#Long Road to Meatballs

[mrscakeishere]

Inspirational Furniture Assembly Dialogue

On the 22nd, Polycakes (me and @polychromicron-persei-8) will throw a new fanfic grenade into the GOAD Smut War. Until then, we wanted to share some dialogue that inspired The Long Road to Meatballs (Rated Explicit, mind the tags).

Now, I know what you're thinking, and you're right: furniture assembly isn't typically something that inspires smut, but here we are, nonetheless.

While we ended up not using this bit of text, we thought it was funny enough to share.

Inspirational Dialogue:

Aziraphale stared at the instructions. “It says, ‘attach legs to top of bar—part C—aligning brackets. Use screw F to attach—'”

“Wait, what? Read that again.”

“Attach legs to top of bar—part C—aligning brackets—”

“Let me see that.”

“Crowley, I'm reading to you exactly what it says.”

“Just…give.”

Crowley snatched the assembly instructions from Aziraphale’s hand and stared at the paper.

“Attach legs to top part of bar—part C—aligning brackets.”

Crowley surveyed the array of bars, screws, nuts, and bolts scattered around the room. It looked like a construction site that had failed every safety inspection.

“Which is part C?” Crowley asked.

“I guess it's the one with brackets.”

“All of them have brackets!”

Aziraphale sighed. “I don't know what to tell you.”

Crowley looked at the instructions again.

“Attach legs to top part of bar—part C—”

“Trust me,” Aziraphale interjected. “Reading it again is not going to make it any easier.”

[formulaforza]

—if walls could talk

some things are meant to be secret (we'd fall from grace) pairing: charles leclerc x female reader warnings: 18+ minors dni. loadsss of google translated french. language, friends talking about sex, nsfw warnings under the cut :) love, mackie... 6.3k words! sometimes the only person who can help you out is a good friend. happy almost thanksgiving to all my american followers :) thankful for each and every one of you. mwah mwah mwah.

18+ because: fingering, oral sex (fem receiving), unprotected sex, aftercare, mentions of hookups/faking it

You’re the last one to walk through the door of Charles’ apartment. Everyone else has been long comfortable, leaving imprints on the comfortable couch, footprints in the freshly-vacuumed rug, empty wine bottles and half-empty glasses on the coffee table. 

There’s always something so cold about his apartment—always empty, always dusty, filled with the remnants of his boyhood and the promise of his adult life. It has all the makings of a home, but it still feels like a house—like a museum instead of a secondhand shop. Always, except on days like tonight, when it’s filled with warm laughter and the smell of half a dozen different meals and the quiet hum of his favorite playlist. On days like today, it feels like a home. 

Nobody in the living room hears you open the door or slip off your shoes—they’re too preoccupied in their busy, lively conversation about a road closure on the way to the airport in Nice that adds twenty minutes on to the drive. You move in the opposite direction, towards the kitchen, to set your crowd offering—blue cheese stuffed shrimp—on the counter and get a wine glass from the cabinet to fill. He’s in the kitchen when you turn the corner, carefully examining the platter of Italian meatballs he’s got cooking in the oven. 

Charles looks up as soon as you set the heavy plate down on the counter. “Hé!” Hey, he greets, closing the oven door and pulling off his blue mittens to properly kiss both of your cheeks, a single arm wrapping around your middle to pull you into a quick hug. “Quand es-tu arrivé?” When did you get here?

“Tout à l'heure,” Just now, you reply, roll up the sleeves of your shirt because his kitchen is so small, and heats up so quickly when the oven is on. “Désolé, je suis en tard,” Sorry I’m late.

“T'es pas en tard,” You’re not late, he interjects, dragging a tortilla chip through someone’s dip and popping it into his mouth. With his other hand, he’s reaching into the cabinet above his head, pulling down a wine glass and handing it to you. 

“Je suis très en tard,” I am so late, you smile, take the empty wine glass with a thank you and follow suit with your own chip in the fame dip. “Je reviens directement du travail. Les crevettes sont restées dans le réfrigérateur du bureau tout l'après-midi,” I came straight from work. The shrimp sat in the office fridge all afternoon, you explain, and he scowls, raises his brows at you and at the shrimp. You chuckle, nod.  “N'en mangez pas,” Don’t eat it. 

His eyes are stuck on your cheek, which forces your hand to investigate what he might be staring at. “Quoi?” What? You ask, fingers coming up with nothing but an embarrassed heat. 

“Rien, juste... tu as un cil,” Nothing, just… you have an eyelash, he lets a sharp exhale leave through his nose, “je l'enlèverai,” I’ll get it, and then he does. Carefully, with the pad of his middle finger, he picks the eyelash from your cheek. You don’t look at him while he does it, but you are watching when he transfers it to his thumb and drops it onto the platter of shrimp with a quick flick. “Oh, non,” he feigns concern, grabs the platter from the counter, “Allons juste…” Let’s just… he laughs and holds the plate over the trash can and drops the shrimp into the plastic bag with a thump. 

“Bon appel,” good call, you laugh. 

He drags you into the living room, towards the rest of the evening festivities, with his arm tossed over your shoulder. Between that, and the whole let me get your eyelash thing minutes earlier, you’re as close to certain a person can get that he and his girlfriend are still broken up.

They go through phases, the two of them. She doesn’t like your friend group very much, and Charles doesn’t seem like he likes her all that much, but they come and go like seasons. Together one month, broken up the next week. He usually tells you, but even when he doesn’t, you usually know. He’s always touchier with you when she’s out of the picture. Not that you mind it, but. He is. 

It’s all a little more comfortable, like you’re both a little less aware of the fact that you’re the only girl in the group who isn’t spoken for, or that you’re both atrociously the other’s type.

“Regarde qui j'ai trouvé,” Look who I found, Charles announces, and you’re met with a spattering of greetings, plopping down onto the couch, slotting between Marta and an empty space that is quickly occupied by Charles. 

You both fight over the corner seat, who gets to take up more of it. He loves to sprawl out and you love to curl up. When it’s all settled, he’s spread out like he likes, and you’re curled up into the space he leaves, half leant against him with your knees pulled to your chest, sleeves pulled over your hands because it’s hot in the kitchen, but only in the kitchen. 

“J'ai entendu dire que vous avez tous les deux eu un week-end assez mouvementé,” I heard you both had quite the eventful weekend, Marta teases. She’s the only other person besides the man next to you—as far as you know—that knows about what went down last Friday night. It takes even you a moment to remember, having already relegated the mortifying details to the bottom of your soul. When you do recall, your cheeks burn with the sudden blow flow and you giggle, curl into Charles a little further than you probably should.

“Quoi?” What, Joris asks, “ce qui s'est passé?” What happened?

“Rien ne s'est passé,” Nothing happened, Charles tries to protect you from re-living the evening, but it’s no use. Now that your friends have a sniff of a story, they won’t stop until it’s told in complete, painstaking detail. So, you begin:

“J'étais en train de garder un chat le week-end dernier pour mon collègue, n'est-ce pas?” I was cat sitting for my coworker last weekend, right?

— —

You were indeed cat-sitting for a coworker last weekend. It was an orange cat whose name you never really learned, much less remembered, and you were on day three of five of cat-sitting. It’s important for the rest of the story, for later. It is. 

Anyway, you were cat-sitting on a Friday night, but that wasn’t going to stop you from going out. Your sister had invited you, something about a club and her boyfriend’s friends visiting from London. Only if I can claim a brit, you’d joked. You’d joked, right up until coming face-to-face with the twenty-something, five-foot something-but-still-taller-than-you, perfect brown hair and perfect green eyed British man that had come along for the visit. You weren’t joking after meeting him. 

Once the two of you were finally drunk enough to lose any sense of what’s good for you, you were squeezing into the back of a taxi and stumbling up the stairs of your apartment complex, the cute boy and his little kisses and touchy hands slowing the whole process down. 

We all know what a drunken Friday night hookup looks like, so. There’s no need to explore the logistics of it with someone who’s name you’ve since forgotten, who you hope is back home in London never to return. Because where the story really gets good, is after the uneventful hookup, when Mr. Brit really needed to get back to his fiends and had you walking him to your apartment door in just a towel because he didn’t have the patience to wait for you to put on some fucking clothes. 

— —

“Bon sang,” damn, Hugo laughs from the other end of the sofa, “tu es vraiment si mauvais en sexe?” Are you really that bad at sex? 

“Va te faire foutre!” Fuck you, you scoff. “Je suis incroyable en matière de sexe,” I’m amazing at sex.

“Je peux trouver quelqu'un pour vous donner des cours, si besoin,” I can find someone to give you lessons, if you need. 

You pause, blink twice, and then continue your story. “De toute façon,” Anyways.

— —

As you open the door to let him out, the cat you’ve been cat-sitting—see. It did come back to be important—darts out of the door. 

“Grab him!” You’d yelled, and the guy actually looked back at you before replying. 

“I’m allergic.”

You scoffed, hurrying past him and down the stairs after the cat. You manage to corral it in the corner of the stairwell, pick it up and return to your apartment, just in time to watch the door shut behind you. You look at the door, at the guy you’d just fucked, at the cat in your hands, and then back at the door. “That is not good,” you say.

The guy laughs. “Just open it.”

Oh, brilliant. Why hadn’t you thought of that? “It’s locked.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. Oh.”

By the grace of God and all things good in this world, the guy had a fully-charged phone. Unfortunately for you, of the three people with a spare key to your apartment, there was only one number you had memorized: Charles. 

You text him before you call him. It’s me, please don’t send me to voicemail, and then he did send you to voicemail twice before calling the number back. 

“Bonjour?”

“‘Bonjour?’ Mon cul!” ‘Hello?’ My ass! You greeted, the cat snarling and wiggling against your grip. You were so far beyond being in the mood for pleasantries. You just really, really wanted some fucking pants. “J'ai besoin que tu viennes ouvrir ma porte. Genre, il y a dix minutes,” I need you to come unlock my door. Like, ten minutes ago. 

“Et avec qui ai-je le plaisir de discuter?” And who do I have the pleasure of speaking with? You swear if you could, you’d punch him through the phone. You can’t, so you settle for hanging up. 

It’s at this time that Mr. Brit properly excuses himself from the evening of fun, because now that he knows you won’t stand outside your apartment in nothing but a towel for the rest of time, his conscience is clean. 

You and Charles live a sixteen minute walk from each other, and he definitely chose to walk rather than literally any other form of faster transportation. Maybe you should have disclosed your current state over the phone, but that probably would have made him walk slower. 

When he finally does trudge up the stairs, he stops three steps short of your landing at the sight of you, towel and cat and literally nothing more. “Qu'est-ce qui t'est arrivé, putain?” What the fuck happened to you? He laughs, and then finishes his walk up the stairs, holding your key out to you tauntingly. 

“Connard,” Asshole, you mutter, snatching the key away from him with your free hand and forcing it into the lock. “J'avais un gars chez moi,” I had a guy over, you add, forcing the door open with your hip. 

“Où à?” Where? He asks, following you into the apartment.

“Qu'est-ce que tu veux dire, où?” What do you mean, where? You laugh, gesture around the apartment. “Ici,” here. 

Charles frowns, scowls even. “Et il t'a laissé dehors?” And he left you out there?

You nod, gather up your clothes from the floor before they can exist there long enough to be perceived. “Tu n'es pas obligé de rester, je vais bien,” You don’t have to stay, I’m fine, you tell him, half-usher him back out the door he came through. “Je sais que ta copine va probablement me tuer,” I know your girlfriend is probably going to kill me next time she sees me.

— —

“Je ne peux pas croire qu'elle ne t'a pas tué,” I can’t believe she didn’t kill you, Ricky chuckles, looking to Charles. 

You find solace in the bottom of your wine glass, an excuse to fill the silence that follows Ricky’s comment. “En fait, nous avons rompu,” we actually broke up, Charles says, and the room falls into the same silence it always does everytime they break up. It’s not that you guys don’t like her, so much as… well. Yeah, it is that you don’t like her. But she didn’t like you guys first, so it really shouldn’t matter much that none of you like her. 

“Je suis désolé, mec,” I’m sorry, mate, Joris offers, and then everyone follows suit with half-hearted apologies they don’t mean. 

“C'est bien, vraiment,” It’s fine, really, he offers to the group. “Elle était gentille, mais elle ne l'était tout simplement pas…” she was nice, but she wasn’t… he hesitates. You take another sip of your wine. Your friends listen to him intently.  “Je ne veux pas être méchante,” I don’t want to be mean.

“Soyez méchant,” Be mean, Marta giggles. 

He laughs nervously, fidgets with his fingers, watches his rings spin. “Elle n'était pas très bonne. Elle ne pouvait pas... Je ne l'ai jamais fait, tu sais,” She wasn’t very good. She couldn’t… I didn’t ever, you know, he trails off, gesturing wildly into the space around him, anything to avoid having to say the words the entire room has picked up on. 

You roll up your sleeves, hot again. Burning. 

The teasing that follows from the guys is relentless, gets to a point where you and Marta step in, begging them to stop kicking a dead horse while Charles is in the bathroom. They do ease up, and the night continues far, far away from horrible hookup stories and mortifying relationship admissions. 

You were the last to arrive, which means you’ll be the last to leave, make sure that the whole place has been cleaned up, returned to its stiff and dusty places in the apartment before you head home for the night. 

“Juste pour que tu le saches,” just so you know, you comment, scraping the last of the left behind chip-dip into a tupperware container while he gathers up the now-stale crackers from the charcuterie board. “Je ne te crois absolument pas,” I totally don’t believe you.

He meets your eyes, confused. “Tu ne me crois pas à propos de quoi?” Don’t believe me about what?

“A propos de ne pas…” about not… you look away, direct your attention to the lid of the container. Anything but looking him in the eyes while talking about each other’s sex lives. “Tu sais. Il est impossible que vous n’ayez pas joui depuis cinq mois.” You know. There’s no way you haven’t gotten off in five months. 

You see him shake his head in your peripheral, distract himself with the task at hand the same way you had. This isn’t something the two of you talk about, and you talk about pretty much everything. Sex, though. It’s always been off-limits, especially in a situation like this, just the two of you together. “Non,” nope, he mutters. “Je souhaite,” I wish.

You roll your eyes. “Charles, regarde tes mains,” look at your hands, you say, and he does, all full of crumbs and salt and grease. “Voilà, voici la solution à ton problème. Tu peux le résoudre dès que je partirai,” there’s the solution to your problem. You can fix the issue as soon as I leave tonight.

