#honestly the worst thing to have ever come into existence

[demigod-of-the-agni]

Am I the only person saying that the one (1) good thing to come from Dragons: The Nine Realms is the homoerotic tension between Eugene Wong and Buzzsaw?

Sirs, ma'ams, pals, they are in Love

[ishades]

.

[chikaras-garden]

Hi petal! May I request Dick Grayson and Damian Wayne dick headcanons? Like, size and width kinda thing? Thank you!

Sweet Jesus. Yes. Goodness. Oh my god.

DICK GRAYSON 💦

Not the longest. Not the girthiest. A pretty pink head that demands kisses. But the curve of his dick helps him reach places inside you that no one else could ever dream of. This is a cock that finds every spot that makes you squirm and scream—and then invents new ones, just to be sure no man has ever made you feel as good as he does. 

He uses his whole body to fuck you. Hands cupping your cheeks, forehead against yours, breath fanning over your lips in between kisses. When he’s inside you, you’re two halves of one whole, and the point where your body ends and his begins may as well not exist. He’s so agile, so flexible; he’ll work as hard as is necessary to find every position that has you coming undone all over his cock.

Loves to stay inside you. He came so much, so hard, so fast—so he’ll just plug you up, you know? You don’t mind, right? He’ll be so impossibly gentle about it, too; laying on top of you, weight on his knees so he doesn’t hurt you, peppering little kisses up and down your face until his cock softens and slips right out.

DAMIAN WAYNE 💦

A cock so perfect that they should be making dildos based off of him. Very long. Very thick. Tanned and super veiny. Honestly, the worst part is that he knows this because he’s heard it a billion times. Praise does nothing to him after hearing so many people say he feels so good, that he splits them open just right—but the look on your face when he thrusts hard, fast, and deep until your eyes roll back in your head? 

That has him feeling something he’s never felt before. He’s buried to the hilt inside you, you feel him all the way up to your lungs, and you reach down to grab his wrist and hold him right where he is. When your fingers wrap around him, he groans, seeing stars of his own. You reach around his hips and press your hands into his ass to pull him even deeper, and he starts forcing himself into breathing exercises to stop himself from coming right there.

Prefers you to come first. Also prefers when you have the time for both of you to come multiple times. He has a thing for coming on your tits first, and he’d love to come on your face if you’re into that, but sex isn’t finished until he fills you, duh.

@uc1wa I wasn't kidding

[virgincels]

PAWFECT !

ft. og4!leon s. kennedy x fem!reader

tags. hybrids, they’re treated like dogs so power dynamics, spaying, creampie, p in v, smut, daddy kink, fluff, pussy inspection

note. SHUT UP. all nyxs fault all her doing. og4 leon btw it wouldn’t work otherwise!! ignore typos n just bad fic over all I was tweaking .. omg forgive me . honestly just snippets of leon n his puppy girl!! super short

“Baby,” Leon says, it’s the closest to cooing he’ll ever get, “smile for me, baby, c’mon.”

You blank him, rolling over to stare at a small hole in the wall. The refusal to do what he says is a stab in the heart.

“What happened to my good girl?” He hooks his fingers in your mouth, forcing your lips into a grin as he bares your half-formed canines. “There it is, look at that.”

For the first time in your docile existence, you bite Leon. You bite your daddy and he yelps like a little girl—This has one of your ears twitching, the urge to run to his aid is likely strong but you stay put like the stubborn little bitch you are.

The vet said your grudge would last a day or so. That puppies can be temperamental creatures, but they’re soft at heart. A nice way to say that dogs are dumber than a box of rocks - you included. You’re the stupidest of them all and that’s what Leon likes about you.

Your grudge lasts two days, then three, then four, then five—A week long extension. And it’s not just the cold shoulder. It’s the food bowl that sits on the ground covered in a film of dust, out of use. It’s the side of his bed that remains empty as you burrow into your pink doggy bed that you outgrew long ago—There was never any use for the thing, you started to sleep in Leon’s bed the night you came home with him. Man, he used to hate when you whined at the bathroom door while he took a shit, but now Leon would do anything to have that back.

Worst of all, it’s the lack of sex. Leon did this for your good—You like playtime, it’s your favourite part of the day, even better than breakfast or lunch or dinner. You also love being bred, like the warmth, makes you sleepy. No more heat cycles, no more condoms. It’s a win-win. Call him cruel all you want, the shit makes you go insane—He got through, like, twenty rubbers in a day. Think about all those costs, then think about a single procedure, weigh ‘em up and you’ll see what led him to tie your tubes.

Leon makes a call to Rebecca, she comes with a stethoscope and Claire in tow. He’s in for an earful. Hybrid rights activist his ass, you’re his pup and Leon can do what he wants with you. An endless supply of creampies is what his girl dreams about, and he only does what’s best for you—He knows you, when you get over this slump you’ll appreciate all he’s done for you.

“And where does it hurt?” Rebecca’s eyes soften as you place a hand over your heart, blinking up at her with big eyes for added effect.

Oh, baby—Oh, honey— Both of them kneel by your side, scratching behind an ear each, showering you in enough affection to last a century.

“She’s acting,” Leon informs them, only to be met with outrage, “I regret it, swear on my life,” says Leon, who does not.

“You should, look at this sweet girl, what if she wanted to be a mommy.” Claire rubs your tummy, pads of her fingers digging into the pudge, your foot thumps against the floor as your body goes lax. When you look for affection from Leon, he rubs your clit instead of your belly.

“She doesn’t go outside, not gonna be a mommy either way.”

“That’s not the point, Leon, it’s cruel,” she argues, “she’s not a sex doll, are you baby? No, no, you’re not a sex doll, you’re a good girl, yes you are.” He fucking hates the baby voice. If you wanna get knocked up so badly, you should be spoken to like a big girl, but you can’t even make it to the potty on time so how is Leon meant to trust you with a litter?

“It makes it easier to deal with her cycles, I mean, she won’t get them at all now—“ Rebecca’s actual scientific evidence is shut down by a single glare from Claire.

“Get rid of your balls, how would you like that?”

“She likes my balls, can’t do that to her—Anyway, there’s no space for kids,” Leon says shortly, “I’d have to sell ‘em and she’d get all depressed.”

“She should have the choice, Leon, an option at least.” Claire doesn’t know that you can’t pick between dry food and wet food, that you break down when you’re given a choice, even if presented gently.

“Yeah, well, it’s too late.” And hooray to that.

“You’re mean,” she tells him, and he knows, he’s so mean—So selfish. Doing what’s best for his pup is so mean of him. Big Bad Leon crushing your puppy dreams in the palm of his hand like a page out of a diary.

“Mhm, okay, bye now, Claire, you should get going—Thanks for coming, Becca.” Leon escorts them to the door, he gives Claire a gentle push over the threshold and slams it in her face. “So fuckin’ annoying, tellin’ me what to do, and you just let her say that to me baby.”

Your face is indifferent, devoid of the usual warmth you carry in your expression. Dopey bitch. Don’t even know left from right and you think you know what’s best for you?

“So you’re gonna be like that?” Leon asks, and you blink at him, gaze steely. Fine. Two can play that game. He gets his dick out and twiddles it like his thumbs, your mouth waters the moment it comes into your eye line. “Baby, you could’ve held out a little longer.” He laughs quietly when you come to nose at his cock with shining eyes. “Yeah, you’re my greedy little bitch, aren’t you, baby? Yeah, you are.”

“I didn’t mean to make you upset.” He strokes your head tenderly as you mouth at his cock, slicking him up in thick drool from tip to base, icing him like a goddamn cake. “Baby, you know I didn’t mean it—Are you listening?” A whine slips from the base of your throat when he redirects your attention to his face.

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry, baby, you wanna play ball, don’t you?” That gets your tail wagging. “Yes you do, I know you do, c’mere—“ Now he’s doing the fucking baby voice as he deposits a ball at a time into your wet mouth, your teeth scraping the sensitive skin of his sac, tracing your tongue along the seam.

This is forgiveness he supposes - you choking on his balls like you’re trying to swallow them whole. Peace is restored wholly when he fucks you that night. “Daddy can do this now,” Leon tells you as he fills you with enough seed to stock up a sperm bank.

You don’t like Ada because Leon likes her, and you don’t like Ashley because she likes Leon. Girls bring out something feral within you, a strain of rabies that has been dormant in your system, waiting for anger to thaw your veins—You ruled out Claire, Rebecca and Jill as threats the moment you gave them a sniff.

Ada left his apartment with a ladder in her stockings and the indentations of puppy teeth in her ass cheek. She was on top - it was a no brainer to go right for her ass. Leon gets it, he wants to sink his teeth into her the same way. She squealed like he’s never heard before and he thought for a minute he fucked her real good. He didn’t even get to cum, she hopped off and made a beeline for the door and you scampered after her, one of her red heels chewed into a sopping leather mess in your mouth.

(Ada doesn’t like dogs, but she likes Leon.)

Ashley waltzes in. “I’m so good with dogs, Leon! I love them, I used to have this great big Labrador, he was so good, Leon! Like he even sat and rolled over when I asked him too—He reminds me of you, actually.” Then she bends over to pet you on the head, but the close proximity between her and him is not to your liking so you bite the hand that saved his life a couple times, a hand that is worth more than his D.C apartment - furniture included.

“Told you she’s tricky.” Leon lifts you up, tosses you over his shoulder so you’re no harm then he finds himself missing your sweet face so you’re swung back over to be cradled in his arms like the big baby you are.

“Ouch, Leon, she’s really mean.” Ashley soothes the pain by flapping her hand in the air, a fruitless endeavour, the cold air from a nearby open window causes it to sting.

“Nah, she don’t bite that hard, do you, baby?” He pushes a finger into your mouth and you nibble on it with a significantly decreased bite-force. “See? Just teething.”

There’s Sherry, you love Sherry more than she does Leon, you run around her in circles and situate yourself on her tiny lap and lick at every inch of her tiny face. You let Leon give you a good scrub before Sherry comes over, put on a fresh set of clothes that aren’t his old t-shirts with ragged collars from all the teething you do. Heck, he even manages to put you in some cute undies.

They come and go, but you stay. And each time a woman leaves his place, you sit your pussy on his face and scoot around— He asks you: “What the fuck you are doing, baby?” Muffled into the fat of your pussy of course, but you never respond. He brushes it off as you scenting him—Whatever pups do when they’re feeling territorial.

And who is he to complain? Your pussy makes him happy. Leon sucks your clit into his mouth, reaches around to pinch the base of your wagging tail between his index and forefinger, stroking up and down to have your thighs tightening around his head.

You circle your hips into him, drool pooling in your mouth and dribbling down your chin as you chew on your favourite stuffed toy, whimpering into the spit-soaked fabric while Leon works your drippy hole open with his tongue. The tip of his nose grinds into your swollen clit, and you only budge once you’ve waterboarded him with your squirt.

Then you very generously provide him with a clean-up service, lapping at the sticky wetness coating his cheeks and suckling on his nose. That always makes him laugh. More often than not it’s a gradual transition into a play fight, you nip at his fingers and your ears twitch, a playful smile brightening your face.

The two of you roll around and Leon, being the bully he is, pins you to the ground, holding your wriggling body down as he slides his sweats down and slots his cock right into your twitching pussy. He grabs your tail to pull you back on his dick, and you might be one stupid bitch, but you’re cock-smart—You know what he wants and push your ass back against his thighs, wet skin smacking as you pick up the pace, faltering only when Leon takes ahold of your ears and uses them as fucking handlebars.

He can’t help himself, they looked too cute, flopping about all over the place. Looked like fuckin’ Dumbo. It doesn’t hurt you—No, it’s the opposite, you cum so hard you pass out in a heap the minute he lets go.

“Thank you, baby.” Leon pats your head as you shove two pussy-wet fingers into his mouth. “That’s so sweet, baby, can daddy take a look at what you’re doing?”

You smile at him shyly, like you didn’t just force-feed him slick, he catches the shape of your tail wagging low between your thighs, then you roll over onto your belly—Leon gives the fold of your tummy a sweet kiss first, then you turn over, taking your hand out of your panties to let him take care of the rest.

The seat of your panties is basically pasted to your pussy, strings of slick breaking as Leon peels them off. “What’s got you worked up, baby?” He spreads your ass, dipping his nose into your tighter hole as his tongue runs along your slit.

Leon raises his head, he parts your fat lips with his fingers and your cunt clicks when he digs a finger into your tight hole, it pulses around him, begs for more, for something thicker. The hood of your clit is pulled back by his thumb and prodded with his tongue, and your labia is parted by his nose, dragging up and down your soaked pussy. When he’s done messing around, Leon lays his tongue flat on your pussy, licking fat stripes up and down the centre of your cunt, dusting kisses on your throbbing clit until you gush down your thighs.

Man, you don’t even need a heat to get you wet. See, it all worked out in the long run, he’s pretty sure you don’t even remember what went down merely a week earlier.

“Come sit on it, princess,” he hums when you lick into his mouth, sucking on his tongue sloppily, a steady stream of drool slicking up the bottom half of his face. You’ve got a lot of love to give and he’ll take it.

You’re well-trained when it comes to cock and not much else, easing down on Leon’s dick while you brace your hands on his shoulders, pussy tightening when he scratches behind your ears. He plants his feet on the ground, lifting off his heels to fuck up into your plush cunt, squelching every time he bottoms out, cute tits bouncing as you sit pretty on his cock like a pencil topper.

The absence of a knot is always a bother to you. When he cums, you wait expectantly for his cock to swell and stretch you out beautifully, tear your pussy in half—It never comes so you paw at his face to express your disappointment, like you’re telling him to do better.

Maybe there's surgery for it. There’s one for everything these days. From cropping to defanging - a manufactured knot shouldn’t be out of the question. He’d do it for you, he would, even if it was a dodgy procedure in the same alley as coat hanger abortions and junkie meet-ups.

Not really. Leon wouldn’t really. He quite likes his dick how it is, and once you get over the initial anticlimactic flop of his knotless cock, staring out the window like a disillusioned star - you’re back on it less than a minute later.

A lack of understanding for his refractory period causes Leon discomfort as you force yourself down on his soft dick, he sits through it to make up for all the places he falls short. You rut your hips into him, trembling with excitement as he hardens inside of you, cock shaping your insides into something pretty. Then you show him that you love him via a spit shower, which Leon is not too fond of, your pussy on a platter would be ideal, but he doesn’t stop you.

Sometimes you suck his cock till your tongue feels like sandpaper. Sometimes you sob so hard when he leaves for work you throw up and he spends half an hour scrubbing mushy kibble out of the carpet. Sometimes you eat things you aren’t supposed to, and sometimes you are one nasty piece of work, but Leon loves you anyway. ‘Cause you’re his piece of work.

[lyvhie]

a different kind of exercise | ljn

personal trainer!jeno × fem!reader (18+ mdni)

summary: he just wanted to give you a private lesson.

a/n: sorry, that didn't go well as i wanted, but i didn't have anything planned for his bday and this ended up coming out 😭 i didn't like that one, but happy bday to jeno!

cw: smut, pwp, unprotected sex, petnames (baby/pretty)

jeno was not planning on this. yet he was glad it happened.

when he accepted to be your personal trainer, he didn't think much about it. you seemed like a genuine newbie in the gym, seeking legitimate help. unlike other people, you hadn't chosen him just because of his good looks, he could see that you actually wanted to learn.

he wasn't expecting much to come from your time together aside from some casual conversation during workouts and the occasional advice about exercising, but he found himself growing more interested in you than his purpose of teaching.

he didn't know why exactly, but he felt an attraction to you that he couldn't explain. sometimes he would even find himself acting like a pervert. and he knew that was wrong, but it was all somehow your fault.

he would often blame you for wearing those tight leggings that gripped onto your body like a second skin. he knew it wasn't fair to blame you for their existence, but he also couldn't help but be distracted by their form-fittedness.

but he was glad you wore them. he loved it when you folded forward, giving him a great view of your ass. he would make up some excuse about you doing it wrong just to get closer and hold your waist. he would press you against him and lean over you, telling you "how it should be done," while enjoying the feel of your body pressed against his. he enjoyed taking his time to "help you do it right" so that he could spend more time up close with your ass rubbing against his cock.

or when he is "helping you out" by adjusting your position and form while doing an exercise. he knew that wasn't necessary, but he used the excuse of "straightening you up" to sneak his hands around you. he would grab a handful of your breasts, pretending to position you properly to do the exercise but actually taking the chance to feel you up.

jeno would often find excuses to get close to you, brushing up against you or putting his hands on your body more often than necessary, always trying to touch you in subtle ways that he hoped you wouldn't notice.

and that was the best—or worst—part of it all. you were completely clueless about his actions, genuinely thinking it was just his way of teaching. honestly, it wasn't bothering you at all. in fact, you even secretly enjoyed it when he was "just teaching you" and getting a bit too close for comfort by holding you up and touching your body.

but still, for jeno, this was pure agony too. all he craved was to fuck you senseless until you were practically limping, but he couldn't just spit it out. ever since your sessions began, he caught himself fucking his fist at night thinking about you, he'd daydream about pounding into you, making you yell his name 'til you were hoarse.

gosh, he needed you so bad.

and so he made it.

it was easier than he thought. all he had to do was come with an excuse to get you to his house. saying he needed to "go over some information" about your exercises and "get more in-depth" with your routine, he asked you to come over to his place to "work through the details" of your activities.

he can't really remember how things escalated from telling you to make yourself comfortable to him pressing you up against the bed mattress with your legs around his waist while you cry out his name because of how good it feels to have his cock stretching your tight pussy.

“you feel so—god, so f-fucking good,” jeno’s hands grip your hips tightly as he thrusts deeper into you, his movements becoming more urgent with each passing second. your hands were gripping the sheet so tightly that your knuckles were white, your eyes rolling to the back of your head.

“y-you're so tight, baby,” he looked down to see where your bodies connected, watching as his length disappeared into your welcoming pussy.

"fuck, y/n... you take me so well,” he breathes heavily, trying to maintain control as you clench around him. "i could stay here forever,” his cock slamming into you with such force that you could feel it in your bones.

the sensation of him filling you up completely is almost too much to bear, but you wouldn't trade it for anything else in the world right now.

jeno feels your body tensing up and your warm walls squeezing him again, making him groan. “are you close, pretty?” the only answer for his question were your loud moan and it was enough for him.

you gasp when he suddenly changes your position, pulling one of your legs over his shoulder and driving himself even deeper inside of you. the new angle hits all the right spots, and you feel yourself being stretched to the limit, even more sensitive as his hand slip down to rub your clit.

you starts to feel an orgasm building inside of you, which made you let a whine escape your lips. you didn't want this moment to end, but you know it's going to be explosive when it finally does. you focus on the sensation of him filling you up, on the sound of your bodies slapping together, and on the scent of sex in the air. it's a heady combination that sends you over the edge, you body shuddering and convulsing beneath his as you milk his cock.

jeno himself couldn’t hold back his own climax any longer, the way your face contorts in pure bliss as you come undone beneath him sends him over the edge. feeling his orgasm getting closer and closer, his thrusts became a little more messy, but still at the same pace. it felt so good he almost forgot to pull out, withdrawing just in time to cum on your thigh, his hot load sticking to your skin.

he falls onto the bed next to you, the only sound now is your heavy breathing as you both try to compose yourself. you continue to silently stare at the ceiling for a few more minutes before turning your head to look at him, just to find him already looking at you.

“so…” you begin. “same time next week?”

[say-al0e]

Casual

Rating: M | This is smut! No one under 18! Minors, DNI!

Summary: Steve Harrington has always been kind of an asshole and you've always been kind of in love with him. But a lifetime of friendship doesn't mean either of you are ready for something more than a casual fling because there's nothing scarier than vulnerability, even in Hawkins. [Set between seasons 2 and 3] Warnings: Car sex, requited unrequited love, unprotected PinV, mentions of cheating (parents, Carol; not Steve or Reader). Pairing: Steve Harrington x rich girl!Reader (briefly mentioned but important, off-screen Eddie Munson x rich girl!Reader) Word Count: 5.6k

Steve Harrington was kind of an asshole.

For as long as you’d known him, he’d been a bit of a dick. Luckily, or maybe unluckily, depending on who you asked, you’d known him your entire life. You grew up together, neighbors, with parents who, in their own way, were best friends - if either of your parents were capable of such a thing as friendship. And because of that, you saw a side of Steve that few others had ever witnessed.

There were moments where you saw the softness, the honeyed sweetness, that shimmered through the cracks in the facade he crafted for himself - beneath the hair and the smirk and the snarky quips. Moments where the real Steve, a tender-hearted, well-intentioned sweetheart who was always on the verge of getting it right but never quite managed to make it, lurked beneath the heavy crown he wore.

Just as there were moments when he saw beneath your own carefully crafted persona. He was the only only person who had ever seen the worry, the sadness, the deep-rooted yearning for something more that was buried beneath your walls of ice. He saw every impossibly strong, deeply felt emotion that lingered beneath your careful composure, your even stoicism. He saw the real you, not just the Ice Queen cloaked in department store dresses and expensive perfume.

Only, neither of you acknowledged those moments.

It was an unspoken pact, one you’ve honored since thirteen when you both realized that being popular meant more than being nice. You both pretended that you were still the same vapid rich kids you’d always been, unburdened by a world built to cater to you.

Even if that was no longer true. Even if it hadn’t been true in a very long time.

Either way, you didn’t mention his newfound soft spot for a strange, ragtag group of children and he didn’t mention the fact that he knew the hickey just beneath your jaw was from none other than Eddie ‘The Freak’ Munson.

Just as you had nearly every weekend for the past six months, the pair of you sat in the backseat of his BMW after yet another party that neither of you particularly wanted to attend. It had long ago gotten old, pretending to enjoy the self-involved prattling of your former classmates - their bragging about taking on the family business or which colleges they’d be attending in the fall, snide remarks about Steve’s lack of direction while conveniently ignoring the fact that you were the only one with an Ivy acceptance - and you couldn’t help yourself as you huffed.

“Tommy and Carol are the worst. I swear, if I have to hear her bitch about his inability to make her come or him make another stupid fucking dick joke, I’m gonna scream.”

For as long as you could remember, you’d wanted to tell them both to fuck off, to disappear back into whatever hole they’d managed to claw their way out of, but Steve reveled in their following, once upon a time, anyway. Now, he looked almost resigned to their existence in your lives as he frowned.

“She told you that?”

“Won’t stop telling me that,” you scoffed, rolling your eyes as his hand fell to your thigh, fingers idly tracing the bare skin just beneath the hem of your skirt. “I would tell her to break up with him but, honestly, they totally deserve each other. May they spend the rest of their lives making each other completely fucking miserable.”

It was only in these moments, hidden away in the thick of the trees near Lover’s Lake, that any glimpse of your real selves began to emerge. Your annoyed huffing, directed at the awful people you found yourself surrounded by, and Steve’s tender touch as he shifted closer and carefully brushed a lock of hair from your neck. Neither of you mentioned it, too lost in your own little world, but it never escaped either of your notice.

Still, Steve hummed dutifully. “Totally,” he agreed, “told him she cheated on him with Billy but he called me a liar.” He paused for a moment, shifted just a touch closer - his jean covered leg pressing into yours, body warm even in the cool air conditioning - before he changed the subject by asking, “New perfume?”

“Everyone knows about her and Billy. But, like, who hasn’t Billy fucked at this point.” Steve leaned in, nosed at the curve of your jaw, and you hummed. “Mom brought it back from that last conference they went to. Said I needed something more mature before I leave for school.” You left out the part of the conversation where she went on for nearly an hour about how much of a waste it was for you to even consider college in the first place when you were meant to marry someone of status - someone like Steve - and tilted your head to allow him more room.

“Smells good,” he complimented. “Like oranges or something.”

“Or something,” you mumbled agreeably, shifting against the seat to make yourself more comfortable as he began to press his mouth to the sensitive skin of your throat. “What’re you doin’, Stevie?”

“Giving you the attention you deserve,” he answered, never missing a beat and only pausing to nip at the pulse point. “Can’t have you unfucked in this skirt. That’d be criminal.”

As if he sought to make a point, Steve’s hand began to drift higher up your thigh, fingers traveling a well-worn path and ghosting over bruises left in his wake after last Saturday’s party at his own home. Again, he decidedly avoided the few extra spots that lined your thighs - the bite mark he would see when you parted your legs, in the shape of a certain metalhead’s teeth, and the hickey you’d been left with at the juncture of your thighs - as you laughed.

“Should call Hawkins’s finest,” you teased, grinning when Steve huffed a laugh.

“They’d send Callahan,” he mused as his fingers dug into the plush of your thigh and pulled you closer, encouraging you to climb onto his lap. “Would love to see him try to figure out what to do with you.”

“And you know what to do with me?”

Steve’s smirk was obvious, clear even as he nipped at your skin. “‘Course I do,” he assured you, settling back against the plush of the seat as you shifted in the small space and settled on his lap. “I know exactly what to do with you.”

“Prove it.”

The challenge hung in the air for a moment, thick even in the cool interior of his car, and gave you the briefest respite to study him. Soft brown eyes were blown black with lust, a darkness that you sometimes found yourself grateful for the chance to witness, and his hair had begun falling in his eyes. His cheeks were tinged pink and you knew that his lips would follow soon. 

