#reminds me of when those people went to the way's old house

[fagexe]

I've always kind of been uncomfortable with the way the fandom interacts with the members lives before they were in the band. Like I think looking into pencey prep etc. is fine. It's the previous music of a musician you like that seems totally reasonable to be interested in, and learning about the Inception of mcr also feels relevant. But why are we digging up and then passing around pictures of them as children? Why is a yearbook Gerard happens to be in going on ebay for several hundred dollars? It just doesn't feel fair or reasonable. Don't get me wrong, I understand the urge to collect band memorabilia (I've kept plenty of tickets, posters, photos, t-shirts etc. over the years), but a high school yearbook is not band memorabilia. And I get wanting to know more about where the members are coming from to better understand their art, but that's exactly what interviews are for. 

If the guys post pictures of themselves when they were younger that's fine, and those feel like fair game to share. But to me, this moves from being interested in the band or a person's work to something very different, something invasive, and kinda creepy. Like yeah the “I'm never going to get out of Belleville” quote is heartbreaking and beautiful, but it's also a message that a teenager wrote to their friend In private.

[miley1442111]

dinner revelations and reactions- r.cameron (part 3)

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a/n: this takes place in a au where the stuff that happens in the show doesn't happen :)

tropes: childhood bestfriends to lovers, enemies to lovers

pairing: rafe cameron x fem! reader, jj maybank x reader (dw, not for long)

(use of Y/n, and the nickname Bunny/ bun (but i promise not in a weird way there's a story to it i swear it's not just one of those weird smut things))

summary: rafe and you finally confront each other and it doesn't end as planned, neither does you night...

warnings: mentions of drugs and drug use and drinking, fighting, cursing, rafe is a dick, rafe's mental health, reader is going through it, smut (18+)(fade to black a little bit??) , kissing, alcohol, having sex while being drunk (?), drinking, kind of alcohol abuse, mentions of dead parents and sibling, rafe being jealous, rafe is also going through it (and I think that's it?)

not entirely proofread

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Rafe sat across from you, and you felt his eyes on you the whole time. He had no right to be affecting you like this, making you nervous, making you irritated, worst of all, making you feel anything. 

“So, Bunny,” Ward started. “How are your folks? I haven’t heard from them in a while.”

You felt your throat close, and an uncontrollable coughing fit started. Sarah hit your back and it finally stopped, but you excused yourself for a moment, not knowing what to do. You walked to the kitchen, a glass of water in hand, different to the strawberry daiquiri on the table, the one that Rose had insisted on making you. You felt yourself tear up as you thought about your lonely life. The past 3 had been the worst of your life. Coming home to an empty house, having to clean out their bedroom and everything else they owned, having no choice in how they went. A lot of your college friends ditched you at that time too, you didn't tell them what happened and you stopped coming out with them, so you drifted. It was so fucking hard. And explaining it would be difficult too. 

You hadn’t even noticed you’d started crying until Rafe had put his arms around you. 

And then there was the Rafe heartbreak. Your best friend and first love drifting away mere months after you moved to a whole new place, full of new people, and new ways to live. It was unfunny how upset you’d been, not leaving your room (except for going to school or for mealtimes), you almost broke your phone, you were so upset, and you got rid of anything (aside from the friendship bracelet you still wore) that reminded you of him. 

But for just a millisecond, you allowed yourself to enjoy him being there for you. 

Despite promising yourself that you’d never speak to him again when you turned 16 and he hadn’t replied in months, when big life events happened, you’d texted him. You’d texted him when your parents died, when you graduated with honours, when you got accepted into your dream college, and every single time, it always said that he read your messages. He knew what was going on, he knew you needed him, and he did nothing. 

You pushed him off of you and sighed. “Don’t try to comfort me now. That’s not fair,” you whispered, trying to stop yourself from crying. 

“Bun, please I’m-” he started, trying to take your hand, trying to make you look at him. To see the distress he was in, to notice the effect you had on him, to know that he still cared about you. 

“No!” you groaned, crossing your arms and moving further away from him. Thank god they had a huge kitchen. Rafe was always the focal point in every room, he drew attention in from everyone. His charisma, his smile, his looks, everything. Every time you entered a room he was in you were engulfed by Rafe, and it wasn’t fair. “Rafe, I don’t want your pity!-”

“It’s not pity-”

“Well I don’t want your help!” You finally stopped crying, the sadness easing but all that was left in its wake was rage. “I needed you, when I was a scared 15 year old girl in a new city, on the other side of  the country, I needed you when my brother died, I needed you when my parents died, I needed you when I was scared to move to college, I needed you when my first boyfriend and I broke up, and you weren’t there Rafe. But just because I needed you then, does not mean I need you now. You are exactly what is wrong with everyone on this island. You’re a prejudiced, privileged, piece of shit, asshole, drunk, with too much time and money on his hands. Get a job, work for something, for anything.” 

Rafe just stood there in shock. You pushed past him, rejoining the table.

“Sorry about that,” you chuckled. “My parents…” You paused and took a deep breath. “They died three years ago, sorry I didn’t call to let you know.” 

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Rafe sat across from you, and he had no idea what he was going to do. 

“So, Bunny,” Ward started and he rolled his eyes. Bunny had been a nickname Rafe had given you, and it had always bothered him when his dad used it, or when Rose used it, or when basically anyone but him used it . “How are your folks? I haven’t heard from them in a while.”

Rafe watched as your coughing fit began and he knew why. A sense of dread settled itself deep in his stomach and he sighed when you left to get a glass of water. He started getting up, then turned to Rose. “She doesn’t fucking like strawberry darquiri’s,” he spat.

He walked into the kitchen as quietly as possible, seeing how you sobbed with a hand over your mouth over the sink. He couldn’t help but feel partly responsible, and he hated seeing you cry. He felt you stiffen and quiet when he pulled his arms around you, then he held you closer as you started crying more. He’d missed you so damn much. He knew he should’ve responded, even after all these years, even when he fucking yearned to talk to you. But he’d made his bed and he had to lie in it. 

Losing you was one of the hardest things he’d ever gone through, and it wasn’t like his mom, where he could blame external forces, he was stuck with knowing that you being gone was his doing. That he’d driven you away at the ripe old age of 14. He loved you, and you’d left, but he just couldn’t see a universe where someone as lovely as you wanted him to stay, so he left. And he was stupid for leaving, and even worse for not apologising, but he was never known to go back on his word. As he held you, he thought about all the time his dad had said something, had hit him, and he thought about the fact that he could’ve talked to you. He could’ve called and asked for your advice, he could’ve heard your voice.  

And he noticed how your hands stayed on his body, not pushing him away, and he smiled. 

He felt awful for his behaviour. He should’ve been there for you when your brother and when your parents died. He knew he should’ve driven to fucking California and held you at the funeral. Let you cry on his shoulder. He should’ve been sending you supportive texts as you entered college, he should’ve been facetiming you asking about courses and classes, he should’ve been there to tell you that your asshole boyfriend wasn’t the shit. He remembered how he’d gone on a two-day bender when you texted him to say you had a boyfriend. He’d never been so jealous, and he hadn’t seen you in years. But he knew, he knew your spirit and he knew how beautiful you’d grown up to be. He knew your personality and your smile. It wasn’t fair what he did, but he knew this wasn’t about him. So, he just enjoyed being wanted by you, even if it was just for a few minutes. He didn’t deserve you in any capacity, but you still stood in the kitchen, his arms around you as you cried. 

You pushed him off of you and sighed. “Don’t try to comfort me now. That’s not fair,” you whispered. And the moment was over, but Rafe still had to try. 

“Bun, please I’m-” he started, trying to take your hand. He needed you to see him. He needed you to look at him, and look at the desperation in his eyes. He needed to explain that he hadn’t felt alive since you’d been gone, and having you here, being able to hold you? It had brought him back to life. 

“No!” you groaned, crossing your arms and moving further away from him. Fuck this huge kitchen, he wanted you closer to him, but he knew not to overstep. He stood at the sink and you paced slowly. Rafe was being driven out of his mind with these mixed signals. This wasn’t fair. “Rafe, I don’t want your pity!-”

“It’s not pity-” He tried to reason, his anger bubbling, but he took a deep breath to try and settle it. 

“Well I don’t want your help!” You finally stopped crying, the sadness easing but all that was left in its wake was rage. “I needed you, when I was a scared 15 year old girl in a new city, on the other side of  the country, I needed you when my brother died, I needed you when my parents died, I needed you when I was scared to move to college, I needed you when my first boyfriend and I broke up, and you weren’t there Rafe. But just because I needed you then, does not mean I need you now. You are exactly what is wrong with everyone on this island. You’re a prejudiced, privileged, piece of shitty, drunk, with too much time and money on his hands. Get a job, work for something, for anything.” 

Rafe just stood there in shock. You pushed past him, rejoining the table. He felt sick. No one had ever called him out like that, you had never spoken to him like that. He stood in the kitchen, and for the first time in years, he cried. He felt a genuine tear fall down his face and he knew he was fucked. 

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You showed up outside John B’s place, wanting to find Jj. None of it made any sense, it never had. Rafe, your parents, your brother, everything. 

“Hey Y/n,” He smiled, opening the door. You pushed past him inside and to his bedroom. “Everything ok?” He asked, following you.

“Do you have something strong?” You asked and he smirked. 

“Yeah,” he reached behind you to a cabinet and produced a bottle of Polmos Spirytus Rektyfikowany Vodka. 

“What’s that?” You asked, looking over to Polish bottle. 

“95% abv,” he smirked. “Strongest out there.”

You uncapped it and took a large swig. Jj chuckled when you had no reaction. 

“Good,” he smirked, then took the bottle off of you and drank some himself. 

The night went on through a haze of alcohol, laughter, and a weird energy in the air, something you couldn’t exactly put your finger on. 

“You tired?” He asked, a smile on his face. 

You didn’t answer, just pressing your lips to his. His hands grabbed your waist as you pulled him down on top of you. You needed to forget, to be distracted for a few hours, for one night to not be inside your own mind. Jj could serve that purpose, and maybe more. You just knew you needed to stop thinking.

“A-are you sure?” He asked, pulling away for a beat as you pulled his shirt off. 

“So sure,” you nodded and kissed him again. He smirked as you desperately pulled at his hair. 

He pulled down your trousers and pants in one fluid motion and he groaned. “You’re fucking gorgeous. All of you.”

He smashed his lips onto yours once again. Next his pants were down and he wax putting a condom on, then he was inside you and fuck. He was big. 

“Jj!” you whined as he sunk into you. His forehead was already laced with sweat. 

“Yeah baby?’ he gritted out, using all of his self-control to give you a minute to adjust. 

“So big,” you groaned. 

“You can take it,” he grunted as he started to move. You were so wet, so tight, so perfect. He couldn’t get you out of his head, and this was a lot better than what he was imagining. 

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You weren’t sure what time it was when you fell asleep, but you were fucking exhausted. You fell asleep with his arms around you, and you woke up the same way, with your head pounding and the uncontrollable urge to vomit.

What had you done?

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obx masterlist :)

navigation for my blog :) (criminal minds, obx, the bear, marvel, top gun, the hunger games, challengers :)

taglist: (comment to be added :))

@hockeybabe87 @maybankslover @anightlikethisss @linaaaaa654 @ijustwanttoreadlols @ihe4rttwd @sunny1616 @wearemadeofstardust0 @rafeecameronsbitch @drewswifeeee @lovegeorgia @houseofperfecttaste @ymnizuh

[rambosgirl]

Hiii, could you write about logan x f! opera singer! reader??? And maybe make a moodboard🫶🫶🫶 thx for your works

Heck yea I gotcha babe <3 the first thing I thought of was Greatest Showman (duh) but then I also thought of Phantom of the Opera so uh... here it is, I hope you like it! Oh and I added some headcanons for you, if you want a full fic lmk

Masterlist

Headcanons

Storm, Jean, and Scott dragged him to a show of yours bc ya'll are old friends or something

He was a grump the entire time but when he heard you sing??

he was fascinated

and then they went backstage to see you??

girl he was head over heels. Forgot about Jean for the rest of time bc who is this

He would flirt like there was no tomorrow. And he'd give you pet names, his favorite being 'angel'

Despite your busy schedule and sporadic traveling, the two of you become friends. Whenever you were in town, Charles invited you to teach a few classes for students interested in music.

You loved teaching, so you always said yes. But after you finished, you and Logan would sneak off and hang out (Jean and Storm call them dates, and tease Logan about it whenever you're not around)

Logan loves listening to you practice. Your voice isn't just calming, it's fascinating. How do you hold out notes for that long? How do you reach those high notes and make them sound so rich? He doesn't know but he's here for it.

He goes to as many performances as he can, but he often struggles to fit in with the elegance of your world

The fancy opera house, galas, high-society events and people, it's not really his element. It's actually the opposite.

Not to mention the tux. DANG he looks good in it but you can tell he's wildly uncomfortable in it.

it's why he only goes to those events with you sometimes, but he does love to be with you backstage, supporting you within his comfort zone, which you are perfectly okay with.

He'll be there watching when you do your hair, perfect your makeup, and when you perform.

He also reminds you when you're not performing that you don't have to be perfect all the time, something that as an opera singer, you struggle with

You've known each other for months by the time he lets you hear his singing voice

It's a deep baritone voice, completely different from his speaking voice, but at the same time very similar

"You've got a voice that could sell out a theater. Ever think of putting the claws away to give musicals a try?"

