#i don’t know who will wood is but the floor is a very nice place to be

[ellieswrldd]

softly .

pairing: jackson!ellie williams x f!reader

summary: ellie comes home late and wants to make it up to you.

content warnings: SMUT 18+ MDNI, oral (r!receiving), fingering (r!receiving), established relationship, not proofread!!! (this is so rushed)

a/n: IM BACK. sorry that took forever i was fighting demons...anyways shout out to @luvrgrl07 who said we need more pussy eating fics bc this is where it brought me

A heavy snow was falling over Jackson. You sat inside your small home, a strong fire waving in the brick fireplace and your dinner on the kitchen table. It was growing cold, sitting out for over half an hour now as you waited for Ellie to return home. She was on patrol like always, though she was running far later than expected. 

It wasn’t unusual that Ellie was late, but the snowstorm growing outside your windows gave you a reason to worry. Hopefully, she was just cooped up in one of the lookouts rather than fighting off infected in the cold. Maybe she was already on her way to your door.

You looked at the food set on the table and sighed softly. It was a nice dinner, one you had spent a lot of time on. Ellie claimed that she would try her best to be home early to spend the night with you since she wasn’t able to do so very often. 

You wiped your hands on your apron and went to glance out the window. All of the Jackson residents were indoors now except for the few who manned the gate, the snowy streets were empty. 

Later, as you added more wood to the fire, you heard the front door open. Ellie kicked off her boots and set her bag on the floor. When you saw her, a small smile tugged at your lips. Ellie’s cheeks were reddened by the cold, her hair pinned into a messy bun, and snow dusting her clothes. 

“I’m sorry I’m late,” She said quietly, her eyes darting down to the wood floor. You walk to her, a hand reaching out to touch her cold cheek. 

“It’s alright,” You clear your throat and glance at the dinner table. “Why don’t you go change, and I’ll reheat your food? Yeah?” It was clear that Ellie was tired and while you previously were a bit annoyed that she’d broken her promise, it all melted away as you observed the girl in front of you. Leaning in, you gave her a gentle kiss. Ellie cracked a small smile and pulled away to go to the bedroom. 

The pan crackled softly as you placed it on the stove. You warmed the food slowly, not wanting to burn any of it in the process. Her arms slid around your waist gently, her chin resting on your shoulder as you cooked. 

“Missed you,” Ellie mumbled, her breath tickling your neck. She was wearing one of her worn hoodies and a different pair of jeans. 

“You had me worried, coming home so late.” You sighed and poked at the food on the pan with a spatula. Ellie’s hands squeezed your hips and she kissed your jaw. 

“I know, I really wanted to be home earlier. I’m sorry, baby.” Her thumbs drew small circles on your hips and you smiled. 

“M’not sure I can ever forgive you for this,” You hummed, teasing her. Ellie’s lips traveled from your jaw down to your neck, slowly kissing and nipping at the sensitive skin. She moved in a repeating pattern, a kiss, a tiny bite, then she would roll her tongue over the blooming mark. 

“So let me make it up to you,” Ellie laughed softly against your neck, her hands moving up your torso. “I’ll make it worth your time…” She said and cupped your breasts over your apron. 

You took a deep breath. “What about dinner? Aren’t you hungry?” One of Ellie’s hands left your body and reached out to turn the stove off. 

“Dinner can wait. Besides, I’m hungry for something else.” You set down your spatula on the counter and giggled. 

“Okay then,” You turned to face Ellie and rested your arms on her shoulders. She smiled at you, her eyes trailing down your face until they landed on your lips. Sweetly, Ellie met your lips with her own, only pulling away to breathe now and then. The kiss alone would’ve been enough to make you forget everything, but Ellie seemed to crave more. 

Her lips followed yours like magnets and her hands tugged at the knot of your apron until it came undone. Ellie pulled the apron over your head and tossed it to the floor. She pushed you back slightly, just far enough for you to bump against the kitchen table. 

Almost instinctively, Ellie helped you onto the table, grabbing your hips and lifting you to sit. She pulled away from your lips to nip at your neck instead and you let out a soft laugh. 

“What’s so funny?” Ellie asked, her face still buried in the crook of your neck. 

You shook your head but promptly responded when she gave your thigh a playful slap. “This wasn’t the dinner I had planned–” You let out a soft sigh when you felt her tongue run along your skin in one long stripe. 

“Well,” Ellie’s slender fingers made their way to the button of your jeans. “I know that you worked hard to cook dinner for us,” She unbuttoned your pants. “And I know you were worried about me,” Ellie tugged the zipper down. “Jus’ wanna make it up to you, even if it’s not what you had in mind.” Her hand slipped into your pants and your breath hitched. 

You shuddered as her finger brushed against your clothed clit. As if she enjoyed seeing you frustrated, Ellie continued to gently rub your cunt through your panties. You moaned quietly, holding a hand up to your mouth to muffle your sounds.

“Lay back,” Ellie muttered, taking her hand out of your pants. You listen and lay back on the table, spreading your legs open further. Ellie grinned and tugged your pants off before speaking again. “Don’t cover your mouth like that, I wanna hear you.” She sunk to her knees before the table and moved to kneel between your legs. “M’not kidding, I’ll stop if you do that,” You caught a glimpse of a smug little smirk on her face. Your mouth opened to say something snarky in response but you were promptly cut off when her mouth suddenly closed over your clit, your panties still in between you and her mouth. The reaction your body has to her touch is always immediate, your hands find their way to her messy auburn hair, your thighs close around her head, and your back arches off the table. 

Through a series of breathy moans and gasps, you begged her to take your panties off, to go all the way and not tease you anymore. She chuckled softly at your begging and her laughter seemed to vibrate against your core. Her fingers hooked on the band of your underwear and she tugged them off quickly, barely giving you a moment to realize that she’d pulled away. 

“Missed this all day,” Ellie groaned as her eyes fall on your pussy. She ran her thumb up and down your slit, spreading your wetness along your folds. Her eyes were trained on you as she began to circle your clit and added more pressure. Your moans grew louder, but you yearned for more. 

“M-More, please,” You gasped and whined. Ellie placed a sweet kiss on your inner thigh and pushed a finger inside your needy cunt. After dating for so long, you would think that your body would be used to Ellie’s touch and how she felt inside of you, but it felt electric every time.  

“Doin’ so good,” She praised you and slid a second finger into you. It took every ounce of her self-restraint to stop herself from completely devouring you at that moment, but she wanted to take her time with you. 

Ellie curled her fingers inside of you, stimulating that sensitive spot deep inside you that made your legs shake with pleasure. Ellie could tell you were close to your orgasm by the way your cries grew louder and how you tugged at her hair desperately. 

She leaned in and ran her tongue along your cunt, moaning as she tasted you. Ellie lapped at your pussy like she was starving, giving special attention to your clit while she continued to finger you. That self-restraint she’d been holding onto had suddenly been thrown out the window as soon as she tasted you. She couldn’t be slow with you, she wanted you to come all over her tongue. 

“Ellie–” You moaned deeply as you felt your climax quickly approaching. 

“I know, I know,” She cooed. Her movements sped up slightly and it was just enough to push you over the edge. With her name on your lips, you let out a long moan and fell back against the table. 

Your orgasm left you somewhat senseless. Your body was tired and spent, but you felt a remaining buzz flowing throughout you. Ellie peppered your inner thighs with small kisses before she finally pulled away and stood up. She licked her fingers clean and looked down at you with a smile. You looked so perfect all splayed out on the kitchen table, Ellie was certain that no meal would ever top this. 

[inkdrinkerworld]

Dealer!remus and autistic!reader’s relationship starts off so rocky guys let me tell you!!! Angst to fluff

Remus doesn’t fully get that he can’t just say things- like he’s got to be deliberate and conscious of the words he uses and his tone.

He’s never had to do that before so it’s weird and it’s hard to learn and he slips up sometimes.

One of your biggest arguments happens when he’s frustrated and you’re just trying to help.

You’d seen him so sullen and moody on James’ story so you decided to do for him, what you do for yourself.

You baked.

But then you realized you’re not at the stage where you know his absolute favourite type of cookie so you go a little all out.

You bake chocolate chip biscoff cookies. Chocolate chip toffee cookies, regular chocolate chip and brown butter chocolate chip.

You set them in a cute box and you text Remus that you’re coming to see him. You’re thinking everything’s going to go well, you’re gonna drop the cookies off for him, maybe he’s going to tell you what’s bugging him- maybe not; either way he won’t be alone.

Except you get there and immediately you feel like you’re inconveniencing him.

Try as you might not to take it personally, it’s really hard because he seems particularly peeved at you.

“Why are you here?” His tone is sharp and jagged and it winds you a little.

“I brought you cookies to cheer you up. Saw that you weren’t yourself on James’ story,” you keep your tone even, light- a practiced thing from your days of dealing with people that didn’t quite get you.

“Why would that cheer me up?” At this point everything’s going downhill fast and you try to salvage what little is left of your deflated cheeriness and open up the box to display the array of cookies.

Remus at the same time waves his hand and the box goes pitching across his living room floor and he explodes.

You can’t remember the last time someone had yelled at you like that and honestly, it hurt more coming from Remus who was so normally relaxed and chilled.

You don’t even tell him goodbye, you just clean up all the mess while he’s cursing and yelling and then leave.

What’s twists the bloodied blade in the wound is that he doesn’t even try to stop you or reach out to you for three days.

By which point you’ve already gone mostly nonverbal and you’re in no mood to entertain or fake a personality for the sake of your friends when you do see them.

Remus stops at your house after you ignore three invitations to his place.

“Dove, I know you’re at home. Can you open the door please?” His voice is muffled through the hard wood of the door and you have half a kind to leave it shut- he’d been mean, he’d said things that were very hurtful now that you’ve actually processed what he’s said fully.

You don’t know if you can stand to see him. Then he knocks again, “I want to look at you when I apologise, sweet girl. Please open the door.” And the wholesale remorse in his tone shakes your core and you cave.

He steps inside with a box and three tulips. “I figured I’d have had to do it face to face for it to really mean anything and because I realized I was an absolute prick to you when you just came over to help.”

You don’t even hum. Usually, when he was nice Remus- as you’ve differentiated in your head - you’d be able to look him in the eyes every couple of words, but right now you just look over his shoulder.

“I shouldn’t have yelled or sworn at you like that. It wasn’t cool and I never want to speak to you like that- ever. I was an idiot and I just want to make up for it.”

There’s about a minute where Remus thinks he’s just fucked every single bit of progress you’ve both made with each other and then you let out a big breath.

“You can’t say things that you don’t mean just because you’re upset. What you said really hurt my feelings and I don’t like feeling the way you made me feel when you were that angry. If we continue to be friends you can’t do that because it makes it hard for me to trust you and find what you’re saying believable.”

Your voice is hoarse and crackly from lack of use and Remus feels even worse. “I’ll do better, I swear. It wasn’t my intention to hurt you- it’ll never be, but I am sorry that I did.”

You nod once, succinct and definitive. Remus holds out the box to you, showing a puzzle you’d been eyeing for a while.

“Can we build it together?” He asks softly, an ebb of vulnerability given away as you catch his eyes.

“Okay, but we have to do corners first, then work our way in.” Remus nods, his other hand holding the flowers for you. The tulips are a pristine white.

“The lady at the shop said they’re good for conveying apologies.”

You smile a little, “These ones are also for condolences.” Remus shakes his head,

“Not this time,” he watches you put them in a vase of water. “Also, ‘if we continue to be friends’, thought we were a little closer than friends, sweet girl?”

He relishes in the way you bite your lip to hide your grin as you take the puzzle box from him and set it up on your coffee table.

“Well I wasn’t sure if you wanted to acknowledge it or not.”

Remus says very seriously as he sits opposite you at the coffee table, ducking down so he can catch your eyes as you take out the numbered bags. “I’m always acknowledging it, we’re more than friends dove. When everything’s not so fucked, I’ll take you out and do it with pink and red lilies.”

[virginreprise]

J U N K Y ' P R I D E

joel miller x reader

" I KNOW I CAUGHT YOU AT A NOT SO HAPPY TIME OF YOUR LIFE " ✧ ⁺ ⁺ 　°

WARNINGS: age difference (big one), pervy joel, trailer park joel, joel miller has a vintage porn collection, joel's a sad old man, video game joel was in mind when writing, joel is six foot because i say so, multi-part, smut in the next chapter because i can't write anything if it isn't slowburn

WORD COUNT: 7.7k

AO3 LINK

CHAPTER ONE—BAD DISEASE

Static from the television set tucked in a corner, a beaten leather armchair parked in front of it and a stack of vintage, VHS porn tapes on the unit. One half of “Agent 69” stuck in the VCR, balancing on its side due to the lack of care from its owner who’d jacked off in the very chair that towered over it—cum stained fist and a name on his lips, slipped out between plush flesh. Hand frantic, jerking in tandem with the buck of his hips as he flit his eyes between the TV and the wood-panelled ceiling, profanities spilling from his filthy mouth. Muttering to himself as pornstar moans graced his ears, words whispered into the night, stolen by the archangels and flown up to God: conspiring, scheming, uttering under their breath that he should not be allowed through the holy gates on judgement day. That the defiled Bible on his bookshelf and the cross that had been left for him by the previous owners, pinned to the trailer wall, was not enough for them to ignore the strained sentences that he spewed in a desperate bid for the Trailer Park Princess on her knees—red nails and red lips wrapped around his cock. A ring of colour staining the base. 

Utter filth. And Joel knew it. 

The perversions he didn’t keep to himself, laughed about bending over the pretty thing next door whilst nursing a beer on Pete’s porch—puffing away on the cheap cigars he’d stolen from the liquor store. They tasted like shit, smelt like shit and Joel would’ve been better without it, but it added to the image: kept Susan from asking him stupid questions like why he didn’t have a woman. It was her way of flirting, bikini top displaying her sagging tits, bending over the kitchen counter whilst his buddies watched baseball. 

“You got your eye on anyone, Joel?” 

“Not really, Susan.” 

Then Pete interjecting. 

“Come off it, Susan. Just cause he ain’t committed don’t mean that he ain’t got women.”

That kept her quiet, made her slink away into the hallway, slipping into their bedroom and pulling a cover-up on—suddenly insecure. 

Joel wasn’t a pervert. He didn’t have some strange penchant for young women. They were just…nice to look at. Pretty and sun-kissed in the Texan heat, ass hanging out their shorts, bikini top doing much more to entice than Susan’s did. There was no harm in looking—they never knew. He prided himself on being discreet, nursing a beer in the late afternoon whilst Kenny Rogers lulled from the radio, flicking ash from his cigarette onto the porch floor—eyes trained on your open window, cracked just a tad to let the air through. Drapes open. 

At times, he thinks you do it on purpose, a gentle taunt, a silent jeer: “You can only look, perv.” 

If the invitation was there, he’d take you up on it. Because out of all the women he’d fucked, headboard bashing against the wall, a chip in the wood of the trailer evidence of his trysts, you were the only one who’d worked him up to the point of no return. The only one who’d grabbed him completely by the collar and forced him to lick your boots. 

Like Joel said, he wasn’t a pervert. You were just a fucking whore who needed to be put in her place. 

So he’d sit there, in the white garden chair he’d snatched up from the pile of scrap that accumulated just east of his trailer, and watch. Most days, you’d be doing nothing in particular, unfortunately already dressed, dirty clothes in hand and wet hair dripping down your back. Other days, the days where Joel thought he was really lucky, where he’d stumble inside with a hard-on, sit on his recliner and hastily shove whatever he got his hands on, into the VCR, skipping over the poorly acted introductions, and pretend that the moans reverberating the trailer, were yours. Images of you slipping your shorts over your hips, swaying slightly to whatever tune you were listening to, peeling your shirt off your body. No bra. Slyly stepping towards your window, catching his eye once, a look so slight that he wouldn’t be surprised if he imagined it, and pulled your drapes shut. 

He’d spilt all over his hand, white on his knuckles and a smile on his lips. 

Joel would never feel guilty for wanting you, not when he had already made peace with the fact he was a deadbeat, bound to the white trash lifestyle, unemployed and living off the pills he paid for and sold for a ridiculously high price, still grieving his losses and wondering what the fuck he could’ve done differently. If he would’ve done anything differently given the chance. 

No, Joel was not a bad person. He just looked for her in every person, desperately seeking a will. And so far, you had succeeded in helping him remove the gun from his mouth—evenings spent in different, dangerous ways. 

Texan summers were unlike anything you’d experienced before, the heat so incredibly stifling that your love for the sun disappeared completely. Mornings spent on the porch, soaking in the last bits of breeze before cycling your ass to work, sweating and heaving by the time you got there, in the same condition when you rode back home and locked yourself away with every window flung open before nightfall fell and you felt you could breathe again. 

The cicadas were loud, the snakes huddled up in the shade, waiting for you to trample on them, and the beast next door, Joel Miller: terrifying, gorgeous and a fucking pervert. 