Steve was beautiful, a work of art in the dim moonlight, and your heart beat just a touch too fast for something that was supposed to be casual as you waited for him to take the bait.

Before you could tease, attempt to bring some levity back into the moment that suddenly seemed too intense, Steve’s large hand found the back of your head. He pulled you in with a practiced ease, a touch that betrayed just how comfortable you were with one another, and pressed his mouth to yours.

Whereas Steve’s facade was all flash, easy confidence with nothing to prove, his kiss was almost desperate. There was the knowledge that he was good - he’d earned it, sought to learn exactly what you liked and adapted quickly - but beneath that, there was a desire to make the moment everything you could want. He kissed you with an urgency you could never quite understand, almost as if he wanted to savor the moment because he feared it may never happen again, but you knew that couldn’t be true.

As reticent as you both were to delve into your true selves - into your true feelings - you knew that this would happen time and again. It would happen until one of you inevitably broke the other’s heart, and maybe even after.

Still, Steve kissed your with more passion than you ever could’ve expected.

From your position on his lap, skirt bunched around your waist and hands falling into his hair, you could feel the growing bulge in his jeans. There was a slight rocking of his hips, something you might’ve dismissed as an attempt to get comfortable if you didn’t know him so well, and you still managed to find yourself surprised by just how much the little things turned him on.

“Girls like you,” he rasped, breaking the kiss before you could even think to, “just need to be fucked dumb. Be all pretty and cock drunk. Made into that pretty little trophy wife you swear you’d hate to be.”

The way he spoke was so casually condescending, a little mean in the way he’d discovered you liked, and you felt your cheeks heat as you squirmed on his lap. He knew - knew that your mother hated your ambition, swore you were purposely sabotaging her attempts to marry you off, including the few attempts she’d made with him - and smirked when you shot him a half-hearted glare.

“You can pout all you want, but that’s what you need, right?” His hands fell to your thighs, raking up the soft skin as your own tangled in his hair and tugged. “To be taken care of, to be fucked like you deserve.”

“Don’t think some hotshot husband would care enough to fuck me like that,” you countered, swallowing hard in an attempt to maintain your composure as his fingers trailed higher. “Would never come. He’d be too focused on fucking the secretary ‘cause she won’t be upset when he gets off and she doesn’t. But that’s why the trophy wives fuck the pool boys and tennis coaches, I guess.”

Steve hummed his understanding - had his own firsthand knowledge of both your father’s affairs, knew just what kind of men he was surrounded by now that he was old enough - before tipping his chin to glance up at you. “Guess you’ll have to look harder to find someone worth your time, then. ‘Cause this pussy’s too good to be wasted on some dickhead who won’t appreciate it.”

“Steve.” His name came out softer than you intended, a near breathless sort of whine that betrayed you - more than the growing patch of slick clearly visible against the light pink fabric of your panties - and he hummed.

“Don’t worry, babe. You know I’ll take care of you.” Though Steve could be an asshole when he wanted, he was nothing but a giver when he settled between your thighs. There were moments where you worried, secretly feared this might be the moment he decided to be selfish and leave you hanging, but more often than not, you were the one to tap out first. And any argument you could’ve formed died on your lips as he ordered, “Just shut up and sit pretty for me, yeah?”

Despite yourself - despite the part of your brain that wanted you to argue, to fight back and tell him to go fuck himself - you melted into his touch as his fingers ghosted over the fabric between your thighs. You heard him sigh, felt the warmth of his breath fanning over your mouth as he refused to put more space than necessary between you, as his gaze met yours.

“Next time, I’m fucking you in my bed,” he decided, gaze flicking back to where his fingers hooked into the soft material and dragged it to the side. “Can’t taste you the way I want in here.”

“Can’t keep saying shit like that,” you mumbled, nails biting into his skin as you gripped his shoulder to keep yourself upright. “Gonna make me think you actually like eating pussy.”

“I do,” he admitted, grinning when you rolled your eyes. “Like eating yours the best, though.”

With that, Steve’s fingers swiped through the slick gathered between your thighs. His thumb caught on the sensitive bundle of nerves and his mouth returned to yours, eagerly swallowing the soft noise of surprised pleasure you released.

Each swipe of his fingers was easy, almost lazy. There was a practiced ease there, a lover’s knowledge of your body - absent any of the almost nervous exploration of the first time - and you forced yourself not to think too hard about that fact as his tongue swiped at the seam of your lips.

The small space was cramped, not the easiest to maneuver, but it was familiar.

Though sometimes familiarity equated to boredom, routine, Steve’s touch was anything but. Every swipe of his fingers through your folds, every brush of his thumb over the aching bundle of nerves, was electrifying. He had you teetering on the verge of begging, eager for him in a way you’d never been for anyone else - almost anyone else - and you knew he could tell as he finally gave you something more.

Two thick fingers, skilled and steady, pressed into you. They stretched you - never quite enough to fully prepare you for the impressive length hidden beneath the denim you knew you were soaking through - in a way that had your breath catching in your throat and your heart hammering in your chest. Steve knew exactly where to press, fingers finding that one spot that made you see stars, and you could feel the twitch of his mouth as he refused to allow you to pull away from the kiss entirely.

“That’s it,” he encouraged, tone so smug it made you realize why so many were eager to brand him an asshole. “C’mon, babe, the sooner you let go, the sooner I’ll give you exactly what you want.”

Despite your conflicting emotions - the desire to hit him, to call him an asshole and tell him to just get on with it; the desire to kiss him, to tell him that you only wanted this, him for the rest of your life - you settled for the middle ground and allowed yourself to sink into his touch.

Those murmurs of encouragement, almost reverent in a way that you hoped no one else had ever heard, had your mind blanking and your chest heaving as you focused solely on the press of his fingers. His pace was perfect, steady and even and never too much - always too much, always enough to make you wonder how you ever thought you could be fine with losing this someday - and you would’ve told him as much if you were capable of speaking without admitting that you were afraid you could love him for the rest of your life.

Instead, you settled for sinking your nails into his shoulder, for tugging at the soft strands of his hair, as he nipped at your skin. He sucked a mark just beneath the one you knew he’d seen, despite your attempt at concealing it, and that was enough to throw you over the edge.

Steve once admitted to loving the noises you made, promised they turned him on rather than weirded him out - something you only admitted when he asked why you were so quiet, refused to let you come until you explained yourself - and you knew you wouldn’t have been able to quiet yourself even if you’d tried as his fingers worked you through the first orgasm of the night.

Knowing him, Steve wouldn’t stop until he had you desperate - he liked to see your tears, watery eyes and mascara running as you finally let down the walls he’d only glimpsed behind - and that seemed to be the case as he resumed his pace the moment your breathing began to even.

“Steve,” you huffed, your best attempt at something resembling normal, though you could hear the whining edge to your tone. “Fuck me,” you demanded, or at least attempted to. “Fill me up. So big, always feel so full when you’re inside.”

It was a low blow, an attempt to appeal to his ego - exaggerated, though it was true; he was the biggest you’d ever had - and he rolled his eyes as he nipped at your bottom lip.

“So fucking impatient,” he huffed, though he gave in, just as he always did. “Such a spoiled brat.”

With a tap to your thigh, you shifted. You held yourself upright, knees digging into the soft cushions of the seat, long enough for him to unbutton his jeans and shift his hips. As you had every time you found yourself in this situation, which was more often than not lately, you watched with wide eyes and bated breath as he freed himself from the confines of too-tight denim.

For years, you wondered why so many girls flocked to Steve when they knew how things would end. You wondered why anyone gave him a chance, why anyone came back when he forgot to call or blew them off for someone else, but you understood now. The look of him, the weight and feel of his cock in your hand as you reached out and swiped at the pearl of precum beading at the tip, was almost answer enough. The effort he put in to make you feel as if you were the only person that mattered, as if your pleasure were more important than his, quelled the rest of your doubt.

When you lifted your hand to your mouth, lapped the bead from your thumb and hummed, Steve groaned.

“Fucking tease.” There was no bite, no venom, to the words, but you still bit back your grin as he reached for your hip with one hand and held the base of his cock with the other. He dragged you closer, settled you firmly on his lap and swiped the tip of his cock through your folds, as he tipped his chin in a silent request for you to return your mouth to his.

As you pressed your lips to his, he used the grip on your hip to drag your hips down. It was swift, faster than he’d ever gone and almost desperate in the way he pulled you in, but you reveled in the slight pinch as he stretched you open.

There was something so overwhelming about feeling Steve so close, about having him in the way you dreamt of when you first realized how you felt about him, but you did your best to swallow the sudden lump in your throat as your eyes fell shut and your lips parted.

The pace always varied with Steve. Some nights were hard and fast, usually when you were both wound up after a particularly rough night; others were soft and slow, when the emotion began to overwhelm you, when the desperate need to be close outweighed the potential damage a confession might bring. And others still were somewhere in between, teasing and playful; an alternation between soft and hard, slow and quick - a way for him to make you beg, to bring you out of your head and into the moment.

Tonight was no different.

Though you sat atop him, Steve did all the work. His hips snapped, cock pressing into you with every movement, as his hands dragged you down. He controlled the pace, controlled the moment, and you allowed yourself to be fully present.

There was no facade in these moments, no pretending to be anything other than you were, and you imagined that was why you both returned time and again. This was Steve - giving, eager, desperate to be good enough. And you were just as present, just as honest; soft, pliant, warm and overjoyed that he still wanted you despite the surface ice that froze most others out. 

Neither of you could pretend here, with nothing between you but a few pesky articles of clothing. Neither of you wanted to.

And you knew, as your mouth returned to his, that despite the rough snap of his hips and the bruising grip he held on your hip, that your kiss betrayed you. Each swipe of your tongue, each breathless gasp you allowed him to swallow, told him exactly what he needed to know.

When his hand fell between your thighs, thumb pressing to the aching bundle of nerves, your mind went blank and your thoughts revolved solely around the beautiful brunette beneath you.

The curve of his jaw, the warmth of his eyes, the slope of his nose, the plush of his lips; Steve, Steve, Steve, was all that existed in your mind. The drag of his cock, filling you so perfectly that it almost seemed as if he were a missing piece, designed especially for you, was all that existed. And just as he wanted, it left you pliant in his hands.

“There we go,” he groaned, voice softer than you imagined he intended, as a hand lifted to your cheek. “Look at that, givin’ you what you need, hm?” When you moaned your agreement, lips pursing in a silent request for him to kiss you, Steve smiled. “Look pretty like this. Soft and fucked out for me. I’m the only one that can make you feel like this, yeah?”

It was the first confirmation that he knew, that he cared more than you thought he might, about the other man in your life. And though you wanted to tease him, to poke and prod and be a bit of a bitch about it, you could only moan your agreement.

Eddie was good, was more than enough, but there was something about Steve.

“Prove it,” he demanded, voice only just beginning to show his exertion as his hips snapped a little harder. “Come for me, babe. Show me how good I make you feel.”

As was beginning to become a habit, you gave in to him without so much as an attempt otherwise. The press of his fingers to your aching clit, the rough snap of his hips, the warmth of his breath fanning over your sweat slick skin; all of it was too much, just enough, to send you barreling over the edge for a second time.

With a cry of his name, keening and louder than you intended, you came and Steve followed shortly after. You could feel the warmth of his spend, the twitch of his cock, as you settled for a long moment, and felt the tears stinging at the backs of your eyes.

Without so much as a second though, Steve lifted a hand to brush at your cheeks, careful not to press too hard, and swiped away the few that had fallen before he pressed a kiss to your cheek and shot you a teasing wink.

“Love it when you cry for me, babe,” he teased, though you wondered if he’d have the same reaction if he knew the tears were, at least in part, caused by the overwhelming flurry of emotion that had you questioning everything you knew. “Seeing the Ice Queen melt never gets old.”

“You’re such a dick, Stevie.” The huff was as playful as you could manage with your breath still coming in short pants and your stomach churning with emotion but he grinned just the same as he helped you off his lap.

“Think you mean, ‘you have such a great dick, Stevie’.” When you rolled your eyes, straightening out your clothes and attempting to smooth your hair, he laughed. “Oh, c’mon, not gonna say thank you for the incredible orgasms? Your parents raised you better than that, babe.”

“They raised me better than to fuck some rich asshole in the backseat of his car, but, here we are.” Steve followed your lead and began to straighten himself out, zipped his jeans and at least pretended not to stare as you settled your panties back into place, the fabric immediately darkening with his spend. “Speaking of, you should probably get me home, Romeo. It’s past curfew.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke. Steve simply tugged you back into his side, hand cradling your jaw as you both attempted to catch your breath.

The lie was obvious - your parents didn’t care very much how late you stayed out, even less when you were with Steve - and you knew that he knew who would be waiting for you to return home. However, you didn’t expect him to ask.

Steve’s touch was soft, though you could see the distaste in the set of his mouth as his fingers brushed the two marks beneath your jaw - one fresh and one fading. “What’re you doin’ with the freak, anyway?” He’d never asked, neither of you made it a habit to pry into the other’s personal life, but he seemed unable to help himself as he continued. “You know you could just buy weed, right? You don’t have to fuck him for it.”

“I don’t smoke,” you reminded him, rolling your eyes even as you leaned into his touch. “Dunno,” you shrugged, avoiding his gaze as your hands worried with the hem of your skirt. “He’s exciting. Well, not really,” you amended because he wasn’t, “but he’s different. He’s just… Eddie. Doesn’t try to be something he’s not.” The slight was unintentional but you caught Steve’s slight wince, even as you barreled on. “And, I mean, it totally pisses off my dad every time he sees Eddie sneaking out because the guy’s a total fucking klutz and can’t leave without waking up half the neighborhood.” Steve scoffed, though you weren’t sure you were meant to hear it as he quickly covered the sound with a clearing of his throat before you added, as an afterthought, “And he listens to me. Not, like, pretends to.”

“I listen to you.”

While it wasn’t a lie - Steve listened, retained whatever you told him - neither of you were ever particularly honest with one another. Your conversations were never as serious as the ones you shared with Eddie, never as deep. For someone you considered your best friend, Steve barely knew anything about the real you. Though, that was as much your fault as it was his.

There was always a fear, deep and unfounded, that he might not like the real you. That if you were honest, that if you allowed him to see you for who you really were, that he might hate you. That he might leave. With Eddie, that didn’t matter very much. He was fun, a distraction, a taste of something forbidden and a glimpse into another life, but he was temporary. He could leave at any time, decide he didn’t like the real you and it might hurt for a moment but you would get over it quick. 

With Steve, it was your biggest fear.

Thinking that he might not like the real you, that he might suddenly change his mind and decide the real you wasn’t worth his time, was a fear that felt almost paralyzing. Steve’s opinion mattered, more than anyone else’s, so you held tight to the person you’d always been - the one he’d always at least tolerated - and never breathed so much as a word to the contrary.

Regardless, you humored him. “You do,” you agreed, lifting a hand to brush a strand of hair from his eyes. “But you kinda have to. And you also moaned Nancy’s name the first time we fucked so, like, that sorta cancels out some of the good stuff.” Steve flustered, cheeks flashing neon pink as he recalled the moment - a drunken hookup soon after his breakup, the first of what would become a regular occurrence - but before he could defend himself, you asked, “How’s that going, by the way? You figure out how to get her back from the creep?”

Steve shook his head, then, and sighed as he admitted, “Don’t think I even want to, anymore. Think I was just… She was right, maybe. We were kind of bullshit.”

The resigned misery in his voice was obvious, still upset by the hurtful declaration of a girl you knew he’d loved - in his own way, anyway - and you sighed as you rested your head against the seat cushion. “All of this is bullshit,” you shrugged. “High school, Hawkins, Indiana; none of it means anything.”

“We don’t mean anything?” Despite his best attempt at nonchalance, Steve sounded almost heartbroken - devastated to hear yet another person who meant something to him declare that he meant nothing - and you sighed as you grabbed the hand that rested on your thigh.

“You know I hate sentimentality,” you mumbled, unable to look him in the eye, “but you’re the only thing worth anything in my whole life. You could never be bullshit. Annoying, totally, but not bullshit. Never bullshit.”

There was a brief pause, a moment in which you both felt the weight of you admission pressing on your chests - stealing what little air seemed to remain in the car, windows still fogged and radio still playing too softly to really hear - before Steve swallowed. “You know I…” He cut himself off, paused and seemed to think better of voicing the thought aloud, before he asked, “You know, right?”

‘I love you,’ went unspoken, as it always had. It lingered, just beneath the surface, waiting for one of you to crack the ice and set it free. You knew, just as Steve did, that you were in something like love. Maybe not a love that would last forever, maybe not even a love that was ever meant to be, but it was there.

Warm, shiny and bright, and just waiting for you to stop pretending that things between you had ever been casual.

So, you nodded.

“Yeah,” you assured him, reaching for his hand to squeeze it gently. “I know. Me, too.”

Silence fell, then, thick and suffocating. It filled the interior of his car with a bitter chill and it struck you just how new that feeling was. It made you wonder what a future might be like, if you had one at all, and you found yourself mildly horrified at the idea that you could end up as either set of your parents. There was no world in which you could see a future without Steve at least somewhere in your life but there was no happiness in a world in which you both continued to pretend.

Either way, you were both stuck - caught up in a never-ending performance, an act for an audience that only existed in your minds.

What began as something effortless, something casual, had become so complicated that you no longer felt certain of much beyond the understanding that you loved Steve. How -  if you could love the real him, if you only loved the idea of him, if you loved the safety of him - was a question you had no answer to but before you could begin to even fathom it, the moment ended.

Steve pressed a final kiss to your mouth, bruising in a way that made your chest ache and your eyes sting with unshod tears, before he made his way to the driver’s seat.

And then, just as he had every night since he got his license, Steve drove you home. He pulled up to the door to let you out and didn’t mention the van he saw parked down the street. He squeezed your hand before you could step out into the night, three times in rapid succession, and lit a cigarette the moment you stepped out of the car. 

King Steve wasn’t one to fall in love easily, neither was the Ice Queen. But Steve Harrington wore his heart on his sleeve and that heart beat for you. Despite the distractions, the desperate attempts at finding something so disconnected from the cushioned prison of his gilded cage, he knew that it had been you all along. And just as neither of you mentioned the real people beneath the personas, neither of you mentioned just how real the love you shared had grown.

Loving one another, allowing yourselves to be vulnerable - to reveal the deepest, darkest secrets - was terrifying. Both of you feared what the other might think of the truth that lay beneath the crown so you agreed, silently, that to pretend was better than to face rejection.

So, Steve drove the few streets that separated your neighborhood from his and let himself into the empty house that meant nothing when his true home was likely sliding open a window to allow the only person he’d ever seen as true competition inside. And he wondered when the love of his life became a casual fling, when you both resigned yourselves to pretending that neither of you deserved something real - something true, something happy. He wondered why he carried on with it, knowing that in a few short weeks you would be in Boston, knee-deep in a life you hated, while he was stuck in Hawkins, wishing he’d had the courage to be himself and that he’d asked for something more than casual.

There was no satisfactory answer, not if he really thought about it, so he decided not to. 

The rest of the summer would be spent in the same way the last six months had. Steve would pretend to enjoy the parties and the attention of girls who only wanted him for his reputation. You would continue pretending that nothing fazed you, not even him. And things between you would remain casual. 

And he supposed that was just the way it was meant to be.

_________________________________________________

Author's Note: Did you know there's a chance black beans will catch on fire in the microwave? 'Cause I didn't. Anyway. This was my first time writing 'King Steve' and I had so much fun. This was loosely inspired by Chappell Roan's Casual. And my love of both Steve and Eddie. :)

Taglist: @x-avantgarde-x, @thisisparadisemylove, @eddiesprincess, @slvdsjjk, @munsonlover, @tasmbestspdrman, @urofficial-cyberslut, @jxngwhore, @hopelesslylosttheway, @meaganjm, @lazuli-leenabride, @deiondraaa, @piscesmesss, @glowyskiess, @kiszkathecook, @missryerye, @solarrexplosion, @ofherscarlettwitchways, @lovedandleft-haunted, @trappedinlimbo15, @sweetiekitten, @bookfrog242, @gwendolynmary, @sage-bun, @zealouslibrariesparadiselight, @castiels-lilass, @tojis-little-brat, @emmah787, @theworldsendxx, @asuperconfusedgirl, @flores-and-sunshine, @passi0np1t, @laurathefahrradsattel, @hellf1reclub, @slut4yourmom, @niko-04, @hannirose-loves-you, @mrs-eddie-munson, @screambabe, @vllowe, @ryswritingrecord, @cheriebondy, @ryswritingrecord, @thewitchofthewilds140, @bootlegmothman420, @maruushkka, @honeymoonpython, @keenesbeans, @jess-bonn, @sammysinger04, @khaoticken21, @denkis-slut, @spiderman-berries, @lotus-es, @amortiff, @stardust-galaxies, @ure-a-sunflower, @1-800-ch3rry, @ladybeewritethings, @ynbutbetter, @hunnybunimdun, @breathinfive, @s-u-t, @s4ntacarlal0stk1d, @rae-iin, @pennamesgame, @stefans-wife, @voldieshorts, @frankie-mercury, @bbymochi1, @serendiipty, @saturnsworld01, @eddiemunson1sstuff​, @valthevalkyrie-main​, @crying-caro​, @inglourious-imagines​

[velvetures]

Omg I love your stories so much especially the cod ones 😍😍😍 could you please write a ghost x reader oneshot where the reader maybe gets shot taking a bullet meant for him and maybe they are in an established relationship please with a happy ending

Ignoring Orders & Accepting Lead

A/N: I loved this req. and I hope you're okay with the direction I took this in. I'm trying to get the other asks I've been sent finished in a somewhat timely manner... haha! Honestly, I never thought anyone would enjoy my writing as much as all of you have. <3 Summary: Established relationships mean occasional arguments... You and Ghost have one before a mission. And the make-up conversation is a little less than standard for most couples. T/W: Canonical Violence, guns, knives, Blood, Death (non-major characters), severe injuries, tension, hurt/comfort, HAPPY ENDING, Ghost being a bit overprotective, Reader being a smartass, not proofread.

Arguments with Ghost happened a lot more frequently than anyone would ever suspect. While he liked to stay quiet when the opportunity arose, it was also know that if you could avoid a conflict, you would just to make sure the temperature of the situation didn’t rise too high. As a pair, it made you great operators, just for the skill-set you each had as well as the predisposition to get things done quickly, and quietly. As for being in a relationship, your character’s held zero influence on the way that you cared about each other of how that would display itself during moments of tension or disagreement. Especially in moments during missions where things weren’t going to plan, and your ideas severely countered Ghost’s.

One of those fights had occurred right before you’d been dropped into a very small town outside of Culiacán, Sinaloa. At HQ, Price was splitting everyone up for their distinct purposes, and you’d been immediately assigned with Ghost for an infil job. One requiring both of you to get in and get out of the well-known cartel stronghold without getting caught or being killed. Naturally you accepted the task without so much as flinching, whereas Ghost didn’t have such an easygoing attitude about it.

He was fucking furious.

First he tried threatening Price, demanding that you not be listed for that and go with Soap for the much less risky job of tracking down a small-time dealer who’d been listed as having information valuable to the task force. Price wasn’t stupid enough to not recognize where Ghost’s rage was coming from, and just simply said that if you wanted the job, there was nothing he could do about it since you’d already read the briefing and knew the entire plan just as well as anyone else. It wasn’t what he wanted to hear from the Captain, and that made things all the worse for you when you said you weren’t going to let him go in alone.

One of the worst fights you’d ever had with Ghost since your partnership became a fully-fledged romance happened right off the helipad being fueled-up for your departure. God it was miserable, and it hurt every ounce of you to have to defend yourself over the one thing that you were certain you could do. Your job. Understanding Ghost’s protective instinct was one thing, but there had to be a line drawn where him throwing his weight and rank around to limit your exposure to risk couldn’t be done anymore.

He’d been totally insensitive to your side of the story, and was obstinate that if you got on the helo, he’d not do a damn thing to keep you safe once you got to Culiacán. Merely to prove the bullshit point that you couldn’t to the job without him. That statement alone had you strapping into your flight harness quicker than Ghost could utter ‘jesus christ’ under his breath. Totally stonewalling you for the entire flight and practically acting like you didn’t even exist. Hell, he wouldn’t even go over the mission plan as was typical, leaving you fully to fend for yourself and follow his lead without even a hand signal to lead you through it.

Everything on entry went smoothly.

No guards were stationed in the underground sewer tunneling, leaving you very dry and unhindered on the half-mile walk from your drop-point to the access ladder leading up into the basement of a massive chapel-turned-base of operations. Whether or not you’d been keeping up or not didn’t appear to phase Ghost in the slightest, and he continued on and up into the basements without so much as glancing your way. You were quickly losing your patience, and getting than much more hurt with hoe easily he could turn off the affection and care that he always had for you. Sure, he wasn’t the coddling type, but you’d never wanted that from him; but this was a whole different level of coldness.

