#There might be condiments left

[starscreamapillar]

Very well. The dry erase board now has a note on it in his slanty script that says 'We are out of everything.'

[the-offside-rule]

Lando Norris (McLaren) - Shopping

Requested: yes

Prompt: 16) "I would do anything for you."

Warnings: so fucking short

Lando and Y/n strolled through the aisles of the grocery store, their trolley filled with an assortment of items. As they approached the condiment section, Y/n eyed the pesto sauce on the top shelf, just out of her reach. "Hey, babe, can you grab that pesto for me?" Y/n asked, pointing to the elusive jar. Lando, ever the eager boyfriend, grinned confidently. "I'd do anything for you!" He flexed his muscles playfully before reaching up to get the pesto. However, reality had other plans, as his fingertips barely grazed the bottom of the jar. "Except grab me a jar of pesto, it seems." Y/n chuckled. Lando scratched his head, scanning the aisle for options. "Well, they say love conquers all, but maybe not the top shelf. How about we find someone that works here?"

Y/n laughed. "Sure, or I could just get it." Lando scoffed. "And how are you gonna do that?" Y/n grabbed one of the stools an employee had been using until he left to go tend to another customer. "Just about perspective, Lando. Off your pop!" Lando placed the stool beneath the shelf, confidently climbed up, and triumphantly grabbed the pesto jar. He handed it to Y/n with a flourish, "See, I told you I'd do anything for you!" Y/n grinned. "Well, you did eventually. I appreciate the effort."

Lando chuckled. "Do you think that maybe I should add 'grocery shelf height' to my training regimen. You never know when it might come in handy." Y/n giggled. "Cause that's all you need. To add more to your bloody workout!" Lando frowned as he curled his arms around Y/m and rested his chin on her shoulder. "We are in public and people know you. Will you get a grip, Mr Norris?" Y/n mumbled, glancing over her shopping list. "No, I'm gonna become your professional shopper and I won't stop until I successfully get one item without the aid." Y/n rolled her eyes with a smile. "Just stick to the racing, babes. I'll handle the grocery challenges."

[intheorangebedroom]

Tonight you belong to me, prologue

Summary: He comes to you every Friday, in a shady motel on the outskirts of town. 

This is the beginning of what you wished had no end.

Pairing: Frankie Morales x fem!Reader (OFC)

Rating: Explicit 🔞

A/N: Happy Frankie Friday, orange besties 🧡 See series masterlist for extensive a/n blurb and especially for trigger warnings. Tread carefully. Ily 🧡 Please be gentle, I'm terrified 🫣

Word count: 5.1k

[series masterlist] * [next]

Prologue: In The Beginning

He comes to you every Friday. 

He gets in after dark. He is gone before dawn. 

In this shady motel on the outskirts of town, where no one will recognise your car. The curtains are yellow, and the carpet is brown. There’s a dollar store painting of the Appalachian above the bed, and the tap runs either trickling and scalding or high pressure and cold. 

You hated that in particular, in the beginning. Now you don’t care. You don’t wash him off your skin anymore. Not until you’ve got no other choice. 

Because he can’t mark you, you’d been firm on that point, he likes to come on your skin. 

When he’d finally spoke, that very first time, he’d told you he was Frankie, but you assume it’s not his real name. Which is fine, you didn’t give him your real name either. 

“Frankie” had been far subtler than you, regretful, perhaps, you like to entertain the delusion, when he’d hinted that you couldn’t leave any trace on his body. 

And, in the beginning, you couldn’t imagine that it would ever matter. 

You were wrong. 

You were wrong about a lot of things, in the beginning. 

—

Friday night. Again. 

The swinging door creaks on its hinges to let in the regulars at random intervals. Mostly men, mostly middle-aged, mostly unshaven. Mostly clad in the working-class uniform of jeans, boots and t-shirt. Few of them sit around the round wooden tables. The bar isn’t large, there’s only four of those.  

When they come in small parties, the men favour the two pools on the right. They’re lined with blue felt. The casing is made of plywood. No one ever plays darts, no one ever feeds the jukebox. Its electric cord lays unplugged on the floor, coiled like a sad sagging tail. 

If they walk in alone, they tend to sit at the bar. Head turned toward the giant television screen hung on the wall to their left, where younger men in more colourful uniforms fight, run, kick or throw balls in all shapes and sizes. Its noise is at the forefront, the middle-aged men’s conversations a low humming sound that falls into the background. 

The long and angled bar itself takes up most of the rectangular room’s space. The counter is stripped-down to the bare minimum. Stainless steel, easy to clean, practical. Four beer taps and a gambling machine and beyond the counter, a large mirror with three rows of dusty liquor bottles. 

Food is served, occasionally, as evidenced by the paper napkins dispensers and the two yellow and red plastic condiment bottles on each table. 

The barman runs the place on his own. You drink here every Friday evening, and you’ve never seen more than six customers at once, you included. Admittedly, you might not be very observant. 

Being observant requires endurance, far more than you possess and are willing to deploy and direct towards others. You’re not selfish, not in the least. But you’re tired. You’ve been tired for years. There’s no rational explanation for your exhaustion. No honourable, awe-inspiring, valid ground. You don’t even know what wears you out. It might be sadness, disappointment, or boredom. Or all three in equal parts. All you know is that, come Friday night, your head needs the support of the gray wall behind you.

The creaking noise on your left signals the arrival of another customer, stomping in with a sure gait. Your eyes stay shut. You don’t come to the very aptly named Hole in The Wall seeking the company of other people, whoever they may be. 

You come here to hide for a few hours, between the styrofoam ceiling and the dusty carpeted floor. To drink your week away in peace, but not in nerve-racking silence. Alcohol, you found out at a young age, has interesting properties: it blurs out the sharp edges of your dark thoughts in just the right amount. 

Back in spring, when you stepped in here for the very first time, you looked comically out of place in your corporate attire, and you did raise quite a few eyebrows from the other patrons. Five months later, they must have learned to see past the charade of your overpriced clothes, because none of them pays you any mind anymore. It’s better than anonymity: it’s casual indifference.

You loosen your grip around your tall cocktail glass and let the condensation drip down onto the cardboard coaster. Reluctantly, you lift your weary eyelids to locate the square napkin lying somewhere on the table and dry your fingertips on it.

That’s when you see him taking a seat at the counter, directly across from your small table. 

Years from now, you will still remember the precise circumstances of your first, brief encounter, even though you’re not fully paying attention yet. Nothing indicates tonight will be any different. Nothing suggests you are about to live through a pivotal moment in your existence.

Details will stand out, however. Mostly visual, surprisingly, given the dim lighting of the place. The back of his trucker hat, midnight blue plastic mesh, flattening the dark curls on his nape. The washed out denim of his shirt, worked-in, greenish in the diffuse artificial light, pulled taut across his back, as he sits facing away from you. 

The square shape of his shoulders is backlit against the bar’s mirror. Your empty gaze finds the solid slope of his broad silhouette, and you let it rest there, lazily following his movements whenever he picks up his glass. It’s the same comfort you find when you rest your empty head against the hard wall. It’s aimless, inconsequential.

Later, on different kinds of Friday nights, the sight of his muscles bunching as he tugs off his shirt will bring you back to this very moment. The thought will reshape into a sharp, wistful ache deep inside your heart. What would have happened, to you, to him, if he had chosen to stop for a drink at another bar, somewhere further down the road? What if you had done the same, back in April? 

For now, your mind is blessedly blank.

Does he catch your reflection in the mirror? Does he feel your gaze on the back of his head? 

After a while, how long, you cannot tell, he pivots slowly on his stool, grounded and dense. Slowly, like a mountain would if a mountain came to life and decided to walk into the ocean. He doesn’t turn around completely, just enough to look at you, one of his arms still propped on top of the counter. 

The right side of his face is darkened by the shadow from the brim of his hat, but you can make out the pronounced crease in his brow. His eyes are black, and unfathomable, like the ocean at night, but alight with a bright glimmer. They find yours instantly. 

Something shifts inside your rib cage, something close to the heart, close to pain. 

You feel exposed, entirely bare. Your breathing subsides, you cannot move, trapped in a nightmare-like stretch of time as he glares down at you, immobile, impressive, gigantic. Dark eyes boring into yours. You’re drowning in them. 

You don’t want it to end. 

Inevitably, he breaks eye-contact, and swivels back toward the mirror. He sits still for a few seconds, before grabbing his glass to finish his beer in long gulps. 

You watch him lift his hat and brush his hair to the side with a large hand, and he’s out the door less than a minute later, without so much as a glance in your direction, a conscious choice, given the minute proportions of the place. 

He leaves you sitting there, with your brow pinched and your empty drink, struggling to understand the rippling effects of his massive presence on your body and your brain.

You bring your fingers to your chest and rub them over your sternum, where the shifting sensation continues to prickle. 

Neither a second drink nor a third helps dull the feeling, but a fourth one is not an option if you want to get home without a DUI. 

It follows you into the darkness of the deserted parking lot, on the drive home and into the glass prison of your clinically clean apartment. It’s there when you get into bed, when you lie wide awake at 3am next to your sleeping fiancé, and it’s still there when you wake up, hungover and sore, four hours later. 

Nestled between your lungs. The memory of his cold hard stare. Of his soft sad eyes. 

It bypasses your most foolproof diversions of painful pleasure and pleasurable pain. Your attempts at hard work and your compulsive distractions. It robs you of your appetite, of your lucidity, of your ability to rest. It corners you in the first floor toilet of your office building on a Thursday morning, on the verge of a panic attack, until you consider calling your sister for help. 

Ava would figure it out. She’d get you out of that loop in which you’ve locked yourself up, she’d know what to say. With her crude words and her unforgiving formulations, she’d admonish your silly overreaction and dismissively rebuke your daydreams over a mundane interaction, probably throwing in something about your heteronormative fantasies. 

Dude, you’re all worked up because of a staring contest with a rando in a dive bar? she’d say. She’d toss the rhetorical question at your face, you can hear her as if you’ve already sweated through the conversation. 

She’s often harsh but she’s always right. 

And normally, you’d be seeking that out. For your little sister to bully some good sense back into your nebulous brain. 

But something has shifted. 

Dark curls, thick fingers, flexing shoulders. Solid arms. Cold, hard stare. 

He abraded something on the surface of your skin, and you don’t think you’re capable of withstanding Ava’s sarcasm in your current state. 

By the following Friday, you feel so vulnerable you consider going to another place, or not going out at all. 

Only, the alternative is worse. 

You walk into The Hole in The Wall convinced that your unsteady gait is betraying your apprehension, squinting to adjust to the dim light of the place. The bar is nearly empty, as always, save for a couple of bearded graying men you vaguely recall having seen here before. They all look the same to you, anyway. Another thing you hate about yourself.

The barman tells you to sit while he prepares your drink. The gesture is kind but uncustomary, and it only serves to increase your uneasy feeling. 

Within an hour of waiting, because that's what you've been doing, you register with an icy trickle of shame dripping down your sides, you realise he won’t be coming. 

That man’s presence here last week is the very definition of sheer happenstance. Nothing more. Nothing else. If anything, you’ve been a nuisance to him, ogling him while he was simply trying to unwind with an afterwork drink. 

You’ll never see him again. 

And it’s fine. You’ll move on, drift back into drifting, avoiding at all costs to process what happened to you when you met his gaze. The tree hiding the forest. 

When you walk up to the counter to order your second drink, the question slips away from you. 

“Can I have the same thing the man in the trucker hat had last Friday, please?”

The barman looks up at you from the tray of clean dishes he's pulling out of the dishwasher and he huffs. He’s handsome, by most standards, you notice for the very first time. Very tall, and broad, green-eyed with a three-day stubble. He’s probably a couple of years above forty. His head is shaved bald. He’s manly in a burly, albeit fatherly way. 

“Oh sweetheart, d’you know how many guys with a trucker hat I see here every day?”

It’s not meant to make you feel small, his tone is gentle. It’s a straightforward, factual answer. 

“What do you wanna drink?” he asks when you don’t answer. “Tired of that G&T yet? Cos I got good beer. This is a beer place, you know? Wanna try a light blonde, to start? Something stronger? An IPA?”

What do you want. You’ve been drinking gin all your life because that’s what your mother always has. Starting at 5pm in the afternoon. Would you, indeed, like to try a light blonde? Something stronger? An IPA, to start? 

It’s a brand-new world unfurling in front of you, a yellow brick road paved with what-do-you-wants.

“Sure,” you nod, “I can try an IPA.”

—

The barman goes by the name of Mark. He’s also the owner of The Hole in The Wall, you learn. Bought the place two years ago, after a painful divorce. A cliché, he adds, with a charming, self-deprecating smile.

The interaction’s short and altogether not unpleasant, and the beer, to your surprise, is fresh and enjoyable. It’s much tastier, in fact, than the cheap, tepid gin you’ve been sipping so far. It gets you drunk just as fast, but this time when you leave the bar, your mind is quiet, if not at ease. 

The following week, a heatwave hits the Tampa Bay. The melting asphalt sticks to your leather soles, like your sweaty clothes to your clammy skin, like your brooding mood to your dampened dreams. In a couple of days eventually, August will draw to an end, but the summer won’t end with it. It never truly does. It taunts you all year round, a sweltering reminder of how much you hate living here.

