#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

[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

[miyasmagnolias]

𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐤𝐞𝐭 ⏾ ࣪ ˖ ⊹

miya atsumu x f!reader

atsumu takes you on a date to the university night market. everything is perfect — until you run into the last two people he ever wanted you to meet.

part twelve of the in close quarters series, a friends-to-lovers college AU featuring you, atsumu, and the ten months you spend living together senior year.

"I can't — " you stammered, chopsticks clamoring onto your plate in defeat. "I can't eat another bite. I feel delirious right now."

Beside you, Atsumu folded another dumpling into his cheek like a squirrel. "Ya tappin’ out now? I thought ya wanted to get our picture up on the wall of fame!"

"Goddamn it. You're right," you growled, pointing at the poor eighteen year-old boy who had been serving you dim sum for the past hour. "How many more before we get our picture taken?"

"Uh..." The waiter quickly counted the empty plates scattered around your cramped table. "Between the two of you? Seven."

"That's not bad," Atsumu said behind a mouthful of pork.

"Not bad at all," you grumbled, picking up your chopsticks with a renewed sense of purpose. You wiped off the sweat that had formed on your brow and said, "So much for looking pretty on our first date."

"I dunno," Atsumu drawled, dividing the remainder of the dumplings between you — four for him, three for you. "Yer awfully cute when yer determined.”

"Hush and eat your dumplings," you snapped at him, uncapping the lid off a fresh cup of chili oil. "We're getting a cute Polaroid of us."

Atsumu had expected a couple of things to happen on your first date. One, he expected you to make him nervous (because when did you not). And two, he expected the atmosphere to lean somewhat romantic. After all, your university's annual night market was a prime spot for first dates — with all the string lights and food stalls and thousands of opportunities to feed each other. The tickets couldn't have gone on sale at a better time.

What he didn't expect was for you, in the middle of exploring, to find a dim sum stall who promised all parties who ate twenty-five dumplings a person a photo on their commemorative wall of fame.

"We have to do it," you deadpanned, staring at the collection of Polaroid photos tacked onto the back of their makeshift dining stall. "Think of how memorable it would be!"

Now, Atsumu felt less like he was on a romantic date with you and more like you were on an intense leg of The Amazing Race. Sweat sheening. Stomachs distending. Morale lowering by the second. In fact, as he shoveled another dumpling into his mouth, he half-expected Phil Keoghan to appear and tell them they'd been eliminated. The energy was that palpable.

But as you practically inhaled the chili oil up your nose, sending you into a half-coughing, half-laughing fit, Atsumu couldn't help but crack up. You looked adorable when you set your mind to something. And, if he were being honest, he'd had more fun on this date than all of his previous first dates combined.

Perhaps things were leaning more romantic. Just not the type of romantic he expected.

"Good job," the waiter said flatly after you both had finished the last of the dumplings. Stomachs full. Souls depleted. "Let me grab the Polaroid camera from my boss."

"You alive?" you asked Atsumu, slumped against him in the wooden booth you both shared. A low burp grumbled out of him in response.

"I feel pregnant," he murmured, brown eyes glazed over in delirium. "I hope it's a girl.”

You snorted, a hiccup escaping your lips. "What are you, a seahorse?"

The waiter returned not a moment later with the check and the Polaroid camera, Atsumu's hands sinking into the flesh of your hips as he hoisted you into his lap for the photo. You ended up taking two — one flashing peace signs at the camera for the wall of fame, and another, softer one as a keepsake for the two of you.

"Awe," you gushed, the image of Atsumu pressing a kiss to your cheek slowly developing under the warm lights of the food stall. Your heart swelled at his freshly cut hair, the baby blue button-down he'd rolled at the sleeves. "You look so handsome, Tsumu!"

"Oh, please," he drawled, watching as the polka dots on your blue mini dress grew more vibrant by the second. His breath had caught in his throat the moment you'd stepped out of your bedroom with it on. "Yer the real show stopper ‘ere.”

You tacked your Polaroid onto the wall while Atsumu paid the check, your hand easily slipping into his as you exited the stall and returned to the busy halls of the night market.

As nervous as you'd been to take things further with your roommate of eight months, you also felt a sense of overwhelming relief. After all, you'd spent the latter half of your senior year dancing around each other — sneaking in touches, dismissing flirtation with the flimsy excuse of we're-just-good-friends. It felt good to just act upon your attraction toward one another without restraint. It felt like the puzzle pieces of your relationship were finally falling into place.

"You in the mood for dessert?" you asked him, gesturing to the handful of food stalls selling an assortment of confections: ube soft serve, matcha cake rolls. Mango bingsu and mochi in every flavor you could imagine.

Atsumu let out a low whistle. "Maybe lemme walk this off first?”

Chuckling, you leaned into his side and said, "Fair enough."

Unsurprisingly, the conversation flowed just as easily as it had before. You talked about everything and anything as you wove in and out of the bustling crowd: Atsumu's most recent home game. The progress you'd made on your creative writing thesis. Your predictions for the latest episode of Love Island USA, which you had both planned to watch when you got home.

"Do they all need to make out with each other, though?" Atsumu bemoaned as you waited in line for a Filipino dessert stand that had caught your eye. "That's like, a mono outbreak waitin' to happen."

"But that's what makes it entertaining!" you argued, scanning the display case of ube crinkle cookies, buko pandan, and leche flan. "Nobody watches Love Island for the picture-perfect romance. That's what Norah Ephron is for."

"Still," Atsumu huffed, shaking his head. "Some people oughta be ashamed of themselves..."

He trailed off the moment he spotted them.

There, in the corner of his peripheral vision. He wasn't sure if his mind was playing tricks on him right now, or if the universe actually hated his guts.

Because there, standing at the cash register, was his ex-girlfriend.

And her boyfriend.

Who just so happened to be Atsumu's ex-best friend.

His face drained of color.

"Tsumu?" Akemi asked in disbelief, blinking up at the setter through her long lashes. Before he could even utter a response, her bony arm snaked around his shoulders and forced him into a hug. The smell of her perfume — pungent and floral — careened him into the biggest wave of déjà vu. "It's been so long! How are you?"

"Akemi," Atsumu breathed, gently setting his hands on her shoulders and peeling her off of him. Then, towards the young man that had drawn himself up beside her, "Terushima."

"Well, ain't this a reunion?" his former fraternity brother drawled, flinging his arm around Akemi with a smirk. "We were real worried about you for a sec! Thought you went off the grid."

Atsumu dug his fingernails into his palms, tried to restrain the anger steadily rising in his chest.

"Glad to see the two of ya still together," he managed cordially. They had the audacity to laugh.

"Oh, yeah. We're coming up on what — six months now?" Terushima said, stroking Akemi's hair. "Had to convince this one to finally commit to me. She's a real handful. Though I'm sure you of all people would know, right?"

The question sent a bolt of electricity down Atsumu's spine. He hated how casually Terushima had said it, too. Like they were just old friends catching up.

"Yūji. Stop teasing him," Akemi giggled. Her large, patronizing eyes snapped onto Atsumu's. "Anyways, how are things going? Are you still doing your little volleyball thing?"

"Yeah," Atsumu huffed, trying to swallow down the lump that had formed in his throat. "Yeah, somethin' like that."

She pursed her lips to one side and said, "I'm happy for you, Tsumu. Seriously. You always did enjoy volleyball way more than you enjoyed me." Then, running her long fingernails down Terushima's arm, "I'm just glad I found someone who left all that stuff back in high school."

Her words sounded sweet, but they pierced him between the ribs and twisted, threatening to split him in half. Memories he'd long since withheld came boiling back up to the surface — him, shouting at Akemi down the hallway of the fraternity house. Akemi, throwing her phone at his face. Terushima, throwing Akemi over his shoulder before she could cause any more collateral damage.

Their entire dynamic had been toxic, tiring. Atsumu hadn't been entirely surprised when he found them together at their end-of-year fraternity party. And yet, seeing Terushima on top of her made something in him splinter beyond repair. Told Atsumu everything he suspected of himself and more.

Ya ain't enough. Never have been. Never will be.

The reminder was enough to make his throat close.

"Hey," you said casually, resting your hand on Atsumu's shoulder as you approached. The warmth of your palm jolted him out of his trance, pushed through his icy demeanor like a flower in early spring. "You okay?"

His brown eyes gleamed with an apology he didn't quite know how to voice. Before him, his ex-girlfriend's lips parted in surprise.

"Oh! Are you on a date? She's so cute!" Akemi gushed, leaning forwards like she wanted to pet you. "I'm Akemi, by the way. Atsumu and I used to date."

"Yes, I know who you are," you said, your expression calm. Neutral. You knew Atsumu's history with these people, had thought about it more times than you cared to admit. But actually seeing them in the flesh made something in you shift. Sharpen.

"Well, hopefully he's learned a thing or two since dating me," Akemi drawled, staring at you in what you could only describe as pity. "From one girl to another? Don't provoke him. We used to bitch at each other all the time — it was horrendous."

Careful, now, you thought. Partly to her. Mainly to yourself.

"Really? He isn't like that with me at all."

You could've sworn Akemi flinched.

"...I see," she hummed, schooling her expression. "Well, it's only a matter of time before he shows you his true self."

Furrowing your brow innocently, you said, "Well, maybe he didn't show you his 'true self' because you were too busy fucking his best friend."

Beside you, Atsumu nearly choked. Akemi blanched. Terushima cleared his throat and adjusted his collar.

"Sorry. I don't mean to be crass," you told her. Eyes empty. Tone flat. "But I don't take advice from people with bad character.”

And with that, you took Atsumu's hand and walked in the opposite direction.

"...what assholes," you murmured under your breath, shooting him a displeasured look. "You put up with that shit?"

Atsumu gulped back, unable to find the right words to say. His heart hadn't stoped hammering in his ears.

The sun had long since dipped past the horizon by the time you had escaped the crowd, the two of you now sitting on a bench just outside the night market. Bands of college students, families, and local food enthusiasts buzzed in the background as you unwrapped one of the ube crinkle cookies you'd managed to pay for before all hell broke loose. You tore off a piece and held it out to Atsumu. He popped it into his mouth without a word.

You'd never seen someone eat a cookie more seriously.

"Tsumu," you drawled, brushing the powdered sugar off your fingertips.

"Yeah," he clipped, his tone flat. Dismissive.

"Your face."

"What about it?"

"You look constipated."

A muscle in his jaw ticked. "I dunno. Maybe it's the dumplin’s.”

"Sure," you chuckled. You folded the plastic wrapping of the cookie and gingerly slid it back into your purse. "Do you wanna talk about it? You know, how the dumplings made you feel?"

"Not really," he mumbled, folding his arms across his chest. Then, after an excruciatingly long minute, "I just think it's funny how they think they can talk to me like that, ya know? Like they didn't totally stab me in the back."

"I know."

"And you. God — " He ran a hand over his face. "I didn't know ya had that in ya! I mean, I was mad. But you...you were irate."

"Irate," you breathed, biting the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling. "You did today's Wordle, didn't you?"

"It was a good word!” he exclaimed. He pinched the inner corners of his eyes and sighed, his anger morphing into something softer. More vulnerable. "Ya know, that lil’ stunt ya pulled back there? That was...the nicest thing anyone's ever done for me."

Your heart splintered at his confession. "Really?"

Atsumu winced. "Kinda a low bar, ain't it?"

"A little — but that's okay!" you insisted as Atsumu hid his face in his hands and groaned. You reached out and pried his hands away from his embarrassed expression. "What matters most to me is that you're okay."

"Yeah," Atsumu reassured you with a nod. He pulled your hands into his lap and gave them a gentle squeeze. "Yeah, I am. Just...weird runnin' into them after so long, ya know?"

"Yeah, I get it,” you said. "Probably doesn't help that it was on our first date, either."

"Just my luck, eh?" Atsumu scrubbed his hair out and laughed miserably. "Argh — I'm sorry. I had this whole plan! Tonight was supposed to be fun, not…traumatizin'."

“Well, for what it's worth, I had a lot of fun going off on your ex."

"Yeah, honestly? That was pretty fun to see,” he said. A comfortable silence washed over the both of you, filled only by the sound of distant laughter and buzzing cicadas.

"I'm not usually a confrontational person," you admitted after a while, running your thumb across the back of his hand. "But when I heard how they were talking to you, something in me just...snapped. I couldn't stand it."

He looked you in the eye at that moment, brown eyes gleaming with an emotion you couldn't quite place.

"Sometimes I think yer the only thing holdin' me together these days.”

You shook your head. "Tsumu..."

"I'm bein’ serious!" he said, turning to face you on the bench. "Y/N, I was so fuckin' pathetic before I met ya. Ya should've seen me the day I caught those two together.”

He could still remember the details of that night, if he reached far back enough. Him, volatile and drunk out of his mind. The Uber driver, kicking him out two blocks from Osamu and Suna's house. He was pretty sure he vomited into one of their house plants before they found him there on the front porch, angry tears streaking down his face. He looked pitiful. Heartbroken.

That day used to hurt whenever he thought about it. Now, it just felt like scar tissue. Still tender, but not nearly as painful.

You gazed at him with a gentle look in your eye and murmured, "Well...I'm here now."

Atsumu's throat bobbed as he looked down at your joined hands. A small smirk flickered onto his lips.

"Yeah. What took ya so long?"

"Excuse me?" you guffawed, nudging him in the shoulder. "I wasn't the one doing keg stands with the worst people on Earth."

"One, ouch," he said, shooting you an offended glare. "Two, fraternities aren't that bad. Ya know, minus all the hazing and infidelity."

You rolled your eyes, though a laugh rumbled out of you. "People will do anything for belonging and a beer."

"Can't argue with ya there," he exhaled, his gaze affixed on the full moon casting white shadows across the campus pavement. "Can we go home and watch Love Island now? I've had enough real-life drama for today."

"Couldn't have said it better myself," you agreed, standing up from the bench and stretching your arms towards the night sky. "Oh, and Atsumu?"

"Hm?"

"If it makes you feel any better, I still had a great time tonight."

"Really?" he asked, a grin blooming across his face as he stood. You nodded.

"Yeah! I'd love to do it again sometime," you said, smiling up at him sweetly. Then, before you could stop yourself, "We can invite my ex-boyfriend while we're at it, too."

He buried his face into your shoulder and groaned. "Yer unbelievable, ya know that, right?"

Your laughter reverberated off the campus buildings as you flung your arms around each other and began the long walk home.