He just let out a soft, playful scoff in response "You won't ever catch me singing on a stage"

"The circus it is then"

Insert the Logan eyebrow raise here

As your relationship grows, so does Logan's admiration for you.

sometimes when he sees you on stage in your white dress he imagines it's a wedding dress

Eventually, you tone down the performance side of your career and start staying at the mansion teaching more. You miss performing sometimes, but this means you can spend more time with your old friends, your students, and Logan.

Logan is a-okay with this he misses the white dress

but that's okay because he's planning a way for you to wear a white dress again :)))

[uluvjay]

Tattoos- T.Zegras

Summary: Your boyfriend looks extremely sexy while getting a tattoo

Tz x female reader!

Warnings?: SLUTTY, cursing, pain?, pet names

A/n: I hardly know anything about tattoos and this was hardly proofread so please excuse any errors!❤️

Do not repost my works as your own

Today Trevor has his first tattoo appointment out of three to get his half-sleeve finished. The guy was coming to the house like last time and Trevor was pretty much bouncing off the walls waiting.

When Trevor got his Nike tattoo last year you were out of town so you didn’t really know what to expect but still happy that your boyfriend was finally getting the tattoo he had been planning for months.

-

Your not sure what you were expecting but it definitely wasn’t that you would get horny watching your boyfriend in pain.

You were sat with your back against the opposite side of the couch with your feet in Trevor’s lap so he could hold onto one when needed and it didn’t hurt as much as It would with your hand.

You were also supposed to be planning your outfits for stagecoach in a few days but every time your boyfriend let out a light swear word or winced he took all your attention back.

You weren’t sure if it was the way his head was thrown back and his eyes were clenching as the artist took the tattoo gun over a more sensitive area of Trevor’s arm or the small grunts he was making but it had you clenching your thighs.

You couldn’t help but think about how pretty he looks from that angle when your in between his thighs on your knees and how good he taste- you needed a break from this view.

You wiggled your toes to signal for Trevor to let go so you could get up.

“Where you goin?” He asked as you stood up

“To get a drink, anyone want anything?” You asked but both men declined.

You chugged the glass of water you poured, you didn’t know what was wrong with you, how could you find your boyfriend in pain sexy? You should not have been this wet.

You must have been in the kitchen lost in your thoughts for longer than you thought because as you walked out Trevor was letting the Artist out of the house.

“All done already?” You asked slightly surprised

“Yeah we only did a majority of the outline today” he told you as he walked up to you to show you what he could from it being wrapped.

“Looks good babe” you told him as you looked at it

“You okay? Your red” he asked and you were sure your face got ten shades deeper.

“Yeah just a little hot” you told him looking down.

“You sure? Your not feeling sick or anything?” Poor boy thought you were getting sick, how were you gonna tell him you got turned on watching him get a tattoo?

“I’m sure baby, I’m feeling fine” you let him know.

“Now cmon let’s go watch our show” you said pulling him into the living room.

—

The next day you tried to get out of the house while Trevor got work done to his sleeve but you could only spend so long in the grocery store before people started to look at you weird.

And when you returned home with only four grocery bags after being gone for three hours Trevor looked at you a little weird as well.

“Were those old ladies holding up th-ahh shit” he started to ask but got cut off as the gun went over a sensitive spot.

You could already feel your core begin to throb at those simple sounds, it was pathetic honestly.

“Their names are Dolly and Marie, but yes they were holding up the deli line.” You said with a little laugh as you sat in the same place you did yesterday.

“They’re so sweet but take so lon-fuck” he once again got cut off by pain, the same pain that had you wet.

“I don’t mind it, they kind of remind me of you and Jamie” you told him with a laugh.

“Wow” he replied trying not laugh much so he didn’t move.

The conversation ended there as you turned the tv on, however it didn’t keep your attention for long as you boyfriends groans were a little louder today.

You couldn’t help but stare as you thought of all the things you wanted to do to your boy and all the things you wanted him to do to you. He was so pretty and the noises he made were even prettier.

“Baby!” You heard someone lightly shout and snap their fingers to get you out of your thoughts.

“Yeah? Sorry I zoned out” you told him getting red again

Trevor didn’t tell you because he wasn’t sure if he was right or not but he was pretty sure he saw you clenching your thighs and looking at his arm being tattooed.

“I was just asking if you could grab some paper towels please” he asked.

“Oh yeah, no problem” you said as you ran off

—

The next day Trevor decided he needed to figure out if he saw what he thought he saw, was his girlfriend really getting turned on to him in pain?

So here you were back in the same position as the last two days, your feet in his lap as you were leaned against the opposite side of the couch.

He’d been paying more attention to you then had had the past two days and he was beginning to think that his theory was right, you were getting turned on by his pain.

He noticed that every time he grunted, swore under his breath, or threw his head Back you were clenching your thighs and most of the time today you were lost in thought.

Once the sleeve was finished and he paid his artist he sat on the couch and called you in from the kitchen.

As you came in to stand in front of him he pulled you onto his lap, being mindful of his freshly done arm.

“I have a question” he said as he pulled you against him with your core right over his dick where he could feel you throbbing.

“Yeah?” You asked

“We’re you turned on by my pain?” He asked as he watched your face morph from shock to embarrassment.

“What!? No of course not” you said looking down in your laps.

“Baby?”

“Yeah?..”

“I can feel you throbbing on me” he said with a smirk as he began kissing your neck.

“Okay..maybe I did. You looked so pretty and you were making noises you do in bed” you said

“Oh I looked pretty in pain?” He asked with a grin

“Shut up” you said laughing

He didn’t reply just pulled your face down to his and kissed you nice and hard just how you liked it. He pulled your hair making you gasp and allow him to slip his tongue in your mouth and laying a smack on your ass.

“Z we can’t, I don’t want to accidentally grip your arm.” you said pulling away a from him.

“Looks like your gonna be riding me then” he told you as he pulled you back down to his lips.

—

Hope you enjoyed, thank you so much for reading!❤️❤️

[behidethetrees]

THE RIGHT SIDE OF MY NECK, STILL SMELLS LIKE YOU.

IN WHICH… having a job while dating a clingy rafe doesn’t exactly go hand in hand.

Pairing: Rafe Cameron x Fem! Pogue!Reader

Contents: NON-CANON!Rafe, Reader fixes cars, clingy and possessive! Rafe, brief Pope mention, Your friends are the pogues, This is set in the 2000s!!

THIS IS A REUPLOAD!!! my old blog was deleted so i have to reupload all my fics :( Anways enjoy!

Prequel Part 1

Rafe hates that you work. 

You weren't meant to clean cars, You were meant to stay inside your Tannyhill house with Rafe, Always next to him, never out of his sight. 

He hated the assholes you complained about for being rude to you. Rafe always argued or sometimes fought people who even looked at you wrong. Once he heard some old dude yell at you to hurry up, Later that night Rafe smashed his car with his golf club. He was big on respect especially when it came to you. 

But there was nothing more that Rafe hated than the fact you worked with Guys alongside two other girls. It's not that he didn't trust you or thought you might cheat on him with them, He didn't trust them. You were beautiful, heaven sent in Rafe's eyes. Your guy friends were lucky to even be in your presence, Or they were even luckier Rafe didn't bash their heads open for being around you. 

Sometimes Rafe would show up to your job for a bit when he wasn't playing golf or he missed you extra. You knew Rafe was very, very clingy, always touching you in some way, But today was extreme. 

JULY, 2008. 

“Rafe I'm gonna be late!” You tried to get Rafe off your back but he kept hugging you tighter. 

“Do you have to have to go, why can't I come, why can't you just quit already?” Rafe whines. He'd never admit it out loud but he dreaded the times you went to work.

You start to waddle towards the front door. “If I let you come with me will you get off of me?” You question him.

Almost instantly Rafe steps away, looking at you surprised as you already walk outside, opening your car door. “Really? I can go?” He asks shocked.

“If you dont get in the car in 10 seconds I'm leaving you.” You stated, Not that you were going to leave him but you wanted him to hurry up. Rafe almost trips because of how fast he darted to your car. Rafe insisted he’d drive you, that wasnt up for discussion.

Rafe opens the car door for you when you two arrive at the Pogue bodyshop. He slips his arms around your waist as you walk, keeping you close to him, This was going to be a long day. 

When you popped open the hood of your client's car, Rafe hugged you from behind, Kissing your neck gently as you worked. At first you didn't mind but it started becoming a lot. Anywhere you walked, Rafe followed. When you went to talk to anybody Rafe slung his arm around your neck while giving whoever the death stare, making sure they know you're his. 

When you went on lunch break Rafe sat you in his lap, keeping you away from your friends. As you eat your sandwich, Occasionally letting Rafe have a bite, Your friend Pope comes up to you.

“Hey Y/N do you want my chips?” Pope offered, He always gave you his chips because he felt too guilty to tell his mom she wasnt getting the right kind. 

“Yeah sure thanks Pope” You smiled at him, as you extended your arm to grab them, You felt Rafe's strong arm pull yours back down. 

“Fuck off.” Rafe grits through his teeth, Staring at him tensely. Pope's expression fell and he quickly turned around to start speed walking to the other pogues.

“What the hell was that?” You flicked Rafe on the forehead. 

“I dont like him, He's no good like the rest of those pogues.” Rafe states as he rubs the part of his forehead you flicked him on. Rafe didn't like your friends for many reasons, stupid reasons. Mostly because they're pogues, like you, which confused you. 

“Im a pogue too Rafe.” You remind him as you cross your arms, You didn't understand the whole ‘Kooks vs. Pogues’ rivalry. You recall the first time you met JJ he went on a rant on how you should stay away from kooks and how they're the real trash. 

“Not like them, you're different baby.” Rafe tried to clarify but he had already messed up. You stood up in front of him, still crossing your arms. 

“Apologize to him or leave.” You tell him. “ You can't come to my work just to be mean to my friends and clients, And I can't work with you all up on me Rafe!” Rafe quickly stood up, He heard your tone and your voice slightly getting louder indicating you were getting annoyed with him. But luckily for Rafe, he knew how to get you to calm down. 

“Hey, hey I'm sorry okay? Really I am, dont make me leave.” Rafe grabbed your hands to take them into his own. All it took was Rafe's sweet words and his dazzling eyes for you to give in to him. Your face softens as you look at him. 

You sigh. “Please stop clinging to me when I'm working okay? I promise we can cuddle when we get home but I need to get this car done.” You tell him, He quickly nods. 

“And I'm serious Rafe, apologize to Pope!” You playfully push his shoulder.

“Whatever you want baby.” 

A/N: someone on my old blog wanted a prequel of how they met so i will do that soon <3.

Requests

Taglist: @nowitsmissing

[callsigns-haze]

You knew? Part 3 of 3

Part 1 Part 2

Pairing: Bradley Rooster Bradshaw x Reader! Callsign Ace

Chapter Summary: A fierce rivalry between two Navy pilots, Ace and Rooster, turns into a deeper connection as they confront their fears, emotions, and unspoken feelings after a near-fatal incident forces them to rely on each other.

This chapter contains themes of emotional conflict, betrayal, and recovery from a near-death experience, mentions of inequality and anxiety. Expect tense dialogue and unresolved emotions

Two months had passed since Ace's crash, and the recovery process had been slow, gruelling, and at times, frustrating. After three weeks in the hospital, where she’d undergone multiple procedures and endured long days of observation, she had been released to start physical therapy. The last few weeks had been filled with rehab, regaining mobility and strength in her battered body. Her right wrist was still wrapped in a brace, a constant reminder of the crash, and a knee brace stabilized her leg. Three fingers on her left hand were splinted, but despite all that, tomorrow was the day she had been waiting for—her return to work.

Today, though, was about one last bit of self-care. Penny and Amelia had come over to help her wash her hair, a simple luxury she hadn’t been able to manage easily on her own in weeks. Now, they were gathered around the kitchen sink in Penny’s cozy house, sunlight streaming through the windows and casting a warm glow over the room.

Ace sat in a chair pulled up to the sink, her head tilted back as Penny worked the shampoo through her hair, fingers gentle but firm. Amelia stood nearby, holding a towel and chatting animatedly with her mother and Ace as she helped by handing Penny anything she needed.

“You're so lucky you get to go back to work tomorrow," Amelia said, her youthful energy spilling over into every word. “You must be excited.”

Ace smiled faintly, though the truth was, excitement wasn’t the only emotion swirling in her chest. "Excited? Yeah, sure. But also a little nervous. It’s been a long time since I’ve flown, and I’m not exactly in perfect shape yet.” She wiggled her splinted fingers as if to emphasize the point.

Penny chuckled softly, rinsing out the shampoo with warm water. “Trust me, you’ll be fine. You’ve been working so hard to get back, and everyone at the base knows you’re tough as nails. Besides, you're just easing into things, right? No dogfights on your first day back.”

Ace sighed, the warm water soothing as it ran through her hair. “Yeah, I’m just doing some simulations and light training, nothing crazy. But you know how it is, there’s always that pressure to be perfect, especially with everyone watching.”

Penny glanced down at her, a reassuring smile on her face. “No one expects you to be perfect. Just take it slow. You’ve been through a lot, and you need to give yourself credit for how far you’ve come.”

Amelia nodded enthusiastically. “Yeah, besides, with all that cool gear you’ve got—" she motioned to the wrist brace and knee brace with a playful grin, “—you look like a total superhero.”

Ace laughed, the sound bubbling up from her chest in a way that felt good. Light. “Oh yeah, I’m definitely rocking the superhero vibe.”