Inside the basement there were stockpiles of cocaine, pre-packed on shipping crates with a printed docket of everything contained on each. Just seeing that much shit all in one room made your head spin. It was one thing knowing it existed, and understanding that tons of it were being shipped all over the world, but actually being in a room surrounded by it from almost floor-to-ceiling was quite overwhelming. And Ghost’s own utterance of the sheer volume confirmed that it wasn’t just your own imagination leading you to think this was way too fucking much to handle. Bad part was, you couldn’t touch any of the shit or destroy it, and were solely on the objective of cloning their hard drives and bringing them back for examination.

Clearing stairwell after stairwell, and only needing to dispose of two guards -quick work with a sharp knife- you’d been able to access their massive data stores collected in what appeared to be nothing more than a personal server farm. Kept extremely cold for the benefit of the rows of towers, you’d been given the small cloning chip needed to transmit data back to HQ. But you needed a window of up to fifteen minutes to ensure everything was fully copied. You -and Ghost- both knew that fifteen minutes was far too long to just stand around with your thumbs up your asses and just hope that no one wondered why the two guards you’d shanked hadn’t checked in, or come to make a round inside the server room.

Ghost very instinctively covered the access door to the room, not even bothering to demand you give him the chip or take care of the data itself. A small reminder that he wasn’t totally untrusting of your skills, but still not large enough of a show that made you feel any less miserable about how your relationship was quite strained at the moment, all of something as small as a fifteen minute window of gathering information. By some miracle, you watched the progress on a small tablet linked to the chip and HQ’s data stores, watching it hit one-hundred percent in just under eight minutes. Perfect. It couldn’t go much smoother than that.

You were tapping Ghost on the shoulder, and giving a small thumbs-up just as the sounds of footsteps running up the stairwell outside began echoing. More than just one or two. It was actually a lot more than you even had the ammunition to handle, considering the job was deemed covert. Neither you or Ghost went without some protection… but you’d been packed out a lot lighter than normal. Right away he was stepping back from the door and checking his watch with a stern look in his eyes. One you recognized as realization that you’d have to fight your way out of this. Ugly, bloody, and violent.

Exactly what he didn’t want in the fuckin’ first place.

Ghost was inside of his own mind, trying to balance out the fear of you being in the middle of a cartel fire-fight and the rage he still felt when you just wouldn’t fucking listen to him right from the beginning. He knew what cartels did to women, and a pretty one like you wouldn’t have the mercy of just being killed. No. They’d fucking torture and toy with you until there wasn’t anything human left inside of you. That’s why he’d been so goddamn adamant that you stay behind for this one.

The data you’d copied over was bullshit compared to you living and breathing for another day. And Ghost couldn’t stand to think he’d walked you right into this place without at least trying to show you that he cared enough to see you live. Dying wasn’t a fear of his, but there was nothing he dreaded more than the mental image of you bleeding out in his arms all because of his own fucking mistakes.

Yet, here he stood. Having to make the decision on what to do or how to get you both out of here alive if he could even manage that in the first place. Part of him was already preparing to let them take him and give you enough time to slip away. You were fast enough. Small, so they’d have a far harder time picking you out in a crowd. But if he’s assumptions were correct, the tunnels would still be clear.

He gave you one last look, and grabbed hold of your vest to pull you behind him; Hearing the footsteps of more than six men filling into the large room outside of the server farm. Some barking orders to check down the hall, while others were meant to stay posted at the stairs to block off anyone flushed out. Ghost felt his own body starting to get cold. So desensitized to the violence he was already prepping himself to commit that if it wasn’t for you being there, he’d had already burst through the door and met them head on.

“Fuckin’. Listen,” He snapped as quietly as possible. Your ears perked up, happy to have just heard him speak, even if he sounded downright vicious. Your little hand tapping at his ribs as confirmation you were paying attention sent a shiver up his back.

“Don’t engage unless they’re right in your way. Take the tunnels out, I’ll be right behind you.” He barked out the orders under his breath.

Ghost couldn’t help but feel your hand fist into the material of his shirt. You didn’t like that one bit, and he didn’t need to see your face to know better. Because for whatever reason, you had it in your thick little head that he needed protecting as much as you did. Like it was your job to make sure he didn’t get hurt. Cute and a little bit amusing, Ghost hadn’t the slightest clue where you got the idea from or why it was such a massive trigger for him to challenge it. But right now, there was no fighting about it. He’d not take no for an answer, and when you didn’t give a confirmation right away, he growled in impatience.

Reluctantly, you gave it with a small tap rubbing your thumb over his hip bone.

One minute, Ghost was pushing open the door and spotting only three men within direct threat distance and seeing only one man standing at the top of the stairs. A split second of decision had him throwing two knives, and charging at the third to ensure that you’d only have to take care of the one remaining. He sunk a third knife in, feeling the man sink to his knees and drop to the floor, retrieving two of his blades before turning around right as the sound of a pistol registered. Ghost realized his fatal error in the squeeze of a trigger too late.

Only you saw what was coming, and Ghost watched you crumple to the floor between the shooter and himself; Stopping the man from shooting him in the back, but catching you somewhere of your front that residual splatter from the rained over his mask and tac vest. Everything around Ghost slowed, nearing an entire halt to the earth as you fell limply to the ground. Not even moving to try and cover your wound or catch yourself from the fall to the marble floor. Nightmares couldn’t compare to the sight of you crumpled in a heap of gear and bulky material after watching you purposefully allow your life to be traded for his.

The shooter wasn’t lucky enough to squeeze the trigger again for the knife that embedded itself in his forehead. Retribution. Quick but not as instantaneous as it would’ve been with a gun of his own. He was forced to see his own death approach with the snapped rotation of a throwing knife Ghost had sharpened days ago. He wanted to it last longer… make the bastard pay for it. Torture him for as long as his body could take, then give him just enough time to recover and start all over again.

But you needed him… Fuck. He needed you.

On the ground, you knew you’d taken a shot. But the adrenaline and immediate blow of it had you frozen on the floor. You couldn’t really tell where you’d been shot, or how bad the damage was. Truthfully you’d never experience it, and while many of the stories you heard over the years of your service, nothing they ever did to explain it was touching the utter fire radiating through your body. What you did know was that you were bleeding, and the shot had missed your tac vest; A small stream of blood was rolling through the grout lines in the floor, staining the white marble a sickening color.

Seeing Ghost on a knee in front of you, eyes wide and searching over your face was the next hazy image you recognized. His mask was shifting with the motion of him talking, but your ears were ringing. A pitchy and high whine blocked any other sound, even Ghost’s voice which you’d always been so very keen on paying close attention to. You felt awful. Putting him through this after you’d literally just had the fight about you getting hurt. Guilt flooded your limited emotional capacity, and as Ghost readjusted to pick you up, you felt tears rolling down your face.

You’d not had a single second to react to the fourth man in the room, him having the jump on visualizing Ghost facing the other three. It made him a vulnerable target. And in the split second you had to do something, you’d jumped in the way. Laying out totally flat to use your entire body to shield his. Hoping to god luck was on your side. At this point, hanging over Ghost’s shoulder limply as he rushed down the stairs on his way towards the basement, you weren’t sure if luck was on your side or not.

Thankfully, your hearing was slowly coming back in certain frequencies.

Sounds of gunfire and sirens blaring from the street level let you know that everyone within a few miles of the cathedral would be on the lookout for intruders. With all of the people who’d seen you, killed, no descriptions could be sent out or blared to citizens under control of the cartel. It didn’t help that Ghost was the largest man in the city who just happened to have on a skull mask and carrying a woman leaving behind noticeable drips of blood as a gruesome kind of trail to follow.

“C’mon baby, answer me!” Ghost panting yell finally registered, and you were able to manage a weak pat on his lower back. You felt his hand squeeze the back of your thigh for a moment before his pace slowed from a quick run to almost a crawl.

“We got company…”

There hadn’t been any men in the tunnel. But now that Ghost was less than fifty yards from their extraction point with a “medical” heli waiting for their return; three men were posted at the gated slope leading up to the hillside entry. The Lieutenant could feel your blood soaking into his shirt, wetting his shoulder. A bad reminder that you needed to get the fuck out of here right now. But he couldn’t get rid of those fuckers unless he put you down.

He squeezed at your thigh again to get your attention.

“I need - need to -fuck- set you down…” Saying those words utterly destroyed Ghost. You were the only thing he cared about right now, but the longer he put this off, the risk of you dying loomed closer.

“Need ya t’stay right here… okay? Don’t come out…”

Carefully you felt him settle you behind a large sewage drain pipe connecting from the street into the small walkway. Easing your back against the curved brick wall and once again taking a very hard look at you. This time, he could see where the bullet had just missed the edge of your tac vest, entering through the ripped hole in your shirt just below your collarbone. Every hopeful fiber in Ghost wanted to believe it wouldn’t be non-lethal. But if it shattered your collarbone, the bullet fractured and clipped a vein or small artery, there was plenty to be concerned about.

He would’ve packed the would just to stave off the blood flow. But he didn’t have the luxury of time. And whether or not Ghost would ever admit it to himself, repeatedly shoving his finger into your wound would render him down to a shell of a man. He couldn’t hurt you. Fuck, he couldn’t hurt you.

“Stay here… I’ll be right back.” He whispered against your forehead, pressing his masked mouth to your forehead.

You leaned into him, hearing his words and consciously noticing just how difficult it was to understand the words after hearing them. Almost like you couldn’t natively speak english and the meanings just weren’t instinctual anymore. God it took everything to comprehend that he was planning to clear the rest of the way, leaving you here. Eyes trailing after him sluggishly, you fought with your own arms to try and scoot back just a little further to peek between the large pipe you were leaning against to see if you could spot Ghost or the targets.

Being told to stay was always a difficult order for you. Even if you weren’t shot and struggling to manage simple bodily functions. Surprisingly, you were able to see the shadowed figured standing guard right at the gates you’d come through, holding rifles and totally unaware of Ghost lurking within such easy range. You wondered why he didn’t just shoot them, and get this over with.

Why he needed stealth when the entire city was looking for you didn’t make a lot of sense in your mind. Until you saw five more men walk down to join the others. With one cut of your eyes to look at Ghost, you realized he had anticipated more and planned of making quick work. It’d been a long time since you watched him work alone. Nearly two years. Attempting to shift your shoulder it rocked your entire system. Biting your jaw to keep from making noise, you tried focusing through the tears in your eyes as the only man who held the key to not only your life, but your heart in his fist.

Ghost kept reevaluating his odds with each step closer. Feeling distracted in the worst way with the guilt of leaving you unprotected, and in no position to defend yourself in the case that he wasn’t able to take all of these men alone. Those odds -either realistic or narcissistic confidence- didn’t phase the Lieutenant in the slightest. He was fueled with rage. And while these bastards hadn’t done anything, just being in his path was a death sentence.

The fight started smoothy and efficiently, taking out the largest of the men and using his half-dead form as enough of a shield to eliminate the threat of three 12.7x99mm wielders, too surprised to shoot off five rounds. Another three surrounded him with nothing more than machetes swiping through the air with near misses. One smooth draw of his own pistol dropped two men, and when Ghost turned around to face the third the butt of a shotgun smacked across his vision, dropping him to his knees and hearing his pistol slide across the floor out of reach.

He hauled himself to a knee, watching the man throw the empty shotgun away and approach with a knife, glinting in the sunlight just on the outside of the tunnel. Ghost could actually hear the rotor blades of the helicopter cranking up, set into motion by the small tracker in his belt giving the pilot a comm-less tip off. He’d have to fight this hand-to-hand, and while he didn’t feel the least bit tired, Ghost knew a long fight only risked you further. And fuck if making you wait didn’t make his hair stand up on edge. Even in your state, he knew better than to think you wouldn’t start getting worried in the next couple of minutes.

His opponent took the first blow and used the hilt of his large blade to connect fully with Ghost’s jaw. A heavy crack sounded, but the Lieutenant merely flinched; Throwing his own weight on the weight-matched man, and there ensued a grappling match that risked deadly knife wounds being grazed against straining forearms and a battle of wills that totally opposed one another on every basis… Save for being the last man standing. For the second time in a single mission, Ghost found himself at the razor’s edge of a knife pressing against his throat and no really foolproof tactic of getting out of it.

“Seré el que te mate, fantasma..” The man breathed hotly against Ghost’s ear, jerking the knife closer and fighting the sheer strength in the Lieutenant’s arm. “Colgaré tu cabeza en mi pared, bastardo.”

Ghost fumbled with his other hand under the pressure on his throat began taking away the normal dexterity he functioned with; Trying to find a knife on his belt, or any kind of weapon at this point. Only all of them had been embedded in the dead bodies scattered around them. It had been a bad decision to listen to Price when he said to pack lightly. It would be the end of him.

Simon Riley didn’t show himself often during missions. Always locked away in the recesses of Ghost’s mind, quietly biding his time until there was the few-and-far-between moment for him to appear for a few moments. Typically in the darkness of your shared bedroom with your face pressed between his shoulder blades and your little arm wrapped around his waist.

Simon loved feeling your hand against his belly, twitching your fingers in your sleep and reminding him just how soft and loving you were; Happy to hold his hand tightly in the middle of unconsciousness just like you did when awake. Ghost did everything he could to protect Simon from anyone and anything that could hurt the other half of himself. But hearing another pistol register loudly in the tunnel, echoing back and forth for almost a whole minute; Ghost found himself losing control to Simon.

He felt the man above him slump in dead weight against his back. Muscles slack and the knife held to his throat clanged to the concrete. Looking in the direction of the shot, whatever protective grasp Ghost had on himself utterly dissolved. You’d managed to lay yourself out on the floor, hardly propped up on one elbow with your smoking pistol shaking in your hands. Tears spilled over your cheeks and with each second that passed, he could visualize the pain you felt from such a rough kickback in how you abruptly dropped the pistol in front of you and collapsed flat on the floor with a low groan.

He couldn’t have moved to your side faster.

Immediately picking you up again and making the very short but tense run back to the heli; all the while the pilot was looking between his instruments and the sight of Ghost holding you close to his chest in the floor.

“No one… threatens… to kill you… but me…” You mutter pained, bearing a muddled smile up at Ghost.

Unbelievable… Ghost hardened his stare, putting pressure to your wound and watching in quiet grief that he needed to cause you pain.

“Good shot… did good baby…,” He whispered back weakly, burying his face in your neck and squeezing you against him. Desperate to get you home and safe.

“Gonna ignore how you refused to follow a superior’s orders three times…” He added stiffly, feeling you twitch when a spasm in your shoulder seized. You just bit out another pained noise, coughing a bit with the dust being kicked up from the helicopter lifting off.

The look you gave him couldn’t be seen as anything other than pure, innocent, and unflinching devotion. It nearly ripped Ghost out of the body you clung to, leaving Simon bracing you against his chest as the pilot at the front started giving information to the rest of the squad about fifty miles away at a safe house. Much too long for the Lieutenant’s liking. But close enough that he could get you to his squad and they could ensure you didn’t leave him.

He couldn’t stand losing you, and they’d make sure you didn’t.

“Simon,” Sweet and weak, your hand cups his cheek as you bring him out of an initial trigger. “M’not leaving you anytime soon. Love you too much.” Your eyes close as your head leans agains him trustingly.

His chest crumbled in on itself. “Love you too, baby… I love you too.”

Reblogs & Comments are Appreciated! <3

[quasi-normalcy]

I know that this is the "Turning social problems into matters of individual virtue" website, but here's one change that you can make to yourself as an individual that I honestly think will have beneficial collective effects:

Stop Thinking You're Better Than Other People.

Do I mean that you should go through life thinking that you're the lowliest and most wretched scum who's ever lived? No. I mean that there exists no meaningful criterion by which one human being can be said to be absolutely 'better' than another. And even if there was, you don't know enough about other people's circumstances and interior thoughts to meaningfully judge them in these absolute terms. So don't even try! It's a futile endeavour.

"But what about fascists? Surely I'm better than them!"

Okay, so let me preface this by saying that fascists are dangerous, they're misguided, their acts and intentions are evil, and they need to be stopped, including through physical violence. But you're not better than them. I know that this is a difficult pill to swallow; I myself used to pat myself used to pat myself on the back because, well, at least I wouldn't have been a Nazi. But you know what? If the circumstances were right, I could have been. We all could have been, just as we all could have joined a cult at some point.

Looking at myself, for example: there was never any serious possibility that I could have been swept up into the alt-right movement. Why? Because I'm transgender, and I was raised to be a socialist. How easy it is to *not* become a fascist when you're one of their scapegoats! How much harder it would be to avoid if you're one of the people they flatter and groom, if you're raised by people who are sympathetic to fascist ideals, if you grow up in a community where such ideals are common! The fact that fascist movements can seemingly emerge amongst every nation and people--including those who have historically been victims of fascism--confirms this. What if I had lived a hundred years later, at a time when transgenderism was a complete non-issue, and they'd moved on to some new scapegoat? What if they had approached me on my absolute worst day and told me that all of my problems were caused by moochers and parasites, and that I could fight back and claim my birth right by joining them? Can I really say that I wouldn't? Can anyone?

But even beyond that, what is a fascist but the ultimate example of someone who needs to feel superior to others? What is scapegoating but the act of selecting an entire group of people and declaring them to be inferior to you? And if you just refuse to believe these things; if you refuse to accept the premise that some people are better than others, and call it out whenever it comes up; then you're cutting these movements off at knees! The ideological force of fascism comes from imagining humanity as a strict hierarchy, with the master race on top and the degenerates on the bottom. Simply refuse to believe in such a hierarchy! Refuse to even entertain it!

"But then how can I feel self-esteem? How can I feel that I matter and have value?"

You have value just by existing as a person! But if that's not enough for you, then try this: instead of trying to increase your sense of self-worth by finding people to feel superior to, increase it by being of value to others. Help them! Make their lives better! Contribute to society! Not even in a way that you can (necessarily) put a dollar value on, but in any way you can! Create art! Plant a pollinator garden! Tell a joke! Make someone happy! If nothing else, you can at least give someone love, and I guarantee you that that will be of value to them. The universe is so vast and we're all so small that any value we can ever have will only ever be to each other. And surely it beats spending your life trying to be king of the microbes.

[venuslore]

𖥔 𝐒𝐄𝐂𝐑𝐄𝐓 𝐕𝐀𝐋𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐄 𖥔

summary ; your valentine’s day takes a turn when what you think is just a surprise from peter turns out to be a lot more than you bargained for.

pairing ; mcu!peter parker x fem!reader

notes ; fluff, some mentions of anxiety, but mostly just peter being an oblivious lil himbo baby! this is a repost from my old acc x

do not transfer, translate or share my work to any other sites.

with valentine’s day just around the corner, it was easy to find yourself paranoid about the entire holiday and what exactly it meant for you and peter. 

while for most people, it was a celebration of love and being able to embrace that, for you, it had become an anxiety-induced menace of a day that had you second-guessing everything.

the worst part of all was that you and peter technically weren’t together. 

yet, as the days grew closer and you continued to get your hopes up, it was hard not to feel disheartened when he hadn’t uttered a single word about it. leading you to wonder if he had even given it any thought or if you were simply just getting in over your head about the whole thing. 

to any stranger passing you by on the street and witnessing just how affectionate you were with each other, you looked like a couple. heck, you had even shared the occasional kiss, sometimes a little more, and on days when you would go to his apartment to study, it was never long before you’d find yourself snuggling in his bed while he tried to do homework over the top of you.

you never really cared to put a label on your situationship until now, and mostly because you didn’t think you had to. 

but when the day finally arrives and peter was yet to exhibit any efforts in the name of romance, you were devastated. 

“so, he really hasn’t said anything?” mj asks as you head to your locker, having just finished your last class of the day. 

“nope. not a word,” you shake your head.

with her brows furrowing into a scowl, mj exhales, “man, i really thought he would have. i mean… it’s peter. the dude is literally the biggest softie i have ever met.”

despite the sadness you were feeling, you couldn’t help but crack a smile at your best friend’s words. she was the only one that knew how strongly you felt for peter. 

after all, she was the one to point it out.

“i don’t know, maybe i’m just looking too much into it?” you lift your shoulders into a shrug at the same time you reach your locker. 

“well, speak of the devil,” mj gestures towards the end of the hallway where peter and ned had just rounded the corner. 

it only takes them a moment to catch sight of you, and when they do, peter beams with a smile and waves before heading in your direction. even as they passed by multiple girls carrying flowers and the various heart-shaped decorations scattered all over the halls, peter still hadn’t noticed.

“hey! ned and i were talking about going back to mine to study for that test we have coming up, and maybe watch a movie. you guys in?” he asks, tugging on the straps of his bag, completely ignorant to his surroundings. 

it was like he had forgotten about the holiday’s existence altogether, or he was actively trying to avoid it. but why?

“i can’t. i, uh, i actually have a date tonight,” mj says, tucking her hair behind her ear as all eyes turn in her direction. 

“wait, what? with who?” you ask, this being the first you were hearing about it. honestly, you were surprised she had even told you at all. 

shaking her head, she looks down at her feet and shrugs, “just this guy. it doesn’t matter. but, uh, y/n is free tonight so… there’s that.”

the second the words leave her lips, peter’s attention returns to you. and you weren’t entirely sure, but it almost looked like he was relieved that you had no plans. 

a small smile dangled on the corner of his mouth, and his deep brown eyes softened as they met yours. “oh, okay. well, uh, do you want to join us?” he sort of fumbles over his words. 

while it wasn’t exactly what you had imagined spending the most romantic day of the year with peter would be like, it beat having to sit at home alone wallowing in your own self-pity. even if it was with the person causing it… and ned.

you open your mouth to speak when you’re interrupted by ned’s phone.

“actually, change of plans,” he says. “it’s betty… and she wants to see a movie tonight.”

“i thought you two broke up?” mj narrows her eyes with confusion. 

“we did… but maybe she wants to get back together?” he turns to peter with hopeful eyes, and after a moment, the other boy gives him a nudge. 

“dude, go!” he laughs. and just like that, ned rushes down the hall in search of betty, leaving the three of you dumbfounded as you let out a chorus of chuckles. 

“on that note, i better get going too,” mj says once the laughter faded into sighs and points the same way ned had gone. “i’ll see you losers monday. have fun, studying.”

rolling your eyes, you wave goodbye to the girl, as the thought of being alone with peter all night creeps into your mind. 

the idea alone causes your heart to fasten, thrumming loudly in your ears as your mouth becomes dry with nerves. it wasn’t like you at all to be so anxious around peter, and so much so that you almost couldn’t think straight. he was typically the one person you went to when you needed things to slow down, not make them difficult. 

you try to play off the effect he was having on you as you close your locker and swing your bag over your shoulder, but the second your gaze meets his again, it only seems to amplify. 

“so, it looks like it’s just you and me,” he shuffles awkwardly on his feet, tightening his grip on his bag straps once more. 

“uh, yeah. looks like it.” you smile, swallowing the ball that had formed in your throat, and the two of you slowly head towards the exit. 

the walk back to his apartment is quiet at first, but the second peter starts talking about the chemistry assignment he had coming up, there was no stopping him. though, you couldn’t shake the feeling like he was purposely trying to prolong the walk. 

he insisted that you take the longer route, which you never do, and he even slowed down his pace through the park. and as you were passing the deli-grocery, he stopped off to buy you both a sandwich, which wasn’t completely out of the ordinary, but it did add another fifteen minutes to your time. 

it was like he didn’t want to get back to the apartment, like the thought of being fully alone with you was something he didn’t want to partake in. 

when you do finally reach the apartment, however, he fumbles to unlock the door and almost drops the keys in the process, but the second it’s open, you’re hesitant to even step inside. you had been there a million times before but this time, for whatever reason, felt different. 

you wondered if it really were such a good idea for you to be there, to be alone with him when he was clearly opposed to the idea. which was odd considering he had been the one to initiate you going over there in the first place.

“do you want a drink or anything?” he asks as he passes the kitchen to put his bag in his room. 

most days, you would follow him straight to his room, sometimes even beating him there, but with how he had been acting, it just didn’t feel right. so you lingered in the living room instead. 

at least, until he pops his head out of the door, and with a reassuring smile surfacing on his lips, he gestures for you to follow. 

“we’ve got water, juice or soda?” he asks as you enter the room, dropping his bag at the foot of his bed. 

“water is fine,” you nod. 

“okay, give me a sec,” he nods back, and having to cram past you to get out of the door, his hand runs down your arm so to not squish you. the touch immediately sends a pulse throughout your body, causing you to let out a small gasp. 

you were just grateful peter was far enough away that he hadn’t heard it, or if he did, he didn’t show it. 

with peter leaving you alone in his room, you take the chance to take it all in like you hadn’t been there before. you drop your bag beside his and slip out of your jacket before falling into a stupor on his bed. 

peter’s room had always been comforting to you, though, since the blip, it didn’t quite feel like it was his anymore. 

like everyone else that tragically disappeared, peter lost the majority of his belongings, as did you, but he no longer had any of his action figures or comic books. even the nerdy science posters that you would pick on him for, or his lego models - all the things that made peter’s room… his… was all gone. 

shaking away the thoughts, you bury yourself in the comfort of his sheets, letting your fingers dance across the cotton as you wait for him to return. but when you move to grab your phone from your jacket pocket, something in the corner of your eye catches your attention. 

it was the smallest glimmer of something red inside his closet, and the door was only open a crack, but it was enough to make your thoughts go wild. 

was it possible that peter had bought you something for valentine’s day and this whole thing was just a ruse to get you alone with him? were ned and mj in on it? or had he decided against it, thinking that maybe it was too much, and that’s why it was hidden away in his closet?

perhaps that was why he had been acting so strange and why he had been pretending like today was nothing but any other regular day?

however, before you get the chance to relieve your suspicions, peter walks back in with two glasses of water, and when he sees that you had already made yourself comfortable, he draws in his bottom lip as a nervous smile takes hold of his features. 