@miyasmagnolias, 2025

[syd-djarin]

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

You’re a PI hired to spy on Jack Daniels, by his ex-fiancé, who is believed to be a cheater. As time goes on, you don’t find any evidence of the sort, but what you do find is unexpectedly…erotic.

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?”

[guilty-cheese]

Aaron Hotchner x nanny!reader

author’s notes// Hey gang! I know you guys mostly know me for writing for one piece but I’m doing a re-watch of criminal minds and have become obsessed again. Need this grumpy old man so effing bad.

Synopsis: you are Jack’s nanny and Jack gets sick at school. Hotch is grateful to have you there to take care of him

content: age-gap (20smthn reader), sick kids, mentions of case, fem-bodied reader in mind, mentions of Haley

—————————————————————

You had been working for Aaron Hotchner for a couple months now. Ever since his wife passed and Haley’s sister moved back home, he needed extra support to take care of Jack. In need of employment and a place to stay you were thankful for your friend, Penelope, who put you two in touch.

It was awkward at first when you moved in after only a week of knowing about the family, but Jack took a liking to you almost instantaneously. That made the transition into your work life much easier.

The dynamic between the three of you was simple. You tended to Jack when Hotch was at work. Took care of all the chores, making sure dinner was made and Hotch’s suits were pressed and ready. When he came home you listened poured him a small drink and heated up his dinner. He never divulged any work details just hoping to keep work at the bau.

The day was pretty much normal. You woke up at 6 to make sure you were up in time to make Hotch his breakfast and coffee. He woke up got dressed and took his breakfast with him sparring a “morning” and a “thank you” before heading out.

You made Jack his breakfast and noticed he didn’t seem as cheery as usual. Shrugging it off you dropped him off and school and went back to do laundry.

In the middle of preparing the stew for dinner you got a call from Hotch. He never called you while he was at work so you picked it up confused.

“Mr. Hotchner?”

You waited until his voice came over the speakers, cool and quiet, “Can you please pick up Jack? The nurse called saying he was sick and needed to go home. I told them you were coming to get him.”

Your eyes widened in surprise, “Yes of course. I’m on my way.”

“Thank you. Please text me with updates on his condition. I’m on a case in New York right now and hope to be home by early tomorrow morning.”

You nodded, “Yes, of course sir. Stay safe.”

“I will. Goodbye.” And with a beep the call ended.

You put the phone down and went to go wash your hands and put away the cooking supplies.

When you got to the school and saw Jack looking miserable on the medical bed your heart sank. You went up to him and lightly shook him awake.

You smiled softly, “Hey Jackers. Let’s get you home.”

He groaned as he opened his eyes and saw you. He whispered your name and shivered. You frowned and picked him up in your arms and grabbed his school bag. You thanked the nurse and brought him to the car.

On the way back to the house you looked in the rear view mirror, Jack was slumped against the window.

“Jack how are you feeling bud?” You asked concerned.

Jack whimpered and with a weak voice said, “Head hurts, I feel cold, weak.”

“I’m so sorry buddy. We’ll be home soon and I’ll get you some medicine and soup okay?” You cooed.

“Mmkay,” he murmured.

Once at the house you brought him inside, “Go change into your warm pjs.”

Jack nodded and weakly walked over to his closet. You closed the door and went back to the kitchen to make some chicken broth. As you heated it up you knocked on his door and peaked in. He was curled up in bed and shivering. You went into his bathroom and got a cool washcloth and laid it on his head. Then you put another blanket over him and tucked him in.

“Jack, you think you can stay awake for 10 more minutes so I can get you soup and medicine?” You asked as you pushed his hair off his forehead.

He nodded and you got back up and went to the kitchen. Looking through the cabinets for medicine and coming up with nothing you found that Hotch probably had it in his medicine cabinet . You tentatively went into his room and into the connected bathroom. You nervously opened his medicine cabinet and avoided looking at any of the yellow pill bottles.

When you saw the brightly colored pink packaging of kid’s medicine you grabbed it and went back to the kitchen. You mixed the syrup in some juice and poured the soup into a bowl.

As you went back into Jack’s room you saw him resting his eyes. Gently kneeling down and tapping him, he looked up and noticed the juice and food.

“Here’s some chicken broth and some juice to hopefully make you feel better.”

“Thank you,” He said weakly.

You helped him sit up and held the bowl of soup as he slowly took sips from his spoon. Once he finished most of the soup and all the juice he leaned back.

You got up and grabbed his dishes.

“Can you stay?” He murmured.

Your eyes widened slightly, “Yeah of course. I’ll be right back.”

Once you rinsed the dishes you went back in his room and knelt back by his bed again. You took the now damp and warm washcloth off of his head and onto the nightstand.

“Book?” He asked.

“Want me to read to you?” You asked as you ran your hand through his hair.

He nodded.

“Any requests?” You asked as you continued to pet his hair.

“Mm..Holes”

“Holes?” You chuckled.

He nodded.

You stood up and looked for the book on his shelf. You found it and crouched back down by his bed and began reading.

Two chapters in Jack was asleep. His shivering quit and his chest rose normally. You were about to get up but Jack’s hand remained wrapped around your wrist. Not wanting to wake him up you set the book down on his nightstand and laid your head down on his comforter.

———————————————————————

Hotch had arrived home that same night. The case wrapped up quickly than anyone thought it would. He walked into the house and saw medicine packets and left over broth left out in the kitchen.

Setting down his duffel and hanging up his suit he walked into Jack’s room. As he walked into and saw you holding Jack’s hand and resting with him, his heart swelled.

He walked over to you and kneeled gently tapping you. You woke up with a sharp inhale and looked up to see him.

“Mr. Hotchner. You’re back.” You said as you rubbed your eyes.

“Hey, Y/N. How is he?” He asked.

Shaking the sleep from your head you put your hand on his forehead. “Fever seems to have gone down. And he’s not shivering anymore.”

“Let’s let him rest.” He said and offered you his hand. You smiled and grabbed it as he hoisted you up.

You followed him out of the room and into the kitchen. “Sorry for leaving the mess. I’ll get right to cleaning it up.”

“No, no. I couldn’t possibly ask you to do more right now. I’ve got it. You go and do what you want,” he said as he rolled up his sleeves.

You waved your hands, “No sir, you just got home from work. I just took a long nap. I should be cleaning this up while you relax. Please, I insist.”

“You sure?” He asked quirking a brow.

You smiled, “of course.”

He nodded and walked off to his room. You ran your hands over your face once more. You’d be lying if you said that he was not attractive. Living in his house didn’t help and sometimes you passed by his room while his door was cracked and caught sight of his bare torso.

Shaking off the thoughts you began your cleaning duties. As your were finishing up cleaning the counter Hotch walked back out into the living room and laid down on the couch.

You wiped down the counter one last time and then joined him on the couch. He was looking over a case file, brows scrunched in thought. “How was the case?”

He soared a glance over at her, “Thankfully quick.”

“That’s good. One less psycho out there,” you commented.

“Mm.” He nodded.

With the coming silence you went on your phone. Scrolling through friend’s posts you were thinking of something to talk about.

“Thank you by the way,” he suddenly said.

“Hm. For what?” You asked as you looked over at him.

“For all that you do for us,” he said simply.

You smiled, “It’s literally my job Mr. H. No big deal whatsoever.”

He looked over at you, “You know you can call me Aaron.”

Your eyes widened slightly, “I’d feel weird though.”

He raised the corners of his lips slightly, “I feel weird when you call me “Mr. H” or Mr. Hotchner.”

You smiled, “Didn’t think of that. Okay, Aaron.”

A rare smile adorned his face before he went back to the case file. For the rest of the night the two of you sat in comfortable silence. All was well in the Hotchner house.

[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.

[formulapierre]

Giving Her Everything You Could Never. | Pierre Gasly

Pairing: BestFriend!Pierre Gasly / UnnamedBoyfriend x Reader

Prompt: Where you feel suffocated in your relationship and Pierre helps you to find yourself again.

Warnings: Cheating, Swearing, Toxic Relationships.

Word Count: 5.7k

 

“All I’m asking is that you think about everything I do for us,” he said, his voice tired but stern. You’d been going in circles for nearly an hour, and you were done. It was always the same fight. He hated your friends...said they were reckless, irresponsible. Said they lived in a way you two couldn’t afford. Money has always been a sore spot. You came from a bit of privilege; he didn’t. And even though you’d tried to meet in the middle, your definitions of 'reasonable' never quite worked out.

“Are we seriously doing this again?” you sighed, sinking onto the couch. You rubbed your temples as you felt the dull pain of a headache starting to spread.

“Yes,” he snapped. “Because you keep spending money we don’t have.”

He’d sat down and made a spreadsheet months ago; separate accounts for the house, retirement, some hypothetical future family. In theory, it was responsible. In practice? Smothering. Every non-essential purchase had to be justified; every pound and pence had its place. 

“I really think you need friends with more realistic lifestyles sweetie. Ones who don’t blow money every weekend,” he added, softening his voice and throwing in sweetie, a nickname you’d never liked but never told him you hated.

“They’re my friends,” you said firmly. “I’m not going to ditch them just because you’ve decided fun is irresponsible. There’s a middle ground, you know. Saving doesn’t mean we have to live like this.”

He folded his arms, jaw tight. “I’m trying to build something for us. For our future. Can’t you see that?”

You stared at him for a moment, then shook your head. “I don’t care about some distant future. I care about now. And honestly? I don’t even know if we have a future anymore.”

He blinked, stunned. “What? Of course we do. You’re my fiancée.”

Your mouth fell open. “What?”

“You are. I mean, we talked about marriage...”

“Hold up,” you cut him off. “You mentioned marriage one morning in bed. You never asked me. You never bought a ring. You said we couldn’t afford a wedding. That is not a proposal.”

He took a step back, stung. “So what? You don’t want this? You’d be a fucking idiot to walk out on me.” The venom in his tone made your skin crawl. He’d never spoken to you like that before. And he almost never swore, at least, not like this.

“I don’t know what I want,” you said, voice rising. “I just want to live a little. To go out for dinner without needing to justify it, to buy a pair of shoes without guilt-tripping myself. I’m tired of explaining every tiny thing. It’s exhausting.”

He scoffed. “It’s him, isn’t it?”

You blinked. “Who?”

“Pierre. Fucking Gasly. Your so-called best friend.” His laugh was bitter. “You’re sleeping with him, aren’t you? He’s the one who’s filling your head with this crap.”

“Oh my god. Seriously?” you snapped. “I am not sleeping with Pierre.” It wasn’t even the first time he’d thrown that accusation at you, but you were still outraged that he’d mention it. “And yeah, maybe this setup seemed smart at first. But I didn’t realise how controlling it would become.”

“Don’t lie to me, Y/N!” he shouted, pointing a finger toward you angrily. “You wanna fuck him? Fine. Go. Be another notch on his bedpost.”

______

“Pierre…” you choke out, voice barely holding steady between shallow breaths and quiet sobs.

He picks up instantly.

“Hey. What’s wrong? Are you okay?” His voice is low, calm, but there’s urgency behind it, like he already knows this isn’t just a bad day.

There’s a pause before you say, “I’m… I’m outside.”

The call ends without another word. A second later, the door swings open.

Pierre just stands there for a heartbeat, eyes locking on yours. He takes you in, the tear tracks on your cheeks, the tired slump of your shoulders, the once-crisp blouse wrinkled from a long, awful day. He doesn’t ask. He just steps aside.

You cross the threshold, and before the door even clicks shut behind you, his arms are around you. It’s not dramatic, it’s just right. Familiar. Safe. His hand rests at the back of your head, the other across your back, anchoring you like he's done a hundred times before.

“You didn’t have to call,” he says into your hair. “You could’ve just come in.”

“I didn’t want to assume,” you mumble against his chest. “I didn’t know if you’d be busy or…”

“I’m never too busy for you.”

That silence lingers, not awkward, but weighted. He relaxes his hold just enough to look at you.

“Same argument?” he asks softly.

“Yeah,” you nod, eyes brimming again. “Same one. Just... meaner.”

You toe off your shoes near the door and slip your coat from your shoulders. Pierre takes it from you without a word, hanging it up like he’s done it a hundred times. Like this is normal, like you showing up wrecked isn’t out of the ordinary. You head toward the kitchen, hands shoved into the pockets of your skirt, and lean against the cool marble counter. The silence between you isn’t uncomfortable, but you can feel the weight of everything unspoken.

“You want your usual?” he asks, already opening the fridge. You nod, and he pulls out your favourite drink, the one he only ever buys for you.

“He said I should stop seeing my friends,” you say, voice quieter than before. “Said they don’t live the same kind of lifestyle we’re ‘supposed to.’”

Pierre turns, eyes narrowing slightly. “Meaning me.” You nod again.

“And then,” you continue, taking the drink from him, “he accused me of sleeping with you.” Pierre doesn’t respond right away. He leans back against the opposite counter, arms crossed loosely over his chest, his gaze heavy but unreadable. You sigh. “I’m sorry. I know that’s weird for you.”

“It’s not weird,” he says after a beat. “It’s just not true.”

You let out a short, humourless laugh. “Yeah. I’m starting to feel like the version of me he wants only exists in a spreadsheet.”

“You know what I think,” Pierre says, watching you carefully.

“I deserve better?” you reply, trying to smile but failing.

He tilts his head. “That you deserve someone who doesn’t make you justify being yourself.”

You go quiet again, fingers curling around the bottle in your hand.

“I don’t even think I don’t love him,” you admit. “I think I just don’t want the life he’s trying to build yet. Not like that. Not...locked in.”

“Wanting space doesn’t mean you’re selfish,” Pierre says gently. “It just means you’re still figuring things out. You’re allowed.” You give a slow nod, turning toward the cabinet you know by heart. You grab the bottle of ibuprofen, shake out a few pills, and swallow them with a sip of your drink. The dull throb behind your eyes is threatening to spike again.

“I’m so tired,” you murmur. 

Pierre watches you for a moment, then pushes off the counter. “Come on,” he says, that familiar mischievous glint finally surfacing in his eyes. “We’re going out. You need a night off.”

You blink. “What, like clubbing?”

“Yes, clubbing. Drinking. Dancing. Being twenty-something and a disaster. I’ll even pay, so you don’t have to think about receipts or spreadsheets or whatever else he’s trained you to worry about.”

You smile - actually smile - for the first time that night. “I don’t have anything to wear. I look like an absolute mess….”

Pierre’s already pulling open a drawer. “We’ll fix it.”  Pierre steps closer, eyeing your outfit with a thoughtful squint. “Okay, step one… this shirt.”