And if it wasn’t for the humidity, you’d be jogging the short distance between your car and the cool haven of the air-conditioned bar. 

You push the swinging door forward, eyes shut in anticipation of the blinding darkness and you stand in the entrance for a few seconds. The familiar and comforting smell of moldy dust mixed with beer yeast greets your senses as you take in the chill air grazing your naked arms. 

And then you reopen your eyes. 

He’s here. 

Trucker hat, blue jeans, gray T-shirt. Different clothes, same silhouette. He’s sitting at your table, his position a magnified echo of yours two weeks ago, hand loosely wrapped around his pint, seemingly asleep with his head propped against the wall. 

Mark looks at you and tilts his head in his direction, wiggling an eyebrow with a silent question of “Is this the guy you were asking about?”

Your breathing’s so loud you think everyone must hear it over the droning television. Mark’s brow furrows with incomprehension at the alarm widening your eyes, and you anchor yourself to his face, walking toward him in slow motion, climbing on the first high stool you reach.

“Hey. You ok?”

You stretch your lips in a wince of a smile.

“So? What will it be today? Wanna try a Free Dive? It’s local.”

You nod in silence, but then he grabs a large glass, and you ask tentatively, “Can I have only half a pint?”

Fuck, your mouth is so dry.

Behind you, to your right, you feel more than you hear the man shift in his chair.

Mark sighs, his left hand paused on the tap handle. 

“I don’t have beer glasses this small, sweetheart. Get a pint, the first one’s on me, okay?”

You reiterate your silent nod. He places the beer in front of you, and you swallow the first swigs too quickly. The back of your throat throbs with the fast flowing intake of the cold liquid, or perhaps it’s because of the frantic beating of your heart.

He’s getting up now, you can tell by the friction sound of the chair dragging on the carpeted floor, and your frightened expression turns downright pleading as you hear him close the distance between you.  

He’s at your back, sliding his thick naked arm past yours to return his empty glass to the counter. His movements are slow, deliberate. You get a whiff of his scent, a masculine musk, with a faint smell of laundry detergent, it’s wholesome, safety, comfort. You turn your head. He’s looking at you. Looking at you with intent.

He’s so tall you have to lift your chin to hold his gaze. Hard cold stare, soft sad eyes, it’s swirling violently inside your exhausted chest and he’s leaving again already, walking toward the door like nothing just happened.

He pulls it inward and you watch him exit the bar into the dusk light.

Did he come back for you? Are you going insane? 

Sixty-seven seconds. Sixty-seven seconds is the time it takes you to decide your next move. The one that’s going to forever change your life. The one that could be everything or turn out meaningless. 

“I’ll be right back,” you tell Mark, sliding your handbag on the counter and you stand up to follow him outside.

The sunset sky is a pink shade of orange. Shadows are stretching long onto the asphalt, drawing a distorted world upside-down. 

He’s not here anymore, you waited too fucking long. You quickly scan the parked vehicles on the other side of the road to your right, and the parking lot in front of you, but it’s empty, save for your anthracite sedan, a black truck and what you assume must be Mark’s old SUV, because you see it every week. 

“Fuck,” you breathe out, pressing your fingers to your sternum. 

You look to your left, where the parking ends. There’s a white utility vehicle advertising a plumbing service and a dark blue city car. Beyond them, the lot extends into a narrow stretch of gravel behind the small rectangular building. There’s a pile of junk, and the tailgate of a red truck.

Your hand drops to your side and you start walking toward it, going around the white van. 

He’s there. He’s waiting for you by the front of the red truck, behind the building. His hands propped on his waist, head down, hidden under his cap. 

You keep walking toward him, the sound of your shoes on the dirty ground grating your ears, but you stop short when he raises his head, fuck he looks even taller at this distance, with his elbows spread.

It’s like he senses your apprehension, or perhaps he shares it, because he folds his arms over his chest, hugging himself. 

For the very first time, you can fully make out his face. Strong features, a strong curvy nose, a patchy beard peppering a sharp jaw, and plush lips. Your gaze follows the solid column of his neck down to his suprasternal point peeking above the V-collar of his worn-out t-shirt, before it’s drawn back to his eyes.

He stands there perfectly still for you to detail.

Above you, the sky has turned a rusty blue. The humidity is stifling. It’s Friday the 30th, 2019, 8.17pm.

“What do you want?”

His voice is deep, and low, barely louder than a murmur yet intense, his words full and round. 

The question, however legitimate, hits you square in the solar plexus, right under your aching sternum. You fear that if you don’t speak fast enough, he’ll leave you again, alone with the memory of his soft sad eyes and his hard cold stare. 

“I don’t know,” you whisper, and god, if it’s true, what are you doing here? 

He huffs, and it’s the very sound of disillusion. His eyes grow dimmer, you think you���re not the one darkening them. Unfolding his arms, he removes his hat and takes a step closer, then another. You could touch him, if you reached out with your arm stretched. 

He looks at you like he’s already seen how your story ends. 

You could back away. You don’t. 

He moves slowly, thick body thrumming with undiluted strength and unreleased tension, eyes searching yours, giving you the time to leave, should leaving be what you choose, should you turn around and run before the hanging threat breaks like dark stormy clouds and drench you soaked. 

He slowly moves forward until he’s towering over you, until his chest touches your breasts, until the pilled cotton of his t-shirt catches at the satin material of your blouse. His scent floods your senses, he leans down into the curve of your neck and inhales you there, long, deep, unhurried. You hold your breath, still, in turn, for his exploration, nails digging into your palms, heart tripping.  

And then, he touches you. With his lips, a feather-like caress over the soft skin under your ear. Your eyes flutter shut, your thoughts are suspended.

“This what you want?” he murmurs.

His words sink under your skin, they harden your nipples, raise goosebumps on your nape in the muggy evening heat.  

“Yes.”

The cap falls onto the gravel. His hands go to your hips. Clutching you there with a rough grip and he’s tugging you closer, flush to his chest. He licks up a broad stripe along the line of your throat, pivots with you in his arms and backs you into the side of the truck, you have to grab his forearms to keep your balance. 

A guttural sound catches in his throat, like a grunt he tries to hold back, for your touch, for the taste of your skin, for your pliant docility.

Your head rolls back, you’ve gone weeks without a skin on skin contact, and now this man is hunched over you, his body swallowing yours, this stranger who’s infected your dreams with his cold hard stare and his soft sad eyes, his mouth roaming the expanse of your throat, short beard prickling your skin, and the shifting sensation inside your chest drops to your core where it catches fire.

His kisses are lips, teeth and tongue, rough and scraping at you raw in all the right ways, they trail up along your neck, under your jaw, and when they find your lips, he presses you harder into him. He tastes like beer, unfamiliar, you want to get used to it. 

The seams of your blouse strain when he pulls it out of your skirt with an impatient tug. His hands slither under the hem and find the naked skin of your back. His palms are strong, rugged and scalding and his fingertips calloused, they make your skin sizzle underneath their pressing, crackle like snapping wood, like fireworks at a summer county fair, like sweet candy wrapping. 

You're leaking hot and sticky between your hips, responding with your entire body, opening up for him, letting his tongue in past your lips with pathetic grateful little moans, winding your arms around his shoulders, over the cording muscles of his back, musky sweat dampening his t-shirt. The thick, solid shape of him, that got etched behind your eyelids.

You’re a want and a need and an empty flutter, entangled with him, whoever he may be, his tongue swirling inside your mouth, the scrape of his teeth on your lower lip, his splayed hands covering your back, his knee spreading your legs open. 

He’s voracious, harsh in his own need, snatching from you what you’re already willing to give, angling your head with a sharp pull on your hair to deepen his kiss, grunting his approval when you moan at the sting. 

Arousal keeps dripping down your fold where his thigh prods firm and brawny against the black material of your skirt that hinders the pressure. 

He growls, frustration rumbling low and menacing inside his throat. He grabs your ass and squeezes, thick middle finger pushing against the fabric of your clothes into the cleft between your cheeks and you jolt, leaping forward further into him. His belt buckle bites into the soft flesh of your belly, right where you're burning empty and wanting and shameless for him. You feel him hot and hard against your hip, and he tightens his hold, cages you within him. 

He’s big all over, larger than life proportions, you surrender to the fact with your lust-drunk mind, from the height of his frame to the girth of his sex, from his grip on your senses to the sorrow in his eyes. 

It blooms inside you like pain, blossoms of mahogany red spreading along your limbs in relentless waves, the power he already wields over you and you don’t even know his name.  

You buck between his arms, a first and very last attempt at freeing yourself, unconvincing with the scrap of your fingernails along the pebbled skin of his neck, and you press back into him again, squirming against his throbbing length, offering him some friction.  

He pulls out all of sudden, breaking the kiss, and you're left panting, ankles swaying, you’d drop to the gravel without the support of the truck, still sun-warm in the early evening, yet colder than his feverish body. 

He shakes his head with a silent no, his shoulders heaving, a wordless warning hissed through his clenched bared teeth. The simmering anger under the surface only makes you want him more, the unyielding restraint shining dark in his eyes.  

But it’s over. You know it. He gave you this, and took it back. With shaky hands, you smooth down the wrinkles of your blouse where he’s bunched it in his fists. You lick his taste off your trembling lip. You will not cry. 

He shakes his head again, you watch him through welling tears, confused, eyes flickering between his. 

Behind him, the city car’s engine revs up to a start, aggressive headlights backlighting him. His throat bobs up and down in chiaroscuro as he swallows hard. You know what you must look like in the crude white light. Supplicant, dependent, awaiting. Disheveled by his hand. Tires grate on the gravel as the car reverses away from you into the night, and with it the headlights, leaving you standing in the brown city night, urban semi darkness, and you see him shut his eyes. 

He smiles, a puzzling, sorrowful lift of his plush lips, and a new sort of ache washes over you. You raise forward on your tiptoes to peck a soft kiss at the corner of his mouth. His entire frame quivers for you. A muscle clenches in his jaw, the deepening crease in his brow redefines his traits in shadows. 

He leans into you, like he wants you but he doesn’t want to want you, like he’s giving in but not entirely, because giving in would be the end of him, of you.

The flat of his palm to the swell of your breast, and he kneads your soft flesh, slowly at first, growing urgent. The back of your head hits the truck’s window when he pinches your nipple, hard, with two fingers, and you bite down a moan. 

He’s engulfing you again, lips latched around your other nipple, tongue swirling and licking through your blouse and your thin bra and you hold on to him, you cling to his frame when he bunches up your skirt around your waist, leather boot nudging your foot to the side, cock throbbing on your hip, slick dripping down your walls. 

“Stop me,” his mouth brushes the shell of your ear. It’s not a dare, it’s not a plea, it’s your last chance to back down before the free fall. 

Your pulse stutters, you arch into him without hesitation, but he pins you back against the truck with his chest, cupping you through your underwear and he curses into your neck at the sticky leaking mess he finds there.

Your naked leg hitches up rigid and tense against his leg, curled fingers, curled toes, and he hooks his index into the cotton of your panties. 

A brief stroke of his knuckles into the soft, smooth dip between your sex and your inner thigh, unexpectedly tender, before he parts your soaked lips with his two middle fingers, coating them in your sticky slick desire, and he sinks them inside your empty cunt. 

You crumble around the intrusion, forehead hitting his collarbone, slack-mouthed, a short exhale of a silent “oh.” He brings his left hand to the crown of your head and cradles you there, while his fingers pump in and out of your heat fast and rough. His thumb glides through your folds and starts rubbing at your clit, deft and precise, and you shudder between his arms, you slump into his hold. 

He keeps stroking your hair, gentle soothing sounds murmured into your ear as he fucks you raw with his hand, attuned to your moans and your every reaction, gauging what you can take before his fingers curl deeper inside your cunt, merciless, thumb pressing tight circles on your bud at an increasing pace.  

Your breathing comes in ragged and short while his intensifies. It’s pouring into your ear hot and overwhelming and you’re dissolving. Sweat beading at your temples, heat raising from his exerted muscles. 

You focus on the sensation of his flexing muscles under your clawing hands to stave off your building orgasm, it’s growing bright and blinding, searing and violent but it’s inevitable, and soon, too soon, your release flows hot and sticky into his hand. Your whines resound inside his chest but he keeps going, low husks of shhh, come on now, that’s it, until your trapped body trashes with the overstimulation.  

It’s like he can’t let go, pressing his nose heavily to the side of your face, and you struggle to resurface, blood thrumming in your veins, his angry cock pulsating against your hip. 

You let out a dry sob when he slides out of you and the rubber band of your panties slaps your sensitive skin. You don’t miss the flat drag of his tongue licking your taste off his palm, you furrow your fingers deeper into his arm with a short clench of your eyes. 

“Fuck,” your hear him quietly groan, and his fingers disappear into his mouth. 

You want to stay tucked up against him, curled up into his hold. You could live the rest of your life there, you think, between his hands and his scent, between his chest and his truck. 

You lock your ankles and your knees, hoping they will not fail you and you stand, pushing away from him and into the side of the truck. You readjust your skirt, slide it down, palm it smooth. Brush the damp hair from your forehead with the back of your trembling hand.

