#lawrence quirk

[riprendscore]

Ermmm, actually, in Strade's route, he makes mc eat a piece of their thigh 🤓☝️

//“Not into it,” In reference to himself.

[giraffe44]

August 5th Is Robert Taylor's Birthday

August 5th would have been Robert Taylor’s 112th birthday. Robert Taylor’s career spanned four decades.  Mr. Taylor belonged to the greatest generation, loved his country and his family.  Robert Taylor was an extremely talented and versatile actor and a good  man, husband and father.  We could use more like him today. Martha Crawford Cantarini, stunt woman. “He was one of the legendary faces in…

[leighcest]

i don't smoke (except for when i'm missing you.)

--

1.7k words

adam faulkner-stanheight x lawrence gordon

tropes: m/m, hurt / no comfort, mlm, ghost!adam faulkner-stanheight, slight headcanons, trans!adam faulkner-stanheight, slowburn(?), they're in love they just don't realize it, no happy ending, angst, religious mention once, chainshipping, suggested divorce between ali and larry, lawrence is an apprentice, canon timeline, not betaread we die like adam faulkner-stanheight

note: the title is a reference to the song i don't smoke by mitski! uh yeah! please enjoy:). posted on my ao3.

tags: @mychem1calbr0mance , @st4rcryptid

Every night had the same premise. Lawrence goes to sleep, dreams about Adam, and wakes up.

Tonight is no different. Lawrence is sawing his leg off, but it never comes off. He’s just pressing the blade against his leg and sawing. When he blinks, he has a gun pointed to Adam. Lawrence tries to stop himself from firing it, as if it would change what really happened. But it doesn’t. He puts seven rounds into Adam this time.

Adam looks so young. So painfully young. Because he was. The most youthful he had ever looked. Larry thinks about how that was the youngest and oldest he’ll ever look. And Lawrence took that away from him. Took him away from his parents, his friends, his siblings (if he had any). He murdered Adam. Shot and left him to rot. Took away his life. And now he’s gone. Because of Lawrence. He looked petrified.

He blinks one more time and Adam is bashing in his skull instead of Zepp’s. He looked even younger, even more afraid. and with that, he jerks awake.

His temples are near-exploding and his sheets are soaked. Lawrence’s chair is just far enough it’s painful to grab it and as he collapses in it, his will to shower is now gone.

A ghost dripping blood blurs his way into Lawrence’s vision. A gnawing feeling of guilt curls itself into the blond’s gut. It bubbles and hardens into a deeper feeling similar to rage. At himself, at Adam, whoever his mind can reminisce of. Somehow, Adam dissipating into a soft smoke makes Lawrence’s grief worse.

Lawrence tries to convince himself that Diana is sleeping in her room across the hall, to fill the lonely empty inside of him. It doesn’t work. He knows that Diana is at Alison’s with her new boyfriend. He knows it’s just him. Alone with the ghost of his most guilt ridden victim following him.

The shower dulls the ache in his head and the warmth consuming him like the fires of Hell themself. His foot aches, despite the fact it’s alone, rotting in a bathroom with the decaying corpse of Adam. John hadn’t told Lawrence to come in, so he has all day to pity himself.

His hair drips water down his back that makes him shiver. He can feel Adam’s presence (or the lack thereof) in the room with him. Lawrence wants nothing more than to call out. To scream at him. He closes his laptop and shoves his work to the side.

An empty balcony clouded with smoke is Lawrence’s favorite place as of recent. The sting of cigarette smoke reminds him of the irony of his job. The irony of it all. He’s a cancer doctor, who’s smoking. He’s a doctor who saves people, yet couldn’t save the one person that mattered most. He’s supposed to save people, yet he kills them in his freetime.

“Larry.” Adam chirps out. He’s smiling. “Thought you didn’t smoke?”

Lawrence’s face pulls into a mix of annoyance and longing. He sighs deeply before thinking of a response. “I didn’t. And then I did. Simple as that.”

Adam seems to take this answer before the corners of his lips quirk up once again. “You’re kinda pathetic, y’know?” He smirked like the Joker himself possessed Adam’s facial muscles. “I mean, really Lawrence. Smoking for someone you knew for six hours before you killed him? You didn’t even know me.”

“Exactly. I didn’t know you. Nobody knows you. You told me you were alive and nothing, and you were right.” Lawrence had to pause when he felt bile creep up his throat. “That’s why I feel guilty.”

That reasoning shuts Adam up quickly. Lawrence swears he heard the boy mumble a soft apology before sitting down. “I don’t blame you. I know that… Everything that happened was for a reason. I know that. I know that whatever happened to me was for the better.” He started. “I would have done the same in a heartbeat. I wish someone would have done that for me.” Adam chuckled, but it sounded more sad and pathetic than happy. Then again, everything Adam did was sad and pathetic. John was right.

The younger sits down and looks over at Lawrence. “Are you actually a ghost or did I make you up?” The blonde whispers. It was supposed to be to Adam, but came out like he was talking to no one in particular, and maybe he was. Adam hums in response. “I’m whatever you want me to be, handsome.” He winked. The older man clearly was not thrilled with this response. Adam could tell. He made a noise adjacent to clearing his throat. “Anyways, what I’m trying to say is that I’m not mad at you. Y’know, just… don’t leave me alone wondering where you are.” Adam said softer now. His smirk had melted into a soft and genuine smile.

Lawrence didn’t like how it tugged at him. He rubbed his eyes and put out the cigarette he was smoking, before staring blankly over the balcony as he nodded at Adam’s previous comment.

Paperwork was boring, and that’s all Lawrence could really do except for sleep. So he slept.

When Lawrence opens his eyes, Adam's decayed face floods his view. He's not stupid. It's been two months, he wouldn't look this dead. His jaw is eaten away and his body is pale. Adam's skin like the moonlight reflected off his window.

Lawrence squeezes his eyes closed. When he decides it's been long enough, he unclenches his body. His eyes slowly open. Adam is laying on his side, and his hand is propping up his head.

The older man desperately tries to cool the warm, tingling feeling that Adam's shit eating smirk is causing him.

"Hey, doc." His whiny voice pierces Lawrence's ears. Adam's voice to Lawrence is like a whistle to dogs or the wind humans used to hear. Lawrence feels his throat desperately constrict as he begs it to swallow his shame. "Adam. It's far too late for this."

He's still not sure if the Adam that's in his nightmares is the one haunting him, but he tolerates them both, so why fuss?

Adam stays silent, simply observing Lawrence and seemingly admiring the empty pit he leaves in Lawrence's stomach. His smirk transformed into a softer, more playfully smirk. "Sick of me already? Jeez, Lar, no wonder you left me."

A sour taste other than smoke fills Lawrence's mouth. "Don't call me that." The man said sternly, trying to hide the meek shame in his voice. Lawrence let out a breath he was holding. Talking to each other felt like walking on eggshells. Or landmines.

Looking over at Lawrence, the shorter stays unmoving. Just taking slow and deep breaths. He blinks. Adam is gone, the only remnant being a dent in Lawrence’s pillow, and the faint reminisce of a “sorry” on Larry’s lips.

Remembering Adam is cold. Touching (or the lack thereof) the ghost of Adam is colder. Lawrence is currently hugging the air, gripping it like a vice. His arms are loosely hung around Adam’s neck, and his nose is digging into his collarbone.

This is extra humiliating, because Lawrence is hovering over the air because he can’t touch Adam without his skin ripping through his hands and into the air he breathes.

Adam’s shirt is cotton. It’s soft and wet and soaked in blood. Lawrence tries to grip it but he watches as his wounded shoulder puffs into gas before resolving back. This makes the blond feel worse.

Ugly sobs rip painfully through Lawrence’s throat as it tries to close to ward off the whines and cries. He cries until he thinks he might throw up and some more after that.

He resists the urge to slam his fist desperately into a wall until his knuckles are shreds of skin and muscle. As he clenches his fist where Adam’s hair would be, the ghost whispers shushes to him. Promising he isn’t angry anymore, that Lawrence shouldn’t be either. Lawrence swears up and down he feels ghostly hands sliding up and down his back. The eldest gasps harshly for air.

Lawrence can’t remember the last time he’s cried like this, surely before Diana was born. Maybe even before Alison and him met.

“You’re fine, Lawrence, Jesus Christ!” Adam whispers, unsure of what to do. “Just take a deep breath… let it all out. I can take it… I can take it. I can take your anger, I’ll keep it safe inside me.” If Lawrence knew any better, he would think Adam was speaking gibberish. However, at that moment, Lawrence listened, leaning against Adam and wailing. He wasn’t even sure why. He drove his fist into Adam, even though he couldn’t feel it.

“Yeah, that’s it. If you need to be mean, you can be mean to me. Just lean on me as you break my heart.” Adam said softly, listening as the other tried to mumble stupidly about how he was fine. “Oh, don’t fucking bullshit me. If you were fine, you wouldn’t be crying and punching a ghost.” He scoffed to which Lawrence scoffed too.

The doctor didn’t have the strength to fight back, so he just let himself weep against Adam.

“I want to know more about you, Adam.” Lawrence said, scribbling his signature on various pieces of paper. The brunet perked up.

“What do you want to know?” He smiled up at Lawrence. “Anything.” The eldest whispered.

Adam looked up at the ceiling. “Well, I grew up catholic. I dropped out of highschool. I wanted to be a vet. I took up photography because it was the only thing my brothers weren’t doing. Oh, yeah, I have twelve brothers, I’m the youngest. I overdosed on depression medicine when I was nine. My nose bleeds randomly. I can’t really sleep. I’ve always wanted to fall in love.” Adam listed random items about himself.

Lawrence hums in response. He tries to get choked up. “What about you?” Adam asks.

