#the middle of the month was a slump and picked back up in the end but like... emily wilde and the snow book weren't exactly great

[cj-writes-stuff]

Reading Wrap-Up | April 2024

That Time I Got Drunk and Saved a Human by Kimberly Lemming Garlic and the Vampire by Bree Paulsen Garlic and the Witch by Bree Paulsen Emily Wilde's Encyclopaedia of Faeries by Heather Fawcett A Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes by Suzanne Collins Nimona by N. D. Stevenson

[mini reviews/ratings below the cut]

That Time I Got Drunk and Saved a Human by Kimberly Lemming ⭐Rating: 3.5/5

After reading the previous two in the Mead Mishaps series, I was so excited to get my hands on this book. It follows Cherry, Cinnamon's sister who for two books we've thought to be dead, and Dante, another character who we've gotten to know. Turns out Cherry didn't die, she was kidnapped by a dragon and forced to live in a tower.

This series for me is like splurging at a diner; sure, I could spend the time putting thought into my meal, enjoy the prep time, savor the journey, and come out of it a changed person... or I could go out and relax with a drink and eat similar food but without any stress, I'm just here to have fun and laugh.

Not to say that there aren't complexities to these books as the worldbuilding is thoughtful and interesting the more we learn, and they do poke a lot of fun at certain tropes used in other books of its kind. The characters are fun and likable, there's a lot of sex that I could give or take but it's not terrible, and for the most part, I enjoyed Cherry and Dante's romance for what it was. I know what I'm signing up for when I pick up one of these, so even though the whole mates situation isn't really my thing, I've learned to go with the flow and have fun with it.

I did feel this book was a major improvement over the second book, which I was disappointed by. Also, upon reflection, I think I appreciate the first book a lot more now that I've read all three.

I'm honestly sad there isn't a fourth book out yet, but I'm keeping an eye out.

Garlic and the Vampire / Garlic and the Witch by Bree Paulsen ⭐Rating: 5/5

I'm putting these two together since I don't have too much to say. These are the sweetest, most wholesome graphic novels I've ever read, I adore them. I've had a major reading slump this month and I thought if I could just pick something quick and easy up, it'd make it easier to transition into something else. Hence these books.

The art is beautiful. I love Garlic, she's a little ball of anxiety and honestly, same. Her and Carrot's relationship is so sweet. Witch Agnes and Count are great. These stories are about little Garlic being brave and going on cute [and kinda scary] adventures and they made my night.

Emily Wilde's Encyclopaedia of Faeries by Heather Fawcett ⭐Rating: 2/5

This one is... difficult. I liked it? I think? But also, it was a massive disappointment. It's frustrating because it didn't have to be. All the pieces were there for a fantastic story! Hell, at points, this book had me... but then it would quickly lose me.

This is the story of Emily Wilde who goes to a small town to study their faery folk but she struggles with the townspeople given she's not really a people person... but then her academic rival/friend Wendell Bambleby shows up to assist her.

The problem with this book is it's written in journal entries... journal entries that apparently recount everything, including long conversations and events with quite creative prose, that happened in journal form... as in it's a lot of telling, a lot of feelings being separated from the story that when the romance suddenly happened, I was like, "...Really? Like, actually? You two were better off as friends because this came out of nowhere??"

The journal structure is this books biggest downfall and I hate it because there's a good story in here. Why is it written like this??

I liked Emily a lot as a protagonist, but because she's journaling all of this research and tends to leave out a lot, I feel like there are crucial chunks missing. Poe was probably my favorite character, though. Bambleby was.... ugh, he could've been interesting but I'm starting to see a pattern in every fae romance I read: the fae love interests are all man babies. It's getting old real quick.

I have zero interest in picking up the rest of this series, which is unfortunate. I had high hopes for this. When it was good, it was really damn good... but that's not enough to make up for the bad.

A Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes by Suzanne Collins ⭐Rating: 2/5

Right. So, confession time: I haven't read The Hunger Games Trilogy. I didn't pick it up when it was popular, I didn't have a YA dystopian phase, and I never felt any reason to pick up until now. When the first movie came out, I saw it and thought it was good. Never watched the other ones.

Until this month. My buddy Pi and I marathoned all four Hunger Games movies, and then the prequel movie. I enjoyed the movies, they were fun to discuss, so I thought y'know what? Why not? Why not give them a read now? And since I'm in a unique position with all the books out and on my shelves, what if I start with the prequel book about President Snow before jumping into the main trilogy?

So that's exactly what I did.

I severely underestimated how insufferable Snow would be for 500 pages.

I honestly don't know how I feel about this book. There was a lot I liked, a shit ton I didn't like, and a lot that draaaaaaagged on and on and on. I would say that the first two parts of this book are pretty solid. Part three is when it falls apart until the very end when it picks back up again.

Snow is annoying and his name is stupid. Yes, I suppose I have more insight that should make moving forward with the series interesting... but consider: I hate him and I hope there's an all-you-can-eat buffet of cabbage in hell for him. Of all the characters we could've had a prequel book about, we just had to go with him?

Lucy Gray I'm mixed on; she started singing at her reaping and I was like "ah, pixie dream girl, are we gonna do something interesting with that? perhaps subvert it?" and to my pleasant surprise, yeah we did play with it in an interesting way. There were moments where she made me roll my eyes, but I liked her well enough... except I didn't like her romance with Snow from the beginning, which was a given.

I spent the entire book hoping that Dr. Gaul would get eaten by one of her creations but alas, no such luck.

Sejanus Plinth deserved the world and then some. This dude, my guy... he was so ready to throw hands with Dr. Gaul at any moment and I love and respect and cherish him for that. Even now just thinking about it, I'm so pissed off and heartbroken about everything that happened to him.

Again, there were things I liked about this book, but I think I need more time to actually process it. This really isn't the place for me to write an essay on the bullshit that was Snow and Sejanus's relationship or the ghost of Lucy Gray or how Katniss was a swamp potato the entire time.

Nimona by N. D. Stevenson ⭐Rating: 4/5

I needed something fun to wash the bad taste of Snow outta my mouth, went to peruse my shelves, and found this. This one is a reread. I first read it back in 2016? I believe? Around that time, and I enjoyed it then just as much as I've enjoyed it now. I haven't watched the movie yet but now I probably will.

The art style is cute, the characters are fun, and it made me feel better. Not much else to say, really. It did what I wanted it to do, but I don't think I was as charmed by it as I was the Garlic graphic novels, y'know?

[charliemwrites]

There are men across the street.

The house (and you use the term generously) that slumps there has been vacant for some time now. Ever since you moved in a couple years ago, actually. It’s an eyesore for sure. Graffiti on the walls, boards on the windows, a basketball-sized hole in the roof. The porch is the worst of it. Sagging in the middle and crumbling on the ends, stripped and moss-encrusted wood.

But today there are men there, stomping up and down the groaning steps in big, steel-toed boots.

You watch for a bit from the safety of your kitchen window, sipping coffee and batting your cat off the counter. They don’t look like a normal construction crew - wearing all black and not so much as a hammer on their belts. Three of them that you can see, one about average height, one tall, and one very tall. The tall one tags after the shortest of them often, gets pushed and shoved and snapped at it seems like.

You lose interest when the coffee runs out and your phone chimes, shooing you off to the grocery store. All three have disappeared inside by the time you saunter out, keys jingling and reusable bags in hand.

Margot says they’re renovating - likely some rich man’s retirement project. The same thing happened just down the street six months before you moved in, and now Joe has solar panels.

She postulates over the situation across the street while taking delicate bites of the cheesecake she brought over. (A test recipe for her niece’s baby shower in a few weeks. You don’t tell her that it’s too sweet and just sip your tea between bites.) She hypothesizes that one of them is this hypothetical rich man’s son, bringing some handy friends around for extra hands to work.

It sounds about as plausible as Agatha’s mutterings that they’re drug lords, so you nod along and watch your calico sneak up on your tuxedo behind her.

The garden is your own little retirement project. (You’re not actually retired, no matter what your sister snipes. But some smart money moves and a successful writing career is virtually the same with no kids and no spouse.) It’s going about as well as the renovations across the street - which is say, better and quicker than expected.

You planted clover in the yard, and are working on wildflowers in the boxes. The clover is already blooming, little flower tufts springing up for bumblebees to perch on. The wildflowers are mixed success so far, but nothing is dead yet.

You mostly just tootle around to be outside - allotted sunshine lest you become the shut in Bertram accused you of your first couple months.

The cats watch you pick at weeds from the window. Or two of them do. The other one is glaring from the fridge, angry that you tossed her back inside when she tried to slip past your ankles. (With any luck, you’ll have another sibling for them soon, but the handsome orange thing that keeps coming by at dawn and dusk is too stupid to be caught.) All three of them shift to look at something over your shoulder.

“Excuse.”

You don’t startle, thankfully. The voice may be unfamiliar, but neighbors stop by consistently enough that you’re not surprised to have your solitude interrupted.

What you are surprised by is the tall (very, very tall) man standing at the edge of your front yard. One of the renovators.

“Hi,” you say, straightening.

He points a gloved finger at you - no, not at you. Past you. At your cats.

“May I see them?” He asks in a thick German accent.

You blink, surprised and confused.

He’s a big man. Not just unusually tall, but broad as well. Muscle tugs at the fabric of his shirt, cargo pants clinging to his thighs. He also hasn’t bothered to take off the heavy duty dust mask, black sunglasses, or jacket hood obscuring his features. Looks like he’s about to rob you, honestly.

But Agatha’s uncharitable muttering about delinquent men rings like a warning toll. You’re at risk of sinking into the judgmental sea of upper-middle class suburbia, and that’s not water you want to tread.

“Sure!” You reply, ignoring his lack of introduction. “One sec.”

The cats see you dart from view and hurry to meet you at the door, meowing and yowling. You crack it open only wide enough to snatch up your precious firstborn, his leggies sticking out in abject bafflement at being airborne. You make guilty eye contact with your other two fiends before swiftly wedging the door shut again.

Then adjust your son, his little paws resting on your shoulder as you turn. Your visitor is standing right where you left him, perks up when he sees the cat bundled in your arms.

“This is Guy.”

You step closer, ignoring that shred of nervousness that being close to any man (especially one so physically intimidating) brings. To his credit, he only shuffles just enough to offer his hand for inspection.

“Guy?” he asks.

“I wasn’t going to adopt him at first, so I just called him Little Guy for so long that he thought that was his name. And then I did adopt him and now he won’t answer to anything else.”

You come by the rambling honestly - an obligate introvert until you moved to this neighborhood. There are few things you ever want to talk about with strangers, but your cats are one of them.

“He is a little guy,” the man muses.

Guy has no reservations about rubbing his fat face on the stranger’s glove, a purr kicking up in his chest. You relax as the man keeps his touch gentle and slow, that little bit of paranoid tension trickling into the soil beneath your feet.

“The other two aren’t as well behaved, I don’t trust them without harnesses on,” you add, nodding at the window.

The man glances up at them. Doesn’t seem to realize that his demise (and yours) is imminent from their glares.

“What are their names?”

You flush. “Rasputin and Shithead. I tell everyone else her name is Susan though.”

A sharp bark of laughter splits the air like a falling ax, cracks right down the middle. It makes you jump a bit - Guy is expectedly unbothered - but still you find yourself gratified. Laughing is good, it means you’re doing things right.

“Sorry,” he says, “but my friend would like that name.”

You gesture at the house across the street. “One of them?”

“Yes, the short one.”

You only just manage not to snort in amusement, but it doesn’t stop him from noticing. The mask moves, you think he might be grinning underneath.

“Does he know you call him that?”

“Not if you don’t tell him.”

You doubt you’ll have the opportunity even if you wanted to.

Someone’s at the door.

You’re only half-dressed, waist deep in laundry you have no excuse for putting off so long. Aren’t expecting company either - it’s Sunday morning, everyone should be at their various churches or visiting relatives. Can’t remember the last time someone knocked before noon on a Sunday.

Still, it was a big solid knock. The kind that makes you think it’s not the usual neighbor come by to impose on your space.

You glance down at the hem of your sweatshirt, determine it’s far enough down your thighs to be acceptable, and pad to the door.

You open it to another of the renovators. The “short” one - though you readjust that measurement quickly. He’s still taller than you, it’s just that most anyone seems diminutive compared to his friend.

“Morning,” you chime.

“We need your driveway.” His voice is low and rough, blunt. A sledgehammer to concrete. Also German-accented, you note.

“Oh,” you reply, “what for?”

He grunts. “Work.”

And you, a longtime observer of politely shaking people down for information by this point, smile without teeth.

“Oh, a work truck? It won’t make a mess will it?”

“No.”

You hum, glance at your stupid little sedan parked in the middle of the driveway.

“Okay, I’ll move — Shithead!”

You scramble to grab at the black and white blur of evil, sweeping her up in your arms as she meows in complaint. One of her back feet catches in the hem of your sweatshirt and starts to pull it up as she kicks. You curl an arm under her butt for support, but mostly she just takes the opportunity to chomp down on the meat of your thumb.

You glance at the man. “Shithead is very interested in the renovations.”

He stares. “So that is actually its name. I thought you were being rude and Konig didn’t realize.”

Ah, so that’s his name. You never did get that introduction.

“No, yeah, this is Shithead, I’m sure you can see why.”

The corner of his mouth twitches as she unlatches from your thumb, only to bite down on your wrist.

“So! The truck - when will it be here?”

“Noon.”

“Great! See you around!” You shut the door in his face without getting a name.

You threaten, not for the first time, to turn her into a pair of mittens. She responds by attacking your foot until Rasputin tackles her. Guy cries at the door, probably missing a man he met for all of two minutes.

The work truck stays through the night. Your cats spend all afternoon watching the men cross the street and back. Every once in a while, Guy puts his little feet up on the glass - Konig must be passing by.

You glance out the kitchen window only once and make hard eye contact with the third of their trio. He’s somehow even more covered up than Konig, and yet you get the distinct impression that your gaze is not welcome.

You blink and abandon the dishes for later.

The next morning, they’re already at it when you shuffle outside for the mail. Konig raises a slow hand in greeting, but visibly brightens when you smile sleepily and wave back.

You pass the work truck - the back panel is already open for them to unload wood beams and heavy-looking buckets. Construction stuff, as expected - and not messy, as promised.

You spot a red and white flag decal on the rear window. Austria, isn’t it?

“Did you just wake up?” a flat voice asks.

You squint a little through the morning sun at the man from the day before. The rude one.

You yawn. “Mhmm.”

He frowns at you, disapproval plain. Agatha will like him, you muse, shoving a hand in your mailbox. They both seem to have strong opinions about your sleep schedule.

“It is late.”

“It’s only 8.” You tug out a sheaf of envelopes and begin idly flipping through them.

“The sun is up.”

“So what?”

He clicks his tongue disdainfully. You absently click back. Then jump as a big body lands right in front of you. The third man, two wooden beams balanced on his shoulder. He makes brief eye contact with you again, then strides across the street.

“Shoo,” the rude one says. “Men at work, yes?”

You grumble. “See if I bring you cookies.”

Konig glances up from the truck bed, eyes shining. “Cookies?”

Well shit.

Rasputin keeps you company while you cook. He’s the only one allowed on the counter for any length of time. Shithead steals anything and everything, or bats at your hands while you work. Guy has the equal parts endearing and infuriating habit of touching everything with his paws.

Rasputin is the only one who will sit quietly to observe, leaning in for the occasional kiss. Today, he’s watching you bake cookies and assemble sandwiches. A dual-purpose welcome and peace offering to the three men across the street.

Is it too much? Maybe. But you’ve got nothing better to do and kindness won’t break your bank, so. Cookies and sandwiches.

You change clothes while the cookies cool on the pan - a sundress for the warm, late-spring weather. They’ve seen you in your pajamas far too much already.

At the door, you hesitate. This house doesn’t feel inhabited yet, but it also doesn’t feel right to just open the door. It’s quiet inside, so no power tools to drown you out. Making a face, you settle for a firm knock. It takes a minute or two - you think you might hear distant shouting. Then the door swings in fast and hard, nearly startling you.

It’s the third of their trio, the one you’ve yet to speak to. He’s covered head to toe, fabric around his head and face, leaving only sharp blue eyes to glare out.

“Hi,” you begin, hands thankfully too full to fidget. “I brought food.”

His eyes flick to the foil-covered platter in your hands. Then he swings the door wide and pivots on his heel.

“The cat comes too.”

Cat?

You glance down. Sure enough, Rasputin is standing by your legs, his remaining half a tail swishing. You sputter at him - didn’t even realize he snuck out - but all you get is his characteristic raspy “mah” noise. Right then.

He politely trots by your side as you enter, not even shy about your curiosity. The place is gutted, stripped walls and scuffed floors. It smells like dust and plaster and shaved wood. All the lights have been ripped out of the ceiling, exposing wires like nerve-endings.

There are two empty rooms to either side upon entry, a den and a dining room probably. The den even seems to be split into two, with one half sunk lower, accessible by a couple steps.

You follow your unexpected host through the “dining room,” which seems to be more of a satellite staging zone at the moment. There are piles of tools, stacks of materials, a little island of canvas bags. As you pass through, you notice a staircase, and even from the ground floor, you can see that it crosses over to the den on the other side.

The kitchen is stationed towards the back of the house. You try not to wince at the state of the counters. Pockmarked, blistered, scratched, burned, cracked laminate.

The floor has already been pried up to reveal smooth concrete. You scan it quickly for anything that could hurt Rasputin’s feet before entering.

Your neighbor gestures for you to set the platter down on an empty patch of counter, so you do, peeling back the foil.

“Cookies and sandwiches,” you explain just to have something to say.

“Why?” he asks.

You shrug. “To be nice.”

He stares. You blink back.

“I mean, you don’t have to eat them,” you add. “It would just be a waste.”

Rasputin chooses that moment to leap onto the counter, taking a moment to steady himself once he’s landed. With only one eye and a crooked leg, he’s not the most acrobatic or graceful of your babies, but he makes do.

To your shock, though, once he’s gained his bearings, he makes like he’s going to eat one of the sandwiches.

“Ras,” you gasp, surprised. “Absolutely not!”

The little shit doesn’t even resist when you nudge him away, just settles on his haunches, staring at your neighbor. And, to your confusion, your neighbor grunts.

“Konig! Krueger!” he barks.

That must be the rude one’s name. Krueger. You file that tidbit away.

“What’s your name?” You ask. “No one’s told me.”

He eyes you - dare you say suspiciously - letting the silence stretch.

“Nikto,” he rasps finally.

You finish introducing yourself just as the other two enter. Konig’s down to just the dust mask today, while Krueger seems to have donned one for himself.

“You,” Krueger says.

You arch your eyebrows back. “Me.”

“What brings you here?” Konig interjects, much friendlier.

“Well, you really seemed to want cookies yesterday, so I thought I’d bring some with lunch as a welcome to the neighborhood.”

He practically shoves Krueger to get to the kitchen. You politely get out of the way so he can indulge in your offering without getting trampled.

“Danke schön,” he says, scooping up a sandwich.

“No problem,” you answer, smiling.

