#op is a sports fake

[personaglitch]

I'm 28 years old and recently found interest in hockey after not enjoying sports for all of my existence.

Do you have any idea how hard it is to go from fandom space to sports space?

I'm trying so hard but man it's all different levels and I'm just trying to blend in

[biting-miguel-ohara]

Alpha - Logan Howlett x ftm!reader

A/N: Hi! Um, this is my first work within the fandom! This was written with X-Men Logan in mind. Fic is unedited with no use of Y/N. This is so self-indulgent, so please be nice

Please make sure to read the tags carefully! They’re there for a reason

CW: Reader is a wolf mutant; Logan and Reader get off to a tense start; Reader is implied to be pre-op ftm, via the use of sports bras; implied wet dreams; use of the words slick and wet to describe Reader’s arousal; a/b/o dynamics? maybe?; misunderstandings; rough sex; pet play? (Reader is called pup); Reader is referred to as handsome; grinding; fingering; use of the word dick to describe Reader’s parts; overstimulation; no use of safe word; unprotected piv; multiple orgasms; implied aftercare

2493 words

The first thing you notice about Logan is his scent.

Not that you know it belongs to him. But it’s all you can smell as you talk to Jean. Thick and heady and strong. Musky like an animal and cloying like smoke.

Jean, of course, can tell you’re distracted. Instead of calling you out on it, she simply calls him in. Him and Scott enter at the same time, with an air of tension between them. Not that you care for long.

You’re too busy ogling the man in front of you. Rugged and handsome, more like a mountain man than a teacher.

Yet, that’s how Jean introduces him. Logan Howlett. History teacher.

You smile politely. You hold out your hand and try to not get too offended when he doesn’t shake it. You can tell he’s wary of you. Not that you could blame him.

You must be giving off a scent of your own, though you can’t smell it. But you can hear his inhale, feel the way his eyes watch you. You know he knows.

Especially when he straightens up. Lifting his chin and widening his stance. Establishing his dominance in a more subtle way than most other males. Perhaps he’s just that assured in his position.

Either way, you can feel your instincts itching at the back of your mind. The desire to submit. To recognize his authority. It pricks at you like a needle, but you brush it away. You’ve had enough of submitting to men like him. If he wants it, he’ll have to earn it.

Jean rests a hand on Logan’s arm, softly scolding him, probably for what he’s thinking. “Hey, be nice. They’re a wolf mutant.”

“A wolf mutant?” He looks unimpressed.

You stand your ground. Your nerves are starting to buzz from the force of his gaze. You hate stare downs, but you can’t lose this one.

“Yeah.” You answer him yourself. “That’s me.”

He scoffs and looks you up and down. “Yeah, whatever, bub. You ever even see a real wolf?”

You know what he’s doing and you hate it. But at least he’s not mistaking you for a girl and being all overly nice. You’d rather get his blunt side than his fake side.

“No. I’m a wolf mutant, not a real wolf.” You at least try to keep some of the sarcasm from your voice. Trying’s worth something, right?

Logan doesn’t look impressed. He crosses his arms, which prompts Scott to finally step in. “Welcome to Xavier’s Home for—“

“Thanks.” You interrupt him with a smile, but your gaze never leaves Logan’s.

Scott seems caught off guard. “Why… don’t I show you around…?”

Something in you relaxes at the thought of being away from such an intimidating man like Logan. You nod and accept his offer.

On your tour, your thoughts keep drifting back to Logan. Even away from him, your body sets on edge at the thought of him. He’s going to be trouble for you, you’re sure of it.

Most of the mutants at Xavier’s are surprisingly accepting of you. The adults, you mean. You don’t tell the kids.

Maybe it’s because you have Jean and Scott on your side, but most of the adults don’t bother you after learning your secret. Most of them find out when you come to training wearing a sports bra and baggy pants.

A few have questions. Most just leave you alone.

You’ve never been more grateful that Logan wasn’t around than during that particular training session.

The tension between the two of you has only gotten worse. You’re sticking by your defiance to his posturing, even at the expense of your pride. Your nerves hate it as well, practically screaming at you whenever Logan gets too close.

Part of you can’t figure it out. You’ve been around men like him before, but never with this reaction. The other part of you doesn’t care enough.

And yet, you care enough to be relieved that he doesn’t directly know your secret. It’s not a huge deal; you’re pretty sure Jean would’ve told him by now. But it’s still nice that he doesn’t know from you.

Until he does.

The whole day starts with you feeling off. You have one of those good dreams, and wake up in a puddle of your own slick. Definitely a damper to your morning.

Then they run out of your favorite breakfast food, some of your students are late to class, and it goes on and on.

By evening you are pissed. Not just at life but at yourself. Because the one thing you cannot get out of your mind is your dream.

You can remember strong arms. Growls of your name. A thick cock bullying its way between your legs. Delicious pleasure.

But you cannot remember the face. It eludes you all day. Stuck there at the back of your mind. On the tip of your tongue.

It’s not until Logan walks into your classroom after your last class that it hits you. With horrifying, picture perfect clarity.

Logan. It was Logan. You had a fucking wet dream about Logan.

Even worse? You’re not as opposed to the idea as you thought you’d be.

For a moment, you’re just staring at Logan. He raises an eyebrow. “You okay, bub?”

“Uh, yeah.” You hastily gather up your things, hoping beyond hope that he can’t smell the slight arousal you feel.

You know it’s too late when you brush by him and he stiffens. You know he can smell you. It doesn’t help the problem.

“What—“

You make your exit. Very fast. Very undignifying. But he doesn’t follow, so you count it as a win.

Two things change. The first is that you start avoiding Logan as much as possible. The second…

Well, the second is that he features in every single one of your dirty fantasies. Every wet dream. Every random horny thought. All Logan.

And it is infuriating.

Logically, you know why. He’s the protector of the house. The ‘alpha’ of the pack, so to speak. Sooner or later your body would react to his presence. He’s strong, handsome, and gruff. Literally your type.

You still blame it on your biology and pretend you don’t think of him when you get off.

It works for a week. One week, that’s how long you get before Logan corners you in the Training Room.

The moment you smell his musky scent, you know you’re fucked. He smells like anger. And something more that you try really hard to not think about.

But this moment was to come eventually, so you gear yourself up and face him head on.

You know you’re a sight. Sweaty and out of breath, wearing a sports bra and pants. If he didn’t know before, he sure does now.

Logan stops a few feet away from you. He eyes you up and down, frowning slightly. For a moment, there’s nothing but silence between you.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” he says gruffly.

You cross your arms and wait for him to continue. Slivers of anxiety spiking through your body.

“Why? Why are you avoiding me?” Logan looks frustrated and it makes you want to cower. Shrink down and beg for his forgiveness.

You hated it. How dare he make you feel this way? All because you’re stuck with a fucking wolf mutation that makes you want to hide like a little puppy from him.

So you push against your instincts. Straighten yourself up. Meet his gaze full on. “What does it matter why?”

Logan blinks. As if he hadn’t been expecting your defiance. Then he rumbles out a growl. “You missed the team training session yesterday. How are we supposed to make sure you’re ready for missions if you don’t show up?”

It’s your turn to blink. To stare. To be confused. “What?”

He crosses his arms, unintentionally making his forearms stand out so perfectly. Not that you’re noticing, of course. Just another pesky side effect of his presence.

“You’re one of the most capable mutants here,” Logan says firmly. “So if you have an issue, let’s talk about it now.”

“Wait, you’re here about missions?”

He nods. Then frowns. “What else would I be here for?”

Suddenly you feel stupid. Absolutely stupid. “So… you’re not here about…” You gesture to your body.

His frown deepens. “What?”

“You know,” your anxiety feels like fire ants in your stomach. “The fact that my body is—“

“I could care less, bub,” he says bluntly. “It’s your body.”

You want to cry. You want to laugh. This whole time you’ve been stressing about Logan, and he hasn’t given a single fuck.

You relax. Your anxiety dissipating so fast it makes your head feel funny. That’s one of your problems solved.

And the other?

Well, it only gets worse.

It all comes to a head on a random Tuesday.

Scott, Jean, and Ororo are off on a mission. The students have all been dismissed from their classes. You’re in the Training Room, working out yet another filthy dream about Logan.

Your fantasies about him have gotten more intense now that you know he doesn’t care about the way your body is. It’s a major, major problem. You’ve started getting dehydrated from the amounts of slick you’re creating.

Which is why you’re in the Training Room instead of getting off. You’re lucky Jean and the Professor haven’t said anything yet, but sooner or later they’re gonna know.

You’re working through your third round of training dummies when a scent catches your attention. Musk and thick smoke. You stop immediately.

“Don’t mind me,” Logan says, a hint of amusement in his gruff tone. “I’m just here to train as well.”

Your hopes for training might as well be ashes in the wind. There is no way you are going to be able to focus on anything other than him.

“Wanna spar?” You ask, false cockiness in your voice.

Instantly your instincts are screaming at you. Challenging the alpha to a fight? You might as well give up your position in the school now. No one challenges an alpha to a fight without a cause behind them.

Excessive horniness apparently didn’t count to your wolf brain. But it did to you.

Logan eyes you. He seems tense; can he smell your light arousal in the air?

“Sure.” You find yourself both relaxing and tensing at his agreement.

You clear the floor and get into your positions. Your instincts start to settle, helping you focus. You take a breath, and move.

The sparring is brutal. Fun and exhilarating, but brutal.

One thing leads to another, and the next thing you know you’re flat on your back. Logan pinning you down. One hand keeping your hands above your head, the other keeping your waist against the floor. His knee nudged between your legs.

You get wet ridiculously fast. You’re panting, gasping for breath, and you can smell your own arousal. You can feel the slick coating your thighs, soaking through your boxers.

You meet Logan’s gaze. Your wolf instincts are mostly quiet for once. Probably because he already has you pinned down. The only thought in your head?

Submit to him.

Logan’s pupils are blown. He’s panting too, and you know he can smell you.

“You into this sort of shit?” He asks, voice hoarse.

You can’t do much against the instincts of your brain. You let your head rest against the floor. “Into you, maybe.”

There’s a moment of silence.

Logan’s voice is rougher than you’ve ever heard it. The sound goes straight to your core.

“Tell me you don’t want this,” he growls, “and it’ll never have happened.”

“I want this,” you say, a hint of a whimper in your voice. “Logan, I need—“

His mouth smashes against yours. It’s not pretty, it’s not delicate. He kisses you like he’s starving, ravaging your mouth. Nipping at your lips until the tang of blood fills your mouth.

It’s not pretty, but it makes you oh so wet.

You moan into his mouth, struggling against his hold on you. You want to rake your fingers through his hair, buck up against him, really just anything more than what he’s giving you now.

“Settle down, pup,” he growls.

Your body responds embarrassingly fast. You still, panting into his mouth.

“Please,” you beg, “please, Logan, I need you.”

He smirks. Nudges his knee against your crotch. Even the slight amount of friction feels like heaven and you chase it with a moan.

“Dumb little slut,” he mutters. “Bet you’re already soaked for me, huh, handsome?”

You just whine, too busy grinding against his knee to answer. You need more. You need more. Why isn’t he giving you more?

“Logan,” your voice breaks, “Please!”

“Please what?” His fingers ghost along the waistband of your pants. “Use your words.”

“Please touch me,” you whimper.

He smirks, his words dripping with condescension. “Good boy.”

You almost cum just from his words alone. And when his fingers dip under your waistband, sliding into your boxers to circle your dick?

Your vision blurs with pleasure, your body squirming underneath him. He doesn’t let up, just keeps rubbing his fingers against you. It’s torture, pure delicious torture.

“Logan!” You sob. “Too much!”

“Too much?” He mocks. “I can fucking smell you, pup. I can smell the amount of slick pouring out of you. It’s not ‘too much’ till I’ve drained every last drop of cum from your dick.”

As if to make his point, he stuffs two fingers inside you, stretching you out and making you sob. When you start to squirm, he shifts, letting go of your hands in favor of pinning down your waist. Keeping you firmly against the floor.

You burrow your fingers into his hair, gripping tightly to keep from screaming as he curls his fingers against that one spot inside you.

It’s exquisite, mind-numbing, perfect.

He bullies his cock inside you after your third orgasm, stretching you out and making you babble mindlessly. You’re a mess on the floor; fucked out, sweaty, and coated in your own slick.

The sounds are obscene, and you hope to god no one outside the room can hear you.

You can barely feel your legs, lost to everything except the pleasure and the feeling of his hands gripping your thighs as he pounds into you. Over and over and over.

He cums once, and fucks it all back into you. It’s not until you’re literally drooling on the floor that he finally lets up, cumming inside you for the second time.

You whine softly as he pulls out, blearily cracking open your eyes.

“Hush, pup,” he soothes. “Let’s go get you cleaned up.”

He lifts you into his arms and you nuzzle into his chest. Uncaring about how messy you are, or about the puddle of cum and slick left on the floor.

It’s just Logan for now, and you’re content with that.

[shojizbae]

Too Sweet

Spencer Reid x reader

It was no secret to the team that you had a sweet tooth. Anytime you walked past an ice cream shop, your eyes lit up with unbridled joy. After a hard case, you always came into the bullpen with a box of sweets. Donuts if you solved a case under five days, Hush Puppies if there was a fallen family, or maybe some Snickerdoodles if there was arson. They were always the same pink bakery boxes with a cellophane window.

Today was no different.

"Good morning!" you signed songed as you skipped into the bullpen and too the right to the kitchen.

"What treats have you cooked up today mama?" Derek rubs his hands as he closes in on the kitchenette

"Oooh, sweets!" Emily smiles and skips over to the counter

"They're macarons."

"Ugh, those nasty almond cookies." JJ giggles as she snoops around the box

"No those are macaroons." I correct and hold a raspberry-pink macron at her. She bites it playfully out of my hand and laughs with me. She wipes the extra creme out of the corner of her lip and thanks me.

"Woah those are delicious." she goes back to her office.

"What diabetes are you giving us today." Hotch tosses a file on the counter as he walks by.

"Pistachio, raspberry, or lemon?" I smack Emily's greedy hand away as he goes back for a fourth and fifth.

"Pistachio." He leans back to look in the box "Those look professional."

"That's what happens when you have an existential crisis and take a baking course while completing your doctorate and feel like no man would ever want to marry a woman with more degrees than 'wifely skills'." You rattle mindlessly

"Well, that was our daily depressing moment of (Y/n)!" Derek chides like a sports announcer.

"Where's Reid?"

"An that's our daily 'first Spencer question' being the tally!" Emily holds a ghost microphone up.

"C'mon,"I put my hands on the counter and leans my hips forward, "I'm not as obsessed as you think I am."

"Oh, just only a little." Emily placates. The two return to their desks to grind through the many stacks of folders. I picked up the box and reorganized the disheveled cookies. I sauntered over to his hunched back. Dr. Reid, my work husband, was mangled over his desk scratching down details of a past case on a legal pad. I sit on the right side of his corner-shaped desk.

"Good Morning Spencer," I chide. He jumps slightly with the high timbre of my voice.

"Uh good morning Agent (L/n)," He clears his throat a few times.

"I made macrons," I held up the box "Would you like one? I made some with lemon, pistachio, and raspberry. Take your pick." I brandish the box once again.

"That's alright I haven't had any real breakfast yet."

"op how about some fake breakfast?" I pick up a light yellow circle and shake it twice in my hand.

"No that's really ok," but before he can protest I force half the cookie past his lips and all that he can mutter out is a disgruntled, mouth-filled groan.

"Did that taste real to you?" He sassily holds up a finger as he chews and swallows.

"That was rude." He states but takes the second half of the treat from my hand and finishes it off. A bit of the filling slings to his lips and I slide my thumb over it

"You've got a little something-" My speech is caught when his brown eyes meet mine. He looks nice below me. His eyelashes are thick but his eye bags drown out his cool amber eyes.

