#the ham who was thursday

[pricetagged]

Here's a young (maybe 19-early 20s) Simon struggling with his emotions, working as a butcher's apprentice, and fixating on the pretty student waitress at the café next door (':

Content: plus size f-presenting reader; allusions to domestic abuse (Simon's past); fat-shaming (not Simon); little bit of violence, unedited. (Link to Ao3)

He's not sure that it counts as desire. Interest. It crawls over him, makes him feel aggressive, makes him want to dig his teeth in and shake and snarl.

It's hunger.

And he knows hunger. Knows it like he knows the cigarette burns on the back of his hand. Knows it like he knows his old man's a waste of space and that he has to defend his mum and protect Tommy and- and-

He's the man of the house, only the house is rotten. Woodloused frames, crumbling bricks. Gutted. Empty shelves hidden behind broken doors. Chipped plaster, electricity cutting off. Squeaky steps that always clued them in when the old man was on a rager (not that it helped, creaking out a warning but giving no clue where to run. The percussion leading to a gallows' jig; the heavy step before the hit).

But the old man's gone now. And Simon is left trying to fill in the boots he doesn’t know how to wear. All growth spurt and gangly limbs and anger. So much anger at the old bastard. Tear-soaked anger at his mum sometimes (buried deep behind the shame that he feels when he thinks of her black and blue. Anger and shame, bitter roots that he chews at to soothe the clench of in his jaw and the grind of his teeth). And then he sees you through the window. Through the peeling CHRISTMAS SPECIAL sign highlighting ham joints and turkey and pigs in blankets.

You're so soft.

You look like you’ve lived a life well-fed and well-loved. Something round and sweet and helpless, like the puppies he and Tommy had seen dumped in the park while they snuck cigarettes and swigged from cheap supermarket cider.

And that brings him back to the hunger. He's an awkward creature, shuffling to the café where you work part-time. He's more feeling than man, all rage and appetite stuffed into a skin suit. You sense it too, nerves tugging at the tilt of your smile as you approach the scavenger that swept in to sit at the cheap plastic tables in this greasy spoon. He sits awkwardly, too, hunched over the table like his stomach is gnawing at him. Big hands snapping the disposable plastic coffee stirrers and shredding the napkins. That first day, he just stares at you. Sneers a little when you flutter over to take his order.

You slosh the tea a little when you serve it.

He sees the burn bloom, watches as you suck at the sting with plump cheeks and a rosy little mouth, and he just wants to dig in and scratch hard to see you do that again.

It becomes a habit, watching you. He finds out bits and pieces listening as he rends and chops and saws through muscle and bone, stinking of sweat and iron. You're here as a student. You're living in student digs (good, best that you avoid the up-and-downs and rough streets that would fit a student budget), and you're a real sweetheart. Old Sal who has been running the café for the past 30 years leans a heavy elbow on the display counter as he chats with the boss.

"She's lovely, taken to it like a fish to water," his raspy, smoke-charred voice is cheery as he waits for the bacon and sausages to be weighed and wrapped. "Only asked for Thursdays and Fridays off since she has afternoon classes then. Otherwise, I almost have to round her out of the shop, doing more afternoons and weekends than my own kid."

You're hardworking too, then. He wonders if it's because you're hungry too, needing something to do with your time, living on pot noodles and supermarket ready-meals like he'd heard some students do. It's strange how that thought sits uncomfortably, makes him want to hunch over you and bring you his scraps.

That week, he decides to talk to you. Only the words get caught, don't come out quite right as he stares at the way your jumper clings to the soft curves under your faded apron. When you turn around, bustling to other customers, he can't help but stare at the line of your skirt. It's real pretty, decent, sitting just above your knees but Christ, he wishes that it would roll up a little higher. That it would catch on the corner of a table or hitch up as you raise your arms and swish past with a tray full of fry-ups. He almost gets lucky as you bend over to mop up a spill just across the room. Your thighs widen as they press against the table, tights stretching thin and sheer and he just can't tear his eyes away-

(The hunger in his stomach turns hot and biting, makes his cheeks flush and his mouth dry-)

But it's ruined. Fly in the soup, hair in the dish, as you catch him and your eyebrows pinch together as you look away. There's something guarded, bitter, in your lovely eyes, and the dryness in his mouth turns wet and sour. You seem to take pains to avoid him, swapping out with Sal's son so that you can work the counter instead of the floor.

"'m Simon," he grunts as he goes to settle the bill. "Work at the butcher's across the street."

You clearly didn’t expect an introduction, shoulders relaxing and hesitant smile blooming as you give your name in return.

"Yeah, I know. Sal mentioned you a few times. He's tried to give me the rundown of practically everyone on the street, feels like."

"Y'should come in t'the shop," the invitation rushes out in a way that makes him feel clumsy. Perhaps that’s why he did it; to have you in his space, with his head and his footing right. Here, he feels every inch the artificial man. Pieced together, too big and too looming, with no help or guidance on how to talk to soft things and pretty girls.

You grimace a little, eyes focused on the till as you count out his change. "Not really on a butcher-shop budget right now."

"'S'alright. I can keep something aside for ya," he doesn't mention how it would come out of his wages. How it would come out of what he brought home to his mum and Tommy. It didn't matter, though, when he was used to going without.

"That's - that's really nice, actually," Your sweet face is glowing now, and he feels like he could bathe in the warmth of it. "Next time you come by lunch is on me."

He sees the way you tuck your chin and smile as he walks away, and that bottomless pit in his guts feels just a little more full.

(He doesn't quite catch the snickers of the boys at table three, whispering and nudging each other as you come to take their orders. This time.)

He stares more and more through the window of the shop, watching as you come and go. Watching the way you greet the regulars and skirt around the group of lads who like to linger in the evenings. There's something sharp, nasty, to the way they circle around the entrance. The way they cackle and hoot when the one with the eyebrow piercing smirks and whispers to his mates as they force you to brush past. They're a pack of hyenas, shrieking and smug as they toy with the poor little thing that's walked past their watering hole. He's seen this type before, practically grew up with them. His old man was probably one of them, perfecting his cruelty while young, cementing it as part of his nature.

It has Simon sharpening his knives while he grits his teeth. Has the boss tutting at him when he cuts too close to the bone.

He knows there's something violent in him. The old man tried to bring it out then snuff it out, getting scared when the knife that he sharpened was able to cut him in return. He's no stranger to bloodshed. No stranger to the calloused, deprivation-dimmed apathy that breeds like algae in the environment where he was forged. Dripping, slimy, suffocating.

Doesn't mean he likes it, though.

(He'd gone back for those puppies, you know. Felt wrong leaving them. Felt like a rebellion against his old man's sick life lessons as he dumped the box outside the doors of a local veterinary clinic).

So he keeps his eyes peeled, stakes out the café like he owns it. Stares down anyone who looks at you wrong until they look away, muttering under their breath. 'Fucking freaky dead-eyed git.' It seems to work.

And you seem to like it, sparing more smiles for him. Bringing him bigger portions than normal and topping up his cup before he even needs to ask.

"I know you've been working since seven, Simon. Gotta keep your strength up," You seem bashful as you slide the plate across, and he just eats it up.

You've been looking at him, thinking about him. It's not something he's familiar with, having someone care for him. His mum loves him, of course. Tommy too. But it’s not the same, not when it's been his job to take care of them. His job to step up to the mantle and into the shoes that his father should've filled. Watching the sway of your wide hips as he tucks into the steak and kidney pie with gusto, he feels satisfied. The hunger is there, always is, but it's not gouging at him under the skin. It's satiated, pleased. The kind of comfort that leaves his eyes heavy and his belly warm.

It's a routine you fall into, and everything is rosy-

Until it's not.

He's closing up shop, wiping down the counters and getting ready to haul down the shutters when he sees them. Those stupid pricks, travelling in their pack and signaling that their quarry is in sight. Look, there it is alone and limping and- You're in a rush, leaving later than usual and shrugging your coat on carelessly as you shout your goodbyes to Sal. You're in that skirt again, the one that makes his lower belly tighten and mouth feel dry.

"Oi, look! Dirty scrubber has her fat arse hanging out!"

It sets them off, chittering and howling as you freeze wide-eyed and lip-quivering.

"Gonna be sick, mate. Don't want to see your knickers, love. Didn't even know they came in that size."

He doesn't even see red. Doesn't see anything but your pretty, round face crumpling as you try to tug your skirt out from where it got caught under your coat.

The ringing of the bell by the door muffles the sound of the first punch. His fist crunches into that prick's nose, and he wants nothing more than to keep going until his face is little more than meat and pulp and blood. He can taste it, smells the blood in the air like a shark.

But you're watching.

"Bit bored with y'taking the piss out of her," he snarls it as he hauls the man by his jacket, shoving him hard against the wall until his head thwacks against the bricks. Easy as hauling a side of beef. "Why don't ya try me next?"

The man seems dazed, head spinning and nose dripping. His mates, too, look floored. Ready to scatter and abandon their leader to the bigger beast. Only the promise of more blood keeps them watching, feeds their nasty appetites and he's just itching to let them see. Watch what happens; it's coming for you next.

"Speechless now, eh? Had so much to say earlier," he's spitting the words out, teeth snapping as he leans down so close to the man's face that he can see how his pupils constrict. "Apologise."

And he's smarter than he would give him credit for. Smart enough to whimper out his 'sorry, sorry, sorry' as he drops to the filthy, damp pavement when Simon swivels towards the others. Something about the set of his shoulders, the way his hands and apron are splattered with the gore of man and animal, has them scattering.

"That goes for the rest of ya! Don't ever want t'see your ugly fucking mugs around here again," he spits on the ground, itches at his jaw with his wrist as he watches them run.

He can't hear them anymore. Can't hear anything over the sound of his heavy panting and pounding heartbeat.

It's cold out. He's only realising it now, standing in the December chill with just an apron over his jeans and t-shirt. It has him shaking, flexing his hand as his knuckles start to sting and swell. He welcomes it, welcomes the familiar bite as he pushes down the savage, ragged anger rippling through his chest.

"Simon-"

"Y'alright?" he cuts you off, faces you head-on.

And all the rage saps out. You're not cowering away. There's no disgust on your face. No tears or embarrassment either, no. You've got a crumpled packet of wet wipes in your hand, reaching out for him. Concerned.

"Figure you'd want to get that prick's blood off you soon as possible," you give him a sad little half-smile. "Didn't have to do all that for me, Simon."

"Yeah, didn't have to." He concedes as he steps closer to you. Crowds into your space until you're toe-to-toe and he can feel your warmth. He brushes his fingers against yours, lets them linger on your soft skin as he reaches for the wipes. "I wanted to."

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

Let's all pretend that this was okay and ignore the fact that I still haven't posted the wips that I keep going on about 🫠💖

Just a little self-indulgent drabble idea that I had today, thinking back to watching 'My Mad Fat Diary' as a teenager, feeling nostalgic ~ (The Finn-defending-Rae scene had 18yo me in a chokehold lol).

[smusherina]

yard work - chapter 13 (regina george x reader)

fandom: Mean Girls (all media)

pairing: Regina George x OFC/Reader

summary: You'd been in the same class as Regina George since kindergarten. You'd lived on the same street even longer. Once upon a time, when life was sandbox disputes and who got the swing first arguments, you'd even been friends. Now, in junior year of high school, you doubted she even remembered you. The same couldn't be said about you. You definitely remembered her.

warning(s): derogatory slurs! several of them!

chapter 1 / chapter 2 / chapter 3 / chapter 4 / chapter 5 / chapter 6 / chapter 7 / chapter 8 / chapter 9 / chapter 10 / chapter 11 / chapter 12 / chapter 14

It was Friday. The last day of school, the night of the talent show, and just a few days before Christmas. They'd be passing out the candy cane-grams. There'd be some assembly, probably.

Your leg jittered restlessly while you tried to focus on your bio paper. What kind of sadistic fuck assigned an essay on the last day before break? The biology teacher, apparently. He had a superiority complex, you were sure. Allergic to happiness.

Your mind kept drifting back to the photo album. Surely, Regina had it. You'd put it in her locker on Wednesday, so she'd have found it first thing Thursday morning. You hadn't dared to take a peek in her locker, afraid Gretchen would sniff you out again.

Something had clearly gone down between them. Gretchen didn't sit with them at lunch, instead opting for her boyfriend's clique. She didn't seem to fit in too well and Jason didn't seem too pleased to have her there. Karen and Regina sat by themselves, conversing casually.

Cady had been banished somewhere. You'd heard talk Aaron had dumped her. You knew Janis and Damien weren't talking to her after she turned her back on them. Since the whole Kälteen bar shebang and the subsequent smear campaign Regina had doled out, she hadn't been exactly welcome at any table. From what you understood, Gretchen and Cady were on speaking terms, but Karen and Gretchen weren't, but Cady and Karen were. It was all terribly confusing.

You had a table for yourself. Some of your old friends crowded the ones nearby, quite pointedly not sitting with you. You were no longer cool, it seemed. Easier to focus on your paper, you told yourself. The cafeteria was serving chilli today. The slop was slightly too watery and the meat was a mystery, but it'd do. You'd run out of food at home. You'd wanted a goddamn Christmas dinner and a good slab of ham got pricy. Couldn't rely on Mrs George for a feast this time around.

"Hey," Someone called near you. You looked up, surprised somebody was talking to you. A boy, more specifically a jock judging by the varsity jacket. "You good?"

"What?" Your brows furrowed. "Yeah?"

He smiled smarmily. "Cool."

And he walked away. You kept looking as he went, staring after his back. His buddies were looking your way, the same kinds of grins on their faces. That was odd. Didn't bode well.

It didn't take long for you to find out why. The period following lunch was when Damien would be visiting classrooms as Santa Claus, handing out candy canes.

He walked right up to you with a grin hidden under the fake Santa beard, wiggling his eyebrows all the while.

"The whole bag..." He drawled. "Impressive."

Confused, you peered into the sack. A couple dozen candy canes filled it, apparently all for you. You picked one out, trying to ignore the sinking feeling in your stomach as well as the snickering of the boys in the back rows.

Dyke. The message was just one word. It was clearly assigned to you, your whole name displayed proudly. Your body went numb, hands holding the candy limply. There was no signature to show who they were from. People were staring at you. Damien had lingered awhile to see what'd been written to you. The grin behind his beard had turned into a shocked scowl.

"What... What do they say?" Cady, of all people, the nerve of her, asked. She was seated a few rows from you.

"Alright, Mr Leigh, thanks for-" Ms Norbury tried to intervene.

"Dyke." You read out loud. Then you pulled out another. "Lesbo." And another. "Carpet muncher." The boys had trouble holding in their laughs. Another. "Queer." There were others you didn't deign to read out loud. Freak. Pervert. Degenerate. Homo.

If not for a few people finding all this amusing, it would've been dead silent in the classroom.

"These were supposed to be checked before handing out." Ms Norbury strode up to you and promptly confiscated the candies. Her face was set, expression severe, as she regarded Damien sternly.

"I- that wasn't my job. I don't know how, how they would've..." You watched Damien try to put it together.

"Well, is it really offensive if it's true?" Dylan, if you remembered correctly, piped up. He was a sporty guy, decently popular but nothing special. Now, though, he might as well have been an A-lister with how utterly low you'd plummeted.

Murmurs spread out around you. Damien and Ms Norbury retreated to a corner of the classroom to figure out how in the hell this had happened. People were looking at you. Your skin was crawling. It couldn't be Janis who told. She was in the same boat as you and she didn't have the power to do something like this. To make the committee ignore hateful messages meant some strings had been pulled. The only other person that knew, that could realistically do this, was Regina.

You bit your lip, closed your eyes and took a deep breath. Okay. You got the message. The album had been too much. This was a sign to stay away, to forget all the sentimentalities you'd had.

"Hey, calm down now, we'll figure this out- hey!" You didn't pause to listen to Ms Norbury when you booked it out of the stifling classroom. You couldn't bear to be there any longer.

You hid in the bathroom. Both hands held against your mouth so you wouldn't make a noise, you cried long and hard. Your breathing was choppy and laboured, and in no time at all your nose was blocked off entirely. Your eyes stung and your vision blurred.

The bell rang and pretty soon people came into the bathroom. You refused to get out, pretending to take the longest shit ever. It didn't take very long for the people coming in to discuss what had gone down in one of the junior calc classes.

It spread like wildfire. You were pretty sure the boys had nicked some of the candy canes from Ms Norbury since you could hear people reading the notes out loud, the rustling of the plastic covering.

"Who even is that?"

"Who cares? A total freak is what she is. Oh my gosh, Steph, do you think..."