He rolls his eyes right back, “idiote,” idiot, he says, shoves your shoulder with one of his hands and you laugh. “Je ne peux pas. C’est… je ne sais pas, c’est irrespectueux,” I can’t. It feels… I don’t know, it feels disrespectful.

You laugh, curl in on yourself at his comment because it feels so completely ridiculous. He’s a good guy, you know. You know, or you wouldn't be such good friends in the first place. You know, but that's a crazy concept even for a good guy. “Manque de respect envers ton ex-petite-amie si tu te branles après un séparer?” Disrespectful to your EX-girlfriend if you jerk off after you’ve broken up?

“Bien. Quand tu le dis comme ça,” well. When you say it like that.

“Ouis,” yeah, you chuckle, hoisting yourself up onto the counter you’d just cleared. The granite is cool even through the denim of your jeans. “Quand je dis ça comme ça, tu es un imbécile,” when I say it like that, you dumbass. 

“Pourtant,” Still though, he sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose. He always looks particularly boyish when he gets even the tiniest bit frustrated with you. “Tu ne comprendrais pas. Ça n'est pas pareil.” You wouldn’t get it. It’s not the same. 

Wouldn’t I? You pick at your cuticles, don’t know how to skate around the admission that you’re finishing about as often as he is—that Mr. Brit, who he’d missed by no more than ten minutes last weekend, was not exactly giving you a very eventful evening when he decided he was done for the night. 

"Je ne vois pas comment tu pourrais,” I don’t see how you could.

You nod, wish you lived in his little naive world where you always finish. “La moitié des gars de ce putain de pays ne savent pas comment faire jouir une fille. Et apparemment, les gars de Londres non plus.” Half the guys in this fucking country don’t know how to get a girl off. And apparently, neither do the guys in London.

“Vraiment?” Really?

You nod. “Je ne peux pas te dire combien de fois j'ai simulé parce que j'en avais marre que quelqu'un attaque ma lèvre gauche avec sa langue,” I can’t tell you the amount of times I’ve faked it because I was tired of someone assaulting my left lip with their tongue. 

“Fuck,” He laughs. “​​Ce n'est tout simplement pas bien,” that’s just not right.

“Non, ça ne l'est pas,” no it is not.

“Tu devrais vraiment obtenir de l'aide pour ça,” you should really get some help with that.

“Et toi aussie. Je mourrais avant de laisser tes conneries arriver.” So should you, you offer. I’d die before I let that shit happen. And you would, you really would. You can’t think of something worse than dating someone for months and knowing you’ve never gotten them off once. And she knows, she has to know, because there’s no way for him to fake it. She has to know. 

There’s a pause, and you realize that somewhere on the other side of the apartment the music has stopped playing. The speaker must have died—or the phone playing through it. You realize that Charles is close, now. Really close. Has he been this close the entire time you’ve been cleaning up, close. “Le feriez?” you would?

“Cent pour cent. Une bonne petite amie le ferait—en fait,” a hundred percent. A good girlfriend would—actually, you stop yourself, scowl a bit at the idea of it all. “Une bonne petite amie n’aurait jamais ce problème en premier lieu, mais ce n’est pas la question,” a good girlfriend would never have that problem in the first place but, that’s besides the point. He smiles, the threat of a laugh, and takes a step closer, firmly between your legs, now. You put your hands on either of his shoulders, give them a firm, friendly squeeze. “Une bonne petite amie t'aurait aidé,” a good girlfriend would have helped you, you assure him, but it doesn’t sound as friendly as your gesture was. 

His hand falls to your knee, thumb moving over the fabric of your jeans there ever so softly. It sends a chill up your spine, makes you shiver. “Un bon ami pourrait m'aider,” a good friend could help me, he says, hardly above a whisper—like he thinks saying it quieter is going to make it have any less suggestion. 

You nod, gulp, your fingers intertwining behind his neck. “Un bon ami pourrait vous aider,” a good friend could help you.

“Ouis,” yeah. You’re so close now that you can feel his breath on your face, that your noses might as well slot against each other. That you might as well be kissing, even if you aren’t. You’re sure your eyes cross when they meet his. 

“Dommage que tu n'en ai pas,” shame you don’t have any of those, you tease, smile pulling on your lips, hands falling from over his shoulders to move down his chest, to feel every reaction of his muscles as you trail over his abs softly, toy with the hem of his t-shirt. 

“C'est vrai, n'est-ce pas?” It is, isn’t it? His hand moves up your leg, and you instinctively move towards the touch, move yourself closer to the edge of the counter. He moves up, up your thigh, to your hip, threatening to go further. He doesn’t, though. He stalls there, searching your eyes for the permission to be there in the first place. 

And then, just like that, he kisses you. 

It starts soft, like he’s waiting for you to stop him, but you don’t. It’s a gentle collision, tender and hesitant and exploring whatever new waters you’d just sat yourselves in. His lips are so soft against yours, so careful, so sweet, and then his tongue is slipping through your lips, settling into the kiss now that he knows you’re going to kiss back. And you do, you kiss back, until it’s all hurried and messy, noses bumping against each other, teeth scraping each other’s lips. Until you’re hazy and dizzy and have to pull apart for air. 

“Peut être,” maybe, you chuckle into his mouth, kiss him again quickly. “Peut-être que tu devrais accepter l'offre de Hugo de trouver un tuteur,” maybe you should take Hugo up on his offer to find a tutor, you joke, and his smile is sweet against your lips. 

“Peut être,” maybe…  he says, fiddles with the buttons of your jeans hurriedly, like they’re going to seal shut if he doesn’t undo the button that very moment, and then he unzips the zipper, “ou peut-être,” or maybe… 

You kiss him again. Your core aches, the knot in the pit of your stomach pulling itself tighter and tiger with each millimeter further he moves. “Tu pourrais juste,” you could just. 

“Je pourrais juste,” I could just, and he dips a hand into your pants. 

You sigh, react instantly to his touch and his lips are on your again. Your hips move against his hand like it’s the first time you’ve ever been touched—which, this whole thing feels so charged that it might as well be. Charles’ hand moves in flat circles over your clit, pushing farther, deeper, slipping a single finger inside of you. 

You hiss at the movement, kiss him harder when your breath is back, pull him hard against your lips by the back of his neck. “Putain, tu es tellement mouillé,” Fuck, you’re so wet, he says. 

You nod, talk into his mouth, “Je sais, je sais,” I know, I know.

You reach between your bodies to palm him, find him already hard in his jeans, taking in a sharp breath when you touch him there. His other hand grabs at your tits, pushing and pulling and squeezing over your shirt before finally slipping under, haphazardly pushing your bra out of the way and palming them, kissing mumbled profanities into the skin on your neck. 

He pinches your nipple between two fingers and you whine—he ruts against the counter when you do, smirks against your lips and hums whatever noise he’s attempting to swallow. 

You sigh when he pulls his hand out from your jeans, but he’s quick to get them off of you, pulling them and your underwear off as soon as you raise yourself up off the counter. It’s cold, so cold, but his hands are equally warm, burn against your body as he explores every inch of available skin. 

You work away at his jeans, pushing down his pants and underwear as far as the angle allows you to. His cock springs out of the elastic waistband and the only thing you can think is how pretty it looks, all swollen and twitching and wet with precum. It looks painful, almost, how hard he is. But so, so pretty. “C'est tellement chaud,” this is so hot, you say. 

“Tu es tellement belle,” you’re so hot, he replies. 

You’re expecting for it to all boil over, then, for him to sink into you, fill you up with his perfect pretty dick, but he doesn’t. Instead, he lowers himself to your cunt and looks at you with nauseating eye contact. “Dis moi quoi faire,” tell me what to do, he says. 

“Quoi que ce soit. Faire n'importe quoi,” Anything. Do anything, you beg. 

He does, he does—licks a long stripe through your folds, forces your head to the sky and a sweet moan from your lips. He holds your legs apart with a hand on the inside of each thigh—strong, warm, big—and fucks you with his tongue. It’s messy and natural, but every move is intentional, working towards the goal of getting you off before he even fucks you. And he will, he will, because he listens so well. 

Every direction, even the jumbled, incoherent moans that leave your mouth, even the little twitches of your legs or the way your hips move against his mouth—it's all an instruction for him. What to do. What to continue doing exactly like he’s doing. “Juste comme ça. N'arrêtez pas,” just like that. Don’t stop, you chant, and he doesn’t stop. He holds his pace, and then you’re coming in his mouth, fingers slipping on the countertop in search of some kind of grip, some kind of stability as you writhe against him.

 When you’ve come down, come back to reality and the cold countertop and his warm hands, he’s kissing you again, cock hard and twitching between your bodies. You take him in your hand and he winces, groans when you start to stroke him, to spread the precum around his tip with your thumb. “Ça fait du bien,” feels good, he mutters. 

“Laisse-moi t'aider,” Let me help you, you insist. He doesn’t need much convincing. None at all, really. 

“Est-tu toujours... sur le?” Are you still… on the, he asks, tapping your arm. 

“Mon implant? Ouais, ouais,”My implant? Yeah. yeah. 

He kisses you again, licks into your mouth in a way that feels half-illegal, like all the rules of the universe have been broken. “Tu veux que j'utilise un préservatif?” Do you want me to use a condom?

You shake your head against his lips, shrug somewhere in the distance, far away from where your mouth is on his. “Je m'en fiche, je suis propre,” I don’t care, I’m clean.

“Moi aussi,” Me too. 

"D'accord, d'accord. Putain," Okay, okay. Fuck, and then he's slapping the head of his cock against your pussy, making you quiver with every touch. He drags it over your clit, through your folds, and then he’s sinking into you. His fingers bruise into your hips as he ruts into you, you reaching down to circle you clit while he fucks you full of him. "Putain, Dieu," Fuck, God, he moans. 

“Oui c'est bien?” Yeah, it's good? You ask. 

“C'est tellement bon, putain, c'est tellement bon, tu es si sexy,” It’s so good, fuck—it’s so good, you’re so hot. You don’t know if its his words, or that the seal’s properly broken now, but right as his dick slips out of a particularly measured thrust, you’re coming around the air, shoving a finger back inside to ease the ache of emptiness, pulling it back out and guiding his cock back in. He fucks you so good. So hard. So deep, just the sounds of each others groans, of heavy sighs and skin slapping filling the room, bouncing off the walls. “Je suis près,” I’m close, he tells you. “Je suis si proche, putain. Je vais,” I’m so close, fuck. I’m gonna, he repeats, fucking into you hard. Hard, burying himself in your cunt longer and longer each time. 

“Fais-le,” Do it, you say, “laisse-moi l'avoir, je le veux,” let me have it, I want it. And then he’s coming. Hard. Bottomed out in you, groaning against your neck, and filling you up with him. Fuck, he breathes. You can’t make a distinction between a sigh versus a laugh. “Ça va?”Are you okay? He asks. 

Your breath is heavy, heart thumping in your chest, in your ears, in your toes. “Je suis,”  I’m, you laugh. “Ouais, je suis plus que… je vais bien,” Yeah, I’m more than… I’m okay, you finally sputter out into his patient eyes. You think that’s the reason you stutter—the eye contact. “Es-tu?” Are you?

“Ouais,” Yeah, he says, running a hand through his hair, nodding.  “Oui. Très bien.” Yes. Very okay.

“Bien,” Good, you nod, and then, with all the vulnerability in the world: “Étais-je bien?” Was I alright?

He smiles, moves his hand to brush your flyaways from your forehead, to stop them before they can get in your face. “Tu étais…” You were… he laughs, and there’s no mistaking it now. When he does it, you’re reminded just how full of him you still are, of the ache you’ll feel when he finally pulls out. “Je ne pense pas que quiconque puisse avoir un problème avec toi,” I don’t think anyone could have any issue with you. 

“Oh,”, you chuckle, eyes locking onto the clock hung on the kitchen wall. You can hear the second hand clicking around the same way you can hear your own pulse. “Bon alors,” Good then.

“Et moi?” And me? He asks, and pulls out slowly before you can begin to answer. There’s a silence in the room, just the clock and your heart and your breathing, his eyes glued to your cunt like he’s admiring his handy work. “C'étaient…” Those were…

“Tous deux très réels,” Both very real, you nod, biting the inside of your cheek, catching his eyes when he leans over the sink, wetting a paper towel and ringing it out. “Je ne suis pas doué pour faire semblant,” I’m not that good at faking it. 

“Bon,” Nice.

“Je ne pense pas que nous soyons le problème, alors,” I don’t think we’re the problem, then, you chuckle, eyes snapping back to the clock, mind to the feel of the counter under your fingertips. You can’t think about anything more, of any other feeling or sense of taste or smell you’re experiencing or it will be too much. 

“Non je ne pense pas,” No, I don’t think so, he continues, and starts to clean you up, warm hands on your legs again while he runs the cool paper towel through your folds. You recoil at the cold, a shiver running up your entire body and his eyes jump to yours—”Désolé,” Sorry, he mumbles. 

“C'est bon,” It’s okay, you squeak, and it sounds like you’re about an inch tall. Utter mortification will do that to you, something this fucking awkward making you incredibly aware of everything happening in the room around you, of every touch of his warm hands on your skin. A lot of things are different now. Everything is different. 

“Je, euh. Putain,” I, uh. Fuck, you resort back to what you know best, to the only thing you can think about that doesn’t spiral back to the feeling of him finishing inside you. “Je n'arrive pas à croire que je doive nettoyer à nouveau ce comptoir,” I can't believe I have to clean this counter off again. 

He laughs again, tossing the paper towel into the trash can. It sits on top of everything else like a billboard, screaming about what it had been used for. The lid on the trash can doesn’t close like it’s supposed to. “C'est à ça que tu penses en ce moment?” That’s what you’re thinking about right now?

“Ouais,” Yeah.

“Tu es tellement bizarre, putain,” You’re so fucking weird, he says, adjusting himself, tucking back into his boxers, pulling them and his jeans up to make himself proper again. You have to hop off the counter to do the same, collecting and correcting your things as fast as you can because you can feel his eyes on your figure while you dress, and it feels too intimate. 

“Je ne suis pas bizarre,” I am not weird, you quip, buttoning your jeans and pulling up the zipper, carefully fixing your shirt, your bra, smoothing all of your clothes out over your skin. 

“Tu es. Tu es tellement bizarre.” You are. You’re so weird. 

“Peu importe,” Whatever, you mumble, quickly closing the lid to the trash can. 