“I also grew up catholic. I wanted to be in the army growing up. I tried to take my life at 19.” The silence after that was tense enough from Lawrence to make the quiet awkward and calm enough from Adam to make it nice. Lawrence thought before responding again. “And, I’ve also always wanted to fall in love.”

note: rb & comments are always appriciated 💛

[siriusly-parker]

—parler’s heavenly matches!!

where i match you w/ a jjk character!

busy work weekend and stressful life for writers and readers alike, so what better moment for a match made in heaven!!! (or tumblr ig)

how it works. you send a request to my inbox (here) where you describe yourself (or your character in jjk) and i answer with which jujutsu kaisen character i’d match you/your persona with!

how do i describe myself? truly, im not picky, ill take what i can get and answer with what i have! but i’d recommend saying things like your age, your looks, hair, height, if you look like jennifer lawrence lol, your gender preference or general preferences in a partner, what you do in life, what you like, hobbies, what kind of person you are, your little quirks, anything you want! don’t add all that tho hahhaha these are just ideas, plz don’t make your requests too long!

exemples. Hi!! My name’s Bea and i’m 5’6. I love to crochet and i spend most of my time reading or watching movies. I’m more of an introvert but i love to make friendd. I’m pretty quiet, but i open up when you know me better!!

exemples. i work as a teacher at tokyo jujutsu high school and i’m pretty outgoing, though i’m also very secretive of my personal life. i always kind of disappear and no one knows where. i’m kinda short and my hair is brown and wavy. (i also have weird obsession with pokemons lol)

you can find the answered posts by searching! -> #—𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐤𝐞𝐫’𝐬 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐬! ˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚💌°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*

i was supposed to post this yesterday night but i got distracted lollll so no cute colored post just normal post at the literal worst engagement time hihi

˖ ᡣ𐭩 likes comment and reblogs are very appreciated!!

UPDATE!! requests are now closed! thank you so much for your support and participation! i may make a new game or open them back up another time, but for now, I can’t possibly answer them all. 𝜗𝜚

— with love, parker ୨ৎ˙⋆.˚ ᡣ𐭩

[robinartblog]

What are your favorite ships from the saw franchise?

When you asked this question, I had just joined the Saw fandom and needed time to understand my tastes) First I need to say I have a very strong tendency to always adore non-mainstream ships and sympathize with the villains, that's just my quirk. It is difficult for me to get interested in already existing and popular pairings... so...

Well it's definitely a mentor/mentee dynamic. I really like how powerful and dominant Kramer is. He knows how to handle Mark, how to curb his temper. I love how Kramer makes Hoffman feel vulnerable and helpless. He knows when to praise and caress and when to punish. Mark just needed more love and attention from his daddy :')

These are undoubtedly the murderer husbands. I mean literally. I think they could have an established long term relationship. Next to each other they can feel completely normal, as if they were not Jigsaw. But at the same time, I think they can very easily be cruel to each other, but kind of in a playful way. They have a very strong connection because they can share things with each other that they wouldn't tell anyone else. They heal each other's emotional wounds.

I don't usually see relationships in a triangle, but this is exactly what I need. I think all three of these pairings could very well exist at the same time. Here I really like the idea that John can do whatever he wants with Mark, but with Lawrence he has to ask Mark for permission. And Mark cannot refuse to share, because he is not in charge here. So, I wanted to give a short answer, but then I wanted to do some quick sketches. I hope you read this)

[hiskillingjar]

Objectification (Lawrence/MC)

it’s my last night in my current flat and i’m feeling weird about it. enjoy something weird!

day 14: objectification  third person, law’s pov. it/its pronouns for MC.

Dyed hair fell to the floor in messy chunks.

Hastily snipped clumps of platinum, almost yellow, softer than spun wool and lighter than their own, shone in the moon's pale glow, beams streaming through the wide, open windows on a hot, summer night, plants casting shadows over the mold dotted walls.

Dyed hair, the bulk of it that yellow blonde, with dark, muddy roots, like a streak of shit on a pristine canvas.

Doll-like, they thought. 

An artificial version of themself, a version that the could have been (that they wanted to be, deep down), fake, hollow, empty and devoid of anything that made it human. 

Emptier than they already were.

Blue eyes, filled with tears, stared up at Lawrence as they hacked through the hair with garden shears, the rusty metal snagging and painful as it pulled at its scalp. 

Fake emotions, like its fake hair.

"You know that crying won't do you any good," Lawrence murmured, their typical monotone low and intimidating, their gaze giving away nothing close to empathy. "Do you think I'm going to stop, just because you're crying?"

It sniffled weakly, murmuring wordless pleas for mercy (a mercy it was never going to find from them) into the thick layer of duct tape wrapped around its jaw (it had to be shut up, somehow), tears continuing to fall down its flushed face.

Struggling had stopped long ago.

Eventually, the pleading would stop too.

Once the bulk of dyed hair had been cut away, matting on the floor like clouds of gold, Lawrence set the shears aside and took its chin in hand, tilting it up to get a better look.

"You look better this way, I think," They said quietly, leaning in, their dead, grey eyes boring into tearful blue. "Maybe it was for the best that I got rid of all those…fake colours, you know...and revealed something honest about you. Something real." Their lips quirked slightly. "But I'm not done yet."

It whimpered again as Lawrence let go of its chin and reached back to their desk, producing a disposable razor, caked with rust.

"See, I like to keep things clean, neat and tidy." Their head tilted to the side. "Mm, for the most part anyway. But, ah, I want you to be clean, neat and tidy too." Their quirked lips shifted into an odd sort of smile, gentle and eerie. "I think you'll like how it feels...and I know I'll like how you look."

Despite the rust, the razor was still pretty sharp. It cut through a short patch of brown hair with barely any effort, revealing the smooth skin of their scalp, now dotted with near-black stubble (like clogged pores, clogged with dirt and grime and mess, and perfect).

It continued to cry and whimper throughout the long process, as more and more hair tumbled down its trembling shoulders and to the ground, and more and more skin was revealed.

They would be good materials for an art piece, Lawrence thought, or maybe stuffing for a pillow or bed set.

It felt like such a waste not to use everything, after all.

Once the last of the hair was cut away, the only sounds in the apartment were a faint ringing in their ears (a typical arousal response that they hadn't managed to suppress just yet) and the quiet sniffling that came from the occupant of the chair.

"Now now, look at you..." 

Lawrence's voice had lost its harshness, replaced with a gentle and almost sympathetic tone.

"Isn't that better? I think it is, at least. You certainly look a lot more honest this way, mm?" 

They placed their hand on its cheek, feeling the warm tears on their skin as it continued to cry.

"You're still crying...why is that?" They ran a knuckle down its cheek, feeling the beads of tears. "Mm, it probably didn't feel good, did it? You'd gone through all the effort of dying your hair just for someone to...cut it all off. How do you feel, hm?

It couldn't make a sound, trying to swallow back its sobs as its body sank down, shying away from their touch, no matter how gentle it was.

"Do you feel scared? Humiliated, maybe?" They leaned over its shoulder, putting both hands on either side of the chair to box it in, keep it still and pinned, like a dead butterfly or a frog about to be dissected. "Is your personhood that fragile that I could...get rid of it, just like that? Hm?"

It whimpered again, blue eyes flitting to the side, trying to avoid eye contact.

Trying to avoid the difficult truth of their observation.

Lawrence moved in even closer, leaning in so that their dry lips were softly grazing the side of its neck, taking a slow and quiet inhale, the sweet smell of its hair still lingering, even when it was gone.

"Maybe you were never even a person to begin with. Maybe you were always just…an object, fake and hollow, and all it took was someone else, some...other object," They huffed out a sardonic laugh, letting their lips gently brush against the bare skin of its neck. "To see you, to recognise that your act is all bullshit, and actually understand you for what you are. Is that why you're scared?” They tilted their head again. “Because that idea is just so...crushing to you?"

It was silent again.

They could relate to that, at least.

That crushing expectation to behave like others do.

Pretending to be a person was exhausting, even for someone like them who made every excuse not to, who worked unsociable hours and moved away from everyone they cared about at the drop of a hat, just so it would stop.

They couldn't imagine how tiring it must have been for someone like it, doing it day after day after day, with not even a suggestion of respite.

Lawrence felt another huff of sardonic laughter slip out, wheezing, like they were being choked, followed by a sigh.

"All that effort, trying to play at being a person. Hah, what a waste..." They raised their hand back, running their fingers along the nape of its neck, their touch gentle, almost affectionate. "What a waste for it to all mean nothing now."

Its head sank lower with another defeated whimper, wrists twisting in their thick binds, struggling again.

They couldn’t have that.

Lawrence took its head in both hands then, forcing it upwards in a firm grip, so they could look into eyes that had lost almost all of their fight and spirit.

"You're a pretty object, I'll give you that," They murmured, leaning in again. "You have pretty eyes...and a pretty mouth...pretty skin...all fake, empty and soulless though. Just like me."

It gave them a forlorn expression, silently pleading; 

"What else could you possibly do with me now?"

Lawrence's lips curled into an odd sort of smirk, something like excitement appearing at the edges.

"Oh, I'm not nearly done with you yet," They responded, their hands moving down to its shoulders, restless fingers idly tracing its skin before pressing down, making sure that it didn't move from the seat.

"We're just getting started, doll."

[violentdelightsandviolentends]

Clandestine. Part Three.

It's better this way. At least, that's what you're telling yourself.

Pairing - Stewy Hosseini x Female!Roy Reader

Age Rating - 18+

Word Count - 3k

Warnings - cursing. allusions to smut. angst. mention of death. quick mention of drug use.

Author's Note - it's here, you guys. part three !! thank you so much for all of the continued love on this series, it makes me so happy. there'll definitely be at least a couple more parts after this one, so don't worry!! i'm a sucker for a happy ending ;)

as always, reblogs, comments and feedback (even anonymous feedback!) are immensely appreciated!! your reblogs are the only way to circulate my fics, which keeps me going <3

Part One. Part Two. Part Four. Series Masterlist.