"What?"

"Do you think she used the girls' bathroom? She's probably spread her diseases all over the seats! We're all gonna have gonorrhoea!"

You wanted to sink into the ground and never see daylight again. By the time the bell rang again, signalling the start of the next period, the rumours had inflated and grown disproportionately in severity.

Apparently, you were riddled with sexually transmitted diseases, preyed on freshmen and sold them hard drugs, behaved creepily in locker rooms, and had had a stint with Cady Heron while she was still with Aaron Samuels. You guessed that last one had to do with the time you'd dragged her into the janitor's closet to yell at her about the Kälteen bars.

In short, you were fucked. Your life was fucked. You'd hoped, so hoped, that even if you wouldn't get everything you wanted, you'd get some. You wouldn't get a high school girlfriend, wouldn't have slumber parties, wouldn't be normal. You wouldn't be Regina's friend. Fine. At least you could've had a quiet life, gone to community college and worked at the shop, had some buddies, and maybe lost your virginity one day. Not even that now. Not even a little bit of that. Your future in this town was just no longer there. You had nothing. You were nothing.

You skulked out of the bathroom once you were sure there'd be nobody in the halls. You got into your car and drove home. Just as you'd slumped down onto the couch, the house phone rang. Groaning, you went to answer. If it was your dad, missing it would mean there'd be hell to pay.

"Hello?" Your voice was croaky. It hurt to talk.

"Hi, sweetie! You don't sound too good." Mrs George's chirp greeted you. "I assume you had to leave school 'cause of that. I just happened to see you drive by. Rick got called to work last minute and Kylie's got tutoring till late. Come keep me company?"

"I'm not feeling too well, I'm sorry..." You said, holding the phone to your ear while your other arm wrapped around your body. You tried to breathe deep and not burst out crying, again. Your eyes felt swollen shut.

"Oh, I'll come by with some soup, then," She sounded so genuinely concerned.

You bit your lip. Tummy rumbling in its emptiness, you decided now would be as good of a time as any to bite the bullet.

"Actually, uh, if it's not too much to ask, and um- I-" You took in a shuddering breath. "You don't have to say yes, it's totally okay and I'm sorry if this is, like, too much-"

"Sweetpea, just ask." She chuckled.

"I don't have any food. Or, like, I have ingredients for Christmas 'cause I wanted to make dinner for myself, but I guess I forgot I have to eat before then too?" You tried to laugh, but the sound was strained. "Um, could you take me to the soup kitchen downtown?"

You could've driven yourself. You could've, in that you were capable of driving yourself, but with how your vision was impaired, how your body ached with loneliness, and how you weren't sure you wouldn't just impulsively drive into oncoming traffic, you doubted you would've survived the trip.

"No." She said bluntly. You flinched, feeling the refusal like a knife to the gut. "No, absolutely not. We are going grocery shopping and getting you food to last the rest of the damn year. I'm picking you up."

"Mrs George, I don't have money-"

"You shouldn't be spending your hard-earned money like that. Doesn't your dad send you enough to cover utilities?"

"He sends me grocery money. I gotta pay for gas and stuff on my own."

Mrs George's resounding silence spoke volumes of her opinion on that. "I'm coming to get you. I'm buying you groceries and then we're gonna meal prep. Okay?"

"Okay."

When Mrs George saw you, her determined attitude shifted to that of maternal worry. You fought hard not to break down, though all you really wanted to do was curl into her and cry your little heart out.

She drove you to Whole Foods, a place way out of your budget. But she insisted, so there was little you could do. She took you from aisle to aisle, prattling on and on, chatting about this and that. You listened mostly silently, humming here and there.

She picked out a lot of canned stuff, like beans and tomato purée. All that stuff was made to last forever, so you wouldn't always have to buy fresh ingredients. She bought all your favourite snacks, which she somehow remembered. When you commented on that, she just pointed at her temple with a knowing grin. Mothers never forget, she'd said.

Once you were all done, the cart was quite literally overflowing. The total nearly made your stomach drop out of your ass. Mrs Geoge simply flashed her black card and, without even a wince, paid the price. The receipt was, like, three feet long.

Carrying it all to her car was a daunting task, but a worker did come to help you. A young man, probably home from college, was all too eager to carry the bags for Mrs George.

The way he was blushing all the way up to his ears, the way she was amused by him but not receptive, made you think about what Regina had said months ago. You'd been on your way to her nail appointment and she'd gone on a tangent about how women died at menopause.

Mrs George was thriving. She was above it all. Her worth, or mortality, wasn't determined by the men around her. She'd been cheated on, continuously neglected by her husband, and put down by her teenage daughter, and still, she was beautiful. She existed independently.

In short, you were right and Regina was wrong. You saw things how they really were. She saw things tilted to the left, through a warped lens. The confirming of this brought you no comfort, she'd already ruined you and there was no redeeming herself after this, at least not for you.

"Phew, what a trip, right?" She nudged you with her elbow as she buckled her seatbelt.

You nodded along, voice still weak. You buckled in as well.

"I'll pick you up for the talent show." She said as she turned away from the parking lot. "Oooh, we should have a night in. Order some pizzas and slob around the couch. How's that sound?"

"I don't think I should go to the talent show."

"Oh, why's that?"

"Just... Something happened at school. I don't wanna go."

Mrs George frowned and glanced at you. "Honey, you know you can tell me anything. I still think you should come."

"Everybody hates me." You faced the window and crossed your arms. Very mature.

"I'm sure that's not true." She sighed. "I'm not supposed to tell you, but Regina's got something prepared for you. I think you should go see her at least."

Your face twisted in anger. "Something prepared for me- like she prepared something for me today? I don't fucking think so."

"Language." She said and you grumbled. "What do you mean?"

"Nothing. It's nothing." You rubbed your hands down your jeans. "It's not gonna be good. She's gonna humiliate me."

"It's supposed to be a surprise, but I can guarantee that she's not going to humiliate you."

"What do you know?" You turned to her with narrowed eyes.

"I've been hearing her practice, is all." She responded, tone much too light.

You studied her face carefully. "Fine."

She smiled, seemingly relieved. Then, as if to cut the tension in the car, said:

"Oh, and by the way, I'm filing for divorce." With a giddy smile on her face, she blurted it out. You just stared for a while, almost suffering whiplash from the sudden change in topic.

"Uh... Finally." You laughed a little as you said that.

"Yeah!" She laughed with you. "It's been a long time coming. I just needed to sort some things out. Emotionally and financially. I had to get rid of some investments so I wouldn't have to pay alimony."

Your jaw dropped. The Georges were, like, filthy rich. Rich beyond reason, excess income to a ridiculous degree. You'd always assumed it was Mr George's money. How archaic of you.

"I... I kinda wished you'd done it sooner." You looked forward again. She was driving carefully since the snow made the roads prone to ice.

"Me too. The girls... They... I thought that having two parents would be the most stable, safe environment for them. I was wrong."

"Yeah." You swallowed. "Um. Since we're, like, just saying things. I'm, by the way, gay. Like, a lesbian."

"That's wonderful, honey!"

"Yeah." You couldn't say you agreed.

"Should we go get you a haircut?"

"I don't need to look any more butch than I do."

"I don't know, I think you'd look dashing." She feigned light-hearted. "Regina might like it."

"Mrs George!"

Notes: More drama! Yay! Do y'all think Regina did it?

Taglist posted separately. Please comment on the taglist post to be added on there :)

[fatastical]

I'm sure anyone who has stopped by my page has noticed that I don't post very often. Generally this is because I tend to take long breaks between stuffing sessions. Its hard to live that feedee life 100% of the time but I get it in whenever I can. It has been a minute. I actually got my weight up to 450 around my birthday and I was ecstatic. But I had to slow down because "money" of course and so I've just been biding my time until the next massive stuffing. Luckily for me, thanksgiving happened and it opened up the gluttony flood gates. 

I actually didnt have too much at thanksgiving dinner, I had been cleaning and rearranging furniture and then hosting all day and never had time to pre-indulge the indulgence. But after everyone left I had 2 massive plates and 2 pieces of pie.

Thats hardly a full on stuffing but it definitely sparked my feedee when my belly got a little bloated and rounded out. I knew it was over. I knew right then I would be gorging myself for the next several days now. It became a quest for more food as soon as my stomach had reached the point of just past full. When I had just started to feel like I had eaten "too much," it quickly changed to not nearly enough. I went from somewhat uncomfortable to aggressively horny in a matter of moments. It was ultimately incredibly frustrating because for the next 2 days I was constantly hungry and never satisfied. I just didnt have time to gorge the way I wanted. Luckily on sunday I was able to begin feasting the way I wanted. I filled up on as many leftovers as I could without getting too uncomfortable to work. When I got there a coworker had made soup, and a customer brought in cookies (that I got to take home cause no one wanted em 🤷‍♂️). After work I promptly went to del taco and got 6 chicken tacos that I ate on my way home. And when I got home I ate more thanksgiving leftovers. I was finally beginning to feel big again.

Monday was more ham and turkey (as thats about all that was left) then I ate fries and a grilled cheese at work. But on my way home was where I got more serious. I stopped at burger king and got 2 whopper jrs, a large bacon king meal, a 12 piece mozeralla fries, and 16 nuggets. I was elated. Stuffed to the brim but still wanting and begging for more. 

Tuesday night was even better. I ate the last of the leftovers and repeated my burger king order with an additional 2 whopper jrs. Which the burger king order alone was 4,880 calories. And that doesn't include the leftovers I had eaten previously. I kept snacking on meat and cheese and crackers and then I made breakfast the next morning even though i was still massively stuffed from the night before. 

Then last night (wednesday) we went to Korrean bbq where i ate until I couldnt. I could barely breathe as we walked out of there.

And then I STILL got a double baconator meal, a biggie bag, and a large salted caremel frostie from Wendy's. I went to bed massively stuffed and was still searching for food even though I could barely stand. There were several moments where I "didnt want" to keep eating, but I couldn't help but think to myself "If I had a feeder, what would they do?" And I gently lifted my belly and gave it a good squeeze and softly said "I know there's more room and I know you can do it. Just take another bite and see how you feel." And then I'd take another bite, and then another. Until it was all gone. I finally gave up on trying to find more to eat. Moving was especially hard and its moments like that when I REALLY wish I had someone to push me further.

Now its thursday, I am still significantly "full." My stomach is technically empty but i can feel my expanded girth from my multiple days of stuffing myself. And all I want right now is to keep eating and stretching myself out even further. I need to find something to eat.

[pekoehoneyncream]

Ghoaptober # 31

Prompt: Knife

Words: 1500~

TW: Allusions to Torture (sfw)

This version of Ghoaptober was created by @spadesandshovels

This is the last one folks! All good things must come to an end, I suppose. This has been really fun to do! It's been great to stretch my writing skills, I feel like I improved over the course of the month, at least I hope I did, I definitely had to do less grammar and spelling corrections as we progressed, so there's that.

I wanted to thank everyone who's left such kind comments for me, you're feedback really does mean the world to me, Thank You!

If you want me to write more please do drop me an ask, I'd love to hear from you!

And with all of that said, onto the fic

Enjoy!

A shriek echoed out from the microscopic kitchenette crammed into the back of the disused officer’s rec room that the one-four-one had co-opted, Ghost and Price launched off the sagging sofa towards the noise. They charged into the kitchenette, Ghost wielding a knife and Price his hand-gun, ready to end any threat to their Sergeants.

There was no threat, just Soap trying to hide his awkward blush in his mug of coffee while Gaz stared at him with something close to abject horror. 

“Tav, mate, what the fuck is wrong with your tongue.” Gaz demanded, willfully ignoring that he’d just screamed like an arachnophobe confronting Shelob and the fact that his superiors hadn't hesitated in running to his hypothetical rescue. 

Price huffed and reholstered his gun, Ghost putting away his knife much more slowly. “Just what exactly is going on?” He demanded with an edge to his voice that suggested he was already regretting that he’d asked, “Why are you screaming over Soap’s tongue?”

“Well, Cap,” Soap started with a lewd tilt of his eyebrows and a goading grin,

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Gaz cut over him with a biting tone, “but, I didn’t expect to be confronted by the fact that Soap is an actual fuckin’ demon on a casual Thursday afternoon, Price.”

“Garrick, we talked about this,” Price scolded,

“Yeah,” Ghost agreed, “Johnny can’t be a demon, his rosary'd burn him.”

“Wha!” Soap sputtered in sheer disbelief, “Youse thought Ah’m a demon?!”

“No one’s that lucky, Tav.” Gaz said with flat seriousness, “There’s gotta be some kinda something going on.” 

“Would a deal with a demon make you demonic?” Ghost mused in an exaggeratedly ponderous tone, casting his gaze up to the ceiling tiles so that the flabbergasted expression Soap’s face was stretching into couldn't make him laugh.

Gaz perked up, snapping and pointing at Ghost in a eureka-esque motion, “Yes! That’s totally it!” He exclaimed, practically bouncing on his toes with his triumph. 

“Riley-”

“I cannae make a deal wit’ a demon!” Soap cut over Price, slamming his mug down to free up his hands for incensed gesturing, “Mah Grannie would disown me!” 

“Then how do you explain-” Gaz flailed a hand in the direction of Soap’s mouth, lacking the words to describe just what in fuck was going on in there, “-that!”

A look of cartoonish offence slid onto Soap’s face. Ghost watched him brace his hands on his hips and draw himself up to his full height, hamming it up. Trying to make it into an easily deflected joke. Concern kicked at the back of Ghost’s sternum, if Johnny was deflecting it meant the real answer was nothing good. 

Ghost had learned early on that Johnny was one of the most open, shameless, oversharing freaks that walked this earth. He had watched Johnny laugh his way through retelling stories and anecdotes that would have sent consummate exhibitionists blushing through the floor on multiple occasions. Ghost had also been quick to cotton on to the fact that it was for the best to follow up on the topics that Johnny tried to deflect, as they were generally things that would have a therapist crying and Johnny really was better off getting them off his chest. Ghost usually let it go and tried to circle back around to those deflections when they were alone and Johnny was feeling safe, but with Gaz latched onto this like a starved dog with a butcher bone, that wasn’t an option. 

Sure, Ghost could probably distract Gaz and help Johnny wiggle out of this, but debriding old wounds is always a good team bonding experience. 

Gaz and Soap had stagnated into their usual pattern of bandying insults back and forth. Having a grand time of pretending to be sputtering in high dudgeon whenever the other would quip back with something particularly clever. Ghost cut his eyes to Price, and jerked his chin at Johnny upon catching the Captain’s eye. 

Yes, Ghost wanted Johnny to talk about it, but he didn’t want his boyfriend upset with him either. 

“Right,” Price cut in after giving Ghost a roundly rancorous look, “Soap, why is Garrick accusing you of having a demonic tongue. Without!” He hastily amended when Soap turned overblown fuck-me eyes on him, “any chirpsing if you would.”

“Aye, right. Uh-” Soap hesitated, staring down at his feet and rubbing at his nape as he tried to gather the right words to explain this, “Reckon he mean’ this.” He gave up and just stuck his tongue out. 

Soap could admit that he got a bit of a kick out of watching their uncomprehending looks warp into horrified incredulity when his tongue split down the middle. He wiggled the two sides up and down in opposite directions of each other and briefly twined them into a coil to drive the image home, then retracted it back behind the safety of his teeth with as much casual finesse as he could muster. 

There was a beat of silence, then a cavalcade of questions. Soap’s personal favourite was Ghost’s ‘how did I not notice?’ said in the tone of a man on the edge of a revelatory breakdown. A close second was Price’s muttered ‘that can’t be within regs.”, but topping the charts for sheer volume was Gaz.

“What!” He shrieked, “What the fuck! When’d you get that!?” his voice dripped with a queer mix of awe, horror, and morbid fascination. 

Soap hummed uncertainly, casting his mind back, swallowing against the phantom taste of blood creeping up his throat to pool at the back of his mouth, “Mus’ a been aroun' twenty-sixteen? Some’hing like tha’,”

“Twenty-sixteen.” Price muttered, mentally rifling through Soap’s file, there was something about that year that had the klaxons spinning up in Price’s subconscious, “Not October twenty-sixteen?” 

“Aye,” Soap nodded, keeping his eyes on the ground, “Tha’d be the one.”

“Corporal MacTavish was detained by enemy forces eighth October twenty-sixteen and was successfully recovered twelfth October twenty-sixteen. In enemy custody, Corporal MacTavish was subjected to physical maltreatment, most notably manifesting in substantial damage within the oral cavity. Injury permanent but non-disfiguring. Corporal MacTavish states that no intelligence was provided to the adversary while in custody.” Price quotes -impressively word for word- from the truncated after action report that had been the script for far too many of his nightmares, “That October twenty-sixteen?” 