Penny finished rinsing the last of the shampoo from Ace’s hair and reached for the conditioner. “You’ll be back to your old self in no time. And it’s okay to ask for help when you need it. You’ve got people who care about you.”

Ace went quiet for a moment, thinking about those words. People who cared. She hadn’t made it easy for them, not with the way she had been avoiding Rooster, Hangman, and even Phoenix since the whole email mess. She’d kept her distance from the Dagger Squad, focusing on recovery and shutting out anything else. But Penny was right—she wasn’t alone.

“You’re right,” Ace said finally, her voice softer. “I guess I’ve just been too stubborn to realize it.”

Penny smiled knowingly as she worked the conditioner through Ace’s hair. “It’s okay to be stubborn sometimes. Just not when it keeps you from letting people in.”

Amelia chimed in again. “Yeah, like us! You know we’re here to help you with anything. Even something as simple as washing your hair.”

Ace smiled again, the warmth of their kindness washing over her like the water from the sink. “Thanks, shortstack. I really appreciate this. I didn’t think I’d miss something as small as having clean hair.”

Penny chuckled, gently massaging the conditioner into Ace’s scalp. “Sometimes it’s the little things that make the biggest difference, especially when you’re healing. You’ve earned a bit of pampering.”

Amelia handed Penny a comb, and she carefully started working through Ace’s damp hair. “And speaking of pampering, maybe you should take tomorrow easy. Just focus on getting back in the cockpit, not proving anything to anyone.”

Ace exhaled slowly, feeling the weight of that advice. “Yeah, maybe you’re right. I don’t have to prove anything… except that I can still kick everyone’s ass when I’m fully healed.”

Amelia grinned, stepping closer with the towel. “That’s the spirit! Just make sure you wait until you’re totally ready. We don’t need another close call.”

--

The sun was barely rising as Ace pulled into the parking lot at the base, the familiar hum of engines and the sight of planes in the distance reminding her of how much she had missed this. Today was the day she would finally return to work, and despite the aches in her body and the braces she still wore, a part of her felt more alive than she had in months.

As she parked her car and grabbed her bag, she spotted a familiar figure waiting by the edge of the lot—tall, with a cocky grin already plastered on his face. Hangman. Her wingman. He waved at her, his ever-present confidence practically radiating from him.

Weeks ago, they had finally made amends after the email debacle. Despite his tendency to be a total douche, he had been the first to apologize, and Ace, knowing they were bound as wingmen, had accepted. Their relationship had always been complicated, but they’d grown closer after everything. He was still cocky and annoying, but he was her wingman, and that meant something.

As soon as she stepped out of the car, he called out to her. “Well, well, if it isn’t the bionic woman herself! Ready to fly again?”

Ace rolled her eyes but couldn’t help the smile tugging at her lips. “Don’t start, Hangman. I’m barely back, and you’re already running your mouth.”

“Wouldn’t be me if I didn’t,” he shot back, striding over to her with his easy, swaggering gait.

Before she could say anything more, Hangman’s arms were open, and in a rare display of softness, Ace ran into his hug. His arms wrapped around her tightly, and for a moment, she let herself relax into it. It felt good. Comforting, even.

“Missed you, Ace,” he said, his voice softer than usual as he held her close. “It wasn’t the same without you out there.”

She chuckled against his shoulder before pulling back slightly to look up at him. “Missed me or missed someone keeping you in line?”

“Both,” he admitted with a grin, his green eyes twinkling. “But mostly you.”

She rolled her eyes again, playfully shoving him back. “Alright, don’t get all sentimental on me. You’re still a douche.”

“And you’re still a pain in my ass, but I guess that’s why we work so well together,” he shot back, slinging an arm around her shoulders as they started walking toward the hangars.

The early morning air was crisp, and the base was already buzzing with activity as they walked, the sound of jets warming up in the background. Ace felt a sense of relief wash over her. This was her world—the adrenaline, the camaraderie, the sky. And as much as she liked to pretend she didn’t care, having Hangman by her side meant something. He wasn’t just a wingman in the air; he was one on the ground, too.

“So,” Hangman started, his arm still draped around her as they made their way toward the flight deck, “what’s the plan? You gonna take it easy, or are you back to kicking ass right away?”

Ace smirked, glancing up at him. “You know me. I never do anything halfway.”

He laughed, shaking his head. “Yeah, I figured as much. Just try not to break any more bones, alright?”

“Only if you keep your mouth in check,” she teased.

“Deal,” he said, grinning widely.

-

Rooster and Phoenix were sitting in the briefing room, catching up on the day’s assignments before the pilots gathered for the afternoon’s debrief. Rooster was flipping through a stack of paperwork, while Phoenix studied a training report, their conversation flowing easily between them.

“You know,” Phoenix began, glancing up from her report, “I saw Hangman and Ace talking in the parking lot this morning. It looked like they were actually... getting along.”

Rooster looked up, a skeptical eyebrow raised. “Hangman and Ace? Really? After everything that’s happened?”

“Yeah,” Phoenix replied with a nod. “I know it’s been a mess, but it seems like they finally patched things up. They were hugging and joking around. It’s good to see them talking, especially after how things went down.”

Rooster sighed, setting down his paperwork. “I suppose it’s good. Hangman’s an ass sometimes, but he’s still a part of the team. And Ace... well, she deserves to have things settled. It’s been rough for her.”

Phoenix nodded in agreement. “Definitely. I think it’s a step in the right direction. Everyone’s been a bit on edge, and having some harmony back will help. She’s been through enough already.”

Rooster leaned back in his chair, a thoughtful look on his face. “Yeah. I guess it’s nice to see some normalcy returning. I just hope she’s ready for the workload. It’s not going to be a walk in the park.”

“True,” Phoenix said, “but I think she’s more than ready. She’s a tough one, after all.”

-

As Ace and Hangman walked into the hangar, their presence didn’t go unnoticed. The air was charged with anticipation as pilots from different squadrons looked up from their desks. The chatter in the hangar hushed, and one by one, the pilots began to stand up, clapping and cheering as Ace made her way through.

Ace’s cheeks flushed slightly at the unexpected reception, but she couldn’t hide her smile. The applause was a testament to how much she had been missed, and the camaraderie she had felt throughout her career was palpable. Hangman grinned at her, his usual cocky demeanour softened by a rare moment of genuine pride.

“Looks like they missed you,” Hangman said, his voice loud enough for her to hear over the clapping.

“Yeah, I guess so,” Ace replied, a mix of emotions crossing her face as she acknowledged the warm welcome. “It feels good to be back.”

As they continued to walk toward their desks, Cyclone approached them, his expression serious but not unfriendly. He was one of the senior officers, known for his no-nonsense attitude and his role in maintaining the high standards of the squadron.

“Ace,” Cyclone said, extending a hand. “Welcome back. I see you’ve made a full recovery.”

“Thanks, Cyclone,” Ace replied, shaking his hand firmly.

Cyclone’s gaze was steady as he regarded her. “There’s something we need to discuss, though. Before you get back into the thick of things, I need to give you the ‘getting shot’ talk.”

Ace’s smile faded slightly as she nodded, taking a step closer. Hangman, sensing the seriousness of the conversation, gave Ace a supportive pat on the back before stepping back to give them space.

Cyclone led her to a quieter corner of the hangar, away from the bustling activity. “Look, Ace,” he began, his tone serious but not harsh, “you’ve been through a lot. We’re all thrilled you’re back, but I need to remind you of the risks.”

Ace nodded, her face turning serious as she listened. “I understand, Cyclone.”

“The job isn’t forgiving,” Cyclone continued, “and while we’re all rooting for you, I need to make sure you’re aware of what you’re getting back into. Things might not always go as planned, and you need to be prepared for the worst-case scenarios.”

“I’m ready,” Ace said firmly. “I’ve been through a lot, and I’m ready to face whatever comes my way.”

Cyclone studied her for a moment, then nodded approvingly. “Good. I know you’ve got the skills and the determination. Just remember, even with everything you’ve been through, don’t push yourself beyond your limits. The squad needs you at your best, and that means taking care of yourself.”

“I will,” Ace promised. “I’m not planning to take unnecessary risks.”

Cyclone’s stern expression softened slightly as he clapped her on the shoulder. “Alright then. Just remember we’re all here for you. Now, go get settled in. We’ve got work to do.”

As Cyclone walked away, Ace returned to her desk, her heart warmed by the support she had received from her fellow pilots and the encouraging words from Cyclone. The applause and the talk had reinforced her resolve, reminding her that she was not just returning to work, but stepping back into a community that valued her.

--

Ace stepped into the break room, hoping to grab a quick coffee before the next round of meetings. She was grateful for a moment of peace after the overwhelming reception she had gotten that morning. The applause had been heart-warming, but she still wasn’t sure how to handle all the attention. Her wrist brace rubbed against her skin, a constant reminder that she wasn’t fully healed. The splints on her fingers made even small tasks feel clumsy, and the knee brace pulled with every step. She just wanted to get through the day without feeling like everyone was watching her every move.

As she filled her cup, she heard the door to the break room open and felt a familiar presence behind her. Rooster.

Ace stiffened, trying to focus on the sound of coffee pouring into the mug. She hadn’t spoken much to Rooster since the email incident months ago, and the tension between them had only grown. She’d made it her mission to avoid any serious confrontation, especially after everything that had happened. But now, in this small break room, there was no escape.

"Hey," Rooster's voice cut through the quiet, low and cautious.

Ace glanced over her shoulder, giving him a quick nod before turning back to her coffee. “Hey,” she mumbled, hoping to keep the exchange brief.

But Rooster’s eyes weren’t on her face. They were locked on her wrist brace, his gaze then traveling down to her splinted fingers, and finally her knee. She could feel his eyes on her, taking in every bit of evidence of her injuries.

“You alright?” he asked, his voice thick with concern.

Ace forced a small smile, trying to brush it off. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just a few bumps and bruises.”

Rooster didn’t buy it. His brow furrowed, and the usual lightness in his eyes was replaced by something heavier. “Ace… you don’t have to act tough all the time.”

She bristled at that, her hand tightening around the mug. “I’m not acting tough. I am tough,” she shot back, a bit more sharply than she intended.

Rooster sighed, stepping a little closer. “I didn’t mean it like that. I just… I don’t get why you hate me so much.”

The words hit Ace like a punch to the gut. She froze, staring into the coffee as if it could give her the answer to what had been brewing inside her for so long. Her heart pounded in her chest, and she could feel her walls starting to crack, but she wasn’t ready to go there. Not now. Not with him.

“I don’t hate you,” she said quietly, but the lie was thin.

Rooster shook his head, frustration creeping into his voice. “No, you do. You’ve hated me for years, Ace, and I don’t know why. Is it because of the email thing? Or is it something else?”

The dam inside her finally broke. She slammed her cup down on the counter, the sound loud and jarring in the small room. Her whole body tensed as she spun around to face him, her eyes flashing with a mix of anger and pain.

“You want to know why?” she shouted, her voice cracking under the weight of years of pent-up frustration. “It’s because all my life, I’ve had to prove that I’m better than you! Every. Single. Time. I’ve had to fight tooth and nail just to be seen as your equal!”

Rooster blinked, taken aback by the intensity of her outburst, but she wasn’t done.

“You don’t get it, Bradley. You never had to. You walk into a room, and people respect you. You get the benefit of the doubt. But me? I have to prove myself every single time because I’m a woman. And it’s not enough to just be as good as you. I have to be better. I have to be perfect, because if I’m not, no one gives me a second look.”

Her voice was rising now, years of resentment spilling out like a flood she could no longer contain. “Every time you were just a few points behind me, you still got the job, the promotion, the respect. You got to fly, and I had to fight for every damn mission! And why? Because I wasn’t a man? Because no one believed I could be as good as you?”

Rooster stood frozen, his mouth slightly open, but the words wouldn’t come. He had never seen her like this—so raw, so exposed. The anger in her voice shook him to his core.

Ace was breathing heavily now, her hands trembling as she tried to keep it together. “Do you know what that feels like?” she continued, her voice breaking. “To have to prove over and over that you’re good enough? And even when I do, it’s still not enough! I almost died out there, Rooster. I almost didn’t make it, and no one would’ve cared because to them, I’m just a woman trying to play in the boys’ club!”

Tears were threatening to spill from her eyes, but she blinked them back, refusing to let herself break in front of him. Not completely.

Rooster finally found his voice, though it was hoarse and low. “Ace, I didn’t know… I didn’t realize it was like that for you.”

“Of course you didn’t,” she spat, her voice laced with bitterness. “You never had to think about it.”

For a moment, the room was silent, the weight of her words hanging heavily between them. Rooster didn’t know what to say, how to fix the wound he hadn’t even realized existed. All he could do was stand there, staring at her as she stood on the edge of breaking down.

“I don’t hate you, Rooster,” Ace finally said, her voice quieter now, full of exhaustion. “But I hate how easy it is for you. And I hate that I have to work twice as hard just to be seen.”

Rooster stepped closer, reaching out as if to touch her arm, but he stopped himself. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I never wanted you to feel like that.”

Ace shook her head, wiping at her eyes roughly. “It doesn’t matter. It’s just the way it is.”

Rooster looked at her, his own emotions conflicted, guilt weighing heavily on him. He wanted to say more, to fix it somehow, but nothing seemed enough.

-

The room was buzzing with energy, pilots eager to get up in their jets, but everyone quieted as Maverick cleared his throat.

