when you didn’t reply. You can’t understand how someone so beautiful could hide so much cruelty. 

“No? That’s okay, I’ll just make you. Again.”

In one single movement, he hikes your leg against his hip and thrusts his cock inside you.

You wail as he pushes himself inside, already starting to set a rough pace. It hurts, much bigger than two fingers. Whatever he did before clearly didn’t help make it feel any less painful. You give a choked scream, hot tears clouding your vision.

He’s not quiet either, leaning his forehead against the wall behind you, moaning shamelessly. He’s saying your name like a prayer, repeating it over and over again until it sounds like that’s the only thing he can say.

“You have to relax, baby-fuck you’re so tight.” Oikawa hisses, hiking your leg higher to fuck you deeper.

The pain fades. You wish it stayed, keeping you sober while he pushes you against the wall, greedily palming your tits, sucking on your neck.

But it disappears and a loud moan leaves your lips, too breathy to be made from anything but pleasure.

You instinctively cover your mouth, trying to muffle the sounds your traitorous body is making.

“Nope, not this time,” He cheerily says, ripping your hand away, “I wanna hear you scream.” 

He angles his hips, his cock sinking into that spot and you do scream.

The pleasure that waves up and down your body blinds you. Your body isn’t listening to you, anymore. Your cunt keeps sucking him back in with each thrust. You can feel beads of precum roll down your thigh. Oikawa’s head is resting on your shoulder now. His weight makes your shaky legs buckle, digging your back further into the hard concrete.

He kisses your hand, encouraging you to drape it on his shoulder. It limply falls beside his neck, barely brushing against his hair.

You shift your hips and his cock stutters almost stopping his rhythm before Oikawa’s cooing something dirty into your ear, reaching down to rub your clit until you’re crying out again.

It’s addicting, he realizes, having your cunt flutter around him like this, leaking out his precum. It’s a feeling that makes him piston himself into you over and over again, relishing in the way your pussy tries to suck him in, like you were begging for more.

“O-oikawa,” You finally gasp when you finally regain the ability to speak, “Slow down please please slow-slow down.”

His laugh is breathy, “You want me to slow down, angel? What, are you close again?”

You don’t respond, but it’s enough to make him go faster, ignoring your pleas in search of your gradually rising voice.

He hisses when his knee hits the wall, grimacing.

“-Wanted to do this at a bed, you know,” He grunted, “Somewhere soft. But-but I didn’t wanna-hah-scare you, you’re so anxious it was so-fuck- hard choosing a place-place you’d actually show up in.” 

He rubs your clit, feeling your walls grow tighter and tighter. He pulls back to look at you, eyes shut, your lip caught between your teeth, your face filled with lustful pleasure.

“Cum for me, baby. Show me how perfect you are.”

You follow his orders, your orgasm making you cry in ecstasy. It makes you go limp and you almost sink to the floor before Oikawa catches you, keeping you upright as he chases his own end.

He doesn’t stop, not even when you beg him to slow down that it’s too much. No, he just hushes you again, stumbling over a tensed ‘Just a little more’, before he’s going faster and faster until you feel something warm, wet, and sobering fill your cunt. 

He’s slows down then, his eyes shut in bliss as he rocks his hips forward, milking as much as he could. When he finally pulls out, he does it with a hiss, making you flinch as his skin hits your sensitive clit. 

He doesn’t catch you this time, letting you drop to the floor. You tumble to the ground, your hands barely catching your fall. The tile is so cool against your sensitive skin, it almost makes you forget the milky liquid spread on your legs, the finger-print shaped bruises on your thigh. 

You don’t think you have anymore tears left, but they still fall, running down your cheeks. 

He’s instantly over you, brushing a hand down your face. 

“Oh, don’t cry, baby, you did such a good job,” Oikawa cooed, wiping your tears away. 

He’s not comforting you. His smile is too satisfied to make you think he had any semblance of pity. You briefly wonder what he’s seeing. You, exhaustedly crumpled against the wall, your legs curled, cum seeping out, your neck and chest littered with teeth marks. No wonder he looks so pleased.  

He pets your hair, shifting it back in place and it’s so domestic-so loving that it makes you sick. 

Oikawa grins, showing teeth. “How about next time we study at my place.”

[sgiandubh]

She saw, she was first, she scored, homerun

Heh. But Marple only tells you what is convenient for her, right?

This time, I do not have the clip, like she does, simply because as I said, I could not be arsed to watch it. But a trusted friend did, all five hours of it (thank you, dear 😘😘😘😘) and sent me very decent screencaps of S + June Brunette at that tennis event. She sent them a couple of hours ago, while I was busy having a life and lunch, you know (I can prove it anytime, but will always protect my Circle of Trust). Sorry for the delay.

As you know, this blog does not believe that hiding information is the best thing to do. I never did.

Following are the screencaps I have received, in order, and with very precise comments. If anything is wrong, let it be my and her sin. But it is not and you will immediately see why.

Context: S and June Brunette's juiciest appearance in that very exposed spot of the VIP area coincided with Mansour Bahrami's match. S came first, at around 03: 04:49.

Two other people who were seated on those seats before his arrival get up and leave (perhaps prompted? perhaps uninterested in Bahrami? we can only speculate) - all this perhaps about 20 to 30 seconds before S arrives, alone:

He takes a seat and quickly arranges his jacket on his knees, perhaps sends an SMS (I am not Mrs. Graham and, unlike many other people across the street, never pretended to have infrared surveillance material):

Meanwhile, she pops in, at around 03:05:10. Unmistakably Panikian - the yellow outfit was a dead giveaway and he practically pointed when, where and for what to look, in his post: 'and of course, the legend, @mansourbahramiofficial'.

Heh: he was far from surprised and she did not chitchat at all ('is this seat taken?' etc). She just sat down: it was a very natural thing to do:

Then, he takes her in a bear hug. Kinda, sorta. Making sure they are well exposed, unlike you know, that other time:

I am told it was a matter of seconds before he wrapped his arm around her neck. Well, that is the rebuke I have been waiting for about three weeks, right?

At about 04:03:41 and until 04:10:03, she goes out, for some reason (🚹? 💄? 📳? your guess is as good as mine):

My candid question is.. who is Light Green Arrow Woman? This is the first time I see her clearly in those screenshots I (one more time, for the people in the back) have been sent by a trusted friend. Could she be a chaperone of sorts? I am told that on the video edit Marple made a modo suo, she seems to be interacting with Mrs. Panikian, but I would have to see that:

A selfie is taken, to properly document the bullshit (after she helped herself with some more champagne):

Whatever Marple calls 'quite the hug' is a kiss on the cheek, and you can see it quite clearly on her edit, if you really are freaked out by this cheap arrangement:

Prompted by the impromptu (heh) 🔦 + 🍾cocktail, she took it very seriously. A pity she did, without having the slightest idea of the strange place she landed in.

That would be it, to be honest. The pics and stills of these two individuals where he does wear a jacket, that our side published first yesterday are from the first part of the program. I do have a couple of more stills from then, but you have it all on that edit. There is no need to add more pics to it, doesn't bring anything new to the table.

And now, onwards for some more context.

Such as this post on June 13, 2024:

With this very peculiar hidden comment:

From a very peculiar sock account:

Mmmhm. Joined in June 2024, follows nobody and is followed by nobody, and yet felt the need to change the username already once? I mean, what the fuck is this cheap game, right here?

So, for those of you naive (I am elegant) enough to think this Brief Encounter was organic, think twice. Somebody followed whatever the scheming was and that somebody tried to warn the woman. Whether about the Inglorious Pap Walk or about Kissgate (the message was posted around June 15th), is to be debated. But still...

And there is some more, of course : I may not be willing to fuck my (already complicated) eyesight with edits and frames and screenshots, but I am not yet dead and I still have all my brain faculties.

Around the same time Mrs. Panikian began to be followed by S on IG, she also began to be followed by a very decent (give or take a couple of details) physical alternative to My Personal Someone. Who would kill me if he could read this post, btw. That is, if you could kill someone with cold shoulder treatment and an icy gaze (Spanish style all the way):

Quick, let's see what his Personal Life insert tells us:

I mean, D'OH: in case you wondered who the fuck that warning sock account was. NEED I DRAW IT?

Nah, can't be Margot, what were we thinking?

🙄🙄🙄

He followed her not so long ago, but well, he wasn't active since March, LOL:

And look how cute, they are fresh (?) mutuals, as of very recently/now - I might be wrong, but I don't think I am:

Tattoos, fitness venues, filthy porn bots in his 'Tagged' section, rumored to be single since at least last year. Rings a bell? Oh, surely not. Especially when you find out that this guy is also a mildly hot topic on Data Lounge (hope dies last):

Similar profiles (but Eggold is apparently a staunch Catholic - the gay conspirators grin with glee), similar PR problems. Alice to the rescue?

At any rate, she is up for grabs, people: 'looking for a man with a decent sense of humor who doesn't troll women's IG pages' - LOOOOOL. Meet the bloody OL fandom, doll - how's that for trolling? Betcha didn't see what real trolling is, yet.

On a sidenote, in an effort to leave no stones unturned, I have even looked for the edits on her Wikipedia page, until I realized they were unsubstantial and made by a clearly obsessed fan of Miss Universe contests (yeah, such people exist):

Surely enough, that user was blocked for sockpuppetry, which means 'abusing multiple accounts'. But Panikian was not her main obsession and for once, this has nothing to do with the current cheapo story that they try to peddle us. Whoever 'they' are.

That's all for now, ladies. Thanks to all three of you who sent tips and raw info for me to connect. You are wonderful!

It's going to be an interesting summer, for sure.