The night has run its course by now, and then some. You spend fifteen minutes silently moving around each other in the kitchen, the whole room quiet enough to hear a pin drop in the downstairs lobby. You spend at least ten of them cleaning off the counter, which doesn’t feel so cold anymore, at least not where you were sitting. 

“Tu peux rester, tu sais…” You can stay, y’know… he finally breaks the silence. “Si tu veux.”  If you want.

“D’accord,” Okay, you nod. “Je ne… je ne sais pas si c’est une bonne idée.” I don’t… I don’t know if that’s a good idea.

“C'est vrai, ouais,” Right, yeah, he says, and the place threatens to fall back into negative decibel levels. “Je t'entends, tout ce que tu veux.” I hear you, whatever you want. 

“Désolée,” Sorry, you choke.

“Ne le soit pas, vraiment,” Don’t be, really, he assures, but you still are, still feel like you're stepping on a little baby bug that’s on its way home to its family. It’s not that you don’t want to stay, it’s more that you… you don’t trust yourself to stay, and you don’t trust him not to turn this into a messy rebound thing. If you slept in his bed tonight and got a text next weekend that he’d gotten back together with his girlfriend, you’d feel like a piece of shit. It’s bad enough that when they do inevitably reconnect, you’re already never going to be able to look her in the eyes again. 

“Tu m'enverras un texto quand tu rentreras à la maison?” You’ll text me when you get home? He asks, standing opposite you in his doorway. 

“Bien sûr,” Of course, you nod, fidgeting with the keys on your lanyard. “Nous n’avons pas simplement ruiné notre amitié, n’est-ce pas?” We didn’t just ruin our friendship, did we?

“Non,” he answers, without leaving space for a hesitation, to really wonder about your question. 

You smile at your keys, bite back a chuckle at just how quick he’d responded to you, about how sure he seemed. “Parce que tu es une de mes personnes préférées, tu sais,” Because you’re one of my favorite people, y’know.

“Tu es ma personne préférée,” You’re my favorite person.

You swallow, and when you look up from your keys, he’s staring right back at you. The comfort in the silence is palpable, and it makes you shy, pushes a nervous laugh from your lips. Charles just nods, certain in his choice of words. It makes you even more sheepish. 

You’re completely aware that he doesn’t look at everyone like this, that he never looked at her like this. “Que s'est-il passé entre toi et elle cette fois, d'ailleurs?” What happened with you and her this time, anyway?

He sighs. “Tu veux vraiment savoir?” You really want to know?

“Ouais,” Yeah, you nod. “Je fais,” I do.

“Je euh,” I uh, his fingers fidget with each other, pulling on the joints and twisting his rings. He doesn’t look at you when he tells you, watches the metal spin around his finger. “Je suis rentré de chez toi le week-end dernier et elle attendait dehors que je la laisse entrer. J'ai complètement oublié qu'elle venait après le travail.” I came home from your place last weekend and she was waiting outside for me to let her in. I totally forgot she was coming over after work. You regret asking as soon as he starts explaining. It’s not your business, and you could have gone your whole life without knowing that you were the catalyst for it. “On s'est disputé, elle m'a dit de choisir qui était le plus important,” We got into a fight, she told me to choose who was more important, he shrugs, like it’s nothing. Like he was being asked to flip a coin, asked what color the sky was. “Je te choisi,” I chose you.

“Charles,” your head falls to the side defeatedly. You wish he never told you this, even though you asked. You wish he knew better, that you knew better.

“Je sais,” I know, he nods, and it sounds like he feels genuinely bad about the truth.  “Je suis désolé,” I’m sorry. 

“Je devrais y aller,” I should go.

“Ouais…” Yeah… he hesitates, his hand lingering around his front door, refusing to close it on you. “Ouais,” yeah.

“Juste... ne le fais pas,” Just… don’t. You stop yourself—or you try to stop yourself—from speaking. It’s unsuccessful, how could it not be when he’s staring at you intently with those big green eyes, clinging to every word that leaves your lips. “Ne te remets pas avec elle S'il te plaît,”  Don’t get back with her. Please.

“Je ne vais pas,” I won’t.

You nod, even though you know he will. He always does. They always get back together. It’s nice to pretend, though, for a few days. To pretend that anything is ever going to come of what’s happened this evening. 

“Bonne nuit, Charles,” Goodnight..

“Bonne nuit.” Goodnight.

[vanessagillings]

Please talk about your favorite animated movies and what makes them special to you! I'm really curious about what you enjoyed about them both in the past and now?

haha, okay you asked!

I LOVE animated movies. My theory on this is that it took me a long time to emotionally relate to most media growing up, where I felt next to nothing watching most movies and shows as a young kid, and didn't relate to books until I was quite a lot older (I read picture books until I was around 10, and then suddenly in middle school, I hopped right to adult novels like 1984 and the entire Darkover series by Marion Zimmer Bradley, ha). But even before I emotionally related to fiction, I really enjoyed watching animation. It was nice to look at, and I enjoyed watching everything move and change. I grew up in the 90's where animated movies were largely 2D, and I spent hours watching and re-watching my favorite movies just studying how the characters moved -- it's definitely a lot of where I got my understanding of human expressions from. But I also think as I got older and started to relate more to fiction, animation was easier to parse emotionally than live action. The body language is clear. The stories are direct and not as forgiving of bad human behavior (I get frustrated sometimes with the defeatism in adult media, that assumes that People Just Act Badly, and that just needs to be accepted). Facial expressions are also exaggerated and more stylized -- think of a single arched eyebrow, for example, an expression that's commonly drawn to express one particular emotion in animation/illustration but which you next to never see on a real human face. My first introduction into serious reading was also manga -- a highly visual medium -- which uses a lot of the same tactics stylistically as western animation: big, expressive faces, bold gestures and big stories. Compare manga with western comics being printed at the time and it's even more obvious to me why I didn't particularly like comics until I was given manga as an option -- and thankfully I lived close to a kinokuniya, so I could spend all my allowance on untranslated books and magazines, which is also where I learned Japanese (もうたくさん忘れてしまいましたけど).

As far as my favorite movies? THAT IS SO HARD. The first animated movie that BLEW MY MIND was The Lion King. I saw it in theaters when I was eight and I was obsessed; it was definitely one of my first special interests. I know that entire movie line by line, frame by frame, and I had the stuffed animals and the trading cards and the clothes (man, was I teased for those clothes!). My other favorite movies as a kid were The Land Before Time, American Tale, and The Secret of NIMH (I was a big Don Bluth fan!) which have left deep impressions on how to approach storytelling for children; I warn you, I go hard on emotions for kids, because I needed that as a kid, and I know I'm not alone. Some of my other favorites are anything Miyazaki but especially Howl's Moving Castle (I relate to Sophie a lot), Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs (what I watch when I'm In A Mood), Ratatouille (a huge source of echolalia for my husband and me, we often detect nuttiness, let me tell you), Wallace and Gromit and Fantastic Mr Fox, which I watch every fall as an autumnal tradition. Even as an adult who likes live action, too, I still tend to like slightly over the top directors like Wes Anderson and Guy Ritchie, or movies that are highly cinematic like Road to Perdition, which is still one of my favorite films of all time.

In my opinion, animation is a super important medium outside of it being a very beautiful one. I truly believe it helped me access and understand emotion better as a child, and as an adult, it's a massive source of inspiration in my own work 💛

(Sorry for length, but you did ask!)

[hesbuckcompton-baby]

Better Off - Bernard DeMarco x OFC - Chapter 12

Masterlist | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10 | Chapter 11

AO3

Summary: Susie returns to Thorpe Abbotts following the loss of DeMarco

Warnings: more angst :)

Word Count: 2.6k

Tags: @xxluckystrike @latibvles @footprintsinthesxnd @mads-weasley @joyfulbookreviewmarvelspy @justheretoreadthxxs @blakelysco-pilot

Thorpe Abbotts was quieter than Susie remembered it when she finally returned - her two-week-long disappearance drawing to a close - Meatball's leash around her wrist, a suitcase swinging back and forth in her other hand. When she'd arrived on Beatrice's doorstep, she'd had scarcely more than the clothes on her back, but in her sister's eyes, she would've been remiss to let her leave without at least a new pair of shoes to replace the worn out old boots on her feet.

The crunch of gravel split the evening quiet as she headed down the road towards her hut, each breath practised and purposeful. Susie could already imagine her bunkmates' sympathetic frowns, and they made her want to vomit. She had endured enough of that from her family - those knowing stares, imagining how she must have felt the moment they'd pulled her sister's battered corpse from the rubble - she didn't need that from these people too, these people who knew her less and could only speculate more.

Meatball's nose knocked against her leg as she fumbled for her key, prying open the front door and trying her best not to drop anything. Her efforts were rendered futile, however, as Maeve crashed into her the moment Susie stepped inside, sending her stumbling back a step in surprise.

"Oh my god," She huffed, throwing her arms around her. "Don't scare me like that again!"

"Who are you, my Ma?" Susie almost chuckled, awkwardly bending to put down her bag so that she could hug Maeve in return.

"For a while, she thought you'd been kidnapped," Charlotte shrugged as she crossed the room to join them. Seizing the hand on Maeve's back, she gave it a reassuring squeeze. It was the only acknowledgement of her reality that Susie could stomach.

"And you did nothing?" She teased half-heartedly, peeling herself away from the embrace. "Remind me to never come to you two in an emergency."

Maeve chuckled at this, and opened her mouth to speak. But her words fell on deaf ears as Susie's gaze locked upon her bunk - the sheets clean and freshly changed, a big metal box sitting at the foot of the mattress.

"... What's that?" She asked slowly, cutting off whatever had been said.

But she knew what it was, really. She'd seen a footlocker before.

Charlotte stared at the box with a saddened frown. "It's his."

Susie's brow furrowed. "They're supposed to ship it to his parents."

"He asked them to give it to you."

That was something far heavier - far more real - than she'd expected from him. But perhaps this had always been who DeMarco was. Susie had certainly gotten used to avoiding the truth of him to spare herself from something as wretched as feelings. If only she'd been any good at it.

They took the leash from her without a word, and she tossed her suitcase aside as she reached the bed, staring down at the box, the initials 'B. A. DEMARCO' stamped upon the lid in thick, black letters. To look inside meant more than simply opening the thing. It meant accepting the importance he had imbued upon her by leaving it to her, this token of his identity.

Susie wasn't sure how long she simply stared at it, listening to the thump of her heartbeat as it drummed in her ears - but when she looked up, the room was empty.

The hinges squeaked as she flipped open the lid, swallowing hard at the collection of belongings stuffed inside, scattered in an organised state of chaos that immediately struck her as so quintessentially him.

Tucked neatly amongst the letters and photographs was a folded sweater, and atop the scratchy wool lay an envelope. Susie didn't know his handwriting well, but there was no doubt that this was it, for across the paper were scribbled the words 'To be read by Susie Lamb'.

Her hand trembled as she reached for it, tearing clumsily at the flap until the envelope was practically ripped in two. She'd never seen her name written in his hand before, but the moment she read it, it was as if she could hear his voice echoing through her head, as if he were sitting right beside her.

Hiya Suze

If you're reading this, that means I've gone down - which is unfortunate, to say the least. Hopefully I'm alive in some stinking Nazi prison camp somewhere, but even that's a pretty sad thing to be hoping for.

Either way, if I know you I know you're probably thinking that I'm a goddamn idiot right now for giving you this box instead of shipping it back to my folks. Which is suppose is fair, but I've decided there's some stuff I wanna get off my chest first, and I don't need my Ma reading all this.

I love you, Suze. I don't know if I'll have told you that by the time you end up reading this, but I hope I have. I also don't know if you'll feel the same - you're like if a brick wall had pretty hair or something, so I'm not even gonna try to guess what's going on there. If you don't, feel free to burn this, and I've left my folks' address in here somewhere so you don't have to keep all my shit. But please do me a favour and at least finish reading this thing first.

I think you're the best person I know. I literally can't think of a single other person that I'd trade over being with you. I know that you think deep down you don't really deserve to have people who care about you - I know you feel especially bad about how much I care about you, cuz you're kinda mean to me, but you should know that I never take any of that stuff personal. You're mad about a lotta stuff, but if I ever helped make you feel better, even once, then I think this whole thing has been worth it, really.

You told me once that you're not very pretty, and I swear it's the closest I've ever been to having a full-on goddamn stroke. When I saw you at Charlotte's wedding today I could barely look at anything else - I don't think I heard even a quarter of what that priest was saying. I think you think there's something ugly or broken in you, but Susie I need you to know that I'd happily spend the rest of my life proving to you that that ain't true. Even when you're grumpy or mean or you tell me to shut up (which you do all the time, and I think you're mostly just deflecting) you're never gonna be able to stop me from wanting to be here with you.

There's a chance we'll see each other again after you read this. If this whole thing is coming off as stupid then do me a solid and pretend you never read it. It's very late and I've had a lot to drink tonight. And I don't think I'm very good at being charming even when I'm sober.

I have no idea what's gonna happen to me, but I think a part of me feels okay because I know that no matter what happens up there, you're gonna be safe down here. And you're gonna be okay. I know you hate that you'll never be the same as you used to be, but you shouldn't be so hard on yourself. I've only ever met this version of Susie, and I don't think I've ever loved someone better.

I'm yours, Suze, whether you like it or not (although I know you'll tell me to fuck off if you don't, and I promise I'll listen). I don't know how to close this out with anything except that.

I'll see you tomorrow, but I hope future me gets to see you soon too.

Benny.

A teardrop landed upon the end of his signature, the curl of the 'y' blotted beneath the saltwater. Susie hadn't even realised she was crying.

She wanted to scream. She wanted to throw something, break something, because how dare he leave her like this? How dare he make himself so essential to her - give her a place of sanctuary only to tear it away again? Her mind was reeling, stumbling to catch up with everything he'd written, to fully comprehend that someone out there had written these words down and truly, earnestly meant them.

It was hard for Susie Lamb to believe that a man like Bernard DeMarco could love her. But he always made it sound so easy.

'When I saw you at Charlotte's wedding today...'

That had been the night? That day of all days had been the one - the one that clicked something for Benny, that made writing this letter seem all at once of utmost importance. The night she had been judged 'not the marrying type' - too abrasive, too cold to ever be loved and give love the way Charlotte could.

But he'd seen it. He'd known her better than the rest of them, and to him, she was worthy.

Susie never could've written something like this. The admission made her stomach hurt.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Crickets chirped noisily in the grass as a cool afternoon breeze brushed through her hair, sending shivers down her neck. Holding her cigarette to her lips, Susie took a long, deep breath, reaching a hand into the paper bag in her lap. The fields appeared so much larger when she was alone.