Main Masterlist. Inbox.

"-and I know it's a fuckin' tough challenge, but I think we can do it. We've got people on our side, and I got a call from Lawrence this morning - I'm gonna see if I can convince him. So, we definitely need you in that fuckin' meeting."

Silence.

"Are you even fucking listening to me? Hello?"

"... What?"

"I said, we need you at the Board Meeting this afternoon. Kendall made me promise I'd show up with you."

"Oh. Yeah, sure. Whatever."

Roman looks you up and down carefully, brows quirked in curiosity.

"The fuck is going on with you? You've been super weird these last couple of weeks."

That confirms your suspicions that Kendall hasn't told anyone about that day at Stewy's apartment. You were wondering if he had, nervously trying to play detective around your siblings.

"I'm just... tired. I'm fine. Don't worry about me, okay?"

Roman doesn't look convinced, but nods anyway.

"Just... you know, I, uh - I'm... I'm here. If you need me. You know that, don't you?"

You smile softly at his awful attempt at affection.

"I know, Rome. Thank you."

"Come on," he says, jumping from his chair. "We better get to that meeting early, Ken wants to talk strategy."

✵  ✵    ·　 ✵ 　　 *  · ✵

You're sitting silently, heels kicked off, curled up in an expensive leather chair. Kendall and Roman are talking business, the complex jargon going straight over your head. You're in a world of your own, completely detached from your current reality, when you hear it.

Rome says it off hand, not thinking anything of it. You watch as Kendall flinches ever so slightly, almost imperceptibly. Your throat tightens, your heart kicks up in your chest. Then, he says it again.

His name.

Stewy.

"I know if you push him the right way, Ken, Stewy is fully on board. We got him, I know we do."

Stewy.

Stewy, Stewy, Stewy.

The word plays on repeat in your mind, like a stuck record. Kendall's eyes flick to you, as if to gauge your reaction, but you refuse to give him the satisfaction. You haven't spoke since your argument, deciding that the silent treatment was the best course of action. You know it's torture for Kendall, but you're both stubborn. Neither of you is willing to back down first.

"Uh - yeah, yeah, I, uh, I think, maybe. I think maybe he is. I don't, uh, I don't know."

Rome is oblivious to Kendall's reluctance to speak on the subject, clearly.

"Well, can you fuckin' talk to him? You know you're like the only person in Waystar he'll listen to."

Kendall's eyes are darting between you and Roman frantically. You can read him like a book.

"Yeah, I'll, uh, sure. I'll talk to him."

You scoff under your breath, but he hears it.

"You got something to fuckin' say, Princess? Huh?"

Princess. You haven't heard that one in a while. Your childhood nickname. It started off as a sweet endearment, but now, it's thrown in your face when the boys want to get under your skin.

"Fuck you, Kendall," you bite.

"Uh... Did I miss something?"

"Fuck off, Roman," you and Ken say simultaneously.

Any other day, you'd laugh about saying the same thing at the same time. You'd joke about how in sync you are, how you share one brain. Now, it just makes you infinitely sadder.

You're about to make another sarcastic remark when Sandi and Sandy enter the room, cutting the moment short. You're not sure if you're grateful or spiteful.

One by one, the Waystar Board members file in, taking their seats at the table. You're holding your breath, sitting at the edge of your chair, waiting for the inevitable. You can predict it now, the way you're going to feel when he walks in - chest tight, lungs knotted, fists clenched.

Stewy walks in, and the opposite happens.

You exhale your held breath, and relax slightly. The tension leaves your shoulders for a moment, your lip gets released from in between your teeth. It's like seeing him has cured you, even temporarily. As if he's your own brand of medicine, your personalised prescription.

His eyes catch yours, and you have a silent conversation. So much is said in such a short time.

Hi. Hi. Are you okay? No, are you? No. Not at all.

The room is oblivious to this emotional exchange - except for your older brother. Kendall watches your every move like a hawk. He's trying to figure out if the two of you are still together, still sneaking around behind his back. You haven't spoken to him since he stormed out of Stewy's apartment, meaning he has no idea about the events that occurred after his departure.

The meeting goes off as usual, full of tension and sniped remarks. You don't listen to a word anyone says, too focused on keeping your attention away from Stewy across the table. You're determined not to look at him. You know that if you do, he'll see right through you. He'll know how you really feel. And that is something you're not at all prepared for.

"Okay, well, if no one else has anything they'd like to cover, I think we're done here. Meeting adjourned."

Everyone rises from their places, shaking hands and having quick discussions before leaving through the tall glass doors. You stay put, in no rush to exit. Kendall approaches Stewy, and you watch the exchange with a clenched jaw.

"Hey, uh... can we, like, talk, maybe? I think, yeah, I think we should talk."

Stewy takes a long, hard look at Kendall, before chuckling humourlessly.

"I've got nothing to say to you, man."

Your brother stays stuck in his place, staring at the floor beneath him. As Stewy leaves, he can't resist running his fingers across your shoulders gently. You look back at him, but he's already gone.

✵  ✵    ·　 ✵ 　　 *  · ✵

Home doesn't feel like home anymore.

Everywhere you look, you're reminded of Stewy.

You're in the kitchen, and all you can think about is the time the two of you slow danced in the middle of the night, slipping and sliding on the tiled floor. There's a half finished bottle of wine on the counter, abandoned in favour of gliding around the room in your socks. Stewy clicks on some low, jazzy music, and pulls you into his arms. You feel like you finally belong somewhere.

You're in the bathroom, and you can't stop thinking about when the two of you took a bubble bath together, lavender scented steam filling the air. Your back is pressed to Stewy's chest, sitting in between his legs as he massages the shampoo into your hair. He's humming softly, a song his Mother used to sing when he was a child. There's not an ounce of tension in either of your bodies. You feel like you finally belong somewhere.

You're in the living room, and you can't avoid the memories of curling up with Stewy on the couch. He always lets you pick the movie - sarcastically rolling his eyes at your choices, but never protesting. You sit there for hours, bodies tangled together like two pieces of the same puzzle. You feel like you finally belong somewhere.

You're in the bedroom, and you can't stop picturing the way that Stewy would take you apart and put you back together again. Before him, all of the sex you had was quick, transactional, impersonal. But it was different with Stewy. With Stewy, it felt like you had all the time in the world. It was tender, loving, connected. He genuinely cared about your pleasure - learning your body inch by inch, memorising it like a sculptor. You allowed yourself, for the first time ever, to let go. You put your soul in his hands with full faith. Lying there, limbs intertwined beneath the soft sheets, there was no doubt in your mind. You belonged somewhere.

And now that safe place is gone.

Home doesn't feel like home anymore, and it's all because of him. You could move at the drop of a hat, find a new apartment tomorrow if you wanted. But you can't. You can't leave all of these memories behind. As painful as they are, they're all you have.

You turn on the TV, and flick to ATN News. They're running a story on a young baseball player that tragically died in a car wreck, aged twenty four. You sit and watch the whole segment, unable to tear your eyes away from the screen. When it ends, you turn it off, and sit in silence.

You sit there for hours, in the quiet, just thinking. About everything. The number twenty four keeps circling around in your head.

He was twenty four. Twenty four years old. He hadn't even got to live properly. Life is so short. Life is so unpredictable. God, anything could happen tomorrow. Twenty four. Twenty four. Twenty four.

You glance towards the clock on the wall, which reads 10:24. It feels like a sign.

All of a sudden, you're sick of waiting. Sick of being told how to live your life. Sick of trying to conform to these ideals that people are placing on you. Fuck them. Life's too short. You have to start living for you.

You're pulling on your shoes and grabbing your keys before you can even process it. You call the number for a car, but no one answers. Fuck it, you'll run across New York City if you have to. If it means you get to hold the man you love in your arms again.

✵  ✵    ·　 ✵ 　　 *  · ✵

Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang.

The knocking on the door is so loud, Stewy's half convinced he's about to be murdered. He swings open the heavy oak to be met with the sight of you, looking like you just ran a marathon.

You stand still for a moment, staring at each other, as if you can't believe what you're seeing. You're here, in each others vicinity again. It'd be so easy to reach out and touch him.

So, you do.

You barrel into Stewy, jumping into his arms, throwing yours around his neck. He catches you easily, holding onto you as tight as he possibly can. You wrap your legs around his waist and press yourself even closer, as if to merge both of your bodies into one being.

You breathe him in, and it's the first time you've taken a full breath in weeks. He smells the same as he always did, musky and woody and expensive and yours. He still smells like he's yours.

You don't realise you're crying until you pull away from him slightly, and see the wet spot on his t shirt. He puts you down and closes the door, locking it behind you. He grabs your hand and leads you into the kitchen, parting from you to pour two glasses of wine.

You jump up onto the counter and part your legs, Stewy coming to stand between them instinctively. He places a hand on each of your thighs, warmth seeping through his palms. You're face to face, unsure where to start.

"Baby," he breathes. "What are you doing here?"

He sounds unsure, almost scared. If only you knew how frantically his heart is beating in his chest.

"Life is too short," you reply quickly. "Way too short. I could literally die tomorrow."

Stewy looks at you carefully, brow quirked in confusion.

"Honey, are you on drugs? Because they're really not good for you, you know."

"Says the man who did coke off my ass last month," you tease defiantly.

He fights back a smile, but it curls at the corner of his mouth. You grin at him, hands moving to play with the hair at the back of his neck.

"I'm not on drugs," you reassure. "I was just watching the news, and it kinda put everything into perspective. Life is so short and so fragile. Why am I wasting mine trying to appease my family, who'll never be happy, no matter what I do?"

He smiles at you softly, nodding as you continue.