The day you’d moved into the trailer, despairing the loss of stability, ruminating upon your desperate escape from a home now dead and lost to the prairies of your mind, he’d been there. Wifebeater stretched across his wide torso, a cigarette placed on his lips, unused as it hung there, smoking away, the grey wisps begging with each dissipation into the atmosphere: breathe me in. He’d stared. Unable to be subtle no matter how slick he thinks he is, eyes flitting between your tits and your ass. Tits. Ass. Tits. Ass. A calculated dance that left a funny feeling brewing in the pit of your stomach, a lurch in your bowels that made nausea claw its way up your throat. 

Tits. Ass. Then, he suddenly looked at your face, standing there on his porch, the sunrise building its way up the horizon, too early for anybody to see him looking you over like you were a dead deer he’d just shot, smirking at the notion of sawing your head off and displaying it on the wall above his mantle. Heaving boxes into the empty trailer, lot number seventeen, whilst the owner of lot eighteen wouldn’t take his fucking eyes off you, was a terrible feat. 

Once you’d shoved the last box into your bedroom, you’d shut the door, locked it tight and peeked through the window to see that he had gone back inside, retreating to the haven of steel and veneer. 

Over time, Joel became easier to manage. After the initial, awkward introductions where he’d called you princess, babydoll, sugar (almost adding a “tits” to the end of the nickname before realising where he was) your stomach reeling at the monikers, time settled your unmistakable disgust for him, the universe replaced the sickness you felt when you spoke to him with another stomach-turning anxiety that you pushed down far into every crevasse and high onto every mountain. 

You grew to enjoy the nicknames, skipping a few paces up his porch steps and ask him ever so kindly if he could come and fix the cupboard door that was swinging off its hinges, change the lightbulb because you couldn’t reach the ceiling yourself, stop the leaky tap that seemed to start drip drip dripping every month—just to bully you. 

Although you knew that Joel was a dirtbag, hearing him talking about the filthiest things, laughing as Pete clapped him on the back in praise and acknowledgement, knowing that he wanted nothing more than to treat you like a whore, he gave you nothing except a sly smile, a sleazy nickname and the occasional help around the house. Fixing things. 

So, naturally, you began asking around about Joel. Susan liked to gossip. So did Lillian, a woman who had spent her entire life in the park and, at sixty-two, had no interest in leaving. 

“I remember when he moved here,” she’d told you one fine summer evening, when the heat wasn’t as menacing and you felt content being away from the air conditioning, sipping sweet tea in Lillian’s wooden garden chairs, feet placed on the seat—chin resting on your knees. “All stoic, wouldn’t speak ‘ta anyone. I could tell he’d gone through something bad, you know me and my sixth sense.” 

She’d paused for a moment, taking a drag, a sip, a sigh before looking at you solemnly. 

“He was a catch with the ladies,” she’d muttered. “They were all after him, even this one over here,” she’d pointed to Susan who’d smacked her arm, complaining about her disrespect. She was a married, loyal woman after all. “Well, it’s true. If I were twenty years younger, I would’ve gone for him too, but it wouldn’t have done much anyway cause he didn’t touch anyone. There ain’t many pretty young ladies round here, you know you’re the only one,” she’d said plainly, addressing you with a hint of affection. 

Waving her cigarette around as she relayed every single detail she knew about Joel’s love life, telling you how after a few years of moping, he’d bring back girls in the middle of the night, fuck them, and then throw them out the next day. 

“He’s not a romantic,” Lillian had prefaced, Susan interjecting with:

“Ya think so? I think he is…if he just found the right woman-”

“Oh don’t listen to her Darlin’, he’s a man who likes to play. He ain’t lookin’ to settle, I tell you that much.” 

Listening to them both, their anecdotes, their stories, and their opinions, you concluded one thing about Joel Miller. He was an asshole. A man who had done nothing to better his life since he stepped foot in the trailer park ten years ago, a sag in his shoulders and an anger in his eyes. 

You weren’t sure if he’d mellowed since then, or if he’d just managed to conceal it better. Joel hadn’t been angry around you, not when you knocked on his door at three in the morning, asking him if he could come get the spider out of your bedroom, not when you’d accidentally run into his truck with your bike or told him that he was an asshole when you’d caught him talking about you one day in springtime. 

“She’s as dumb as fucking rocks,” he’d chuckled. “Bet she gets cockdrunk so easy.” 

He’d grumbled out the last sentence, an afterthought that was more for him than the men he was talking to, but you, stumbling around, half-asleep after your shift, were not willing to take the degradation. You’d berated him in front of his peers, slammed the door behind you, and regretted it immediately. Because, even though it shouldn’t matter, even though you thought he was pervy and angry and wouldn’t treat you how you’d been told you deserved, the last thing you wanted was for him to hate you. 

Every time he praised you, told you that you looked good as you stepped out of your home, on your way to Lillian’s for a catch-up and the cigarettes she bought you every three weeks, just for being good and keeping her company, you felt that tingle, the synaptic transmissions running down your spine every time he stepped through your door, asking what the issue with your tap was. You should’ve been disgusted when he’d left and you’d gone to the bathroom only to find the panties you’d left on the floor were gone, but you’d felt that same spark instead. A deep, sliding ache that consumed every part of you. 

Luckily for you, your sink decided to start leaking again on a gorgeous Sunday afternoon. Perfect time to lure him into your trailer, grab him by the neck and ask him as nicely as you could if he could cease the pain. 

Sip of beer, drag of cigarette, click of the remote to change the channel, repeat. 

A usual Sunday afternoon pastime. 

Joel would’ve rifled through his VHS’s, find something he could jack off to whilst he deliberated whether today would be the day he’d say “fuck it” and saunter on over to next door, hoping to god he’d get his dick wet by someone other than a whore, but he couldn’t be bothered to move from his seat. It was effort enough trying to change the channel, arm aching as he pressed the button, rolling his eyes as the same boring drab illuminated his TV screen. 

It was another one of those days. Glancing at the watch on his wrist, the broken glass, the notion that he would never fix it no matter how easy it would’ve been to go over to Shane’s and ask him to get it working again, all for the low price of a few pills. 

She’d left him with it and he would die with it. 

A reminder of her every time he glanced at his watch, swallowing hard as he remembered the way he’d pressed cool metal to the side of his head, a tear slipping down his cheek before realising that he never could. Because Joel was an asshole, he knew that. He was selfish and cruel and spoke about people as if they could get any lower than he already was. But more so than anything, Joel was a sad old man.

Tommy, the damn bastard, who’d left Joel to fend for himself while he went off with his new-found “true love” to have kids and a decent life, had sent a few thousand dollars and a pitiful “I’m sorry, Joel,” over the phone after his big brother had fucked up and lost his job. When Joel had been left penniless and broken. Nothing to fight for. No one to hold him or tell him that he was loved. He’d spent all his money raiding gas stations for cases of beer, bottles of whisky, anything that could numb the pain—choosing the alcohol over food, over his mortgage. When he’d lost the house, he hadn’t taken anything of hers. Even after she’d died, he’d insisted that everything needed getting rid of. Her clothes, her posters, even her damn phone. He’d slammed Tommy against the wall after realising that he was taking everything with him, that he was not doing as he was told. After that, Joel had closed the door on her bedroom and never stepped foot in it again. 

All he had of her was a damn watch, a photo that his little brother had shoved into his hands, a harsh, “Take it, you damn bastard. You’ll regret it when you stop feeling so sorry for yourself,” on his lips, and the memory of her in his arms when he’d felt that huge heart of hers stop beating. 

There had been many low points in Joel’s life, wandering through his existence on a tightrope that was ready to snap with every step, but none had been lower than that. 

Not even when he’d called Tommy in the middle of the night, sobbing, struggling to breathe with a clean bottle of Jim Beam in his hands, begging him to help. He’d lost his house, he’d lost his job, he’d lost his daughter. Where to next? 

Tommy, all the way in Wyoming had scraped together some money, told Joel to get himself down to the mobile park and a steady job. Start from the bottom again. 

Sometimes, Joel resented his brother for not giving him that money for a flight to the West, smiling down the phone as he informed that they had a spare room for him, his nephew cooing in his bassinet and waiting for his old uncle. 

He understood though. When he wasn’t drunk it made more sense why he hadn’t invited him to his home. 

They hadn’t spoken in sixteen years. To his nephew whom he did not know the name of, he was just the deadbeat uncle who hadn’t made it out of Texas—still alive but lost. 

Tommy would’ve probably hated him more if he was sitting on Joel’s couch, staring at the porn and the beer, the cigarettes that his little brother knew he had only smoked when he was a rebellious teenager—the occasional pull never becoming a habit, especially when his daughter came along. 

Almost certainly would’ve despised him if he knew how he felt about the girl next door, the perverse catharsis he experienced when he took himself in hand and imagined taking care of her, shushing her whimpers, making her whine with the way he stretched her open. 

Oh, and he was a bad man. A bad fucking man and he was the last thing you needed. Some poor, young girl who was doing her best to make it. Pay the rent on time, make sure she was kept fed, all whilst juggling the inescapable feeling that once you were in the trailer park there was no getting out. 

Joel didn’t see an end. He’d been here for over a decade; his drug money was not for a new house or a new life, it was for whores and booze, a carton of Marlboro reds that he got for cheap from Bill, and porn. He’d collected all the goddamn vices—became a person so unlike who he was, so far from the quietly loveable single dad he’d been hailed as years ago. 

As far as Joel now was concerned, that guy was a fucking pussy. 

That guy would think he needed professional help for the way he thought about you, would expel every single image of you naked and writhing, tits bouncing in time with his thrusts as you lay boneless and crying in his grasp. 

You were legal. What was the big fucking deal? 

Joel needed this. You were not just some throwaway material good that would leave him in debt for the next ten years—you were full and gorgeous, smart, quick-witted and made him harder than the oak tree that stood centuries-old just a little down the road from the old Palmer farmhouse. 

That day you’d heard him talking about you to his friends, the way he’d lied and said that you were dumb, when you’d come storming up his porch steps—all rage and heat—and cussed him out, he’d laughed. It didn’t matter about the taunts and the sniggers he got from his buddies who he would have no issue never speaking to again. They could go fuck themselves for all he cared because you hadn’t willingly thrown yourself at his feet and licked his boots. 

Whores were easy. No challenge with a whore, no longing, no desire, just a mutual understanding that this was transactional and she was going to moan as loud as you wanted her to whether it felt good or not. 

But you had given Joel something worth chasing. And fuck he was going to catch you, even if it meant he’d die in the chair he sat in, with nothing to show for his life except a case of Bud, an empty fridge, and a stain on his bedsheets where you’d reached for him—begging for everything he could not give.

Something about him had you checking your appearance before you walked out the door, making your hair presentable, touching up your lipgloss, blotting the oil from your face. All for a man who saw you as nothing but jailbait

You wanted to be wanted. To be looked at with a fire, an urge to grasp you and take you fully, pull you close when you cried and kiss you when you shook with the need to run far away. You wanted to be kept, to be reminded every day that you were needed, loved and desired.

You wanted Joel. 

Joel: the sad old man next door, the dangerously handsome figure in your life that stood six feet tall, jaw sharp and strong, muscles straining with his arms crossed—built big and firm. A chest you’d very much like to lay your head on. A bulge in his pants you’d very much like to see stripped bare. 

So when the opportunity came, you seized it, with an iron first, intent on capturing what had been yours since the day you’d moved to the free prison—since the day he’d stared at you, an unadulterated and irremovable, perverse desire that shook the very beings of your existence. That determined exactly who you are and how you would fall for the watchful eyes and glinting gaze that befell you every time you stepped down the rotten wood steps at the foot of the trailer entrance. 

You stepped onto them then, Chuck Taylors strapped to your feet, laces loose and lazily tied, skin smoothed from the razor you’d pressed against it in the shower that morning—all for him. The appearance every bit of expectation you had for his fantasies and ideals, hoping that the attire would thrust him further into abandoning a morality he did not have. 

The sun set rapidly behind you, the grass long and dry around your ankles, unmowed—as you nor Joel had ever discussed who would get mowing duty—and a clear head. A set destination, unstifled by a long day at work, the sweat curling along your back too harsh to be ignored and the sometimes discourteous demeanour of Joel’s so powerful that you often wondered why you liked him. Why you gave so much attention to a man years ahead of you, unable to look at you without laughing at the prospect you thought you were more to him than a pretty thing to look at whilst he wallowed in his castle of self-pity he’d built for himself all these years spent trapped and lonely. 

It all seemed insignificant that day you’d crossed the boundary between lot seventeen and lot eighteen. When you’d shakily advanced up his steps, onto the porch you grew so fond of, and knocked once, twice, thrice on the white door—stepping back to await his welcome. Hoping to god that he’d see you and take you there. 

The shuffling on the other side of the door raised your heart rate, a sweat forming on the back of your neck which you brushed away with a hasty hand, intimidated by what awaited you when the white disappeared and transformed into bulking arms and a firm chest—a tall body that you gazed up at with ardour. 

When the sight appeared, you gulped away the desire to run away, to pretend that you’d just come here for the leaky tap and that there was no other reason you had bothered him on his peaceful Sunday afternoon. No ulterior motive. Not that you just wanted to see him because he had hardly been around the past couple of days and in truth you were worried about him; you wanted to make him feel better. 

“Hi.” He struggled to conceal the surprise in his voice, seemingly struggling further to keep the thickness in his throat at bay, the redness of his eyes that displayed days of restlessness and insomnia. “You alright?” 

“Yeah,” you murmured impassively, licking your lips, swallowing away the dryness in your throat at the state of him: burning cigarette in hand, flannel shirt unbuttoned and displaying the white wifebeater that lay underneath. The shape of his belly was visible underneath it, his belt purposefully unbuckled and hanging from the loops of his jeans. “I’m alright.” 

There was a twitch of his lips as he stared down at you, eyes flitting from head to toe—shameless in the way he always was. In the way you liked. 

“You sure?” 

It seemed stupid suddenly: the entire situation. The call you felt towards him, the want you had to curl up against his chest, let him hold you and tell you he was proud of you for opening up to him—telling him how fucking much you wanted him, despite knowing exactly how it would end if you were to venture further into a relationship that surpassed just neighbours. 

So instead of inviting yourself in, seducing him until he fell to his knees, tugged you by the waist and begged you for just the smallest piece of yourself, you succumbed to your insecurity, and retreated from the palace walls. 

“Yeah…yeah, it’s just that my taps leaking again.” For a split second, he almost looked irritated, eyes honing in on you, narrowing with a look of aggravation—confirmed by the clench of his jaw. You appeased him, saying, “You don’t have to come over now. I just thought I’d tell you,” and the expression slowly slipped away into something much more sinister: mirth. 

“Sure thing, pretty girl,” he said as he slinked away from the doorframe, inviting you into his home, coaxing you past the threshold as he fumbled about in the fridge and pulled out two beers. 

Contemplating, you stared at him, the flex of his muscles as he uncapped each bottle, the stature and size of him as he hunched over the counters, turning around to hold out a drink to you. An invitation. One that you had expected you’d have to give yourself—that you’d have to kick and cry before he ever let himself find you. 

“Just have a drink,” he soothed in that southern lull of his, the words rolling from his tongue with ease. As if he had practised the scenario before he knew it would befall him. “No point in worrying over your tap, I can’t do anything until I buy new washers. I’m out 'cause of you.” 

The irritation he’d shown earlier seemed palpable now—as if he was inviting you into his home simply to make you as uncomfortable as possible, hold you down by the hips until you promised to leave him alone. A taunt, a ploy to make sure you would never get what you wanted. 

However, you had never stepped foot in his trailer, had only ever been on his porch and ran your hand over the chair he frequented, wondering what it looked like beyond the four walls, and curiosity prevailed as it always did. 

Uncertainly, you stepped onto the carpet, gently closing the door behind you, and mumbled a thank you as you took the beer from his hand. 

Almost immediately, you felt like apologising for his irrational emotions. 

“I’m sorry,” you muttered. “I didn’t mean to put you out. I’ll pay for whatever you need-”

“You pay in ways you don’t know. I don’t need your money.” 

The cryptic way in which he spoke, the casualness as he gave you a look that hinted at something you couldn’t decipher and the slow saunter to his armchair left you in a state of uncertainty. Standing there, with a beer wetting your hand, a frown on your face and a furrowed brow, you had no idea where to go next. What would await you if you questioned him—the things you would discover that were best left in the hands of God and no one else. 

Again, curiosity thrust its violent hand into your stomach and forced your feet to start moving towards him, hoping that he’d appreciate your bravery—your denial of your urges to run far away. It was noted, however, that Joel Miller could care less about bravery. That the quality itself was right down at the bottom of the ladder and that he could and would not give a shit if you welcomed his advances in spite of your lack of courage. 

Hesitantly, you planted yourself on his couch, the furniture built into the wall, curving into an L shape where you imagined he’d kick his feet up after a long day, palm the bulge in his jeans and pick from the litany of porn that you took one glance at and thought better than to stare at it too long in case he felt offended by your interest. 

The discovery admittedly took away a little of his allure. 

“Make yourself at home,” he insisted, taking a sip of his beer and urging you to do the same with a single nod of his head. The slight twitch of his lips when you did so caused your body to go squirming, shifting uncomfortably in your seat as the fire raged within you—unable to be sated with the way he looked at you then. 