"Hey," Charlotte's voice echoed from behind her, clutching her own lunch as she clambered down the grassy slope to meet her. "Mind if I sit?"

"Yeah, sure," She nodded, mouth full as she took a bite of her sandwich.

Charlotte grunted faintly as she crouched down to sit beside her, wedding ring catching the light even beneath the gloomy layer of clouds that hung above them. Susie didn't look at her - just buried her cigarette in the wet dirt, extinguishing it as she sniffed loudly.

"You'll be okay," Charlotte stated after a while. She could feel her stare.

"Not something I've been known to deal with very well."

A pause. "... You mean your sister?"

Now Susie turned, eyes wide and watery. "What d'you know about that?"

Charlotte shrugged. "I know something happened to her. I assumed she died. We've all seen the photo you keep in your truck."

"That's none of your fucking business," She spat before she could think better of it, regretting the words as soon as they left her. Charlotte was unphased.

"You're allowed to make it my business. You don't have to do all of this shit on your own, Susie."

Her teeth dug into her bottom lip, tasting the metallic tang of blood as the skin split.

"We've been working together for over two years, it wouldn't kill you to let me in some time. Like you did with him."

"Don't," Susie squeaked, little more than a whisper. "I don't wanna talk about him."

"You should. It'll feel like shit until you do."

"It'll feel like shit anyway. Talking about it just reminds me of all the stuff I should've said to him."

"... Like what?"

"Like I loved him," She sniffed again, wiping her eye with the ball of her palm before the tears that were forming could fall. A half-eaten sandwich was clutched in her hand, but she found she'd lost her appetite.

Charlotte let out a huff of almost-laughter. "Oh, he knew that."

Susie's brow furrowed, the weight of her frown twisting her entire face. "I don't think so. I was bitchy and stubborn, and-"

"Susie." Her voice was soft yet firm, and it shut her up immediately. "He knew that. Everyone knew that."

Her vision had blurred through the tears, an involuntary gasp of laughter escaping her. "You think?"

"You two weren't as subtle as you thought you were, m'love," Charlotte grinned. At this, Susie began to laugh - chuckles coming soft at first, before they began to shake her shoulders, expression contorted beneath the weight of her smile. But somewhere along the way the tears had slipped in too, guffaws slowly giving way to sobs, and before she knew it she was crying against Charlotte's shoulder, tugged closer in a sideways embrace.

"You're gonna be okay, Susie."

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

It was an unusually cold day, even for November, the stink of oil still thick in the air from where the mechanics had burnt it away the night before, tyre tracks cutting through the wet sheen left by the rain across the tarmac. Susie reached for the flask of tea in the passenger seat, taking a long sip as she let the warmth soothe her throat, filling her up from within. Letting out a breath, the air fogged in front of her face, condensation steaming up the windscreen.

"Heya," Maeve chirped as she stepped up to the window, fingerless gloved leaving her fingertips cold and pink as they drummed against the metal, a scarf wrapped tightly around her neck.

"'Ello," Susie greeted in return, passing her the flask without ever having to ask. "Y'alright?"

"Yeah. Bevan says we're gonna need to get a new .50 caliber in for the Riveters, though."

"You're kidding."

"Nope."

Susie sighed, scrounging around in the glovebox for a moment until she found her notebook. "Might take a while. I'll probably have to make a special trip for it."

"I'll come," Maeve shrugged, the suggestion giving her pause. The girl had occupied Susie's passenger seat countless times, but it still felt like his.

"Alright, sure. Thanks for letting me know."

Flashing a smile, Maeve began to walk away, almost skidding on her heel as she did a double take, reappearing at the window fast enough to startle. "Oh! By the way-"

"Jesus Christ."

"- Post came in this morning when you were out. Left yours on your bed."

"Fab. Thanks," Susie nodded, engine roaring as she stirred it awake, the truck shuddering beneath her as she pulled away.

Maeve hadn't been wrong - as Susie returned to their hut a few hours later, a pair of letters were sitting upon her pillow, unopened and untouched, waiting for her to receive them. She gnawed absent-mindedly at the inside of her cheek, tired from a day's work and barely paying attention as she scanned the addresses etched upon the envelopes.

The first came from one of her sisters - Sally or Nancy, although she could never quite tell their handwriting apart, nor could she remember their addresses without checking. Sucking her teeth, she tossed it onto the nightstand, a wordless reminder to read it later before she went to bed.

The second gave her pause.

The envelope was far more battered than the first, corners dulled, ink smudged in places. For a moment she'd suspected one of her brothers - perhaps Ronnie's musings from whichever French town he was currently billeting in. But she knew his writing, and this wasn't it.

Nevertheless, it was certainly familiar...

Brow furrowed, Susie let her curiosity seize her, clumsily tearing at the envelope until the folded scrap of paper came free, unfurling in her palm.

Hiya Suze

The opening line hit like a punch to the gut, knocking the air from her lungs until she couldn't breathe, until she felt ready to keel over and vomit across the polished floor.

She wasted no time with the letter's contents - they could wait for now - her eyes scanning immediately to the end of the page. A choked sob tore free from her throat.

All my love,

Benny

[artemis1214]

MEET ESME ROSE LUCIANO!

Hello! 👋🏼

These are some headcanons for my Hazbin Hotel OC, Esme! If you would like to read more about Esme's story, you can check out my Wattpad story "A Siren's Spell".

HELLA SPOILERS AHEAD!

Human Life (1900-1932) 

As a child, Esme was very friendly and bubbly. She was everyone's best friend and the little major of Manhattan. 

Would love to pet the horses leading the carriages in front of her father’s bar. 

Esme’s mother would always try to keep her away from the family ‘business’, but little Esme always found herself listening in on the men's conversations and meetings. 

Natural flirt as a teenager, but only had one boyfriend in New York.

Natural mother figure to Anthony from their connected families.

Cool aunt vibe for Molly and Anthony. (Would buy them ice cream on the regular when their parents weren't around).

Would float in a raft in the Hudson River, smoking a cigarette in the summer. 

Very protective of her younger sister, would stand up to bullies, and get in trouble with the nuns at school. 

Raised Catholic. 

Libra.

Used by her father to lure men to his work and steal their money. 

Gets "too involved" in the business and gets sent to New Orleans to basically hide away.

Has a very seductive luxurious transatlantic accent, but alone drops to a casual crisp New York tone. 

Accent drops completely when upset or cursing.

Always smells like vanilla and strawberries.

Lots of chocolate martinis, vodka cranberries, and red wine. 

Long hair because she hates thinking about fitting into societal beauty standards (no flapper hair here!).

Heavy sweet tooth. 

Big bookworm.

Theme Songs: 

“You don’t own me” 

"My Days" - The Notebook on Broadway

"Roxie" - Chicago

"Gangsta" - Kehlani

"So, this is love?"

Always carries a silent pistol in her purse.

Very charming, seductive, playful, and secretive. 

Steals Mimzy's spot as the head girl at the speakeasy.

Singer, burlesque performer.

Also plays piano.

Alastor watches her from the back of the parlor, tapping his finger on his whiskey glass.

Meets Alastor immediately but senses something ‘off’ about him. 

Hella sexual tension right off the bat. 

Threatens him with her pistol when she discovers who he is. 

Not phased by many of Al’s doings as she watched her father kill men all the time. 

“You don’t scare me." 

Has a smart mouth that often gets her in trouble when men. 

Has spit in men’s faces before.

“Fuck you.” These are her two favorite words for them.

Is disgusted by men. 

“Men are dogs, I like my dogs on four legs.” 

Very possessive, protective, and jealous. 

When the two get married she becomes similar to a New York mob wife. 

“No Alasta, you’re not killin’ on a Sunday! Sunday is a holy day - plus I made meatballs!” 

Goes for the eyes when she kills people, “You really do have pretty eyes, wonder how long they’ll take to cut out.”

Will ship the remains to their parents as a “warning.” 

Going to the water when she is stressed out, usually the dock near her house.

Alastor will drive fast down empty roads so she can hang out of the car and let her hair flow.

ALWAYS has a record on the spinner and espresso brewing.

Their house smells like coffee 24/7.

Angelic, alluring voice with a natural jazzy ring to it if she so pleases when she sings.

BIG flirt and entertainer when drunk or high.

Very strong siren eyes when she is singing, performing, or talking to someone. 

HATES spicy food (Alastor’s cooking nearly kills her every time)

Will request a seafood broil every single time he cooks for her.  

If Alastor’s mother were to be alive, these two would be BEST FRIENDS! 

She’d probably make plans to hang out with just her - not Alastor (lol!). 

Date nights of just cooking their respective recipes. 

“WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU DON’T LIKE MY LASAGNA?!” 

Their song is “It’s Been a Long, Long, Time” by Kitty Kallen.

COUPLE THEME SONG: ACROSS THE STARS FROM STAR WARS.

Hella foreshadowing (Padme/Anakin vibes)

Speaks Italian when upset 

Che Cazzo?!

Che palle?!

Figlio di puttana!

Affectionate pet names for those she cares for 

“Lovey” - Her sister Margo 

“My Dove” - Her daughter, Genevieve 

“Sweetheart” - Alastor 

NEVER shows up to an event empty-handed. She’ll feed everyone there. 

Love language is def quality time and cooking.

Flirts with Alastor around his secretary to make her jealous 

Basically the second in command when she's at Alastor's office.

You better do whatever Esme asks or he will kill you (no joke).

“Let that bitch hear.” Vibes. 

Brat 

Submissive/Switch

Masochist

Big softie as a mother, complete domestic. 

Loves children and animals. 

No longer works at the speakeasy.

Becomes a housewife.

Can have hella anxiety/depression.

Doesn't cope with things properly and will shut herself out from everyone if upset.

Emotionally numb from losing so many people in her life.

At the end of her story, she realizes it's going to be him or her...

"Veronica, open the door please!" Vibes.

"Where is Padme, is she safe? Is she alright?" 

“It seems in your anger, you killed her…”

BIG THANKS TO @hoomandoescosplay FOR HELPING WITH THESE HEADCANONS! LOVE YOU GIRLYPOP! 💗

[maverickscorner]

Faber suae fortunae

Or Maider's love story towards freedom.

Chapter 5

Maider took a sip of watered-down wine with a thirsty demeanor.

She had been singing at regular intervals throughout the day. It was dinner time, and thus time to go home. At the end of her shift, Cala and Audra had placed some spicy meatballs in front of her – which she had understood were called "Isicia Omentata" – and some bread, and she, ravenous, devoured everything under the amused gazes of the two women.

Now, she was watching Cala and Tenax tally up the day's earnings out of the corner of her eye, with particular interest in any differences compared to previous days, which had essentially been without musical entertainment.

The final calculations left them speechless.

–Damn– said Tenax.

–Yes, I know– Cala followed.

They briefly glanced at Maider, then went back to their conversation.

–A 30% increase hasn't been seen since Scorpus was racing.

–I know, Tenax. The girl has talent.

Maider took another sip of wine.

–The girl can hear you.

They met each other’s gaze.

–I enjoyed singing in front of so many people. I didn’t think I was that good, but I must say I outdid myself. I know many more songs, even in Latin. I’d like to keep performing.

Aura came closer to her with a friendly demeanor.

–You’re very good, Maider. This success is well deserved.

Maider smiled at her gratefully.

–However…– Tenax said.

They all turned toward him.

–You must be aware, Maider, that your talent is extraordinary. If you continue to perform, your name will spread from mouth to mouth. Your fame could become dangerous.

–You promised to protect me– she said, looking at him sternly –Or does that promise no longer hold?

He slammed his fist on the table.

–Watch your mouth. My promises are made in blood. You are my slave, and as long as it is within my power, I will always watch over you.

–When will it no longer be within your power?– Maider asked, shivering.

Tenax sighed.

–I’ll be honest with you. If your name grows, it will be impossible for me to keep you bound to me. I’ll have to set you free, let you go. And then I won’t be able to guarantee your protection.

Maider stood up, pacing the room.

–As much as I want freedom, now is not the time. I need a protector, and… as much as it pains me to admit it, I trust you. And I like Cala and Aura. Oh, and the children too.

A childish laugh was heard from behind a curtain.

Tenax sighed again.

–Shouldn't you be in bed by now?

There was a sound of hurried footsteps retreating. Then silence.

–All right. As long as you’re bringing in these profits, you are a valuable asset, Maider. My asset. And as such, you will be protected. Now let’s go home. Cala, you close up.

Tenax passed by Maider without giving her a glance. The girl looked at him, disappointed. She met Cala’s gaze.

-I know, dear, he has… quite direct methods. But I think that was his way of thanking you and telling you he’ll keep you safe. He appreciates you, in his own way.

Maider gave her a half-smile.

–Thank you, Cala. See you tomorrow.

Cala and Aura bid her farewell, and Maider followed Tenax out.

***

It was summer, and it still wasn’t dark.

Maider observed the pink sky over Rome, following her master down the road towards home.

Tenax, for his part, was lost in his thoughts.

He had lied to Maider.

He considered her an extraordinary singer, and as soon as he freed her, she would be hired by the most popular Roman families, who would make her the most famous artist in the city. At that point, she wouldn’t need his protection anymore, but she would have theirs. God, she could even hire her own personal guards.

The truth was that Tenax didn’t want to part from her.

He had seen the magnetic way her voice drew people in, and for a moment, a very brief moment, he had imagined himself lying on her lap in a meadow, while she sang tenderly to him in a foreign language, stroked his hair, and called him Quintus.

Fortunately, he had quickly snapped out of that terrible vision, but he had to slap himself particularly hard, leaving his cheek flushed.

For the gods' sake, he was Tenax! He had been for twenty years and still was now. He was Aedile Ludi and would soon become an advisor to Domitian, who adored his bloody ideas for the games.

–Panem et circenses, Tenax, remember. Give the people what they want, and they won’t want our heads when we impose a high price to pay.

That’s what the emperor had told him that morning. For some time, Domitian had looked at him in a way that transcended the chemistry between emperor and official. It almost seemed as if he desired him.

Tenax shuddered. He didn’t like being looked at that way. It was the same way his master had looked at him for so many years as a child. His father.

–I noticed you didn’t eat at the tavern. Will you eat at home?

Maider’s voice pulled him out of his thoughts. He was tremendously grateful for it.

–Yes, I like eating at home– he told her -Claudia is an excellent cook. And with this heat, I relax in the peristilium. The water is always pleasantly cool.