"I just - my whole life, my brothers have just done whatever the fuck they wanted. Especially Kendall. But I make a choice for me, and all of a sudden I'm the villain? How is that fair?"

"It isn't," he agrees, squeezing your thighs in reassurance. "They're all hypocrites. Do you know how many stupid decisions I've watched Kendall make over the years? They think they know everything, but they don't."

"I mean, look at them. Roman is incapable of affection, Kendall's ex wife hates him, and Connor practically bought Willa. My Dad's on his second wife, not including the countless mistresses he's had. None of them know anything about love. They don't know a thing."

"I think you're the only person in your family capable of love," he chuckles.

"I'm starting to think you might be right," you laugh.

You lean forward and press your forehead to Stewy's, exhaling the tension from your shoulders.

"I'm really sorry," you whisper. "For everything. I treated you horribly, and none of it was your fault."

"It wasn't your fault, either. You know that, right?"

"I don't know. It's so hard to get a view on things when they're happening. But when I took a step back, it gave me a clearer look. And it made me realise something."

"And what's that?" he murmurs.

"I realised that I cannot live a day without you, Stewy Hosseini. I don't want to."

"Thank God," he breathes in a laugh. "I've been going fucking crazy here without you."

You beam a grin at him, so bright it's a wonder that the lights don't shatter.

"I love you, and I won't apologise for it," you confess. "Whatever the consequences are, I'll accept them. Nothing can touch me when I'm loved by you. You're like my own personal armour."

"Man, we're the worst," he laughs. "We could love anyone in the world, and we just had to choose each other."

"I'm gonna choose you everyday, I'm afraid," you tease. "There's no going back now."

"I wouldn't want to," he murmurs. "I don't want to go back."

"Me neither," you whisper against his mouth.

Stewy leans forward and captures your lips with his, arms wrapping around your waist to pull you closer. You get completely lost in each other, revelling in the feeling of being back together. You feel like you can finally breathe again. The other half of your heart has returned.

✵  ✵    ·　 ✵ 　　 *  · ✵

The two of you are tangled among the sheets, limbs intertwined and hands linked. You run your fingertips in mindless patterns over his chest, the sprinkling of hair tickling you, making you smile gently. Stewy's playing with your hair, soothing you softly. His heartbeat is lulling you into tranquility, relaxing you completely. This is paradise, you're convinced. Paradise.

"It can be like this forever, you know," he murmurs into the top of your head, kissing you tenderly.

"I know," you reassure. "And it will be."

Stewy can't stop thinking about the diamond ring still sitting in his nightstand. After your fight, he thought he'd never get to see you wear it. But now he knows he will. And that makes his heart flutter uncontrollably in his ribcage, like technicolour butterflies trying to escape him.

He pulls you impossibly closer, trying to breathe you in. He never wants to let you go. You don't want him to.

"We should tell them," you say suddenly. "Fuck the consequences."

"Are you sure, honey?"

You sit up in bed, looking at him carefully. His hair is mussed, shoulders relaxed, lip bitten between his teeth. He's never looked more beautiful.

"I'm sure. I wasn't, before. I think that's why I tried to push you away - I was trying to force myself into doing something I wasn't ready for. But almost losing you has made me realise that you're it for me, Stewy. You are my first and only choice. You are the only thing I'm sure of."

Stewy's chest swells with emotion, throat tightening, eyes welling. He's determined not to cry, but fuck, he's close.

"Do you know how many times I've dreamt of you saying those words to me?" he chokes out. "I love you. Fuck, I love you so much it makes me ache."

"I love you," you whisper back, cradling his face in your gentle hands. "I love you. I'm never letting you go again. Not ever."

You kiss him softly, basking in the feeling of his lips on yours. You get lost in each other once again, both of you in disbelief at being back in each others arms.

"Let's tell them," you whisper against his mouth. "Fuck the consequences."

"Fuck the consequences," he grins. "It's you and me, baby. You and me against the world."

You feel as if you're floating, levitating, powered by the sheer force of your love. Nothing can touch you. You're invincible, when you're in Stewy's arms.

He knows this is it. This is the moment. He makes his decision, and reaches his arm out to open the top drawer of this nightstand. His pulse quickens, body practically vibrating with anticipation. As he pulls it open, your phone rings, the shrill tone piercing through your peace.

You go to decline it, but notice that it's Connor's name lighting up your screen. There's a weird feeling in your stomach, suddenly.

"Hello?"

"Hi, sweetheart. It's Connor. Where are you?"

You cast a glance towards Stewy, and he shakes his head softly, silently communicating. Not yet. We'll tell him in person.

"I'm at a friend's place. What's up?"

"I, uh, I don't... I don't really know how to, um... you need to come to Dad's apartment, ASAP."

"Wait, what? Why?"

There are a million scenarios swirling around in your head, clouding your mind, overwhelming you.

"He's, uh.. I just, um, I don't-"

"Spit it out, Con."

A pause. He takes a deep breath.

"Dad's dead."

Silence.

Your heart breaks. Stewy hears it happen.

Stewy Tag List

@justacaliforniandreamer @616wilsons @shawty-writes-a-little @isuspectitwasthenargles @thinemineours @buckysbae @jolie989 @allcheesemelts

[oncasette]

congrats on 2k! <3 can i request johnny lawrence w/ the song prompt "girl you really got a hold on me. so this isn’t just puppy love" for your 2k celly?

you were sick of this. of bandaging up your boyfriend because he couldn’t keep his head cool. because he just had to keep getting into fights, both in and out of the dojo.

“i swear this is the last time i’m doing this,” you gruff as you apply your third set of bandaids to his knuckles in the last two weeks.

“you say that every time,” he says. and you can see the way his lips quirk up, every so slightly, as if he knows you’d slap it off of him if he let his smirk win over.

“i mean it this time, johnny,” you say as you slam your first aid kit shut.

“i mean it this time, johnny,” you say as you slam your first aid kit shut.

“i mean it this time, johnny,” you say as you slam your first aid kit shut.

“it’s not my fault larusso is so punchable,” he says. he leans back against the toilet from where he’s perched on the closed lid. you’re knelt in front of him, knees knocking against the cold tile.

“you know, i’m getting real tired of you beating up that poor kid. for what? because he kissed your ex-girlfriend?” you scoff. “it’s pathetic.”

“don’t call me pathetic,” his hand finds your wrist, but there’s no strength in his grip. you could easily break free of him if you tried hard enough. “i don’t keep fighting larusso because of ali and you know it.”

“yeah? because i’m starting to think that’s all it is.”

“you don’t know anything—”

“i know enough—”

“yeah, we’ll why don’t you go and run off with him like he wants, huh? the way i think you’re secretly wanting to, the way ali did,” he nearly growls. his chest heaves as he drops his hand to his knee, leaving you to stand in the space between his thighs.

“johnny,” you say softly.

“that’s what you want, isn’t it? that’s what everyone wants. to leave me in the dust,” he says.

“johnny, no,” you say again, bringing your own hands down to rest on his shoulders. “look at me please.”

he does. he’d burn the world down if you asked him to.

“i want you,” you say. “i want you.”

“i want you, too,” he rasps. “more than anything.”

join my celly!

[chucapybara]

"mhm, just like that. hold it up—oh, perfect!"

"is this really necessary?" comes the huff of protest from your captain, whose cheeks colour the hue of windwheel asters. just a slight flush, as she brings the dandelion up, holding it by the stem. delicate, refined, even with her departure from clan tradition. it's always suited her in ways you've only grown to adore, over the years; the way she's made of her past and the cruel jeers of the people into something entirely her own. irreplaceable, unflinching.

even through the kamera lens, eula lawrence exuded nobility, bright as the shimmering waves. almost blinding. you were no sculptor, but you'd learn every art and trade just to preserve the picture of her in undying stone.

"no," you murmur, unable to keep the fondness out of your voice, as you steady the gadget held up to your eye. "but we might as well, right?"

after all, it's your birthday, you add in your mind. and you keep growing more and more beautiful, every single year.

eula rolls her eyes, an exasperated smile twitching on her soft lips. "fine. let's just get it over with."

she always holds herself up with such dignity and poise, unwilling to allow anyone else to glimpse anything of her; keeping the world beyond arm's reach. a protective shell, if nothing else.

but with you, all the tension bled from her, as easy as breathing. with you, there was no need to pretend for anything greater than herself. nothing to prove, nothing to uphold. no softer hands could bear her heart with such kindness—they may as well have been pillow cushions, a regal throne upon which her unbidden affections, her very lifeblood sat. cared for, in ways she may never be able to entirely repay.

so she leans back, ankles crossed, resting her free arm on the hollow tree trunk she's made for a seat (in your head, you feel mildly envious of the fallen wood). her figure, all slender yet lean muscle and elegant grooves, leans just rightly to the side, almost demure, and—

she tilts her head. eyelashes fluttering, and oh, there goes your breath, stolen away, the wind knocked out of your lungs.

you choke, and eula straightens up, surprised. "are you alright?" she asks, her brows furrowing as you cough, wheezing, the camera almost dropping into your lap. oh, you are terribly whipped for this woman. it's your turn to blush as brightly as freshly-picked valberries. damn.

"yeah," you croak in response. "i'm fine. wow. just—wow."

it shouldn't take you this long to snap the photo, but you can't help being simply gobsmacked by your captain, to the lawrence's honest amusement. first, your hand trembles, and the photo comes out blurry—she chides you impatiently, a scoff of your surname that's just a little too soft on her lips, but the words hold no malice, you know—and the next one comes out too bright because a beam of sun blasts it unfortuitously—

but then you steady yourself with a deep inhale, and take the next shot.

the device clicks,

and it's perfect.

eula stands out from verdant grass as the boundless sky does the earth, stems of dandelions lending hues and saturation onto your lady. for a moment, it's a glimpse of heaven made flesh, goddess made real.

you can't believe she's real.