“something tells me you have absolutely no intention of studying,” he shakes his head. 

“something tells me you’re right.” you pat the spot beside you, and he obliges, pulling his laptop from the desk beside the bed and finding a movie for you both to watch. 

while you enjoyed laying with peter in comfortable silence, watching the film he had chosen, you couldn’t stop thinking about what was in his closet. the tiny sliver of red teasing you from between the slats, begging for you to confront it. 

nevertheless, it takes two hours for peter to finally leave the room again, and within that time, he hadn’t mentioned it at all. which only made you all the more curious. 

so the second he stepped out of the room, you set into motion to find out what it was he was hiding. and you knew you shouldn’t have, but not knowing was killing you, and you simply couldn’t help yourself. 

you tip-toe across the floor, avoiding the creaky spot in the middle, and after a deep breath, you slowly open the door. though, what you were expecting to be a heart-shaped balloon or a cute stuffed animal that said something like ‘be my valentine?’ on the front, was far from what you had imagined. 

instead, hanging on the metal rod was a suit. a suit that you would recognise absolutely anywhere with it’s distinct red and black colours, and who could forget the unmistakable mask with its intricate detailing. 

then it hits you, and a shiver of realisation rolls down your spine. 

setting out a gasp, you drop the suit to the floor and stumble back into the bed, knocking over a book in the process. you couldn’t believe what you had just discovered, and you barely get a moment to collect yourself before peter comes running to the door. 

“hey, are you-” he stops the second he sees the suit, his smile falling as he takes in your bewildered state and it transforms into a look of horror. 

“peter, i-”

“shit,” he exhales, cutting you off as he reaches for the material and throws it back into his closet as fast as he can, despite knowing that the damage was already done. “don’t look at that. that’s nothing. completely and totally nothing.”

“peter, was that - are you?” you try to get the words out, but you’re still in so much shock that it seems near impossible to do so.

“no. nope. It’s not…” he shakes his head rapidly, leaning against the closet now. “it was, uh, it was a gift from may. she knows i like superheroes, so, y'know?”

“peter…”

“it’s nothing, really. i promise. it was just a-”

“peter…”

“i was thinking of maybe even wearing it for halloween this year, what do you think? you could go as black widow, or umm, captain marvel?”

“peter!” this time when you say his name, he stops talking, realising that there was no way he was going to get out of this. and if he did, it would be a miracle. but you were smart, smart enough not to believe the nonsense that was pouring out of his mouth, and know that this was for real. 

his head falls with defeat, and he drags himself to sit beside you. the air was heavy now, filled with worry as he tried to choose his words carefully. there were only so many ways you could tell someone you had a secret identity being a superhero and he had wanted to do it perfectly - but most importantly, not like this. 

“look, i - i hated not being able to tell you but if everyone knew who i was then my life wouldn’t be the same anymore." 

"but, this is me we’re talking about peter. i’m the same person that knows you still wear star wars underwear, and that you secretly love it when i choose to watch twilight on movie night.” you sigh, shoulders slumping slightly. “you can tell me anything.”

his eyes soften at your remark, and the ghost of a smile tugs at the corner of his lips. “i know, but i wanted… i wanted to keep you safe. there are bad guys out there that would like to come after spider-man and you knowing who i am, only puts you in danger." 

"who else knows?" 

"may, ned and… mj.”

“mj?” you retort. 

“to be fair, i didn’t tell her. she worked it out herself and i swore her to secrecy so don’t be angry at her for not telling you.” he raises a finger to further prove his point. “i was actually planning on telling you about it tonight, but every time i thought about it, i got nervous and i couldn’t do it.”

“so that’s why you’ve been acting so weird?” you ask, nudging the boy’s shoulder playfully as relief washes over you. “and here i am thinking that it was me. the only reason i looked in your closet was because i… i thought… never mind it’s stupid.”

he chuckles, “no. you have to tell me now!”

you let your head fall back for a moment, and after letting out a deep breath, you sway your head back down. “okay. i saw the red through the cracks and i thought that maybe… it was a valentine’s day present. i know we never really put a label on… us… but i just, i don’t know, i thought that maybe that’s where we were and-”

your words turn into muffles as peter presses his lips to yours in a swift movement, and you’re taken back by his actions but you don’t push him off. your body feels electric and you kiss him back with a smile, sinking into it more before he pulls away. 

he doesn’t pull back much, and instead, rests his forehead against yours as you both try to catch your breath. your heart thumps in your chest and you’re still so close that you were sharing the same air. 

peter had kissed you many of times before, some of them turning into heated make-out sessions but this was different to any of those. this had purpose. 

“sorry, you were rambling and i couldn’t help myself.” a coy smile flashes across his face for a moment, before being replaced with a look of uncertainty. “was that enough for you to see how i feel about you? or would you rather i change my relationship status too? or i could just post to the entire world about how much i love you?”

upon hearing the words, you pull away and a shallow gasp escapes you. you weren’t sure if peter had meant to say it, but whether he did or not, it was out there now and your heart pangs inside your chest as your stomach fills with butterflies. 

“you love me?” you say between breaths and disbelief in your eyes. 

he lets out a nervous laugh as his cheeks redden, and his fingers play with the folds of his shirt. “i mean, yeah… you’re kinda my favourite person in existence. it’d be hard not to.”

“really?”

he nods and walks back over to the closet. “yeah. also if you had of looked in the other side of my closet you would’ve seen this…" 

you watch as he opens the closet door to reveal a beautiful bouquet of white and red flowers all wrapped up in bright red paper.

"i was going to give it to you when i told you about… y'know…” he widens his eyes. “but you sort of did that for me… plus, there was also this.”

this time he pulls out a small bag, something that you’d find at a jewellery store, and hands it to you. you look to him as though to be asking permission to open it, and he nods, gesturing for you to do so before leaning against his desk. 

“it’s not a lot, and i’ve been saving for a while now to get it for you, but if you don’t like it then we can exchange it or get something else…”

opening the bag, you find a small box with gold detailing around the sides. and when you open it, inside sits a bracelet decorated with charms, but the one in the middle, that you can’t really see unless you’re looking close enough is a 'p’.

after a moment of basking in the sentiment of it all, you lean back and give him a warm smile. 

“i love it,” you say, tears slowly starting to brim your eyes as your mouth involuntarily starts to crease. “and i love you.”

“yeah?” peter’s brows twitch, his eyes never leaving yours, and he lifts your palm to his lips for a feather-light kiss. he barely touches you, but it sets your skin alight. 

then all of your focus is on him as you stand to meet him, enveloping him in another kiss. hands moving along his chest to fall behind his neck as he wraps his own around your waist and holds you tight. pulling you as close to him as humanly possible. 

when you do finally pull apart, he clasps the bracelet around your wrist before you slide your fingers through his, savouring the warmth of his skin against yours. 

“so, since you have two identities does that mean i get double the love?” you let out a small chuckle and peter matches it. 

“i think i could manage that.” he says and places one more kiss on the tip of your nose. 

[holllandtrash]

6 to 1 | lando norris (part 11)

pairing: lando norris x leclerc!reader part 11 in the 6 to 1 series (read part 1 here)

dinner with charles and the rest of your family comes with high expectations and heavy disappointments. one thing's for certain, lando's not going anywhere and neither are you

word count: 7.2k tags/warnings: implied smut, literally the worst translated french ever if someone wants to fix it by all means pls help me out, some sad tugs on the heart strings, i think thats it, also poorly edited

There were two sides to Lando Norris.

You already knew of the sweet and considerate side. The one that opened car doors for you, that took care of you even though you never asked to be cared for. This was the side of Lando that you fell hard for because he was all heart and cheeky grins and stupid eye rolls that had you blushing.

And then there was the side that you didn’t even know existed until you woke up to him leaving a trail of kisses down your body before slowly spreading your legs apart. The side that had you seeing stars and screaming his name before you could even register being awake. 

Lando was insatiable, to put it simply.

And you weren’t complaining.

How could you complain when he joined you in the shower and pressed his lips to your neck as he pinned you against the porcelain wall. Your cheek against the cold tile, the stream of hot water coming down from above, his cock so deep inside you that you relied on him to keep you upright. 

Yeah, you couldn’t complain.

Lando seemed to be on a mission to make you cum more times in twelve hours than you had in the last two years. He got so much pleasure from bringing you to the edge and watching as you spilled over.

You made sure to return the favour. Not even waiting until you were out of the bathroom before dropping down to your knees. Lando has one hand on the edge of the sink, the other hand tangled through your hair. Strings of expletives meshed so well with his encouraging words, telling you how fucking pretty you looked choking on his cock. 

And honestly, that first shower was a write-off. You eventually needed to push Lando out of the bathroom to give you the chance to actually get ready for the day.

It was hard for the two of you to keep your hands off each other and to be fair, you didn’t really try. Sure, you put on a show, but ten minutes in and you were by far more entertaining than whatever rom-com you had chosen.

The day got away from you, to say the least.

It wasn’t until Lando asked you what you wanted for dinner did you suddenly bolt upright on the couch, reaching for your phone to check the time.

Lando, who had his hand on the handle of the fridge, slowly backed away from it as he tried to gauge what was going through your head, “Okay, or we could order something?”

“No, no, I’m sorry,” you stood up as you rushed to answer Arthurs text. He was already at your maman’s place and you couldn’t multitask to save your life so you didn’t even try to explain yourself to Lando until you sent Pascale a text saying that you had accidentally fallen asleep and are headed there now. It was a lie, but it was better than the alternative which would undoubtedly give her a heart attack.

“What’s up?” Lando asked, heading back towards you, eyeing your phone. 

You dragged your fingers through your hair, “I forgot I promised to go to my maman’s house for dinner.” You turned and headed down the hall, “I need to change..can you- I don’t have any clothes here do I?”

Lando followed you, picking up the mini skirt you abandoned last night and the top that could have quite literally doubled as a bra. All day you had been lounging around in Lando’s clothes, having completely forgotten about your dinner plans.

“Just you and your mum?” Lando asked, he stepped into his closet but there was no way he had anything that was appropriate for dinner.

“Um, and Arthur and Enzo,” you added quietly, finding a brush on top of his dresser and running it through your hair. You kept Charles’ name out of your mouth, not feeling up to bringing him into the conversation.

Lando stepped back into his room, eyebrows raised at your frantic actions, “Did you want me to drive you? We can stop at your place on the way so you can change.”

You didn’t just want him to drive you, you wanted him to join you. But to throw this on him so last second wasn’t fair. 

You accepted the ride to dinner, but you kept the invite to yourself. 

Lando waited in the car as you ran in and changed, making yourself more presentable. It took under five minutes to put something appropriate on and get rid of any signs that you and Lando had been nothing but tangled limbs and heated kisses and desperate moans for the last 12 hours. 

You were thankful that Lando was careful. Any marks that bruised your skin overnight weren’t visible to anyone other than you two. Some were darker than others, but you didn’t let yourself think of Lando’s lips exploring every inch of you, not while he was currently idling outside and waiting for your return.

When you slid back into the passenger seat, Lando waited before putting the car into drive. He nodded his head towards the phone that rested on the dash, your phone, that you had left while you ran inside. 

Not only that, but you left it unlocked.

You had nothing to hide, but that wasn’t the issue. The issue was Arthur had texted you twice since you stepped out of the car.

Charles is here btw, seems to be in a fine mood Are you bringing Lando?

When you looked up at Lando, he just had a smug little smile on his face. He wasn’t mad that you hadn’t invited him to dinner, nor was he upset that Charles was there after you purposely avoided saying his name.

“You told your brother about me?” Lando asked, finding the whole thing endearing. It was one thing if the drivers knew you were together, telling your family was entirely different.

“To an extent,” you shrugged, not wanting to make a big deal out of it. “He knows we’ve been hanging out. I think a lot of people do.”

“Hanging out,” Lando repeated, mocking the naive term. 

“Well maybe if you asked me out I could tell him you’re my boyfriend.”

“Well maybe if you weren’t so picky about me planning a grand gesture,” Lando flipped the sarcasm on you and you playfully pressed your hand to his cheek, pushing his face away from yours. 

“I deserve a grand gesture,” you told him.

Lando nodded in agreement, “But nothing embarrassing?”

“Nothing embarrassing.”

“Anything for the Littlest Leclerc.”

You positioned yourself on the seat so your upper half was practically leaning over the centre console. Lando’s smile had yet to vanish as his gaze darted to every inch of your face, landing on your lips before he glanced up to meet your eyes. 

Out of nowhere, you felt giddy. You felt the excitement of butterflies in your stomach. You looked at Lando and suddenly you wanted him to come to dinner. You wanted your mother to see him as someone other than a driver. You wanted him to get to know your other brothers. You wanted to introduce him to the part of your life that no one had ever seen before.

“Come with me,” your quiet request echoed through the car. “To dinner.”

Lando’s eyebrows raised in response. He wasn’t against the idea, but he wasn’t tripping over his words to agree either. 

“Are you sure?” He asked. “You don’t think it’s too soon to meet your family?”

“Well you’ve already met my mother,” you pointed out, thinking of the few times they had interacted during race weekends.

Lando rolled his eyes, “You know what I mean.”

You leaned forward, pressing a soft kiss to his lips before smiling. Your nose nudged against his and again, those butterflies returned.

“I want you there,” you said.

“Then I want to be there.”

Two sides to Lando. 

And this was the side you were falling incredibly hard for. The side that made you want to show him off to everyone you knew. The side that made you forget why you were nervous to see Charles in the first place.

Lando kissed you once more before he pulled his eyes to the road. You sat back in your seat and your hand stayed connected with his for the remainder of the drive.

——————

You opened the door to your maman’s place, reaching for Lando’s hand as you stepped inside. There was no one in the general area, but you could hear voices flooding in through the balcony. With it being such a beautiful day, you shouldn’t have been surprised to see that everyone was already outside.

Lando was looking around, undoubtedly feeling very out of his element as he stood in the childhood home of another driver. His eyes landed on some old photos and his usual bubbly personality was replaced with solemn and an expression so tense that it had you feeling uneasy in your mother’s own home.

“Hey,” you whispered, squeezing his hand as you stepped closer to him and the wall that held a variety of memories in frames. Lando nodded, acknowledging that he heard you, but his eyes were locked on a specific photo. 

It was Charles in a kart, probably about ten years old at the time. Next to him knelt Jules, the biggest smile on his face. 

Lando pointed at the young girl balancing on Jules’ knee, a bright red toy car between her fingers. His gaze then turned to you, eyebrows raised. 

“I was about five years old, I think,” you said, trying to think back to when exactly that picture was taken. You leaned your head against Lando’s arm as images of your childhood rushed back to you. Some were pure memories that belonged to, others were flashes of stories you had heard that your mind had tricked you into thinking you remembered. 

But this day, you remembered. 

“I wanted to race too,” a breath of laughter followed that admittance. “Or at least I thought I did. Jules would have never actually let me drive that thing, I was too young, but he put me in and I remember getting so scared. I kept thinking it would start and just take off and it was instant tears for me.”

Lando nudged your side, “Your dreams of being a driver were short lived.”

“Very much so,” you laughed. You tapped your finger against the mini you behind the glass. “Jules gave me a toy Ferrari to keep me distracted and it worked for the most part. But when Charles got in the kart I got scared for him. Jules had to hold me the entire time he was going around the track, assuring me that Charles was safe, that he-”

Lando noticed the way your voice caught in your throat. He slipped his hand out of yours to drape his arm around your shoulders instead, pulling you into his side so he could kiss your forehead.

You told yourself you were fine. You were fine, this was a happy memory, it was a good day. It was just one you hadn’t thought about in a while.

Lando didn’t want you to sit in your thoughts. He propped his finger under your chin, tilting your face up, “Do you think a toy Ferrari would still work to distract you?”

The corner of your lips curled upwards and you rolled your eyes at his attempt at bringing some humour into this conversation.

“No, but maybe a real Ferrari would.”

“Yeah I’m not buying you a Ferrari,” Lando scoffed, turning you both around and away from the photo wall. You glanced at it over your shoulder once more, but when the sliding door to the balcony opened, the pictures were yet again just a memory. 

You stepped out of Lando’s embrace when Pascale looked up and saw you. A grin spread across her cheeks and she was quick to put down the bottle of wine in her hands. You practically hopped across the kitchen floor to give her a hug, rocking side to side in her tight embrace.

“Bonjour, maman,” you sighed happily. It had been a few weeks since you had actually spent time with her. When you pulled back she started asking you about the wedding you attended, about London, about what you’ve been up to, but of course she was speaking in French. Lando, who stood quietly behind you, had absolutely no idea what was being said.

“Attends, maman,” Wait mom. You said, cutting her off before this conversation could go further. You glanced at Lando and ushered him over with just a head nod. “C’est Lando.” This is Lando.

Pascale looked at you like you were missing a few brain cells and honestly, you sort of felt like you were. Obviously she knew who Lando was. The question was what was he doing in her home. 

“Chérie, je sais qui c'est.” Sweetheart, I know who he is. 

Your maman knew Lando as a driver. Someone from a rival team, someone that Charles competed against. She probably didn’t think much of it that he was there, it wasn’t uncommon for Charles to invite another driver or two to a get-together. 

But when you reached for Lando’s hand and pulled him closer to you, Pascale’s eyes lit up. There was a faint gasp of surprise, but it was her heartwarming smile of approval that lifted the weight off your shoulders.

You had never brought someone home before, someone that you wanted to introduce to your family. And even though Lando didn’t need any introduction, it was clear that he wasn’t just a driver. Your fingers intertwined with his and your cheeks turned a light shade of pink when Pascale pointed between the two of you. 

As your mother, she wanted nothing but happiness for you. She didn’t care that Lando was a Formula 1 driver, all she saw was you clinging to a guy, something that she’s never seen before. There was an obvious connection, one that you hadn’t let yourself have before and Pascale could see that.

“I hope it’s okay that I invited him,” your voice was timid as you glanced towards the patio doors. All of your brothers were out there, none of them had noticed you yet.

“Of course!” she cheered, reaching forward to squeeze Lando’s arm lovingly. “Vous ne parlez pas le Français?”

“No,” you answered for him, feeling Lando tense up beside you as he tried to figure out what he was just asked. “No, he doesn’t speak French.”

“Oh that is not a problem,” Pascale brushed the language aside. She wanted to make Lando feel comfortable in her home, which was just another breath of fresh air for you. At least your maman was supportive, she would be inclusive towards Lando tonight.

Your brothers were another story.

The patio door slid open again and this time it was Enzo and Arthur who walked in. They greeted you from across the room, both in French, but their ‘bonjours’ and ‘ca va’s’ were cut off when they recognised Lando.

“C'est nouveau,” This is new. Enzo teased, his finger darting back and forth between you and Lando as he poured himself a glass of wine. 

Arthur glanced out to the patio where Charles remained, “Tu ne lui a pas dit a propos de Lando, pas vrai?” You didn’t tell him about Lando, did you?

Poor Lando, just staring at you waiting for a translation or for you to answer on his behalf. He genuinely couldn’t tell what your brothers were saying, but he hoped it wasn’t anything negative.

“English, boys,” Pascale clapped her hands together as she moved to stand between Arthur and Enzo. She wrapped her arms around both of them, squeezing gently as she smiled back at you and Lando. Both sons had quite a few inches on her but they let her pull them into her sides without any sort of fight. “Lando does not speak French. We will be good hosts, yes?”

“C’est lui qui vit à Monaco,” He’s the one who lives in Monaco. Enzo snorted, earning a smack upside the head from your maman. He held his hand up in defence, palm facing Lando, “Sorry, mate.”

“All good,” Lando chuckled, shaking his head. He didn’t want to put anyone out of place, but Pascale was notorious for making sure her guests were comfortable and respected. If that meant she had to learn another language, she probably would without question. 

“Lando, wine?” She offered, grabbing an empty glass from the cupboard. 

“Oh he’s not a wine drinker and-” you spoke up, inhaling a sharp breath through your teeth. You glanced up at Lando, “-and I don’t know why I’m speaking for you. You have a voice.”

Lando gave your hand a squeeze, but he didn’t seem offended that you answered on his behalf. If anything, he was a little surprised that you remembered that little detail about him. 

“Help yourself to anything in the fridge,” Pascale told him, still pouring a glass for you knowing that you sure as hell wouldn’t turn down wine. She had just stepped around the kitchen island to hand it to you when the patio door opened for the third time.

Charles didn’t even look at you. His eyes immediately went to Lando.

Lando waved awkwardly, “Hey, Charles.”

Completely disregarding him, he turned to Pascale, “Ce devait être un dîner de famille." It was supposed to be a family dinner.

Lando leaned towards you and whispered, “What did he say?”

You shook your head, he didn’t need to know that Charles was already choosing to let this evening turn sour. “Tu peux être poli au moins.” You can at least be polite. You told Charles, only to be met with an eye roll in response.

“So the eye rolls run in the family?” Lando asked. 

“Can you just-” you turned to him suddenly, but stopped yourself from being unintentionally rude. Lando was just trying to make a joke, that’s what he did in any given situation. It wasn’t his fault that Charles’ bad attitude was now affecting how you were acting. You placed your hand on his chest, playing with the string of his jumper, “Let’s go outside, yeah?”

Charles turned around as well but Pascale was quick to jab her finger against her son's chest before he could go anywhere, “Behave, Charles.”

It was a warning that held very little merit. Charles would mutter something under his breath in French about how Lando wasn’t actually invited as the group of you all made your way outside. Pascale stayed inside to finish up dinner and you offered to help but one look from her and you both knew you’d be needed outside with the men boys. 

The patio was large. The outdoor couch shaped like an ‘L’ was spacious enough to fit all five of you comfortably. But Charles still opted for one of the chairs, resting his leg over the other as he leaned back and watched as Lando made himself comfortable on the patio furniture, or at least tried to. 

The second that Lando put his hand on your thigh, Charles’ eyebrows twitched and Lando retracted his hand, leaving it in his own lap. 

This was awkward for everyone. 

Well, maybe not so much Arthur and Enzo whose heads were moving back and forth between you like they were watching a tennis match, just waiting to see what sort of moves any of you would make. 

You hadn't spoken to Charles since you left Silverstone. You weren’t there for him when he DNF’d near the end of the race. You weren’t there to tell him that he still had plenty of chances left this season to do work his way up the standings. 

Now was as good a time as any to bring it up, clear the air. 

“I’m sorry about your retirement last weekend,” you said, feeling unusually timid. Charles wasn’t someone who you often felt small around. You looked up to him, sure, but you never felt the need to be careful around him, until now. 

Charles sighed loudly, “Is this you taking responsibility for it?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Hmm,” Charles scratched the stubble that grew along his jaw. “You don’t think everything you told me minutes before I had to get in the car affected my race at all?”

Nevermind, you weren’t shy to speak what was on your mind. You were annoyed.

“You don’t think leaving your personal life outside the track is something you should probably do?” You retorted, with even more sarcasm than his tone carried. “I mean, you’ve done it before. Weren’t you the one who broke up with Cha literally days before a race weekend and still went on to get a podium?”

“That was different.”

“You’re right,” you scoffed, leaning back against the cushions as you crossed your arms over your chest. “You brought my life onto the track with you in Silverstone. I never asked you to do that.”

To your right, Arthur nudged your side, “Take it easy, Y/N.”

Charles moved on from the topic of the race as his glare narrowed in on Lando. “Vous êtes ensemble, c'est ça?” So, you two are dating?

Lando looked at you, hoping you would, again, either translate or answer for him. 

“You know he doesn’t speak French.”

“Toute la famille parle Français,” This whole family speaks french. Charles leaned forward, “You’re just going to show up at my mother’s house and demand everyone speak English for your convenience?”

Lando rapidly shook his head, “That didn’t-”

You promptly cut him off, “Don’t be an ass for the sake of just being an ass, Charles.”

“Mate I don’t want to cause any trouble,” Lando chimed in. His hand went to your leg again and even when Charles eyed the point of contact with disapproval, Lando didn’t move it. “I just like hanging out with your sister. And for some reason she likes hanging out with me too.”

There was that term again. Hanging out. But this time when he said it, you knew Lando was only trying to downplay everything for Charles’ sake. Charles didn’t need to know any of the details of your relationship, he just needed to get it through his head that you were together.

The patio door opened and Pascale came out, holding the glass of wine you had forgotten to grab. You thanked her kindly and without exchanging a word, the mother-daughter bond you shared spoke volumes when you sent a glance across the patio towards Charles.

Pascale tsk’d, shaking her head at the Formula 1 driver, “I said behave, Charles.”