"Sorry," I clear my throat and lean back on the desk. "Would you like some more?"

"Yeah, can I have the pistachio one?" He rolls around on his chair. He takes a bite of the cream-filled delectable. "Woah you have a real knack for this. It's like all the ingredients want to be together. It just takes you to make things right." He gives me that dorky smile and I lose all sense of restraint. I dive in and hold his chin while I kiss him. I pull back with the fear that I stepped out of bounds.

"Come here." He tentatively holds my jaw and his kiss is much nicer than mine. He releases me and I scan between each of his eyes. "You had a little something."

[belokhvostikova]

𝐈𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐨𝐠𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐔𝐧𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐜𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬

𝐒𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬 | After five months of no reconciliation with the man whose lifestyle became too much for you to manage, you're met with your ex-boyfriend, the rockstar, after an accident leaves you in the hospital, and you face the realization that Eddie Munson is still your emergency contact.

𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | Swearing, crying, mentions of alcohol consumption, hard drug use, insecurities, minor jealousy, fighting, breakup, brief mention of infidelity (no cheating, though), hospital setting, head injury, concussion, mentions of stitches, mentions of blood, and mentions of seizures.

𝐀𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞 | Y'all, I'm 19! So, as a gift to you (whatever logic that is) here's a fic that takes place around Christmas, so I guess, also a belated Christmas gift. Happy birthday and Merry Christmas! Also, the extent of my knowledge on injuries is purely based on the fact that I took both Health Science I and II in high school, and, well, that's it. So, if anything is inaccurate, NO IT'S NOT (because I said so).

“Will you-” so vividly, you heard his boisterous laughter dense the air sweetly, his face glowing with the ever peaking sunlight that glimmered the sparkling snow outside each time you peered up to his extended height. “It’s like you’re trying to make me fall!” His dramatic accusations were merely met with your fits of giggles, something he so gladly wished to always be met with, as the graze of your cold fingers buzzed his skin with the excitement of what used to be your touch. “Seriously, baby, I can’t finish this if you’re attacking me.” 

But you made no effort to stop, continuing your precise placement of delicate ornaments upon the belt loops of his jeans, the links of his chain, the pockets of his backside, perhaps even one snuggly secured in the threaded rips of his pants. With your boyfriend at your mercy—stuck a couple feet higher atop the fifth step of the ladder to fulfill your dreams of draping green garland to surround your high rise windows—you couldn’t help the ebullient urge to decorate him as you pleased, bringing some loving festivities to the black denim ensemble he regularly sported. 

Effervescent balls of sparkling reds and yellows accompanied the hanging bandana of his back pocket. “You’re like my very own personal Christmas tree!” You beamed upwards, watching a smile that was personal to himself, as he lavished in the innocence this holiday expelled from you. “C’mon,” a fatuous whine that had him chuckling with strings of fake green leaving his hand to secure around the window frame, “have a little spirit!”

And perhaps, that’s all you were trying to have now: spirit.

Because in the blink of an eye, the purity of crystalline, white snow had turned into sludges of watery dirt to meet the once twinkling hues to stringing lights that now simply became the bane of your existence. Because to you, everything embellished itself as a mockery to the happily ever after you now no longer had. 

But it never hurt to try, and yet, trying became the very literal thing that hurt you. 

“…What occurred in the midst of their fourth track, Corroded Coffin’s notable ‘Goliath’s Wrath,’ left fans in a frenzy, when frontma…” Your eyes blurred with exhaustion, attempting to fight back the heaviness of your eyelids that left your vision impaired by spotty shades of blacks and whites. Various pitches of ringing clashing with static voices began provoking that throbbing ache in your head that pounded your brain to mush. “…Information falls scarcely upon accuracy, though there were mentions of a family emergency as to the reaso…” One harsh breath for your dense chest left your nose to be invaded by the artificial, bitterness of antiseptic. All more of a reason for your eyes to screw shut in a brutal endeavor to appease the gnawing of your head. “…Demanding refunds for a set that had to go on without the leading m-”

“You’re up!” Your eyes shot open. His aging skin told stories of his life, crinkling into an abundance of creases that welcomed your startled awakening. “I know things may seem a little scary and confusing here, kid.” Heaving became an understatement when your eyes accepted the burning tiles of white around the room, and suddenly, whatever news outlet that was recounting the upheaval of 90s Hollywood from the tiny television that served its purpose of passing time was becoming drowned out by the abrasive beeping of monitors that clung to your body with tubes. “But just bare with me, alright, everything’s going to be okay.”

Okay? Your body felt cold under the roughness of hospital linen. “I-I…” A reckless try at sitting up left your mouth soaring with an agonizing groan from the pain, your sore body all too weak for the heavy lifting at your head, that suddenly felt the density of a dozen bricks that smashed together. 

“Take it easy, alright.” The older gentleman smiled, urging you to lay back against the flat pillow with his simple gestures. “I know things are a little hazy here, but my name is Dr. Rosenthal, would you be able to tell me yours?” Your brows scowled at the disparaging child-talk the man thirty years your senior was showcasing you. 

With a roll to your eyes—something instantly regretted because of the pain in your head—you dryly croaked. “Y-Y/N.” It was all too bright. God, what would it give to flip off the overhead lights? You never really were a fan of overhead lights, but his excuse of, “we have money now, these lights can stay on,” had a knack for making you giggle. It’d been five months since those overhead lights were ever turned on again. You wondered how often Ed-

“That’s great!” Dr. Rosenthal smiled, and you accepted the scraping scribble of his pen against his papered clipboard to satiate the buzz of your brain. “Tell me, Y/N can you remember anything about how you may have gotten here? Any recollections you may-”

“Where is- is she here?!” You fought the throb of your head to snap into the direction of the door, where Dr. Rosenthal mimicked your concern. In truth, the smell hadn’t been all too great; beads of perspiration coated his body in part with the concoction of spiced cologne and the bitter bourbon he regularly downed before coming face-to-face with thousands in a packed arena. “Y/N- she’s- what, what happe- oh, shit!” Cindy Jaurick had been a renowned makeup artist in Hollywood, but with the dryness of his skin, even she couldn’t conceal the bruising of his sleep-deprived eyes; splotches of alabaster cream became patchy upon his bags that smeared with the waxiness of black liner. 

Eddie Munson, all leather and chains that clashed with his truest self of denims and tees. A facade so greatly curated by the hands of top executives that in a span of three years, millions were acquired to his name. Such a stupid name, you now thought. 

A heavy step forward left his booted foot clanking against the white tiles, a movement too abrasive for your liking, as his incoming hand has you pushing back from his reaching touch. “Excuse me, sir, you need to step back and calm down.” Dr. Rosenthal proclaimed, a man of loyalty to his position, clearly perturbed by any bothersome that came to his patients. 

“I just- what the hell happened, are you okay?!” His jewelry—the real kind, far from the fake silver he once adorned that periodically fused his fingers green, but loved them more than anything—jingled to the admission of his distress, hands harshly raking through the chunks of sweaty hair over the sight of your damaged self. 

An audible clap came with the hit of Dr. Rosenthal’s clipboard to Eddie’s exposed chest, where the buttons of his designer brand had been deliberate to showcase the permanent markings of his tattooed skin. “Sir, unless you are a relative or partner of-”

“Yes! Yes, I’m her boyfriend-”

Your memory hadn’t served you right for the occasions that brought you to the hospital, but you knew enough that Eddie Munson no longer brandished the title of such, given the circumstances that occurred five months ago. “N-No, he’s, um, not… anymore.”

“Then, sir, I’m gonna have to ask you to leave-”

“No, I- do you even know who I am?” Eddie watched your face scrunch with disgust at his language to the doctor, but whatever damage control he attempted fell short on your solidified opinion of a distasteful eye roll against him. “Shit, no- like, I mean you called me. I-I’m her emergency contact! I swear it, I’m Eddie!” 

And you slumped back against your bed. Clear as day, you remembered the cursive handwriting that marked the page with the name and number of your ex-boyfriend. When a year ago, months apart finally came to a halt as Eddie’s touring schedule cleared for the coming holidays. It would suffice to say the bedroom of your quaint Indianapolis townhouse saw little abandonment, with silk sheets becoming imprinted with the weight of your bodies that refused to leave the warmth of each other’s depraved company. In doing so, your judgment became clouded from the usual routine of bathroom care that came after a heated rendezvous. But could you be blamed? Believe it or not, there actually was a time when Eddie’s embrace brought you comfort and peace. What eventually transpired into a run-of-mill UTI had actually worsened quicker than expected. Over-the-counter medication did little to relieve you from the infection, and when your back suddenly began to ache, you knew a trip to St. George's Hospital was in need. With a close call, your kidneys were able to stay intact to your body, and the use of dialysis was spared from your future. And yet, who knew the most haunting occasion of that experience would come with the boyish smile of Eddie Munson, as he watched with lovesick eyes as you entrusted him as the man you’d want in the case of an emergency.

My god, how times have changed… 

“Um, yeah, yeah, he is.” You swallowed the dryness of your throat, hoping the commotion of everything would finally settle to alleviate the stress of your head. 

“Well, Ms. Y/L/N, it’s up to you if you’d like him here.” Dr. Rosenthal sighed, a harsh click to his pen that surely cemented his dislike for the gaudy man upon him. “Your neighbor has already left, but I can assure you that the nurses will make frequent routines to keep you in care.”

Neighbor? “I- um, Trevor?” Your head spun with the lack thereof details that painfully tried to piece themselves together. 

Eddie's hair flew with the snap of his head to your doctor, as his scowl silently demanded the explanation you both were desperate to hear. Dr. Rosenthal cleared his throat. “Ms. Y/L/N, you took quite the fall off a ladder in your home. After a while, your neighbor had found you, and did the deed of bringing you over. He mentioned you had borrowed his ladder to put up-”

“Christmas decorations.” What a wonderful feeling it was to have the epiphany that was as simple as regained memory. Where you no longer had a boyfriend to gladly bear the brunt work of Christmas decorations for your sole enjoyment, you now had to dish out yourself. Unloading dusty boxes had usually accompanied a teasing compliment to the muscles that bulged from his arms, though now, your back felt the strain of heavy lifting, because you refused to properly use your legs. “Um, y-yeah, I remember- well, I don’t remember falling, but, uh, I used Trevor’s ladder for the, um, y’know, what do you call them? The green, leaf stringy-”

“Garlands?” Dr. Rosenthal and Eddie spoke simultaneously.

And you perked up as best as your body would allow. “Yeah, garlands!” Your voice excitedly croaked. “You, uh, y-you remember?” For once, in five months, you actually acknowledged him. Eddie. “I-I like those garlands around our- my windows.”

He remembered. Your giggles ringing in his ears like magical sleigh bells. Your touch warming his skin against the burning cold. Your eyes twinkling over the simplicity of green garlands… something he couldn’t even provide you with now.

“That’s good.” Dr. Rosenthal smiled. “You’re recalling events and… history,” he pursed his lips against Eddie’s cold demeanor, “wonderfully. It’s a good sign of minimal memory loss, which falls quite commonly against those in situations as yours. When you fell, Ms. Y/L/N, your neighbor had informed us of a seizure-”

“Seizure?!” Eddie spat.

“Yes, seizure; fifteen seconds.” He clarified. “And with that, an immediate grade II concussion. We ran a necessary EEG and CT scan prior to your waking, as such classification can offer some findings. Fortunately, all we saw was the inevitable stretching of your neurons which caused a burst of electrical impulses in your brain explaining the seizure. Checking for any fracturing of the skull, or swelling, and bleeding, and you were quite lucky. Completely cleared.” His smile broke through his wrinkled face. “Though, you were brought in with quite the gash on the left side of your head, right between the parietal and occipital bone. Nothing too extreme on the severity scale, but in order to stop the bleeding we did have to repair the tissue damage with stitching.” A vapid explanation of the overly tight gauze that somehow felt like a ton of bricks around your cranium. “But other than that, your vitals are excellent.” Check, check, check off his clipboard. “It’s very likely you’ll continue experiencing a headache, perhaps some nausea, or dizziness. I do recommend an overnight stay to ensure secondary swelling doesn’t occur, and to guarantee your memory continues to function properly. But a morning discharge should be fine.”

A deep breath allowed your head to nod along. “Yeah, um, thank you… really.” You earnestly smiled.

But where you could muster a staid beam of politeness, Eddie Munson gleamed a smile so faux, even Dr. Rosenthal piqued him with a scowl—though miniscule for his professional aptitude. The heavy click of the door closing behind Dr. Rosenthal granted the heaviest breath to escape from Eddie before his attention scrutinized you. 

“What the hell were you thinkin’?!” He ambushed. Seriously, he knew you for seven years. Seven years of his fucking life, and not once had you ever dared to lift a finger for manual labor. Okay, call him old fashioned, but that’s exactly what he liked about you; you know, the whole damsel in distress that needed him whenever something fell loose or broken. That’s it, just the need for him. The need to want him around. “I-I mean, seriously, you- why couldn’t you just call me- or, or, like, Steve, or someone, so you wouldn’t get hurt?” Okay, so maybe calling him wouldn’t have been your first option. If the fact of being no contact for five months wasn’t enough, surely living across the country would have ruled him out. You stopped keeping up with his whereabouts weeks ago. But that wouldn’t stop him. It was you, for Christ sake! You wanted your garlands, Eddie would have given you your garlands. No matter the lack of communication. No matter the distance.

Eddie Munson would have given you everything. 

You dryly blinked. Twice. If only he felt like that when you both were still together. “Get out.” 

“Okay, no- wait, I’m not trying to blame you-”

“Really? Because that’s exactly what you’re doing. Get out!” Your tired voice tried to muster. 

“No, sweetheart, c’mon, I-I know- I just worded it wrong, okay? Please, I just- I don’t know why you would try to do something that would get you hurt like that. You could have, I don’t know, asked for help, like called me up, I promise I would have answered to help you-”

Your eyes rolled against his sentiment. “What, so I’m just too dimwitted to use a couple of tools?!”

“Well, you did fall.” By your stare, Eddie Munson had two seconds to live. “N-No, I didn’t say that- I, look, I just wish you would have called or someth-”

“And I wish you would just get out!” But your rash endeavor to sit up and shove him away legitimized the pitiless reality of your gnawing head hazing your vision and dismantling your balance, forcing Eddie to rush to your assistance. 

“I- okay, I’ll shut up, just lay back, relax, please, sweetheart. I don’t want you hurting yourself more.” 

“I’m fine.” You gritted. 

“There’s a chunk of your head missing.” Eddie retaliated with a deadpan so infuriating mocking.

A huff of disbelief rippled from your dry lips. “Dr. Rosenthal just said it was no big deal.”

“Like I care what that old fuck has to say.” Your scolding eyes ripped him a new one. “Okay, geez, didn’t know you two were such close friends.”

With no energy to fight back, you permitted his touch to push you back against stiff pillows, where his ink-engraved hands worked swiftly to cover your frail body from the harsh chills of the hospital air conditioning. “I’ll be quiet, promise.” He whispered, adhering to his words, as he silently watched you close your eyes away from him, now that his presence has garnered a throbbing headache. 

By the seventh beep, you no longer found interest in counting the indications of your working monitors. But where your mind lost the simple activity, you also gained attention to the whirring voices of the television. Sat by your side on the hardened chair, Eddie’s tapping toes forced your eyes to tear back-in-forth from his stance to the static colors of live footage coverage. 

“Man, all I hope is for a refund!” Drunk out of his mind, as the lights of cameras began emphasizing the drugged redness of the young man’s eyes. “Like, seriously, we’re all here for The Freak, and for him to just run off like that, dude, we paid for a Corroded Coffin show, and we’re gonna get it, or else we want our money back!”