In your peripheral, he’s leaning down, picking up his hat from the ground and combing his fingers through his hair before he sets the cap back on his head.

You look up dazed and heavy-lidded and you brace yourself before meeting his gaze, cold hard stare, soft sad eyes, and he says,

“I’m Frankie.”

****

Bonus (having déjà vu? that's normal 😝 Gonna use this gif at the end of every first chapter I manage to yank out of my crazy in love brain):

Taglist (thank you 🧡 if you don't wish to be tagged anymore, just drop me a DM 🧡): @elegantduckturtle @mashomasho @lola766 @nicolethered @littleone65 @the-rambling-nerd @saintbedelia @pedrostories @trickstersp8 @deadmantis @hbc8 @princessdjarin @harriedandharassed @girlofchaos @gracie7209 @mrsparknuts @mylostloversbookmarks @its-nebuleuse @flowersandpotplantsandsunshine @all-the-way-down-here

[elizabethemerald]

Girl's Knight

It was supposed to be girl’s night. Tim was on Comms so Barbara could be here, and the rest of the Bats had all but forced them to take the night off, each of them promising that they would handle the crime of the city so the girls could relax for one night. The plan had been a movie at the theater, dining out in their fanciest dresses that were usually only used for stuffy galas, then returning to the clocktower for drinks and makeovers. Not to mention looking through Babara’s cache of black mail videos of all the fails of the boys. 

Of course, they still lived in Gotham. When did anything go to plan in Gotham? 

The theater had been attacked by Dr. Freeze. He basically turned the whole building into a snowglobe. Since no one was inside it, Batman was just going to leave the building to thaw normally. So they should be able to enjoy movies there again sometime in April. The fancy restaurant turned out to be a front for a mob family and while they knew that, Jim Gordon had jumped the gun on cracking down and shut the place down. Babs was going to give her dad an annoyed call tomorrow about that one. 

So now the trio of Barbara, Cassandra and Stephanie were at Batburger in their gala finest. The night could still be saved if they could just get back to the clock tower. Then Condiment King strutted into the Batburger. All three of them sighed and Cass and Steph started silently arguing back and forth on who would slip out to deal with him. No matter who stayed and who left, there were even odds of all of them getting covered in something foul smelling. 

However all three of them were surprised when a pair at another table were the ones to rise. 

Cassandra had of course clocked them when she entered, that part of her brain that she could never shut off had cataloged every person in the restaurant before she was even fully past the door. 

The woman was tall, taller than any of her brothers. Even taller than Bruce. She might even be as tall as Wonder Woman. She had long flaming red locks that cascaded down her back, restrained only by a teal headband. She had sat facing the entrance and had clearly clocked the Batgirl trio as fighters as well. She was well muscled and moved with the practiced grace of a trained martial artist. When Condiment King had appeared she had seemed more annoyed than scared or truly bothered by him. 

Her companion was skinny and small in the same way that street kids usually were, the same way Jason had been and even Cass herself. Like no matter how much food he ate it would never be enough to make up for not getting enough as a kid. Even though he had his back to the entrance he had still been aware of every person as they came and went, cocking his head and tracking them by sound alone. He looked to be the same age Cass was. Cass could tell they were siblings, though they looked just about as different as possible. 

The two of them had conversed in rapid sign language, the woman speaking and signing, while he listened and signed back. It made Cassandra’s heart leap, seeing someone else just like her. She had just happened to sit so she could read some of his signs while showing that she used ASL as well. Though he apparently didn’t like his food very much because he kept saying something about “nasty burgers.” 

Right before Condiment King had walked in, the guy had sat up and shivered before looking around warily. His sister had sighed and carefully wiped her fingers on her napkin, unhurried by whatever had spooked him. Then one of Gotham’s least effective, yet most annoying, rogues walked in and declared he was robbing the place. 

The guy stood up and pulled what looked to Cass to be a highly scientific soup thermos and snuck up behind Condiment King as he was threatening the tired, underpaid and overworked cashiers. Cass couldn’t help but notice how silent he walked, he glided over the ground like a dancer as if gravity was only the merest of suggestions. He thumbed a switch on the side of his thermos and a brilliant blue beam poured out, catching Condiment King’s attention. 

Condiment King turned and almost jumped out of his skin when he saw a random civilian holding a soup container threateningly. The rogue and the stranger both looked down at the thermos in confusion. He opened his mouth as if to speak but instead some horrible combination of sparking electricity, cracking ice and distant screams came out. Somehow Cass could almost hear words past the noise and she was amazed that she could understand him. 

“Huh. I would have sworn you were one of mine.” 

Condiment King scowled past his confusion and readied his mustard cannon. 

“Danny, now's not the time for quips.” His sister said as she pulled him out of the way of the yellow fountain. “I’m not letting you back in the apartment if you smell like mustard.” 

Then she pulled a baton from the back of her belt that extended into a bo staff. Two quick strikes had Condiment King disarmed and on the ground, a third and he was dazed enough to not be a threat. 

“Well done, Jazz!” Danny had set his thermos down on the countertop so he could excitedly sign to his sister, then he looked around in confusion. “But then what triggered my ghost sense?” 

No sooner had he finished his signs, than a translucent being phased through the wall, a box in his hands. He looked to be dressed as a regular warehouse worker, though he glowed, floated and apparently could ignore solid walls. He immediately began flinging frozen hamburger patties from his box around. 

“I’m the Box Ghost! Ghostly master of all things rectangular and corrugated! Beware!” 

“Ah, there you are Boxy.” Danny said in his strange and crackling voice. Cass could see that Stephanie and Barbara couldn’t understand what he was saying as they both clamped their hands over their ears at the cacophony. 

Cass watched Danny with this Box Ghost. Clearly the two knew each other, she could practically see the rapport Danny had. She couldn’t keep herself from admiring Danny’s form. He flowed like water around the frozen patties. Even when her brothers were at their most agile and graceful, there was an element of elegance that was missing from their movements. Yet with Danny he skated around the projectiles. 

He was also aware of every person in the restaurant. One of the frozen burgers would have easily missed Danny, but hit one of the others, except he caught it and spun it right back at Box Ghost. That level of awareness was difficult for even seasoned heroes, and showed how often Danny had faced overwhelming odds, he knew exactly what would happen if he failed to be aware of someone in the line of fire. 

She appreciated how in control he was of his strength. She could see it in the bunching and tightening of his muscles that he wasn’t using anywhere near his full strength in this fight. It was a level of restraint she knew far too personally. It was the restraint of someone who had hurt others before and would never do so again. 

“Alright Boxy, you’re making a mess. Time to be done” Danny said, grabbing the thermos once more and again flipping the switch. This time when the beam of light caught the ghost it began to pull them in like a vortex. 

“Darn your cylindrical containment device!” The voice of the Box Ghost diminished until it completely disappeared along with the ghost and the beam of light. Danny spun the thermos in his hand for a moment before he clipped it onto his belt with a flourish. 

Cass glanced at the other Batgirls and, unsurprisingly, saw Steph almost salivating over the amazonian woman. Steph liked her women strong, tall and hyper competent. Meetings with the rest of the Justice League usually left her vibrating with barely controlled desire. She had almost needed a vacation the first time she met Big Barda. Steph was already half way up out of her seat to introduce herself. 

Barbara seemed similarly impressed, though as she was currently dating Dinah Lance, her interest was different. She had her phone out and was typing rapidly, no doubt hacking the security system of the Batburger to remove any evidence of their actions, as clear a sign of her approval as anything. 

With a smile Cass also stood and followed Steph. The two Batgirls would absolutely introduce themselves to these two, and hopefully that introduction would eventually lead to a date, or maybe more.

[nyctophiliq]

✮ ┆ THE IDEAL ART INSIDE YOU. ellie w. (the last of us)

— “at one point, everyone hated themselves.”

description.             everyone experiences art block once in a while, ellie just deals with it differently

content warnings.               MDNI, nsfw content, female bodied reader, art student! ellie, light bondage, ellie is a little rough, light bondage, she also fucks reader with a sharpie, oh and she draws with said sharpie on reader, so basically marking?, possessive & control freak! ellie, wc 1,67k author’s notes.                     you read the warnings? still here? hope you enjoy, you freak >:) pls reblogs are very very much appriciated

ellie who’s fountain of inspiration seemed to never dry up whenever she looked at you, or just thought about a glimpse of you. but as every artist, ellie too hits a rock bottom every once in a while and she just suffers from her art because she hasn’t yet figured out a way to suffer through it.

“my favorite piece of art that I don’t keep fucking up.“ she groans as her left hand comes to catch your throat, fingers clasping around your neck not at all lovingly but ferociously, her other hand palming your forehead while also managing to force your eyes open with her thumb and index finger. even if you wanted to fight back, there was no use for it. one of her wet cloths, the one that is covered in paint because she wipes her face and hands with it after a session in front of her paper is now wrapped around your wrist, tying them behind your back as she forces your legs apart with her knees, spreading them apart to reveal all of that is you, eyes spitefully wandering your nude body.

oh, how she hated you in these moments, when her art seemed to be nothing just a piece of painting that a child did with its fingers, spreading condiments around its plate and you were the mom who couldn’t help but praise her child, clip that god awful ‘painting’ on the fridge and call it a ‘future picasso’. it’s a disgrace to all the incredible painters before her, the ones who have sweat blood for their art not to be called a silly thing, be frowned upon, and to be taken seriously because sometimes words just weren’t enough. you seemed so perfect, your eyes, your lips, your face, your chest, your stomach, your legs, your everything- how could she ever create art as beautiful and magnificent as you?

she couldn’t let that situation to eat her alive, to consume her from the inside out, for it to own her because in the end it was her who owned it, owned you. the aspect, all the things she had admired, and she called you her muse- she made you who you are today just like god made angels to be so perfect, she is the god who birthed you, casted you in stone and made the land worship you as it’s protector.

“you’re mine, you hear me?” she yells, her spit spurting on your face and she pushes your head further into the mattress, her fingers pushing so hard on your skull she might just claw your eyes out. “I created all that you’re, sculpted you to be so ideal.” she rambles, shifting further between your legs, prying them open with so much force your hip start to burn and little sobs ball up in your throat from the discomfort.

ellie gives you a repulsed look as your lips agape, choking on your words, writhing from the same anguishing feeling of not knowing what to do. it truly turns her stomach, your uncertainty as you lie there, your eyes bulging from fear of what is gonna happen next. but your pupils tell a different story to her, that the way parts of your body is reacting goes against each other, and where your legs meet with your hips- it’s almost impossible to overlook the heat that is radiating.

“i own all the rights to you, everything that they see is my talent sacrificed.” she follows up, letting go of your head and reaching into the back pocket of her khaki shorts, and pulls a sharpie out. there isn’t a second that passed between her pulling it out and biting the cap off before she starts scribbling away on the skin that covers the middle of your chest.

the brush of the pen tickles your nerves, jolts running up and down your spine like a horde of wildlife fleeing after a gun shot, your back arching with each stroke she makes. your skin like paper trembling under her touch, but she is too busy to notice. your eyes roll to the back of your head, closing as you relish in the sensation. the ink staining your skin, her touch softening around your neck, the pads of her fingers ghosting over it, a small smile gracing her lips as she moves from your sternum to the top of your breast.

your mouth falls open at her touch, your hips swaying slightly against her knees as she continues to work. her voice hoarse as she speaks, “this will be mine, my masterpiece,” she says, swallowing hard. “mine…” she mumbles, her voice trailing off. she works in silence for what seems like hours, the only noise being your labored breathing and a soft scratching sound from her pen. your eyelids flutter slowly, the darkness encroaching on your until all you can see are stars floating through the room. you are falling into nothing, nothingness.

she switched sides sometimes ago, but you hardly noticed until she pulls away from both your chest and neck, your eyes snapping open as her hand comes to rest on your waist. her tongue darts out to wet her lips, her body tensing slightly. “yes…” she whispers, before biting her lips, pushing her tongue against the teeth that is peaking above. your gaze follows hers until you find yourself staring right into her eyes, their irises so dark they look black.

“mine… I own this body, I own this life… this was always supposed to happen.” she laughs then, dark, and wicked, her words dripping with confidence as she runs her finger along whatever she wrote or drawn on you. “you should see… you should see but where should i-“ she cuts herself off, a puzzled look washing across her features as she tries to find the handheld mirror, simultaneously searching for a place to put the sharpie because she is gonna need it again, she just needs you to see her signature first.

she laughs as she thinks of it, deep and rumbling before she teases your folds with the handle part of the sharpie, collecting all that have been dripping from you the minute your bare skin was exposed to the cool room’s air. you let out a gasp as it slides inside you, a gasp that becomes a whine as she keeps going. you feel tears gather in your eyes as she just leaves it there, unattended and stuck in one place.