“Alright, listen up,” Maverick started, his voice carrying the authority that came from years of experience. “Today, we’re pairing up for some head-to-head dogfights. I want you pushing yourselves, testing your limits, and working together. Your teams are as follows: Rooster, Phoenix, and Bob—your trio is up against Hangman and Ace.”

Ace felt her heart skip a beat. A dogfight against Rooster? After everything that had gone down between them, she wasn’t sure if she was ready to be in direct competition with him again. But she wasn’t about to back down. Not now. Not after everything she’d fought through to get back here.

“Get in your daggers and take to the sky,” Maverick said, his eyes scanning the group. “Give me your best. I’ll be monitoring from the ground.”

Ace exchanged a glance with Hangman, who gave her a confident smirk. “Ready to show them what we’re made of?” he asked, his voice oozing with cocky enthusiasm.

She took a deep breath, squaring her shoulders. “Always.”

The Daggers launched into the sky, their jets slicing through the air like knives. Ace settled into the cockpit of her F/A-18, the familiar weight of her helmet and the tight confines of the jet making her feel at home. It had been weeks since she’d been in a full-on dogfight, but the adrenaline coursing through her veins told her she was more than ready.

“Alright, Ace,” Hangman’s voice crackled through her headset, “let’s take it to them.”

“Copy that,” she replied, her voice steady, though inside she felt the rush of anticipation building.

Up ahead, Rooster, Phoenix, and Bob were already in formation, their planes glinting in the sunlight. Rooster’s jet took point, with Phoenix and Bob flanking him. They were an experienced team, and she knew they wouldn’t be easy to take down.

The exercise began with the two teams on opposite ends of the airspace. As soon as Maverick gave the signal, they surged forward, closing the gap between them.

“Stay sharp,” Hangman said, his voice calm but with an edge of excitement. “We’ll break off, keep them guessing.”

“Got it,” Ace replied, her hands tightening on the controls.

Rooster’s team was the first to engage, diving toward them in a sharp descent. Ace quickly banked left, feeling the g-force pull her hard against her seat. Hangman followed suit, both of them splitting up to force Rooster’s team to make a decision—go after her or Hangman.

“Phoenix, Bob, take Hangman. I’ve got Ace,” Rooster called out through the radio, his voice filled with determination.

Ace’s heart raced as she heard Rooster’s voice in her headset, knowing he’d chosen to target her. She pushed her jet to its limits, pulling tight turns and diving low, trying to shake him. But Rooster was relentless, sticking close behind her, his jet always in her rear-view.

“You’re not gonna shake me that easy, Ace,” Rooster’s voice taunted over the radio.

She gritted her teeth, refusing to let him get the upper hand. “We’ll see about that,” she muttered under her breath.

Ahead, she saw her chance—a controlled stall. It was a risky manoeuvre, especially with her recent history, but if she timed it right, she could drop below Rooster, forcing him to overshoot her.

Without hesitation, Ace pulled back hard on the throttle, her jet climbing steeply into the sky. At the apex, she cut the engines, allowing her jet to stall, hanging momentarily in the air before beginning its fall.

Rooster shot past her, his jet zooming overhead as he lost sight of her. It worked. But just as Ace went to flick the engines back on, nothing happened.

For a split second, panic surged through her. The jet was still falling, the ground coming up fast, and her fingers flicked the switches again and again, waiting for the familiar hum of the engines roaring back to life.

“Come on, come on…” she whispered, her heart pounding in her chest. The cockpit was eerily quiet, the stall lasting longer than it should have.

Finally, with a sputter and a roar, the engines kicked back in, sending her jet lurching forward. But the delay had been enough to send her heart racing, and the brief moment of terror still gripped her. She levelled out, her breathing heavy, her hands slightly trembling on the controls.

“I’m calling it,” she said into the radio, her voice uncharacteristically shaky. “I’m done for the day. Requesting permission to land.”

There was a pause, and then Maverick’s calm voice came over the comms. “Permission granted, Ace. Take her in.”

Ace steadied her jet, bringing it around toward the base. Hangman’s voice crackled through her headset, concern lacing his tone. “You alright, Ace?”

“I’m fine,” she replied, though her voice lacked its usual edge. “Just need to get on the ground.”

As she began her descent toward the runway, the rest of the Daggers continued their dogfight above. But Ace’s focus was solely on landing her plane. Her mind replayed the moment of panic over and over, the feeling of helplessness as the engine refused to start.

The second Ace’s plane touched the ground, she didn’t waste a moment. As soon as her jet came to a stop on the tarmac, she popped the canopy, her breath shallow and hurried. She climbed down from the cockpit, her legs wobbly beneath her, but she didn’t wait for anyone. Not the ground crew, not the Dagger squad, no one.

Without making eye contact with anyone, Ace pulled off her helmet and sprinted across the base, straight toward the changing rooms. Her vision tunnelled, her heart racing in her chest, and her only focus was on getting away from the eyes of her teammates. The air felt too thick, too hot, pressing in on her from all sides. She could hear her own shallow breathing in her ears, louder than the hum of engines behind her. Her hands were trembling, the adrenaline that had once fuelled her now turning into something darker—panic.

As she reached the door to the changing rooms, she shoved it open and slammed it behind her. The room was empty, silent, but it did little to calm the storm building inside her. Ace leaned against the locker, her hands gripping the cool metal as she gasped for air. Her chest tightened, and her head swam as the reality of what had happened in the air hit her with full force. She had lost control. She could’ve crashed. The panic she had fought off in the sky was now consuming her, and she didn’t know how to stop it.

Meanwhile, the rest of the Dagger squad began their descent. Hangman, Rooster, Phoenix, and Bob touched down one after the other, the adrenaline of the dogfight still buzzing in their veins. Hangman glanced over to the spot where Ace’s jet had landed and frowned. She was already gone, no sign of her anywhere on the tarmac.

“Where did she go?” Phoenix asked, her voice concerned as she climbed out of her jet.

Rooster’s eyes followed the path Ace had taken, his gut twisting. “I think she went to the changing rooms,” he muttered, already moving before anyone could stop him.

Hangman watched him with a knowing look, but said nothing. Phoenix and Bob exchanged glances, but they didn’t ask questions. They knew something was wrong—everyone could feel it in the air.

Rooster didn’t wait to hear anything else. He jogged across the tarmac, his heart pounding in his chest, not from the flight but from the fear that something was wrong with Ace. The way she had bolted from her jet, the way she avoided them—something wasn’t right.

He reached the door to the changing rooms and hesitated for a split second before pushing it open. The moment he stepped inside, he heard it—the sound of rapid, shallow breaths, gasps that echoed off the walls. His heart clenched as he rounded the corner and saw her.

Ace was sitting on the floor, her back pressed against the lockers, her knees pulled up to her chest. Her helmet and flight gear were tossed carelessly to the side, and her hands were gripping the fabric of her flight suit so tightly her knuckles had turned white. Her eyes were wide and unfocused, and tears streaked down her face as she struggled to breathe, each breath coming in ragged gasps.

“Hey, hey,” Rooster said softly, rushing to her side and kneeling down in front of her. “Ace, it’s okay. It’s okay.”

She didn’t respond, her chest heaving as she tried to pull in air, but it wasn’t coming fast enough. She was lost in the panic, trapped in the fear that had taken hold of her.

Rooster’s heart broke at the sight of her like this, so strong and fierce but now unravelling in front of him. Without thinking, he reached out and gently took her hands in his, prying them away from her flight suit. “Ace, look at me,” he urged, his voice low and calming. “Breathe with me, okay? Just breathe.”

Her eyes flickered to his, but she still looked far away, her breaths coming in harsh pants. Rooster squeezed her hands, grounding her in the present. “In through your nose, out through your mouth. Come on, you can do this.”

He demonstrated, taking slow, deep breaths, and after a few seconds, Ace began to follow his lead. Her breaths were still shaky, but they were slowing down, becoming more controlled. Rooster didn’t let go of her hands, his thumbs rubbing soothing circles against her skin.

“That’s it, you’re doing great,” he whispered, watching as the tension in her shoulders slowly began to release. “Just keep breathing.”

After a few minutes, Ace’s breathing evened out, and she slumped back against the lockers, her chest still rising and falling rapidly but no longer in a full-blown panic. Rooster stayed close, his hands still holding hers, not saying anything for a moment, just giving her time to collect herself.

When she finally looked at him, her eyes were red and puffy, and she looked exhausted, both physically and emotionally.

“I—I lost control up there,” she whispered, her voice hoarse from crying. “I could’ve crashed. I don’t know what happened…”

Rooster shook his head softly, moving closer. “You didn’t crash,” he said firmly. “You handled it. You brought the plane down. You’re here, Ace. You’re okay.”

She swallowed hard, the weight of what had almost happened still heavy on her chest. “I panicked… I don’t panic.”

Rooster reached up and gently brushed a strand of hair away from her face, his touch soft and reassuring. “You’re human. Even the best of us get scared sometimes.”

She closed her eyes, trying to steady herself, but the vulnerability was too much. “I thought I was past this. I thought I could handle it…”

Rooster leaned in, his forehead resting lightly against hers. “You don’t have to handle everything alone,” he whispered. “I’ve never wanted to be better than you, Ace. I’ve always just wanted to fly with you.”

Her breath hitched, and she opened her eyes, meeting his. He gave her a small, tender smile, the usual cocky bravado gone, replaced with genuine care.

“I’ve always cared about you,” he admitted softly, his voice barely above a whisper. “I never wanted to compete with you. I just wanted to be beside you.”

Before she could say anything, Rooster pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead, his lips lingering there for a moment. It wasn’t romantic—it was comforting, grounding. He was showing her that she wasn’t alone.

Ace’s heart swelled with a mix of emotions—relief, fear, gratitude, and something she couldn’t quite name. She closed her eyes and let out a shaky breath, leaning into him just a little.

For the first time in a long time, she didn’t feel like she had to prove anything. Not to him. Not to anyone.

This sure took a while but I reached 1k and thought I should finish it!

[mustainegf]

➜ 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐓

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝟏 — ❝ 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐀𝐒𝐄𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓 ❞

I would have never thought I'd be stuck in this dank, moldy basement of a rundown rental house smack in the middle of El Cerrito, California surrounded by four metalheads. Honestly, I am not sure how it is that I ended up being here, but I guess it really all started with Kirk. He's been a brother to me for as long as I could remember, long before Metallica, long before "Ride the Lightning," long before any of this madness.

Me and Kirk go way, way back, man. We were those kids that took every other weekend going to see each other, playing pranks, and diving into his endless collection of horror action figures. He was obsessed with those things, creepy little monsters with claws and fangs and bulging eyes. We used to spend hours on his bedroom floor making them fight each other in these elaborate battles. Always making mine talk like they were in some kind of cheesy B-movie.

Now? Well, now Kirk's a guitarist. He's spending his days jamming out with Metallica, and I'm… well, I'm not quite sure what I'm doing.

It was about a month ago that things really went sideways. My landlord back in Oakland decided my rent had to go up, way up, and there was no way I could afford it. Not on what I made at the record store. I had two choices: live out of my car or call in a favor. So I called Kirk.

I finally appeared, and Kirk embraced me as if I had been away for years. His lanky arms wrapped around me. "You sure about this?" I asked, standing weirdly in the doorway with my duffel bag slung over my shoulder.

"Of course, I'm positive! What's a few more people in the house?" Kirk beamed at me, but from inside, I could hear Lars yelling something at James, Cliff laughing in the background.

I sighed. "Well, you know you're pretty much adopting me now, right?"

He laughed. "Nah, you have always been like a sister. It'll just be like old times."

Old times my ass, this was no quiet suburban weekend of playthings and running around the neighborhood. These guys were living like rockstars, though they were not quite there yet. The house was actually a mess, and the energy was relentless. It seemed like there was always something going on, an argument over music, records blaring, or drinking way too early in the day.

But the real problem? James Hetfield.

James.

The second I walked into the house, the two of us started butting heads. He was leaning against the counter in the kitchen when I arrived, an unlit cigarette dangling from his lips, looking at me like I was some kind of trespasser.

"Oh, so this is Kirk's little friend," he muttered instead of hello.

I gave him a sideways look. "Nice to meet you too, James."

He snickered, his eyes never leaving me. "Don't get too comfortable, princess."

"Don't worry, I won't."

And with that, it was on, the beginning of what would be the most ridiculous back-and-forth of my life. It wasn't that James was arrogant, it was how he could get at me with just the look or just the words themselves. I couldn't help but shoot back, and before I knew it, we were day in and day out at each other's throats, lobbing insults like hand grenades.

He was calling me "princess" like a joke; I was calling him "asshole," usually he laughed it off.

The basement Kirk set up for me was, well…let's just say it was "rustic." The mattress was lumpy, the air was damp, and I was pretty sure there were mice living in the walls. A single window high up on the wall let in just enough light to remind me I wasn't completely underground.

It was more bitter, cold than it had any right to be in California. Each night I burrowed under the blankets, trying to shut out the chill that seeped into my bones. But no matter how uncomfortable it got, at least it was better than the streets, so really I had nothing to complain about.

Besides, the guys were all right, more or less. Kirk kept me supplied with what I needed, whether it was just a cup of instant coffee in the morning. Cliff was mellow, and we'd sometimes sit out in the backyard, smoke a joint, and talk about stuff, music, whatever. He was one of them guys that never took anything too serious.

"Just go with the flow, man," he'd say, blowing out a stream of smoke. "Life's too short to get worked up."

Yeah, well, tell that to James.

"Hey, princess!" James yelled out one afternoon when I sat on the back steps flipping through a book.