A pan to the well-dressed reporter stocked drastically to the metalheads on scene. “Well, you heard it here first, folks. As we wait for more updates on the events that occurred that left Eddie Munson running off stage to what would have been his biggest performance in his home state, fans are pressuring for a refu-”

“Shouldn’t you be somewhere right now?” Eddie's head pulled itself from his intense stare that followed the grout of the tiled floors. 

“Huh?” His gaze followed yours which briefly led to the boxed television that delivered MTV’s insistent need to showcase a replay of Eddie “The Freak” Munson, lead guitarist and singer of Corroded Coffin, running off stage in the midst of their newest single, ‘Goliath’s Wrath.’ “Oh, um,” his hand waved you off, “my team will rip me a new one later, it’s fine.” 

You sighed. “And just for the record, I am self aware, so I did have someone there to help me.” You muttered, leaving his brows to furrow. “Trevor?” 

“Oh.” Eddie’s lips maneuvered awkwardly. “Trevor, right.” Knee bouncing, fingers tapping, Eddie knew he should have kept his mouth shut, but the question burned his mind for too long not to suddenly blurt out. “So what, are you seeing him or something?” And perhaps he should have kept his mouth shut, given the death glare you killed him with that had him reeling back his words. “I- sorry.” 

“Trevor has a girlfriend. And a ladder.” You scoffed. “And you of all people cannot be talking.”

Three weeks post the headlines that announced the separation between rockstar, Eddie Munson, and his longtime girlfriend, new reports were eager to air Hollywood’s newest romance between the amoral and Playboy’s finest, Lindsey Sawyer. To say you cried for weeks was quite the understatement, when your body physically impaired you from leaving the shielding comfort of your bed. While you rotted, Eddie danced on the grave of your love with his new girlfriend, whose six inch stilettos pierced your bludgeoned heart. Granted, it lasted nothing but a couple days, though it didn’t stop from the new pattern of recurrence in which Eddie found Hollywood’s new recycled “it” girl to accompany the image of a rager rockstar. Gisele Camarella, Pam Densely, Yvonne Huntsford; a new name, face, and body to compare yourself to. 

“I-” his shame flooded his cheeks crimsen, “those were never real- not, like- not like you, not you and me real. Just what management thought looked best.” Though, his quiet admission did nothing to soothe over painful memories. “I’m sorry.” Three scrapes of wooden legs scratching against white tiles was all it took to have Eddie Munson sitting by your side. “How do you feel?” His eyes fervently raked your face. “Honestly.”

“My head hurts.”

“About seeing me?” He clarified. 

Silence crept up in a suffocating manner, as Eddie watched your stoic lines revise his being. “I don’t like seeing your face anymore, Eddie.” How were you able to speak those words so calmly? Eddie’s throat choked him with unbearable bitterness that burned his insides. “You look stupid. You used to never look stupid.” 

Eddie Munson had a haunting past of failures; D’s and F’s marked such a bloody red over white papers, tainting any scribble of hard work he, at least, attempted at times. And what followed failed tests and quizzes only came with the taunting laughter of jocks and cheerleaders, jeering their distaste for his “kind” that branded his leather and denim as the epitome of all things they deemed nauseating. For a while, Eddie Munson believed himself to be nothing but stupid. The grades and reputation being all the evidence needed to solidify his self worth to him. Every compliment to your intelligence he gave you knew came with an underlying insecurity within him. Because you were smart, so smart. What was a smart girl like you doing with a stupid guy like him? 

So, yeah, your words hurt. As they intended to. 

Eddie’s eyes dropped with shame, his Adam’s apple following suit with a thick bobbing gulp of guilt. His eyes casted upon his tight leather jeans that felt insufferable under a building layer of sweat; too much eyeliner, at times clouding his vision from the very fans he loved seeing; sheer shirts waving in a draft of uncomfortableness, forcing him to long for prized t-shirts that gave him the movement to be him on stage; and a god awful personality detailed so preciously by management to make his name a headliner’s favorite. 

Yeah, Eddie Munson looked so fucking stupid. 

“I-I don’t like ‘em.” He stammered. 

“You used to.” 

-

July once brought Los Angeles, California a blistering heat. You hate heat.

Five months ago. 

“No, no, no, he’s full of shit, I was the one who came up with ‘Goliath’s Wrath!’” The cigar browning of Gareth Emerson’s scotch dribbled his lips wet with his drunken blubber, as men surrounding—all big money and titles alike—huffed out laughter worth millions to the men that provided them such wealth. 

Eddie’s nose burned with the ecstasy of white powder, dusting his beautiful features with the hedonism of all glory and power… for once, right in his hands. “Oh, fuck off, you were passed out drunk laying in your own piss when we wrote that god awful fucking song!” He laughed, joining in on the obnoxious cacophony of guffaws that held no sense of reality. 

A shoulder knocked into his. Greased slicked hair, gold rings, and a suit worth your car payment; Iverson Green. And Eddie had no fucking clue what he did. “You really don’t like the upcoming song?” He whispered.

And Eddie would never know. Information as such mattered little, as long as the man helped pay his check. “These braindeads approve of all this rock shit for the image.” Eddie bit back. “If I had it my way, I’d show ‘em real metal.” He smiled. 

A blood red stiletto acrylic stabbed at his shoulder before a cloud of Chanel °5 invaded his itching nose. “Got you booked.” She spoke, her breath tickling his ear over the sheer closeness needed over the vibrating base of stereos. 

Eddie turned his head to see her, a smiling Judy Carawan that had him beaming right back. “For what this time? I’m not doing some late night news bullshit again.” After the way Larry Parsons of Hollywood’s Friday Nights called out his delinquent behavior, executives were buzzing for another clash between Eddie “The Freak” Munson and talk show hosts to get the papers running. 

“Hilfiger.” Judy leaned in, a smirk of confidence for her work truly accomplished. “A fitting, then you wear one of his suits to the VMA’s, and that’s cash in your pockets. And mine.” 

Eddie’s face glowered with disgust, as he attempted to move away, her smell becoming too strong for his liking. “Save me a line.” He instructed to the man breaking rows of snow on the mahogany table. “Fuck no, I’m not wearing some posh-y model shit in front of the fucking cameras.”

“It’ll be one time, and a check worth a lifetime.” She rolled her eyes, a habitual stance against the troubles that came with personally assisting Eddie Munson. “Also, see.” Her slender finger pointed to the lengthy body of Cierra Kalahi, perched against the marbling chimney of your Hollywood Hills home. “Miss America’s Next Top Model will be wearing Hilfiger, too. You and some Shalom Harlow wannabe wearing the same designer is just enough to spark some attraction to your name.”

Eddie knew the venomous implications of her suggestion. “I’m not playin’ into your bullshit dating rumors.” A vicious cycle you two had to go through; you hurting more than the other, though. 

“Okay, fine, then we get your pretty, little girlfriend to wear a matching dress… that is if she’ll stop being a bummer.” 

“Don’t fucking do that, alright?” Eddie huffed, dragging his sweaty hands down the heat of his cheeks. His eyes felt like they were going to crack out of his skull from the dryness of being opened for the past forty-three hours. But the umpteenth swig of Old Fashioned was fueling him alongside the unstoppable fuel of crystalline cocaine. “She just- I- look, I’m not putting her out there where she doesn’t want to go. S-She’s too good- she’s too good for the cameras.” 

“She’s not good for your career.” Eddie felt her words echo into a repeated ringtone that irritated his ears. His vision grew blurred with his impulsive movements against her face. 

His hot, alcoholic breath fanned her bangs with each huff of his chest. “Remember who pays your fucking bills!” Nothing but the voices of Mötley Crüe tormented the background, as everyone but the music quieted to bask in the events of another Eddie Munson meltdown. “You say one more fucking word about her, and I’ll leave you to the fucking street.”

Judy Carawan cinched her eyes against his lost ones. Whatever bad boy facade he drugged himself into every night never scared her. Hell, she fed into it. “Eddie, I’m going to be quite frank with you, since no one else will be. You and your goody girlfriend will never last. If she truly cared for you like she says she does, she would do anything to keep your name in the spotlight. And if you truly cared for her like you say you do, you wouldn’t be snorting snow on your fucking anniversary.” Eddie's hardened muscles fell from realization. And Judy smiled such a sick smile. “And FYI, I was someone before you.” Eight years of work with Hollywood’s hottest clientele. “Can you say the same?”

Your lip wobbled under the harsh bite of your teeth to suppress the stinging tears from an embarrassing downpour. Despite his promises of a private evening, you braced your arms over your chest, where it became exposed from the strapless dress you uncomfortably endured, after too many magazine headlines criticized your lack of “looks” for the hottest rockstar in town. You’d never admit it, always brushing him off whenever he became concerned for your well being because of the tabloids, but he always noticed the subtle changes you made to look like the women in the city that felt like another plant from olde Indiana. 

And now, unwarranted flashes of cameras settled outside the Michelin Star restaurant that burrowed burdening humiliation into your skin, as a cautious peer around the setting allowed you to notice the pitying and gossip of the goers around you. 

Every minute that passed, you gave him the benefit of the doubt. But an hour and fifteen minutes just prevailed you to be a doormat. But could you be blamed? Seven years ago today, you ran into the man, himself, who turned the dreaded day of Hawkin’s High open house into a new adventure. Where you had the excuse of an actively involved mother, who became adamant on touring the unknown environment of the orange and green halls after your father’s relocation to the rural town, Eddie had an intransigent uncle who refused to watch his nephew lose another year of his life to failing high school, and imposed the young man to abide by the staff’s fake smiles, as they greeted parents and students for the coming school year. 

It’s funny how one sullen face can find another in a crowd of PTA parents and their goody-two-shoe children alike. Meeting eyes and a devilish smirk on his face was all it took for two strangers to find trust in one another, and sneak away in the depths of bushy, green woods. In retrospect, asking Eddie Munson to be your boyfriend after only three hours of knowing him was quite rash—he, himself, was quite taken aback, as well—but the worst that could happen was it didn’t work out. I mean, what high school relationship ever does? But his informative trek across lush grass, a shared cigarette, and talks that had your stomach cramping from fits of giggles was enough to solidify your decision at heart. And who was Eddie Munson to ever say no to a pretty face and soul like yours. 

And it worked out… surprisingly. 

It was quite the experience learning the ins and outs of someone you already called your boyfriend, but the pureness of it all bloomed into the most innocent love of two people navigating the world and finding themselves together. 

But suddenly, the world had a place in your relationship. The people had a say. In what you wore, what you looked like, who you had to be. And he allowed it. Allowed everyone to measle their way in. After the first promise to you that nothing would change, every single one to follow became a lie. 

Because he changed. 

You mustered the will to sniffle away any tears. He no longer became worth it to you. And it broke your heart. Your heels clicked their way out of the restaurant, where your being was blurred under the paralyzing flashes of people who invaded your life, capturing and exploiting your lowest moment for a check, and branding you the girl that held the greatest rockstar back.

Eddie stumbled back on wobbly feet, his mind too disorientated to care about the bodies he shoved that consequently left glasses of cocktails to shatter against the polished flooring of his home. Though, nothing mattered as long as he got to the door. But your crying self had beat him to it from the other side, swinging the grand doors that were always too heavy for your liking, and entering your home that was invaded by strangers and their substances, and Eddie… your Eddie standing in the middle of it all. 

His red, beclouded eyes had disallowed him the privilege of blinking your beauty straight, but through the haze of blear lines, he saw your face so clearly fall from disappointment.

From pure defeat. 

“W-Wait!” Eddie fought the incoordination of his legs to follow you outside, leaving his guest to watch in awe. “Baby, I- fuck! I-I’m sorry- ugh, I just- I forgot!”

Los Angeles’ humidity suffocated his airways that were already constricting from his sobbing chokes. His insides burned from the concoction of drugs and sweltering heat that only fueled at the sight of your broken face. “You forgot?!” You cried, swinging your body around to face the man you no longer recognized. “For the past seven years you’ve never forgotten, but now you do! What, is it no longer important for you?!”

Spit blubbered with his words, as his lips moved a mile a minute to keep your love preserved. “N-No, I mean- yes, of course, it’s i-important-” 

“Then why weren’t you there?!” Mascara stained the softness of your cheeks, now too darkened for Eddie to ever kiss the pain away. “Why aren’t you ever there?! For me!”

“I-It wasn’t my fault.” He heaved. “J-Jude, she-she said this s-stupid thing was scheduled, and-and she said it’d be quick-”

“Of course, it’s never your fault!” You bit back with the deflation of your arms. “It’s always the alcohol, or the drugs, or Judy, but it can never be your fault, can it, Eddie?!” His fist balled into his eyes, as snot caved down his nose. 

“N-No, it is my fault! I’m sorry, Y/N- I’ll fix it! I’ll do anything, I’ll make it up to you, I swear!”

“Don’t you get it?!” You marched up to his wrecked body. “Your promises mean nothing to me anymore!”

“Don’t, please!” Eddie sobbed. Shameful embarrassment ate him alive in the middle of your Hollywood Hills driveway. “I-I’ll stop all this, th-the drugs,” his arm smeared away the remnants of snot and cocaine against his nose, “the drinking, partying, everything, I mean it!” Because something deep within Eddie Munson knew this was the last straw.

You were done.

“Stop lying to me!” Your eyes stung with tears. “Why are you so comfortable lying to me, and h-hurting me?!” His head adamantly refused your words with a harsh shake to his head, but the history of abandonment that brought you to your wits end weighed more than his inebriated actions. “You touch me and it feels like a lie. You k-kiss me and it feels like a lie. E-Everything you do has become bullshit, Eddie! I don’t trust you. I-I just worry. Worried that anytime you’re not next to me you’ve drugged yourself dead, or-or knocked out somewhere, or… with women-”

“Don’t fucking say that! I’d never do something like that to you!”

“The Eddie I knew would never leave me to snort coke with strangers, but here we are!” You bawled in retaliation, forcing his mouth quiet in disbelief. “You’re not Eddie anymore! So, don’t stand here and tell me you wouldn’t do these things, when everything you do leads me to believe you are capable of doing something like that… something to hurt me! Because you do, Eddie! You hurt me.”

“I’m so fucking sorry! Please, Y/N, baby, I fucking love you, everything’s just been too much, a-and I forget things, I’ll be better!” You scoffed at his utter patheticism that grossed you out, turning your heel, but his large hand caught a tightening grip to your wrist. “No, I’m serious, sweetheart, I’ll change! I-I’m still Eddie!”

“Get off.” You quietly pleaded, exhausted from the sobs that wrecked your body. 

“Y-You can’t leave me, Y/N, no, I-I need you.” He choked. “I love you. So much. With everything in me. Please. We don’t do this to each other!”

“Then why do you keep doing this to me?!”

“Darling, Ms. Y/L/N?” Yours and Eddie’s head parted to the soft voice of Debby Weiser. Nearly a year ago, your elderly neighbor—who came into stardom in the 50s for her acts that revolutionized the spreading use of colored television—welcomed you into the gated neighborhood with a gluten-free muffin basket that had tasted like pure shit. But the kindness of her effort garnered a budding friendship with the mature woman who offered her wisdom on enduring Hollywood’s notoriety. “You alright there, sweetie?” Her southern accent never had assimilated to the Valley. 

“Yeah, I’m okay.” You turned to his eyes, staring down the saddened roundness that no longer held the precious life they once used to. “I was just leaving.”

That night, you left to your shared Indianapolis townhouse that became your starter home when Eddie’s career was first taking off. You were so happy then. 

And he hadn’t seen you since. 

Until now.

-

Eddie Munson had fallen quiet. 

Everything had, in fact.

The constant beeping of your medical instruments drove him to madness, but he figured the insanity was substantial punishment for the hurt he caused you. He’d been suffering for five months already, what’s a couple more minutes? If anything, he’d be suffering for the rest of his life should it continue without you. 

