#laugh inducing design

[feyburner]

I ??? woke up at 3am with this scene fully written in my mind palace and quickly jotted it down in the Notes app

*

Clark’s shaking his head before he realizes he’s doing it, and feels a twinge of embarrassment at his own bad manners when Bruce stops mid-word to look at him, brows raised.

“No?” he says.

“No,” Clark says, again without thinking, and again with the reflexive urge to apologize. Somewhere his mother is tutting without knowing why. But he doesn’t apologize, because he’s already saying, “No, it can’t—it can’t be that.”

“Okay,” Bruce says slowly. “Can you elaborate?”

He is, honestly, having trouble taking his eyes off the screen. The mockup design of his new suit is there, dark and sleek, ridged like tactical gear. The blue is like the last shade of evening before you can’t call it evening anymore, the color of nine PM in Kansas in July, so exact there’s a strong chance Bruce color-picked it from a photo. The yellow accents are the cool fluorescent yellow-green of lightning bugs. The red is dark as arterial blood. Every aspect of the suit has been updated—the colors deeper, the angles sharper, the S extending to the corners of its frame—but Bruce has done it without changing the fundamentals. It’s immediately recognizable as the Superman suit, just… well, a little cooler, maybe. A little more of the times. Even the tailoring is modernized. The neckline. The shape of the boots. Where the belt hits at the waist. Clark can tell just by looking that Bruce has not only spent a lot of time on this in general, he’s spent a lot of time designing it specifically with Clark in mind, Clark’s needs and preferences and the small discomforts of his current suit, things he might have mentioned offhand after a mission but never with the assumption that Bruce was listening or filing it away. No doubt the next slides of this presentation will detail all the hidden features of the new suit, and they’ll all be incredibly thoughtful if not slightly overkill, and Bruce will pretend his sole motive here was practicality and risk reduction and respond to any thanks with a curt nod.

And Clark wants to thank him. He will. It’s just.

“It can’t be… cool,” he says, inane. Bruce is watching him with that steady look that used to feel clinical, piercing, and now mostly reads as attentive. “It can’t be—like yours. Tactical, military-grade.”

“Lightyears beyond, actually.”

“It has to—Ma said once, a kid should be able to draw it with crayons. You know? I can’t look like a weapon. I have to—I want to look like a friend.”

He can feel himself flushing. It’s rare that he speaks like this, and rarer still that he does so while being stared at intently. Bruce may think of himself as the darkness, but his gaze is a spotlight: unwavering and revealing and more a little sweat-inducing, for one reason or another.

“Sometimes, when I show up, people laugh,” Clark says. “If it’s somewhere out of the way, where they haven’t seen me before. I show up and I look like a festival performer. It’ll be the worst day of their lives, and they’ve got no reason to trust my face, but when they see what I’m wearing—it goes from ‘Who are you?’ to ‘Who is this guy?’ And that’s a good thing.”

“Hard to be afraid of a man dressed in primary colors,” Bruce says, almost to himself.

“Exactly.”

“I see. Thank you,” he says, “for explaining.”

Clark tries not to show how surprised he is to hear that. Judging by the crook of Bruce’s mouth, his success is negligible. “Of course. Sorry I didn’t—I mean, thank you, obviously, for going to such trouble. I didn’t mean to come in here and—I really do appreciate it, I can tell you put a lot of work in—”

Bruce’s eyes cut away. “No. No need. I didn’t ask, before I…. It was only a first draft. If you’re amenable, I’ll incorporate your feedback into the second one.”

“Oh! Yeah. Yes, of course, but you really don’t have to—”

“If you have any further notes, I would like to hear them.”

There’s something determined in the lines of his face. Clark has the sense that this moment is important, that it’s a turning point, even if he’s not sure why. It feels like striking out into a sea of ice, a blank white expanse under which something precious and vital is hidden, has been hidden all along, just waiting for him to find it. To want to.

“Sure,” he says. He looks back at the suit and swallows, and knows Bruce will see the flicker of his throat and take some meaning from it, and wishes he knew what the meaning was. Or maybe Bruce won’t notice or read into it at all. Maybe Clark needs to calm down, in fact. “Um. I don’t want to assume, but does it… do things?”

“It does things,” Bruce confirms, after the barest pause. “Let me show you the next slide.”

[orangeblossomsintheair]

WRITTEN IN THE SAND | CS55

summary : He was too old for this. For you. For the way you looked at him like he wasn’t already years past the reckless abandon that seemed to define everyone else in this house. He shouldn’t have noticed the way your laughter sounded like sunlight, or how your smile seemed to tug at something deep in his chest.

wc : 8.5k

an : im a slow writer chat mb 😞 also nearly a month on this site!! tysm

“What’s the game plan for the summer?” Kika didn’t even glance up from her phone, one hand lazily stirring her drink with that tiny straw she always insisted on.

You were sprawled on a cushioned lounge chair in a swanky Monaco terrace bar, the Mediterranean sun heating your skin, but the breeze kept things just shy of unbearable.

You took a sip of your drink and smirked. “Seduce Carlos Sainz.”

Kika’s straw froze mid-stir. She blinked twice at her screen before slowly looking up, sunglasses sliding down her nose. “Sorry, could you run that by me again? Because I swear you just said you’re going to seduce Carlos Sainz, which is clearly a champagne-induced delusion.”

“Nope, you heard me loud and clear.” You leaned back, full of confidence. “Carlos Sainz. Mine. By the end of summer break.”

Kika blinked at you, deadpan. “Sweetheart, no offense, but you’ve been thirsting after this man since you were, what, 16? That’s six years of unrequited daydreaming.”

You squirmed slightly but held your ground. “Doesn’t matter."

"If he hasn’t noticed you by now, what’s your plan? Set yourself on fire in front of him?”

“Only as a last resort,” you said, deadpan.

She threw her head back, laughing so hard she nearly spilled her drink. “Oh my God, you’re serious. This isn’t a joke.”

“Dead serious.” You popped the cherry from your cocktail into your mouth like it was the period at the end of your sentence. “I’m done playing it safe. This summer is about action.”

Kika raised an eyebrow. “Action? You tripped over your own feet last week trying to order coffee. What are you going to do, hit him with your car and hope he falls for you during physical therapy?”

“Of course not.” You stood abruptly, tossing your straw onto the table with a dramatic flourish. “That’s plan B. Now come on.”

“Come where?” She squinted up at you, clearly unimpressed.

“To get the tools I need.” You grabbed her hand, yanking her out of her seat.

Ten minutes later, you dragged her into a boutique that was a Monet painting of excess. Silk curtains, chandeliers dripping with crystals, and the scent of overpriced jasmine perfume floating through the air.

A sales assistant appeared out of nowhere, all smiles and perfectly coiffed hair. “Bonjour, mademoiselle,” she greeted, eyeing your Chanel tote approvingly.

“Bonjour,” you said, breezing past her.

“Why are we here?” Kika asked, dodging a rack of bikinis that looked like they’d been designed with dental floss.

“Seducing my brother's teammate? Keep up, Kika,” you groaned, holding up a red bikini that looked like it belonged in a Bond movie. “Men are simple creatures. You can’t argue with science.”

“That’s not science, that’s objectification with a catchy slogan,” she deadpanned, plucking a neon green bikini off a nearby rack. “But sure, blind him with this and see how that works.”

You recoiled, snatching it from her and tossing it back like it burned. “Please. Focus. I need chic, sexy, and unforgettable. I need to haunt his dreams.”

“What you need,” she muttered, ducking under a display. “is a therapist.”

“And yet, here you are, enabling me.” You held up another bikini, black and sleek, with delicate gold accents. “This says, ‘I’m hot and I don’t care if you notice,’ right?”

Kika folded her arms, leaning against the counter. “It says, ‘I’m hot and definitely care if you notice but will pretend I don’t.’”

“Exactly!” you said, thrusting the bikini at her. “This is step one material.”

Kika frowned. “Step one material?”

“Yes. Step one: look absolutely irresistible,” you replied. “Carlos has seen me as Charles’s little sister for years. This summer, he’s going to see me as a woman. A very hot woman.”

“And you think this is going to do the trick? He’s a man, not a magpie.”

“Every detail matters. If I look stunning, he’ll notice me. If he notices me, he’ll talk to me. If he talks to me…”

“You’ll forget how to form a sentence?” Kika offered, smirking.

“...I’ll be charming and mysterious,” you continued, ignoring her. “Carlos loves a challenge. And I? I’ll be the challenge of the summer.”

She snorted. “You’re the challenge of my summer, that’s for sure.”

You flashed her a grin, unfazed. “Collateral damage.”

Kika raised an eyebrow, surveying your choices with a mixture of disbelief and mild concern. “You do know Charles is going to kill you, right? Or worse, he’ll tell your mother.”

“Charles doesn’t need to know,” you said confidently, grabbing a cover-up that was so sheer it might as well have been a polite suggestion of fabric and tossing it onto the pile.

“He’s going to know the second you start giggling like a schoolgirl,” Kika shot back.

You paused, giving her your most serious look. “I do not giggle. I smolder.”

Kika raised an eyebrow. “You giggle. You giggle like someone told you tacos are calorie-free.”

Before you could respond, the sales assistant, who had been lurking in the background with a grin wide enough to rival the Mona Lisa’s, swooped in. “Vous avez fait un excellent choix, mademoiselle,” she said, beaming. “Très… sexy.” You made an excellent choice, miss

You flashed a smile back. “Merci, ma chère,” you said, tossing her an air kiss. “I do try.”

Kika groaned audibly. “What is that? French for, ‘Please don’t let my stupidity kill me’?”

“Not quite,” you replied breezily, adding a sheer cover-up to the pile. “But close enough.”

The assistant’s smile widened to terrifying proportions. “Peut-être vous voulez essayer ces sandales aussi?” She gestured to a pair of sky-high gold heels that looked more weapon than footwear. Maybe you want to try these sandals too?

You tilted your head, admiring the craftsmanship. “Oh, I absolutely do.”

Kika slapped a hand over her face. “I can feel my soul leaving my body.”

“Catch it,” you said, handing over your credit card. “We have work to do.”

The assistant handed you your shopping bags with reverence, her eyes glittering with admiration. “Vous êtes une inspiration, mademoiselle. Vraiment.” You are an inspiration, miss. Really.

“Merci beaucoup,” you said, winking at her. You turned to Kika, your heels clicking on the marble floor as you strutted toward the exit. “

Kika followed you out into the sun-drenched street, muttering under her breath. “Mark my words, Carlos Sainz is going to look at you and-”

“-see the one thing he can’t have,” you finished for her, sliding on your sunglasses.

“The one thing he can’t have is peace.”

You scoffed. “You’ll swallow your words when you’re sitting front row at my wedding.”

“To Carlos or Charles’s ghost?”

“Whoever makes it there first.”

—-

The next step was getting Charles to invite Carlos over the summer, which, thankfully, proved embarrassingly easy.

"Sœurette," Charles sang as he sauntered into the living room, lifting your feet off the couch with all the grace of a forklift before plopping down dramatically. Your legs ended up sprawled across his lap. "Comfortable, are we?"

“Move,” you said, giving his stomach a solid nudge with your heel.

“Ow- merde!” He rubbed his abs like you had mortally wounded him, throwing in some exaggerated groans for good measure. “You’re cruel. No respect for your poor frère.”

“What do you want?” you mumbled, not looking up from your phone.

“Wanna go to Ibiza with me?”

You finally glanced at him, raising a skeptical brow. Sure, you wanted to, but seducing Carlos was still an active operation, and time was of the essence. “Pass.”

“Wait, wait,” Charles interrupted, holding up a finger like he was about to offer you the cure for boredom. “I’m inviting some of the guys. Pierre, Carlos-”

He hadn’t even finished the sentence before you were already mentally booking your plane ticket.

“-and Lando,” he continued, oblivious to the fact you had stopped listening at “Carlos.”

You forced yourself to stay cool. No big deal. Act normal. Charles couldn’t know

“Hmm. Okay.”

His brows knitted. “That’s it? Okay? No arguing? No ‘what’s the catch’? You’re just saying yes?”

“Don’t make it weird, Charles.” You shrugged, scrolling on your phone like you were barely paying attention. “Now get off me, you oversized cat.”

“Excusez-moi, I’m the one providing the luxury vacation, and you’re kicking me?”

“I’ll kick harder if you don’t move.”

—-

Carlos almost didn’t recognize the woman chatting with Lando by the poolside when he arrived at the villa Charles had rented for their summer getaway.

He lingered by the sliding glass door, his suitcase forgotten at his side. The sun cast shimmering patterns on the pool’s surface, reflecting onto your skin in flashes that made him question whether he was still half-asleep from the flight.

You were gorgeous. Too gorgeous. Scandalously gorgeous. And suddenly, Carlos felt a flicker of betrayal. How could Charles not have warned him about your presence here?

A wave of jet lagged self-awareness hit him—rumpled T-shirt, unkempt hair, and dark circles under his eyes.

Definitely not the first impression he wanted to make, especially not in front of you.

You wore a deep red one-piece swimsuit with an open back, the kind of effortlessly elegant choice that made him wonder if you knew exactly how much attention you commanded.

Sunglasses perched delicately on your nose, you stood at ease, laughing lightly at something Lando said.

“Carlos!” His friend called out, waving lazily when he spotted him. “You made it!”

Your voice was bright and warm, carrying over the quiet splashes of water.

Lando, predictably, was soaking up your attention with his signature grin, and Carlos already felt the prickling need to intervene.

You turned at the sound, shifting your weight onto one leg. Though the sunglasses obscured your eyes, the faintly mischievous smile tugging at your lips was enough to throw Carlos off balance.

Dios mío.

Carlos straightened, brushing a hand through his hair in a futile attempt to look less like he’d been dragged off a plane.

He inhaled deeply, summoning whatever charm the flight hadn’t stripped away, and stepped forward, dragging his carry-on behind him.

Your smile widened, but you said nothing, tilting your head as if appraising him.

“Hey,” he greeted, nodding at Lando first before letting his gaze linger on you.

“I don’t think we’ve met.” His voice dipped slightly, sliding into that smooth, natural lilt he knew could win people over when needed.

“Right,” Lando cut in, either oblivious or deliberately sabotaging him. “This is-”

“Let him figure it out,” you interrupted, holding up a finger with a playful air.

Carlos blinked, momentarily thrown off, but a sly grin found its way onto his face as he leaned on the handle of his suitcase. “Is that how it is?”

“That’s how it is,” you replied smoothly, folding your arms.

Lando chuckled, glancing between the two of you as if he’d stumbled upon the first act of a drama he couldn’t wait to watch unfold. “Good luck, mate,” he said, clapping Carlos on the shoulder before wandering back toward the pool.

Carlos watched him go, then returned his attention to you. “Okay, give me a hint. Something to work with, no?”

You shrugged, adjusting your sunglasses. “You’ve got a whole week to figure it out. Make it count.”

Before he could counter, a loud, familiar voice broke through.

“Carlos!”

Carlos turned, spotting Charles striding toward him with an easy grin. His friend pulled him into a quick hug, slapping his back affectionately.

Then Charles’ gaze shifted to you. He gestured casually. “You remember my sister, right? She hasn’t been at the paddock much, but you’ve met her before.”

He turned back to you, eyes scanning for something familiar, something to anchor the dissonance in his mind. There it was: the teasing smirk, the air of quiet confidence. You were now barely suppressing laughter.

Carlos froze mid-handshake, his thoughts scrambling to process the bombshell.

Sister?

Oh, no.

Oh, god.

He just flirted with Charles’ sister.

“You’re-” he stammered, pointing at you like the gesture might piece things together faster.

“Oh,” you said lightly, dragging out the word with unmistakable glee. “I think he remembers now.”

Charles glanced between you two, clueless. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” you replied too quickly, your smirk sharpening. “Carlos was just… introducing himself.”

Carlos rubbed the back of his neck, heat crawling up his face. “Right,” he muttered. “Nice to see you again.”

Your sunglasses slid down your nose just enough to reveal your eyes. Bright, amused, and entirely too focused on him. “I don’t know,” you said, voice like silk. “I feel like I’m meeting you for the first time, don’t you think?”

Lando’s loud laugh from the poolside made Carlos glance his way in exasperation.

But his real problem was standing directly in front of him.

Because now that he knew who you were, he also knew your age.

Twenty-one. And him? God, he was thirty. Nine years. Practically a decade.

He swallowed hard, his throat dry.

This wasn’t just an awkward misunderstanding; it was a moral minefield. He shouldn’t even be looking at you this way, not with the easy pull of your smirk still tattooed on his thoughts.

Carlos latched onto the excuse like a lifeline. “Yeah,” he said quickly. “Be right back.”

Charles, blissfully unaware, gave Carlos an out.

“Anyway,” he said, gesturing toward the house. “Go put your bags inside. Lando already claimed the biggest room, so you’re stuck with whatever’s left.”

Dragging his suitcase toward the villa, he could feel your gaze following him. Against his better judgment, he glanced back.

Carlos shook his head, muttering under his breath as he disappeared inside. He needed a cold drink, a cold shower. Anything to reset his brain.

You were still there, reclining on a lounge chair, the picture of confidence. A cocktail glass dangled from your fingers, the cherry swirling lazily in the liquid.

When your eyes caught his again, your smirk deepened, as if you knew exactly what chaos you’d caused.

This week was supposed to be about relaxing.

Instead, it was shaping up to be a survival test around you.

—-

Carlos had made his decision.

For the sake of his own sanity, and for the sake of his friendship with Charles, he was going to ignore you.

It was the only logical choice.

Because if he didn’t? If he let himself get caught up in whatever quiet game you seemed to be playing, he knew it wouldn’t end well.

You were too young, too vibrant, too untouchable. Like sunshine in a bottle.

He was too old for this. For you. For the way you looked at him like he wasn’t already years past the reckless abandon that seemed to define everyone else in this house.

He shouldn’t have noticed the way your laughter sounded like sunlight, or how your smile seemed to tug at something deep in his chest.

He’d lock it all down.

So that was it. He’d be polite, civil even.

But anything more than that? Off the table. No lingering glances. No indulging in the spark of mischief behind your eyes. No letting his thoughts drift to places they shouldn’t when you smiled his way.

It was a good plan.

Unfortunately, plans didn’t account for things like the spontaneous game of cards that had started on the patio that night. Or the dangerous way the stakes had escalated as the hours passed.

“What about strip poker?” Pierre had suggested with a mischievous grin, his words slurred just enough to suggest he’d had one drink too many.

Everyone had laughed, the idea absurd enough to feel harmless.

But somehow, after a lot of ribbing from Lando and an alarming lack of objections from anyone else, the game had actually started.

But tonight? Tonight, his carefully honed poker face was utterly useless.

Carlos had always considered himself good at poker.

Calm, calculating, unreadable. Qualities that served him well on the track and at the card table.

You were to blame.

Sitting across from him at the patio table, with your head tilted and a soft, amused smile tugging at your lips, you were impossible to ignore.

The warm glow of the overhead lights softened your features, and the lazy way you shuffled your dwindling pile of chips made it clear you weren’t taking the game half as seriously as he was.

You didn’t have anything.

Across from him, you hesitated, your lips pressing together as you studied your hand.

The chips in front of you were dangerously low, and Carlos could see the flicker of indecision in your eyes.

You sighed, reaching for your chips, but Carlos cut you off. “Raise,” he said, pushing more into the pot.

Your gaze snapped to his, your brows furrowing. “You’re raising now?”

“Got to keep it interesting,” he said lightly, masking the tightness in his chest.

You tilted your head, clearly suspicious, but you matched his bet anyway, your hand trembling slightly as you tossed the last of your chips in.

The others at the table were too busy bickering to notice the undercurrent between the two of you.

Lando, already down to his boxers, was arguing with Charles over the merits of bluffing, while Pierre leaned back in his chair, looking far too pleased with himself for someone whose pants were in the discard pile.

Carlos barely noticed them.

When the cards were revealed, his pair of eights was enough to beat your pitiful hand. A mismatched collection of low cards that hadn’t even come close to forming a straight.

“Guess that’s it for me,” you said, your tone light but resigned. You reached for the hem of your sweater, clearly ready to pull it off and join the ranks of the semi-dressed.

Carlos acted before he could think.

“Wait,” he said sharply, drawing everyone’s attention. “I fold.”

Pierre frowned. “You can’t fold. The round’s over.”

“Then I forfeit,” Carlos said, tugging his shirt over his head in one swift motion. The cool night air prickled against his skin, but he ignored it, tossing the shirt onto the growing pile in the center of the table.