–You’re right, it’s really hot. But never as hot as in Jerusalem. There, in the summer, it’s really scorching. Sometimes with the Ben-Hur, we’d go near Jaffa and swim in the sea. God, I love swimming in the sea. Have you ever done that?

Tenax’s expression hardened. But then he met her gaze and softened.

–When I was little. Now, in Rome, we use the thermae. And if you have a large enough villa, you have an indoor pool.

–I see.

They passed over the hill and continued straight. The house was in sight, about fifteen meters away.

–Did you know I can swim?– Maider said.

Tenax gave her a tight-lipped smile. A spontaneous smile.

–Is there anything you can’t do?

–Uh, housework.

Tenax laughed, but then quickly composed himself.

How long had it been since he last laughed?

I mean a spontaneous, amused laugh, not a condescending or sadistic one.

Damn, he hadn’t laughed in a lifetime.

He looked at Maider as one looks at something very strange or something very beautiful. She blushed and looked away.

–We’re here.

Tenax knocked three times on the door, and Claudia opened it for them. They said their goodnights, and each went to their rooms. A million questions swirling in their minds.

***

–Tenax? Hey, Tenax?

Tenax snapped out of it. He was at Domitian’s court, presenting the plans for the upcoming games. Venationes, or hunts, in labyrinths, reminiscent of the Minotaur myth. First, they would throw slaves or prisoners into the arena. Then the hunters would kill the beasts.

–Forgive me, emperor. I was saying that a rhinoceros recently arrived from Africa. It’s very large and very fierce. We believe it will provide more than an adequate spectacle.

–Excellent, excellent. I can’t wait to see this plan in action.

Tenax gave a tight-lipped smile. Around them, dancers had begun to perform to the music.

–Thank you, emperor. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must return to my duties.

–Of course, dear. Are you sure you don’t want to stay? I’ve heard that at your old tavern, you have a new artist, but my musicians are also quite good…

Tenax shivered. He met Domitian’s lascivious gaze and bowed his head, choosing his words carefully.

–Thank you, Caesar. Unfortunately, my obligations today prevent me from staying. I won’t miss the next one.

Domitian seemed satisfied and let him go.

–Very well, very well. I’ll hold you to that, Tenax.

Tenax bowed his head again and walked away.

As soon as he was far enough, he allowed himself to breathe again.

He cursed himself for thinking he could control Domitian.

Damn it, it seemed like Domitian would do anything to control him.

Tenax wouldn’t allow it.

Once outside the palace, he headed to the tavern at a brisk pace.

***

It was evening.

Maider had sung another song from her repertoire, and Tenax had noticed with both pleasure and apprehension that the crowd at the tavern continued to grow.

She had repeated the previous day’s song, and everyone had burst into a joyful dance, singing at the top of their lungs, betting, and drinking.

Now she and Tenax, having left Cala and Aura to close the tavern, were heading home.

He seemed more tense than the night before. Not that he had been relaxed the previous night, but she could see him immersed in tense thoughts. Some unknown force pushed her to try to calm him.

She liked it when those big blue eyes of his relaxed and allowed themselves to smile.

–Uh, how did it go with the emperor?

Wrong question. Tenax tensed more than ever.

-Fine.

-Sorry, I didn’t mean to pry. Do you… do you have any passions?

Tenax stopped.

-What?

She tried to explain herself.

-Uh, yeah, do you like doing anything, or reading anything, or watching anything?

Tenax blinked a couple of times.

-I like money.

-And is that your passion?

Tenax resumed walking.

-Perhaps. Yes.

Maider fell silent.

-Again, I didn’t mean to be intrusive. I was just trying to make our walks home more interesting.

-They’re already interesting. Look at the monuments, the buildings.

-The monuments speak of a greatness built on the backs of slaves. You speak of a greatness you built with your own hands.

Tenax stopped again, looking at her with an expression that deeply affected Maider. A surprised and... vulnerable look.

Tenax sighed.

-Even my greatness, if it truly is such, was built on the backs of slaves.

Maider didn’t understand, but she remained silent.

Tenax continued walking.

He was referring, as always, to a slave he knew well. His old self.

He was referring to Quintus.

***

It was two in the morning.

Maider couldn’t sleep; it was terribly hot. And then, she had too many thoughts in her head. No matter how hard she tried, what she had done to survive on that damned ship, with that damn officer, kept haunting her thoughts and dreams.

She dreamt of being there, in that cabin, dirty, forced by her own self to be seductive in order to survive that physical and mental ordeal.

Days had passed, yet Maider felt dirtier and more like a whore than ever. A woman her father and the Ben-Hur family would have rejected. Perhaps even stoned.

What would Tenax, Cala, and the others think if they knew the truth?

Would they look at her the same way, or with disgust?

She really didn't know.

And yet, she couldn't sleep.

She left her room, intending to find some cool air, and found Tenax soaking in the peristilium pool.

Tenax, who had been keeping his eyes half-closed, heard her arrival and snapped out of it. He was relieved to remember he was wearing light short trousers.

-Maider?

-Tenax, good evening. I couldn’t sleep because of the heat, so I thought I’d pour a jug of water over myself to cool off. That’s the whole story.

-I see.

A moment of silence. Maider kept staring at the pool. Tenax understood.

-Oh, do you want to… swim?

-I don’t want to disturb you.

-No, no, the pool is big. You can stay on the other side, if you like.

-Really?

-Yes. But don’t…

While Tenax was saying yes, Maider had remained in her linen tunic, taken a running start, and had literally dived into the pool.

Tenax was hit by a wave of water.

They both resurfaced.

Tenax looked at her with wide blue eyes, while she laughed amused. When he saw his expression, she pressed her lips into a thin line.

-MAIDER!- Tenax shouted, wiping his face with his hand -HAVE YOU LOST YOUR MIND?

She raised her hands.

-It seemed fun, and I was hot!

-I ALMOST DROWNED!

-I bet you would not. The water's not so deep.

Tenax had a bewildered expression.

Maider let out a giggle.

-Come on, you have to admit it was fun…

Tenax looked up at the sky, and seeing her laugh, finally smiled.

-You’re completely crazy.

Hearing the commotion, Claudia burst into the room, holding a pan.

-TENAX! Is everything all right?! I heard noises, and I’m… Oh.

Maider burst out laughing. Tenax sank into the water, wishing the gods would put an end to his suffering.

***

Hi! It's Eli-Maverick. You would expext to find Maider's story on another account (@sharingmystoriesetc), but it was me all the time. It's time for me to take courage and publish on my main profile. Hope you like this chapter, I loved writing that. Let me know in the comments what you think. Thank you.

[upontherisers]

my brain is evil today and still screaming about your baseball prompts so uhhhh mahalia plus ⁸⁰⁾ wet clothes and ambulance sirens please if i may — @shoshiwrites

this prompt is so EVOCATIVE shoshi. i was brought to lake harding immediately. cw for descriptions of injury/blood and descriptions of anxiety attacks.

All he can hear are the sirens — loud, they’re always so fucking loud. Screeching in his ears, making his eyes feel like they’re about to pop out of his skull. Non-stop, on and on and on and on and on, drilling into his brain, not getting any quieter as the ambulance speeds away to Saratoga Springs, yelling at him, screaming, bursting into his veins until his cells are vibrating at the same frequency.

Meatball started howling before they could even hear them and he’d stood no chance against that horn, the blaring panic that thumped along to the terrible heartbeat of the lights, flash flash, flash flash. The red and yellow flickered on Mahalia’s face like days passing too fast — ochre dawn and crimson dusk — as they rolled her up from the ropes course. She was with him the entire time, so completely herself as blood poured into her right eye due to burst vessels and the odd angle of her knee had Kyle radioing the hospital for Trauma Bay 2, and he was holding the back of her skull together with his hands while she insisted that Vera grab the “good charger” left of her bed and her Stitch crocs, not the Shrek ones.

And the sirens got louder as they neared the ambulance, and it’s not hospitals John has a problem with, but sirens. They only ever take people away.

He’s going to crack a tooth if he doesn’t unclench his jaw but he can’t ‘cause the sirens are so FUCKING loud. They’re gonna shatter his bones he was holding the back of her skull together with his hands—

“John.” 

There’s a hand at his shoulder and he forgot he had a body for a moment but the hand is firm. The sirens get a driveway length’s quieter.

“John,” Buck says. John blinks and sees what he’s been looking at — the inside of his bunk, empty and grey on a dark evening, unable to remember when he started looking at it. The hand, Buck’s hand, squeezes his shoulder and his chest hurts because he’s been holding his breath. He exhales and it hurts like hell, biting at his insides, squeezing so hard it makes him nauseous and it feels like sirens in his ears.

Buck tugs at him and he gives, catching his balance as he comes back into his legs. It’s like looking at the sun when he sees someone else for the first time in however long he’s been standing here and he wants to cover his eyes but his hands are dead at his sides. 

He forgot Buck had scars.

“John—“ And Buck’s hand’s at his collar now and if he could get the sirens to stop, he could say something. “Breathe, John.”

He was holding his breath again and as he exhales, the lights start turing orange with distance. They’re on the road now, blinkers flashing for left.

“You need to change.”

Right, it’s raining. The rain, that’s the reason they were… it’s raining.

He needs to get the blood off his hands but as he looks down, he finds that he already has. There’s nothing left, nothing out of the ordinary — no dark red, no white fleck of what he hopes isn’t bone — only a slight blue tinge along the muscles. It gets so cold when it rains up here. 

Buck throws a shirt at him, then boxers and some joggers, and he doesn’t know if he can do it. There was so much blood on his hands as they lifted her into the ambulance and he’s treated more head wounds than he can count so he knows it isn’t good. He looks down at his hands and there was just so much blood and he doesn’t fucking know where he is. It’s so LOUD in his head. 

It’s cold and loud and it’s always cold and loud when the ambulances come — in Wisconsin in November or the Catskills in June. 

That’s when he notices the boys aren’t there. But where did—do they know? The lights are off so he didn’t see them before Buck showed, and the boys need to know. Harry’s boys too, and Buck’s, and everyone needs to know. 

She fell so fast. One moment, she was making her way down the ladder above him as he turned to talk to Benny on the ground and the next, a gasp and a terrible two heartbeats before she was on her back below him with a leg the shape it shouldn’t be.

He’s freezing so he changes. His shirt’s on backwards but he really truly honestly couldn’t give less of a shit as his skin stops burning with dry things on and the sirens have to wait for one more car before they turn down Wilton Road and disappear from ear and eye. But they really, really want him to know they’re there.

[ereardon]

That Summer || Part Eight [Bradley Bradshaw x Reader]

A Bradley Bradshaw AU

Synopsis: One night during the summer you turned eighteen, you woke up to a surprise. Your father, a retired Navy Admiral, had posted bail for the son of a former colleague who was now orphaned and had gotten himself mixed up with the law. Instead of letting him get lost in the judicial system, your father signed himself up as Bradley Bradshaw’s guardian to prevent him from going to juvie. You were explicitly told to stay away from the boy in the attic room. But as the summer went on, you and Bradley struck up an unlikely friendship that turned into a forbidden relationship. Bradley tipped your world upside down, challenging everything you had once thought you knew. How could the two of you think it would end any differently than it did when your father called the cops the night he found the two of you in bed together?

Pairing: Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw x Reader 

Warnings: Cursing, angst, smut

Chapter summary: Y/N celebrates her 18th birthday and Bradley gives her a gift she'll never forget; Bradley and Y/N take their relationship to the next physical level and he makes a promise to her he's dead set on keeping

Wordcount: 2.3K

Series masterlist here; Part Seven here

You had never been in love before Bradley. 

What you didn’t know was that love like the way you and Bradley felt about each other wasn’t standard. It wasn’t normal for two teenagers to feel that way about each other and mean it. 

What you didn’t know was that you would spend the rest of your life trying to recreate how you felt that summer. For the way you felt that night as Bradley’s arms wrapped around you and he told you, for the first time, that he loved you. 

What you didn’t realize was that loving Bradley was short and sweet and perfect. And it would crumble. Before your very eyes. 

***

He knew, the moment he said it, that he shouldn’t have. 

It wasn’t that he didn’t love you. He did. Bradley Bradshaw was sure of only a handful of things in his life — that California was superior to most, if not all other states; that his mother was his best friend, even in death; that more restaurants should carry hot dogs and meatballs as main courses. 

And there was one other thing that he was absolutely certain about. It was that he loved you, with every fiber of his being. With every breath he became more infatuated and tied to you. 

The two of you were bonded. Bradley knew that no matter what happened, you would own a part of him forever. He would never be complete again. And that was OK. He loved you, and he wanted to give you the world. But he had nothing to his name. So he would settle with giving you a piece of his soul. 

He gave you everything he could. He promised he would.

He just prayed it was enough.

***

“The dress code is white tie,” you said, snapping your seatbelt and adjusting the mirror. 

Bradley frowned from the passenger seat. “What is that?” 

You rattled on about what exactly it entailed and Bradley’s stomach sunk further. He was suddenly, overwhelmingly, anxious about this. Dancing in front of a room of strangers? Watching his every move so that he didn’t betray what you two had? Trying, and failing, to learn the steps of some arcane waltz that was exclusively designed to trip people up? 

But he couldn’t tell you any of those fears. You were excited. He could see it in your face. The way the light hit you as the two of you pulled onto the main road, headed for town and the custom tailor your father swore by. For the first time in a long time, Bradley saw you happy outside the confines of your bedroom or his. 

He felt it was his duty to maintain that happiness. If only for a fleeting moment. 

“That sounds great,” he said as you finished telling him about the meal. 

You looked over with a grin. “Really?” He nodded and you reached out, taking his hand in yours. “See,” you said. Beyond the windshield, the island stretched out in front of you, seemingly endless. 

But everything ends. Roads would turn to vegetation and then sand and then water. And if you kept going straight the two of you would be shuttled off into the abyss of the ocean. 

“I knew they’d come around,” you added and Bradley smiled at you gently, feeling your fingers squeeze his. “They’re going to love you just as much as I do. It’ll all work out, I promise.” 

You meant it. He knew you meant it. 

But he also knew you were wrong. The minute your father found out that Bradley was the person you were sneaking off to see under the cover of nightfall, it was all over for him. For both of you. 

It was only a matter of time.

***

“Happy birthday, Pumpkin.” Your father kissed the top of your head and placed a small box in front of you at the kitchen table. “From me and your mother.” 

You smiled at him and slid a finger under the wrapping, revealing a familiar robin’s egg blue box. You gasped and your father chuckled. 