Krueger deigns to sidle closer, inspecting the platter with a keen eye. Still, you think you see a bit of appreciation in them before he snatches up one of the sandwiches. For some (concerning) reason, you’re gratified by that. (You’ll just blame it on your habit of feeding ferals and strays.)

“I also wanted to give you three a little warning…” Three pairs of eyes pin you in place. You try not to grimace. “Everyone on this block is nosy as hell. They will literally peak in your yard and check your mail.”

“The mail?” Konig asks, appalled.

“Yeah, I started using a PO Box,” you sigh. You’ve only got so much sanity before you start taking sniper shots with a water gun.

“We will handle it,” Krueger says.

“I’m sure,” you demure. “Anyway, that was all. You can drop the platter off later - or I can come get it. It’s not like you’re far.”

You start looking for Rasputin, only to find him perched on Nikto’s broad shoulder. The man doesn’t even seem bothered by the claws digging through his shirt, scratching a finger at the calico’s cheek.

“Huh,” you say, surprised.

Nikto glances at you, pauses. “What?”

You snort at the bluntness, but grin. “Usually I’m the only one allowed to pet him.”

That’s three for three. Well, two and a half. Shithead could have been trying or escape or go for the ankles for all you know. But Krueger seemed to like her, so that counts for something.

“C’mon my little tank, let’s go,” you coo, approaching.

Rasputin nuzzles his face against Nikto’s once, gives him a parting mraw, then leaps into your waiting arms.

“Bye, guys!” You call, waving over your shoulder as you head for the door.

Konig is the only one to respond with a polite, “see you!” But you don’t take it to heart.

Next

Masterlist

[syd-djarin]

private eyes - jack daniels x private investigator!f!reader (18+ MDNI)

this is for @iamasaddie little lady kinky may challenge! congrats on 2.5k! <333 I was paired with Jack / Voyeurism.

banner by: @cafekitsune

tags: voyeurism (reader watches jack), masturbation (m & f), reader is a private investigator, gratuitous descriptions of my fav cowboy stroking his big cock, dub-con a little? reader masturbates in her car but there isn't anyone around so public but private

a/n: this is the first fic I've completed in months. it's short and to the point, idk how i feel about it but it pushed me out of my writing slump! kinda want to do a part 2 for this, what do y'all think 👀

wc: ~1.6k

smut below the cut

 “I want you to catch that son of a bitch in the act.”

The visibly scorned woman, Camilla, sitting across from you asks through tears, ones that she hasn’t allowed to escape down her cheeks; catching them right at the waterline with an overused tissue.

This isn’t the first time a disgruntled, mistreated, or betrayed lover has sought out your services — no shortage of shitty men leaving trails of destruction while they pillage and greedily chase their own interests. She’s no different, seeking closure from the broken-off engagement from her now ex-fiancée, Jack Daniels. The pair had been together for a year, engaged for three months and one day, out of the blue, Jack broke it off. According to her, he didn’t give a concrete reason, something vague about being consumed with his job and that “she deserved a better life than that”. 

Of course you get paid a pretty penny for your work, but you take great pleasure in catching a man in the act. Whether the woman needs proof for divorce settlements, custody battles, or to just have leverage. Whatever the case may be, you find a gratification you don’t get anywhere else; the upheaval of a man trying to have his cake and eat it too. 

The conventionally attractive woman you couldn’t pick out of a line-up slides her homemade dossier across the coffee shop table, tacky & sticky from previous patrons. You flip through the information presented to you, taking mental notes as you go. You can’t deny the heat that rises up your face as you study the picture of your next target. The deep sable eyes resembling a baby calf’s are staring at you through the glossy photo paper. He’s sporting a mustache reminiscent of Burt Reynolds that is calling your name. His smirk is laced with a charming cockiness. 

“He’s quite the looker, I know. Hell of a lay, too,” her words snap you out of your daydream. Her words feel hollow, his looks are the only attributes she’s mentioned during the duration of the consultation. You're not getting paid for moral judgements and you remind yourself you don’t know the whole story. 

“Which is why I want to know who he’s fucking. I know there’s another woman, or maybe even a guy… he’d answer calls in the middle of the night and step into another room and I swear I could hear a woman’s voice on the other end, he’d tell me he’s going on work trips… he works at a whiskey distillery, why the hell does he need to go on all these trips?” She explains, putting air quotes around ‘trips’ with her dainty, well-manicured hands, “he’d stay late at work a few nights a week, and then it turned into a nightly thing… Anyways, you come highly recommended, so I’m trusting you won’t let me down,” she adds. You’re not a fan of the passive aggressive, back-handed compliment she gives you, but ultimately you give her an understanding smile as you both rise from the table. 

“I’ll be in touch,” you tell her, as you exit. As cliche as that line is, you love saying it every time. 

Days of following Jack around have proven to be fruitless. The man has a simple routine: wakes up at six, traipses to the bathroom to begin his morning regimen of a showering, shaving and grooming his beloved mustache, and to conclude,  adorns his body in his tight denim jeans, a crisp button-down, a cowboy hat, and boots to match. You hate to admit it, and someone would have to waterboard this information out of you, but the hat is doing something for him. 

Or you. 

Whatever. 

He shops weekly on Wednesdays (he always puts the cart back inside the store, not the cart returns in the parking lot), takes the same route home everyday, watches Jeopardy while he eats dinner – you caught on quickly that he cooks during Wheel of Fortune, it appears he isn’t a big fan of Pat and Vanna, dishes promptly following Final Jeopardy and bed by nine. In three weeks Jack hasn’t had a single visitor, of any gender, leaves work at five like everyone else, the man isn’t adding up to be a cheating womanizer like Camilla had set him out to be. Not to say that he isn’t, but you’re not finding any evidence to support that claim. You’ve actually found yourself developing a crush on the man. He’s undoubtedly handsome, seemingly laid back despite his strict routine, and there’s something mysterious that lies beneath that you’re itching to unearth.

You’re parked discreetly across the street from his house. It’s a nice quiet street, with only two lamps to illuminate the surrounding neighborhoods, allowing you to stay shrouded in the night. 

You’re about to call it a night, exhaustion settling deep into your bones, when you notice a lamp turned on in the living room. Fortunately, the window faces the street, making your job that much easier for you. You pick up your binoculars to peer in, adjusting the focus for your prying eyes. Thank the universe he left his blinds open. 

He sits on the couch with his back facing you. It looks like he’s reaching for the remote, like maybe he’s having trouble sleeping, but when he settles back into the couch, you notice he’s butt ass naked, in all his glory. Even through the binoculars, you can see how big his cock is. Your mouth salivates at the sight, wanting to feel the stretch of him in all your holes. 

You’re not supposed to see this. Not at all. Usually in your assignments, you don’t get the full X-rated view, just the PG-13 suggestive one, and you are more than grateful for that. 

But not now.

You’re getting your own private peep show from the man you’re getting paid to spy on. You’re feeling like a grade-A pervert right about now but the sight is too glorious to look away. He spits on his hand, and languidly begins stroking his cock. He runs his other hand through his hair, his toned arms flexing with his movements, his chest heaving. 

It shouldn’t turn you on like it does. For one, it’s highly unprofessional. Secondly, he’s unaware he’s got an audience. Morally speaking, it’s definitely not your shining moment. But it’s the hottest thing you’ve ever seen, watching him tease and work himself up. You couldn’t pry your eyes away if you wanted to. 

Jack’s not the only one getting worked up; your clit throbs so hard you feel like it’ll go numb. Your heartbeat echoes in your ears thump-thump thump-thump. You let out a whine when Jack massages his tip, precum dribbling out like a sweet nectar you’d like to feast on. He continues his slow movements, dragging out his pleasure at a delicious and excruciating pace. Somehow, this makes the whole scene that much hotter; the display of restraint and discipline. You wonder if he does that with his lovers. Teasing, teasing, teasing, giving just enough to drive you insane before slowing almost to a stop. 

Possessed by desire, you haphazardly look for any lingering people outside before unbuttoning your pants to shove your hand to where it's needed most. You gasp at the cool air hitting your thinly clothed pussy, you can smell your own arousal seeped into your panties and it spurs you on further. You mirror Jack’s pace - teasing your lips with a featherlight touch, inching closer and closer to your needy clit, stopping just shy of it, to tease yourself more. It’s agonizing in the best way, taking your time like this. Normally, you like efficiency when making yourself come, rarely going the extra mile to turn the pleasure dial up, but this makes you question why you’re ever in a hurry. 

You reach your clit, going in gentle circles to match Jack’s unhurried pace. You wish you could hear the sounds he’s making, all the grunts and whimpers escaping his plush lips. 

He speeds up his strokes, now ravenous for his delayed release and so are you. Overtaken by the need to come, you drop the binoculars, letting them fall to the floorboard. You’re not even watching him anymore, having seen more than enough to commit to your spank bank. With your eyes closed and head pushing into the headrest, your mind is flooded with images of Jack fucking you slow, hard and deep, absolutely destroying your pussy – legs over his shoulders, hitting the spot that makes you scream and cry in euphoria. The image of him spilling into you, filling you up with his come is what tips you over the edge, your body shivers in bliss and you rock against your hand to ride out the high, feeling faint from the intensity. 

After you’ve recovered and fumbled your chance of ever seeing The Pearly Gates, you dare to look back to his house, to find all the lights back off. It’s a bit of a relief, feeling less shameful of what you’ve done now that you can’t see him at the moment. 

You button your pants backup and lean over to retrieve the forgotten binoculars from the floorboard, as your fingers grab them you hear a knock on the window. The sudden rap on the glass makes you flinch, feeling your skeleton attempt to flee from your corporeal body. Your heart drops to your stomach when you see Jack standing outside your car, leaning one forearm against the body so his face is level with yours. Fuck fuck fuck. You’ve been caught. Dizziness and nausea war within you as you roll down the window. You open your mouth to explain the situation, but words never escape your mouth. 

“You like watchin’ people don’t ya?” he asks, his tone is dark, but not angry. No, it’s something else entirely. 

“I–”

“‘S’alright. Caught onto ya pretty quick. A pretty face like yours ain’t hard to miss.”

“I– i’m sorry, um,” you scramble to find words, any words but Jack interjects again. 

“You like watchin’, but darlin’ I want to know, do ya like bein’ watched?”

[mangosrar]

call it what you want pt5

matt sturniolo x fem reader.

y’all…….

“hurry up we’re gonna be late” matt yelled out the car window. watching as you stomped down your drive way towards the car.

you got in the passenger seat, slumping down and throwing your back in the back. matt glanced over at you as he started to drive away. he took note of the way your eyes looked a little darker and droopier than normal and your skin looked duller than usual.

“what’s up with you today? you look uglier than usual” he asked.

you just sighed, keeping your gaze fixed on the world going by out the window.

he glanced over at you again, waiting for you to bite back.

“damn, someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed” he laughed

“not today matt i’m not in the mood” you muttered, still not looking at him.

you closed your eyes for a second, preparing yourself for the insult that never came. sure matt was a douche bag but he was nice enough to not push you too far, and he knew you well enough to know when to stop.

you really just wanted to crawl into a hole and die. today was the 4 month anniversary of tours and elijahs breakup. it had completely knocked you off of your feet and it wasn’t even 9am. you weren’t sure why it was affecting you this much, but part of you knew it was the fact that you missed him deeply, you missed the way he always used to kiss the top of your head, the way he smelt. but you didn’t miss the way he used to lie to you, the way he manipulated and embarrassed you, and that was the only thing stopping you from letting this dark, cold feeling swallow you whole.

“i’ll pick you up before the game tomorrow” matt spoke, breaking the silence.

“i told you i’m not going” you snapped back at him.

“you can’t be serious y/n, jess went to all of my games you have to go” he said, raising his voice slightly.

“well then how about you ask jess to watch you instead of me” he kept his eyes trained on the road as you replied, turning to look at him with a sharp face.

“trust me if i could i would” he muttered.

“poor matt, jess won’t be there to kiss your boo boos when you get your ass beat at the game” you said, faking sadness.

“what like you used to do for Elijah?” matt said so quietly it was almost a whisper. he knew he struck a nerve, and honestly, he felt fucking horrible for what he had said.

there was a brief pause, you just stared at him with widened eyes, desperately trying to pull yourself together. even the sound of his name rolling off of matts tongue made your heart ache a little. matts jaw clenched and his knuckles turned white from how hard he was gripping the wheel, he didn’t even spare you a glance, keeping his eyes glued to the road ahead.

after a second of gawking at him, you swallowed and turned back around, once again staring out the window. you weren’t sure if it was the fact he was talking about elijah, or the fact that he knew what today was, that upset you more.

he knew and he still fucking said it, he knew how heartbroken you were when it ended, he knew what a terrible boyfriend he was to you, he knew just how bad Elijah claw marks were and he still said it.

and there wasn’t any way he could deny it, everyone saw how distraught you were when he left, even matt who hated your guts, had never mentioned anything about your ex boyfriend until this moment, so why was he doing it now?

-

the whole day had dragged. the second you arrived at school, you had leaped out of the car and headed as far away from matt as you could get. you couldn’t even stand the sight of him on a good day, let alone when he was throwing insults like that at you.

you had tried your very best to avoid seeing elijah all day, out of fear you might break down and start wailing in the middle of the hall, but to your demise, you had caught a glimpse of him coming out of his home room, laughing with his friends, he hadn’t even noticed you.

how was he not destroyed. you knew he probably didn’t even remember what today was.

“hey you okay?” nick whispered, nudging you.

you turned to him and nodded with a smile before turning to look at everyone else sitting around the table in their own conversation.

“you sure? you’ve been staring at the wall for almost 10 minutes” he spoke in a hushed voice, trying not to bring attention to the fact you were barely even there.

“yeah i’m just tired that’s all, english took it out of me” you said, breathing out a laugh through your nose while looking at him.

he didn’t even crack a smile, he just sighed and looked at you with a sad expression.

“i know what today is y/n” he paused, staring into your soul, “you don’t have to pretend your okay”. he brought his hand up to rest on you shoulder, giving it a small squeeze and nodding his head at you.

you just whispered a small “thankyou” and smiled at him before getting up and heading towards the bathroom. you just needed a moment to yourself, to recollect, a moment that no one could interrupt.

“y/n!” god no please spare me.

you kept on walking, desperately trying to get out of whatever situation he was about to put you in.

“i need to talk to you y/n don’t walk away from me”

“what elijah?!” you bawled. finally stopping and turning around to look at him as he walked towards you.

“matt sturniolo?” he questioned. you just rolled your eyes and looked away from him, crossing your arms over your chest. he didn’t even deserve a glance let alone the entertainment of this conversation.

“what have your parents said about this” and there it is.

“that’s none of your business eli” you snapped, still not looking at him.

he paused for a second, you could see him out the corner of your eye, studying your face.

“i mean this whole thing is a little suspicious, it’s only been what? 2 months since we broke up?” 4 months today actually. “and now you’re with this guy? was there something going on when we were together?” he too crossed his arms over his chest while leaning down towards you and squinting his eyes, condescending you.

you could see this coming from a mile off, he was always like this. he always tried to make you seem like a bad person just so his mishaps would be kept in the dark, it was just that now you could recognise it.

“i wasn’t the cheater elijah, you were.” you said, looking up and jabbing a finger at him.

he pulled back, letting his arms fall while laughing. what could possibly be funny to him?

suddenly it was like a flip had been switched, he had turned cold. he moved a step closer to you, before opening his mouth to speak.

“maybe if you weren’t so fucki-“

“hey baby”. if there was ever a moment that you were happy to see matt, it was this one.

he wrapped his arm around you and pulled you close to his side, planting a kiss on your temple.

Elijah looked like someone had just slapped him straight across the face. his mouth was slightly agape, and eyes a little wide, staring at matt.

your whole body tensed and you sucked in a breath, patiently waiting for the ticking time bomb that was of matt sturniolo to go off.

matt kept his eyes trained on elijah, sending him a deathly glare. it was like they were wordlessly battling each-other, as you all stood there in complete silence, both of them having a death glare off and you, just frantically switching from watching one then the other, praying to god that this ends soon.

you couldn’t take the anticipation. you had to end whatever moment they were having and fast.

you placed your hand on matts chest and spoke up.

“you ready to go?”

“yeah” he replied instantly, not taking his eyes off of the man in front of him. matts face was stoic and cold, and if it wasn’t for a good cause it probably would have scared you a little.

just as you thought this was never going to end, you heard elijah scoff. you snapped your eyes to him as he began to walk away, but not before throwing you a disgusted look.

your body relaxed against matts, watching as he walked off and out of sight, letting out a breath you hadn’t even realised you were holding.

matt switched his gaze to you once elijah was out of sight, giving you a nudge as if to say “you good”. you couldn’t look at him, you just blinked at the spot where elijah used to be, before pushing matt off and beginning to hurriedly walk away, holding a hand to your forehead.

you heard him shout after you, but turning around and answering all of matts questions was the last thing you needed, so as soon as the school doors were in sight, you may had well have sprinted at them.

why did matt look so angry at Elijah? you knew he was supposed to be your fake boyfriend but that wasn’t fake. he looked like he wanted to rip elijahs face off.

how is he so good at this whole fake thing? you had one question from your parents and you almost crumbled there and then. and here matt was, silently threatening your ex boyfriend like it was an average friday activity.

why was elijah speaking to you? why did he care? he wasnt even upset when you guys broke up so why kick up a fuss now. maybe he just wanted to upset you, or maybe he finally regrets what he did.

you’re mind was moving at 100 miles per hour. matt, elijah, the game, your parents. there was too much going on, but somehow your thoughts couldn’t move an inch without bumping in to matt, and it was making you dizzy.

——————————————————————————

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taglist: @christinarowie332 @biimpanicking @ihateeveryone357474 @sturniolos4lifee @kittypookie @jenna0rtegaswife @kasiaslayuje @ambersworld69 @1201pm-blog @carolinalikesthings @nqrya @honestlybabymiracle @sturnssan @sturns-posts

[hwanchaesong]

━⁠☞🍽️ Fifth Course: Watching his delish life in pictures comes with a sense of dread. Isn't it vexing that he's living the life while you're out there vomiting in pungent public restrooms? 🥢

🎧: Olivia Rodrigo - Good 4 U

wc: 543

genre & warnings: angst like yn is really mad lmao, nonidol!san, yn is drunk af, mentions of alcohol and drinking, cursing, lovers to exes, betrayal, mentions of vomit etc etc

a/n: this is a part of The Sour Restaurant series. if y'all want, you can read the other album inspired fics of other groups here.

"Y/N, you really should stop drinking excessively y-"

"Shut the fuck up!" you slurred, slumping on the wall of your bathroom and glaring at your ex whom your friends did the honor of calling to get you home safely.

San sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose as he's had enough of your childish antics. You two have already broken up a few months ago so really, you are not supposed to be his responsibility.

Still, he's not that merciless. He can't just allow you to go home by yourself where potential danger could get you killed. Unless your liver suddenly decides to give up on you.

His kindness does nothing but to further aggregate you, though.

No, not kindness. Consideration.

Yes, that's the right word.

It infuriates you to no end that even in the middle of the night, he comes running to the bar and picks you up to get you to your apartment in one piece.