But it didn’t have to. 

Eddie knew he had no right to gain your love once more, and the vulnerability of your state worsened the situation tenfold, but there was a reason Eddie received that call. A reason why his heart sank amidst a phone call that identified your beautiful name in an emergency, that left him dropping everything in front of thousands that cheered his name. Whatever cynicism that tainted his heart had long left upon your sweet arrival; a ‘thank you’ filled with such gratitude towards his uncle, when Eddie busted into the trailer with a smile too large to be because of Hawkins High’s yearly open house. Wayne Munson had never asked, mostly due to the fact that his nephew locked himself in his bedroom, where the nineteen-year-old worked endlessly for his new upcoming Dungeons and Dragons campaign that followed the grounds of fate and destiny. 

In the mere three hours of your presence, you gave Eddie Munson hope.

He’d be damned not to devote his eternal life to you. 

“Y/N, I…” his eyes laid low, examining the threads of linen that covered you, as his fingers twiddled with his rings to appease the constant bounce of his anxious knee. “I need you to know how terribly sorry I am for everything I did. All the times I hurt you.” He sighed, as his teeth sunk into his bottom lip. “I- uh, I just really need you to understand that everything that happened to us was not your fault. At all. You-” his breath shook with a tremble, “You really were so fucking perfect during everything. So patience, so communicative, and I-I never listened to you the way you deserved, I just- I don’t know, I thought maybe-maybe if I gave it my all to this career, I could finally give you everything you deserve.”

His eyes attempted to blink away searing tears, but his emotions were getting the better of him. “A-And I know how fucking selfish that is, I had- fuck, I had no right to assume what you wanted from me, and-and put you in a position where you had to go through all my bullshit, all because I thought that in the end it would make you happy… without even speaking to you about it.” Eddie's voice cracked with a harsh sniffle to gather his strength. 

“I-I’m getting clean, um, it’s been really fucking hard, but I-I got the boys s-setting me straight everyday. Especially after I practically tortured them with my cries after you left.” His pity laughter softly broke through. “B-But yeah, sweetheart, I-I’m doing pretty good for myself- well, tryin’ to, at least. Still kinda always, constantly, forever feel like shit,” Eddie chuckled, “but I’m managing. T-The drugs n’ everything flushed n’ all, n-now just trying to hold off the booze, y’know? But fuckin’ hell does a beer get me through it.”

A smile began etching upon his face, where the history of all the laughter you provided him with creased his face with the lines of joy that only truly showcased in your presence. “Talked to our manager, he sure as hell was pissed when I insisted on getting rid of Jude. And she sure as hell went out with a bang, and smeared by name to the tabloids, but, uh, you probably already read about that- or not, I don’t, like, expect you to keep up with me or anything, honestly I kinda hope you didn’t, because, well, those first couple of weeks after everything real-really, uh… brought the worst out.” A deep breath escaped his mouth, as his fingers dug into the temples of his head to alleviate the dull pain. 

“I-I guess what I’m trying to say is that I’m really… trying.” Eddie swallowed thickly. “F-For my fans, the boys, myself, a-and you, Y/N. And I c-can’t even begin to tell you how sorry I am for taking, y’know, taking this long t-to get better, and for not trying better before, for having to h-hurt you just to learn, I’m so fucking sorry, Y/N. A-And I’m not askin’ for a second chance- well, I know I don’t deserve one, not now or-or ever if you feel like it, I just need you to know I’m Eddie, somewhere inside- I’m working really hard on just being me- oh, but, of course, I do want to be with you. T-That wasn’t me saying I didn’t. I do, I-I always wanna be with you, I just- I, okay, I’ll shut up now.”

The deliberation was excruciating. 

The process of his words that rambled on for an eternity was too much to process, especially with a head injury, and he understood that to the fullest, but the quietness was becoming deafening, as he waited for your words… your rejection… your reciprocation. 

Anything.

And he couldn’t dare look you in the eyes, the ones that pierced his soul so deeply, and he desperately urged you to say something. Anything!

“Y/N?” Beep. Beep. Beep. “Sweetheart…?” His eyes fluttered forward. “Jesus H. Christ, Y/N!” Your peaceful sleep had garnered a frightful reaction from Eddie, as he jumped to his feet to urgently caress your face awake. Of course, when doing so, your eyes tiredly awoke to his face all too close for your liking, and a frown broke your face, as you attempted to move from him. 

“Christ, Eddie.” You debilitatingly rasped. “What are you doing?”

“Me?! What are you doing? Are you okay? You shouldn’t be going to sleep, you have a concussion! I-Isn’t that, like, something you shouldn’t do?!” He cupped your face straight to the blinding ceiling light, that had you mewling with annoyance. 

“Eddie, I can remember Reagan’s speech, and the fall of the Berlin Wall.” You dragged, prying his concerned hands off your face. “I think I’ll be just fine going to sleep. God, did you just expect me to stay up all night?”

A shuddering breath left his strangling throat, as his hands flexed at the electricity of the touch of your skin. His body tensed, as his round eyes worriedly followed the contours of features. “You didn’t- did you hear me, like, anything that I just said? B-Before you- I woke you up?” 

Your brows concave with a furrow of confusion, as you peered up at him through wispy lashes. “What’d you say?”

A deep sigh left his dry lips, as he flashed you a small smile filled with sincerity. “Don’t worry about it, okay? It was nothing.” His hands gently worked to cover your body further with blankets to keep you warm, as your suspicious stare hesitantly nodded in acceptance to his words. “Y-You hungry, or-or need more blankets? Painkillers, anything?”

You delicately rejected his help with a shake of your head. “Just tired.” You softly answered. “And you should probably leave, too. Get some sleep.”

Despite his mind refusing your proposal, he knew your rest was vital for recovery, and he watched you slowly turn your back to him, as his slow steps marked his way to the door. So lonely, he gazed at your tired body curl up into itself like it once did when his presence was actually yearned by you; all safety once found in his embrace, as he promised to never let go. And though he never did, his actions forced you to let go, as he now had to bear witness to seeing you become content with yourself. Something he could never imagine doing so. 

His finger flipped the switch. You never were a fan of the overhead lights. And once so, a peaceful sigh buried its way from your parted lips, as your mind rested in tranquil darkness. 

Eddie’s hand wrapped around the doorknob that allowed the hallway light to bleed in. But his eyes couldn’t dare leave you once more. Five months of deprivation killed him every passing day, and one glimpse of your beaten self made him feel like an addict breaking their withdrawal. There was once a time in which he was beckoned with the devastating occurrence of you leaving him no choice but to watch you walk away. Now, he had an opportunity. A chance. To walk away. Or stay. Leaving you alone, hurting, in a cold, empty hospital room was too heartbreaking of an option to ever endure, and he was vowing to his words of never hurting you again. 

He gently closed the door with no intent to deceive you, but rather care for you. Right now, what you didn’t know wouldn’t hurt you. And his mind felt at peace knowing he could watch over you; his heart dissipating to the rhythm of calmness only you could bring him to. His quiet steps guided him back to the stiff chair that numbed his bottom and stabbed at his back. But it all became worth it, finally seeing you at peace, after the last weeks he ever got to see you your face had been permanently etched in distress, because of him. 

Despite being awake for nearly twenty-two hours now, Eddie Munson spared a couple more just to look at you.

The morning to follow, Dr. Rosenthal had commented greatly on the normalcy of your brain. And Eddie felt envious. You could take thirty more blows to the head, and your brain would still function far better than his ever could. You, unfortunately, had no chance to question his lingering presence, since your body had been awakened by the prodding of a nurse who kindly checked if your vitals were up to par. You figured you’d save her the awkwardness of interrogating your ex-boyfriend, the rockstar.

“If necessary, just some acetaminophen of your choice once every four to six hours depending on the instructions. But if your pain seems to not be improving, I’ll surely write you a prescription for a triptan, whichever one we can work out best for you.” You nodded along, subtly watching Eddie in the corner of your eye, who was listening too intently for someone who was bound to leave in a couple minutes. “And for your stitches, twice a day, remove the old coverage, clean off, and apply a new gauze. After a while, you should be okay with doing it once, and by the two, two and half week mark, I’ll have a referral to remove them when the time comes.” You sighed, taking a minute to let your head process the instructions of the older gentleman before you. “Alrighty, any questions?”

“No, really, you’ve been so helpful with everything-”

“She can’t drive, right?” Eddie butted in. 

Dr. Rosenthal took a long second to peer at him, before clearing his throat. “Wouldn’t recommend it under your symptoms. Nausea and dizziness can impair your ability, so we can call someone, arrange transp-”

“I already got that covered.” Eddie spat a smirk back in retaliation. 

“As long as it’s okay with you.” Dr. Rosenthal sympathetically smiled at you.

You drew out a defeated sigh, and watched Eddie react like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Fine.” You begrudged. 

“Alright then, you go ahead and take the time needed to gather your things, and you can check out at the front desk.” Your trusted doctor assured you. “Call me if you have any questions or concerns, and I’ll gladly help. You have a Merry Christmas, Ms. Y/L/N.” Eddie was spared from a polite holiday goodbye. 

You gently smiled. “Thank you, have a Merry Christmas, as well.” 

With a click of the door behind him, Eddie was quick to let out a breath of relief, as though Dr. Rosenthal lifted a burden off his shoulders. His hasty movements brought your bag of clothes from beneath your hospital bed to plop against your legs. “These yours?” He pried the drawstrings open. 

“No, they’re the lady’s who gave birth before this became my room.” Eddie deadpanned, continuing to rummage through your belongings.

He snorted. “Psh, no pregnant lady would wear an Anthrax tee.” Something that very much still belonged to him, as he threw your t-shirt to your chest. 

“Did you stay here after I told you not to?” Your eyes glared in a deadly squint that challenged his snarkiness. 

“N-No.” A big, fat lie. His gaze was avoidant of yours, as his hands worked hurriedly to empty the bag of your pants… a brown flannel… your right Reebok… then the left, of course… an earring that stabbed him… the other that didn’t, because he learned his lesson… and some pretty, pretty pink panti-

“Stop looking at those!” You snatched the lacy material from his hands, as he threw his arms up in defense. “And if you didn’t stay, why are you still wearing the same clothes?” You prodded further. 

“Oh, my god, I didn’t stay.” He huffed. And you hated the portion of your heart that allowed his words to hurt you, because how come he didn’t stay? “Just headed back to the hotel, took a nap, and came back here early.”

You allowed your hurt to bite back. “That’s gross, you smell.” But he’ll permit your chastising insults if it meant you wouldn’t be angry at him for going against your wishes. 

“Can you just hurry up and change, so I can take you home.” He rolled his eyes. “I arranged a car to have us picked up, and take you home.” 

“I hope you know how pretentious that sounds.” And Eddie Munson stared and stared, as you balled your clothes into the sanctity of your lap. “Well, don’t look, turn around.”

Eddie’s mouth gaped, laughing in disbelief. “Please, sweetheart, I’ve been staring at you naked for the past seven years of my life.”

“You know what? Just for that, you can go to the bathroom and wait, until I say so.” You smiled, so pleased to watch Eddie scoff incredulously. 

Eddie turned on his heels with an exhale of exasperation to match, as he strutted his way into the tiny bathroom. “Can just close my eyes, and picture you naked.” Luckily with his back turned, he wouldn’t dare notice the small smile that cracked your face. 

Eddie’s mind had been buzzing with thoughts for the entire forty-five minutes it took for the chauffeur to pull up and parallel park in front of your townhouse. Like clockwork, your brow arched upon seeing the movements that followed yours: Eddie clicking his seatbelt. “Look, don’t give me that look, I already know what you’re about to say, but please, just let me come in, and help you.” You huffed, letting your eyes bounce from the window to his face that was hardened with determination. “C’mon, let me make it up to you this one time.”

Another defeated ‘fine’ was murmured under your breath, as Eddie made the quick trip to help you out of the car. “Just head back, man, I’ll call you when I need to.” Numerous bills were discreetly slid into the hands of the driver, before he took his cue to leave the neighborhood. 

“Hey, Y/N!” The blizzarding winter left the precisely planted trees along the sidewalk to lose their green shrubbery; your one shield from the sun that still blazed its light down the Demember wind. But through the glares, you matched that voice to the friendly neighbor who lent you his ladder… and subsequently took you to the hospital once you fell off. 

“Oh, hi, Trevor!” You waved to him from atop of his stairs, as you caught sight of the reusable bags of groceries in his hand. 

“Hm, Trevor.” Eddie hummed quietly beside you. 

Despite the cold, he took the needed steps down to speak to you at a volume that didn’t require yelling. “Hey, I’m sorry for leaving you at the hospital so suddenly, Andreas’ car broke down when she tried to leave from work, and I had to go help her-”

“Oh, please, don’t worry about it, it’s okay!” You reassured him from any guilt. “Seriously, I was out for most of my time there, and you already helped so much with bringing me there.”

“Yeah, and I was going to head back to check on you, but they told me your partner-”

“Yeah, me! Y’know…” Eddie interjected with a wave, as you suppressed the roll from your eye, watching him proudly identify himself as such with an eager point of his finger. 

“Yeah, hey, Eddie, been a long time since I’ve seen ya, man-”

“Oh, Y/N! Trevor told me all about you!” Andreas' voice echoed from the front door, as her robe clung closely to her body in an effort to house any warmth she could. “How are you feeling? Is everything alright?”

“Yeah, nothing to worry about, just a couple stitches and a concussion.” As polite as they were, your flannel was only doing so much to shield you from the cold, which was already in hand causing that throb to return from the sharp blinding of the sun. Why wouldn’t they shut up?

Eddie watched the twitch of your eye succumb to your expression. If anything from the last seven years taught him anything, it was that you were two sentences away from a fully engraved scowl chiseling your face; always so unaware of how blatant your emotions showcased. “Speaking of which, I should probably go get her to lay down, and rest!” Eddie smiled, as he took your hand up the stairs to your front door. 

“Of course, no problem.” Trevor kindly smiled. “And, hey, keep my ladder as long as you need, don’t worry about it.” 

An exchange of ‘thank you’s’ finally allowed your neighbor to leave you be, as the key slid into the lock of your door. “That was Andrea, his girlfriend. Are you gonna be jealous if I speak to her, too?”

His laughter warmed the chilled air that smoked his breath. “Fuck off, sweetheart.”

Your house had been all but welcoming upon the first steps. A puddle of blood had stained your wooden floor with the injuries of your head, as fallen garlands messily draped down your walls from your lack of skills with a hammer and nail. You’d never admit to him in a lifetime, but Eddie Munson was surely right that you, personally, were too dimwitted to use tools with no guidance. Turns out a leveler and stud sensor were actually quite useful in keeping your house from being hammered with the countless holes that now decorated your walls. You watched Eddie take in the amateur scenery, his will working overtime to stifle the chuckle that quivered his lips thin. “You make any comments, and I’ll kick you out.”

His hands flew up in defense. “I wasn’t going to say anything- although, how gnarly would a photo of your blood be as our next album cover?”

Giggles of shock coming from you rang in his ear like a catchy melody. “Listen, you came here to help, so please do. I want to shower, and sleep-”

“And eat. That hospital food was shit.” He prioritized. “Go shower, I’ll make you some breakfast,” his watch proved otherwise, “or lunch, I guess, and you can eat before you sleep- oh! And take your medicine, as well. I’ll switch out your bandages when you’re done showering. Don’t worry about anything here, okay? Just relax for me.”

And you did just so, following the words of his advice brought you to the warmth of your shower, where your limbs fell slack from destressing. You worked around the stitching of your head that stung under hot water, as you maneuvered your hair through the rainfall of the showerhead. But too much steam was beginning to blur your vision, and your shower was cut unfortunately short after you swiftly rid your body of any lingering antiseptic smell that clung to you. 