Just a scoff, a sip, and a glance at your lips before he turned away completely and focused his attention on the blank TV screen— his reflection the only entertainment. 

Silence grew uncomfortable, the bitter taste of alcohol coating the back of your throat, dripping down your oesophagus and choking any words that you wished to say. The heat emanating from him was overpowering even from the distance you sat apart, the scent of cigarettes overwhelming, so much so that you needed a distraction, anything to dull the rest of your senses from shutting down—all because of his powerful presence; the effect he had on you even when he sat still and awaited your call. 

“What did you mean?” The words came tumbling from your mouth, driven by an insatiable desire and lacklustre confidence you had somewhere deep in the pits of your stomach, bubbling with the acid that nestled there until it rose to the surface—bile transforming into questions that could leave you in a shell of humiliation. At his furrowed brow, you expanded. “About me paying in ways I don’t know.” 

He leaned forward in his seat, elbows resting on his knees. Sombre, all of a sudden. Staring into the barrel of his bottle, the brown glass reflecting like constellations on his face—accentuating the sharp angle of his jawline, the sunken hollows of his cheekbones. 

When his eyes nestled on yours, burrowing right into your skull, you couldn’t move. Couldn’t even fathom the thought of taking a lungful of air, waiting with your breath held tight inside, for his answer. 

“You shouldn’t go asking questions like that.” He sipped quietly, wetting his lips by flicking his tongue in and out, averting his gaze back to the shadow of himself in the television. “You’ll get yourself in trouble.” 

It was not the answer you wished for, eyes downcast, focused on your shaking knee as you tried to gauge some form of clarity beneath the mystery that clouded the gates to his head—what lay beneath his skull; what you wished to find. 

Against your better judgment, you pressed further, keeping the beer bottle clutched between your hands and hoping it would stay cold forever. 

“I can handle myself.” It came out more confident than you had expected, your bobbing knee ceasing its movement, your dry throat provided with moisture. A break from the anxious sweat you had broken out in. “If you don’t tell me I’ll just leave a hundred dollars on your doorstep and leave you alone.” 

You hoped quietly, in that stifling room, that he would make sure it didn’t come to that. That he would let you pay in any way he saw fit. You hoped that the sad hulk of a man sitting in the lone chair with porn in every drawer and money set aside for whores, would let you have him—bring back a semblance of light to his eyes. Find out what kept the despondency trapped so tight around him, the crown of thorns on his head expanding until it reached his feet and kept him locked in nature's prison—skin scratched, bloody and unable to be healed unless he found someone willing to cut through the overgrowth. 

He seemed to bristle at your words, shoulders tightening, jaw clenching in the manner he did when he was irritated. You’d seen it before when Dale had been drunk and had followed you home. When you’d stumbled uncomfortably to your trailer and pleaded Joel who sat on his porch, almost looking like he was waiting for you, to get him off your back. That tick, the downturn of his brow, the twitch of his lip, the look so intimidating you had rushed inside and watched through the window as Joel clapped a hand on Dale’s back and ushered him away from you.

You had no idea what he’d done after they’d left your sight but Dale barely looked at you after. The last interaction you’d had with him was the morning after when he’d knocked on your door, timid for a fifty-year-old man, and apologised. Joel had been there, like he almost always was—always dancing in your peripheral, waiting for you, taunting you—with a cup of coffee clasped between two hands and a smug look on his face when he watched the interaction. 

“You ain’t as smart as you think you are,” he uttered, slipping you away from the vignette and shattering the memory with his simple words. 

They stung. More than you cared to admit. 

Men were never this difficult, never this hard to get through to, never this confusing. He had given you every possible sign, every protection, every knowing look that confessed: you are everything I wish to have. 

It seemed every day he was further from you, every day he looked at you and thought that he was blinded by loneliness and that you were the last thing he needed to dote on. 

With the rejection, came vexation, a rumbling little thing that forced its way into your mouth—lips parting to let it out. 

“You’re not as discreet as you think you are.” As soon as they fell, the rest came following like a herd of bulls, a huge red flag flying through the air, right where Joel sat. They came for him, and you didn’t care enough to stop them. “I’m not stupid, no matter what you say.” 

The tick, tick, tick of his jaw. That subtle way his eyes narrowed, honing in on everything but the thing causing his problems, trying desperately to stop the truths from betraying his conceptions. 

“I see you, Joel. I see you through my bedroom window, using me as your personal stripper because you’re too fucking cheap to go down to the strip club and give a tip.” The push and pull was becoming apparent, the sympathy and disgust you held for him all at once growing and growing until all that prevailed was rage. That after everything, he still refused. That he was still a fucking coward no matter how many faces he pulled at anyone who looked at him wrong. You would not be deterred by the look he gave you then: one that should’ve made you shrink away in fear he would do something rash. “I see the way you looked at me from day fucking one. Just a pair of tits to stare at, a new young girl that you can prey on-”

“Stop.” 

“I’m not stupid.” Your voice was rising rapidly, your lips downturned in a scowl, unable to see the danger that befell you if you continued. “I know how you talk about me to your friends, I know that you make a show of being this immovable thing that no one can ever get to because you’re so wrapped up in your own self-pity that you can’t even admit to yourself that the only thing you are is a fucking pervert. And an asshole.” 

“You are crossing a line, little girl.” 

His words fell on deaf ears, a scoff coming from the back of your throat—so many things that you wanted to say but couldn’t voice. You settled for a final, blow. One that might kick him off his feet. 

“I know you stole my panties.” Jaw ticking, teeth grinding so hard they were liable to turn to dust in his mouth. “Took them right off my bathroom floor. Could you not help yourself? Are you that sad, Joel? Are you that much of a fucking perve-” 

Silenced by the way he towered, standing upright, bottle discarded by the leg of his chair and fury dancing in his eyes—so apparent and profound you finally stopped and cowered. 

“You don’t know a thing about me.” 

You were stunned into submission, finally on the end of his intimidation—a feat that was sure to happen sooner rather than later. You were just another Dale, just another one of his victims that he shot down with narrowed eyes and a nasty tone of voice that forced you to swallow down the confidence—sending it right back to your stomach, and burning the false assurance away. 

“I have been cordial with you for as long as possible.” There was danger in the way he spoke so calmly, a tremor in your hands as he stepped forward, facing you completely, and kneeled before you—eyes boring into yours, forcing you to look at him with the hand he placed on the couch beside you. “I’ve tried my hardest to be respectable but you make it so damn difficult.” 

“I’m sorry,” you began, wishing you could take it all back, wishing that you could’ve used your boldness for better: crawled into his lap and let him hold you, sank to your knees like he and worshipped him with every bit of yourself you had.

“Sh, sh, sh,” he shook his head, the hand on the couch, moving, the weight of it resting there dissipating and falling even heavier on the side of your face. “You can’t take it back now.” 

Nerves slipped like rapids through your stomach, the damn thing churning so much you began to feel sick with the anticipation and fear you felt being closer to him than you ever had been before. Your mouth opened as if to speak, then closed again when you realised that your throat had closed, the inside of your mouth dry and unable to lubricate your words with credibility as they fell from your lips.

“You think I’m a pervert?” he asked, eyes expecting an answer, eyebrows raising to help you find a response. “Hm?” 

“Yes.” The monosyllable fell shakily, unable to lie when he was looking at you so harshly, all whilst stroking your cheekbone with his thumb and engulfing the right side of your face with one, big, warm hand. 

He nodded with knowing, his other hand falling to your bare knee. You were crowded by him, completely consumed by his presence and with a harsh swallow, you hoped that he would slip away and allow you to breathe—if only for a moment. 

“I know,” he said with finality, your cheek whacked with cold air as he removed his hand, quickly providing you with warmth again as he pressed his thumb to your chin, holding it delicately. Making sure you couldn’t look away from him. “But you like it, don’t you?” he brushed the bottom of your lip with his nail, an uncontrollable shiver running through you that he revelled in.

He’d called your bluff entirely. He’d locked you up in his cage, gave you the upper hand for just a second, made you believe that you could get away from him if you kicked and screamed enough, only to leave you hopeless as he twisted the key to the right, and threw the metal that granted you freedom, into the fire. 

“If you had an issue with me looking, you’d close the drapes. You’re a smart girl, I’m sure it ain’t too hard for you.” 

His patronisation, his demeanour that consisted of arousal and determination, had a small breath puffing from your lungs, a sudden and overwhelming heat crawling from each of his hands and into your head—breaking your rationale and leaving you pliable and willing in his grasp. He’d got you. Right there. And if he wanted you, you would let him have you. 

“And if you didn’t want me to steal your panties, then you shouldn’t have left them there.” 

It was unbelievable, the way he twisted the blame onto you, the way he made you believe in everything he was saying with a simple swipe of his thumb over your bottom lip and a look in his eyes that stopped you from questioning him. 

“Yes, Joel, I’m sorry, Joel,” were the only words swimming through your head: words that you would’ve spoken aloud had he not stunned you into silence, the hand on your knee sliding along your skin, up towards the hem of your shorts where he slipped his fingers under and skimmed the skin concealed by the denim. 

“You understand me, little girl?” 

“I’m not a little girl,” you managed, voice shaky as the warmth of him engulfed you entirely, wrapped up in the scent of him, the feel of the callouses along your smooth skin and the eyes piercing you. If looks could kill…if those pretty eyes could rip you apart with the viciousness of their stare. 

“No you ain’t,” he murmured, gripping your chin, thumb rubbing along the flesh of your bottom lip, the skin bouncing as he peeled it back and let go. “I know you ain’t.” 

There seemed a flood came over his being, a white wave of purity dowsing him, ridding him of every adulteration and forcing sense back into his head as the hand fell from your face, the one on your inner thigh taking longer to slip away before the cloud of insensibility faded and he arrived to a semblance of morality. 

You watched as he stumbled over to the kitchen, hand working over the scruff he called a beard and forced his eyes away from you. 

“Joel,” you called softly, finally gaining back a little strength now he wasn’t crowding you; forcing you to look at him and make the first move so his conscience could be clean. 

“Just go.” The words were uttered much softer than before, the delicacy of his voice surprising you but the strain that coated his throat a reminder that this was still Joel Miller. Dangerously beautiful Joel Miller with a lifetime of terror stashed somewhere in the backrooms of his mind, a darkness in the depths of his eyes you couldn’t help but be frightened by, and a story you wished he would tell. A story that stretched years back to the life before he crept past the opening gates of Shady Springs Mobile Park and left a life that you had no clue wether  had been better or worse than his life now. “I’ll come over tomorrow afternoon and have a look at that tap. You might have to get maintenance round soon though if it keeps up.” 

“I don’t like strangers…in my house.” Your words trailed off at the end of your sentence, caught up in the possibilities of your words and how he would reply. If he would see right through you and clock how you’d only spoken because the tap was one of the biggest ties you had to Joel. If he would realise that you’d thought about getting maintenance months ago when it first started dripping but didn’t want a permanent fix, no matter how annoying. All because of Joel Miller and the way he’d perversely captured you in the plot of some barely legal porno that you would’ve turned your nose up at if it was anyone but him and you. 

You and Joel. 

The thought sounded nice—the reality a little less nicer. 

“Yeah, well…” he leant back on the countertops, arms crossed over his chest, eyes bloodshot and bordered by black—an undeniable piece of evidence that Joel perhaps wasn’t doing as well as he made everyone believe; that there was something deeper tugging at his mind and causing such aggravation. 

After a moments silence, when he looked at you and you looked right back at him, your head clear and working properly again, you diverted the conversation elsewhere—a ploy to hack deeper at his head and find what lay underneath his skull. 

“Are you okay?” Simple, easy. Not difficult to ascertain the concern laced deep in your tone because you were concerned for him. The moment he’d opened the door after days of barely seeing him, time spent cursing the fact he could peer through your windows but you could not peer through his, you knew something was wrong. That there was something happening to him. Something dangerous. Your sympathy began to overtake everything else, memory shed of all the times he had wronged you and replaced with the very little he had done right. “You look…tired. Exhausted, really.” 

“I’m fine,” he said with finality, the rage in his eyes returning but with less power this time. The fatigue was setting in, the constant running from himself finally catching up to him. 

“Are you sure?”

“I said I’m fine.” It shut you up well enough, so much so that you began to lose the commiserations. You could always say you tried. “Now get out of my house.” 

It was the final thing he said to you before he slipped away, striding down the hallway, footsteps echoing until he reached the bedroom; the click of the door resounding throughout the trailer. 

You stared at the spot where he’d kneeled, a finger brushing softly over your lip before shaking away the self-pity and gently placing the beer bottle on the table that sat next to his chair. 

Looking one last time at the door at the end of the hallway, shadowed and guarded by snapping dogs, you opened the door, the damn thing creaking as if to shout to everyone within a mile radius that you had made no progress with the man you desperately wanted, and stepped out. Leaving your pride on the doorstep. 

© virginreprise

thanks for reading !

[fangirl-dot-com]

Oscar Piastri and Lando Norris - It's not Orange, It's Papaya

Welcome to the second instalment of my spinoff series – Besties for the Resties! I really thought that I could maybe have made a single chapter for each driver, BUT I feel like Oscar and reader would be too introverted together and the story would be a bunch of lines about silence and them staring at each other. They really needed Lando to be able to get talking and to banter. 

I myself am very introverted and I freeze up around people that I don’t know. But when I’m with my extroverted friends, I have a completely different side! I don’t explicitly say this but I do base the reader off of myself most of the time. I am a Virgo, I am from Texas, and I just turned 20, so many of the lines I give the reader are things that I have said or would say. That being, do you think that the reader is a bit all over the place or is she a good solid character who acts in very realistic ways?

I hope you enjoy and please don’t forget to comment! I love reading everything that you all have to say about the story! It makes me happy to see that you’re enjoying it! (Also comment if you want to be added to the tag list!) Much love – author! 

Of course the elevator had to be broken, on today of all days. You sludged up the stairs, leaving puddles to follow where you stepped. Once you hauled yourself to the top of the stairs, you stomped over to your apartment door. Why Christian wanted you to come to London for an extra training session during rainiest week of the break, you didn’t know. 

You were supposed to be at Max’s house right now, eating dinner with his family. But noooooo. Max didn’t even have to come either. Something about how your test time was deleted, or something like that. You could barely hear Christian over the ocean when he called you in the middle of a beach day. 

Your hand dug through your pocket, searching for the keys as you approached your door. But, your fingers never came into contact with the smooth metal piece. You flipped your pocket inside out, and all that fell from it was lint. 

“Great. Just perfect,” you muttered as you looked at your door. You turned your head. Maybe Logan was here. You shuffled over and knocked. Tiredly, you rested your head against the nice wood. 

After a few moments, you didn’t hear anything, which brought out another sigh. Of course he wouldn’t be here. He was probably back in the states for the break. 

You were definitely making a statement by dripping all over the floor. Maybe you should lay down, floor time always helped. As you were about to lift your head, the door suddenly opened up. 

You didn’t have enough time to react and found yourself sprawled in between Logan’s flat and the door frame. 

“Logan am I so glad that you’re…You’re not Logan,” you looked up and were met with the sight of none other than Oscar Piastri. 

He looked down at you, “Good to see you too Y/n.” He put out a hand for you to take. You gently placed your hand in his and he hauled you up. There was now a massive you-shaped puddle on the ground. 

You looked down at it, “Sorry for the mess.” Oscar crossed his arms. 

“Why are you knocking on Logan’s door at,” he looked over at the clock on the wall, “5 p.m.?” 

You sheepishly grinned, “Well, I may or may not have forgotten my keys back at Milton.” Your hand scratched your head. 

Oscar just stared at you. You stared back. 

“Why are you here?” you quizzed. You knew that Logan and Oscar were best of friends, but didn’t realize that Oscar had a key to the flat. 

He sighed, “Lando invited me to be in the Quadrant Christmas video and the filming is this week.” He ushered you to come more into the room so that he could close the door. “But Lando graciously forgot that Max Fewtrell only has one extra bed. So Lando took it and I called Logan to see if I could stay here.” 

“Ah,” you nodded and looked down at yourself. 

Oscar suddenly sputtered, “I will go get you a towel and then see if Logan has something in his drawers.” He quickly left, but then turned back around. You raised an eyebrow. 

“Yes?” 

“Do you know where everything is? I guess you’d be over here more than me.” You gave him a reassuring smile and walked deeper into the house. You had taken your shoes off before stepping on the carpet as to try to not drench everything. 

In the bathroom, you found some towels. “Here,” you handed one to Oscar. “Could you wipe the puddle I left at the front while I change?” He nodded and disappeared down the hallway. You closed the door behind him and peeled of your soaked outfit. 

You took some sweats and a random t-shirt from a drawer and put them on. You bundled your wet clothes and threw them in the wash as you walked towards the living space. It seemed like Oscar had already cleaned everything up since the towel was now hanging on the back on a chair. You ran another towel over your hair, drying it to the best of your abilities. 

Oscar walked back in. The two of you stood in silence before you fished out your phone. You pressed on the uber app, but a notification told you that the roads were flooded and you’d have to wait until the morning. You sighed, which peaked Oscar’s interest. 

“Everything ok?” he asked, Australian accent filled with concern. 