Inside was a small diamond pendant necklace. You lifted it up softly, letting the diamond swivel around and collect the light. 

“Thank you daddy,” you smiled. You looked at the opposite end of the table. “Mother, thank you.” 

She nodded curtly. 

Louise brought out a perfect three-tiered coconut cake, way too much for four people, and you blew out the candles in one swift breath. 

Your father raised his glass of champagne. You and Bradley did the same, as well as your mother. “To my daughter on her eighteenth birthday,” he said warmly. “You’re perfect. And we love you so much. Cheers.” 

Bradley caught your eye from the other side of the table. He smiled and you felt it in your toes.

Eighteen. You had your whole life ahead of you. But all that mattered in that moment was making it to tonight. Because you and Bradley had plans. 

***

The door eased open. You turned from where you had been staring out the window at the waves crashing along the shore during high tide. 

Bradley tried not to let his jaw drop. You were practically ethereal. Pale, silvery moonlight illuminating you from behind. He stepped inside, closing the door softly, trying to gulp as silently as possible. 

You fiddled with the sleeves of your white lace robe, suddenly nervous. But when Bradley crossed the room, sliding one hand beneath your chin, drawing your eyes up to his, all of that fear and anxiety drifted away. It was just the two of you. That’s all you would ever need. Just Bradley. 

“I didn’t get to say it earlier,” he whispered, “but happy birthday.” 

You smiled and Bradley’s thumb reached out, tracing over the corner of your lip. “Thanks.” 

His other hand came out, brushing over your waist. You shivered unintentionally. “We don’t have to do this,” he murmured. 

You shook your head. “I want to. I want you, Bradley. All of you.” 

Bradley nodded, dropping his hand to take yours, walking you over to the side of the bed. He reached up to unbutton his shirt and you leaned forward, doing it for him. Carefully, you undid the row of buttons on his linen shirt, sliding your hands along his bare chest, nudging it off his shoulders. 

He reached out, fingers grasping the silky tie of your robe. Bradley looked up at you, waiting for the go-ahead. You nodded and he slid it open softly, reaching out and letting the robe slip from your shoulders and arms, pooling onto the ground. Bradley’s eyes went wide as he took in your matching white panties and lace bra. Gently, he leaned down, kissing your shoulder as your head reached back, a small sigh exiting your mouth. Bradley’s hands ran over your exposed skin, warming you, and your fingers reached for his belt, pulling at it. 

He leaned back with a smile. “Slow down, Birdy.” 

“Need to feel you.” 

A groan fell from his lips and he quickly shed his belt and shorts, standing in front of you in a pair of blue boxer shorts, cock already standing at full attention beneath the fabric. You reached out, petting him over the cotton material, and Bradley moaned sinfully. Your fingertips slid into the waistband and you looked up at him, waiting. He nodded and you pulled them down, letting his thick cock spring free. 

The two of you stood facing each other. Bradley reached out, holding your hips, pivoting you wordlessly toward the bed. He laid you down gently before crawling on top of you, his lips everywhere: your collarbone, the top of your breast, your stomach, the squishy part of your thigh where it met your hips. 

You moaned quietly as Bradley unclipped your bra, taking your nipple into his mouth, massaging your other breast with his hand. “Fuck,” he muttered, nipping at the delicate skin. He looked up, brown eyes locked on yours. “You’re perfect.” 

Excitement coursed through your veins. Your body was desperate for Bradley. “Brad,” you whispered. “Need you now.” 

You could feel his cock flutter against your thigh, the tip already wet. It made you want to press your thighs together, craving the friction. “Honey,” he murmured softly. “Let me at least get you ready.” 

The truth was, he needed a moment himself. The truth was, Bradley had never done this before. 

You ran your fingers through his hair. 

“I’m ready. More than ready.” 

Bradley nodded, easing his fingers into the waistband of your panties, pulling them down and tossing them off of the side of your bed. You opened your legs wider, allowing him to settle himself between them. He was quiet for a moment, one hand on your thigh, the other gently holding his hard cock. A hesitation. 

“Are you OK?” you asked. 

Bradley looked up. “There’s something I have to tell you.” He let out a breath. “I’m a virgin.” 

Oh. Oh. That explained it. The way he was looking at you. Wanting to take things slow. You sat up, kneeling on the bed facing him. You reached out softly, one hand cupping his cheek. “Bradley.” His name on your lips made him want to pass out. It was gentle. Caring. Bradley knew he might never meet another person who would love him the way you did in that moment. 

He wanted you, all of you. He wanted so much it terrified him. And the worst part was that he knew you wanted more, too. You wanted him. A life with him. You wanted things he couldn’t give you. You wanted stability and comfort and a home. You wanted a whole life that was outside of Bradley’s reach. 

“We don’t have to do this if you’re not ready,” you murmured. “Whatever you want to do, I’m happy.” 

He shook his head. “I want to.” I’m just scared.  

“Are you sure?” 

His eyes latched onto yours. “I love you, Birdy. More than anything else in the world. More than I ever thought was possible. So yes, I’m sure. I just, I needed you to know.” 

You leaned forward, pressing your lips against Bradley’s. His warm hands came out to your sides, leaning you back gently, settling you on your back on the mattress. One of his hands nudged your legs open and you gasped into Bradley’s mouth as you felt the hot tip of his cock brush against your wet entrance. 

He groaned as he pushed the head inside of you, a literal whimper leaving his mouth. “Oh, oh God.” 

“Bradley,” you whined, wrapping your arms around his shoulders and upper back. 

“Fuck, you feel amazing,” he whispered against the skin of your neck, pushing further inside of you, splitting you into pieces. “Birdy, oh shit!” 

He slid further inside of you, thick cock stuffing you full, your walls fluttering around him as you stifled moans into the skin of his shoulder where you pressed your mouth. Bradley’s hand came up and gripped your neck, holding onto you. Clinging to you. 

Once he was all the way inside, you opened your eyes. Bradley sat staring back at you, his brown eyes blown wide. “Baby,” he whispered. 

You knew what he wanted. You nodded. “Please,” you begged and he obliged, pulling out a few inches before slamming back into you, eliciting a simultaneous moan from both of you. His rhythm was clumsy, asymmetrical, as he pulled back, thrusting into you repeatedly. But it didn’t matter. Your feet climbed onto Bradley’s back as you curled yourself around him, his pants and sighs in your ear causing your walls to tighten on him. “Bradley!” 

“Fuck, Birdy, I’m not going to last,” he moaned as he slid further inside of you. “Where should I?” 

“Inside of me,” you begged and Bradley’s pace picked up until he was shooting cum inside of you, a messy jumble of moans and praises falling from his mouth as he stilled inside of you. You wrapped your arms around him tightly, holding him to your chest where he had collapsed against you. “I love you,” you murmured against his sweaty, salty skin. “I love you.” 

You held him close, his face buried between your neck and shoulder. And you knew that you would never forget holding Bradley in your arms. 

Finally, he pulled out slowly, groaning lightly. The two of you cleaned up in the adjoining bathroom before you slid into bed under the covers, patting the space next to you. “Stay,” you asked. 

He nodded. “I will. I promise. But first, I have a present for you.” 

You frowned. Bradley had no job. No income. He had nothing to his name. How could he have a gift for you? 

Bradley bent down, fiddling with the pocket of his discarded shorts, before slipping under the covers next to you. He grabbed your hand, dropping something from his fist into yours. 

It was cold. He pulled his hands away and you opened your hand, revealing a plain gold band placed on your palm. 

“It was my mother’s wedding ring,” he said and you looked up in shock. “It’s the only thing I have of hers.” 

You shook your head, pressing it back into his hands. “Bradley, no. Absolutely not. I can’t accept this.” 

“Y/N,” he said and there was a finality to the word. “Yes, you will. She would have wanted you to have it. I want you to have it.” 

“Is it, um?” You didn’t know how to ask. 

“Not yet,” Bradley whispered. “But someday, Birdy, yes. Someday I’m going to ask you to marry me. I promise, no matter what happens, I’ll make you my wife.” 

You slipped the ring onto the fourth finger of your right hand instead of your left. It fit perfectly. You looked up at him. “I love it. Thank you.” 

He leaned forward, pressing his lips to yours softly. “I love you. I’m always going to love you. I'm sorry it's not much," he added. "But it's all I could do."

Your fingers tightened around his, the cool metal brushing against his skin. "It's perfect," you murmured. "It's more than enough. You're more than enough."

Tag list (or turn on notifications for my library page @ereardon):

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[goldfishontheceiling]

TEAM E-SCOPE (+ Owen) BEACH HEADCANONS!!

Pronouns for these HCs:

Izzy: She/They/Xe (Izzy uses neoprounouns it's canon I'm Fresh TV /j)

Eva: She/He

Owen: He/Him

Noah: He/They

Izzy:

- insists on driving (do NOT let her drive!!)

- loves sitting in the front

- stares out the window or sings along to the radio most of the car ride

- begs Eva to stop at the gas station

- xe always gets sour gummy worms

- no sour gummy worms? sour patch kids

- no sour patch kids? sweedish fish

- no sweedish fish? RIOT

- absolutely LOVES the water

- they go out super deep and scare the shit out of everyone

- chases the icecream truck until xe gets the whole group icecream

- *borrows bridgette's surboard* *tries to surf* *fails miserably*

- 100% brings googles

- likes catching fish with their bare hands (or teeth)

-she splashed Eva once (and got thrown headfirst into Owen's sandcastle as a result)

- collects seashells

- tries to take home crabs as pets

- a little more chill on the ride home but this is Izzy we're talking about xe's never chill

Eva:

- designated driver (has road rage)

- *aggressively honks horn* "DRIVE FASTER BITCH"

- always gets some chocolate and a coffee at the gas station

- hates the radio but plays it for Izzy (she keeps the mp3 player on standby incase it gets too bad)

- mostly swims with Izzy or plays volleyball

- *plays volleyball with some strangers* *gets mad and chucks the ball at one of their faces*

- tries to relax (emphasis on the tries)

- she knows cpr!!

- he gets salt water and/or sand in her eyes everytime

- will yell at you (lovingly) if you forget to put on sunscreen

- he makes sure everyone drinks water (no Izzy ocean water doesn't count) and stays hydrated!!

- wears sunglasses pretty much the entire time

- will make sure nobody tracks sand into the car

Owen:

- sits in the back with Noah

- he gets everyone to play "I spy" with him (Izzy can't focus, Noah's half asleep, and Eva's more focused on trying not to scream then things that are the color yellow)

- if the others are busy/don't want to play he usually whips out the DVD player

- did I mention that he collects DVDs? his favorite movies are cloudy with a chance of meatballs, toy story, and ratatouille

- always gets gummy sharks or jolly ranchers

- Owen packs the best snacks and brings things they all like (strawberries, veggie straws, goldfish, cheez its, etc)

- he even made sandwiches and fruit salads!!

- the water's nice and all, but the SAND!!

- he makes the best sand castles

- since Owen canonically has 3 brothers, he knows a lot of games (sand castle building contest, marco polo, "who can dig the deepest hole in 5 minutes," etc)

- gives the seashells he finds to Izzy

- speaking of Izzy, xe burries Owen in the sand atleast once everytine they go

Noah:

- he ususally drives for shorter trips, but long car rides make him tired

- you can not convince me that this man doesn't latch on to Owen like a koala when he naps

- Owen angles the DVD player somewhere they could both see incase Noah wakes up

- at first, Noah just reads a book (or stares out the window when he gets carsick) but he always ends up falling asleep at some point

- whenever they stop at the gas station, Owen always makes sure to get something for Noah

- they always bring their book with them to the beach

- he protects that book like a lifeline

- once he either finishes the book or the others bug him enough, THEN he does stuff

- Izzy always tries to convince them to get in the water

- 9 times out of 10 he says no

- but on the occasional times they say yes, they almost drown

- Owen carries Noah pretty much everywhere lmao

- he doesn't really like water (and no I won't be making an IOTS refrence no matter how tempting it is)

- they help Owen with his sand castle!!

- Noah isn't much of a beach person but that doesn't mean he can't have fun

- and ofc he falls back asleep on the ride back

[mrscakeishere]

Ineffable IKEA Furniture Assembly

“How can beings so clever create dowels and brackets and chipboard?!”

“Well, I’m not the one who threw everything on the floor.”

Wondering what the H-E-double hockey-sticks this is all about?

You can find out in The Long Road to Meatballs on AO3 (rated Explicit, mind the tags). A little comedy smut for the GOAD Smut War by me and @polychromicron-persei-8.

[laprimera]

ABOUT THE MUN - ooo I got tagged ooOooo

what made you pick up the current muse(s) you have?

fixation as soon as the second trailer with her reveal came? Like the little snippets that was known about the game already weaved a pretty intricate (and disproven lol) plot and personality.

Even after everything got debunked I still kept my original lore + now I live and love the idea her ideal, picturesque self is actually a front for how clutzy and forgetful she really is as a super busy champion who's passionate about her region.

is there anything you don’t like to write?

bad/sad unnecessary endings or forks in the road?? I know it's silly in context like "well stories arent all happy-" BUT THIS IS POKEMON AR PEE AND I PARTIALLY CONTROL THE NARATIVE AND I WANT MY PROTAGS TO GO THROUGH IT BUT COME OUT AT THE END GETTING EVERYTHING THEY WANT. IS IT SO BAD I DONT WANT TO PARTICIPATE IN BITTER SADNESS EVEN IN A FANTASY MADE-UP SCENARIO? REALITY IS HELL AS IS I DONT WANNA BE SAD ALL DAY OVER INTERNET BARBIES, I HAVE BILLS AND TAXES TO DO.

so I make sure to plot with long term plot partners so we all get that character growth and exciting story with something good they can all take away in the end. No, the character doesnt have to die to prove a macab point. No the loving couple doesnt have to break up for some story twist. And thats what AU's are for if we're looking to explore something else so it's easy to separate from 👍

is there anything you really enjoy writing?

plot novellas 👀 I see a partner reply instantly to a plot thread and I jive for days on end until the next reply for real-- each one is a really juicy cliffhanger and a lot of them still haunt the back of my mind.

how do you come up with headcanons? 

most come with interactions or thoughts stemming from the game or story itself. Eventually they branch out and more ideas happen and a lot comes from looking at dash and bringing up some really interesting points!

do you write in silence or do you play music? 