“Ow, Eddie!” Your hand squeezed his, as your forehead became cushioned by the tone of his torso, where he stood before you. 

As you sat on the toilet, he looked down, and caressed your head gently. “Sorry, sweetheart, just gotta get it clean, ‘s all.” A new square of gauze concealed your wound, before a long strip of bandage secured itself around your forehead. Your head lifted from the comfort of his belly, and he bent at the waist to examine your face. A smile grew so naturally. “There… beautiful as always.” There was no denying the lunge in your heart that soared at his words, but your stubbornness withheld the swoon that would have usually followed with a new inure look to your face. Eddie guffawed at your pertinaciousness. “Fine, I hope you know you have a bald spot on the back of your head.”

And he devilishly smiled at your sudden movements to feel around your hair. “It’s only because of the stitches.” You gruffed in protest. “Plus, what the back of my head looks like is none of my business.”

“Still, you’re balding before me.”

And you wanted so desperately to wipe that smirk off his face. “Push back your bangs right now.”

Touche. “You should really eat your food before I spit in it.”

You had the liberty of delving into Eddie Munson’s personally made lukewarm tomato soup, and a sandwich so untimely perfect, the burnt bread did little to match the cheese that surely did not melt. And yet, it did everything to fill that little hole in your heart, as one bite brought you back to the cozy trailer, where endless nights were spent concocting meals from ingredients that scientifically went together, but for some reason refused to work when Eddie touched them. 

He left you alone in the comfort of your bedroom that was once shared with him, as you quietly endured enjoyed your meal, and sat with the events that came about. Seeing Eddie had tumultuously screwed with your already bruised head, and set you back a mile on the path to peace. Where you blamed yourself over the rise of bubbling feelings, you also gave yourself the grace of remembering this man had been the love of your life for seven years. Facing him would be anything but peaceful, and yet, his stupid, round face managed to conjure that settling tranquility of deep contentment within your heart that only ever built under his hands of love and care. But he also managed to tear it, and that was something beyond the repairs of five months apart. No matter how brutal. Your pillow still stained with the tears of endless cries over the insecurities of no longer being good enough for him. But if you sniffed deep enough, his burrowed cologne would fume into your nose at night that allowed you to gain a safe sleep during the dark hours. 

How polarizing he could be was beyond the study of any scientist. 

Between the last slurp of your soup, your eyes succumbed to the heaviness of your eyelids, as what was intended to be a half an hour nap prolonged into a five hour doze, until the sun decided to rest for the evening, bleeding its red into a darkening sky. As advised by your doctor, a couple pills were to be popped to alleviate that ache that would haunt you for days to come, so with a march to the kitchen ahead, you called for the man you needed most. “Eddie!” Drowned by your tiredness, your voice did little to amplify his name from the second floor. “Eddie!” But a second call of his name proved to be useless when nothing followed in return.

Dr. Rosenthal surely hadn’t been lying about the aftermath of dizziness, as the simple event of walking down your staircase had turned into an olympic sport that nearly caused another blow to your head if it hadn’t been for the obscene tightness of your grip on the railing that descended. “Eddie, seriously! I’ve been calling you, can’t you hear?!”

The quietness of your home answered back, as you approached the bottom steps of the stairs, where suddenly soft lights straightened the blurred lines of your eyes to the clarity of a beautiful glow. Warm lanterns and sticks of candles kindled your chimney and center table, where red bows of various sizes decorated themselves along your living room to match the ribbon of your Christmas tree that had not been put up prior to your waking. Sweet scents of cinnamon and pines worked magically to calm the agitated nerves of your head, and your eyes dragged in awe to the breathtaking display of green garlands that dressed your home to the Christmas perfection you always dreamed of. 

Your eyes watered, and though you knew he wouldn’t answer, you still quietly spoke. “Eddie?”

So simple, yet so fulfilling, your heart soared at the work of his hands that ached for your happiness. While it did not amount to the pain he once dragged you through, a meaningful smile that hadn’t been flashed in months finally etched its place onto your face where it perfectly belonged.

And much to your dismay, but simultaneously your biggest hope… it was because of him. 

While it broke your spirit for his efforts to take so long to return, you smiled through your hurting cries, as you finally gained the wish for your Eddie—once lost, now running through the wooded path to be found—to return. And with it, a note to keep your heart content with the soundness of peace. Whether it be with Eddie. Whether it not be with Eddie. 

At the very least, you got your Christmas spirit. 

Management wants to bitch me out, I’m sorry I had to leave you :( but I’m gonna convince ‘em to let me stay in Indy for a while. Kinda hard to say no to a face like mine, you know? You know. Call me to make sure you’re okay, sweetheart, or I’ll break into your house! - Love, Eddie

P.S, gave Trevor his ladder back, so don’t speak to him :)

[verstappensrealwife]

Beyond a Contract - Max Verstappen x Reader

fluff

approx. 1500 words

warnings: kissing

max verstappen masterlist - here. f1 masterlist - here.

In the glittering world of Formula 1, where speed and glamour collide, a rumour swirls like exhaust fumes on the track: you, a rising star in journalism, are tasked with a mission unimaginable—fake dating one of the sport's most renowned drivers, Max Verstappen.

As the paddock buzzes with speculation and cameras flash with every calculated move, you find yourself thrust into a whirlwind of luxury suites and champagne-soaked celebrations, all while navigating the complexities of a relationship that exists only for the public eye.

But beneath the dazzling facade lies a tangled web of secrets and desires, as you and Max struggle to maintain the charade while grappling with the undeniable chemistry that sparks between you. With each staged photo-op and stolen moment, the lines between reality and fiction blur, leaving you wondering if there's more to this fake romance than meets the eye.

From the moment the charade began, you had no idea how intricate the performance would become. Every smile, every touch, meticulously orchestrated for the cameras, yet somehow, amidst the staged romance, genuine emotions began to bloom.

As you embarked on this journey of deception with him, the lines between fiction and reality blurred, and you found yourself drawn to him in ways you never anticipated. His charm, his wit, his passion for the sport—all of it fueled the flames of desire within you, until it became impossible to deny the burgeoning feelings blossoming beneath the facade.

With each stolen glance and whispered conversation, the facade began to crumble, revealing the raw, unfiltered connection between you. Despite the world watching your every move, you couldn't ignore the magnetic pull drawing you closer to Max, igniting a love that transcended the boundaries of the charade.

In the midst of the staged romance, amidst the glare of the spotlight, you discovered the unexpected beauty of falling for someone in the most unlikely of circumstances. And as the facade fell away, leaving only the truth of your love behind, you realised that sometimes, the most genuine connections are forged in the most extraordinary of circumstances.

As the clock struck 8 pm, the stage was set for the first PR stunt—a seemingly intimate dinner with Max Verstappen. Through the large panes of glass at the front of the building, cameras captured the scene, casting a soft, romantic glow over the dimly lit restaurant.

In the flickering candlelight, you and Max were caught in a moment of laughter, the genuine joy evident in the curve of your smiles. Despite the orchestrated nature of the evening, there was an undeniable chemistry between you, an electricity that crackled in the air.

Max couldn't tear his gaze away from you, captivated by your every gesture and expression. From the sparkle in your eyes to the way your hair fell in soft waves around your face, he found himself drawn to every inch of you. It was as if time stood still as he savoured the sight of you, relishing in the fantasy of having you by his side, even if only for show.

As the evening unfolded, he found himself lost in the illusion of your fake romance, unable to resist the pull of his growing admiration for you. And though he knew it was all a charade, a part of him couldn't help but wish that, just maybe, there was a hint of truth hidden beneath the facade.

The air crackled with tension as Max's proposition of carrying on the date in his hotel hung between you, his gaze unwavering as he awaited your response. Despite the contractual nature of your arrangement, there was a palpable undercurrent of something more—an unspoken desire that simmered beneath the surface.

Your heart raced as you considered his offer, the allure of the unknown tempting you to abandon caution and dive headfirst into the depths of possibility. Yet, lingering doubts tugged at the edges of your mind, reminding you of the boundaries you had agreed upon.

"Our contract doesn't say that's necessary," you replied softly, your voice tinged with uncertainty.

Max's shrug belied the intensity in his eyes as he leaned in closer, his voice low and husky. "I don't mind," he murmured, his words laced with a vulnerability that mirrored your own. "I think you can feel something more than this facade too..."

With his confession hanging in the air, the lines between reality and fiction blurred, leaving you to grapple with the weight of your mutual attraction. And as the tension between you reached a fever pitch, you realised that perhaps, just perhaps, there was more to this fake romance than either of you had dared to imagine.

With a nervous nod, you made a split-second decision to seize the opportunity presented by Max's invitation. Hastily settling the bill, you dashed out of the establishment, your heart pounding in your chest as you embarked on this unexpected turn of events.

As you navigated the bustling streets, your mind raced with a whirlwind of emotions. What had started as a simple contractual agreement had now morphed into something entirely different—a real, genuine date with Max Verstappen, the famous Formula 1 driver who had captured your attention in more ways than one.

Despite the nerves that threatened to overwhelm you, there was a flicker of excitement coursing through your veins. This was uncharted territory, a leap into the unknown, and yet, there was a sense of exhilaration in the air as you ventured into the next chapter of your evening with Max.

As you arrived at the hotel, a nervous energy crackled in the air between you and Max, the weight of the evening's events hanging heavy in the space between heartbeats. The grand facade of the building loomed before you, a silent witness to the unfolding drama of your unexpected rendezvous.

With each step toward the entrance, the anticipation built, a silent crescendo of anticipation and uncertainty. What lay beyond the threshold was a mystery—a realm where the confines of reality blurred, and the boundaries of your fabricated romance were tested.

As the automatic doors slid open, you stepped into the opulent lobby, the soft glow of chandeliers casting a warm, inviting light over the marble floors. Max's hand brushed against yours, a subtle gesture that sent a jolt of electricity coursing through your veins, igniting a spark of anticipation in the depths of your soul.

As the elevator ascended, the tension between you and Max reached a fever pitch, the anticipation crackling in the air like electricity. With each passing floor, the space between you seemed to shrink, until you were practically pressed against each other, the heat of his body searing through the fabric of your clothes.

With a subtle nudge, Max drew impossibly closer, his presence overwhelming yet intoxicating. You found yourself lost in the depths of his gaze, your breath catching in your throat as his lips descended upon yours with a fervent urgency.

The kiss was electric, igniting a fire within you that burned hotter with each passing second. Your heart raced, pounding against your chest as you melted into his embrace, losing yourself in the dizzying whirlwind of sensation.

But as quickly as it had begun, the moment was shattered by the ding of the elevator, signalling your arrival at Max's floor. With a sense of urgency, he dragged you out of the confines of the elevator, practically running to his room with a single-minded determination that left you breathless and exhilarated.

As you crossed the threshold into his room, the door closing behind you with a soft click, the world outside faded away, leaving only the two of you in a cocoon of intimacy and desire. And in that fleeting moment, as you stood on the precipice of the unknown, you knew that whatever lay ahead, you were ready to dive headfirst into the depths of passion with Max by your side.

In the soft glow of the hotel room, surrounded by the hush of whispered confessions and the warmth of shared embraces, Max and you found yourselves teetering on the edge of something extraordinary. With each passing moment, the boundaries of your contractual agreement faded into insignificance, overshadowed by the blossoming love that bloomed between you.

As the night unfolded, you discovered that what had started as a mere PR stunt had evolved into something far more profound—a genuine connection that defied the constraints of your fabricated romance. And in the quiet intimacy of the moment, as you gazed into each other's eyes with unspoken longing, you knew that it was time to cast aside the pretense and embrace the truth of your feelings.

With trembling hands and hearts laid bare, you made a silent pact to abandon the confines of your contract and embark on a new journey together—a journey defined by love, authenticity, and the promise of a future filled with endless possibilities.

And as the first rays of dawn peeked through the curtains, illuminating the room with a soft golden light, you knew that this was only the beginning of your love story—a story that would unfold with each passing day, leading you both down a path of happiness and fulfillment, hand in hand, as an official couple in love.

el fin.

Kindahatethisbutohwell

[technically-a-kiwi]

Lol, imagine this : cosmic horror AU

The Noise would be the charismatic TV host of chaos, hosting his mysterious show, his public would be the souls of the damned, and his audience would be random people who watched TV at the wrong time and at the wrong place, they are the unsuspected victimes of The Noise's game, a game starting as simple challenges and slowly turning into psychological torture, he'd be narrating your moves like a sports narrator you hear on TV, if you survive those challenges, you'll go back to your life... But you'll never be the same... If you fail, you'll be part of The Noise's audience... forever. Ooooh this is so edgy I love it >:)

Appearance wise it'd just be Cosmic Noise in a less cartoony style with half of his face skin missing revealing a second row of teeth on top of his current teeth (you know like you see in children skull X rays) it's gross, it's creepy, I love it

As for Peppino he'd be the Great Primal Cosmic chef, creating every level of existence from his mighty pizza oven, and blessing humanity with the art of cooking and the Holy Book of Recipe. His words are of unmatched wisdom (and loudness) but are somehow of common comprehension, his presence is overwhelming and yet somehow comforting, he's so calm and so unstable at the same time, he creates in love and in wrath. Peppino is a contradicting deity and his authority is often challenged, his existence only been reduced to fairytales (so yeah basically Italian Arceus). Despite having an age beyond compression, his omnipotence and omniscience and his status as the Cosmic chef, he's one of the most human cosmic entity of them all, experiencing feelings like loneliness, stress and fear. He combats those feelings by cooking, pretty much being a workaholic, it kinda works but he's still pretty lonely.

Appearance wise he'd be cosmic pep in less cartoony style but absurdly huge, like no matter how you tilte your head up you'd only see the beginning of his collar at best, basically being like miss Bellum. And if somehow you manage to get around head level he'd cover his face with a pan, if you're mortal it's because you'd burn if you see his face and if not it's because he doesn't want you to see his disfigured face he got after a cosmic battle with The Noise. He'd be translucent, his body is marbled with scars of past fights, and his overall color palette would be a lot more cooler and darker with his apron and chef hat being the only bright thing on his body.

Yes it's absurd, yes Peppino is God in this AU, yes I made my favorite character into an OP being, yes I'm being a kid. It's meant to be edgy and it will.

Ohhhh but I see you from miles away "BuT wHaT aBoUt CoSmIc FaKe ???!?!!??!" I KNOW YOU WERE ABOUT TO SAY IT, KIWI SEES ALL 👁️👁️, well lucky for you, I may have an idea for our fav ticket stand

THE FAKER is a shapeless dark entity, with infinite amount of faker faces on its body, it hides itself inside a ticket stand where it waits for unsuspected victimes, if you go to the ticket stand and ask for a ticket, a voice will invite you inside, wether or not you accept the invitation, a hand will drag you inside, your body will slowly be assimilated, your mind shifts into one that isn't your own, you feel like you don't know who you are, you feel cold, but one thing is for sure, you have to be so big, strong and mighty to the point you'll rival the might of the Cosmic chef. So yeah basically here it's the thing who wants to be a god.

Okay I'm done with my trip, obviously it's not canon in anyway and it's just my inner kid (and idiot) expressing itself. It doesn't have much of any link with True cosmic, only vaguely taking some of its ideas and exaggerating them to make them sound creepy. I really love horror in general and since Cosmic Au is already absurd I just want to push it to the max and make it an edgy and angst mess. I'd probably design it someday but I already have so much to do ! You know what, to anyone who managed to read this far, I challenge you into drawing those characters using the description I wrote.

If this post gets some people interested maybe I'll do the rest of the cast...

Okay NOW I'm going back to work...