You frown. “What about it?”

He reaches for the top button. “It’s great…just not for tonight…” You raise an eyebrow but don’t stop him as he unbuttons the first couple of buttons, revealing just a hint of the lace bra underneath. For a second, just a flicker, his gaze drops, then flicks back up.

You notice. But you don’t say anything.

“Better,” he says lightly, like nothing happened. “Now… the skirt.”

“What about the skirt?” you ask warily.

“It’s too… respectable,” he says, already rummaging through a drawer. When he pulls out a pair of scissors, your eyes widen.

“Oh no. Nope. Not a chance.”

“Trust me,” he says, giving you that lopsided grin he always uses when he’s about to talk you into something.

You hesitate, but then slowly nod. “You’re buying me a new skirt.”

“Deal.” He kneels in front of you, surprisingly careful as he starts snipping at the hem of your pencil skirt. The sound of fabric giving way fills the quiet room. You glance down at him, the way he focuses, the concentration in his brow, like this is a project that actually matters.

A few moments later, he stands, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “Turn around.”

You do, catching your reflection in the mirror. The skirt that once fell just below your knees now barely grazes mid-thigh, hugging your legs in a way that feels a little too good for something he cut with scissors.

“You’re ridiculous,” you say, adjusting the hem slightly. “But fine. It kind of works.”

“Told you,” he says, already disappearing into the bathroom. He returns with a pack of cotton buds and a bottle of makeup remover.

“Sit,” he says, pointing to the counter. You do. He stands in front of you again, gently dabbing at the streaks of mascara on your cheeks, careful not to press too hard. When he finishes, you glance in the mirror. Somehow, your ruined makeup has turned into something smoky and smudged.

“Okay, that’s kind of impressive,” you admit.

He shrugs. “You cry on my couch often enough. I’ve had practice.”

You laugh, really laugh, for the first time in days. Then you reach into your purse and pull out your red lipstick, swiping on a quick coat in the mirror. “Who are you? My fairy godmother?” You say, looking yourself over. Then you break the moment of both you looking at each other through the mirror. “Only complaint? You’re not ready yet.”

Pierre grins. “Give me five minutes.”

_____

Pierre steps out of his room just as you finish fluffing your hair in the mirror. Predictably, he’s wearing his signature going-out look: crisp linen shirt, sleeves rolled, tailored shorts.

“You look exactly the same as every other time we’ve gone out,” you say, eyeing him with mock judgment.

He shrugs. “Why mess with perfection?” You laugh softly, grabbing your purse. He already has a taxi waiting, of course he does, and you’re outside the club before you even have time to second-guess whether this was a good idea. The line snakes around the building, but the bouncer clocks Pierre immediately. A quick nod, a few words exchanged, and you're waved inside like VIPs.

You glance at him. “Seriously?” He just smirks

Inside, the music pulses through the floor, the bass vibrating up through your heels as lights flicker overhead. The space is packed, bodies moving, laughter echoing through the low haze of smoke and heat. Pierre places a hand on your lower back, firm, steady, as you make your way through the crowd. You try not to overthink it. It's a practical gesture. That's all.

Still, the pressure of his palm lingers.

At the bar, you lean forward to scan the shelf, hair falling into your face. “What do you want?” Pierre asks, his voice low near your ear so you can hear him over the music. You don’t answer right away. You’re too aware of how close he is. How you can feel the heat of him behind you. How no part of this feels particularly platonic tonight.

Finally, you glance over your shoulder. “Two shots of cherry vodka.”

He lifts a brow, then turns to the bartender. “Make it four.”

“You planning to keep up with me?” you ask, smiling.

“I’m planning to make sure you don’t think about anything other than this tonight,” he says casually - too casually - and gestures for the bartender to hurry. You don’t respond, but your stomach does something strange and sharp. When the shots arrive, you down one without hesitating. Pierre matches you beat for beat, the edge of his arm brushing yours.

You don’t pull away.

Another moment passes. He leans in, voice almost teasing, but with something else underneath. “You gonna make me dance with you too?”

You glance at him, feigning indifference. “Maybe. Depends how drunk I get.”

“Then I better buy another round,” he says, smirking, but his eyes hold your gaze for a beat too long before he turns back to the bar. You stare at the curve of his jaw, the slope of his neck, the way the collar of his shirt is just slightly undone. And for the first time, you wonder - not idly, but really wonder - what would happen if you stopped pretending the two of you were just friends.

_____

It was getting late and the club was starting to thin out. You’d both paced yourselves after those first shots, neither completely drunk, but definitely close enough. On the dance floor, you swung your hips to the pulsing beat, Pierre just behind you, occasionally grabbing your hand and pulling you close to dance with him. The red lighting cast a sultry glow over everything, setting the perfect tone. The music was too loud for talking, so you’d both just surrendered to the moment, a rare escape you wished you could have more often. Tonight, you hadn’t thought about the future once. No worries about what would happen after the club, after this night.

You lost all sense of time until Pierre’s arm slid around your waist, pulling you flush against him. He leaned in close, his breath warm at your ear. “Wanna get outta here?” You nodded without hesitation, your feet were aching in those heels, and that persistent headache was creeping back. His arm stayed snug around your waist even after you climbed into the cab; his hand hovered just millimetres from you, a quiet promise in the dark.

The ride home was quiet but comfortable. You closed your eyes for a moment, wanting to savour this night - not thinking about when it would have to end, or the reality waiting back at home. Back at Pierre’s apartment, you checked the clock, it was well past 3 AM. Kicking off your heels, you reached into the cupboard and grabbed two glasses, filling them with water, handing one to him.

“Thanks for tonight… I really needed this,” you said softly.

Pierre smiled, leaning against the counter as he took a slow sip. “Always. You know I love a night out, and with you? I’m never saying no.”

You hesitated a beat, then let the words spill out, maybe the drinks gave you courage. “You know what he said before I left?” Pierre raised an eyebrow, silently urging you on. “He told me, ‘If you wanna go fuck him, you go do that.’”

Pierre’s eyes darkened, searching your face. “And what do you think about that?”

You exhaled, anger bubbling to the surface. “I’m pissed. I never even considered cheating on him, but for him to throw those accusations around so casually… It's like I can’t do anything right. I don’t know what to do… I want to get one over on him, even if it’s just for a moment. I know it’s petty, but I want to make him feel what he’s made me feel, like I’m not good enough.”

Pierre leaned closer, his voice low and steady. His gaze flickered - something unreadable there. He stepped closer, the space between you shrinking, but neither of you moved away. Your pulse quickened. “So why don’t you?” he asked softly.

You swallowed hard, voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t even know how.” A wild idea flickered in your mind. “Maybe… What if we made something up? Just pictures. Nothing real. Just to show him…” You broke off, unsure if you wanted to say it. “To show him he can’t control me.”

Pierre’s expression shifted, growing serious, almost warning. His voice dropped low, a quiet growl. “You know this could blow everything up, right? There’s no going back from this.”

You met his eyes, heart pounding in your throat. The weight of what you were about to do pressed down on you, and for a moment, the thrill of rebellion tangled with fear. “After tonight… maybe I don’t care anymore.”

Your voice cracked just slightly, betraying how scared you were of what that meant…for everything.

_____

“Let’s start simple, how about a mirror selfie? Put your hand on my waist,” you say, taking Pierre’s phone. You both move into position, standing close in front of the mirror. You tilt your head slightly before snapping the first photo. Pierre’s hand rests firmly on your waist as you both study the picture, then save the best one.

“What’s next?” you ask.

Pierre grins. “How about one of us kissing? That’ll make it convincing.”

You smile, remembering how you’d kissed a few times as teenagers, always each other’s safe choice when dared. Opening a bottle of wine he’d kept chilled, you sip slowly, letting it warm you. Eventually, you make your way to his bedroom, settling on the bed across from him. Setting the glass on the bedside table, you climb into his lap.

“How’s this?” you ask, cupping his face gently in your hands.

His breath catches. “Perfect.” He lifts the phone, your lips barely brushing before meeting. He snaps the photo, then shows it to you. It looks real - intimate, convincing.

Neither of you moves for a moment, caught in the silence and closeness.

You gather courage to break it. “How about your hand on my thigh?”

He nods, and you slide your skirt up slightly. His hand wraps possessively around your thigh, sending a shiver through you. You quickly take the photo. The tension thickens, and you both know the pictures will need to get riskier. Pierre leans down, guiding you gently onto the bed. He lifts your knee and kisses it softly, a trail of warmth along your skin. You snap a photo, but don’t stop him.

Pulling back, he smiles softly, mirroring your own. “I’ve got another idea.”

He pulls you onto your hands and knees, positioning himself in front, as if you were closer than you are. Taking the phone from you, he captures the shot. His hand moves through your hair, sending a shiver through you. You turn to face away, letting the image suggest more than it is. 

“Why don’t you live up to your reputation?” You ask, turning around so you were facing away from him, giving the appearance he was taking you from behind. He let out a soft laugh as he realised what you were doing. You undid the last few buttons on your shirt, dropping it off the side of the bed, wanting the photos to look like things had escalated. Pierre wrapped his hand around your shoulder as he pressed up against you, just like he had done earlier at the club, only this time you could feel much more, you certainly knew how he was feeling. 

“Mon amour?…” He asked softly and you hummed in response. “Tell me you feel the same way I do right now…” 

“-and how's that?” You asked teasingly.

“Like this…” He replies, pressing himself against you firmer, allowing you to feel exactly how hard he was. “Tell me you feel the same…let’s take some really dirty photos, let me claim you, show him that he’s lost you forever,” He whispered softly into your ear and you swear your brain stopped at that moment, you had to take a moment to process what he’d said. 

“Fuck P…that’s the hottest thing i’ve ever heard,” You say breathlessly as you feel his lips on your neck, starting to suck what will become dark purple bruises. “-Yes…I feel the same,”

“Good girl,” He replied before turning you over onto your back and continuing to suck on your shoulder, littering your skin with his marks. A dirty smile spread across his face as he moved back to admire his work, making sure to get a good photo. The way he called you a ‘good girl’ made you go completely crazy, praise was another one very high up your list of turn-ons. “Tell me what you need princesse…” He says softly, letting his french slip out at the end, something else that drove you absolutely wild.

“I need you P…He never…” You begin to say, stopping as you realise what you were about to say.

“He never what?” He asked, brushing a piece of hair from your face. “Never fucked you the way you wanted? The way you needed?” You just nodded, you knew that he could read you like an open book, you had no doubt that he was gonna leave you a stuttering mess by the time the sun rose. “Awh…such a needy girl, you need me huh?” He teases, causing you to blush profusely and nod. “We’d better take this skirt off then shouldn't we?” He asked, not even waiting for a response before tearing the fabric for the second time tonight, to say you were turned on by this would be an understatement. You now lay bare before him, just the thin lace of your bra and panties stood between you. “You’re so gorgeous, you know that don’t you…ma belle petite fille?”

_____

04:49 - 9 UNREAD MESSAGES FROM: UNKNOWN

thought you might wanna see these...

what the fuck?

who is this?

get your hands off my fucking fiancée!

I mean I gotta thank you, this was your idea after all...

Gasly? the little bitch actually did it...

I'm only giving her everything you could never...

_____

PierreGasly

Liked by YourName, CharlesLeclerc and 934,234 likes

PierreGasly Letting her hair down...

YourName Best night ever!!

PG10_Fan I love their friendship ♥️

Racer_Boy Not her being in a relationship...don't see him anywhere.

--- Milly_Track How can you tell from four blurry photos???

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_____

“You don’t have to do this,” you say again, adjusting your sunglasses as you follow Pierre out of his car and onto a sunlit Milanese street. “Seriously, P, it’s just a skirt.”

Pierre raises an eyebrow, smirking as he gestures toward the boutique in front of you. “It’s not just a skirt. It’s the skirt I ripped. That makes it an act of redemption.”

You scoff. “Redemption for what, exactly?”

“For not spoiling you sooner,” he says, and there’s something in his voice half tease, half truth. “Come on. Humour me.” The shop door swings open with the delicate chime of wealth. Inside, everything is cool marble, soft lighting, and fabric so fine it barely makes a sound when you run your hand over it. It’s the kind of place your boyfriend would’ve hated too indulgent, too expensive, too… joyful. The kind of place he would’ve made you feel guilty for walking into.

Pierre, on the other hand, walks in like he owns it. He gestures to a rack. “Pick anything. Or everything.”

You hesitate, fingers brushing over the clothes. “You’re ridiculous.”

He shrugs. “You let someone make you feel like you didn’t deserve this for long enough. Let me fix it.”

Your breath catches. You look at him, really look. There’s no performance in his eyes, just quiet sincerity, and a flicker of something else. Something protective. You start picking out pieces. A skirt, a dress, a pair of heels you’d never buy for yourself. He watches with an easy smile, never pushing, but always near.

In the changing room, you try on a sleek black dress first. Safe. Classic. When you step out, Pierre tilts his head. “It’s nice,” he says, “but not you.”

You raise a brow. “And what’s me, then?”

He walks over, pulls a soft wine-colored skirt from the rack, holds it out. “This.”

You blink, surprised by the lump rising in your throat. But you take it. And when you twirl in it, just for fun, he smiles like it means everything. As you try on more clothes: silks, satins, lace he picks with too much care, you feel the tension of your old life peel away. You laugh. You feel good. You feel... chosen.

And that’s when the heat rises in your chest.

“I think he liked making me feel small,” you say suddenly, looking at your reflection.

Pierre turns toward you. “He didn’t know what he had.”

You glance at him. “And you do?”

Pierre steps closer, voice low. “Every goddamn inch.”

The words hang in the air like something neither of you can swallow. 

Still, a tangled knot of conflict twisted inside you. This wasn’t just about the skirt. It was about all the things you’d been told you couldn’t have, all the times you were made to feel small for wanting more. Pierre knew it, his gaze softened as he saw the flicker of hesitation on your face.

“Try it on,” he said quietly. “For you.”

You hesitated, then nodded. It was a small act of rebellion, and maybe, just maybe, a step toward reclaiming parts of yourself you’d locked away for too long.

You slipped into the skirt, the fabric soft and new against your skin. Pierre’s eyes followed you the entire time, watching as you examined yourself in the mirror. He stood close behind you, just far enough not to touch, but near enough that you could feel the warmth radiating off him. You caught his reflection alongside yours, and for a moment, everything felt aligned, like you were exactly where you were meant to be.