“Got ‘er in one, Cap.” Soap confirms, idly grinding his tongue between his teeth, “Yanno, they did offer tae fix it. The medics.” He spoke on just to break the heavy silence that had conquered the room, “But they’d have had tae open it up again, cause it’d been cauterized, so Ah said no' tae bother.”

They'd told him that as it was a 'non-invasive procedure' only local numbing would be provided and Soap would not be letting anyone else come at his tongue with a knife unless he was unconscious, dead, or dying. 

“Tav," Gaz pressed out slowly, hesitantly, “That’s fucked, mate.”

“Aye,” Soap nodded, staring down at the kitchenette’s cheap linoleum. Blinking to force the floor back into dingy tiles when his brain tried to twist it into stained concrete. He huffed a small flat laugh, more to force the scent of iron and dank stone from his nose than anything else, “Aye, twasn’t mah idea ae fun neither.”

“Johnny,” Ghost drew his name out into a devastated whine and lunged forward to coil around Soap in a protective embrace. Heart splitting at the shakiness he could feel in Johnny’s shallow breaths as he clutched his boyfriend to his chest. 

“Ah’m alrigh’,” Johnny assured, but the tear-fighting sniff he tried to conceal in Ghost’s pecs said something different. 

“You’re alright,” Price agreed, lay a grounding hand on Soap’s shoulder. 

“Yeah,” Gaz poked at Soap’s sensitive sides to force a wet giggle out of him, “Course you’re alright, Tav. You’ve got us and if those fucks aren’t already dead I’m sure Ghost is drafting up like ten different plans for how to track ‘em down and kill ‘em slow.”

Ghost was glad that Gaz’s joking was making Johnny feel better, and gave an intrigued pensive hum into the fluff of his warhawk to play along. 

It was actually fifteen different plans. 

“Okay. Okay.” Soap barked, shaking them off once he was absolutely positive that he wasn’t about to start bawling like a bairn as soon as they let go, “Mah goddamn coffee’s gonnae be fuckin’ cold now ye muckers.” 

“Do you want me to make you a new cup, so you don't have to microwave it?” Ghost offered, love surging within him for the wide blue eyes that swung his way. 

“Would ye, mo chridhe?” Johnny begged prettily. 

Ghost hooked a thumb under his balaclava, lifting it over his mouth just long enough to press an adoring kiss unto Johnny’s lips, then turning away to make him the promised fresh cuppa, fluidly stealing his mug to dump and refill it.

Both men were content to ignore the way Gaz faked a retch over their sappy mush, as he practically stepped on Price’s heels following after the Captain on his tactical retreat back to the sofa.

Thank You For Reading!

Some nice hurt/comfort to round off the month. It didn't make it into the fic but the reason that his captors split Soap's tongue is because he wouldn't stop talking back, just a fun fact for y'all.

Did anyone want me to make a masterlist for all of these? with ratings and short descriptions or something? there's already links to the full series on my masterlist, but that just has the prompts, so I was wondering if a masterlist would be helpful. Let me know!

PekoeHoneynCream's Masterlist

[arrthurpendragon]

I got home from school and I couldn’t find Misha kitty. If I say any word that starts with the letter f he comes running (he assumes I’m gonna say fancy feast) I kept calling for him but he never came. I searched the usual hiding places, but couldn’t find him. I assumed he got outside somehow. So, I called the humane society - they were closed. My vet across the street said they didn’t have any missing cats either. So, I tore my house apart.

I found him hiding in a tipped over laundry basket beside the washer. I pet him and he started yowling. For those who don’t know, Misha is the biggest attention whore and he doesn’t hide unless scared. So, I managed to get him to my bed and then I kicked all the other pets out of the room after Misha yowled again. He settled down a bit when he was just with me, but was still occasionally yowling. His bladder felt full compared to Tallmadge kitty’s.

I thought maybe he was just being picky about there being older litter mixed in the box, so I dumped it and put fresh stuff in before I carried him and set him in the litter box. He tried 4 times and nothing came out and he didn’t want to jump out of the box.

So I made the decision to drive 75 minutes to the emergency vet. Whether the car ride is 5 minutes or 3 hours, Misha kitty vocalizes his displeasure the whole ride. He didn’t make a peep the entire drive.

Good thing I brought him in. He has a blockage and will stay there until Thursday. They said I caught it quick.

Although, when they were just observing him for the first few minutes they didn’t think anything was wrong because he walked out of his carrier and demanded pets and rubs! That’s my little attention whore! Haha. He’s gotta ham it up for all the attention even when he’s not feeling well.

This will be the longest Tallmadge, his litter mate, has been without Misha! They’re 4 and the longest they’ve been separated is like 12 hours.

Also, I’m glad my sister told me about care credit otherwise I wouldn’t have been able to cover the necessary funds for this.

Needless to say, it’s been a long day and the kitty I force to snuggle with me after stressful days isn’t home to make me feel better.

If you could send healing vibes Misha kitty’s way that would be appreciated. He is such a special cat.

[thequeefdealer]

[SURVEY ENDED]Hi, anybody with any neurodiversity! I really need some help with something!

Can you answer this questionnaire on having ADHD, autism, or any other type to neurodivergence and is impact on your creative endeavours or career? Doesn't matter what gender you are or if you're professionally or self diagnosed, or if your creativity isn't a job and just a hobby! All opinions are valid and useful!!

This is for my final project in uni so it'll help me get a banging grade of I have a good sample size! Thank you so so much if you do this. I'm so grateful!

If you can't take the quiz please reblog it so it finds someone who can! Thank you so much!!!

(BTW it's completely anonymous, no signing in, no exact ages (as long as you're over 18), no names, no genders, and the only ppl seeing the stats from the quiz are my tutors marking this and myself, so go ham!)

Here's the link!!!

Thank you so much. You're amazing!!!!

(Edit: I got asked about the security of Google docs and them seeing your answers and your data. I am really sorry about that, and I understand the fear. You honestly don't have to answer if you feel uncomfortable about google having that data. If you still want to do it, maybe opening it on an incognito window will help it not link back to your Google account. Either way, it's entirely your choice to answer these or not! Thank you)

Thursday 20th June Update:

This survey is now closed with an absolutely amazing pool of data and more support than I could have ever expected! Thank you so much, everyone, for your support! You've helped me to no end! Once the Paper is done the Data will be destroyed (no skin off my nose, if my uni ever wants me to publish this dissertation or I ever want to use it in future I'll just redo the survey and probably better than before!) Anyway, thanks again for all your trust, insight, and answers. They're invaluable!

[coopers-kitchen]

Here's a tip for any aspiring longpigs: nothing will buy you a one-way ticket to the oven faster than an apple in the mouth.

It's the perfect way of saying exactly what you are, and what you intend to become - a delicious longpork dinner.

This hog is particularly eager. In fact, he's gone so far as to write his meat grade on his side - a little cocky for sure, but I can't help but agree. Would you believe that this pig isn't even 230 lbs? I almost didn't, seeing the size of that gut or those fat rolls.

This pig desperately wants to be roasted in the oven, and based on that first photo I agree. It makes his best assets stand out, accentuates that juicy belly, and makes his hams look fat enough to keep me fed for a few days. Still, I'm not one to turn down a little extra meat.

As soon as he gets to my place I'm going to cage him for a while. In fact, I have one coming free in a few days - a little cramped, but as long as he's comfy in that position who cares? A week or so being forcefed my 100% efficient pigfeed and he'll definitely pack on a few pounds before it's time to slice off his oysters and graduate him to housepig status.

Still, I don't think that status will last for long. Sometimes you see a pig who's perfect for a big event like Halloween, Thanksgiving, or plain-old Thursday. This pig doesn't need much work, so I'd say he'll be around for a few days before he's shaved, stuffed, and roasted.

For this pig I'm going to go with a nice honey, apple, and whisky glaze. For the stuffing I'm going to go for longpork, fresh apples, berries, and honey. After all, you don't always need exotic stuffing ingredients, Longpork is already the most decadent ingredient there is, and the most important thing is always to find the right recipe for the right pig. I can't wait to dig into this succulent Porkboy. It's just a shame I can only cook him once.

[discokicks]

BOLT FROM THE BLUE - ROY KENT.

PART ONE of ACES AT THE WATER'S EDGE.

(series masterlist!) (series playlist!) (AO3!)

pairing: roy kent x fem!reader (no use of y/n!)

summary: with the departure of afc richmond’s wonderkid, the club is desperately on the hunt for a new coach. luckily for them, you’ve just been wrongfully terminated from your position over at west ham. however, with your outlook on the football world tainted and massive hesitation due to your past with a particular member of their coaching staff, you’re less than convinced about the job. but, that same member may just be the one to convince you.

word count & rating: 8.7k, R (too many roy kent 'fucks' to be pg-13)

chapter warnings: whole lotta swearing (it’s a roy kent fic, do i even have to say it?), talk of workplace misconduct, allusions to (no descriptions of) sexual harassment, roy and the reader are long-lost bickering, angsty enemies with a past, reader is a former team usa player and present coach, author is american (sorry </3)

author’s note! hello hello. so happy to have you here. welcome to my first tumblr fic. certainly not my first fic ever, but first fic on here! hooray! for the sake of this fic, we’re going to pretend like the coaching career of the reader is actually possible in the current misogynistic world football climate. it’ll be fun to fantasize. also, this takes place in s3, and reader is earlyish/midish thirties. also also, i know next to nothing about football/soccer and haven’t played since i was 10, but i’m doing my research! hope you enjoy and love u all tons. -mags

PRESENT DAY. (AUGUST 2023)

Your ex-boss's ex-wife is currently standing outside of your apartment and somehow, that’s not the most surprising thing to happen this week.

While yes, of course, seeing Rebecca Walton on your front steps at nine-thirty on a Thursday morning is shocking, the numbness that’s been coursing through your body since Monday takes some of the edge off.

She’s right before you, clutching her purse tightly, dressed in a fitted trench coat and aggressively expensive heels. Everything about her contrasts the four-sizes-too-big sweatshirt you’re sporting with the age-old pajama shorts with embroidered soccer balls that you’ve been rotting away in for the last three days. When your eyes finally meet once more and you see she’s been sizing you up just as you’ve been doing to her, she plasters on a wide, practiced smile.

“Hello,” Rebecca says. Her smile doesn’t falter.

You blink at her. “Hi.”

She motions to your door and you feel your hand tighten on the knob. “May I come in?”

Your lips part in a way that you’re sure makes you look like a moron. “Like, into my house?” you ask, head whipping to look at the current warzone state of your living room.

Rebecca’s smile gets slightly more genuine. “If that’s alright?”

The shock of her standing before you seems to have worn off, because you find yourself shutting the door slightly. “I’m not so sure that’s a good idea.”

“It’s nothing—”

“Look, if you’re here to get me to talk to that Independent journalist who’s called me like, three times asking for a perspective on Rupert for his book or whatever, I’m really not interested.” Your frustration is clearly peaking through your typically reserved manner, and frankly, you’re not in any mood to mask it.

She doesn’t seem to mind. “Who? Trent?” You nod at Rebecca’s furrowed brows. “Oh God, no. We barely want him writing that thing anyway.”

Well, okay. “Then why—”

Rebecca motions to the door again. “May I?”

You suppose if she’s being so insistent about entering your home, it’s her funeral. You step back to allow her in, and the second she sees your living room, she seems to regret it. When she turns to face you, you can’t help the way your brows shoot up, everything about your demeanor saying I told you so. “The kitchen’s cleaner,” you tell her, nodding in its direction.

“Wonderful,” she says as she follows you through the hall. Her next question is hesitant. “So, is all this—”

“The result of getting fired on Monday?” you finish for her, turning to meet her gaze as you stand at your counter. Her eyes read pity and part of you already wants to kick her out. The other part of you wants to hug her. “Yeah. Things, uh…”

As you trail off, you realize something. That thing in her eyes isn’t pity. It’s empathy. Rebecca, more than anyone, knows Rupert. She knows how much of an asshole he is. She knows how special he can make you feel, only to have the rug ripped out from under you moments later. She knows what it feels like to be wronged by him. She knows.

Through your silence, you think she recognizes the sudden shift in tension as your expression morphs into something less hard, and you allow yourself a moment of vulnerability. “Things haven’t been great over here.”

Any sort of practice in Rebecca’s smile completely fades and is replaced with something more compassionate. “I can only imagine.”

You nod, crossing your arms over your chest. While the initial discomfort has passed, the awkwardness still lingers and you realize that you have literally no idea why she’s in your apartment. “Can I… offer you coffee? Or, uh, tea?” you ask.

“Oh, no,” she replies. “Thank you though.”

“You sure?” you try again. “I taught myself how to make an insane shaken espresso during my ACL recovery. Mastered it over the years.”

“Mastered it?”

You shrug. “It was either that or alcoholism. Chose the path less traveled by most washed-up athletes.”

Rebecca’s lips twitch upward. “Oh, what the hell. Why not?”

“Great,” you say, turning to your cabinet to grab your bag of coffee beans. Now for the moment of truth. “And while I get that together…” You stand on your tiptoes to reach the bag. “You’ve gotta tell me what you’re doing here.”

For a moment, you think she’s going to feed you some joke or some bullshit answer. You glance over your shoulder to watch her mouth even open to do so. But she suddenly decides against it.

And you drop the bag of coffee beans and have to stabilize yourself against the counter as she says, “I’m here to offer you a job.”

A job? She wants to give you a job at Richmond? She can’t be serious. Out of all the things that floated through your mind when you opened the door, this was the last thing you thought possible. A job. She’s here to offer you a job.

It has to be a pity offer. That’s where the pity of it all went. But no one knows about what actually happened, you remind yourself. She just knows you were suddenly let go. Well, then it’s just a revenge offer. Some petty thing to get back at Rupert. As much as you want to think that you’d be on board with that, you had no interest in being some sort of piece in the game.

You’re staring blankly at Rebecca as your mind goes to war, certain that you look like even more of an idiot than you did when you let her in. There’s a small pool of coffee beans sitting on your counter. But you can’t find it in you to care. A job. She’s here to offer you a job.

Rebecca suddenly clears her throat. “Is everything alri—”

“Why the fuck do you want to give me a job?” Is what comes out of your mouth, head too far gone to consider a filter. A smirk appears on her face at your words. “Sorry, I just… I don’t get it.”

She looks at you for a moment, taking a solemn pause to evaluate exactly what it is she wants to say. Her eyes flash to your embroidered soccer shorts peeking out from beneath your sweatshirt, then to the plethora of sport-themed mugs hanging beneath the cabinets in your kitchen, then to the framed photo you keep on the wall of your team’s 2015 World Cup win.

“Because,” she finally lands on, “when I see that the new, passionate, wildly qualified West Ham coach is suddenly fired less than two months after she begins, seemingly out of nowhere…” It’s her turn to trail off, and she shrugs. “Something tells me it wasn’t just leadership differences.”

You look away from her as she drops the famous press-release line. Discomfort floods your body as you remember Rupert’s smarmy smile when he asked for your badge. “No,” you say softly. “It wasn’t.”

Rebecca nods, as if her suspicions were confirmed. “Now, I don’t know what happened,” she tells you, “and I don’t expect to know. But as I said, you’re wildly qualified. You were a remarkable talent on the field and more so as a coach. Four Uni championships in a six-year career isn’t just impressive, it’s unheard of.”

You pause your coffee bean cleanup at that. Your brows shoot up and a wry smile crosses your lips. “You know my college coaching stats?”

Rebecca stares at you for a moment. Then, “Not until this week,” she admits quickly, forcing you to bite back a laugh. “But my coaching staff knew. Sang your praises.”

A pit forms in your stomach as you realize exactly who’s a part of that staff. Bull-fucking-shit he sang your praises. You think you’d despise him more if he had.

Attempting to brush off your sudden uneasiness, you try your hand at a joke while measuring out the beans. “Well, two-thirds of them are American, so I guess that makes sense.”

Rebecca chuckled. “Well, Roy Kent doesn’t say much of anything, but you did get a—’” She cuts herself off to make an affirmative-sounding grunt. You’re so thrown off by this that you almost forget to smile at her impression of him. “Which, you know, is about as close to singing as he gets.”

That it is. Because you do know. And that’s Roy code for ‘trying to be normal about this, but dear God, never speak about her to me again.’ You hope the mere mention of your name made him run out of the room. That the idea of you potentially joining the team keeps him up at night.