You showed him the screen. “Everything is flooded. I can’t get back to get my keys.” Oscar looked deep in thought. 

“You could always stay here?” It came out more like a question. 

“I don’t want to trouble you,” you fiddled with your fingers. Before now, you had never said more than ten words to the Aussie. Sure, he was Logan’s friend, but he wasn’t your friend. You were about to say something, when a knock resonated in the small entrance. The two of you whipped to look at it. You both waited in silence before another knock sounded. 

You raised an eyebrow and mouthed, “Are you expecting anyone?” Oscar shook his head. He quickly moved you behind him before looking out the peephole. He groaned before opening the door. 

There, standing in the doorway, was a soaked Lando Norris. You wanted to laugh. 

So you did. 

The two boys looked at you while you tried to calm yourself down. Lando brushed past Oscar and made his way into the flat. 

“By all means, welcome in,” Oscar sarcastically said. He locked the door and turned to look at him. You had finally been able to calm yourself down. 

“Hi Lando,” you greeted before turning around to enter the kitchen. 

“Uh, hi?” 

Oscar hit the back of his head, “What happened to you staying at Max’s?” 

Lando shrugged. “His girlfriend was over and I wasn’t about to watch them suck faces.” You snorted. 

“Aha, felt.” The three of you kind of just watched each other. You were the first one to talk. “Lando, do you want a towel?” 

He breathed a sigh of relief before answering, “Yes please.” 

You turned and headed back into the direction of Logan’s bedroom. Thankfully there was one more towel. You also grabbed another pair of sweats and a t-shit. You reemerged from the hallway and handed the items to Lando. 

“Bathroom is down the hallway to the left.” Your head jerked in the direction. Lando went around you and disappeared. You looked back at Oscar. 

“So. Sleepover?” A smirk grew on your face, before your cheeks got hot and you panicked. “Unless you’d rather me go see if I can find the landlord to get another key. I wouldn’t want to make you or Lando uncomfortable?” You continued to ramble until Oscar lightly hit your face. That shut you up. 

He rubbed his face. “No, Y/n it’s fine. Besides it’s getting late and I don’t think Logan would like it if I told you to leave.” You nodded as Lando finally came back, clothes in a heaping wet mess in his arms. You told him to put them next to the washer and that you’d start his clothes when yours were done. 

Lando clapped his hands. “What’s the plan?” 

You went to respond but Oscar beat you to it, “Sleepover.” You watched as Lando’s lips turned upwards. 

“Hold on!” you yelled and watched Oscar and Lando jump in their place. 

The two boys watched as you made your way to the kitchen. You leaned down to look what was in the fridge. “Jackpot. Bless you and you Americanness Logan.” You brought out three dark red cans and handed them to each boy.  

They looked at the cans with the white font. 

“What is this?” Lando asked, popping the can. 

You gawked at them and smacked you head. “You’re telling me. You’ve been friends with Logan and he hasn’t given you Dr. Pepper!” They both shook their heads. “Well, it’s about time you tried it.” Two more pops sounded as you and Oscar opened your cans. 

“Is it alcoholic?” Oscar asked, taking a sip of the sweet drink. 

You looked at the both of them, “Guys, I’m twenty. And where I’m from, you have to be at least 21 to partake in such adultish things such as drinking alcohol.” You took a sip and closed your eyes. You could feel the freedom seep into your veins. 

The boys looked at you strangely before Lando spoke in a childish voice, ‘Aw so you’re just a baby.” 

“Says the one who acts like a 5-year-old,” you quipped. Oscar choked on his drink while Lando stared at you. Oscar quickly wiped his face. “Do you like it?” 

Lando nodded, “It’s very sweet.” 

“That’s the taste of freedom boys.” 

“Y/n, none of us are under communism,” Oscar pointed out. 

“But you both have a monarchy who makes all the decisions.” 

“That’s Parliament,” Lando coughed, a smirk adorning his face. 

“Tomato, tomato.” You waved your hand. “I think Logan has a severe addition to frozen pizzas. I could make one real fast?” Their stomachs answered for them. 

You got to work by preheating the oven. When that was done, you carefully took off the plastic (not wanting to melt it onto the pizza), and placed the circle on a baking sheet. By now, the two McLaren drivers had moved to the couch. After setting the timer, you also joined them, but sat on the floor. 

You looked them up and down at you sipped. “It’s weird seeing the two of you not in orange.” 

Oscar slapped his face. “Here we go.” 

Lando looked like you had insulted him, his whole family, and his cow. He sat up straighter and crossed his legs. 

“It’s not orange, it’s papaya,” he emphasized the syllables. 

“It falls into the orange category of colors,” you bit back. 

“Then it would be called orange then. Oh wait, it’s not.” 

“Aren’t you a sassy little dude,” you peered at him. “It’s giving Scorpio.” Lando lit up like a Christmas tree. Oscar again, face palmed. 

“Please let’s not start this,” Oscar groaned. However, you and Lando didn’t listen to him. The two of you began to discuss star signs and what characteristics came with them. He was surprised when you told him that you were a Virgo. 

“Aren’t they shy?” 

You looked down at your fingers, “I’m shy until I get comfortable. Believe me, when I first saw you guys, I was shaking like a leaf. I still do. And if you put me into a room full of strangers I will find a way out so help me.” 

Lando dramatically brought you into a hug, his face pressed against yours. His hand came up to pat your head as you shot help-me-eyes at Oscar. “It’s ok little introvert, your extrovert is here to protect you.” You shoved him off when you heard the oven beep. The pizza had turned out perfectly. 

Not wanting to do dishes, you three ate off of paper towels. You picked up the remote as you ate a bite. “What movie should we watch? Logan has Disney Plus.” 

Oscar rolled his eyes, “Yeah I know. You two finished Cars without me.” 

“It’s not like we can’t start it over.” You turned to Lando. “Have you seen Cars 2?” 

Lando scoffed, “Of course I’ve seen Cars 2.”  

You held up your hands in mock defeated as you turned the movie on, “You seem uncultured.” You missed the look that Lando gave you. 

Like it always is, Cars 2 was fabulous. Lando was the first one to speak during the movie. His finger was pointed at the large TV. 

“Look its Charles.”

You thought he was pointing at Lightning McQueen, but Francesco. You and Oscar wheezed at the revelation. 

“But Charles is Lightning though,” your hands now pointed at the flashy red car now on screen. 

Oscar took a sip from his Dr. Pepper, “Lando would be the Volkswagen.” 

You gasped, “You’re right. He’s such a Filmore. Logan would be Sarge.” The two boys laughed out loud. 

The three of you screamed as you saw Lewis’s car come up. Lando quickly took a picture and promised to send it him. 

The movie continued before Lando spoke again, “Yeah, Max is definitely Mater.” 

“I know right,” you said, munching on another slice of pizza. “What car is Oscar though, none of them really fit him.” Oscar gave you an offended look. 

“He’d be Axelrod.” 

“I beg your pardon,” Oscar whipped his head around to look at Lando. 

“Well you would. I swear, if you were planning our demise, no one would think it’d be you.” 

You jumped in, “Either him or the Professor.” Oscar grimaced and shook his head. 

“I’ll take Axelrod.” 

“Y/n you’d be McMissile.” You fist pumped. 

“Why does she get to be the cool character?”  

“Because I’m better than you?” That earned you a scoff from the Aussie. 

“Sure. Just because you’re going to be driving a rocket ship doesn’t mean you’re better.” 

“Ladies, ladies, ladies, can we quiet down, the movie is still going on,” the Brit complained. You and Oscar leaned back and continued to watch the movie. You’re pretty sure that Lando was in tears at the end, and you and Oscar couldn’t help but tease. You went to change the movie to another one, when yet another knock sounded on the door. 

The three of you froze and slowly turned to look at the door, as if it would move. The knock sounded again. You and Oscar pushed Lando closer to the entrance. He gave you both a stink eye before looking opening the door wide open. 

“Christian!” you squealed and ran over to the older man. He was smart enough to have brought a rain coat and jacket. 

He held out your keys, “I think you forgot something.” He looked over your shoulder and stared at the two McLaren drivers. “Giving our secrets away Y/n?” 

You looked over a smirked, “As if they could use them properly in their tractor.” The two boys rolled their eyes in sync. Christian bid you goodbye and closed the door behind them. You noticed a sad look on the guys’ faces. 

You shrugged and sank down into the couch once again, a blanket over your lap. You looked at them as they continued to stand. With your eyebrow raised, you questioned, “Why are you two still standing there?” 

They shrugged and joined you. 

Lando looked at you, “I think we thought that you’d want to go to your flat now.” 

“Well boys, I was promised a sleepover. And a sleep over I will get. Now, what movie are we going to watch? I say Spider-man Homecoming. Lando is it true that Tom Holland is going to play you in a movie?” 

“My lips are sealed.” 

“That’s ok. He’s not called the Spoiler King for nothing!”    

Tag List : @awekbachira @lightdragonrayne @leilanixx @angsthology @digitalizeduniqueness @topguncultleader @landosgirlxoxo @gods-menace @itsjustkhaos @thefandomswhre @alwaysboredsworld @vellicora @bintuabbas @sam-is-lost @empress-kimiko @assholeinatrenchcoat @kagatinkita @glitterquadricorn @zyonsay @tsukishimawhore @treehouse-mouse @ashy-kit @agent-curt-mega @julesbabey @lydialawrence @stopeatread @claudia5912 @nichmeddar @blueberry64857959 @laura-naruto-fan1998 @leptitlu @alessioayla @badassturtle13 @kaaale @wcnorris @cool-ultra-nerd @hockeyboysarehot @agent-curt-mega @myxticmoon @cmleitora @sam-is-lost @misartymis @boiohboii @alexander-hamilhoe @jayda12 @indesicivelyconfuzzled @fangirl125reader @itscrzy @xcharlottemikaelsonx @fionaschicken @torchbearerkyle @ineedafictionalman @loaksmuntxa @classiclitfreak @sarcasm-ismy-onlydefense @luisie @jayda12 @comfortzonequeen @taylor-will-be-the-death-of-me @inejghafawifesblog

ATTENTION: if you were not tagged, it means that I was not able to add you. I will reply to your comment if I was unable to. Please check your settings and then message me to try again after! Thank you <3

So we have met the tag list maximum of 50 people - does anyone know how I could add more??

[mxtantrights]

Bounded by shadow and blood (7)

This part is on the larger side. strap in!

The day had finally arrived. You were set to visit the night court. Of course this came with some stipulations. You were to be escorted by someone in the inner circle at all times. They would take you to and from your lodging, which they had sought out for you. And you would be visiting as a non-diplomatic, Amren had swayed them enough to think this was a personal visit. 

A personal visit with baby-sitters.

There’s a series of knocks on your door. You know it’s not Thesan, he wouldn’t knock unless he knew you weren’t decent. So while you rule out Thesan, and Amren because she too would just walk right in, you cannily think of one other person who would knock and be looking for you right now.

Azriel.

“The door’s open.” You say.

The creak of the wood lets out know it’s being open. You are still fitting in a few shirts into your travel bag before your turn around to face him. He stands there, leaning against the archway of the door.

“Are you ready to go?” He asks.

You pick up on the urgency in his voice. 

“What, is the carriage going to turn into a pumpkin?” You ask in response.

He passes you a look of indifference first before he crosses his arms over his chest. He probably doesn't get the reference. The kids back home told you the fairy tale a couple of years ago. Maybe the version he knows isn't the one that was told to you.

You shouldn’t pay attention to how good it feels to get under his skin but you do.

“I’m almost done. Just need to grab something really quick.” You answer.

You close up your bag and place it on the floor. Then you kneel down by your bed and place your arm underneath the mattress. There, tucked in-between the sheets, is your favorite weapon. Part of it at least.

You wrap your hand around the hilt of the sword and pull it out. When you get back up you catch Azriel’s stare.

“I’m not going to explain myself.” You speak.

“I wouldn’t dare ask you to.” He replies.

Huh. You tuck the hilt into the inner pocket of your jacket and pull it on over you. You grab both of your bags and meet Azriel at the door. He offers to take one of your bags. You don’t know why he’s being nice, maybe something to do with knocking you off your mark. But you won’t deny him holding a bag.

You give him the heaviest one and he almost lets out a groan at the weight of it. You can’t help the laugh that comes out of you.

“Don’t worry the carriage won’t topple over.” You joke.

“There is no carrige.”  He says.

You look at him confused, but before you can ask him what he means by that you see movement. His other free hand comes into contact with your elbow. You don’t flinch at his touch since you saw it coming.

But all at once everything around you changes. A darkness swallows you whole. You recognize it as winnowing. Thesan had told you about it but you never experienced it for yourself. 

When the darkness started to dissipate your surroundings were different. You weren’t inside anymore. You were in some back woods of some kind. The trees being a dead giveaway. 

“Is your court in the woods?” You joke.

“No, but I do have to ask you something before we go there. Two things.” He says.

You nod your head for him to continue. You also realize that he’s still got his hand on your elbow. You don’t know why he hadn’t moved it if he wasn’t going to winnow you at this very moment.

“Your mind doesn’t seem to be susceptible to Rhysand’s powers. But should anyone ask you what you’ve seen, will you lie?”

At that you take a step back. His touch leaves you as you create distance between the two of you. Lie about what you’ve seen? What was going on here? Why would you lie for them? 

“You’re keeping secrets.” You say.

“Will you lie, yes or no?” He asks again.

You think about it for a moment. If you say no you will not get entry into their court. And you couldn’t look for your brother like the way you intend. 

If you say yes, you give them some sense of security. That you will do their bidding for them. That they have an ally in you. But that will probably make them want to know more about you.

“Yes.” You answer.

“Good.” He comments.

“What’s your other question?” you ask him.

Azriel clears his throat, “Are you running from someone?”

You let another moment pass. What kind of question was that? And why would you answer that honestly? It’s not like he would help you if you were, but you aren’t. None of them besides Amren would help you. They don’t know you.

“No.” You answer simply.

“Good. Let’s go then.” He says.

You meet him where he’s at. He places his hand on your shoulder this time. The darkness surrounds the both of you again for, you don’t even know how long, until it disappears. 

You look around you now. You were inside again. You set down your bag, Azriel sets down the other one. You look around. The space wasn’t as big as you thought. It actually looked nothing like a palace,. 

“I thought all high lords lived lavishly.” You say.

“They do, but you won’t be staying with the high lord. This is one of the town houses.” He answers. 

There it is. They don’t trust you enough to put you under the same roof as them. You knew it already. But to have it reinforced like this was another thing. You really had to make this visit as clean and clear as possible. 

“Tell the high lord I said thanks. Will Amren be meeting you here?” You ask.

Azriel nods, “Later on, for now I’ll be your escort.” 

You roll your eyes, “You mean babysitter.” 

“Whatever works for you.” He adds on.

You reach down and pick up both of your bags. 

“If you could point me to my room. I am awfully tired from all that traveling we did. I should rest and wait until Amren comes.” You lie.

You know he can tell that you’re lying. He’s a spymaster. He could probably pick up on things that you hadn’t noticed about yourself. An extra blink, a change in your voice. 

“As you wish. You have the last room on the right.” He answers.

You leave without another word. You walk with your bags down the long hallway. You turn to the right, the last room. The door is already opened. The bed is made and everything looks done up. 

You turn your head to Azriel who is still standing where you left him.

“Your’e excused, shadow singer.” You say with a smile.

You doubt he’d actually leave you alone. But it wouldn’t hurt to rub it in his face one last time.

-

You lay on the bed and think of all the places your brother could have went. If the night court was this surveilled, there aren’t many places he could have went.

Correction, theres aren’t many places that aren’t seedy and suspicious where he can just stroll into. If he came here, it’s likely that he left already. But you have a thought that he never came here to begin with.

You’re only here to prove to the council that he was no longer in the night court. That way they could widen their search and actually do something useful instead of bide their time until you would have to take the throne.

You reach into your pocket and pull out the hilt to your sword.

It’s a family heirloom. Only blood benders would find it useful. The blade is meant to come from your powers. You blood is the blade.

Without it, it’s just a hilt. A very expensive hilt with ancient carvings but that’s about it.

Your brother has one just like it. And like calls to like. If he used the blade or his abilities in this court, you would be able to tell. There would be traces of it. All you have to do is draw a bit of your blood and set an intention.

Which would be easy to do if you didn’t feel like you were being watched. The shadows, multiple at this point, were restless underneath your door. Just like the one that had been at your door in the dawn court when he arrived for the mission.

His shadows reminded you of an ancient magic you read about when you were younger. Cyril wanted you to know everything there was to know about the world. And if that meant skipping princess duties, you agreed. 

Back to Azriel, his shadows seemed to draw from the old elder magic. Blood, Shadow, Light and Dark. The natural elements. 

Just like your blood tells you things, you have no doubt that his shadows speak to him. If you use your blood to figure out where your brother is, they would no doubt run and tell him.

You tuck the hilt back into your inner pocket and get out of bed. Swinging your feet off the bed and walking to the door. You watch as the closer you get the shadows seem to retreat. You pull the door open and stomp down the long hallway, following the shadows. 