I didn't bother to look up. "What do you want, Hetfield?"

He strode over, shirtless, of course, and stood before me, blocking the sun. "You look bored."

"And you look like you need to shower," I shot back wrinkling my nose at the sheen of sweat on his chest.

"Oh, charming as ever," he said with a quick, sardonic grin. "Kirk said you used to play guitar. We need a fifth opinion on this riff we're working on."

"I haven't touched a guitar in years," I muttered trying to go back to my book.

He didn't budge. "Come on. Like you're reading some sort of novel in there."

I rolled my eyes and slammed the book shut. "Fine. Can we just get this over with?"

It was more of a garage than a studio anyway. The place smelled from sweat and stale beer and cigarettes, but the guys had managed to turn it into a practice area of sorts. Lars was already planted behind the drum kit, tapping along on his snare, Kirk and Cliff fidgeting with their instruments.

"What are we doing?"

"We're working on this track 'Creeping Death.' I need you to tell me if the riff sounds too… I don't know, repetitive."

I cocked an eyebrow. "That is a very vague request."

James shot me a look. "You'll know it.”

First, Lars shot into the heavy thump of the drums that filled the small space, Kirk then entered with his signature melodic riff, followed by Cliff's deep, thundering bass line. When James joined in, the whole garage shook.

Not being a metalhead, I could still appreciate the way they played off one another. Visceral, almost, like something base and animalistic.

"Alright, what'd you think?" James said once they were done, eyes locking onto mine, daring me to find fault with him.

I wanted to say something that would get on his nerves. "It's not bad. Needs work, though."

He scowled. "Of course, you'd say that."

"What? You want me to lie and tell you it's perfect?" I shot back, crossing my arms.

Kirk snickered from across the room. "She's got a point, man. It's not done yet."

Mumbling, James didn't say much else. He lit a cigarette and stormed out of the garage.

That was James for you. Always quick to get pissy, but there was more to him, behind that tough guy thing. I didn't know what yet, but I had a feeling I'd find out eventually.

There was something almost comforting about waking up to the sounds of Lars yelling at someone, or watching Kirk shred a solo while Cliff nodded along in approval. Even James, for all his faults, had moments where I almost didn't want to punch him in the face.

Almost.

Nights were tougher, though. That was when the quiet set in, and out there in that freezing basement, I was left with my thoughts. I'd lie on my back staring up at the ceiling, listening to the muffled sounds of guys upstairs, and wonder how much longer this would last. It wasn't my world really, it was theirs, heavy metal, tour vans, and beer soaked rehearsals.

But for now, this was my world too I guess.

I pulled the blankets up higher on my body and sighed. Far from ideal, but it would suffice.

One evening, when at last all were tucked in, I heard a knock on the door downstairs. With a groan, knowing I was just not in the mood for whatever. I called out, "What?" and sat up.

The door creaked open, and James was standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame. "You awake?"

"Obviously," I muttered. "What do you want?"

He paused a moment before stepping into the room. "I was just… I don't know. Couldn't sleep."

I raised one eyebrow. "So you thought you'd come bother me?"

He shrugged as he sat down on the edge of the bed. "I guess.”

I sat and stared at him, waiting for the inevitable snide remark or jab. It never came. He just sat there, staring down the floor.

The silence continued for quite a while until I let out a sigh. "You're weird, you know that?"

A small snicker escaped his lips. "Yeah, I think I have heard that somewhere before."

I said nothing at the time, having nothing to say. I merely lay back and drew the blanket up to my neck.

For several minutes longer James remained where he sat, silent as before. Then, also without word, he rose and left the room, his exit as noiseless as his entrance.

Perhaps this wasn't such a horrible place after all.

[galedekarios]

what was i after all but a mortal plaything in sacred hands?

out of all the little glimpses into our companions' lives after the game events, i think i like this bit about shadowheart and gale, and the friendship they've seemingly retained after the game's events, the most:

Player: Tell me what you've been up to. Shadowheart: Wandering, mostly. The adventuring life is almost a tonic when you're not constantly threatened by brain monsters and cultists. I can finally see the world beyond the Cloister. Player: I thought you might crave a little peace and quiet, after all that happened. Shadowheart: Peace and quiet will still be there waiting once I've lived a little. Though don't get me wrong - I've got a little cottage with a garden and animals in mind already. Shadowheart: One of my first stops was the House of the Moon, in Waterdeep. It's the largest temple of Selûne in existence. Shadowheart: It seemed like the perfect spot to reflect on my parents, on where they came from - and where I came from too, I suppose. Shadowheart: Hard to imagine, isn't it? Me, of all people, in the lair of the 'Moon Witch' herself. Gods, your truest act of heroism was putting up with all that Sharran drivel I was spouting for so long. Player: Waterdeep you say? Did you bump into Gale? Shadowheart: We had tea on his balcony - Tara even deigned to sit on my lap for a while. You know, I think entire forests must have been felled to quench that man's thirst for books. Shadowheart: He seems to be doing well. In his element.

it's one of the few (if not the only) instance we have of companions keeping in touch with each other after the game ends and i love this for both for shadowheart and for gale.

both of their stories remind me of gale's early access line "what was i after all but a mortal plaything in sacred hands?" and i think they can understand and emphasise what the other went through before and during the game's events in ways the others simply cannot with the added layer of their abuser being a deity and their patron deity.

one taken from her family as a child, indoctrinated, weaponised and isolated, trying to take everything from her, but unable to erase the goodness of her heart. the other contacted by a god's chosen as a child, the very thing he loved for as long as he remembers governed and represented by her, the goddes who was first a mentor, then a teacher and finally a lover.

Shadowheart: Poor Gale. I hope he knows that a goddess abandoning him needn't be the end - I know from experience.

Gale: Poor Shadowheart. The gods are nothing if not vincdictive in their vengeance. devnote: Sympathetic - Gale feels the gods have also punished him

the idea of them helping each other, supporting each other to take another step towards healing old and new wounds through their shared understanding, is something i like a lot.

on a lighter note:

we know that gale values those he calls friends immensely and shadowheart does, despite her aloofness, crave connection, (re-)discovering who she is and what makes her her.

i like to imagine them sharing not only tea, but a glass of wine:

Gale: Sembian wine, Cormyrian ball, Waterdhavian conversation. It's the little things you miss while on the road. - Shadowheart: So Gale just consumes magical items like I do wine?

perhaps sharing the latest chapbook with her since he likely overheard wyll and shadowheart talking about 'the salty mermaid':

A chapbook was a short book which could contain about any content, from political opinions to crafting guides. In Waterdeep, chapbooks often contained memoirs or romantic stories. [x]

(thank you for reading my gale + shadowheart friendship propaganda post! 🖤)

[emmafrostdefender]

crush | logan howlett x female reader

hi everyone! i wrote this for fun. it'll probably turn into a series of small chapters while i write my more hefty logan fic. i hope you guys enjoy!

warnings: reader's kinda horny i guess, sexy man, based on crush by ethel cain, 1.5k words (i wrote this in like an hour)

You’d seen him around town. 

At the laundromat with the blinking fluorescent lights. At the dingy bar around the corner from the laundromat. At the gas station, filling up the tank of his red truck.

You never thought to say hi, never to engage with him in any way. 

He created such a stir when he first arrived. No one moved to your town unless something was truly wrong with them. Most of the men had leering gazes and dangerous intentions, but not him. Never him. You were in his vicinity frequently, but never once did he attempt what many others had. All failures, of course.

You lived contently in your grandmother’s old home, moving there after her cancer took a turn for the worst a few months ago. When she passed away quickly after that, she left the house to you and you decided to keep it. It still smelled like cigarettes, the stench burned into the walls and carpet, but the smell reminded you of childhood trips to Kansas. Those trips were scorched to the back of your eyelids, forever being replayed. Everything was the same as when you were a child; the small Mexican restaurant, the old movie theater, the arcade that closed seven years ago.

 Now, you sat behind the counter at the small antique shop you spent most of your days in. It was quaint, filled to the brim with every kind of knick-knack you could think of. There were crates filled with records and CDs, most scratched or completely unplayable. There were pieces of furniture, dusty mirrors, moth-eaten upholstery, chipped paint jobs, and broken hinges. The bookshelves that lined the walls of the store were stacked with books. You’d taken a few home in the past, knowing that they wouldn’t be missed.

And the clothes. There were racks on racks of vintage clothes. Most were out of fashion (even for the time they were made) or damaged. Still, you liked to play dress-up every so often. 

The job was boring and mundane, but it paid the bills. The family who owned the store didn’t seem to have time to keep up with the place, so you managed the inner-workings of it.

Today, you watched cars go by, wondering when would be the best time to cut your losses and close for the day. Some days you managed to get more than a few browsers, but today was not one of those days. You had one person come in around lunch, but they looked for about five minutes before heading out.

Your mind wandered as you watched people walk by the storefront.

You thought of him. The man you saw everywhere. The man who never spoke to you, not even to say, “Excuse me.”

The man that just walked through the front door.

Eyes widening, you sat up straighter and calmed your heartbeat that suddenly thundered in your ears. “Welcome in! Everything with a blue tag is sixty percent off today,” you said with a bright smile.

He simply looked over at you and then continued his perusal. 

You deflated. Harsh.

As he walked around the store, you felt like a live-wire. Every creak of the floorboards sent your heart spinning in your chest. You hadn’t felt like this about a man since you still called men boys. Being in your late twenties, that meant a very long time.

You grabbed a box of donations from the back room and moved to the floor to start stocking items on the shelves. You rationalized your decision to suddenly start restocking items after having a full day to do so by telling yourself that if you looked busy, he might feel inclined to buy something. You could nearly feel your nose growing by the second at that thought.

Moving through the rows of shelves and assorted items was second nature to you at this point, knowing where everything went in this mess of a store. You conveniently moved to the side of a shelf that viewed his aisle through gaps in the many items strung about. As you placed a silver mirror on the shelf, your gaze moved to watch his face on the other side of the rack. He was stunning.

You hadn’t had much time to analyze him; it was only small glances here and there in the time he’d been around. Now, you took your time. He was looking at an old book, bound in red fabric. It looked as if it had seen the bottom of a sewer. Luckily, he seemed to be making a careful inspection of the text, giving you enough time to look him over.

He was beautiful in a rugged kind of way. He looked like he worked with his hands; they were large and rough, with calluses around the fingers. His knuckles were prominent with sharp edges. You wondered what he did for a living. Did he move here to get away from city life? Was he a runaway circus performer? You internally smacked yourself in the head for the stupid thought. 

He’d probably make the circus look sexy, though.

He had a large figure hidden by a flannel and white t-shirt. His attire pointed to him being a worker of the land. A farmer, maybe. That would check out with the truck you'd seen him driving around in. Always covered in mud with logs of wood piled high in the back. 

His hair was a rich brown and you wanted to dig your fingers into it. You wanted to feel his beard against your skin.

What the hell is wrong with me?

You don’t have sex for so long that your brain goes fuzzy at the idea of a stranger’s beard scratching your neck. God. Get a grip.

You straighten your back and continue restocking things. Play it cool.

Soon, you fell into the rhythm of it, nearly forgetting the other person in the room. You moved to the bookshelves, loading more books onto the already strained wood. People really needed to stop donating things to you and start actually buying things. You’d be out of business by next summer. 

As soon as you realized you needed to go back to the stock room to grab another box, you heard a grunt behind you. You nearly jumped out of your skin. You dropped the box you were holding and faced the man. Your mystery man.

He was so close, you could smell him. He smelled like smoke and sweat. You felt yourself salivate.

You looked him in the eyes for the first time. “Do you need help?” You asked quietly, scared that he’d run off if you spoke too loud, like a wounded animal. 

“How much for this?” He asked, keeping your gaze. His voice was smooth.

You looked down to his hands, which were holding the book he had been examining earlier. “It doesn’t have a price tag?”

He shook his head. 

Now you felt like you were being held under a microscope. The way his eyes ran over your face made you go red; you hadn’t felt this flustered because of a man in a long time. 

“Okay, I can check at the front,” you said, keeping your quiet tone.

He just grunted again and followed as you led him to the register. You had a book of all the prices for things so that you could properly mark them. If you didn’t have the vague feeling that you were going to explode at any moment, you’d know off the top of your head the price of that tiny book. It was about the size of his hand, making you bite the inside of your cheek. 

You opened the book and searched for the page with book prices. When you found the page, you ran your finger down the list.

Small = $1.99

When you looked up at him, you jumped a little. He was looking at you with such intensity, you’d thought he was going to have an aneurysm. It made your cheeks flush again, but you cleared your throat and said, “It’s $1.99. With tax, it’ll be $2.30.”

He nodded, putting the book down on the counter as he reached for his wallet. You read the book title: Frankenstein. “I love Mary Shelley,” you said as you reached for a brown paper bag. 

He looked at you, his expression not revealing anything.

For some reason, you decided to keep talking. “It’s such a perfect analysis of ‘how far is too far’ in science and experimentation. I loved reading it in high school, I think you’ll really enjoy it,” you said, not particularly needing a response. 

He placed the exact change due on the counter and looked you in the eyes as he said, “Thank you.”

Your heart fluttered. “You’re welcome…” You trailed off, hoping to God that he’d tell you his name.

He thought about it for a moment. “It’s Logan.”

You smiled. “I’m glad you stopped by, Logan.” You introduced yourself. It would be nice to have another person to say ‘hi’ to on the street. And you imagined he was thinking the same thing.

His face didn’t jump into a smile, but it didn’t look as harsh as it did when he first walked in. 