[llamagoddessofficial]

About the skeleton flower images, you're def on to something. Those look so fake and all over the place, its definitely AI generated. Real photos of skeleton flowers look nothing like this. Skeleton flowers always have 6 petals, and its pretty rare to see a plant deviate from what its genetic coding says it should look like (this is why 4-leafed clovers are so rare). Plus if you look at the veins on the flowers, they look like they were drawn in photoshop or smth. And yeah, the water isnt acting like water lol

Yeah, the longer I look at it, the more fucked up and obviously AI it is.

For reference, here's a real skeleton flower;

Very pretty. Very normal.

Aaaaaaaand....... here's the weird AI images. The numbers are petal counts.

The rest of the OP's blog has some similarly fake looking pictures. Lots of flowers with nonsensical structures, colour schemes, and impossible variations.

While these are much more believable, notice how the flower centre on the bottom flower is green, but on the top two, it's blue. Also, the weirdly blurred blue flower on the left has an extremely fucked up receptacle. It looks like its merging into the buds in the foreground - which are suddenly sporting a hairy stem, for some reason, despite all the other flowers being hairless.

I don't have issue with AI generated images in general. OP has some beautiful images on their blog that would be logistically impossible. I just take issue with the fact that none of them are tagged as AI - they're all tagged as 'nature'. It's a bit misleading.

[inchidentally]

About teammate relationships being pr. Do you think this pr teammate relationships are also a part of football?

I'm so sorry I'm a fake sports fan so apart from F1 and hockey I don't know anything about other sports!

and like just to say honestly the PR thing is SO overblown about F1 bc the teams actually love a rivalry so long as the cars don't end up in the wall. it's great PR and usually is great for pushing and motivating their drivers. I think recency bias has made ppl think that DTS/DR/Liberty Media basically post-Bernie F1 has had some major overhaul in wanting friendly personalities and friendships etc but it's just not the case. F1 is inherently not a "friendly" looking sport bc it's incredibly elitist, woven deep into extremely uhhhh not PC and human rights-violating political establishments and public as well as private business - and to simply gain entrance to F1 requires millions poured into just one driver's career at each stage of their racing career. and tbh even the drivers who've gone for sponsorships outside of racing are choosing luxury brands etc so they're not needing to appeal to the general public.

there are maybe three drivers who are wanting an image that appeals to the wider public but the rest are absolutely fine with for the most part being openly remote and private or strategically showing just enough to the public to seem open but actually remaining very private. it's absolutely nothing like team sports and honestly not even similar to most other racing bc up until Liberty it was a walled city of a sport. PR is truly optional and scandals/salaciousness/fighting will always generates way more engagement and press attention than friendships and wholesomeness. F1 is entirely finance-driven (even moreso than other sports where public affection is any kind of priority) and if PR friendships or a friendly image meant literally anything then you wouldn't have drivers getting dropped from the sport mid-season or PR-darlings waiting in the wings after F2 in favor of F1 nepo hires and drivers who bring major regional or corporate sway with them.

backmarker teams like St-ke and W-lliams utilize PR more simply bc they need to keep sponsors happy and it's easier for drivers who are barely even aiming for points to have no tensions or public scrutiny to make it uncomfortable.

it's why I always point to how - regardless of what their private relationship is - CS and CL have always been fully on the same wavelength about their image as teammates in terms of managing what the public sees and how to negotiate periods of tension. weirdly enough they're the only case of two teammates actually utilizing their joint PR skillfully and intentionally BUT that being the case because a genuine friendship and respect runs through it. if they fully disliked or were even just disinterested in each other then they wouldn't bother and would run with the rivalry with the occasional bit of social media thrown in. Ferrari especially doesn't give a fuck if the public think they're "friendly" or "relatable" as a brand lsdfgsljafgljsagfsaljf. the C2 stuff has been a great unexpected little addition but they'd have been just as happy if they agreed to do a few stiff little challenges and the occasional ad but otherwise hated each other.

which is what's funny abt seeing the wild sht going on bc ppl can't grasp LN and OP having a solid and respectful working relationship but totally different approaches to PR. LN is open about how he's wanted to build his brand and his own company and the double edged sword of being such a public and accessible figure - PR for him is both a nightmare and savior bc the more extreme and blindly devoted of his fans are actually the biggest threat to his peace of mind and public identity. they start to take over his public perception w their opinions being so amplified by sheer numbers and insane devotion.

which is why someone like OP who represents a much more typical F1 driver who sees this as his career for as long as he can have it and PR as just a necessary evil that you hire a person for, ends up making those insane fans misinterpret THAT approach as some kind of devious Machiavellian PR... instead of literally being the opposite. he's literally said that he's ok or at least resigned to having to be a public figure as a part of the job and therefore also public about certain other people/things in his private life, but he draws the lines firm and very very reserved even from his own fans. esp when compared to someone like DR and LN and CS who at least appear extremely accessible to fans.

which is why in a totally different way, the LN/OP partnership works just as strongly as CS/CL one - bc OP doesn't care about publicity beyond Mark's advice and his sm person's requests and LN is already having to perform an extremely precarious PR dance w too many of his fans feeling v comfortable and entitled to him to the point where they make bold statements and opinions about his innermost thoughts and mental health as if speaking on his behalf. poor MaxF regularly has to help him run that gauntlet by subtly reminding fans about boundaries and that yes LN is indeed capable of experiencing emotions in rational ways !! and that he's fully capable of gaining perspective after the heat of a race !! and that fans deciding to run hate campaigns against people on Lando's behalf is not healthy or sane behavior !! (again, said much more subtly and skillfully than that)

then you've got OP who was hated the second he arrived in F1 on behalf of fan-favorite DR, got a brief respite while he was still notably behind LN, and now has gone back to being hated on behalf of fan-favorite LN. his mom is a fully random bit of fan popularity but even there, she's not consistent with it and doesn't go to races or otherwise make her life or feelings known publicly. there's zero "strategy". she doesn't defend him or coddle him and is known for lovingly roasting him. even choosing the RFP for an interview was hilarious bc she went w an outlet that makes gags about her son and favors the drivers she also likes and apart from saying how she raises her kids to be decent and kind she didn't say anything that particularly "sold" OP bc she just admitted he's weird (in a good way!!) but not naturally super emotive or sentimental. it's not the kind of stuff a mum who was PR-instructed or trying to make the public blindly adore her son would say. it's a very Aussie down-to-earth not-the-end-of-the-world approach to her son chasing an insane career that frankly stresses her out most of the time bc it's so dangerous.

whereas LN has had publicity following his life since he was small and it was decided that his dad would represent the family publicly but everyone else would be visible but otherwise private. the same strategy was applied to all of LN's friendships bc some were like MaxF who didn't mind being public facing and then a lot of them are visible but not known beyond their names. but it's so easy to see what a non-stop crazy dance LN has to do with his PR bc just when it feels like it's within his control, the delulu over intense fans latch onto smth and start flooding comment sections and crossing lines and assuming they have his blessing w all of it.

which is why it's perfect that OP is so inaccessible and relatively remote/uninvested in a public image bc having the hivemind of a rabid fanbase against him can never strike too deep or too personal since fans have never been permitted to any of those parts of OP's life. (I mean, technically they could ofc get even worse than this but then we're into legal action and race ban territory)

and it's also why they've both been so smart to adopt OP's methods when it comes to their relationship as teammates and pull all of their downtime and private conversations out of the public eye and and only mention them in passing. bc in the same way, whatever insanity fans project onto their relationship will never hit too personal bc they don't have access to any of it. CS/CL choose to make a lot available to fans bc they both know how to control and work that into being beneficial but not damaging. LN/OP choose to keep a lot private bc a large part of LN's fanbase is extremely unwieldy and OP has no interest in pandering to PR beyond strictly necessary. if they had to negotiate both of their images throughout all of this it would be complete chao.

and it's ironic bc the fans currently engaged in the online warfare against OP don't at all see the parallel w how LN was treated by DR's fanbase when they were teammates - and how those two were friends at the same time as frequently being at odds within the team etc. but I mean to be that kind of fan you're not capable of seeing that kind of behavior pattern ig ?? idk I couldn't fathom gunning so hard for men let alone rich men so I'll never understand !

aaaaaanyway tl;dr the notion of PR in F1 is negligible and a lot of fans are very very confused about when they're actually being blatantly pandered to and when a relationship or driver is being genuine lasfgsjlagfljg

[ysolt]

yeah yeah fine i'll admit im a russian psy-op bot agent but you have to understand they pay is- well was really good but with staging the fake ukraine-russia war funds had to be redirected and now us election saboteurs had to let go off some benefits but hey. it's not about the money you do it for the love of the sport- oh come on man not now *see's xi jinping backed psy-op bot agents turn the corner* lets cross the- lets cross the street right now oh heyyyy what's up so nice to see you. love the gold laced suit and new lambo. oh you just came back from dinner with the man himself? wow must have been nice. the heart of a newborn fawn extracted at the moment it heard bird song for the first time? some people have it all

[tojisun]

ermmmmmmmmm i don’t know how to explain this ask but what do you think simon would be like like in college??? would he be a frat boy???? did he even go to college????????????? this is so dumb im sorry lmao

omg heyy no dont sweat about this!! this is so cute!! its not dumb at all!!

edit: overhauling my prev post!

!! in a no-military au:

i dunno how active chapters are in UK universities but if they are, then yea i think he joined a fraternity based on a scholarship! (every time i think of fratboy simon, i think about channing tatum in 22 jump street hhhhhhhhasfj [heart eyes])

there are 11 fraternities in my uni and sometimes i happen to be in campus when the recruitments are being announced and it's honestly such a cool, if not a little startling, event. i transferred from a college so it was so shocking to see these because i genuinely thought these were only an american (US) thing

sooo imagining this to be simon's uni life is making me giggle because on one hand i think simon's the type to wanna avoid all that unnecessary events, but then i also imagine him joining exactly because of said events- it opens up lots of opportunities and helps him build intimate connections!! also, i just wanna imagine him having fun :((

the major chapters in my uni are either centric on sports or exclusive for a specific grad school so i dunno if simon's membership is because he's a current undergrad (ergo he's in a varsity) or because he went to grad school.... our powerhouse teams in uni happens to be hockey (and basketball) so now just imagine hockey player simon :(( god im spiralling hhgrhoegh foaming at the mouth!!!

imagine hockey player simon who comes out of practice with flushed cheeks and tussled hair. imagine simon as the goalie OR the centre hhnngh imagine simon pinning up the campus and chapter flag in his room like a dork (beside pictures of you two taken during frat parties). imagine simon lending you his jersey. imagine simon choosing your birth date as his jersey number

...sfksapjfdasf oh i am unwell

!! canon-lenient (ty tomie @tomiesdiet for the callout on my error LMFAOFOED)

i think he joined a fraternity too!! i went ballistic and searched up fraternities and cadet lifestyles, and they act like any other universities too so yea i do think he joined a chapter prior to joining the military!!

i do see him joining it for the same benefits such as scholarship and varied opportunities. but also it's noted that fraternities geared for the military also get service projects which help expand their experiences.

there's also a non-collegiate fraternity for the military!! maybe he'd have been part of that :0

i dunno if there would be repercussions of having been a member of a chapter later on as he gets into spec-ops. otherwise, he probably faked his death so that there won't be any loose connections to trace to him

[khookn]

I’ve been lurking your account for awhile and really like your Clone High oc!!! Can we get some more info/lore?

I'M SOOO EXCITED YOU WANT TO HEAR MORE ABOUT MY SUN TZU CLONE OH!!! Sorry if this isn't very clear it's because I'm not good with this sort of stuff I've had since August so like I got so so much

I'LL BE HAPPY TO ANSWER TO MORE IF NEED BE I HAVE SO MUCH SO CLICK BELOW FOR THE WORD WALL YOU'RE ABOUT TO PREPARE YOURSELF FOR!! :D

His inspiration stems from a lot of things like my irl friends, him being the opposite of Confucius, other stuff and a bit of the clonefather himself so yeah it's a doozy how much I got.

So, baseline is because he's a clone of the war general, strategist and philosopher I was like "yeah no this dude would mostly be a gamer for stuff that requires strategy and winning like League of Legends (I'm sorry)", I pin him as the type of gamer who'd have hundreds of games on steam clocking no less than 300 hours each and has a huge variety of stuff he plays but he can't stand some like minecraft because the world is too vast for him. Also he likes playing his games ranked and he's a rather good sport in games.

So like you know the shadow government right, like because Sun Tzu is one of those clones who in fact inherited the talents of their clonefathers and is able to utilize it really well, they're like "ohhh shit he could actually be like the legendary general of his clonefather" but he doesn't care at all he uses whatever tactic and strategy and psychology wit he inherited into gaming.

He's a pretty well known name because he's insane when it comes to gaming and winning esports competitons and whatnot so it brings to Confucius right because Confucius would've caught wind of it and want to grab him to do podcasts with him, in attempts to buttering Sun into doing so he got attached and clingy along the way and his entire dynamic with Sun just wound up being that because Sun doesn't actually have that many friends thanks to his gaming hyperfixation.

And like upbringing is,,, how do I put this

His upbringing like, his foster parents right, is different from confu in the sense I want it to be a household where he feels loved despite not having shown it because everyone's got their own boundaries. In my head, dad, mom, 3 triplet brothers so his dad looks like dude nukem, mom is a psych op, brothers look like replica toy soldiers, navy, airforce and field soldier respectively. The reason why he just wound up being a gamer was due to hand me downs from his brother and he got so hyperfixated at it he'd rather do nothing but that. Like he has nothing to do with the theme and aesthetic his family got like it's to the point the interior of the house is hella military heavy and shit and if you go into sun tzu's room it's soundproofed RTX light hell. Organized mess setup.

His personality I'd say is very blunt and direct, doesn't really care about his image, he's mellow but has a rather hyperactive side to him too, his temper is rather calm nerve but can be flicked like a switch but it's so hard to really do so but if he's angered he's sure to actually scare people without having to raise his fists. He knows how to talk people into submission and such if he really has to I think. His gaming addiction certainly did stunt or inhibit a lot of aspects in him but he doesn't really mind it as long as he has fun.

He's the kind of guy who'd be good at everything he does pretty easily but it doesn't seem to matter because like all he does is play video games for like bajillions of hours so it's not like it's really going to go anywhere but there so he's like, someone you know has potential but depending on how, or well, how the shadow government sees it is wasted potential.

He's super camera shy and has stage fright so he's not very good at performing for a crowd, he's also cursed whenever it comes to being in a camera because whenever his picture gets taken it wounds up scary or blurry and he's unable to fake a smile for the camera and while he likes taking pictures it's just that pictures taken by him are often garbage too like, when he takes food pics, it's AFTER he's eaten so people won't even be able to tell what he has eaten and that he just generally doesn't give that much thought into it either.

Few additional quirks include that he's aroace, he could actually get in shape very easily if he wanted to but since he's sitting on a gaming chair most of the time he just wound up tubby, if he were to exercise it's freakishly quick but he can also return to being chubby too. He's also severely addicted to G-Fuel even if it doesn't really work with him.

In regards to gaming he's able to not sleep for days at a time just to play over the sheer will but in turn he would have to sleep a lot when he's completely tired like he's THAT PASSIONATE (addicted).

Idk if this is understandable or anything but wow this is a word wall but I know I have a lot more than that I'm just not used to doing text posts. I'd be happy to answer other stuff regarding him!

[slafkovskys]

Could you do Juraj Slafkovsky and 'you got me flowers'

warnings: teasing, a little bit suggestive, hints of daddy issues + forbidden romance?

“you know that your dad is not going to be happy that you’re wearing that,” hallie mumbles as you step out of the car, having to pull your dress down so that it would cover more of your thighs.

you flip your hair over your shoulder and reach in to grab your bag before sending a smile to your driver, intertwining your fingers with hallie’s as you walk towards the entrance, “well then maybe he should stop sending me as a representative to these things then if he’s just going to chew me out.”