But what you hated more is seeing him in a state of good life.

After all the shit he's put you through. You're here still suffering the repercussions of his actions while he's out there being happy and lovey-dovey with your former best friend.

Truly a vomit-inducing situation even without the help of alcohol.

Imagine, back then, if you would have known that they'd get together after he dumped you for no reason then you wouldn't have trusted them.

Fucking hell.

It did you no good to remember that shitty place that you promised not to visit ever again. But life ain't that easy, because if it is, then you'd be rich and happily married to the love of your life.

You were snapped out of your maddening stupor when his phone rang, not paying attention as he excused himself and chose to fixate your gaze on the crack of your bathroom floor.

Then again, sometimes, you hear bullshit when you don't need it the most.

He's talking to her. In your house. In a very loving voice. The same tone that he used to utilize whenever he speaks with you, now reserved for someone else.

"Yes baby, I'll be home in a while, okay? Okay. I'll see you later. I love you so much."

Disgusting, vile creatures that are incapable of feeling guilt. Oh, how you wish you could just strike them with thunder so they can finally go to hell, where they can burn together.

"Y/N I will h-"

"Get out here." you mumble lowly, standing up from your position and he frowns.

"What's your problem?" he asks, confused as to why you're acting sober and gloomy.

You laugh weakly, coming closer to him only to push him out of the bathroom, "My problem is none of your business. So, get the hell out of my apartment and do not ever, fucking ever show your face to me again."

You did not give him the chance to reply as you shut the door on his face, your whole body flopping on the cold tiles.

Soon enough, you heard the main door of your apartment close and you can't help but chuckle despite the tears streaming down your face.

It really is not difficult for him to leave you after all.

taglist:

@acciocriativity @iarayara @stolasisyourparent @xdannix @nsixns @heartssol @vixensss @shakalakaboomboo

[chiiimchar]

Hello! Your isat siblings au is very good and now has me wondering about how stuff like Sif's wish might play out differently since they're not so horribly isolated. How do they end up thinking about discovering that they're an Islander if they've grown up more constantly reminded of their memory problems (the people who taught him vaugardian are people he's still living and traveling with)?

Unrelated but brain still whirring, do you think the way Sif and Bonny end up joining the party would end up looking different?

i explained the islander thing a few asks ago, but its because nille noticed they were! nille was also a teen when the island dissapeared, and, in the game, shes the one who taught bonnie how big of a deal it was! so of course she'd know. she's from the northern coast, after all :3 (im still figuring out sif's wish btw)

about how they meet the party, though! i was writing that scene just a few days ago, so i'll put that under a readmore :3

"It's fine, we're fine, Bug-"

Bonnie pushed weakly at Siffrin's arms, a pout in their face, "You keep saying that, but you look like crab, Frin."

The cloaked one sighed, "Language."

Bonnie huffed. Siffrin smiled.

He stared at the road ahead, and fixed Bonnie's position so they wouldn't fall, and continued walking.

It had been days (weeks? close to a month? he'd lost count and despite all of his "progress" he still couldn't bring himself to ask Bonnie for help with this one) since they'd had to run from Bambouche, and while he liked to think himself a capable adult, the sudden change to traveling on his own after living comfortably with Nille and Bonnie for almost a decade, now, had thrown them for a loop.

They were hungry, tired, and stressed. He had managed to keep Bonnie fed well enough, but he didn't risk staying anywhere for too long, fearing the curse catching up to them.

Catching up to him, and leaving Bonnie alone, like it had caught up to Nille. Catching up to Bonnie-

He tried not to think too hard.

His legs shook with every step. Bonnie was not too heavy for them to carry, of course not, but they were exhausted.

He set them down.

“Frin?” Bonnie asked, tilting their head.

“Break time.” He stated, slumping down next to them.

Bonnie nodded easily, laying their head on his shoulder, “Do you think.. that we will find a clean town?”

Clean town, dirty town… That’s how they’d taken to differentiating curse affected towns from normal ones. Bonnie had come up with it.

They were yet to find a clean town.

“Maybe. But only after tomorrow, Bug.” There was no use promising a certain date, but wording it like that was kinder, he thought.

“You think so?”

Siffrin smiled. “Yeah, for sure, Bon.”

He'd just had to make sure to word it differently, next time.

Then, suddenly, out of the corner of their eye...

They rested there for a few minutes. The forest was not quiet, as wind was picking up, making the leaves rustle loudly.

A sadness. Paper type, by the looks of it.

They hurried to stand so they could pick Bonnie and run, but…

Three people were fighting it.

Well.. fighting it seemed like a stretch. It looked like they were struggling against it, in Siffrin's personal opinion.

Really struggling. One of them was K.O.’d, the other looked like a rock type, and the other…

He swallowed. He looked at Bonnie, who was dozing off in his arms, and made a decision.

"Bon, hey," he nudged them, and they turned to him, "Stay here for a sec, I will be right back, okay?"

Bonnie blinked, and nodded, their eyes full of trust.

Siffrin smiled, patted their shoulder.

Then, he lunged forward.

"AH!!" One of the strangers exclaimed, and fell back in surprise. He ignored him, and attacked the sadness with their favorite attack, and exclaimed:

"Knife to meet you!" as they attacked.

He fell on his feet, the sadness poofing behind him, and he huffed a shaky breath. He then turned to the strangers, an easy smile on his face, "Hello," he waved.

They stared silently for a few seconds.

The one in the middle- a girl- smiled wide, and reached forward to grab their hand, "Hello! Thank you so much for your help!" She beamed.

Siffrin jolted a bit from the sudden contact, but smiled back, "It was, uh, it was no problem!"

One of the other two who were hanging back, an older lady, nodded along, "Yes, thank you." She said, looking out of breath, "That sadness..."

"Was tough! Really tough!" The other person exclaimed, "I could barely get a hit in!"

"Good thing I took it by surprise then-" Siffrin said, turning back his head to look for Bonnie, "I- nice to meet you, really, but-"

"Wait, wait, wait!" The girl said, not letting go of his hand, "Quest! We're on a quest, to stop the king's curse!!"

Siffrin turned back to her quickly at that, "The... curse? Like the freezing?"

"Yes!" She beamed, "And you seem strong! Won't you join us?"

Siffrin blinked, gaping a little, "Me?"

"Yes, you!" The girl insisted.

"I-" They paused, thinking. If they could help them... then, Nille...

"Okay, I'll help!" He said resolutely.

The man behind the girl put a hand on her shoulder, "Mira! Won't you introduce us?" 

She blushed, "Right! I'm Mirabelle, I'm immune to the King's curse! He," She pointed to the man, "Is Isabeau, and she," She pointed to the lady who was still catching her breath, "Is Madame Odile! What's your name?"

Siffrin smiled, "I'm Siffrin- and I have my little sibling with me back there," He pointed back to the bushes with his thumb, and took a step back, "I'll uh, be right back?"

Mirabelle's eyebrows shot up in surprise, "Oh! Oh, uh! Sure!"

He quickly ran back to his sibling, trying to calm his still racing heart, "Bonnie, you can come out now." He said, pushing aside a bush.

Bonnie's head popped up behind it, "Was that a sadness?" They asked, "I heard people. Did we find a town?"

Siffrin ruffled their hair, making them groan playfully, "No, but I did find some nice people who say they're gonna stop the freezing."

Bonnie stood up, surprised, "REALLY?"

He smiled, "Yes, really! They want us to tag along, what do you think?" He asked gently, already knowing the answer.

"CRAB YEAH!" Bonnie exclaimed, excited, "Nille- she- she's gonna be okay!!!" They smiled a toothy grin, relieved.

Siffrin nodded, patting their shoulder, "Yeah, yeah."

He took their hand in theirs, and walked back to Mirabelle's party. They ignored how tired they felt, and gave everyone a easy smile.

Chin up, Siffrin. You've got a sister to save.

[everythingne]

marketing ploy - LN4 / ch. 3

a little (drunken) insight to Olivia and Oscar's relationship. Plus, a conversation she’s definitely not supposed to overhear, and one she finds makes her start to regret everything.

piastri!oc x lando norris / fake dating, brothers best friend trope

warnings/notes: alcohol/drunkness, language, like two jokes about sex, i named oscars sisters bc i couldn't find anything after two minutes of searching and also its cute ok

prev | next

—

06 APRIL 2023 — MELBOURNE, AUSTRALIA ↴

“Oscar!” I shout, the clock striking midnight. At my mother's house in Melbourne, we’re already all terribly drunk in the pool with only our eldest sister Ophelia's half sober boyfriend to make sure we all don’t drown while the 'middle' sister Oaklynn is in control of the aux so our extended family can't ruin the mood with what we call 'divorced dad rock.' It's an average Piastri birthday party, booze, music, and sopping wet bodies across the pool deck in the mid Autumn chill.

“Ollie?” Oscar says, turning around and slipping on the wet deck, splashing vodka all over the ground beneath him. Lily giggles into the back of her hand, steadying herself on his arm, and I snort as Oscar makes a face at the spilled drink.

We were so not going to have a good flight back to England tomorrow night.

“Happy birthday to my twin brother because its now midnight, baby!” I shout, being met with loud cheers as my mother guides me across the pool deck so I don't fall in. As Lily takes the now half empty glass from Oscar, I'm handing him what is probably the biggest shot of the night. He grins, arm wrapping around my shoulder as we clink our glasses in toast, tap them on our lifting knees and then take the shots with no chasers. The Fireball washes down my throat fine, but Lily’s shrill laugh lets me know Oscar’s not faring so well as our family claps at our celebratory shots.

“Come on, Ossie!” I laugh, leaning into him as I giggle and he laughs in turn, hiding his face in my hair as he groans and slumps against me. Luckily, Lily is smart enough to slip the shot glasses out of our hands.

“Why do I always let you pick Fireball? It burns every time I drink it.” He complains into my hair before stepping back, I grin up at him as a polaroid flashes.

“Twenty two slaps!” someone shouts before I can respond to Oscar. I scream, running to be out of the way of the barrage of backhands from our sisters when I trip. Oscar tries to catch me, bless him, and we both end up screaming as we tumble into the pool with a loud splash.

“Good lord—" Josh, Ophelia's boyfriend laughs, and he and Lily help us all back to the deck with plenty of half-wet towels to try and dry us off. I giggle and sit up once the parties attention is shifted elsewhere, some song playing that takes the heat off of us for a moment. I peek up to look at Oscar and he smiles at me, poking my nose.

“Thanks for this party." He says and I shrug, going to say its no big deal as I always do when he continues talking,

"Lando’s stress is rubbing off on me. With him being next in line for the best racer position, McLaren's pushing me and Bia up as quick as they can. I think they're expecting someone to try and buy Lando out from them.” he murmurs and in my head, the rest of the party fizzles out. My attention is solely on the man born a few minutes before me. His arm wraps around mine as he pulls me to his side. I slot there, where I belong, a comforting embrace of an older brother of the same womb.

"Lando's contract goes to 2026, and lets not worry about F1 right now." I poke his thigh where a bruise from a minor crash in training months back was finally finishing its healing stages, "Ossie, you, and everyone here, come before anything or anyone else. I would rather throw you a big party than fly back to England to chase around statistics with Red Bull for a few days."

I close my eyes as the world spins around me and I feel Oscar shift. His body heat vanishing around my shoulders, the air seemingly changes as some sort of breeze rolls across the pool deck. It makes me shiver, and I glance up at Oscar to see him staring into the light reflections of the glowsticks deep in the water our legs dip into.

“Ossie?” I whisper. He's in his head again, and this time I'm concerned it's my fault for some reason. His tongue pokes out, a sharp breath coming through his nose before he turns to me.

“What’s happening with you and Lando?"

Oh for the love of god--

"I know, I know, okay, older brother don’t let him hurt you speech bullshit blah blah but… is there something there?” Oscar blurts out with the upmmost care in his tone. I'm taken aback by how genuinely worried he seems about it.

“It’s nothing serious.” I deflect, hand coming to squeeze his wrist just above the watch he wears (that is definitely ruined now), “Just some flirting, some gifts… it’s like testing the waters.”

“Is he… kind to you?” Oscar's tone is far too accusing for my liking, almost like he's expecting me to say no, but despite that I nod.

“Too kind.” I find a small giggle escapes my lips. I have the urge to tell him everything, to say it’s all for media, but something makes me stop myself other than knowing it would kinda ruin the whole secrecy of it. Oscar watches my face, and I can see him sense there’s a lie, but he doesn’t push.

“Okay.” he sighs, taking my hand and squeezing it, “as long as he’s good to you.”

OLIVIAPIASTRI MADE A NEW POST ↴

tagged: oscarpiastri, oaklynnpiastri, opheliapiastri

liked by redbullracing, mclarenracing, landonorris, and 896k others...

oliviapiastri: to ossie,

happy birthday to the only guy worthy of sharing a girls night wine bottle with. thank u for always being our biggest supporter in the darkest days and a ray of sunshine on our good ones. papaya looks wonderful on u and we cannot wait to see you grow into such a confident person (thank u @ landonorris for that)

ur a good man, charlie brown. much love from oakie, ophie, and ollie (and lily, josh, momma, and dad) 🧡🧡

landonorris: happy birthday to the only guy who is allowed to pick me up from the club atp

⤷ oscarpiastri: u would be dead without me

⤷ landonorris: actually.

maxverstappen1: ayyy happy birthday man !

lovepiastris: AAAA BABY OSCAR!!!

oscarpiastri: watch me literally sob into this chardonnay.

mclaren: easily the best looking siblings 💪🏻😮‍💨

10 APRIL 2023 — MILTON KEYNES, UK ↴

"I'm bored." Oscar whines over the phone, making me laugh as I settle down at my desk in Red Bull's home base. There's about sixteen hours worth of things I need to cram into the next eight, considering my statistics for the next grand prix are due in like... twenty six hours?

"Aren't you supposed to be training?" I hum, reading through files and highlighting important notes I know I'll need to bring up with my team during our meeting tonight.

"Lando's going right now, and I kinda almost puked after endurance so I’m taking a break.” He makes a mock gagging noise and I recoil and groan and his soft laughter comes through my headphones.

"Christ, Ossie." I lean back in my chair, staring at the list of notes of things we need to improve by Azerbaijan, "Augh, this is gonna be the death of me. Max's numbers keep changing so he keeps skewing the data, at least Perez is pretty consistent."

"How many sensors do you guys have for Azerbaijan?"

"I'm not doing that work today, thats Kylie's job. Most of my work right now is just making sure that the car isn’t literally falling apart in Max’s hands since he’s been pushing it so hard this year.” I run my hand through my hair, feeling the grease along my hairline and cringing. I need a self-care day soon.

"Oh and Kylie’s pretty much running real time analytics herself this race so I might be able to hang around you at McLaren for a while if Christian's not breathing down my neck."

“Sick. I need to introduce you to the new social media photographer. Lando convinced her to a do a whole section on film.” Oscar giggles and my eyes widen--film photography was one of my passions in secondary school, and I can't imagine trying to shoot F1 on it.

“This poor girl.” I laugh as I adjust my seating and open the sensors scan from the left tire of Max's car, noting any abnormalties that haven't already been flagged. In the silent lull in the conversation, there’s a click and a creak on Oscar’s end of the call.

“Oscar—“ Lando’s talking is muffled for half a second before I hear something fall and a chair squeak, “what were you trying to ask me about earlier?”

My did my heart flutter when I heard Lando talk?

Nope. No. No, thank you. No.

I did not like Lando Norris.

“Oh—hold on Ollie—I’m going to attempt to mute.” I hear Oscar laugh as he taps his phone-screen, and like many times I’ve been on the phone with him I have to pause to see if he actually managed to mute the call.

Oscar seemed to always miss the important buttons, like hanging up or muting himself. Over the years, I’ve heard quite a few things I wasn’t supposed to.

Like Oscar’s next question—

“If I don’t just say it I’m never gonna ask, because it’s such a cliche thing but—what exactly are you trying to do with my sister..?”

I nearly die as my cheeks flush bright red as I scramble to pick my phone up.

Okay, super overdramatic reaction, but hearing this conversation happen in real time is not something I can feel like I would be able to physically handle. So, I’m quick to turn my volume all the way down and take off my headphones as soon as Lando’s laugh makes my cheeks dust pink.

Oscar was never particularly protective over me, in fact it had always been opposite. Even as the youngest Piastri I was constantly protecting my older siblings with my whole heart, like when Oaklynn was being bullied by her pole vaulting captain and I hit that guy so hard I broke his nose, or when Ophelia first got her heart broken and I drove all the way from Melbourne to Sydney in one go to pick her and her stuff up from his house. Oscar and I had many moments like that, considering our sisters were a bit older than us, it was always Oscar and I together. I had moved to England with him when he chose to pursue racing, he had been there every late night I spent studying to get into analytics as early as I had.

And I knew one day Oscar would have this conversation with the man I would marry, someone who took my entire heart in his hands and held it so gently I felt safer than I ever had.

But, Lando was not that guy. Not as far as I was aware.

Maybe ten minutes later, figuring the conversation is long done, I turn up the volume and just catch the end of it. Oscar's laughing, theres a soft thwack of someones arm being hit as Lando keeps talking, his voice fading into my headphones.

"...Ollie's just... I could stare at her all day and never get bored."

"You are--" Oscar laughs, and I hear him hit Lando's arm again, "so so goddamn cheesy, mate!"

"Sorry!" Lando laughs, and I try to ignore the way I bring a hand to my mouth as I stand up and pace around a little, shaking my hands and arms out a I try to suppress the giggles that bubble to my chest.

10 APRIL 2023 — IMESSAGE ↴

OLIVIAPIASTRI MADE A NEW POST ↴

liked by oscarpiastri, landonorris, maxverstappen1 and 978k others..

oliviapiastri: ‘can i come pick u up from work?’ and then we end up at a car meet AND i get to sleep over?? win win.

⤷ maxverstappen1: @ charlesleclerc shovel talk?

⤷ charlesleclerc: yep.

⤷ oliviapiastri: oscar has already been yelling at me for like five hrs pls i swear nothing happened

redbullracing: lets just not tell christian you were out of the sunroof of a drift car.

mc481: lando and olivia spotted together... olivia suddenly has a new bf...

oaklynnpiastri: BABY SISTER HAS A BOYYYY AAAAAAAA

letsgolando: OH MY GOD THE FLOWERS?

18 APRIL 2023 - AZERBAIJAN GP PADDOCKS ↴

"Olivia Piastri."

"Max Verstappen."

"Olivia Louise Rae Piastri."

"Charles Marc Hervé Perceval Leclerc."

"Shit, she remembered."

I snort as I set my bag down as Max and Charles hover at my desk in the Azerbaijan paddocks. I'm starting to think the Ferrari driver might be having a contract change soon if his team is so lax with him basically living with us in Red Bull.

"What?" I ask, crossing my arms as the fabric of one of Lando's plain black leather jackets he'd lent me rubs the fabric of the sweatshirt I'd stolen from him underneath.

"How was your drift date?" Max grins and I roll my eyes as I plop down in my chair. Charles takes his spot in one of the side chairs as Max sits on the edge of my desk.