You stared at him, wide-eyed. “You didn’t have to do that,” you murmured.

Carlos shrugged, forcing himself to meet your gaze. “I’m just keeping things fair.”

Charles raised an eyebrow but said nothing, and the game moved on.

It kept happening.

Every time you were on the verge of losing, Carlos found a way to sacrifice himself instead. He’d bluff too hard, bet too high, or simply fold when he was holding a decent hand. It was reckless and obvious, at least to you, but no one else seemed to notice.

By the time Carlos was down to just his jeans, he realized he was playing a very dangerous game.

“Bold move, mate,” Lando said, grinning as Carlos slid his last few chips into the pot.

“Desperate,” Pierre corrected, his tone smug.

Carlos ignored them, his gaze flicking to you. Your stack of chips had grown considerably, thanks to his strategic losses, but you weren’t gloating. If anything, you looked concerned, your brow furrowing slightly as you studied him.

“Carlos,” you said softly, barely above a whisper.

He shook his head. “I’m fine.”

You hesitated, then glanced down at your cards. The silence stretched as you debated your next move, and Carlos could see the exact moment you decided to fold.

Not this time.

“I raise,” he said, pushing his remaining chips into the pot.

Your eyes widened. “Carlos-”

“Call it,” he said firmly, his voice low.

The others were too busy watching the pile in the center of the table to notice the exchange between you two.

You sighed, finally revealing your hand. It was better than his, but not by much. He grinned as he tossed his own cards down, leaning back in his chair with a shrug.

“Guess that’s it for me.”

Charles groaned, muttering something under his breath about bad decisions, but Carlos didn’t hear him. His focus was on you, on the way your lips parted slightly in surprise, on the way your gaze lingered as he stood and pulled his jeans off, leaving him in nothing but his boxers.

“Next round?” Pierre asked, shuffling the deck.

Carlos shook his head, grabbing his shirt and tossing it at Pierre’s face. “I’m out.”

He glanced at you one last time before walking inside, his pulse racing.

—

When Carlos woke up the next morning, the first thing he noticed was the sunlight streaming through the thin curtains, warm and golden against the soft white of the sheets. The second thing he noticed was the blissful lack of a hangover, despite the absurd amount of wine Pierre had insisted on pouring last night. Small mercies, he supposed.

The faint sound of clinking dishes drew his attention. Throwing on a shirt, Carlos padded out of his room and into the kitchen, where he found Charles leaning against the counter, one hand wrapped around a steaming mug of coffee, the other scrolling through his phone.

His hair was a mess of sleep-tousled curls, and his voice still carried the rough edges of morning as he glanced up.

“Morning,” Charles said, holding up his mug in greeting. After a beat, he added, “Thanks, by the way… for last night.”

Carlos froze mid-step, frowning as he tried to piece together what Charles meant. “Thanks for what?”

Charles finally looked up, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “You know,” he said, gesturing vaguely with his coffee mug. “For saving my sister a few dozen times.”

Carlos’ stomach dropped. “What?”

“You know,” Charles repeated, tilting his head slightly as if it were obvious. “During poker.”

“Oh.” Carlos shifted awkwardly, his fingers tightening on the toothbrush he was holding. He forced a casual shrug. “It’s fine. I’m just bad at poker.”

Charles snorted, setting his mug down on the counter. “Don’t give me that. I’ve seen you win against professionals before. People who actually know what they’re doing.”

Carlos busied himself with turning on the tap, wetting his toothbrush like it was the most fascinating task in the world. “I guess it just wasn’t my night,” he said lightly, though the way his pulse quickened betrayed him.

“Hmm,” Charles hummed, leaning back against the counter as he studied him. His expression was unreadable, but the weight of his gaze made Carlos’ neck prickle.

“You’re imagining things,” Carlos said, his voice a little too quick, a little too defensive.

“Am I?”

“Yes.”

Charles chuckled softly, shaking his head. “You’re not very subtle, you know. Every time she was about to lose, you suddenly went all in on terrible hands. It was painful to watch.”

Carlos groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “It wasn’t like that,” he muttered, though even to his own ears, it sounded unconvincing.

“Sure it wasn’t,” Charles said, his tone dry. He took another sip of his coffee, his eyes narrowing slightly over the rim of the mug. “You know, you’re lucky I trust you.”

Carlos froze again, the words hanging heavy in the air.

“Trust me?” he echoed carefully.

“Yes,” Charles said simply, setting his mug down and crossing his arms. “Because if it were anyone else, I’d be having a very different conversation right now.”

Carlos blinked, unsure how to respond. He could feel the heat creeping up the back of his neck, and for a moment, he considered denying it outright. But Charles wasn’t stupid. And Carlos wasn’t a good enough liar to get away with it.

So instead, he sighed, setting his toothbrush down and leaning against the counter opposite Charles.

“Look,” he began, keeping his voice low. “I’m not trying to... I mean, it’s not like that.”

Charles raised an eyebrow.

Carlos rubbed the back of his neck. “Okay, maybe it’s a little like that,” he admitted reluctantly. “But I wasn’t. Nothing’s happening, alright? I wouldn’t do that to you.”

Charles studied him for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, to Carlos’ surprise, his lips quirked into a small, knowing smile.

“I know,” he said simply.

Carlos blinked. “You... know?”

“Yes,” Charles said, his tone light but firm. “That’s why I’m not threatening to kill you right now.”

Carlos let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, his shoulders relaxing slightly. “Thanks for that,” he said dryly.

“Don’t thank me yet,” Charles warned, his smile fading. “I trust you, Carlos, but I also trust her. And if you do anything to make her upset, I will kill you.”

Carlos nodded quickly, swallowing hard. “Understood.”

Charles nodded once, apparently satisfied, before grabbing his mug and heading for the door.

—

“Hey, sœur- what the fuck is that?” Charles called out from where he lounged on the sofa, still half asleep. His eyes were fixed on your bikini. “Is that... dental floss?”

You rolled your eyes dramatically, adjusting one of the straps. “Non, idiot. It’s a bikini. Fashion. I wouldn’t expect you to understand.”

He scoffed, leaning back, crossing his arms. “Fashion? Ça? Ça, c’est un crime. Who sold you that? A two-for-one deal with a pack of gum?”

“Ha ha. Très drôle,” you said dryly, walking past him toward the beach. “I didn’t ask for your opinion, monsieur modesty police.”

Charles held up his hands in mock surrender, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Okay, okay. But when the waves steal that little string you call swimwear, don’t say I didn’t warn you. Bonne chance.”

“Pfft,” you muttered, waving him off. “I’ll be fine.”

But, as you made your way down the steps to the sand, something felt odd. Charles hadn’t fought you on it.

No complaints about ‘covering up’ or embarrassing remarks about ‘respectability.’ No last-minute insistence on changing into something more “appropriate.” It was... new.

And oddly suspicious.

Wading further in, you let out a satisfied sigh, the gentle waves lapping at your legs. You dove under the water, resurfacing with a triumphant gasp.

You pushed the thought aside as you let the warm sand squish beneath your toes. The salty breeze tossed your hair, and the ocean called to you.

You dipped a toe into the water, pleased to find it perfectly cool.

For a while, you floated peacefully, content. Until one particularly aggressive swell caught you off guard.

You felt it immediately.

The tug of the water.

The loosening of straps.

Panic shot through you as you scrambled to grab the top of your bikini, but the slippery fabric slipped through your fingers and was swiftly carried away by the current.

You had two options: wade out and grab it, hoping no one was around to witness your embarrassing half-naked sprint… or stay hidden and pray it washed back on its own.

“Oh, merde! Non, non, non!” you hissed under your breath, frantically cupping your breasts as you scanned the empty beach for help.

It was still early. Too early for anyone else to be up and running and save you from this mortifying situation.

Your cheeks burned as you stood there, half-submerged in the water, desperately trying to figure out a plan.

Option one was looking more appealing until you heard the soft crunch of footsteps on sand.

Carlos.

Of course, it was Carlos.

Because fate had a sense of humor, and apparently, you were its favorite punchline.

He ambled out of the villa, a towel slung lazily over his shoulder, his dark curls sticking up like he’d just rolled out of bed. His face was adorably grumpy, the pout of someone who hadn’t had coffee yet. And then his gaze landed on you.

He froze.

You froze.

You tried to act casual. Well, as casual as one could while half-submerged, hugging their chest like they were reenacting a dramatic shipwreck scene.

Carlos’s frown deepened, concern flickering across his face as he took a hesitant step closer. “Are you… drowning?”

“Not drowning,” you chirped, your tone overly bright. “But thanks for checking!”

“Oh.” His voice cracked slightly. He cleared his throat, looking anywhere but at you. “Right. Uh… do you- want me to…?”

His brow furrowed. “Then why are you…?” His words trailed off as his eyes drifted to the water, where your bikini top bobbed lazily with the current.

Realization dawned like a slap, his cheeks instantly turning a satisfying shade of pink.

“Be my hero, Carlos,” you said with exaggerated sweetness, gesturing dramatically toward the water. “Save my dignity before the ocean claims it forever.”

He stared at you for a moment, his lips twitching like he wasn’t sure whether to laugh or groan. “Unbelievable,” he muttered under his breath before tossing his towel onto the sand and wading into the water.

You tried not to watch him, but… well. You were stuck here, and it’s not like there was much else to look at. The way his muscles flexed, the water slicking over his skin.

It was distracting. Infuriatingly distracting.

He resurfaced a moment later, holding up your bikini top like a trophy.

“Got it,” he called.

“Oh, congratulations, Captain of the Swim Team.” You clapped. “Now bring it here before someone else decides to take a morning stroll.”

Carlos swam back, wading into shallower water as he handed it to you. His smirked when you snatched it from his hand.

“Need help putting it back on, princess?”

You raised a brow. “Funny. Actually, yes.”

That wiped the smirk off his face.

“…What?”

You turned your back to him, holding out the tangled strings over your shoulder. “It’s all knotted. Be a gentleman, Carlos.”

He made a strangled sound. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Nope. Chop-chop.” You wiggled the strings for emphasis.

Carlos muttered something in Spanish, but he stomped through the water toward you anyway. You could practically feel the heat radiating off him as his hands carefully took the strings.

His fingers skimmed over your bare skin, and your breath caught in your throat. Sharp and shallow.

“Stop fidgeting,” Carlos muttered, his voice rough with concentration.

“You’re taking forever.”

“It’s not exactly easy tying this thing without looking.”

“Look, then.”

Carlos froze.

The silence stretched.

You could feel his breath behind you, hot against the curve of your neck.

Slowly, deliberately, his hands tightened around the strings. Not painfully, just firm enough to make you gasp and spin around.

“Carlos!”

He didn’t flinch.

His dark eyes locked on yours, sharp and unreadable. Then, with a darkness you recognized, his gaze flicked to your lips and lingered.

Too long.

Your pulse stuttered.

“Carlos,” you warned, softer this time.

He didn’t move. Neither did you.

And then it happened.

His mouth crashed into yours, hot and demanding.

You barely had time to gasp before his arms wrapped around your waist, yanking you flush against him.

For a moment, the world dissolved. The waves, the sun, the beach. All of it disappeared beneath the heat of his kiss.

And then he pulled back, breaking the moment with a frustrated groan.

“We can’t do this,” Carlos said, his hands still gripping your waist.

“Sure we can.” You grinned, breathless, leaning closer. “We’re already doing it.”

His grip tightened as if he was trying to anchor himself. “I’m too old for this. For you.”

You rolled your eyes. “Oh, please. You’re thirty, not eighty.”

“That’s not the point,” he snapped, his voice rough. “You… You deserve someone younger. Someone who-”

“Someone who what?” you interrupted, your eyes narrowing. “Someone who’s scared of me? Who wouldn’t be able to handle me?”

“Someone who doesn’t know better,” he said quietly, his gaze dropping to your lips again.

You softened, leaning closer. “Maybe I don’t want someone who doesn’t know better.”

Carlos let out a strangled laugh, shaking his head. “You’re going to ruin me, you know that?”

“Good,” you whispered, brushing your lips against his.

For a moment, he gave in, his mouth claiming yours again, desperate and unrelenting.

But then he tore himself away, his chest heaving as he stepped back, the water lapping at his thighs.

“This is a bad idea,” he said, his voice rough.

“Carlos,” you said softly, stepping toward him.

His hands came up, stopping you. “You don’t get it. I can’t just-” He gestured between the two of you, struggling to find the words. “If this goes wrong…”

“It won’t,” you said firmly. “You’re overthinking it.”

For a long moment, he just stared at you, torn between caution and temptation.

“God help me,” he muttered before pulling you back into his arms, kissing you like he’d never stop.

“Oh, please. You like it.”

That did it.

Carlos groaned, a raw, frustrated sound, and suddenly his hand was in yours, gripping tight.

“Come on.”

“Where are we-?”

“Somewhere with fewer witnesses.”

You laughed, breathless and exhilarated, stumbling after him as he dragged you toward the rocky outcropping at the edge of the beach.

“Oh, now you’re worried about witnesses?”

Carlos shot you a look over his shoulder. “Yeah, well, I’m not tying your bikini back on twice.”

You snorted. “Coward.”

“Keep talking, and I’ll leave you naked out here.”

“Oh, threats!” You giggled, letting him pull you behind the rocks, the world disappearing behind towering stone and crashing waves.

And then he was on you again.

No hesitation, no teasing.

Pinned against the rough stone, your body trembling in Carlos’s firm grip, his mouth crushed against yours with a ferocity that left you breathless.

His hands slid over your waist, pulling you flush against him, the heat of his body searing into yours.

He kissed like he had all the time in the world. Like he was determined to take every last bit of air from your lungs.

You gasped, fingers clutching at his shoulders as he backed you harder into the rock, the scrape of it barely registering against the dizzying sensations he drew from you.

His lips left yours, trailing down your jaw, to the tender spot just below your ear, and you shivered as his teeth scraped lightly over your skin.

“God, Carlos-” you whispered, but the words broke off into a gasp when his hands slid under your thighs, lifting you higher against him.

“Mm.” His lips curved against your throat, and he hummed low, a sound filled with lazy amusement. His mouth worked along your neck, deliberate and unhurried, leaving your skin flushed and tingling.

When he finally pulled back, his eyes roamed over you.

Your swollen lips, your heaving chest, your thighs trembling where they rested against his hips. He tilted his head, the corner of his mouth curving up, the faintest smirk playing on his lips.

“Has anyone ever made you come with their mouth before?” he asked though he looked as though he already knew the answer.

The heat in your face intensified, your breath catching as his hands wandered down your thighs, teasing the edge of your bikini bottoms.

You tried to respond, but the words stuck in your throat, and all you managed was a small shake of your head.

His smirk deepened, a low chuckle escaping him as he brushed his thumb over your flushed cheek. “Didn’t think so,” he murmured. “You’re so damn pretty when you’re flustered. Cute.”

Your hips instinctively arched toward him, but he didn’t rush. He held you steady, hands firm but gentle, guiding you with a patience that only heightened the ache between your legs.

His lips found your collarbone, kissing and nipping lightly, as though savoring every inch of you.

When he finally moved between your legs, the sight of him looking up at you from between your thighs sent a fresh wave of heat crashing through you.

His hands spreaded you open with a careful precision that made your heart race. Carlos nudged you higher against the rock, shifting you into position, gaze sweeping over you like he was memorizing every detail.

“You’re shaking already,” he said softly, his voice edged with amusement as he pressed a kiss to the inside of your thigh. “Relax, baby. I’ve got you.”

You whimpered, fingers tangling in his dark hair as his lips moved closer, teasing, never quite giving you what you wanted.

His stubble scraped lightly against your sensitive skin, making you shiver, and when his breath fanned over your core, you nearly bucked against him.

“Please,” you whispered, your voice trembling, desperate.

Carlos’s low hum vibrated against your skin, and he pressed another kiss to your inner thigh, his smirk audible in his tone. “So needy,” he murmured, almost to himself.

Then, without warning, his mouth was on you.

The first long, deliberate swipe of his tongue over your clit drew a sharp cry from your lips, your back arching off the rock.

He didn’t falter. His tongue worked you with slow, measured precision, every flick and circle designed to draw you closer to the edge.

You tried to move, to grind against him, but his grip on your thighs tightened, holding you firmly in place.

He was relentless, alternating between soft, teasing licks and harder, more focused strokes that made your vision blur.

“Oh, f-fuck-” you gasped, your voice breaking, your fingers tugging harder at his hair.

He didn’t respond, didn’t lift his head, just let out a soft, pleased sound that sent vibrations through you, his mouth working you even harder. His fingers joined in, slipping inside you with ease, curling just right, hitting a spot that made you cry out.

The tension coiled tight in your belly, your entire body trembling as he brought you closer and closer. It wasn’t rushed, wasn’t frantic. Just steady, unshakable control, like he knew exactly what you needed before you did.

It was overwhelming.

The pressure, the heat, the way his tongue and fingers worked together. It all built into something you couldn’t stop, couldn’t hold back even if you tried.

Your body tensed, and with a broken moan, the wave crashed over you, leaving you shuddering, your thighs clamping around his head as he worked you through it.

Carlos didn’t stop until you were nothing but a trembling, breathless mess, every last tremor wrung from you.

Only then did he pull back, his lips glistening, his chin wet with you.

He lifted his head, hands brushing gently over your thighs as if to ground you.

He leaned in, his mouth finding yours in a slow, deliberate kiss that left you dizzy all over again. The taste of yourself on his lips only heightened the intimacy, the rawness of it.

“First time for everything, huh?” he murmured against your mouth, his tone low and teasing, though his eyes were warm, almost soft.

Your breath came in shallow gasps, your body still trembling, and as you looked at him, at the way he gazed at you with that infuriating, knowing smirk, you knew you were ruined.

You barely recognized your own voice when you whispered, “Fuck me.”

His eyes found yours, dark and hungry, his control fraying at the edges. For a brief moment, he stayed still, as though restraining himself, the tendons in his neck taut, his jaw clenched.

Carlos had you against the rock again in seconds, his hands firm on your thighs, his body pressing into yours with a force that left no room for hesitation. He moved without teasing this time, his lips crashing into yours.

Your fingers gripped his shoulders, your nails biting into the hard muscle beneath his skin as he angled you higher against the rock.

The rough scrape of it bit into your back, but the discomfort was drowned out by the searing warmth of him, his mouth moving down your jaw to your neck.

You tried to gasp his name but he didn’t give you time to finish.

He lifted you higher, spreading your thighs wider around his hips. The strength in his hands was almost dizzying, his grip unyielding as he shifted your body to his liking. When his lips trailed down your throat, sucking hard enough to leave marks, your head fell back, exposing more of your skin to him.

His swim trunks were gone in a moment, and when you glanced down, your breath hitched at the sight of him.

Thick, hard, and impossibly big, he stood there like he was made to ruin you. The sheer size of him sent a shiver through your body, heat pooling low in your belly as your thighs clenched involuntarily.

“You’re shaking,” he murmured, his tone low but soft, the edge of a smile playing at his lips as he reached for you again. “Relax, baby. I’ll make it fit.”

Your breath stuttered, your fingers clutching his shoulders as he lined himself up, the head of his cock pressing insistently against your entrance. The first push was slow, almost gentle, but the stretch was immediate, sharp, and overwhelming.

“Carlos,” you gasped, your voice breaking as your body struggled to take him.

“You can take it.” His jaw clenched as he pushed in another inch. “Just breathe, baby. Let me in.”

You did, your breaths coming in shallow pants as he fed you inch by inch. The stretch was nearly unbearable, your body clenching around him as if trying to resist.

He groaned, forehead dropping to your shoulder, hands steady on your hips as he worked himself deeper.

“You’re so tight,” he muttered, his voice strained as though the effort of holding back was physically painful. “So perfect.”

The fullness was overwhelming, the sheer size of him stretching you beyond anything you thought possible. He didn’t rush, didn’t force it, but every inch was a challenge, your body trembling as it adjusted to him.

Finally, he was fully seated inside you, the press of his hips against yours sending a jolt of pleasure and relief through your body. For a moment, he stayed still, his chest heaving against yours, his hands gripping your thighs so tightly you knew you’d feel the bruises later.

“Fuck,” he growled, his voice rough, his breath hot against your ear. “You’re so perfect. Made for me.”

You couldn’t speak, couldn’t think.

Your body stretched and full in a way that left you dizzy.

The ache was sharp but fading quickly, replaced by the thrum of pleasure that sparked with every small movement.