“I didn’t do anything!” Charles retorted. “He’s the one that shows up invited.”

“I invited him,” you snapped. 

Enzo leaned forward, directing his attention to Lando to try and steer this conversation elsewhere. He started asking the Brit about his family and Arthur gave you an encouraging nod. Maybe tonight just started off wrong, it had potential to get better.

But of course those were high expectations.

Dinner was horrible.

The glares sent across the table towards you and Lando were impossible to ignore. Charles purposely spoke French and even though Pascale reminded him four times that Lando didn’t understand, Charles only responded that it wasn't his problem.

He was being uncharacteristically rude, and Charles’ reputation was that he was one of the nicest drivers on the grid. That was a reputation you agreed with, up until now. 

He was trying to make Lando uncomfortable, trying to find any reason to exclude him, ensuring that Lando knew he didn’t approve of your relationship.

You tried to ignore it, really. You were there to talk to your maman, to catch up with Enzo, to introduce Lando to everyone else in the family.

But eventually you just grew tired of biting your tongue for the sake of keeping the peace.

“You’re insufferable, do you realise that?” You finally blurted out. Arthur and Enzo stifled their laughter and next to you, Lando dropped his hand to your leg. He had been respectful all dinner, keeping his hands on the table where everyone could see, but he knew that you needed the support in the form of a comforting squeeze.

“Big words for the person who pays for all of your trips. There's nothing insufferable about the private jets from Monaco to Spain to London, are there?" Charles barely looked up from his food, shoving his fork into his mouth and letting his words sink in.

“Oh you’ve been waiting to use that line haven’t you?”

Charles ignored you, glancing towards Lando, “You’ve got her trips covered now, yeah?”

“Charles,” Pascale warned. She had stayed quiet for the most part, not wanting to get involved, trying to believe that it was just siblings being siblings. 

But it was so much more than that.

“I don’t know why you think I’m so reliant on you, but I can assure you, I’m not,” you shot back, not giving Lando a chance to share his two cents. “But if I was really struggling, there’s about six other drivers on the grid I can call up to help me out. We all know they love my presence in the paddock more than yours.”

Again, Charles chose to ignore you. His stare remained on Lando, “You’re really going to let her talk about the other drivers right in front of you?”

You slammed your hand on the table, demanding that he give you his attention for once. Charles didn’t flinch, but everyone else did. Charles just leaned back in his chair, arrogance painted his face. 

“Pourquoi ça te dérange tant que je sois avec lui?” Why do you care so much that I’m with him?

“Pourquoi tu es avec lui? C'est ça la question.” Why are you with him? That’s the question.

You and Charles continued to raise your voices at each other across the table in French, saying anything and everything that came to mind, anything and everything that could hurt the other. Your brothers understood everything, your mother was waiting to see if she needed to intervene, and Lando had absolutely no idea what was happening, he didn’t speak French. 

But he understood some phrases.

“Va te faire enculer!” You practically screamed. Go fuck yourself. 

Lando was taken aback and he turned to you with wide eyes. You would have loved to excuse yourself from the table at this point, to take Lando and go back to his place, but your mother wasn’t about to let either of you get away with the bullshit that’s been happening all night.

Pascale snapped her fingers, calling for the attention of everyone in the room, but her gaze darted back and forth between you and Charles only. She pointed at you and then at him and then at the kitchen, “Dinner’s over. Both of you, you’re on clean up.”

It wasn’t uncommon in your youth for Pascale to split the household chores between the kids. She had four of them and like any typical mother, she taught her kids the importance of cleaning and pitching in around the house. 

But you didn’t even live there anymore. 

You would have volunteered to help regardless, but the fact that she was assigning you and Charles to dish duty now that you had finished eating was a telling sign that the two of you needed to work your shit out. 

Pascale pushed her chair away from the table and nodded towards the living room as her glare directed at her kids shifted to a warm gaze at Lando, “Come on, Lando, I’ve always wanted to show off baby pictures of Y/N. It’s a right of passage as her mother.”

“Maman, don’t, please,” you pleaded, but it was too late. Lando had practically jumped out of the chair and followed Pascale to the couch.

Arthur and Enzo stood up as well, they didn’t have any interest in reliving your childhood through the photo albums, but they also didn’t want to hang out in the kitchen and be uninvited witnesses to whatever you and Charles were undoubtedly going to argue about.

You stood up from your chair, collecting a few dishes from the table, “I wash, you dry.”

“You always wash.”

“Because everytime you wash you end up breaking plates in the sink and then it becomes a bigger mess for everyone.”

Charles had no comeback for that, he really couldn’t argue with facts. So reluctantly, he found himself standing elbow to elbow with you as you handed him the clean plates for him to dry and put away. 

Neither of you said a word.

Which was not Pascale’s intention. 

Hearing laughter behind you, you both glanced over your shoulders, catching each other's eyes momentarily before you stepped away from the sink to clear off some more dishes from the table. 

Your back was towards Charles when you looked up and saw Lando making his way towards you, a small wallet sized insert photo of you between his thumb and forefinger. You were maybe seven years old there, missing one of your front teeth just in time for picture day at school.

“This is adorable,” Lando told you, “Your mum said I can keep it.”

“You absolutely will not,” you rolled your eyes, stacking the glasses on top of each other. 

“You were such a cute kid,” Lando cooed, looking at the picture again. You already knew the question that was going to follow when he turned back towards you, “What happened?”

“Ha ha,” you mocked, flipping your middle finger up at him. 

Behind you, Charles cleared his throat. You turned and saw him standing with his back leaning against the counter, arms crossed over his chest with the empty drying rack behind him. 

“We can go after I finish cleaning,” you told Lando, sounding apologetic on behalf of how Charles had been treating him all night. 

Lando felt bad. He didn’t want you to rush out of there because Charles was making this uncomfortable for everyone. He liked getting to know Pascale and your brothers a bit better. Enzo and Arthur didn’t have a problem with Lando’s presence. 

It was just Charles.

“Why?” Lando asked, raising his voice slightly even though this was supposed to be more of a private conversation. He wanted Charles to hear. “I’ve got no plans tonight. We can stay as long as you want. Unless-” Lando looked over your shoulder towards Charles. “Do you want us to leave?”

“I want you to leave,” Charles mumbled and you all but slammed the glasses back on the dining room table as you turned around to face your asshole of a brother. 

“Okay, you know what?” you inhaled a heavy breath, hands clamming up in seconds as you suddenly felt very confined within the kitchen. “I have been nothing but supportive of you for your entire career. Is it possible, that for once, to just take a step back and be supportive of me?”

“Supportive of what?” Charles scoffed, gesturing towards Lando. “That you’re dating him? That’s not something I need to be supportive of. It’s not an achievement or a career, Y/N, you haven’t done anything! You slept with a driver, congratulations! Should I call up Pierre and Carlos and invite them over as well? Make it a whole affair?”

You weren’t sure when Lando stepped around the table to stand at your side but you’re thankful he did. He was there to put a loving hand on your arm, rubbing his thumb over your skin as Charles’ words hit you hard. It felt like someone was pressing all of their weight against your chest and you struggled to find your words as much as you fought to take a breath.

You could have screamed at him. You wanted to. 

Your brother couldn’t separate you, his sister, from you, his biggest fan. To him, those two things were supposed to coincide. 

And for so long, they did. 

But that wasn’t the case anymore.

“Okay,” you finally breathed out, voice trembling along with your hands. You were going to pretend like Charles’ words didn’t hurt you and you were going to remove yourself from this conversation before it could take any more difficult turns, before this got uglier. You looked up at Lando, “We’re leaving.”

This was when Pascale interjected again. She stood up from the couch, the painful look of disappointment plastered all over her features.

“Charles Marc Hervé Perceval, apologise to your sister.”

“All the middle names,” Arthur whispered, but unfortunately for him the room was deafeningly silent and everyone heard his little comment. He cowered back into the couch, hoping that if he just stared at Charles long enough, the attention would go back to him.

And it did. Charles shook his head, “I’m not apologising for anything.”

Charles was a lost cause. It was a battle you didn’t have the energy to fight any more tonight. 

You reached for your maman, squeezing her hand before going in for a hug. She apologised, of course she did. The last thing she wanted was to see her kids fight.

“I’ll talk to you tomorrow, okay?” You told her and she nodded before moving in to give Lando a hug as well. She told him he was always welcome there when Lando thanked her for the dinner and for showing him the photo albums.

Lando said goodbye to Arthur and Enzo and then reached for your hand, tugging you into his side as you walked out of the house. You waved at Pascale as you made your way towards the car and you could see her expression shift into a glare as she turned around to give Charles a stern talking to before the door fully shut.

Like usual, Lando reached for the passenger door to open it for you, but he stopped you before you could get in by pulling you into his chest.

“Hey,” he whispered, his other hand finding your cheek to tilt your face up to meet his. “I’m sorry about tonight.”

A deep exhale passed through your lips, “You are the last person who should be apologising.”

“Yeah, well, the person who should be apologising isn’t going to,” Lando scoffed. “But you still deserve to hear it.”

Lando kissed your forehead, and then the tip of your nose and when you tilted your chin up just a little more, he pressed a final kiss to your lips before stepping back to let you get into the car.

He slid into the drivers side and had just started to reach for his seatbelt before he let it retract above his shoulder. 

“I left my wallet inside, I’ll be right back,” Leando leaned over to give you a kiss on the cheek, opening up the car door again. 

“I can go in and get it,” you offered, not wanting to have to subject Lando to Charles again.

“I’ll be two seconds, it’s fine.” He assured you, not leaving any room for discussion. He made his way up the walkway and you watched from the confinement of his car as he rapped his knuckles against the door.

It was Pascale who answered, obviously. She didn’t seem surprised to see Lando, moreso thankful if anything. 

“Lando, I’m so sorry,” Pascale said to him again, reaching for his arm to give it a squeeze. Pascale was a very touchy person, Lando came to realise, and you were cautious when it came to physical attention. Lando wondered where your closed off tendencies came from. He also wondered when that shift came between you two when you started to lean into his touches and being the one to reach for his hand first.

“You really have nothing to apologise for,” Lando said, his typical grin making another reappearance. He wasn’t going to let Pascale take responsibility for her son’s actions. He also wasn’t going to let it get to him the way Charles intended. 

She invited him inside, asking if he left anything and he told you that he did. But once inside, Charles shook his head and glanced around, “I actually just wanted to get a few more words with Charles quickly.”

Pascale nodded knowingly and pointed towards the balcony. Arthur sent him a smile that could have either read good luck or be careful, but Lando didn’t let himself think too much of it as he crossed the floor and slid the patio door open.

Charles glanced up from his phone and rolled his eyes when he saw who had joined him.

Lando much preferred your eye rolls. They were usually playful and teasing. You were never actually annoyed with him. He didn’t see your eye rolls and think of all of the exit routes like he was doing now as he stepped outside. 

Choosing to sit in the chair as opposed to joining Charles on the couch, Lando leaned forward and clasped his hands together atop of knees. 

This was strange for both of them.

Lando and Charles were friends. They got along well most of the time. They respected each other as people, as drivers. It wasn’t until Lando became more involved with you did Charles start to see the British driver in a different light. 

“You know I would never hurt her, right?” Lando started off by getting right to the point. The line that was drawn between them was you and Lando needed them both to be on the same side of this line, not vying for what they thought was best in their own opinions. 

“She’s not thinking about the consequences, Lando,” Charles took him by surprise, not coming back with attitude or with a bitter rebuttal, but with a voice of reason. “She’s happy, sure, but have either of you thought about the media presence in the paddock? What people might say? How might this affect your performance and mine? Formula 1 is hard enough as it is, mate. Racing aside, there are so many external factors that neither of you are considering.”

Lando nodded, piecing together what Charles was getting at, but he wasn’t someone who was easily persuaded. It took Lando weeks to work his way into your life, he wasn’t about to throw any of it away because Charles was sending him an intimidating glare.

“Charles, she’s spent her whole life considering those things,” Lando spoke calmly.

You made it clear you didn’t want a fight and he had your back, not wanting to start an argument either.

“Her own life takes a backseat to support you, to be your biggest fan. She, for the most part, has stayed out of trouble, stayed out of the spotlight so you could shine, so there would be no tarnishing of the Leclerc name. She’s been there for you during the best and the worst of times. All she’s ever wanted was to see you succeed.” Lando shook his head, as he recalled one of your first conversations. “When I took her out in Montreal, she was the one that told me she doesn’t date drivers. That wasn’t a rule you had set for her, that was something she decided for herself. Her fears controlled her, she didn’t want to have to worry about you and someone else during a race-”

“What, so now she’s just going to worry about you?” Charles cut him off and Lando could sense that he was growing more agitated with each passing second. 

“No, you idiot,” Lando had to tell himself to keep a straight face. “She’s not letting her fears control her anymore. She’s choosing to believe that what happens in the real world doesn’t affect what happens on the track. She doesn’t want to worry about either of us. She wants to cheer both of us on, and you’re selfishly putting her in a position where she has to choose.”

Lando pressed his palms against his legs and stood up from the chair, essentially ending the conversation there before Charles could think of something else to add, another reason as to why they shouldn’t date that would inevitably go in one ear and out the other.

When Lando reached for the handle of the patio door, he paused before sliding it open, “I’m not trying to take her from you, or from her family. I just want her to be happy and you should want that for her too."

“I do,” Charles agreed, but his words didn’t match the tone, like he was fighting with himself. 

Lando wasn’t going to offer any suggestions as to how Charles could stop getting in the way. It wasn’t up to Lando to remind Charles what his place was in your life, that was for him to figure out on his own. Lando simply nodded at the Monegasque driver and walked back inside. 

Pascale walked him to the front door, apologising one last time for her son's words and actions throughout the night, but Lando assured her that he still had a great time. She invited him back, telling Lando that she was happy to see her daughter look so at peace for once. 

All while Lando was inside your mother’s home, you sat in his car, adjusting the air conditioning and the angle of the seat. You flipped the radio on, but at this time of night there were only remixes and horrible cookie-cutter pop songs that you just couldn’t stand. 

You just wanted to distract yourself because Lando was taking a while. He said two seconds but you watched the digital clock on the screen slowly change and it had been at least two minutes since he shut the front door behind him.

You turned the radio off and opened up the glove box, hoping for an instruction manual on how to connect your phone to the bluetooth, but there was nothing in there. So you flipped open the middle compartment next.

There was no manual, but there was a wallet. 

Of course you picked it up to confirm it was in fact Lando’s, but then that just left you with the question, why did he go back inside the house?

The light from the front foyer caught your eye and you glanced up to see your mother giving Lando a hug. Apparently he had made quite the impression on her tonight.

You dropped the wallet back inside the compartment and closed it right before Lando reached the car. He slid into the driver's seat and looked at you with his usual cheeky smile, the one that gave him those faint lines around his lips and caused his eyes to squint. 

“Find it?” You asked.

Lando hesitated before nodding, “Yeah, was stuck in the couch cushions. Must have fallen out of my pocket.”

And you knew he was lying, but you didn’t question any further. Lando reached across the console to connect his hand with yours as he started to take off in the direction of his flat, jumping into a conversation about your baby photos and how sweet Pascale was, choosing to purposely disregard Charles and his behaviour.

Whatever reason Lando had to go back inside, you didn’t care to ask about it. 

You trusted Lando. You knew Lando was someone who would take care of you, even if you didn’t ask for it. His motives, his words, his stupid plan to move up your driver ranking, all of it was pure at heart with nothing but good intentions. 

He just wanted to be with you and in return, he hoped you would want to be with him as well. 

And against all odds, you were going to make this work.

masterlist here (side note - part 12 (the next chapter) will be the final part)

taglist: @moneymasnn@thotd-f1 @masonspulisic @mcmuppet@f1-futurewag-16-3-4-63 @alilstressyandlotdepressy @themisric @happydazzz123 @moonxblossom @norrisleclercf1 @scarlettisconfused @sbgal @e-lisa-bettan @harrysdimple05 @ophcelia @alesainz @fandomxs1 @majx00 @sbgal @mehrmonga @themockingjayreader @f1mockingjay @topguncultleader @lclrnelliluvs @moonxblossom @dr3lover @andrewgarfields-girlfriend @tsarinablogs @noescapricho-essentimiento @f1mockingjay @xqueenslytherinx if i missed someone im so sorry

[goldustwomun]

pacifier (s.b.)

pairing: sirius black x younger potter! reader

summary: something about your relationship with sirius black had never sit quite right with you, and now that he's back after two years of travelling the world, you're beginning to think that you'll soon find out what'll happens if the two of you finally fall over the edge of whatever precipice you've been teetering close to all these years. plus, you've got to work with him all summer, so what's the worst that could happen?

warnings: allusions to sex (minors dni!!!), swearing, cocky sirius and like kind of an annoying younger sister reader (but also that's literally me lol), bad transitions between light hearted banter and angst but i'm trying my best RIP, i imagine sirius to be mid-20s and reader only 3/4 years younger (but everyone is OF AGE), mommy issues if you squint

wc: 5.4k+

note: soooo i'm back :D again :D i'm almost done with second year and actually somewhat ahead with all my papers (with very minimal finals; def recommend being a history major x) and i've just been missing the community so enjoy this! i had this first chapter posted a while back (like maybe a year) but it was actually ass so i've redone it a little :)))) as always, reblogs and comments are MUCH appreciated and i can't wait to interact w/ y'all over this because i have been DAYDREAMING about brother's bf sirius :')

“What do you mean he’s working at the shop as well?!” you screeched, chasing your Mother around the kitchen, feeling a lot like the pesky youngest child you were. 

“He needs some help so we offered to give him a job. Honestly sweetheart, aren’t you too old for this childish feud?”

“Too old? Shouldn’t you be saying that to him? He’s like– thirty or something, and still continues to be the bane of my existence. Fucking Bla–”

Your Mother whirled on you abruptly, brandishing the wooden spoon she was about to stir the boiling pot with right in your face. “Language, missy! I would tell him the same thing, but unluckily for you, you’re my daughter and currently living under my roof, so you get to hear it first.” She gave you a saccharine sweet smile, the kind that had you biting back the urge to stomp your feet and pout at her until she gave in. Unfortunately for you, that hadn’t worked since you were about six years old. 

“--now, he’s been gone for such a long time, and we’re all very excited to see him, so don’t ruin this reunion with any more of your tantrums.”

You opened your mouth, intent on not letting the argument die there, but your Father bounded into the kitchen at the same moment, ruffling up your hair with a “Hey there, kiddo,” before promptly moving on to snake his hands around your Mother’s waist. “Looking as beautiful as always, my dear,” he cooed into her ear. She let out an uncharacteristic giggle that had you bolting from the kitchen before you were scarred any further.

Your parents’ tooth-aching affections for each other were just that: sweet, but sickly all the same. Deep down, you knew you yearned for a romance like theirs, something genuine but passionate, able to withstand the test of time (and your ever-dwindling patience). James, your older brother, had found it with Lily, their son Harry being a product of their young but no less intense love. 

And you loved that kid like he was your own. Would beg James to let you come over, play with the babbling toddler for a few hours, would even offer up your weekends, encouraging the young couple to “go out, live a little!”. But they were about as infatuated with their own child as you were, and had a never-ending supply of friends who were equally as eager to help out.

Speaking of, one of those eager friends was currently pounding his stupid fist against your stupid front door, and you were already riled up from the news that you couldn’t take seeing his face physically in front of you, as well. 

You shoved past James, knocking him back a step as his hand reached for the door to let his best mate in. You caught a glimpse of him on the doorstep, the first in almost two years– hair unruly like he’d just rolled out of bed, long, black strands; newly tanned skin blushing under the heat of the sun; those thick, brooding eyebrows that raised up in your direction – eughh. 

“What’s got your knickers in a bunch?” James called at your retreating figure, shouting loud enough to be heard over your heavy footsteps despite the carpeted floor. 

“Ask your best mate over there!” you answered back with a bite, slamming your room door shut.

“Fuck,” he sighed, defeated, yanking his confused friend in and a chucking a thumb towards the stairs. “How’ve you managed to piss her off before you even got here?” he asked incredulously. “Peace– we had peace in this house for the past two years since you’ve been off travelling, and now look–! It’s a bloody riot!”

“Oi– I’ve done nothing,” he moaned indignantly, hanging his coat and scarf on the gold-crested hooks by the door. “--I think,” he added for good measure after a beat.

He never understood why the two of you struggled to get along. You’d grown up together, spent every waking moment in each other’s presence when he was at the Potter residence (which happened to be just about always given his own family situation). In theory, he should be like some sort of older brother figure– someone to loan out advice and shoulders to cry on and all that jazz.

But no. Something about you and your irritatingly know-it-all personality, or shrill voice when indignant (which was rather often around him), or your need to always be right – something about you made it so he just had to tease you endlessly until you were yelling, voice all pitchy, nostrils flared, breath heavy and face blotchy. When things would begin to die down, he’d find something else to point out, argue back, hit the nail on your specific head– something to really push you that little bit over the edge. 

It was a little too fun to not try to get a rise out of you every time you were together. And as much as Sirius was aware that the jabs each of you threw had gotten a little more out of hand and a little less appropriate for your relationship– he just couldn’t stop. 

The rest of the Potter family didn’t share your sentiments about Sirius, and rather adored him immeasurably. Had since he’d taken to hiding out in their house after a particularly brutal fight at home when he was only eleven. Heck, he’d even attended every Potter-family gathering, dinner, birthday, you name it, since then. It was why he came over every Sunday for a roast, pudding and some chat – he could never put into words what your family had done for him, the safety, security, home, even, they'd given him when he’d been lost and entirely clueless of what a real family looked like.

So he made the thirty-minute drive, every Sunday, much to your irritation. He plastered on the biggest smile for your Mum, complimenting every minute detail of the meal she cooked for the family, drank a glass of whiskey and smoked a cigar with your Dad; he was even Harry’s favourite, always humming quiet melodies into the youngest Potter’s ear.

With him travelling the world for the past almost-two-years, he’d missed out on the family time he usually looked forward to every weekend. Mondays seemed a lot less dreadful after having a belly-full of Mrs Potter’s food. Still, he’d sent postcards and printed pictures of everywhere he went, the sights he’d seen, people he’d met. It wasn’t the same, not without the lot of you to pester him (maybe you especially) but he’d needed some time to find himself.

He still wasn’t sure if he’d found what he was looking for, but the money had to have run out eventually so he was back home, ready to work and settle down in his life for once after graduating Hogwarts. 

Sirius followed James into the living room where he found Lily, sipping on a glass of red, sitting by the empty fireplace. Instead, a window had been cracked in to let the temperate wind in.

She perked up as they entered, waving with that soul-wrenching smile of hers that could persuade even the most strong-willed of men into submission. 

“Pads, you’re back!” she called from her seat. "And you've grown a moustache-- interesting choice of facial hair." Sirius, however, raised an eyebrow at her questioningly, ignoring her greeting-slash-judgement as he peered into the empty crib by her side, even going as far as to search under it as if the toddler might have escaped.

“Harry’s gone to bed in the guest room. There was a bit of a shouting match before you arrived,” James explained, sinking into the space beside his wife and pulling her into his side. “Actually, now that I think about it, there was a lot of shouting after you arrived as well!” 

Lily snorted, snuggling into her husband without hesitation, and Sirius couldn’t help but avert his eyes, feeling entirely like he was imposing on an intimate moment as the two of them whispered in the other’s ear.

“Well, don’t mind me. Sitting here, all by my lonesome, no company or polite chatter to partake in, not even my dashing god son to entertain me” he sighed, dramatically, to no one in particular. James rolled his eyes at his best friend’s antics, chucking a frilly throw-pillow at his face (that’s what they’re for, right?) which he just as easily caught. 

“Har-Har! Ever the clown, Paddy,” James mocked, flipping him off just in time for his Mum to walk in and see.

“James! Don’t aim such crude displays at my son,” she scolded, wrapping her wrinkled arms around Sirius’ shoulders from behind his chair. She leaned down, kissing the top of his head affectionately. Sirius only whimpered in agreement, leaning into her motherly touch and whining on and on about how James was being a right bully. 

“My sweet child, I’ve missed you!” She beamed down at him, and that longing Sirius sometimes felt for his own Mother’s approval, her devotion or fondness, it lessened. 

“But you didn’t– He was just!-- You missed– arghh!” James groaned defeatedly, head flailed back to rest against the sofa, receiving no sympathies from his giggling wife and glaring Mother. “I’m starting to understand why she hates you.”

Sirius’ eyes flashed at that– did you really hate him? Had it gotten to that point?

At the mention of your name but current absence, Mrs Potter ordered, “Go call your sister for dinner, I’ve set the table.” 

He began to protest, failing to come up with a half-decent reason why he can’t walk up the two flights of stairs and pull your petulant frame from your bed– but Sirius interrupted in time, before James could make any more of a fool himself in front of his own Mother. “I’ll go get her. Got to figure out what I did this time,” he offered coolly. 

Euphemia, that is, Mrs Potter, had a strict no-apparting rule in her house, had lost too many expensive vases from James and Sirius’ apparition-sprees the second they’d turned seventeen. You already had your licence, having been of legal age for some time, and had, since graduating (top of the class, as you tended to point out, much to your Ravenclaw friends’ dismay) from Hogwarts, found a job at a school in the muggle world, teaching children English Literature in preparation of some exam. O Levels, you’d called them. 