"He showed up to Red Bull, brought me flowers, we stopped to get takeout food and then went to the car show. He knew one of the guys drifting so we got to ride in his car and then he invited me over to watch a movie and we both fell asleep halfway through." I lean forward, "does that satisfy you?"

"Sleep?" Charles prods and I take a pen off my desk and throw it at him.

"Yes, sleep." I huff and before Max and Charles can continue their barrage of idiotic comments and questions, three knocks sound to the creak of the hinges as Christian steps into my office with Ada right behind him.

"Morning Chris, Ada." I nod and Max and Charles stand, greeting them both with firm handshakes.

"Ferrari might need their driver back, Leclerc, and Max--you need to get dressed." Christian waves them off without as much as a hello, before Ada shuts and locks my office door.

"What?" I find myself asking again as Ada grins to me.

"Sales are up 70%." She says, "We've made around... 28 thousand pounds so far."

"Holy shit." Is all I can say. 28 thousand pounds in revenue because Lando and I were pretending to date?

"You guys are doing swimmingly, we just have one more stipulation. You've already done the soft launch, Lando will be doing his tonight. The next thing you guys need to do, other than the paparazzi date but Astrid is working with Lando on that right now, is the celebration." Ada clasps her hands, Christian nods, keeping his back to the door that leads into the office and for some reason it feels suffocating.

"Great Britain. Hopefully Lando will podium, its his home race, a nice little kiss, it'll be cute."

We have to kiss in front of everyone. How could I fucking forget? The GB prix isnt for a while, two months if I remember right, but my mouth goes dry at the thought of kissing Lando Norris.

I don't remember agreeing and bidding goodbye to the two, all I know is my stomach ache doesn't go away for the rest of the night. Even when I ball the fabric of Lando's jacket--still smelling like him, over my face and scream into it.

LANDONORRIS MADE A NEW POST

liked by oscarpiastri, charlesleclerc, redbullracing, and 987k others

landonorris: made a pretty good pinkie promise a while ago.

oscarpiastri: good man

mclaren: we love to see our racers winning 🥹

mercedeeznnn: this has to be olivia. IT HAS TO BE.

maxfewtrell: don't fuck it up norris

⤷ landonorris: trying

rbfansunite: so we're all thinking the same thing right?

papapa.ya: LANDO AND OLIVIA !!!! WE WIN !!!!

[miseries-mistress]

hey 👋👋 i love your fics btw your one of my favorite fic writers ❤️ could you do one where anakin and the reader get into a fight or argument and he grovels after? i feel like he’d be really sweet and cute and i’d love to see how you think he would be ✌️✌️

ILLIMITABLE CYCLES | ANAKIN SKYWALKER

Synopsis: Anakin overworking himself has become a regular occurrence for him. Not only is it affecting him, but your relationship too. He's shut himself off from anything besides his work, which in turn forfeits the little time you already have with him. So while your heart yearns for his undivided attention and his patience grows thin, the situation has become an argument bound to happen. 

Warnings: brief mentions of female reader, insecurity, feelings of unworthiness, fluff, little angst, i think that’s it. W/C: 2506

Notes: sorry this took so long, things happened, and i am wayyy behind on requests (thank you for 300 followers 🫶)

star wars masterlist

"Patience, little one," Plo Koon chastised, and you couldn't help but slump at the tease that marred his voice. Plo Koon, your master, had been watching your anxious movements for quite some time, amused by your inability to sit still while you waited for Anakin's arrival. 

After they called the Senate for aid, Anakin had been off with his battalion to end a separatist occupation in a Mid Rim system. While it had taken the Senate a while to agree and send troops to a system they didn't deem necessary, they still did so, and it just so happened that he was picked for a job. 

It had been about four months since you'd seen him, and while holocalls did well to quell your anxiousness from being separated for so long, they did nothing to aid your loneliness.  

As you waited for his return with your master and his commander at your side, you couldn't seem to quell your anxiety. Very un-Jedi of you. 

"I wouldn't worry about it, kid. General Skywalker knows how to take care of himself," Wolffe tries, having noticed your anxiety as well. You attempt to smile in thanks, but you are interrupted by the roar of a ship's engine. It docks, the landing gear deploys with a hiss, and moments later, Anakin steps onto the gangplank, chatting happily with Rex at his side. 

He looks up as he steps off the ship, and his eyes catch yours. A cocky grin spreads across his ash-bitten features as he quickened his pace. You meet Anakin in the middle and wrap him in a hug. The scent of salty sweat, metal, and ash clings to him like a second skin as you hold each other for an appropriate amount of time, breaking away a moment later. 

"It's good to have you back, Skywalker." You smile, and he returns the gesture, stiffening when he notices the people behind you, primarily your master. 

"I knew you missed me," he arrogantly replies, his grin twisting into something devious.

"Don't get ahead of yourself."

Plo Koon clears his throat behind you, uncomfortable with the tension you unintentionally created as you turn to face him, embarrassed by your carefree show of affection. Wolffe, besides your master, smirks at you, his knowing expression proving all your suspicions that he had, in fact, read the tension between you and Anakin. You send a disapproving glare at him, which in turn fuels his assumptions and his cocky grin. The bastard knows exactly what's transpiring between you and Anakin and is planning to hold it over your head until the day you inevitably die. 

"We better get going if you do not wish to keep the council waiting, Skywalker. There is much to discuss." With that, your master turns with an unreadable expression, Wolffe following him. 

"This is your fault," you hissed, following behind him out of earshot. 

"You love me," he teases, his eyes lighting up as he senses your frustration in your signature, pushing roughly against his, like waves against an ocean. 

"You're lucky I do."

You two share a moment of silence, basking in each other's vibrant signature, content in the realization you both came back alive and well, your hearts still beating along the thriving bond you shared. That is until Rex comes from behind, a datapad clutched in his hands. "General, sorry to interrupt, but look at this."

Anakin takes the device, inspects the information, and turns to Rex, the atmosphere changing into something akin to earnestness. "This could work. Let's…"

Their voices wane into the background as they wander ahead, Anakin leaving you behind without a second's hesitation. No repentant glance, sympathy, or remorse was thrown your way, just nothingness as if you weren't worth his time. 

You look longingly ahead and sigh, shaking your head. Anakin hadn't even been back on Coruscant for ten minutes, yet he had already been pulled and shoved back into his role as a general. Of course, you knew this was partly to blame for Anakin's lack of intervals and the nonexistent distinction between his work and personal life. Blame it on his stubbornness or arrogance, but Anakin's unruly behavior, while letting him get things done quickly, could be formidable to deal with. Especially now, with your relationship, he seems to set aside less time for you than you would have hoped. 

You knew his role as both Jedi and general was strenuous and demanding, but his inability to make time for you made you feel unworthy of his. But, of course, you didn't bring this topic up with Anakin, for the last thing you want to do is worry him about something he cannot change. So you've resigned yourself to merely savor the time he graces you with, no matter how much your heart yearns for more. 

—

The council meeting lasts longer than you imagined because Anakin doesn't return to your room. The night grows older, and you grow wearier, toying with the possibility that he's not planning to make an appearance tonight. Usually, if there was a change in plans, Anakin would comm you and let you know, sending you off with a good night of some sort. Yet there is none of that, no indication he's remembered you at all.  

It's another hour before you decide to seek him out, tired of waiting for his fated arrival to join you in bed. So instead, you wander around the temple halls, searching places like the sparring mats, the meditation room, and even the library (which he so rarely visits), all areas Anakin could be in. Still, all you found were deserted dark chambers, just as cold and empty as you felt. 

"Padawan? May I ask what you are doing at this hour?" You turn on your heel, coming face to face with Obi-Wan's concerned expression, his arms neatly folded over the expansion of his chest. 

"Master," you bowed, "I was looking for Master Skywalker. I have news on the battle plans he has been working on."

He furrowed his eyebrows at your bold-faced lie, his pupils searching your face before he sighed, running his hands through his tousled hair. "Yes, well, Anakin is in the war room. I'm afraid he's been at it for hours."

You slowly nod, digesting the information with tactical precision before you reply with a grateful smile. "Thank you, master, good night." 

He grants you a silent bow before resuming whatever he is doing, his shoes clicking along the marble floor. 

With your newfound information, you head to the war room with a newfound determination, all while your mind spins at the news. It wasn't like Anakin was due for any missions or briefings with the council in the morning. In fact, from what you heard, he didn't have anything scheduled for the next couple of days. So why was Anakin out so late?

You stood in front of the room's tall, looming doors. You take a deep breath, calming your nerves with your fumbling hand on the handle. It was just Anakin. Why were you so nervous?

And with that, you twist the handle, sealing your fate as you step inside. There's no light besides the glow of the holotable that Anakin is pouring over, strategies laid out in front of his tired, hooded eyes.

"So this is what you've been up to," you announce, and Anakin's visibility jumps, startled by your sudden appearance. He looks back at the table as you step further into the room, sheepishly rubbing the nape of his neck. 

"Sorry, sweetheart, the time got away from me. I promise I did try to–"

"Save it, Anakin," you huffed, your annoyance growing over his excuses. If he was good at anything, Anakin Skywalker always had a compelling excuse, anything to justify his actions and convince others of the same. You weren't frustrated over him working, far from it, but his lack of communication and divulgence since he returned has turned into normal behavior for him. In turn, he's closed himself off, shutting himself off from anything besides his one-track mind. 

His lips curl into a pout at your frustration. "Awe, don't be like that."

"Like what? You made a promise, and you broke it. You're supposed to comm me whenever things change, Anakin. You never make time for anything besides this nowadays," you gesture to the holotable. "It's like I'm not even here!"

"I didn't realize you were so needy," Anakin teasingly remarks, but his expression falls as you cross your arms over your chest, huffing indignantly. "Look, I'm sorry, but duties first, you know that."

"Anakin, you and I both know that this can wait until tomorrow. You have two days off…just come to bed, please." 

You're pathetic. Anakin must know this by now. You're begging your lover to step away from work to spend time with you. It's selfish, so incredibly selfish, to demand his time when he has more worthwhile things to do, things that can save lives, millions of them, but you're getting in the way of that. Pathetic. 

"Later." It's a half-hearted monotone promise that he deems is suitable enough to throw your way like he's dismissing a needy toddler. Perhaps that's all you are.

"Fine," your voice is weak. The convictions from earlier are all dead and festering. 

He glances at you, and his exacerbated eyes roll, his hands pressed against the curved table. 

"Maker, can't you back off?" he huffs, his hand running through his hair as he paces, pushing off the table. Pathetic. You can feel it in his signature, rippling in dark, consuming waves. It's all he feels for you. It's all he can feel. It's overwhelming when he looks at you again with nothing but a hollow flame in his eyes. 

You know that you're part of, if not the entire, reason Anakin is harboring such crippling annoyance and anger. However, you cannot help but wonder what provoked such an extreme reaction. Was asking for a sliver of his time really that burdensome, or did you only encourage him when he was already in a mood?

You shrink into yourself as Anakin huffs, his presence engulfing more of the room by the second. It smothers you. 

"I said later, stop givin' me that look– Maker– I'll be there. Just give me some space." 

"Oh." You swallow the lump in your throat, blinking away the tears that selfishly enter your eyes. Needy. That's all you were; desperate for attention and recognition from the man you loved so dearly. It made you sick. "Ok."

Your voice sounds weak and wobbly to your own ears, and you're sure he can hear how on the cusp of tears you are. 

Anakin eyes find yours at the nearly debilitating shake in your words. However, this time they soften, and he's by your side in an instant, engulfing you in a hug. It's then, wrapped up entirely in Anakin that you crumble soft tears rolling down the plains of your cheeks. 

"I'm sorry, Gods, I'm sorry, I didn't mean it," he repeats it like a mantra, his hand rubbing circles down the length of your spine. You don't do anything but remain in his arms, your emotions raging and crashing against each other like a violent storm without end. You were angry; angry that Anakin could so easily cast you aside like you were nothing like you meant nothing, but at the same time, his words rang a bell of truth. You were clingy, desperate for praise and the attention of others to prove that you weren't as worthless as you often thought yourself to be, and because of that, Anakin got mad. Rightfully so. 

Your tears died down, and he slowly lifted you from his chest, looking at you with those liquid pools of tenderness and apology. You couldn't stand it.  

"Y/N, I'm so–"

"It's fine, Anakin. You were right. I'll take my leave." You didn't recognize your hollowed-out words as your own while you turned to leave, only for Anakin to hold you firmly, refusing to slip from his grasp. 

"No– No, fuck, no, I didn't mean any of it. I shouldn't have snapped at you like that. I was just so tired after today and…" Anakin sighed, his head hanging low while his hands ran up and down your arms, a motion of solace. 

"You don't have to make excuses, Anakin. I shouldn't have been so needy as to demand your attention all the damn time. It's my fault."

"No, it's not. Not at all. Don't say that. You aren't needy for wanting my attention, pretty girl. I should have paid more attention to how you were feeling."

"Anakin…"

"Hey, let me apologize for once, will ya'?" His hand snakes under your chin, lifting it to gain your full attention. "I was…wrong for all of it. I was looking forward to seeing you tonight, but I just got wrapped up in my work, and well, you know what happens."

It's an awkward sort of apology, but it's Anakin. So wholly and entirely him, it gets the point across of what he's so desperately trying to communicate. 

"Anakin, what you are doing is important, and I shouldn't have demanded you to step away–"

"Maker, you really don't listen, do you?" he chuckles, his eyes skimming yours, almost as if he's trying to decide something before his hands slide down your shoulders, lowering himself to his knees. His head rests on your stomach as he takes a shuddering breath. Your heart thrums in your chest as you wildly search his body language for some explanation, trying to decipher what's transpiring in his head.

"You're not needy, sweet girl. You deserve more than the attention I give you. You deserve so much more- shit, it breaks me to see those pretty eyes of your cry. I…please forgive me."

Your hand moves before you can process it to his hair as you run your fingers through it. Anakin's words had quelled something inside you. Whether it was rage or insecurity, or both, you didn't know. The desperation in his words had you hanging off them like an oxygen source, greedily consuming any reassurance he offered you, and now with Anakin on his knees, begging you to forgive him with sincerity seeping into every crevice of his signature, it was easy for your following words to slip past your lips like a kiss of purgation, as cleansing as the taste of exoneration.

"I forgive you."

[wakebymoonsleepbysun]

Untitled Spamton X Reader fic Ch1

The stress of election night made me cave and start writing a self-indulgent Spamton x Reader fic...that I was hoping to finish that night but as you can see it took me a bit longer because writing 6k words in one night is hard. T_T

Anyway, he's my entry into the genre of "Reader finds Spamton in a dumpster and takes him home" fics. Maybe there's room for one more in that category? 🥺

Not sure if/when I'll continue working on this but uh. Here y'all go.

(Also sorry I spend the first few paragraphs writing an actual vent post about my actual job adfajdafjdal)

------

Today hasn’t exactly been noteworthy. It’s just another day, like so many you’ve had before. Wake up, trudge over to your desk, sign on to work, pretend you’ve been awake for at least an hour longer than you have been, and rub the sleep out of your eyes while you gnosh on a cereal bar because (as usual) you don’t have time to make anything else before your morning meetings start.

You pay no more or less attention than usual, picking away at your own tasks while two of your coworkers have an in depth discussion on something you probably don’t need to concern yourself with. With your camera off they are left to assume you’re listening just as raptly as they’d wish you to.

The meeting ends and you dive fully into your work. You enjoy programming. The product itself (some productivity-helper app that’s not much different than dozens of others) is not of particular interest to you. You don’t even use it in your personal life--only for checking on work-related things.

You get a ping from a coworker. The dev environment is down. Again. He doesn’t know how to fix it. He heard you do?

You suppress a sigh that he wouldn’t’ve heard through the screen anyway.

You fixed it once, about a year ago, out of desperation. It had been an easy fix but somehow it had been enough to convince people you Knew What You Were Doing, and a couple more fixes later, you found yourself in the unenviable position of “The Guy (gender-neutral)”. 

You close several windows and open several more, your previous task for the day forgotten. Two more people ping you. Did you know the dev environment is down? Yes. Your boss pings you. Did you know? Of course you know.

You dive back into the spaghetti code you still don’t fully understand. The person who wrote it left six months ago. You follow a thread of convoluted logic, only to lose your train of thought when another colleague messages you.

Did you know?

YES.

Line by line, search query after search query, you toil to untangle the mess.

And suddenly find your own code staring you back in the face. The very first fix you’d made had been defective. Impermanent. A flimsy rubber band that had finally snapped.

You frown. You wonder what you’d been thinking when you’d fixed it before. The flaw in your approach seems obvious now. And yet somehow it had been good enough for you to be crowned “The Guy (gender-neutral)”. 

You sure weren’t “The Guy (gender-neutral)” then…but maybe you are now. Or close to it.

A couple more keystrokes and dev is back in business.

…It’s also the middle of the night, your colleagues have signed off, and you forgot to eat dinner. Again.

You crash down from the high of your accomplishment--deflated, hungry, and tired. You message chat that everything’s fixed but you’ll be late tomorrow, and close your work computer.

How had you worked for twelve hours without even noticing? Maybe you like programming more than you thought.

You’re not sure how you feel about that.

You rise from your chair with a tired groan, padding out to the kitchen.

…Where you promptly see--and worse, smell--the bag of trash you meant to take out this morning.

“Ugggghhhh…” you groan in disgust and self-pity, your shoulders slumping.

You grumble to yourself in frustration as you pull on your coat, grab the bag roughly by the handles as if it had any more say its fate than you, and proceed to name-drop every one of your coworkers in your mumblings as you make your way down four flights of stairs.

…Only to realize it’s raining. Not exactly a downpour--light enough that you didn’t hear it from your apartment, but heavy enough that you’ll definitely be soaked if you try to get to the dumpster.

Whatever. You’re not lugging the trash bag back up the stairs only to get your umbrella. You were going to change into your PJs while dinner was cooking anyway.

You grit your teeth and cross the dimly lit parking lot to the three-wall, roofless structure that contains the dumpsters and recycling bins. 

The rain in your eyes, the dim lighting, and your own grim determination to be done with your task almost cause you to miss it, but as you’re attempting to dry your hands before stuffing them back in your coat pockets, you see it.

A small white boot sticking out from the gap between the dumpster and the enclosure. You’re not sure what draws you to it--at first you think it’s just an old discarded piece of clothing that fell out of the overflowing bin.

Your gut instinct realizes what your conscious mind hasn’t yet, forcing you to take a step towards it and get a closer look.

Your stomach twists as you realize the boot is definitely still attached to something. At first you think it’s a child, but the figure’s odd proportions dismiss the idea before you can even so much as cry out in alarm.

The head accounts for about a third of the height, and the shoulders are strangely broad, with the legs being rather short in proportion. Though all that is trivial compared to the distinctly inhuman face.

Well…it’s probably meant to be based on a human, you realize, but it certainly isn’t one. The large mouth is fixed in a permanent, uncannily huge grin, and the pointed nose is cartoonishly long. A pair of glasses cover the eyes, the lenses of which are currently dark.