Ambiance and music helps esp when silence is actually really distracting (thoughts wandering and what not-adhd be like that). The mood even influences the reply.

do you plan your replies or wing them?

planned for plot driven replies but ic bouts and simple replies are winged!

do you enjoy shipping? 

YES YES YES YES, though recently I have to be a little more careful about saying Im completely open to shipping on whim. At some points the plot involves the other person too much and it gets hard to move a story along esp with the nature of the rpc and the lifespan of interest in the muse/rpc (which is natural ofc!).

You're okay to show and express interest in shipping so we can take a direction with our muses interaction wise but I say it's not for certain until they develop some more long term. Who knows, maybe it was just a crush or a fling sort of thought :' 0

what’s your alias/name? 

Leche leche leche leche leche milk

age?

30

birthday? 

may!

favorite color?

red and greens

favorite song? 

Sugar, You by the Oh Honey has taken a lot of real-estate in my head lately--

last movie you watched?

I,,,havent watched a movie in a really long time Ill be honest OTL,, I dont have the attention span to sit down for more then twenty minutes if that.

last show you watched?

Aggretsuko final season! That,,,was awhile ago. See above oop--

last song you listened to?

Dont know the last song that played on my car radio 🤔

favorite food? 

spaghetti and meatballs and cereal < 3

favorite season?

spring 🌼

do you have a tumblr best friend?

ooh I dont want to make anyone feel left behind. My moots have a special place regardless of hobby or not <3

tagging: uh...

[xaspiringbeamoflightx]

🎲

"How is traffic real? Like, just fucking go."

Tina, clearly, could not drive. Tina had no concept of roads, or cars, or traffics. None of it made any sense, which is exactly why she thought she was the authority on road traffic management. "Beep your horn," she said to James (for the 3rd time). The traffic wasn't moving.

The pair had made an impromptu trip to an IKEA that was some way out of town, and a decently long drive away for Tina, who rarely left town. The restaurant had run out of meatballs, and they had hit rush hour traffic on the way back into Redwood Hollow. Tina was starving! And she wouldn't shut up about being stuck in this traffic. "Look! That guy can totally move up!"

@happiestjameshook

[zipzapzopzoop]

There's a Great Big Beautiful Tomorrow

Chapter 11: Follow the Yellow Brick Road

Lewis lied and told his parents he was carpooling to school with a friend today. 

He hate, hate, hates lying- especially to his new parents. But this was serious. He never would’ve done so if his family wasn’t in danger.

Lewis walked with Wilbur and Mrs. Robinson through the city, looking for any traces of the others. It would almost be fun if they weren’t so worried. Well… why does it have to be bad? Maybe it can be fun!

“Okay… I have an idea,” Lewis began.

“How about we make a little game out of it? First person to find a clue wins?”

At first he worried he was being insensitive… until the others’ faces brightened. Morale was up! “Alright…” Franny nodded. “Let’s think for a minute… If they could go anywhere… where would they go?”

------

Downtown was first, and It didn’t take long for things to begin popping up.

Wilbur pointed up at a blue stripe painted on the side of a building. 

“That’s one point for Wilbur Robinson!”

“Nicely done!” Franny ruffled his hair. Lewis took a good look at the wall. He suddenly noticed another stripe - purple this time- on the ground, leading down the same path. 

“I think he’s trying to lead us somewhere.”

Franny and Wilbur looked at the purple arrow. Wilbur glanced over and saw another yellow arrow painted on a fence. It also pointed in the same direction.

“Laszlo, you’re a genius…” Wilbur mumbled and began to follow, Lewis and Franny in tow. 

Suddenly, Franny froze. “Are you-”

Franny put up a hand.

“Wait. Did you hear that?”

“Hear what-”

Ribbit!

Franny spun around and practically dove into the pile of trash. She threw things aside, digging up the source of the little sound. There he is! A little frog in a suit. His leg was stuck under a garbage bag. The moment Franny moved it, he sprang up into Franny’s arms and clambered to her shoulder.

“Frankie! I’m so glad you’re okay! Are you hurt?”

“Not at all, just a little sore. Dodged a mean lookin’ cat and got my leg stuck. Boy am I glad you’re here.”

Lewis realized no matter how many times he sees them, he may never get used to seeing talking frogs.

Franny gave Frankie a light pet on the head and despite the tough demeanor, Frankie couldn’t help a happy croak.

------

Tallulah felt like she was going in circles.

When the paint on the wall began to take her to a darker part of town, the alleys stretched longer, the people were meaner, and the air reeked of all kinds of disgusting things. She had climbed a fire escape and slept there, but got no rest. Every minute that passed, she grew more worried about her brother. 

And now she was back to navigating the alleyways.

Tallulah was so focused on looking up at the paint that she almost walked into the chain link fence in front of her. She frowned at it. Maybe she’d find another way- around…

A low growling froze her in place.

She turned around to find two big stray dogs. They looked mean… and hungry.

Tallulah made a small sound and backed into the fence. “Hey… gentle…”

She knew it did nothing, but it was better than not trying at all, right… right?

A shriek escaped her throat when the dogs charged. 

Another dog squeezed under the fence and bit at one of the dogs. 

“Buster?!”

The two began to scrap. Buster was small but he fought with everything he had.

The other dog began to close in on her and was suddenly hit with- a meatball?

“Incoming!”

Tallulah looked up just in time to see Gaston jump the fence and get between her and the dogs. Buster let out a loud pained cry and Gaston turned his canon on the stray attacking him. Tallulah gasped when the other dog snuck up behind Gaston and latched onto his leg, earning a yell from the stuntman.

Tallulah looked around frantically and grabbed the first thing she saw - a sledgehammer. “Get back!” She swung at the ground, hitting the concrete and sending the dog away from her uncle. Gaston shot at the other dog and it let go of Buster, scampering away. “Bad dog!” Tallulah shouted, narrowly missing the stray and hitting the ground again. “Leave my dog alone, asshole!” Finally the strays retreated, tails between their legs. Good. Tallulah nodded with a huff. 

Don’t fuck with the Robinsons.

[hesbuckcompton-baby]

Better Off - Bernard DeMarco x OFC - Chapter 3

Masterlist | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 |-| Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10 | Chapter 11 | Chapter 12

AO3

Summary: When a routine pick-up goes awry, Susie and DeMarco find themselves stranded, and grow closer as they try to find their way back to Thorpe Abbotts

Warnings: Language, Susie and DeMarco being deeply stupid for an entire chapter

Word Count: 3.9k

Tags: @xxluckystrike @latibvles @footprintsinthesxnd @mads-weasley @joyfulbookreviewmarvelspy

Susie had woken up in a bitterly foul mood, dragging herself out of bed with the sunrise and rubbing sleep from her eyes as she tiptoed across the hut, careful not to wake any of her bunkmates. She loathed pick-up runs - loathed the tedium of long drives through the countryside, with nothing to look at but grass, cows, and more grass. They were good for nothing except a bit of reprieve from the bustle of Thorpe Abbotts, although she doubted anyone on the airfield would miss her in her absence.

Still scraping her hair back into a ponytail as she left the hut, Susie rummaged in her pocket for her keys, swearing under her breath as they fell to the floor with a jangle. No one ever got up this early without a planned mission, so the place was practically deserted, the air still and silent save for the crunch of footsteps against the gravel path. There was a half-eaten packet of crackers in her pocket, and she fished them out one by one as she went, crumbs leaving her throat unbearably dry as she marched towards the ATS garages, searching for her truck.

She had just reached the door, fumbling for her car key, when a familiar bark split the air, echoing through the warehouse. Turning, brow raised, Susie came face to face with Meatball, standing in the open garage door, tail wagging as he stared up at her. Her mouth hung slightly open, frowning in confusion at the dog's sudden appearance. The sound of footsteps drew closer, but she found her questions remained unanswered even as DeMarco came into view. He'd left his uniform jacket behind, shirt only half tucked into his trousers, Meatball's leash wrapped around his hand as he approached. "Ah. Morning."

"Why are you here?" Susie asked, gaze flitting between the man and his dog, still frowning.

"Meatball needed to take a shit. S'pose I could ask you the same question."

"I work here."

"Right. Guess I can't."

She snorted, unlocking the door to her truck and pushing herself up on the step, one foot dangling in mid-air. "Supply run. Gotta go grab some food rations, but it'll take a while so I thought I'd get an early start."

DeMarco nodded, the words leaving his mouth before he had a chance to think them. "I'll come."

Susie stared at him like he'd stepped in something foul, or perhaps said something rude about her mother. "You what?"

He hadn't quite known he was going to offer until he did, but the more he considered it, it didn't seem a terrible idea. "Yeah, I'll come along, keep you company."

"Are you sure? It'll be dead boring - unless you're a big fan of powdered eggs and powdered milk, and... other powder, probably."

Benny smiled - something about her dry cynicism always seemed to make him laugh. "How did you know? Powder's my favourite food group."

Susie chuckled. "Oh, shut up," She chuckled, climbing into the driver's seat and reaching across to open the passenger side door. Taking this as an open invitation, he clambered up, Meatball jumping into his lap the moment he sat down. "I'm not taking the dog on a four-hour round trip."

Now it was his turn to look offended. "Four hours is nothin', he'll be fine. When I was a kid, we used to take road trips that lasted-"

"I don't care about you Americans and your weird obsession with driving. I'm dropping Meatball off when we pass your hut, or you're officially uninvited."

"Fine," Benny grumbled, leaning back in his seat as the engine started with a roar, the truck pulling out of the garage and into the morning daylight. "You had breakfast?"

Silently digging into her pocket, Susie pulled out the half-eaten pack of crackers, dry crumbs spilling over the dashboard as she put them down. She was watching the road, but could feel the look of judgement contorting DeMarco's expression, staring at the side of her face with a horrified frown. "Good God, woman."

They pulled up outside his Nissen hut on the way out of the airbase, and the moment Cleven came into view Meatball had scrambled out of the truck, bounding up to the Major, tail wagging wildly. Susie struggled to suppress a smile as DeMarco let out a sigh of defeat, begrudged at his dog's ability to seemingly love everyone more than him. "You sure that's even still your dog?" She teased, laughing as he reached across to give her a light shove to the shoulder.

He insisted she let him stop to collect some 'real food', refusing to subsist on the dry, crumbled mess of crackers she had retrieved from her pocket, a thoroughly pathetic excuse for a meal. She waited impatiently for his return, fingers drumming off-beat against the steering wheel, rolling her eyes as he came back into view, grinning triumphantly and waving a paper bag in the air. DeMarco grunted as he clambered back into the truck, presenting the sandwiches and thermos full of coffee he'd managed to acquire from the Red Cross volunteers. "They gave me the good stuff, 'cause I didn't tell 'em it was for you."

"Piss off."

They drove for a while without speaking, sitting in silence save for the quiet murmur of the radio, which dropped in and out the more remote their journey became. Benny ate his sandwich contently, watching the countryside roll past outside the window. "Y'know, I'm glad you didn't get fired."

Susie resisted a smirk. The pilot she had punched in the officers' club a few nights prior had attempted to get her into serious trouble, and he would've done so, too. But when his claim was investigated, the men who had been present mysteriously and unanimously had managed to miss the entire event. Not a single person had come forward in support of the pilot's story, and she couldn't help but suspect that someone had spread the word to keep quiet.

"Oh, yeah, it was... quite the coincidence. I didn't know you Yanks were so unobservant."

"It's a real problem - always just missing when assholes get what's comin' to 'em," He nodded in agreement, and Susie let out a huff of laughter, smiling as she shook her head.

DeMarco chuckled, holding a sandwich up to her face every now and then so that she could eat without taking her hands off the wheel. It was his first time leaving Thorpe Abbotts since arriving in England, and never before had he gotten to see the British countryside in the flesh. At one point he had rolled the window down, quickly earning a scold from Susie as farm air and the smell of animal dung filled the truck, leaving them both coughing in disgust. It had taken almost twenty minutes for the stench to dissipate, most of which she spent muttering to herself and threatening to abandon him on the roadside, but her anger seemed to subside when he gave her a biscuit to eat.

A folded-up map of East Anglia had been tucked under his seat, and the rustle of crumpled paper split the silence as Benny retrieved it, brow furrowed as he attempted to survey the lay of the land. "Where are we again?"

Susie tore her gaze from the road for a moment, pointing to one of the thin, winding country lanes. "Somewhere along there."

He nodded, considering this for a moment. "...Are you sure this is the best route?"

"Do you want to drive the bloody truck? Shut up."

"Jesus, alright."

DeMarco looked around, growing steadily more disenchanted by the English countryside with every identical field they passed, beginning more and more to understand Susie's lack of enthusiasm for the journey. The radio signal had begun to stutter so incessantly that they'd turned it off altogether, and he stewed in silence until something interesting finally caught his eye.

Stuck to the rearview mirror was a photo, edges worn soft from being handled too much. It clearly wasn't an old photograph, but it was in a terrible state, battered and creased so much that it was almost hard to decipher what it was of. But upon close inspection, DeMarco found it raised a dozen questions. Susie was there, hair cropped just below her ears, beaming so brightly that she was clearly halfway through a hearty laugh. The image couldn't have been more than a few years old, but she looked so much younger, everything about her appearance softer to the point of being unrecognisable. Beside her was another girl he didn't recognise, clearly still a teenager, dark curls falling past her shoulders, her arms wrapped around Susie's shoulders. They had the same smile, the same eyes. The girl's side of the photo was more faded than Susie's, as if someone had rubbed their finger against it over and over.

"Who's that?" He asked gently. She almost didn't seem to hear him, glancing over for barely a second. But the moment she realised what he was pointing at, the colour seemed to drain clean from her face, her cheeks turning sickly pale. Susie's hand darted out, snatching the photo off of the mirror and tucking it swiftly in her pocket out of sight.

"No one."

DeMarco frowned, gaze softening, any humour that had once lined his voice immediately sapped away. Her jaw was clenched, fist gripping the steering wheel so hard her knuckles turned white, but she had put the photograph away with such deliberate, tender care that it wasn't hard to fill in the gaps. No one kept a photo in that way of someone alive.

He kept quiet after that, and Susie couldn't help but feel a twang of guilt tug within her. He had a right to ask - had a right to try and get to know her, although why he bothered she'd never know. Her bunkmates had all seen the photograph of her family, framed beside her bed, but no one had ever thought to ask about Ellie. No one had ever picked the tiny baby from the crowd of little smiling faces. Her photo stayed here, where no one else had ever laid eyes upon it until now.

She was her best-kept secret, and her most obvious lie.