Sirius thought it to be some sort of torture device - these O Levels – but you’d smacked him across the head in admonishment with the book in your hand – you were always carrying one, though he designated them to be a weapon, at least when in your possession – before he could say much else. Having a family-run bookshop made it so that the books, or the weapons, really, were in endless supply for you, much to Sirius’ chagrin.

Your love for reading had come from him, your Father, from when he’d stay up till the late hours of the night, hushed whispers under your bed sheet so your Mother wouldn’t hear, as he read you the Classics in animated voices that had you completely enchanted. He made sparks fly from the tip of his wand, bright colours that your little eyes couldn’t quite get enough of.

You loved being a wizard, were eternally grateful for the world you lived in and the undeniable awe of it all. But words, books, literature – they were enough magic for you, took you to places you could only ever dream to visit, and had you feeling such all-consuming emotions that sometimes, you wondered if you’d ever make it to the end of the page, or chapter, or book. 

“Oi– your Mum’s put out dinner, she’s calling you downstairs,” he called through the thick wood of your door. 

Sirius didn’t know why he was nervous. It was you, the little girl he’d watched grow up and had grown up with. But if the short glance he’d gotten of your stomping person as you huffed up the stairs was any indicated, you were by no means little anymore. 

Funny what a few years can do to a person, huh. 

He nudged it open when you didn’t respond, only to find you slumped across your bed, glaring, silently, at the ceiling and the pale-orange light emanating from the lamp on your bedside table.

You certainly looked different– older, possibly? He couldn’t quite place what had changed, only that he knew something had. In the way you dressed, styled your hair, held yourself. Even the look of your room– no longer plastered in butterflies and pink roses, but instead painted a burnt umber and with tapestries and muggle band posters hanging across every wall. A stack of vinyls were shoved into one side of your room, along with piles and piles of books, some old and missing a few pages, while others were untouched. 

You heard the door click open, sitting up on your elbows to see a smirking Sirius, oozing an annoying amount of confidence, and leaning against your doorframe. 

Something in your chest stumbled almost immediately. He looked the same, behaved the same as well. Still the Sirius that had left to see the world, leaving the rest of you behind. Though, he might’ve managed to actually tan, now that you really looked at him, imagining the broad planes of his shoulders, hidden by a thin linen button up, were more sun-kissed than milky-pale now. 

Except you refused to even entertain the thought. You were not thinking of him or his skin or his bare chest or--

“What’s with the face?” you asked, already knowing you’ll regret the answer.

“Was that meant to be a greeting?” His eyebrow raised in amusement.

“Hi Sirius-- what’s with the face?” you answered, again, between clenched teeth. 

“Nice pair of panties you got on there, bright pink, are they?” he nodded at your thighs, only just clocking that maybe having your legs spread so far apart when you’re wearing a skirt wasn’t the best idea.

Your thighs snapped shut just as Sirius was snickering behind his fist. “So, dinner?” he asked again, stepping into your room and letting the door shut behind him.

“Go to hell.”

“See, that sounds a little inconvenient, and a lot hot– humidity isn’t great for the hair, or skin. Anyway, I’ve just been around the world and found no place called Hell so not sure what to say, little Potter.” You hadn’t missed his sarcastic rambles, even though you were already struggling to hide the smile taking over your face as you looked anywhere but at him. “I tried, I really did, just for you.”

Your stomach dipped at that, a wave pulling you under-- for you. 

“Buuuut– you know what I absolutely adore? Your mother’s cooking, and I haven’t had it in a while, so up ya’ get,” he insisted, tugging you up by your forearms until you were pressed against his front, not a sliver of space between the two of you. 

Your breath caught in your throat. You could feel him everywhere. Hot skin against your bare arms, the itchy wool of his jumper, if you concentrated a little more, the hard expanse of his chest against yours. He must have felt it too because he released you like you were fire and he a mere mortal, brows pinching in confusion and something else, looking at you like you were a question he couldn’t quite find the answer to. 

It was entirely foreign, the heat gathering in the pit of your stomach– it surely hadn’t been there before he’d left. You looked, or gawked, more like, at the very man you detested with every ounce of your being, but also the very man you were about to spend almost every hour of every day, for the rest of the Summer, with.

“Fuck,” he cursed under his breath, as if realising the same thing as you now that you were stood in front of him. Suddenly, he understood what the whole shouting match must have been about, and up until a few moments ago, he might have disagreed with you entirely.

Now, though? He wasn’t sure what he felt.

“Ditto,” you breathed back. You pushed past him after staring for a second too long, hurrying on socked feet to the dining room downstairs, and not bothering to check if he was following. 

The quiet jingle of the bell tickled your ears as you opened the door to the bookshop, dust immediately invading your senses as you fought back a harsh cough. Your Dad pushed in front of you, forcing the door to stay open by propping a stack of intimidatingly large books in front of it. You laughed silently to yourself, noting how they were all Dickens (he hated Dickens, said his novels were disturbingly boring and unnecessarily detailed). 

You could only agree, never having had the courage to pick up any of those enormous beasts yourself. 

“So, you can dust a little, and sweep the floor, before we open. Count the money in the till, as well, that’s very important,” he noted off, and you suddenly wish you had a pen and a pad of paper to write it all down. It wasn’t like you hadn’t been helping out at the shop since when you were younger, but this was the first time you’d been granted the responsibility of having it all to yourself (minus the inconvenience that was Sirius Black). 

You were an adult now (barely, but that was a technicality)– loved to point it out any chance you got, and it meant that your Dad trusted you enough to not hover over your shoulder every time you took a shift. He was working fewer hours, though now, none, as he wanted to finish the novel he’d been writing for the past decade after melodramatically announcing at the dinner table that “It’s time!” 

You weren’t sure what that exactly meant, but you weren’t about to argue with the man paying you an overly generous ten pounds an hour. 

You didn’t need the money for yourself, what with still living at your parent’s house, but you wanted to contribute to the house and expenses and what no, even if it was a minuscule sum. 

“Another thing,” he added, stopping, rather abruptly, in front of you, voice worryingly grave as he placed his large palms over either of your shoulders. “Please,” he begged, brows dipping, “don’t fight with Sirius in front of the customers.”

“I haven’t even done anything and you’re already after me,” you objected, pulling back from his usually comforting hold and pulling the broom out from behind the counter. His hands fell defeatedly against his sides as he sighed, standing in your way before you could mope yourself into a tizzy before the work day had even started. 

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he ensured, pulling you in for a tight embrace. “You know you’re my number one, sweetheart. Just don’t like seeing you so upset.”

James always teased you for being your Father’s favourite, and you’d never argue, relishing in his pointed fingers and sneering words, because it was true– there was something between you and your Father, an understanding that no one else had clued in on. He eased your worries like no one else could, smoothed irked creases across your face, replacing them with belly-hurting laughter lines and a grin so wide, you were worried it would fall off your face.

Anyway, James was the same with your Mum. You found her difficult to communicate with, what with her being as hot-heated as you were, so as much as you and your Dad got along, you butted heads with your Mum just as much. “It’s ‘cause you two are so similar, like twins, I tell you!” But it did little to calm your nerves around her, or stoke the flames of anger you so often felt. 

You were about to respond, ready to tell your Dad just how much you loved him, when someone crashed through the door, slamming into the counter you were standing behind. You turned, eyes connecting with your (late) colleague. He looked utterly windswept, as if he’d run – or been chased – the whole way there. 

“You okay, son?” your Dad asked, worry shifting from you to the panting, bent-over Sirius. 

“Me? Oh– peachy, just– peachy,” he answered between heavy breaths, waving off his doting hands. “Sorry I’m late, got a little carried away with something and lost track of time.”

You were conscious of how your Dad didn’t offer Sirius the same advice, to not pick a fight or argue or whatever it was the two of you did, and you couldn’t help but roll your eyes at how he had everyone charmed. So you busied yourself behind the till, doing as you were instructed and counting the money, writing down the number of each of the bills on a notepad you pulled from the drawer at your waist. 

Your Dad left soon after, turning the closed sign out front to open as he wished you, and Sirius, good luck. 

“Guess it’s just the two of us, little Potter,” Sirius pointed out, already sounding bored as he fell into a stool at your side. He leaned his head against his arm, stretching it from side to side as he groaned at his tense muscles.

You didn’t mean to stare, swore it wasn’t something you’d let become a habit, but your gaze immediately travelled to the exposed skin of his neck, zeroing in on the trail of newly-formed purple bruises  down the side. You snorted, shaking your head at him, slamming the money compartment shut a little too aggressively so that it caught Sirius’ attention. He recognised your expression to be something close to amusement, jabbing you in your side until you were scowling and slapping his fingers away.

“What’s wrong with you– you’re acting like a fucking child,” you admonished, moving out of reach and resting a hand on your hip. 

“Why’d you make that face?” he asked instead of answering your question, nodding at you like it was you who had started it.

“It’s nothing,” you went with, hearing your Father’s words echoing in your mind from just moments ago. You needed to diffuse the situation before you really got mad, because past that point, you weren’t responsible for what you said– or did. 

So you ventured into the aisles of books, a curious Sirius on your heels, following you like a lost, yapping puppy. “If it’s nothing then why are you running away?” he pushed back.

You ignored him pointedly, stopping to stack a few books and dust along the shelves. No one had come in yet, still too early in the morning for any tourists to stumble upon your admittedly quaint but bursting shop. 

The sunlight barely filtered past the dense collection of books and mahogany shelves that lined the walls, but the windows stretched to the tall ceilings, and if you went up the spiralling staircase at the centre of the store, you’d find yourself in a cosy loft space, bathed in gold and stuffed with arm chairs and sofas for people to sit and read in. 

It was your favourite part of the store, and you were seriously debating hiding up there on your first day, just to get away from the walking-plague that followed you. 

“Come on– tell me,” he whined, standing too close for your liking. You side-stepped away, brushing a cloth against the worn covers of the Mystery section. He followed suit, returning to his previous position, and this time, you had no way out with the wall of books you’d met. 

You turned, facing him and finally acknowledged his presence. “You lied,” you stated matter-of-factly, loving that you actually had the upper-hand with him. As much as you prided yourself with being quick-witted, Sirius always seemed to find a way to stay on-top.

“Gonna have to give me something more than that, darling. Lied about what?” he countered, raising an eyebrow at you. 

It took everything in you to ignore the pet name, something more endearing hidden under it that you had never noticed before, and those pesky butterflies returned to bug about in your gut. 

Fucking moths, you groaned internally. 

“You said you were busy and lost track of time. But those bites across your neck say otherwise,” you stared pointedly at the affected area now, though it was covered by his hair in this position. His hand flew to his neck, as if only just realising they were on display.

“That’s none of your business Potter,” he countered, now irritated and still trying to hide the hickies on his neck with only his palm. 

“It actually is my business when you’re both late to your job and lying to my Father,” you threw back, shoving forward and relishing in his slight stumble back– as if he hadn’t yet noticed the two of you were so so close. 

“You can’t–” his eyes were wide, worried, as he grabbed your elbow, forcing you to meet his gaze, “You can’t tell him. He’ll be so disappointed and I can’t–”

Now it was your turn to frown over the devastation so wrought over his face. And if you two were anyone else, you might’ve let it go. Might’ve– 

“Well tough shit, Black. You’re an adult, now. This is the real world we’re talking about. Not whatever fantasy you’ve been away in for the past two years. And here, in the real world–” you gestured around yourself, “--actions have consequences. You slutting it up on the night before your first day at your new job isn’t much of an excuse, now is it?”

And really, you deserved it, now that you thought back. His anger was reasonable and your need to poke straight through his ribcage, wrap your fist around his heart and squeeze tight, was not. 

“Oh, fuck you, Potter!” he bit out. “You’re accusing me of not acting like an adult when you literally still live at home! Not to mention you can’t have a decent conversation with anyone without throwing the most childish temper tantrum known to man. I might be slutting it up, as you’ve put it, but at least I’m getting some,” he was breathing hard now, and the more he spoke the more the anger burned away, but his words wouldn’t stop. In fact, you think you could see him cringe, in pain or guilt or some nervous tick, as he delivered the final blow. 

“Maybe if you weren’t so miserable to be around all the time, someone might actually give it to you too.”

It didn’t take long for you to react. Nor did it take long for your hand to fly up and connect with his cheek, hard and final. He wasn’t even surprised, had seen it coming a mile way, maybe even from his first “fuck you”. Because he knew he deserved it and he remembered now why he had left two years ago. Sure, it wasn’t all you. There’d been others who had irked him to the point of wanting a fresh start. And even then, it wasn’t that you were one of those people– you just would get him so riled up, to the point where he could no longer trust the words coming out of his mouth. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered then, fighting the urge to look away from your glassy stare. “I’m sorry, Potter. You know I don’t mean it.”

And deep down inside, you did know. You knew you both brought out the worst in each other. Only, you could never figure out why that was. Why you wanted to hurl insults and slap him silly for every comment or look or stupid way he’d string together the most perfect sentence and his irritating eyes and mouth and–

“Excuse me? Is anyone here?” 

You inhaled, all sudden, as if only just realising what you had done (or what you had thought). You brushed past him without a word, needing, more than ever, to put some space between the two of you. If not for your anger then for whatever pesky emotion was seeping through your cracks.

You were (reluctantly) pulled from wherever your thoughts had been racing to as you called into the store, “Just one moment!”

You didn’t see it, not then – too focused on keeping one foot in front of the other as you made your way back, escaping to the front of the shop, faking a polite smile as you greeted the awaiting customer– but Sirius collapsed, defeated, into the wall the moment you walked away. 

Something was telling him that if he hadn’t just torn your heart to shreds with a string of insults then he might have done it some other way– some other way that might have left him in trouble with James, Lily and your parents for an entirely different set of reasons. 

‘Cause Jesus Christ– he wanted to be the one to give you what you needed. Or rather, he needed to, desperately. And two years away hadn’t altered the line between the two of you from enemies to something more. 

And Sirius truly debated if this was the moment for him to get back onto a train to anywhere you were not. It didn’t matter if he had no money or nowhere to be, but if it meant he could avoid killing you with words or kissing your face off– he couldn’t quite see a way out of his predicament. 

James would kill him. As would your parents. And Lily– God, you prayed Lily never found out. She’d serve his head up on a platter and laugh while she did it. She was awfully protective of you, always on your side when you bickered with him. If anything, you loved her even more for it, having always noticed how you frowned a little deeper, detached a little more from yourself, whenever your parents favoured him in an argument.

“Sirius!” you shouted again, no longer faking your emotions but rather genuinely just exasperated by him once more. 

“I’m coming! I’m coming!” He managed to not get lost in the labyrinth of books, and found you by the travel section, chatting good-naturedly with a blonde in a tight dress.

“How can I help, doll?” he asked the blonde in question. His one tactic for almost every conundrum he’d ended up in was avoidance. And bloody hell was he good at it. 

He smiled at her, the customer, doing little to hide his admiration for the legs she had on display. She flushed a pretty pink, averting her gaze, lip between her teeth. Bingo! 

“Christ, you’re disgusting,” you muttered, mouth pouting and quiet enough that only he could hear.

“Only for you, sweetheart, only for you,” he bit back, not wanting the currently oblivious customer clue in on their conversation. “So, how can I help?”

“She needs that book–” you pointed to the top shelf, well out of reach. “--the green spine that says Amsterdam, but I can’t reach it and the step ladder is too heavy.”

“Alas! Only ever needed for my body, it seems,” he moaned with an irritating amount of flourish. 

“Whatever it takes to get the book down– do what you must, Black.” You patted his chest reassuringly, taking your spot, once again, behind the cash register.  

“So– planning a trip are you?” Sirius asked in between excessive displays of strength as he hauled the bulky ladder with a single hand. You glared at the girl as she swooned at him, wanting, rather unreasonably, for her to combust right where she stood.

But that was a ridiculous thought to begin with. You could barely stand to be even within a metre’s distance of the guy, let alone on the receiving end of his affections. You were tired, emotional and dehydrated. Must be. Though a glance at the clock had you realising it had barely been an hour since your day had started. 

So, maybe just emotional and dehydrated. 

“I’m going to get a coffee from across the street,” you announced, slugging your tote bag onto your shoulder as you walked past the preoccupied pair. Not waiting for a response, you stepped out into the early morning sun, frowning, for once, at the glare in your eyes and not the irritant you’d left behind. 

It was easier to refer to him as something pesky, infectious, fungus-like even, rather than the only person who knew how to break your heart (and despite your somewhat impenetrable facade, you let him do just that every time).

please please PLEASE reblog & leave some feedback <3 i'll boop you if you do x

[demigod-of-the-agni]

Y'all have yet to see the all-consuming Rage that runs through my blood whenever I think about Dragons: The Nine Realms, aka the worst show in all of existence. So obviously @blankspace-art and I are rewriting the whole thing.

And to celebrate *season 4* of this trash show dropping today, I have taken it upon myself to show the world our version of the characters.

Starting with our NEW AND IMPROVED Tom Kullersen :)

we're totally normal and sane about this guy 🧍

Tom's design takes inspiration from David Ardinaryas Lojaya's concept art.

[goldsbitch]

Just don't talk--

-and come over. p3 to Just don't talk

summary: Enemies to lovers on steroids. Lando can't stand Y/N, the first female driver in F1. He also can't stand not having her with her clothes on.

warnings: minors do not interact, cursing, a bit of smau...just generally don't take this one too seriously

The following week marked a u-turn in the media strategy of McLaren and Aston Martin. Another set of meetings, very quick as nobody wanted to open a can of worms or cause even more talk on the topic of Y/N and Lando. They studied the material shot for the F1 - and the consensus was to stop the Lando x Y/N part being released out as it gave off strange vibes. It was a mix of pure lack of chemistry and then a sudden spike of sexual tension and a 180 shift. In all fairness it was a bit uncomfortable to watch for the media teams, who had to analyse people they were in direct daily contact.

No unnecessary contact. No joined interviews. Keeping them as apart as possible. Gone were the days where teams would use the sexual tension as a selling point. Times have changed, this would fly really well in 2010's, but now anything of this sorts for a nightmare for PR. Y/N would be undermined. Lando put in a fuck boy category. It wasn't like anyone saw anything happen. None of the people initiating these meetings had even slightest idea that their worst nightmares were only a light version of the truth. If there was ever an elephant in a room, it was this time. Nobody dared to speak their mind. The whisper challenge video came out without the two. Having it cut and deleted from all hard drives was an order and nobody was to speak of it again.

Social media had been strangely quiet, focusing on race related topics. That was until Lando wore a short sleeve, his healing bite mark seeing the light of day and on display for thousands of eyes. How was one suppose to wear long shirts in hot ass countries they were constantly traveling to? Personally, he thought it was cool and there was even a point where he debated having it tattooed - owning the shit out of and taking the power away from Y/N. Max, his best friend, stopped him. But the thought still lingered back in his mind. It had been a little too long since their last night session. Jerking off was fine, but never good enough. The bite mark caused quite the stir among his fans, but he honestly gave little to no shit about that. He was not going to contact her first though. The last thing he would do is to simp up to her. So when there was a hot model present at one their random club night outs, he did not think twice. It was a little too easy for his liking, but he needed to blow some steam. He could have been discreet, he really could. But why? There was a part of him that was excited to see how this would resonate with Y/N. The violent make out outside the club really was not necessary. Especially when Lando knew that there was a photographer sitting nearby patiently, about to make a living out of a Lando's whim.

When Lando scrolled instagram the next morning, he has a little too proud smile on his face. He would never admit it out loud, not even to himself, that Y/N was on his mind when he fucked the brunette. Mediocre night at best. What worried him a bit was that bad sex was something he almost forgot existed. Of course that Y/N saw it. It was one of the first things that popped up on her phone that morning. It did not bother her. Not even closely. She just had a good energy streak, that was her reply to her trainer when she nearly broke the rowing machine at the gym. She uninstalled instagram later in the afternoon, trying to get the instagram girl's face out of her memory.

There was no way she'd be the one texting him for a late night hook up now. Maybe it was for the better in the end. Focusing on racing only now and even potentially beating him on the track. Night got a little too lonely without the option to have him over, on her and under her. She tried baking, reading, got really into chemistry related youtube videos, yet drinking and working out seemed to be the only thing to really work.

Two long weeks passed until she finally received a text. She ignored that her heart skipped a beat when she saw his name on her phone screen.

"Bro. What are we going to do now?"

She rolled her eyes. What a lame ass opening. No point in playing the waiting game, so she replied immediately. She could care less.

"Aw, got bored and miss some quality fucking?" She second guessed the text right after sending. Was that too desperate? She thew the phone away for few minutes. One late night unnecessary coffee later, she picked it right back up.

"No, you little shit. You not on socials or what?"

A screenshot followed.

There were PR nightmares and there was this kind of disaster. Instagram and Tik Tok got installed back immediately. She watched some cuts and edits from their video, low quality snips that were not giving any full image. Comment after comment, the creativity not being of concern to anyone. All of the same note. Is there more to their obvious dislike of each other? There were only few who were concern by why did most of the leak footage give such a hostile vibe. Lando's eye fucking was more of an attractive topic.

She scrolled for few minutes, watching a new shift on their public image unfold. It was mostly the hardcore fans, not really something the big outlets took interest in at the moment. But there was one theme that followed - people were curious. Panic set over her, mind started racing in all possible scenarios. And then did something for the first time - she dialed Lando's number. He picked up reluctantly.

"How did it get out?" she asked right away.

"Hello to you too. And the fuck would I know."

"Seems like something that would fit into your current portfolio, so yeah, I am asking directly."

Lando smiled proudly. She was jealous. Oh, what he would do to see her face now.

"Hate to disappoint, but I don't have the need for cheap attention." Liar, all he wanted was for her to notice him.

"Ok, assuming nobody from your team or my team did, who got it out?"

"I severely overestimated your ability to focus on the important thing here, apparently."

"So you tell me, Mr. Genius."

"Like I said before you invaded my evening by this panic phone call. What are we going to do? The last thing I'd want is for someone to find out...about us." It felt strange for both of them, to hear him say it like that. Like it wasn't a problem. Every time someone put them together in a sentence, it had been a bad connotation. But not his tone, this one time.

"Well, I don't know, I've only had a minute to process."

"Oh, take your time, of course. Time flies really slowly on social media, so yeah, I'd say you have about a year or so to react."

"Well, we're obviously not going to react anyway."

"I really hope they don't force us to. I'm getting sick of all the media team meddling in. It's their fault in the first place," he said, unamused.

"Yeah, you're right. Good defense, I will use that if they bring it up."

"Don't worry, you'll get my invoice for consulting in your email tomorrow."

"Aw, McLaren not paying enough?"

"I'm sorry, you're still at Aston, correct?"

"Shut it, Norris. So that's it? We'll just not react and let it go?"

"I mean, what else is there to do. Denying anything will only bring up more questions. It's not like people will believe we're friends."

"That, my friend, is true."

"I'm a smart boy, not only a sex god."

"Uhm." Trouble is that he really really was.

"So we'll just let it die out?"

"Yeah. When someone mentions it, we can say that we just don't get along and that's that."

"Great, no lie there."

There were few seconds of quiet tension. Panic was somehow over, but the high adrenaline stayed. It was late evening, their usual prime time. Would they? Should they? Y/N was debating whether she wanted to see Lando again with the vibe he was setting around himself lately putting her off a bit. But then there was the need for territorial claim. Built up energy that wanted to get out. Both of them silently trying to come up with a line good enough for Lando to come over and "dance" with Y/N in a way no friend would. Lando took a breath to speak, but Y/N was quicker.

"So, wanna come over for a work out?" He was over at her place within 25 minutes.

part 4

[yeyinde]

lavender skies | Kyle "Gaz" Garrick x GN!Reader

Then suddenly, and all at once, there's a loudness in your head: a hundred whispers echoing in time to the same off-beat rhythm, full of memories and moments shared between you, threads woven throughout the years all buoying to the surface as you realise you're a little bit in love with him.  (And that, maybe, you've been a little bit in love with him the whole time.)

tags: friends to lovers (but the type of friends who are basically already dating and everyone knows except them - until suddenly they do), mutual pining. Slight Kent bashing, oops. Golden Girls as a coping mechanism. warnings: none. very tame, considering who I am as a person. Heavy make-out sess, though. word count: 6,6k notes: This has been sitting in my requests forever (I lost the original, but the gist was: Gaz + pining + idiots in love). You can blame a lot of this on summer rain and 80s city pop. Been going to the pier and listening to it while I wrote this. Not my best, sure, but it was fun.

The Tinder date he warned you not to go on (and seriously, mate, who uses Tinder anymore?) ends like this:

Your date, the biggest gentleman in Kent, as proclaimed in his bio (a red flag in hindsight—there's no such thing as a gentleman from Kent), sneaks his number to the waitress, and then leaves you behind in downtown Manchester to go bar hopping with a group he just met. 