"do you intend to keep gawking at my image as a duckling does," eula muses, sunset gaze sparkling with something gentle, "or do you have any actual intention of showing me what you've captured?"

you fluster, again, as you pick yourself up from the grass, slipping her the film. and as you set down your kamera, you find that the sun is warm, and your heart even warmer.

"hmph." eula huffs, again, in that way so characteristically her that you can discern between her genuine annoyance and affectionate irritation. her eyes flicker from photo, to kamera, to photographer, and they linger on you for a moment longer than they ought to. you see the quirk of her smile, invisible to all but a few, yourself included.

"not bad. you certainly have an eye for portraits. perhaps i ought to have you photograph our entire company?"

"i wouldn't be opposed," you murmur. but just as you reach for your kamera, eula beats you to it, her grasp swift as it withdraws the gadget from your reach.

"ah ah ah," the lawrence raises a knowing brow, a rare but intentful smirk on her features, and you gulp. oh, dear. "we're not finished, yet. don't think i'm done exacting my vengeance upon you."

a protest of your own dies in your throat, when she lifts the kamera to her eye, lens facing you. her instructions are your command, and even as you redden to the extremity of sparkling berry juice, vermilion chill sitting sour-sweet in its glass as you try to veil your face behind a hand, you already know better than to deny your beloved what she wishes.

"consider it a birthday gift. from me, to you."

[dross-the-fish]

They found the elusive Phantom of the Opera curled up on pages of strewn sheet music, weeping with such pitiful heartbreak that none in the party dared to approach. “Je Meurs…” the deformed man sobbed to himself, unaware or uncaring that he had an audience. Dr. Watson shifted uncomfortably, “Either of you lads speak French?” he whispered to Quincy and Lawrence. Both shook their heads in dismay and Watson gave a resigned sigh, “I guess we’ll have to hope he speaks English.”

Before the doctor could approach the crying figure Adam Frankenstein stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. “I know French. Let me speak to him,” he said in a quiet rumble. Watson wrinkled his mustache. He was fond of The Creature and thought that after several months in his company he’d learned everything he needed to about him. Not the case, it seemed, for it had not even occurred to him that Adam could be a polyglot. Truthfully, Watson barely understood how a creation who had spent so much of his time in isolation knew English, much less French. Holmes would have had him figured out top to bottom by now, he thought to himself with a pang.   “Fine, but please don’t scare him he seems…vulnerable,” he made a resigned gesture. The volume of the sobbing behind him intensified.   “I’ll try but no promises, I daresay I am an even more frightful aberration than he,” the corner of Adam’s mouth quirked upward in a rueful smile, “Perhaps, from one living corpse to another, we may strike a kinship founded on our mutual ugliness” he mused. Watson’s frown deepened but before he could chide Adam he was cut off by a piteous cry: “Christine!” Quincey perked up, “I know that! That’s a girl’s name! You don’t think this is over a girl, do you, Larry?” Lawrence grimaced at him, “God, I hope not. After everything we went through to get down here our sentient zombie better not be dying of a broken heart.” Adam threw them both a look as if to say. Quiet! You’re distracting me. Once everyone had settled, he approached the Phantom and knelt beside him, addressing him in French. “Hello, are you hurt?” The Phantom started, as though he had been shaken from a dream. A bloodshot eye, as yellow as Adam’s own, peeked tearfully through the lattice of bony fingers covering a pallid, badly deformed, face. “What are you?” he asked, pausing his weeping long enough to be cognizant of the monstrous giant kneeling beside him. He turned away and groped behind him for a black mask that had been carelessly discarded on the floor, putting it back on while The Creature waited patiently. Adam did not answer him at first, after a thoughtful pause he offered: “Someone like you.” That seemed to be explanation enough for the wretched man for he resumed his crying “I am dying,” he said between sobs, “I am dying of love.” Adam nodded sympathetically, “Love, and the want of it, are indeed, powerful enough to die from. What happened?” “I kissed her! I kissed her alive! She let me-she let me! I have never…” he trailed off in a fresh wave of tears. Adam patted his back. “Where is she now? Has she forsaken you?” he asked. “Forsaken? No. Never! She would not…she is a good girl…she would have been my bride! My living bride! I could not keep her, not after she allowed me to kiss her. I have freed her!” the Phantom seemed to compose himself a little and he sat up, wiping his eyes on his sleeves. He seemed to notice, for the first time, Watson, Quincey and Lawrence hanging back watching him. “Who are you and why have you come here? I am in no condition to entertain guests. No guests have ever graced my lair save for the Daroga who shall, no doubt, be very cross with poor Erik, and there was Christine who has taken her little chap and fled forever…” The three Englishmen exchanged confused glances and Quincey offered an apologetic shrug. “He wants to know who you are,” Adam clarified, switching to English. Quincey nearly tripped over himself crossing the floor with his hand extended to introduce himself, “Quincey Harker, very nice to meet you! Sorry about your traps, we had to dismantle them to get down here. They were very impressive, by the way! Adam, will you tell him I’m impressed? I’ve never seen such feats of engineering before,” he babbled grasping and pumping Erik’s hand enthusiastically. Erik froze and replied, in slightly accented English, “Thank you…do not touch me,” as his mind finally began to clear he tensed, realization sinking in that there were four men, one of whom was larger than any man he’d ever seen, who had him effectively cornered and at a disadvantage.   Quincey dropped Erik’s hand with a muttered apology and Watson nudged him aside, “I am Dr. John Watson. We’re supernatural investigators. You’ve noticed, surely, that the undead are rising at an alarming rate and we were hoping that, with you being the only other revenant we’ve discovered to be in full possession of his mental faculties,” he gestured at Adam, who grinned in response, “that you might be willing to come with us and lend us some aid. It is my belief that through researching cases like yourself and Mr. Frankenstein here we can derive a cure or at least a way to restore those inflicted to a sustainable quality of life.” The Phantom looked from man, to man, to creature and shook his head, “You are mistaken. Despite the rumors, for which I myself and largely responsible, I am no corpse. Although that shall undoubtedly change very soon. No, I am only Erik.” Adam’s face fell, “Are you saying that you are…alive?” he tried and failed to keep the disappointment from his voice. Erik gave a biting laugh, “I should not be! Nothing that looks like me should have been able to draw breath yet here I am, living as of yet,” he withdrew a little from Adam, who all at once seemed to him, to be much larger and more menacing than before, “Are you not?” he crept back, his long spindly legs bent at the knees in a half crouch as his hand subtly reached inside of his coat, “Are you in fact, one of the undead?” Black lips drew tight and white teeth bared as the creature’s face darkened, “I am! Whatever you’re about to try, don’t. I promise it will not work and the destruction will be your own.” Watson threw out an arm to keep Adam from advancing, “Steady there! No call for that! No one is here to harm or threaten anyone,” he threw Erik a pleading glance, “Please, we’re no danger to you! We’ve no interest in harming you or forcing you to come with us. I see we’ve made a mistake and we’ll leave you in peace. Right, Adam?” Adam looked from Watson to Erik and forced himself to relax, “Right,” he affirmed, though he did not take his eyes off of the thin, crouched man. Like a caged animal The Phantom regarded them before he followed their example and straightened, “I apologize, I am…unaccustomed to civil company, much less when it presents itself with… such a… creature,” he was blatantly staring in a way that made Adam’s hackles raise. “I hardly think that’s fair coming from you. Living or not, you’re not really much different from him, are you?” Lawrence interjected brusquely, “Let’s face facts here, you’re a monster in your own right even if you are only human.” “I suppose there is no denying that,” Erik sighed, “I suppose we should part ways. I cannot linger here and neither should you. No doubt, after they clean up the chandelier, there will be a mob gathering to come and tear this place apart and thanks to you I no longer have the protection of my traps.” “You could come with us,” Quincey offered, “Even if you are alive, we could definitely use someone with your knack for engineering back at our headquarters in London. We have rooms and we’ll give you free food and board.”

“I was going to wait for death to come and take me but perhaps it is not yet time to bring my story to a close,” Erik considered, taping his chin beneath his mask, “Could I bring a friend? If I am to leave Paris I should not like to go without a companion, though he may finally be through with me after how poorly I have treated him.”

“I don’t see why not,” replied Watson, “We have room and we need as much help as we can get.”

“It is agreed then. I know not what awaits me in London but perhaps it will be better than waiting to die here in this tomb. Allow me half an hour to collect my things and I will join you.”

[theflirtmeister]

tumblr user flirtmeister you can ask other saw ficcers for dad bod and tummy lawrence but where's your adam losing it over lawrence's tummy fic, huh? (blatant weak plea for more fic lol)

“I think I need to start going to the gym.”

Adam doesn’t look up from his veterinary textbook from where he’s studying on the bed, finger tracing the diagram of a dog’s brachial plexus. “The gym?”

“Yes,” Lawrence says. “What do you think?”

“I don’t have an opinion,” Adam says, mouthing the words subscapularis muscle. “But why do you want to go and hang out with a bunch of sweaty men? Am I not good enough?”

He looks up with a grin, hoping to catch Lawrence’s eye. Instead, he finds Lawrence looking at himself critically in the mirror, pulling his shirt tight around his waist. The fabric clings to his soft stomach, and Lawrence pulls tighter until his jaw sets hard. He doesn’t seem to notice Adam’s eyes on him.

“Hey.” Adam frowns. “What’s going on?”

He climbs off the bed, abandoning his textbook, and stands next to Lawrence. Lawrence stops playing with his shirt and sighs, running his hands through his hair instead, still slightly damp from the shower. Adam rubs his face against Lawrence’s side, smelling the fresh scent of aftershave and laundry detergent.