“here! see for yourself, see it! tell me what do you think?” manic, that’s how she sounds now, absolutely out of her mind as the sweat starts to glow on her face. she grips the handheld mirror, her hard grip visible as she holds it up above you, giving you the perfect look at yourself.

her signature, all over your chest. ellie williams. ellie williams. ellie williams. ellie williams.

ellie’s face contorts with frustration at your silence, “do i need to coax an answer out of you? come on, give me an answer!” she grits her teeth, her other hand coming to take a hold of the sharpie in you. she moves it back and forth, painfully slow until you manage an answer out, your voice sounding so small you almost believe you imagined it.

“I love it, I love it, I love it!” you laugh weakly when you feel her speed up at your words, her face getting redder and redder. she chuckles softly before she brings the mirror closer to you, angling it so you get a better view of your nakedness and the way your cunt practically sucks the sharpie in.

she looks at you as if you are a prize, as if the mirror has finally captured the image that she desired for so long. ‘I won’, her expression proclaims proudly, her grin wide as the room fills with the sounds of the drenched pen fucking your walls. you wince at some spots, a little more sensitive, but her gaze remains steady on yours, never breaking contact. you try to speak, to say something ,anything, but your throat feels tight, your breath short as she discards the mirror, the soft pad of her thumb rubbing circles on the fleshy parts between your thighs.

you whimper quietly, a moan building up in your throat. you could cry if you wanted to, a hot flood threatening to erupt from your body, begging to be released. you bite your lips, your legs tremble, your nails digging into the bedsheets under you as your vision goes blurry. you blink furiously, trying to refocus. she moves to your clit, circling it with her thumb as your entire body tenses. the slick wetness coats her fingertips as she gives you the few last pushes you need to end up on the other side, for the bliss of your climax whiten your vision and everything that she is.

ellie watches you, excitedly, with a fire burning in her eyes that has never burned before. she looks sick, she feels sick, but in the best way possible as you writhe against her hand, trying to get away from the sharpie that is still residing between your clamping walls. she can see the bigger picture now, the light burning on your skin and the dark in that covers your torso, the overwhelming feeling of coming undone, and her ownership over everything that had occurred. she smiles to herself, proud of her accomplishment, but also anxious to finally begin her next piece.

“just one final detail…” it came quietly, murmured from between her lips as she pulls the sharpie from your, flipping in while her free hand comes to push down on your hip bone. you don’t need to guess, you already know what she’s gonna write, it’s predictable from the expression of her face. twisted grin, with flushed cheeks that are not at all red from embarrassment but rather overcome with pure pride, joy, and glee.

ellie williams was in here.

[buggybambi]

fierce defender | carmen berzatto

okay, so i found this request in my google docs, i believe it was from @kpopgirlbtssvt but correct me if im wrong. we'll see how this does lmao

You normally loved working at the Bear. The staff was like a big family that embraced you rather quickly, and treated you like one of their own. Because in their eyes, you were one of their own.

Except on nights like these, you didn't want to be a waitress. From the second the group of teenage boys entered the restaraunt, you knew they were trouble. Being obscenely loud with no apparent manners.

You'd gotten their food out before making your way back to run some food. And that's when it happened.

Two plates in your hand, one of the boys snickering to the other five, before sticking his foot out and making you trip on the floor with broken glass and food going everywhere lead to the entire restaraunt going silent.

The feeling of eyes on you, and trying to check all your surroundings to make sure no one stepped in the glass and, more importantly, you weren't cut by any of it was a recipe for tears stinging the corners of your eyes. Not to mention the feeling of some sort of condiment or toppings in your hair.

Carmen could hear the glass drop from his place in the kitchen, and he could practically sense the silence. All the cooks now by the small window facing the dining area, focused on something. "What is it?" He calls out to them, before dropping the knife in his hand and stomping over.

When no one answers, he asks again. "What the fuck happened?!" His voice is louder now. Richie steps in front of him. "One of the waitresses, Y/N, dropped a plate. One of the guys at table five tripped her, like on purpose." He informs.

It's like his heart stopped for a second. The entire earth feels silent for a second before he finally gets it together.

Carmen untied his apron, throwing it down and pushing open the kitchen doors, rushing over to her. The sound of laughter, watching you clean up the mess of glass with tears falling down your pretty face with strands of your hair pulled back now in your face?

Most of what happened was a blur after that. Carmen, cursing so much it could make a sailor blush, grabbing the main guy who was laughing the most (probably the one who tripped you) and both metaphorically and physically kicked him out - literally, his shoe on the guy's back and kicking him from the enterance into the street. If it wasn't for Richie grabbing Carmen's torso to prevent him from murdering them, he would have done worse.

Once he made his way back inside, making sure the other five left and barely caring about them paying at that point, he told the other staff to handle the kitchen while he walked over to you. "Hey, it's okay. Don't worry about that, come with me." He speaks softly, the tears still streaming down your cheeks as you accept the offer, standing and following him into the office.

You walk in first, with him closing the door behind you both. "I'm sorry, Carmen, I'll pay for the food and the plates I swear. I should have been more careful, it was my fault."

"Y/N, did you see the asshole's foot out?"

You pause, not sure if he's being sarcastic or not. But you decide to answer anyway: "no."

"Then it's not your fault. It's his for being a jerk. Are you okay, you're not hurt are you?" He asks, grabbing your hands in his - wanting to grin at the difference but resisting - checking all over them. You shake your head. "I'm fine, I think. I just have mashed potato and I'm pretty sure some kind of glaze in my hair." You mumble, a frown and tears painting your face.

He nods slowly, before he holds your hands, walking over to a chair and pulling you into his lap. "It's gonna be okay. I'll handle the mess, you just focus on calming down, yeah? Few deep breaths might help." He directs.

You nod, sniffling, adjusting to being in his lap. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't be holding you up like this. You have important stuff to do." The tone of your voice breaks Carmen's heart.

"You're the most important thing to me, I could care less about anything else." His grip around your waist tighten just ever so slightly.

"Carmy.." You say softly. Your eyes flicker from his eyes to his lips, and like he can sense what you're asking for, your cheeks damp from your tears. He adjusts ever so slightly, swallowing hard before he speaks. "Is it okay if I kiss you?"

You nod before he even finishes the sentence, your hands on his cheeks. His lips on yours, squeezing the uniform fabric at your hips. It's soft and slow, both of you so unsure of what to do next.

And, much to his word, Carmen did clean up the mess that night. And then took you to his apartment to help clean you up.

[pippytmi]

kacy au + a prompt from this list: "this is the first time I’m living on my own and my parents decided to spontaneously drop by in a few hours to see how I’m doing pls let me borrow some cleaning supplies and food so that my parents will believe I’m a functioning, responsible adult who totally cleans and doesn’t just have condiments and eggs in my fridge AU”

////////

“Hey! Hi, you’re—you're 8C, right?”

Kate nearly drops her bag at the sudden voice and its proximity, entirely unused to any kind of attention whatsoever. Embarrassingly, her first response is to reach for a gun that isn’t there, succeeding only in pulling out her keys as a makeshift weapon.

“Whoa,” the stranger before Kate says, raising both hands up. She looks vaguely familiar, dark eyes and curly hair and a short enough stature that Kate presumes she won’t be a real threat. “Is that a…key? No offense, but I don't think that would stab very well.” She squints up at Kate suddenly, almost like she’s trying to figure her out. “Please don't test that theory.”

Kate can only hurriedly lower said keys, feels her cheeks burn under the scrutiny. “Sorry,” she says. “I guess I’m a little jumpy.”

“It’s all good, I totally get it,” the stranger says cheerfully. “There’s not really a welcoming committee around these parts.”

“Is that why you’re here?” Kate asks slowly, cautiously on guard once more. She had first moved into this apartment two months ago, so it’s a little late for a welcome-to-the-neighborhood kind of thing.

“It could be,” the woman says, and she holds out her hand. “I’m Lucy. You might know me better as 12B, I’m the one always throwing empty bottles at the landlord’s head.”

Kate just stares back, accepting the handshake a beat later than socially acceptable. “I…didn’t know anyone did that, actually.”

“Oh it’s fine,” Lucy’s quick to reassure her. “He hasn’t found out it’s me.”

“Okay.” Kate is still very, very confused as to what Lucy of 12B (who throws water bottles at people) could possibly want. Or why she has decided to introduce herself in such a strange manner.

“Sorry to bug you," Lucy says, “but you’re kind of my last hope. I’ve been trying to find one friendly neighbor in this shithole, and so far, everyone has been shutting their doors in my face. You’re kind of on another level since you tried to shank me, but I am completely willing to forget that if you can let me borrow some stuff.”

“I didn’t try to…” Kate trails off as Lucy gazes up at her with such a hopeful expression that her resolve immediately weakens. “What kind of stuff?”

“Nothing major,” Lucy says. “Long story short, my parents decided to drop in on me, and I basically have nothing in my place. Any chance you can lend me some cleaning supplies? And maybe some groceries? I will one hundred percent pay you back. I just need them to think I’m an actual functioning human being.”

“I guess I can see what I have,” Kate says reluctantly, gripping her groceries a little tighter to her chest. “Come in, I’ll get you everything you need.”

This is probably a bad idea. Scratch that—it is definitely a bad idea, and Curtis will actually kill her for this, but Kate invites this literal stranger into her (government-assigned) home and leaves Lucy alone in order to briefly dash into her room and lock up the gun kept in the bottom of her purse.

Lucy, at the very least, stays firmly in the living room where Kate left her, though her eyes obviously wander around the room. “I like the color,” she says, gesturing to Kate’s couch. “Funky.”

Kate grimaces. “It was the only one they had,” she says of that neon-green monstrosity.

“Well, I think it’s really cool,” Lucy says. With Kate back, she seems emboldened, takes a turn about the room with a curious half-smile. “Your place seems smaller than mine. How much are you paying? Because if it’s the same as mine, I can totally get the landlord with a bottle for you.”

“I’m fine, thanks,” Kate says. “Um, I think I should have everything you need in the kitchen.” She ushers Lucy right over, gestures to the fridge and says, “You can pick whatever you want for food. I’ll get the cleaning supplies from under the sink.” Still on edge, she crouches down to retrieve everything while watching Lucy out of the corner of her eye.

If Lucy can feel Kate staring, she doesn’t show it; she happily accepts the invitation to rummage through the fridge, clanking of bottles and rustling of bags audible. Finally, Kate focuses on the task at hand, and packs the basics into a plastic bag: bleach, window cleaner, Lysol.

“Okay, this might be more unbelievable than having nothing in my house,” Lucy suddenly declares. “Do you have anything good to eat?”

Kate lifts her head. “What?”

“This is all health food and green juice, 8C,” Lucy says. Pauses. “Oh fuck. I never asked for your name.”

Honestly, Kate forgot she hadn’t, either. “It’s—”

“I really hope you’re not a serial killer,” Lucy continues, as if Kate isn’t even in the room and she is just musing aloud. “That probably should’ve been my first question. Can we start over? Here. 8C, are you a serial killer?”

Kate blinks. “No,” she says. “But I also don’t think serial killers would tell you if they were.”

“Fair enough,” Lucy says, and peculiarly enough, she doesn’t seem threatened at all by the possibility. Obviously she is not afraid to be in unfamiliar situations with unfamiliar people, and Kate wonders if she should rethink her assumption that Lucy is not a threat. “So what’s your name, then?”

“...Kate.”

“Kate,” Lucy repeats. “Hm. It’s not what I was expecting, but it fits.” With that information, she just turns around and…continues going through Kate’s fridge. “Are you single?”

Kate coughs. “W-what?”

“Single people always have those sad frozen meals, at least,” Lucy says. “I do too, normally, but I haven’t hit the grocery store in a while.” She opens the freezer and actually whoops at the sight of Marie Callender's finest. “Jackpot! I will take these off your hands.”

“And your parents will…be fine with that?” Kate decides that, overall, she is utterly confused by Lucy the neighbor from 12B. There's no other possible way to put it.

“Oh not at all, but it is what they expect,” Lucy says. “I’ll take some of your health foods too, I guess. Let them think I’m trying to stop bad habits.” She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear with a self-conscious laugh. “I mean, only if that’s fine with you.”

And something about that moment where Lucy becomes a little awkward—when she bashfully looks down at her feet, then looks back up at Kate from underneath her long eyelashes—it endears Kate completely. At the very least, it makes her relax, stomach twisting in itself in a tell-tale weakness for pretty girls in trouble. “Sure,” she says. “Do your parents like wine? You can take a bottle, I have a few.”

“I would never turn down wine,” Lucy says, brightening. “I don’t even care that I don’t have wine glasses. We can drink out of paper cups for all I care.”

Kate opens the liquor cabinet to make her selection: a nice red that had been a gift from her mother. (She’ll just have to email her later and say she loved it when her mother asks.) “I would offer to lend you some, but I also don’t have wine glasses,” she finds herself saying, then immediately regrets it, because Lucy obviously expects an explanation and all Kate seems to be able to do is make a fool out of herself today.

“Are you also a connoisseur of paper cups? Kate from 8C, I think we’re going to be friends,” Lucy says easily, and Kate’s lips twitch from the effort of biting back a smile.

“I actually like to drink wine out of mason jars,” Kate says. “I know it’s a little weird…”

Lucy has absolutely no qualms about smiling, and her smile lights up her whole face in a way Kate can’t look away from. “I think that’s cute,” she says, and Kate’s face burns so hot she knows that her status as this building’s number one gay disaster is 100% secured.