It's not a great loss. All things considered, it's not even the worst date you've ever been on. It was just a spur-of-the-moment whim—equal parts anxiety and megrim: the sudden fear of being single forever (and no, despite what Kyle might say, it has nothing to do with the wedding invitation you'd gotten on Facebook, or the three others that came before it)—and therefore, there isn't much to be upset about. Not really. 

But the world doesn't work on half-hearted lies and shaky truths, and on a dank little corner in Manchester, abandoned by your ride home, your abysmal date who barely looked at you, you can't deny that it hurts. That it's a little bit of a hit to your self-esteem in a way that makes you angrier than you were before, because, honestly—he wasn't even a catch to begin with. 

Stupid. 

You should have listened to Kyle, to his immaculate wisdom and emotional maturity far beyond his years, but you hadn't because—

Well. Sometimes the world should work on little lies. If only to the ones you tell yourself. Ones like:

It's completely fine—really it is—if your friend of nearly eight years is moving on with his life. And it's totally, absolutely okay if your best friend meets some flighty barista in Amsterdam and won't stop talking about her for the meagre three weeks he's been back from his impromptu trip to the Netherlands, then to Mexico. It's fine. It's all fine. 

Because maybe you are, too. 

And maybe that's the reason you went out with David from Kent. 

From Kent? He texted, only hours before your date. (Hours because he'd been busy with this thing for his job—his boss is corrupt and the world is, too, but at least Amsterdam Barista is doing fine). You can do so much better than that, birdy.

You wanted to say, what? Like someone from Amsterdam instead? but you're doing this new thing where you try not to sound as mad as you think you are. Zen, maybe. Internal peace and happiness. So, instead, you say:

He's nice. I like him. 

Words that, of course, have come back to bite you. 

He isn't nice. He wouldn't stop staring at the waitress, and talking over you, or just generally ignoring your existence. He left you downtown, stranded without a way home. You don't like him. You really don't even think you were that interested in him. 

But it makes sense.

Kyle is moving on. Your friends are getting married. 

And where does that leave you? 

Well—

It leaves you stuck downtown with shoes that were intended to be used for aesthetics, the kind that means standing entirely still and immobile, and not walking the fifteen kilometres to your flat because you'd spent all your money on this super flattering outfit and these unfunctional shoes, and can't afford a cab or an Uber. 

Sometimes, you pretend you're a functional adult—one who knows how to navigate everything with ease, and you live in the present, the real world, where time is fluid and unchangeable, and things make sense (maths and geometry and physics) unless they don't (black holes and the vastitude of space and fate)—but moments like these remind you that you don't. That you live, instead, somewhere in the parentheses of both. 

The indigo sky, murky black and void of any stars, seems to grumble along with you as you turn toward the street, readying yourself for the long walk home. Except the groan sounds less commiserating and more ominous. A noise that seems to reverberate through the crowded street, and right into your bones.

Some have the wherewithal to find shelter. A smart move because almost a moment later, the heavens split, and a summer deluge drenches the street. It's unrelenting in its downpour, soaking everything in its path in a shrill roar. 

Caught in the middle of St Peter's Square, there are not many places to duck under for sanctuary, but you find an alcove beside a store, and dart toward it. The non-functional boots are pretty to look at, but with each step, you feel the hard synthetic rubber grind against your heel. Blisters form, break. The burn makes you inhale sharply against the pain, hobbling now on tender feet. 

The wall is slick with condensation, but you lean against it to keep your feet from taking the brunt of your weight. 

It reminds you, quite suddenly, of that night in Cardiff with Kyle. When you'd drank three-dollar margaritas at some downtrodden bar with your friends and ate rather limp-looking fish tacos (a mistake, of course, and Kyle still can't look at corn tortillas the same way), and laughed until your belly hurt at something he'd said—the words lost to alcohol and faded with time—and then leaned over, promptly throwing up in a bush. 

You still can't drink tequila without giggling (and gagging) at nothing, a phantom memory, and the thought presses against a tender spot in your chest in all the wrong ways. 

Time is fluid. An unavoidable truism that you can't escape. 

There are people you've known since you were a child whose faces you can barely remember. Ones you promised the world to, to always be together, who you hardly think of anymore. 

Moving on. Moving forward. 

You think, then, of Kyle. Of the distance that lingers between you both, widening each day. It's nothing you've done, nor he; it's just—

Life. Concurrent. Everpresent. 

It hurts to lose a friend, you'd always think. A small moment of grief, of loss. But not like this. Never like this. 

Stuck in a downpour in the middle of Manchester, you realise you miss him. Have been missing him. 

Huddling under an awning, you fish your phone from your soaked pocket, and pull up the only person you want to be around right now, in this moment of vulnerability. Loneliness. 

You send him a quick text, date was a bust. Stuck downtown. Are you busy?

Kyle's reply comes three breaths later. For you? Never. Send me your location. 

You send him your pin. 

Another message pops up: stay put. I'm on my way. 

You met Kyle Garrick at university. 

It's one of those things in life that just sometimes happens. A happy accident. An eventuality that makes the world feel a little less daunting. A lock and key sliding into place. Sunsets in pretty ochre. 

Someone you knew and someone he knew (two people who are now best man and groom in the upcoming wedding) decided to invite all of their friends out for a night, and it was then, slightly tipsy on cheap ale when you realised the boy in the back—a head taller than everyone else and more befitting inside the glossy pages of a magazine—was different, somehow, from anyone else you'd ever met. 

It started when some stupid kids decided to pick on another. A smaller boy with a blue cap. 

Kyle was the only one who noticed. The only one who seemed to care. 

It was his anger that drew you to him in the first place. Moth to a flame. It's quick—the sizzling flame of a lit match: suddenly burning the wick and nearly uncontrollable. But it's short. A flickering star, burning bright, burning hot, and then being tempered and swallowed down until it's smouldering. Still hot, still dangerous, but—

Managed. 

It was a snap. He was laughing, jovial. Telling jokes, and having fun, but still maintaining that enviable enigmatic persona: reserved but kind. Funny, but mature. And then it crumpled in an instant, folded away into anger. Bright and blistering. He walked to them, eyes blazing, and didn't wait for any excuses when the kids noticed him, just quickly decimated their foundations, and crushed their feeble lies between his teeth. 

"Bullyin'? That's a pretty foul thing to do, innit, mate?" 

And that was that. 

He handed the kid back his hat—the one the others knocked off into the gutter—and told him, clipped, that he was better than them. 

Just keep your chin up, yeah? Fuckin' losers, that lot. Don't go messing about with them anymore. Fucking pricks. That's a nice hat, too. Where'd you get it? Really? Oh, that's mint—

It was that moment when, unprompted and unnoticed, he easily slipped away from the group to help some kid he didn't even know that you realised you were very keen to get to know him. 

"Fancy a kebab, hero?" You asked, smirking up at him. 

A grin broke across his face. Sharp, feral. "I could always go to a lamb kebab."

The rest, really, just came quite naturally. Your best friend. The person you go to for anything—even terrible dates that leave you stranded in the rain. 

You just wish you knew when it all began to change, to fall apart. 

Kyle meets you near St Peter's Square. 

You spot him first from your hiding spot beneath the awning, catching sight of his form moving through the (now) empty streets, hands shoved in the pockets of his denim trousers, the bottoms tucked, sensibly, into his fawn-coloured boots. 

Even with the hood of his windbreaker pulled low over his brow, you can pick him out of a crowd with an ease that is as warming as it is jarring. 

You wave him over when he stops on the mouth of Mount Street, looking in toward the Starbucks on the corner. 

He finds you just as easily. And oh, his expression makes your toes curl in your misshapen boots. 

Anger pinches the corner of his mouth, and hangs off the furrow of his brow, the divot between his eyes. 

"Unbelievable," he huffs when he reaches you in the middle of the street, and sucks his teeth when you open your mouth to protest. 

"It is what it is," you offer, playing the peacekeeper. You fall into step with him, trying not to wince. "I'm over it." 

"Yeah?" The shadows across his brow deepen. "Are you sure? 'Cause… I'll fuck him up for you." 

Setting your friend on a man from Kent feels entirely too vindictive, despite how much of a rush you get at the thought of seeing the man cowed a little bit. You shake your head, playing the part of a reasonable adult. 

"It's okay. I'm just—I'm just, over this, yeah? Can we—"

Kyle stops you with his hand against your shoulder. "You alright?"

"My feet hurt," your smile is strained. "Terrible shoes." 

"Take 'em off."

"Are you crazy—?"

"I brought slides for you. Figured you'd wear something stupid." 

"Okay, fair. But—ouch? We can't all be crazy good-looking Armani models. Some of us have to work for it." 

Kyle snorts. "Just take your shoes off, yeah? Throw 'em in my bag."

You can't deny it feels blissful when you lean against the slick wall outside of a shop, toeing off your tight boots. Aching feet freed from their prison. The sigh you let out makes him glance up at you from the pavement, bent over the rucksack he brought. 

There's disapproval in his gaze—maybe at your choice. Choices. The date he warned you about. The boots. The socks he spots are stained with blood on the knob of your foot. 

He tuts. A soft admonishment that cuts through the silence of the empty square. But it's all he says. He swallows the rest and drops the shoes he grabbed on the pavement in front of you, slowly pushing them forward with the tip of his toe.

You try not to grin when you see them.

Crocs. The ugliest ones you could find in Schuh. You'd bullied him into getting a matching pair with you. Neon yellow adorned with little clips. 

You slip them on as Kyle reaches down to grab your boots. He pauses with them in his hand, eying them with something that taints the air with his disdain. 

"When did you buy these?"

"On Friday." When he was sleeping off his impromptu trip to Chicago. He brought you home deep-dish pizza, frozen, and promised that it tasted much better fresh. "For the date."

"Why?" Is all he asks. 

You shrug. "They're cute…?"

His eyes stray to your shoulders. The wet fabric of your shirt. His chin lowers slightly, but his eyes stay fixed on your flesh, on the goosebumps that bubble to the surface, spreading over your exposed skin. Eyes flicker, catching a droplet of water you can feel running down from behind your ear, falling over the slope of your neck. It breaks against your collarbone. He watches it all. 

There's tension in the air. Static. The pressure builds and reeks of ozone when it presses into you, knuckles digging into the hollow of your throat. It renders you unable to speak—locked in a paradigm where the world beyond the honeycomb of his eyes ceases to matter, to exist almost. Thick honey ensnares you. Molasses. It clots against reason, logic, and makes you feel weightless. Floating, unmoored, in this unfamiliar abyss that closes in around you. 

Except—

It isn’t. 

There’s something aberrant about it, anomalous, that you can’t ignore; but beneath it sits a preternatural sense of familiarity that bends the paradox into knowns. Into tangibles. Concretes. 

This is the same tension that has been simmering—festering, almost—since before he joined the miliary. In Cardiff when he leaned against you in the taxi, boney shoulder digging into your arm, and said, ‘dunno what I'd do without you, y’know? 

It was the hazy smear of neon from the shops perched on the street. An ethereal gold hue streamed in from the window, cutting across the tenebrous in an asymmetrical chiaroscuro. The light was soaked up by him. Warm honey, the perfect compliment to his eyes, to the soft pink of his lips. 

How could you possibly describe the feeling that spumes in the pit of your stomach outside of undiluted comfort? 

Home.

It feels like like in shades; muted. A soft undercurrent that lingers inside something else, something deeper—

Moments in the foyer when he was heading back home for the evening. When he’d linger in the doorway, shoulder balanced against the frame, arms folded over his chest, and warned you not to watch Taskmaster without him. 

He’d know, he said. 

When you asked how, he just said:

“Because I know you.”

It feels like that. Like that and something more. Everything, all of it, coalesces into this. Into this moment where you can’t stop staring into the flecks of mahogany and charred birchwood in his eyes, and he can’t seem to decide where to keep his, vacillating between the slope of your neck and matching your stare. A lurch, a flash of something in your chest when your gazes meet. The deep sfumato of a bare forest in the middle of winter—rich browns, raw topaz, honey and amber in a sea of white. A sleepy hinterland. Solemnent and peaceful. Dreamy. Hypnogogic. 

The world always seems to shudder into a deep slumber whenever he’s around. 

He dips closer, swaying into you. Gravity, maybe. Tidally locked satellites on the same rung. Something bubbles in your chest. Unwinds from its dormant perch between the gaps in your ribs, and climbs up your esophagus. Ready, you think, to be free—

In the distance, tyres squeal against the pavement. 

—and all at once, the moment burst, breaks. Shatters into a million pieces, cosmic dust, and you watch them fall around you, blinking rapidly, as though you’ve just woken. 

It feels like slowly coming down to earth when you quietly gather your things, words now stuck in your throat. In their prison. 

Kyle tears his gaze away from your bare skin, clearing his throat. 

"Hardly." He murmurs after a moment and slips his jacket off his shoulders before wrapping it around yours. It smells of rainwater, wet rubber. Beneath the polymer, you can smell Kyle—vetiver, cypress, jasmine; sweet and heady—and you bury your nose in the hood when he turns back to the empty street. “Well, uh—”

You can’t speak. Not yet. 

He seems to understand. 

"Yeah," he nods, and reaches out, tugging on the end of the drawstring. "Let's get out of here." 

The rain lightens into a muted drizzle, soft droplets that fall, almost rhythmless, on the wet pavement. The town sleeps, the streets bare. Empty. The only sounds come from your slick footfalls, a horn in the distance. 

It’s an easy silence that lapses between you—not at all unlike the lulls before, when things were easy and featherlight and endless; when you could talk to him about everything, anything, and all of the worries in your life were saved for something else. Never him. Never, ever him. 

But it tugs at something in your chest. The same pressure blooms at the edges, lingering in the periphery. You think of the spell you fell under—quiet yearning—and shake your head, desperate now to break it. 

It’s just as easy to slip into familiarity. To tease, and taunt. And so, you do. 

"I'm surprised you haven't said I told you so by now. That's so impressive self-restraint."

His gaze slides over to you. "Well, you know, it's implied."

"Oh, is it, now?"

"Yeah, like when you messaged me and told me about it and I said—"

"Who even uses Tinder?"

"—that he's knobhead, and you're gonna get hurt."

You scoff. "He's from Kent, so."

"Even worse," he makes a face, derision contrasted by the jaundiced lamp spilling over the pavement. "A Tinder date with a guy from Kent? What's next? Moving to Bristol?"

"It's a nice area." 

He rolls his eyes. "Sure. As nice as Essex, maybe." 

"The two are not even comparable—"

"'Dunno why you're rushing into anything, anyway,” he angles his chin toward you. “If this is about Carver's wedding, I said I'd go with you, didn't I?"

"Yeah, but…"

"But what?"

"That's sort of—like, you just have your own thing going on. I don't want to get in the way."

"I've always had my own thing going on. So have you. But that's never stopped us before, has it? What's changed."

"What about—" you swallow down something thick, bitter that wells in the back of your throat. "You know. Amsterdam. The Barista, or whatever."

His brow knots together. "And what about David from Kent?"

You sweep your hands out, motioning morosely toward your Crocs, your damp outfit. "This is what happened with David from Kent. Not exactly the fairytale meet cute you have with Amsterdam—" he makes a noise, like he means to interrupt. You cut him off. Bury it. "And besides, you should take her. I'll just—" 

"I want to go with you."

"Why?"

Kyle falls to a stop near the Kebab shop you usually go to whenever he comes back from his missions, when he's craving good, hearty food that will rot his insides and clog his arteries. A small comfort from before, when everything he has now was just a dream, and you were struggling students in university who could barely afford a meal each and would split a lamb dinner over ale and terrible movies from the noughties back at your flat. 

The suddenness of it all makes you blink beside him, slowly angling your chin up at him. A questioning noise wells in the back of your throat, but when you finally turn your gaze to him, it does out. A snuffed flame. 

He brings his hand up, finger scratching at the soft patch of skin on the bridge of his nose where it starts to arch up. The look on his face, hidden, slightly, by the night blanketing overhead, but just illuminated enough by smears of neon and flushed street lamps for you to see it clove into something slightly flustered, hesitant. Sheepish, almost, like he hadn't meant to say what he did, and now doesn't know how to proceed forward. Cards tucked tight to his chest. Does he play his hand or fold? 

You blink. Then blink again. Struggling, almost, to take in the suddenness of his flustered state. 

Because the thing is:

Kyle doesn't get embarrassed or sheepish. 

A running gag in your mutual friend group is that Kyle is twenty-eight going on sixty-five. An old man crammed inside the body of a young adult. He runs hot—passionate about his beliefs, quick to temper when he thinks an injustice is being doled out; a disciple of loose stoicism, but of a new age variety that is half parts stereotypical stoner chillness and ripe maturity—but he rarely is ever caught unawares enough to become embarrassed by something. He just has a perfect gauge of himself and those around him, able to quickly make friends with anybody he meets, and self-aware enough to know when he's in the wrong, when he needs to dial it back. 

Being his friend for so long, you know the nuance of these expressions. His mien is ingrained in your head: known and catalogued. Nothing about Kyle is a mystery to you except the things you're barred from knowing (his second life away from home, you often joke: wholly confidential, entirety draped in secrecy). 

But the look on his face is entirely alien to you. An expression you hadn't thought him capable of making. 

It's jarring. It bludgeons into you with a ferocity that takes your breath away. 

You know the man standing beside you, but this, everything else, is so unearthly. So foreign. 

"Kyle," you hedge, taking a small step closer to him. You're not sure why. Maybe to reacquaint yourself with the man standing before you. Maybe to find something of familiarity within him to comfort the sudden crescendo of your pounding heart because even just the heady scent of his cologne—vetiver, amber—quells the sudden bloom of anxiety in the pit of your stomach. "Are you—?"

"No," he mumbles, then huffs out a soft laugh. It sounds mean, in a self-deprecating way, and your heart lurches for him. "Yeah, no. I'm alright. I just—shit, you know? 'Course I'd wanna go with you. Should be kinda obvious, no?"

Sure, you want to say. Sure, no, totally. Very obvious. And maybe had he not stopped, not made this peculiar expression on his face—like he isn't sure what to do when he always knows what he wants, what he's meant to do—you might have said them. Might let them tumble from your lips, equally self-deprecating and a touch forlorn despite never really knowing why, but that would be a lie, now. 

Because you do. 

The look on his face is upsetting—not because Kyle never makes that expression, or because he's never uncertain about anything, ever, but because you don't know it. It's not something you've ever seen before. And it hurts. 

It's stupid. This whole thing. It shouldn't make you feel some sense of loss when he does something you don't expect. He always does. It's his brand, now—jettisoning across the world to catch bad guys and slap the trite American sense of justice and liberty for all across the faces of anyone who tries to oppose it—and you're very much acclimated to this side of him, the one he hides away from you, giving nothing at all about where he's going, what he's doing, what he's done, until he's back in England, safe and sound, and texting you at six in the morning for an English spread because he missed home. And maybe, maybe he missed you, too. 

Those quiet moments are tucked into a cosm where it's only you and him, and greasy food, and reruns of Golden Girls together with your feet in his lap as you sit on the chaise and pick favourites (his is, of course, Rose) until the sun goes down, and he heads home because he has a debriefing in the morning in Hereford, and you have work. It's bereft of unease, of tension. Time slips through your fingers fluidly, and you hardly notice it's been hours since he first arrived. Comfortable, wholly, in his presence and in your skin. 

Soulmates, everyone used to joke. You just get each other. Near finish each other's sentences. 

Except for lately, where there has been this undeniable tension simmering between the two of you—a sense of fragility that you can't comprehend.

Growing apart, you thought. And then: guess it's time to do the same. 

It made sense to make the first move. To download Tinder—much to his chagrin—and start looking for your—

Your Barista from Amsterdam. 

And oh. 

Oh. 

Maybe it's the way the street light frames the angles and plains of his face, or the shadows that run deep lines of tenebrous across the valleys in his eyes, the sharp slope of his lips, the soft pout. The inscrutable expression that rents a jagged divot between his brow, and an unsure twist of his mouth. Maybe it's everything. Nothing. 

But the only thing you know right now is that you know him. Have known him. Deeply. Intimately. In a way that goes beyond the boundaries of bodies, of flesh and blood. Bones and marrow. You know his soul. His essence. The foundations of who he is cobbled together in a lonely kebab shop over cheap ale, commiserating on an endless stream of papers and assignments; the eventuality of ever after when you hand in the final one. Over beans and toast in the afternoon, a whole day spent lounging in your flat watching reruns of Golden Girls, and petty arguments over Taskmaster that always seem to go a little bit too far, and never far enough. Fights that end two days later when he shows up with Greggs and a complete box set of that show you said you wanted to watch but never had the time for. Bargain shopping in Tottenham on an early Saturday morning because there's this chair, you see, one that you saw on their Instagram page and you simply must have it. 

Soft moments in between, brackets where life doesn't seem to wrap its cold hands around your throat. Time spent in each other's company just for the sake of it. 

Climbing onto your roof—a thatched mess of moss and straw and broken asphalt shingles that will one day give under your weight—and watching the stars, always searching for one that rockets across the sky while he murmurs beside you, quiet in this stillness that falls like snow in the dead of night around you. A hushed whisper as he relays the places he's been—all stars, he rasps, hand brushing wide strokes across the raspberry sky, dusted with light pollution: I'll take you there one day to see. Best fucking beer I'd ever had, too, just don't tell my cousin because he thinks the shitty lager he makes for his bar is good—and you try to picture it amongst the grey clouds. A life on the opposite side of the world. Just the two of you. Always. 

And that's what it's always been, hasn't it? Just you. Just him. 

It's sometime past midnight on a street corner in Manchester. Your feet hurt from walking all night, and your clothes are damp from the rain that caught you off-guard. A summer downpour. It clings to your skin in a way that's both freeing and wholly uncomfortable, but you're not thinking about that. You're not thinking about anything at all, not now. Not really. There's a silence in your head as the world falls into pieces, breaking like the jaundiced light that cuts crevasses and canyons in the tenebrous that colours sharp valleys of his face. He turns, then, a gentle list of his head as he takes you in, breathes your silence and questions the wideness of your eyes, the soft parting of your lips. The movement makes the light spill over the arch of his nose, the slope of his brow. The dawning of a new day. A new world. The untouchable of the moon where no light shines now burning hot under the sun. 

Then suddenly, and all at once, there's a loudness in your head: a hundred whispers echoing in time to the same off-beat rhythm, full of memories and moments shared between you, threads woven throughout the years all buoying to the surface as you realise you're a little bit in love with him. 

(And maybe you've been a little bit in love with him the whole time.)

So, you say it. You whisper all the words that bubble up, impatiently waiting between your teeth, effervescent and burning white-hot as they throw themselves over bone and flesh to be free. 

Confessing goes like this: 

Molten agony in your guts as the secrets you barely understand yourself dissolve into the atmosphere, spoken aloud and born on cobblestone and petrichor. Wide-eyed shock, uncertainty, as a new quiet falls over your shoulders, louder than anything you'd ever heard. Guncotton in your nose. A million detonations in your ears. 

You've never much liked the silence. You break it, then, with your bare hands. 

"...and that's basically it." 

It isn't much. It isn't poetry. You're not even sure the words were real. A figment of your imagination, broken free because of baristas in Amsterdam and losers from Kent, abysmal dates and the unending fear of being wholly alone in a world you're not prepared for, all without the person who makes you feel a little bit better about the nothingness that permeates around you. 

And sure. Sure. You don't need him. If Kyle decided never to speak to you again, you'd cry and you'd hurt, but you wouldn't be less of a person because of his absence. He doesn't complete you in the same way you've read about in thick books with strong-willed protagonists and an abundance of petty misunderstandings, but he compliments you. Elevates the good and stifles the bad. You want to experience things with him—not because there's some grand force at play, red strings knotted around your fingers that lead you back to him—but because you like his company. His thoughts. His mind. His presence. His essence fills you with joy in the same strokes it makes you want to pull your hair out sometimes. Good and bad. You want it all. 

You want it. Want him. 

And he—

He's taking you home a little past midnight where you'll make yourself beans and toast and maybe try and sleep, or turn on the television to watch four women you're intricately connected to eat cheesecake and solve each other's problems. He could be at his own flat right now, playing that video game he said he wanted to try when he got back, or watching that movie he was supposed to with his flatmates, his friends. He could be talking to some barista in Amsterdam. 

But he isn't. 

He's here with you. Still. Still. 

"I just—," you say, or try to. 

But the rest is a muffled gasp against soft lips when he presses his against yours, stealing the words out of your mouth. 

You can feel your heart beating through your lips. Taste him on your tongue when he draws you closer, hands reaching, grasping. Pulling you into him, into his body. You fit against him, tucked safe between the parentheses of his arms. He tastes of cardamom and cornflower. Lavender notes between his molars. Hints of milk on his tongue. You drink him down and know, then, that this is what they mean they talk about love being a feast because you chase this taste for the rest of your life and never be satiated. 

He loops his arm around the small of your back, dragging you closer still. As if any atom between your bodies is an affront. There’s no hesitation in the action, in the way he burrows into your skin. No trepidation. 

And maybe it would be silly for there to be any. You know him—every iota, every inch; secrets whispered at midnight in a shallow breath and dreams uttered at noon. To be known, to know, is a powerful thing. You feel it ghost across your flesh, featherlight, and reach for it with your bare hands. Seeking, searching. You don’t stop until the tips of your fingers meet his warm skin, curling around him. Anchoring yourself to him. Stuck, now, in permanence. 