You follow and follow until they lead you right to him. You didn’t really need to follow them to know where he was. His blood was the only other pumping in the house. He’s standing in the kitchen, peeling an apple with a knife. He doesn’t even acknowledge your presence. 

“Call your shadows off.” You say.

He looks at you for a moment. Then he goes back to his apple peeling. You want to walk over to him and just—provoke him. How he could be this still and emotionless is beyond you.

“All my shadows are right here.” He answers you.

“No they weren’t. They were at my door, listening most likely.” You complain.

Azriel looks at you then. He looks like he’s shocked. You think to yourself that he can’t be all that shocked that his shadows were spying on you, he was doing it himself. 

A shadow curls at his ear and his eyebrows knit in the middle.

“I’m sorry. That’s never happened before. They usually listen to me.” He admits.

Usually? 

You shift on your feet. So he might not have done it on purpose. But he’s still spying on your just the same. Like he did when he first showed up at the dawn court. 

“Do you know when Amren is coming?” You ask.

His face returns to neutral and he shrugs his shoulders. He goes back to peeling his apple. At his lack of response your eyes squint at him. Maybe she was not coming any time soon. Maybe this was all some sick ploy to watch you closely.

“She knows I’m here right?” You ask.

Azriel scoffs, “Of course.”

You don’t know if you can trust him to tell you the truth. You don’t know much of anything anymore. One thing you do know, you don’t want to be empress. You cannot be empress. 

You never wanted that life.

Azriel stops peeling his apple and you look to see why. In front of you you see a beed of blood on his thumb. He looks at you then. He’s staring right at you. Like he wants you to use your abilities. 

But you won’t. You keep looking him in the eyes. They weren’t as dark as his hair or his shadows. They were a lighter brown. Why do you notice this, there's not a good enough answer right now.

It seems like he wants to get under your skin as well.

The front door opens and and Amren introduces her presence in the house. Azriel ends the long eye contact and takes his thumb into his mouth, sucking the blood. You watch as he walks right by you, out of sight.

You think to yourself, what just happened?

[triforce-of-mischief]

Brave for You

Summary: Link usually avoids the doctor at all costs, and Ravio has never been. Courage can only go so far, and fear has a nasty habit of rebounding on itself.

Warnings: doctor visit, trypanophobia, references to needles, panic attacks

Relationship: Link/Ravio

Note: This was written as a prequel for my Linked Universe series, Overcome, but this is functionally a standalone fic if you so please. No prior knowledge of LU or Overcome is required for enjoyment of this fic.

AO3

Please reblog to show your support! Likes do nothing.

It was impossible to say who was more nervous. Link knew this, and Ravio obviously did too which made the walk to Kakariko very miserable. They were both quiet, squeezing each other’s hands every few moments as a reminder that they were still there. Their pace was slow, and it felt like they had been walking forever.

Getting them both out of the house had been its own feat, achieved with an amount of fake confidence that Link could feel slipping. He reminded himself constantly that he had to do this, for Ravio’s sake. And Zelda’s, and both of their kingdoms. Besides, Link was seventeen now, practically an adult. It had been years since he had faced this. Surely he could handle it?

Surely he could believe, even for a moment, that this time would be different?

They reached the building that Link had avoided for years, that he hadn’t stepped inside since before his first quest. He stared at the sign beside the door, barely able to read the simple letters painted on the wood.

Doctor.

“This is it?” Ravio squeaked, ducking behind Link like his partner could shield him from the place.

Link so badly wished he could.

He swallowed hard and grunted, “Yeah.”

His body nearly stopped cooperating, but he willed it to step forward and take them through the door.

The woman behind the front desk greeted them automatically, then raised her eyebrows when she saw who they were. “Link? Princess Zelda said to expect you, but I have to say I’m surprised you actually came.”

Link tried to say something, but couldn’t get past “Mm.” Ravio, still behind him, did the same.

The woman smiled anyway. “I’ll let the doctor know you’re here. Please take a seat while you wait.”

“Link?” Ravio whispered, his grip on Link’s hand slowly cutting off his circulation. “I don’t feel good…”

Me neither. I wish we didn’t have to do this. I’m sorry. “I know.”

The wait probably wasn’t as long as it seemed, but Ravio kept asking short, anxious questions.

“Is the doctor nice?”

If they were the same one, no. “…I don’t know.”

“Will it be fast?”

“Hopefully.”

“Can we go to the bakery after?”

“That’s a good idea.”

Ravio shifted in place, bunching his long sleeve in the hand that wasn’t holding Link’s. “…Will it hurt much?”

It took multiple deep breaths before Link could answer. “…Yes.”

Ravio whined, “Do we have to do this?”

Link wanted to say no. He wanted to stand up and pull Ravio right out the door. He wanted to take them away and never let anyone hurt him or his partner. It would be so easy, and he almost did-

“Link and Ravio?”

It was too late.

“Come on,” Link said, to Ravio and himself as they stood.

It was hard to breathe. Ravio was gasping too, and he stumbled as they went to greet the doctor.

Link didn’t recognize them; they gave a genuine smile before waving and turning to the examination room.

“It’s so nice to meet you finally, Link,” the doctor said as they gestured for Link and Ravio to enter first. “And your friend, of course. You’ve done so much to help this kingdom, I’m very glad that you’ve agreed to protect yourself and others from this latest wave of sickness.”

Link wished they would stop talking. He just wanted this to be over- no, he wanted this to not happen at all. But if he let the last of his facade crumble while Ravio was watching him-

The doctor let them sit beside each other, and Ravio hid his face in Link’s side while Link stared at the floor. The doctor was still talking, and Link missed most of their words until they paused, waiting for a response.

“…Link?”

He shook himself and made an inquisitive sound, his gaze still fixated on the floor.

“I said, since Ravio hasn’t done this before, how about you go first so he can see how it works? I’m sure our brave hero will be a great demonstration, won’t you?”

The doctor’s voice was genuine, but Link knew that he was going to prove them so very wrong. He didn’t feel anything like a brave hero, he felt small and scared and the only thing keeping him from running away was his partner, nervously clinging to him. Link looked up, just to see Ravio peeking at him. He had to do this, if only so that Ravio wouldn’t call himself even more of a coward next to Link’s terror.

He would go first, then it would be over.

There was nothing more that would happen before Link had to face this.

He couldn’t imagine a world where that thought was comforting.

He nodded, the movement so barely there that he almost hoped that the doctor would miss it.

“Wonderful. Ravio, would you like to see, or would you rather let it stay a secret?”

Ravio whimpered and shook his head firmly, his face still buried in Link’s tunic.

“Of course. Link, if you feel the same, I advise that you look away now.”

Ravio made a confused sound as Link immediately moved to match him, hiding his face in his partner’s scarf. He was shaking, he knew, but it was too late to stop it. Silently, Link apologized to Ravio for not being as brave as he thought he would be.

He felt the doctor roll his sleeve up, out of the way. He smelled something sharp. He flinched violently when something cold pressed against his arm, Ravio whining as Link squeezed him tight.

“Link, I thought you said…”

Link didn’t remember what he had said. He only remembered hands, and screaming, and-

Pain.

After so much anticipation, it still came as a surprise, and it took every bit of Link’s self control to hold himself still despite wanting desperately to tear his arm away, so he wouldn’t have to feel it inside. A shattered sob escaped him, muffled in Ravio’s scarf as his partner, anxious and scared with him and for him, started to cry too. It took another few moments for Link to realize it was over, and he pulled Ravio closer with the arm that wasn’t sore and aching.

It was over, Link reminded himself again and again. He never wanted to do it again and he couldn’t stop the memories replaying in his mind but Ravio was there, he had made it through, he was done.

“Liiiink?”

…No.

Link was safe, but now it was Ravio’s turn.

A fine example he had been, breaking down in his partner’s arms.

“Link, is it really that bad?” Ravio begged, pulling away until Link forced himself to look his partner in the eyes. “If it made you that scared- I don’t want to do this, please don’t make me do this-!”

“He’ll be right there the whole time, just like you were for him,” the doctor said briskly. “You’ll be just fine, you saw how quick that was.”

“I’m here,” Link repeated, because he didn’t know what else to say.

He didn’t know how the doctor still had so much faith in him. If Ravio tried to run away, Link would let him. Din’s flames, he would lead the way. He would stand before Zelda himself and explain that nothing would come between him and his partner.

Ravio didn’t want to flee. He fell hard, back into Link’s arms and Link caught his partner and held him tight.

“Link,” Ravio cried, so confused and still needing to find comfort in one who was just as terrified as he was.

“I don’t- I can’t-” Link said, and choked on tears of his own.

“Keep holding him,” Link heard the doctor say. “You’re almost done.”

“I’m sorry,” Link sobbed into Ravio’s hair. “Just- just keep breathing, Ravi, please-”

Ravio wailed, his nails digging into Link’s skin, and Link had never felt less brave.

“It hurts!” Ravio screamed. “Link!”

Link had never felt more useless.

The doctor stepped away, infuriatingly calm. “All done. Was that so bad?”

If Ravio hadn’t needed him, Link thought he would’ve strangled them.

Minutes passed before either of them were able to stand. Link gently pulled Ravio up, feeling numb as his partner leaned fully on him for support.

Link took a shuddering breath in, trying to keep his voice steady. “The- the bakery, remember? We’re gonna… c’mon, let’s go to the bakery.”

Ravio nodded silently and squeezed Link’s hand. Link squeezed it back and hoped that, with a clear mind and the promise of pastries, they could forget everything that had happened.

[livfastdieyoung69]

Jeff Hardy x reader where he finds someone who is extreme just like him

2 EXTREME 4 the EXTREME

The crowd was silent, buzzing with anticipation. Y/N could hear a scream of their name over the barricade, a hand coming out in front of them from the spot on the cold, concrete floor. Their opponent was laid out on the flattened announcers’ table, a referee screaming out to the count of ten from all the way inside the ring. Y/N squeezed their eyes shut, the taste of blood filling their mouth, the thick liquid dripping down from a forehead wound in reminder of the injuries they faced from the past actions of throwing the other person and themselves through the now broken table placed inside one of the ring's corners. The ref was at 7 now. Their eyes shut again, lids crinkling in force.

“Come on. Gotta get up, come on.” Y/N whispered to themselves but their body still refused to move. The plush, red barricade behind them rattled as fans hit against it in a way to show their love. It seemed to be even brighter when they opened their eyes once again, the stadium cheering a little louder while they stumbled to their feet. They looked down at their opponent as the ref counted to 8 before turning to face the ring and lazily diving under the bottom rope and coming back out again, forcing the ref to restart his count.

“ONE!” Y/N fell onto their knees, pulling the fabric on the sides of the ring up, pulling out the only table remaining. The crowd yelled, Y/N’s own adrenaline meshing with theirs.

“TWO!” The ref moved to face the announcers table, now only speaking to one instead of both wrestlers. They pushed the table into the ring, looking back over to their rival who seemed to finally be waking. A sigh left their mouth, moving quickly to set up the flimsy piece of wood, before finally taking a few lung-filling breaths.

“THREE!” They continued in simply breathing, before becoming sick of waiting and turned to their combatant, watching as JR tried bad mouthing them back into the ring.

“Come on!” Their opponents attention was ripped away from JR and now moved to the form standing in the ring. “You fuckin scared now? Come on, get in the goddamn ring!” The ref only reached five before they jumped back into the ring and ran right into a suplex, Y/N throwing their body through the second table.

“ONE, TWO, THREE!” The crowd counted along with the ref and erupted into cheers as Y/N jumped up, celebrating their victory before limping over to the ramp trying not to look too injured. The curtain into the gorilla was pulled back, revealing whoevers match was next and plenty of staff, along with Lita who had been waiting for Y/N’s match to finish. Lita rushed over to the exhausted superstar with an icepack, much more concerned for their well being than they seemed to be.

“Oh my god, I love you so much, Lita.” Y/N let their gratitude be known as they took the ice pack and sat in an uncomfortable steel chair in order to hold it against their back.

“I really don’t know how you do all of this stuff, like I get that its fun to jump around every once in a while, but every single second of every single match? Really, Y/N, I don’t think you’ll be able to bend over by the time you’re thirty!” It was nice to have someone worried, but Y/N wasn’t really listening to Lita as their frustration grew, the chair causing the ice pack to keep sliding down their back. Instead of holding it up, they flopped onto the ground, the icepack perfectly on their lower back.

“Get off the goddamn floor! God, I love you but no wonder why Matt’s always so stressed all the time,” Y/N was new to WWE, recently coming from Big Japan Wrestling, known for their extreme antics that even stuck out in a very extreme company. Now, in a much bigger company with fewer high-flyers and risk takers, it was easy to gain attention from the fans and the love of the only other person in the women's division with a somewhat similar style.

“That boyfriend of yours? What the hells he got to do with me?” Although they got along very well with Lita, Y/N didn’t really talk to very many other people so they weren’t too familiar with the Hardyz.

“You totally act like Jeff! And don’t say you don’t know who that is cause I see you staring at him all the time.”

“That's definitely not true at all.” Before Lita could argue back to the obvious lie, Y/N made her concentrate on something else. “Speaking of, here comes your boy.” Lita rolled her eyes but turned around.

“Lita, I would really appreciate it if you would tell Jeff that there is no need for him to do a Swanton tonight and then another one off a goddamn ladder on Heat.” Matt spoke with a tension filled tone in his voice while he pointed back to the younger man behind him who scoffed at the accusation.

“Jeff, you should not do that.” Lita repeated what he had definitely already heard, Matt turning to face him with an “i-told-you-so” expression.

“Personally, I think that’d be pretty sick.” Y/N spoke, looking up at the brothers from their spot on the floor. Lita looked down with the look a scolding mother would give, Jeff breaking out into a grin at their agreement.

“Why are you on the floor, Y/N?” Matt asked in confusion.

“Cause my back hurts.” They spoke as if it were obvious with a shrug.

“I told you it works.” Jeff spoke from his brother's side, earning a very hard side-eye. “I’m Jeff by the way. I watched your match, it was really great! Y’know, I was thinking, um, we’ve got a pretty similar style, would you maybe wanna bounce some ideas off of each other or something?” Jeff’s grin widened at the sight of Y/N’s as they bashfully took his praise.

“Well, I think I’ve got a concussion right now, but in the future, I think that would be very nice.”

“You weren’t looking at him, huh?” Lita interrupted the pair moment, her eyebrows raised in amusement.

“Shut up, Lita!”

put in the work, put in the hours and take whats ours 💪💪 this took way too long but I’m actually pretty happy with this😁 Jeff’s return def gave me some hope 🙏 mostly gender-neutral but I did make a refrence to Y/N being on the womens roster

in my mind Lita and Matt are extreme but Y/N and Jeff are just battshit crazy also i couldn’t help but make lita and matt in love I just watched the episode where he first kisses her i love them so much

[plush-rabbit]

Stiff Hands

Request: Idk if youve seen Twilight, more specifically the tent scene in Eclipse.  So ill explain the scene,

Bella,Edward,Jacob are all ontop of a snowy,cold ass mountain in a tent. Bella being human is freezing her ass off, cant cuddle her bf Eds bc hes cold af, so she has to cuddle up to Jacob, whos very warm and isnt cold at all. Eddie boy is not happy and they bicker while Bella dozes off happy she isnt going to die from the cold.

Now , imagine that but with Shigaraki, Dabi and reader & Dabi havin a thing for reader too but reader is with Shigaraki

Word Count: 2.8K

A/N: I was super excited to do this one because despite all the flaws with Twilight, damn is it addictive

-

The cold nips between the broken cracks of the long abandoned home, graffiti strewn in paint against the walls, cracks and splintered furniture pushed against the entryways. What once must have been a quaint home, is nothing more than a squatter’s den, trash thrown around, cigarette butts and broken glass swept against the wall because you’d be damned if you slept on glass. 

At the moment, it’s the best that you and the other two could have found on such short notice for a vicious cold front that would sweep the area. You lay the blanket over the floor, pulling on the corners of the blanket, trying to cover as much space as the three of you would need.

“There’s a bed, ya know.” Dabi kicks at the side of your foot and you stick your tongue out at him.

“I found needles and we’re in the middle of the woods-” you look up at him, clasping your hands together- “I’m not risking whatever disease or fluid is on that bed.” Standing, you bring your clasped hands to the front of your mouth, blowing hot air against them. “I’ll risk the floor. So, do you mind starting a fire?”

You watch as he walks just behind you, his hands hovering over the broken end table, and blue ignites the table, a roar of fire that consumes the legs and holds steady. You murmur a thank you, letting your hands thaw, feeling the warmth touch at the tip of your nose, and spread towards your cheeks and down your neck and over the shells of your ears. 

“We’ll have to put the fire out when we go to bed,” Tomura says walking back into the old living room, carrying broken pieces of furniture and tossing them near the wall. “I’d bet his fire would cremate you before it could even reach your lungs.”

“Don’t be such a downer, Tomura,” you chastise, but still, you move your hands a bit closer to you.

“Yeah, Tomura,” Dabi says in the same sickly sweet tone that you used, “don’t be such a downer.” 

“No teasing,” you say hurriedly, not wanting an argument against your partner and a man with a very effective quirk. “I don’t think I’ll have the brainpower to handle the both of you.”