Everything is very new. The relationship, the moving in together, the veterinary degree that Adam has gone back to. Adam had expected to panic when everything became real, when he first saw Lawrence’s clothes in their shared wardrobe, but instead, he’d just been filled with anticipation. Fuck Jigsaw, for giving him a new lease of life. The asshole’s philosophy worked.

“I don’t know what you see in me,” Lawrence says, still looking at his reflection. “I’m just some washed-up doctor, with a broken body-”

“Shut up,” Adam says, nuzzling his head against Lawrence’s side. “You think I think like that? Your version of Adam sounds like a dick.”

“Writing’s on the wall,” Lawrence says, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Look at me.”

He places his hands over the swell of his stomach. “Christ. I should take more shifts. I never used to look like this when I was working sixteen-hour days-”

“You were stressed as hell,” Adam interrupts. “You were a barely functioning human being.”

“I wasn’t like this,” Lawrence says sharply. “I didn’t have this body.”

Adam moves quickly, because fuck this line of conversation. He swivels to face Lawrence and walks him backwards until the back of Lawrence’s thighs hit the bed. Lawrence looks a little surprised as Adam pushes him down, and straddles Lawrence’s lap.

“Are you trying to distract me?” Lawrence asks.

“Nope,” Adam says. “I want to take a good long look at you.”

He wriggles his hands underneath Lawrence’s shirt and spreads his hands over Lawrence’s stomach, rising quickly as he breathes. Lawrence is soft to the touch, and Adam squeezes a good handful of flesh, his own belly twinging with desire.

“You’re really fucking hot,” Adam says. “You know that, right?”

Lawrence quirks an eyebrow at him. “I bet you say that to all the middle-aged men.”

Adam gives Lawrence’s stomach another squeeze. He likes this new version of Lawrence, relaxed and middle-aged. It takes most of his self-control not to jump Lawrence’s bones every morning when he watches him prepare breakfast, pyjama pants sitting low on his hips. It’s a miracle Lawrence ever gets to work, when all Adam wants to do is drop to his knees in the kitchen and worship Lawrence’s body with his tongue.

“I mean it,” Adam says. “You’re driving me crazy.”

He grinds himself down slow against Lawrence’s cock, starting to get hard. Lawrence inhales sharply, hands grabbing hold of Adam’s hips, big hands spanning the width of his waist. Sometimes he’ll place his hand on Adam’s stomach when he’s fucking him, feeling the bulge of his cock through Adam’s skin. The first time he’d done it, reverential as he split Adam in half, Adam had cum all over himself like a teenager.

“You look so fucking good,” Adam says, continuing to roll his hips. “I want you more today than I ever did in the bathroom.”

“Adam, be serious.” Lawrence says, voice strained.

Lawrence in the bathroom was a rat in a trap, frightened, willing to do anything to save his family. Lawrence in Adam’s bed is bright-eyed and loving, sensible in the face of adversity. He’s kind to Adam, gentle when Adam needs help with his work. Adam wants him forever.

Adam presses his forehead against Lawrence’s. “I want you to fuck me,” He whispers. “I want you to force me down onto the mattress and fuck me until all I can do is scream your name.”

Lawrence swallows hard and squeezes Adam. “You’re really not kidding about this, are you?”

“I’m so into you,” Adam says. “I want you to fuck me stupid.”

Lawrence kisses him sloppily, tugging on Adam’s bottom lip with his teeth. Adam whimpers, giving another thrust of his hips, and Lawrence moans against his mouth, hands gripping Adam’s shirt. Adam’s jeans dig between his legs, sending sparks through his body and his face flushing.

“You’re going to kill me.” Lawrence groans. “God Adam.”

“Please just fuck me,” Adam says, and Lawrence manages to turn them over so that Adam is on his back on the bed. “Please, please-“

Lawrence above him looks like sunshine. His hair is blonde and floppy, eyes crinkling as he gazes at Adam, and his mouth is fond. Adam feels another thrill go through him as Lawrence presses the length of his body against Adam, the bulge of his cock rubbing a wet spot on both their trousers.

“Are you sure?” Lawrence says.

“Lawrence,” Adam says, slipping his hands underneath his shirt again to grope his love handles. “I’m not going to break.”

He didn’t break in the bathroom. He didn’t break when Lawrence left him. He’s not going to break when Lawrence bends him in half in their shared bed and fucks him until Adam is a drooling sweaty mess against the sheets.

“God,” Lawrence swears, and drops all his weight on top of Adam, pinning him down. Adam is so turned on he can’t breathe, a moan bubbling up out of his mouth. “I’ve got you.”

Adam kisses Lawrence hard, worming his hands up into Lawrence’s hair to grip him tightly. Lawrence sighs into the kiss and grinds their bodies together, so close that Adam can barely tell where he begins and Lawrence ends.

Yeah, they’re going to be fine.

[aroaceleovaldez]

One of Nico’s subtle character habits that I love is he has a very clear fixation on people’s eyes. It’s like the number one thing he tends to describe about people. He knows everybody’s eye colors and will compare them in his head like paint swatches (ex: Comparing Bryce Lawrence’s eyes to Percy’s). He has such specific similes for everybody’s eyes too (again, Bryce Lawrence, comparing his eyes to pond scum).

I totally hc it’s related to his autism, and he’s using the autism “i cant handle eye contact” hack of “if i space out juuuuust enough and focus on trying to figure out what their eyes look like, i can forget we’re making eye contact.” So in just every conversation he spends half of it trying to figure out their eye color. Sometimes this results in him accidentally staring very intensely at someone but it’s fine.

Anyways I just love it and it’s a very underappreciated little quirk about him. Give me Nico rambling about comparing his friend’s eye colors and using incredibly detailed descriptions about them. Could he describe the rest of their face? no. Their eye colors? yes. And he will do so in extreme specificity.

[elderberries-and-honey]

After the shock wore off, Winifred invited both men inside for tea. Harold, who insisted she call him Harry instead, was incredibly thankful for the hospitality after their travels, and he and Winifred got on straight away.

They shared stories of their mother & sister happily and seemed genuinely curious about each other’s lives. As they talked, they began to notice little quirks in each other's mannerisms that made both of them realise Alice's spirit was still alive and well within them.

Lawrence listened curiously, watching his wife warm up to her Uncle the more they got to know each other. 

Before they knew it, the sun was beginning to set over the hillside, a beautiful orange glow cascading into the dining room, and as they chatted and drank their way through an  entire pot of tea, they almost forgot any mention of money or business. 

However, not everyone at the table was keen on taking a stroll down memory lane.

Gerald didn’t bother to remove his hat or drink a single drop of tea; he seemed to have no intention to make himself cozy in their home. Instead, he lowered his head and glowered the whole time, arms crossed as some sort of defense mechanism, not uttering a word until he’d finally had enough of their small talk. 

He leaned in towards Harry, bushy eyebrows somehow furrowing even tighter before speaking. “Shall I remind you of the reason we’re here, brother?” He enquired, impatiently.

Harry sighed, bringing his hands together before he explained everything, starting with the night Alice first fled the Bloomsburg home. 

Of course, Winifred had heard this story as a girl, and later on, began asking questions once she was old enough to be curious about her mother's family and where she came from. Hearing it through an unfiltered lens as an adult was very different though, and somehow worse than she’d ever thought. As Harry recounted the tale, she realised just how cruel her maternal grandmother had truly been to her mother.

As he continued, he informed them that unbeknownst to anyone, Herbert, Winifred’s grandfather, never wrote Alice out of the will as he was instructed by his wife and she was the heir to both his vast fortune and successful business, however neither could be turned over to her until Ada passed away, and she outlived her husband for many years. It seemed he had less than traditional beliefs and wanted his daughter to be able to support herself without needing a husband to do it for her.

But, after a series of faulty investments, it seemed the company had become less than profitable over the years and was due to go under at any moment. 

"So you mean to tell us that my wife has inherited the Bloomsburg fortune?" Lawrene asked, more enthusiasm in his tone than Winifred would have liked.

"Well technically speaking, Mr. Baudelaire, since Miss Winifred is married, you have." Harry answered, shifting uncomfortably in his seat.

For the first time since they'd sat at the table, Gerald chuckled darkly to himself. "Rightfully so, if you ask me. Leaving this company to a woman in the first place was a load of codswallop."

"But neither Mrs. Baudelaire or I know the first thing about running a business, much less one doomed to fail." Lawrence replied, paying no mind to Gerald's terribly sexist comment.

Both Bloomsburg brothers went on to explain a deal of sorts. If the Baudelaire's signed the company over to them, they would take over the legalities of closing a business, and handle all other affairs concerning the estate, if they split the inheritance with them.

While the men discussed the finer details, Winifred sat in her chair silently. She didn't care about the business itself, truthfully she wanted nothing to do with any of it, even the money. But Lawrence hadn't even stopped to ask what she thought, or consider her feelings on the matter. 

Quietly, she excused herself outside for a breath of fresh air and time to process everything she’d learn that afternoon. 

It felt queer to doubt what seemed to be a once in a lifetime chance to escape poverty, for her husband never to work long hours or do back breaking work. To send her children to school and give them a life of opportunities that she could have never imagined even in her wildest dreams. It was surreal to envision such a different life, and as she tried to picture it, she could only think of her mother who had been robbed of it.

After a while, Harry came out to find her. “May I sit?” He asked, gesturing to the seat next to her on the wooden bench. She nudged Thistle out of the way and scooted over to give him some room to join her.

“I know we don’t know each other all that well, Winifred, but I did know your mother’s face; how you resemble her…it’s as if I'm looking at a photograph." He smiled to himself at how true it was before observing her expression again. "And I can recall the look on her face when something puzzled her. Will you tell me your troubles?”

As she looked back at Harry, she wasn't sure what to expect. It wouldn't be a stretch of the imagination for him to be disinterested in her concerns and only inquiring over her dismay out of politeness.