Then he began to move.

His hips pulled back slowly, the thick length of him dragging against your walls before he thrust forward again, burying himself deep.

The sensation was electrifying, your body tightening around him as he set a steady, deliberate rhythm.

Each thrust was measured, controlled, as though he was determined to make you feel every inch of him.

The pressure was unrelenting, his cock hitting spots inside you that sent waves of pleasure rippling through your body.

You clung to him, your nails digging into his back as his pace quickened, the strength of his thrusts leaving you gasping.

The rock behind you scraped against your skin with every movement, but the sting was nothing compared to the pleasure building inside you.

Carlos shifted, lifting you higher against him, angling his hips to drive deeper. The new position made you cry out, your head falling back as the sensations intensified, every nerve ending in your body alight.

“You’re incredible,” he murmured, his voice thick and rough, his hands tightening on your hips as he moved faster, harder.

The fullness, the stretch, the relentless rhythm. It was too much and not enough all at once. Your body trembled, your thighs shaking around his waist as the tension inside you coiled tighter, threatening to snap.

“Carlos,” you gasped, your voice breaking as your hands fisted in his hair, desperate for something to hold onto.

“Come for me,” he growled, his hips slamming into yours with unrelenting force. “Come on, be a good girl and come for me.”

His words sent you spiraling. The wave of pleasure crashed over you, your entire body trembling as you shattered around him.

Your cries filled the air, your walls clenching tight around him as the release ripped through you.

Carlos groaned, his rhythm faltering as he chased his own release. His thrusts turned erratic, desperate, and with a final, shuddering moan, he buried himself deep, his release spilling into you in a rush of heat.

For a moment, there was only the sound of your ragged breathing, the crash of the waves a distant echo.

His forehead rested against yours, his hands gentle now as they smoothed over your thighs, grounding you.

“Are you okay?” he asked softly.

You nodded faintly, your lips curving into a small, breathless smile. “I’m perfect,” you whispered.

He chuckled, his arms tightening around you as he pressed a soft kiss to your temple. “You’re going to be the death of me,” he muttered, his voice tinged with both amusement and awe.

“Then you’ll die happy,” you teased, your fingers brushing lightly over his jaw.

He smiled, his lips finding yours in a kiss that was slow, tender, and unhurried.

—-

Carlos insisted on carrying you back to the villa, effortlessly lifting you into his arms and wrapping a towel around you to shield you from the cool evening air.

You tried to protest, laughing half-heartedly while squirming a little in his hold, but his arms only tightened around you, pulling you closer.

The warmth of his body against yours was a welcome contrast to the crisp early morning air, and despite your teasing resistance, you felt a pull of affection.

“Carlos, no, seriously. I’m fine,” you said, attempting to push lightly against his chest. “You don’t have to carry me like this.”

“Shh,” he murmured, adjusting his grip to make sure you were even more comfortable, a slight smile tugging at his lips. “You’re not fine. I just fucked you, and so I’m taking care of you. Aftercare, baby. So stop fussing.”

You rolled your eyes at the sentiment. “Carlos, seriously. Charles is going to murder you if he sees-”

Carlos’ grin only widened, a spark of mischief lighting up his eyes. You could feel the confidence radiating off of him as he held you effortlessly, his voice dropping lower, laced with amusement. “Charles already knows.”

Your brows shot up, a mix of surprise and confusion flooding through you. “Wait, what? He knows?”

Carlos’ grin softened slightly, the playful edge in his tone giving way to a hint of sheepishness. "Yeah… Poker night.”

You blinked, the realization dawning slowly but surely. “Poker night?” You almost laughed at the absurdity of it. “Oh my god, you told him?”

“Well, he kind of guessed. And then, the next morning, he gave me the talk.”

You stared at him for a moment, blinking as the full weight of the situation sank in. “The talk? That talk?”

“The one and only.”

You snorted. “I can't believe you let him talk to you like that.”

Carlos raised an eyebrow, clearly enjoying the banter. “Trust me, I wasn’t about to argue with him.”

You nestled into his chest, feeling the warmth of his body, and smiled up at him. “You’re lucky I don’t have a talk with you myself.”

He raised an eyebrow, a playful glint in his eye. “Oh? You’d have the talk with me too?”

You leaned in closer. “Maybe later,” you said softly, the affection in your voice undeniable.

Carlos’ grin softened as he held you just a little tighter. “I’ll be waiting for it, cariño.”

—-

Hours later, Lando and Pierre stumbled into the living room, bleary-eyed and still caught in the haze of sleep.

They froze in the doorway, blinking in surprise at the sight before them.

You and Carlos were both fast asleep, tangled together on the couch, your head resting comfortably against his chest. His arms were draped around you, one hand resting lightly on your waist, the other tangled in your hair as you slept soundly.

Pierre raised an eyebrow, his lips twitching into a grin as he cast a glance at Charles, who was sprawled across the couch like he had nowhere else to be.

Charles didn’t even look up, clearly at ease with everything happening. Pierre nudged him lightly, amusement dancing in his eyes. “You’re okay with this?” he asked, voice low but tinged with disbelief. “I mean, just like that? No big deal?”

Charles didn’t stir, stretching out lazily as if the whole situation was perfectly normal.

He met Pierre’s gaze with a smirk, the kind that only came with complete indifference to drama. “Are you seriously asking me that?” he drawled, as if the question were almost laughable. “Better than any of you, I’ll tell you that much.”

Lando, however, was having none of it.

He threw his hands up in mock exasperation, his dramatic flair coming to the surface even as he tried to stifle a yawn. “Hold up, hold up!” He pointed an accusing finger at Carlos, his voice raising slightly, though still laden with sleepiness. “I can’t even flirt with her without getting death threats, but Mr. Smooth Operator here gets to just waltz in and- what? -sweep her off her feet? No questions asked?”

Carlos stirred slightly at the noise, his arms tightening around you instinctively as he shifted to get more comfortable. His voice was low, heavy with sleep, but there was an undeniable warmth to it as he spoke, still gazing down at you with affection. “That’s pretty much it,” he muttered, the hint of a lazy chuckle rumbling in his chest as he tightened his hold on you just a little more.

Pierre shook his head slowly, blinking as if he wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly. “So… this? This is serious?” he asked, voice almost whispering as though not wanting to disturb the peaceful moment.

Carlos let out a soft sigh, the sound barely audible as he pressed his cheek gently against your head, completely content in the quiet. His eyes fluttered open, and he met Pierre’s gaze with a slow, sleepy smile.

“Trust me,” he started, barely awake. “There’s more to figure out, but this?” He paused, glancing down at you, his eyes soft with affection. “This is happening.”

—-

Permanent taglist :

@papichulomacy @alilcloudy @lilorose25

[3n-vi-ous]

Falling Asleep With Them

a/n: felt soft. enjoy :) pairings: lucifer/reader, mammon/reader, leviathan/reader reader: sort of implied to be shorter than the brothers, but they're freakishly tall anyway cw: n/a

Lucifer - Avatar of Pride

It had been a remarkably long day at the Hall of Lamentation. While it was the weekend, there was still much to be done and there was no rest for you as the brothers' designated babysitter. At least, that's what it felt like you were.

You'd just finished washing up the dishes; Satan had cooked tonight, and you'd volunteered to clean up to avoid the headache often induced by the others fighting over who had to wash them. A look at the oven clock told you it was pretty late, and most if not all of the brothers have retreated to their rooms by now.

You sighed, wiping your hands on a dish towel and turning the kitchen light off. You left on the stove light for Beel when he would inevitably come down for a midnight snack.

On your walk to your room, you paused in front of Lucifer's office. A cursed record was playing and you could just barely hear the crackling of flames. Without a second thought, you knocked.

"Come in," Lucifer called. When you cracked open the door and stepped in, he finally lifted his head to look at you. A glare you presume he'd prepared for one of his brothers immediately softened upon seeing you. "Hello, love. Do you need something?"

You smiled in reply, clicking the heavy door shut behind you and padding across the hardwood floor of his office. He raised a brow when you tried to push him away from his desk, but he rolled his chair back anyways.

Lucifer couldn't resist a soft laugh as you crawled into his lap and made yourself at home, wrapping your arms around him. He looked down at you, a smile only you'd ever seen on his face.

"Are you alright?" He asked, rubbing your back and lifting your chin to look you in the eyes.

"Tired. Long day," you respond, leaning in to give him a quick kiss before snuggling up to his chest. He sighed fondly, affection sparking in his crimson eyes. He hugged you close and rolled his chair back in, dominant hand returning to his fountain pen and the other settling on your waist.

It was easy to doze off like that, listening to his slow, heavy heartbeat. Warmth- a mix of his and the fireplace's- enveloped you easily, lulling you into a gentle sleep.

Just before you slipped off for good, you felt a light pressure against the top of your head followed by Lucifer saying something you didn't quite catch. You knew it meant he loved you, though.

Mammon - Avatar of Greed

You were already in bed by the time Mammon came home, trying to sneak through the front entrance and up one of the grand staircases to his room.

You were startled out of your light sleep by the door slamming open, followed by a whispered curse. You sat up, gathering your blankets around you and leaning over to turn on your lamp.

With a click, the room was illuminated with warm light. Mammon stood in the doorway, staring back at you like he was caught doing something bad. You give him the most unamused expression you can manage.

"Uhhhh," he said smartly, glancing around the room as if looking for something to help him. He then returned his multi-colored gaze to you and gave a guilty smile.

"Mammo-"

"Listen! I know it's kinda late, and I know I promised to be home earlier, but my last shoot ran long and then I went to the casino with the cash and... Uh, I might have lost it all." He admitted, words coming out in a rush. He then stared for a moment longer before his eyes widened in panic. "Wait! Wait, I didn't mean to say that. I meant to say I'm sorry for being home late!"

You couldn't help the laugh that got from you. He stopped then, giving you a nervous look before, much quieter this time, closing the door. He walked toward the bed in such a manner that you'd think you were about to bite him. He only calmed down some when you patted the bed next to you.

"I can't say I'm proud of your gambling addiction," you begin, shifting to help him take off his jacket. "But so long as you come back to me in one piece every night, we can work on that some other time."

He smiled then, a real smile. It was kind of crooked, but it was so distinctly him that it warmed your heart. He leaned over to kiss you before standing to rid himself of the rest of his day clothes while you settled back into the pillows.

After he had shucked off his pants and shirt, he crawled over your side of the bed to his and collapsed next to you. You giggled, lifting up the blankets so he could get underneath.

Once he'd gotten comfortable, you threw your arm over his chest and cuddled up to his side. He sighed and ran a manicured hand over your hair before settling it on your back.

"My first man," you hummed affectionately.

"Always," he murmured as he drifted off.

Leviathan - Avatar of Envy

It was yet another late night spent with Leviathan in his room.

He sat at his PC, playing some MMO he'd just gotten the day prior. You were curled up in his bathtub playing on a handheld he'd given you. He'd set you up with a game akin to Stardew Valley, citing that 'normies like you' needed something a little simpler to begin.

While you did give him a look for that little comment, you did like the game. It was almost nostalgic in nature, giving you a warm and cozy feeling. But maybe that was the mountain of pillows, blankets, and plushies you were lying in. Could be both.

After countless hours of what was essentially parallel play, you began to get tired. I mean- who could blame you? Between the calming game, the comfortable nest, and the whir of his computer- not to mention the soft ambience lighting cast by the fish tank- it was easy to doze off.

Before that could happen, though, you saved the game and sat up. With a yawn, you stretched your arms above your head. You rubbed your eye, leaning over the edge of the massive tub and waving your hand at Levi to catch his attention.

"Sorry MC, I'm almost done with this quest!" He said. You couldn't help but groan- which you know he heard, being as he had his headphones shifted off the ear facing you.

"Levi..." You mumble, putting on your best puppy eyes and letting your arms hang limp over the side of the tub.

"I- uh- hold on! I promise I'll be done soon," he blurted, glancing between you and his monitor.

You give it one last go and make grabby hands at him with a soft whine. That did him in for good.

"Ahhh!! You're just too cute!" He shouted, turning to look at you and hiding his face. You smiled brightly at your victory. He hesitated for just a second longer before saving and shutting off his own game. He was already in comfortable clothes so he got directly into the tub with you.

After some awkward shuffling and him shyly muttering, you end up comfortable with his head resting on your chest. His lanky limbs curled around you, adding to your coziness.

"This is like that one scene in-"

He didn't get any farther in referencing some ridiculously obscure anime before you pressed a kiss right to his lips. He practically froze before tentatively returning it. The second you pulled away, he buried his face in your chest with a flustered huff.

"...Goodnight, MC."

[trulyumai]

Sweet Taste of Nectar

Pairing: Messmer the Impaler / Wife! Reader

Warnings: Rough Smut

Synopsis: he liked to be rough with his wife, sure, but she adored it.

A/N: I’m trying a new layout to my writing, let me know if it’s any better!

Listen and read with a Messmer playlist I designed for the stories!

messmer could die a happy man, with such a sight to gaze upon.

his victories held no contest against such a feat displayed before him.

the man watched her bounce languidly upon his lap; hands upon his shoulders with a tight grip.

up and down his wife went, grinding against his hips with fervor, moans escaping her with each push and shove made inside her warm mound.

“please,” she had begged out, voice easing over the squelches echoing inside the chamber.

“so pretty,” he whispered. his eyes— never once straying from her moving breasts, catching them ever so often with his heat induced hands.

He knew she had to be close, the way her orbs glossed over with a light sheen, sweat dabbed across her brow and her legs stiffened with a tight pressure around the man’s hips.

she puffed out air as her neck leaned back tiredly. a simmering burn made its way across her stomach, to the middle of her core and she wanted it out— craved the much needed release just as much as he did.

messmer could no longer wait, for his patience had run thin. his torso sat up, pushing the girl to be underneath his lanky form.

her head dangled off the bed, sweat stuck to her skin like a cheap perfume.

“it— hah, you promised I could lead,” the girls shoulders shook with wanted need, and the man scoffed while looping her leg around his waist. his toned arms held up her legs easily, and it would have been impressive if she wasn’t numbed from the many hours of love making.

“pretty wife,” he was smiling now. it was small, didn’t reach his lust filled eyes.

his hips pulled back before he slammed roughly into her.

her head reeled back with a snap, a groan overtook her as the man slapped against her lower half with more speed than she could ever muster.

one hand free, he reached out to find the slim neck it craved to hold— to squeeze until she begged him to utterly destroy her, to fill her with as much seed as he possible could.

his fingers wrapped around the delicate skin as he picked up a steady pace. hitting her favorite spot over, over and over again.

“—nnngh,” the girls eyes rolled back uncontrollably, wet tears grazed her lashes, and fell down in waves upon her cheeks from the drawn on pleasure the man fed her.

he needed to hear it. taste the much desired words across his tongue.

pumping harder, faster, the bed piece creaked out in response. The wood squealed with every increase of the man’s pace.

“say it,” the knight demanded.

“say it, pretty wife,”

everything felt so numb. over and over he hit against her lower lips— and she could once more feel the fire in her belly build up.

messmer tightened his hold upon her throat, a low whine escaped her lips.

“say it!”

“I—,” the pace was perfect; the roughness the girl had needed and desired all day was finally here. her fingers swiped away at the tears that fell, mouth falling agape in the process. drool leaked out instantly, the man lapped it up, his pink tongue dragged across her chin slowly.

“—fill me. I—I’m all yours, my hus-husband!” the man shuddered, his form sagged against hers with his hips giving one final slam, letting both their juices run freely down his pale thighs.

looking down at the messy haired girl, he let out a laugh.

hair poked in each direction and sweat and spit swept over her body.

not caring for the sticky feeling across her thighs she groaned out, reaching to put her hands around the back of Messmer’s neck.

“bath?” he questioned; knowing that his wife must feel dirty

“bath,” she agreed. her eyes closed instantly while the flame picked up her sagging body, leading her to the tub just across the hall.

she did nothing but lean against him, as he washed and kissed every inch of her body.

it wasn’t until they returned back to their newly sheeted bed, that they exchanged pleasantries.

“i love you, dear wife,” lips molded against her forehead, down to her temple and cheek.

she hummed.

“and i you, my husband.”

[blushweddinggowns]

Eddie was wide awake for the fourth night in a row while Steve’s voice streamed through the walls. Every passing second had his pathetic crush on the man dissolving more and more. The last bastion between Steve and Eddie telling him to fuck off. 

It took one last laugh for him to finally snap. He couldn’t take it for another second. He threw the covers back, marching out of his room to start pounding at Steve’s door.

He didn’t have to wait long. He could hear Steve scramble to open the door, tripping over himself before finally getting it open.

“What’s wrong?” Steve asked immediately, clearly concerned, “Are you okay?”

The reaction took Eddie aback. He didn’t- how did he not know what he was here for? 

Eddie barrelled right past it, his anger winning over his confusion, “Dude, you gotta shut the fuck up at night.”

Steve frowned at him, “What?”

“You gotta shut the fuck up at night,” Eddie repeated, crossing his arms over his chest. If he wanted to fight with him on this, Eddie was more than ready to play ball, “I can hear every goddamn word and I’m sick of it.”

Steve’s eyes widened, a blush crawling up his neck as he tried to stutter, “I-I-I didn’t-”

Whatever reaction Eddie had been expecting, it wasn’t this. But now that he started, he couldn’t stop. His brain refusing to catch up with the expression on Steve’s face, “And the showers at thee something? That’s gotta stop too. Can you not hear yourself? What’s your problem?”

“I-I didn’t think you could hear me!” Steve stuttered out, “I didn’t- oh god, you could hear everything?”

“Everything,” Eddie confirmed, his anger slowing down at Steve’s panic, “It’s not like I can recite your conversations but it’s enough to make sure I can’t fucking sleep.”

He could see Steve visibly relax at his words. Which was… suspicious. Maybe he should have been listening in at night instead of seething from exhaustion. 

Steve ran a hand through his hair, “I didn’t- I could never hear you! So I thought that you wouldn’t be able to hear me. I’m so sorry.”

“Yeah, so am I,” Eddie sighed, “What? You’ve never had shitty walls before?”

“Not for this price,” Steve shrugged, cringing at the look Eddie gave him, “Not that I’m complaining! You didn’t design the building.”

He looked sincere but Eddie’s lack of sleep had his filter evaporating. He pinched the bridge of his nose, hating that he was about to go full RA. But this wasn’t going to happen for another night, “So who keeps you up all night anyway?”

“It’s my job!” Steve rushed out to say, “And my best friend. She’s studying in France and we’re obsessed with each other. It’s the only time our schedules line up to talk. I didn’t even realize how loud I was being.” 

Great. Now Eddie was starting to feel bad. But he wasn’t ready to admit it yet, “You really didn’t know how loud the shower is? Don’t you hear that shit in the morning?”

Steve shrugged, “I’m a heavy sleeper.”

“Is your job like, sweat-inducing?” Eddie tried, “Or can a shower wait until before work?”

“The former,” Steve said quietly, shifting foot to foot, “It’s… a lot of movement.”

Eddie squinted at him, confused at what that could mean. Until it hit him. The cash, the late hours, his stupidly pretty face. The question spilled out of Eddie’s mouth before he could stop it, “You’re a stripper?”

Steve cringed at the wording, crossing his arms over his chest, “I’m a dancer.”

“At a strip club?”

“At a gay club,” Steve mumbled, clearly getting more uncomfortable by the second. 

Eddie didn’t notice. Too shocked at what he’d heard. He felt like his world had just been flipped on its head. Steve wasn’t supposed to- he wasn’t an option. Right?

“I didn’t think you were the gay for pay type,” Eddie said dumbly, cringing at the glare that earned him. Holy fuck he needed some sleep. Or a muzzle.

Steve stood a little straighter, his embarrassment replaced with an anger Eddie wasn’t prepared for, “First of all, I don’t fuck for money. Secondly, I’m not straight. I didn’t think that was something you’d have a problem with.”

Fuck, fuck, fuck. Eddie was fucking this up something fierce, gaping at Steve like a fish. He hadn’t been ready for him to turn the tables like this. He was supposed to be the dick here, not the other way around. 