Dabi shuts his mouth, and looks away. Tomura frowns and walks towards you; his partially gloved hands scratch against your cheeks. “I’m sorry that you’re stuck here,” he apologizes. “I would’ve sent you with Compress if I had known how cold it would have gotten.”

“Please, then you’d be here alone with Dabi and the both of you would’ve done something mean to each other, or you’d be stuck with Twice who, sweet as he is, would have instigated a fight if he could.” Your hands follow suit, cupping his cheeks and smiling softly. “I’m glad that I’m here with you.”

“If you’re going to fuck, you’re using the bed,” Dabi interrupts, effectively putting the conversation to a close.

“Dabi, I would rather die than let any part of me touch that bed.” You place the pillows against the edge of the blanket, laying down and spreading the other blankets over you, resting and curling into a fetal position, feeling exhaustion weigh heavy over your bones. You close your eyes, clutching the blankets into fistfuls. “Make sure one of you puts out the fire before falling asleep.”

“You’re not even going to help?” You hear Dabi ask.

“Too tired and too cold,” you reply with your eyes closed. 

“Must be nice fucking the boss, huh?” You lift your head to give him a pointed look. “Just saying.” He rolls his eyes at the look, kicking a piece of broken furniture away from the fire. “It’d be nice to get special treatment.”

“Call me pretty and I’ll convince Tomura to give you bigger rations.” You give him a crooked smiling, only breaking when the wind howls outside. 

“That’s all it takes?” Dabi asks, walking over to you, and standing on what would be his side.

“What can I say,” you retort, “I’m easy.”

He crouches to a bend, his smile easy and soft, and in a voice that holds zero sarcasm, he tells you in a raspy voice, “I think you’re very pretty.”

The lack of playfulness has heat burn from your chest, upwards, and you turn, your smile too wide and words too rushed. “Tomura, Dabi needs bigger rations next time.” You give a shaky laugh that is easily disguised by the shivering. 

“I didn’t agree to that,” your partner tells you, his hands over the fire, ending each finger down, and regaining a bit of warmth back.

You turn back to Dabi, giving him an apologetic smile. “Guess I got a free compliment from you, huh.”

“If you wanted me to call you pretty, all you had to do was ask nicely.” He stands up and walks over to the fire. You follow him, watching his back, eyes focused on a patch of burnt skin, and you swallow dryly, turning around and getting back into a comfortable position that doesn’t quite feel the same that it once did moments before.

-

The cold burrows its way into your bones, you can feel it in your body, embedded into you, and it wakes you from your slumber. Without Dabi beside you, you’re sure that you would have frozen, have your blood become solid in you. The cold chills you from the inside of your body and out. Nails scrape down from the blanket to Dabi, careful to not touch any skin because you can feel just how cold your hands are, stiff and frozen. You clutch onto him, and he grunts, moving closer to you. Behind you, your partner pushes himself against your back, and you can feel how cold he is, even though he doesn’t shiver, the tip of his nose has goosebumps breaking along your skin.

“Are you okay, Tomura?” You ask, eyes shut tight and teeth chattering.

“Better than you are,” he replies. “You’re freezing.” His breath is warm along the back of your neck. “This cold isn’t that harsh for me.”

“Lucky you,” you whine, letting out a shaky breath that you shiver violently. 

“Can we all shut up,” Dabi breathes out and it’s warm, and you’re desperate. You twist your hands into his shirt, and bury yourself under his chin.  It's too intimate, but when his body heat starts to spread to you, and the shivering isn't as violent, you can't bring yourself to care.

“I think we should have risked the forest fire.” You can’t even attempt a laugh for your own quip, your smile cracks along your lips and your skin feels dry at the corners of your mouth. You remind yourself to make sure that Tomura at least moisturizes once a day. 

"Watch your hands," he seethes out. 

You feel the warmth on your waist, hands nestled under the layers of clothes that you wear, slide across your stomach and peel themselves away from you, the warmth that’s left behind a ghost, a reminder of the bitter cold that has seeped into your bones and chaps your lips. 

“‘M cold,” your mumble, close to tears, pulling him closer to you. His hands are rough and scratch at your skin when they return to hold your waist. You release a shaky breath against his neck, letting out a low whine when his nails scratch against the soft swell of your stomach. 

“They’re cold,” Dabi counters, fingertips stretching to your spine, fire igniting against you, making your stomach tighten and twist. “Say the word, and they can freeze to death.” His voice is low, and he smooths his hand over your back, feeling your plush skin cushion under his hands. “Your call, boss,” he hisses out.

It’s silent, and you can feel the tension in the air, but at the moment, you can’t think about anything else but the cold. “No fighting,” you mumble, already close to tears. “Tomura,” you call to him, your voice a high whine. Your hands search for his, and when he intertwines his hands with yours, you pull them to you, his second knuckle ghosting over your lips where you give him a gentle kiss. “You okay?” You ask, intaking a sharp breath when Dabi slides his hands up your back, reaching between your shoulder blades. “Fuck, Dabi,” you let out a breathless laugh, “give me a warning before, will ya?”

“Still cold?” He mutters beside you, taking your attention away from your partner. 

“Obviously,” the other answers for you, pressing his lips against the back of your neck. He mumbles an apology when you flinch away.

“My hands feel stiff,” you answer, trying to tighten your hands around your partner but you’re only able to give him a soft squeeze. “Feels like they’re gonna fall off.” Your breath trembles as you exhale, and you feel the cold hold onto your chest.

Heat ghosts across your body, down your back, across your waist, wrapped around your elbows and pulled down to your wrists until it envelops itself around your hands and you feel yourself begin to thaw. It replaces what was once there, and there's a complaint that falls onto deaf ears when your hands are lifted and breathed into life again. For the first moment in the night, you believe that you are going to make it through the night without the loss of anything dear to you. 

“Does that help?” Dabi asks in a quiet voice, and you nod, tears springing in the corners of your eyes. You can tighten the grip of your hands, and you give him a tight squeeze- as much as you could manage at least. 

“Thank you,” you breathe out, using every bit of energy to give your gratitude. 

“Anytime,” he says after a pause. 

-

You’re finally asleep, face turned to him, and hands still holding onto his. Whenever the wind whistles, you let out a shiver, body inching closer to his, seeking him out and as you do so, so does Tomura. His arms are wrapped around you, holding on tightly. The both of you are asleep in your partner’s sleep, and with you in his arms, Dabi can picture for a second that it’s just the two of you- it’s Touya and you. It’s Dabi and you. It's you and him. There’s no else that you would hold so close, so dearly, so sweetly. You cling to him because you want to, and he can play pretend for a moment that this is the routine, that you love him so, and that you want him. He can play pretend that it was him who swept you off your feet and made you fall first. 

He has many regrets in his life. His existence, his actions, his words. Himself. He regrets not taking your offer for a team-up. You went with Shigaraki instead. You bonded with him, and when you both returned from the short mission, you seemed closer. You’d sneak into his bedroom and his to yours, and he’d press his ear against the door, not caring that his shadow would peek under the doorframe. All he cared for was listening to you, and he heard you laugh, he heard the two of you kiss, the hushed voices and in the morning he would watch as you two sat together, talking as if you hadn’t spoken throughout the night.

His chest would tighten, and Dabi still doesn’t know why he acted so cold; why he refused to go on a mission with you. If he had, maybe he could have replaced Shigaraki in your life. You would hold him, you would kiss him sweetly as if no one was watching. You’d massage his hands and let him rest his head on your chest and sleep. You’d care for him.

Your forehead is warm against his lips, and he stays there for a moment too long, letting his eyes close for the night. For this night, he can fall asleep with you, and he can think about how nice you smell, and how your skin feels under his fingertips, soft and foreign, and all too tempting to never lift his hands away from yours. He commits the feeling of your hands to his memory. 

-

In the morning, the cold front has moved, a chill still in the air but not enough for you to cling to him like last night.

He steps out, hands tucked into his pockets, his jacket smelling like the hints of your body cream, and he nestles his nose into the scent.

“Hey there, stranger,” you say standing beside him. He gives you hum, looking out into the forest, trying to focus on anything but you. “Well, I just wanted to say thank you for last night.” He glances towards you and you’re already looking at him. “If you ever need anything, just ask.” You smile, and you turn to go back inside, you hesitate, your smile faltering. You turn to him, your hand holding onto his bicep and squeezing it as you reach up to peck at his cheek. When you pull away, your smile has returned. “Thanks again, Dabi.”

It’s stupid. It’s a peck. And yet, it gives him hope that maybe you like him the way that he likes you. 

“How are your hands?” He blurts out, not wanting you to leave him.

You smile and lift your hands, making a grabbing motion in the air to show off how relaxed your fingers are once again. “Better,” you say with a smile. “Thanks again Dabi. If you ever need anything let me know, okay?” You lift your hand and wave in goodbye, and you turn the corner without looking back at him.

He follows you without thinking, slinking around the corners of the house until he finds you in a room with sunlight peeking through a broken ceiling. You stand with your partner in the room, and Dabi listens.

Dabi stands by the wall, his head turned and ears trying to strain to hear your partner talk. “I uh-” Shigaraki clears his throat- “I don’t like being apart from you.” You hum and Dabi can picture the shit-eating grin that’s plastered on your face. “I was thinking, when we get the chance-'' he curses and Dabi takes a peek and sees you cupping Shigaraki’s face, your thumb rubbing arches over his cheek. 

“Take your time,” you coo, your attention solely on him. Dabi doubts either of you have noticed him by now. “I’m still here.”

His heart beats in his chest, and bile rises to burn his throat. Shigaraki continues, taking a small step closer to you. “I want you to be here forever.” He sounds serious about it, looking at you, and Dabi’s stomach does flips, intestines twisting upon themselves into a knot, making every part of him want to retch out his insides. “I don’t want you to leave me.”

You haven’t taken your eyes off of him. Your hand lowers down to cup his neck and Shigaraki covers your hand with his, lifting his pinky upwards. You don’t even flinch when he does so. “I don’t think I want to leave you anytime soon,” you trail off, clearing your throat; he’s never heard you speak so softly. “Are you going to leave me?”

“Never,” he answers quickly.

He wonders how many times he must have told you that, how much you know that he would never leave you, because at his earnest answer, you don’t even look taken aback- you look like you’ve accepted it for the thousandth time. You smile, and it’s wide and stretches upwards and gives you wrinkles at the corner of your eyes. “Okay, then.” You twist your hand under his, careful and practiced in avoiding his whole touch, holding it loosely in yours and you bring the knuckle of his index to your lips. “You and me then.” Shigaraki doesn’t dare look elsewhere. “Till death do us part,” you say with your lips still against his knuckle, “in your half-assed proposal.”

“Shut up.” Dabi can’t even recognize the voice who says that. It’s soft and playful, and it isn’t the calloused voice of a villain. It’s the voice of someone who can look behind them, and know that someone will follow and care.

Somewhere in him, he can feel whatever was left of himself and a will for a normal life, or a cheap masquerade for it, breaks. Dabi’s stomach twists and there’s a void in him that has always been there, that cements in him and has warmth burn down his face and bile burn his throat.. He stares at the wall in front of him, wood and pink stuffing exposed by the elements, and he can hear you laugh in the other room.

[allzelemonz]

He’s Warm: Kieran Duffy X Male Reader

Pronouns: he/him, Reader referred to as ‘man’ and ‘boy’ Physical Sex: None Mentioned Rating: T/Language Warnings: Reader is friends with Micah, friendly banter and teasing, the gang is a family, people mistrust Kieran, cuddling, huddling for warmth, background relationships: Arthur/Charles, John/Abigail, mild Sean/Lenny Summary: Going back up North to hide makes the gang share a one room cabin with limited space. As a trusted member of the gang, you’re made to watch over the less trusted members.

Going back up North was Hosea’s idea, insisting that the trek back West needed to happen and the gang needed to give it a few weeks for the Pinkertons to lose the scent. Just a few weeks, no robbing, just surviving. For once, Dutch listened. The gang packed things up, getting the hell away from the two rich families whose gold seems like a lost cause. But as you look over the small shack it doesn’t seem all that great of an idea. No one thinks going back to Colter is a good idea, never reuse a camp if you can help it. So the one room shack will have to do.

You help Arthur and Sean, throwing out the unneeded furniture to make sure everyone has a space on the floor. Kieran and Bill are trying to make some sort of covering for the horses. Charles and Javier have already gone out hunting as Pearson finds the best way to cook with the fireplace. John is chopping wood, Miss Grimsahw is fussing over where to put everyone’s bedrolls. Everyone is doing what they can.

“Excuse me, gentlemen.” Miss Grimshaw comes up just as you and Arthur throw the table from the shack onto the snowy ground.

“Yes, Miss Grimshaw?” Arthur asks. “Somethin’ ya need?”

“I have been trying ta find agreeable sleeping situations.” She sighs. “But, as I’m sure you two are very well aware, not everyone is so inclined ta be near one another.”

“Oh, tha’s a nice way ta put it.” Sean chuckles as he walks by with a chair.

Miss Grimshaw huffs. “I have little Jack and a few us older folks by the fire, the girls are all together, and I put the younger ones by the door.”

Sean looks over at her. “When ya say younger-”

“Yourself and Mister Summers.”

“We’ll freeze!” Sean cries. “Just ‘cause we’re young don’t mean we should be set to early, icy graves.”

“Oh, hush, Mister MacGuire.” She snaps, turning back to you and Arthur. “I need you two of you to keep an eye on the degenerates.”

“Who are the degenerates?” You ask, already half knowing the answer.

“I don’t trust Mister Bell so close to everybody.” She holds her teeth so they don’t clatter. “And that O’Driscoll.”

Arthur sighs. “I’ll keep an eye on Micah, Miss Grimshaw.”

“I’ll watch Kieran, not that he needs watching.” You huff, turning back to the cabin,

“Thank you, boys.” Miss Grimshaw calls after you.

Later in the day you find your things near the front wall, surrounded by Kieran, Arthur, and Micah. It’s like being the good student in the school house and having to sit next to the troublemaker to calm them down. Not that that sort of thing ever works. Micah is sitting on his bedroll, not many other places to go, sharpening his knife, Arthur is talking to John who is fussing over Jack being warm and Kieran is still out with the horses.

“Stuck with the worst ‘a us, ain’t ya?” Micah asks as you sit down on your bedroll.

“You’re not that bad when you shut up, Micah.”

He chuckles and gestures to the closeness of your and what must be a new bedroll for Kieran. “I ain’t gonna have ta worry about all that, am I?”

“Am I gonna have to worry about you cuddling with Arthur?”

Micah snorts and you smile as he shakes his head. “Good one, cowpoke.”

“You never know. You might get cold.”

He glares at you from under his hat. “Nothing would ever make me cold enough fer that.” Then his expression lightens a bit. “But you… you been lookin’ fer an excuse.”

“Shut up, Micah.” You say, playfully kicking his leg.

He chuckles. “Careful, wouldn’t wanna ruin yer reputation.”

“I’d be doing that anyway.” You nod to Kieran’s bedroll. “I don’t know which Miss Grimshaw would hate more.”

“Yer only jokin’ with me and I ain’t no O’Driscoll.” Micah grins to himself. “It’s Dutch ya need ta worry about.”

“You always say that.”

“If ya get all sweet on that O’Driscoll boy, people ‘round here are gonna start questionin’ yer loyalty.” He clears his throat. “Just how things are.”

“We can be delinquents together then.”

“Ol’ Grimshaw’d never let us near each other again.” Micah raises his arms to mime. “She’d think we was schemin’ some grand plan.”

You smile, laughing lightly. “It’ll be fine. I’m not getting into anything right now, not with everything that’s going on.”

“Wise words, cowpoke.” He taps his hat’s brim with his knife. “Great minds think alike.”

“Sure, that’s why you’re not with anyone.”

He chuckles. “I am exactly where I wanna be, cowpoke. No better place.”

“How flattering.”

Arthur stops near his bedroll, kicking off his boots. “He botherin’ you?”

“Jealous, Morgan?” Micah drawls, peering from under his hat.

“Just talking, Arthur.”

Arthur looks between you before he sits down and rummages through his satchel. He’s always been clueless. The only one that has ever picked up on your attraction to Kieran is Micah and no one has picked up on your friendship with the most questionable of the gang. Arthur has no chance of interpreting what’s going on around him tonight.

Miss Grimshaw points Kieran in the right direction when he comes inside. He looks nervous as his eyes wander over the crowd of the gang. You always seemed nice, but sleeping so close to Micah makes him nervous. Arthur tortures him all the time and just past him are Sean and Bill who actively terrorize him. Nevertheless, he thanks Miss Grimshaw for giving him a bed and steps carefully around those laying in his path.

“O’Driscoll!” Micah greets, half mockingly. “Welcome ta the bad boys’ corner.”

Kieran avoids his eyes as he sits, just trying not to catch too much of Micah’s attention because he knows how he is.

“Shut up, Micah.” You mutter. “Just let the kid sleep.”

“All of ya shut it.” Arthur mumbles, already drifting into a chilly slumber.

“So sorry, Morgan.” Micah mocks.