Ship on, ladies, still the same old, tired, boring BS. But also an interestingly symmetrical rebuke to TS Kissgate - if only...

[talkdutchtome]

You Should Have Said No

chapter seven - enchanted

pairing . . . max verstappen x reader / pierre gasly x reader )

summary . . . when your fiancé cheats on you, you strike up an unusual friendship with one of his closest friends, who just so happens to have had a crush on you since he set eyes on you. chaos ensues.

inspired by the works of miss taylor swift )

genre . . . angst )

song . . . enchanted - taylor swift )

warning . . . cheating, mental illness, angst, eventual smut, poorly translated french and dutch, swearing, mention of parent loss, emotionally abusive parent, slight social media au, kendall jenner as fc (potentially more i’ll add as i go along)

a/n . . . so i took a bit of a hiatus, but upon returing i found i had written this chapter months ago and for some reason never published it, so here it is, more to come in the coming days )

Max Verstappen was usually a picture of confidence, there was very little that made him nervous; after all he spent his life driving at 200 miles an hour. Max was consistently cool, calm and collected no matter what he was doing, that’s just who he was. But as he stood in front of your apartment door, he felt a chill of uncertainty deep within. He had rehearsed his words a thousand times, but now, as he prepared to knock on the door, all eloquence seemed to escape him. Could he do this? Should he do this? Even though his friendship with you was still fresh, it had come to mean a lot to him, and if he did what he wanted to do, he was well aware that he could lose the newfound friendship. “It’s now or never” he spoke out loud to himself before finally gathering the courage to knock on the door. When the door swung open, revealing you stood there in your pajamas holding a rather large glass of wine, Max couldn’t help but second guess whether he should be doing this.  

“Hey Max, I-” you started, trying to find a way to apologize for kissing him and then completely ghosting him immediately following the kiss, but was interrupted by the Dutchman’s voice cutting through. 

“Wait, Y/N. Just let me get this out” His words hung in the air, heavy with anticipation, and you watched as he took a deep breath to steady himself. It was evident in the way his hands trembled that this was not an easy moment for him. Despite his anxiety, Max looked directly into your eyes, his sincerity shining through. 

“30th of September 2017. That is the day that you and I met, I remember it like it was yesterday. Pierre and I knew each other from karting but when he got his seat at Toro Rosso, and you came with him to the Malaysian GP, we met each other for the first time. When I saw you for the first time, I thought you were the most beautiful girl I had ever seen in my life, and when I got to know you, I realized that not only were you the most beautiful girl, but you were also the kindest and funniest girl too. But you were with Pierre.”  

For a second Max stopped, wondering if it was too late to run away and pretend that this never happened. He couldn’t bring himself to look you in the eye, afraid of what he would see. You were frozen, slowly taking in every word he said.  

“You were with Pierre, and I knew I needed to respect that. So, I ignored everything I knew I felt for you. I kept you at arms length as nothing more than Pierre’s girlfriend because I knew the more I got to know you to harder it would be to ignore how I felt. And I was right; because as I've spent more time with you, it’s made it impossible for me to pretend that this isn't how I feel. I know this is selfish of me, I know that the last thing you need right now is me making things more complicated for you after everything you’ve been through, but I haven’t been able to stop thinking about that kiss. I can’t pretend anymore. You deserve so much more than how Pierre has treated you.” 

Max's confession hung in the air, and as he finally looked into your eyes for the first time since he started speaking, his own were filled with trepidation. He feared that he might see disgust or anger in your expression, but what he found instead was a bewildered look, a mix of surprise and confusion. For a moment, silence prevailed as you tried to process the whirlwind of emotions that his words had stirred within you. Max, sensing your confusion, stammered out an apology. "I'm sorry, Y/N. I shouldn't have put you in this position." He took a step back, as if ready to retreat and give you space to collect your thoughts. "If you want me to go, just say the word." 

You shook your head, still unable to find the right words. "No, Max, please stay," you finally managed to say softly. "I just need a moment to process all of this." You motioned for him to come back inside, and as he entered your home, the air was filled with a sense of uncertainty.  

Max stood there, his gaze locked onto yours, and it was clear that he was waiting anxiously to hear what you had to say. You could see the nervous anticipation in his eyes, the way his fingers slightly trembled. It wasn't just your feelings that were in turmoil; Max's emotions were on display as well. 

"Max," you began again, your voice wavering with raw honesty, "I would be lying if I said that I didn’t feel anything for you. But I’m just so confused." Your gaze dropped to the ground for a moment before returning to meet his earnest eyes. "I met Pierre when I was 13 and we’ve been together since, he was my first and only everything. So even though he hurt me more than I knew was possible, those feelings don’t just disappear” 

You continued, trying to express the jumble of emotions swirling within you. "I like you, a lot. And the time we’ve spent together has been great, but I'm in a place where I have no idea what's going to happen with Pierre. It wouldn't be fair for me to lead you on when I'm still grappling with my own emotions." 

Max nodded, his understanding gaze unwavering. "I get it, Y/N," he replied softly, his voice filled with empathy. "I don't expect you to have all the answers right away, and I don't expect you to suddenly be done with Pierre. But I also don't want to give up on the potential of what we might share." He took a deep breath, a glimmer of hope in his eyes. "So, if you're willing, could we start by going on a date? No expectations, no pressure. Just two people getting to know each other better." 

Your heart swelled with a mix of emotions, but you needed to make sure he understood the complexity of your situation. You searched his eyes for any signs of hesitation and, finding none, you mustered a small, genuine smile. "Okay, Max," you replied, “If you’re sure you’re okay with me not really knowing what I’m doing, then I’d happily go on a date with you.” 

As Max heard your tentative agreement to go on a date, a radiant smile spread across his face, illuminating his entire expression. It was as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders, and his eyes sparkled with genuine happiness and relief. His excitement was palpable, and it showed in the way he couldn't contain a small, triumphant chuckle. 

Max's voice, once tinged with nervousness, now carried a buoyant enthusiasm as he said, "Thank you, Y/N. I promise there's no rush, no pressure. We can take things as slow as you need. I'm just grateful for the chance." You truly didn’t know what was going to happen, you liked Max, but you loved Pierre. Things were pretty much as complicated as they could be, but Max had made you feel like it was okay that you were confused, it was okay that you didn’t know what you were doing.  

Content that you had agreed to go on a date, Max stood up to leave and as he reached the door, you noticed a moment of hesitation in his gaze. It was as if he was contemplating something, and for a brief second, you thought he might lean in for a kiss. Your heart raced at the possibility, but then you saw the doubt flicker in his eyes, and his lips curved into a warm, sincere smile. He decided to step closer and envelop you in a gentle hug. 

The embrace was warm and comforting, and as Max held you, you couldn't help but feel a wave of happiness wash over you. There was something undeniably exciting about the prospect of this new chapter, despite the complicated circumstances that had led to it. The mix of emotions that had coursed through you during the day seemed to have settled into a pleasant anticipation. 

As you climbed into bed that night, you were amazed by the unexpected shift in your mood. Instead of feeling worried or stressed about the uncertain future, you were filled with excitement and happiness. Max's genuine interest and the possibilities that lay ahead left you with a sense of hope and a newfound joy that you hadn't anticipated. 

Taglist - @lordperceval-16 @omarsiglia @tom-rec @hiraethrhapsody @barnestatic @ironmaiden1313 @dudenhaaa27 @aundercover @amalialeclerc @icarus-nex @reidsworld @simxican @idkiwantchocolatee @ruleroftheuniverse @faithm120601 @eugene-emt-roe @bicchaan @leclercdream @be-your-coffee-pot @pjofics @yunnie-f1 @girlintheredscarf @larastark3107 @rosalysaoirse @mycenterfold @janeholt3 @daddyslittlevillain @gaslysainz @princessria127 @laneyspaulding19 @fangirl125reader

[mimi-is-so-horny]

okay, so... you know how sometimes a day starts lovely, and then it goes to shit? and sometimes, you feel like you've done this to yourself? actually, you have done it to yourself. anyway.

i made a point to wake up early today to make Sir and Anna breakfast and to write them a note thanking them for fucking me so well yesterday, and for being pretty much the best thing in my life right now. i felt very grateful and i know i'm very lucky. i think they appreciated that, too.

i blew the candles on my birthday cake naked on Sir's lap - i've been 25 for a couple of days, and i usually hate my birthdays, but Anna insisted we should do the whole birthday thing properly. Sir wrote me a birthday card that almost moved me to tears. He groped my tits as i blew my candles.

for context, i used to want to enter academia in combination to committing to a totally different career path. what i'm doing right now isn't even my Plan C, so of course, i feel a bit like a failure. i'd written a chapter in a book that discussed some recent developments in my field and placed them in a behavioural/institutional context - the book was published this year, and the complimentary copy they sent to authors arrived on my birthday. i should be happy, right? but i feel so defeated, and so dumb, and like this is the first and last good thing i got to do before giving up on my aspirations completely. sure, i'll still apply to enter a more commercial side of my field next year, but that's still just more "sustainable", financially, and more difficult than i thought it would be. all this effort for something i won't really value or enjoy, yuck. and what if i fail, again? anyway. Mimi's whiny ass.

so Sir asked me to read my chapter, and i said yes, sure. He wanted to "see how i think". why not, right?