"She's my sister." Susie uttered after almost ten minutes of arduous silence had passed. DeMarco had been staring blankly out of the window, his gaze drawn by the sound of her voice.

"Is it just you two?" He asked. She appreciated the effort taken to talk about her in the present tense - she didn't doubt that he'd figured it out already.

"Nah," She shook her head, chuckling slightly. "There's eight of us. She's the youngest - I'm number six."

Benny let out a low whistle. "Jesus. I pity your folks."

"We lived in a poor bit of Manchester, it's just like that. We get on well enough... Haven't seen 'em in a while."

He hummed, nodding along as she spoke, unsure of quite what to say. There were clearly things Susie wasn't saying, and he didn't want to push her, lest he risk making anything worse. "... D'you want another sandwich?"

"Yeah, actually," Susie nodded, and he fished another one out of the bag, dutifully holding it up to her mouth so she could eat.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The pick-up was quick, so quick it almost didn't feel worth the trip, tins and cartons of all kinds of foodstuffs piled up in the back of Susie's truck and secured for the long return journey. They hadn't time to waste, so after a shared cup of coffee and a quick walk around the outside of the warehouse to stretch their legs, they were back on the road again. Radio reception was better here, and they managed a rather self-conscious sing-along to 'Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy' before deciding it was less embarrassing to just sit in silence.

After a while, DeMarco had taken to filling the quiet by telling Susie stories of his time in flight training, and he was only half certain that she was actually listening. Her eyes never left the road, and she only let out a light chuckle at the funny parts, as if waiting for her cue to laugh but not actually finding it amusing. "Suze, are you listening?"

"Hm?" She hummed, confirming his hypothesis.

"Wowww," Benny nodded bitterly, slowly trailing off as he noticed a strange sound, something between a groan and a rattle reverberating from the hood of the truck. "Ok, tell me you at least hear that,"

Susie's brow furrowed, concern lacing her voice. "Yeah, I'm not deaf,"

"Coulda fooled me," He shrugged. She shot him a glare. "Sorry."

The further they went, the louder the noise grew, and within minutes of its appearance, the truck had begun to splutter and slow down, a thin trail of smoke funnelling out from beneath the hood. Susie pulled to a reluctant stop, sloping sideways into the ditch along the road's side. DeMarco jumped out, more smoke billowing out as he popped the hood, and with a cry of frustration, it became alarmingly apparent that Susie couldn't get the truck to restart now that it had stopped.

"Fuck!" She yelled, the door slamming shut behind her as she clambered out, almost slipping sideways into the ditch. "Motherfucker!"

"Well, what's wrong with it?" He called to her, staring down at the truck's insides.

"I don't know! God - I should've listened to Charlotte when she told me to get Bevan to check it."

"You didn't make sure it was working before you left?!" DeMarco cried.

"It was working fine! I don't know what's happened!"

"Yeah, maybe 'cause you're not a mechanic, Susie!"

"Shut up!" She snapped, and his mouth fell shut. "Just shut up a sec, let me think."

The pair stood side by side, hands on their hips, staring in despair at the indecipherable machinery before them. Neither had any clue what to do, and it was becoming alarmingly obvious that they were stranded, nothing but farmland as far as they could see in either direction.

"Ok... Ok," Susie huffed, lowering herself to sit on the grass at the edge of the ditch. "Just... get the map, we'll figure something out."

DeMarco swiped it from under his seat, quickly sitting down beside her. They unfolded it, stretching the huge map out across their laps and staring down at the winding roads. "You know where we are?"

"We turned here, I think," She uttered, pointing out their route. "So we're somewhere along this road, probably."

"But you're not sure."

"If I'd known we'd get stuck I definitely would've paid more attention," She snarked. "S'not my bloody fault."

"It is a little."

"You're not helping!"

"No, I know, I'm sorry. I just... don't feel great about this. But I don't blame you, by the way"

Susie let out a long sigh, raking a hand through her hair to push it out of her face. "Look. If we're on this road, which I'm pretty sure we are, there's a village just over that hill," She pointed across to the opposite field, which rose at a slope, obscuring the horizon beyond it. "We'll just... start walking that way, I guess."

Scrambling to her feet, DeMarco quickly followed, still frowning in concern. "Well, what about the truck? It's got all the food in it, we can't just leave it. What if someone comes by and takes it?"

She threw up her hands. "Well, I dunno. You stay here then, you've got a gun."

"What? No, I do not have a gun."

"Jesus, what the fuck are you good for, then?!"

He could tell she was stressed, that she didn't mean what she was saying. Susie struck him as a woman who lashed out when she didn't know what to do, and this was certainly one of those times. DeMarco let the dozen sarcastic remarks bubbling within him ebb away, deciding to just let it be. He took a deep breath, letting it out in a sigh, feeling his heartbeat slow, his tone level out. "Let's just go, ok?"

"Ok," Susie frowned grimly.

The march towards her supposed village was miserable, and mud skirted their shoes as they trudged along the edges of fields, DeMarco nervously eyeing a flock of sheep as they passed. It was a beautiful day - the sun beating down on them, the sky a perfect blue - and if they hadn't been stuck here they might have been able to enjoy it. But now they were just beginning to sweat, an added discomfort atop everything else.

"Should've stayed in the city," Susie grumbled. "Can't tell what's mud and what's sheep shit out here."

"At least we didn't bring Meatball," He shrugged, and she let out a single burst of laughter, shrugging off her jacket in the heat.

"Bet you wish you'd stayed home."

"And leave you to march through sheep shit on your own? Never."

Susie turned her head to look back at him, flashing him a smile, her heel skidding in a wet patch of mud the moment she took her eyes off the path. DeMarco lunged forward, holding his arms out beneath hers before she could fall over, seizing her hands tightly in his. Her back was pressed against his chest, a lock of her hair caught on one of his shirt buttons. "God, this is the worst," They both began to chuckle, and she could feel the vibration of his chest against her spine.

Pausing a moment to disentangle themselves from one another, Susie regained her footing, muttering at the mud spatter that now ran up the back of her trousers. By the time they reached the top of the hill, the sight of the village she had promised was like a mirage in the desert, and Benny wasn't sure he'd ever been so glad to see anything.

"Oh, thank god there's a pub," She sighed, trudging limply down the hill towards the road.

"I'm not sure that's our priority right now," He pointed out.

Susie shook her head. "Nah - place like this? That's where everyone'll be."

"It's two in the afternoon."

"Yeah, exactly."

The logic didn't add up to DeMarco, but the moment they entered the pub he conceded, for there were at least ten old men scattered about the place, drinking away like it was a Friday night at the officers' club. "Y'know, I think the English scare me a little," He whispered in her ear, eliciting a snort of amusement.

"Bloody hell, love," The man behind the bar remarked, taking in Susie's appearance as she walked in. Her shoes were caked in mud, a halo of frizz rising around her hair. "You alright?"

"Rough morning. D'you have a phone?"

He nodded, showing her around to the side of the bar where a telephone was bolted to the wall. DeMarco leant up against the wall, watching on as Susie fumbled through her jacket pockets, finally producing a crumpled piece of paper with a phone number messily scribbled upon it.

"Who's number's that?"

"Uh, just... a friend. In the village. I'll send her up to the base, get them to bring a car - go get us a beer, will you?"

He wandered off, leaving her to make the call. Benny wasn't usually the type to drink this early in the day, but after their ordeal, he decided he deserved it, and was waiting with two pints by the time she returned.

"They'll be here in the next couple hours," Susie sighed, lowering herself into the seat opposite him and taking a long, grateful sip of her beer.

DeMarco nodded, his mouth widening with a yawn. "Alright. Sounds good."

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

He didn't know when he'd dozed off, nor for how long he'd been asleep. All Benny knew was that one moment he'd been drinking, and the next he was opening his eyes with a grunt, Susie suddenly missing, her seat sitting empty. A jolt of panic shot through him, heart pounding for a second as consciousness rapidly returned, gaze darting around the place for any sign of her. Being stuck out here was bad enough - being stuck without Susie was infinitely worse.

The familiar sound of laughter caught his attention, following it across to the far corner of the pub and releasing a sigh of relief. With the thud of a dart hitting the board, a cheer erupted from the small group of old men that had gathered around her, and Susie turned towards them with a self-satisfied smirk. She caught his eye across the room, flashing a genuine smile before her attention was ripped away again by the competition at hand. She hadn't been lying, that night in the pub back at Thorpe Abbotts - she really was good at darts.

"Glad you woke up," Susie sighed, returning to her seat as the others took their turns. "Would've hated to have to leave you here. Although, ultimately, a sacrifice I'm willing to make."

DeMarco grinned, shaking his head as he lightly kicked her beneath the table. She gasped mockingly, faking offence. "Rude. I'll get the lads to beat you up for that."

"'The lads'?" He raised a brow. "They're visibly pushing eighty."

"And very spry for it," She nodded, and he chuckled, taking a sip of his beer. Across the room, the group of men she had been playing with let out a collective groan of disappointment, and she grinned. "Looks like I'm still winning."

Benny raised a hand to his face, wiping away the thin trail of foam that lined his top lip. "Y'know. This hasn't actually been the worst."

"It's been pretty fucking miserable," Susie shrugged.

"Well, yeah. But you're a pretty good person to be stuck with."

She seemed slightly shell-shocked for a moment, a distinct red flush tinting her cheeks. He realised he rather liked making her blush.

Susie cleared her throat, tucking a stray curl behind her ear. "I did enjoy having an extra hand, for sandwich-eating purposes."

"Oh, of course," DeMarco nodded, smirking.

"You should really see about getting a gun though."

"I'm not-... I'm not gonna start carrying a gun around, Susie."

She shrugged. "Your loss."

He smiled, opening his mouth to speak, when a friendly face appeared in the doorway. "... Bucky?"

Susie turned in her seat, brow raised as Egan walked in, a grin creasing his cheeks. "Benny! Heard you were in need of a rescue."

"Thank God - boy, am I ready to get outta here," He huffed, noticing the way her smile flickered slightly, erring on fading.

"Well, let's get goin' - I got some folks picking up your stuff, I'll drive you back."

She rose from her seat just after he made his move, and the pair followed Egan to the jeep waiting outside. Susie quietly slid into the backseat, looking up in surprise as DeMarco climbed in after her, leaving Bucky alone up front.

"You guys look like crap, by the way," He pointed out, eyeing them in the rearview mirror. Benny leant back against the seat, feeling tiredness fill his body once again as the engine started with a roar.

"Eh. Worth it."

[ghostkidsblog]

Do you have any headcanons about the Shadow Boys when it comes to food? (I know that's random but I'm hungry so this came to mind)

Of course I don't mind, although I don't know which category of food your asking so I'll try to name at least 5-7 food types.

Griffin stagg

I see Griffin actually loving the flavor of mint chocolate chip ice cream or strawberry ice cream but it has to have small bits of strawberry in it or he refuses to eat it.

Spaghetti and meatballs, his mom made it for him once testing out a recipe and now forever loves them and asks his mom to make them for dinner at least 2 or 3 times a week. He would also help his mom make them whenever he can.

Animal cookies, his favorite would always be the lion shaped cookies, I mean like it's animal cookies, besides I think he used to play with them when he was little

Apple juice and cherry/ strawberry sodas are his all time favorite drinks, you can't tell me he doesn't enjoy cherry or strawberry soda. Also it's a funny moment when there is a fight going on and he is just there drinking his apple juice box in the background.

Billy Showalter

Billy gives me the type of person to like apple pie, along with any dessert that is apple flavored

Chocolate ice cream all the way. He loves and I mean loves Chocolate ice cream, he also enjoys sherbet ice cream

Hates root beer soda, he actually is a fan of coca cola, he likes the classic cola can.

Loves and I mean LOVES Caramel apples on a stick. His sister introduced him to the dessert ever since he was little and they went to the local fair, and has loved it ever sense then.

Vance Hopper

I haven't thought much about Vance so most of these if not all are ideas from a couple of friends on discord gc!

Vance would like to eat old fashioned recipes because his mother would make them for him growing up. ( It can be french,Italian, heck even Greek whatever you headcanon to be he will always love the old recipes)

He is a meat lover, meatloaf,hamburgers,hotdogs,etc. He will love it if it has meat in it.

Rocky road ice cream, I thought long and hard for this one, I genuinely think he would love the rocky road or any Flavor with huts in them.

Spicy chips, he would eat them without a problem. He has a high tolerance to spicy foods and he loves them to snack on.

Cookies, personally snickerdoodles or sugar cookies. He baked them with his mom and molded them with cookie cutter with whatever shapes they had. I like to think vance liking cinnamon treats sue me for headcanoning that.

Bruce Yamada

Mint chocolate chip & chocky chocolate ice cream, I had that idea in my head since freaking October. He would love those two flavors.

Chocolate desserts/treats he would love to have anything chocolate flavored.

Peaches and apples would be his favorite fruit in my book. He would share his peache or apple in slices with his friends/shadow boys.

Big league bubble gum, he also likes other flavors but I can't seem to find what type of flavors there are.

Robin Arellano

I don't care what anyone says Robin is a HUGE SWEET TOOTH KID, he definitely likes those bonbon cookies in the Mexican store

His mom's cooking is the best, whether that be empanadas, enchiladas, heck eve chicken soup, it's his favorite because his mom makes the best food

He strikes me as a sour gummy worm kid, like he would enjoy eating sour gummy worms while everyone else he knows dislike or hate the taste of them or how they look

Chicken tenders was his favorite school food, the only thing that looked safe to eat was chicken tenders and he would gladly give you a full on lecture/rant on how the chicken tenders are the best option (he also like dinosaur nuggets!)

Mangonada & cookies n cream is his favorite ice cream in my book

Finney Blake

M&Ms and 100 grand chocolate bar is his favorite candies (he definitely separates the cold tone M&Ms and warm tone M&Ms then eats the cold tones ones first)

Vanilla ice cream lover but doesn't mind eating other flavors (he would put sprinkles & other toppings on his ice cream you can't change my mind on that)

Grape and cherry soda lover (he definitely goes to the store only getting grape or cherry soda and nothing else)

Garlic bread is his favorite bread to snack on (his mom taught him how to make it when he was a bit young and still has the recipe on how to make it)

He strikes me on loving a chicken Alfredo and beef stroganoff dish (he was sleeping over at Robin's at the time and robin’s mom made these two dishes and Finney loved it so much he asked Robin's mom on how to make them afterwards)

Sorry for such a late response, I've been busy with both personal and school problems. Thank you for being so patient with me and I hope you enjoy this answer for your ask! :D

-Ghostkid