Arthur groans and buries his face into his makeshift pillow.

“Don’t mind the idiot, Kieran.”

Kieran looks over to you, a bit of relief that you’re the one next to him. “I got no problem doin’ that.”

You laugh lightly, looking at Micah for the inevitable annoyance.

“Lucky yer outta arm’s reach, boy.” Micah says, sighing as he relaxes against the wall. “I wouldn’t sleep too deep if I was you.”

“I’ll protect you from the big, bad wolf, Kieran.” You mutter, glaring at Micah with a hint of a smile. “He’s not as tough as he looks.”

Kieran blushes a bit, hiding his face as you and Micah exchange somewhat friendly banter. Arthur groans again, standing and dragging his bedroll down by Charles. Not that you needed his help ‘watching’ the ‘degenerates’ anyway. He probably wanted to sleep next to Charles to begin with.

“You actually gonna sleep tonight?”

Micah looks at you and shrugs. “Ain’t plannin’ on it.”

“Can you behave then? So Grimshaw doesn’t get onto me for not watching you.”

“I’ll try my best, cowpoke.”

The grin Micah gives you lets you know he’s joking around. He’ll just sit there and mess with his guns like he always does, maybe read that newspaper clipping he keeps about his old bounty. You know he’s not gonna do anything that’ll make Grimshaw mad at you, he wants people mad at him. You lie back, getting as comfortable as you can in the extra layers of clothes and on the hard wooden floor. Not many are still awake, so it’s the sound of the fire and the occasional click of Micah messing with his guns that you drift off to sleep with.

You wake to a jolt in your leg and with it you look down you see Micah nudging you. The sun is starting to peek through the windows and you can hear the light shuffles of people working up the energy to get out of bed.

“Ya best move if ya don’t want anybody ta see.” Micah whispers.

Then you realize what position you’re in. Kieran is cuddled up to your chest and your arm is tightly fixed around his middle. He looks peaceful, comfortable, and most of all, he’s warm. It’s like he’s a human fire, heat radiates off of him in comforting waves that fight off the cold. You don’t want to move, you want to pull him closer and kiss his head and make him feel as safe and warm as he’s making you feel. But Micah is right, people would whisper and ask questions, and you’re right too, you can’t get into this right now with everything how it is. So you slowly pull away and sit up against the wall next to Micah, just a foot away from the peacefully sleeping stable boy.

“Thanks.” You mutter.

Micah nods. “You’d do the same.”

Not that Micah will ever be in a situation anything like that, but yes, you would. You look over the sea of sleeping or half-sleeping figures. Most have kept to themselves but the Marstons are all huddled together, the girls have a bit of a tangle, Sean and Lenny are huddled back to back. And then there’s Arthur and Charles, clinging about as much as you and Kieran were.

You nudge Micah and nod to them. “Think we should help them?”

Micah chuckles and shakes his head. “I ain’t liftin’ any more fingers.”

You pick up an empty can from the pile of your things and toss it at Arthur. He stirs against Charles’s arm and it looks like he wakes up. You at least want to give him the choice of whether he’s okay with people seeing him like that or not. He looks around for a minute, then Charles tugs at his arm and pulls him back into sleep.

“Told ya.” Micah mutters.

“No, you said you weren’t gonna help.”

“One good deed is enough fer the week.”

You kick lightly at his leg and he moves it away. He’s slowly becoming an annoying sibling at this rate. The gang wakes up and shuffles around to make coffee and talk things over. Kieran stirs once most of the gang is awake. He rolls onto his back and blinks up at the ceiling for a while before he sits up. He gets coffee and comes back to sit and drink it while the gang gets their jobs going. Most people leave the cabin, only a few remain in the opposite corner when Micah sits forward.

“Hey, O’Driscoll.” He whispers.

You watch him, holding a map in your hand, distracted from your task now.

“Mister…” Kieran mutters, glancing at him nervously.

Micah looks at you with a wicked grin and before you can stop him he says it in a low voice. “He’s sweet on ya.”

“Micah!” You whisper loudly, kicking him hard this time. “I told you-”

“Ya got all snuggly right after ya fell asleep.” Micah grins, pushing you back. “I ain’t never seen such love birds.”

Kieran’s face goes red as you give Micah another kick, making him stand and retreat.

“Sorry, cowpoke.” He shrugs, picking up his hat. “Got bored.”

With only a few people left in the cabin, Micah has an easy escape route and your little fight didn’t garner much attention. Kieran stares at his coffee cup, his mind swimming with a hundred things. You look at him, eyes darting over his body to try and tell how he feels.

“Micah’s an idiot.” You say, sitting up straight and trying to get a look at Kieran’s face.

He glances at you and you can see his pink cheeks, darkened by a mix of cold and embarrassment. “So he was just jokin’?”

There’s something in his voice that makes you think you should be honest. “Not joking, just being stupid.”

“So…” Kieran’s eyes look around rapidly. “So he waddn’t lyin’?”

You glance over at the cluster of people in the other corner, they pay you no attention, so you move back to sit next to Kieran.

“He was telling the truth.” You whisper, nodding. “I don’t wanna embarrass you, Kieran.”

“No, no!” He shakes his head. “Ya ain’t- I mean, I ain’t- But-”

You catch his gesturing hand and pull it down to hold it. Kieran goes quiet as a smile works over his face and he stares down at your hands.

“He was just messing with me.” You mumble.

Kieran squeezes your hand. “I don’t mind… now, I don’t mind.”

Then the door bursts open and you both pull your hands back as Javier steps inside and looks over at you. “Dutch needs you.”

You sigh, giving Kieran a small smile as you stand and make your way over to Javier. “Did Micah go anywhere?”

“I don’t think so.” Javier shakes his head. “Saw him over by the wagons a minute ago.”

“I’ll find Dutch in a bit. Something I gotta do first.”

Javier stops you before you open the door again. “Are you gonna hurt Micah? Can I help?”

A twisted smile covers his face and you nod. You give Kieran one more smile that he returns before you leave the cabin. He sits on his bedroll for a little longer, his eyes looking over your space next to him until he has to go check on the horses.

[warnerswilsons]

The More You Reassure, The Less I Trust

Fandom: Jackbox/You Don’t Know Jack

Word Count: 2,658

Hey, everyone! This is a fic I’ve been working on for about a month, and it is finally finished! I’ve cross posted it on AO3, so the link will be at the bottom.

Anyway, this is based on two prompts from @cosmophoriia’s angry love confessions prompt list. The two prompts being used are ‘Character A choosing to avoid Character B for a while after B goes out on a date, and is so confused on why A is avoiding them’ and “‘why do you care?’ ‘Because I’m in love with you!’” I immediately knew I wanted to write this fic with Schmitty and Cookie, so here it is!

Just a heads up: characters do get locked in a booth at one point.

Title is from “Against the Kitchen Floor” by Will Wood

Even on a Monday morning, the studio seemed to be bustling with energy, and this one was no exception. As everyone piled through the doors, they broke into conversation, catching up on major events from over the weekend. Cookie had arrived relatively early. After his let-down of a weekend, there wasn't anywhere else he would have wanted to be aside from at the studio with his fellow game hosts. Though, even as more people walked through the doors, something still felt off. Cookie's gaze shifted back and forth between the door and his phone, as if waiting for some sort of message. The Fibbage host started subconsciously tapping his foot as he glanced down at his phone one last time, before looking up and meeting the eyes of one of the interns. He failed to stop himself from jumping back slightly out of surprise.

"Uh, Mr. Masterson?" To Cookie, it didn't seem like the intern had picked up on his startled response. He let out a sigh, dusting himself off, ready to act like everything was going fine.

"What is it?" The bored, impatient tone that tinted his response wasn't entirely feigned. Cookie would've much rather been talking to someone else.

"Helen told me to tell you that you're, uh, needed in the booth. Something about a cameo or whatever?"

The intern's voice faded into the background as Cookie tried to discreetly glance over their shoulder and around the room. His eyes lit up as he noticed Schmitty walk though the door. He glanced back at the intern, who was still relaying the message, and quickly waved a hand at them.

"Yeah, yeah, hold that thought..."

"But-"

"Just, tell Helen I'll be up in 5, okay?"

"I guess I-" Cookie didn't even wait for the intern to finish before running off. He exchanged some quick greetings with co-workers as he continued to survey the room. He picked up his pace slightly upon spotting Schmitty once again, very briefly meeting his gaze. Almost immediately, Schmitty glanced away, much to Cookie's dismay. Though, he did manage to catch up to his fellow host before he could leave the room.

"Schmitty! Just the guy I wanted to see!"

"Cookie."

That wasn't the answer he was hoping for, but at least it was an upgrade from none at all.

"Nice to be back in the studio?"

"Oh, yeah sure."

Cue an unamused stare from Cookie.

"Really? You're not gonna give me anything else? Not even just a tidbit about how your weekend went?"

"You wouldn't want to hear about it. It was probably way more uneventful than yours." Schmitty let out a sigh, briefly averting Cookie's gaze. There was an edge to his tone of voice that couldn't quite be placed. "Yeah, you had that date, didn't you?! Bet you can't wait to share how that went."

"Well, actually I-"

"Save the story for another time, Cookie. I've got some things I've gotta take care of so..."

"I get it." Cookie tried his best to hide that he wasn't at least slightly disappointed. He was finally able to chat with his fellow host, and that was how it ended up. Cookie barley had enough time to add anything else, though, as Schmitty waved a silent goodbye as he headed towards the door. Once Schmitty had left, Cookie shook his head, and turned back to see the intern standing in the standing in the same spot from earlier.

"What the fuck are you still doing here?"

"I wanna know about your date."

"How did you-" Cookie stopped, still processing what the other had said. "Were you eavesdropping on us? Actually, I don't want to know." Cookie began to head towards the door, seeming far more stressed than he had minutes ago. "Tell Helen I'm heading up now."

*******************************************

Schmitty hadn't exactly meant to avoid Cookie for the weekend. In fact, he figured everything would be okay again on Monday. Unfortunately, when he and Cookie had locked eyes, he knew that it wasn't, and it was all because of that date. Of course, Schmitty was happy for his fellow host, but as he heard Cookie talk about how excited he was, the Quiplash host felt a pang of something else. Something like a mix of disappointment and jealousy. For the rest of the day, Schmitty didn't engage much with Cookie, aside from a goodbye as he left for the weekend. That feeling still remained for most of the weekend, but Schmity hoped it would go away soon. After all, heading back to the studio on Monday, and hosting a few games would definitely take his mind off of it, right?

Well, within 5 minutes of arriving to the studio, that sense of longing had only grown stronger. As soon as Schmitty brought up the date when talking to Cookie, he wished he hadn't. Why would he go and remind himself of the very thing he was trying to forget? Thankfully, he made an exit, as awkward as it was, and took some tome to refocus on the day ahead in the minutes he had before he had to be up at the recording booth. If all went according to plan, he could at least have a temporary distraction.

Unfortunately, a wrench had been thrown into that plan. For lo and behold, there was Cookie, in front of the booth, having a quick, yet conversation with Helen and one of the interns that was just too quiet to make out.

"Oh, you've gotta be kidding me."

That got the other three in the room to turn to face Schmitty. Cookie immediately flinched, and he averted his gaze, turning back to Helen.

"See? I told you we shouldn't have done this today!"

"Hang on, what are we supposed to do today?" Schmitty crossed his arms as he slowly made his way into the room. As he did so, both Cookie and the intern glanced at Helen, silently asking her to explain.

"Well, you two are doing cameos for each other's games, so I thought we should do an extra rehearsal and sound check before then." Helen sighed as she went over the plan. "Didn't you get the email I sent about it?"

"Uh, nope. Must've missed that one." Schmitty shrugged, arms still crossed. Helen briefly glanced over at him before turning towards Cookie, seemingly picking up on the tension between them.

"It won't be ideal, but we can reschedule this for another-"

"Nonono! Doing this today sounds great!" Schmitty practically marched over to the booth, his previously quizzical expression becoming a strained smile. "Let's just make it quick." He didn't pick up on Cookie's quiet sigh of relief as the other host followed him in.

"So I guess we're doing this now!"

*******************************************

Unfortunately, the rehearsal took longer than everyone hoped it would. Helen had left to oversee something else, and left the intern to man the controls, much to the concern of the two hosts. On top of that, Schmitty's delivery was constantly coming across as aloof and had an extra edge in his tone that was rarely that present. By the end, Cookie was one run-through away from flat-out screaming at his friend about what exactly was going on.

"And I guess that's a wrap." The intern leaned into the mic as they stood up, grabbing something on the table.

"Oh, thank god!" Cookie and Schmitty uttered their reactions in almost perfect sync. This was immediately followed by an awkward stare. They just barely noticed the intern heading towards the door.

"Well, I don't know about you, but I need some water after that."

"Really." Schmitty raised an eyebrow as the intern rushed out of the room, leaving the door swinging for a bit. The Quiplash host took that as his cue to leave as well. "Well, I've gotta head out now, so-"

"Hang on." Cookie was now even more determined to get an answer from his fellow host. "What has been going on with you today?"

"Nothing's wrong, Cookie!" Schmitty put his hands up defensively, his expression contradicting his answer. "Now, I've got things I need to do, and places I-" He went to open the door of the recording booth, the knob doing nothing more than shaking in his grip. "Shit."

"Yeah right." Cookie scoffed, not yet processing the other's shift in demeanor. "You've been acting all weird ever since you got here today!" The Fibbage host froze as he finally noticed Schmitty aggressively shaking the doorknob. His eyes went wide. "Oh god. Don't tell me."

"Should've guessed when that intern didn't even open the damn door." Schmitty uttered the words just loud enough hear, not letting go of the doorknob.

"This can't be happening to me. Not again." Cookie clenched his fists as he took a deep breath and walked over to the other host. "Are you sure it's locked?" That got Schmitty to let go of the handle and turn to face the other.

"No, Cookie. I was just wiggling the doorknob that frantically as a practical joke." The Quiplash host narrowed his eyes before spinning back around and banging on the door. Cookie didn't join him just yet.

"Jeez, Schmitty! What is your problem with me today?"

"I already said I don't-"

"That's bullshit." Cookie frowned crossing his arms as Schmitty slowly began to face him once again. "While we're stuck in here, you might as well tell me what's actually going on."

"Why? This already seems like the perfect story to tell on your next date!"

Cookie paused, processing what Schmitty had just said. It was all starting to make sense now. "That's what this is all about? I thought you were excited for me!"

"Yeah, I was!" Kind of the truth. "More or less. But it felt weird hearing about it, and you seemed so happy, so I just decided to...get out of the way for the weekend." Schmitty took a breath before going on. "I didn't want to seem like an asshole about it, you know?"

"And you think that this isn't being an asshole about it?"

Silence.

"Yeah, that's fair." Schmitty leaned against the wall with a sigh. He had given up on getting someone to come to the door minutes ago. After a few seconds, Cookie walked over and joined him.

"You know you could've told me about this beforehand, right?"

"Pssh, yeah right!"

"I'm serious." The Fibbage host turned to face to other.

"Well, what was I supposed to say, then?!" Schmitty pushed himself off of the wall, walking around the edges of the booth. "'I don't want you to go on that date, Cookie! I wish that you had decided to ask me out instead...'" Schmitty clasped a hand over his mouth as he felt his eyes begin to widen. Cookie had almost the same reaction. "Just...just forget I said anything. Once we get out of this booth, we can pretend like this whole thing never happened! It'll be fine!"

Cookie blinked a few times as he stared at his fellow host in disbelief. Based on Schmitty's reaction alone, there was no way that his remarks were merely sarcasm.

"What did you just say?"

"Uh, nothing! Absolutely nothing important that there's no need to think about!" Schmitty knew his attempts wouldn't make the other host forget what he had just let slip, but it was at least worth a shot.

"Well, it sure sounded like something." As expected, it was an unsuccessful shot. "You know, actually, I think admitting to hoping we'd go on a date is a pretty big something!"

"Look, it just kinda slipped out okay?" Schmitty hoped he didn't sound as shaky as that felt to say. He turned away from his fellow host, letting out a long sigh. "Can't you just forget I said that?"

"No!" Now it was Cookie's turn to start pacing around the booth. "This isn't exactly something I can just stop thinking about! Why do you want me to forget about it so badly?"

"Why the hell do you care?"

"Because I'm in love with you!"

Once again, there was silence. Schmitty had begun to turn back around, but froze as Cookie's answer hit his ears. After a few seconds, the only thing that could be heard was a quiet, strained laugh from the Quiplash host.

"You're fucking with me, aren't you?"

"What-?"

"Yeah, you're definitely fucking with me." Schmitty put his hand on a wall, taking a few steps. He didn't notice Cookie take a few steps closer. "What else would explain this? First, you had that date over the weekend, and then I accidentally confess my feelings to you, and now this! It's like you wanted to help me make an even bigger fool of myself!"

Cookie's gaze shifted between the other host and the floor. He wasn't sure what exactly to say but he knew that he'd have to be the one to break the silence. The Fibbage host reluctantly glanced over at the other.

"I, uh, actually cancelled my date."

"What?" Almost immediately, Schmitty whipped around, meeting Cookie's gaze. "Why?"