He fucked me yesterday, and this morning, and at noon, and it felt so good. and now He came to my room, to tell me He read my chapter, and while i felt vulnerable i tried to look cool asking Him what He thought of it.

and He showered me in compliments, and asked me why am i here, and not at a Big Prestigious University™ doing research? i told Him that's why i tried, and the Big Prestigious University™ didn't do shit for Mimi in a post-covid job market where she had to care for her family and couldn't work Prestigious Unpaid Internships™. and still, with no network or real mentors that cared more about guiding me than fucking me, or plagiarising me (lol), my options narrowed. and He knew that, so why was He asking me? and then He asked more questions, and i got increasingly angry and i cried and told Him to leave my room, please. well, at least He did.

so now i have to go downstairs and apologise for lashing out at Him for essentially caring. that was just me projecting - how mad i am at myself for failing, and for giving up, and and for being too lazy to try again - on Him. but i also don't want to do that, because i can only taste how i'm not working in the city i want, and how the people i work for are surprised when i can introduce better corrections than them, and how i am a grown woman that is already bitter about not being where she wanted to be. how i pretend to have given up, when in reality i'm still kind of grieving the people i thought i could be, and realising it can always get worse. am i making myself into a victim: poor-me, poor-me? or am i entitled to my anger and sadness? i don't know, and Sir knows something sad happened to me without my consent, a long while ago - so what if He sees me as a victim, too? am i really that stupid and that passive? what if i'm wasting His time, too?

i don't think i use kink as a coping mechanism or as a distraction; i'm just happy it's an area of my life i'm currently getting exactly what i want, exactly in my own terms and limits - i've rarely gotten that much respect and reciprocity in "vanilla world" - be it work, or education, or friendships. but that fact also makes me sad. why can't i have some of the things i want, sometimes? why was it "Rejection Letter"+"Your Flatmate Lost Your Cat And Now Won't Help Or Speak To You"+"Your Supervisor Wants To Fuck You And He's Angry Now!"+"Your Family Is Asking For Money, Again!!!", and not, like, slightly better? it's hard to feel empowered now. that sad six-year-old is here again, and she wants good stuff i don't know how to give, because i'm out of fucking candy (or, y'know, drugs. because i don't do that shit anymore).

anyway, that will be a difficult conversation. and i feel sorry for Him, for having to deal with me.

well, that was a very self-centred ramble by a fairly self-centred person, so i'm sorry if you read this? but also it was your choice to do so, meh. drink water, wear sunscreen.

[elsaellaelys]

Could you write something about the reader isnt feeling good so jj stays with her and they have a cute fluffy lazy day! Feel free to add whatever you think would fit! (Ps I love your writings🤍)

Lazy Sunday

summary: A headache forces Y/N to stay in bed and her best friend (and her secret passion), JJ, is there to help.

911 words

pairing: JJ Maybank x fem!reader

a/n: Oh my God, I was just thinking about a lazy Sunday with JJ! Thank you for the request, hope you like it! 😘

Ps.: It was supposed to be published this Sunday morning, but I procrastinated.

--★--

This isn't how Y/N imagined this Sunday to begin.

Of course Sundays are alwayd the that the pogues do nothing but hang out on the boat or just lay on the hammocks in the front of the Chateau. But yesterday was tough, full day shift at work and the Sunday she thought would be her salvation started as a nightmare.

The feeling of a heavyweight in her eyes was the first to hit, up and through her head now. She got up with eyes still closed, searching for the door of the room she know so well, JJ always let her sleep on the bed, even tought he claimed the room his, she always get to be comfortable and have everything she needs or wants, as the good best friend she loves, way much than she should. With the brain pulsing against her skull was very difficult to remember the backpack she left on the floor, hooking to her feet bringing her down right on the top of the blonde boy sleeping on the floor.

"Ow! Y/N! What the heck?" JJ yelled, Y/N answered with a long groan.

"Don't yell. My head is pulsating." she cried, opening her eyes a little, he was staring at her with furrowed eyebrows and worried blue deep eyes, his messy hair all over his forehead. "You want me to do something?" he softly asked, grabing her arms to help her sit, touching her face to look for any fever and putting her hair away from the sweat in her face. Her heart melt a little and she leaned in his touch, it made he want to take her pain away by putting her lips on his.

"No, I'll just go wash my face and drink some water, take some fresh air, maybe it'll help." He nodded, getting up to help her again.

"I'm okay, J."

"But you're hurting, I wanna help."

"Than get me a cold wash cloth."

It was done the minute she said, he gave her some cold water and insisted she should laid on the couch, she did, avoiding Pope on the other couch, JJ was right beside where she sitted, pressing circles on her temple. It was hardly 9 a.m. and Y/N felt herself slowly drifting to sleep, on JJ's shoulder. Him, although, couldn't find the strenght to sleep with the girl he is head over heels for looking so comfortable against him. He held her tight, carefully to not wake or hurt her.

Kiara arrived with sandwiches for the breakfast a little time after, JJ quickly shushed her, rolling his eyes at the look she gave him, she woke up Pope and went to wake John B. so JJ had to wake Y/N, upset for not being able to hold her forever. She snuggled more into his side, arms rounding him like he was a pillows, JJ felt his heart burn in his chest.

"You feel better? Wanna eat?" he asked, she nodded but didn't moved, his fingers nevet stopping running through her hair.

"You two stop with this sweet shit, I'll get diabetes. We're going out on HMS Pogue." John B. complained, mouth already full of bread and cheese.

"I'm a bit sick, so leave me alone." Y/N stuck out her toungue to the friend and turned to JJ, chin resting in his chest, his smell was so noticeable she felt like breathing in forever. "You'll stay with me? I wanna watch cartoons."

He laughed lightly. "Yeah, sure, honey." The nickname escaped, just like it always do, and they pretended it didn't happened, just like they always do, but their hearts twirled, just like it always do.

The pogues were out, JJ made sure to make everything extra perfect, as much comfortable as it could be, pillows, drinks and snacks, but he couldn't help but go a little nervously crazy cause it looked like a movie date, and she was right there, eyes so attentive to the TV screen, laughing at the Madagascar movie, it felt like a slap in his face, how could he be so coward, she was real, kind and sincere with him.

So perfect.

"Y/N." he called.

"Yeah?" she turned her face to him, they were sitting on the sofa, her legs over his lap.

"You okay?"

"Yes, the pain it's over. Actually is so good when the pain goes away after a good nap..."

"Can I..." He stopped her, but stopped himself too.

"Yeah"

"Nothing. I was just thinking that you're so pretty."

"Really? Thank you, J."

"Yeah, you are. In fact, you're the most beautiful girl I know, I really like you, like more than a friend and I was holping you felt the same so maybe I could kiss you."

It all came out like in one breath. Y/N couldn't smile more wide, but she didn't had words, just met his lips with hers, kissing him with happiness. He kissed her back, softly, just like the clouds he felt he was walking on.

"I do feel the same." she pulled back. "So that's your time to kiss me." he quickly chased to kiss her, holding her tight for the rest of the day, the TV long forgotten, just kisses, cuddling and talking, then eating yesterday pizza leftovers, sleeping the whole afternoon in his bed, tangling and disappearing into each other.

There's was no way Y/N would leave JJ and the bed that Sunday.

[hippolotamus]

Fuck it Friday 🏖️

Two snippets today because... fuck it, right?

First! from the unnamed Lutalia ficlet (it is not coming as easy as I'd hoped) [pun fully intended because, yeah, it's probably gonna get spicy] prev snippet here

It’s not like Natalia should even get emotionally invested, or worked up over the message. She and Lucy aren’t anything meaningful like partners or girlfriends. Lovers would be a generous description. They’re… something with benefits. Not friends, exactly. More like acquaintances. That term feels awkward as she turns it around in her brain. But saying ‘acquaintances who met through a guy they have in common’ is even moreso. So, yeah, something with benefits.

She chuckles to herself thinking about ever needing to introduce Lucy. Oh, Lucy? She’s nobody really. We just fuck sometimes. Somewhere in the afterlife her grandmother is probably cursing up a storm because Natalia didn’t marry a nice Catholic boy and have a houseful of kids. Sorry, Nana.

Second! From a published work, my baby, whatever may come (your heart I will choose). I heard the song this chapter was named for and I was overwhelmed with gushy emotions. So, from CH 21....

Eddie has been alone long enough to know he doesn’t want to always be that way. There’s a part of him that still equates romantic love with effort and disappointment, but he’s seen enough to know that some people get it right. Christopher is his priority and anyone he would even think to consider would have to feel the same - they’re a packaged deal, can’t have one without the other.

Much like Buck, Eddie has his fair share of women — and men — try to get his attention on calls. Someone might argue he’s missing out on a meet-cute opportunity, but a person who’s throwing themselves to see which firefighter will catch them isn’t what Eddie is looking for. Honestly, he’s not sure what his type is, or if he even really has one. He’s also not sure if it’s a surprise or not when the person he might want is his best friend. Buck, who became part of Eddie and Christopher’s lives so seamlessly Eddie didn’t realize it had happened until he almost lost him.

When Eddie comes home from his 24, it’s… different. It’s good, he thinks, but there’s definitely something new crackling in the air around him. Eddie had arrived at the station yesterday morning, and gone immediately into his usual routine, barely getting changed before the bell went off. He didn’t have time to think about leaving Buck behind. In his bed. Now that he’s home, however, there’s really no choice.

Buck is just walking out of the bedroom — out of Eddie’s bedroom — stretching so just a sliver of skin peeks out above the waistband of his joggers. There are still pillow creases on his cheek, and his hair is adorably sleep-mussed.

When Buck relaxes the stretch, he notices Eddie, giving him a soft smile before he says good morning. A warm, golden glow builds in the center of Eddie’s chest, filling up the usual beige of coming home to a quiet house. Eddie’s hands twitch at his sides, wanting to reach out, to pull Buck close. Just to see. Just to know. What it might feel like if Buck was his. Buck, oblivious to Eddie’s internal struggle, walks past, brushing their shoulders together.