You find spots that were untouched before. Behind his ears, the dip of his brow, the curve of his nose, and the slope of his jaw. Cupping it in the palm of your hand, a plinth for him to rest his chin. 

Your canvassing makes him groan, makes him tilt down into you as he begins his own exploration, chasing you in a mad pursuit. Sliding over your valleys, your plains. Running over the rugged mountains and the steep cliffs. He scours your topography with eager, nimble fingers. It’s slow, languid. There’s no rush with this, a consensus you both seem to come to rather quickly when he pries open your mouth and tangles his tongue with yours. It’s sweet, soft. His hands mimic his chase, sliding along your body as if he means to commit the entirety of you to memory, searing it in his brain. 

It’s only when he comes to a crossroads at your navel, pushed flush against his body, does he stop. You moan in despair at it, wanting more and more, not ready to give up this taste that curls over your tongue—saccharine sweet, salty—and Kyle echoes the noise with a groan, a quiet plea for air that both of you desperately need but can’t quite make yourself take. 

“Fuck—” he groans again, breath stuttering out in sharp, deep gasps. “Can’t bloody tell you how long I wanted to do this for, fuck—”

His words seem to peel back the dreamy gossamer of a slowly burning sensuality. It ignites in a blaze, not at all unlike the swiftness of his anger. The sharp, sudden strike of a match. The crackle and hiss of flames renting the air. 

The blaze starts at the point where your upper lip touches his, and almost immediately, it consumes you. 

It's frenzied when he kisses you again—feral and wild: all teeth and tongue and nips against your bottom lip but the moment you sink into the fervour, Kyle changes it. Slows down. Chaste pecks to your sore lips amid a sensual onslaught. A languid roll of his tongue, soothing the burn his teeth left behind. 

The way he kisses you feels like a paradox. 

It's organised chaos. Refined madness. A cluttered mess of finesse and deliberate suckles; an artist's masterstroke. 

You can't keep up. His rhythm is fierce and uncatchable. 

Each step seems to stutter. An avartan you can’t keep pace with. Elongated taals, dips. A crescendo of harmony that is matchless, unreproducible. You struggle along with his swift current, his unerring tide that sweeps you away; unmoored, adrift. The tentative exploration ends. He knows you, now. All of you. And this is his summit. His scramble to the top. It’s biting passion; roaring flames. 

You cling to him, holding tight to the liferaft he offers in a slow huff, a gust of mirth across your lips and into your lungs, slowing down to accommodate you. Malleable, now, he lets you lead, lets you take over, and move seamlessly with him. In tandem, parallel. Equilibrium brings you to heel, and you sigh into his mouth—a deep exhale of everything that has been building and building, tipping the scales around you until it was unbalanced and precarious. Teetering on the edge a precipice unknown. 

His hand roams across your known geography—hills and streams, rivers and canyons—until he reaches your hand still bracketed around his cheeks, slowly peeling it away from his flesh to slide his fingers between yours, holding tight, and—

Kissing is immaculate. Bending at an altar, and making an offering to something bigger than yourself. It’s the spark of lightning flashing overhead, static in the air. Magnets drawing closer and closer until they snap together in the middle.

But holding his hand?

It feels like coming home. 

The world tipping back into place. Amber warmth in your veins; the softness of a jasmine petal. You suck in a deep breath at the shock of it all. 

You think of missing puzzles and loose sea ice drifting alone in the vastitude of the ocean. You think of a life where he isn’t in it and find yourself shuddering at the wrongness that emanates from it. 

You want him. Want him—

It’s Kyle who pulls away first, resting his forehead against yours. You blink slowly, eyes catching dark amber, honeycomb. It draws a smile from you, full and deep. Giddy on the taste of him, of this. 

The only thought in your head is finally, finally.

You see his lips curl in response, eyes lidded and heavy. Blooming with want, affection. Adoration. 

"What, ah—," he laughs a little, then, breathless and happy, and the noise anchors itself to your breastbone, pressing into the hollow of your ribs. A place you'll keep it forever. "What now?"

He hands you the starless sky, and places it into the cup of your palm. Breathes laughter in the air, paints the moon with his joy. You think about the places he wants to take you, and the ones he swears you'll never go. You think about aeons from now when the world is gone and the stars all die out, when there's just the hazy lavender of endless abyss you can't make sense of. You think of him, and you think of you, and you wonder when it started to just make sense for there to always be two. 

Maybe that night in Cardiff when he held your shoes and gave you his coat. When he draped his arm around your shoulders, laughing at something stupid you'd said. A year before he joined this task force he makes cheeky remarks about but never goes too deeply into detail. When it was just endless summers spent working and drinking and eating good food. 

He'd asked the same thing, then, half slumped over in the taxi, and three sheets to the wind. It made his eyes darken, endless pits. Black holes. The expanse of the sky is framed by brown lashes, and drooping lids.

And you'd said—

"Beans and toast?" It feels right. It feels good. "We can—"

He huffed, too, just like he does now, and squeezes your hand once, tugging you along. 

"We're not watching Golden Girls."

You watch Golden Girls. Kyle wraps his arm around your neck, keeps you tucked in close to his side. He steals kisses from you when Sophia says something that makes you laugh until you're breathless and trembling. 

When David from Kent texts you, he grins wide, and whispers in your ear, think I've always been a little bit in love with you, you know? 

Yeah, you say, and kiss back until the taste of him is etched into the space between your teeth. Since Cardiff. For you?

"Since Uni for sure." He smiles again, sheepish and a touch flustered. It glitters on his brow and nips the apples of his cheeks. "You stole my heart when you devoured four lamb kebabs and then ate my tabbouleh. Said to myself, yeah, that's the one for me, innit?"

"On second thought, what's that Barista's number? Might try my luck instead."

"Nah, you're smitten," he presses his lips into the hollow of your throat, nips his teeth against your pulse point. "And you're all mine. No take backs."

"Ah, for fuck's sake—"

Ahhhhhhhh. Sappy romcoms are my kryptonite and it shows.

COD MASTERLIST | NAVIGATION

[shall-we-die]

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{Jealousy}

How jealous do they get? || What do they do when they're jealous?

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↬[Fandom]•⊰ {Moriarty the Patriot}࿐

↬[Warnings]•⊰ {None}࿐

☰[Main list]•⊰ ─────┈┈{0003}┈─╮

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╰┈➤Likes/Reblogs are appreciated࿐

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↬|William| (9/10)

• William will get jealous when someone he cares deeply for, gives equal or more affection to someone else, especially if that person isn't truly worthy of their attention, or worse. He's quite possessive by nature, if that wasn't obvious.

• If you prefer spending more time with others compared to him, he'd honestly be jealous. I suppose you'd know when he's jealous when he starts clinging you, demanding your attention.  He'd just try to keep you for himself.

• When he's jealous... he thinks about all the things the other could be doing to 'steal' you away from him. How they spend time with you, talk to you, make you laugh...I mean, you're an amazing person in William's eyes, and he wants you all to himself.

• William mostly gets jealous when someone flirts with his lover or when someone shows any kind of attraction towards them, since he considers them to be *his* and only his. This is especially true after a while, since William can develop an unhealthy kind of attachment to his loved one and start to consider them as an extension of himself, a sort of possessive attitude that he knows is wrong.

• and When it comes to getting rid of a love rival who thinks it's funny to play with his heart, he would simply show the other side of the coin. The savage side of it.

{"I could be the worst person they'll have ever met. Ever"}

• You can be very comforting after he got jealous by showing that you care and understand his  feelings. Reassure him that there's no need to be jealous as you only have eyes for him. Comfort him with words of affection and appreciation.

Show him that you still want to spend time with him despite what happened. Make sure to remind him of his value and worth.

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↬|Albert| (10/10)

• Albert is fiercely protective of the people he cares about, and he'll be sure to show it. As a result, he gets very jealous when it comes to romance. He wants to be the only one who gets to take care of and spend time with his partner, and he won't tolerate any attempts by another individual to intervene. This can manifest in him constantly asking about his partner's comings and goings, or being openly rude to people who show interest in them.

• Albert's jealousy in a relationship is rooted in an insecurity. While he may seem like someone confident and suave, he's always afraid of losing his partner, feeling there is always someone "better" than him out there. He wants to be appreciated, and if he isn't, he'll act out, passive aggressively or otherwise.

• In the face of a love rival, Albert might become a little more flirtatious, a little more playful, little more dangerous in order to try and win back his partner's affections.

• He isn't one for direct confrontation without good reason, but he's not afraid of playing dirty. He's known to be quite manipulative and scheming when he wants to be, and this may apply to getting rid of a love rival.

• If his lover wants to comfort him, they must be prepared to give extra attention, show signs of affection and make compliments towards him as well as reassuring him he's their center of the world. He may not be able to admit it, but he wants to be *needed* and be his partner's center of existence, especially if he believes he's not their first choice in a romantic sense.

{"Jealousy? It's an odd thing, is it not? Jealousy stems from the fear of being without, the fear of being alone. When they stop caring, or when they pretend to care. When someone stops investing time and emotion into a relationship, when they grow complacent because they already have you. That's what creates loneliness, because you feel as if you're the only one trying."}

• yes he's also so dramatic...

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↬|Louis| (10000/10)🚩

• Louis is very possessive of his partner, and anything that he considers to be a threat to their relationship would make him very jealous. This includes any sort of deception or dishonesty, lack of communication, spending time with other people, and not placing their partner's needs or feelings at top priority.

• He would see a romantic rival in a very negative light, and would likely react in an aggressive or even violent way if they attempted to take over his relationship with his partner. He may become possessive and controlling out of fear of losing what he views as his property, and would go to great lengths to protect his relationship by any means necessary.

• When he's jealous, hus behavior can vary. He may becomes withdrawn and isolate himself from his lover or also may tries to make his lover jealous by showing interest in someone else.

• Louis may becomes distant towards his lover, or may even lashes out with anger. He may tries to ignore the jealousy and attempt to hide it away. In extreme cases, He may even tries to manipulate the situation and attempt to control his lover, which is unhealthy and not recommended.

{"Stay away from what's mine. If you even think about interfering with my relationship, you'd be making the biggest mistake of your life."}

• While he may feels insecure, you could reassure him and attempt to allay his concerns. You could have a discussion that's more open and honest, so that he may expresses his worries to you. In addition, you could attempt to show him your commitment and love for him, as this is most likely where his jealousy originates, from fear of losing you.

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↬|Sebastian| (4/10)

• He has always considered jealousy to be a rather negative and unnecessary feeling, particularly in romantic relationships. If you guys are in love with each other and you're spending time with other people, he would be rather happy for you. After all, it's very important for both of you to have your own interests and a sense of independence. There's no reason to be jealous of others enjoying their time with you.

• It's completely understandable to feel a certain level of apprehension when his partner gets close to another male (that he's not familiar with). However, he also believes that trust is an essential component of any romantic relationship.

• He's so confident in his role as a partner, and he trusts that anyone he has chosen to share his life with, wouldn't betray his trust. That said, if his partner were to take up a close friendship with another man, or was constantly spending time in places he wasn't welcome, it might make him question your commitment to this relationship.

• He's not one to tolerate jealousy or envy in his relationships, so if someone appeared who he felt was a threat to his love with his partner, he would be direct in confronting them. If he felt it was necessary, he would make his presence known in an attempt to intimidate or dissuade them from interfering with your relationship.

{"Sweetheart, let's talk about this."}

• After he becomes jealous of your interactions with another male, he would appreciate some reassurance and affection from you. He would like to have a meaningful conversation in which you let him know that he can trust you and you have no secret agenda with that person. Furthermore, some extra attention and affection would go a long way in making him feel better.

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↬|Sherlock| (5/10)

• Sherlock is not overly jealous by nature. Even with his love of the chase, he recognizes that jealousy is a pointless emotion that only leads to further conflict.

• However, he does get irritated when his feelings for someone seem to be unreciprocated, and he can be a bit possessive, wanting to be the only one that gets to spend quality time with them. He doesn't necessarily dislike the idea of sharing, but does want to be prioritized over other people. He is also very observant, noticing even the smallest change in behavior from someone he is interested in. Seeing this change could make him feel jealous.

• It's not really clear whether Sherlock is a particularly jealous person or not, it's certainly possible that he could feel jealous under certain circumstances. Some of the things that might make Sherlock feel jealous include seeing his partner interacting with another man, particularly if it appears flirtatious; learning that his partner is hiding something from him; or discovering that his partner has been spending more time with someone else than they have with him.

{"Jealousy is a waste of time, in my opinion, I feel no need to get jealous of anyone because I know our relationship is strong enough that no other person could weaken it."}

• Being protective of those he loves, Sherlock would be upset if he knew another person had entered the picture, and would do anything he has to to reclaim his partner's attention. He might get overly protective of the person he is pursuing, and use his skills in deduction and manipulation to sabotage the rival and bring his love back to him.

• When Sherlock feels jealous, he just needs a bit of reassurance and love from his partner. He needs to be shown that he is still their number one. This can include spending quality time together doing activities that Sherlock enjoys, complimenting him, and being extra affectionate. Showing him that he is still their top priority can go a long way in alleviating Sherlock's jealous feelings and putting his mind at ease.

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↬|John| (4.5/10)

• John doesn't usually like showing his jealousy easily. However, if you were to spend too much time with another person, or if you were to prioritize them over him, that would definitely make him jealous. He understands that certain things must be done for work or to help friends, but being ignored altogether is something he cannot deal with. It's a fine line between trust and insecurity, and John appreciates it if you're considerate of his feelings.

• John will usually try to suppress his feelings of jealousy and act outwardly composed, but if the source of his jealousy is right in front of him, he has been known to become cold and quiet. He may try to make light of the situation and attempt to downplay his feelings, but deep down he is stewing in his own hurt and anger. At times like these, he usually retreats into himself and tries to figure out how to move forward without coming across as an insecure and controlling mess.

• John tends to get jealous when the people he deeply cares about aren't honest with him, when he feels like he's being left out, or when someone he loves is being mistreated. He is also a very protective person and will get jealous if a friend or loved one is close with someone else, or if he feels like their attention and care is being divided. He's always worried about losing other people's affections. It's the result of being somewhat isolated during his childhood and needing to fight to find people to accept and love him.

• If John got jealous over someone, he would initially feel like he should say nothing and work through his feelings alone. However, if his partner noticed and asked him about it, he would try to be honest and explain his feelings.

{"I'm feeling a little bit jealous right now, but I still trust and love you. I'm just scared of losing you, so please don't take my feelings personally."}

• John would appreciate it if you took the time to reassure him that there's nothing to worry about, and that you truly are devoted to him and only him. He would also like you to give him some time and space to process his feelings, and you can help by being understanding and supportive. If you want to do something extra special for him, try and treat him to his favorite meal or a relaxing getaway to help him unwind. it's okay to give your partner the benefit of the doubt and trust their feelings for you, and John would appreciate the same.

||[🄹ealousy]||

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[unoislazy]

What Can Never Be

Hiccup Haddock x Reader

Summary: You and Hiccup fight together during the battle against Drago Bludvist, what could go wrong?

Warning: a bit of angst

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“Woo!” You cheered, clutching tightly to the wooden handles on your dragon's saddle. You and several of the other Berkians had just busted out of Dragos traps, having waited there for just the right moment.

It was actually Erets idea, which you weren’t too keen on admitting considering he did almost sell you all out to Drago to save his own ass. Then again, if you were in his position you probably would’ve tried the same.

You and your dragon ducked and weaved between fire blasts and netting, freeing any dragon you could while taking out some trappers along the way. Honestly if the stakes weren’t as dire as they were, you’d probably be enjoying yourself a lot more.

“Alright bud, show them what you’re made of!” You shouted, leaning forward on your dragon as it dove into a crowd of trappers.

You never used to call your own dragon “bud” , but after hanging around Hiccup for so long you picked it up too.

The cold wind whipped past you as you held yourself close to your dragon, your arms were tucked to your sides, and your legs were fastened in their stirrups. You leaned in the direction your dragon would go, as if reading its mind, continuing to almost effortlessly dodge and attack the barrels of attackers ahead of you. Before long you had taken out almost the entire crowd with just a few well placed fire blasts.

Even with the crowd you took out, it seemed like there was still an endless amount that would just fill back in for the ones you had just taken out.

“Well, that’s mildly discouraging .” You muttered, trying to think of a way to get them to stop coming back. While thinking you had let your guard down for a moment. Turns out a moment is just long enough for another dragon to come up and knock you off of yours.

Before you could even blink, you had been knocked clean off your dragon, sent barreling straight for the ground. You screamed for your dragon but it just wasn’t fast enough to reach you.

So this was it, this was how you would go out. Falling to your death in the middle of a dragon battle, not the most honorable Viking death but at least you were fighting for a good cause. You continued to scream for your life as you fell even though you knew it clearly wasn’t going to help you.

And then, what often happens when someone falls to their death, your life flashed before your eyes. Living on Berk, becoming friends with Astrid and the group, getting your dragon, even when you realized you liked Hiccup. All those thoughts traveled through your brain at lightning speed, overcoming your fear with a quiet sadness as you focused on your thoughts about Hiccup.

You had no idea where he was, you thought he had been captured by Drago, but drago didn’t even know he existed. For all you knew he was long gone by now, and if that was the case, maybe heading to the gates of Valhalla after being pushed off your dragon wasn’t the worst thing that could be happening to you right now.

Just as you were about to come to terms with your fate, you heard a very familiar noise… like something rocketing through the air at an incredible speed.

Then, just barely before you hit the ground, you were yanked out of the air by a very recognizable Night Fury and his rider.

“Hiccup!” Gods were you happy to see him. The last you had heard from him was on Eret’s janky boat. Your legs dangled as Toothless's claws carefully held onto both your arms. He looked down at you, giving you a very gummy smile as his tongue flailed about in the wind. You smiled at him, feeling safe in his grasp, you had known Toothless ever since you accidentally stumbled upon him and Hiccup in the woods. Obviously you were a bit skeptical at first, but Toothless showed you just how truly gentle dragons could be.

“I knew you fell for me once but I didn’t expect you to do it a second time.” The man joked, leaning over the side of his dragon to see you. You rolled your eyes, but a wide smile was still very evident on your face. He may be a dork, but you loved him. In fact, maybe that was part of the reason you loved him in the first place.

You and Hiccup had known each other ever since your awkward teenage years. And by awkward, I mean AWKWARD. You two clearly liked each other, but neither of you did anything except fumble around the idea of getting together. So much so everyone else was just counting down the days until it would finally happen.

You’re almost sure a few people also placed bets on it, which in hindsight is a little weird, but also it’s not the craziest thing Vikings have ever done so…

By this point you and Hiccup had been together for a few years and to make a long story short, he was infatuated with you. He loved you in every sense of the word, even if sometimes he didn’t know how to articulate that well. You had been there for him for years, even when no one else paid him any mind, you were always right there for him.

And the gods alone know how much he truly appreciated that.

So now, there you were, being held by your arms, dangling a few hundred feet in the air by the claws of a Night Fury that your boyfriend was riding. All while a gigantic war was going down below you.

What more could you want?

Eventually your own dragon caught back up and Toothless gently dropped you onto it. Once you were settled you came up beside the man, unable to contain your smile as you finally knew he was okay.

“Where in the god's name have you been!?” You shouted over to him, to which he answered.

“Oh you know, catching up with mom.”

You looked at him confused before noticing him looking up at someone. You turned to see what he was looking at and just then you noticed a figure standing atop a Stormcutter, while also controlling a bewilderbeast?!

All you could manage was to stare for a few moments, your jaw practically on the floor.

“Well, now I know where you get all… this from.” You said, waving your hands in his general direction.

“You just gestured to all of me.” He laughed, giving you a very knowing smirk. “Remind me when we’re done here to introduce you to her, she’ll definitely love you.” He remarked, looking back up at her as she waved her stick around in the air.

You nodded, still staring in awe before realizing, you’re still very much in the middle of a fight. As if he read your mind, Hiccup turned back to you and said,

“Now why don’t we free some dragons?”

Before propping his mask back down over his face. You nodded, following his lead as he and toothless dove straight down into the battle.

You had continued fighting back for a while, managing to free a fair few dragons on your own as well as helping the others out when they’d get stuck. It seemed like you had this in the bag, you were all going to win!

That was until…

Dragos Alpha had killed Valkas.

The entire field went silent as you all watched in terror as Drago now commanded the dragons to gather.

From there, almost as if magic or as if they were in a trance, most of the dragons immediately began to swarm around the Alpha, listening to its command. Every single dragon you had just spent time saving, went right back to Drago as if they had no choice.

Well, because they didn’t.

Thankfully most of the dragons that were being ridden seemed to be able to block out the Alphas will… for now at least.

“Oh gods…” Was all you could mutter as you watched in terror and awe as all the dragons gathered, landing on the snowy ground before the bewilderbeast, showing their respect.

Your attention was quickly taken away from this issue when your own dragon began to struggle against the will of the alpha. Its idle flapping became jittery as it tried to keep itself in the air while also fighting against the alpha.

“Don’t listen to him, it’s okay, I’m right here.” You tried to comfort it. It seemed to work for the most part but it continued to struggle on and off.

That was until the alphas focus had been drawn away. Its massive body slowly turned away from your general direction and now focused towards an area where you could faintly hear Drago yelling for it. You took a much needed sigh of relief as your dragon quickly gained back its own full consciousness until you finally followed where the alpha was now focused on.

“Hiccup!” You gasped, “Alright, it’s time to put those fast flying skills to work!” You ordered your dragon, which wasn’t entirely needed because it was already on the same page as you.

Just as before, the freezing cold wind whipped against your face, you could feel your nose and cheeks began to sting a bit solely because of this but you didn’t care. Your eyes began to well up with tears, not only from the cold, but because now you feared you were going to lose him. You had spent hours worrying about Hiccup's safety, whether he was alive or not and you had just gotten him back, you didn’t want to let him go again so easily.

“Come on, just a little faster…” you strained, leaning as far forward as you could as if it would increase your dragon's speed by any significant amount.

Just as you had gotten into a decent enough range, an armored dragon took you by surprise and quickly grabbed hold of your dragon and dragged it to the ground, flinging you off. You both spiraled out of control, but luckily the snow broke your fall for the most part.

You quickly got up, ignoring the pain as you looked to your dragon who had managed to get out of the dragon's grasp and was now standing defensively between you and the armored beast.

Your dragon snarled at you, as if telling you to go. You knew it could handle itself, and so you listened, getting right back on track.

“Toothless, what’s going on with you bud? Snap out of it!” You could hear Hiccup yell. You were close, you were so close. The tears in your eyes made it tricky to see clearly, paired with the bruises that were now forming on your back, you had begun to slow down.

“Toothless!” You heard Hiccup scream again, the desperation in his voice seemed to flip some kind of a switch for you and the adrenaline almost immediately kicked in.

You sprinted as fast as your legs could carry you on the snow and ice, your breathing became quite heavy which caused your lungs to feel like they were being stabbed by a thousand sharp needles due to the extreme chill in the air.

But your pain didn’t matter.

What mattered right now was,

“Hiccup!” You shouted again. You were almost there. You were so… so close.

You closed your eyes, praying to the gods you would make it in time, your heart pounded as you made your way to him.

“Wait, stop!”

Was the last thing you heard before you leapt off the ground, heading straight for Hiccup and successfully pushing him out of the way, leaving you in direct range of Toothless's blast.

You didn’t feel anything as your back collided with the icy wall behind you, snow and icicles dropping on top of you as your now limp body laid beneath the rubble. The moment Toothless’s blast made contact, you were gone.

Hiccup, a bit disoriented from being so suddenly shoved, looked up and immediately ran to you.

“No, no, no, no!” He cried, quickly clearing your body of debris and holding you close to check for a pulse.

Valka and the others had made their way over, all of them shocked by the scene before them. None of them, of course, were as affected as Hiccup.

“Why would you do that…” He asked you softly, tears quickly began to spill from his eyes as he held you close as he had done many times before, except this time you weren’t going to hold him back. His hand lightly glided across your cheek, wiping the tears that had fallen just before you had pushed him out of the way.

Toothless, now out of Dragos control, tried to get near both of you, concerned as to why you were so lifeless. He carefully began to sniff your hand, expecting you to wake up and scratch just behind his ears like you always did.

But you didn’t.

Toothless went to try again, only to be pushed away by Hiccup.

“You did this! Get out of here!” He screamed, only to be held back by his mother. He was a mess, he didn’t know how to control himself.

He knew it wasn’t Toothless’s fault but he needed someone to blame. If there was anyone to blame, he wanted to blame you.

Why would you do something like that, why would you sacrifice yourself for him. He was supposed to be the one to make stupid decisions… not you.

Now here he stands, on the edge of the island, watching your now burning boat drift off into the water as his tears began to flow.

You weren’t supposed to leave like this.

You both were supposed to live out your days together, leading together, living together… and he had hoped to take the next step with you one day. He would never admit it outloud but Hiccup had pictured having a family with you and it was one of his most treasured day dreams.

Now it would become nothing more than an idea of what could’ve been…

And what can never be.