And so began your crush on the stoic man who moved to town.

[littlelambscandyland]

Let Her Be

CG!House x Little!Autistic!Fem!Reader

Notes- Made the gal autistic because I am and couldn't stop myself from writing this, leave me alone, lol. That being said I just got my laptop working again, so I'll be working on requests again soon!

Warnings- Skin Picking (around the nails), Arguing (Cuddy and House), Hyperventilating, Panic Attacks, Non-violent biting (mentioned),

(Fun Fact the word count is 2,012 which is the same year the show ended)

It'd been 20 minutes. 20 damn minutes and no one even knew what this conversation was even about anymore. Cuddy had come to talk to House about yet another one of the man's many neglected duties. Normally it’d be a quick in and out where he’d complain, moan, and insult but eventually do, somewhat, what she asked. However, when Cuddy entered his office she noticed one of their interns off to the side. You.

You had been hired a few months back. A part-time intern for the psychiatric department. Cuddy was initially hesitant to hire you on because of your own mental disorders. You were autistic, quite ironic that you went into psychiatry. Despite her initial fear you were proven very useful and hardworking. Sometimes she felt herself feeling bad for ever thinking so wrongly of you, thinking how she played into the stigmas wrongly, but other times she feels glad she pushed those aside to hire you on.

Then again, maybe it was a mistake. Not because of you, mostly. You experienced age regression in high stress situations or for reasons Cuddy wasn’t quite aware of, and House had taken some special interest in you. He made excuses for you to work more with his team. Eventually Cuddy gave in letting you help with their cases by, essentially, being the patients temporary therapists. She gave you a raise and promoted you from intern, though most people still thought of you that way as Cuddy basically made up a position for you, just to shut House up.

The problems only really came when Cuddy noticed House having you around, almost, all the time. Noticing that unless he sent you away you were glued to his side. She also noted that you seemed more childish whenever he was around. Eventually, she realized you were regressed during these times. Of course, by realizing it was actually Wilson telling her after ranting to him about her confusion.

Now the actual problem wasn’t all of this. No. The problem was with House keeping you around all the time you weren’t able to do your actual job. You seriously couldn’t do it while in the mindscape of a five year old. It was ridiculous, so with feeling like there was nothing else to do she changed your job again. This time she made you House’s personal intern. Your new job entitles keeping him on track and mentally stable. Tieing in his need for you to be around and your degree in psychology.

Back to the present. It’s the first time Cuddy had to come and remind House of his job. The man had even been doing his clinic hours with a little less complaints. Today, though, House hadn’t been out of his office all day. According to Forman, House quickly dismissed them of any and all cases, and you’d done nothing about it.

So, here Cuddy was trying to talk to two incredibly distracted people. You wrapped up in a chair at a desk House had added just for you, and House sat opposite from Cuddy. He sparred more looks toward you than at Cuddy. Despite the “serious” talk, House just couldn’t ignore you. Sending funny faces or glances when you weren’t looking. If anyone knew any better they’d say House’s eyes were filled with adoration more than fascination.

And if anyone knew any better they’d realize they were right.

House had no idea when or why you became so important. He remembers meeting you, how kind you were. He remembers how he’d made a rude comment and you immediately shot back. He remembers how he called you out only for you to do the same to him. House remembers how you took everything he threw at you in stride. How you were so sweet and funny. How you willingly showed yourself with little doubt. He saw how sweet you were. How smart you were. How honest you were.

It was just you. Everything about you. He felt protective and calm with you. House felt like he didn’t have to mask himself around you. You openly answered anything he asked you and you told the truth. He knew from the moment he saw you that you were an age regressor. House knew that you wouldn’t hide that part of yourself from him as long as he asked, so he did. House confronted you the way he does everyone, bluntly. You answered him with slight embarrassment, but openly you answered with kindness towards his curiosity. 

Ever since he confronted you on it you’ve been completely responsive to every push he’s given. House can’t explain why but when you willingly started regressing around him he’d gotten so happy that he couldn’t help but coddle you. Even he found it odd how you became so special. A simple fascination turned to admiration. He saw you as a new extension of himself. Not because of how physically young you were to him, but because of how mentally young you could be. Even out of regression you had a positive childish view on things, and House was begging to protect that. He knows how rare a girl like you is. He felt even more proud when you asked him to be your caretaker when you regress. He felt even more proud than that when Cuddy transferred you to a new position as his “personal intern”. He liked spending his days with you. He liked how you needed him.

Now he sat looking at you. Eyes filled with boredom that changes to love whenever he looks towards you. You sat at a colorful deskright across from him. Eyes interchanging between a screen, Dr.Cuddy, and House. Sweet distractions and an inability to hear whatever the two of you are being told. Thick irritation unable to crush your five year old wonder.

You remember asking House if he was alright with having you around so often. You knew how it could be being stuck with someone unwillingly. You remember him telling you to shut up and if he didn’t want you around you’d be gone by now. You remember making him smile genuinely, not a sarcastic cocky one. You remember him questioning everything about you like an intense interview. You remember the smile that he tried to hide in pride when you asked him to be your caretaker.

You moved as gracefully as you could with the new changes thrown at you. You acted with stability and a mask that could be unbreakable. Yet. Anytime you were with House, alone, you dropped the mask and he did too. Two people completely real with who they’re supposed to be, if only for a short time. He saw you in a way most people didn’t. He didn’t doubt you because of your disorder. House became, so quickly, such an important part of your life. Platonically, you loved him and he loved you. Neither of you would admit it, but even when you weren’t regressed you saw him as a father figure. Someone who is actually there, who actually cares about you.

So, here you sat at your desk. The mindset of a child as you did your best to do your damn job. Cuddy scolding you and House simultaneously. Her words work too quickly in a tone you didn’t enjoy so you took in kind the silly looks and glances from House. You “worked” on the small computer in front of you. An open document with random words or phrases you’ve typed out being the only “work” related thing open. All your tabs have games or silly videos on them. Despite your current age you did try to listen to Cuddy, it was just so hard.

Cuddy stopped her rant midway through a sentence. A look of annoyance played in her eyes. She looks over to House who is once again making faces at you, and she looks at you trying your best to suppress your giggles.

“Will you pay attention, damnit.” Cuddy exclaims in frustration.

The sudden exclamation made you stiffen. You immediately shot your eyes to your lap, afraid Cuddy would turn her glare to you.

“Hey!” House shouts out just as quickly. “Watch your tone in front of the kid.” He says with a bit of a tease.

Cuddy bit at her words for a moment. Gapping for only a few seconds while looking between you and House. Finding her words she finally speaks again. “She shouldn’t be a child right now!”

“Well, maybe we should be more accommodating.” House argues, playfully.

“House this is serious. I won't have a reason to keep her working here if she isn’t actually working.” Cuddy replies.

“She is working.” He shakes his head. “She keeps me on track.” He says matter-of-a-factly.

Cuddy narrows her eyes at him. “Not today she isn’t. Today she is the biggest distraction you’ve ever seemed to have. Today you haven’t even taken on a new case!”

Their conversation continues. A bickering background as your mind takes in the overall statement “I’m a burden”. Of course, that wasn’t what Cuddy was trying to say. That doesn't mean that wasn’t the message coming across to you.

Your hands shook as you started to pick at the skin around your nails. Your eyes blurred, not with tears, but because of your ragged breaths. You picked and tore at the flesh. The red didn’t really bother you as you continued to rip at your fingers.

Suddenly House was moving across his office.

“What are you doing?” Cuddy questions before her eyes land on you.

“Will you shut up for like five minutes?” House answers with a voice filled with indignation.

House is near you in seconds. He takes your shaking hands in his and holds them tightly. He tries to guide you. Keyword tries.

“Alright well this isn’t working.” He says to no one in particular.

He pulls you out of your chair and to the couch, sits you in between his legs, and wraps his arms around you. He holds you tightly and says something to Cuddy you can’t quite hear between your own heart beats. Something about not telling anyone something, something.

“Tell me what you need.” He commands.

You shake your head feverishly. You’re pulling his arms more and pushing your back against him.

“Alright, alright.” He says.

One hand goes to your head and his other goes to your legs. He repositions you until your face is shoved into his shoulder. A few more minutes of pushing and pulling, and a bit of biting from your side. Finally you're calm enough for him to get an answer from you.

“What happened?” He asks bluntly.

“burden…” You say, your voice lowly.

“You're not a burden..” House replies quickly.

“That’s what this was about?” Cuddy asked dumbfounded.

He rolls his eyes. “You’re still here?” House asks.

She huffs at him before beginning to walk out.

“Next time watch your mouth in front of the kid!” He calls out to her.

House turns his attention back to you. Your mouth latched onto the collar of his coat and you were lightly chewing on it. 

“What’re you a gerbil? Get that out of your mouth.” He says taking his collar from you. “You know how many germs may be on this thing?” He teases.

“sorry…” You whisper.

He snorts. “No you’re not.”

His response pulls a small giggle from you.

“Hey,” He nudges you. “You’re not a burden. You hear me?” House looks into your eyes.

You nod your head.

“Good. Because if that was your takeaway of the conversation we need to teach you more on reading a room.” He tells you condescendingly. “Because I,” He emphasizes. “Don’t think of you as anything other than my kid.”

The way your eyes lit up at his words made House’s heart swell. If humans were actually made of stardust, House could’ve sworn all of your stardust was in your eyes. A moment of peace after what felt so intense.

Thankfully House didn’t see Wilson standing outside his office watching as, what he called, “House makes progress”.

[olderthannetfic]

Wait, you guys genuinely think not just that the fic fandom is keeping HP relevant, but that the IP is still relevant at all? When was the last time you went into a major retailer store? Because let me tell you, nobody is selling HP merch in 2024.

Here in Europe we have these international chain stores called Primark. They are the cheap, fast fashion retailer, and back in the day they were the home of HP merch. Every year, for the autumn/back to school season, they would release entire collections of merchandising, anything from sweaters to bags, candles, stationery, jewelry and even sweets. At one point, the big flagship store in my city (which is, by the way, five stories tall) had a HP section so big, that it spawned half a floor, all decorated and neatly organised according to the houses. To this day, no other IP has occupied so much space nor has it received the care and dedication that they put into HP. Heck, Primark was so popular for its HP merch that even HP YouTubers from the States would go out of their way to visit them just for the HP merch alone.

Last week, I visited the very same store, and how much merchandising did you think I found?

The answer is one (1) piece of merchandising in the entire store.

And it wasn't in the adult section mind you, it's been years since they've had any merch that you could wear in public, only ever releasing the occasional pyjamas: it was instead at the very end of the children's section, by the tills. A sad, plastic pen, made to resemble a quill, in a tiny cardboard box, placed there in a last ditch attempt to catch the customer's eye while they waited to pay.

I know it seems hopeless to see that the author is still getting huge cheques, but consider, how many of those come from long standing contracts with things like the theme parks and streaming services?

And again, most people in real life are not fandomers, they are passively aware of the franchise, and see it as generic entertainment in the same way your mum might call any given Pokémon a "Pikachu". Just take a look through Twitter and see how many low effort meme accounts are still sharing low quality screenshots of decade old Tumblr posts, and how many people will blindingly follow them, blissfully unaware of the existence of fic, ship wars, author opinions or anything remotely negative.

Harry Potter has fallen from grace, a forgotten Funko Pop in the sales bin, waiting to be bought by a careless family member to occupy its place in the shelf of knick-knacks, between that ugly souvenir your coworker got you and the baby shower pictures of your uncle's twice removed sister in law's, ex-husband's daughter. It will always be there, yet it's not important enough to draw anybody's attention, gathering dust for the rest of eternity until a child picks it up, humored by clueless parents, unaware of everything that it once stood for.

Just make peace with the fact it's not in your hands anymore. After all, becoming paranoid about being reminded of its existence won't do you any good, anyways.

--

[brucewaynehater101]

I saw someone bring up the fact that Tim has been assaulted before and it reminded me of a very old au I came up with about something similar. Trigger warning for mentions of Sexual Assault, Drugging, and Murder. This is also partly inspired by the movie Jennifer's Body.

Tim has been assaulted by Ras sister, likely Ras as well, and there are a few villians that I remember who don't Assault him but they definitely are *looking*. Plus Tim is a very pretty person, isn't he? Who knows how many people Leer at him all the time, say things that they really shouldn't to "flirt" with him and well. This is Gothem. I wouldn't be all to surprised if someone as pretty as him ended up with something in his drink if he went to a bar.

I'm going to skip over what happens at the house party that Tim goes to (he was invited by his friends and it was just supposed to be a bunch of drunk high school students. It should have been fine, right?) But when he wakes up the next morning, he is sore all over in a way he doesn't like and only remembers horrible flashes of the night before. He's hung over and still a little dizzy from the drugs so he doesn't notice the person next to him until his chin is grabbed. He doesn't know this guy, he doesn't know where he is, but the guy is moving in to kiss him and Tim's hand wraps around something and in the next blink the guy is off him and Tim feels something wet dripping down his face. When did he stand up? The guy is crumbled on the bed which is turning red and there is a broken lamp in his hand.

Tim knows Bruce would never forgive him for this, he just *killed* someone. Sure he's coming down from some drugs and the guy assaulted him and was about to again, but Tim *killed* him. It doesn't matter that he blacked out. It doesn't matter that others in the family have killed multiple people and Bruce just shrugged it off. Tim is supposed to be better and he fucked it all up.