It’s too big to be a doll. A ventriloquist puppet, maybe? The jaw looks articulated in the way that such puppets usually are. Not that you know much about puppets or puppetry.

But you think they’re usually expensive…though price aside, even this scuffed up, damaged figure seems deserving of a fate better than being tossed into some dumpster. You’ve always been the sentimental sort who feels sorry for lost and damaged toys, despite knowing full well that they’re not “real”.

Someone had once believed they were, and then they just…stopped.

You shake off the melancholy thought with a literal shake of your head, flinging raindrops from your hair. 

You crouch down beside the puppet, tucking your hands under its arms and hoisting it up, only to nearly drop it as your grip fumbles. It’s way heavier than you’d expected! You’d assumed ventriloquist puppets were mostly hollow, but this one certainly isn’t. Maybe your assumption had just been wrong?

It’s going to be more of a pain to lug this thing back to your apartment, but well…in for a penny, in for a pound. Or fifty. Whichever.

There’s also something a bit odd about its joints…its limbs don’t flop around as much as you’d expect, but you chalk that up to the joints being partially stuck.

You carry it upright, your arms around its waist while its arms drape over your shoulders. You swear you hear a slight groan from it as you push the stairwell door open with your hip. It must have a voice box? Did puppets usually have those? Either way, the low, droning suggested the batteries were almost dead. 

You finally make it up to your unit. If it hadn’t been raining you’d’ve been drenched with sweat now. As it is, it’s probably still mostly rainwater, but you try not to think about how much of a sweat you worked up carrying the heavy thing upstairs. 

You kick the door shut behind you, flinching when it closes a bit louder than you’d meant it to. You take the puppet to the kitchen, laying it on its back on the counter. Or trying to…one of its hands gets caught on the hood of your jacket. When you reach up to pull it free, you realize the joints of the hand had curled in at some point, gripping the hoodie.

There’s something…off about that, about this whole thing, but…it’s just a puppet…right?

There’s nothing else it could be, really…

You remove your jacket, tossing it over the back of one of the dining chairs for now. There’s really no reason for you to tend to the puppet before yourself, but…

You grab a paper towel and begin wiping the grime and rainwater from its face, occasionally glancing at the darkened glasses that obscure its eyes. What an odd looking thing…but puppets often are.

You can’t quite tell what it’s made of. Wood or plastic are your best guesses but neither of them quite fit. It has the smooth rigidness of plastic but somehow, paradoxically, it also seems somewhat organic and is a bit warmer than you’d expect a rain soaked toy to be. The material’s even a bit malleable. The nose even has a bit of give, you realize as you push on it experimentally, bending it downwards. Foam, maybe?

As you push on the nose, the head abruptly turns away, and another low, rattly moan plays from the voice box.

With a gasp, you quickly pull away. Does…this thing have some kind of mechanism to move on its own? Maybe it’s only meant to look like a puppet, but is actually more of a robotic toy? That would explain the weight, you suppose…

But it certainly adds to the mystery of why anyone would throw it away.

You cup its cheek in one hand as you use the other to wipe some grime from its hair.

Your gaze drifts downward and you realize its clothes should probably be removed and hung up to dry.

…Why does that thought cause your face to heat up? You’ve fixed up old dolls and toys before, with no particular regard for their modesty.

You’re just tired. You’re tired and had a stressful day and it’s making you just a bit silly. That’s all.

You reach down and start attempting to remove the puppet’s blazer. Before you can undo the first button, though, its arm shoots up, its small hand wrapping around your wrist.

“[[ Showroom model only--not available for purchase! ]] [[ Break it you buy it!! ]]” Two audio clips in two different voices play from somewhere within the puppet.

You scream in surprise, pulling back so quickly you accidentally drag the puppet off the counter before it can let go of your wrist. You don’t fare much better as your heel catches on the leg of a dining chair, causing you to land hard on your rear.

You place a hand over your chest, trying to calm yourself. There’s a rational explanation for the puppet’s movement on the tip of your tongue, but it flies out the window almost immediately.

The puppet stirs. His glasses go from black to grey static as he lifts a hand to his forehead, struggling to get his bearings. The corners of his mouth are turned down in what you guess must be the closest thing to a frown he can muster with his large, semi-permanent grin. 

“Wh-What the hell…” you breathe in a strained whisper.

“[[ Temp--Temp--Temporarily out of service!! ]]” This audio clip is yet another voice. It sounds like the clip was originally recorded in a peppy, upbeat tone, but the playback is so low and garbled you can’t help but compare it to someone at the brink of death struggling to speak.

The puppet goes limp once again, the grey static on his glasses fading back to black. He’s collapsed on the floor, laying on his side in a growing puddle of rainwater as it slowly runs off his clothes.

You stare at him in stunned silence for several moments.

It’s mechanical. Robotic. A weird toy robot…thing…with low batteries and probably a busted circuit board or two.

It’s not alive.

But why would an expensive toy robot be in the dumpster?

Why would a living puppet be in the dumpster???

Your brain’s just fried from work. You need rest. And probably food. The puppet can wait.

You bite your lip. He’s not alive, but…that’s no reason to just leave him on the floor, right?

You quickly grab one of your fluffy bath towels from the linen closet and wrap the puppet in it, carrying him to the living room and laying him on the couch with far more respect and dignity than a totally-not-alive puppet actually needs, even putting one of your throw pillows under his head.

The rainwater’s going to soak through the towel and you’ll have a damp sofa by the time you finish dinner, but…well. It’ll dry. Whatever.

Still…you take a moment to look him over again as you kneel beside the couch. You place a hand on his cheek, turning his head slightly towards yourself. The grimace from before seems to have relaxed into a fairly neutral smile…you guess that must be his “default” expression.

You brush a few stray locks of hair from his face, then adjust his arms so that his hands are atop his chest--a more comfortable resting position than them splayed haphazardly beside him. As you do, you lightly grip one of his hands. It’s a bit smaller than your own, and the joints are fully articulated, giving it the same range of motion as a human hand.

The hand twitches and you quickly drop it. It lands with a soft thud atop his chest.

Enough silliness. You can look over the puppet once you get your head together.

You go into the bathroom, finally stripping out of your wet clothes and hanging them on the curtain rod to dry before changing into your PJs--some flannel lounge pants and an oversize T-shirt. As you walk back to the kitchen, you glance at the puppet on your couch, but force yourself not to stop and check on him again.

You hope some mac and cheese will pull you out of whatever temporary insanity working for twelve hours straight has inflicted upon you.

*

Spamton stirs as the sound of the soft thudding of a wooden spoon stirring a pot of boiling pasta reaches him.

Where…is he? The towel slides off him as he sits up, and he glances at it curiously, running his thumb over the soft, fluffy fabric. There was never anything this nice in the dumpster, that’s for sure.

But he’s also clearly not in his dumpster. He takes in the sight of your dimly lit apartment, the only light coming from the kitchen.

It doesn’t quite look like any sort of Cyber City apartment he’s ever seen. He can’t quite put his finger on why, but…after a second of thought, the word “mundane” pops into his mind. This place is more mundane than any part of Cyber City he’s ever been to. Though…he supposes he’s really only seen the highest highs and lowest lows…maybe the middle tiers of the city are a bit more mundane. It would make a certain amount of sense, though he can’t help but think the answer’s more complicated than that.

He slides off the couch, looking towards the light spilling from the kitchen.

“Mundane” aside, how’d he get into any apartment? As desperate as he’d gotten, he’d never committed B & E…at least for the purpose of sleeping on some stranger’s couch. And how long has it been since anyone had invited him into their home?

How long has it been since…anything?

Spamton wracks his brain, trying to pull up his most recent memory, whatever he was doing before he ended up here. The last thing he can remember--clearly, anyway--is just sitting in his dumpster in the back alleys of Cyber City, about to doze off.

But…somehow that memory seems like it was from long ago. Weeks, at least. And there are glimpses of something more recent that he can’t quite place.

Green wires.

The rollercoaster, with three carts speeding towards him.

A blue-haired, blue-skinned Lightner.

The latter, he had no idea who they were…and that thought caused a pang of guilt in his chest. They were…important. Why couldn’t he remember?

His gaze drifts back towards the kitchen and he slowly steps towards it.

How do you fit into any of this, he wonders?

*

You’re pouring the pasta and water into the strainer when you hear a sound behind you.

The quiet click of hard-soled shoes on kitchen tile.

You turn to glance behind you, more out of instinct than any expectation to actually see anything.

The puppet is up and walking towards you, a sight so shocking on its own that you don’t even notice the curious, borderline timid expression on his face, nor the way his hands are raised slightly as if to assure you he means no harm.

You wish you’d simply frozen at the sight of him.

Instead, your fatigued, nervous, downright jittery brain panics immediately, spinning fully to face him, despite the pot of boiling water in your hand. Lucky for you it’s nearly empty, but “nearly” is still enough for a decent sized splash to land on your bare forearm.

You cry out in pain, clutching your burned arm to your chest as you collapse onto the floor, your back pressed against the cabinets as you stare wide-eyed at the puppet.

“WOAH !! RELAX [[ valued customer ]]!!” the puppet speaks, his voice far clearer than it had been before. Though there’s still a slight static to it, as if it’s being played over a worn out speaker. “[[ Apologies for the inconvenience ]], I’M NOT--”

Spamton cuts himself off when he realizes you’re now staring down at your burned arm. Your hands are shaking as you stare at your blistering skin, tears of pain--and probably fear--welling in your eyes.

“[[ It Burns! Ow! Stop! Help Me! It Burns! ]]”

Your gaze snaps back to him. “What?!” you yelp, incredulous despite the bizarreness of the situation. Why’s he acting like he’s the one who got burned?

No sooner than the thought enters your head than you notice his slack expression, his glasses once again going staticy. But once again, things seem to pivot on a dime and he snaps out of it so fast you wonder if you weren’t just seeing things.

“SORRY!!” he says, holding up his hands. “DIDN’T MEAN TO [[ all kinds of surprises!! ]] YOU!!”

Spamton steps towards you and you shrink back against the cabinets. He takes the hint and backs off, still holding up his hands. After a brief pause, he snaps his fingers, and to your utter astonishment, a miniature, cherub-like version of himself appears and flitters towards you.

You’re too stunned at the sight to even consider pulling away, your jaw going slack as you watch the little creature land weightlessly on your arm and gently pat the blistering, reddening skin. A wave of green sparkly lights washes over your injury and the burns, along with the cherub, disappear.

A one word question echoes in your mind and you can’t help but speak it aloud in a strained, wavering voice.

“Magic…?”

Spamton dips his head in a nod. He holds up a hand, and the cherub reappears, perching on his finger and giving you a little wave. “YEP! JUST A [[ simple, one-stop solution ]] FOR [[ all your routine medical needs ]],” he says, dismissing the cherub with a wave of his hand. He hesitates, then steps towards you again. When you don’t flinch away, he closes the distance between you two, lightly touching your arm.

“NO MORE [[ It Burns! ]]?”

“U-Uhm,” you stammer. The way his voice sounds so pained when switching to the “It Burns” line is unnerving…you guess it’s just a soundbyte, that he’s not actually feeling the pain or distress the voice line suggests. His expression certainly seems to hold genuine concern, despite the semi-permanent smile. “Y-Yeah…I…” You glance down at his hand on your arm.

He really did heal it. Just like that. The pain and blistering just…gone in an instant. You’d guess you were dreaming, but…there’s no way you’d sleep through such intense pain, imagined or not.

“You…do magic,” you say weakly. The laugh you let out borders on manic. “I mean sure, why wouldn’t you do magic?”

Either he doesn’t notice your sarcasm or chooses to ignore it, for he takes a step back, grinning and puffing out his chest. “WHY NOT INDEED? SPAM   SPAMTON G. SPAMTON [[ #1 Rated Salesman 1997 ]] IS A MAN OF [[ dozens of unique skills ]]!” he declares.

“S-Spamton? That’s…your name?” you ask.

He grins, pointing at you while a DING DING DING chime plays, his glasses lenses switching colors on every beat. “AND [[ who do I have the pleasure of speaking to? ]]”

You tell him your name, still dazed.

He stays silent, canting his head and looking up at you uncertainly, seemingly waiting for you to recover.

“Wh-What are you?” you blurt abruptly.

Spamton blinks, but far from being offended at the question, he tosses his head back and lets out a hearty laugh. “HEAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!” The cadence is a bit faster than a human would typically laugh, almost like the rapid fire of a machine gun…but as laughs go it’s far from unpleasant. “[[ Doll ]] I WAS JUST ABOUT TO [[ Ask Away! ]] YOU THE SAME THING!!”

You blink. “Um. I-I’m…a human. Surely…you’ve seen humans before?”

“OF COURSE!! [[ And don’t call me Shirly ]],” he quips. “BUT I’M NOT SEEING ANY [[ Heart-shaped Object ]].”

“H-Heart shaped object?” you repeat, absently rubbing at your chest. You assume he’s not talking about your actual heart.

“YOU’RE NO DARK >n3R…NOT A LIGHT >n3R EITHER?” he asks, canting his head curiously.

“I-I…I mean I guess not, not that…that I know of?” you say helplessly.

You’re a bit surprised he’s the one questioning you. It hadn’t occurred to you that he’d be just as confounded by his situation as you are.

“IS THIS THE DARK WORLD OR LIGHT WORLD?”

You stare blankly. “I…I don’t know? Neither, I…I think?”

“SO THEN…WH    WHERE IN THE [[ Tri-County Area ]] AM I?”

You stammer a moment, not even sure what sort of answer he’d want for that. “M-My apartment?” you say inanely. At his deadpan, unimpressed look you tell him the name of your city, and when that doesn’t ring a bell, you add your state.

He frowns, tapping his chin with one hand.

“Where are you from, then?”

“CYBER CITY, IN THE DARK WORLD.”

“Doesn’t sound like any place near here…I-Is it…really an entirely different world?”

“[[ Survey Says: ]] YES.”

It’s as likely as anything else. Living puppet with healing magic…why not add world-hopping on top of that at this point?

“[[ You may ask yourself, well, how did I get here? ]]”

“I…don’t know. I mean, I found you in a dumpster and brought you up here. I have no idea where you were before that…”

“BROUGHT ME [[ all the way up ]] HERE? WHY?”

“I um. Well,” you shift uncomfortably. “I…uh, thought you were a toy or puppet or something…”

“TOY NO, PUPPET YES,” he says. As he admits it, his glasses briefly go staticy and his smile fades, but he quickly shakes it off. “SO, DUMPSTER DIVING FOR [[ marketable goods ]], EH?” he chuckles.

“N-No! It was just--” You bite back your protest. You probably should have just said yes. It’s probably less silly than your real reason. At his expectant look, you feel your cheeks heat up. “I-I just…I like…fixing up old toys and it’s just…k-kinda…sad to see them get abandoned…and you just seemed too--” You cut yourself off again. You should have stopped a sentence or two ago, but once again Spamton is looking at you curiously and you feel compelled to complete your statement. “--F-Fancy…to just…be tossed in some landfill…”

You can see his eyes blink in surprise behind his glasses. His slightly open mouth closes with an audible clack and he chuckles. “WELL I AM A BIT OF A [[ Mr. Fancy-Pants ]]...OR AT LEAST I WAS,” he adds, his grin seeming to fade slightly.

A beat of silence passes as he seems to get lost in his own head for a moment, and you think you start to see bits of static appearing in his glasses. The corners of his mouth start to droop as his smile fades.

“W-Well, nothing a bit of mending won’t fix, right?” you say, assuming he’s only referring to his torn up suit and some of the scuffs on his face and hands.

Spamton snaps out of whatever trance he’s in, looking at you in confusion for a moment before his previous smile returns. 

“...RIGHT. WELL, ANYWAY [[ doll ]], THANKS FOR THE [[ solid assist ]] BUT IT’S ABOUT TIME I [[ hit the road ]].”

You blink. “Um. What?”

He raises a brow. “[[ Hit the road ]], [[ Make like a tree and leaf ]], [[ head off into the sunset in your brand-new cungadero ]]?”

You can’t help but blurt out an incredulous, “To where?” Your cheeks warm and you glance away awkwardly, rubbing your arm. “I-I mean, n-not that it’s any of my business, but…a minute ago you didn’t even know what world you’re in…”

Spamton stares at you a moment before throwing his head back in another laugh. “HEAHAHAHAHA!!” You can’t help but notice the laugh seems a bit forced. “[[ Doll ]], DON’T YOU KNOW A TRUE [[ #1 Salesman 1997 ]] WILL [[ never give up, never surrender!! ]]?”

You finally manage to give a weak smile. “Well…that’s all well and good, but…do you even have a plan?”

“DO YOU?”

“Heh,” you chuckle nervously. “N-Not…a super long term one, but…I’d uh…I’d…feel bad sending you away like this…drenched and dirty with nowhere to go…”

His head tilts slightly to one side as he regards you. “WILLING TO MAKE A [[ Specil Deal ]], [[ doll ]]?”

You blink at his phrasing. “I…don’t know about a deal, but…I-I mean…you can…crash here for tonight? Get washed up, dry your clothes at least?”

“AND WHAT”S THE [[ payment method required ]]?”

“No payment!” you say quickly. “Just…”

“[[ Complimentary service ]]?”

You laugh slightly. “Exactly.”

He considers, rubbing his chin as he tries to figure out what possible catch there could be. Finally, he holds out a hand. “[[ Terms & Conditions Accepted !! ]]”

You let out a more earnest laugh, nodding. “Alright, Spamton,” you say, wrapping your hand around his and giving a hearty handshake.

Spamton steps back, glancing around at the mess you’d made. The pan had clattered to the floor, and there was a puddle of spilled water and a few stray noodles on the floor. Luckily dinner itself is salvageable--the majority of the noodles are still safely in the strainer in the sink.

“[[ Tired of cleaning up after dinner? Why not let -- ]] YOUR [[ good pal ]] SPAMTON TAKE CARE OF THAT?” he offers, going over to pick up the pan, handing it to you as you finally get to your feet.

“Thanks, but…” You lift your gaze past him, seeing the muddy footprints he’s tracked into the kitchen. You smile weakly. “Maybe you should get yourself tidied up first? The bathroom’s just down the hall, I can finish up in here while you shower?”

He follows your gaze to the dirt he’s tracked into the kitchen, then smiles up at you sheepishly. “GOOD POINT. BUT WHY DON”T WE [[ get the best of both worlds ]]?” He snaps his fingers, and two cherubs appear. They smile cutely at you before one of them flies down to the ground to begin gathering the spilled noodles and the other pulls the towel off the oven handle and drapes it over the puddle.

“Heh…s-sounds good…” you say, once again caught off guard by his ability to just…manifest helpful little creatures.

The cherubs finish cleaning while you shake the last of the water from the pasta strainer, rinse out the pan, and start mixing the cheese in with the noodles.

They finish the cleanup before you finish the cooking, and all you have to do is open the cupboard so they can toss the floor noodles away.

“Um, thanks guys?” you say uncertainly.

Their little grins get even wider at your praise and they perch on the edge of the stove, watching you stir the noodles.

You notice they seem to be watching a bit…intently. Their heads bop slightly as they track the motion of the spoon, the reflective pink and yellow lenses on their glasses making it hard to read their expressions.