Except, instead of a troubled expression like her own, she only saw a face wanting to comfort. She had not seen that face for such a long time, and she was surprised to recognize it so easily, for she too recognized Alice's face in his own.

“I…I don’t know what to make of this.” She admitted once she decided she could trust his intentions. “But my husband has already made up his mind and since I am just a woman, it seems I have no say in the matter.”

Harry listened while she expressed her concerns until he was sure she'd gotten out all that she needed to say. It felt nice to be vulnerable with someone, her relief over having someone to express these things to was almost tangible.

In return, he shared with her how nearly inseparable he and Alice had once been, how much he missed her, and that he regretted not doing more to keep in contact with her before she passed.

Afterwards, he turned to her with a bittersweet expression, pain and regret glowing in his eyes, yet a subtle softness painted on his lips. "I might not have spoken to your mother for a long time, Winifred, but I do know this... everything she did, she did for you. She would want you to have a good life, no matter what."

"Even if that means taking money from my very estranged family?" She asked with a slight laugh, noticing how ridiculous it sounded to say out loud.

He chuckled, also realising the ludicrousness of the situation. "Even then." He assured her.

“And, Miss Winifred, if I may say one more thing, don't pay any mind to my brother. He's nothing but a chuckle head, you understand?” He added, waving his hand as if to dismiss his older brother. Winifred giggled in response, feeling much less guilty than she had only moments ago. "You are more than just 'some woman'. You are Alice Monet's daughter." 

Before Winifred could ask what he meant by that or how he came to know the last name her mother had chosen for herself, he reached inside the pocket of his coat to retrieve what at first glance appeared to be a crumpled piece of paper. "I thought you might want this." He said, handing it to her quickly.

There in her hands was a photograph of herslef as a girl, dated February 13th, 1876 - her 7th birthday. "I found it while going through my father's things." He mumbled, trying to hide a playful smile before heading back inside.

next / previous / first

[whereismyfoot]

Adam groaned as he made his way to Lawrence's door. He wasn't even sure if the doctor was home or not. He rested his head against the door for a second, before knocking

He looked like absolute shit. Well, more so than usual. His face all bloodied, nose broken and put of place, bleeding from the head, bruises and cuts all over. His vision was blurry, and he could only really feel pain.

It was clear he'd been in a fight.

And lost.

Lawrence was downstairs, cooking when Adam came to his front door. Diana was about to come home from school, and he wanted her to have a nice, warm meal to come home to when he picked her up from school.

He whisked up some whip cream, which he was going to use for the dessert he was also making, alongside the meal. When he heard the knocking, his brow quirked up, and set the whisk down.

"Coming, give me a minute!" He said, a bit of curiosity dripping at his tone.

He grabbed his cane, and walked over. He opened the door, deciding not to look in the peephole. He instantly regretted that decision when he saw who was at the door.

He gasped, his eyes shooting right open. He immediately took Adam into his arms, at a loss for words. This is the worst he's ever seen Adam. He tried to say words, but all that he wanted to say just.. Couldn't come out.

"A-Adam- I-"

[duckprintspress]

Round Table Discussion: Grammar Pet Peeves

Today, March 4th, is National Grammar Day! Last year, we celebrated with six of our favorite grammar quirks. This year, we’re going to the other end of the spectrum: we had a conversation with our editors and blog contributors about grammar things we hate. They may be technically correct, but that doesn’t mean they don’t make us crazy. Eighteen people, many anonymous, contributed to this discussion.

Dangling Modifiers

boneturtle: Dangling modifiers, hands down. Even when I can decipher what the writer meant based on context, it viscerally hurts me every time. When I am editing I have to stand up and take a lap around my apartment when I hit a dangling modifier. Remind myself that I am here to help. Learn more about dangling modifiers.

Commas

anonymous: Commas are not difficult! Commas end phrases. Full stop. That’s all they do. Is a phrase necessary to the grammatical coherence of the sentence? if the answer is yes, no commas because that phrase hasn’t ended. If the answer is no, commas! comma hug that bish if it’s the middle of a sentence. The difference between grammatical and informational is whether or not the sentence makes sense without the phrase. 

Examples: 

The man who ordered the six double anchovy pizzas claims to have a dolphin in his pool. 

You need “who ordered the six double anchovy pizzas” because you need to identify which man you’re talking about. The world is full of many men. 

The ancient Buick, which Madeleine purchased via Craigslist, belched black smoke whenever she pressed the accelerator. 

We don’t need to know how Madeleine purchased the car for the sentence to make sense. You don’t even meed “Madeleine” for the grammar to make sense. Therefore, hug that phrase! 

(a comma on each side of the phrase) or give it a dramatic send off with a comma and an end punctuation. (i could go into conjunctions, too, but those are a little more complex, and if you were taught them properly, i understand not getting the comma use 😂 ) 

Prepositions at the End of Sentences

Tris Lawrence: There was a dictionary (Merriam-Webster? Oxford? idek) that posted recently on social media about how the rule about not ending a sentence with a preposition came from English scholars trying to make English line up with Latin, and that it’s totally okay to do it… and I’m just wanting to point to it to yell THIS because uhhh trying to rework sentences to not end in a preposition often creates clunky awkward things (my opinion, I recognize this).

D. V. Morse: Ending sentences/clauses with a preposition. Well, not doing that is supposed to be the rule, but depending on the sentence, it can be a convoluted mess to try and avoid it. Winston Churchill famously told someone off after they “caught” him breaking that rule, saying, “This is the type of arrant pedantry up with which I will not put.” (Yes, I had to look that up.)

Pronoun Confusion

anonymous: I hate playing the pronoun game when reading. I hate it in life when someone comes up to me and tells me a story involving 2 people of the same pronouns and stops using names halfway through, and I hate it while reading too. Nothing makes me fall out of scene more if I don’t know who just did/said what. Use names. That’s why we have them.

Nina Waters: epithets. If I know the characters name…why? Also, when people use “you” in third person writing. There are times I’ll allow it as an editor/times when I do think it’s at least acceptable but not gonna lie, I absolutely hate it.

anonymous: My pet peeve … I read hundreds of essays in a given month for work, plus a whole lot of fanfic for fun. A rising issue that I have noticed in both places is incomplete sentences (lacking subjects, typically). I think it’s because people rely on Google’s grammar checker to tell them if something is wrong and…Google doesn’t check for that apparently. I’m increasingly convinced that my high schoolers simply weren’t taught sentence structure, because when I ask them to fix it they almost universally say some variant of “I don’t understand what you’re asking me to do.” Therefore, it might be punching down a little to complain about it. I’m not sure. It does drive me nuts though. Lol

“Would Of”

Neo Scarlett: Not quite sure if that falls under grammar, but I hate hate hate when people use “should of” instead of should’ve. Or “would of.” It just makes my toe nails curl up because it may sound right, but it looks wrong and is wrong.

Semi-Colons

Shea Sullivan: I saw a list punctuated by semicolons recently and that made me froth at the mouth a bit.

anonymous: I think any editor who’s worked with me knows that I have a pet peeve about using colons or semi-colons in dialogue. Or really, any punctuation mark that I don’t think people can actually pronounce. Semicolons can live anywhere that I don’t have to imagine a character actually pronouncing them.

English isn’t Dumb!

theirprofoundbond: As a former linguistics student, it bugs me a lot when people say that English is a dumb or stupid language because it has borrowed from so many languages. What people mean when they say this is, “English can be really difficult (even for native speakers).” But I wish people would say that, instead of “it’s dumb/stupid.” Languages are living things. Like other living things, they adapt and evolve. English is basically a beautiful, delightful platypus. Let it be a platypus.

Dei Walker: I remember seeing somewhere that English has four types of rules (I’m trying to find the citation today) and everyone conflates them. And I guess my pet peeve is that everyone treats them equally when they’re NOT. There are rules but not all of them are the same – there’s a difference between “adjectives precede nouns” (big truck, not *truck big) and “don’t split infinitives” (which is arbitrary).

And, because we couldn’t resist, here are some of our favorite things, because when we asked for pet peeves…some people still shared things they loved instead of things they hated.

Oxford Comma

Terra P. Waters: I really really love the Oxford comma.

boneturtle: me: [in kindergarten, using oxford comma]

teacher: no, we don’t add a comma between the last two objects in a list.

me: that’s illogical and incorrect.

anonymous: I will forever appreciate my second grade teacher’s explanation of Oxford comma use: Some sentences are harder to understand if you don’t use it, but no sentence will ever be harder to understand because you do use it. Preach, Mrs. D

anonymous: I am definitely Team Oxford Comma. I even have a bumper sticker which says so

Other Favorites

Shea Sullivan: I adore the emdash, to every editor’s chagrin.

Shadaras: zeugmas! I think they’re super cool!

Shea Sullivan and Hermit: I use sentence fragments a lot. Fragments my beloved.

English Grammar vs. Grammar in Other Languages

anonymous: so in English my favourite thing is the parallel Latin and Saxon registers because of how that affects grammar, but in Japanese my favourite grammatical thing is the use of an actual sound at the end of the sentence to denote a question, as opposed to how in English we use intonation? Also how in Japanese the sentence structure requires reasoning first and action second in terms of clauses. So rather than go “let’s go to the cinema because it’s raining and I’m cold,” you’d go “because it’s raining and I’m cold, let’s go to the cinema.” (My least favourite thing is the lack of spaces between words in the written form but that’s purely because I find that level of continuous letters intimidating to translate.)

I also love how Japanglish in the foreign communities in Japan starts to develop its own grammatical structure as a way of situating yourself in this space between the two languages. It’s used as a call-sign of belonging to that specific community, because in order to make some of the jokes and consciously break the rules of English or Japanese grammar and/or choose to obey one or the other, you’re basically displaying your control over both/knowledge of them. Like, the foreign community in Japan is often a disparate group of people with multiple different native languages who are relying on their knowledge of at least one non-native language but often two to signify their status in the group as Also An Outsider and I think that’s really interesting.