“Here,” Kate barely remembers to blurt out, handing off the wine bottle. “And let me get you a bag for the food too.”

After everything has been successfully squared away, Lucy is left with three large bags that will definitely require more than one trip. “Thank you,” she says. “Seriously. You’ve saved my life and I promise I will replace everything I’ve stolen today.”

“It’s no problem,” Kate says. “Do you need help taking it to your place?”

Lucy feigns a double-take, mouth falling open in an exaggerated gasp. “Already trying to invite yourself over? Wow, 8C. At least buy a girl dinner first.”

Kate’s mouth inevitably twists into that damned smile anyway. “Is that not what the frozen meals are? Technically, I did buy them.”

“Touché,” Lucy says, biting her lip. “You are…surprising.” She snags the smaller of the bags which contains the cleaning supplies, then swings it over her shoulder. “Alright, you can walk me home. But no funny business.”

“Okay,” Kate says with a laugh, taking the last two bags herself.

“But,” Lucy says as they walk outside, “you officially have a rain check.”

“For dinner?” Despite the circumstances of Kate’s arrival here—despite the looming undercover op that is about to consume her life—she feels light. Hopeful, even.

Lucy throws a wink over her shoulder. “For the funny business,” she says, all but skipping in the direction of her apartment.

Kate, meanwhile, freezes in place. Nevermind about Lucy being a threat to her life—she’s just going to be a threat to Kate's sanity.

(Which…may or may not be a bad thing. It’s to be determined, at any rate). 

[stararch4ngelqueen]

Due to the cold weather, Reader snuggled up with Jason (bonus: if His mask was so cold that reader had to move away in the end.)

Buy something that is the same color as his beautiful blue eyes. I think he himself would be happy about this. In the end, he might secretly get something in return and leave a gift above the head of the bed.

Might be a little hot But I'd love to see Jason fidget as Reader sucks on his food-coated fingers. Because reader were tripped over her own feet and spilled food on Jason. (you like that don't you? something bad happend to reader's toes or feet)

reader wears a dog collar- (*cuagh* NO)

When reader said trick or treat, Jason placed his pistol in her basket. (He doesn't have any snacks.)

Gotham’s cold weather is just as bad as rainy seasons.

How Jason managed to stay warm in just a leather jacket over a padded suit was beyond your belief. Sometimes, even your blankets weren’t enough warmth once your walking furnace slipped out from under the covers.

After some puppy eyed begging, you hear a loud, exaggerated grunt erupt through his modulator before crawling back into bed, now a few pounds heavier with all his gear. Helmet included.

Said helmet was left on the desk, unconventionally close to your sealed, frosted window.

Piercingly cold, red metal pressed along your lower cheek when he attempted to return towards his cuddly position prior. Every bump on your skin rose as you hissed, tilting your head off towards the side.

“Cold, Jason,” your sleepy voice whined out in irritation.

“Mm, how’d you suddenly get so warm?” His teasing tone reveals his audible smile, clutching you closer like a doll to your irritating dismay. Pressing his helmet closer into the crook of your neck, you could only writhe uncontrollably until it warmed.

“Jasooon!” You squeal, his other arm slipping under your body, keeping you trapped in his temporary prison.

“You wanted this, Princess! I’m just doin’ what you asked for!”

- -

You’d be a fool if you said Jason didn’t enjoy books. You’d also be a fool if you didn’t think red wasn’t his favorite color.

He’d say it is, but you knew it was blue. Sometimes green.

Understandably, you knew if you had borrowed one of his favorite, well worn copies of Shakespeare, he’d definitely notice within the same day after you hid them in your closet.

So, for his birthday, you get him brand new books with an added twist.

After receiving his gifts from the rest of the family, putting on smiles and words of thanks, he opens his new copies of Hamlet, Pride and Prejudice, and Kings of war.

Freshly printed words on silver lined paper, on intricately designed, teal hardback covers. Each one personalized with his name in slick, silver lettering on the bottom.

His silence had never been met with a smile so big at the sight of them, the art of speech lost on the vigilante for a good few minutes as he traced the designs, brushing his thumb over his engraved name.

He’d keep an eye out for weeks for a thank you gift. Who gives presents as a thanks after getting a birthday gift?

Try arguing with him when you see an expensive jewelry store box sitting on top of your pillow two days later.

- -

Strawberry jelly on toast. It was as simple at that for you on some lazy Sunday mornings. That, and you needed to do shopping.

Last you recall was turning your body around, blunt spreading knife in hand to toss into the sink, only to be met with a wall of muscles that constructed your boyfriend.

You gasp, not only from the startle, but from pure panic when Jason’s hand clasps yours, preventing the dangerously dull butter knife from doing any damage.

“Open those eyes, sweetheart,” Jason jokes after shortly letting you go, putting the knife in the sink for you.

“Sorry,” you immediately say, feeling a bit bad regardless. It was a butter knife, something so flimsy and useless, besides smearing condiments.

“S’alright.” Jason’s head glanced off towards the various counters in the kitchen, his slightly raised hand displaying the smear of strawberry jam on his thumb.

He was moments away from shrugging off his search and simply licking it off, until he feels your hands grasp his wrist and palm, gaining his attention.

Without a single word said, your tongue brushes along the edge of his calloused thumb, collecting the sticky, overly sweet jam juice off his skin.

Jason nearly froze on the spot, his mind spiraling to imagine a response to say as the pink, little tip of your tongue peeled through your lips, repeating the action once more until you were satisfied.

“Were we.. outta napkins, babe?” He questions, shortly swallowing after forgetting all about his morning coffee.

“Ran out last night,” you reply, proceeding to lick a thin dot of jam on your own pointer finger, all while maintaining eye contact.

“I see.”

- -

Everyone agrees that Jason’s hand alone is more than substantial than any collar.

He proved his point shortly after forgetting about your strawberry toast.

- -

(Sorta dark humor joke)

“Did you just-“ you glance down at the gun inside the empty candy bowl.

It was a joke. You had an empty bowl, walked up to him with a teasing chime in your voice when you asked, and this is how Jason responds.

The weight of the weapon alone told you it obviously wasn’t fake.

Your deadpanned expression flicking in between the gun and him. He had an apple in his other hand, why pick the gun?

“How do I—… do I just shove it in my mouth—?”

“Huh? What—no!”

[peppermintquartz]

The sun is already setting. Eddie is sweeping the floor for the third time that day in an effort to ignore how silent the house is when the doorbell rings and jars him out of his fugue state.

Can't be Buck, he thinks. He has a key. Chim? Maybe Bobby?

But when he opens the door, it's Tommy. He holds up a bag of groceries and half-smiles. "I was ordered to come by with ingredients."

"Buck sent you, huh."

Tommy shrugs. "Can I come in?"

"Yeah, sure, of course." Eddie knows he isn't being very hospitable but he doesn't really know how to respond right now. He knows that Buck has told the others to make sure they don't ask Eddie about Chris, so it makes sense that Tommy has also been roped into the "Keep An Eye On Eddie" brigade.

Tommy hums as he puts away the ingredients and even sets several bottles of condiments on the counter, pausing briefly to figure out where the avocadoes should go. Eddie takes the fruit from him. To his surprise, Tommy then shucks off his jacket and rolls up his sleeves to wash his hands.

Eddie frowns, perplexed. "What are you doing?"

"Orders from Evan Buckley," Tommy says, unlocking his phone and opening up a chat to show to Eddie. It's one with Buck (Tommy has the contact saved as Evan☀️❤️, and it's so cute that Eddie has to smile)

Buy a dozen eggs, 6 avocado, lemons (at least 6), 12 chicken breasts (NOT FROZEN), peppers (ref to list in email for pics), salad mix

Bring over the condiments I left on the counter

When you get there, clean and marinate the chicken - 2 tbsp light soy sauce, 1 tbsp dark soy, 2 tbsp honey, 2 tbsp rice wine, cover with plastic wrap and put in FRIDGE (again NOT FREEZER)

The instructions go on for another half a dozen texts, up to and including how the avocadoes are to be sliced.

Eddie blinks at the texts and then looks at Tommy, who is now measuring out soy sauce with a squint and his tongue between his teeth.

"I'm very confused," Eddie admits.

"Evan's still at a dental appointment but he wants to make sure we have flavorful chicken for dinner, so he sent me on as an advance party." Tommy grins at his friend. "And, you know him better than I do. If he puts his mind to getting something done a certain way..."

"Oh my god." Eddie covers his eyes, fighting a smile and shaking his head. "Did he have a clipboard?"

Tommy releases a long-suffering sigh. "Yes. He did."

Grinning now, Eddie goes to wash his hands. He might as well get started on the guacamole Buck's planned.

[gothamrumours]

Why is the little Robin CRAZY!!?

To the people of Gotham....Why? Just why? What have you done? What have I done? What have we done to deserve this?

To those wondering what I mean, I mean ya he's small , but my god he's a menace like I saw The Riddler running away from him. Like we thought the first one was bad with all his rage, or the 3rd one with his stalking powers, but no this one is worst cause A) he doesn't make a noise when he appear B) he has a sharp sword like what!? The other didn't have an actual lethal weapon and C) when he does talk nothing nice is being said like rumor has it he made Condiment King Cry!???

So firstly who let this crazy killer menace have a sword and fight for "Justice" cause I swear this man isn't fighting for Justice it's solely for entertainment like I bet Batman found him and took him in cause he was killing, BECAUSE THERE'S NO WAY THAT BOY IS INNOCENT!? HE ACTS LIKE SATAN HIMSELF SPAWN A CHILD IN HIS EXACT IMAGE!!!

Now some of you might wonder what I have against this kid well simple HE BROKE INTO MY HOUSE, LIKE WHO DOES THAT!? I left my Latte alone in my apartment, he's a good boy so I knew he wouldn't do anything when I came back this demon spawn was there with my dog playing catch and he insulted me saying I'm not taking care for My dog properly and I am, I left my dog alone for 15 minutes while I run to the corner store. So ya, this child is a menace don't you agree?

Your Loyal Journalists,

Gotham Rumors

[petermorwood]

Follow-up, as promised...

Further to this post, I went rummaging.

My stars, it turns out we've got some serious goodies at the back of the cupboard.

They've all been here long enough that @dduane and I will eat well this next week or so, but the first of them, mentioned often by Dracula Daily...

...“We left in pretty good time, and came after nightfall to Klausenburgh. (Cluj) Here I stopped for the night at the Hotel Royale (AFAIK, fictional) I had for dinner, or rather supper, a chicken done up some way with red pepper, which was very good but thirsty. (mem. get recipe for Mina.) I asked the waiter, and he said it was called “paprika hendl” and that, as it was a national dish, I should be able to get it anywhere along the Carpathians.”

...is this one.

This is a standard bung-it-in-the-microwave ready meal (3 mins / 700w, wait 3 mins, eat) but there's no reason why it can't be prettied up a bit.

Taste report: the flavour was creamy, buttery, paprika-y, and entirely pleasant (if there were more of these I would scoff them) and the Nockerl (mini dumplings) were properly al dente and excellent, but it was by no means "thirsty", by which I assume spicy-hot. Okay, it wasn't labelled as such, but it was even milder than any Paprikahendl I've eaten in a restaurant.

I suspect that, like most ready-meals of this kind, including curries and chili-con-carne, its spice level has been dialled down to Avoid Shocking The Customers, though TBH most German / Austrian dishes labelled Scharf, Feurig or Würzig (all meaning spicy or hot) have been lacking in the oomph department, at least for me. (Some haven't, which is always a pleasant surprise.)

I'm going to make my own Paprikahendl in the next while because I got some sweet and hot paprikas from Polonez in Dublin, and right now, DD is in the process of making Paprikaente, based on several Paprikahendl recipes and a couple of duck breasts found at the back of the freezer. I don't know if that's authentic or not, but it smells great and I don't care. :->

*****

I've suggested in another post why Jonathan Harker found this dish "thirsty".

It wasn't because he he had a wimpy English palate unaccustomed to spicy food - the Edwardian era was familiar with fiery curries from Raj India, and even featured cayenne pepper as a table condiment, complete with its own caddy and (often devil-topped) spoon...

My opinion was that Paprikahendl (Austrian) / Paprikás csirke (Hungarian) was a peasant dish, with the main part of the meal a big dish of noodles or dumplings. Those would be perked up with a sauce based on some elderly chicken which had stopped laying, well-spiced so a little could flavour a lot.

Those noodles have lots of names - nockerln on the packet I posted, also nokoldel, csipetke, spaetzle, tarhhonya and so on - and were what filled people up, with the meat accompaniment more of a relish or seasoning. In the same way, for instance, Yorkshire Pudding used to be served with gravy as a first course, so the second course of meat would go further.

Rice / bread / couscous/ pasta / mian / potatoes / fufu / polenta etc. did the same; many of these are served alongside rich, spicy, buttery etc. dishes and are now suggested as fire extinguishers for "over-hot" foods because the proportions of bland vs rich / spicy have shifted.

Back when, dinner would have been lots of name-the-regional-bland carbohydrate, along with a little bit of over-hot (or -garlicked or -herby or -smoked-bacon / sausagey) protein, which might have tasted excessive alone but would have given flavour to all that bland.