He asks Eddie questions like ‘How was your shift?’ and ‘I was going to make eggs when Christopher wakes up. Want some?’. Buck prepares regular coffee for himself and decaf for Eddie, because he knows Eddie always wants coffee when he comes off a morning shift and the full strength keeps him too jittery for sleep. Nothing has changed and everything has changed. For Eddie anyway. He’s still Buck’s best friend and this is how they are together, how they’ve always been. Eddie is the only one that can see there might be more. He accepts the mug Buck sets down in front of him, and pretends not to notice when Buck’s fingers seem to linger under Eddie’s longer than they probably need to.

It’s easier once Christopher is awake and joins them in the kitchen. Mostly. Sort of. Because he gives Eddie a hug first then shuffles over to give one to Buck, wrapping his arms around Buck’s waist like it’s an everyday thing. Like it could just be that simple that Buck has been here for two nights and that’s just the way it is now.

(…)

Buck beams and gives Christopher a high-five. “Ready for breakfast?”

“Yes!”

“Me, too. Go wash your hands and I’ll start getting it ready.”

Christopher obediently walks toward the bathroom, while Buck washes up in the kitchen sink. Buck makes scrambled eggs and bacon, and Eddie sets the table. Eddie listens to Buck and Christopher tell him about their trip to the Cabrillo Marine Aquarium yesterday and how excited they both are to go to the Heal the Bay and Roundhouse aquariums later in the week.

“Dad, there was a kelp forest inside! Did you know kelp can grow two feet in a day?”

Eddie doesn’t have a chance to answer before Buck is telling him some other fact.

“Yeah! And Eddie! There are these starfish called bat stars. If they bump into each other they have like a slow motion arm wrestling fight.”

“And,” Christopher adds, “they can turn their stomachs inside out.”

That information may have been a bit much for breakfast time, but he’s happy to listen. Buck and Christopher continue to banter back and forth, calling out every fact or exhibit they remember between sips of juice and bites of toast.

“So, what’s the plan for today?” Eddie asks when he’s finally able to get a word in.

“I thought we could take it a little easier, maybe go to the beach? It would get us out and still let you sleep.” Buck looks at Eddie, his blue eyes bright and hopeful. “Unless you wanted to come with us? I can drive.”

Eddie is tired from his shift, but not so exhausted he’s ready to collapse like some days. And with Buck looking at him like that – Eddie doesn’t know how anyone could possibly expect him to say no.

tagged by @callmenewbie @giddyupbuck @hoodie-buck @wikiangela @daffi-990 @jamespearce9-1-1 @spotsandsocks @eddiebabygirldiaz @exhuastedpigeon @lemonzestywrites thank you loves 😘

no pressure tagging @thewolvesof1998 @steadfastsaturnsrings @weewootruck @malewifediaz mi amor @disasterbuckdiaz @thekristen999 @loserdiaz @heartshapedvows @underwater-ninja-13 @fortheloveofbuddie @eowon @jesuisici33 @watchyourbuck @monsterrae1 @shortsighted-owl @stereopticons @elvensorceress @spagheddiediaz @chaosandwolves @wildlife4life @your-catfish-friend @buddierights @911onabc @the-likesofus @honestlydarkprincess @spaceprincessem @fionaswhvre @barbiediaz @pirrusstuff @messyhairdiaz @gayedmundodiaz @theplaceyoustillrememberdreaming @evaneds @maygrantgf @buckbuckgoose @statueinthestone and anybody else who wants to share 💖

[intermundia]

ok idk if anyone's asked this before. but. i've been following your fics for the past while (lovelovelove btw) and realized for the first time yesterday when i perused your masterlist just how many you've published. holy shit dude!! mega kudos. i've been polishing up a couple different wips since new years this year but haven't published any so far, so ig i wanted to ask for advice on getting out there as a fic writer? i've never published before lol. what's ur methods and advice, chef

ahhh thank you :) i am so excited for you!! imho you're standing on the threshold of a beautiful adventure, like you've packed your bags (got some wips) and are ready to head out the door. it's intimidating but in my experience the first comment you get will make all the stress worth it; it will wash away your reservations and give you a hit of affirmation that will only drag you further on into sharing more. it's a virtuous circle that you just have to start.

as trite as it sounds, my biggest piece of advice is to fake it until you make it, like pretend you've published a hundred times before and are perfectly confident and entitled to put your work up in public. that's what i did the first time, i pretended to be someone normal lol. i knew what i expected to see from others and made my story summary and tags look like that to avoid negative ripples (no such ripples really exist in reality, but i know how anxiety whispers lies).

it worked because there's no front door or barrier to entry to posting on ao3, you know? you are exactly as welcome and valid as i am there; we both see the same site back end and the same draft page. you are the same as anybody who has already published. if you have wips and have something that could reasonably be considered finished? pick one, something small even, and just post it. you can edit it once it's live if something dire comes up, i do it all the time.

this is actually something that is causing me a lot of writer's block right now, the fact that i am being far too perfectionist and precious about the next chapter of my main wip. i simply care way too much about the story, so i'm so scared of doing it wrong, so i've been sitting on it. but the way that i've published more 50 stories in the past is trusting my gut about when something is done and pushing it out to the public before i hold myself back.

you have to just keep moving forward, that's the key. tell yourself the next story will be better and remember the last story is better than you think it is. make your chapters as long or as short as you feel is right, post as often or as sparingly as you need. share on other social media once you're done if you want, people want to know there is more of the thing they love in the world, you know? you're offering a gift, and that's kind.

i know that all the advice in the world is basically useless unless you see it at the right moment you need it, and none of my advice is anything that you haven't heard before, but if you need a sign that it's time to pull the trigger, that you are allowed to post things, that people want to see your work, that you're welcome and important to the community by sharing your voice—please take this post as that sign. be confident, because you deserve that confidence, and hit post <3

[ratinayellowbandana]

Prompt: “I feel terrible.” And/or “I want you to kiss me right now.”

I love your fics 🥹 just yesterday I was thinking of your name while perusing ao3 and was wishing for another Imodna fic of yours

hi!! thank you so much for your kind words. it always shocks me when people, like, want to read my writing? so it really means a lot. i'm sorry this took me a little longer. i ended up combining your first one with another prompt and part of my wip so when i eventually publish a fic with an extremely similar scene from imogen's perspective.. dw about it.

anyway, here's some post-resurrection hurt/comfort. we're gonna all pretend they stayed in the castle for a couple days and sorted their shit out.