You took Pierre’s hand and left the boutique, stepping out into the golden light of Milan’s late afternoon. The streets were alive, but your world had narrowed to the steady rhythm of your heels on cobblestone and the weight of soft paper bags filled with little pieces of you rediscovered.

Pierre was unusually quiet. You glanced up at him. “What?”

He shook his head. “Nothing.” But you knew better.

“P…” you warned, narrowing your eyes slightly.

He smiled to himself, like he’d just confirmed something inside. “Come on. One more stop.”

“I have nothing left to try on,” you said with a laugh. “Unless you’re planning to dress me in crystal-encrusted lingerie...”

“Don’t tempt me,” he muttered, smirking. Then he stopped walking. You followed his gaze and froze.

There it was.

The Bag.

Displayed behind a glass case like it was art, and honestly, it was. The exact make, model, and colour you’d sent him a photo of two birthdays ago, with a message that just said: “Maybe one day.” You hadn’t even remembered telling him.

Apparently, he had.

You shook your head immediately. “No. Nope. Not happening. That’s too much...”

“Let me,” he said, cutting you off, voice softer now. “You’ve wanted it for years.”

“It’s...Pierre, it’s thousands of euros.”

“I know.”

You gawked. “You know and you still...”

“It’s not about the bag,” he said, gently taking the handles of your other bags from your hands. “It’s about giving you something he never let you have. Not just the thing. The feeling.”

“What feeling?”

He looked at you like it should be obvious. “That you're worth it.”

Your stomach twisted. You looked back at the window. At the bag. At yourself. For a second, you could see the version of you who almost believed it.

“Do you know how many times I’ve walked past this shop and talked myself out of going in?” you murmured.

Pierre didn’t say anything. He just stepped forward and opened the door.

And you followed.

The boutique was calm, elegant... the kind of quiet that wasn’t intimidating so much as expectant. Soft lighting spilled from recessed fixtures, catching the gold hardware of bags arranged like artwork. Everything gleamed.

You didn’t hesitate at the door. Not because you were used to places like this, because you could afford them. You always could. But you’d stopped letting yourself want anything that came with a price tag that made him sigh, or give you that look...the one that said, Why would you waste your money on that?

Pierre moved with purpose, scanning the displays until his gaze landed on it. Your bag.

The one you’d pointed out in a window once, offhandedly. The one you’d shown him in a screenshot after a couple glasses of wine, laughing like it was just a fantasy. The one you’d almost let yourself buy once, before deleting it from your cart.

He hadn’t forgotten.

He nodded toward the shelf. “There.”

You blinked. “Pierre…”

“You said you loved it.”

“I do, but—”

He turned to face you, brows lifting slightly. “So what’s the problem?”

You hesitated. “It’s a stupid thing to want.”

His jaw tightened a fraction, but his voice stayed gentle. “Wanting something doesn’t make you stupid.”

You swallowed, arms crossing over your chest. “He’d say it’s a waste. That it’s shallow. That I’m shallow for liking things like this.”

Pierre’s expression darkened for a moment...not fully visible, but enough for you to feel it. “He also said you were irresponsible for buying your friend a birthday gift and ordering dessert. So maybe his opinion isn’t relevant.”

You looked at the bag again. The deep, rich leather. The understated stitching. It was beautiful. And practical. And… yours, if you wanted it to be.

“I just...” you started, then faltered. “I don’t want to be reckless.”

Pierre stepped closer, lowering his voice. “Choosing joy isn’t reckless.”

The sales assistant, sensing the moment, gently brought the bag over and held it out to you. You hesitated. Then slowly reached for it. It was heavier than expected, solid and smooth in your hands. A whisper of indulgence you’d denied yourself so many times, you’d forgotten what wanting something without apologising even felt like. Pierre moved behind you as you turned toward the mirror. His reflection hovered just behind yours, close but not touching, his hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket. His eyes weren’t on the bag.

They were on you.

You lifted the strap over your shoulder, letting it fall against your side. You adjusted it. Met your own gaze. And for the first time in a long time, you saw yourself not as someone asking for too much, but as someone who had simply waited too long to ask for enough.

Pierre tilted his head slightly, watching your face. “That’s the version of you he was afraid of,” he murmured.

You met his eyes in the mirror. “Why?”

“Because she doesn’t need him to approve of her.” The air between you shifted...heavier, but not suffocating. Electric in its quiet honesty.

“I feel like I’m doing something wrong,” you admitted.

Pierre’s voice was barely above a whisper. “You’re not.” You looked down at the bag. Then back at yourself. Then at him.

“I want to stop apologising,” you said.

“Then stop.”

You exhaled, shaky but steady.

He stepped closer, his presence solid behind you now. Not touching. Just there. Like he always had been, when you were allowed to laugh, and dance, and want things just because they made you happy.

“Let this be the first thing,” he said, softer now. “The first thing that’s just for you.”

You didn’t respond right away.

But you didn’t take the bag off, either.

_____

PierreGasly

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PierreGasly Giving her everything you could never...

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_____

Pierre’s apartment was quiet but far from empty. The faint hum of the city outside was a soft contrast to the stillness inside. You sat on the edge of the sofa, your thoughts heavy with the week that had passed...the photos he’d sent to your boyfriend, the social media posts with the caption “giving her everything you could never,” the way everything had shifted so suddenly.

Pierre reached out, brushing a stray lock of hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering just a moment longer than necessary. His gaze held something unspoken, an invitation, or maybe a question you weren’t quite ready to answer.

You swallowed, feeling the weight of the last week settle over you like a fog. The photos. The messages. The silence from him. And yet, here you were, standing in his apartment, where everything felt both dangerously close and achingly uncertain.

“I saw the message you sent.”

He nodded, eyes trained on yours. “I meant it. He needed to see.” A flicker of something...pride, possessiveness, relief?...passed over Pierre’s face.

“He did.” Your heart tightened. You knew Pierre didn't like him, the difference know was that you were done making excuses for him. You weren’t sure if you hated or needed the way he flaunted it on social media, the caption sharp as a knife: ‘Giving her everything you could never.’ It was bold. Defiant. A challenge wrapped in care.

Pierre moved to pour two glasses of wine, handing one to you. “How are you holding up?” he asked softly.

You took the glass, fingers trembling just a little. “Conflicted. Angry. A little scared.”

He settled beside you on the couch, close enough that his warmth seeped through your clothes. “Good,” he said, surprising you. “Because that means you’re feeling. And feeling means you’re alive. And alive means you’re ready.”

Ready for what, you weren’t sure. But as you looked into his steady eyes, the possibility of something different ...something better... flickered faintly within you. Neither of you said anything for a long moment. The silence was expectant, thick with everything left unspoken.

Finally, Pierre broke it, voice low and almost hesitant. “You know, I first really felt it that night we kissed… at that party, when we were sixteen. Drunk, reckless… like nothing else mattered.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “That long ago?”

He gave a slow, almost rueful smile. “Yeah. I remember it like it was yesterday. It wasn’t just the alcohol. It was you. Suddenly, everything shifted... everything I thought about us, about what we were.”

Your throat tightened. “I thought it was just a dare. I never imagined you felt the same.”

Pierre reached out and took your hand gently, his thumb brushing your skin in a quiet reassurance. “I didn’t say anything back then. I was scared... scared of ruining what we had. But that moment… it stuck with me. Even when I tried to ignore it.”

You shifted slightly, the wine warming your hands and loosening your thoughts. “It’s just… everything feels so tangled. Like I’m stuck between wanting to burn it all down and hoping somehow it can still be fixed.”

Pierre’s eyes softened, but there was a fire beneath them. “You don’t owe him anything anymore. Especially not at the cost of your own happiness.”

You met his gaze, and the vulnerability between you made the space feel smaller, more intimate. “But what if letting go means losing something important?”

He reached out, his fingers brushing your hand, steady and sure. “Sometimes, the things you’re holding onto aren’t helping you move forward. Sometimes, you need to choose what’s best for you.”

Your breath hitched. It wasn’t just the wine. It was the truth in his words... raw and undeniable.

Pierre’s hand slid up your arm, warm and grounding. “I want to be there with you. Not to erase the past, but to help you find what makes you happy.”

You looked away for a moment, overwhelmed by the intensity of the moment, by everything that had led you here.

“Why me?” you whispered.

“Because you deserve to be cherished, to be wanted in every way,” he said, voice thick with feeling. “Because I see you. The real you. And I want to give you everything you never had.”

You felt a rush of something fierce and fragile all at once. The fear, the hope, the anger, all tangled up with something daringly close to hope.

Pierre leaned in, his forehead resting lightly against yours. “No more apologies. No more holding back. Just you… and me. Starting now.”

You closed your eyes, the weight of the past week the photos, the silence, the aching doubt dissolving, just a little, in the space between his words and your breath.

I'M BACK!!!!!! I'm sorry y'all, I know its been like forever, but that writers block hit HARD...and then I went to the MotoGP and something clicked. ALSO! I'm going to the British GP in July!!! Hopefully i'll be seeing you around 🥰 - E x

[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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[mikanferno]

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.

He tried not to think too hard.)

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

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.

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

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

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.

[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

[holdmecloser-gandydancer]

birthday blues

read here or on ao3

“—And I’m telling you that Lord Artemis Sterling is not only a personal family friend, but I am one of the literal saviors of the universe. Uh-huh. Yeah. Yeah from the song. No, that’s my sister. “ Taako pulls the stone away from his face and groans. He rolls his eyes at Lup. “I’m being incredibly brave right now,” he says, covering the stone with his hand. 

Lup closes the book she was attempting to read and tosses it aside on the couch. She strides over to the stool Taako has taken to slumping on whilst trying this verbal sparring match and pats him on the shoulder as a glowing support of solidarity. Spying a patch of red hair on the back deck, she steps out of the almost too cold house and into the midsummer heat. 

She finds Davenport in the midst of what appears to be a game of solitaire.

“Mind if I hide out here with you?” she asks. Technically more of a formality, she supposes, given that she lives here. But Davenport’s been withdrawn into himself lately. Feels impolite to just drop in on him. 

His back is to the door, though he nods at an empty deck chair. “You don't need to ask permission to sit on your deck, you know.” His eyes stay on the cards, seeing some kind of pattern in the haphazard array. 

She shrugs, dropping into the seat across from him. The two sit in silence for a bit, the only noise coming from Davenport’s shuffling around of card piles. 

“What's he even doing? He's been at it all morning. I could only take so much of hearing his end of the conversation over my coffee before I came out here.” Davenport condenses a few piles down into even fewer piles. 

Lup pulls her knees to her chest, picking at the small hole in the knee of her pants. “He's planning this massive birthday party for us. Says that since this is our first together in a decade, it should be some kind of rager.”

Davenport exhales a laugh. “I remember when you and Taako insisted on celebrating your entire birth month during more than a few cycles.” 

“And you just went along with it!”

He picks his eyes up from the cards and smiles, “I'm highly motivated by cake, you know this! Shit, I still think about that delicious lemon and blueberry cake that Lu—” He stops himself, almost like he's been electrocuted. 

“‘The two of you shouldn't have to make your own birthday cake,’” Lup says, a near exact mimic of Lucretia’s tone. It really was a scrumptious cake, too. Ugly as sin, but only Taako had the heart to tell her so. Everyone else just wanted to spare her feelings. 

“Do you hate her?” Lup isn’t sure where this bluntness came from. Now isn’t the time. It’s never the time. 

“Do you?” Davenport’s head snaps up abruptly. 

“No,” She says immediately. After a few seconds, she amends her statement. “Yes. It’s…it’s not that easy. I asked you first.” 

He brings the cards back together to form a single deck and begins shuffling with the same automatic ease and speed that amazed Lup a hundred years ago. “I have so much anger inside of me, Lup. So much that it scares me. And this isn’t new, to be clear. Before I was in the IPRE, I got into my fair share of tavern brawls. I fought over stupid shit just to maybe get that anger out of me. It didn’t work.” He shakes his head as he makes a bridge with the cards. “It worked for a little bit. When we first started training for the mission, I felt so much joy, so much pride in our team that I thought it was going to split me open. And then we got the shit kicked out of us over and over again. I knew it was making me angry, but being struck down for wrath really put it in perspective for me. But knowing that we finally won and finally got to rest did a lot of good for me.” He begins dealing out another game. “And then she took it away. She took away everything that we worked for because she was a child who didn’t know how to deal with being told no. So I think maybe we’ve earned hating her.” He bites at the inside of his cheek and looks into the middle distance. 

Lup knows this expression well. After everything, talking too much became a bit more of a struggle for Davenport. He carries it well, all things considered. But she’s sure that’s just another tally against Lucretia. And it should be. 

“I spent a lot of time being angry in the staff. Most of my time in there, actually. Mostly at myself. And at the Hunger. And at all of you for not finding me. And at Lucretia, when I realized why none of you found me.” Errant pant threads get ripped off and dropped on the table. “I had thought that I’d done a lot of working through this shit in there. But then I got out and I really wanted to just fireball us all to the Nine Hells and back. Burn it all down so these poor bastards could start over without us. That wouldn’t have done shit though. So I got a job and I have this house with my brother and my husband and Kravitz and an obscene number of cats and I do my best to keep the peace between everyone because it can’t just be Magnus or Merle doing it but someone has to do it because we didn’t go through the meat grinder for 100 years for us to all hate her until she dies.” Lup runs her hands through her hair, tugging close to her scalp. “We fucking won and we’re just throwing away everything we fought for.”

“I don’t see the point in lying. She knows how I feel. How most of us feel.” 

“I’m not suggesting that you lie, Cap. I’m suggesting that you just consider finding a way that you can stand to be around her for a few hours. You don’t need to play pattycake and paint each other’s nails, but if you could not shoot daggers at her so she has reason to look like a kicked dog, I think it’d do us all some good.” 

“Right, gotta make sure everyone’s on their best behavior for this big birthday bash,” Davenport says flippantly. 

Lup smacks the table with an open palm, causing some of “I couldn’t care less about this stupid fucking party I want no part of!” A few birds in the backyard fly away on the wind of her outburst. “Everyone keeps talking about how this is so beautiful, mine and Taako’s first birthday together in ten years and I just don’t care.  I don’t want everyone staring at me. People who heard the story so they think they know me. Telling me how inspiring they find me. Who fucking cares? I don’t want to be an inspiration, I just want peace and quiet. I want to sleep in and eat dessert for breakfast and breakfast for dinner and not leave the house.” She shakes her head and looks into the yard. “Besides, you really think Taako’s letting Creesh in the house? That’s blasphemy inside those four walls.”