*****

Side-note: it's another possible reason, besides conspicuous consumption, for lots of spice in (rich people's) medieval dishes; in winter and spring, all that spice would have made smoked / salted / dried meat more interesting.

The business of "spices masked bad meat" is rubbish, and originated as recently as 1939 thanks to historian J.C. Drummond, who didn't know what "green" meant in food context. Green cheese = fresh cheese, green meat = un-aged meat.

Drummond assumed a recipe to change the flavour of "green venison" was to cover that it had gone off. It was in fact meant to tenderise it as if hung a few days in the cold store, but "medieval people were primitive" has always been more acceptable pop history than "medieval people were pretty smart".

*****

Harker, eating the chicken-and-sauce as The Meal (Stoker doesn't mention accompaniments or Bulk Carbs like noodles, spaetzle, etc. so you'll have to trust me), would have been like someone taking a swig of hot sauce or chomp of chilli pickle and then declaring the entire meal over-spiced or "thirsty", unaware of the proper proportions of What Goes With What.

A hotter, spicier, "thirstier" Paprikahendl would definitely go with a big mound of these little noodles, so I plan to see - and taste - how it'll work.

And how it'll look, too. :->

[itsawhumpsideblog]

BBU Community Days 2024, Day 3

April 16 / Writing Prompt: "RULES" / Write a BBU story based on the one-word-prompt and share it!

CW: for institutionalized slavery, emotional abuse, manipulation, drunkenness and drunk antics, a lot more swearing than normal, burning with cigarettes, forced to self-injure

"Shit, why didn't we invest in one of these earlier?" The speaker was a tall man in wrinkled slacks and a polo who looked like he was probably a good shot. There was no gun in evidence, unless you looked behind the counter of his establishment, but it didn't need to be visible for his customers to know that crossing him would be a bad idea.

"Cause they're fucking expensive," his bookkeeper replied, in the weary tones of someone who had explained this before. "We had to start coming out in the black consistently before we could afford the expense. You know that."

"Yeah, yeah. I know." The first man looked down at their new acquisition, kneeling on the floor next to the counter, looking down at his lap and wringing his hands. "Hey, uh- you- uh-" he looked back up at his colleague. "Hey, Ed, what do we call him?"

"His serial number is GU2938." Ed was engrossed in whatever he was doing on a laptop and didn't even look up.

"Nah, that's a mouthful. I'll just call him Pet, that's easy enough. Hey, Pet, there's some food there in that bowl for you. Take five and eat up, but be quick. We're gonna have customers in here in a few hours and we gotta clean and everything."

"Yes, Master," GU2938 replied, as he had been trained to, and scurried over to the bowl. It was full of scraps, probably the remnants of food humans had ordered but not finished. Sometimes people were so busy gambling or getting drunk that they forgot they had a meal in front of them. One of the first things GU2938 had learned was that people on a binge of any kind- betting or drinking or drugs- were unpredictable and did not always act according to logic that he could discern.

Once he had finished eating, GU2938 went back to the counter and crouched next to it, rubbing his knuckles and bent over to ease a bruise on his right side. The previous night, his first in the bar, had been an education, to say the least. It was his third day with his Master, but he had arrived mid-week and the bar was quieter on a Thursday night. Master had said that was best, since it gave him an evening to observe and learn his job.

GU2938 had been purchased to serve as a bouncer for the drinking-and-gambling establishment his Master owned, a dimly lit and slightly greasy place that was accessed by knowing which alley it was in and which stairs to go down to find the door. People did not come here for a quiet night out and GU2938's job was to get them out of the bar when Master determined that they were too drunk or high or broke to give him any more of their money.

Thursday had been quiet, with only a handful of regulars who hadn't left the Pet alone, but hadn't exactly hurt him, either. They only wanted to play with him, ordering him around just to watch him follow their commands. They had ordered him to bring their drinks from the bar, poured condiments on the table just so he would have to clean it up, and made him lick ketchup off the floor. When they lit a match, Master intervened.

"Hey!" he barked, so loudly that GU2938 jumped, although the regulars did not. "You were having your fun- fine. But you don't damage my property. I bought that to do work, not keep you entertained. That's what the races are for." He scowled at the men and waved GU2938 back to his corner beside the bar.

Friday had been very different, in a way. There was more work to do, or at least, more of the kind of work Master had in mind. GU2938 broke up a fight over poker and had to throw out a man who had gotten so drunk he forgot where- or possibly what- the toilet was. Then GU2938 had to clean up after the man, which might have been even worse than hauling him to the door.

When Master turned the lights off, locked the door, and left at almost 4 in the morning, GU2938 finally sat down and hoped he could fall asleep. It was hard to do, just like it had been hard the previous night. The floor felt very flat and a little sticky, and the small, barred windows didn't admit any light beyond a neon glow from some other business across the alley. Through the thin wall, he could hear the sounds of cars outside and the occasional siren and the strange noises frightened him.

GU2938 squeezed himself as far under the bar as he could manage. He was tall and broad-shouldered and the training at the facility had focused on building his muscles so that he would be marketable as a guard dog. He had learned a lot during his training- how to throw a punch and, more importantly, how to take one; how to dart past an opponent and use their own body weight to throw them; even where to put his hands to make someone pass out, permanently if the order was given. But the main thing he had learned was that he hated to fight.

He could fight, it turned out, and well. He was big enough to hit hard when he was ordered to do it and he was surprisingly fast for someone his size. He was perfectly compliant in the gym and ate the diet he was given, perfect for building muscle and laced with steroids that the WRU left off the guard dogs' medical records when they were sold.

But every time a fight ended, GU2938 would pause, look at his opponent, and break down in tears. And every time, the guards would make fun of him, order him to stop crying and, when he couldn't, beat him until he was too stunned to react any more. Then they would take him back to his cell where his wits would slowly return to him. He lay on the floor every night, seeing the face of the Pets he had fought in his mind's eye. He worried about them until he saw them again and could reassure himself that they were still breathing, even if they were damaged. His own injuries, even when they were severe, were less painful than the knowledge that he had hurt someone else.

Under the bar, GU2938 thought of the other Pets and closed his eyes against the mental images that formed the only memories he had. He began to rock back and forth, as if trying to shake the pictures away, and then found that the swaying reminded him of the last time he felt safe. It had been in the box on the truck between the facility and the bar. In that box, nobody was there to hurt or frighten him and he knew he would be left alone as long as the truck kept on swaying down the road. GU2938 tried to pretend that he was back there in the box on the truck and eventually he fell asleep.

He was woken late in the day by his Master opening the door and turning on the lights. GU2938 jumped up and stood with his head bowed at respectful attention as his Master crossed the room to the bar and set down a box.

"Got you something," he said. "Come here." Master opened the box and drew out a thick black collar with a small box attached to it. When GU2938 came over, Master reached up and fastened it around his neck. "That's a shock collar. I got the remote right here, see? I don't want to have to use it, but if you leave here or you disobey me, I can and I will. Understood?"

"Yes, Master." They were the only words GU2938 had uttered in recent memory and he heard his own voice so seldom that he was almost surprised by the sound of it, soft and deep and uncertain.

"Good. Now fill the cooler and get the floor mopped." Master went off to his own tasks in the back office.

GU2938 hated the feeling of the collar. It wasn't actually too tight, but it felt like it was and it made him cringe whenever he turned his head and felt the material rubbing against the front of his throat. He tried not to turn his head much, but it was difficult to remember not to move naturally. Even worse, he had no idea what Master's idea of disobedience was. GU2938 was trying his hardest to be a good Pet, but he was very afraid that Master would disagree.

As the weeks passed, GU2938 became more accustomed to the rhythm of life in the bar. He found that sleeping sitting up and leaned against the inside of the bar was more comfortable than trying to stretch out on the floor, especially with the collar snug around his throat. He also slept with one hand inside the collar, holding it away from his windpipe. Master fed him at least once a day from anything left in the kitchen before closing time and Ed, the bookkeeper, even gave him permission to eat scraps off of customers' plates when he did the dishes. He was hungry, but on most days not painfully so.

Only dealing with the customers never got easier. When Master ordered it, he had to throw them out of the bar sometimes, but Master also let the customers order him around when they wanted something. Occasionally, they played a game with him where they made a rule he had to follow for however long they said.

They seemed to play this game about once a week and GU2938 dreaded it. The first time they played, the rule had been that he had to do a somersault whenever one of them clapped. After he had rolled across the dirty floor a few times, one of the customers got it into his head to start applauding, making the Pet roll over and over around the bar until his back ached from contact with the hard floor.

The next time, he had to serve them with his eyes shut until they said he could look. The bartender played along and even Master laughed when someone put a chair in front of him to trip him when he brought a table their bill. The Pet went sprawling, afraid to open his eyes even to catch himself, and landed hard on his wrists. Without looking, he picked himself up very carefully and felt his way to the nearest table.

"Wrong one," someone said, when he tried to give them the little plastic tray with the paper and pen on it. There was a roar of laughter as he felt his way from table to table, each of them refusing the bill, until he was touching the back wall.

There were no tables left and he found himself shaking and afraid, because he didn't know what to do next. Should he ask again? But then Master would think he was questioning the honest of Master's customers and he wouldn't like that.

"Give it here," said Master's voice. "And go back to the front."

Still with his eyes squeezed shut, GU2938 went. Master must have delivered the check and the game continued, with GU2938 delivering food and drinks in between orders from the customers to go find the pinball machine or tie a customer's shoes.

The game came to an abrupt end when GU2938 slammed into the pool table and spilled an entire tray of beers all over himself and the floor.

"Open your fucking eyes and clean up that mess," Master snapped. GU2938 blinked in the light as he opened his eyes for the first time in hours and beheld the immense mess in front of him. Entirely without meaning to, he began to cry and almost immediately there was a sharp stinging feeling at his neck that made his whole body tense up. It only lasted a second, but when it ended, the spot on his neck under the little box didn't feel right and he ached horribly.

"Enough," his Master said in an angry voice. "I don't want to see any of that bullshit. Just clean. it. up."

"Yes, Master."

That first use of the collar marked a terrible turning point in GU2938's life. Now that the bar regulars knew he could be shocked, and knew one thing that would make Master do it, it seemed to become their goal to make Master shock GU2938.

In addition to the Rules game, they began betting on how long it would take them each night to make him cry. In between watching races or poker on tv, they pinched him as he passed or kicked his ankles or kneed him when Master wasn't looking.

If he had seen in, GU2938 supposed, Master would have stopped them, if only to protect his investment. The night one man pressed a lit cigarette to the Pet's arm, Master yelled at him and made GU2938 throw him out- but he had already been shocked and the man had won his bet. Every night GU2938 did his best not to cry, from either pain or fear, but they managed to find his breaking point all the same.

When they left and GU2938 had done his cleaning and eaten a bowl of leftover scraps, he would wedge his aching body and all its bruises under the counter and think about a quiet, dark box in a quiet, dark truck and rock himself back and forth until he could calm his adrenaline enough to sleep.

Things reached a crisis point the night the TV set broke. It might have had something to do with the bottle a very drunk customer had thrown at it earlier in the week, or it might simply have been a very old set. But whatever the cause, it broke in the middle of a race and the customers had been very invested in watching cars circle a track.

"Fuck," Master swore, and emptied the contents of his pockets onto the bar until he found his phone. He smashed the buttons and yelled into it, already sounding angry. "My fucking TV just died." There was an indistinct voice from the other end, and then Master said, "So what? The race was on and the TV just died, just like that." Pause. "Yeah, I know." Pause. "Well, I think we probably need another one, dumbass." Pause. "What the fuck?" Master sighed. "I'll be back when I sort this out," he announced to nobody in particular and stormed outside, still swearing at whoever was on the phone.

GU2938 was already nervous to be left alone with the customers, but when he saw that Master had left the remote to his collar on the bar, he thought he might be sick. He wondered for a split second if he could hide it until Master got back. Even if Master shocked him for it, it would still be better than whatever the customers might do.

He wasn't fast enough. One of them saw it and grabbed it out of the pile of loose change and crumpled receipts.

"Hey," he called to the other men, "Look what I got!" This was greeted with a round of drunk cheers that made GU2938 feel sick.

"Okay," said the man holding the remote. "First rule, umm... you have to walk around with your eyes crossed. Now go to the pool table and see if you can hit anything."

GU2938 did as he was told. He made it to the pool table and tried to pick up a cue, but he was so concentrated on the pool balls that he forgot there was a second condition.

"He's looking at them," someone called and instantly there a shock ran through him, making his muscles seize.

"No good," called the man with the remote. "Next rule? Anyone?"

"Make him eat gum off the bottom of the tables," someone suggested, to laughter. There was plenty of gum on the undersides of the tables and the chairs, too, as GU2938 well knew. As instructed, he scraped some off and put it in his mouth, but when he gagged, they shocked him again.

Then they had him carry a plate on his head and shocked him when it fell off. He had to turn a cartwheel and was shocked when he couldn't. With every broken rule, the shocks seemed to last longer and he was sure they were turning up the intensity. He couldn't help himself and screamed with each wave of electricity that shot through his body.