cw for feelings of helplessness and self-loathing

length: ~1.7k

some prompt lists if you're so inclined || my ao3

~~~

It’s been three days since they got her back. 

Three days since she woke on the worn wooden floors of Pike’s home to a small crowd of friends and strangers. 

Three days since she set foot in Whitestone again, a place she never hoped to return. 

And three days since everyone began treating Laudna as if she's going to shatter. 

The worst part is she feels as if she might. 

The world is too vibrant. Loud. The birds chirping outside the too-large castle window grate on her ears. The silky sheets on the too-soft four-poster bed cling to her in all the wrong ways. Her skin crawls and her bones grind and she can feel her teeth. 

The gnome who revived her said this is normal. She’d been dead, after all. The body would need time to recalibrate. Time they do not have if they want to have any hope of intervening on the solstice. 

Imogen dotes the best way she knows how. With soup and kind words and glares that warn the others to keep back if they don’t want a zap to the forehead. She offers furs from the trunk at the foot of the bed and cool cloths that do little to ease the ache of Laudna’s fragile joints. She brings pillows and keeps watch in the window seat as Laudna sleeps. 

It’s sickeningly sweet and thoughtful and lovely, and Laudna hates it just a little bit because Imogen has spent far too much time fretting over Laudna as of late when she should be anywhere but a stuffy old castle spooning broth to a dead lady whose hands won’t stop shaking. 

Laudna is fine. 

She’s fine. 

She is. 

Delilah is gone, they assure her. Imogen herself sent a bolt of lightning through the bitch’s strange conjured tree trunk in the twisting nether realm that left the smell of iron and marrow lingering in Laudna’s nose. Her limbs still sting with phantom wounds where she had thrashed against Delilah’s cage. 

Helpless. Weak. 

The others were there, too. At least, for much of the fight and everything that preceded. They had seen Laudna’s memories, as Fresh Cut Grass informed her. Learned the name she had taken care to hide all these years. Buried deep enough, even Imogen, brilliant as she is, would have to dig to uncover it. Delilah, it seemed, only cared for secrets when they were hers to keep. 

When her friends visit her chambers, their vivacity is dulled. They are tense, anxious, and trying and failing to hide the restlessness that they are all feeling. 

Orym regards her with new wariness, searching for lies and cracks, though he is kind as ever. It’s understandable, Laudna reasons. In this place, where the Briarwood reign harmed innumerable lives, she is a liability. A threat to be guarded against.

Fearne is delicate with her hugs, moves cautiously through Laudna’s space. She hasn’t even stolen any of the silver soup spoons or fine teacups, which might be most concerning of all. 

Ashton hovers in the doorway. They return her awkward waves with a nod and flick of their wrist. 

Chetney and Fresh Cut Grass seem the most unbothered. Chetney in a plush bathrobe that appears to have been hastily cropped to suit his stature, and F.C.G. chattering on about the importance of rest to the healing process. 

And Laudna hates them just a little bit because she cares for them all so deeply, but mostly, she just hates herself. Hates Delilah. Hates Otohan Thull. 

They’re losing time and they’ve already lost so much. Imogen has already lost so much. Her mother’s trail is growing colder by the day, and there is nothing Laudna can do but lay in this godsforsaken luxurious bed and wait until her body recovers. 

It’s all she can do not to break into a thousand pieces that she would scatter to the nooks and crannies so she wouldn’t have to see the pitying looks on her friends’ faces when Imogen has to help her up. 

She turns on her side and buries her face in an obnoxiously soft down pillow to muffle the sob that wells within her and wracks her body. 

She does a piss-poor job of that, too. 

“Laudna?” Imogen calls sleepily, roused from a sun-dappled doze. Then, alert, “Hey, hey–” 

She’s standing, Laudna can hear, and now she’s gone and disturbed Imogen. Bare feet pad across the cool stone floor, and the far side of the bed dips, ever considerate. She will not come closer, Laudna knows, unless given explicit consent because Imogen is wonderful and caring and lovely.

“What’s wrong, darlin’?” 

Laudna shudders. “I feel terrible.” 

“Oh,” Imogen says, and Laudna can feel the flash of guilt and concern that radiates off of her. “Can I bring you anything? Is it your head?” She shifts her weight. “Do you need water? I can go get a pitcher. Or food, maybe?”

“Stop. Please, stop,” Laudna croaks. Imogen flinches, and gods, Laudna could be sick.

Imogen retreats. “Sorry, I’ll just– sorry,” she murmurs, sounding so small. 

Laudna lifts her head and darts a trembling hand to catch her wrist. “No!” she says. Her body betrays her, the word coming out as more of a roar than she ever could have meant. “No,” she repeats, softer, “stay. Please,” because if she frightens Imogen off, she fears what will crawl into the hole left behind. 

Imogen hesitates, glances down at the ink-tipped fingers clasped around her arm, and sits again. She doesn’t speak, leaving the path clear for Laudna to lead the way, and oh, Laudna could melt. 

Laudna sighs shakily, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…it’s not you.” 

Not Imogen. Never Imogen. 

The silence hangs heavy between them until Laudna can bring herself to speak again. 

“This is my fault, I’m afraid,” she states flatly, refusing to meet Imogen’s gaze. Refusing to see whatever reaction she may find there. Anguish. Frustration. Irritation.

“What?” 

Confusion.  

Laudna looks up, gestures vaguely to their surroundings. “This. All of us being… trapped here.” 

“Laud, what’re you talkin’ about?” 

Imogen’s hand comes to stroke the back of Laudna’s knuckles where they wrap around her other wrist. Her fingers are calloused and work-worn, the rough patches of them catching on the imperfect parts of Laudna. 

“You should be off tracking down your mother or finding out what you can about the moon, and instead,” Laudna’s voice catches in her throat, “you’re here.”

Imogen shakes her head, exhales. “Where I should be is for me to decide.” She says it gently. It is not meant to be a reprimand. It still feels like one. “And where I should be,” she continues, “is wherever you are.” 

Laudna’s eyes flit anywhere but Imogen’s face. 

“If you want me there, of course.”

Laudna’s response is instant. “Always.” 

She finally meets Imogen’s eyes and is met with a somewhat furrowed brow. She wants to ask something, Laudna can tell. Imogen’s head is tilted curiously, her lips slightly parted. Her jaw works subtly, muscles tensing. 

“It’s not your fault,” she settles on at last. “None of it, okay?”

Laudna opens her mouth to respond.

Imogen is steely calm. “You were gone, Laudna. And I couldn’t reach you, and…and you’re here now. You’re back, and that’s all that matters.” 

Laudna shrinks into the pillows, takes her hand back beneath the sheet, fist clenching and unclenching. “I feel like such a nuisance,” she confesses quietly. “I should have tried harder to break her hold on me. I should have–”

“No. Gods,” Imogen snaps, lacking any real bite. She inhales. “Laudna, you…you were dead. And I hate sayin’ it; I hate thinkin’ about it. You couldn’t’ve done anythin’ more than what you did.” She softens, throat tightening with emotion. “You did so much. And I’m so proud of you. And… I’m so grateful you chose to come back.” 

“It wasn’t much of a choice,” Laudna whispers, “I couldn’t very well leave you, darling.” 

“You could’ve.” Imogen bites her lip, ducks her head, fiddles with the hem of her vest. “We, um, I know F.C.G. told you, but we… saw some of your memories. And, and I didn’t really wanna bring it up? So I’m real sorry, but we only saw a couple moments, and we don’t have to talk about it, but,” she looks back to Laudna, “you’re so brave. I don’t think you get told that enough. You’re so strong, Laud, and so good, and I missed you. So much.” She takes a sharp breath.

It bursts out as though holding it in any longer might suffocate her, and Laudna’s hands cease their twitching. She hesitates. Imogen’s affection has split her open, and it’s odd, she thinks, to feel so vulnerable and so safe. That those two sensations can coexist as a tingling in her chest that extends into her tendons and ligaments to warm her all over. She can sense the discolored blush rising in her cheeks. 

She does not feel brave. Strength has always been foreign and abstract. That Imogen can see her that way is… incongruous. Absurd, even. 

“You’re very kind.”

Imogen looks as if she might protest but seems to think better of it. She sighs, a slight, sad smile crossing her lips. She moves to stand again, to cross the room back to her seat, and suddenly, the thought of Imogen being so far away is unbearable. 

“Stay, please?” Laudna shuffles, lifting a corner of the quilt. “This bed is plenty big enough for two, and I dread to think of the state of your neck curled up in the window.”

“You’re sure?” Imogen asks, faint hope coloring her words. 

“Come here.” 

The bed dips again as Imogen clambers in, pressing herself against Laudna, who lets out an oomph as Imogen wraps around her and intertwines their fingers. 

“Sorry!” Imogen says with a relieved exhale, “Sorry, I just–I know I said it before, but… I really missed you.” 

“I missed you, too,” Laudna assures gently, taking in the oaty smell of Imogen. The smell of home. “Rest well, darling.” 

Imogen squeezes their hands in response and burrows closer. 

Laudna relaxes into the embrace.

[davycoquette]

the interview 3/3

PART ONE PART TWO

I unlock his front door and step out onto the porch. His lawn is wide and flat with the Bermuda grass shorn close to the soil. In the midmorning sun his driveway is searingly white, and my eyes burn like I've just emerged from a crypt into the dawn of life.

It’s situated on a nondescript length of highway. I figure it's got a name the locals know, but the map unfolded on my passenger seat just calls it US HWY 29. His driveway cuts a straight path from the two-lane highway, and simply sits in this giant barren yard with no rhyme or reason guiding its placement. Just a plain brick monolith smack dab in the Virginia countryside. The closest building in sight is an ancient barn at the end of the road, which is halfway through the process of being smothered under a blanket of kudzu.

The Amigo's doors are unlocked, so I help myself to my benzos and a cigarette. I empty the ashy dredges of yesterday’s coffee onto R. Barclay's lawn.

Standing there smoking, I can't help but imagine how things might have played out if I got here in time to talk to the guy; R. Barclay's final interview. Maybe he would have said something really great; revealed a manuscript on the cusp of being publishable. I could've been the last person to ever speak to him. My name could've come attached to the news articles — R. Barclay found dead in his Virginia home hours after talking with journalist Franky Wilcox.

Well, it's a working headline. That one paints me as a suspect.

I think about how, right now, I'm the only person who knows he's dead. I read something about how he never married, never had kids. I wonder who the next of kin is; who's going to be uprooted from their life once I call this in to come and rummage through his things. Maybe they'll find the unfinished work and publish it. The daydream shifts to me being the one, of course. To stealing it and publishing it as if I were the writer.