“Hey uh…m-maybe this is a weird question…” Though you wonder if anything’s a weird question when posed to a pair of tiny puppet cherubs summoned by a magic living puppet from another world. “D’you two…get hungry?”

Their attention perks to you so raptly that you have to assume the answer is a firm yes.

You chuckle weakly at that, scooping out a spoonful of noodles and blowing on it. “D’you like mac and cheese?”

They nod eagerly, making a squeaky trilling sound as they abruptly take off towards the spoon.

“H-Hey! Careful, it’s hot!” you say, holding up a hand to try to block them before they burn themselves.

Your attempt fails, but it doesn’t seem to matter. They dart around your hand and perch on either side of the spoon, greedily shoving the cheesy noodles into their mouths. If the heat is even remotely uncomfortable to them, they’re not showing any sign of it.

“Guess you were hungry…” you say, amused. You grab a piece of paper towel and wrap it around your finger, wiping the cheese from their faces. They make a faint sound of protest, the red on their cheeks growing a bit redder at your attention.

You set the spoon aside and turn the stove to low to keep the food warm. “I’d better check on Spamton,” you say to the cherubs.

As you walk down the hall to the bathroom, you hear the shower switch off and the door opens. A faint cloud of steam emerges, followed closely by Spamton.

One of your hand towels is wrapped around his waist and the other is around his shoulders. He’s using the corner of said towel to wipe the steam from his glasses lenses. Locks of damp hair fall across his forehead and cling to his neck and shoulders, a few droplets running down his bare chest.

His shoulders are wider than you’d expected--seems his blazer isn’t as padded as you’d assumed. His whole frame on the stocky side, and he has a slightly protruding gut that hadn’t really been noticeable under his blazer.

You wish you could blame the cloud of warm steam for your burning face.

“HEY [[ doll ]], WOULD YOU HAPPEN TO HAVE A [[ clean-pressed ]] [[ size L T-shirt ]] I COULD BORROW? MY BLAZER IS--” He places his glasses back on his face and cuts himself off when he notices you staring.

A beat of uncertain silence passes before you snap out of it. “Oh! U-U-Uh--Of course!” you squeak. “L-Let me just grab that for you!” you say quickly. You duck into your bedroom without waiting for a response, grabbing one of a large T-shirt and a pair of boxers. You’re not sure how well either will fit him, but you’ve got nothing better to offer right now.

When you get back to the bathroom, he’s standing on the counter in front of a portion of the mirror he’d wiped the fog from. He’s helped himself to one of your combs and is brushing his damp hair from his face.

You try not to look him in the eye--or anywhere else--as you pass him the clothing.

“THANKS, [[ doll ]]!” he says brightly.

You nod, mumbling some lame excuse about needing to check on the food before scurrying back to the kitchen.

When you get there, you see the cherubs have been busy. The table’s been set, and they’ve even taken a couple throw pillows from the couch and piled them on one of the chairs for Spamton. Glancing into the living room, you notice they even refolded the towel Spamton had been wrapped in.

“Oh, thanks guys!” you say, earning another set of happy squeaks from the little pair.

You busy yourself with dishing out the macaroni, and by the time you’re done, Spamton’s emerged from the bathroom.

The PJs you lent him are…suitable. They hang a bit awkwardly on him, but given how different your body shapes are it’s a miracle you had anything that was even remotely wearable for him.

“THANKS AGAIN FOR THE [[ brand-new threads ]] AND [[ hearty, nutritious dinner ]]!” he says, effortlessly hopping up onto the chair and taking his seat. He looks at the bowl of macaroni before him and hesitates, looking up at you uncertainly…perhaps even guiltily. “AND…YOU”RE SURE ALL THIS IS [[ complimentary service ]]?” 

“Sure,” you say easily. “The little guys certainly seemed hungry…I’m…guessing you are too?”

Spamton gives the two cherubs--who are now sitting on the table between you two--a disapproving look. “MANNERS,” he says, pointing the spoon at them accusingly.

You laugh, waving a hand. “Oh no, they were very polite!” you say. A bit overeager, and a bit messy in their own eating, but in your mind all the extra cleaning they did more than makes up for it.

“GOOD,” he says, waving a hand. And with that, the two cherubs disappear, leaving only a few green sparkles in their wake.

“Oh…you didn’t have to send them away…” you say.

Spamton chuckles. “THEY WERE SLEEPY.”

You give a bemused laugh. “I…see. You’d know best I suppose,” you concede. “I’ve never even seen magic before today…”

He glances up in surprise. “NO? NOT EVER?”

“Not real magic, no. Not like…healing burns and conjuring cherubs,” you say.

“MINITONS,” he corrects.

“Pardon?”

“MINITONS. MINI SPAMTONS,” he clarifies with a playful smirk.

“Oh!” you laugh. “That’s…actually kinda cute,” you say.

Spamton gives you a wry look. “IT’S MEANT TO BE [[ concise and informative ]], NOT [[ adorable ]],” he says, though despite his look he sounds more amused than exasperated.

“It can be both,” you retort.

“IF YOU INSIST,” he says with a good natured eye roll.

The conversation ceases as he digs into his meal. His manners are much better than the Minitons of course, but he can’t completely hide the urgency with which he eats…though he does decline your offer of seconds, you sense it’s more out of a sense of guilt at how much you’ve given him than him actually being full.

And possibly being too tired to eat any more. Even with his glasses you can see his eyelids starting to droop by the time he drops his spoon into the empty bowl. But as soon as you get up and make as if to take the dishes to the sink, he snaps back to life.

“WAIT!!” he says, hopping up to stand on his chair, grabbing his bowl before reaching up and taking yours out of your hand. “SINCE YOU COOKED [[ delicis 5-Star meal ]] I’LL [[ cleans and polishes your dishes with a sparkling shine, guaranteed no food residue ]]!!” He grins up at you. “IT’S THE [[ bare minimum as required by law ]].” He blinks at the last part of the statement, his smile turning markedly sheepish. Apparently those little phrases don’t always come out sounding quiiiiite how he wants.

You take it in stride, laughing. “It’s alright, Spamton, really.”

“I INSIST!” he insists, hopping down from his chair and pushing it towards the sink.

“W-Well…I suppose it’s fair…I’ll get the couch set up for you, then,” you say, assuming he’ll want to turn in for the night after he finishes the dishes.

*

Spamton isn’t sure why you’re so keen on helping him, but…he also can’t afford to say no. He assumes he’ll be on his way tomorrow…even though he still doesn’t have an answer to the question you posed earlier.

To where?

He has no idea how to get back to the Dark World, and he gets the feeling he’s not exactly going to fit seamlessly into this one.

If he were more awake, anxiety would be gnawing at him, but even his anxieties are too tired for that right now.

He finishes the dishes, and despite his fatigue he does get them spotless as promised.

He hops down from the chair, forgetting to push it back to the table, and trudges tiredly into the living room.

Spamton stops, staring in surprise at what he sees.

Apparently your couch has a pullout bed, which you’ve set up with two blankets and a couple plush pillows, despite the fact that the couch itself had been more than big enough for him to sleep on. Hell, he could have scraped by with just one of those pillows to curl up on for the night.

“ALL THIS FOR [[ lil’ ol’ me ]]?” he asks, stunned as you finish fluffing the second pillow and toss it into place.

You shrug. “Sure, why not? I got a pullout couch for a reason,” you say. “Besides, the cushions were still damp, and the mattress is a bit more comfortable, I think.”

Spamton looks up at you uncertainly, his mouth opening and closing a couple times. Insisting that the couch is fine would only mean you having to re-fold the pullout bed. He runs a hand over the soft blankets, far cleaner and softer than any bedding he’s had in a long time. “[[ …thank you… ]]”

Your cheeks warm at the quiet sincerity in his tone. “No problem, Spamton…” you say softly. “I-I’ll um…see you in the morning, then?”

He hops onto the bed, scooting to the pillow and pulling the blanket back. “YES. OF COURSE, [[ doll ]].”

You nod, readily giving him his space and heading to your own room and climbing into your own bed.

You’d said he could stay for the night, but in reality, you have the same doubts Spamton does…and if anything, you have a more realistic idea of how unrealistic it is for him to just…leave and make his way in the world.

A conversation to have over breakfast, you suppose.

[verfound]

FIC: "A Port in the Storm" (MLB; Lukanette; LBSC Lukanette Month 2024)

@lovebugs-and-snakecharmers is doing a Lukanette Month for September 2024, and we all just kinda tossed some prompts in the disco to compile a list?  We ended up with 71 prompts, so I decided I’d roll some dice to pick a prompt, do a twenty minute (ish, bc we all know sometimes they run away from me) sprint, and try to get some short fics out this month?

Read on Ao3

08 September 2024

Prompt 03: Blackout

“Are you sure about this?” Luka asked as he followed Marinette up the stairs to her room.  She rolled her eyes as she opened the door and stepped aside, waiting for him to join her.

“Of course I’m sure,” she huffed.  “Besides, Maman and Papa already agreed.  It’s fine.”

“I’m sure Tom thought I’d be crashing on the couch when you asked,” he said, smiling slightly.  She scoffed as she shut the door behind her.

“The couch isn’t as comfy,” she said.  “I’m not having you wake up with a sore back when there’s plenty of room up here.  Besides, do you really think Juleka is sleeping on Rose’s couch?”

He paused as she took his pillow from him and tossed it up into her loft.  She turned back and smirked at him, an eyebrow lifting almost comically onto her forehead.  He shook his head, chuckling.

“…I wasn’t thinking about it at all until you said something,” he said.  He walked over to her and wrapped his arms around her, smiling as his hands slipped into the pockets of her shorts.  “How would she put it?  Ew.  Gross.”

Marinette started giggling, and it would have been perfect if thunder hadn���t crashed outside the minute he started to lean down for a kiss.  She jumped closer, and he was just starting to think maybe it actually was perfect after all when another boom rattled the building.  The lights flickered, and then they were plunged into darkness.

“…and that is why I insisted you crash here,” she sighed, slumping against him.  “The news said this storm’s only going to get worse.  No way was I leaving you on the river, in the middle of cyclone by yourself.  I wasn’t about to let my boyfriend drown.”

“I’m pretty handy in the water,” he chuckled.  “I know how to swim.”

“Juleka’s staying at Rose’s.  Our mothers are out of town.  Papa is staying with Grandpa Roland while he recovers from his surgery.  I have more than enough room here, and it’s safer to wait out the storm here than it would be on the Liberty,” she said.  He tipped her chin up and pecked his lips against hers.

“She’s seaworthy,” he insisted.  “I would have been fine, but I do appreciate the offer.  This is much better than the freezing bowels of the ship.  Even if we don’t have lights.”

“Shut up,” she laughed.  She sighed and rested her head on his shoulder, her fingers tapping against his chest.  “Well, shoot.  There goes my plans for a movie night.  I wonder how long the power will be out for…I’m not even sleepy yet.”

“I brought my guitar,” he reminded her.  “I know you have candles – there’s no ban on open flames here.”

She snickered, and he smiled as he brushed his nose against her temple.

“We have camping lanterns, too,” she said.  He hummed.

“Candles are more romantic,” he said.  “We could head back downstairs.  Curl up on the couch.  I could sing you to sleep.”

“We could do that up here,” she said.  She stepped back and reached for his hands.  “You know my bed’s more comfortable than the couch.”

…he was pretty sure he wasn’t supposed to know that as well as he did.  At least not if Tom was asking.  But Tom was with Roland, and Marinette was looking up at him with dark eyes and perfectly kissable lips, and suddenly he wasn’t even sure he really wanted to bring his guitar up there, anyway.

He could think of a few better things he could be doing with his hands.

“Come on,” she said.  “I do have candles up there.  Sing me to sleep?  There’s nothing we can do about the power, anyway.”

Lightning flashed, illuminating her room – illuminating the warm smile on her lips, the one he was wanting to kiss away more and more with every passing moment.  He backed her up against the ladder, bending to do just that, and for a moment he was lost in a world that was nothing more than Marinette and soft and mine.  Her hands fisted in his hoodie, tugging him back towards her for a deeper kiss.  When she slipped up the ladder a moment later, he was quick to follow her.

She didn’t have to ask him twice.

[whatudowhennooneseesyou]

A Soft Touch & Grey Days

One look at Jongho's tired eyes and forlorn face said everything you needed to know.

'Is today a grey day honey?'

A soft hum and a weak nod was all he responded, so you reached your hand out to him with a warm smile on your face.

'I'll make you feel better my love, help take those grey thoughts away'.

Welcome everyone for our second request for the month of June.

My 'Wooyoung As Your Late Bloomer Bf' was the first request if you're interested in checking that out.

This fic was inspired by two requests from @lemonhongjoong and 🐻 anon!

Content Includes: Asexual!Jongho x Gn!Reader, grayromantic Jongho, smut??, non-sexual physical intimacy, service!top reader, body worship, kissing, hugging, praise, themes of sadness (title says all), happy ending and gentle care.

Word Count: 1.2 K

The yellow translucent lights of the bathroom hovered unflatteringly over Jongho's face, highlighting his sunken pallor and drooped stare.

He looked unhappy.

He looked exhausted.

You inhaled heavily as your eyes wandered over his figure, his shoulders slumped and his clothes wrinkled.

An exhale of discomfort released into the atmosphere as your heart clenched in your chest, stomach tightening and brow furrowed.

'I'll make the room smell nice mmh? Which oil do you want to use today?'

You held out three small bottles and Jongho merely glanced at them before averting his eyes back to you, shrugging casually.

'You can pick, I'm fine with any'.

Jongho wasn't the most talkative man in general but on grey days, when you can feel the weight of his life on his shoulders.

Sometimes words weren't the best way to communicate how much you valued and appreciated each other.

Sometimes words weren't the best to show you much you valued and adored him.

You glanced down and held the middle bottle up to him,

'How about lavender then? It'll get you relaxed, help you wind down for the night'.

A mere nod was given again and there was a moment of silence before you turned your back to open the glass door and turn the water on, adjusting the knobs as you grabbed the nearest washcloth.

You placed a few drops of lavender oil on it and placed it partially over the drain, the smell was instantaneous and you relaxed instantly.

The sound of clothes shuffling and jeans unbuttoning turned your gaze back to him,

'Wait..honey' You softly cooed, reaching your hand out and palming his chest, rubbing gently.

'Let me undress you'.

Jongho moved his hands by his side, his body relaxing in a form of silent permission.

There was silence between you as you slowly removed Jongho's jumper, taking extra time to run your hands up his arms and down his sides.

You gazed at him with fondness and he hoped his eyes showed the tiniest sparkle of appreciation as he kept his body pliant, lifting his arms when you also removed his t-shirt.

His body sparked with sensation as you ran your hands down his forearms, holding his wrists and placing a soft kiss to his knuckles before placing them on your shoulders as you kneeled down before him.

The tiniest brush of his thumb against your shirt gave you the confidence to know this was working and he was relaxing as you slowly pulled his jeans and underwear down, brushing the fabric over his thighs and letting them pool around his ankles.

You took your time in removing the fabric as Jongho supported himself on your shoulders when he lifted his feet, moving his clothes away from you as you rubbed his calves, feeling how tense they were under your fingertips.

'Here, let me help you up' He spoke gently and his placed his hands on your sides, keeping you stable as you stood in front of him.

'So handsome' You cooed as you stroked his arms, his breathy chuckle filling the room as you leaned in to place a gentle kiss on his mouth, his lips responding to yours and the touch was chaste but loving before you pulled away.

'So beautiful' He remarked, reaching down to brush a strand of hair away from your face, a soft smile on his face as his thumb brushed against your jawline.

'How about you get under the water while I undress? Get yourself nice and warm?'

He nodded as he brushed his hand against your shoulder,

'Don't take too long' He murmured cheekily and your heart beamed with joy at knowing your soft touches and sweet words were slowly removing the grey from Jongho's mind.

You faced him as he watched you undress through the glass door, the water falling down his back, stopping what he was doing to gaze at you.

Jongho was not a man who seeked carnal or physical pleasure, sex itself was not important in your relationship, it was never needed nor desired.

Instead, it was filled with overwhelming emotional and romantic affection and love towards you.

He watched you in admiration as you undressed, gazed at your body as if it was made of marble itself, his body itching to feel your warm skin on his.

Droplets of water scattered onto your skin as he held your wrist tightly as you walked into the shower, the glass door closing behind you as you adjusted the clip holding up your hair.

'Mmm, feel so nice' You hummed out, your lashes fluttering as you leaned your back, feeling the water warm your body.

Jongho reached out to gently pull you to him, his arms loosely wrapped around your waist as he helped tuck your face into the crook of his neck.

His shoulders and back immediately untensed when his nose nuzzled into your hair, the smell of your shampoo always providing him a sense of comfort of safety.

Both of you stayed locked together for who knows how long? Just enjoying the tether of love and unspoken devotion towards one another, his fingers swirling circles around your waist and your lips dusting kisses across his chest every so often.

'I should probably wash you before the hot water runs out shouldn't I?' You teased, leaning back as you looked up at him.

'You mean hot water isn't enough?' He quipped back, the corners of his eyes crinkling and his face softening.

'Here, turn around. I'll wash your back first'.

A new washcloth had lily of the valley-scented body wash squeezed on it before you gently stroked the cloth over his back and sides, rubbing small circles and downward motions.

Jongho sighed out in contentment when he felt soft kisses placed gently under his ear, tilting his head to the other side so you had more access.

'Feeling better?' You gently lilted in his ear, pressing a kiss to the shell before politely asking him to turn around.

The washcloth was pressed against his naval when you felt his fingers tilt your chin up, gazing into his eyes that were filled with overwhelming care and endearment for you.

'Thank you' He kissed you again, this time more firmly and your eyes closed at the feeling before he pulled away.

'You always know what I need'.

He cupped your face and pecked your nose, his attention moved to kissing your forehead and bowing his head to yours.

'I'm so grateful for you, you're a treasure to me'.

And you were.

Your soft touches and kind words always made the grey days feel bright and warm again.

Aww, this was so adorable to write and I am very proud of it!

I'm going to tag this as smut because I do feel it's too intimate to be classified as fluff.

This was inspired by @sometimesiwritethings and @absentcaryatid conversation on the possibility of Jongho being on the asexual spectrum.

I wanted to challenge myself to see if I could write soft 'smut' that's sensual and intimate without anything sexual involved.

I am not apart of the community so I made a call-out post asking for some assistance and I received an overwhelming amount of support and advice and thank you so much to everyone, I am very grateful and treasured (haha) your opinion and support.

To the ace moots and readers, you matter, your feelings and identity matter and your identity and feelings are valid.

Taglist: @hipster-shiz @creativechaoticloner @cherry-0420 @scuzmunkie @marievllr-abg @stardragongalaxy @starsareseen @lino-jagiyaa @mischiefsmind @mrcarrots @junieshohoho @partywithgyu @whatsk-poppinhomies @craxy-person @hologramhoneymoon @ja3hwa @gyuhanniescarat @staytinyinmybpack @necessiteez @wooyoungmybelovedhusband @berryberrytan @bangchanbabygirlx @daddysspecialdollyworld @i-love-ateez @anyamaris @lemonhongjoong @krishastumblernow @hexheathen @michel-angelhoe @hwalysm @jinxstrology @tinyidle

[eyesxxyou]

Hobie Brown (Spider-Punk) x Reader!