Prank call the emergency phone number.

Stand over here and piss into the potted plant.

Use this lit cigarette to draw a smiley face on your palm.

Stand under the target while we play darts.

Punch yourself in the face. No, harder. Right in the nose. Not like that.

Every time, they shocked him and with every shock, GU2938 felt his body grow weaker and felt his mind grow more afraid. His heart didn't feel right anymore, as if it skipped a beat when the shock came, and his legs could barely hold him.

At last, they got what they really wanted and he began to cry. Not just a few tears, like most nights, when GU2938 could keep himself mostly under control and the shocks from Master would be brief and comparatively light. Now, it was as if floodgates had opened and he sobbed from somewhere deep inside himself, the tears pouring down his aching face. He could feel a ball of grief deep in his stomach and he leaned against the bar and covered his face with his hands, as if they hadn't already seen.

"Uh-uh," the man with the remote crowed. "You're not allowed to do that. Your Master said you weren't. Didn't they train you better?"

GU2938 was sobbing too hard to answer or even to begin to collect himself.

"Guess not," the man said. He was looking out into the bar, talking to the other customers now, as if he was onstage speaking to an audience. "I guess we better help you out, get you properly trained. What do you think, boys?"

There was a cheer and to a background of applause, GU2938 felt the shock in what might have been slow motion. He could hear himself screaming at the top of his lungs as the man with the remote adjusted the intensity for maximum effect.

There was the feeling of a burning ring around GU2938's neck and he fell full-length onto the floor as his body tensed up. It was like an induced seizure and he felt his limbs shaking, his joints striking the tile. His teeth were grinding together and his eyes rolled in his head and then even the screaming stopped because he couldn't get a breath and his throat felt like it was on fire.

It only stopped because Master came in and shouted, "What the fuck do you think you're doing? I paid good money for that and you motherfuckers are just ruining it for fun." He kept on in that vein for some time, but GU2938 heard none of it. Consciousness ebbed and flowed and eventually someone dragged him behind the bar and left him there, supine and weeping, for the rest of the night.

The last thing that happened was Master shoving a bowl of scraps towards him. "You got the night off," Master said, "But I expect you to work double tomorrow to make it up."

"Yes, Master," GU2938 tried to say.

His blood ran cold. He hadn't made a noise- Master had spoken to him and he had answered but no noise had come out. GU2938 grabbed frantically at his throat, trying to pull the collar away. He opened his mouth in a silent scream, but there was nothing to hear.

Years later...

They were the first ones to arrive, which meant that Mikey had time to get the podium set up where he wanted it while Angie, Tim, and Nathan unfolded metal chairs into straight rows. Francis parked his wheelchair at the back of the room and got his crutches situated comfortably, pulling the sleeves of his flannel down smooth under the cuffs around his forearms.

"Are you ready?" Francis asked Mikey as they took their places at the front of the room.

Mikey shrugged. "I think so," he signed and Francis grinned.

"You'll be fine, I know you will. We'll do it just like we practiced at home."

"You're right, I know. But either nobody's going to show up or too many people are."

"Either way. Just like we practiced."

Mikey nodded and they watched the door as it opened to admit a stream of people. The local meetings of the Pet Liberation Movement were invitation-only to ensure that everyone in the room could be trusted; it looked like tonight everyone who was welcome had chosen to show up.

By 7:00, the library's conference room was standing room only and there was a low buzz of chatter as the attendees waited for the program to begin. Mikey focused on the front row, where Angie gave him an encouraging smile and a subtle thumbs-up. Nathan made a silent but enthusiastic cheering motion and Tim gave him two thumbs up, grinning broadly. Mikey blushed and laughed, but he felt better.

When the door had stayed closed for several minutes, suggesting that nobody else was coming, Mikey looked over at Francis, who nodded that he was ready to begin. Mikey raised his hands for quiet and the talk slowly died away as people noticed the gesture.

With a nervous deep breath, Mikey began to sign as Francis interpreted for him.

"Good evening. My name is Mikey and even though I'm using Sign Language, I'm not deaf- I'm mute. I lost my voice permanently because a shock collar was used on me when I was being kept as a Pet. My friend and fellow rescued Pet, Francis, and I are going to talk to you tonight about our experiences as victims of the Pet trade."

Master List

Notes: The end sort of just came to me, but I'm in love with the idea of Mikey becoming an activist. Also- is Mikey actually Ferdinand the Bull? Discuss.

Tag list: @pigeonwhumps, @cepheusgalaxy, @i-eat-worlds, @honeycollectswhump @taterswhump, @starfields08000 @whumpsday, @fruitypinapple00, @currentlyinthesprial

[gentrychild]

Anyone! What if the main circle played a game of Never-have-i-ever and Dabi or someone says "Never have I ever killed someone" would Midoriya take the time to really think abt it and (wrongfully) assume he did and take a drink (of apple juice ofc....or a nasty mix of condiments)? OMG ITD BE HILARIOUS IF HAWKS WAS THERE JUST LIKE o.O

“Never have I ever…” Hawks marked a pause, letting some suspense settle in the bar. “… not paid my taxes.”

A groan echoed through the bar as Dabi, whose face was on the large table they were all sitting around, reached for his glass. His shoulders shook a little. He might have been sobbing or trying to kill Hawks with his mind. In any case, he still drank his shot with the grim determination of a man who had accepted that his liver would not see the sun rise tomorrow. Kurogiri also drank, with far more dignity.

All for One, who had been drinking non stop since the game had started and who should be dead if it wasn’t for the dozen of anti-poison quirks running around to eliminate the alcohol from his bloodstream, left his glass alone.

They had to change the rules for him and him alone. If he reached a certain amount of glasses, he

“Really?” Todoroki asked, his hand on Izuku’s shoulder. They were both drinking cold grape juice instead of alcohol but apparently, too much sugar turned Izuku’s lieutenant sleepy. “I would have thought you had never given them a yen.”

“I don’t mess with the IRS,” All for One informed him.

“Good to know,” the HPSC spy who probably thought he was really smooth to ask all those questions said. However, since he was holding the table in order to remain upright in his chair, Izuku doubted he would remember much in the morning.

It was Todoroki’s turn. He perfectly refilled everyone’s glass, giving vodka to the adults and grape juice to Izuku.

“Never have I ever killed someone.”

All for One, Hawks, Kurogiri and Dabi all took their shots and Dabi possibly passed out right here and there. Izuku reached out to him and moved his head so he wouldn’t accidentally smother himself.

As he did, Todoroki touched Izuku’s glass, lifting it from the bottom and bringing it to Izuku’s lips.

“The yakuza,” his best friend reminded him.

“The yakuza?” Izuku repeated, puzzled.

“The one with Eri.”

Ah yes, the trash toucan Izuku had saved Eri from.

“I didn’t kill…”

Izuku stopped talking for a little while. Now, this was a little embarrassing but every time he remembered the day he had become a villain, the joy of getting One for All, of finally having his own quirk, overwhelmed everything else. Even Eri, despite being perfect and someone Izuku adored, wasn’t close to the most important thing that had happened that day.

It was why until now, he hadn’t thought of the yakuza who had tried to kill him and that he had left in an alley after using One for All 100% on him.

“Oh shit,” Izuku remembered. “I guessed I did.”

He emptied his glass in one gulp because he didn't cheat during game nights.

“WHAT?” Dabi screamed.

Hawks shrieked, a sound that was both incredibly loud but that also belonged to the throat of a giant bird.

And yet, All for One managed to get louder than the both of them.

“I MISSED YOUR FIRST MURDER???”

[peaches2217]

🫂

🫂 - Comforting hugs

I said I wanted to deliver more Peach and Luigi Friendship content and by God I meant it