(The last three days haven’t been good for your dramatics either.)

A sigh escapes your lips and you avert your eyes. There’s an air of embarrassment as you shift uncomfortably. “This is going to be loud, sorry,” you apologize, turning the grinder on. You make a general estimation that this is what your brain would currently sound like if someone decided to listen in. After a moment, the machine turns off, but you don’t turn back to Rebecca. “Would this be a coaching offer?”

“I wouldn’t want you to be anything else,” Rebecca responds. Her tone shifts slightly as she looks at you. “Unless there’s—”

“No,” you say, shaking your head. “There’s nothing else I’d want.” You shift again. “I just…”

Rebecca watches as you trail off. You still haven’t looked at her, focused solely on your espresso task at hand. She wasn’t sure what she was expecting when she arrived at your home, but it certainly wasn’t this. Every time she’d seen you, whether it was on the field, blowing past defenders with impossible efficiency, or coaching your college girls in a way that commanded respect despite the seemingly ever-present smile on your face, there’d always been this confidence about you.

An admirable sense of ego. A love and passion for the game that made every young girl want to wear the number 14. A spirit that made everyone look upon you fondly. A pleasure to be around, and an honor to work with.

Rebecca was now staring at what she presumed to be the shell of the woman she’d heard about. A woman distracting herself from the discomfort of this conversation with coffee-making, afraid of her own shadow. And as you spoke, she knew her assumptions were correct.

“Listen,” you manage to get out. You’ve already tamped the grounds and had returned to the big, fancy espresso machine bought for you long ago by a former friend. “I appreciate you coming over here, but…”

“But?” Rebecca questions.

The words feel dry in your mouth and you have to push them out. “I think I’m done with it.”

It’s Rebecca’s turn to blink at you dumbly. “Done with what?” she asks. “With coaching?”

Shame floods your body. “With soccer,” you reply weakly. That look remained on Rebecca’s face. “Football. Whatever. Whatever you want to call it, I’m done with it.” You turn to stable yourself on the countertop once more as the coffee begins to brew. “It’s just— I’ve spent the majority of my life doing this one thing. I’ve done the Olympic gold thing, I’ve won a World Cup, I’ve won college championships, I’ve been…” Your eyes shut, shoulders sagging. “I’ve just been. And I thought I could go a step further. Break a ceiling or whatever. I thought I was ready for it. And then everything I’ve worked for is fucking destroyed by some douchebag, diva athlete who doesn’t know how to keep his dick in his—”

You raise your hand to your mouth as if that’ll keep it all in, and you realize you’re shaking. You don’t have to turn around to know how Rebecca’s looking at you. “So, yeah,” you finish lamely. “I’m done. It was ruined for me. And I don’t want to go back.”

Rebecca says nothing for a long while. Taking everything you said in, drawing her conclusions, whatever. You grip the granite countertop and it feels cool beneath your fingers. Your eyes open when you finally hear her respond.

“You’re letting him win,” she tells you, voice soft. Slightly broken. Like she knows the feeling.

When you do turn back to her, Rebecca’s sitting at your breakfast bar with her hands folded together, anger poorly concealed. But it’s not anger at you, it’s just anger.

But then you start to feel angry. “I’m not letting him win,” you insist.

“You are,” she replies. Before you can let your temper get the best of you, she continues. “They’re calling you emotional, you know? They’re saying that the ’leadership problems’ were you just being abrasive. Joking that they should have never let a woman into the league because of the drama. Apparently, women can’t handle AFC-level coaching.”

You swallow. “I know,” you say. “I’ve seen it.”

“Who do you think’s pushing that narrative?” she asks.

It’s a rhetorical question, but you still feel like giving an answer. “Basement-dwelling losers who barely made their intramural leagues?”

It’s then that Rebecca smiles for real. It’s like she’s seen a flash of the woman she’s heard about and she couldn’t be more pleased. She makes a noise of agreement, then continues. “This is what he wants. He wants you to feel like this. He wants you to quit.” Her gaze bores into yours with an intensity that doesn’t allow you to look away. “If you give it all up, he wins. He beats you and he’s got another name under his belt. He doesn’t deserve your name.” Rebecca’s index finger jabs in your direction. “Don’t allow him to fucking win.”

The passion in her words is what gets you. Your throat clenches as you feel your eyes start to burn, knowing that everything she said had some amount of truth in it. There’s a frustration that rises in your chest that you don’t know how to handle.

You were letting him win. He took away your career and then threatened your reputation. He made you take the blame for everything. He allowed this to be ruined for you and played an active part in ensuring it. And here you were, cowering in fear at the notion of this small man.

She’s right, and the espresso has finished brewing.

You know she’s right. Rebecca knows she’s right. So, as you stand in your kitchen, fighting an inward battle that’s got you on the verge of tears, your scared, stupid, frustrated little brain can only think of one more thing to say as you pour the coffee over ice.

“Even if you were right—” you begin, not ready to admit that just yet, “—even if you were, and even if I did want to join Richmond, I refuse to work with Roy Kent.”

This takes Rebecca completely by surprise. She shifts back in her chair, eyes wide despite the drawing of her brows. “R-Roy?” she sputters. “Our Roy Kent?”

The word our tells you that he’s been embraced by the club and isn’t going anywhere. Not that you had expected him to. He’d clearly nested well into the team and had taken his coaching position in stride. Just like you said he would years ago.

“Yeah,” you say shortly. “That one.”

Rebecca’s expression remains the same. ”But he’s… I—” She cuts herself off with a question. “—but why?”

A mirthless grin crosses your lips, head shaking like you don’t have the energy to get into it all. “That’s an answer you should probably hear from him.”

Rebecca looks as though she’s trying to make sense of all of this. You want to wish her luck. Because you’ve been doing the same thing for eight years. “I understand he can be a bit… coarse. And intimidating. And hot-headed. But he really is—”

“I don’t care what he is,” you tell her with the most polite, tight-lipped smile you can muster up. “I know who he was. And I’m not interested in working with him.” The words leave your mouth with a bit more venom than anticipated and guilt floods your body. “But thank you for the offer.”

The Richmond owner continues to stare at you while you shake the coffee, still puzzled, but slowly coming to the realization that she’s not going to change your mind. At least not now. Maybe not ever.

She figures that trying to convince you to do anything would be pointless. Your stubbornness had made you a star on the field and had clearly transferred off of it. She supposed it made sense that you and Roy had apparently butted heads.

So, reading the room, Rebecca nods at you and stands from the stool behind your breakfast bar. “Alright,” she says, a somber, apologetic smile on her face. “Message received. Loud and clear.” You watched as she turned and began to fumble inside her purse, placing a white card on the bar when she’d found it. “But… please. Consider it. The offer’s good for the next couple of days. And I… I wouldn’t be doing this if I didn’t think that you’d be an asset to our team. I truly mean that.”

There’s a genuine lilt in her voice that makes you believe her. Whether or not this was a pity offer, or if she just want to scoop you up to get back at Rupert, she really did want you with the team. You’re rational enough to know that there’s some merit in that.

“Thank you,” you say again, offering a truer smile this time around. You hold up the espresso. “Now, do you have a milk preference? Because I’ve got them all.”

Rebecca Walton left your apartment with the best fucking shaken espresso she’s ever had in her life and a phone held up to her ear.

“Hi, babes,” greeted the voice on the other line, cheery as ever. “I can’t remember the last time you called me this early. Not that I’m complain—”

Rebecca abruptly cut off her friend’s rambling by saying your name. “How the fuck does she know Roy and why the fuck is he the reason she won’t work for Richmond?”

Uncharacteristically, Keeley Jones went silent. Rebecca heard the static from the other end. And then, very quiet, and wildly serious, Keeley said, “Oh, fuck.”

The words made Rebecca stop in her tracks in the middle of the street. “What?”

“You want her to be the new Richmond coach?” Keeley asked, sounding a whole lot like she just scrambled to sit up in bed.

“I just left her apartment. She rejected the offer and sent me on my way with the best coffee I’ve ever had in my life,” she replied. “I want to be bitter about it, but it’s too fucking good.”

“Yeah, got it, she’s a fucking barista on top of being an Ace.” Rebecca wanted to ask about how frantic her best friend is right now, but didn’t get the chance. “Did Roy know you were doing this? Asking her, I mean?”

“He did. I asked him about her,” Rebecca answered. “And he grunted at me. Generally, that’s Roy Kent for ‘go on with it.’”

“Oh, that stupid, fucking self-sabotaging prick,” Keeley muttered. “Of-fucking-course he did. Put yourself in this kind of situation instead of dealing with your emotions like a normal fucking human, good on you, Roy—”

“Keeley.” The rambling stopped once more. “What happened?”

The other line was momentarily silent. Then Keeley sighed, long and heavy. “Well, I don’t know it all,” she began. Her voice was soft. “But I know they knew each other a while back. Like ten years ago, when they were both still playing.” Keeley sighed once more. “But he said he, uh… apparently fucked her over somehow. Didn’t get into it or say what he did, but I think it was pretty bad. And then she got back at him for it and fucked him over. And it… really messed him up. Like, totally broke his heart.”

Rebecca stepped out of the way of someone passing by. “Broke his heart?” she asked, eyes closing at the implication of that. “Were they—”

“I don’t know. He didn’t say. He wasn’t exactly open about it. Which I thought was weird because he became pretty open about everything else,” Keeley said. “All I know is that whatever it was, it ended ugly. And that they haven’t spoken to each other since.”

Whatever Rebecca had been expecting, it surely wasn’t that. “Oh,” she said lightly.

Keeley hummed in uncomfortable agreement. “Maybe I’m reading too far into it,” she continued. “Maybe it wasn’t like that. But, he… never talked about anyone like that. Or, y’know, refused to talk about anyone like that. And you know Roy.” Rebecca said nothing, leaving Keeley to ask the million-dollar question. “Are you sure you want to follow through with this?”

“I want her. She’s the only feasible prospect I’ve liked who hasn’t been a fucking twat so far.” Rebecca’s voice was sure. Final. “And I won’t allow for another woman to be quietly taken down because of Rupert. Especially not if what I think happened actually did happen.”

“Well, then babe,” Keeley said, “I think you might need to have a chat with your coaches.”

Then, as Rebecca stood on the edge of the sidewalk, picturing the look on her coaches’ faces as she prepared to integrate Roy Kent, the gravity of the situation hit her like a freight train. “Oh, fuck.”

“ROY FUCKING KENT!”

The entire locker room froze at the voice of Rebecca Walton echoing down the hall, each click of her heels sounding as dangerous as the next. Immediately, all eyes are were on Roy. From Kitman Will to Coach Ted Lasso himself. Not a word was said and Rebecca’s stomping started to sound like a death march.

But when she rounded the corner into the Coaches’ Office with a fire in her eyes that screamed run; that’s when Roy started to sweat.

Immediately, a million things ran through his mind. He wondered if this was about his break-up with Keeley, then realized that she was the one who wanted a break from him, so Rebecca’s got no reason to be mad about that. Had he said something stupid to a reporter? Been photographed poorly? Did something come up in a tabloid from his past? Roy wished he could identify one singular thing he’d done back then in poor taste, but he had a fucking laundry list.

Beard quickly jumped up from his chair to shut the door to the locker room so that the team couldn’t hear whatever was about to unfold in this godforsaken office, and pulled the blinds too. He heard the beginnings of an objection from the boys as they began to race to the window, and sent them all a look before the shade fell.

Rebecca walked further into the office, eyes never leaving Roy’s. If she weren’t so fucking mad, she figured she’d bask in the fact that she was able to make the great, big, scary Roy Kent nervous, but she was currently seeing red. She decided she’d reflect on that later.

“I had a fascinating conversation this morning with a prospective coach,” she finally said, voice eerily calm. “Your name came up. A lot.”

Roy didn’t dare say a word. He wasn’t even sure if he could. Thankfully, Ted chimed in. “Well, Boss, we’ve got a lot of those. Would you mind narrowing down which one you talked to?”

But Roy doesn’t need it to be narrowed down. There’s only one name that’s been floated around that could possibly have garnered this reaction and level of anger. But his stomach sank further as a wild smile crossed Rebecca’s lips.

“Oh, just our Ace Olympic gold-medalist, World Cup-winning, four-time college coaching champion, West-Ham-hating top prospect,” she said, gaze pinning Roy to the wall. “Who apparently has not only been fucked over by Rupert but has also been fucked over by our own Roy Kent.”

All eyes flashed to Roy in surprise. Rebecca hadn’t been lying. Roy hadn’t objected to her name being considered as seriously as it was, and had given absolutely no indication to anyone in the room that there could potentially be conflict with this hire.

“Oh,” Ted said. “Well, that’s a bit of an issue.”

Roy looked at Rebecca evenly. “What did she say?”

“Nothing,” she replied, knowing that that was the very issue. “She just said she refused to work with you. Told me to ask you for the details.”

Roy nearly scoffed. God, that was really fucking like you, wasn’t it? Somehow making his life harder without scorching him alive, leaving him to be the one to burn himself down. Because you could if you wanted to. You could burn him to the ground if you chose.

(And you had. But he wasn’t sure what was stopping you from doing it again.)

He eyed Rebecca, knowing his boss and the way she thinks. There was a piece of him that was curious as to whether or not she’d drop the bomb in front of Beard and Lasso. “And what did Keeley tell you?”

That seemed to take his boss by surprise for a moment. But, as she caught on, it was made clear that she had the intention of saving his ass. For now. “Nothing that you didn’t tell her yourself,” Rebecca said. “Which was pretty much nothing.”

That was true too. There wasn’t much he hadn’t told Keeley, but he drew the line at you. Not only would Keeley look at him differently if she knew the truth, but you were just… too hard to talk about. Way too hard for him.

Which is why when Rebecca threw her hands up in question, desperation in her eyes as she asks, “So, what the fuck did you do to our prospective coach?”, Roy had to calm himself for a moment.

Between his rapidly increasing heartbeat and freshly clammy hands, Roy knew he had to figure out a way to not appear one hundred percent, completely freaked out about this. Besides his vague talks with Keeley, he can’t remember the last time he spoke about you. In fact, he’s not sure he’d ever spoken about you. And he certainly wasn’t in any headspace to do it now.

So, Roy being who he was, looked at the expectant expressions of his coaching staff (and Trent fucking Crimm, who he still couldn’t believe had managed to weasel his way into the club) and sighed. He knew he couldn’t be as intentionally vague with his explanation, especially now that the careers of those he knew and respected were in the mix, but he sure as hell was going to try.

“We—” Roy’s voice came out gruff and he cleared his throat with the roll of his eyes. “We knew each other a while back. I met her at the London Olympics. We were… fucking friends. For a while. And then we weren’t.” Roy shrugged, as if that would get rid of the discomfort he felt. He still hadn’t made eye contact with anyone. “I did some shit I’m not proud of. I hurt her and then she fucking hurt me. We haven’t talked since.”

Rebecca crossed her arms over her chest. “Exactly how long haven’t you spoken for?”

Exactly? Roy knows exactly how long. He could tell her the exact fucking day. But that was neither here nor there.

“I don’t know,” he chose to answer. He’d never faked indifference well. “Couple of years? Eight, nine?”

Beard pursed his lips in confusion. “And you didn’t think to… mention this conflict of interest?”

He’d taken the words right out of Rebecca’s mouth. “Or tell me there was an issue so I didn’t look like an idiot?”

“There’s no fucking conflict of interest!” Roy shouted. Rebecca’s brows rose dangerously at the tone and volume of his voice, forcing him to take a moment to collect himself. His voice was more even as he said, “I didn’t fucking say anything because I didn’t think it was important because we’re fucking adults and I didn’t want to be the fucking reason she didn’t—”

Roy’s words died in his throat, chest heaving as he forced himself to stop short. He finally looked up, glancing between his colleagues. He tilted his head back as he realized that each of them were trying to figure out whether or not to believe him.

He was telling the truth. He hadn’t said one lie. They just didn’t get it. And he wouldn’t allow them to get it. Not yet, at least.

“Well,” Rebecca said after a beat, “inadvertently or not, you are the reason she’s not joining the team.”

(Those words alone sting Roy in a way he wasn’t prepared for.)

Rebecca wasn’t done. “But I want her, Roy. More than anyone we’ve seen. She’s the best we’ve had a chance with so far. And if I have to go with another coach or one of those pricks we interviewed because of that?” She shook her head as if the idea repulsed her, then pointed squarely at Roy. “Fix this.”

His jaw went slack. “Fix— How the fuck am I supposed to fix it?”