Now that'd make a good story — but what I end up deciding on R. Barclay's lawn that June morning is that I'll pretend the interview did happen.

The only problem is I don't know this man. I didn't get to speak to him beyond a short conversation over the phone.

Hi, Mr. Barclay. My name is Franky Wilcox, and I've been asked to do an interview for The Hammond. Are you familiar with The Hammond, Mr. Barclay?

Oh, hello. Yes. Hello, yes.

I heard it was your birthday this month.

Oh, yes. I’m ninety years old.

Well, happy birthday, Mr. Barclay. Would you be available to do an interview with me? For The Hammond.

An interview… When? I've got a doctor's appointment this Monday.

When's good for you, Mr. Barclay?

Early, I guess. My mind's better in the mornings.

Sure; how early?

Well, I get up around five-thirty and let my little dog out.

Uh-huh. There was no way in hell I was driving out to Bumfuck, Virginia at five in the morning. How does eight sound? Maybe on Tuesday?

Eight o'clock on Tuesday. I imagine he was looking at his calendar when he said, Yes, alright.

I drop my cigarette on his white driveway and snuff it under my shoe, then return to the house. It's more harrowing to step inside this time around, and I prop the storm door open. Raisin bursts out at once, and I turn to watch as the dog — a he, evidently — raises a leg on the bushes. He promptly shits next to them. Must have been holding it for a long time.

‧˚₊꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒦꒷‧₊˚⊹

That's all, so far! Not sure if I'll continue working on this one in the future or not. If you read this far, thank you so much!

[dominimoonbeam]

Don't Run 17

This work is mine and I do not give consent for my works to be used, copied, published, or posted without my permission. I am sharing chapters as I work on this story but it is copyrighted material that I plan to rework and publish when completed.

you can find the series from the start over on patreon.

story tags: mobsters, romance, explicit sex, explicit language, learning to trust, dark themes, bad childhood, arranged marriage, reference to past murder, kidnapping, danger, violence, guns

DON’T RUN - CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.

After some talk, with their clothes back on, Ezra suggested they go to her place. Of course, her place was really Adi’s place…

“Not that I don’t like seeing you in my clothes… but at some point, we do need to get you back,” Ezra tried again when she hesitated to answer.

Freya nodded. He was right. She couldn’t escape her life and hide out in this place, no matter how much she wanted to. “Yeah.”

Ezra sighed but she couldn’t tell if it was relief or worry. He tucked some hair behind her ear. It was familiar and soft in a way she wasn’t used to but was growing comfortable with too fast. Yeah, she needed to get out of there. Staying longer would just make reality harder.

She stood, hiding the move for distance with a stretch only to wince at the starbursts of pain that shot through her body. She was sore all over. “Go get dressed. I’m going to find the leftover pizza…”

Ezra watched her, those eyes seeming to see too much, but he nodded and got up.

Freya rolled her shoulders, one aching but she couldn’t remember why. Her feet felt swollen, the muscles in her legs so tight that she hobbled to the kitchen. When she was finally out of his line of sight, finally alone, she leaned against the wall beside the refrigerator and sighed. It had been a whirlwind of a day, yesterday, and this morning… This morning she’d fucked her husband’s boyfriend.

Well, no one had ever accused her of making good choices.

To be fair, Freya wasn’t sure she’d been given a lot of choices… But Ezra was definitely one of them. And now what? She goes back to the tower, chin up, and pretends nothing happened? What else was there to do?

She couldn’t let him distract her. She had to get out of this place and away from her life. The last thing she needed was to be dragged into a romantic triangle with her fucking husband.

Rolling her eyes, she pulled the fridge open to hunt for the leftovers.

Where Adi’s fridge had been stocked with bottled water and meal-replacing smoothies, Ezra’s was half the size and four times as full. The crisper was packed with fruits and veggies. Cartons and jars pressed in for space on the shelves. She hadn’t realized she hadn’t seen a normal kitchen in a while until she stood in front of that assortment of ingredients. The leftover pizza slices were in a ziplock bag. She pulled them out and didn’t bother heating them in the microwave. She ate cold pizza off the counter like it might be her last meal.

Considering her life, it was possible.

She hadn’t told Vizzini anything, but would the Ellises believe her?

Would her own family?

She ate another slice, not sure if she’d find herself in the bay again today.

-

It was hard not to follow her when he could tell she was pulling away, but that was exactly why he couldn’t.

He picked up his phone off the counter and headed down the hall to his bedroom, gently closing the door behind him.

He changed into a pair of jeans and pulled a clean shirt on before hitting the call button.

Adi answered after one ring and Ezra smiled. “Were you up all night worrying?”

“Shut up,” Adi groused, the sound of his espresso machine in the background.

“I’m bringing her home,” he said, jumping to the point.

“I suppose it would look strange if she lived with you,” Adi agreed, voice dark with sarcasm.

“Can you send someone to give us a lift? I know it’s not a long walk but she doesn’t have shoes—”

“Yeah. I’m coming,” he said, the sound of the promise of caffeine replaced by the snap of a door. “Did you find out what happened?”

Ezra sighed, dragging fingers over the back of his head and looking at the shut door. “Someone was trying to kick off a war between you and the Morgans. It wasn’t a ransom.”

The silence was heavy, the hum and ding of the elevator in the background. Ezra knew Adi wasn’t sure how to feel about his arranged marriage, or how to even begin to trust a Morgan, but he also wouldn’t be okay with anyone trying to hurt let alone kill someone close to him. “How did she get away?”

Ezra smiled. Freya had told what amounted to a great story like they were just bullet points on a sheet. “She got a knife on the guy and used him as a human shield. She then jumped into the bay and swam for it.” Freya was definitely living up to her name… whether it was Morgan or Ellis.

Adi exhaled on the other end and Ezra heard the tangled knot of amusement and outrage there. A car door closed and an engine rumbled.

“We slept together.”

The engine idled. Ezra could imagine Adi trying to decide what he meant.

“We fucked.” He wasn’t sure how Adi would react. She had just been through a traumatic event, and she was his wife, but more importantly, she was a Morgan. Ezra wasn’t even sure himself if he’d crossed a line, although, to be fair, Adi had asked him to seduce his wife just the other week…

The car hummed as it drove. “So, does that mean you’ll finally move into the penthouse?”

Ezra laughed, clapping a hand over his mouth to try to stifle it.

“She’s okay?” Adi asked, voice a little lighter but the worry coming through now.

“Physically? She’s bruised but she’s okay.”

“And otherwise?”

Ezra’s heart sank as he stared at the door to the hallway. “I don’t think this was her worst day.” And that wasn’t a good thing. This should have been anyone’s worse day, but she’d told the story with a shrug. She’d cried at least, but she’d seemed way too worried about him believing she hadn’t given away any information and not enough about how she’d almost died.

“I’ll be out front.”

Ezra nodded and hung up. He grabbed a denim jacket and pocketed his phone, heading out to find her waiting by the front door, cold pizza in hand. She leaned against the wall, making it look like a lazy stance to hide the soreness of her body. He came to stand beside her, pulling his boots on.

When he opened his mouth, she fed him a bite of pizza. “Why is it better cold?”

She shrugged and finished it.

[unfinishedslurs]

Flip of a coin

(I got really into Richie and Patty fics for a while so this is based off all the ones I read. Which was every single one published before roughly halfway into 2021)

Patty remembers that Stan always had a strange obsession with Richie Tozier.

He kept up with the news around him, watched his specials even though he rarely laughed and hated them with a passion. I don’t know why, Babylove, he’d say, but I don’t think he writes his own stuff. Have you seen his interviews? They’re much funnier. It was one of his little oddities, like his need to buy every Bill Denbrough book ever published, or buy clothing from the Rogan&Marsh line, even though he’d never much cared for fashion. These obsessions made a lot more sense after Stan’s hastily scratched letter, detailing a clown and impossible things that Patty clung to in a desperate attempt to rationalize.

She knows, distantly, though gossip and magazines at the store, that he’d broken down on stage the same day Stan died. She knows he’d cancelled all his future events, made a serious video where he confessed the ghostwriters, came out as bisexual, and said he was going to take a break from comedy.

According to the internet, he’s currently on a cocaine binge in Guatemala. According to Patty’s eyes, he’s in Georgia, looking less like a man on cocaine and more like a man whose life had been steamrolled with no idea what to do with the empty space left behind.

“Patty Uris?”

She looks at him, and sees a tragedy told in three parts. A greeting, some growing, a goodbye. She looks at him, and sees a mirror.

She looks at him, and knows he sees her too.

“Blum-Uris, actually,” she says, and opens the door to let him inside.

—

“You could always try voice acting.”

“You sound like my manager. I came here to get away from my manager.”

—

Richie makes Patty laugh for the first time since Stan died

—

Richie has a nice chest for crying, she thinks, and hysterical laughter tumbles out with her tears.

—

“It’s just…I love them. I do. They’re my family, God, they deserve every happy ending they get, but I’m jealous. I’m jealous and angry and I don’t understand why they get to move on when...”

“Our happy ending was with them.”

“Yeah, that.”

They stayed silent for a while, until Richie breaks it by taking a swig and saying, “Bev’s pregnant.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, she’s freaking out about it. I don’t think they meant to have a baby this soon. Or ever. I don’t think they realized that with the clown gone they could have a baby. And she just got out of her shitty marriage after her childhood with a shitty dad, and…yeah, it’s not all sunshine and rainbows. She’s had about five panic attacks since she found out.”

“When did she find out?”

“Yesterday.”

Patty isn’t resentful. She thinks of all the years she and Stan spent trying to conceive, and how they eventually decided they’d be better off waiting anyways. They’d looked up adoption agencies a few times, but ultimately agreed it wasn’t the right time. She isn’t sure whether she’s grateful they never got around to it, that she doesn’t have to be a parent all on her own on top of everything else, or if the fact that she could have a piece of Stan right now, a small, babbling infant with his eyes and blood, makes her want to cry. Probably both.