“will you let me find a husband first, at least?” she rolls her eyes as you’re ushered through the door without even having your identification or invitation checked. steve, the man at the door, had worked at the arena since before you could properly walk. though he was supposed to do it for everyone, he never checked you for anything.

you got away with a lot because of him.

the concourse was already crowded with donors and players alike, all here for one purpose. raise money for whatever charity your father had chosen to support this season. he had given you the spiel and you had notes on your phone that you really needed to look at before-

“y/n, there you are! i’ve been looking all over for you.”

katerina’s voice is like nails on a chalkboard in the most respectful way possible as she makes her way toward you. the woman had become what you could only describe as a handler for you at these events. her job was simple: make sure you say the right things, act like you know what you’re doing, and make the family look good.

simple.

she gives you a once over, “you couldn’t have found a dress that had both arms and a few more inches at the bottom?”

“you couldn’t find a better attitude?” the words spill out of your mouth before you can stop them and hallie turns her head to stifle a giggle at your bluntness. you huff and nod your head, “what do you need from me?”

she wipes the scowl off of her face before clearing her throat, “we need you to take some pictures with some of the bigger donors first. then, we’ll have you walk around and look at some of the things that are up for auction.”

“cool,” you mumble before turning your head towards your best friend, “i’ll find you later. don’t do anything that i wouldn’t do.”

“good thing that’s a short list,” she winks before you part ways.

you follow katerina down to the main part of the arena that had been cleared of ice and instead was lined with booths and an area set up for your photo op. you sigh as you hand off your bag, faking a smile as you make your way down the line of businessmen and women who you were meant to entertain for the next couple of hours at least.

katerina grins as you shake their hands, “this is y/n, geoff’s daughter. she’s here on his behalf tonight.”

that’s all you ever seemed to be at these things, geoff’s daughter. you ached to be more than just the offspring of the man who owned a sports franchise and that’s why you tried so hard to stay away from anything related to the team. that was until a few months ago when you bumped into him in the hallway and now you almost made it your mission to be involved in all things canadiens just for an excuse to be in his presence.

even now as you stand in the middle of a group of powerful people, fake smile turned on, your eyes search the room for him. it doesn’t take long to find juraj, parked at a booth with kaiden and he’s already watching you. under his gaze, you’re suddenly shy and you shift your weight from foot to foot, trying to balance yourself in your high heels.

god, you hated how nervous he made you.

once your photo op was over, you tell katerina that you need to use the restroom before she starts parading you around. she huffs before telling you to hurry.

you have no intentions of doing so.

you spot hallie leaning against the wall, talking to some rookie who had just been called up from laval earlier in the week. you can tell her laugh is fake and so is the hand she rests on his jersey. you lock eyes with juraj once again and you don’t have to say a word, you know that he’ll follow you wherever.

no one dares stop you as you make your way through the bench that had been blocked off for the event and down the hallway towards the locker room. when you hear his footsteps behind you, maybe you smirk and start to swing your hips a little bit just for the dramatic effect of it all. you barely step your high-heeled foot into the room before an arm wraps around your waist and he’s using his weight to force you two the rest of the way inside. his breath is hot against your ear, “not nice.”

“i’m sorry,” you turn in his arms and pout your lips. you use your hand to run your fingers through his hair before smoothing down his tie, “i’m glad that you chose the red. it looks good on you.”

“look,” he holds his arm up so that you could see his sleeves, “matching.”

you smile softly as you ran your finger over the cuff links you had bought him right around the time your two-month anniversary had come and gone. conveniently, you had a bracelet that matched the links and conveniently, you were wearing it at that moment. it was something so subtle, yet so powerful to you. “yeah, juraj, we’re matching.”

“i got you something. present,” he mumbles as he attempts to pull away. you grip his lapels because how dare he try and pull away when you rarely get to be this close with so many people around and he chuckles, smoothing a hand over your hair when you frown, “is in pocket. have to get, anjel.”

you watch as he reaches for the inside pocket of his suit jacket and pulls something out, something wrapped delicately in paper. he hands it over to you with a warning to be careful and your curiosity is piqued as you start to unwrap the object. once you see what it is, you look up at him with gentle eyes, “you got me flowers?”

“don’t know how to say in english, but are forever,” he waves his hand around, “no water, no sun. just forever.”

“i love them,” you grin and press your lips to his, savoring the moment between the two of you, but keeping a careful ear just in case someone should decide to come looking for you. you start to trail your lips down his neck and his breath hitches, “you know what?”

“what?”

“you should come and sit with me in the owner’s suite tomorrow night,” you mumble against his jaw and he inhales sharply.

“but your dad-”

“won’t be there. he’s on a trip out of the country, gone for another week. why do you think i’m here?” you smirk as you gently run your manicured fingers along the back of his neck, “doesn’t it sound fun, láska? me, you, alone in a suite, where no one can see or hear us? besides, why would you want to sit with kaiden and arber if you don’t have to?”

“wifi and gully less dangerous,” he sighs as he squeezes your hips and that’s when you know that you’ve got him right where you want him. “you will get me in trouble.”

“hm, we’ll see,” you press a kiss to the side of his mouth before pulling away, smoothing out his suit once again, “i’ll see you tonight, right?”

“can’t leave until late,” he explains with a sad look. “will stay up for me?”

“if you’re good,” and with a wink, you disconnect yourself from him and make your way out of the locker room. you didn’t bother telling him about the stain your lipstick had left on his skin before you left. no, he had to learn that from kaiden while you watched from across the room as he frantically tries to rub it away.

katerina snaps her fingers in front of your face and your smile fades at her angry expression. your attention shifts from your blushing boyfriend to the annoyed woman in front of you who would no doubt be reporting your ‘unruly’ behavior to your father at some point in the next 24 hours. you blink, “what were you saying?”

[yet-another-deanw-girl]

Chapter 2: Protocol EG-64 initiated

||The Prophecy Series||

She knew for 15 years that this day would come. She knew her destiny had already been written. That her death had been foretold.

She knew she would have to stop him. She knew she would have to kill him. And she thought she was prepared for all of it. But the day she met him she realized how wrong she was…

Set in Season 10

Pairing: MoC!Dean x Female!OC

Warnings: the usual SPN, language, injuries

Episode mapping: After episode 4 of season 10 "Paper Moon"

Note: The events of this story are following season 10 of Supernatural and are taking place between October 2014 and July 2015. I tried to make sure that all the references to weapons, tech, etc. are accurate with the time period.

AN: This is my first time writing a fanfic but the story has been in my head for too long and it just needed to get out. I hope you like it.

AN: English is not my first language, I apologize for any mistakes.

I slowly regain consciousness and I’m overwhelmed by the familiar smell of the humid air.  I’m home…  But then the memories from the cabin come back to me.  I struggle to open my eyes but I'm fully awake and I focus on hearing the silent conversation coming from the other side of the room. "What were we supposed to do? Drop her in some hospital? And say what? A bear attacked her?" Sam's voice is concerned. "She just saved our lives, Dean! She will be fine in a couple of days and then she'll be gone." "I know…" Dean sighs. "I'm just not sure if she is safer here with us... with me… or in a hospital on her own!" I'm finally able to open my eyes and start sitting up. "Hey, hey, easy there!" Sam says when he sees me and rushes to me. Dean stays in his place next to the door.  "You are safe here! We are not going to hurt you!" I managed to stop myself before responding with some sarcastic comment like "You should be worried about me hurting you!". I must not behave like the military trained special ops soldier right now. I must act like an American hunter. A little bit of politeness and a fake confusion would be the best way to go. "What happened?" I ask, looking down at my stomach. The wound was stitched up and bandaged. My jeans are covered in blood and my shirt is gone, leaving me only in my sports bra. Sam turns around and produces a plaid shirt from somewhere and I quickly put it on. It is way too big on me, so I roll the sleeves and tie the bottom to a node around my waist so the bandages are not visible. "You were injured by a werewolf while you were saving us. Thanks, for that, by the way." He smiles. "My name is Sam Winchester. This is my brother, Dean. What's your name?" My name? They have probably already found my fake ID. What was the name on it? Nadia? Natasha? "Natalie, Natalie Brooks. Where am I?" Playing 'damsel in distress' is not my favorite role. I'm far away from helpless and confused as you can imagine. But I just need to play the part and go on my way as fast as possible. "You are… ahm… Well, we live here. We didn't want to just drop you in a hospital." Sam explains. Dean hadn't said a word. Hadn't moved. He was just standing with his back against the wall next to the door, his arms crossed. Looking at me the whole time. Studying me.  I really need to go. Now! "Well thank you, for stitching me up. But I think it's time for me to go now."  Sam tries to stop me when I stand up on my unstable legs.  "I'm fine, thanks! I'll just go. I really don't want to intrude." I walk past Dean and open the door but before I run to the exit, I stop myself remembering, I was not supposed to know the layout of this place. I look both ways and turn around with a confused look. "Ahum... Can you point me to the exit? And…um… I suppose my car is not here?"

"Who are you?" I am sitting in the back seat of a black Impala. We have been on the road for about 40 minutes before Dean speaks to me for the first time. I'm looking through the window, lost in my thoughts, so I'm not entirely faking this time when I startle at his abrupt question. Sam looks at him with a scolding expression, like he is on the verge of lecture him for being impolite. I stifle a scoff and instead, put a confused look on my face. "What do you mean? I already told you who I…" Pain grips every nerve in my body. "Stop the car!" I hiss, grabbing at the door handle. "What the hell are you doing!!!" Dean exclaims. "Dean, stop the car! Something's wrong!" I can hear Sam saying. "Her nose is bleeding!"

Created with Microsoft Designer

I stumble out of the car and start moving back down the road frantically. My mind is trying to grasp what is happening. This is not possible. Not now! Not here! When I'm about a hundred meters away from the car, the pain suddenly stops. I gasp for air and when my breathing normalizes I hear the Winchesters running toward me. "What happened?" Sam asks, the concern in his voice even more evident from when I woke up earlier. I wipe out the blood from my nose ignoring the question and dig out my phone from my jeans back pocket. I already know what is going on but I open my navigation map anyway. The exact distance from the Men of Letters bunker is… 64 kilometers…  Fuck!  Fuck!  Shit!  Fuck! "What the hell is all of that about?" Dean asks, raising his voice. I take a deep breath and straighten my back. I knew this was coming. It was inevitable. And it is just the beginning. And, of course, it has to be the renowned Winchester brothers. "I asked you a question, damn it!" Dean growls.

I slowly turn around to face the boys. I compose myself despite the panic and dread in my chest.  My feet - slightly apart… my back - straight… my hands - clasped behind my back… my chin - parallel to the ground… my face - expressionless. I lock all of the feelings in the tiny little black box inside my head. There is no point in panicking… there is no point of feeling any of this… It is what it is… I had accepted that a long time ago… "I'll have to make a call first, and then I'll explain everything." Dean tries to argue, but Sam stops him.

"Commander! Where are you? You've missed your exit window." I hear the voice of the general on the other side of the line. It looks like I'm on speaker because I can hear the usual noises of the command center. "Sir, I just initiated protocol EG-64." The line goes silent. The entire room around him is deadly quiet. They are just standing there not knowing what to say. "Em..." I hear the general's gasp. "It's right on time, sir."  Another long time of silence. "Sir, I need confirmation." My voice is monotone, drained of any emotion, like a good soldier. The man on the other side of the line clears his throat. "You have confirmation. Initiating protocol EG-64."  Silence…  "Soldier!" The general says and I hear the familiar noise of a keyboard. Everyone else is just quiet... I can imagine their faces and the looks that they are exchanging… "Can I do anything for you, commander?" "Sir, I need official permission to disclose my full identity to the active members of the American Men of Letters - Samuel Winchester, born May 2, 1983 and Dean Winchester, born January 24, 1979." The brothers are staring at me with curiosity, distrust and disbelief. "You have permission. You know the rules - only the need to know information." "Yes, sir." "And… you have permission to disclose your identity to everyone that is involved with your task as you deem needed. Call if you need anything!" "Thank you, sir!"

Created with Microsoft Designer

There is nothing left from the confused and fragile girl that woke up in the bunker a couple of hours earlier. That was actually the thing bothering me about her. She had barged in that cabin, killing those werewolves… And when she woke up… She played… almost helpless… But not anymore… The person standing in front of me is the same small framed, 5 '7 tall, 115 pound woman, wearing the same bloodied jeans and my too big plaid shirt under her leather jacket, but she has the stand of a trained soldier.  Who, the hell, is she?  I knew something was up with her, from the moment she stormed in that cabin, but I was not able to put my finger on it until now.  I look at her closely. Her dark hair is held in a tide braid, her military boots are perfectly laced and going around her ankles, definitely not just a style choice.  It all makes sense now.  She was holding back.  She was trying to hide her training this whole time.

She is standing still like a rock the entire time she is talking on the phone. Not moving a muscle. Her expression is cold and distant, showing no emotions. "Yes, sir." …. "Thank you, sir!"

She hangs up the phone and puts it in her back pocket. Her right hand joins the left one behind her back.  "My name is Emilia Nikolova. I'm a tac team commander of The European Division of The Order." She recites with a monotone voice. "The bad news is that there is something wrong with your bunker. The worse news is that I'm going to kill one of you and the other one is going to kill me."

Chapter 3: The stand-off >>

||The Prophecy Series||

[gummybearzgocrazyagain]

kinn/porsche fic rec

Fake Dating AU

Tell Me That You Love Me (even if it’s fake) by @whitewalkers [luuuuuv me a fandom as ripe with fake dating trope as kp, it never quite loses it’s charm innit. kinn has a high school reunion to attend, and of course why not use it as a ploy to sway his most annoying bodyguard into confessing his nascent feelings... well-done, tis a rec]

Vigilante/Special Agent AU

Deep Like a Coastal Shelf by @Lilla_Torg [aight so this is an author with the very distinguished storytelling pattern, that i can not help but appreciate, their world-building and characterization is usually top notch, and this particular babie is not an exception: porsche and chay were brought up by someone from the syndicate that targets organized crime, and now that people, who used to call themselves their parents, are gone, Porsche is left with the ominous List, and a black leather vigilante suit, to keep their legacy alive. korn and gun are dead, Main and Minor fams are combined, tankhun has taken over as the Leader. kinn handles their overseas ops. amazing quality of storytelling, as always. DNI if you can’t handle pairings other than kp, as this is a multi-pairing piece, as it is customary for this author. but again, the story is so good, i didn’t even skip kimchay/vegaspete bits, which is a feat on it’s own. max kudosssssss]

the house don’t fall (when the bones are good) by @bytheriveriwept [i often say that i luved some works, but there are works i luved, and then there are works i LUVVEEEEEEDDDDDDDD with my whole-ass heart, this bit of genius masterpiece is the case of the latter. kp are special agents, colleagues, parts of the same organization, cohesive unit, and all that. only until porsche decides to take on risqué assignment, and go undercover. will they still be them, when he is back....? what can i say, this was sooooooooo up my alley in so many ways, i don’t even wanna say no more, if you haven’t read this.... what the hell is you even doing]

Third person POV

First Impressions by @AirgiodSLV [oooohhhhh how i luv me some piece of delicious 3rd person pov, yummmmm, Bank is a new hire for the Major fam, and this is the first time he is present at the meeting between the families.... yumm👌]

Alternative Meeting AU

stumbling to the edge by @FireRisingOverTheHills [absolutely delightful and underrated series for those who is not looking for heavy feels: it is light-hearted, sweet, well-written and entertaining, all without being angsty or plot-twist-heavy. despite the alternative meeting, it is still pretty much in-universe compliant. kp meet at a bar under different circumstances, but end up pretty much in the same compromising position that we all love to see them in. much kudos🙏]

the less i know the better by @mslunita [yummmmm, delicious morsel of tinder hookup-turned-softness, i really enjoyed this one: kp initially meet on the apps, and yet, being themselves, immediately turn this motha all soppy and lovey-dovey, - extremely canon-complaint, if you ask me. exactly the kinda content i am here for🙏 super-well done]