Steve stared at him, clearly unimpressed with his lack of response, “Is that it? Because I’d like this conversation to be over now. Good night.”

from the first chapter of this fic (my holiday exchange fic! To be completed by the 14th deadline but I wanted to start posting whilst in the editing phase!)

also tag list for the official fic link! @faery-god @the-fatal-lozenge @nyeddleblog @my-love-of-books

(btw I only tagged who specifically asked for it because I don't wanna be annoying. But if you implied it and I missed you my bad! I'm just paranoid! Thank you everyone who has had an interest <3)

[leeluvsyoongi]

࣪˖ ִ𐙚 Synopsis: Soft bf! Jk x innocent gf! Reader Headcannons

࣪˖ ִ𐙚 | warning(s)— Reader is a little ditzy, and super innocent, tooth-rotting fluff, & marked smut (unedited lowk)

˖ 𐙚 | word count: 2.1 k words

✧˖° Put Me In A Movie - bulcadoshow

SFW

soft bf! jungkook who adores his precious girlfriend; from the sweet roundness of your cheeks to the way you’d curl onto his lap and nuzzle the crook of his neck when you want his attention. His hands would affectionately wrap around your waist, kissing the top of your head, “What’s up baby?” His gummy smile and round eyes warm your skin. There’s no denying you have an incurable crush on your boyfriend. Your boyfriend. Koo was your boyfriend! The thought alone swarms billions of butterflies in your gut, your heart thrashing against your ribcage. “Can I color in your tattoos?” You mumble, holding a box of washable markers, a small smile curling on your lips. 

soft bf! jungkook nods vigorously at your request, before pressing an array of kisses all over your face. “Of course bunny,” He laughs, adjusting your weight comfortably on his lap before helping you set out the markers on the coffee table. “You’re so cute,” He whispers, resting his chin against your shoulder, watching your hands color in the inked designs. “No, you’re cute,” You mumble, looking up at him before pressing a shy kiss to his nose and returning to your coloring.

soft bf! jungkook admires the soft pink and pastels that fill his arm, along with the other inked tones. “So pretty,” He hums approving of your work, “You did a great job princess, I really like it,” He gently pats your head, watching the way you cover your face with the knitted paws of your soft strawberry print sweater. “Thank you,” You mutter, your voice muffled against the fabric. “Mhm,” He wraps his arms around your waist, gently swaying you from side to side. 

soft bf! jungkook laughs when you decorate bam with pink ribbons on his collar, the pink knitted sweater you spent weeks crafting for him. He can’t help but snap a picture of his son and post it on his Instagram account along with the array of pictures of his precious dog. The photo captioned with“내 여친이 뱀에게 한 짓 좀 봐 “ [Look what my girlfriend did to Bam.] His heart melts at the soft giggles that escape your lips when Bam attacks your face with slobbery licks, clearly loving his new look. 

soft bf! jungkook does everything in his capacity to keep you away from the press. He understands how anxiety-inducing it can be to be followed by dozens of paparazzi. He doesn’t want you living in that stress and is much happier with you existing comfortably, without constantly disguising yourself and being dragged into the whirlpool that is fame.

soft bf! jungkook enjoys being in the kitchen with you, as you talk about all the different recipes you’ve learned while he was away for his photoshoot campaigns. His heart swells at the sight of you pacing around the kitchen for different ingredients in your My Melody apron. Jungkook hums, listening to you ramble about your techniques for making your chocolate chip cookies extra fluffy, while he works on the opposite end of the counter in his matching Kuromi apron, making his mother’s famous recipe of Busan bibimbap. His eyes would dart up to you every few moments, taking in the soft curve of your cheeks as you mix the dough, adding a generous amount of flour after every few mixes. And god is he so in love with you.

soft bf! jungkook who couldn’t resist the soft curve of your cheek, without warning, leaned in and nipped playfully at the delicate skin, his teeth just grazing it. You swiveled around in his arms, poking his firm chest with a finger that lacked any real menace. “That hurt, Koo!” He tilted his head, his bunny-like smile growing wider. “No, it didn’t,” he teased, his voice dripping with mock innocence. The way your brows knitted together, and your pout deepened, made his heart flip. “It did,” you insisted, rubbing your cheek dramatically, your lips forming the cutest little frown.“Aish, my poor baby,” he cooed, his hands finding your cheeks and squishing them gently together. Your lips puckered slightly, making you look even more adorable in his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, leaning in to pepper obnoxiously loud kisses across your lips.“Koo, stop!” you protested, your words coming out muffled, soft giggles bubbling out between every kiss, “Your lip ring is so cold!”

soft bf! jungkook always knows just what to do when the first days of your period hit. Ice cream? He has it stashed in the freezer. Heating pads? Already stored in a warm place. Your favorite stuffed animals? Littering the couches and covering the span of your bed. Your favorite movies? He already made a watchlist on Netflix. Pads? An entire inventory is in the bathroom cupboard. He already knows all your favorite foods and has a list of just what to cook when your cramps won’t leave you alone. The sweet boy was too shy to ask in the first months of your relationship, the only way he knew just what to do when the two of you had first gotten together was to call his Eomma asking all sorts of questions about what vegetables and foods ease cramps, she laughed, and told him to take out a pen and paper.

NSFW

soft bf! jungkook is surprised when you ask him about masturbation, the way you softly mumble the question and can hardly meet his gaze, already has a smile on his face. “Do you want me to teach you?” He offers, gently tracing tender patterns on your palm, his voice soft and slow. You slowly nod, nipping down at your lip. “Yes please,” He gently gathers you in his arms, resting his back against the headboard. He eases your back against his chest, resting his chin over your head. “I’m gonna take off your shorts okay?” His voice is soft, “Is that okay princess?” You quickly nod, your smaller hands working alongside his own to remove the soft material of your pj shorts. Your legs are carefully spread, and you’re blinking at the wet print of arousal on your baby-pink panties. His fingers gently ghost over the damp fabric, “This means you’re feeling good.” He whispers, “You know that already, don’t you baby?” You nod, your hands wrapping around his wrist, as he presses your stiff button over the cloth. “See this little button right here? That’s where you’re gonna feel super good.” 

soft bf! jungkook whispers, rubbing tight slow circles against the nub. Your body melts at his touch, a shuddered breath escaping your lips, “That feels good, right?” You nod, “M-mhm…I-I already touch there….I-I just…I never put my fingers inside…when I try, it hurts,” You whisper. He hummed in understanding, Jungkook knew you were a virgin, and he always respected your wishes to wait a little longer. “D-Do you want me to help?” He offers, his other hand rubbing soft circles over the warm skin of your belly, “B-But your fingers are so much bigger…?” You mumble shyly, “I-I don’t think they’ll…fit Koo…”

soft bf! jungkook sighs, the thought of your tiny hole struggling to take his fingers makes his crouch tighten. He's quick to brush the thought aside, focusing on your comfort. He’ll jerk it off in the shower later. “That’s okay bunny,” He assures, gently patting your hair. “My fingers don’t have to go in, we’ll take it easy, okay?” His eyes are locked on the nervous nip of your lip, and the innocent look in your eyes. “How…?”  You whisper, Jungkook gently lifts your chin his thumb tentatively brushing over the skin. “Remember when Koo said he could jus’ eat you right up?” His eyes are round and sweet, his thumb softly brushing over your bottom lip, making your face warm. “Mhm…” You nod, “Well, Koo jus’ needs you to lay back and take a deep breath okay?”

soft bf! jungkook makes sure his pretty princess is nice and comfortable, your pillows cozy beneath your head, and under your hips, keeping them propped up. He lets you hold onto your Hello Kitty SquishMallow for comfort, before peppering your inner thighs with loving kisses. He pays extra attention to your breathing—from every sigh to soft hitch— “It’s gonna feels a little weird at first…” He whispers, noticing the way your eyes shyly flicker down to meet his tender gaze. “I-Is it okay for your mouth to…uhm…be on my princess parts?” You whisper, your face burning up with shame and embarrassment at the filthy words. After a moment of silence, he kisses your soft strawberry-scented skin, nodding, “You’re gonna feel so good, your pretty cunny is gonna get so puffy,” Your eyes slightly widen at his words, and your lips part ever-so-slightly. “Rea-Really?”

soft bf! jungkook Feels his cheeks flush at the pretty breathy sounds that escape your lips. He’s addicted to the way your hole floods with warm cream at every flick of his tongue against your clit, or the way your fingers fist at his fluffy black mullet. The feeling of your lilac nails gently scraping against his scalp with every bump of his nose against your clit, making his head rush with hot blood. “K-Koo—” the way you mewled that little nickname like your life depended on it—the way your small airy voice filled his ears, only making him dizzier. Your hips jolt at every flick of his tongue against your entrance.

soft bf! jungkook is drunk on the taste of your arousal, the slight flutter of your flesh, and Fuck, you’re whining, softly hiccuping, when his lips wrap around your folds, tasting the path along your drooling slit. “Is it okay if I fill you up bunny? Jus’ one finger, k’ay?” His eyes dart up to your teary expression, the way you’re biting down on your swollen bottom lip. “S’ it gonna hurt?” You whisper, “Just a pinch, promise I’ll make it super quick…It’s gonna feel so good,” He assured you, and of course, you trusted him with your life, nodding like his good girl. The soft curtains of his hair lower back to your puffy cunny, the fluffy strands brushing against your thighs only makes you gush even more, feeling the warmth slowly seep down to your tight ring of muscles. 

soft bf! jungkook carefully rests your legs over his broad shoulders, your feet resting on the taunt muscles of his back. You notice how his fringe falls over his eyes, prompting you to gently gather his hair into a neat ponytail, securing it with the hair tie from your wrist. He flashes a soft, sweet smile before leaning in to press a tender kiss to your stomach. “Ready?” he asks, his voice warm and inviting. His voice carries a mellow weight, causing your insides to pool with warmth. He carefully prods at your slick hole, He moves the tip of his finger with gentle, deliberate motion, his gaze never leaving your dazed expression. A faint smile tugs at the corner of his lips as you moan softly, the sensation of his fingertip slowly pushing into you, each movement drawn out with careful intention. Gradually, he deepens the rhythm, adding more with each gentle thrust.“Mph–mmh–” You gasp at the unfamiliar fullness, his finger settled deep inside. He doesn’t move, allowing you to adjust to the sensation. “You’re doing so well…” he murmurs, sensing the way your walls flutter around him. “Do you need more time, or can I move?” You nod fervently, it feels so good, too good to stop.

soft bf! jungkook groans at the sight of his finger, the faint slickness, and the soft trace of blood at your exposed opening. Slowly, he curls his finger back in, gradually increasing the stretch to let your body adjust to the new sensation. "Feels good?" His gaze locks with yours, watching every sharp intake of breath as his finger twists deeper. "U-U-huh..." you gasp, nodding as you tighten around him, your breath hitching with each twist of his finger, “M-M–g-gonna…” you stammer, your legs trembling with each whimpering breath. “Let go for me sweetheart,” he murmurs, pressing soft kisses to your nub, gently sucking the sensitive flesh as his finger continues its rhythm.

soft bf! jungkook pushes a few strands of hair away from his face, kissing your soft tummy, and gently rubbing your thigh in your overwhelmed state. “Shhh, it’s okay you did so well,” In his eyes, you were so adorable shuddering and mewling with every brush of the wet towel against your puffy cunt, so sensitive and sweet. He peppers an array of soft kisses to your lips, muffling out every whine, “너무 귀여워, 내 딸아.” [so cute, my girl.] He murmurs, gently nuzzling his nose against your own. You tiredly blink, a satisfied smile pulling at your lips, “Thank you…” You mumble, as his head finds its place against your soft breasts. “너무 사랑해요..” [I love you so much.] “나도요…” [I love you too]

soft bf! jungkook couldn’t help but laugh as Bam enthusiastically bounded over the bed, his wet nose pressing gently against your sleeping frame. The puppy let out a soft whine before curling up beside you, content.

"Aish, Bam... let's go," he said with a chuckle, gently scooping the pup into his arms. Bam had an appointment, and they couldn't afford to be late. Glancing back at you, still, sound asleep, Jungkook felt a swell of affection. He knew you were completely wiped out after last, which evidently pushed you to your limit, and you deserved every moment of rest.

The thought made him grin. He couldn't help but wonder just how long you'd stay asleep once the two of you finally took things all the way. The idea was both endearing and exciting, filling him with warmth as he carried Bam out the door.

Hope you enjoyed it :3 I'd really appreciate reblogs, interactions & likes! Thank you :)

[harunayuuka2060]

Twst Unveil Event Part 3

Philomela: I hope everyone had a good night's sleep!

NRC, NBC, and RSA: YES!

Philomela: Great! Because you all are going to experience some body pain today!

The students: ...

Epel: Haha... Not everyone seems excited now.

Yuurin: She's never good in motivating anyone.

Malleus: How come she became your mentor?

Yuurin: My mother.

Malleus: Oh.

Philomela: I'll be explaining to you the mechanics now!

Philomela: Today will be the elimination round! You are free to attack anyone you please! And you have all the permission to use any type of moves even magic to your own advantage!

NBC student A: Eh? Isn't this a wrestling event?

NBC student B: If magic is involved, then we'll have better chances of winning.

RSA student A: Won't it be fair to not use any magic at all?

RSA student B: Yes. It feels wrong.

Philomela: Ha! Why? Do you think you can win just because you use magic?

The students: ...

Rook: Madame is right! There are many factors we need to consider!

Ruggie: Hm. Yuurin, you never used magic in any of your wrestling competitions, did you?

Yuurin: No.

Jack: I see. Does that mean...

Yuurin: Philomela is not impressed to any of them. That's why she's willing to give them a leverage to make this match worthwhile.

Floyd: Ne~ Mrs. Whale~ What other things we should remember for this elimination round?

Philomela: Nothing much, except that you have 30 minutes to fight anyone.

Floyd: Yay~!

Jade: Oh dear... *chuckles*

Epel: Can't I really join?

Rook: You'll get yourself hurt, Monsieur Crabapple.

Epel: *pouts*

Sebek: I promise to win this round, Waka-sama!

Silver: This is only an elimination round, Sebek.

Malleus: Do your best, Sebek, Silver.

Sebek/Silver: Yes, Waka-sama!/Malleus.

Ruggie: I guess this is the part where we start recording—

Philomela: Spectators! There is a designated room for us!

Malleus, Ruggie, Jack, Jade, and Epel: Huh?

Philomela: *leads them to a room that offers a panoptic view of the locations in the Kingdom of Heroes*

Epel: Whoa... *in amazement*

Philomela: Sick, isn't it?

Jade: Indeed. I've never been to such place before.

Jack: Ah! I can see everyone clearly!

Philomela: *laughs* Yes! This room will cater to your needs! Foods, drinks, and a good entertainment!

Rollo: *looks displeased*

Neige: This is great! Principal Ambrose will surely love this place!

Epel: Neige Le Blanche?!

Neige: Hello~!

Malleus and Ruggie: Flamme/Rollo.

Rollo: ...

Rollo: It's a pleasure to meet you again, mages.

Malleus and Ruggie: *smirks*

Jack and Jade: ???

Philomela: Everyone! Take your seats!

Epel: Um... But there are no seats— *a seat in front of him appears*

Epel: ...

Philomela: This room will cater to your needs. *smiles proudly*

Epel: Neat!

The students: *listening to Philomela's voice*

Philomela: BOYS! ARE YOU READY?

Floyd: Can we do a war cry~?

Philomela: *laughs* YES!

The students except Yuurin and Silver: RAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!

Yuurin and Silver: ...

Silver: Good luck to you, Yuurin.

Yuurin: *nods* You too, Silver.

Epel: Wow... Just wow...

Jade: That's Floyd for you.

*Floyd unleashed a flurry of clothesline strikes, taking out multiple students simultaneously with each powerful swing.*

Ruggie: Poor NBC and RSA students.

Malleus: Sebek and Silver are doing well.

*Sebek asserts his dominance by executing his running bulldog move; swiftly seizing his opponents by the head and driving them face-first into the ground with decisive force.*

*Silver expertly wraps his arm around the neck of each approaching opponent, applying precise pressure to cut off their air supply and induce unconsciousness.*

Epel: Wow... Everyone is amazing— Wait. Where's Rook?

*Rook's grin widens as he expertly locks his poor opponent into the sharpshooter.*

Epel and Ruggie: ...

Ruggie: That savage.

Jack: Ruggie-senpai! Look! Some of the students are attacking Yuurin!

Philomela: *smiles*

*Yuurin remains composed as everyone closes in on her. Then, she swiftly grabs one attacker, lifts them, and slams them to the ground with a powerful spinebuster move. With each opponent, she repeats this action, using their momentum against them to quickly take them down, one by one.*

Epel, Jack, and Ruggie: ...

Ruggie: Oh shit, wait— I need to document this.

Floyd: Whoo-hoo~! This feels great~!

The students he defeated: *groaning in pain*

Sebek: Ha! I've defeated 25 students!

Rook: Oh! That's impressive, Monsieur Crocodile!

Silver: Should we be counting?

Sebek: How about you, Yuurin?! Bet you didn't—

Yuurin: *students piled up like a mountain beside her*

Yuurin: It seems we're the only remaining ones.

Floyd, Sebek, Silver, and Rook: ...

Sebek: WHAT THE HELL?!

[kkanabel]

drunken confessions ✫ chapter i

curly x reader

summary: Curly is the designated driver for tonight, so he’s helping you as you vomit your guts out because you pushed yourself too hard with the liquor. He knows you don’t like him the same way he does—right? At least he thinks so before you confess to him that you think about cuddling with him after sex.

directory/m.list next chapter ⇨

words: ~4k

t/w: alcohol overuse/abuse, vomiting, friends with benefits (not yet, but next chapter?), mutual(?) pining, confused!curly, hookup culture, slim jim exists, mentions of sex, gn!pronouns for reader (mostly, i think. if i fucked up somewhere, pls let me know), curly tiddies, no yucky yet :>

a/n: more self-indulgent shi

All you could feel was the burn of alcohol tearing through your stomach and throat, the sickening churn rising up in seemingly never ending waves. Every retch was like an eruption clawing its way out of you. Your knees dug into the grimy bathroom tile, cold and unforgiving beneath your trembling legs, while your head hovered just inches from the stained toilet. The acrid stench of stale piss mingled with the sour tang of alcohol-induced vomit in the air, but you were too far gone to care.

You gasped, desperate for a shred of relief, but all it brought was another violent heave, your body convulsing as the acidic mix of stomach bile and alcohol forced its way up. The taste coated your tongue, sharp and bitter, burning with every ragged cough. Tears streamed freely down your cheeks, blurring your vision until the world was nothing but smudges of color, swirling and shifting in a drunken haze.

The bathroom spun, walls tilting at angles that didn’t make sense. You closed your eyes, but the movement didn’t stop—it only grew worse, as if your head was spinning further and further from your body. Somewhere, distantly, you registered the heavy thud of footsteps approaching.

A shadow loomed in your periphery, tall and broad. You blinked, your vision swimming as the figure crouched beside you. A low chuckle and sigh cut through the haze, followed by a sigh. A warm, solid hand brushed your damp hair out of your face, careful and deliberate, though some strands clung stubbornly to your sweat-slicked skin. The hand was persistent in grabbing all of the strands of hair, still, and you felt those strands slowly dragging away from your face, tickling your cheek.

“Mmm, he smells good,” you slurred, the words bubbling out before your mind could catch up.

The figure let out a short laugh, his voice low and rich with an edge of exasperation. “Thanks, I guess,” he muttered, his hands working deftly to gather your hair. A scrunchie appeared—when had he grabbed that?—and his fingers moved with surprising precision, tying your hair back with a tenderness that made your head swim for entirely different reasons. The feeling of it mixing with the dizziness in your mind made you want to retch more.

You focused on the feeling of his hands, big and rough-looking but impossibly gentle and warm as they worked. It was easier to concentrate on that than the relentless nausea still clawing at your insides. For a moment, your head lolled forward, and your gaze landed on the thighs crouched inches from you.

Thick, solid, and muscled, the fabric of his pants stretched taut across them as he balanced on his heels. Nice legs, your drunken mind noted appreciatively. Such good legs. You nearly drooled at the thought, the alcohol-fueled haze exaggerating everything—the sheer size of him, the warmth radiating from his body, the confidence in the way he held himself, the relaxing scent emitting from him. No, it wasn’t the alcohol. He’s always like this.

You wiped away the saliva dripping down the corner of your mouth when you realized you were actually drooling.

“Drink,” he said firmly, pressing something cool and smooth into your hand. You blinked sluggishly, your gaze trailing up his body as if it took every ounce of effort to move your eyes. Slowly, his face came into focus—familiar blonde waves framing a sharp jawline, his blue eyes laced with concern and faint amusement. 

“Come on,” he urged, uncapping the water bottle for you and tilting it toward your lips. “Small sips. You’ll feel better.”