Davenport is quiet for a while. For a moment, Lup’s sure he’s just up and vanished into the mist or whatever it is men of a certain age do. But there he sits, steadfast and contemplative. It strikes Lup in that moment how much grey has crept into his hair; the unassailable captain looks so tangible, so fragile to Lup for the first time. 

Through the glass door, Lup spies Taako watching the pair of them curiously; must have been a little louder than she thought. She puts a finger up to her lips and then nods at one of the empty chairs. Taako quietly pulls the door open and pads onto the deck. Davenport barely glances behind him before nodding.

“My family never made a huge deal out of birthdays. The money usually wasn’t there. And I kept that attitude. Just another day and all that. And then when we were on the mission, the years blended into each other. I liked that. Didn’t have to dodge’s Magnus’s terrible attempts at subtly to see if I wanted new slippers. Didn’t have to admonish Barry’s incredibly unsafe fireworks because he thought that spells just weren’t the same because you couldn’t smell the chemicals hanging in the air after. Didn’t have to excuse myself to cry at cards and watercolor paintings of places I’d never get to see again. Just another day. And then I had the single worst birthday of my life, worse than when Faust Ironwood dumped me during my seventeenth birthday party. That’s a very big unseating, I’ll have you know,” He says blithely. He doesn’t elaborate and he doesn’t need to. Everyone alive knows all about Davenport’s worst birthday, lucky guy. “When it was just her and me, even before she got the Bureau off the ground, she tried to make it some kind of positive day. Even through all of that,” he waves his hand around abstractly, “I couldn’t stand it. I think I poured orange juice in her shoes over it.” 

“Waste of good orange juice, especially that late in the season,” Lup says, the barest hint of a smile on her face. 

“Should’ve sprung for sand. That shit stays in shoes until the heat death of the universe, I’m pretty sure.” Taako says, folding into an empty chair.  He looks over at Davenport. “Is that why you were in the middle of the ocean on your birthday this year?” 

He shrugs. “Nobody can ambush me with a cake if I’m alone on a boat. ” 

“You underestimate us,” Lup says ominously. 

“Besides,” he continues, “I’m with you, Lup, I can’t face all these people expecting this perfect happiness from me. I can’t celebrate with anyone from the Bureau. They knew me as a mascot and as a butler and try as they might, they don’t know what to do with me. Anytime they try to be deferential, it skeeves me out. They don’t know me. They can’t. I really don’t want them to, for that matter. I don’t want to get close to anyone. I don’t need more friends. I can barely keep up with the ones I have. Last thing I need is people trying to figure out what I want. I’d get stuck with ties and you both know how much I fucking hate wearing ties.” 

“I get it. I haven’t done shit for our birthday in—” Taako squints in thought for a moment. “‘Bout a decade.” 

“You what?” Lup demands. 

Taako raises his eyebrows. “Lup, I never even told anyone my birthday. Not my real one, anyway. I just used the idea of a birthday to get free shit sometimes. Angus fucking sleuthed out my birthday once and I hated it,” he says, not entirely truthfully. He shakes his head. “It just. My birthday, at least how I remembered it, always felt like torture. Then I realized I didn’t have to do it. So I just stopped.” 

“Then why are we renting out the entire Sword Coast for our birthday this year?” Lup’s exasperated. Once a fucking gain, she’s the victim of miscommunication and it pisses her off. 

Taako searches her face for…something. He’s looking at her and it’s the same look he gave their grandpa when he told them the real story about the tooth faerie and about how the tooth fae ate through enamel of people lost in the Feywild while they slept. The look almost says “take it back, you can take this knife you buried in my chest back and I won’t even be mad at you I promise.” 

“Lup, I thought you wanted this. I mean, it’s been so long. You’re…you’re back. This is a triumph and we didn’t get to celebrate because we were worried about not letting the embodiment of apathy vore the plane.” 

She sighs. “I don’t need the whole world to throw me a parade. I have everyone I love back and all I want to do is make up for lost time.” 

Taako smiles, a little sheepish. “Guess I should call and apologize to Lord Artemis Sterling’s secretary.” 

Lup nods. “Might be a good use of your time.” 

Davenport bites at the skin around his thumbnail, an old habit reborn like some kind of gross zombie. Everyone has their vices and, he supposes, he could have worse ones. “How about dinner? Merle’s been begging to have everyone over, especially because Chesney’s is about to open. Maybe we can do a potluck?” 

“Who’d be there?” Lup asks cautiously. Taako glances between the two of them. 

“Everyone? Not everyone everyone, but the crew? Kravitz. Anyone else you both really want. It’ll be nice to have a family dinner. Almost like old times.” Davenport suggests. It feels like he ate fiberglass insulation, but the light that rushes back into Lup’s eyes is almost enough to make up for it. 

“Everyone.” Taako agrees, surprising himself. “I don’t know about you, but I’m dying for a good lemon blueberry cake.” 

Lup grins. “Me too.” 

[duchessonfire]

Savior Carl!AU re-read Part 2 Chapter 7

Follow-up of my re-read of Part 2 Chapter 6. If you're not interested and don't want to have your dashboard spammed, you can block the tags Duchess reads and Savior Carl AU reread.

Commentary for Part 2, Ch 7 below the cut (spoilers for part 2 ahead):

So, I completly forgot I was in the middle of this re-read. Life has been insane. I moved apartments, interviewed for a bunch of jobs and got a new one all in the span of 3 months and it's in a different city from where I got an apartment, so I've been a bit distracted. But now things should calm down enough for me to enjoy the summer and (hopefully) get some writing done.

In the meantime, let's pick up where we left off.

Negan might call it watch duty but they all know it’s nothing more than a punishment, to force Carl to stand for entire afternoons in the suffocating heat, with nothing to do but count down the minutes until he can finally get back inside. The roof might be out in the open, but it’s as much a cell as the small broom closet downstairs.

There's currently a heatwave in my town with temperatures as high as 38°C (100 F) so I really feel for Carl.

Also, it's something that's always been important to me to think about Negan's punishments for Carl. With other Saviors or even the workers, it's straightforward enough: he has them beaten up or killed. With women, like Amber or Sasha, we saw that it was more about psychological warfare, most specifically by making them watch as he hurt the people they care about (Mark, people in Alexandria). With Carl, though, the punishments have to be creative, specifically because Carl keeps adapting to them. Carl is a challenge for Negan, a never ending puzzle, and it's of course something that Negan loves: always finding new ways to keep Carl on his toes.

“Shit. Mara still keeping her damn lemonade in your fridge after taking your job? What a cunt,” Ahmed scoffs. He pops the cap of his beer and takes a long swing of it before glancing at Carl conspirationally. “Want me to piss in it? Would serve her right, uptight lil’ bitch.”

I think I said this before but one of my favorite thing about this AU is bringing the Sanctuary and the Saviors to life. The series always took the easy way out by depicting the Saviors as cartoon villains but I think aside from a few sociopaths (*cough* Simon *cough*), a lot of Saviors are just regular people who flocked to Negan for safety. The problem, however, is that Negan has a nose for the sociopaths and then systematically promotes them (with Gavin as the main exception).

Claudia is one of the few workers allowed off the ground floor, but he’s pretty sure that privilege is only granted so she can take care of the wives, not sneak into the Saviors’ sleeping quarters at night.

Though I talk shit about canon a lot, there are a few details I really liked about Sanctuary, like the fact that the workers are confined to the ground floor. It's another way that we see how Negan segregates between the different castes of the Sanctuary. The Saviors are the warrior caste and can roam freely while the workers are the servant caste and can never access the stairs without permission (which leads to their attempted revolt in "the big scary U" episode when the workers come up the stairs and demand to know Negan's whereabouts).

“It’s not much but I was making some for the girls and I… I just wanted to thank you for trying to help Mark. I feel terrible for what happened to that poor boy. Mara told Negan about him missing his shift and when he asked me, I—I couldn’t lie,” she confesses. “I heard what he said that day, about you trying to cover for Mark, and I just felt so guilty. You tried to do that right thing while me…” Her voice trails as she averts her eyes, shoulders slumping. “I’m not very brave.”

There's no proof for this in canon but it feels very likely that Negan's system, like all authoritarian systems, would rely on delation and snitching. I always assume that Negan has a network of spies among Sanctuary, among both the Saviors and the workers, and that those spies are handsomely compensated for their loyalty, like Mara who was sent to an outpost to be a second-in-command there.

"I wish I could have gotten you more, but I kept most of them for Amber. It’s the only thing she eats these days.” “How is she?” Carl asks before he can think better of it. Amber got herself into this mess and he shouldn’t care about her wellbeing. Don’t be soft, Negan’s voice growls in his ear, sending a cold shiver down his spine.

The eagle-eyed among you will notice that as we move through the series, Carl will hear Negan's voice more and more, showing that Negan's influence is slowly surpassing Shane's in his mind.

Claudia tells him, “She’s drinking too much. Barely eats anything. Negan was there this morning and she was still throwing up from the night before. He was angry,” she whispers, her eyes darting around like the man himself might jump out from under the bed. “He threatened to divorce her, send her back to the main floor with her mom. Said he would send Mark there too, put them all on the same job. The poor girl just sobbed her eyes out all day. I wish Sherry was still here,” Claudia sighs. “She always knew exactly what to say to him, to calm him down. The others, they try to protect Amber, but I’m not sure they’re helping. So far all they’ve done is make him angrier.”

To go back to the caste system, the wives are a caste of their own, one which is in many ways worse than the workers or the Saviors because they know that they're isolated and despised. The workers and the Saviors both envy the luxury and safety that they have and, until Carl got here, I think the wives are especially on the receiving end of Negan's temper. I can imagine him visiting them whenever he's bored and toying with them, going from charming to cruel to kind, blowing hot and cold until they're always on edge, never knowing how he'll behave toward them. I also always imagine Sherry as an unofficial leader among them, the one who protects them but also the one who Negan toys with the most.

This all changes of course when Carl arrives, making him the new favorite.

“You know, I’ve been here longer than anyone else,” Claudia tells him, shaking him from his guilt-ridden thoughts. “When it all started, the national guard moved my family to a camp near Arlington. Me, my son and his wife. We stayed there for a while, but then the overcrowding got too much so the army moved some of us again, here, to this factory. We were only supposed to wait for an escort before going further out, to some college town, but the escort never came. So the army men, they took charge.”

I'll admit that I have ambivalent feelings about this long passage. I needed a backstory for Negan and the Sanctuary (since neither the comics nor the series ever gave us info) and I am happy with the whole "army takes over and becomes corrupted" thing. It's something TWD rarely mentioned (no doubt because the USA doesn't like to give its military a bad rep) but that always felt like the most likely outcome. In times of crisis, the army would have the most weapon, the most access to ressources and the most authority. In the case of a collapse of the government, this can only lead to disaster. I recently watched 28 Days Later, a zombie movie from the UK with the exact same premise as TWD, a man wakes up from a coma to find the world has ended (which apparently inspired the comics), and there's a very corrupt military group in it, which only confirmed my belief that the military would not be a force for good in an apocalypse.

However, I'm still not entirely sure that the whole, "Gloria tells Carl everything that lead to Negan taking over" was the best way to do it. This passage still feels very heavy and convulated to me, and I think I could have definitely gone to the point faster. However, I'm way too lazy to change it, so it will just have to stay that way (also those of you who have watched Dead City will notice I included the Croat!)

She stays silent for a second, before looking Carl straight in the eyes. “I know how he is. Who he is. But Malone and his men, they were worse. At least Negan has principles. Water is free. He protects the children, and he doesn’t let anyone hurt the women. And the point system isn’t so bad if you put in the work. Amber and the others… They don’t know any better. But I do. I remember how it was before him. Things are not perfect, but—if we all follow the rules, it will be alright,” she finally says, and he doesn’t know who she is trying to convince more, Carl or herself.

This is something that has always been important to me: taking on the pov of everyone at Sanctuary and look for how they might perceive Negan. For some, like Tanya and Frankie, Negan is the worst villain, and he needs to be killed. For others, however, like Claudia here, Negan is the lesser of two evils. A man who has terrible flaws, yes, but still someone with limits and who can be reasoned with.

Carl looks quizzically at the small piece of paper that Carson is handing him, folded in two like a secret school note. “Why don’t you do it yourself?” Carson fumbles for a moment, the paper trembling between his long and bony fingers. “Well—I… You see… I—It’s my knees. I’m not getting any younger, and it’s just so many stairs.”

I do love making Carson the comic relief of the Sanctuary. That man has a spine like a wet spaghetti.

“Seriously?” he asks, making no attempt to hide his disdain. Carson drops his pretenses and starts pleading, “He likes you, I can tell. He’s spent more medical resources on you than on anyone else here. Even if he gets angry at you, you’ll probably be fine.”

Ok, I know I make fun of Carson a lot, but he's more observant than most and is probably the first person in Sanctuary to realize that Carl and Negan's relationship is very much non-platonic.

He seriously considers just slipping the list under the door and running for the hills, but the weak part of him, the one that has been counting the days since he last saw Negan, that part longs to have the man’s attention on him again, even just to get berated and possibly beaten to a pulp.

This story always is and always will be about Carl's obsession with Negan. Baby boy is addicted to the most toxic relationships.

Negan scoffs into his glass and then sighs frustratedly.

“I swear to God, kid, you’re the only one in this entire fucking place who knows how to take punishment like a man. You, you’ve spent the past five days up on that roof, sweating your brains out, probably wishing you could just shank me in my sleep. But do I hear you giving me shit for it? No. Because you know you deserved it. You fuck up, you pay up, that’s how it works. Punishment is how we built everything, and without it, we’ll lose everything all over again. Fucking hell,” he mutters before gulping down the rest of his drink.

This moment, while very brief, encapsulates why Carl and Negan are the perfect storm. Negan, in many ways, shared Shane's world view. If you make a mistake, you need to get punished before things get back to normal. It's how Shane gaslit Carl and basically brainwashed him for 4 years, to the point that Carl comes to crave punishment. It's of course what makes him the perfect soul mate for Negan, and it's another way Shane seasoned, marinated and roasted Carl before serving him up to Negan on a silver platter.

He gets up, pours himself another, and then just brings the bottle back with him on the couch. He takes a big swig before continuing, “The wives have been on a sex strike ever since Mark’s little boo-boo and I’ve started to develop a serious case of blue balls. I bust my ass too much around here to have to rub one out in the shower,” he grumbles. Without asking, he reaches over the coffee table and tips up Carl’s already full glass, before finally meeting his eye with a leer. “How is it goin’ for you in that department, by the way? Is little Carl Jr all raw and chaffed?”