For Want of Fighting by @Mara [this fandom sure does luuuuuuv it some alternative meetings aus, huh, and i ain’t about to complain. great short piece, Businessman AU, first meeting is not too drastically different to canon, but the context does slightly differ. very entertaining and def a rec]

Sports AU

Salt by @ronadnhermy [oh. my. god. what a fucking catch, luv luv luved ittttttt, so well-written, so entertaining, there is plot, there is emotional turmoil, morally dubious kinn, maybe the younger versions of them is not exactly my jam, but with such quality, who cares... porsche is like 18-19 and on the Thailand National Taekwondo team, kinn is in uni, and sees something he likes, thangs spiral from there... super recommend, ah-mazing, allllllll the kudos]

bar owner!porsche AU

like real people do by @motherfleckers [Kinn is a celeb, Porsche owns a tiny bar in a tinier fishing town, simple premise with a delightful resolution: eyebrows, usual canon levels of audacity, motorcycle rides, and, most importantly, kinn’s dick is not small. it’s very very good (the fic, not kinn’s dick, although that too). major kudosssssssss]

Now make your bed (now lie in it) by @deliciousblizzardshark [2-for-1 tropes sale, apart from bar owner!porsche, you get accidental babie acquisition, my beloved <33333 fair warning, one must brace themselves for being gutted with longing, as well as general adorableness of kinn going “i’ve only had this random babie for 1,5 days but if something happens to her imma end everyone in this establishment and then myself”, adored this one sooooo much, prolly one of my personal faves, sooooooo many kudosssssss]

Cabin crew AU

before i leave, i want it a thousand times by @mslunita [despite somewhat disparaging reputation real-life cabin crew have acquired in my city, i clearly have no issues reading porsche being one slutty flight attendant, and hey, when your client is kinn anakinn theerapanyakul, who could actually blame him for slightly loosening his morals up on occasion, right? certainly not me, you go boiiiiii]

Historical AU

Love and the Art of War by @fortunehasgivenup [oooooowwwwww yassss, this is sooooo far up my alley it ain’t even funny. first of all, this author is everything, man, love all their fics, must reads, all of them. this specific babie is sooooo precious though: set in some nebulous middle ages, it’s a war camp setting, kinn has been away from home for months, and upon returning from some battle or other, gets an unexpected visitor waiting for him inside his tent. ngl, i would have read 200k of this, but author gave me 4, and i lapped them up like a man starved. perfection, truly. not to mention the use of “anakinn” in any context just does it for me🤷‍♀️]

Sex worker adjacent AU

escort AU by @Oscarian_Flame [Porsche joins the same agency kinn has been a long-term client of, and the universe expands from there. well-written and fun to explore, with interesting oc’s, worth a read for sure!]

Cliff Jump by @AirgiodSLV [ooohhhhh yeahhh babie we talking with this one💅 soooo.... vegas is using the same agency, and it kinda triggers kinn’s competitive side, earning him a certain...  reputation. once every twink is bangkok is so exhausted that ain’t noone is able to deal with his over-the-top shite no more, the agency sends someone who has enough stamina to withstand the lengthy bounds of athletic... interactions. yeahhhhh, you guessed it. so very entertaining and plot-twisty. so very delightful]

even though you’re not mine, you’ve got that look in your eyes by @fortunehasgivenup [highly highly doubt there are people left in this fandom who have not read this masterpiece, and yet could not exclude it from the recs, it’s that spectacular. if one must create escort-by-misunderstanding AU.... do it to such level. spectacular work, allllll the kudos]

Night Call by @ziusik [one of my fav pieces in this fandom no cap, if you know this author, you know, i obvi adore every single word of both mileapo and kp this author has everrrrr written, and this particular stripper!porsche au with absolutely helplessly besotted idiot-kinn is outa this worldddddddd great. it’s like if “under the influence” by cb was a fic, the vibe is simply immaculate]

Comedy/Crack

Wilderness Camp by @housseao3 [wholesome and endearing piece of fun, i lichrally cackled multiple times, i meannnn, tankhun with his rompers, chan/tay, sugarplum/chicken, unforgettable ken/groundskeeper....? adorable, entertaining and praise-worthy attempt at light-heartedness and humour, super-well done]

School/Uni AU

let there be no barriers (between you and i) by @anakinn [being both adorable and hot is a general qualifier for ending up on my rec page, so here it goes as well. porsche has had a crush on one of his classmates for the better part of their university journey. one day being bored in class, he decides to test some random online advice, and see whether anyone of his mates is a mind-reader.... you guessed it folks, one particular person just might be. short and to the point delicious morsel of general canon-appropriate kp horniness for eo <3]

i gave a second chance to cupid by @haeseolar [omnomnomnom *chomps down on this fic with gusto* you know the feeling you get while consuming media, this overwhelming regret that the magnificent piece of work you’re currently devouring has already been perceived by you, and you never get to experience it for the first time ever again...? big time my energy while reading this one, what a mind candy, i reeeeeeeeeally enjoyed it🙏🙏🙏 kinn is 39, he is teaching lit at a private school, when the new 24yo PE teacher joins their roster fresh off uni... i dunno what to tell you, this author just gets it, when i say all the kudos, i quite literally mean all the possible kudos for this one]

Various in-universe AUs

The One Where Porsche and Kim Are Gym Buddies by @fortunehasgivenup [oooiiii, what fun, what funnnnnn: kim and porsche are both in the fights, and occasionally meet at the gym... reluctant comradery ensues. they talk to each other about their respective crushes, none the wiser that they have been railing each other’s nong and phi... what else is there to say, the author is so good i even attempted to read kimchay, which is practically unheard of, lich-rally all the kudos]

Here With You by @Yeetyeetbroski [daaaaaaaamn sonnn, the tension, the tensionnnnnn..... “scrumptious” is an understatement for what a treat it was. thank you dear author, much much MUCH kudos p.s. while you’re at it, i’d recommend to go through this author’s whole catalogue, their rendition of kp dynamic is a delight to read]

The Aftermath by @Yeetyeetbroski [yippy, the softness <3333333 So this is an Ep 6 aftermath, an AU for Ep 7. absolutely lovely and adorbs. soft besotted kinn is universally accepted as one of the fandom fav versions of kinn, so in regards of delivering on this front this fic is def up there. awesome read]

Post-canon

Storm to Weather by @archay [it was soooo good, i luv this typa vibe, bitter-sweet, but hopeful <333 the theerapanyakul empire is done for, and kinn and porsche are out to fend for themselves in a real world. tis a rec]

Whittled Down by Another War by @rageprufrock [i... are there even words... abso-fucking-lutely legendary piece, the way theerapanyakul bros dynamic is portrayed in this.... damnnnnnnnnnn, if there is anyone, literally anyone left who has not read this yet... what the fuck are you doing with your life, GO READ THIS ABSOLUTELY MINDBLOWING FIC]

fell in love with the fire long ago by @builtempires [wieeeeeeeeeeee, what a tasty treat: kinn is away on business, and a certain head of the minor family decides that sending his partner some racy pics while separated by thousands of miles would help the situation... it both does and doesn’t. very entertaining, super hot, much kudos]

Magic AU

Instinct by @the-wayside [ohhhhh this bloody gorgeous muthafuckin thang.... i remember being so overwhelmed after reading initial chapters that i even dmed the author, cause it was cloying at my skin, the story is superb. not everyone, but many people got an instinct living inside of them, and what do you think happens when kinn goes to some random underground fight held at some random seedy club and his instinct meets porsche.... yeppp. something about reading how the most animalistic, primal part of kinn wants and longs for what is his is just.... maaaaaaaan, If you haven’t read it yet and there is still an opportunity for you to experience it for the first time, i am so fucking envious no cap]

Poring Down Crimson Fire by @Lilla_Torg [whatttttttt, this was fucking insane, like...??? the world-building??? i fucking can’t, off the charts, insert chief kiss emoji size of a sun. i don’t even know how to rec something like dat, just... insanely devastatingly interesting story, and yeah, technically it’s not even kp fic per se, cause the whole fucking gang be giving off main character vibes. must read]

+

bonus:

MILEAPO

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disclaimer: realizing how tricky the whole topic of rpf might seem, i myself have not dipped a toe in this pool in a long, long time, therefore do completely understand and accept any potential discomfort anyone may have with using names/likeness of real people for fanfiction writing purposes. kindly, if you are uncomfortable with the topic, do not proceed any further, thank yew. p.s. also, as it has been noted so many times before, if you didn’t want us to write/read fanfiction about you, maybe you shouldn’t look at your work colleague like dat, bruv, just saying

......................................................................................................................

Starting Ambitions by @iffervescent [abo rpf, fucking masterpiece, luv this story sm]

Marked by @oliviacirce [yeahhhhhhhh... this. this was... an experience. they are about to film the scene in pete/porsche’s room, but the special effects person is out with the stomach flu, and there is no one to apply the fake hickies to apo’s neck. mile comes up with the brilliant idea that saves the day. no words, only squeals and cheers]

Whole New Kinds of Weather by @archay [short, sweet, hot and to the point 👌 after the NYE 2023 the whole team comes back to Tong’s for an after-party (for the live of me, i dunno why is it always Tong in the fics, tis has become some kind of established fanon by now), and thangs transpire in his bedroom (sorry, phi!!! pls don’t kill them)]

obviously, every single word @ziusik has ever written, especially Limerence, your lips in the street lights, and of fucking course, just a step away, which is definitely one of my fav ma fics everrrrrr and forever fandom classic

and finally...

said you’d be coming back this way again, baby by @concernedlily [this is what i’d call an ultimate ma fic, jokes aside, if there would be a limited amount of fics a person is allowed to read in they lifetime, this would make the cut every time for me. no matter how many wonderfully written, extremely talented ma works are out there, this would always be the ma fic for me, absolutely fandom-forming, i can never praise this work enough]

[cto10121]

R&J Clown Takes Round ♾️ + Part 13

I’m back!!!! It’s been awhile, but I wanted some fresh takes for once instead of another round of stale clownery. Featuring R&J Glorifying Suicide(tm) and It’s A Tragedy, Actually, Not A Love Story, but funnier. On nom nom away

Clown OP is definitely one of those who would think Brutus was honorable for committing suicide at the end of Julius Caesar but clutches their pearls when two teens do it for love.

So, no, R&J is not even about suicide, much less glorifying it. Nowhere in the play does R&J glorify suicide or death—on the contrary, Juliet freaks out when thinking about being buried alive in the tomb and Romeo speaks with horror of the tomb in pretty much the same language. Hell, it isn’t really even about death. Suicide is a means to an end—being with each other. If things were different, they would never even think of the possibility.

Tell me you’re American without telling me you’re American—

Juliet fell in love with Romeo when Paris was a vague twinkle in their parents’ eye. They only decided to have her married off after she and Romeo fell in love and consummated their union.

That would have instantly dissolved at the slightest hardship. Polycules are notoriously fragile. Also Rosaline is literally sworn to chastity, so thanks for the erasure. Also, also, Juliet canonically can’t stand Paris.

Sampson and Gregory joking about killing and raping Montague women is such a knee-slapper, I agree! Seriously, the only laughter I can see emanating from the Theater at the time would be derisive (maybe the creeps and dude bros would be validated, idk). They are so clearly drawn to be stupid boors you’re not supposed to like, it’s more of a satire than anything else.

Rebranded As A Love Story!!!!!

“Rebranded as a love story” “Playing hockey” 🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣 I CAN’T

So anyway, for the 500th time, Shakespeare totally shipping Romeo and Juliet together is as canonical as you can get.

As for hockey buddies…well, you’ve got a point there. Because hockey buddies would totally fake their deaths and commit suicide for each other. Hockey is that emotional a sport.

Fiction /= real life is an equation too complicated for Clown OP. This has to be trolling.

[terrence-silver]

could we get more terry with clingy beloved? My fav duo Love your blog♥️

---

He did the unthinkable. He just did it.

He pretended to have sprained his ankle, mid-training.

Of course, the very notion Terry Silver would have combat mishap during his strenuous, routinely exercises, least of all, that he'd be hindered by it, slowed down by it, limited by pain in any sense was preposterous and entirely laughable, but you didn't need to know that. You really didn't. Or if you did, it was simply better that you were occasionally led to forget what his body could really endure. The same way you didn't need to know the fact that his injury was entirely made up. Invented. Just for you. Because of you. For this occasion. He supposed he enjoyed it. The way you instinctually jumped around him when you perceived him down. When you thought he needed it. When you thought him, and the word sat like a living wound on his tongue --- weak. Was this was what weak was? Being doted on? You giving his sparring partners the wry looks because you were convinced they carelessly injured him during their allotted training hours even though he went around injuring them several times mid-session instead of it being the other way around and they were simply paid to take it like professionals should? Touching him, carefully, as if fearing to break him? Cooing him? Helping him to a nearby seat like he was some sort of martyr having just gone through penance even though there was literally nothing wrong with him and he didn't even need to put in too much acting to convince you of the opposite? A mere 'Ow' was often enough to send you spiraling like an expertly programmed robot. If this is what collapse meant, Terry rather relished his time down there, trying very hard not to show his satisfaction anywhere on his face and finding it even harder to control it manifesting on his body when your expression furrows in worry and he feels himself harden.

-"I'm not leaving your side until I'm certain you're okay."-

You say, with conviction, cradling his whole foot after practically shouting for the staff to call a doctor. Oh. That felt good. It felt good to see you catastrophically overreact.

It felt warm.

His chest filling with tingles. He imagines himself a giddy school girl with a scraped knee, being lifted up and carried by the brave class jock. How was it that you didn't notice his foot was absolutely alright --- in prime condition, same as always --- and that the surface of his skin didn't even do as much as grow red from the pressure of whatever impact it supposedly suffered? How did you not notice? It was great that you didn't --- infinitely amusing, a testament to his skills, in fact --- but were you wrapped around his finger to the degree that he could tell you anything, just about anything, and you'd believe it? Staunchly? That the sky was made from dogshit and ice cones? That a Blackbelt and a former Black Ops Veteran just goes around, tripping and falling over himself randomly, like some sort of klutz? Terry supposed that was the case, deciding to amp up the pressure and play the role of the martyr just a bit more, acting hard to get and unnecessarily humble. Just to reap a bit more of what you had to offer. -"Huh? No. That's fine. I'll walk it off. Karate's all about walking it off. Walked off worse."- He clicks his tongue, ever the good sport, shaking his head, pretending to be in pain and acting courageous about it, waving his hand, putting in an Oscar-worthy performance in the department of fake limping. It takes every bit of willpower in him not to laugh when he spots Margaret from the other end of the lobby giving him a speculative, unimpressed gaze. -"Out of the question, Terry!"- You're adamant, holding him by his hand and easing him back into his seat. And that point, it was hard not to burst. -"You've been pushing yourself too hard and now look what happened!"- You stare down at his completely healthy foot like it was about to be amputated or some bullshit, pointing at it with your nose, outraged and oh so sweetly delusional.

-"Now you're in pain."-

You add, with the sort of grieved, whiny voice that could melt an iceberg.

-"Pain's a part of training."-

He pretends to nobly relent all while entirely pain-free, never confessing to there being any ache in the first place even if only for the purposes of the lie itself, not wanting to appear too much of a mush even while going out of his way to appear as just that, maintaining a careful balance between the two, tip toeing the line between artificial victimhood and a knightly sort of deliberate Zen detachment to keep you titillated further, feeling the warmth in his chest grown even hotter at the attention you provided, never taking his eyes off of you, concocting plans of what he can act like he hurt tomorrow next, finding that he rather liked this game.