The room still swayed, but his voice was steady, grounding you as you forced yourself to take a cautious sip. The water hit your throat, soothing and alien after the harsh burn of alcohol and bile. For the first time in what felt like hours, your chest didn’t feel like it was on fire.

“Good,” he murmured, his voice softening as he settled beside you, his muscled arm brushing against yours. “Just breathe.”

You tried, but the alcohol still coursed through your system, muddling your senses and making everything feel heavy and slow. But despite the fog, his presence felt solid and safe.

You’d come to this party with Curly, Daisuke, and Anya, the agreement being that he’d take the role of designated driver. While the rest of you had steadily climbed the ladder of intoxication, he hadn’t had a single drink. Someone needed to be sober enough to herd the chaos, after all. But now, Anya—with her kind words and nurturing personality—had decided to crash here, swept up in the hospitality of her friends who were hosting the party. And Daisuke? He was half a step away from disappearing into a shadowy corner with someone you doubted he even knew the name of. That left you, a person switching between vomiting into a piss-stained toilet and clutching a water bottle as though it were a lifeline, and Curly, who had assumed the unfortunate role of babysitter.

You sat upright now, leaning heavily against the toilet as though the cold ceramic could anchor you. The spinning world tilted on an axis only you could feel. Your stomach still churned, threatening to revolt, but you’d managed to hold it down—for now. The bathroom lights seemed far too bright, stabbing through your blurred vision like tiny daggers, and everything smelled like disinfectant, vomit, sweat, and regret.

Curly was crouched in front of the cabinet beneath the sink, rummaging through its contents with quiet determination. His broad back and shoulders flexed under his blue zip-up jacket as he reached toward the very back, his movements deliberate. When he straightened, you caught the glint of victory in his blue eyes as he pulled out a half-full bottle.

He twisted the cap open with a practiced motion, pouring a measure of liquid into the cap. “Mouthwash,” he explained, handing it to you with the calm patience of someone trying to appease a feral animal.

You took it, your sluggish brain processing his words only after the cap was already halfway to your mouth. The sharp, minty taste hit your tongue like a wall, and your throat reflexively tightened mid-swallow. Oh, right—not a shot. You blinked, cheeks puffing out as you swished it around. The world seemed to swish along with it, the slow, nauseating spin threatening to pull you under again.

When you finally managed to spit it out into the sink, the lingering taste of bile was blessedly gone, replaced by the cool, almost medicinal mint. Relief washed over you in waves as you leaned heavily against the grimy counter. Curly stood only a foot away, leaning against the door while watching you with that infuriating mixture of concern and amusement.

You turned your bleary gaze up to him, chest warming with something that wasn’t entirely alcohol-induced. “You’re suuuch a good man,” you slurred, a lopsided grin spreading across your heated face. His expression shifted—a flicker of something you couldn’t quite catch mostly because you were trying not to fall—but he smiled back, soft and faintly melancholic.

And heavens, what a smile. The sight of it seemed to still the swirling chaos in your head. You frowned, your drunken mind scrambling for the words. “S-So,” you stammered, leaning closer, “Soooo prettyyy.” 

Curly froze, his brows knitting together as he tilted his head. “What?” he asked, his voice edged with confusion and something else, like he wasn’t sure if he’d heard you right.

You nodded sagely, or at least as close to it as your impaired motor skills allowed. “Pretty,” you mumbled again, gesturing vaguely toward his face. You huffed when you realized that the word your mind had come up with first wasn’t nearly enough to describe him.

He blinked at you, lips parting in disbelief before pressing into a thin line. “You’re drunk,” he stated flatly, though the tips of his ears gave him away. “C’mon, let’s get you out of here.”

Before you could respond Curly bent down, slipping your arm around his shoulder, his strong hands steadying you as he lifted you to your feet. The room seemed to tilt violently, and you stumbled, only to find yourself braced against his solid frame.

The walk to the exit was a blur of sensations. The muffled bass of the music reverberated through the walls, shaking your chest with every beat. Multicolored lights danced erratically across the room, spilling over the crowd like liquid fire. Laughter, shouting, and the occasional drunken stumble filled the air, the party now a surreal kaleidoscope of noise and motion.

Curly called out to Daisuke in the corner, who was mid-face eating. “Daisuke! Stay safe! Protection!” He said, simply, as he helped you walk. 

You heard a faint and slurred “Okayy, dad!”

But none of that held your attention. Your gaze dropped—your head still woozy—and landed squarely on his chest. The thick cotton of his shirt clung to him in places, the outline of his pecs impossibly defined. Broad and firm, the kind of chest that told you he spent serious time lifting heavy things and didn’t cut corners about it. Your lips parted slightly as you stared, your hazed brain hyper-focused on the rise and fall of his breathing.

“I wanna biiiiite,” you declared suddenly, the words drawn out in a sing-song slur.

Curly stopped mid-step, glancing down at you with wide, incredulous eyes. “You wanna… what?”

“Bite,” you repeated, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world, still staring at his chest.

He frowned, clearly trying to piece together your drunken logic. “Bite what?” he asked, his voice teetering between confusion and sheer disbelief.

You simply smiled, too intoxicated to elaborate further, and rested your head against his shoulder, murmuring something incoherent as you took in a deep breath of his scent. He didn’t seem to mind that you were blatantly sniffing him—especially because he was more focused on making sure that you didn’t collapse altogether and then melt into the floor. He grimaces at the memory of you collapsing onto the ground and refusing to move from your spot until he joined you.

His grip on your arm was firm but careful, guiding you through the dimly lit house. The party noise faded behind you, leaving just the steady rhythm of your uneven steps. 

He frowned at your heels as he thought about earlier that evening, when he’d picked you up from your apartment. 

When the door swung open, he froze in place. You were quite the view—your outfit hugged every curve, the fabric shimmering faintly under the light. Glittery flecks adorned your cheekbones and eyelids, catching the dim hallway glow and refracting it like a halo around your face.

An angel. That’s what you looked like. Like some celestial being who had descended to earth, radiant and untouchable.

“Hey!” you chirped, grabbing your bag and stepping past him to lock the door. “Ready to go?”

He nodded stiffly, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets to stop himself from fidgeting. “Yeah,” he replied, his voice coming out far too casual for the way his heart thundered in his chest.

Sliding into the passenger seat of his car, you adjusted your dress, the hem riding up just enough to draw Curly’s gaze to the expanse of your thighs before he snapped his eyes forward, jaw tightening. He gripped the steering wheel as though it were the only thing keeping him grounded, hyper-aware of your presence beside him.

“Thanks for driving, Curly,” you said as you buckled your seatbelt, flashing him a soft smile that nearly undid him.

“Yeah,” he replied, his voice coming out too casual, too even, for the way his pulse pounded in his ears. He swallowed hard, forcing himself to stare straight ahead. He needed to focus on the road, not on the faint shimmer of glitter on your skin, catching the light of passing streetlamps like you were made of stardust.

And definitely not on the fact that you were driving him insane just by existing. He needed to hurry and pick up Daisuke and Anya before he’d go crazy from being alone with you for too long.

You were always like this—effortlessly stunning, warm, and kind. The kind of person who could brighten even his worst days. Sure, you complimented him sometimes, but he couldn’t help but think you didn’t mean it the way he wanted you to. Every compliment you gave him only deepened the ache in his chest. 

Like that one time you’d glanced at his lap while he was driving and said, “Those pants look really good on you, Curls!” before flicking your eyes away so quickly it felt almost dismissive. Did you mean it? Or were you just being polite?

That doubt gnawed at him constantly, and that night and this night was no different.

At that party, he stuck close to the wall, cradling a water bottle instead of a beer. He’d made the conscious decision not to drink a single drop of alcohol tonight—someone had to drive, and he knew better than to let himself get sloppy around you. He couldn’t afford to let anything slip, not when he was already walking a fine line between admiration and outright longing.

From his spot near the edge of the crowd, he watched you, as he always did. You floated between groups, laughing, dancing, shining like the brightest light in the room. It was a privilege and a curse, being the one who got to witness you in these moments.

And then he saw him.

Some guy in a leather jacket, with a clean-shaven jaw and a cocky grin that made Curly’s stomach twist. He watched as you slid into the guy’s lap, your arm draped over his shoulder, your lips curling into that mischievous smile that he knew all too well.

“Mmm, your lap’s such a good seat,” you purred, your voice dripping with flirtation. “I wonder what else on you is...”

The words hit Curly like a punch to the gut. His grip on the water bottle tightened until the plastic crinkled audibly. He tore his gaze away, his jaw clenching so hard it ached.

Why him? What’s wrong with me?

The bitterness crept in, sharp and relentless. 

Why aren’t you doing that with m—

“Whoa there, tiger,” a familiar voice interrupted his spiraling thoughts.

Curly turned to see Jimmy leaning against the wall beside him, a lopsided grin on his face. His old friend looked the same as ever—rough around the edges, with a reckless air about him that hadn’t changed since they were children.

“You need to stop showing the jealousy on your face in broad daylight,” Jimmy said, taking a swig from his beer. “It’s embarrassing.”

Curly scowled, turning his gaze back to the crowd. “I’m not jealous.” His voice was low, clipped, as if saying it with enough conviction might make it true.

“Sure you’re not,” Jimmy said, clearly unconvinced. “But just so you know, pining in the shadows isn’t a great look for you. You should just tell them how you feel.”

Curly let out a humorless laugh, his gaze fixed on the far wall. “Yeah, right. They don’t see me like that.”

Jimmy raised an eyebrow, a knowing smirk tugging at his lips. “You sure about that?”

Curly didn’t answer. He couldn’t. The truth was, he wasn’t sure about anything when it came to you—except that you drove him crazy in every possible way and that he needed to get rid of these feelings somehow. From the way you filled every room with your energy to the way you always seemed to find him in a crowd with that warm, teasing smile of yours. That smile was like a lifeline and a torment all at once. Did you even know what you did to him?

Probably not.

He hated that he couldn’t read you, hated the way your actions seemed to contradict each other. Sure, you complimented him now and then. For a moment, he’d let himself think you might be interested. But then there were nights like this, where you’d sit in some other guy’s lap, laugh at their jokes, and tell them things that left his chest aching.

Why them? What do they have that I don’t? 

The question looped endlessly in his mind, a bitter echo that wouldn’t fade.

But what he didn’t know—what he couldn’t know—was that your behavior wasn’t just random. It wasn’t some cruel game or thoughtless act. You weren’t trying to hurt him, and you had no clue that you even were.

To you, it was simple: he couldn’t possibly feel any sort of attraction towards you.

After all, he never flirted with anyone, never went home with anyone after a party, and certainly never looked at you the way you imagined he might look at someone he actually wanted. Curly was kind, attentive, and always there for you, but it was easy to mistake that steadiness for a type of distant affection. The kind a best friend might give, not the kind that left your stomach fluttering and your chest tight.

So, in your own way, you tried to move on.

The guys you flirted with, kissed, let your hands roam over—they were placeholders, distractions from the ache of wanting someone you believed you couldn’t have. But there was one thing you never let yourself do.

You never hooked up with a guy who had blonde hair or blue eyes.

It felt too close, too much, like you were chasing after the ghost of what you really wanted but could never have. And in your mind, it was safer this way. A line you could draw in the sand to keep yourself from breaking completely.

But he didn’t know that.

All Curly knew was the bitter jealousy gnawing at his insides as he watched you, the taste of it sharp and acidic, almost choking. All he saw was you shining in someone else’s arms while he sat on the sidelines, telling himself, 

I’m just not their type. They just don’t see me like that.

Jimmy’s voice pulled him back.

“Look, man,” Jimmy said, his tone slightly softer now, less teasing. “I’m not saying it’s easy. But you’re not gonna get anywhere like this. If they really doesn’t see you that way, at least you’ll know for sure. Isn’t that better than torturing yourself like this?”

Curly stared down at his water bottle, the plastic warped from his grip. Is it better? He wasn’t sure. But the idea of confessing, of laying himself bare and being met with rejection—it felt unbearable. There’s no way he’d ever want to risk his friendship with you—making you feel uncomfortable around him since you very clearly don’t return his affections.

And so, he stayed quiet.

Jimmy’s voice cut through his thoughts again. “Look, man, I haven’t seen you in years, and this is how I find you? Sulking in the corner because a girl you’re clearly in love with is sitting in some loser’s lap? You’ve got to get it together.”

Curly shot him a glare. “Why are you even here?”

Jimmy shrugged. “Got dragged out by some coworkers. Didn’t expect to run into you, but hey, maybe it’s fate. Someone needs to talk some sense into you.”

Curly shook his head, draining the last of his water. “Yeah, well, thanks for the unsolicited advice.”

Jimmy smirked. “Anytime.”

The sound of your drunken mumblings pulled Curly back to the present. You were slumped against the passenger door, a lazy smile tugging at your lips. The dim glow of the streetlights passing through the windows played across your features, softening the chaos the party had left behind on your smeared makeup. The quiet hum of the car engine was a soothing contrast to the noise still pounding in his memory.

“You doing okay?” he asked, glancing at you out of the corner of his eye, his voice gentle but tinged with concern.

You turned your head toward him, your gaze unfocused but somehow managing to land on his chest. For a moment, you just stared, lips parted slightly as if you were caught in some profound thought—or maybe just too far gone to find words.

Curly’s brows knitted together. “What?”

“I wanna biiiiite,” you slurred finally, voice thick with sleepiness, tequila, vodka, and who knew what else.

He blinked, his hands tightening on the steering wheel as his mind attempted to process. “You wanna... what?”

You didn’t respond immediately, your glassy-eyed focus shifting from his chest to his face.

“Bite what?” he repeated, his voice now tinged with exasperation and a growing sense of dread.

“Tiddies,” you mumbled, your fingers twitching in your lap as if you were reaching for a pair of two.

Curly groaned, dragging a hand down his face in disbelief. “Unbelievable,” he muttered under his breath as he slowed to a stop at a red light.

His exasperation earned a giggle from you, the sound light and airy, as though his frustration were a personal victory. But as the laughter subsided, your eyes lingered on him under the glow of the red traffic light. The crimson hue painted his sharp features, catching on the curve of his jaw and the faint shadow of stubble along his cheek. You stared at him for a long moment, something shifting in your expression as tears began to pool in your eyes.

Your lip wobbled. “How can one man have so much sex appeal!?” The words came out as a wail, slurring together with all the melodrama you could muster. A fat tear slipped down your cheek, and you sniffled, your face crumpling like a child who’d just dropped their ice cream.

Curly’s head snapped toward you, his eyes widening in alarm. Wait. Wait, what?

“Wh—What are you talking about?” he stammered, his tone a mix of disbelief and rising panic.

“You’re just—” you hiccupped, sniffling again, “the w-worst!”

His confusion deepened, his brows knitting as he stared at you like you’d just grown a second head. You were sobbing—full-on crying—and he had no idea what was going on. What did you mean by “so much sex appeal”? And why, exactly, were you crying about it?

Do people cry about things like this? he wondered, his mind racing. They find me attractive? Are they joking? Oh my God, they’re serious.

Panic prickled at the edges of his composure. “Yes, I’m the worst,” he said quickly, trying to calm you down. “I’m sorry, okay? Whatever I did, I’m sorry.” His voice was gentle, though his face betrayed his complete and utter bewilderment.

You sniffled again, staring at him as if he’d just confessed to being attracted to cartoon horses. “Nooo! Curls!” you wailed as he pulled into the driveway. “You’re not actually the worst! I’m sorrrrry!”

He put the car in park, still reeling as your hand suddenly shot out to grip his shoulder. You looked at him with wide, watery eyes, your other hand flying to your mouth like you couldn’t believe what you’d just made him say.

But barely five seconds passed before your expression glazed over again. Your fingers tightened on his shoulder, your drunken brain moving at a completely different speed.

“Mmm,” you hummed, leaning toward him slightly. “You look so comfy...”

Curly tilted his head, his confusion mounting. What now?

“You’d be sooo nice to cuddle with after sex,” you mumbled dreamily, the words slurring together into a drunken confession. “Curly? Sex? Woah… Mmmph…”

His brain short-circuited.

Did they just—no, they didn’t. No way. Except they did. WHAT IS HAPPENING?!

He gaped at you, his face caught in a perfect storm of shock, disbelief, and something dangerously close to flustered. His thoughts scrambled for some semblance of logic. They’re drunk. They don't mean it. This is just... random drunk nonsense, right? RIGHT?

“You—what—” he stammered, his voice breaking slightly as he struggled to piece together a response.

But you were already leaning back against the seat, your lashes fluttering shut as sleep began to claim you. And Curly? Curly sat frozen, staring ahead at the dashboard as if it held the answers to the mysteries of the universe.

His pulse raced as your words echoed in his mind, and he could do nothing but sit there, trying—and failing—to make sense of the chaos you’d just unleashed.

a/n: let me know what y'all think pls! i feel like this one isnt as good as the previous one i did buuuut i wanted to write about this so bad

taglist is open! lmk if you want to be on the taglist for just curly/mouthwashing characters or if you want the news on alll my fics.

also might be accepting requests hehe! i can’t guarantee that i can do em, but i’ll accept ideas!

as always, not beta read, please let me know if there are any typos/inconsistencies lmfao stay safe & hydrated as always!

thanks for reading! <3

crossposted on ao3

taglist: @m-carriaga2021, @skyeconch

directory/m.list next chapter ⇨

[minjix]

cinderella → Vinnie Hacker x female!reader

summary: in which you’re the one catching his attention

warnings: fluff, and that’s a warning of itself lol + plus the standard swear word here and there. also I can’t for the life of me write an ending, so I apologize if it feels abrupt-because it is lol. also keep in mind that english is not my first language.

a/n: I write with breaks to actually be able to give it my all and not lose interest in writing- which is a genuine fear of mine

word count: 2.6k :)

masterlist

reblogs and comments are very much appreciated!

It was all a stupid cliche in your eyes as you stared at the tweet Vinnie had posted. “who is she.” Simple as that, yet mostly everyone knew what he was referring to, but they didn’t know whom and Vinnie didn’t know either.

Like previously stated, it was all a stupid cliche- a masquerade party filled to the brim with influencers and small celebrities, crowding a huge mansion which felt tiny as you pushed your way through to get a much needed breath of fresh air, away from the liquor stained breaths.

You sighed in relief as you stepped into the cool L.A, two am breeze, the music thumping through the ground, vibrating your whole body. “I feel the same way,” a dark voice chuckled. Startled, you looked into the direction of which the voice came from, and there he stood, leaning on the wall, head tilted back and eyes on the night sky. He was dressed simple, something you rolled your eyes at, and his arms of which were folded in front of his chest was covered in tattoos. “Huh?” Was all that you managed to get out, your tongue deciding to twist on itself.

The corners of his mouth twitched as though he wanted to smile, but refrained from doing just that. “Wanting to get away for a few minutes,” his voice was velvety and , his skin shone red from the neon lights seeping through the huge windows.

“Oh- yeah, you answered stupidly, “totes.” You wanted to smack yourself. A laugh rumbled his chest and escaped from his lips as his head tilted in your direction, his eyes meeting yours. “Totes? Never heard that before-in real life that is.” Duh, because you’ve spoken like a bad stereotypical surfer dude.

You didn’t know how to respond so you simply nodded your head, very aware of his eyes trailing down your body. A tattooed hand entered your peripheral, “I’m Vinnie,” he introduced himself. It was then more sober you connected the dots, of course it’s Vinnie the Hacker. The only disguise he had was a black eye mask with black crystals in intricate designs; it looked expensive and it most definitely was, knowing who he was and all. You hadn’t bothered to wear a mask, but had regretted that decision the moment you stepped into the mansion.

You didn’t shake his hand. “Cool,” you shrugged mentally preparing yourself with whatever half assed excuse you could come up with to leave. ‘my apartment is on fire’ don’t want to jinx myself you thought afterwards. “Um, nice to meet you?” You sounded awfully unsure, and guilt brewed in your stomach when you saw Vinnie wince. “So,” he began carefully, trying to get an understanding,” what’s your name?”

But you didn’t feel like answering. “I’m hungry.” You spat out and his eyes widened. “What?”

“I’m hungry, so I’m going to leave. Bye.” You turned to leave but a careful grasp of your arm halted you, “do you want to get McDonalds with me? I’m kinda hungry too.” He sounded shy, and you couldn’t even imagine turning him down, he looked like a sad puppy for Christ sake.

“Sure.”