She isn’t resentful, but she is jealous. It doesn’t matter. She’s a big girl, she can handle it.

She is going to be the best aunt ever.

“Do you think she’d appreciate another girl talking her through it?”

“Probably. You should call her and see.” He takes another long pull. “They want to name it after one of them. Stan or Eddie. Maybe both. She asked me to ask you whether you’d be okay with that.”

It takes a minute for that to register, and another five to get around the ache in her throat. “That’s…he’d love that.” He would. He’d pretend it bothered him, or that he wouldn’t want it, but he’d probably cry the minute he heard it.

Traditional, too, to name the baby after him, though she wasn’t sure he’d care so much about that part. She doubted his friends even realized.

“That a yes?”

No. “Yes.”

—

“He said…Patty,” he sobs. “Patty, he loved me back. He loved me back, but it didn't matter because he died and he’s gone and I spent two months begging and praying and getting drunk off my ass and it didn’t matter because he’s fucking dead.”

“It mattered to him, Richie.”

“Not enough to survive. Not enough to fucking say it without choking on the fucking blood in his mouth just to say—” he chokes the words down.

She rubs his back. “Don’t let it fester,” she reminds him, and the dam breaks.

“Why the fuck didn’t I just say it?” He explodes. “Why the fuck did I spend my entire fucking childhood pining for his firey ass when we could have had some fucking time? Why didn’t he say something? If he’d just fucking said it sooner, said anything…he was always the brave one between us. And it ended up with him fucking dead, and me on this fucking couch with you crying over misssed opportunities like a fucking…I dunno, Pats.”

“I know.”

“I don’t mean I don’t like sitting here with you,” he adds unnecessarily. They both know it’s unnecessary. She lets him do it anyway. “I just wish we were bonding over fucking…wedding photos or some shit.”

If she lays her head back and closes her eyes, she can picture it.

—

Patty breaks her fist on the wall.

It was bound to happen eventually. She’s been cycling through the anger stage of her grief for a month. Something was going to give.

Not the wall, though.

Richie takes her to the hospital.

“Sorry,” she says on the way there. She thinks she may be crying. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to, it just happened, I swear—”

“Patty.”

“I’m sorry,” she says again. She’s not talking to Richie anymore. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry—”

She doesn’t realize that he’s pulled over until he’s grabbing her by the shoulders and pulling her into his arms, both of them leaning uncomfortably over the gearshift. She doesn’t mind.

“I don’t understand,” she sobs into his chest. “I don’t know what I did wrong. Why couldn’t he just stay?

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” Richie says. She thinks she can feel him shaking. “It…he made his choices.”

She pulls away, suddenly furious. “That’s the problem! He fucking made that choice! He deliberately decided to leave me! And everyone says that he must have been suffering, that he must have been secretly unhappy, but I know better. We were fucking happy! Life wasn’t fucking perfect, but it was good. And he threw it all away, for—for what? What the hell was it all for?”

“I dunno, Pats, I think it was to save me and my friends,” Richie says dryly, and she knows, okay, she knows she’s angry, she knows he uses humor as his coping mechanism, she knows those two things can make a deadly combination that will leave ash in her mouth for weeks.

She says it anyways. “And look how well that worked out.”

His face shutters, and the regret comes pouring in as he turns back to the steering wheel without saying anything else. “Richie…”

“I know,” he says, holding up a hand. “I know you didn’t mean it. Let's get you to the hospital already.”

The rest of the drive is silent.

—

“Richie, I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, Pattycakes. I forgive you.”

“I know, but I need to say it anyways, because I’m glad you’re here, Rich. I want you here. It’s just…”

I wish things were different.

“I get it.”

“Yeah.” He doesn’t, not really, but it’s the closest thing she has. Just like she’s the closest thing he has. They’re two sides of the same coin, aren’t they?

“I blame him sometimes, you know?” Richie admits quietly. “For Eddie. It was supposed to be the seven of us…sometimes I think we could have all made it out, if he hadn’t been such a fucking—” he breaks off, taking his glasses off to rub a hand over his face. “Sorry.”

“No, I get it.”

They smile at each other, bitter things in a bitter world, because she knows Richie’s thinking the same thing she just was. She doesn’t get it, not really, but she knows better than anyone the pain of loving and hating Stanley Blum-Uris.

Flip of the coin. Heads, a life together, tails, a life apart.

—

They’re not filling the holes in each other’s lives. They’re too…them for that. There’s nothing romantic about the way Patty will sometimes make Richie’s coffee with two sugars and no cream and break down, or the days Richie will get a far off look in his eye when she does, and then they’re both mourning two different kinds of loss. They’ll never know how Eddie liked his coffee, after all.

Nothing romantic about the nights Richie wakes up screaming Eddie’s name either. They both have nightmares, but Patty’s are quieter.

They’re not filling the holes, but they’re not not filling them either. Hole-adjacent. The ache in Richie’s voice when he says Pats instead of Eds, the equal aching in her chest when she wakes up to see a dark head that isn’t her husbands.

So, no, they’re not in love. She doesn’t feel that way about him. Doesn’t think she could, even without the dead hovering over their shoulders like shrouds. They’re too similar in their differences, not each other’s types, any number of reasons they could never fall in love.

Sometimes, though, she wishes they did. Wishes Richie were the one she met at that party, wishes Richie wore a matching wedding band to the one she’s moved to her right finger.

She knows it’s less about Richie, though, and more about not feeling like she’s being picked at from the inside out. The fantasies are there because he is, not of any actual desire for a romantic connection. Doesn’t stop her from dreaming.

She only voices it to him once.

“Do you think, if things were different, we would have made a good couple?” Patty doesn’t really think so, or want to think about it, but the wine is making her maudlin and she misses him. Misses Stan so much her insides feel like a bag of rocks that’s just waiting to split open and spill out every part of her. She hates it, the missing. More than anything.

Richie snorts.

“No, really.”

“Maybe, Batty-Patty,” he says, shooting her a grin that misses humor by a mile.

She laughs at that. “I am batty for asking, aren’t I?”

“I wasn’t going to say anything.” He did, just through the name, but she won’t point it out.

“We’re not compatible.”

“Nope.” He punctuates it with a drink.

“I wish we were,” she says fiercely. “I wish I’d fallen in love with you instead.”

He lowers his glass, expression somber, and watches her for a minute. Whatever he sees in her face makes his mouth quirk.

“You don’t mean that,” he tells her.

“I want to.”

“And I want to have not wasted my career parroting other people's bullshit. It is what it is, Batsy.”

That makes her giggle, despite herself. “Batsy?”

“What, you don’t like it?”

“I love it,” she says. She does. It’s fitting. “Pour me another glass.”

He indulges her, then himself. “We never could have been a good couple,” he says, trying and failing to seem flippant, “but, you know, my mom always wanted me to have a sister.”

“A sister, huh?” She stares at him, considering. “Is that what we are? Siblings?”

“Well, no,” he shrugs, “but I think it fits better than anything else.”

—

They make a chore chart.

It’s kind of dumb, Patty thinks. Objectively. They’re not college kids, they should be able to do housework on their own, without prompting.

She and Stan had never needed one.

But that’s the whole problem, isn’t it? Stan’s gone, and Richie’s here, and they both have days where they can’t even get out of bed, much less remember to make dinner or wash the dishes. The chart helps. It helps a lot.

—

Patty doesn’t sing much anymore.

—

She and Richie both have a four drink limit, established sometime between the third time Richie finds her sobbing in the bathtub, and the seventh time Patty finds him comatose on the floor. They pretend not to notice when the other breaks it.

[serendipitouswasteland]

Sweater Weather

ship: buddie pov: third person written: April 10 - 12, 2023 first published: April 12, 2023 word count: 2,569 - summary: Buck wears a sweater almost too often. Eddie notices. - A/N: Pretty much, I have become obsessed with the sweater Buck is wearing at the end of 6x13 and have decided that it's his favorite sweater and he washes it as often as he can so he can wear it as often as he can because it's a comfort for him, because I have a sweater that I do that with so therefore...you get it. Enjoy. <3

Buck has a list. A checklist. After getting struck by lightning– after his coma dream– he felt like he needed to make sure he was still there– still alive. So, every morning when he wakes up the first thing he does is grab his phone and text Bobby. He doesn’t leave his messages until he receives a response. Then, if he has work, he waits until he gets there to ask Eddie and Chim about Christopher, Maddie, and Jee-Yun, respectively. On his off days, however, Buck’s mind scrambles for a bit. Texting Bobby every morning is fine. He texts him all the time anyways just to update him on his life, so him now asking for Bobby to do the same wasn’t too much different. Calling Maddie and Chimney and Eddie, though, is hard to do without someone becoming suspicious. This morning, Buck is lucky.

As Buck blinks open his eyes and stretches in his bed, a small smile appears on his face knowing that some of his checklist he doesn’t have to do. He crawls out of bed, sliding his feet into a pair of slippers as he yawns and stretches some more. He gets up from his bed, grabbing his phone and sending a text to Bobby as he trudges down the stairs. Buck puts his phone into the pocker of his sweats once he reaches the bottom step, looking over to his kitchen where Christopher is sitting at the table with a bowl of cereal already half eaten. Buck smiles, taking a seat next to him and making his own bowl.

“Goodmorning,” Buck says, his voice filled with slip.

“Goodmorning,” Chris says back, taking a bite of his food.

“How long have you been up?”

“Not very long.”

“That’s good,” Buck hums, nodding as he takes his first bite of his own cereal.

“Buck,” Christopher prods, and Buck hums while turning to face him, “isn’t that the same sweater you wore yesterday?”

“Uh…” Buck looks down at his chest, and, yes, it is the same sweater, but—

“How come you didn’t have to change but I did?” Chris asks, and Buck lets out a short laugh.

“Well, buddy, I did change. I changed my pants.”

“But you didn’t change your sweater.

“Yes, I didn’t change my sweater,” Buck says, sighing as he takes another bite. “You are right about that. Now, your dad will be here soon to pick you and your cookies up, so why don’t you go ahead and get ready, alright?”

“Yes, Buck,” Chris sighs, leaving the table and going to where his second bag is in the living room before going to the bathroom with his clothes after.