One of my favorite things about Negan in canon is how often he talks about sex and masturbation. He's a schoolboy in the body of an adult man and I love it. I think JDM himself in an interview said Negan is the embodiment of the overgrown jock/fraternity brother.

Catching his dumbfound look, Negan sobers up. “Shit. Right. I really shouldn’t be having that type of conversation with you anymore. Especially not when I’m pissed and horny. Fuck,” he rubs his brow with a wince. “Alright, kid. This was a bad idea. I think you should let me get shitfaced in peace before I say something we’re both going to regret.” Carl starts to set the list and glass down obediently, but then wavers at the last second. He doesn’t know why exactly. Maybe it’s being finally close to Negan again after all these days, being allowed in the inner circle of his room once more, hearing his troubles and complaints, like Carl is someone important enough to be a confident. Maybe it’s Negan’s praise that he’s different from everyone else at Sanctuary, that he understands the rules better than others, like he got all the answers right on the test, a true teacher’s pet in a class full of misbehaving children. Or maybe it’s just the heat of the sun beating down on him for the past five days getting to his head at long last. The reason doesn’t really matter. What matters is that he doesn’t want to leave yet, not if he can help it. Not when he can stay and bask in Negan’s intoxicating presence a little while longer. Slowly, Carl looks down at the glass in front of him, the dark liquid inside it. He takes another sip. The bitter liquor still burns, its taste smoky and acrid, but he’s prepared for it this time and doesn’t cough. Settling back into the plush armchair, he answers before he can think too much about it, “It’s going.” Negan’s head whips up, his hand half-frozen in front of his stunned face, like Carl just veered off script without warning.

Sorry for quoting this whole passage but this is such a pivotal moment, I couldn't cut it. It was very important to me that Carl and Negan's first time be 100% consensual and not at all planned by Negan. I didn't want their first time to be something that Negan worked toward because I really wanted to show that Negan was respectful of Carl's virginity. Negan skirts the line and flirts with Carl a lot, but he also knows what Carl has been through with the Claimers. If the Claimers hadn't happened, Negan would have likely seduced Carl after some time (perhap a few years, to make himself feel better about Carl's age) but because Carl was almost raped, Negan doesn't want to push. As a consequence, he often forgets himself and needs to be reminded of Carl's boundaries.

In front of him, Negan’s bewilderment grows into confusion, his eyebrows furrowing like Carl is a problem he just can’t solve. He stays silent and still as Negan watches him intently, eyes searching for a clue, for an answer key. Carl has nothing to give him, unable to say what prompted him to finally put a toe in the ring after being an observer for so long. Maybe it has to do with Claudia’s story. Maybe it's just that Carl is rotten from the inside, spoiled beyond any hope for salvation. Whatever the reason is, Negan seems to find what he is looking for anyway, that cheat sheet they both need, because his expression turns understanding, then sly, the crow’s feet around his twinkling eyes crinkling as his lips stretch into a lascivious grin. He leans forward to peer at him, elbows on his knees, all but licking his chops. His leather jacket and baseball bat might be forgotten on the bed, but he has never looked more dangerous. “Oh yeah?” His voice is saccharine sweet, a gingerbread house meant to lure Carl closer. He doesn’t need the bait, already eating his way through the foyer anyway.

I'm gonna do my best not to quote everything but 1. I love that final metaphore of Hansel & Gretel. 2. this is another pivotal moment. Negan can't understand why Carl is suddenly reciprocating the flirting, until he does. Because Negan always suspected that Carl was attracted to him (Carl is obsessed with him after all) but because Negan is so dominant, it was easy for him to pretend it wasn't the case, that Negan's lust was unrequited. It helped him step away from the edge in those moments when he flirted with Carl a bit too hard.

“Yeah,” Carl answers, trying very hard to seem nonchalant. He takes another sip of his drink, willing himself to get past the burning sensation, but then almost chokes when Negan suddenly shoots up from his seat and comes around the coffee table to stand right in front of him. For a second, Carl feels hyperaware of the fact that Negan’s belt is right in his line of sight, but his attention gets redirected as the man reaches out a hand and touches him directly, skin to skin, no bat or glove between them. His fingertips graze Carl’s jaw, too lightly to be called a caress, and he has to fight the need to arch into Negan’s hand like a cat.

I'm failing so bad at not quoting this whole part but re-reading it just reminded me how much I love it. Even though Negan is handsy, this is a very intimate touch and a direct echo of the other times Negan touched Carl's face/head (after Carl killed Shane when Negan brushed his cheek with his thumb and then after the Claimers when Negan wrapped a hand around the nape of Carl's neck). Negan will only touch Carl's face/neck when they're sharing an intimate and vulnerable moment, specifically because Carl's face is scarred with the bullet he took to save Negan's life.

“I’m gonna propose something here, and you’re completely free to say no. You’re not into it, I’ll just send you out and we’ll pretend it never happened. No muss, no fuss. Got it?” The small part of his brain that hasn’t liquified completely from Negan’s hand on him is intrigued by his unexpectedly serious tone, so Carl nods. Negan’s fingers on his jaw follow the movement, a barely perceptible point of contact that he feels like a brand. “The wives have been blue-balling me for days so I’m desperate for a fuck. And I’ve been wanting to get you in my bed since…” Negan seems to lose his rhythm, squinting at a distant point above Carl’s head. “Shit, I don’t even know when I started getting hard-ons for you. Maybe when you played whack-a-mole with Shane’s brain. Or some time around that. Doesn’t matter,” he says, looking back down at Carl. “It’s been going on for a while, is what I’m tryin’ to say. So… What do you think? You into it?” Carl’s heart and stomach are doing somersaults inside him, flipping and twisting and knocking all of his organs around. He never thought he’d actually get to hear Negan fully acknowledge this strange sensual thing between them. Until then, Carl had been stranded in limbo, never fully knowing whether the man toyed with him like he did everyone else, or if the particular mind games he played with Carl had a different purpose, if Negan was pulling him in a specific direction. Carl had blindly followed him until now, trying to convince himself that the fire that burned in his chest was one-sided. But this, hearing the man actually state his wants, plainly, without joke or banter or half-truths, it feels like uncharted territories, like going deeper into unknown waters, past the point where his toes still touch the ground. A small, desperate, needy voice inside him wants to say yes, and hell to the consequences, wants to keep following Negan wherever he may lead, to discover everything the man has to offer; but the bigger, more rational part of Carl knows that this is a dangerous line to cross. “I’m not asking to get your ass for free,” Negan adds, as if in answer to Carl’s hesitation. “Nothing here is free, you know that. If I get something, you get something too. It can be anything. Stuff for you, for your room, for your town… I’m open to negotiations. Just name your price.”

Another too long quote but I really wanted to highlight all of this passage. I started writing the smut scene between Carl and Negan almost as early as part 1 (so three years before part 2) and I knew from the beginning that Carl and Negan's first time would be transaction. The whole "I get something, you get something" was always how I imagined their sexual relationship developing because Negan is an uber-capitalism who thinks of everything in transactional term. Moreover, Negan is used to thinking of sex as currency. It's a way for him to enjoy physical intimacy while still keeping his partner at arm's length and guarding his heart that is still broken over Lucille.

I'm not necessarily satisfied with everything I write but this start of Carl and Negan's sexual relationship will always be my favorite because it's very in character for them both. Negan needs to put a price tag on everything while Carl is basically a sponge who adopts the worldview of whatever Alpha male is around (Shane before, and now Negan) so that he never questions whether Negan offering to pay him for sex is a good or bad thing. He just accepts it as normal.

“Thank you,” Carl says, and he’s never meant it more. “You’re welcome,” Negan answers, gentlemanly, like Carl is a neighbor who just knocked on his door to borrow some sugar and not an eighteen-year-old in over his head who just gambled away his virginity. They both get quiet, sat in front of each other, the coffee table between them like a no man’s land. Now what? Carl wants to ask. He doesn’t know if he should move, if he should go to the four-poster bed, or get up and join Negan on the couch. He swallows, hard, and closes his shaking hands into fists over his knees. He waits for Negan to give him a cue, an order, but nothing comes. The man just keeps toying with his glass, his eyes on Carl but his mind visibly elsewhere. Carl starts to fear Negan is having second thoughts, that he has reconsidered whether Carl’s scrawny, freckled body is worth negotiating over after all, when he suddenly downs his drink in one go and sets it sharply on the table. “So,” the man smirks, leaning back on the couch, his legs spreading open. Carl follows the movement with his eye, mesmerized. “Wanna show me how you’ve been using my gift?”

In case you're curious, Negan is thinking about what to do with Carl. Obviously he wants to fuck him more than anything but he's also aware of the fact that Carl spooks easily so he settles for masturbation instead, figuring that it will be enough to scratch his itch.

He tries to imagine it, opening his pants and touching himself while Negan watches, but the sheer obscenity of it threatens to melt his brain and he can feel himself get shy, like it took all the bravado he has to even make it this far into the conversation and now he’s running on fumes. He croaks out, “No.” “That’s fine,” Negan shrugs, like he expected it. “Wanna watch me instead?” This proposition is no less indecent than the other, but somehow, Carl’s curiosity wins over his fluster. When he tries to imagine it, it’s easier, having already seen Negan in various states of undressed. The man has shed more and more of his layers around Carl in the past months, discarding his leather jacket first, then his boots and socks, until that night he saw him with Frankie in nothing but unzipped pants and a navy-blue underwear. This would be the final piece to complete the puzzle. Yes, he wants to say, but his tongue is tied so he nods instead. Negan doesn’t lose any time and starts unfastening his belt. “You want me to stop, you just say the word and I’ll stop. No repercussions, no consequences, you and I will be a-okay, alright? This is supposed to make both of us feel good, nothing more, nothing less.”

Negan is an exhibitionist and no one can convince me otherwise. The man loves to put on a show and be the centre of attention.

The first thing Carl sees is the patch of black and wiry hairs on his pubis, followed by the base of his cock, plump and shockingly bare. When it all comes into view, Carl realizes that it is uncut, and it throws him off, so used to his own body that Negan’s idiosyncrasy appears both mysterious and alluring, like the promise of a reward inside a puzzle box.

Did I discover an uncut kink while writing the Savior AU? Possibly... I was mainly trying to find a way to make writing this voyeuristic moment interesting and I got the idea of Carl being fascinated by the difference between his and Negan's body. It all sort of... snowballed from there.

He pulls open the drawer of the bedside table, revealing a small plastic bottle, sleek and discreet, a far cry from the ostentatious body lotion he gave Carl. There are other things there. Tissues, and dirty magazines featuring women with sultry eyes and pouty lips, as well as long pieces of soft-looking fabric, like ropes but less sturdy. He doesn’t know what they are for, and that plus the women looking back at him on the glossy paper only reminds him how absurdly out of place he is, both in Negan’s room and in Negan’s mind.

In case you're wondering, yes, someone is getting tied up during sex at some point 😏

Also, I started writing this post last night at home but now I'm on my lunch break in the library break room and I wanted to keep going with this re-read on my phone but Tumblr app kept deleting what I was writing so I've now full-out taken my computer to write a re-read of smut in the break room. My back is to the wall so hopefully no one will see my screen.

Moving on:

Want, Carl realizes, for the first time with perfect clarity. All those times, Negan had been looking at him with want in his eyes. It’s a vertiginous epiphany, to finally grasp that they have been dancing around each other for so long, toeing the line of the heated attraction that Carl had thought one-sided, each time verging closer to the breaking point, always pulling back at the last second. In retrospect, it seems inevitable, for them to end up here, crossing that final frontier.

This paragraph is so important to me because it is the final conclusion of everything that par 2 has been leading up to: the sexual tension that had been boiling between them but also the fact that they finally understand each other. In many ways, this moment is also the mirror of the one earlier, when Carl got up to leave then changed his mind and sat back down to keep flirting with Negan. The confusion then revelation that Carl has is the same Negan had earlier. Before this scene, both Carl and Negan were puzzled by the other, thinking that there was no way the other could reciprocate their feelings. But now they've finally reached a level of understanding and they are now aware of the fact that other is as attracted to them as they are to the other. It's a point of no-return.

He tries to shift discreetly to bring himself some relief, not knowing how to put his weight so he won’t disturb Negan, the man still stroking himself with his eyes closed, his other hand caressing Carl’s knee. He swallows, but more saliva keeps pooling in his mouth. Now that he has finally taken notice of his own arousal, it’s too uncomfortable to ignore. Slowly and carefully, he removes one of his hands from the couch, feeling very much like a piece of bait that has been lowered into the cage of a sleeping lion, one wrong move away from a bloodthirsty end. Without a sound, he tries to adjust himself, just enough to get his straining cock at a better angle inside his pants, but he loses his balance for a second, and his hand automatically catches on Negan’s shoulder for support. Quick as lightning, Negan’s eyes fly open and the hand that was on Carl’s knee shoots up to grip him by the throat. It’s nothing like the times he clasped Carl on the back of the neck, gentle and supportive. This is a hold designed to choke, to strangle, and Carl freezes, his hand inert against Negan’s warm skin which radiates through his thin t-shirt. He has never touched Negan unprompted before. No one is allowed to—no one would dare to. Negan is the one who gets in people’s space, terrorizing workers and humiliating Saviors and courting his wives. Never the other way around. Against the palm of Negan’s hand, Carl’s pulse beats a frenzy, and it’s adamantly clear that the man can strangle him right here and there if he wants to, his hand big enough to wrap completely around his windpipe. They stay like that for a moment that is suspended in time, both perfectly still save for the panting of their breaths, Negan with one hand around Carl’s neck and the other around himself, Carl’s life hanging in the balance, a coin tossed and still spinning, head and tail flipping in a dizzying gyration. But, then, the coin must have landed somewhere, because Negan narrows his eyes and adjusts his grip on Carl’s neck, not letting go, but not constricting him either. Between their bodies, his other hand resumes its motions, slowly at first, then quickly gaining in speed. “Touch yourself,” Negan commands, and despite his imperious tone, Carl has never heard him sound like that, breathy and eager.

This post is so long already, I might as well give up and quote as much as I want. If you've made it this far, you should definitely take a break. Drink some water. Stretch your legs. Stop listening to my rambling.