It takes a while for Tim to come to a decision. He's already fucked up, nothing can change that. But he also can't dig any deeper, right? After all, this guy wasn't the only one who assaulted him that night. And Tim wants revenge on all of them. So he makes a list of all the guys who hurt him that night and slowly makes his way through them, luring them somewhere secluded, acting like he's going to let them between his legs again, before killing them and hiding the bodies. After all, he's a Bat. If he doesn't want anyone to know it was him, they won't.

The kills feel good, they make him feel better about what happened to him. It puts the power over his body back in his own hands. But there is still a hollow in his chest, a void that only temporarily feels better. The nightmares don't stop after they're all gone. Better yes, but not gone. So therefore, more kills should do it, right? But he can't kill just anyone. He can only kill those who deserve it. So Tim goes to Bars in disguise and pretends to be a very drunk and pretty girl who gets picked up by people. He waits until they are in the target's home or a hotel before telling them that he's to drunk to do this, that he doesn't want it anymore, and that he just wants to sleep. If the person backs off, they can go free. If they continue after three tries to stop them, then Tim will dig his knife into their neck and kill them. Every single one, he writes their crimes on the wall in their own blood.

Tim thinks he's helping not just himself but everyone else who's ever been in his position. The Bats think there's a new serial killer on the loose. Neither side is truly wrong. The Bats are also pulling out their hair about being unable to find *anything* beyond some security footage of the victim leaving a bar with a woman who looks different everytime. Sometimes a blonde, sometimes Brunette, sometimes red head. They use colored contacts and make up to change their face shape just enough that they never look the same.

It's many kills later when Bruce manages to catch Tim in the act. He wasn't even looking for the killer, he just heard a scream while patrolling and ran to investigate. He found a woman kneeling over a dying man, stabbing him while saying, "I told you not to touch me! I told you to *stop*!" In a voice he knows very well.

Here's where a split can happen. Is this a good dad Bruce who will stop his son and help him, or is this a very bad Bruce who will simply resolve to send Tim to Arkham for being a serial killer without thinking of the potential consequences? I mean. If he does the latter, there's a sold chance that when people find out why The Timothy Drake, CEO of WE was put in Arkham (Tim will freely tell the press he did it and why because he is Very Mentally Fucked at this point) there is a solid chance of people thinking Tim was caught because he targeting Batman and Batman failed his test.

In case anyone didn't read the first part, TW: sa, murder, nonconsensual drugging

Unfortunately, I do imagine that Tim, other Waynes, and other heroes have been subjected to this. Considering how public two of Tim's personas are, there's probably been some shit online as well.

I thank the gods that Barbara exists, and I despair the types of messages she has to read/sift through for her family's safety. I like to imagine she sends information out to various people depending on the shit people say or do online (and whether there is evidence they might do anything offline). She probably has automatic systems, but she has to be the one to read when certain messages get pinged (one off messages probably get automatically dealt with, but multiple get put on a radar/list).

To be completely frank, the US's system is shit for sa survivors trying to get safety or justice. I'm not gonna argue with anyone about that, so go look at stats if you want.

So, seeing a character work outside of the law to ensure others' safety and enact justice? It's nice. I'd also be down for Tim (in various identities) utilizing a method like the movie "Promising Young Woman (2020)."

I would like to see Tim and Jason interacting within this AU after Jason finds out (particularly if RH has policies against sa and actively mitigates such). Dick would be particularly devastating to through in the mix (I'm talking him keeping it together enough to soothe Tim to sleep with hair pats and then escaping to violently throw up and sob).

There are a few fics of Jason brutally murdering or maiming sex offenders if that's anyone's cup of tea.

You mentioned that Tim might be mentally fucked by the time he gets caught. I think he probably would. Not for the murders, but for never actually addressing what happened to him. He's just repressing the shit out of it and trying to cope with murder (this isn't a good coping mechanism).

Now... Bruce being a bad dad by throwing Tim im jail could be cool and interesting in this. However, Bruce blaming himself for failing Tim, for allowing Tim to become the way he is, and for not helping Tim sooner is spicy. Just Bruce making Tim's situation about Bruce, trying to fix Tim, and condemning Tim for his actions (by locking Tim in the batcave like a family embarrassment instead of jail) would be excellent bad dad Bruce. Bruce parading himself as a good dad while mentally fucking Tim up worse.

[capricorn-0mnikorn]

Do you know how one deals with the anger that comes from living as a disabled person? I'm furious at how I've been treated, I'm furious at how my disabled siblings are treated. I can't let it out because who would listen? But I also can't let it simmer inside me and rot me from the inside.

How do you survive this? How do we survive this?

Sometimes (when I'm the only human in the house), I just scream a string of obscenities with my full lung power (and apologize to the cat).

Then, I take several deep breaths, remind myself that giving into despair does nothing but fit into the worst of the Bastards' narratives about us. Finally, come onto Tumblr, and post a rant about it, hoping that it gets reblogs, and not just a string of likes.

(*cough* hint *cough*).

But yeah. It sucks. The very same lived experience that gives us an authoritative voice on these topics is what people use as an excuse to ignore us as "too biased." The worst part is witnessing someone in your IRL circle, suffering abuse that isn't even recognized as abuse, because it's an official bureaucratic "policy." And then, not having any way to advocate for that person, because you don't have any legally recognized family or professional connection to them.

There's really not enough awareness (or even much language) around what I've come to call "bystander trauma." I mean, I had a very supportive set of parents (especially my mother) who advocated very loudly for my rights. So by some accounts I had a great childhood. But then, I also was a kid who went to a special summer camp, and got to see what it was like for those disabled kids whose parents didn't Question Authority. They'd be sitting right next to me in the camp's dining hall, and I could see how the camp counselors talked about them and over them more than they ever talked with them. And what could I, a fellow eleven-year old, do about it?

[steviewashere]

I Am the Kiwi

Rating: General CW: None Apply! Tags: Post-Canon, Post Season 4, Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Insecure Eddie Munson, Negative Self Talk, Steve Harrington is a Sweetheart, Steve Harrington Calls Eddie Munson Pet Names, Steve Harrington Loves Eddie Munson

🥝��————🥝

Maybe he shouldn’t bother their tentative relationship by asking insecure questions.

But that’s not how Eddie’s mind works. He’s never known peace unless there’s been an answer. If he senses the beginning of a question like the itchy fur of a kiwi on his tongue, he has to spit it out. And only then, even if the answer is bleak and even if the answer is negative, he’s at peace with it. He’ll just remember to cut the skin off later, taste the fruit for what it is, find something else about it to savor. Because not everything is sweet. And most of the world is bitter like the skin of that kiwi.

He peels the skin off, hair and all, offering it out to Steve to ponder. In the quiet space of his living room, surrounded by warm love in the shape of Wayne’s mug and hat collection, the five year old instruction manuals for appliances they don’t even have anymore, and amber lightbulbs stained with the broken limbs and melted corpses of stink bugs. Maybe he is an unfortunate bug, drawn to Steve’s light. Maybe he is willing to give himself, all of himself, the ugly parts and disgusting parts to something warm and savoring and bright inside Steve. He knows he is. He always has been.

In the quiet, Steve hot under his arm, droopy with fatigue, chuckling low at the sitcom on the television set, Eddie prickles with unanswered unease. He drags his rough palm down Steve’s soft right arm, fingernails dully scratching from mole to mole, pressing into his loose muscles. Eddie leans his head down, cheek laid atop Steve’s voluminous hair, and he breathes him in. Fruity sweetness, floral undertones, some sort of professional salon shampoo. He kisses tender.

“Why do you love somebody like me?” He breathes. And in the quiet, he startles himself, no matter how much that question begged to break free. Steve tenses in his hold, but Eddie can only force him in tighter. Fingers pressing harsh into his fatty parts. Nails mean and sharp and jagged. He buries himself farther into Steve’s beautiful hair.

His boyfriend is gorgeous. And he’s self-sufficient. Kind in a way Eddie seems to have forgotten to be. How can somebody like Steve love him?

Steve doesn’t answer right away. His breaths falter in the room. Like he’s trying to catch his breath after being scared in a haunted house. Maybe, if Eddie allows himself to marinate in it, maybe it’s exactly like that. There’s something rippling, haunted, venturing lonely and howling under Eddie’s skin. He thinks it started with his mom’s death, percolated when his dad went to prison, came full bloom like a crumpled flower on Wayne’s doorstep so many years ago. In a way, Steve is scared. Not scared of Eddie. Or the truth. But this third thing, of answering the question. Of finding the right words, to which Eddie knows he struggles with—so in all aspects, asking something partially insecure and partially selfish is demeaning. It’s, if Eddie thinks about it, challenging Steve’s love. 

There is no response, not yet. But what does fill between them is the live studio audience laughter. The laughter of people who probably didn’t find the joke particularly funny or even clever. They’re just there to laugh. To see behind the scenes of some TV show. To be recognized among the crowd.

Sitcom laughter. And Eddie refuses to let Steve see him.

He hears Steve take a tentative deep breath. The back of his hand touched by the softness of Steve’s palm. And he’s reminded, even in the simplest interactions such as this, that they come from two different worlds. Of all those biases he held onto for years. Unable to get over himself or get with the program. Steve is nothing of what Eddie thought. He’s a jock, sure. And he’s got the better life in some ways; nothing to really label him as other and a status that seems to override him, but it’s not negative. He isn’t a bully. He’s soft and kind and sweet and loving, not a douchebag. A good person. Where, sometimes, Eddie feels as though he lacks all the qualities that Steve seems to be plentiful in.

“Eddie—“

“No, sorry,” he apologizes immediately. His voice small and childlike. “Sorry, that’s not okay to ask. You love me and that needs to be enough.”

Then, Steve shifts. Pulling himself away, sitting on the edge of the cushion, turning to be face to face. And Eddie’s ashamed. He’s mad at himself, too. If the heartbreaking soft sadness in Steve’s eyes is anything. His little frown, pulling down his pretty lips and furrowing his eyebrows and making him wrinkle in all the bad ways. He tilts his head and peers at Eddie.

“I love you because I just do,” he murmurs, “I don’t know how to explain why I do. You’re unlike anybody I’ve ever loved.”

Eddie swallows, takes a breath, and asks, “In a good way or a bad way?”

Steve’s gaze softens. The sadness still lingering, but replaced by determination, even the lightest form of it. “Always in a good way,” he whispers. He reaches out, takes Eddie’s right hand in his left and squeezes. He’s so soft. “You know who you are. And you’re loud about it. I admire that about you.” He closes his eyes, thinking. When he’s gathered, his voice is enamored and murmuring, “And, baby, you’re gentle even if you don’t realize it. You know how and when to take care of the people around you. I’ve never—I’ve always been the one to do that in relationships. You make me feel…Complete.”

Eyes back on him, Eddie swallows most of this insecurity. “Really? You think I complete you?” He questions meekly.

Then, Steve nods, not even taking a moment to consider. Because he just knows. “Yeah,” he mutters, “I know we just started this whole…thing—“ he swings their tangled hands back and forth between them. Eddie chuckles, earning him the most earnest smile he’s probably ever seen. “But, I have a feeling that we’ve got something special. Plus, we’ve got all the free time in the world, y’know, now that it’s not ending. We’ll be okay. I love loving you.”

“I love loving you, too,” Eddie murmurs in turn. He brings his free hand up and brushes some stray strands of Steve’s hair back. Thumb tickling down his temple, swiping under his eye where it’s heavy and blue. “I’m sorry for doubting your love.”

“Honey,” Steve sighs. “It’s really okay. I get it, you know? Everybody has their insecurities. Hell, I have some deeply awful ones.” He leans into Eddie. His warmth radiating once more. Breath ghosting over his cheek, words soft, “I will always reassure you. Because I know you’d do the same for me.” And then, Steve presses a tacky, sweet kiss to his cheek. The tip of his nose crumpling with the soft plunge he gives into Eddie’s skin. He is cracked open raw and for once, instead of being turned away or shunned, somebody is there to enjoy him. Steve is there to savor. “You’re special,” he whispers, “my special one.”

Eddie can only melt in his hands. He’s content with this answer. Fulfilled.

This relationship may be new, but Eddie knows it’ll soon be something sacred. Like the sticky, sugary green insides of a ripe kiwi.

🥝—————🥝 Fun fact, I'm allergic to kiwis. Found this out after my tongue got itchy from the skin of a kiwi. That was a scarring thing to discover in the middle of my kindergarten snack time, tell you that much. Haven't had one since.

[arminsumi]

hey if ur up for it could u write promt 8 of friends to lovers for armin.. but like the reader teaches him how to kiss bc she really wants an excuse to finally kiss him? hehe

KISSING ON THE COUCH.

𝐀𝐑𝐌𝐈𝐍 — アルミン ⋅ fem reader

8 — "I'll teach you to kiss."

NOTE: wheee!! i'm ngl this prompt was made with armin in mind hehe 💗

WORDCOUNT ≈ 1.7k

🍒 𝐉𝐚𝐲 ⋅ 𝐑𝐞𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐬/𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬 𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐩 𝐚 𝐥𝐨𝐭 !

"Ah, yeah, I mean, kissing is a core part of romance for most people, right? But there's no way I can do that."

Armin's chatting with you in the living room of your parent's house, just like you've always done since you were kids.

"Why? Kissing is pretty fun." you look over at him, drifting from the interleading kitchen over to where he sits slacked on the couch.

He mutters a quick and sweetly Armin-esque thank you under his breath when you hand him a soda. Vanilla Cola, his all-time favorite; he's drank it since he was twelve and didn't intend to stop drinking it.