Roy was shocked to find that Ted had his back. “I’m with Roy on this one, boss,” he said hesitantly. Rebecca blinked at him in surprise. “I want her too. I’m all for having this Ace up our sleeve. But this all seems like a lot to be fixed overnight.”

“Send her flowers, send her a singing telegram, get on your fucking hands and knees and beg— I don’t care how you do it! Just try!” Rebecca’s gaze had turned back to Roy, this time a bit more pleading. “Please. Fix it.”

And with that, Rebecca left the office, leaving two coaches and a journalist staring at Roy Kent.

This was the worst day of his life. It had to be. He’d never prepared himself to see you again because he was convinced that there was no probability it would happen. Selfishly, he’d figured that you coaching here wasn’t a true possibility, not because of any sort of lack of skill, but because some other team would scoop you up. But it was happening. This was a reality and Roy was sure he’d died and finally gone to hell.

And now he was expected to fix this? To interact with you? To potentially see and speak to you again? He was going to fucking throw up.

With this settling in, Roy released a deep, shuddering breath, heartbeat ringing in his ears. “Fuuuuuck,” he muttered, grabbing his keys from his desk and storming out of the room.

And then there were three. Ted broke the silence with a question directed at Trent. “Y'all have singing telegrams over here?”

Trent nodded. “Oh, yes. And I’m sure they’re just as awful as American ones.”

As Ted hummed in agreement, Beard narrowed his eyes at how his best friend’s attention was back on the open laptop in front of him. “You looking up where to get one?” he asked.

“Oh, yeah,” Ted replied, eyes glued to the screen.

Beard got up from his chair. “Move over.”

Roy Kent is standing on your doorstep, and somehow that’s not the most surprising thing to happen to you all week.

However, you are surprised. So much so that the second you see him, a mix of red-hot anger and panic run through your veins, making you instantly slam the door in his face. Tragically, he’s quick enough to slip his foot between the door and the frame, not allowing you to keep him out. You see him grimace through the slit.

“Fucking hell,” he mutters. “That’s a fucking heavy door.”

“Yeah?” you ask, continuing to push on the door like a five-year-old. “Surprised your reflexes were fast enough to pull that one off, Grandpa.” You glance down and do the math. “With your bad leg, too. Impressive.”

You see him wince at the pressure. “If you keep pushing on that door, we’re going to have an actual fucking problem.”

“Ooh, I’m so scared,” you reply. “Do I get a headstart when you have to pop the knee back in?”

Roy grunts. “I think it’s fair game with that ACL.”

You push harder on the door.

Roy’s had enough. His weird, Superman strength peaks through as he holds out an arm to push back, making you stumble slightly. “Can you fucking… stop?” His voice strains on that last word, finally opening the door enough to free his foot and keep it open. You know him well enough to know that trying to push back is useless. However, as you hide yourself behind it, your hand remains on the door, just in case.

“How the fuck do you know where I live?”

“I frequent the West Ham directory,” he answers dryly. You move to push on the door once more, but he speaks before you can. “I fucking texted Rebecca. She somehow knew.”

While you were also weirded out about how Rebecca knew your address, her presence was much less off putting than the man’s before you. If he’d texted Rebecca about you, that meant you’d been talked about. Which meant that Rebecca had confronted Roy about your conflict. Which meant that he was here to…

The implication of it unnerves you. But still, you ask, “Why are you here?”

“I just want to talk,” he replies.

You scoff. “Well, we talked. I’m good for another ten years.”

It’s then that he says your name. Your actual name. Not your last name, or your number, or the stupid nickname he used to call you. And it’s said so softly. So much more gentle than you ever remember his voice being. It straight-up ambushes you, and the remainder of the grip you have on the door fades.

“Please,” he says in that same way. “Give me five minutes.” You rest your forehead on the door, wanting nothing more than to shut it in his face again and walk away. “Five minutes, and then you can tell me to fuck off.”

You’re not sure what makes you do it. You’re not sure why your resolve suddenly crumbles and you start to consider his words. Maybe it’s because you’re still surprised to see him. Maybe it’s because you’re exhausted from this last week. Or maybe it’s because you’ve spent the last four hours mulling over Rebecca’s offer and have realized you may actually want this.

Whatever it is, you groan dramatically, say something that sounds a whole lot like fine, fucking fine to Roy, and open your door all the way to really look at him for the first time in eight years.

The sight of you seems to catch him as off guard as he does for you. He looks older, years more mature than the last time you saw him. But it’s not just in the face. His entire presence seems matured. Healed. It’s jarring.

He’s well-groomed, a vast contrast to the guy you met back in 2012, but similar to the man you left in 2015. It’s just more so. Everything about him is… more. More well-polished. More striking. The TV spots you’ve seen don’t do him justice.

(You mentally kick yourself for even thinking that and immediately feel like you need to wash your hands.)

The dark Richmond Coaching shirt he wears nearly blends in with his eyes, but you swear they’ve gotten lighter. However, the intensity of his stare hasn’t changed. And that’s the first thing you notice as you realize he’s been doing the same sort of evaluation to you.

However, that stare stays on the stupid embroidered soccer ball shorts you now really wish you’d changed out of after Rebecca had left. There’s a ghost of a smile on his face as he says, “I can’t believe you still have those fucking shorts.”

A sudden, overwhelming feeling of… something washes over you and you can feel tears prick at your eyes. Because you don’t know what to say to that, and because you’re not sure you can respond to that in any sort of way, you cross your arms over your chest. It takes everything in you to keep your gaze on him. “Five minutes,” you tell him.

Roy seems to snap out of whatever headspace he was in, any trace of humor disappearing. Instead, he straightens up, rolls his shoulders back, and clears his throat. He’s standing as if he’s about to make a grand speech, and it leads you to believe he’s rehearsed this. You may have laughed at him if you weren’t anticipating whatever the hell was about to come.

So, as Roy opens his mouth, you brace yourself for impact and wait.

And wait.

And wait.

But nothing seems to come out. He’s stuck there, like he’s frozen in time, as if he’s some sort of animatronic that’s glitching out. You glance around to double-check that the trees on your street are still blowing in the wind.

Your head tilts, and you awkwardly press your lips together. “I think you’ve got four minutes now.”

Roy glares at you. “Can you just fucking—” He cuts himself off, pointing to his G-Wagon that’s parked outside of your apartment. “I spent two fucking hours in that car figuring out how I was going to fucking do this and then another hour outside of your fucking flat trying to work up the nerve to knock on your fucking door, so can you just shut the fuck up?”

Your hands go up in surrender. “Okay, okay,” you say lightly. Then, you mutter, “You just like, gave yourself a time limit and—”

When he grits out your name, you raise your hands higher and shut your mouth.

A good thirty seconds go by before he finally says, “You played for how many years?”

You blink at him. That’s his big opening line? He knows how long you played— “Seven?”

“Yeah, I fucking know you played professionally for seven. How long overall?”

You have to think about it for a moment. “Since I was three,” you answer. “So, twenty-five years.”

“And how long did you coach?”

He knows this too, but you assume he’s doing it to prove a point. “Six,” you grumble, crossing your arms over your chest.

“Six,” he repeats. “That’s over thirty years you’ve devoted your life to football. Three fucking decades. That’s your entire fucking life.”

That same frustration you felt when Rebecca was talking to you this morning rears its ugly head. “What’s your point?”

Roy doesn’t think he could roll his eyes any harder. “My point is,” he says, “you’ve been in this game for three decades. Why?”

“W-why?” you stammer, staring at him like he’s insane. Nobody’s ever asked you that before. “What do you mean why?”

Roy returns the look. “There’s gotta be a reason you’ve been doing this shit for thirty years. Why?”

“I don’t know,” you answer, shaking your head. “Because I’m good at it? Because it’s literally all that I’m good at? Because it’s all that I’ve ever known? I don’t—”

“No,” he says firmly, and for a moment, as he steps forward, you think he’s going to grab you by the shoulders in the way he used to. To get you out of your head and focus on him. Thankfully, he doesn’t. “Fucking nobody does anything for that long just because they’re good at it. That can’t be the only reason.”

As he stares at you expectantly, you start to understand his train of thought. What he’s trying to get you to admit. What all of this has been about since you first kicked a ball at three years old. What allowed you to sport the number 14 for twenty-five years. Because it’s only ever been about one thing, and he, more than anyone, gets it.

So, as your shoulders slouch and your head bows slightly in an annoyed sort of surrender, he knows he’s got you. Roy fucking Kent, anger-management case study and hothead of the millennium, has got you. And he’s showcasing the type of speech and traits and breakthrough abilities that told you eight years ago that he’d be a fantastic coach. Not that he believed you. Or took it very well, for that matter.

Then, you hear his voice again. And this time, it’s a bit softer. As if there’s a fraction of a smile on his face. “So, why the fuck have you been playing this game for thirty years, you stupid fucking Yank?”

The nostalgia of the name hits you like a bus, and you’re thankful you’re leaning on the doorframe because you truly may have stumbled over. However, there’s no time to dwell on that. You’ve got an answer ready and it takes everything in you not to smile.

A heavy, labored, dramatic sigh escapes you, and you open your eyes to look at him. “Because I love it.”

“Because you fucking love it,” he echoes, and that fraction of a smile you heard in his voice happens to be hidden amongst his perpetual scowl. He takes a step closer to you, pointing at you and tapping on your shoulder. “Don’t you dare let that prick take that away from you.”

You bite the inside of your cheek and look away from him. He’s right. Just like Rebecca, he’s right. You hate that he’s right, but he’s right. It’s been years since you’ve seen him be right, but it hasn’t gotten any less annoying.

You think back to what Rebecca said this morning. Don’t let him win. You didn’t want to. There was actually nothing less that you wanted than to allow him to have that sort of power over you.

But still, the fear lingers. It sits in your stomach and churns it. He said he’d ruin you. Turn the world against you. It’d be your word against the club’s and more importantly, your word against football darling and West Ham star, Tom MacDonald’s.

(“Sure, you can go public with it,” Rupert had told you, basking in the anger written in your expression. “But to be completely honest, love, I’m not sure anyone’s going to believe you.” He shrugged. “Only female coach in the league suddenly crying sexual harassment after she’s been fired? Seems a bit convenient to me, don’t you think?”)

You don’t mean for your voice to be as small as it is when you say, “But what if I’m actually done?”

Vulnerability’s never been something you’ve embraced, especially with your career path, and you hate the way you sound. Weak. Timid. Afraid. As you meet his gaze once again, you realize that you hate the way that Roy’s looking at you even more.

“You’re the furthest thing from done. Done hasn’t ever been a word in your fucking vocabulary,” he tells you. There’s no room for argument. “You wanna know why?” You shrug at him in response, cueing him to continue. “Because unfortunately, I fucking know you. And I know the only time you’d ever be done with this sport is when you’re fucking dead.”

This time, you do allow yourself to smile. It’s small and humorous— a tight-lipped agreement, but it’s enough for Roy to know he’s gotten through. You want to laugh, partly because you know he’s right, partly because you can’t fucking believe that you’re smiling at him, but you’re strong enough to keep that in.

“So, yeah. Don’t let that prick kill you. Don’t let any prick keep you out of this game. Especially coaching.” Roy shakes his head, pausing for a beat, as if he’s making an effort to say, “You’re too… fucking good.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “Took a lot to get that one out, huh?”

Roy’s quick with a response. “You’re lucky you got it at all.”

You scowl, but there’s not much in it. You’re used to that type of compliment from him. If you can even call it that. Still, the familiarity of it makes you the most uncomfortable you’ve been all day.

However, you’re distracted by one thing. Don’t let any prick keep you out of the game. He’s said it so casually, like he’d actually meant it. As if he had no sense of irony about it. It boils your blood and stirs something ugly in you.

That feeling prompts you to meet his gaze. “What if one of those pricks is right in front of me?”

For the first time all night, his stoic expression falters, as if that was the last thing he’d ever expected you to say. It was only a fraction of a second. A blink-and-you’ll-miss-it moment.

But you hadn’t missed it. You’d seen the Tin Man facade crumble, even for just a second. You’d seen the hurt in his eyes, the regret. You’d celebrate it if it didn’t make you feel so unexpectedly awful.

He abruptly clears his throat with a solemn nod. “Well,” he says gruffly. ”Then don’t let me take that away either."

You look away from him, because you know that’s all you can do right now. Your mind’s racing a million miles an hour, thinking about him, about Rupert and West Ham and Tom MacDonald, and about the Richmond job. There’s a piece of you that wants to believe that everything that had happened this week was leading to this. To seeing him again, to being offered to work with him, to gain an opportunity for redemption in more ways than one.

But the more logical piece of you knows that’s all bullshit. And it’s that thought that puts you back in a more comfortable headspace.

“You know I can’t forgive you for what you did,” you tell him, meeting his eyes once more. The weight of your words is heavy on your shoulders and you lean against your doorframe again. “I won’t forgive you.”

Roy nods stiffly. “I know,” he says. “And I can’t forgive you.”

You return his nod in understanding. “I know.”

His gaze leaves yours for a moment, like he’s trying to figure out how to phrase what he wants to say next. How to work up the courage to do so.

“But if—” Roy’s voice comes out strained and he clears his throat. “If this is something you want, this coaching thing at Richmond, then I…” He looks at you and all you can see is sincerity. You hate it. “It’ll be professional. Civil. I won’t let there be any issues or… fucking whatever.”

He appears to be just as bad at this as he was when you last saw him. You bite the inside of your cheek to hold in your laughter. By the way his face becomes instantaneously annoyed, you can tell he’s noticed.

You’re already talking before he can retract his statement. “How’s the team?”

If he’s offended by you not thanking him for doing the bare fucking minimum, he doesn’t show it, and takes your change in topic in stride. “Good,” he replies. “Pretty fucking good. We’re still trying to figure some shit out when it comes to—”

“No,” you interrupt him. “I’ve seen you guys play. I know you’re good. I mean—” Your throat suddenly gets tight, a pit of anxiety forming in your stomach completely out of nowhere. A shaky breath leaves your lips. “The team. The guys. Are they…?”

Roy catches on. “They’re good lads,” he says, his voice telling you that it’s not a statement, but a fact. “Some of the best I’ve ever played with. Easy to coach too.”

Your brow quirks up. “Easy?”

“If two fucking clowns from Oklahoma and fucking… me are saying they’re easy,” he says, looking at you with intent as he trails off.

That same pit of anxiety bubbles up once more. “And, uh… Jamie Tartt? Is he—?” Roy’s brow furrows. “I’ve just heard some less-than-great things. Him being the star and all. Football darling or whatever. Are they true?”

Your over-explanation of the Richmond striker makes Roy narrow his eyes in suspicion. He opens his mouth to question it, but then realizes it’s you. There had to be some personal reason for you to bring it up. Whatever issue it was, he knew he was no longer personal enough with you to ask.

“He was a prick,” Roy finally settles on. “Now he’s less of a prick.”

The fond look in Roy’s eyes tells you that he’s warmed up to Jamie more than he’s letting on, and it puts you at ease. You nod in acknowledgment. Silence fills the air between you two, neither of you knowing what else to say.

You think about the team you’ve watched quietly on TV, studying up for your rivalry games with them when you were preparing to coach at West Ham. You think about your prospective coaching staff and the vitriol you heard in Nathan Shelley’s voice when you asked him about Ted Lasso. You think about the job and what evidently comes with it.

But most importantly, you think about the potential of this new position and the potential of this new beginning.

And while you’ve got questions, you realize they’re all for yourself. Not for Roy.

You’re out of questions and he’s out of time. Way out of time.

You remember this as you rock back on your heels. “I think you’ve gone over your five minutes.”

Roy looks at you expectantly. “Are you going to tell me to fuck off?”

“You? Absolutely,” you tell him, earning yet another eye roll. “But Richmond?” You pause, trying to ignore just how quietly hopeful he now looks. You sigh, shoulders slumping. “Tell Rebecca I’ll consider it.”

Roy releases a relieved, thankful breath, nodding at you. “Good,” he says.

You nod back at him. “Wouldn’t want you to spend another three hours in your car trying to figure out how you’re gonna break the bad news to her.”

That eye roll returns, but there’s a bit of levity in it. He looks at you for a moment longer, biting the inside of his cheek like he's contemplating saying something else. Your brows furrow in interest, and as soon as they do, he seems to decide against it.

Roy turns to go down your steps with a shake of his head. “Get out of those fucking shorts and stop your wallowing, Fourteen,” he throws behind him as he walks away. “And clean your fucking flat!”