Anyway, back to it. I needed to quote this entire scene because it's the first time that Carl touches Negan unprompted. It happens by accident, of course, because at this point Carl is nowhere confident enough to touch Negan willingly. But it's also a powerful moment because it shows everything that makes Savior Negan great: his god-like effect on other people (he can touch them but they can't touch him) as well as a glimpse of the man underneath the god mask (someone who is actually so guarded and touch-starved that any unplanned physical touch triggers an automatic fight). It also shows that Negan doesn't fully trust Carl until this moment, that he's used to being in control and keeping Carl at arm's length. When Carl touches him, Negan's first instinct is to think that Carl is trying to hurt him and so he immediately gets ready to strangle Carl.

But then, when Negan sees that Carl is just as surprised as he is, and when he realizes that Carl's touch is entirely innocent, that's when Negan relaxes, and when he instructs Carl to reciprocate, to make this a mutual masturbation and not just a voyeuristic session.

“Well, well, who knew that—” “Shut up,” Carl repeats, more confidently, and this time Negan doesn’t laugh, just does as he’s told. A spike of something sinuously intoxicating shoots through Carl. He has never given Negan an order before, and he certainly never believed the man capable of following it so diligently. Power. That’s what that heady feeling is. No wonder Negan gets off on it. They keep going, the both of them with their fists wrapped around their own lengths, Carl’s hand on Negan’s shoulder, Negan’s fingers on his neck, two points of contact that light a depraved fire in Carl’s belly.

First of all, let's get this out of the way: yes, Negan is surprised to see Carl is hung, lmao. Second point, this is another one of those times that will pop up more and more: that Carl finds power intoxicating. He might adore and worship Negan, but he's still turned on by the moments when he's the one wielding power and Negan is the one who listens and obeys.

It’s a shock, to feel Negan’s bare skin against his hand, and he gasps loudly. Negan chuckles, warm and fond, his breath smelling like whiskey. “Open your eyes, baby. Lookin’s the best part.”

This single line had been in the works for 3 years before I posted it, so I hope it delivers. I try to assign a pet name for Carl in each of my stories ("gorgeous" in the hooker Carl verse, "princess" in Loser Negan, "my prince" in Hippolyta, "Mama" of course in the Mama verse, etc.) and Savior Carl will always be "baby" to me, to the point where it's now hard for me to write Negan calling Carl "baby" in other stories. (Also for those of you wondering about future stories, I have "sweetheart" and "kitten" already lined up :) )

Below him, Negan’s fingers pry his fist open and he guides Carl’s hand to wrap around his own erection, still hot and pulsing. In a perfect mirror of what he did to Carl, he guides his fists in quick and rough motions over his dick, skin slippery with lube.

Negan using Carl's hand to jerk off will never not be hot to me. It's all about the control *Italian finger pinch*

There are stains on the hem of Negan’s shirt, chalky and rapidly drying against the otherwise pristine fabric, and Carl realizes that they’re from him, that he shot all over Negan. It feels blasphemous, to think that Negan let Carl mark him like that.

More power bottom!Carl for the masses.

He stares at Carl intently, caressing his lower lip with his thumb. Carl knows that look. It’s the expression Negan always has when he is considering something, weighing his options, calculating the costs of risks and rewards. It’s a look he has seen the man wear when Dwight gives him his reports at the end of each day, or when the Saviors discover a new building, a new town they have never seen before. It’s the look Negan had when Shane tried to convince him to let Carl become a Savior, and then later, when he was considering whether Carl had betrayed him and helped Shane and Sherry escape. It’s a cold, guarded look, and Carl waits for him to reach whatever conclusion his mind is carefully reviewing. But unlike all those other times, Negan’s eyes unexpectedly lose their sharp focus. He shakes his head, like he just hit a roadblock, and his gaze goes warm, liquid. He finally mutters, “Screw it,” and presses his lips to Carl’s.

I am so very happy with this moment, even re-reading it now. I always knew Carl and Negan would have sex before they kissed for the first time. It's another way Negan tries to keep Carl at arm's length, to retain control. Sex is transactional but a kiss is intimate in ways even Negan can't deny, which is why he's weighing the pros and cons carefully. In the end, though, Negan doesn't even reach a satisfying calculation. He just gives up and gives in to what he's wanted for a long time.

A sharp feeling zings through him but Negan is moving before he can identify it, his hands gripping Carl’s hips and carefully lifting him up and away from him, depositing Carl on the couch cushions before slowly getting to his feet. He pulls himself back inside his pants and zips up, the sound clear and deafening inside the silent room.

The eagle-eyed readers among you will notice that this particular moment is repeated again and again in part 3. After sex, Negan always moves Carl bodily or he gestures for Carl to moves off of him (usually by patting his thigh). This is because Negan always needs to put some distance between him and Carl after sex, because of all the complicated emotions he feels during it. We all know Negan is tactile, and I fully think with Lucille they'd cuddle for hours after sex, just holding each other and basking in the afterglow. But Negan has lost Lucille, the love of his life, and now for the first time the heart he thought had been turned to stone is beating and feeling again. It's terrifying, and though Negan isn't strong enough to fight the lust he feels for Carl, when the endorphins clear and the sex is done, he needs to put his guard up again, to feel in control again. This is of course quite shitty for Carl who is at his most vulnerable after sex and yet always gets denied the aftercare he craves.

After kneading for a few seconds, Negan’s hand trails up again, until his arm wraps around Carl’s shoulder, spinning him around and guiding him slowly to the door. “Go back to your room,” Negan says, and despite his amiable tone, it feels like an order. Carl wonders if everything that Negan says from now on will sound like a command to him. “Don’t stop to talk to anyone on the way, not unless you want them to see how utterly fucked out you look. Once you’re there, I want you to lock your door, take my gift, and jerk off until you come your silly little brains out again. Got it?” Carl nods in a daze, suspended to Negan’s every word. He sees the man’s smile soften, more condescending than predatory now that he is satiated. “Good boy,” Negan praises before ushering him out. It’s not until the door clicks softly behind him that Carl realizes he’s alone in the stuffy hallway.

This is the continuation of what I was saying earlier. Carl after sex is at his most malleable. He's sex-stupid and would literally do anything Negan asks without thinking about it, but instead of taking care of him, Negan sends him away.

Okay so about the ending: I always wanted the ending of part 2 to be a direct mirror of part 1. Part 1 ends with Carl affirming his independence from Shane ("I'm not your son") while Part 2 ends with Carl affirming his loyalty and fusion within Negan's world ("I'm Negan"). But I also wanted part 2, which so far has been threaded with flashbacks of Shane, to end with a reminder of why Carl is the way he is: because Shane was his entire world after his father died. In the apocalypse, Shane was the one pillar that made him feel safe and cared for, so Carl blindly devoted himself to Shane, even as his stepfather became less and less human. And that's the same thing that Carl does with Negan: gives himself entirely to him because Negan is the anchor that keeps him tied to shore, because Negan makes him feel safe and cared for, which is what the child part of him (the part that never grow up after his parents' death) craves.

Conclusion; Tldr: I'm very rusty picking up this re-read after months so my rambling is probably nonsensical and uncoherent. Thank you for sticking with it anyway. See in the re-read of part 3, chapter 1.

[twiishaa]

twisha’s merry christmas event! late night hot chocolate with suna rintarou *ੈ🎄✩‧₊

suna x fem!reader, post-timeskip, hurt/comfort! one day, when suna's walking home from his late-night practice, he sees your apartment light still on. when he gets there, he finds you a little overwhelmed from the hectic season. hot chocolate and late-night deep talks go hand in hand, or so suna says.

in typical december fashion, the days were getting colder, shorter and christmas was around the corner—so naturally, things were getting busier as well. suna’s final practice of the year ended a little ove 15 minutes ago; he was now walking home in the cold, wintery air. checking his phone, suna made a mental note of the time. god, he hadn’t seen you in ages.  your schedules hadn’t been lining up for the past few weeks, and so you’d only seen each other for the occasional, hastily planned lunch date that definitely didn’t pay justice to your relationship.

The route he took very conveniently passed your apartment. the middle blocker looked up at your apartment building. suddenly, your room’s window caught his attention; he peered up at it—why were the lights still on? it was well past midnight, usually you were asleep by then.

then it hit him. suna knew you very well. he knew that when you get slumped in work, you stay up to try and finish it. he knew that your job overwhelmed you sometimes, especially when it was nearing the end of the year.

he was the only one in the street, but the swift turn he took made him feel a little self-conscious. unconsciously, suna picked up his walking pace a little, fuelled by the thought of seeing you again, and also by his concern for you—he couldn’t stand seeing his girlfriend upset! and, if he had guessed wrong, well—at least he’d get to see your face after a gruelling practice.

—

the papers strewn all over your desk were testament to the amount of work you had left to do. the clock had already struck midnight, your eyes had grown tired hours ago. christmas was always busy for you, but for some reason this year felt the worst yet. on top of that, you were running low on sleep because of some party the people living on the floor below you decided to host. honestly, all you wanted to do was sleep. and see your boyfriend—you hadn’t seen him properly in months.

with a deep exhale, the substantial amount of work and pressure overwhelmed you—you felt a sting in your eyes, and a wetness down your cheek. for some reason, the clock’s monotonous ticking seemed to quicken, silently mocking your sorry state.

—

as if the gods had heard your cries, you heard a gentle knock on the door. it was suna. you were confused, but a wave of reassurance washed over you from just seeing him again. there were tears beginning to form in your eyes, but you held them back as best you could.

“hey rin, how come you’re here? did practice finish late?” you said, seeing as he was carrying his gym bag.

suna laughed a little. “yeah, it finished later today. just thought I’d say hi to my amazing, beautiful, girlfriend—is there anything wrong with that?”

now it was your turn to giggle. somehow, suna could always sense your mood, and make you laugh; it was one of the many things you loved about him.

once you two sat down, suna brought up what he originally came for.

“hey, you good? you’re usually not up this late unless you’re like, having an existential crisis or something,” he sounded light-hearted, but you could tell from his eyes that he was worried, that he really cared for you.

something clicked in you—his words resonated and the tears from earlier started to fall down your cheeks. suna placed a comforting hand on your back, gently moving it up and down.

his voice was breathy, almost like a whisper. “hey, hey, it’s alright; everything’s going to be alright,” you just curled up into his side.

“I don’t know, there’s just so much work, and not enough time,” your voice came out muffled by his jumper. “and I just feel like, seasonal depression, you know?” suna chuckled at your choice of words.

“I get it,” he said, ruffling your hair a little.

—

outside, the snow started falling. this year, there was supposed to be snow pretty much every day leading up to christmas—which gave suna an idea.

“hey, should we make some hot chocolate?”

you sat up, a little confused. “hot chocolate? now?”

suna nodded eagerly. “yeah, now—don’t you know hot chocolate and late-night deep talks go hand in hand?”

“uhhhh, no? nobody says that?”

“well, my hot chocolate skills are unmatched, and I need to flex. we’re making hot chocolate.” he started making his way to the kitchen. being left no choice, you followed him.

—

the hot chocolate did well to calm your nerves, and suna was right, his hot chocolate skills were ‘unmatched’.

you two snuggled up on the sofa, when suna took your hand and squeezed it a little

“if you.. you know, want to say anything more, you can,” he said, looking away. you could still tell from his averted gaze that his cheeks were pink. stretching over, you gave him a peck on the cheek.

“just you being here is enough, rin,” you beamed at him, causing suna to smile back, albeit blushing. “now, let’s watch home alone.” you turned to grab the remote.

“let’s.” suna replied. “but the second one, I’ve watched the first one too many times with the twins,”

you laughed.

suna always had some way of brightening your mood, and you were grateful for it. the ticking of the clock from earlier had grown so quiet, it was basically silence to you. all the christmas lights from outside flooded the room as a dim, ambient light. you turned to look at suna, focused on the movie.

what would you do without him? you wondered.

taglist @cherrysurf @catientie @d0milol

⋆⁺₊❅ and lastly, here's a link to the taglists! merry christmas~‧₊˚🎄✩ ₊˚🦌⊹♡

[cod-thoughts]

Team road trip!

Team road trip!!!! This one took a bit sorry non. Not feeling the most humorous right now but this really helped me get out of that actually so thank you!! Might turn this into a whole thing lol its so fun to think about. Also bullying soap is fun pffft

Continues under the cut :O

The van rattled as it hit another pothole, and Soap groaned, his head thunking against the window. “I’m tellin’ you, Cap, this van’s older than you are. Feels like it’s falling apart beneath us.”

Price shot him a glare from the driver’s seat. “The van’s fine. It’s you lot that are the problem.”

Gaz, squashed in the middle of the back seat between Soap and Ghost, leaned forward. “No offence, Captain, but who decided you’d be the driver? I thought Nik was supposed to do it.”

“Nik’s not here, is he?” Price grumbled, gripping the wheel a little tighter as he overtook a tractor. “And I don’t trust any of you muppets behind the wheel.”

“Oi!” Soap protested, elbowing Gaz for emphasis. “I’ve got a clean driving record!”

Ghost’s voice rumbled from the far end of the seat. “That’s because your car’s been in the shop for six months. Doesn’t count if you’re not driving.”

Soap turned, affronted. “Oh, right, and you’re Mr. Perfect on the road, are you? Bet you drive like a granddad.”

“I drive carefully,” Ghost replied, his tone deadpan. “Which is why I’ve still got my car.”

Gaz snorted, leaning back with a smirk. “Face it, Suds. If Ghost drives like a granddad, what does that make you? A learner?”

Before Soap could retort, the radio crackled to life as Price fiddled with the dial. “Let’s have some music,” he muttered, clearly done with the bickering.

Soap brightened immediately. “Good idea! Let me pick—”

“No,” Price said firmly, cutting him off.

Soap huffed. “What d’you mean ‘no’? I’ve got great taste!”

“That’s why you’re not touching it,” Price shot back, settling on a station playing old rock hits.

“Oh, brilliant,” Soap said sarcastically, slumping in his seat. “The greatest hits of 1975. What’s next, a lecture on your glory days?”

Gaz laughed, earning him a light thump on the shoulder from Price. “This is proper music, lads. Not like the rubbish you listen to.”

Ghost leaned his head against the window, his mask hiding what could have been either amusement or resignation. “It’s fine. At least it’s not Soap singing.”

“I’ll have you know,” Soap declared, sitting up straighter, “I’ve got the voice of an angel.”

“An angel that’s been gargling gravel,” Gaz quipped.

The van erupted into laughter, even Price cracking a smile. Soap scowled at them all, muttering something about “no appreciation for talent” as the van hit another bump.

“Right,” Price said, his voice loud enough to cut through the noise. “If I hear one more word about my driving or my music, you can all get out and walk.”