The drive to the fast food chain was surprisingly comfortable, even though Vinnie tried his best to get you to tell him your name; to no avail. And soon enough the two of you were seated by the window, both with big macs in hand, awkwardness thrown out the window as the alcohol induced hunger made everything taste oh so much better.

“so fucking good,” Vinnie groaned through a mouthful causing you to almost choke on your fourth bite. Your eyes didn’t leave his form, his hair in a disarray and his eyes closed as he ate the burger.

You forced a chuckle, “won’t your friends get mad or something?” You mumbled, playing with your fries. The tattooed man shook his head, “no? Why would they?” His eyes were on yours now and you couldn’t help but feel bare under his intense gaze.

“You kinda ditched them…” you trailed of as a smirk grew on his lips, his tongue quickly darting out to lick them. “Trust me they won’t notice.” He sounded sure. “Why?” You asked and this time he laughed softly, “you’re very curious, huh?” You shrugged, “I guess.”

He continued, “but no, they were pretty busy trying to get laid so I really doubt they’d notice me missing.” He stressed the word ‘really’.

“Oh.” He laughed again as he stared you down, “you’re really weird, y’know that?”

“Thanks?”

You and Vinnie had spent an hour talking nonsense, and when the two of you noticed the hard stares from the workers you both decided to leave. Vinnie had insisted on dropping you off at home but an uncomfortable feeling grew in the pit of your stomach as you politely declined, telling him a white lie to soothe his worries about leaving a girl in the streets of LA at three am.

——-

The morning after, curiosity had you in its grip as you reluctantly opened Twitter and searched for his handle.

@/vinniehacker: who is she. posted at five am. Quicker than lightning you exited the app, contemplating on deleting it completely, but you refrained from doing it.

You grew frustrated at yourself, you had an amazing night last night with an amazing attractive guy, and you full out blew everything to bits.

Your best friend tended to call you a flesh ball of anxiety, a saying that left a sour taste in your mouth and cheeks aching from faking a laugh. You were a people pleaser, but at the same time you hated everyone and preferred to be by yourself. So you did everything to stay out of the spotlight, simply rooming with your childhood best friend who went viral on TikTok months ago. And Vinnie was the opposite of staying out of the spotlight.

Before your brain had caught up to what your hands were doing, you had already entered the cursed bird app again, entering his handle, tapping on the tweet and reading through the comments. ‘she????’, ‘what?!’, all in a similar fashion. Speculations were thrown left and right and thirty minutes had passed of you endlessly scrolling, biting your lip raw until you tasted iron.

“Get up! We have an event to go to!” You wanted to cry, to come up with a lie that you were sick and didn’t want to spread it further. You lied a lot, at least tried to before your brain took you through the endless possibilities of consequences coming from said lies. So you heaved a sigh and got ready.

———-

The event was extremely overcrowded and overwhelming, the LA sun beaming down on bodies dripping in expensive perfumes, a cloud of strong smells begging for a headache to form. You were a plus one, a non famous one at that, so you stood awkwardly to the side as your friend and her famous friends took promo pictures. In your hand was a mimosa, minus the champagne, so orange juice.

You didn’t bother to keep up the happy charade, settling on frowning while sipping your expensive orange juice. You had half a mind to ask what brand of juice it was but decided that you were already looking stupid so there was no point of making it worse.

You were painfully aware of how lonely you looked so you grabbed your phone and entered the weather app, wondering how the weather in Hamburg was.

“So, uh, how’s the weather looking?” A velvety voice asked from above your right shoulder, warm air tickling your skin and you froze. Shit. “Uhm, cloudy with a chance of rain,”

You turned towards him and tried not to gape at what you saw. He was wearing a half buttoned white blouse with his hair slicked back except for a few strands in the front. He wore black and expensive looking trousers, and silver rings wrapped around almost each finger with a silver braided bracelet. His sleeves were rolled up revealing his tattoos on his sun kissed skin. And he smelled so fucking good.

He gave you a mischievous grin, “hey, you.” His eyes trailed over your form, several times with a glint in his eyes. You whispered a hey back, flustered for some reason and you were also ashamed, for what, you had no idea.

“I never got your name,” he muttered, his hands in his pocket. You could only shrug, words not agreeing with you. And there it was, that nauseating shameful feeling you got, you were ashamed of yourself for some reason, well you know why, but actually taking the bull by its horns are the hard part.

“I know,” he frowned at your answer, raising an eyebrow. “So you’re not going to give me your name, so I’ll just have to call you Cinderella then. “ he smiled smugly at the end of his sentence, as though he had conquered the world with his pinkie.

“Cinderella?” You asked confused and a smit insulted. “I didn’t drop my shoe…” you trailed off, combing through your memory, and sure enough, you had both your shoes on, or you would’ve noticed otherwise.

He laughed out loud, his teeth on full display and eyes closed. “No, you didn’t drop your shoe. But you did leave me with not being able to stop thinking of you…” he said, his eyes unrelentingly searching yours as if he could simply read your name in your irises. Your eyes widened and you felt as though your stomach was turning inside out. This has to be a cruel joke, you thought to yourself as you glared at him.

“That’s not funny,” you murmured through clenched teeth. He looked confused, brows furrowed. “It-it wasn’t a joke,” he said sheepishly. He looked genuinely hurt, and it made you doubt your insecurities.

“I genuinely had a great time with you last night, and I want to get to know you.” He kept his eyes on yours the entire time. “So please, what’s your name?” He sounded desperate, as though your name would unlock every story there was to know about you.

“Y/n,” you whispered and you watched in awe as he tested your name on his tongue, several times before settling with a “I like it, it suits you.” Vinnie telling you that your name suits you felt like a thousand suns were shining down on you. You bit your lip to repress the grin that was threatening to grow and instead you settled for a shy smile, praying that you didn’t have anything between your teeth.

“Y/nn!” A voice called, it seemed as though your friend had finished with her promo pics. “I got you a goodie bag-oh,” she paused when she saw the Vinnie Hacker standing beside you. “Hey,” she smiled and fluttered her eyelashes and a boulder dropped into your stomach. Of course, you thought. She’s so much prettier than me, and famous.

He only nodded in acknowledgement with a small ‘hey’, it didn’t deter your friend from asking a lot of questions. You took that as your queue to leave, slowly walking backwards whilst Vinnie’s eyes were on yours the entire time, looking confused as to what you were doing.

You quickly nodded towards your friend, who was still animatedly talking, whilst wiggling your eyebrows suggestively, ignoring the knot in your stomach.

Once again Vinnie looked confused before the dots in his head connected. His eyes widened before he shook his head, something your friend hadn’t noticed as she was too busy scrolling through her TikTok to show Vinnie a specific video of her. He mouthed the word ‘NO’ several times whilst staring at you with his wide eyes.

It was kind of endearing to watch him panic. A chuckle escaped you before he turned to your friend, an apologetic smile on his face. “Excuse me,” he said softly, eyes still on you before walking towards, grabbing your hand with utter care before he led you inside the building.

He stopped in an empty hallway, staring down at you with a smirk on his lips. “Trying to set me up with your friend,” he murmured lazily, eyes tracing your lips. “When you know fully well that I’m interested in you…”

It felt like a fever dream, and you had to mentally force yourself to focus on the situation at hand. Is Vinnie about to kiss me?

“You don't even know me,” you retaliated, a frown on your lips, your lips of which he still stared at. He shrugged at your answer, a serious look taking over his face. “So let me,” he began. “Let’s get out of here.”

You shook your head, “I can’t just leave my friend-“.

He interrupted you, “your friend who seemed very busy, in fact, I recall you standing by yourself.” You had nothing to say to that except for a gentle nod with a smile on your lips. Vinnie grinned in return before tugging out of the building and into his car. You had sent a simple text to your friend-‘ i’m going out, don’t wait for me <3’

————————-

Vinnie treated you to McDonalds, once again and took you to a look out, the city of angels to stare at whilst you both ate. His shoulder touched yours as you sat on the picnic blanket filled to the brim with greasy and mouth watering food.

“So tell me, how come I can’t find you anywhere?” He asked, his hand playing with yours, twisting your rings. It created a warm feeling in your stomach.

“I’m a private person,” you began, hearing Vinnie murmuring a ‘couldn’t have guessed,’ and you nudged your shoulder into his playfully, drawing a laugh from his lips. “I guess, uhm I don’t see myself in the spotlight, having people constantly judging my every move.” He nodded in agreement, looking lost in thought.

“I can understand that, it’s just unusual to see someone not famous in parties held by influencers.” You nodded, agreeing with him. “My friend is pretty famous and always makes me her plus one.”

“I like it though,” you stared at him confused whilst he stared at you with a small smile on his lips, almost looking shy. “Like what?”

“I don’t know, it’s hard to explain…” he looked lost in his thoughts.

“Try,” you pushed, his hand tightening around yours.

“I like that I can pursue this,” he gestured whilst you stared at him with wide eyes. “That you’ll be somewhat safe from the onslaught of comments you would’ve gotten if you were a public figure. This feels normal to me, y’know. Like it’s not for show, it’s just me and you.”

“Me and you?” You asked with a grin, his smile grew and he gave you a wink, “of course, this is our second date after all.”

“Is that so?” You bit your lip when he leaned towards you, his lips so close to touching yours, before he planted a small, almost phantom-like kiss on them. “It is so,” he gauged your expression before ultimately seeing the contentment in your eyes, and pressed his lips to yours firmly. You felt his hand grasp your cheek as he tilted his head to gain more access.

You were both breathing heavily before you disconnected your lips, but Vinnie took it upon himself to kiss your cheeks before traveling down your neck, leaving you even more breathless.

“I’m taking you on dates everyday this week,” he breathed into your neck and you felt your eyes roll back from the sensation and his sultry voice.

“I expect you to-“ he stopped you from talking with another kiss. “Shut up and kiss me,” he ordered and you did, for several hours, the once bright sun in the middle of sky, now dipping down on the horizon covered by the Los Angeles skyline.

[komsomolka]

The Ukrainian state is US/Western controlled and, in its alliance and arming, is effectively NATO-like. Washington, according to coup-happy Victoria Nuland in 2014, pumped some $5 billion into Ukraine since the Western-intelligence induced “Orange” revolution in 2004; an additional $15-$18 billion in arms, loans, and grants (from the US and EU) were poured into Ukraine since the 2013-2014 CIA-backed, far-right enforced regime change of the democratically elected Ukrainian government and until before the war began.

With on-the-ground CIA direction, power in Ukraine was consolidated among a small sociopolitical base of venal Russophobes, political pluralism representing genuinely alternative visions to the essentially nationalist, ultranationalist, pro-NATO parties disbanded. The Ukraine army, neo-fascist death squads, and small, Nazi-throwback extreme right-wing parties, celebrated by the new leaders and incorporated into the Ukrainian state, went on a repression spree, a terror campaign, to crush protests and dissent against those who were unhappy with what transpired and to erase all things Russian, including an eight-year shelling and sniping war on civilians designed to create terror and ethnic cleansing in eastern Donbass. This was not a democracy but a monopoly on power to consolidate a vociferously, fanatically anti-Russian state.

Ukraine is (or now, was) merely a platform for a Western proxy war against Russia, a forward operations base, a front line state, its “foreign policy” directed by the American proconsul, its institutions “advised” by American/Western intelligence functionaries and embassy officials, whose job since 2014 was to ensure continuing aggravation and antagonism in Donbass to elicit, in fact, a Russian response justifying long-prepared sanctions, escalation and pretext for “confronting” Russia. [...]

The Russian offensive, therefore, occurred for a much more ominous reason than the Ukrainian state terrorism visited upon eastern Donbass: the US/West’s wordless wish is no less than demoralizing, weakening, bankrupting, and territorially fragmenting the Russian Federation, controlling its markets and resources, indebting its people and rendering them dependent on US-dominated financial institutions, and bringing Russia under American dependency.

A pivotal principle of American hegemony is to obstruct and destroy friendly, normal ties, much less integration, between Russia and Europe, Germany being the fulcrum.

More simply, the strategic US/CIA goal is to ensnare Russia in a protracted war, deplete it, damage it, regime-change it, install a supine leader—all as a prelude to the big fantasy: bringing down China.

The multifaceted war on Russia has been ongoing since at least the late 1990s, but really, it never stopped with the Soviet state’s disappearance. This veiled hostility and aggression certainly existed when Boris Yeltsin was in power (a good vassal according to Washington, this silly and funny man that made Bill Clinton laugh) but took off around 2005, after Washington understood that Vladimir Putin was putting Russia on an independent course, reversing the conditions overseen under the preceding, deplorable Yeltsin era, including steep economic, social, military, and developmental decline and the immiseration of the vast majority of the population, looting oligarchs, and economic “liberalization” designed in Washington. [...]

Russia has literally allowed itself to be cornered since 2014, though it needed time to achieve a conventional and nuclear deterrent. It’s not hard to see reality: Russia is given no quarter, no voice, its real concerns and grievances dismissed, its leader demonized, its marginalization doggedly pursued at every level of international and bilateral social and cultural interactions. No appeal to reason, to international law, to security, to evidence will do for the West, no amount of patient legal argument, explanation of Russian concerns, appeals, professional warnings, consummate diplomacy and transparency of Russian interests made an impression. Instead, the Western response was and is always to double down. [...]

Finance capitalism, the system of speculative bubbles, derivatives, debt, declining standards of living, and hyperinflation, is ruining Western economies, states and societies, destroying the middle classes. The US cannot tolerate Eurasian integration and China’s Belt and Road Initiative, determined to stop any alternative development model to hyper-capitalism enriching the few, cannibalizing the many; that reduces the US to one of a handful of important multipolar players.

Washington’s grave mismanagement of international relations, its self-defeating policies, has actually weakened genuine American interests and national security and the well-being and safety of the American people, a phenomenon that cannot be naively attributed to Democrats or Republicans, this or that president. Instead, the war-state is deeply embedded in the American political economy, in factions such as the “intelligence community,” the military-industrial complex, influential establishment neo-cons, and liberal interventionists, all living in a world of yesterday.

We are rushing headlong into extremely dangerous times in which facts are a threat to the state narrative and any dissent or differing opinion is treachery. Fascism does not come from below, always from the top.

[legendofzoodles]

Four: Try explaining your fight with Ganon or whatever evil was wrecking your kingdom, but without context.

Wind: Old-ass wizard kicks around some minors while the only other adult is a shapeshifting boat-man who prioritised claiming some triangles. Beat that. 

Four: I’m sorry, what?

Wind: That’s how Grandma saw it. But I get it, he did take a few pot shots at me and especially Tetra.

Time: [remembering when Ganondorf, chasing after Zelda on horseback, stopped his pursuit solely to blast a 9 year old in the face and monologue]

Time: Sounds like him.

---

Wild: Appointed knight finally fulfills his mission after waiting 100 years to reload his save.

The Chain: What?

Time: That sucks, I only waited seven. 

The Chain: What?!

---

Twilight: Local ranch-hand stops a nightmare induced apocalypse alongside an imp who’s a princess and a hermit, who’s also a princess.  

Time: [clears his throat]

Twilight: After screaming at the moon vocal coaching from a ghost stalking the entire journey, who wasn’t a princess. 

---

Sky: Local daydreamer wakes up, fights god, and wins. 

Wild: I mean...did you though?

Legend: Yeah, jury’s still out on that one.

---

Hyrule: Mute kid brutalises pigman after assembling wish granting triangles, and saves the princess. He does it again years later.

Wild: You were silent back then?

Hyrule: Well, I couldn’t speak because I didn’t know the language. After saving the first Zelda she asked members of the nobility teach me- and how to read and write.

Twilight: Did you bite them when they tried to scold you for getting an answer wrong?

Hyrule: You did that too?!

---

Warriors: Pairs of powerful fighters from across the ages band together to defeat creepy time sorceress, then conquer red-maned wizard. 

Legend: Ugh, the power of friendship. Really?

Warriors: Comradery, actually. 

Legend: [mimicking his tone] Cringe, actually. 

---

Legend: Which one?

Four: Choose your favourite.

Legend: [thinks for a moment] A scarf wearing hooded hobo breaks into my house on several occasions and stages a coup to save two worlds. 

Four: What...were you doing?