Glancing behind you, your jaw drops in outrage as you realize there’s no way in hell he saw your warzone living room from where he was standing. “You can’t even see into my apartment!”

He doesn’t turn around when he says, “I don’t need to see! I just fucking know you.”

You manage to suppress the urge to actually yell at him to fuck off at that, and instead choose to live with the wildly strange and undefinable feeling that overtakes your body, one that doesn’t dissolve until you watch him speed off down your street.

This fucking week, man.

You shut your door and turn to face your living room, a newfound disgust for the vile state that it’s in. Your lips curls up and you sigh, walking into your kitchen to grab a trash bag, making a plan of action for the night as you shake it out.

You replay your first conversation with Roy in eight years as you tidy up your apartment. You make a mental pros and cons list of the Richmond job as you take the longest, most necessary shower of your life. You chuckle to yourself at the idea of Rupert and Tom’s faces if they were to see that you’d been picked up by Richmond.

You sleep well for the first night in three days, on clean sheets, in clean pajamas, embroidered soccer ball shorts joining your dirty laundry.

You’re bounding into your kitchen at nine the next morning to grab Rebecca’s card that you left on your counter, brewing an espresso as you call her.

[bwabys-scenarios]

Reunited

Part 29

Illumi x Reader x Feitan

part 28

part 30

A/N: this chapter is a little short because it’s at the very end of feitan and readers backstory. I was going to go ahead to the present time but it didn’t look good, so I scrapped it. The next chapter will go back to present time!!

warnings: This is not proofread at all 🫶

taglist: @tsukilover11 @mercyboluthecrazychicken @sxyriii @shidoni-san @living4tomrua @lemonslut @honeylunalove @sugarrushdaydream @canthebest1 @whorermoviestar @fabitheraven @ashdownunderscorebeloved @astresoleil

if you’d like to be ADDED to the taglist, please comment a red heart ❤️, make sure you’re able to be tagged/mentioned, and have your age in your bio(IF YOU ARE ALREADY ON THE TAGLIST, YOU DON’T NEED TO ASK TO BE ADDED AGAIN!!)

Two weeks passed by quietly, nights spent staying up late watching movies and anime together.

Feitan was still gone most of the day, but he’d come home for lunch to eat with (Name). He wanted to spend as much time with her as possible while still training his body and nen.

The last week of his stay, (Name) became a lot clingier, her hugs and touches increasing by the day.

Feitan would let her slide for the most part, but being touch sensitive, he’d toss her onto whatever soft surface available to get her away from him. He didn’t want to spend his last week with her locked away in his room with a boner.

(Name) was currently crouched in her garden, pulling out weeds and watering the vegetables. It was Thursday, only a few days away from Chrollo arriving.

Or so she thought.

“Hello, (Name).”

The girl was spooked, nearly falling onto her her plants, but thankfully she’s caught by the back of her shirt. “Woah there, careful dear. You’ve been tending to this garden so diligently, wouldn’t want to crush them, hmm?”

(Name) turned to see a man smiling down at her, wearing an obnoxiously large coat while (Name) sweater in her tshirt and shorts.

“Are you okay?”

The man blinked down at her. “Okay? What do you mean by that?”

“I mean you are very strangely dressed for the weather. Your chest is out and you’ve got a coat on. Would you like a glass of lemonade?”

He smiled, clearly amused. “That sounds lovely.”

(Name) lead the man by the hand inside, pouring him a cool glass of lemonade and making him a sandwich. “How did you get all the way out here? You know it’s not safe to wander in the country alone.”

She scolded him, setting a ham sandwich down on the table. He watched her with a patient smile, trying to hold back a laugh.

The girl was as kind as Uvogin had said. Not many people invited strangers into their house for snacks because they were dressed strangely.

“I can walk you into town after my friend gets home. If I leave without him he gets all grumpy. I think it’s because he’s protective, but he won’t admit it.”

She giggled to herself, munching on her own sandwich. Chrollo hummed in response, sending Feitan a quick text to say he’d arrived.

Chrollo took a sip of his lemonade, weirdly enjoying the soft atmosphere of her home. It felt homely, not a house but a home, somewhere people lived their lives instead of staying the night. (Name) reflected her home, her eyes bright and smile wide.

Having only spent a total of ten minutes in her presence, he was beginning to understand Feitan’s attraction to her.

The sound of someone running across the porch caught (Name)’s attention, Chrollo already knowing by their aura who it was.

“Feitan, you’re home e-“

“Boss.”

Feitan took a second to breathe before speaking. “Thought you were coming Monday.”

Chrollo shrugged, sipping on his lemonade. “I finished my job quicker than expected, so I decided to come early and… observe.”

(Name) tilted her head at the two, looking between them before dropping her sandwich.

“You’re… you’re Chrollo!!”

The man gave her a smile, leaning against the table.

“Guilty.”

Feitan groaned and flicked her forehead. “Why let him in without knowing? Stupid girl.”

(Name) whined, holding her forehead. “He looked like he was thirsty… and he’s like really handsome.”

She whispered the last part, but Chrollo heard. “Why, thank you.”

Feitan frowned at her words. “Handsome men kill too, dumdum.”

(Name) crossed her arms. “I’m mostly kidding. He just… didn’t have a malicious vibe, if you get what I’m saying.”

That peaked both of their interests.

“What you mean by that?” Feitan asked, leaning against the counter. She hummed.

“Well, when I meet someone new, they either have a good vibe or a bad vibe. I can almost feel when someone has malicious intent. I felt it when you saved me from that man that broke in.”

Feitan glanced at Chrollo, signaling that they would talk about this later. “I see, (Name). That’s quite interesting.”

Chrollo pushed his empty lemonade glass and plate to the side, (Name) quickly grabbing both and refilling his drink. What a considerate host!

“Do you need somewhere to stay while you’re in town? You can have my bed or the pull out cou-“

“He can have my bed.”

Feitan waved to his room, folding his arms over his chest. (Name) nodded. “Yeah, you can just sleep with me then!”

The shirt man’s face went red and Chrollo just smiled at him.

“Oh.”

That’s all Chrollo had to say, and somehow it was worse than being full on teased.

“Thank you for opening your house up to me, dear.”

——————

“So, your girlfriend seems like she’s close to awakening her nen.”

Feitan glanced at Chrollo from his seat on (Name)’s porch, scoffing. “Not my girlfriend.”

Chrollo rolled his eyes. “Uh huh. What do you think her nen would be?”

“Does it matter? She won’t be needing it.”

Chrollo hummed. “Humor me.”

Feitan sighed, watching (Name) swim along the river.

“… probably specialist. She’s unique. Not like anyone I’ve met before.”

“Really? Is that good or bad?”

Chrollo already knew the answer, just by the way a Feitan looked at her.

“… good. She’s a good girl.”

(Name) surfaced, yelling out to feitan.

“Feitannn! I saw a fish again!”

“Don’t have to tell me every time.”

She pouted. “I’m going to anyways!”

She dipped back under the waves, Feitan snickering at her words.

When (Name) had her fill of swimming, she walked onto the porch, her bathing suit dripping water. “Feitan, did you see where I put my towel?”

She scurried around the porch, bending over to see if it was under the table. Feitan glanced from her butt to chrollo, who was also looking. The shirt haired man stiffened.

“…”

Feitan ran inside and grabbed her a towel, quickly wrapping it around her. “Third time you forget.”

(Name) sighed, snuggling up under her towel and letting herself warm up under the sun. “Sorryyy!”

The girl dries herself off, then dropped her towel onto an empty seat. She pulled on her pair of shorts and stepped into her flip flops.

“Do you boys want to go blackberry picking with me?”

——————

(Name) let chrollo borrow one of her shirts, telling him it was way too hot to be wearing that big coat, and if he did just looking at him would make her pass out.

He walked out of her room wearing a black shirt with sailor moon on the chest, seemingly unbothered.

“Didn’t know you had black clothing.” Feitan said, carrying a basket in one hand and (Name)’s hand in the other. The path to the blackberry patch was covered in roots and potholes, (Name) having already tripped and scraped her knees twice.

If Chrollo weren’t there, he would have just carried her, but he had an image to keep up.

“Feitan, what’s your favorite color?”

“Black.”

“Ah, of course. Mine is-“

“Pink?”

“How did you guess!?”

Chrollo barely holds back a snicker. When he changed in her room, almost everything was pink, from her walls to the strawberry rug by her bed. Feitan shrugged his shoulders.

“Lucky guess.”

Although Feitan tried his best to act like holding her hand was a chore, when she’d trip, he’d hold onto her, his eyes soft as he steadied her. Chrollo watched this with great interest, his hands in his pockets.

Feitan wasn’t exactly the type to help someone, and he’d only ever held another persons hand when absolutely necessary.

“We’re here!”

The three look out upon a large bush of blackberries, spanning across the woodland. (Name) let’s go of Feitan’s hand to walk forward, humming as she checked the blackberries to make sure they were ripe enough to pick.

“Alright, let’s split up!”

Feitan takes a basket and walks off without another word, knowing the drill by now. Once he’s gone, (Name) loops her arm with Chrollo’s and pulls him away.

“I thought we were splitting up?”

He chuckles when you pout at him. “We will, I just need to talk with you first.”

“I see. Talk away.”

(Name) set her basket down and began picking berries. “Why don’t we play a game? I ask a question, you have to answer truthfully. Then you can do the same for me.”

This was perfect, Chrollo needed to question her anyways. “Sure, but if a question is too much I will not answer.”

“Fine with me. First, how do you and Feitan know each other?”

“We are childhood friends. My turn.”

He crouched down next to her and plucks a berry from her hand, throwing it into his mouth.

“What do you remember about your childhood in meteor city?”

(Name) doesn’t answer at first, and when Chrollo turns to look at her, his usual confident smirk falls from his lips.

She didn’t look angry or sad, she just looked… empty.

“I… was taken from the residential area when I was three years old. I don’t remember a lot, just a nice, but strict man in a… church I think? There were other children, but they were mostly older than me, so we never got to play with each other. There was this one girl though, who I remember.”

She placed another berry into her basket before smiling softly.

“Sarasa. That was her name. Her face is fuzzy, but I remember she had this fluffy purse and… Chrollo?”

The man was staring at her with wide eyes, his hand absentmindedly reaching out to grab her wrist. “Say that name again. Please.”

(Name) glanced down at his hand before answering. “Sarasa. Is the name familiar?”

His hand trembled slightly when he pulled it away, running his hands through his hair before he regained his composure.

“It is. So you knew her, huh?”

(Name) nodded, her smile brightening slightly. “Does that mean you do?”

He looked down, his smile faltering. “I did.”

The way he said that made (Name)’s stomach turn. She didn’t have to ask, she knew that something bad happened.

“When I was taken, they… they did a lot of things. Most of it has been blocked out, supposedly as coping mechanism. But the things I do remember…”

Her body began to tremble, her smile becoming a little less effortless.

“You don’t want to know, and I don’t want to talk about it.”

Chrollo watched her from the corner of his eye, his jaw tightening. He usually didn’t care about people outside of the spiders, but this was someone that had been close to Sarasa, someone that cared about her enough to be shedding tears for her.

“I see. Your turn to ask a question.”

She turned to look at him, wiping away her tears.

“Are you okay?”

Chrollo was taken back by her question, quickly shooting back at her. “Why do you ask?”

Her hand grasped his, the man looking at her hand quizzically, but not moving away.

“You seem… so tired. Emotionally, and physically. Wouldn’t you like to rest?”

This surprised him. “I…”

In so few words the girl had reached into his heart and pulled back the walls he had built up to keep prying eyes out.

Who was she? What kind of power did she possess to make the Head of the Phantom Troupe’s lip quiver like that of a child?

She didn’t say anything, just gave his hand another squeeze before letting go.

No tears fell, but for a moment he could feel them welling up in the corners of his eyes. Even in his movement of small weakness, Chrollo’s eyes remained dry.

“Last question.”

(Name) didn’t look at him, but gave a nod to show she heard him.

“Would you be interested in joining our band of thieves?”

She’s quick to answer, a smile pulling at her lips. “I don’t think I would make a very good thief. I’m slow, and my strength doesn’t compare to the others I’ve seen in your group.”

Chrollo laughed. “I see. Is that a no, or…”

“It’s a ‘not now’. Maybe when I’ve passed the Hunter Exam I’ll take you up on your offer, but for now I’ll stick to being a law abiding citizen.”

She winked, dropping another handful of berries into her basket. Chrollo watched her, taking in the moment. It was quiet besides the sound of birdsong, (Name) breaking the silence by picking up her basket and standing.

“Okay, now we split up.”

She handed him the basket she kept underneath hers and walked off in the opposite direction Feitan took.

“You hear all that, Feitan?”

The short man stopped using In to hide his presence, walking out from behind the thick brush.

“Yes… she and Sarasa…”

He had the smallest of smiles on his lips. Chrollo nodded. “Yeah. I’m going to do some research to see if her claims are true, but at least from what I could see she wasn’t lying. Of course, the truth will come out once she meets Pakunoda.”

Feitan leaned against a tree. “… so we meet her again?”

Chrollo raised an eyebrow. “Of course we will. She’s your woman, is she not?”

Feitan sighed. It was getting harder to deny the obvious truth.

“Not my woman but… mine.”

Chrollo shrugged. “Whatever. She’s yours, so make sure you take good care of her. If she’s telling the truth, she was close to Sarasa, so that makes her an honorary Spider.”

The two went their separate ways to pick blackberries to keep (Name) from getting suspicious. Feitan crouched down, thinking back to the first time he’d met her, before he really knew her.

He cursed his stupid past self, spitting on the ground in annoyance. Feitan had hurt such a sweet girl, and he didn’t think he’d ever be able to truly forgive himself.

Even if she did.

——————

“Wow, that’s um… that’s a lot.”

The three gathered at (Name)’s house, the two having come back and forth when their baskets got full.

“You two were supposed to just fill a single basket, not several.”

She looked over her counter to see it covered in baskets and bowls of blackberries.

“Got more so you sell them.” Feitan replied, popping one into his mouth.

She giggled, pulling the basket he’d been snacking on away. “Don’t eat too many, you’ll get a tummy ache.”

He rolled his eyes, but he was smiling again. Chrollo didn’t know the last time he’d seen Feitan this relaxed, if ever at all.

“I’ll go and wash some fresh sheets for you. Feitan?”

He looked up.

“You’ve got a little…”

She swiped his cheek with her finger and stuck it in her mouth. “Black berry juice on your cheek.”

Feitan stared at her with his mouth parted slightly, unable to speak.

Chrollo pretended he wasn’t paying attention, his nose buried in a book, but he’d caught Feitan’s face flush. He smirked from behind his book.

————————

The next few days passed quickly, the day for Feitan’s departure finally arriving. (Name) woke up early to make a big breakfast and prepare lunches for the two to take with them.

She’d promised chrollo as much jelly, jam, and syrup as he could carry, which according to Feitan was a lot.

She and Feitan had been sharing a bed again, the man following her to the kitchen to watch her cook.

He’d been clinging to her side all morning, holding onto the sleeve of her shirt as she walked around and gathered ingredients. She found it cute, so she didn’t say anything.

“Feitan, I’m going to miss you.”

He gripped the sleeve of her shirt tighter, not able to meet her eyes.

“Miss you too.”

Her eyes widen slightly. For Feitan, that was basically telling her that she was someone he cared about.

“Aww, Fei!”

She pulled him into a hug, peppering kisses on his cheeks. He didn’t pull back, but he did stiffen and grip her shoulders. Taking her affection was getting easier, but it would always make his heart race and his palms sweaty.

“Used nickname.”

(Name) hadn’t even noticed. “Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t even ask-“

“It’s okay. You can use it.”

His eyes were soft, cupping her cheek as he stared at her lips.

Feitan wanted to kiss her right now, to have a memory of her lips on his before he was gone for god knows how long.

“Um, should I leave you two be?”

At the sound of Chrollo’s voice, feitan was across the kitchen in less than a second. (Name) blinked, then tilted her head. “Leave us be? Why?”

Feitan held a hand over his chest. Had he… almost kissed her? He’d been so close to her lips meeting his, just about to close the gap in between them before Chrollo interrupted.

And for that, he sent Chrollo a glare.

She exchanged numbers with Feitan before he left, promising to send him pictures of the kitten as she aged.

And that was that.

[slylock-syl]

Hey Syllll! Long time, no chat! I just wanted to get this off my chest before i go ham trying to figure out what i wanna commission from you soon.

I have been reading Undersource for years now, and i think we've both come a long way since then! God, that feels weird to say, i'm not even old enough to drink yet lmao. But! I am old enough to spend my money responsibly now, which is nuts given that my responsible spending is now aimed at getting art of my blorbos LOL.