There was a beat of silence before Soap leaned forward. “Can I at least pick the snacks when we stop?”

“Not a chance,” Ghost said immediately, to which Gaz added, “Last time you picked, we ended up with nothing but fizzy sweets and crisps.”

“Perfect road trip food!” Soap argued.

“For a twelve-year-old,” Ghost muttered, earning another round of snickers.

Price sighed, shaking his head as the bickering started up again. “Next time,” he muttered under his breath, “I’m taking Nik. At least he doesn’t talk my bloody ear off.”

But as he glanced in the rear-view mirror at the team—Soap gesturing wildly, Gaz trying not to laugh, and Ghost silently staring out the window like he wasn’t secretly entertained—he found himself smiling.

Chaos or not, it wouldn’t be the same without them.

[m1ng1ology]

pyd .

hongjoong x black fem!reader

song : pyd by justin bieber

"after the club, in the parking lot. i don't care, anywhere, who could pick the spot, whatever. i'ma put you down, yeah. and all the way down, yeah"

warnings : studio sex, audio recording, oral sex fem! receiving, protected sex, curse words, praise kink, vague mention of implied object insertion

wc : 2.1k

synopsis : your boyfriend is once again spending more time focusing on his music instead of you. so you finally decide to visit him to do something about it.

your phone lights up the darkness of your shared bedroom with hongjoong as you check the time. you sigh as the clock reads 2:17 am. despite the comeback promotional period already ending and being granted a break, hongjoong consistented on continuing to work. you shoot him a text:

y/n : "joong, when are you coming home?"

a few minutes go by with no response.

y/n : "hello???"

suddenly the message gets marked as read and he's typing a response immediately.

joong : "i'm in the middle of recording some demos right now"

you take a deep breath before texting back.

y/n : "i don't understand why you cant take a break hongjoong... its getting ridiculous"

as hongjoong reads your text, he runs his hands over his bare face. "fuck..." he knows you're right, he's just stubborn and you know it.

joong : "i know, its just this one song. ill be done soon okay?"

you roll your eyes at his message.

y/n : "okay hongjoong ."

you turn your phone off and try to go to sleep. hongjoong reads your text and visibly flinches at your obvious irritation. he groans as he tries to work on the song. another hour goes by and he's still stuck on the same part. he stares at the computer screen blankly as the chorus repeats itself. he sighs as he puts his head down on the messy desk, covered in papers of endless lyrics and peppermint wrappers. he stays in that position for ten minutes. i sits up and harshly pauses the repeating track. his body slumps back against the chair and his arms cover his eyes.

in the silence of his studio, soft knocks sounded. he jolts up and looks at his phone to check the time. it reads 3:44 am. "who's still here?" he whispers to himself before clearing his throat. "come in." he says a bit louder. the door opens slowly to reveal your disheveled appearance. you're wearing one of his hoodies with plaid pajamas pants and slides. you wore a silk wrap around your hair indicating you were going to bed. hongjoong immediately recognizes the look on your face: you're upset with him. "baby..."

you ignored him as you walked over to him to stand behind the chair. "you look exhausted joong" you say in a tired voice as you rest your hands on his shoulders. hongjoong tilts his head back to look at you.

"so do you. why are you doing here? you should be in bed." he asks, rubbing your hands. you lean down to place your head in the crook of his neck, while your hand drape over his chest.

"i missed you.." you mumbled. hongjoong rubs up and down your arm to soothe you. he frowns out of guilt as he feels you relax.

"im sorry baby" he apologizes softly. you hum, too tired to fully respond. you turn your head to press a kiss to his neck. "baby?" hongjoong asks. you hum again as you press another kiss. "what are you doing?" he asks, already knowing exactly what you're doing. "you need me?" he eggs on. you nod. "say it." he says.

you sigh, sending shivers down hongjoong's body. "i need you. its been so long" you say softly in a tired voice. hongjoong takes a breath, knowing he hasn't been able to touch you properly for a full month. it was eating him up on the inside as much as it was getting to you. all his pent up energy were put to the side to focus on the group, disregarding your needs in the process. hongjoong removes your arms and turns around in the chair to look at you. you stare back at him.

he finally stands up, wrapping his arms around your waist and gently holds your chin. he presses his lips against yours in a calm desire. you hold onto his sweatshirt as he kisses you. the kiss wasn't rough nor rushed. it was slow, like he wanted to express how much he was sorry. he slowly backs you down onto the couch then kneels in front of you. hongjoong rests his hands on your thighs. "let me make it up to you." he says as he looks up at you. you take in his messy hair and bare face as you nod.

you watch as he pulls your pajamas down, slightly spreading your legs. he presses light kiss along your inner thighs. "joong.." you sigh.

"sh, its okay. i got you" he says softly. suddenly, an idea pops into his head. "baby?" he perks up. you look at him with a raised brow. "can... can i record this?" your eyes shoot open.

"hongjoo-"

"no, not video! audio. i just need something more natural for the background adlibs." you stare at him. "you can say no-"

"okay" you cut him off. he looks stunned.

"really?" he asks. you nod. he stands up and goes over to his computer. he clicks a few buttons then moves the microphone closer to the couch. "you still want to?" he reassures. he watches as you nod and shakes his head. "say it baby."

"yeah... i want to" you say as he smiles and moves back over to kneel between your legs.

he kisses your covered clit. you shiver.

"my poor baby. so sensitive after not being touched for a month." he says as he slowly pulls down your underwear. "did you miss me baby? or did you miss my mouth?" hongjoong says as he breathes against your pussy. you moan softly.

"everything. i missed everything." you breathe out. he continues to blow on your clit as you writhe around.

"im here now pretty girl, its okay" and with that he immediately attaches his mouth to your pussy. your hands grab at his hair.

"joong!" you moan as he continues to eat you out. you pant as his tongue works in different patterns at different paces. one moment he's lapping at your clit, the next he's pushing his tongue in your hole. he pulls back to look up at you. his face glistening with your arousal, eyes blown wide.

"gonna make you cum on my tongue. want that pretty?" he asks with a smile. you nod.

"yes! please joong."

"yeah? gonna make you cum on my tongue, then my fingers, then my cock. can you handle that?" he smirks as he kisses your thighs again. you nod frantically.

"please joong.."

"please what?" he raises his eyebrow.

"please make me cum. i need it. so bad.." you beg as he smiles.

"good girl. my baby still knows what i like" he says as he repositions his arms to hook under your thighs and pull you down slightly.

he starts to lick up your pussy again, much more passionately. you moan his name loudly and freely, knowing the studio is soundproof. his hips buck against the couch for friction. he notices the change in your moans and pulls back slightly. "my baby gonna cum? you're doing so well baby. cum on my tongue." he sweet talks before sucking harshly on your clit. your back arches as you moan his name. you cum hard, panting as you try to catch your breath.

hongjoong releases your thighs to pull himself up closer to you. he kisses you again, this time deeply. he pushes his tongue inside your mouth immediately claiming dominance. you wrap your arms tightly around his neck as you taste yourself. he pulls away. "you ready for my fingers baby? can you take it?" you nod as you spread your legs. he kisses you again as his thumb finds its place on your clit.

you moan out softly. "joong... please".

"please what? tell me baby." he asks as he pulls back to look at you.

"need more." you say. he smiles as he teasingly inserts one finger. you whine.

"you gotta be more specific baby. what do you want me to give you?" he ask as he pushes his middle finger slowly.

"two fingers please." you choke out.

"good girl" he whispers in your ear as he pushes in his ring finger. you moan at the stretch, clenching around him.

"fuck." you gasp out. hongjoong kisses and sucks all over your neck, whispering praises in your ear. he angles his hand to find that spot he knows you'll loose yourself. you let out a gasp and grips his wrist as he pushes against your g-spot.

"i found it baby? you like it? want me to add more pressure like this?" he pushes deeper and you moan loudly. "so good for me baby. so responsive. you gonna cum again? i feel you sucking in my fingers so well baby." he continues to talk as you moan uncontrollably.

"cum y/n. cum all over my fingers. make a mess for me baby." he kisses you again, swallowing your moans as you cum again. he helps you ride out your orgasm before removing his fingers and licking them clean. you pant against the couch. legs slightly shaking, hands gripping the pillows. hongjoong chuckles. "come here" he says.

despite him telling you to come to him, he comes to you. he maneuvered your body to lay on the couch. he quickly pulls down his sweatpants and boxers revealing his hard cock. it leaks with precum. he notices your stare. "not today, im taking care of you" he says. he smiles at your frown. he reaches over to his small box on a shelf and grabs a condom and puts it on. he lifts your legs and wraps them around his waist. he lines himself up before pushing in.

you both moan in unison. "so fucking tight.. fuck." he moans as he throws his head back. you whine as he grabs onto your hips, pinning you down to avoid moving against him.

"hongjoong.." you draw out.

"i know baby. i know." he begins to move slowly, taking his time as you let out quiet moan.

"please move faster baby" you whine.

"oh yeah? want me to go faster? want it harder?" he says with a slightly harder thrust. you nod harshly. hongjoong smiles.

his hips set up a faster pace as he fucks into you. both of you moaning loudly without a care in the world. "you like it when i fuck you in my studio? like it when i can fuck you anywhere i want. was this one of your little fantasies? for me to put you down and fuck you without stopping? what's next, backstage at a concert?" he grunts. you moan louder in agreement.

hongjoong leans over you to press kisses against your neck. you moan at the angle change as he consistently hits your g-spot. "dont stop baby." you choke out.

"i wont" he grunts as he continues to penetrate you deeply. his moans turn whiny. "you deserve everything i give you baby."

"cum with me joong. im close" you whisper in his ear. he whines as he buries his face in your neck. his hips stutter as you clench around him. "cum for me baby" you say as you scratch your nails against his scalp. he lets out a high pitched moan as he cums inside the condom. you cum along with him. he collapses on top of you as you both catch your breaths.

"im so sorry for neglecting you baby" he whispers softly. you run your fingers through his hair.

"its okay joong. i just dont like you overworking yourself." you say as he holds you tighter. you two stay like that for a moment before he finally decides to pull out of you. he ties the condom and throws it away and stops the recording. he hands you your underwear as he pulls up his own. he plops back down on the couch and grabs a blanket to put over you two.

he positions himself to where you can lay your head on his chest. "you know... i didn't think you'd agree to let me record us having sex" he speaks up. you chuckle.

"might as well use our resources" you shrug off. he glances down at you with a mischievous look.

"so, can i use my resources more often with you?" he asks. you raise a brow as you look at him.

"like what hongjoong?" you say already done with what he could possibly say.

"have you ever thought of using a microphone?" he asks. you look at him puzzled.

"a microphone for what?" he smirks as he whispers in your ear what he wants to do. you pull back and look at him insanely. "kim hongjoong you are not going to put a micro-" he cuts you off with a kiss.

"just think about it, okay. it'll be my personal customized one." you groan.

"go to sleep. you're talking nonsense right now." you say as he chuckles.

"goodnight baby." he says. you hum. "mhm good night".

[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.

[listentothelittlebird]

hermit a day #1: Impulse

I happened to have this in my backburner! I may not keep up with the month but it feels fun to post it and try:

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The day starts just after sunrise, for Impulse. With his breakfast in hand, rubbing sleep from his eyes, trudging down the street towards his second home, the theater. 

It’s early enough in the morning that the building is still quiet, slumbering like the nocturnal beast it is. Impulse’s boots make echoes along the corridor once he’s past the side door, a familiar tune that has long lost its eeriness. 

At the end of the corridor is a wooden door, chipped and flaking at the edges, marked with names new and old. When Impulse unlocks the door and nudges it open with his foot, it squeaks on its hinges like an indignant mouse. He flicks the wall switches, old reliables that are shaped like little levers and each give a satisfying click that delights Impulse to no end.

Without waiting, he strolls into the darkness, the room flooding with warm light just before he bumps into a misplaced chair. The fans whirr into motion, and Impulse sets down his travel mug of coffee and gets to work with tidying up the sound booth.

A deck of cards has been left in a haphazard stack at the side of the table, precariously close to scattering across the floor. A black tie is curled underneath the table, which Impulse dusts off and hangs on a chair as he shuffles papers back into place, finds the cards’ box to slide them into, and erases the big red numbering on the whiteboard. 

“Days Since A Life Series Improv” bumps up a number, and “Days Since Mumbo Forgot His Tie” returns to a big zero. Impulse adds a smiley face in the middle. 

After last night’s mess is dealt with, Impulse ducks under the desk pushed against the wall and jabs at the console’s power switch. The machinery takes its time to wake up, which gives Impulse time to slump into a chair and savor his coffee. 

Behind him, the door’s creaking announces the next person’s arrival.

“Good morning!” Tango’s greeting is muffled by the donut caught between his teeth. Another kick to the door shuts it as Tango heaves two bags onto the table, both nearly overflowing with the clothes bundled inside. 

“Good morning,” Impulse greets belatedly, after making sure the bags are not about to topple over. “Is it time for clothes fitting already?” 

“Eh, not really.” Tango takes a moment to snicker at Mumbo’s forgotten tie before he continues. “Cleo just asked me to pick the clothes up from the dry-cleaning service. She’s buying some new fabrics for Scar, I think.”

“Probably just an excuse to make the troupe fund another clothing experiment.” Not that she’s the only one exploiting the company funds. Impulse still marvels at how Doc managed to call his cyborg outfit a business expense. 

“Any idea what the plan is for today?” Impulse clicks open their chat group as he speaks, scrolling his unread messages. Just chatter from the night before, a running tally of the late night card game’s wins and losses. “Grian’s not pulling another surprise Life Series, is he?”

“Nope, nuh-uh. None that I know of.” 

Tango checks his phone and abruptly brightens. “Hang on a minute, someone’s locked themselves out again.”

“But we just came in?” Impulse calls after Tango’s retreating back, confused. He shakes his head with a sigh. It’s probably just Gem asking for Tango’s help to unload her car. 

With that in mind, he doesn’t even bother to turn around when the door opens. “Did you bring an entire army with you, Gem?”

“Something like that,” Gem pipes up gleefully. 

Impulse nearly jumps out of his seat when hands suddenly smack themselves onto his shoulders, coupled with the joltingly loud greeting of a voice he was not expecting.

“Skizz?” Impulse swivels around, beaming when he is met with his friend. “Skizz!”

“What’s up, buddy!” Skizz wrestles Impulse into a hug, and adds in a gleeful tone, “Guess whose job just based him in the city?”