Legend: [sighing] All the hard work. 

~~~

Thanks for reading! 

Masterlist

9th place in the LU character design ranking

Character analysis posts:

Hero of the Sky, Hero of Time, Hero of Twilight, Hero of the Wild, Hero of Warriors

Parkour team - LU drabble

How each member of the chain laughs - LU headcanon

I didn't know what to do for Time since I've already made the speedrunning puberty joke and I don't know much about Four's adventures.

[overdressedcarp]

Honestly, I love how the plotlines with Tingyun and Wonweek in 2.7 retroactively help explain why the consecration of the Harmony affected Aventurine the way it did in 2.1.

"The consecration has weird side effects as a result of the power of the Harmony" was honestly a fine explanation in and of itself, but it's cool to get a bit more detail about why Aventurine had those encounters with his "past" and "future" selves. The memoria-induced fracturing/dissociation that Sunday describes when talking about himself and Fugue is extremely similar to what we see with Aventurine in 2.1, both in the tangible effects and the factors that make it possible.

Both Wonweek and the convocation of Tingyuns are identified as the result of a special try-not-to-laugh candy that elicits uncontrollable laughter from those who consume it. (Penaconian consumables infused with specific emotions are something the story has leaned into since our excursion with Sparkle-as-Sampo in 2.0, so it doesn't surprise me at all that a product like this would exist.)

Notably, the candy doesn't have the fracturing side effect on everyone: it works as expected for March and the Trailblazer, and presumably most of the other Dreamchasers who participate in the challenge. Sunday identifies two specific factors that caused the atypical effects for him and Fugue: vulnerable/sensitive mental state, and a fragile sense of self.

Tingyun/Fugue fractured into dozens of memory fragments -- including a younger self embodying her childhood innocence and early memories on the Xianzhou, in much the same vein as Kakavasha for Aventurine.

Sunday, meanwhile, describes Wonweek as "another possibility of me": one that embodies traits he dislikes about himself, similar to the manifestation of Aventurine's "future." Wonweek and Future Aventurine are both externalizations of negative self-talk, giving Sunday and Aventurine a sounding board to express (and push back against) their own internalized self-loathing.

It's also interesting to me that Sunday identifies tuning as the solution for such fractures, adding credence to the idea that the Harmony's consecration (which itself appears to be a form of tuning), could disrupt a fragile psyche in much the same way Sunday can use his abilities to bring someone's mind back into alignment.

To be fair, I don't necessarily think Sunday anticipated this particular side effect of the consecration on Aventurine's mind. The events of Double Indemnity highlight the extent to which Sunday misjudged him by Aventurine's own design, falling for the facade that Aventurine fed him.

Aventurine is resilient... but he is also brittle, as evidenced by Acheron's voice line about him:

This lack of a strong inner self is something that Aventurine tries desperately to distract others from seeing, through the shallow and showy outer layers he presents to the world. But Sunday describes tuning as something that actively prevents people from being able to hide their inner self (very fitting for the Harmony, an Aeon that fundamentally blurs the boundaries between the Self and the Other).

To me, this adds another layer of significance to the presence of Kakavasha and Future Aventurine: they're there because Aventurine can't hide from them while under the Harmony's influence. He's so used to lying to himself about his true intentions that his childhood innocence and his nihilism have to physically manifest in front of him in order to be heard.

Tl;dr Aventurine's experiences under the effect of the Harmony in 2.1 make even more sense in hindsight, and I love the retroactive layers that 2.7 gives to his story arc.

[justinspoliticalcorner]

John Pavlovitz at The Beautiful Mess:

Wake up, White Liberals, Progressives, and Moderates. It's morning in America. A lot happened while we were sleeping. This is not the nation we thought existed back on January 20th of 2009: likely the last time many of us were fully awake. Back then, we basked in the warm glow of the arrival of a Black President and we grew comfortable, nestling down into a complacency that only the blind spots of privilege and false information provide. The joy of that moment, and the recent civil and human rights wins became a slow-acting emotional sedative that slowly squeezed out the urgency from us; one that gradually dulled our senses.

The visible victories numbed our minds into imagining we had arrived together at Dr. King’s glorious mountaintop. If we had taken the time to ask vulnerable, oppressed people, they'd have warned us not to fall asleep. Believing that the aspirational "we shall overcomes" that once rang out were now a fixed and unchangeable present, we settled cozily into that place where the heart rate slows and the limbs and eyelids grow heavy—and where without realizing it, slumber suddenly overtakes you: One blink awake, the next blink asleep. And for eight years we began to sleepwalk through the world, physically here and moving through daylight but not fully present, not totally seeing—caught between the actual and the unreal world, between the true nightmare and the imagined dream. Yes, we still talked and marched and campaigned and worked, but we did so slightly sedated in the haze of bad stories, willful ignorance, and wishful thinking. Meanwhile, the bigots woke up.

Shaken violently from sleep on that same January morning in 2009 by the reality of what decades of fear and terrible theology taught them was the absolute worst place they could find themselves—they began to mount a fierce counterattack. They infiltrated local politics and school boards and state election positions. They created news outlets and social media platforms designed to filter out everything except that which would fully trigger terror within the hearts of their intended targets and would-be allies: fantastical stories of a pervasive and coordinated Gay Agenda coming to convert their children; of violent, heavily armed, brown-skinned drug gangs overrunning our borders; of godless, abortion-mad progressives having indiscriminate sex without fear or care; of Muslim terrorist hordes infiltrating our neighborhoods and bodegas; of America-hating Democrats coming for their jobs and flags and prayers and guns. And we were still sleepwalking...

They leveraged thousands of Christian pulpits, where every seven days they'd wildly stoke the fires of people's phobias and fears, weaponize the Scriptures against gays and migrants and Muslims, pervert the expansive Gospel of Jesus into rabid nationalism—and sermon by sermon, enlist them all into service as passionate soldiers in the Army of the straight, white, American, male Lord.

And we were still sleepwalking... Then, to inculcate the terror fully, they propped up a sideshow carnival barker as their chosen one; a barren, empty husk of a man with no discernible moral convictions beyond wealth accumulation—who they could use as a flesh and blood avatar to embody and perpetuate themselves. They fashioned a vile, blustery orange idol to rally the fearful and the angry and the callous hearts around; one who would daily dig into the stinking muck to find a deeper bottom—and in the sleep-induced state we were in we thought it was a joke. We laughed ourselves back into a dreamworld where everything would be fine and where decency would prevail and where the system would work; so much so that one hundred million of us slept all the way through an election cycle. And here we are, a hair’s breadth from fascism.

John Pavlovitz says it best in regards to White Liberals, Progressives, and Moderates of all stripes: stay awake and don’t sleepwalk like what happened during Obama’s term.

[whatsnewalycat]

Designated Person | 10

Pairing: Francisco “Catfish” Morales x F!Reader

Chapter 10: Flat Tire

Rating: Explicit (18+ only)

Word Count: 6.9k+ (nice)

Tags / Warnings: reader pov, infidelity, past romantic & sexual relationship, angst, food & eating, blackout, movie references, car problems, alcohol & alcoholism, 12-step programs, lying, conflict avoidance, crying crying crying sorry, internal conflict, monologue, toxic relationships but listen we're tryna get better, journal entries, nightmares, ptsd, flashback

Notes: WHAT UP PARTY PEOPLE?? MAKE SOME NOIIIISE (insert dallas buyers club matthew mcconaughey scream crying in his car). Sorry for being a bummer lol sometimes growth hurts but we're gonna get thru this I swear. Ok thank u let me know what you think!!!

[ Previous Chapter ][ Series Masterlist ][ My Masterlist ]

-----

Blackouts work like magic. 

One second you’re perched on a barstool, trying not to sway or slur your words while ordering another drink, and the next you’re jolted awake by the thud of a door closing. 

Heart pounding in your chest, you sit up and look around, breathing a sigh of relief to see you somehow made it to your bedroom last night. 

You grab your phone off the side table, swiping away the missed calls from Frankie and Leah, then discover that you apparently re-downloaded a dating app in your alcohol-induced fugue state. Judging by the number of reply messages in your inbox, you must have hit up every man in the tri-county area who was “looking for a good time.”

Perfect. Of course you did. Why wouldn’t you? Bad decisions and dick has never ever steered you wrong. 

You read one typo-filled exchange between yourself and Russ K, 34, before deactivating the account and uninstalling the app. 

When you set your phone back on the nightstand, you notice a mason jar filled with ice water and frown. Beside it sits a small plastic container holding four neon orange tablets and two white tablets. A sticky note on the table reads ‘Went to a meeting, be back this afternoon’ in Frankie’s handwriting. 

Alarm trickles through your veins and inspires a wave of nausea you can’t ignore. Clasping your hand over your mouth to hold down the rising bile, you jump out of bed and beeline to the bathroom. 

After emptying the sparse contents of your stomach into the toilet, you lean back against the cool tile wall and search the ceiling for answers. How did you get home last night? Did you say anything to Frankie? 

You think about the ice water and over-the-counter pills left on your nightstand, then think about the note Frankie left. However you got home, he must know you were hammered. Which means you definitely interacted with him while blacked out. Do you even want to know what you said to him? 

Mortification twists your stomach when you imagine the possibilities. You could have tried to fuck him or murder him or anything in between. Given how you feel about him right now, it’s impossible to predict. That fact alone makes your mouth start to sweat again. 

So… no, you don’t want to know what you said to him when you were drunk. You don’t want to know how you got home or why the fuck your hair is damp. All you want is to get through this fucking day without hurling again. Maybe greasy food and a NASCAR nap, too. 

With this new clear goal in mind, you pick yourself up off the bathroom floor and set about making your low-stakes dream a reality. 

—

You wake on the couch to the soothing lull of commentators giving a play-by-play of the Rays versus Yankees game. A thick web of fatigue clings to you, fighting against your efforts to open your eyes and sit upright. 

“Hey.” 

Instinctively, you look towards the noise at the other end of the couch, locking eyes with Frankie. His face droops with this wounded expression that gets under your skin. Diverting your gaze to the TV, you cross your arms and try to keep your demeanor aloof despite the deep ache in your chest. 

“How are you feeling?” 

You choke out a humorless laugh and shake your head, keeping your eyes trained on the screen. A few tense seconds go by before he accepts that you will not be answering his ludicrous question, so he takes an alternative approach. 

“I brought home cubanos from that place you like. For, um… for family dinner. If you still wanted to do that.” 

Home, he says, as if the word meant something to him. As if he didn’t match every brick you laid in the foundation of this relationship with paper mache blocks. As if he didn’t take a wrecking ball to whole fucking thing regardless. 

Maybe to him home is just a place he rests his head at night, not where he anchors his heart. A matter of physical location rather than a feeling. You, on the other hand… never felt quite at home in this house until he started living here. 

Are you crazy for having felt like that? Like home was a space you held with him and him alone? 

Your parents were right. You make too much of things. You’re overdramatic. 

Why would he love you? Why would he choose you over his wife? You knew what you were getting into when this started. 

Stupid girl. 

“I understand if you don’t want to, though.” 

His voice brings you back to yourself. You blink hot tears from your eyes, then wipe them from your cheeks, trying to hold yourself together despite the whisper of ‘stupid girl stupid girl stupid girl’ at the back of your head. 

“Can we… can we at least talk about it?” 

You wince as a fresh batch of tears surges up your throat. Rising to your feet, you shake your head and manage to choke out, “Just forget it,” before fleeing to your bedroom. 

—

I slept most of the day yesterday so it took me forever to fall asleep. Also Frankie was walking around the house all night. At 11ish, I heard him talking on the phone, then I think someone picked him up. I texted him to see where he went because I’m unfortunately still his designated person. He said he was with someone from AA and he’d be back soon, just needed to talk. I couldn’t fall asleep until I heard him come in at 1. He wasn’t stumbling around so I’m guessing he was sober??? Hopefully he was. I don’t want this to get in the way of his recovery. Which I sort of hate. I wish I could delete the feelings I have for him. I wish I didn’t care. But I guess I do, so… I don’t know. This fucking sucks. Leah said I should kick him out, but I don’t want to fuck up his program. Maybe I’ll talk to Ralph today and see what he thinks. The thing is… the more people I talk to, the more I just want to talk to Frankie. Nobody makes me feel like he does. More than the lies, this is what bothers me the most. The fact that I can feel this way and he just doesn’t. I don’t understand how he can’t feel it, too. I thought this was real. But I guess I always do. I guess he’s just a really good liar and I am just a stupid girl. 

Tossing the notebook aside, you sit up to grab your mug off the side table. Wisps of steam rise from the coffee and dissolve into the air. The image blurs as a thick, wretched sensation twists up your throat. 

God fucking damnit. 

Every time you think you have no more tears left to cry, you prove yourself wrong. They just keep coming. Yesterday you waded in and out of these sudden fits where crying was all you could do. It reminds you of all the other times he broke your heart, but especially the last time. 

After Angie caught the two of you fucking, part of you hoped that maybe she would leave him. From what you understand, though, he convinced her to stay. Called you a mistake. An ‘isolated incident’ or whatever. Fucking asshole. 

Anyway. 

Seeing each other became logistically and emotionally difficult. Participating in an affair is much easier when it’s still a secret, for obvious reasons. He tried to see you when he could, which wasn’t nearly as frequent as you wanted. When you did see him, he was drunk. You’d pick him up from the bar, or he’d come over after Angie went to bed, but he was always at least five drinks in and counting. 

You bailed him out of jail twice in those six months. Once for drinking and driving, once for getting in a fight over a fucking pool game, of all things. 

He seemed so walled-off from you, too. Like he detached from his emotions when he saw you. Maybe it was because of the liquor, but a million other reasons are just as likely. After sex, he would leave. The sex was… well, it was still good, but… different. Rougher, impersonal. It felt less like making love and more like fucking. 

You still loved him, though. You still had fantasies of having a real, normal relationship with him. Despite all the evidence to the contrary, you still wanted to believe that he was meant to be with you. 

Stupid girl stupid girl stupid girl

And then, well… 

Your phone starts to ring. It’s Ralph. 

You take a few quick sips of your coffee, then set the mug aside to answer. 

“Hello?”

“Hey, kiddo. Do you have a minute?” 

His tone, less jovial than normal, gives you a small burst of anxious energy.

“Sure, what’s up?” 

“I just got off the phone Mr. Morales and he briefed me on the, ahhh… situation over there.” 

Unsure what to say, you fold an arm over your belly and stare down at your lap. 

“I understand that things are a bit tense due to an incident that occurred on Saturday, is that correct?” 

“Yeah,” you nod, voice wavering, “Yeah, I, um… I overheard him talking to Angie, and… well, basically I found out he’s been lying to me.” 

It sounds so pathetic when you say it out loud. 

“Uh-huh. He lied about the nature of his relationship with Mrs. Morales.” 

“Correct.” 

You prepare for Ralph to tell you it’s not a big deal. Brace yourself for the inevitable scoff, or for him to accuse you of overreacting. 

So he lied to you, so what? You knew who he was. You knew he had a family to keep together. You should have known better than to get involved with him. Stupid girl, why would you put yourself in that position in the first place? 

“And this isn’t the first time he lied to you about this particular matter, am I understanding correctly?” 

“Well…” you frown and shake your head, “No, not really. When we were together before, he was pretty explicit that he wouldn’t leave her. I just… I just thought… I don’t know. It’s dumb. I’m fucking dumb.” 

Ralph doesn’t respond right away, so you add, “Sorry. I’m still in my feelings.” 

“Don’t sweat it, I think I’m picking up what you’re putting down,” he pauses here to clear his throat, then recounts, “Before, he told you leaving her wasn’t a possibility. And despite my warning going into this, the two of you re-established your romantic relationship, he told you that kind of relationship was effectively over with his wife. Which wasn’t true.” 

“Correct.” 

“Ok. Got it. Has Mr. Morales exhibited any unusual or suspicious behavior since the incident on Saturday?”

After thinking about it, you tell him, “I wouldn’t call this suspicious exactly, but yesterday he left a note saying he was going to an AA meeting, which isn’t normal. And late last night someone picked him up. I texted him to check in and he said he was with someone from AA, talking.” 

“Do you believe he was being truthful?” 

“Yeah, I do,” you shrug, “I mean, I’m obviously not the best at detecting his bullshit, but I’ve seen him under the influence more times than I can count and he didn’t seem… like that.” 

“Well, that’s good. And it’s good you checked in with him, I take that as a positive. You are still responsible for him while he’s on parole.” He sighs, “Which brings me to my next question. Are you thinking you want to continue serving as his designated person, or should we start looking for alternatives?” 

A lump rises in your throat. You swallow it down, wincing at the tears that burn behind your eyes, “I, um… I’m not sure yet. Can I have a few days to think it over?” 

“Sure. How about this. Why don’t you take some time, maybe go to one of those Al-Anon meetings I told you about, and I can stop by Saturday to have a sit down with you and Mr. Morales. Does that sound agreeable?” 

“Ok,” you nod, “Yeah, that sounds good. We can do that.”

“Alrighty then. I’ll shoot you an email with some details sometime today and we’ll go from there.” 

“Thanks, Ralph.” 

“Call me if anything comes up, ok kiddo?” 

“Will do.” 

After hanging up, you put in a load of laundry and wander around the house, stopping by the fridge to stare at the cubano Frankie brought home for you yesterday. You roll your eyes with annoyance as you grab it, then you return to the couch and put on Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. 

—

By the time Frankie comes home, you’re four feature films deep in your angsty post-breakup movie marathon and feeling indignant enough not to surrender the common space to him. 

His eyebrows do this little surprised jump when your eyes meet his, and he glances at the TV, “Reality Bites?” 

You don’t respond, just curl deeper into the couch and return your attention to Ethan Hawke’s spiteful cover of Add It Up.

He kicks off his work boots and walks into the kitchen, coming back a minute later to ask, “If I make something for dinner, will you eat it?” 

Your stomach rumbles at the thought of food. Without looking at him, you shrug. 

Accepting the non-verbal answer, Frankie returns to the kitchen and starts bumbling around, cussing and grumbling under his breath. Eventually, though, he seems to get the hang of it. 

Just as the end credits of Reality Bites start rolling, he enters the living room holding two plates and sets one on the coffee table for you, then takes a seat at the opposite end of the couch. 

You sit up, crossing your legs as you pull the offering into your lap, and toss the remote control to his side of the dividing cushion. He wordlessly searches for something else to watch while you study the avocado-filled hot dog buns. 

“What is this?” you ask. 

“Completo. Hot dog topped with good shit, basically. Avocado, tomato, onion, condiments.” He selects play on Moulin Rouge, then looks at you and shrugs, “Ma would make it for me when I had a bad day.” 

You stare at him for a moment, then roll your eyes and shake your head as you turn to the TV, “I see what you’re doing.” 

“What’s that?” 

“Kissing my ass.” 

He chuckles, shifting a little, “Yeah, well… yeah.” 

The movie starts to play. You don’t mention that this will be the second time you’ve seen it today because he probably knows that. After taking a bite of the completo, you hum at the mix of flavors and textures as you chew. 

“Good, right?” Frankie says through a mouthful. 

“Mmm,” you nod in agreement. 

He swallows, glancing between you and his food before asking, “Can I ask why you haven’t kicked me out yet?”

When you contemplate how to answer, the reasons all snarl into a tight knot of which you can’t quite make heads or tails. 

“No.” 

“Fair enough,” he murmurs, letting his gaze linger on you, “Do you want me to give you some privacy, or…? Because I can go—” 

“It doesn’t matter, Francisco, just stop talking.” 

“Ok, but—” 

You hold your hand up to him, “Shhhhhh.”

He sighs, but accepts the silence. Tension resides in the air at first, but slowly dissipates as you clear your plates, then settle into the couch. And although your eyes stay trained on the screen, you can’t make yourself pay attention. 

You keep wondering why he lied about being with Angie. He’s never had a problem making that clear in the past, even if it meant breaking your heart. Is it because he lives with you? It’s possible he didn’t want to risk getting kicked out, so he kept it a secret. 

Then why get involved with you again? Did he think this was the best way to stay in your good graces? Has he been manipulating you this whole time? 

It’s possible. It’s also possible you’re another one of his bad habits he can’t kick. A coping mechanism. Disposable, like always. 

You remember the night you asked him to come over so you could talk to him about something important. He promised to be there at eight o’clock, which is when you planted yourself on the front porch swing to wait for him. At nine o’clock, his truck came rumbling down the street and parked in front of the house. 

“What’re you doing out here?” he smirked as he climbed the porch steps. 

“Waiting for you,” you glared at him, observing his fluid movements when he plopped down beside you.

“I went and got a drink, lost track of time.” 

He wrapped an arm around your shoulders and drew your stiff body closer to kiss your cheek.

Something hot flared in your chest, and you distinctly remember wishing he would show up sober for once. This wasn’t the scab you wanted to pick, though. 

He tilted your chin up, pressing his lips to yours, breath heavy with whiskey, then pulled back to frown at your lackluster response. His body swayed a little as he studied you, “What?” 

“I need to talk to you.” 

“Ok,” he leaned away from you with a scoff, “Well, I’m here. Talk to me. Tell me how I fucked up this time.” 

You winced, “Don’t do that.” 

Crossing his arms, he stared at you, all fucking wobbly and drunk, irritation folding his facial features. He shrugged, “Do what?” 

“That! You’re being an asshole.” 

“Oh, I’m being an asshole?” he mocked, “How’s that?” 

Rage simmered beneath your skin. You let out a chuckle of disbelief, shaking your head as tears pooled in your eyes. After taking a moment to gather yourself, you spit out, “Do you love me?” 

“Do I—?” he furrowed his brow like he didn’t understand, shifting in his seat, “Do I love you?” 

“Yes, Frankie. Do you fucking love me or not?” 

His indignation melted. Shoulders slumping, gaze going soft. He swallowed hard and looked out at the street as if searching for an escape hatch. Emergency brake. Make it stop. 

“Because I love you. I’ve been in love with you for so long… and-and I still don’t know what the fuck I am to you.” 

He seemed frozen, staring at something a million miles away without sparing a reaction. 

Nine months later, you can still feel the frantic vibration of your bones when you moved closer and cupped his cheeks, forcing him to look at you. When his eyes met yours, they were so cold and vacant that you barely recognized him. You tried to get through anyway. 

“I need you right now, Frankie. But I need all of you. I can’t be on the back burner anymore. I need you to be with me or I need to let you go.” 

“You know I can’t do that. I can’t be with you, not like that.” 

“But you could, though. You could. We could do this, we could make it work, start a life together—”

“I won’t leave her,” he shook his head, “I have a family—goddamnit, you knew what this was when it started.”

You sobbed, letting your hands fall away from his face, and his eyelids fluttered with the ghost of an emotion that you didn’t understand. 