You didn’t intend on moving to London. There was absolutely nothing about the place you desired to stick around for initially. This is only temporary, you told yourself. It’s not forever. That was all true for the first month of your stay in a city that seemed to be perpetually shaded in grey. Media did no justice for how unappealing the place was. Gloomy, rainy, and the air quality constantly had you choking.

All of that changed, however, when you met Spider-Man, the only appealing part of this forsaken city. You had known about him. Of course you did, the whole world knew about the webslinger with the electric guitar on his back. Attending protests, encouraging anarchy, denouncing all things government controlled. A hero of the people. Governments labeled him a terrorist, a disgrace to all things wholesome. Everyone with half a mind and oppressed in some way loved him.

But you met him. You knew him. Well- as well as one could know a masked punk rock hero. You could pick his voice out of a crowd in a country where everyone sounded exactly the same to you. The baritone of his voice as he hung off the balcony of your apartment— sorry, flat, as he insists you call it. “Ain’t in America anymore, love. It’s a flat.” But you could see behind his mask the way he smiled everytime you called it an apartment in spite of him. But he liked to hang out there, strum his guitar covered in peeling stickers and hum to the melody late into the night.

It started after he saved you from getting mugged. Your first week in London and already you were having the worst time of your life with a knife pointed at your throat. You didn’t try to fight it. You were already over it by then and simply wanted to find the path of least resistance to get home. Luckily for you, Spider-Man happened to be patrolling nearby, lurking on rooftops.

“Oi. that’s no way to treat a young lady is it?” You and your robber both looked up to see him with his mask half off, eating the rest of his churro before pulling his mask back down. He was so fast, you hardly saw his webs shoot out and yank the robber back. He jumped down from the roof, swinging his guitar around off his shoulder and grabbing it by the neck before smashing it against your assailant's head. It knocked him out immediately, left him slumped against the wall. A couple of webs here and there to keep him where he was before Spider-Man grabbed your bag and brought it over to you.

“There ya go, love.” He dropped the bag in your hands and adjusted your shawl. “Not the first time I’ve had to deal with this bloke. I keep telling him to stop robbing people on the street. The banks are a much better target." You simply stared at him, almost surprised by his punk rock style, the metal spikes creaking a mohawk down the back of his head. His sleeveless jacket, torn fabric, patches. He was tall and rather lanky but you could see the lean muscle hiding just beneath his unassuming statue.

"Oh-" he clicked his tongue. "Got a little nick on ya jaw, love." His hand reached out to touch the bleeding cut but you quickly covered it and coughed. "It's okay. I'll be okay." You assure him. It was probably then that he realized you're American and most likely recently moved to England. It was getting dark and you still didn't know your way around.

“I don’t know if you’re busy or not, but do you mind walking me home? I recently moved here and I'm still not sure what parts of London are safe or not.” It was a stretch to ask and you felt a bit stupid the moment the words left your lips. You could see him consider it or find the best way to let you down but in the end, he shrugged. “Why the hell not. What street?”

That was the beginning of your friendship if that’s what you could call it. He’d visit from time to time, crash at your place in the middle of the night, often sporting bloody patches on his suit that could equally be his or someone else's. He never took off his mask though and you never pressured him to do so.

You were sitting on your bed, sketching out pictures of beetles and mushrooms to hang up on your overcrowded walls while listening to Lauren Hill playing softly through your speakers when you heard a soft tap on your window. Living on the fourth floor meant it could only be one person. “The window’s unlocked.” You always leave it unlocked for him, got into the habit of it after his third visit.

The window slid open and in came the familiar hero (but don’t call him that to his face, he’ll take offense). “Oi, like what you’ve done with the place.” He looks around at your new decorations. Fake vines hanging from the ceiling, tapestries of fungi and bugs, a shelf full of plants with a grow light beaming down on them. “The earthy type. Sick. You should come to an environmental protest.” He leans his guitar up against the side of your bed and goes to examine your bookshelf. 

“I would but knowing you, I’d end up arrested for being an accomplice to a crime.” You put your sketchbook down to the side and watched as he made his way over and sat on your bed right beside you. He tossed his arm across your shoulders. “What do you mean, love? That’s the best part.” You could feel your face warm, his face being so close to yours, only separated by a mask that you could so easily pull off. That would be wrong, a betrayal of the trust he obviously has with you.

There was something so freeing about his carefree attitude. It offered a level of freedom you’ve never experienced before. He didn’t judge, didn’t pry. You could tell him anything and his response would be, “rock on, fuck the system.” You could have intellectual conversations about society and structures with him and not have him give you puzzled looks or brush you off about being too serious.

To put it all simply. He was cool. The coolest person you know.

How stupid was it? To have a crush on someone you couldn’t even point out in a crowd without his mask being on or him making a scene as he does. Everywhere he went, he made it impossible to be ignored. He was so charming in the most blatant, blunt way. He told you how it was and didn’t hold punches and there was something so attractive about his honesty.

You think it’s because you know that his friendship is genuine. He wouldn’t have stuck around if he didn’t want to, wouldn’t visit you as often as he does if somewhere in that black heart of his he didn’t have a soft spot for you.

“You wanna go up onto the roof?” He scratched his exposed stomach as he was wearing the croptop you had made for him. A plain black shirt you had cut up and torn the sleeves off of before using bleach to paint on his spider logo. He absolutely loved it, wore it while out and about and asked you to make more for him, in return, he’d steal you some more decorations for your room because he “doesn’t believe in capitalism”.

You raise a brow at him. “How the hell am I supposed to get up to the roof?” You can almost see his smile through his mask. That’s the kind of smile you don’t want to see from a man bitten by a radioactive spider. He jumped up from your bed and took both of your hands in his. They were much larger than yours, warm and calloused you could tell through his gloves. He pulled you up from your bed. “You’re gonna hold on to my back while I climb up the side of the building.”

“You must be out of your goddamn mind.” You take your hands from his but your heart swoons as he chuckles. “Just a little bit.” He grabs his guitar and swings the strap around his neck so it hangs in front of him. “You trust me?” He stands at the window where he entered and looks at you. You wanted to tell him, “with my life” but you’d never say something so corny, never wear your heart so openly on your sleeve like that. You nod.

He chuckles. “Bad idea. Come on then.” And despite your reservations, you go to him and follow him out of the window onto the terrace. He had you hop onto his back, your legs wrapped around his waist and your arms around his neck, forearms pressed against his spiked collar. “You ready?”

“No.”

He began up the side of the wall on the tips of his fingers and the toes of his shoes. You didn’t know what you had expected but you didn’t expect the way your stomach dropped. You buried your face into his shoulder and took in a deep breath to calm yourself. “Got a fear of heights, do ya?” You hated the smugness in his tone and loved it all at the same time. “Fuck you.” You murmur. “I’m not afraid of heights, I’m afraid of your weird spider shit failing and we both fall to our deaths.”

“Oh, come off it, we’re already at the top.” He pulled the two of you up over the edge and onto the roof. It had gone by a lot faster than you had expected. You peeled yourself away from him and hopped down on solid land. The wind was strong up here, whipping at your face and pushing your hair so you could properly look over the city.

London wasn’t all so bad. Sometimes you get moments like this, sitting on the rooftop of your apartment building with the most admirable person in the world. He had his guitar in his lap, pulling at strings in a pleasant little tune. You look at him and after a second, he looks at you behind that hand-painted mask of his. He stopped playing his guitar. “What? Come out with it then.” It was just the two of you, right here, right now, in this small moment of time you may never get back. Why not just go for it?

You lean towards him and he makes no motion to move away as you hand reaches for his mask. He’s completely still as you grab it and pull it up just enough to reveal the lower half of his face. His pierced lips, his chin, his nose. But you don’t go further than that. If he wanted to show you his identity, he would have. You can respect that.

Leaning in to kiss him was the scariest part because at any moment he could reject you, laugh and tell you off. He doesn’t. He lets you press your lips against his in some timid attempt at affection. It was quick and almost frightened. You look away, trying to avoid his steady gaze.

“Oh love, that is not a kiss.” He reached out and grabbed your chin to kiss you again. It was harder this time, more passionate like something that’s been held back for far too long finally came to a climax. You could feel his lip ring against the seam of your lips and wanted nothing more than to take it into your mouth, bite his lips, have him all.

He reaches up and pulls off the rest of his mask in the middle of your kiss growing more and more heated, then his hands come to cradle your face, his thumbs stroking your cheeks with uncharacteristic tenderness. Or maybe it was characteristic for him and you’ve never seen such a gentle side of him.

When you part, your eyes flutter open and for the first time you see his whole face. He was somehow everything you thought he’d be. A slender face, high-set cheekbones, and deadpanned dark brown eyes painted in eyeliner against his waterline. Eyebrow piercings, dreadlocks that are more wild and chaotic than anything, just like him.

“Now, that was a kiss.

[drabbles-mc]

Crunch-Time

Angel Reyes & EZ Reyes & OC Evangeline Reyes

Warnings: 18+, language

Word Count: 3k

A/N: This exists in the same universe as Interruptions but can be read without having read that first. I have the next part of this universe written up already as well, so I'm hoping to post that over the next few days at some point. this piece and the next one are focused more on the three Reyes Siblings than Evangeline and Franky but i promise it is all gonna come back together haha. anyway! as always unedited and unbeta'd because the muse caught me by the jugular tonight lmao

The morning had been quiet so far. Mornings in the middle of the week didn’t tend to be busy times for most of the shops on the strip, and Evangeline’s was no exception. She took advantage of the lack of foot traffic, calling and emailing with the people on both sides of the border who sent her their clothes and jewelry to sell in her shop. She was far from a big name or a huge retailer, but she was good and fair to the artists and designers that she worked with. And for a lot of people who were just trying to make some extra money to get by, that was more than enough.

She was updating some of her order spreadsheets, getting to the bottom of her first coffee of the day, when the bells above her shop door chimed. Out of habit she smiled, turning her head slightly to the door even though her eyes were still on the computer screen in front of her as she spoke to the customer who had just come through the door.

“Bienvenidos! I’ll be with you in just one second.”

“Okay,” the woman responded, a twinge of uncertainty in her voice.

Her tone got Evangeline to look up and over at her, wondering what was going on that was making her sound like that. The woman was standing in the tiny little foyer area of the shop, right by the chair that her brothers usually occupied whenever they stopped by to bother her. She looked a little older, enough gray strands of hair mixed in with the brown to be prominent. She had dress bag draped over her arms. Despite the fact that the woman seemed to be trying to keep a neutral expression, Evangeline could see the worry in her eyes.

She got up and walked around the counter, stopping a few feet in front of her before asking, “How can I help you?”

The woman drew in a deep breath, and for a moment Evangeline wasn’t sure if she was trying to steady herself, or if she was about to let loose a tirade. She braced herself for both regardless. The woman locked eyes with her, lips curled into a small frown. “I’m so sorry,” she said, words tumbling out along with the deep breath she’d just taken, “just barging in like this. But I didn’t know…a friend of a friend recommended you and I just,” her shoulders slumped in defeat, “I’m in a bit of a tough spot.”

Evangeline nodded. “Okay. What kind of tough spot are we talking about?”

The woman gave a small lift of her arms, just enough to draw attention to the dress bag. “My son’s wedding is this weekend, and the dress that was supposed to be delivered a month ago isn’t going to be delivered until next week so I had to go out and buy another one but nothing fit off the rack and everywhere else is saying they can’t get it done in time,” she spoke like the sentence was never going to end, like she had been trying to pick certain bullet points to say and then just decided on all of them, “and I understand it’s short notice and it’s not their fault but I really need—”

Evangeline took a small step forward, just close enough so that she could rest her hand on the outside of the woman’s arm. “How about,” she spoke gently, “we get this on you and take a look. Let me know what you need done and I’ll see what I can do about having it ready for you before your son’s wedding.”

The woman’s eyes instantly glassed over with tears of relief as she nodded. “That would be great. Th-thank you.”

She nodded as she let her hand drop back to her side. She motioned for the woman to follow her towards the back of the store. “I’m Evangeline, by the way.”

The woman let out a shaky laugh. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry. I didn’t even—” she shook her head, “April.”

“Nice to meet you, April.” She reached and opened up the door to the dressing room. “Let me know if you need help.”

It didn’t take long for the woman to re-emerge. Evangeline instantly smiled. The dress was beautiful—a deep purple floor length gown that was one-shoulder. From the first glance she could already tell that, unless April was planning on wearing heels high enough to snap her ankles walking down the aisle, the dress was at least going to be hemmed. If that’s all it was, she could get it done quickly, but she didn’t want to speak too soon.

“I know it’s not the dress you wanted,” she said as April stepped up onto the small platform in front of the trifold mirror, “but it looks amazing.”

She laughed and smiled. “Thank you.”

Evangeline was slipping on her wristlet that had a collection of pins and sewing needles jammed into it. “So, what are we looking to get done?”

She sighed. “I at least need it hemmed…”

Evangeline nodded as she looked at the flats the woman was wearing. “How short? Are you wearing heels or—”

She laughed and waved her off good-naturedly. “I’m too told to be worrying about heels and a dancefloor at this point. I’m just trying to make sure I don’t fall over and take my son down with me.”

Evangeline laughed. “I get it, I get it. Alright, so we’re hemming. What else?”

She motioned to the waistline. “If you could let this out a little bit maybe? Feels like I can barely breathe let alone eat.” She paused to laugh. “And I know they got a really good cake for the reception.”

Evangeline hummed in amusement. “Well, can’t have you missing out on that, can we?”

“I’d love not to.”

She nodded understandingly as they talked about a couple other small things that she was looking to have done to the dress. She made a quick lap around to get the full scope of it before giving her final verdict. “I should be able to have this ready for you by the time I close up shop on Friday.”

Shock completely absorbed her expression. “Really?”

She nodded. “Yeah. I got a couple jobs that can wait until next week. I can get this done for you as long as Friday isn’t too late.”

April’s laughter was coated in relief as she stepped down and wrapped Evangeline in a hug. “Thank you.”

She hugged her back, unable to stop herself from laughing as well. “Don’t thank me until it’s done,” she joked.

She had April step back up onto the platform so that she could start pinning her dress where it needed to be hemmed to. Now that the initial panic that caused her visit was mostly resolved, Evangeline noticed how much more relaxed they both were, but especially April. They made small talk as she walked around and placed her pins and marked where she needed to for later.

Getting the dress marked up was, surprisingly enough, the quickest part of their exchange. She understood why it was hard for April to find a place to take care of her last minute—it was prom season and the start of wedding season so most places were probably slammed. It wasn’t as though Evangeline’s schedule was painfully open, but she always tried to leave herself a little wiggle-room just in case.

The two of them were putting the dress back on the hanger after April had changed back into her regular clothes when Evangeline heard her brother’s bikes outside. Or rather, she assumed it was them—it wasn’t as though the other members of the club made a habit out of stopping by to visit her very often.

She was purposely ignoring it as she and April traded contact information. The roar of the engines stopped, moments later the door chimes rang, and Evangeline was still intent on ignoring it all. She noticed the way that April turned to look and see who had walked in, and she also noticed the momentary shift in her expression. It wasn’t a negative change, but she definitely hadn’t been expecting two men in club kuttes to walk through the door. Evangeline couldn’t blame her for the shock.

She walked with her back towards the front of the store, still not acknowledging her brothers. “I’ll give you a call first thing on Friday to let you know when you can come and pick it up.”

April had let out so many sighs of relief that she’d lost count, but she added another one to the tally. “Thank you so much. Really, I, I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it.”

“Of course. It was nice meeting you, April.”

She nodded. “You too.” She tucked the card that Evangeline had given her into her purse as she tried to slip past Angel and Ezekiel without getting in their way. She brushed by Angel, giving him a small nod and a kind, “Excuse me,” on the way.

There was a smirk on his face as he stepped out of her way. Hands tucked in his pockets he put on the most charming voice he had as he said, “You have a good day, Miss.”

Her smile stretched a little wider. “Thank you.”

Once the door shut behind her, Evangeline immediately rolled her eyes and shook her head. “I could kill you for how ridiculous you are. Sabes?” She gestured to EZ. “He wouldn’t be able to stop me.”

Angel laughed as he held his hands up in surrender. “What? I was just bein’ n—”

“You weren’t bein’ anything good. Poor woman just trying to come in here to get a dress hemmed and she’s gotta…” she trailed off as she shook her head.

EZ was trying and failing at his attempts to stifle his laughter. He looked at Angel. “Told you we should’ve come later.”

Angel waved him off without even looking at him. “Nah, nah. This is breaking news. Can’t wait.” He focused on Evangeline. “Think I might have a job for you.”

She was shaking her head as she turned around and started returning to the back of the store. “I told you guys—I only stitch fabric. I’m not sewing up anyone in the club who—”

Angel sucked his teeth in annoyance. “No, Eva. I meant,” he huffed, thrown off his game. “Will you fuckin’ listen?”

EZ wasn’t even trying to hide his laughter anymore. Evangeline turned around and faced Angel, one hand on her hip, the other gesturing vaguely in the air. “Alright, alright. I’m listening. Dime.”

“Like I was fuckin’ saying,” Angel started again, “I think I got a job for you.” He reached dramatically into the pocket of his kutte. “Think you got time to maybe, I dunno,” he pulled out a small slip of fabric that Evangeline almost didn’t recognize for a moment, “stitch on your little brother’s Secretario patch?”

Evangeline’s smile was warm as she laughed. “Got a promotion?”

“Hell yeah,” Angel agreed.

She nodded as she folded her arms across her chest. “Congratulations, Angel.”

He gave a dramatic bow. “Thank you, thank you. Please, don’t feel like you have to hold your fuckin’ applause.”

She laughed. “I think I still will.” She saw the way he was shaking his head at her and stepped in to hug him. “I’m happy for you, ‘manito.”

He kissed the side of her head. “Thanks.” Pulling back, he looked at the wristlet she was still wearing from her meeting with April. “Really, though. You think you could, uh, maybe stitch this—”

“Angel Ignacio. You’re not actually—”

“Just if you had some fuckin’ time, I don’t know!”

She shook her head. “I don’t. I don’t have time. Here,” she plucked a needle form her wristlet and quickly went back and grabbed a spool of thread that would be tough enough to stitch his patch on effectively and handed it to him, “This should do just fine. Won’t take you very long.” She heard and saw the way EZ was laughing and quickly turned her attention on him. “Don’t laugh too hard, Prospect. A title flash is easy—wait ‘til you need to stitch on your bottom rocker.”

It got EZ’s laughter to stop and Angel’s to pick up. He walked over, roughly shoving his shoulder against EZ’s. “Yeah, what she said. Shut the fuck—”

“That’s not what I said,” Evangeline cut him off with a laugh.

Angel waved her off. “Close enough.”

It took a few moments for all of them to stop laughing. Once they did, Evangeline asked, “You going next door to tell Pops now?”