"But kissing is awkward... you know how my first kiss went." he grimaces at the memory. You let out a breathy laugh, he looks so cute, almost like a drawing of a cute boy rather than a real one.

"Personally, I wouldn't count that as a first kiss. You were, like, what? Thirteen?" you open your own soda with a pop. It fizzes loudly, the bubbles audibly popping.

He opens his own soda, but of course — he does it in such an Armin kind of way. Very delicately pulling the tab back with his very delicate fingertips, as if the metal hurt his sensitive skin. You know he had the worst acne phase out of all your friends, there are faded scars on his cheeks. Rather than mar his beauty, you think they add to it; of course he never believed you when you said that.

"I think I was fourteen. Didn't you have yours when you were — eighteen? Right?" he looks over at you, fingertip circling the soda can lid.

His eyes always get you. They're entrancing. Hypnotizing. Spellbinding. Armin's unaware of the effect he has on girls, but that just makes him even more attractive.

"I did, yes. No need to remind me." you grumble, taking another sip of your soda and coming to a kneel at the coffee table.

You two always sat like that; him lazily on the couch, you on the plush carpet by the coffee table. Always propping your elbow on it, squishing your cheek on one palm. In the middle of a conversation, Armin would mimic your pose just to get a laugh out of you.

"Eighteen isn't too old to have your first kiss. I've told you that before." he reassures.

"Yes it is! Some people have their first kiss when they're little kids."

"But those kisses don't mean anything. They're childish kisses." Armin says.

"What age d'you think people start having adult kisses?" you ask him curiously, setting your soda down on the table.

You watch as Armin looks up in thought for a moment, his hand swiftly wiping some residual soda liquid off his upper lip. How does he make everything so attractive? In fleeting moments like these, you felt a strong urge to kiss him.

I could kiss him. I just need a plan. We're on the subject of kissing already.

You plot your moves like you're playing chess. It really isn't that difficult, but to you it feels like an impossible match.

"I think, adult kisses — eh that's a weird way of saying it — good kisses are after you're eighteen. Or maybe when you've had enough practice? But never mind, I think all the kisses I'll ever have will always be slightly awkward because I don't know what to do." he says.

He glances at you. His heart pangs when you and him make electric eye contact and he looks away. "You know..." he begins, but you cut him off.

"Why don't I teach you to kiss a girl?" you blurt out. "I mean, we're friends. Why not. I mean if you want to. Just a thought..."

He cracks a shy smile, "Just a thought?" he chuckles, then sits up and sets his soda down after a brief moment of thought.

"Alright, teach me." he asks and pats the seat next to him.

You climb up on the couch and settle down into a comfy position next to him — oh, you're very close, he thinks. The proximity makes his heart pang again, he can feel it sharp in his chest. But why? I mean, like you said, you're friends.

Do friends sit on the couch practicing kissing?

"Don't look at me like that." you tease lightly.

He blinks at you, "Like what? Oh, sorry." he giggle and widens his eyes a little. You've scolded him for having bedroom eyes many times, and he's defended that it's not bedroom eyes but rather he just has naturally lidded, sultry eyes.

"So... question." he asks as you lean in. His breath fans your face, it makes your lips tingle. You can smell the Vanilla Cola.

"Hm?"

"Where do I put my hands? Because that's something I've never really understood..."

"Oh... well you can put them anywhere you like."

"Can you guide me?" he asks.

You look at him for a moment. His heart goes wild when you take his hands in yours. Yes you and him have held hands, plenty of times in fact, when you walk around town or when you run down the school corridors or while you explore abandoned buildings.

"Personally... I would want your hands here." you tell him, placing them on your neck, "And if you'd cup the back of my neck like — yeah, like that..."

Was it getting stuffy in here? But there's a good breeze coming in through the open window. Yet you feel like you're choking up. It seems like he is, too.

Warm hands cupping the back of your neck, gentle fingers holding you like a trophy, two big blue eyes staring into your soul.

He pulls you in for a peck. A sweetly awkward one. Your noses bump. Well, now both of you can't stop smiling which makes it hard to do anything.

You lean in for a peck, but it lasts longer than his and — oh my god, he melts. It's history from there. Feeling his best friend's lips sent him to another dimension, as dramatic as that sounds.

He's levitating when you keep pressing teaching kisses to his lips. He loves that you take your time, like you're savoring the taste just like when you sip on your soda.

"Y-you can tilt your head, too, it makes it feel better..." you tell him, a little short of breath.

His head spins a bit at the sensation. His lips are tingly.

"Okay..."

So he tilts his head into the kiss, and holds the back of your neck and slides one hand down and finds your hand. He holds it.

He breaks from the kiss, lips hovering hot over yours, and looks at you through his lashes. "Is this good?"

"Mhm. Really good. You're doing g-good." you assure him.

"Can I keep going?" he asks.

"Yeah..."

So he keeps kissing you, gliding his lips over yours slowly. If anything, he only gets slower. He's really trying to savor it. Like he savors the taste of Vanilla Cola.

Minutes go by, though time dissolved in your minds by now. It was just another meaningless concept. Did past and future exist? Well, did it matter while kissing? No. No it didn't.

You pull away. He blinks and sucks in a breath, bangs lightly ruffled from pressing so close to your forehead. He can taste you on his lips, on his tongue, you're pervading his whole system and he loves it.

"S-so... that's... yeah... any questions?" you laugh, regaining composure quicker than him.

"Huh? What — questions? Yeah... can we do that again?" he asks eagerly.

"Huh?"

"What?"

"What?"

"I just meant... like... keep teaching me. I think I can learn a lot from those lips." he backtracks nervously, Addam's apple shifting a little when he swallows sharply.

"Oh, right... well... y-yeah. Let's keep going then. Why don't you try kissing me now — mmf."

He goes in for it without hesitation. He kisses with his whole body, you can feel a surge of his passion wash over you, and he can feel a surge of tingles across his brain.

There's a lot of serotonin to be farmed from your kisses.

Light smacking sounds, subtle saliva sounds, lips on lips. He's never enjoyed kissing like this. But it's just practice. You're just teaching him so he can kiss... who? Who does he want to kiss? He doesn't have anyone in mind other than you.

He gets lost in it, and without thinking much he nibbles your bottom lip and swipes his tongue across it. You let him poke his tongue in and — well both of you melt harder than before. It's so impossibly soft. No wonder people praised French kissing. But did they ever get French kissed by such a gentle sweetheart like Armin? You were the only one to have that honor.

"Hah... sorry." he pulls away, breathless.

You pant very lightly, " 's okay..." you smile, "I don't mind if you... use tongue. I like it a lot..."

"Okay..." he gulps and then goes right back in to continue.

Weren't you supposed to be teaching him? It feels like that's not necessary, since both of your lips mold together perfectly. You and him are two matching puzzles pieces.

"Y/n?" he breaks from the kiss and looks down at you, hands gently squeezing both your hands now.

"Hm?"

"Can I ask you something?"

"Yeah?"

He slightly smirks, lips glistening with your saliva, "Did you really wanna educate me on kissing, or did you just wanna kiss me?" he asks. Damn that sharp intuition.

"If the latter, how would you feel about that...?" you ask tentatively.

His heart thumps. Throbs. Palpitates. Malfunctions. You look so sweet, he wants to kiss you again and again.

He doesn't answer with words, he just dives back in for a feathery kiss, tangling his body with yours. Hands cupping your cheeks, in a very indescribably Armin kind of way.

He speaks in between each smooch.

" 'shoulda — kissed me — sooner." he mutters, taking a deep inhale as he kisses you harder than before, leaning into your body, cupping your cheeks so comfortably.

© 𝐚𝐫𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐢 𝐃𝐎 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐀𝐋 𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐈'𝐕𝐄 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐊𝐄𝐃 𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐃 𝐓𝐎 𝐂𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐄.

[thepersonnamedsam]

carlos‘ song - cs55

pairing: carlos sainz x fem!reader

summary: you wrote a song about carlos

word count: 1.2k

warnings: angst, mentions of death, anxiety, sad stuff

note: i have been obsessed with carlo‘s song lately and i just had to write something for carlos, bc obv carlo‘s - carlos

masterlist / taglist

Standing on the rooftop of this bar in Madrid, your short hair blew in the cold air. Apparently it’s not just any bar, the bar is placed on a fire tower.

The sun was just about to set and you tried to keep your hair under control. „You know, I liked it more when it was long.“ Carlos looked at you with his big brown round eyes and it reminded you of a deer caught in a headlight.

„Oh really?“, you grinned. When you two first met you were only 12 years old, little best friend of Isa. You never taught you would one day stay on this roof top with her brother.

„Yeah, do you remember drinking in the parking lot? By the trail head? Yeah, I liked your hair that day.“

You felt heat rush to your head, you blamed it on the cold. „Okay, I can grow it out long, if you’d like that?“

You only just moved back to Madrid. Ida was supposed to pick you up from the airport but instead there stood a bright red Ferrari with not Isa but her brother Carlos instead. And he didn’t take you to his sisters, no he treated you to a drink on the fire tower.

Only the good die young was playing on the speakers.

„You know, I never understood what Billy Joel meant with those lyrics“, you thought out loud. „Didn’t you just study english literature?“ - „Yeah, and?“ Your eyebrows raised at him, silently questioning his thoughts.

„Like, aren’t you just supposed to know what he meant with his lyrics?“

„I mean, I have my own meaning, but it’s ridiculous.“ - „No, please tell me, because I always laugh at the lyrics“, Carlos said.

„I mean, obviously in the first verse he wants to have sex with virgin catholic girls. And ‚only the good die young‘ you can argue about that - young people who die didn’t deserve it, therefore they were good. Or old people aren’t good anymore, or many more.“

„Not ridiculous“, he smiled. „Huh?“ - „Your meaning of the song isn’t ridiculous, not in the slightest.“

You smiled, hard. Carlos was an interesting man and you wondered what more grew under that perfect skin of his.

„I think we are going to be good friends, Carlos“, you told him. „You think so?“, was his answer. You nodded and grinned at him.

Over the time you grew closer together, Carlos showed you parts of Madrid you only remembered vaguely from your childhood. But the distance of his job hurt more and more. You knew what a relationship with him meant. You knew only too good, heard Isa over the phone crying over missing her brother.

But the days he spent in between were the best you ever experienced.

„I want a big house out in the open. Where the sun always shines and all the light gets into the house!“, Carlos gushed. You were laying on the couch together and planned how your future would look like if money didn’t matter - not that it did anyway.

„Whys that?“, you asked him. „I don’t like the way my skin feels when it’s not shown on by the sun. I like the warmth, never liked the cold, brrr“, his arms snaked around your upper body and shook it like you were freezing.

Your laugh was heard throughout the apartment. Carlos grinned at you, his skin warming with the sound of your happiness.

„Why don’t you like the way your skin feels without the sun?“

„It makes me feel like I need to escape my own body. Like I don’t belong, it just feels wrong.“

„Well I hope you can escape your skin with me“, you smiled at the man you were falling more and more in love with.

But you still never went to a grand prix with him. And when he asked you why, you came up with a new excuse as not to.

You started to pick up more work, started to work over the weekends. You had less and less time to call Carlos over the weekend, making him question your feelings for him.

Until it happened. It happened on a Saturday at FP2. It was quickly over. You only heard about the incident the next day, as you wondered why Carlos didn’t start.

Isa called you. 48 seconds. That’s how long the phone call lasted. The news shattered your heart. Broken into millions of pieces. You couldn’t believe it, no, Isa was definitely playing pranks with you.

You fell, you fell deep into a hole. A hole you never knew you sighed it yourself. Deeper and deeper. Until Isa visited you. She brought you his clothes he still had at home. She brought his necklace that he was about to gift you. His initials graved into the back of the pendant.

But still, everyone who started talking about him being gone, you shut out. You shut them right out, because in your mind he was still alive, he was still racking and he was winning.

But the reality was none of that. And reality hit you, it hit you hard. His memorial was held at the end of the season. And Isa asked you to talk about him. You had to admit he was dead.

„I can’t do it, Isa.“ - „Please, you were his everything, he talked so much about you! Did you know he had been crushing on you since he was 16?“

„Did you set us up? The day you didn’t pick me up from the airport and instead sent him?“

Isa looked at you, just like Carlos had when he was caught doing something he shouldn’t have. This big brown eyes. Glistening with mischief - it was something that all of the Sainz family possessed.

„You caught me“, she shamelessly shrugged with her shoulders and smirked at you. „It was time? He was pining on you for so long, but you were away studying and he was so sad, I had to do it, it was his only chance!“

His memorial was beautiful, the whole grid present. Charles and Frédéric spoke about his time at Ferrari, Lando held a speech about their friendship and Isa sung a beautiful song. She still tried to convince you to speak, but you just couldn’t.

Isa and you still regularly talked to each other. She was doing good, better than her anyway. You almost never talked about Carlos. You weren’t bringing him up, neither did she.

The one thing Isa told you was: „Grief is just love letting go. It’s okay to let go.“

You almost cried - how could she say that like it was just spilled milk?

„Look at yourself, when’s the last time you cut your hair? You always kept it short, but now?“

You did visit him at his grave. Brought flowers and letters for him to read. Eventually you wrote a song. A song to remember him - Carlos‘ Song.

And one day you stood on a stage, at the bar they had their first date at and sung Carlos‘ Song.

Isa was there, smiling up at you and filming the whole thing. „I’m going to show it to my parents“, she smiled.

And you knew Carlos was smiling down on you and kept you alive.

°°°

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