He started, “I don’t—” then paused, tapping his clamped lips. His bloodshot eyes flicked around the porch and settled a million miles away again, “I don’t love you.” 

With this declaration, he took his chisel to you, lined it up in just the right spot, and gave it one firm tap. You crumbled at his feet. Shattered into dust. 

He got up and drove off while you were still bawling on the front porch swing. 

Onscreen, Toulouse-Lautrec shouts, “The greatest thing you’ll ever learn is just to love and be loved in return!” 

It hits you square in the chest. 

With tears brimming your eyelids, you jump up and flee to your bedroom before he can see them. 

—

Terrible nights sleep. Every time I drifted off, I was in the bedroom at my parents house but it wasn’t in my parents house. He was there but he wasn’t there. I don’t know how to explain it. I felt his presence but knew it wasn't him. I kept my eyes closed because I was scared to see, but I could hear him getting closer and closer. When I opened my eyes I woke up. The feeling stuck to me. It took me forever to fall back asleep and when I did it started over. 

Frankie didn’t go to work this morning. I don’t think he slept well either. Heard him walking around all night again. Idk if I should ask him what his deal is. I don’t want to talk to him about it yet and he’ll probably try to do that. Which is weird for him. A year ago I’d give anything for him to open up like he’s been trying to. But it hurts too much right now. It’s so messy. I’m all tangled. I need to straighten myself out before talking about it. 

I think I’m going to an al-anon meeting today and I’m nervous. Not sure what to expect. Keep worrying they’ll tell me I don’t belong there or make me talk about him. I don’t know if I belong there. I don’t know if I belong anywhere. 

Pulling back from your notebook, you stare at the last sentence for a while before closing the cover and setting it on the end table. 

Frankie walks out from his bedroom and rounds the corner to the living room, looking suspiciously formal, wearing slacks and a white dress shirt. His dark curls have been combed into a neat side part. It even looks like he trimmed his facial hair. 

As he peeks through the front window curtains, you blurt, “Are you wearing a fucking tie?” 

He looks surprised to hear you speak, raising his eyebrows as he glances down at himself, then up at you, “Yeah. I have a uhhh… a deposition today.” 

“Is that good or bad?” 

“Not really either. It’s normal, I guess. They’re just asking me questions on the record.” 

Nodding, you study his nervous demeanor, watching him reflexively go to lift his hat, faltering a little before running his fingers through his hair anyway. 

A desire to comfort him trickles through you, extinguishing the glowing embers of contempt inside your chest. 

“How is the case going, do you know?” 

The corner of his mouth pulls back into a kind of grimace. He takes another peek out the window, then steps back and shrugs as he approaches the couch, “The lawyer says they’ll probably offer a plea deal once this is over. We’ll see what that looks like.” He sits down at the other end of the couch, pulling out his phone to keep an eye on the little car on his rideshare app, “He thinks maybe they could agree to a reduced sentence.” 

You pick at your frayed cuticles, holding your tongue for as long as you can before asking, “How are you doing with… everything?” 

When you glance at him, his face is crooked with contemplation. He shifts in his seat and crosses his arms, lips parting with an answer. A notification dings on his phone. 

“My ride’s here,” he murmurs and meets your eyes with an apologetic expression, “We can talk about it later?” 

You give him a non-committal smile, “Good luck at your thing.” 

—

The woman who gave you your new member packet, apparently the leader of the meeting, looks around the room and announces,

“This afternoon, our fearless speaker will be Taylor. Everybody please welcome Taylor.”

From the back row, you sink down in your metal folding chair and glance around at the attendees, joining in when they start to clap for a woman approaching the podium. 

“Hi everyone, my name is Taylor. I’m a member of Al-Anon.” 

The room responds in unison, “Hi Taylor.” 

Taylor smiles and shakes her head, looking down at a small stack of trembling notecards. Her round shoulders raise with a deep breath. She closes her eyes for a moment, exhales, then looks up at the room. 

“If you would’ve told me a year ago I’d be the speaker at an Al-Anon group, there’s no way I’d believe you. But here I am,” she chuckles, “Wow. Thank you everyone for coming in today. I see so many familiar faces and some not so familiar faces and I’m grateful to see all of you. I’m proud of you for coming to this meeting today. 

“One of the biggest preconceived notions I had when I started attending Al-Anon meetings nine months ago is that they would help me support my alcoholic husband. At the time, he was about a month into sobriety and had just started going to AA meetings. He was struggling like hell and a friend of his asked if he wanted to go to an AA meeting with him. So he did. 

“I’ll be honest, when he suggested I go to Al-Anon, I was annoyed. I really was. At that point, we’d been married for five years. He tried quitting, oh, I don’t know… six times in that five years? Three 90-day inpatient rehab stays, two arrests, more sleepless nights than I can count.” 

Taylor pauses and looks down at her notes, then back up at the room as an amused smile spreads across her face. 

“What it always reminded me of was this story my husband told me. Every so often, he goes through these phases where he gets very very interested in a particular subject. It completely takes him over. All he wants to do is read about it and talk about it and… well, you get it. 

“When he was in his Greek mythology era, he told me about Sisyphus, the king of Ephyra. Sisyphus killed people who visited his palace, which angered the gods because they considered it impolite, which is the understatement of the millennium, but that’s neither here nor there. When Sisyphus died, Hades punished him to an eternity rolling a boulder uphill. He would fight his way up this steep hill, pushing the boulder with all his might. The boulder was enchanted, though, and every time the it got near the top, the boulder would roll back down the hill, then he’d have to try again. So he does this over and over and over for eternity. Infinite frustration and exhaustion. 

“Sometimes it felt like that with him. With my alcoholic. Like I was stuck in this loop, fighting like hell to push his dead weight to the top of the hill. Just when I got a scrap of hope, it went tumbling back down. Over and over and over again. I structured my whole life around his relationship to alcohol. Checking in with him constantly, making sure I didn’t say or do anything that might trigger another relapse, putting myself on the back burner to accommodate his needs. So when he suggested I try going to Al-Anon meetings, I expected it to be another chore catering to his sobriety. I thought I would come here and learn all the ways people support the alcoholic in their life the right way. Because I obviously wasn’t doing it the right way. If I was, he would have years of sobriety under his belt. 

“Regardless, I agreed to go, and quickly discovered my preconceived notions about Al-Anon were wrong. Al-Anon doesn’t exist for us to better service the alcoholic or alcoholics in our lives. Sure, we’re all here because of the alcoholic in our lives, but the point is to better service ourselves. I think that distinction is important. 

“When I came home from my first meeting, I went through the new member packet Mario gave me, and found a handout that said: Detachment is neither kind nor unkind,” Taylor nods at the memory and looks around the room, “That struck a chord with me, that phrase. Detachment is neither kind nor unkind. It didn’t make sense to me at first. I thought, how is detachment neither kind nor unkind? It went against my instincts completely. How was I supposed to help my husband if I detached from him? Isn’t love about being attached to someone, sticking together through thick and thin? 

“Attending meetings and working the steps helped me get a better grasp on the concept. I came to understand that, in Al-Anon, detachment can mean two different things. The first is separating the person you love from their alcoholic behaviors. The second is a little harder to define, but it centers around the idea that you are separate from other people, and their actions do not control yours. Let me show you what I mean, though.

“In my relationship with my husband, we were entangled,” Taylor laces her hands together and holds them up for everyone to see. “Wherever he went, I went, too.” She moves her clasped hands back and forth. Spreading her hands apart, she says, “I didn’t want to be apart from him. But what I found with detachment is,” she flattens her hands palm-to-palm, “We can be close without being entangled. That way, if he goes to a dark place,” she moves one hand away from the other and shakes her head, “I don’t have to go with him if I don’t want to.” 

Taylor looks around the room, allowing her words to sink in, then returns her attention to the stack of notecards and flips to the next. 

“When we detach in this way, it both relieves us of our perceived responsibility for their actions and emotions, and grants them autonomy to make their own choices. They deserve dignity and freedom, which is difficult to obtain if we try to manage their lives. 

“So often in our marriage, I thought that loving my alcoholic meant rescuing him from himself. I thought that if I exerted myself hard enough, pushed him up that steep hill long enough, we would get to the top together. But the effort was Sisyphean. It didn’t matter how much time or effort I put into controlling the direction of the boulder. It would always roll downhill, because the boulder was enchanted. Even if I spent an eternity trying, even if I begged and screamed and pleaded with the boulder, it would still be enchanted. And, you know… maybe that’s ok. Maybe he’s not meant to sit at the top of the hill. It’s not his fault, either, and I came to realize that instead of getting frustrated at him for being enchanted, I can meet him where he is and love him anyway. If I don’t like that place, I don’t have to stay there. When I detach with love, I grant myself autonomy as well as him. 

“Putting the metaphor aside, I’ve used this in practice by no longer lying for him. If he’s at an AA meeting and our daughter asks why he’s not home, I tell her the truth. When my family or friends ask how everything is going, I don’t try to make it seem easier than it is so he can save face. I confide in them with sincerity because that is what I need. I’ve stopped giving him advice unless he asks for it, because I’ve learned here that most times people don’t need advice, they just need someone to listen and be present. I’ve stopped trying to take the reins when I think he’s making poor decisions, because he doesn’t need someone to do it for him. He needs to learn to do it himself. Part of learning is making mistakes and growing out from beneath the consequences. 

“Detachment is neither kind nor unkind, it’s a tool we utilize to free ourselves and the alcoholic in our lives. Al-Anon doesn’t exist to teach us how to help the alcoholic in our lives, although the tools it gives us can aid in their recovery as well as ours. This fellowship exists to help us, the families of the alcoholic, so that we may lead more joyful and serene lives. Thank you.” 

Applause erupts from the crowd, and you join in, watching Taylor glow with pride as she steps away from the podium. 

—

Damp, hot air pours in through the rolled-down windows, carrying with it the earthy scent of algae-bloom off East Lake Tohopekaliga. Driving along the slow, steady curve, you pass by sprawling oak trees, their eaves all draped in spanish moss. 

Your hope was that taking the scenic route home would clear your head, but it’s not doing the trick. Something shifted inside you during the meeting. You can’t quite put your finger on exactly what shifted or why it happened, although your circular thoughts give you the sense you’re on the precipice of understanding. 

You keep thinking about the speaker, Taylor, and the lesson she relayed from her podium. Her situation is different from yours, but you know it all the same. You know how it feels to dig your heels into the dirt, struggling like hell to push someone in the direction you think is best. You know how it feels to see him tumble to the bottom time and time again. And for what? It’s not like he’s any better off because of your efforts. It’s not like you are, either. 

How many times have you betrayed yourself for the sake of his favor? How many times have you put your needs aside to tend to his? 

Calm blue-gray water flickers behind the trees you drive past. It looks peaceful. Further up the road, you spot a public access point to the lake and turn into the lot, hitting a bump. When you do, a loud BANG reverberates through the car. The steering wheel shakes as you slow to a jerky, lopsided stop.

“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me,” you fume, shifting the car into park. Folding forward onto the steering wheel, you pinch your eyes shut and take a deep breath, then exit the vehicle to look at the damage. 

The front driver’s side tire sits flat against the pavement. You stare at it and shake your head, muttering, “God fucking damnit,” before walking to the trunk. 

You open it and pull up the mat to the spare tire well. It’s empty. 

“Fucking of course. Jesus fucking—” 

Cutting yourself off with a furious groan, you pull out your phone and go through your contact list, pointedly scrolling past the F’s to pause at Leah, who’s over an hour away, then Marla, who’s busy enough as it is. You even briefly consider Rory, but the idea makes your stomach lurch. 

You could just do it all yourself. Order a car on one of those rideshare apps. It would take forever, though, and you’ve never changed a tire before. 

Frankie is the logical choice. The first person who came to mind, if you’re being honest. Something hard and stubborn inside your chest throbs when you hover over his name. 

It’s pride, you realize. Maybe a little fear. You don’t want to ask for his help. You don’t want to burden him. You don’t want to be disappointed if he says no. 

All the same, you dial his number. He picks up on the second ring. 

“H—”

“Are you at the house?”  

“I am.” 

“Are you busy?” 

“Nothing I can’t put off ‘til later. Why?” 

“My fucking tire blew out, and my spare is in the garage,” you sigh and throw your head back, propping a hand on your hip, “Is there any way you can bring it out to me?” 

“I, umm… yeah, of course. Where are you?” 

“East Lake Toho.”

He snorts, “Christ, what’re you doing all the way out there?” In the background, you hear the floorboards creaking, mapping his way through the house. Before you can respond, he asks, “Spare tire in the garage, need me to grab anything else?” 

“Uhhhh…” you wrinkle your nose at the trunk, “I don’t know, I have a jack and the tire iron thing.” 

“That should do it. Wanna drop me a pin? I’ll have to get a ride out there.” 

“Yeah. I can pay you back if you need to order a Lyft or whatever.” 

“Just take it off my tab,” he jokes, the back door squeaking open behind his voice, “Hang tight, I’ll be there in a bit.”

You turn around to lean back on the bumper, “Ok, I’ll be here.” 

After hanging up, you share your location with him, then wander down to the dock. It rattles around as you teeter to the end and sit down, letting your feet dangle over the edge. 

Cattails and lily pads have been cleared from the shoreline near the boat landing, giving you a clear view across the lake, broken up here and there by thick swaths of aquatic vegetation. The glassy surface of the water reflects the hazy blue sky, and stagnant air sticks humid to your skin. Insects buzz and birds sing and somewhere far away you hear a boat motor chugging across the lake. 

When you think of serenity, this is what you picture. Stillness and calm. Peace. You inhale the scene, allowing it to stretch out inside you and unfurl your tensed muscles. 

As soon as the unease evaporates from your body, fatigue takes over.  

Lying back on the dock, you stare up at tall, fluffy clouds littering the sky. Your eyelids grow heavy as you watch the slow-moving parade of shifting giants, the warm air lulling you into comfort until you let your eyes drift closed. 

Your awareness fades in and out while you sleep. At one point, a car door shuts, then the car drives off. Vaguely, you know it’s Frankie but can’t lift your limbs, syrupy thick with lethargy. You hear grunts and metallic clattering. Some time later, your trunk slams shut. 

When the dock starts wobbling around beneath you, you blink your eyes open and sit up, scrubbing your hands over your face as a yawn overtakes you. 

“Hey sleepyhead.” 

You glance over your shoulder at Frankie, who comes to sit down beside you with a groan. He’s back to his usual attire, jeans and a t-shirt, baseball cap firmly in place atop his head. 

Still groggy, you yawn, “I couldn’t make myself wake up.” 

“Not sleeping well?” 

“Fucking awful, honestly.” 

“Yeah, I know.” 

You frown at him, searching his face until he gives you a little shrug, at which point you mumble, “Oh. I forgot that I, umm… yeah. Sorry.” 

“No need to apologize,” he tells you, squinting up at the sky before dropping his eyes to his hands as he fiddles with his wedding band, “Same here. The—the sleep part, not the nightmares.” 

“Yeah, I know. I hear you pacing around at night.” 

“Oh… sorry, I didn’t realize—”

You push yourself up straighter to watch his legs dangle next to yours, “It’s fine.” 

Quiet settles comfortably between you. Near the dock, you see a cluster of bubbles rise to the surface of the lake and burst. The ripples flatten out and calm returns. 

A question swells in your ribcage. Just a small pocket of air at first, maybe the size of a pebble. The longer you sit and stare at the water, though, it expands. It works its way up your throat, taking up more and more space with each passing second until you can’t contain it any more. 

“So you were lying to me, right? About not being with her?” 

He meets your gaze, dark eyes all remorseful and gooey, then he nods, “Yeah. I was lying. To both of you.” 

Folding your legs up onto the dock, you look away in the hope that he won’t notice the tears starting to come. When he speaks, his voice comes out hoarse and quiet. 

“How much do you want me to tell you?” 

The question replaces the air in your lungs with a vibrating sensation. Another cluster of bubbles dissolve on the surface of the lake. You manage to croak, “I don’t know.” 

He doesn’t respond. You sense that he’s waiting for you to make the next move. 

Your mind wanders to the front porch swing that night you forced him to choose. He felt so far away. Until he told you differently, you were so certain he was in love with you. 

“I don’t know how to trust your words as truth, Frankie. All the way back to the start, I don’t know what was real and what was bullshit and I am fucking—” your voice cracks from the emotion burning up your throat. 

He goes to comfort you, but pulls back before making contact. 

Every cell inside you aches for him to bridge the gap. You follow the instinct, grabbing his shirt to curl into his shoulder. As soon as you do, he wraps his arms tight around you, bringing you in closer. 

A wave of moth-eaten hurt wells up your chest. 

“Why?” you sob, “Why did you do this to me? I don’t understand—”

He starts to rock you in a slow, soothing motion, burying his face in your hair as you cry into the collar of his shirt. In the background, behind your racing thoughts and shattered breaths, you hear him whisper on repeat: I’m sorry, baby… I’m so sorry.

[snootlestheangel]

Hear Me Out

Guys, just, hear me out: YouTubers/Streamers AU for COD. There was a series of posts on @cod-dump 's blog about what games are banned for the boys and I've just been thinking about this but with Ghost, Gaz, Soap, and Alex where one of them is the actual streamer/gamer dude and the others just almost always play with him (maybe Roach if we went on the path that he's not actually mute, just kinda hates talking)

Retired or discharged for whatever reasons, the 141 are actually kinda happy to be living semi-normal lives. Maybe they're not all entirely civilian now, maybe Price has a position that doesn't require him to be on the field but he's still teaching/being a Captain.

But he's constantly telling the boys to find things to do to keep themselves happy. Especially Gaz and Soap, cause the military is kind of all they know, they've never had to be civilians really as adults.

Ghost is transitioning fine, and he's been a huge help for Soap, but Gaz is still kinda struggling. Eventually something happens and Alex is part of his life, but it's still not really what Gaz needs to feel "normal".

So Soap and Alex convince Gaz to start streaming/recording videos of their gaming sessions. It's a slow start, and Gaz is getting frustrated.

Until one time they play something silly but incredibly rage-inducing. It's a trending game because it's designed to pit you against your friends but is still silly nonetheless. There's one clip in particular that starts trending and becomes the reason Gaz's channel starts to take off.

The clip? Gaz yelling at Soap for something and Soap immediately just cursing him out in straight Scots only for Alex, an American, to scream into his mic as loud as humanly possible "WHAT THE FUCK IS A KILOMETER?!?!" after having been dead silent for the last 2 minutes. Why did he scream this? Not because of Soap's Scots, but because he had secretly just won the round after having lost the entire time they'd been playing.

People eat that shit up! Suddenly everyone's like "damn there's this hella attractive dude that records gameplay with his friends and they're all really funny." Everyone falls in love with Gaz's appearance first, but then they actually hear him and his friends interact and it's just trading insults and stupid jokes, acting like there's no one watching and they're suddenly kids again.

It eventually comes out that Gaz and his friends are all veterans, and despite the air around military not being the best, there's no denying that caring for veterans is a must. People slowly start to support Gaz's channel/streams, and before he knows it, he's actually got quite the following. His whole thing is about "wanting to do something to distract himself and others from the shitty aspects of life with a few laughs and some good games"

Eventually they convince Ghost to start gaming with them. It makes Gaz's popularity grow because now there's this really deep accent in the mix that's completely clueless as to what he's doing like 90% of the time (I just have this gut feeling that '22 Ghost is so fucking awful at video games) that they refer to simply as "Ghost". Suddenly, the chaos Gaz and his friends are known for increases tenfold. Ghost is flirting with all of them, Soap is arguing with him over literal couple things that come with living together, and there's a new element of really dark humor that wasn't there before (there was dark humor, just not this dark)

They're playing The Backrooms one time. They're not even in the game yet, just in the lobby. Gaz is laughing at Alex's tag for the game "MYLEG!" which is a reference to that one fish in Spongebob always yelling "my leg!" after an incident. Gaz is laughing too hard to actually explain to his viewers that, yes, Alex is an amputee. Soap starts making fun of him, as usual, and that's when it happens.

Alex: "I'll take my leg off and hit you with it, Soap, I swear to god." Soap: "I forgot you were already missing one for a second there and got real concerned." Alex: "No, Soap, I planned on removing my other leg. The one that's still attached, yeah. Just like a lil *pop noise*, ya know?" Gaz: *wheezing so hard he almost throws up*

Then they're playing this silly monster/cryptid hunter game called "A Day Out" and there's skeletons every now and then on the map. Gaz walks up to one and just starts freaking out, saying Ghost's name over and over.

Ghost, freaked out: What?? Gaz, pointing at the skeleton: Look, it's you! *cackling* Ghost, after a concerning long pause: *quietly* Nah, I'm not gonna say that Alex: SAY IT COWARD Ghost: No, that's my brother *Gaz making the most horrified face as he tries not to laugh* *Alex and Soap are losing their shit* Gaz: NAH THAT'S NOT OKAY

That clip posts and the internet looses it. I see this being the actual first video Ghost is in, so for this to be the first thing the viewers get of him, it's safe to say he's a hit. It's also never explained that Ghost does have a deceased brother, so there's just an acceptance of Ghost's skeleton brother.

There's several times where they've all gotten together and played silly games like Mario Kart when there's a bunch of them. There's the sober one and there's the drunk one, where there's so many different languages being hurled as curses at each other, Gaz gives up on captioning ANY of it.

OOOOooooooooohhhhhhhhh!!!!!!!!! WHAT IF! Roach becomes his editor once he gets popular enough so he can spend more time playing games, solo ones when the others are working.

For a while, everyone's going crazy wanting to see what the others all look like, and sometimes (cause we're assuming the world they live in now during all this is a lot better), they're joined by Rudy or Alejandro, or both in one rare instance. Sometimes, for old times's sake, during the drunk gaming sessions, they'll call Laswell only for her to scold them. There are times they'll bully Roach who always, as the editor, changes their words from the insults to compliments. Or he definitely trolls Gaz a lot with some of the editing, and it's all around just a good time. Hence why everyone wants to know what they look like.

Then it's around the holidays after about 2 and a half years of Gaz's channel being as popular as it is. He posts a single picture on his socials with a group of people and the caption: "Love seeing the boys over the holidays."

It's such a nice photo; Alex with an arm wrapped around Gaz's shoulders, Soap and Ghost on his other side with Roach between Soap and Gaz.

And the internet has once again gone crazy. Why? Cause not only are these dudes fucking hilarious, but they're hot and taken.

Except, as they all end up teasing him about, Roach is very much still single XD

I have been watching too much YouTube lately, can y'all tell?? Haha anyways back to my hole I shall crawl