You've grown as an artist so much since i first started reading- i think that was around... the pirate arc? Not sure! But i do remember the early days of me having discord, during the EKD server category era. But anyways, i know the way you drew our favorite skeletons was different back then, and it's all gotten so much smoother in that time. You're also (at least seemingly) taking way better care of yourself! You've set boundaries, you've set more time for yourself and not the blog, and you're still happily chugging along, after all these years. Not to mention you're working on this side story now, which i'm fairly certain you've been looking forward to for a while.

How's that sleeping though? Do you still have the sleep cycle of an austalian? Can't say i'm any better, im slowly becoming nocturnal again lol. Some things NEVER change.

Anyways. All this to say: im really proud to have been part of this little community for so long. To see the comic and its artist come so far. Even if im not a diehard fan anymore, im glad i can still take a little time every weekend to realize "OH, U/S shoulda updated!" and run over here. Thanks for giving me a good starting point of community on this god damned hellsite.

(Here's to sleepy 5 am "you're great" asks LMAO)

sjksdhLKSDJFHG THIS IS SUCH A SWEET MESSAGE OMG-

Hi Azzy! :D I'm glad you still like my work even after all this time! Thank you for sticking around! :D

I have been taking better care of myself these days! I'm (only sometimes begrudgingly XD) going on daily walks (Pikmin Bloom is really helping with that, I love Pikmin they're so cute), and made some new friends! When I first started this blog I was convinced I had to constantly/frequently produce content, and I time went on I slowly realized that wasn't really viable, so I slowly trimmed down the workloads for better manageability, I'd say it's helped a lot! Even if it may not look like it sometimes XD

There was a point before I adjusted my work schedule where I figured out that I may have been riding a creative burnout for a long while, as when I looked back it felt like my work had begun to visually stagnate. I think at the time I was cramming working on the comic update across only 3 or 4 days (Wednesday/Thursday to Saturday mornings, sometimes down to the wire), with several hours of just constant work (plus any distractions and 3 daily asks) because I was procrastinating so badly X'D I'm still recovering from the visual stagnation, but I'm definitely trying to experiment where I can! I may not be the best at it but I hope I'm improving at least ksjdghLSDGH My current schedule is MUCH more spaced out and much more manageable, spanning Sunday to Friday and broken down into stages for each day, and Saturdays are my designated day off~

As for the side story, it's one I've had around for quite a while and have been excited to finally show off! There were a few people who were interested in it when it was first teased, though I've no idea if they're still around, if they are I hope they're enjoying the story so far as well! 💜

Oddly enough my sleep schedule is no longer on Cthulhu Standard Time SKSDJGHDLG We had a TON of construction going on in the house the past few months and it was way too awkward to sleep with a bunch of strangers either being in or near my room, as well as making a LOT of noise sjkdhgLKSDJG There was a brief section of time where I'd actually go to bed at a "normal" time and get up at like, 9 or 10 am X'D Though it's slowly sneaking it's way into afternoons to 3 or 4 AM after I feed the kitties, kinda like my old college schedule XD

Thank you again for liking my work and sticking around! I really appreciate it!! :D

I may not be anywhere near whatever my "peak" was a few years ago, but I'm still happy to keep going for those who still come around! 💜

[scarydeadlavender]

꧁༺ 𝓗𝓪𝓹𝓹𝔂 𝓫𝓲𝓻𝓽𝓱𝓭𝓪𝔂 ༻꧂

demande of @thedogisontopofthecarmom :

okay I was wondering if you could do one where it Daniels birthday and because of his sister taking care of him he’s never had a really grand party with a lot of presents and food so the reader and his friends decided to throw him a surprise party so threw out the day they had to act like they forgot which led to Daniel being sad the whole day but when he gets back to the conman room the whole day started to make scenes to him

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

When his alarm went once the noise finally stopped or at least, that's what he

It took him a couple of minutes to decide to leave the comforting warmth. His feet touched the cold floor of the dimly lit dormitory, and

With that done, he moved towards the large mirror next to his wardrobe, adjusting his house-colored tie with a bit of annoyance as it refused to cooperate. After that, he put on his black cape, its inner lining also matching his house's color. On his badge, there were threads that glowed, and stains from potions were visible, especially on the sleeves, making his cape more personal and unique.

He looked at himself in the mirror, attempting to tame his unruly hair, but eventually gave up, just blowing on the strand that fell over his right eye and rolling his eyes at the situation.

But then his gaze landed on the small calendar pinned to a corkboard where a few personal photos and pictures of his friends were hung. There were a lot of notes, and his schedule was posted as well. His eyes scanned each square one by one until he fixated on the date November 22, circled hastily in red. A small note was written beside it.

His eyes widened as he read what was written: "My birthday." A smile spread across his lips. Truth be told, he wondered how he could have forgotten his own birthday. Shame on him.

He chuckled a bit and then looked at his alarm clock, realizing he was running late. So, he dashed to the Great Hall with excitement, eager to see his friends. When he arrived at the entrance of the Great Hall, he grinned like a child in front of a candy store. He approached the table, his friends noticing him. He, who was usually cold, tense, and definitely not a morning person, well... that was somewhat surprising.

Robyn watched him sit down next to Tp, who was enjoying a pancake with some red fruits scattered on his plate.

Daniel: Hey everyone!

She looked at him, surprised by how lively he was in the morning. Usually, she was the energetic one, not him. In a way, their roles were reversed. Despite his thoughts that his friends would all wish him a happy birthday, none of them reacted, too busy with their breakfast. So, he tried to drop them a hint.

Daniel: Do you guys know what day it is?

Kevin: Sandwich Day!

Daniel: Huh?

The blond seemed excited as a flea, striking a dramatic pose in front of his friend, who didn't seem to know what Sandwich Day was.

Kevin: Every Thursday, I bring a peanut butter sandwich for Freddy the Niffler.

Daniel furrowed his brows, not quite understanding what he meant. Daniel: So... Freddy is a Niffler?

Kevin hummed joyfully, clasping his hands together before a slight frown appeared on his face. Kevin: But today we ran out of peanut butter, so I asked Robyn, "What should I bring him?" and she said, "A ham sandwich!" I can't possibly feed Freddy ham! Do you guys know what ham is?

Daniel grabbed a bowl and poured a small amount of cereal into the brown wooden bowl. He then poured milk while listening to his friend rambling, responding with a perplexed tone. Daniel: Meat?

Kevin: IT'S MEAT! If I gave Freddy meat, I'd be a horrible creature!! So, I'm late because I had to go to the kitchen to ask for peanut butter, because all we had was GROSS HAM!!

Kevin shot an angry look at Robyn, who just rolled her eyes. Daniel chuckled a bit and started eating his cereal. Daniel: Kevin, is it really that important?

Kevin looked down at the table, spearing his fork into a pancake before taking a bite, mumbling something under his breath, keeping his thoughts away from Robyn's hearing.

Tp: Oh, by the way, Daniel!

His eyes widened, hoping that she had remembered his birthday. But instead, Tp clasped her hands together in a praying motion, closing her eyes and beseeching Daniel. Tp: After classes, I REALLY need your help to revise for the Potions lesson. Please, help me.

Part of him was indeed glad to help Tp and spend time with her. However, another part of him was saddened that even his best friend had forgotten this important date. He forced a smile and lightly patted Tp's head. Daniel: Yeah, sure.

Tp: Oh my god, you're my savior!

Daniel: You can say that once you get a good grade.

He refocused on his cereal, letting Tp playfully groan at what he just said. He played with the few remaining cereal pieces in his bowl, feeling a bit down, hoping that at least someone would wish him...

Unfortunately, no one did. Even if it had been from the Frey twins, he would have accepted. However, everyone seemed to be avoiding him, as evidenced by their strange behavior.

He studied as planned, but Lottie approached Tp and whispered something in her ear. Seeing Tp laugh, he felt a pang in his heart, realizing that his friends were having fun without him, forgetting his birthday. Perhaps they had something important to do?

Daniel reflected on his day. No, he was avoiding that. It all started during History of Magic class, where Tp usually sat next to him, but this time she sat next to Ivy. Then at the meal, everyone was talking together, and when he approached, they avoided the question, telling him, "Don't worry, it's not about you." Later, he was chatting with Lottie when she left for no apparent reason, leaving him alone in the cold corridors of Hogwarts. And now, Tp was acting as if he wasn't there. It frustrated him not to understand what was going on, but it made him sad not to share these moments with his friends and not to be able to celebrate his birthday with them. Should he eat a poor cupcake with overly sugary frosting and a lone candle? So, he got up, closed the book abruptly, gathered his things, and headed towards the exit of the potion room. But he halted at the sound of Tp's voice.

Tp: Daniel, where are you going? Daniel: I think you have other things to do, Tp.

He could hear Tp asking him to wait, but instead, he continued walking through the corridors of Hogwarts. He wanted to be alone. He felt tears stinging his eyes, and he could also hear his friend's footsteps trailing behind him, persistently asking him to stop.

So when he felt the cold hitting his face, he stopped, clenching his fists, listening to his friend inquire about what was going on. He couldn't contain the sadness he'd been feeling since morning any longer. He turned around abruptly, fixing his gaze on his friend.

Daniel: You want to know what's wrong? Well, I'll tell you! I'm upset that my friends forgot my birthday!

He wiped away tears that were flowing aggressively, while Tp looked at him, allowing him to release the overflow of emotions. He ran his hands through his hair.

Daniel: I... I never had a big birthday when my sister took care of me... so... I wasn't asking for anything other than a simple "happy birthday." Just that! And... it would have made my day really great!

He wanted to stop the tears that were flowing freely down his cold cheeks due to the temperature, but to his surprise, he couldn't. Seeing the situation, Tp didn't know what to say, so she gently enveloped him in a hug, wanting to comfort him.

With his auburn-haired head still crying, apologizing for crying, Tp felt guilty. Not guilty for forgetting his birthday, as she remembered that date and had even been counting the days, hours, and minutes left until that special day. She felt guilty for putting her friend in this state! She couldn't hold back any longer from explaining why she hadn't said anything. So, with a simple gesture, gently taking one of his hands, she guided him, whispering:

"Daniels, come with me."

He didn't understand why he had to follow her. After all, he just wanted to be alone for now. But a small voice told him to listen to the girl. He didn't really notice the moment they arrived at their house's common room, or when Tp uttered the password. But what surprised him most was the common room itself, which was astonishingly dim. He even had to rub his eyes to try to see what was happening.

Daniel: Tp, what's going on here...

Before Tp could reply, the lights came back on, and all his friends were present, wearing birthday hats on their heads. They all shouted in unison:

"HAPPY BIRTHDAY, DANIEL!"

He was genuinely surprised, and this time, tears of joy streamed down his cheeks. The common room was adorned with colorful garlands, and numerous balloons of every hue adorned the floor. A large table displayed multiple cakes, each with different colors and flavors, and a small pile of presents was right beside it.

Tp smiled at him sadly, her friends not understanding why he was crying as they approached him.

Tp: I'm sorry you thought we had forgotten your birthday...

Lottie: Maaaan, did you really think we forgot your birthday?

Kevin: We've been preparing this for 2 weeks! How could we have forgotten!

Daniel sniffled before smiling.

Daniel: Thank you, friends, thank you for this party... I... I'm sorry for thinking that! All his friends laughed.

Tp: We know you've never really had a birthday, so... we wanted to give you this surprise!

Ivy: Group hug?

Daniel: N-no, no group hug.

Ivy: Come on, just this once!

Daniel chuckled a bit before gesturing for his friends to come in for the hug. After a few seconds, Robyn hopped up and down, clapping her hands.

Robbyn: Now, the cake! Everyone laughed, leading Daniel to a cake in the colors of his house, with several candles placed on it. And for the first time, a group of people he cared about sang the famous "Happy Birthday" song to him. He took a deep breath and blew out the candles, where their flames danced.

No doubt, this birthday filled with laughter, joy, food, and gifts will be etched in his memory...

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

number of words: 2010

oh my god i feel like it went bad TwT , i hope you like it!

[kushielsmercy]

Happy Thursday folks, we've almost made it. Have a small stand-alone snippit from a fic I started this summer and finally admitted I'm never coming back to. Sorry Joe, you're staying kidnapped.

***

“Enough, enough!” Nile laughingly pounds on Nicky’s back, dizzy. “Put me down!” 

Nicky tightens his grip and spins them around twice more, faster, before giving in to her pleas and depositing her back onto the ground. Nile groans and falls onto her back, the Oregon sky spinning above her. 

“Gotta work on your sea legs, kid,” Andy calls from across the fire, cackling. 

Nicky turns on her, eyes twinkling. “Bella.’ 

“Don’t you dare,” Andy warns, holding her bottle of whiskey up in defense. She’s too late. Nicky swoops in, stooping to grab her thighs and lift her straight up, twirling in a circle. Andy does her best to look dignified, resting the whiskey on top of Nicky's head, waiting him out. He tilts his head back and she breaks, laughing as she pours liquor into his open mouth. 

Joe appears above Nile, blocking out the night’s sky. He grins down at her, glitter raining down from his hair. “You can’t be done already, this is your holiday.” She refuses to sit up just yet, but makes a grabby motion upwards to appease him. He obligingly passes a half-burnt sparkler over and then taps his against hers in a mock toast. 

“I still feel kind of weird celebrating,” she admits as Joe sits down beside her, watching Andy try to kick Nicky’s feet out from under him to steal back her cigarette. 

He hums, tilting his head in acknowledgement. “You’ll have many years to contemplate. But who knows when you’ll see that again,” he nods to where Nicky and Andy have come to a compromise, Andy riding piggyback while she holds the cigarette to his lips.

Nile snorts, sitting up and motioning for the last sparkler. Nicky had shot off the last real firework hours earlier with childlike glee.

“I guess it is July 16th anyway,” she says, “we could be celebrating anything. Fuck it. I’m celebrating electricity.” 

They’ve spent the last three months infiltrating a cult with known ties to a particularly nasty trafficking ring. Nicky and Andy were on the inside, trying to figure out where the money was coming from, while Joe and Nile had camped out in a shack a few miles away, listening to the others spit some particularly inventive slurs over the comms while they worked out the supply lines. 

Point being, Nile’s not feeling real patriotic. But they passed a run-down stand a few miles back advertising 75% O f all Fire orks!, the f and w lost to time, and Nicky had insisted they stop - the man’s never met an explosive he didn’t like. It’s close enough to the solstice that Andy had her annual itch to get blacked out next to a dangerously high fire, so, here they are. Celebrating something that isn’t quite the Fourth of July, but isn’t exactly not the Fourth of July either, existing in a liminal space between Nile’s waning national allegiances and a desperate homesickness ten years hasn’t been enough to shake. 

Joe, ever good at reading a room, lets the moment pass unremarked. He’s the best at that. Nicky gets caught off-guard by his own introspection, going suddenly quiet for days at a time. Andy doesn’t have much patience for the whole thing, she figures if she doesn’t know herself at this point then it’s all a lost cause anyway. Joe, on the other hand, thinks clearly, deeply, and at his own pace. Meaning he’ll probably have a lot to say on the complexities of celebrating problematic holidays a month from now, but that’s not going to stop him from making heart eyes at Nicky tonight. 

Nicky makes a grab for the last of the whiskey and Andy dodges, yanking all of her weight to the left so that they collapse to the ground together, rolling out of the fall. She springs up and gets a foot on Nicky’s chest, hamming it up as she downs the last of the bottle in victory. 

“My love, avenge me!” Nicky mimes dying, doing an appallingly poor job despite all his experience.

“Ah, but then who would carry on your memory?” Joe laments. 

Nile knocks her shoulder against his. “Looks like we’ve found the limits of your love at last,” she tells Nicky. “It was that gas station coffee.” 

Joe nods solemnly. “I can still feel its poison in my veins.” He lifts a hand shakily. “Even now, I’m too frail to walk.” 

Nicky bats Andy’s leg away, moving to stand up with the single-minded focus of the very drunk. “Good. Then it will be less work for me to get you on your back.” He struggles to get himself upright, which doesn’t bode well for his luck standing up anything else. 

Nile gags out of principle. By this point she’s all but immune to finding the two of them on any surface, at any time of the day, but she tries to remember she’s supposed to be offended at least once a week. 

Nicky collapses onto the ground beside them, rolling over to put his head on Joe’s lap. “I’ve missed you,” he says. 

Joe runs his fingers through Nicky’s hair. “And I, you.” 