Back Home

~~~

“...But Weegee, the food! I’m almost tempted to call it quits and come home early just so I can eat something good again. I can’t even make anything good myself. Everything they eat is green! No carbs! No fat or oils or condiments! There’s not even any fruit! In fact… and, uh, the next three paragraphs are just about how much he hates the food.”

Peach giggled into the back of her glove. “The poor thing. He must be starving!”

“Oh, Mario doesn’t starve, Princess,” Luigi promised, scanning over his brother’s lengthy written rant once more. “He’ll eat anything! He’ll just act real grumpy the whole time if he doesn’t like it, like this.”

He folded the letter briefly to offer a demonstration of Mario’s Bad Food Face: arms crossed, eyebrows scrunched, lips set in a sulking pout. He mimed bringing a fork to his mouth and chewing with that unwavering expression, and Peach giggled again.

“Then at the very least, we know to prepare a feast for him once he returns.”

“He’s already counting on it! Mentions it at the very end.” Luigi shook out the letter once more, skimmed past the extensive complaints, and continued translating: 

“I can’t say for sure yet, but it should only be another week or two before this is all wrapped up in a big, pretty bow. I’ll let you know if that changes. Otherwise, let’s have all the pasta our bellies can stand in a week or two’s time! Hugs, kisses, and one more big hug, Mario.”

Luigi smoothed the creases in the paper with his thumbs and handed it to Peach. She admired the handwriting, and with her index finger she traced the indents his pen had left in the paper. “He writes differently in different languages,” she noted. “His penmanship is much more relaxed here. When he writes to me, each word looks careful and neat.”

“Well, you’re really the only other person he writes to, you know.”

“Ah! That might explain it.” Peach smiled down at the paper in her hands. “His letters to me are the only time he actually writes in the common tongue, then! No wonder he spends so much time getting the penmanship perfect.”

“Mmhm,” Luigi nodded, and he couldn’t help but tap his foot arrhythmically beneath the small table they shared. She almost got it. Almost. He thought to give her a nudge in the right direction, maybe reveal all the hours Mario spent hunched over his work bench forcing his hand to produce dainty curves and elegant lines because I write like a Conkdor with its head chopped off and a pen taped to its foot! That’s not good enough for a princess, Weegee!...

But something in Peach’s face made him take pause. She still smiled softly, but her eyes were unfocused, even as she continued observing the letter.

“Does it ever… get any easier?” She twirled a lock of hair around her finger absently as she spoke. “Is there ever a point where you don’t… you don’t worry for him so much that it makes you feel sick?”

Luigi’s throat felt suddenly tight. Worried. He thought he had recognized that look. He saw it on Mario’s face every so often, the tight smile and hazy eyes that told Luigi he needed a listening ear and a heaping helping of homemade spaghetti. It looked much more foreign on the princess’ face.

He knew she worried for his safety when he was gone. Did it keep her awake at night, he wondered, just as Mario would sometimes spend all night staring at the ceiling and praying for her wellbeing?

Before he could think up a reassuring answer, he blurted out an entirely inappropriate question, the very question he would present to Mario in the same situation: “Need a hug?”

Peach blinked up from the paper in her hand. Luigi was the sort who would squirm and shudder and run away as fast as his legs could carry him if anyone except Mario tried to touch him. She was just as surprised by his offer as he was. But before he could apologize and take it back and explain his slip-up—

“I’d greatly appreciate that, actually.”

Luigi gulped. Well… a friend in need and all of that, right?

He stood from his seat, and she followed suit. He held his arms out to either side of his body. What next? Was he supposed to step forward? Pull her in? That didn’t feel right. Mercifully, she closed their distance before he could make a wrong move.

She reached her arms beneath his and placed her small hands on his back, drawing closer and resting her cheek against the side of his head. She wasn’t much taller than him, maybe a few inches, but he suddenly felt tiny in comparison. A whole person and all of her fears, contained right here in his arms. It was almost too much.

Hesitantly, he returned her embrace, patting her back softly. He fixed his eyes on a distant shrub so he had something to focus on other than the overwhelming smell of strawberries encompassing him, and that at least helped him find his words better. “Mario’s… kinda like a cat,” he offered, eventually. “He keeps running off and getting pulled into who-knows-what, but in the end he always comes back home. You never really stop worrying for him. But you do get used to it. You realize he can take care of himself and you welcome him when he comes back and that’s really all there is to it, you know?”

Peach nodded. Her hair tickled Luigi’s face, fine and smooth. He wanted to sneeze.

He was relieved when she pulled away, taking a deep breath of clean air, but she still had that look, and that needed to change. He stepped forward again and placed his hands on her shoulders. More comfortable, still physical, maybe helpful? He hoped it was helpful. “Loving Mario feels like a full-time job sometimes,” he joked, “but I wouldn’t worry yourself sick. Nothing could stop him from coming back home.”

Color rose into Peach’s cheeks — oh, she was definitely hung up on “loving Mario,” that was rich — and finally, she graced him with a sincere, full-hearted smile. “Thank you, Luigi,” she said, and he squeezed her shoulders in response.

Tension that he hadn’t realized he’d been holding in his body released when he sat back down, and he melted into his chair. That was enough physical contact for one day, or maybe a week or six.

“Perhaps we can discuss the details of his Welcome Home feast,” Peach suggested, grinning playfully as she held Mario’s letter out to him. Luigi grinned right back. He certainly preferred to see the princess in good spirits.

“Or maybe we should have something good for dinner ourselves.” He took the letter and held it to his chest with all the mock-sadness he could muster. “In his honor.”

“You’re right. It’s what he would want for both of us.”

“We should have all of his favorites, to celebrate his selflessness.”

“He’s going to hate us.”

“Worth it.”

Peach laughed as she rose once more and ushered for Luigi to follow her, presumably to the palace kitchens. He carefully tucked Mario’s letter back into his pocket and followed after her.

[igglemouse]

The sun cast its golden hue over my new town of Oasis Springs as it brought in the hopes of a new day. The simoleons from yesterday a reminder of my success and also what might be possible for me here.

But while I considered my last food sale a financial success it was certainly a failure socially. My mystery guy did not stop by which had me wondering if perhaps I had failed my first impression. Maybe that's not it? Perhaps the waffles left a lingering ill taste on his lips and he's decided my little offerings are just not enough?

Or...maybe he's taken?

I chomp down on my waffle with that thought bouncing through my head. That was far more likely, wasn't it? He was very handsome and I could tell he was brimming with confidence, the odds of a man like that being single? Very very low.

Later in the day, after a shower and some cleaning, my phone rings and it is someone I've met through my food stand but it's not the person I hope. It's Daniella, the girl I met yesterday who came by a little too late for a plate.

After introductions she tells me that she wishes to be my guide for the city. Hinting and teasing at private parties that she can drag me into and perhaps I'm far too eager to tell her I'm down for it because the mysterious tone she takes on after that kind of worries me.

Honestly, I was just being nice. A girl needs friends, doesn't she?

I head outside and set up. Calling out the usual. Waffles, tortillas, brownies, three dishes that were becoming an early staple of mines.

If only the air wasn't different. Less hurried, less eager, and less people. Perhaps it was too dry and just a little too hot but the result? Ninety-six simoleons.

The weight of my daily gains was both light and heavy. I didn't quite reach my goal but I was thankful for every simoleon made. It was a reminder that success would not be achieved in a straight line and that there would be ups and downs along the way.

The sizzle of my pan brings me solace and a promise of a future to come. The simoleons will be there. I'll work hard, I'll learn a new recipe every day, I'll get better and better to where my skills cannot be declined.

I am a student of flavor and my latest design, simple sliders, are sure to help me have my best day. After all, they are small, easy to plate, and even easier to eat. Perfect dish for a food stall, someone can drop their simoleons off on the table and take one to go. If only they are good.

I take a bite, letting the flavors dance around in my mouth. When it comes to any sandwich it's about creating the perfect mix of meat, bread, veggies, and condiments and I think I've hit the spot. It's a small confirmation of my work but not the final one. That test will come with my customers, of course.

The day stretched on with the promise of little which was expected. I figured I would sit down and find something to eat. Maybe even go to a bookstore and pick up recipe books? Something like that, have a quiet night in and prepare for tomorrow.

The ping of my phone presented another idea. The gym. With the curious man whose been lingering on my mind. When he asks I tell him maybe but we all know my curiosity and quite frankly my desire to see him again will not allow me to decline this invitation.

I'm just surprised he was able to find my number?

When I arrived at the gym I wondered how I had ever missed it. It stood large and looming over the busy street, the other businesses clearly benefitting from the crowd that it drew.

Once inside I met our mystery guy and he wasted little time leading me upstairs, claiming that a session would begin soon and he did not have time to waste.

The session? Yoga.

Fortunately, the class was small. Two others, including him, and he of course took a mat behind me. I laughed inwardly but a man will be a man I suppose? If he's going to admire the female form then I suppose I'd rather it be mines than the girl next to him at least.

Either way, the session starts and reluctantly and clumsily I follow the instructor. She starts with easier poses of course. Breathing exercises, she called them, which were more about relaxing and finding your mental center.

Eventually she would move on to more difficult ones. Stretching out legs and balancing on one foot. Nothing impossible for a beginner but I do think we both looked like fools trying to keep up.

We end on the flat of our backs, eyes closed, and letting our muscles find their natural states. Yoga is a lot harder than it looks but I admit it does feel very rewarding? Perhaps it is something I could get into? Especially if our mystery man is into it...

When I first step foot in this gym my first thought was how chilly it was inside. I almost wondered if I should have brought a coat! Now, I'm thankful for it, the cool air was far more welcome after our little workout and I was thankful that it kept my brow from glistening with any sweat as Pascal (that's his name by the way, so no longer a mystery guy to me) pulled me over for a conversation. A 'get to know each other' conversation, by the way, and thankfully in Selvadoradian so that saves him having to hear my terrible accent.

"So why this?" I ask. "Why yoga?"

"Orders of the captain," he says casually, as if I'm supposed to know what that means. Is he a sailor or... "He says it helps with the flexibility, prevents injuries, and helps with mental focus. All important on the field."

The field? I was still confused until I thought on it a moment longer. He's talking about a sport.

"I kick a ball for a living," he assists, that confident tone of his pulling me in closer.

So this is who I sat across from, Pascal Alcocer, a name that in itself seemed to carry a significance to it. At least to him. To me it was but another name. I think he liked that, he liked that I was ignorant of who he was. Perhaps it's why he's interested in me.

"You've never heard of me? Truly?" he seems sincerely confused. I just stare at him and shake my head. Revealing that I'm really no big fan of sports ball. Oh, don't get me wrong, fútbol as it is called back home is massive but it simply never pulled me in. It's just a bunch of people kicking a ball around in the end.

"I'm sorry," suddenly I feel ignorant. Here is this great athlete, presumably, setting out time to get to know me because he feels like I should already know him. "I just don't watch-"

"No! Please! Frida, is it?" I nod and bite down on my lip, my name seemed to slip so naturally from his lips. "It's refreshing, actually."

I am sure it is. If he's a big time athlete I can imagine he has women buzzing around him daily. Throwing themselves at him, begging for a moment of his attention and wanting a lot more. The more I think about it, the more I dislike it. Dating a man like this would be stressful, wouldn't it?

As I think about it he tells me more about himself. He's a young player with a lot of promise, a 'midfielder', he tells me. That word is filled with pride. I have no idea what it means but I can tell just by how he says it that its a special role on the team, perhaps like that of a sous chef? Either way, he says he plays for Oasis FC which again has little meaning to me beyond the fact that he plays for a professional team but he assures me he's not the big deal some make him out to be.

"I still have lots to prove. I don't quite have that big contract yet but everyone thinks it's a matter of time," he leans back as he says this, realizing that he's spent most of the time talking.

"Sounds like a lot of pressure," I say finally.

He gives me a stern nod and waves away that thought entirely. "I'd rather have the expectations to be great than be regarded as a failure...so, what about you?"

"Oh," where do I go from there? "I just opened up a stall and hope to see where it goes?" Watcher that sounds so lame in comparison. "I just enjoy cooking I guess and-"

"You are adorable, do you know that?"

Well that has me chewing on my lip again and has my face feeling a little warm.

"I-I like you too..."

I find the comfort of a bar soon after, too restless to head home and needing a drink to think on the night I've had with Pascal. First impression? I was impressed.

Sure, the man was so full of confidence that it was bordering on cockiness but I have a feeling that it takes pure arrogance to become a professional athlete.

It was also very clear that was into me. After all, he sought out my number and invited me to a gym and made sure he had a good look of me. Should that make me happy or should I worry that he's a teeny bit pervy?

I don't know. The good thing about a drink is that it allows me to not overthink any of what happened and look forward to seeing him again which, according to him, will be sometime tomorrow...

Episode List - Next

The wonderful public gym lot is by @streneesims

[bae04xx]

Heyyy I just saw it post and like I couldn't resist sending in an ask (or request if you will)!! If you want to could you write a bill cipher (yes ik💀) x reader where he and the reader are dating but get into an argument and he just says/does sum really mean stuff?? Fluff ending tho please I can't take only angst lmao, for the reader i would pref a Fem reader but gn is fine to!! Also for bill could he be in his triangle form?? (I'm so sorry if this is a long ask💀💀) but yeah that's it!!

One last thing if you don't mind could I be the 😻 anon so like if I send a ask/message I will add that and yk its me!!

-😻

hey ofc, sorry don’t check my tumblr that often! i would love to :)

thanks 😻 anon :)

bill cipher x fem! reader

angst and fluff 🖤☁️

i grabbed my bags out of my car boot, harshly gripping them between my fingers, which the knuckles of began to loose their colour from the chill in the air. after shutting the car doors and locking it up i begin storming down the pebbled drive towards my little cottage of a home. i sigh as i drop my bags and twist the key into the lock. i walk into the warmth of my house- silence greets me. after a full day at work, a very busy day might i add, then running about 5 errands i expect my home to be as i left it, cleaned to perfection. my eyes squint at the crumbs left all over hallway’s floor, i walk through them and set my bags onto the kitchen’s table- only to see condiments and dirty dishes scattered on the counters.

i quickly put my food shopping away, then hastily clean the house top to bottom, from hoovering to polishing to mopping to cleaning all of his dirty clothes because god forbid he contribute anything to this house and take any weight off my already drowning shoulders. i bury my face into my hands and curl up on my sofa, after sitting like this for a few minutes i decide to sit up and distract myself, flipping through a few tv channels to find a decent one.

i wonder why i’m even here, i was only meant to be in gravity falls temporarily, after my mother decided i was too much for her, she shipped me off to live with my aunt for the summer- aunty suz, or as the locals called her, lazy suzan. she ran a diner, which i helped out with as my keep, and there i met the twins. i felt like mable understood me, she really helped me deal with my mental health and overcome it all. she was my bestfriend- until i fell for him. i made the stupid mistake of choosing bill cipher, a living breathing demon, over my bestfriend. and now i’m stuck in this hell hole- gravity falls.

“loving boyfriend my ass..” i mumbled, throwing the tv remote to the ground in frustration.

“what about me were you saying, peach?” he smirks, materialising out of no where, with a snarky expression.

“what the fuck have you been doing all day cipher? i work my ass off and i come home to the house a state?” i plead, standing up to be someone as tall as the floating figure.

“woah woah woah, don’t be so aggressive peach, calm it and remember who you’re speaking to,” he warns, i laugh at him.

“i do everything for you cipher, i have up my life for you and this is the thanks i get? no support, messing with my home and threats? i have every right to be angry at you, you always do this!”

“do what exactly, peach?” his eyes narrow at me, staring me down.

“fuck me over! you expect to be fed, even though you don’t need to eat and can make anything you want appear but no- i have to supply it for you, to clean in a clean house but it’s fine for you to constantly mess it up, and to leave for days at a time with no warning and then just appear back and expect me to be fine? and treat me like shit!”

“i can do whatever the fuck i want peach, whatever i want-“ he grabs me by the chin, “you listen to me, you’re a puppet in my hands, you’re lucky i’m even giving the time of day. you’re only around because i like you, and you’re so lucky i like you because do you wanna know what would happen if i didn’t?”

…

“you’d be dead, rotting your own personal hell. so show me a little respect? don’t forget your place.”

i push myself away from him, i regretfully look in my eyes, i don’t know what to do, so i just stand there, scared, confused, anxious yet angry.

“i’m going, don’t try and get in my head, i don’t want you there.” i announce, before storming off and grabbing my handbag.

“i’ll never get out of your head, you belong to me remember, you’re nothing without me.” he announced, as though he’s just next to me but he isn’t. i’m in the car, applying as much pressure to the accelerator as i can- and he’s no where near me. he’s in my fucking head again. i have no space, no boundaries, i’m not just me, i’m him too- and i have no choice. i can’t escape.

i break as hard as i can, in the middle of a road, no cars were within a mile radius of me, perks of living i. a quiet town. i scream, a blood curdling scream, my nails clawing into my h/c, tears stream out of my eyes. sobbing uncontrollably i feel an arm snake around me, pulling me close.

he’s shushing me, trying to calm me down as a shriek and cry into his chest, not sure if i should push him away or accept him embrace. his boney hands stroke my h/c and instantly calms me, not by my choice though- the bastard is in my head again.

“i’ve given everything for you bill.” i state, wiping my tears away, a dead look in my eyes.

“i’m sorry peach,” he hugs me tightly, “i know i’m shitty, but i’m so sorry.”

and he just holds me, let’s me stay in his arms, i focus on my breathing, as he plays with my hair, he whispers a small ‘i love you’ in my ear, i hum back to him, too exhausted to process what’s really happened.

i wake up in my bed, changed into my favourite fleecy pyjamas, a very worried demon next to me.

i yawn, stretching my arms up, turning to him i say “and how did i get here?” my voice a little gruff from sleepiness.

“you don’t think i was going to let you sleep in the car do you? what kinda demon do you think i am?” he replied in his usually snarky yet flirtatious voice.

“ah yes sorry, you’re such the gentleman- how could i forget,” i giggle back at him before rolling away to the other side of the bed.

“i really am sorry y/n, i’m gonna try more, for you peach,”

“i love you bill,”

“i love you more peach,”

a comfortable silence surrounds us, i sigh before deciding to get up, yet just as a i begin to take the duvet off me i get it pulled start back on.

“what’re you thinking for breakfast peach? my treat, you just stay snuggled up in bed,”

“i bought some croissants yesterday, they’re in the cupboard,” i muse, before grabbing my book off the bedside table. bill let’s out a laugh.

“my treat, you just wait and see what i’ve got planned peach!”