Buck gets up from the table shortly after, cleaning up both of their bowls then starting the coffee maker. There’s a knock at his door right as he gets it going, so he quickly shouts that he’ll be right there before finishing up. Buck skids over to the door, opening it up instantly to find Eddie standing on the other side, and Buck lets out a breathless smile, and—

(Look, it’s not like Eddie was keeping track. Well, he was, but it was easier to pretend that he wasn’t. So, no, Eddie wasn’t keeping track. He’s not. He just, maybe, kind of, sort of, is. It’s Buck’s fault. Or, if you were to ask Eddie, those would likely be the words out of his mouth and, well, he’s not wrong, but it also wasn’t Eddie’s job to notice…or is it? Buck is the one who came over to Eddie’s house when he wanted to escape his own loft. Buck is the one who went to Eddie as a place of comfort where he knew he would be looked after. So, maybe it is Eddie’s job—)

Eddie is staring at Buck. It’s been seventeen hours since he’d dropped Christopher off with him, and now Buck is wearing the same sweater as when he’d dropped Chris off the evening before. Eddie tilts his head at Buck as the door is opened for him further, stepping inside. He glances back at Buck who has his brows furrowed as his hands fall to rest on his hips. Eddie looks away, letting out a sigh as he steps towards the kitchen, hearing a door open a moment later and turning around to find Christopher dressed and ready coming out of the bathroom.

“Dad!” Christopher shouts, giving his dad a hug.

Buck shuts the door, going to the living room and grabbing both of Christopher’s bags, handing his school bag to Eddie before going to the bathroom. He picks up Chris’s pajamas and stuffs them in the bag before going back to the kitchen, handing that to Eddie, too. Buck then grabs the container of cookies sitting on his kitchen counter, handing them to Chris.

“Alright. Are you ready to go?” Eddie asks, Buck standing against the fridge.

“Ready!” Chris says, giving Buck a hug. “Will you come over later?”

“Of course, bud. I’ll see you later,” Buck says as Chris and Eddie begin to make their way toward the door.

“I love you, Buck! I’ll see you soon!” Chris shouts from the doorway, waving.

“Love you too, kid!” Buck calls after him and returns his wave, giving a big smile.

Buck glances at Eddie who’s staring right back at him, the same grin on his face that Buck has. Eddie gives Buck a nod, and then the door to Buck’s loft shuts and he’s left standing alone in his kitchen. The coffee maker goes off, so he goes and grabs a mug out of the cabinet before filling it. In truth, he’s exhausted. He’s always exhausted now. He’s been sleeping more on shift, but he’s pushing through. Eddie checks on him sometimes, but for the most part he leaves him alone unless necessary. Bobby does the same. If anyone is hovering, it’s Hen and Chim– something Buck will have to call Maddie about later.

After finishing his coffee, Buck goes upstairs to change before deciding to shower. He grabs a pair of jeans and goes to his bathroom, thoroughly ridding himself of any germs garnered from the day before. He spends a considerable amount of time on his hair, lately having taken a liking to his natural curl pattern and wanting to take care of it properly. Once finished, he slips into the jeans then pulls on his sweater, only he doesn’t think anything of it. It’s his sweater. His favorite sweater. A new sweater, sure, but still his favorite.

Buck moseys around his loft for a while, cleaning up random things that he finds. For the first time all week, he makes his bed, smiling at the neatly made comforter and sheets. Then he bounds downstairs, falling onto his couch as he turns on the TV to watch the Dodgers versus Giants game. After a while, though, his eyes start to flutter, and he yawns. He turns the TV down low, hoping that will allow him to fall asleep, but then his body focuses on the feeling of the couch beneath him instead of the game and it’s far from comfortable. Buck groans, rolling off the couch and dragging himself upstairs, falling flat onto his bed. He’s out within seconds.

It’s not until several hours later that Buck wakes up, his loft having become dim with the only light being emitted from his TV downstairs. Buck rubs his eyes, climbing out of bed and going downstairs, sighing once he’s realized he missed the rest of the game. He picks up his phone off the coffee table to check the score when he finds a message and two missed calls from Eddie, along with one voicemail. Buck furrows his brows, the voicemail being the first thing he checks.

“Hey, so I just got Chris from school and we’re on our way home. I figured I’d let you know so you could start making your way over, but…anyway, I’ll see you in a bit. Bye.”

It’s short, sweet, and to the point and– and it fills Buck’s heart. He smiles, pulling the phone away from his ear when a sudden rush of guilt hits him. It’s dark out, which means that he’s late and Chris is likely in bed already. Cursing at himself, Buck quickly slips on a pair of shoes, rushing out of his apartment. He gets in the car and dials Eddie’s phone immediately, but he doesn’t receive an answer. Halfway through his drive over, his phone starts ringing, and he tries grabbing it to answer but it falls to the floor. Buck hits his fist on the wheel, tapping nervously the rest of his way over.

The second Buck gets to Eddie’s house he doesn’t waste a second in getting out of his Jeep and jogging to the front door. He twists the knob and the door opens with ease, and Buck lets out a deep sigh. Eddie pops his head out from the hall, smiling when he sees who it is.

“Hey,” Eddie says, grinning and nodding to the kitchen. “Are you hungry?”

“Uh, no,” Buck says, shaking his head and sitting on the couch. “I take it you just made sure Chris is in bed?”

“Yup,” Eddie says, falling to sit next to Buck. “Sorry I missed your call. I tried calling you back, but you didn’t answer.”

“I was in the car. My phone fell, and I figured the risk of an accident wasn’t worth it.”

“That’s fair,” Eddie says, grabbing a beer off the coffee table and taking a swig. “Do you want one?”

“No, I’m good. I’m sorry for not coming over sooner.”

“It’s fine. After the second call, I figured you were asleep. I take it I was right?”

“I was watching the Dodgers game.”

“You turned your phone off for baseball?”

“What? No, I– I was watching the Dodgers game and I started falling asleep. I went upstairs, fell on my bed, and it was lights out instantly.”

“So I was right.”

“How’d you guess that in the first place?” Buck asks with a tilt of his head.

“You’re still wearing the same sweater as before,” Eddie says, pointing at Buck, and Buck, of course, looks down, sighing when he finds Eddie is right.

“Right,” Buck says, holding his hand out and a second later Eddie’s beer is in his hand.

“So, what’s going on?” Eddie asks, eyes never leaving Buck. He has a soft look on his face, and if this wasn’t such a serious conversation Buck just might smile in return.

“Nothing,” Buck says with a shrug, and Eddie’s eyes narrow on him. “The sweater is comforting for me.”

“Can you explain that?” Eddie asks, and it’s not mean or cruel, but effortlessly kind. It’s easy to see where Chris gets it from.

“Uh, well, it feels– it’s like a hug. Like one big, giant hug, constantly, and if I need a tighter hug I can just tug on it and I’ll feel better. It’s nice. It makes me feel safe.”

“Mmm,” Eddie hums, eyes finally trailing away from Buck and to his TV instead.

“What?” Buck asks, leaning over just a bit, and he can see a smile pull at the corner of Eddie’s mouth.

“Just thinking,” Eddie responds, smile growing more.

“About?” Buck asks, and now the front of Buck’s shoulder is pressing into the side of Eddie’s, the two impossibly close.

“How to make you feel safe no matter what you’re wearing,” Eddie admits as he finally looks at Buck again, and Buck can tell that it’s honest and true.

“Just being here helps,” Buck says, giving Eddie the sweetest smile he can muster.

“You know,” Eddie says, pulling at Buck’s sweater, “it doesn’t look bad on you. In fact, I think you should wear sweaters more often.”

“You think so?” Buck asks, and oh, are their faces close.

“Dad?” They hear from the hall, slowly breaking apart.

“Yeah, bud?” Eddie asks, getting up from the couch.

“You forgot my glass of water,” Chris says, and Buck smiles at the comfort it brings him.

“Want me to get it?” Buck asks, and Eddie turns to look at him, about to protest when Chris lights up with joy.

“Buck!”

“Buck—” Eddie cuts himself off, running a hand over his face.

“Sorry,” Buck says, giving Christopher a hug. “I’m getting you your water and then it’s off to bed, alright? Dad and I were having a very important conversation.”

“Yes, sir!” Chris says with a big grin, and Buck smiles and laughs, going right to the kitchen. He grabs a cup with a straw and a lid and fills it up with ice water, bringing it back to Chris in under a minute.

“There. I’m sorry I didn’t get here sooner, but I’ll see you in the morning, alright?”

“Goodnight, Buck,” Chris yawns, giving Buck another hug before going back down the hall.

“Goodnight, Christopher,” Buck whispers once he’s already halfway down the hall, lingering in the doorway a moment before falling back onto the couch, his head falling into Eddie’s lap.

Both of Eddie’s hands immediately come to comb through Buck’s hair, detangling any mess that there is. Yeah, Buck thinks, I feel safe here. It’s not a question at all, but a mere fact. Being at Eddie’s house, on Eddie’s couch, in Eddie’s arms– all of it feels safe. He feels like nothing can hurt him as long as he’s confined within the walls of Eddie’s home, and that’s something that he could really use as of late.

“So,” Eddie starts, one of his hands trailing away from Buck’s hair, resting on his chest instead, “you’re planning on staying the night?”

“If that’s alright,” Buck responds, his own hand coming to hold Eddie’s in its place.

That was new. Since getting struck by lightning– since dying– Eddie has constantly reached out for Buck, keeping him close, and when they’re alone placing his hand on his heart just to make sure that it’s still there and still beating. It’s when Eddie’s hand trails away, though, that things are weird, because it’s never the same. Tonight is no different, Eddie looking at Buck as he moves his hand away from Buck’s chest and rather to caress his cheek.

“You’re still here,” Eddie whispers, his voice barely audible.

“I’m still here,” Buck assures, hand still wrapped around Eddie’s. “We’re still here.”

“Yeah,” Eddie says, properly interlocking his and Buck’s hands, “we are.”

“You should get to bed,” Buck says, sitting up, but Eddie only pulls him closer, Buck’s back falling flush against Eddie’s chest.

“So should you,” Eddie says, wrapping his arms around Buck’s middle.

“Eddie…” Buck sighs, turning his head away, as if that would change their current positions.

“You said that just being here is a comfort,” Eddie whispers into Buck’s ear, clocking the reaction Buck has, “so why not see if I can comfort you more?”

“How?” Buck asks, and he already knows the answer, but– god, Eddie doesn’t know what he’s doing.

“Just let me hold you. You were tense until my fingers landed in your hair before, so I have to assume that means that me touching you helps, right? So let me hold you,” Eddie pleas, and Buck melts against him immediately, rolling around in his place to hug Eddie’s torso.

“Thank you,” Buck whispers, and Eddie doesn’t give a verbal response, simply holding Buck tighter. I love you so much.