These days, Nile knows that if she wakes first up and tastes rain, she should make sure Nicky has lemongrass tea. She knows Joe has never kept a pair of matching socks for more than a week but hates when one gets a hole in its heel, and that Andy loves cosmopolitans more than she will ever admit. She knows these people inside and out, but then occasionally they’ll do the most mundane shit and it’ll sneak up and hit her all again how long nine-hundred years really is. 

“Don’t you ever worry you’ll get tired of each other?” Nile asks absently, mostly joking. 

Nicky squints up at her, blinking through the alcohol. He pokes Joe in the chest. “She’s not making any sense.” 

Joe flicks his ear in admonishment. “Stop teasing her.” 

“No no, I’m serious,” Nile says, realizing as she says it that she is. Also possibly more drunk than she thought. “Like, what happens if you break up one day. How would that even work? I know you guys have the most epic romance in all of history, or whatever, but what happens if that ends? Am I going to have to swap weekends?”

“What’s romance have to do with it?” Nicky asks, propping himself up onto one elbow. 

Joe groans. “See what you’ve done?” 

Nicky hushes him. “I do not - choose - Joe. Choice is irrelevant.” 

Nile looks to Joe, who shrugs. “The last time I tried to remember my wife, some years ago, she ended up having Nicky eyes, his face,” he reaches down playfully, “his cock.” 

Nicky grinds up into his touch, relaxed and unashamed. 

“I am right here.” Nile pretends to shield her eyes.

Nicky makes a dismissive noise. “I would burn the world to the ground for Joe, and it would be an act of self-defense.” 

Joe makes a wounded noise then ducks down, pulling Nicky’s up to meet him halfway. Nile’s seen this show before, too much of this show before, and knows that’s her cue to leave. Or, in this case, wander the twenty feet away to where Andy’s set herself up with ‘smores. 

“They’ll fall asleep soon.” Andy passes her a sharpened stick with a marshmallow already speared. 

Nile shrugs. “It’s sweet, in a very X-rated kind of way.” She watches the marshmallow slowly brown, keeping her eyes carefully on the fire. “I just, I sometimes wonder if I’ll ever get something like that, you know?” 

“I don’t have a damn clue,” Andy says, reassuring as always. “But the world’s probably safer if you don’t.” 

[ms-m-astrologer]

Transiting Venus enters Pisces

Monday, March 11 - Friday, April 5, 2024

Venus is exalted in Pisces - that is, although she doesn’t rule the sign (Jupiter and Neptune do), being placed here tends to bring out her best anyway.

On the down side, we can have issues and problems with boundaries, or to be more precise a lack of boundaries. Not to mention self-pity, substance abuse, and a refusal to do more than drift.

Art - the Impressionists, of course. We like it when the artist’s imagination is on display, and we like it even more when we have to use our own.

Beauty - always in the eye of the beholder, but especially now. We don’t have to work very hard to find it.

Love - “Love is not love / Which alters when it alteration finds / Or bends with the remover to remove. / Oh no! It is an ever-fixed mark / That looks on tempests and is never shaken;” and so forth.

Money - can piss it all away, and can have remarkable intuitive insights about investments. Charitable donations.

The story told by the aspects: we’re off to a bumpy start, have a few decent learning opportunities, and end ambiguously. Allow about a day on either side of these dates.

Monday, March 18 - Venus/Pisces square Pallas Athene/Sagittarius, 8°08’. Problems with gender identity. Our financial judgement isn’t very realistic, and we’re very distractable. Maybe some ham-handed attempts at flirtation.

Tuesday, March 19 - Venus/Pisces opposite Juno Rx/Virgo, 9°51’. Other people seem judgemental, critical, and negative. Some of us may get “played” by people who know how to manipulate us.

Thursday, March 21 - Venus/Pisces conjunct Saturn/Pisces, 12°26’. Kind of a turning point - we let past unpleasantness weigh us down, or we surrender and rise above it. Needing a little “alone” time. Real love is responsible, patient, and kind.

Saturday, March 23 - Venus/Pisces sextile Ceres/Capricorn, 14°08’. Take Mom out to a nice lunch! Also really good for green thumbs, prettying up your home, and spoiling your pets.

Sunday, March 24 - Venus/Pisces sextile Jupiter/Taurus, 15°48’. Very lucky (in a non-flashy way); we’re counting our blessings for sure. Spread those good vibes around.

Thursday, March 28 - Venus/Pisces sextile Uranus/Taurus, 20°37’. This gives us an opportunity (sextile) to shake things up a bit. If we’re in a rut, we can easily break out of it. If we’ve been wanting to try something new, we can find a way to do it.

Wednesday, April 3 - Venus/Pisces conjunct Neptune/Pisces, 28°00’. Can be a peak Pisces experience, overwhelming us with its spiritual beauty - or complete Piscean dissolution and escapism.

[mariacallous]

Republican U.S. Sen. Josh Hawley, left, confronts his Democratic challenger, Lucas Kunce, over who is ducking debates during a meeting Thursday at the Governor’s Ham Breakfast at the Missouri State Fair in Sedalia. (Photo by Rudi Keller/Missouri Independent)

[nescaveckwriter]

Paintbrushes & Romance 🥰🐞 - Part 18

Dean x Female Reader

A/N: We are this close to the ending y'all, please bare with me with this chapter. So much still needs to happen, I'm excited and saddened at the same time.🐞🥰

Side Note: Thank you bugsies for all the love and support, much, much love🥰🐞

Warnings: Fluff, anger, if theres anything else let me know...🐞🥰

No! babe, a little more to the right, okay no, wait stop, just a tiny bit more to the left. There that's perfect.

Dean collapse onto the couch he just moved for about the tenth time, if I knew, it was going to be so much work, moving in with you, I would've said let's life separately, even when we get married, he sighs.

Her eyes throwing darts, at him, folded arms, pouting her lips a bit, oh really Dean? There's the door!

Bursting out into laughter, Dean gets up, walking towards her, his eyes reflecting the lighting from the sunset, oh my  sweetheart, can't take a little joke now, he teased.

Crinkling her nose, I don't think it was funny, her lower lip trembling. Turning away from Dean walking towards the, rustic open plan kitchen.

Grabbing ahold of her arm, I'm sorry sweetie, I didn't mean to hurt your feelings, his husky voice low, what's the matter, you seem a little emotional?

You were on the right track Dean, until you said I seem a little emotional, of course I'm damn emotional, I'm exhausted, dirty, and freaking hungry, so I'm going to fix dinner, shaking her arm out of his grip.

I didn't mean to say it that way, flinching at the look she gives him, you know what, I'm not going to say anything, until you get something to eat. Just one last thing babe, why don't you sit, I'll fix us something.

Her face brightens a little, really, she pouts

Yes, really sweetheart, laughing, leading her back to the sofa, you can be so dramatic!

Dean! not helping she warned.

I'm a brave man, I can take whatever attitude you throw at me, shouting from the kitchen. Hearing a giggle escaping her lips, makes him smile. Busy fixing them some ham and cheese sandwiches, he hums a Zeppelin song.

Okay sweetheart, this is going to be the best damn sandwiches ever, almost sliding across the wooden floor, placing the two plates on a make believe table, of a box titled, paintbrushes and other supplies. Baby? Turning to see, she's falling asleep on the sofa all curled up, her hair that was earlier tied up in a messy bun, now slightly loose, framing her angelic face, scouting for a throw or blanket to cover her up, mumbling underneath his breath, how blessed am I!

__________

The moving in weekend is finally over, and by Thursday, their little place looks like a home. She's unpacking the last of the kitchenware when she catches a glimpse of Dean in the corner of her eye. Babe something the wrong?

As a matter of fact there is, sweetheart, how am I suppose to go to work, when you look so hot, I can barely keep my eyes of off you? 

His smoky voice, filling her ears,  her cheeks a light rosy pink, and her lips forming a smile. Oh stop it, she mocked. 

I'm just telling you the honest truth, smirking now. Goodbye sweetheart, kissing her on the crown of her head, then stealing a quick deep kiss, before pulling himself away.

Bye Babe, be safe, I love you, her fruity voice filled with happiness.

Love you too, hearing him in the distance, makes her heart flutter. Is this what true happiness feels like she asked to no-one really.

_________

Hey babe, remember a few months ago, I told you about the case, I was working on, and the man who jumped in front of a bullet for me, when I was out of town, yeah I invited him for dinner or pizza, or something, it doesn't matter, I just want you meet him, hope its okay... the voicemail service cuts Dean off.

He laughs, why does she even have a cellphone, only she knows. Come on man, get in, gesturing to the car, I need  to introduce you to my fiancée, I have an idea she will love to get to know you, she has a big heart! I'm sure she'll set you up in the guest room, so you can stay the night.

Dean, I really don't want to impose, sounding more distant than the man intended.

Oh come on, you won't, get in, Dean demanded

The man takes Dean up on his offer, thank you, giving him a half smile.

On the drive over the two men talked about how much life changed since the last time they saw each other.

Life has a funny way of working out, with its curveballs and all, who would've thought that I Dean Winchester would be marrying a wonderful women.

When's the big day, the deep voice, heavy with accent interrupted him.

It is in two weeks, we didn't want a long engagement, his smile wrapping across his face.

Oh! Well congrats Dean, he expressed.

Thanks, we're here! Pulling into the driveway.

Its a lovely place you have here Dean, he replied.

Hearing Dean mumbling something, he catches a glimpse of a wind charm, hanging by the porch, filled with leaves and lady bugs. I used to know someone who loves those tiny creatures so much saying in a hushed tone.

Dean laugh's, I bet you no-one loves them more than my girl. Dean's phone ringing, breaks the conversation, before picking up, he gesture's to the man, he can enter the house so long, but he needs to take this call first.

Thanks, he hesitated. Stepping on the porch, admiring the rustic house, opening the screen door, he catches a glimpse of her, standing on a ladder, bare feet, a paint stained shirt, and shorts, her hair in a loose braid, singing Bon Jovi's It's my life while painting.

There it is again, the out of control beating of his heart, he lets out a sigh, contemplating if he should say hi, or run. Before even realizing he walked closer, standing almost at the ladder, she always had the power to overtake all his common sense, filling him with wonder.

The paint brush in her hand, drops to the floor, oh come on, shit, really, adjusting her footing, stepping miss on the first step, coming to a fall. He catches her, not uttering a single word.

Her wide eyes looks up into his sky blue eyes, shock on her face. Benny!!! She yelps.

Hello Darling, its good to see you, his smoky voice, low.

His arms still wrapped around her. W..what are you doing here she stutters.

Its a long story Darling, you look as beautiful as ever, trying to fight the urge to kiss her, his voice breathy.

As if she read his mind, she shy's away, loosening out of his grip. Concern on her face, her voice shaky, this can't be happening.

Darling I'm so sorry, Dean insisted, and in full honesty there was the slightest bit of hope in me, that the two of you didn't get back together, and that he was talking about someone else.

Benny!! I never told Dean your name, nor have I really said what happened between us, this is a disaster, a freaking disaster.

Your right, I don't know what I was thinking, Benny said faking a smile. Turning around, walking towards the door, he stops dead in his tracks, glancing over to her, his voice even lower and deeper than before, I am really glad your happy darling.

Before she could reply, Dean's voice filled with anger, rushed over them. What the hell is this Benny? Tossing the sketchpad against him, the note he kept in there flung across the room.

Dean, calm down, I don't want trouble, Benny's voice seemed calm but stern.

Shut up! Just.... Shut up, Dean's jaw tightened. His eyes darker than usual!

Look man! Benny begun. Before he could finish his sentence, Dean's fist met the side of his jaw, making him stumble a bit backwards, swiping the blood from his busted lip, before throwing his hands up in a defensive position. Just stop Dean your making a fool of yourself, his voice stern.

Get out, of my damn house, you are testing me, Dean shouted! Glaring at Benny, with pursed lips, you knew who I was along didn't you?

Benny wanted to reply to Dean, but got interrupted.

Stop it, just stop it, her voice filled with concern and fear. Her cheeks a flushed red and tearstained.

Both men looking at her, not saying a single word, until Dean cocks his head back to Benny, shouting, I will shoot you if you come near her again, she's mine!!!

Anger on her face, I'm not anyone's possession Dean, her pupils are blown and darker that he'd every seen. I'm not some object! Running out the door, stopping for a few seconds, glaring at both men, do not follow me and when I get home, you two children better start acting like the grown freaking men you are. Rushing to the car she gets in, speeding off.

The two angry men is left standing there, shock on there face, listening to the roaring of the impala's engine.

[michellemisfit]

⛄️❄️ Weekly Tag Wednesday, on a Thursday ❄️⛄️

Kindly tagged by @mikhailoisbaby @metalheadmickey @mickeysgaymom @lingy910y @sleepyfacetoughguy @crestfallercanyon @creepkinginc @mybrainismelted @energievie @deedala @jrooc

It's Festivus for the rest of us so grab your Chanukah bush, your mistletoe, your pagan ritual or whatever brings you joy and come gather round the fire 🪵 and celebrate your pocket friends 🤶🏻

❄️ Favourite nickname you’ve ever been given:

Any film or TV set I’ve ever wrangled animals on I’ve been dubbed ‘Rabbit Girl’ or ‘Alpaca Lady’ or whatever other animal I’ve got with me that day, and it makes me laugh. I’m also quite fond of school kids calling me ‘Farmer Michelle’. It’s cute. Otherwise it’s just the usual. Myska. Mys. Myskalump.

Oh! Oh oh oh!!! Ruth’s brother calls me his Swisster, and it’s the CUTEST THING!!!! 🥰🇨🇭

❄️ Where are you located? London, UK

❄️ What season is it where you are now? 🥶

❄️ Favourite tradition this time of year: I love baking and decorating cookies and giving them to people. I also love giving and especially wrapping presents. I’ve made my own wrapping paper for the last few Christmases and birthdays, and it makes wrapping extra fun!!

I just like doing things that make other people happy 😊

❄️ Favourite holiday food: Leftovers Casserole. It’s literally what it says in the tin, so turkey meat, any left over roast veg and potatoes, caramelised garlic carrots, Brussels, and stuffing all put in the oven to heat through and let the top go crispy, and then you eat it with gravy. Yum yum.

❄️ Mulled wine, eggnog or hot apple cider? Mulled cider all the way!! We basically have a large pot of mulled wine and a large pot of mulled cider on the go for all of December lol

❄️ Turkey, Ham or Nut Roast (Or Tofurkey?)?

I have always wanted to make a nut roast and never have!!! 😭 We do turkey on Christmas Day and Honey Glazed Ham on “House Christmas”. They’re both awesome.

❄️ Would you rather spend the December holidays in: A cabin in the woods surrounded by snow, or a house on the beach with sun and sand?

Cabin!!!!

❄️ Are you pro-snow or anti-snow?

Pro. Farming is tough in winter, but it’s still pretty beautiful. Even if my fingers fall off.

❄️ Have you ever built a snowman? Of course! I also built a snow dog with Poppy one year.

❄️ Skiing or Snowboarding? I used to be a pretty decent skier. I’ve snowboarded twice and could not get on board with the concept. Just like I am great on roller skates and suck on a skate board 🤷🏽‍♂️ Also? All of my best scars and bloodiest injury stories are winter sport related!

❄️ Do you decorate for the holidays? Have you met me??

No neighbourhood ivy is save this time of year!

❄️ Favourite holiday movie? I’m not too big on movies generally, but we often watch A Knights Tale at Christmas, so probably that?

❄️ Favourite holiday fanfic? One of the things I adore about fandom at Christmas is things like Christmas Gift Exchanges and people writing Christmas spin offs for their popular fics, or amazing people like @sam-loves-seb doing a whole 12 Days of Christmas!!! Which I cannot wait to have time off to binge my way through to get in the Christmas spirit!!! 🥰

❄️ If you were to star in a Hallmark movie, who would be your love interest? Where would it take place?

Bradley James! Once and Future Love of my Life.

I would be hired to supply the animals for his latest movie, which would have some cringeworthy puntastic title like ‘You’ve Goat to Be Kidding Me’ or ‘Only With Ewe’.

Forgive my lateness and likely double tagging. Work has been a lot in the run up to Christmas. If you’ve already done this please tag me so I can read yours, and if not then this is your invitation to be fashionably late, just like me! @suzy-queued @heymacy @heymrspatel @callivich @faejilly @greentealycheejelly @rutherinahobbit @depressedstressedlemonzest @look-i-love-u @crossmydna @too-schoolforcool @darlingian @rereadanon @lupeloto @gardenerian @sam-loves-seb @francesrose3 @bawlbrayker @vintagelacerosette