Nina Waters: Chinese and Japanese both drop subjects, and Chinese doesn’t have like… a/the… Japanese doesn’t have a future tense… Chinese kinda sorta doesn’t have tenses at all… (these are not pet peeves, btw, I love how learning a language with such different ways of approaching these things reshapes my brain). Chinese also doesn’t really have yes or no.

There’s a joke somewhere on Tumblr about that, though I actually think it’s about using “a” versus “the,” like, someone was giving a Russian speaker a hard time after they said “get in car” and they were like “only you English speakers are dumb enough to feel this is essential why would I be talking about getting into any random car of course I mean our car wtf.”

anonymous: on the subject of other languages, epithets are also something that happen differently in other languages. In French repeating a word (names included, and sometimes even pronouns) is considered bad writing. As in, way more than in English. Going by how grating the English translation of the Witcher books was to me when the French one was fine, I’d say it’s the same with Polish, at least. It’s also very interesting how brains adapt to writing styles in other languages.

What are some of your favorite and least favorite grammar quirks, in English or in the language of your choice?

[cars-on-the-moon]

Still in a tiz-woz and cannot write or create anything for the life of me.

So, here’s a little, goofy Carlando thing below.

It had started in Monaco.

Lando could see the difference. It was so much so as to what the Spaniard said, it was the way he carried himself around him. His posture was straighter, his arms always rigid on each side and his smile tight-lipped. He hadn’t given it so much thought, not when he declined to go out together nor when in Barcelona he cancelled their plans to go golfing. He was extremely busy at his home race after all.

“Mate, hey!” Lando jogged the Montreal deserted paddock to reach him.

Carlos turned to find the voice that had called him and his lips slightly quirked up. “Hey.” he said lowly. “How are you?”

That was a bit too formal for Lando’s liking, so he furrowed his eyebrows and bumped his shoulder. Carlos lost balance for only a moment and grinned a bit wider than before.

“My back is killing me. Those cars,” Lando exhaled deeply. “Seriously, I’m not having a great time.”

“Really?” Carlos looked at him again.

“Yeah, I have changed my training.” he confirmed. “I have to strengthen my back. How’s yours?”

“It’s fine. Not the best, but good enough.” Carlos replied him. “I’ll see you later, be careful with that back.” he patted his shoulder and jogged away.

Lando stood there. He stood, gazing towards the man that had left after exactly uttering five sentences to him. But who was counting.

“Good job, Lando.” was the next words to him. “Lando Norris leading the British Grand Prix.” he turned to find the man grinning to him.

“Thanks, hey, thanks!” Lando replied, turning his body fully towards him. “We are celebrating, you know.”

Carlos chuckled, throwing his head back. Rupert found them there, right in between the motorhomes, embracing Lando quickly.

“We are flying straight to Budapest but have a shot for me, okay?” Carlos replied him.

“Wait, Carlos-” he exhaled, puffing his cheeks. “What is it with him, d’ya know?” he asked the other Brit.

Rupert followed his gaze and looked at Carlos too. “I don’t know, mate.”

“Oh, come on! You are conjoint.” Lando snorted.

The trainer then shrugged. “Ask him, but he won’t say. He’s been very private.”

“From you?” Lando almost –almost, squealed.

During the summer break, Lando forgot. He nearly forgot about the coldness he received from Carlos. He did a million things from following Martin to his shows to renting a yacht with his family and diving into water without a thought in this small brain of his. He played padel with other drivers and hung out with Max lots. He laughed and bantered with a few people around; he even got frisky with a beautiful dark-haired young man from Malta one night he had one too many vodkas.

However, when he returned in Zandvoort, the first person he laid eyes on and really looked was Carlos.

“Good summer break?” he found him on Sunday for the driver’s parade.

“Oh, he talks!” Lando joked, following Pierre’s step.

Carlos smiled tight-lipped, the way Lando didn’t enjoy. Not the huge, exaggerate, whole-hearted laugh of his that Lando adored. Loved.

“What did you do?” he asked then, as he grasped that Carlos was not going to neither remark nor continue the conversation.

“Not much. I trained and hang around with friends.” he replied him.

Just like that, Carlos greeted Alonso and their private conversation had ended.

Again.

 

He took a long breath and nodded along with what Lawrence was saying. He was tired and very warm and- his eyes found the screen that was broadcasting the podium ceremony. He seemed so happy then. In a way that he hadn’t looked in so long. In a way that he used to be around Lando without podiums, awards or *his* Ferrari.

His press officer nodded at him.

“Um sorry, I was watching the podium.” he turned back to Lawrence. “Do we-we aren’t allowed to have smoke in Silverstone. Anyway.” he shrugged, trying really hard to focus in this bloody interview.

Lando liked Singapore. It was in fact one of his favourite tracks. Not from the driving perspective that much, but from the atmosphere, the aesthetics of the night. The city was beautiful and interesting and modern and another thousand little words he didn’t have the intellectual capacity to find.

“Lando?” he heard his name while taking a picture of a very intriguing and complex neon painting above the lift.

“Carlos? You’re staying here too?” he asked.

Carlos nodded, confirming his first thought.

“It isn’t that hot this time around, ey?” the Spaniard asked him pushing the button to call the lift again.

Lando stared at him.

“No?” Carlos asked, furrowing his eyebrows to the lack of a reply.

 “We never talk anymore and your opening is the weather?” he apparently couldn’t hold back.

“What are you talking about, Lando?” Carlos entered the lift.

Lando incredulously snorted at him. Wanting, needing to sound like a f*cking brat.

“You haven’t said a proper word to me in ages! I even texted you and you ghosted me.”

“I have been busy-”

“Yeah, me too mate but I am not an asshole.” Lando interrupted him. “We talk through journalists now apparently. You talked about my back pain without even checking on me.” he added.

The lift *pinged* and Carlos got off. It wasn’t Lando’s floor but he trailed him, suddenly yearning for an answer.

“Your room is better than mine.” he remarked after looking around for a moment and a half.

Carlos crossed his arms.

“Bloody Ferrari, no?” he said.

Lando rolled his eyes at his own past words and shook his head.

“What is going on, Carlos? Did I do something? Because if I did I want to know what I am going to apologise for.” he told him.

“No, you didn’t.” Carlos replied quickly.

“Then what is it? Did my mum do anything? My dad? My sister?”

“No, Lando.” Carlos shut his eyes, hanging his head low.

“Max? Jon? Like-McLaren? Oscar?”

“What? No!” Carlos replied, looking at him again.

Lando parted his lips to ask again but he remained silent. He looked at the Spaniard’s eyes. It was peculiar; the sadness they were displaying.

“What is going on?” he asked again in a lower, softer tone.

Absolutely, completely, utterly unexpectedly, Carlos took a heavy step forward and grabbed Lando’s head, leaning in. Their lips met and the Brit almost yelped to the pure absurdity of the gesture. He froze. He didn’t know what was kissing and how it was supposed to go.

What pulled him back was the scorching hot tug he felt on the back of his head and as Carlos was about to pull back, Lando got scared and pushed. He pushed his lips on Carlos’s more and grabbed his waist tightly to keep him close, in his space.

Carlos pulled back and placed his palm over his lips. His eyes were big, bigger than the usual surprise and he breathing hard, harsh.

“I’m so sorry.” he said. “I’m sorry, Lando.”

“Bloody hell, mate.” Lando stupidly offered.

“I-I am sorry.”

“Well, don’t be.” Lando shrugged. “Is this why you’ve been cold?”

“No, yes, well-”

“Since when do you like men?” Lando asked.

“Since you turned 23.” Carlos replied with a long-crawled huff.

Lando raised his eyebrows to the bloody heavens.

“I found you fit since I was 17 or so.” he said earnestly. “If that makes you feel better. Because well, you seem a bit pale.”

“How can you be so unfazed by-by-what? You like me?” Carlos ran his hand through his freshly-cut hair.

Lando nodded. “Mate, you’re very hot. Very very hot. Like Singapore hot.”

“Lando!” Carlos whined, burying his whole face inside his palms.

The Brit chuckled then and patted his back in an extremely condescending way.

“You never showed.”

“What? I always showed.” Lando replied him.

“You are like this with everyone in the paddock. All you friends.” he spat the last word out.

Lando stopped caressing his back and walked across him.

“You’re jealous that I have friends?”

“You have too many friends.” Carlos immediately remarked.

“What can I say? I’m a good boy.”

Carlos raised his eyebrow. “Are you?”

“Wait, I meant a good guy.” Lando quickly corrected his words.

“No, you said good boy. Are you a good boy?” Carlos took a brave step to him.

Lando’s breath was violently taken away from him. His legs; what were legs even?

“How-how did that happen? I was trolling *you* a moment ago.” he stuttered his words.

Carlos reached for the back of his head again and tangled his fingers with Lando’s curls.

A very rebellious groan escaped the Brit and he had to close his eyes to feel the pure intensity of the atmosphere, of Carlos’s touch.

“If I carry on, we might never comeback.” the Spaniard whispered closely to Lando’s ear.

“We are friends first, Carlos.” Lando replied him.

Carlos shared his frustrations with Ferrari. The misery he felt that he had completely changed his whole online and offline persona to size up to the Italian team’s standards. How he had to maintain appearances about everything, unable to even control his own social media anymore. How he was good, very good and Charles was still the golden prince. How he missed him. How he missed himself in the presence of Lando. How he wanted to be himself and how he wanted to be around Lando.

He shared his skills in bed and left Lando absolutely discombobulated.

He promised to try. Only try.

Now, if Lando seized the opportunity and slapped Carlos’s bum while the latter was in an interview the following day, it was nobody’s business. Friends right? Right.