Angel shook his head. “Nah.”

Evangeline sighed. “Angel—”

He knew where she was going next so he stopped her before she could start. Turning to look at EZ, he said, “We do gotta ask him about delivering to the clubhouse though. Cater the celebration.” He returned his attention back to his sister. “This one you actually gotta show up for. Since it’s for me.” He grinned.

EZ laughed. “It’s not just—”

Angel held his hand up. “Shut it, Prospect.” He raised his eyebrows. “You gonna come through?”

“I don’t—”

“It’s Friday! Not even a work night!”

She tilted her head in confusion. “That’s still a work night for me, you know.”

He let out the type of groan someone would expect from a petulant child not getting their way. “Come on, Eva. It’s gonna be a good time. Other charters coming through and shit.”

Normally she made it a habit not to hang around the clubhouse too often. She had no bad blood towards the club, not really. Everyone was just doing what they knew how to do in order to get from one day to the next. She was no different than them in that regard—her means were just different than theirs. She didn’t hold it against them but she also wasn’t going to let it upend the life she had been working very hard for years to create for herself.

Her guest appearances were rare. Every now and then if one of her brothers had needed something she would stop by. Sometimes she wouldn’t even go past the main office for the scrapyard, leaving whatever she’d brought with Chucky and a note. She could count on one hand the number of parties that she could say that she really went to. The look in Angel’s eyes had her thinking that that miniscule number was about to go up by one.

“I’m gonna be late,” she finally conceded after a few more seconds of silence, “’cause I’ve got some stuff I’ll need to catch up on but—”

Angel was already hugging her and laughing. “That’s what I thought!” He let her go and started to backpedal towards the door. “Alright, I’ll let you get back to work. Gonna go tell Pops we need him Friday too.” He looked at EZ and nodded towards the door. “C’mon, he ain’t gonna say yes unless you’re the one asking.”

EZ chuckled and shook his head. “I’ll catch up in a sec.”

Angel opened the door, calling back to his sister, “Love you!”

“You better!” Evangeline was still shaking her head at him even when he was out of sight. She walked the rest of the way back to take the purple dress off its hanger and put it on the dress form to start working. She was lowering herself down to the floor to get started when she said, “What’s on your mind, Ezekiel?”

He shrugged, hands holding the edges of his kutte as he walked back to her. “Nothin’. Now I’m just stressing about having to stitch on my rocker in a few months.”

Evangeline laughed. “If you’re really up a creek with it maybe I’ll help.” She paused, still not looking directly at him as she reiterated, “But really, what’s going on?”

He paused as he tried to figure out how to go about trying to start the conversation that he wanted to have. “If you don’t wanna go…”

She looked up at him for a moment. “Angel’s very excited. I don’t have a problem showing up for a little while for him. It’s fine—I don’t need you to give me a pass.”

“You’re not excited though.”

She allowed herself to fully plop down on the floor. She kept her legs bent so that she could drape her arms across her knees. “I…I’m glad that it’s going well for him. For both of you, actually. I know that this,” she made a vague gesture towards his kutte, “is what you’ve both chosen to do. And you’re apparently very good at it. I’m glad you found something together.”

“Yeah but you’d rather—”

“There’s no rather,” she cut him off but made sure to keep her tone calm. “We’re all grown, EZ. We’ve,” she chuckled, “we’ve been grown. You should know that better than…” she trailed off. “We’re all just doing what we have to do to be okay. I’m not going to start holding that against you or Angel now.”

“Really?”

Evangeline was too smart to take the bait that was packed into his tone. She gave a simple nod and a small smile. “Really.” Before he could try to push her farther, she gestured towards the door. “Angel was right—he’s gonna need your help getting Pop to agree to play caterer for you guys.”

He frowned for a moment, not expecting the dismissal. “Right.” He started to back up towards the door. “See you Friday then.”

She nodded, still offering a smile. “You will.” She watched as he turned and walked. “Ezekiel?”

He paused at the door, fingers wrapped around the handle but he didn’t push as he glanced back over his shoulder. “Yeah?”

“Love you.”

The frustration disappeared from his face, at least for the moment. “Love you.”

Mayans Taglist (please let me know if you'd like to be added!):

@garbinge @withmyteeth @darqchilddaydreamz @artemiseamoon @proceduralpassion

@justreblogginfics @narcolini @cositapreciosa @fanfic-n-tabulous

[glassprism]

Question on the catch and carry: I know West End doesn't do it anymore, but I saw the restaged and the non replicas are doing it. This had me wondering if they could do a half catch for West End. Similar to what Davis Gaines did in the Kennedy Center Honors. Christine starts to faint, he's right there and guides her to the floor instead. It's good the other productions are at least still doing it. Thank you, love your page!

Well... I wouldn't necessarily say other productions are doing a catch and carry, heh. Just going based off memory and bootlegs, we have:

Budapest - Christine drops, the Phantom sort of runs in and lets her slump against him before she hits the floor and the song ends with them both in that position; presumably he carries her off to bed during the blackout, though of course in reality the actress is probably getting up and just walking over to the bed herself.

Warsaw/Bialystok - Christine drops, the Phantom catches her and then lowers her to the ground, similar to what you described.

Restaged Tour - Christine leaps into the Phantom's arms, he then carries her off bed where she trustingly and rather inexplicably falls asleep on her own.

Prague - A true catch and carry! Christine faints at the sight of the Mirror Bride robot dancing, the Phantom scoops her up and carries her off to bed.

Tartu/Tallin - Based off promo footage, the Phantom is singing 'Music of the Night' and at some point, Christine just heads to the bed herself and drops off to sleep. I guess she wasn't too into the song.

Helsinki/Gothenburg - The Phantom just walks Christine over to the bed. She crawls in and falls asleep. Basically, the mid 2010s had a whole trend of Christines who quite happily go to sleep on their own in the middle of a strange lair with not a care as to their own safety.

Bucharest (original) - The one bit of footage I have shows Christine still fully awake by the end of the song. Her face is all cuddled up to the Phantom's so maybe she falls asleep that way.

Belgrade - No idea. Probably something modern and avant-garde.

Oslo/Greece Tour/Middle East Tour - Christine is sitting on the ground already and the Phantom is kneeling next to her. She reaches for the mask and he grabs her wrist to stop her, backing away. Christine decides that the best way to deal with this embarrassment is to escape the situation by falling asleep. A true millennial reaction.

Sofia - No clue here either. I'd be surprised if they had the budget for a catch and carry. (For the record, that is a joke.)

Kristianstad - The Mirror Bride dances with Christine (yes, really), and while she's disoriented, the Phantom picks her up, walks two feet, and then dumps her in a corner to sleep.

Sydney Harbour - Christine faints off a platform, but luckily the Phantom is there to catch her (he's on a lower level). He then places her back on the same platform to sleep.

Italian Tour/Madrid revival - Christine faints while in the Phantom's arms, he catches her and carries her off to the bed.

Bucharest (revival) - Unknown.

So out of 14 non-replicas and restagings here, we have 3 unknowns (Belgrade, Sofia, Bucharest revival), 4 where it doesn't happen at all (Tartu/Tallin, Helsinki/Gothenburg, Bucharest (original), and Oslo/Greece Tour/Middle East Tour), 4 that I consider sort of maybe because Christine isn't really fainting or she isn't being carried (Budapest, Warsaw/Bialystok, restaged tour, and Kristianstad), which leaves 3 that would be considered an actual catch and carry (Prague, Sydney Harbour, and the Italian Tour/Madrid revival). That's not really a whole lot! I think what's also notable about the ones that do include a catch and carry is that they have double casting and/or limited runs, which means a reduction in the potential strain on the actor's back.

And I think that would still be the case even with the "gently lower Christine to the ground" part, especially if you're doing it for 8 performances a week for months or even years at a time. However light the actress is, however she falls, that constant catching and supporting her weight and bending to the ground with her does strain your back. Ultimately, that's why the catch and carry got axed when the production went to Broadway, safety rules and all that. And as the productions now predominantly follow the Broadway blocking (even though it's closed... thanks, CamMack), that's probably how it's going to stay.

[darl-ingfics]

Sicktember Day 1: “I’m not hungover, I’m just sick”

Fandom: EXO

Sickie: DO/Kyungsoo (stomach bug)

Caregiver(s): Suho/Junmyeon (Chanyeol, and SHINee are there for, like, two seconds)

Word Count: 1615

Notes: LET’S GO Y’ALL!!!!!! Also, for the story, I've always been a ho for the SM Town family lore as long as I’ve been a Kpop fan, so don't be surprised if that comes back sometime this month...

There was no party like an SM town party. Not the ones sanctioned by the company, of course, but the unofficial ones the artists threw themselves. To their knowledge, the company had no idea about these parties, and only trusted managers were made aware that they were even happening. Every month, a different group was tasked with setting up the event. Sometimes they were super themed, super fancy affairs. Others, they were meet ups at one of the dorms, casual and low key. Most often they were somewhere in the middle, glorified hangouts at bars within the radius of all of the groups’ dorms. 

This month was Girls’ Generation’s pick, and Taeyeon had taken them to a bar that was only a short walk from EXO’s dorm specifically. Which ended up being a blessing in disguise when Junmyeon’s conversation with Jinki and Minho was interrupted when Chanyeol ran over, calling the leader’s name. 

“Hyung, can you go check on Kyungsoo? He ran off just now, and he didn’t look too hot,” Chanyeol declared, breathing heavily. He grabbed the older man’s shoulder for emphasis. “And I really don’t think he’d want to see me right now.”

Junmyeon cocked his head to the side, fighting a smile.“And he’d want to see me?” he asked. 

Chanyeol shrugged. “Well, maybe. I’ve just been told to ‘get my drunk ass out of his sight’ several times, and I don’t really need another.” 

Junmyeon nodded, looking to his friends. Jinki dipped his head with an understanding smile, and Minho waved him onwward. With a quick smile of his own, Junmyeon offered both men a quick salute before speeding through the crowd as fast as he could, which was surprisingly easier than he’d been expecting. He’d made it to the wall in a matter of seconds, and followed it until he came across the doors to the restroom. Junmyeon pushed through the door with his shoulder, taking a deep breath to calm the worry growing in his stomach. 

“Kyungsoo?” he asked, voice ringing slightly in the small, tiled room. The sound of a toilet flushing sounded in response. “Kyungsoo?!” 

“Here.” A pale hand stuck out from beneath the door of the second stall. Junmyeon hurried over, pulling back the door just as he heard the lock click open. Kyungsoo was sitting on the floor… well, sitting was a very liberal term. He was actually slumped against the stall wall, knees bent up to keep him steady. His face was ten shades paler than normal, tinted slightly green. The hand resting on his stomach was shaking. The eyes that met Junmyeon’s were tired, a lackluster brown instead of the bright hazel they usually were. 

“Gee, how many drinks did Yeollie trick you into tonight?” Junmyeon joked automatically, a smile pulling at his lips. 

“I didn’t even drink, I swear,” Kyungsoo moaned, rubbing at his eyes with both hands. He moaned again. “Not even water…” Junmyeon’s eyebrows wrinkled with sympathy as he knelt down next to the younger man and pressed a hand to his forehead. The skin was both hot and clammy to the touch.

Junmyeon clicked his tongue, rubbing Kyungsoo’s shoulder sympathetically. “Come on. We should get you home. You think your stomach can handle a ten minute walk?” Kyungsoo nodded, taking a deep breath before holding out his hands. Junmyeon clasped his hands around his dongsaeng’s and helped pull the other boy to his feet, wrapping an arm around Kyungsoo’s shaking shoulders to stop the swaying. “Come on,” he encouraged gently, helping walk him out of the stall. 

“Wait,” Kyungsoo said, pulling away from Junmyeon’s grip. The older man froze, expecting him to be sick again. Instead, Kyungsoo stumbled to the skin. “Gotta wash my hands. These floors are disgusting.”

Junmyeon chuckled lightly, watching Kyungsoo closely as he washed the dirt from his hands. The leader offered his elbow when he was finished, earning him a look of confusion. “You’re swaying.” Kyungsoo simply nodded and wrapped his arm through Junmyeon’s, allowing the taller boy to lead him. 

Junmyeon pushed open the bathroom door, nearly hitting Chanyeol in the face. 

“Whoa! Hey! We were just coming to make sure everything was okay!” the rapper exclaimed quickly, tipping back on his heels as Junmyeon automatically apologized for almost hitting him with the door. Chanyeol’s eyes found their linked arms. “And it looks to me like everything’s fine. Maybe even more than fine?” 

Junmyeon’s cheeks lit up like a Christmas tree, but his mothering instincts were able to suppress his embarrassment. And both Jinki and Minho were right behind Chanyeol, and looked about ready to jump in lest he say anything more. “Don’t worry. Things are just fine,” Junmyeon said as simply as possible. “We’re just gonna head home a little early though. Kyungsoo’s not feeling too great.” 

“Aw, dude, that sucks,” Minho sighed sympathetically. “Did this one trick you into one too many again?” He slapped a hand around Chanyeol’s shoulders as the other man whined in protest.

“No,” Kyungsoo moaned pitifully, his grip on Junmyeon’s arm tightening. His shoulders began to cave like a child trying not to hide behind his mom. 

“No, he’s actually sick,” Junmyeon spoke up, patting Kyungsoo’s hand reassuringly. Even Chanyeol’s face fell at that. “So we’re going to go home and watch a movie or something.” A tiny smile peaked on Kyungsoo’s lips, and Junmyeon inwardly high fived himself. 

“That sounds like the best course of action,” Minho nodded approvingly. 

“Do you need any help getting home?” Jinki asked. “I’d be happy to walk back with you.” 

“Thank you, but we should be fine,” Junmyeon answered with a confident smile. “He seems steady enough and it’s only two blocks. I’ll text you as soon as we get home?” Jinki nodded, sticking with them until they’d reached the door, and making Junmyeon promise to text him a second time. 

~

Getting home had been surprisingly easy. The crisp night air had put Kyungsoo at ease, allowing him to forget how awful he felt for a brief moment. The two had walked together, mostly silently, joking every now and then about things they’d seen at the party. Junmyeon had hope that maybe, just maybe, this was just a fluke and Kyungsoo would be just fine. 

He was, of course, proven wrong as soon as they walked in the door, and the younger man sprinted towards the bathroom, the greenish look returning to his face. 

Junmyeon had decided to give him his space, setting about preparing Kyungsoo’s room in case he had to be carried back. When Junmyeon finally returned to the bathroom, he found find Kyungsoo lying on the floor like a starfish. “Kyungsoo?”

“Hm?”

“What ch’a doing?”

“This feels nice,” Kyungsoo replied, words slightly slurred from the fact that his cheek was plastered to the floor. 

The leader settled against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest. It took a lot for him to not burst out laughing. Kyungsoo was the LEAST likely of any of his members to willingly lay on a bathroom floor. Yet here they were. “We haven’t cleaned that floor in weeks,” Junmyeon commented, making a mental note to put that on the to do list for tomorrow. 

“That’s okay,” Kyungsoo said in response. “It’s just our germs. And I’ve already got those so...” Junmyeon rolled his eyes. 

“How’re you feeling?”

“Not bad, but not good either.”

“Think you’re gonna get sick again?”

“I don’t think so, but that’s really not up to me.”

Junmyeon fought back another eye roll. “You want to go to bed, then?”

“Can’t I just stay here?”

“No. Sick people need to sleep in a proper bed,” Junmyeon insisted, moving into the small room and, careful as can be, stooped down to pull Kyungsoo into a sitting position. The shorter man didn’t protest, but was dead weight in Junmyeon’s hands, slumping against his shoulder once the leader had got him up. “Think you can walk?”

“Well, it would be embarrassing if you carried me,” Kyungsoo said plainly. He didn’t move away from Junmyeon’s shoulder, though. 

“Why?” Junmyeon asked with an amused smile. 

“Cause I’m not a princess,” Kyungsoo said as if it were obvious. “We had the archetype talk the other day. We decided that I’m the villain, not the princess. Baekhyun’s our princess. I don’t want you to treat me like a princess when I’m a villain.”

Junmyeon had to bite his lip to keep from laughing. “Oh, I’m sorry for even vaguely suggesting such a thing. I’m just thoroughly curious if you have the strength to walk to your bedroom.”

“Yeah, I should be good,” Kyungsoo nodded, this time pulling away from Junmyeon and running a hand over his eyes. “Dear god, my head hurts.”

“That’d be the flu, my friend,” Junmyeon replied, spotting Kyungsoo as he pulled himself up onto shaking legs. “Can you walk?” 

“I got this.” Kyungsoo was able to walk about halfway down the hallway before he stopped stock still. Junmyeon rushed slightly closer, eyes quickly scanning for the reason the younger man had stopped. He nearly jumped out of his skin when Kyungsoo’s head slumped against his shoulder. “Soo? You with me?” 

“Hm?” 

“How’re you doing?” 

“I’m tired,” the younger man replied, not moving his head. 

“I can tell,” Junmyeon laughed, readjusting his arm to better support his member’s leaning. “We’re so close to bed, though. Come on, I’ll help you the rest of the way.” 

“Sure.” 

Junmyeon bit his lip as he half led, half dragged Kyungsoo the rest of the way to his bed, forced him none too gently into clean pajamas, and helped him settle under the covers. Based on tonight, this was going to be a long week.

[sweetcornbread666]

Lets talk about Nubbins exploring, barely going to the edge of town but its enough to still whatever slump he's in. A different, newer gas station, new houses...a taxidermist, a tool shop. He had always wondered where Drayton went off to on those weekdays, in between shifts at work. He was bored too, dammit!

If he was lucky he could pick up a few rides in the middle of the day, talk up a storm for sure if he could get the other person to. But when he had to walk...

Three miles wasnt too long to cover in the summer time, long days that ran well into almost 9 pm. He always managed to slip back home right around dinner, seeing that look Drayton gave, just knowing he got out, wigged some folks out - maybe stole a little. He never heard much of it, especially when Drayton was home and busy. Bubba never really had problems at home, anyway - (until that damn van ran up on the house..) Chores were done on the weekend to look busy when Drayton was home. The weekdays when Drayton was out at work were like dirt devils that loop and loop, wringing out Nubbins brain like a rag. He just had that itch, and you could really only stand that warm, stuffy place for so long before you busted out and ran. Maybe thats why Bubba spent so much time in the field, tending to those Sunflowers, getting seeds to sell at the gas station. Made just enough money at the end of the month for some good food.

And he always had something rattling around his pockets when he walked home. Stopping to sit on the side of a ditch, eat a little bit of what he had the change to grab.Hed picked up some dead branches, road kill in whatever store bag he had on him. He could always braid some leather, make a bracelet or two out of some hide to sell - If he found it fresh enough...And no one that went to Draytons had to know what was circling in that heater -squirrel, rabbit, hog, what-ever.

In that way, no matter what kind of shit Drayton threw at him for ditching the chores for a day, or kicking dirt up in the house - Nubbins did something. Nubbins provided too, hands on, the best that he could. Nothing at all could change his mind on that, not any row out or whooping could take that away from him. It made him feel like he really did have a stake in the house too. Like he could talk back a little.