"It just didn't feel right. Like I would've been going out with the wrong person." That got a nod from the Quiplash host. "I tried to call and tell you, but you didn't pick up."

"Oh. Sorry."

"No, it's fine, Schmitty. I just wanted to spend that time with you."

For a few moments, it seemed like Schmitty was frozen in place, staring at Cookie, then he finally shook his head and blinked a few times. "You're being serious..."

"Why wouldn't I be?"

"I don't know." The Quiplash host briefly glanced away, lightly tapping his feet in the ground. "I'm sorry. For...everything between Friday and right now."

"Well, I get it." Cookie stared straight ahead at the window. "And I'm sorry if I pushed you too much just then."

"Eh, I probably needed you to anyways." Schmitty shrugged, waving a hand in the air. "No hard feelings, okay?"

"Yeah. No hard feelings." Cookie smiled slightly as he echoed his fellow host. For a moment, the two of them just stayed there, not adding anything. Schmitty let out a sigh before fully breaking the silence

"So...what now?"

"I'm not sure..." Cookie trailed off, trying to think of a better answer to the question. "Maybe we could-"

Before the Fibbage host could continue, the door swung open. Helen stood in the doorway of the booth, staring at the two.

"What are you both still doing here? You've got games about to start!"

Cookie let out an awkward chuckle as he made his way out of the booth. "Sorry, Helen. We kinda forgot about that."

"To be fair, we did also get locked in." Schmitty quickly joined the others, letting the door close behind him. "So we're not entirely to blame."

Helen shook her head, pinching her nose between her fingers. "Remind me to have a talk with whoever was manning the booth for you." The producer began to head towards the room's exit. "You guys have five minutes until the games start, so hop to it." As Helen left the room, she received a chorus of affirmatives from the hosts. The two of them began to follow suit, when Schmitty stopped.

"So, uh, why don't we talk about this some more later? Maybe over lunch?"

"You know, that actually sounds great." Cookie nodded. Whatever tension had been in the air ten minutes ago had dissipated completely. "I hope you get some fun players to work with in the meantime!"

"Right back atcha!" Schmitty grinned, shooting the other host some finger guns as he made his way down the hall. "See you later, Cookie."

"See you then, Schmitty." Cookie returned the gesture with a short wave of the fingers, shaking his head and laughing slightly to himself. After a few seconds, he turned around, and continued on his way. It was beginning to feel like a fantastic start to the week.

Here’s the AO3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/54756895

[emmie-writes-stuff]

I was tagged in the writers game by @boinin, thank you for the tag!!!

So let’s share some writing

I haven’t done as much work as I should be doing because of school but here’s some of the Hiorin fic that I write in my spare time

[The wind felt nice on Rin’s face, brisk and very present on the bike ride. It took more effort than necessary to not just close his eyes and bask in the outdoors. Blue Lock was so isolating, so one minded. The only focus was growing your ego and being the one to survive.

This slight escape, however fleeting and short lived it was, Rin needed it. A reminder of what awaited him after he won Blue Lock. He’d be able to play, to outshine all the competition, in the outdoors. He’d forgotten how much he enjoyed nature.

The familiar sound of waves crashing on the shoreline filled his ears as Rin got closer to the beach. An overwhelming sense of calmness and nostalgia hit Rin as he pressed down on the hand brakes. He locked his bike, double locked it actually, and placed his hands in his jacket pockets before slowly walking to the edge of where the land met the sea.

Salt and moisture drifted up with each lap of water against concrete, and Rin allowed his eyes to close. He let the scene wash over him, as if he was in the waves himself. Memories flooded back, of him and Sae when they were kids, sharing ice cream and walking hand in hand along this same path.

Rin used to stutter step to keep up. He copied every expression that nii-chan made, copied every motion. Back then, he had to look up to see Sae’s face. Now, Rin had to glance down in order to not be staring at his brother’s forehead.

Rin pulled his phone out of his pocket and opened the camera. He didn’t usually take photos of the sea, he hadn’t had to in the past. If Rin wanted to look at the ocean, he’d simply go to the sea. But in Blue Lock, this would be the only way to see the ocean.

Rin took a few pictures, making sure the light properly reflected off the water to capture the full effect of the moment. The dock was around fifty metres away, and Rin took his time getting there, meandering down the pavement.

A few other people were around, taking bike rides or walking dogs. A couple rode skateboards down the path and a few jogged just barely in the street. This was life. The town was alive, with everyone going about their own lives with no connection to the strangers around them.

The sound of his footsteps changed as Rin turned onto the dock. An old man was about halfway down, fishing tackle piled up next to him as his line waited in the water. Rin paused and took another photo.

When he reached the edge of the dock, Rin knelt to the floor and swung his legs over the edge. The waves seemed to reach out for him, begging for Rin to lower himself into the water and drift around at their will. Instead, Rin focused the camera and took multiple photos, like a panoramic shot.

He turned off his phone and returned it to his pocket, zipping it up just to be safe. He pressed his fingers into the old familiar wood and leaned forward, out towards the sea. Rin always felt calmed by the water, it was constant and ever changing at the same time. Always there but never the same. Changing, growing, but still being the same ocean.

Rin sat there for a while, just watching the waves roll across the horizon and splash against the pillars. His shoes got just a little wet, but it was nice. As the sun rose high in the sky, Rin pulled his legs back over the edge and pushed himself up. Time to go back.]

I like writing melancholy and reflection stuff, it’s fun for me, so hope y’all liked this

Im gonna be honest, I don’t really know many people who write on here that haven’t already done this, so if ya see this on my page and wanna do the tag, be my guest

Open tagging for folks :3

[owl127]

I had this vision of Clarke and Lexa (omega verse) inviting Abby and her boyfriend to a 1 week trip in the forest of at the beach, and they’re in this cute cute cabin together, it’s really nice, and their bedroom is close to one another, however Clarke and Lexa discreetly asked if the walls were thick which the owner said yes, so one night Clarke and Lexa get in ON like for easily 1 hour right, several times, and the next morning Abby and her boyfriend look at them like 👁️👄👁️, they could hear even what was softly said, so the FILTHY things they said did not fall in deaf ears.

Lexa could be quite uptight with Abby as she’s intimidated by her, like Clarke is her only child and all, so Lexas always very proper with minimal pda you Know…

If you still take promps, could you maybe do this one ?

The insistent call of early birds is what brings Lexa back from a dreamless sleep. She blinks awake in the unfamiliar room, the low wooden ceiling welcoming her morning. She stretches like a lazy cat, and the source of warmth on her back hums at her ear.

"Good morning," Clarke whispers hoarsely, their naked legs intertwining under the fur blanket. Lexa turns and kisses Clarke good morning, teasing sleep away with another kiss on her neck. "For the love of god, I can’t go again," Clarke protests as Lexa continues to kiss her collarbone. "I’m ridiculously sore, babe."

"You okay?" Lexa asks behind the curtain of wild curls, and Clarke nods.

"Yeah, but give me a break, okay? Last night was..." She bites her lips, and Lexa follows the movement with a bite of her own.

"Good?" Lexa grunts on a marked neck.

"Very good." They meet for another kiss.

The sound of pans and cutlery cuts through their quiet room. "I think my mom and Kane are already up." Clarke bumps their noses and leans down for a long, sleepy yawn. "I could go for eggs."

"Or bacon," Lexa agrees, and they make their slow way to the bathroom.

Eggs are sizzling in the kitchen by the time the couple trots down the stairs in search of breakfast.

"Smells good!" Clarke sits by the kitchen island as Lexa sets the table. Marcus, one hand working on pancake batter and the other on the eggs, turns to offer them a smile.

"Good morning, ladies!" His teeth shine between a trimmed beard.

"Where’s mom?" Clarke asks with a grape in her mouth, eyeing the pancake toppings on the island.

Marcus turns back to the stove. "She went for a run."

"This early? That’s not like her."

"She didn’t sleep very well," Marcus says, mostly to the stove, and checks through the cabin window. "Okay, let me just get it out of the way before she’s back." He makes a 180 with his pink apron in place and joins his hands over his chest. "Let’s just say," Marcus starts, his beard not being enough to cover his blush, "the walls in this cabin are thin."

The sound of porcelain shattering on wood breaks the silence that followed Marcus’ statement. Clarke looks back to see Lexa, so red she’s purple, shocked still as the plate she was holding is now in pieces on the floor.

"We know you’re adults," Marcus continues, "but you’re her only child, Clarke, and her little omega girl."

Lexa sits heavily on the table, her once-red face now turning pale.

Clarke moves into damage control mode.

"Babe." She sits in the chair next to Lexa, who keeps staring at nothing, unresponsive. "Babe, it’s okay. We’re married. My mom knows—"

"Your mother heard us," Lexa whispers almost to herself.

"We don’t know how much she heard."

"Very much," Marcus adds unhelpfully. "By the way, kudos."

"Marcus, please," Clarke shoots back at her mother’s boyfriend, eyeing her PTSD-wife, and Marcus shrugs.

"Lexa," Clarke says, touching her wife’s hand, and it’s cold. "That won’t change how my mom sees you. Okay, she heard a couple things—"

"Lots of things."

"Kane, you’re not helping!" Clarke shouts, and it is at that moment that the cabin’s door opens to reveal Abby Griffin, dressed in winter sports gear, sweat evaporating from her temples. Her eyes are red-rimmed, and she mumbles good morning without meeting Clarke’s eyes.

"I’ll help with food," Abby adds, and she kisses Marcus’ cheek as she heaps eggs onto plates.

By the time the four of them sit at the table, the silence is unbearable. Lexa can barely move, her eyes cast down; Clarke tries to find her mother’s eyes, but the older alpha avoids them every time. Kane seems to be the only one immune to the tension, happily flooding his plate with syrup.

"All right," Kane declares, feeling pitiful at Lexa’s almost catatonic state. "Let’s address this as adults; otherwise, we won’t survive the rest of the weekend."

"Marcus, no," Abby says, still avoiding her daughter and daughter-in-law. Lexa whimpers.

"Abby"—Marcus takes a bite of his pancake—"Clarke is 28. She’s married. We all know they have sex."

Lexa chokes on nothing while Abby growls softly at the back of her throat. Clarke blushes furiously but nods.

"Maybe before last night, we didn’t know for how long or the details—"

"Marcus!" Abby hits her glass on the table, and OJ flies everywhere.

"What I mean," Marcus continues, licking a drop of orange juice from his beard, "is that we are all adults and we can recover from this. Right, Clarke?"

"We didn’t know we were being loud," Clarke justifies, reaching for coffee. "We never meant to make you uncomfortable, mom."

"We still have a couple nights here, so just... please keep it down. You’re my pup." Abby finally meets her daughter’s eyes. Marcus nudges his girlfriend, and Abby apologizes, "I’m sorry for overreacting."

"It’s alright. I’m more worried about Lexa." Clarke points at her wife with her chin. "I think she’s still in shock."

Abby eyes Lexa up and down, and Lexa melts down in her chair a little bit.

"Mom, stop."

"I didn’t do anything."

"She can’t even touch me right now."

"Good."

"Abby, let the kids be kids."

"If your father were here...

"He would have laughed about it."

"I don’t know, Abby. Clarke didn’t sound like she needed a new daddy last night."

Lexa continued to melt down her chair, and Abby choked on juice.

"Too soon?" Kane places another forkful of pancakes in his mouth. "At least you know grandpups will be coming soon," he adds through a mouthful.

"Oh, god," Lexa whispers before passing out.

[crowtrobotx]

o fearless girl-dad-Karl-agenda leader, if it wouldn’t be too much trouble could we have Papaberg and Lottie having a tea party?

bisenberg agenda and the girl dad agenda.... i have so much responsibility i don't know if i can handle this!! regardless, nonnie, i was feeling inspired by this adorable scenario and decided to write a little ficlet for you. c: I hope you enjoy!! Long live Heisendad. Tea Party Words: 1201 Characters: Karl Heisenberg, Original character (daughter) Wife also makes a brief appearance just to troll him bc I couldn't resist Warnings: None, unless you aren't cool with swearing Note: This is an escaped/mechanic AU because I felt like it

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Knees up to his chest and forced to wear a moth-eaten bow tie he’d found at the bottom of the closet, Karl Heisenberg had never felt more ridiculous in his life.

It had been a normal Sunday, one he’d planned on spending working on that puzzling noise coming from under the hood of his truck. But when Lottie had marched into the garage and loudly demanded that he attend her prestigious tea party, complete with lip wobble when he’d almost declined, he knew he was doomed. And so here he sat, a person who had once thought of himself as the very definition of rugged manliness, in a cluttered bedroom at the mercy of a six year old girl. Karl was afraid to breathe lest the child-sized chair fighting for its life beneath him finally gave way. 

His daughter sat across from him, carefully rearranging a hodgepodge collection of mugs and cups she’d stolen from the kitchen. There was a depressing plate of crackers with no toppings or sides sitting sadly in the middle. They didn’t own a fancy pot or teacups, so the whole production looked less like an esteemed gathering and more like the kind of set a community theater with a $3.00 budget might put together. The other two guests - Lottie’s ever present teddy bear, yet again missing an eye and covered in faded marker doodles, and what was once a doll given to her by Alcina that now lacked a head and whose arms had been replaced by pipe cleaners - stared back at him in silent horror.

Karl tugged at his collar awkwardly. “So, uh, what’re we supposed to be doing? This might blow your little mind, but your old man hasn’t exactly been to one of these before…”

Lottie opened her mouth to speak and then paused abruptly. “I don’t know,” she said at last. “But I think we’re s’posed to talk about stuff. Y’know, gossip.”

“Gossip?” Karl chuckled. “What kinda gossip you got in first grade?”

“Sarah from art class said that Veronica’s mom chased her dad with a golf club because he kissed our gym teacher,” Lottie said without even a hint of concern.

“W-” Karl nearly choked. “W-what? Are you fuckin’- I mean, Lottie, honey. Don’t think we should uh, talk about that.”

She shrugged. “I thought it was funny.”

“It is. It’s real fuckin’ funny.” He was absolutely going to have to snoop out if there was any truth to this information - he always hated Veronica’s dad. White collar prick. He steeled himself, willing his mind to stay in dad-mode and not shift into catty-bitch-Karl. “But we shouldn’t say stuff we’re not sure about, okay? We should wait until we’re certain before trashing folks to hell and back. It’s only fair.”

Lottie gave no indication she’d been listening. He noticed she hadn’t deemed it necessary to put on a nice outfit herself despite insisting he don his “fancy clothes.” She wore her usual old knit sweater beneath her overalls, permanently stained from endless romps through the muddy woods out back or whatever projects she helped him out with. He felt rather overdressed, to tell the truth. She rummaged around on the floor, muttering incoherently to herself, until she produced a pitcher that wobbled precariously in her grasp. It was overfilled and practically as big as she was. Karl made to reach for it, freezing in place when he heard his chair creak ominously. “Tea, Papa?” Lottie said sweetly.

He nodded, not cognizant of what came out of the jug, so focused he was on not unintentionally destroying any more furniture. He still wasn’t forgiven for the incident with the porch swing, he was pretty sure. Karl slowly lifted the “#1 Dad” mug to his lips, and swallowed with a surprised flinch. He coughed awkwardly.

“Is this…. Mountain Dew,” he didn’t even need to ask. There was no other substance on earth with that unnatural neon green color. “I thought this was a tea party?”

Lottie huffed. “The tea is too high for me to reach! You people act like everyone around here is a giant. I can barely see out the window to scare the mailman when he shows up….” 

“You could’ve asked for help, Butterfly.”

“No,” she said defiantly, pouring herself a cup and splashing liquid across the plastic table. “I don’t need your cherry.”

Karl blinked. “You mean… charity—“

“WHATEVER!” Lottie threw up her hands in exasperation. “Ugh! This whole idea was a mistake! I don’t even know why I thought this would be fun. This sucks. Even Carlos said so.” The teddy bear gazed forward, dead-eyed. “Hon,” Karl started, leaning forward again only to stop with a FUCK when his shins banged into the table. “Jesus…. Fuck that hurt. Okay, what I was going to ask was why you wanted to do this in the first place? This ain’t exactly your style if you know what I mean.” Lottie sank down in her seat until all that was visible were two little messy buns peeking over the table. “I dunno. I saw it on TV. I think it’s supposed to be something little girls like to do but man, this is stupid.” Karl frowned. “You don’t have to do something just because you ‘supposed’ to. You know that. I do stuff I’m not supposed to all the time and look how I turned out!” Kris’s choked laughter from down the hall - of course she’d been listening - had him ready to shout something snarky back, never one to give up a verbal spar without a fight. But Lottie spoke again before he had the opportunity. “Maybe I just wanted to hang out,” she admitted with a twinge of embarrassment. “You’ve been so busy lately.” Guilt gnawed at Karl’s insides. He had been working longer than normal this week - business was good, but by necessity it meant he was away from home more often. Every time he felt like he’d gotten the hang of this Dad thing, it turned out he’d managed to mess it up again. Not on the level of his own abysmal upbringing, of course, but it was a nagging fear all the same. One that still kept him up some nights. In spite of his messy exterior, he was a proud man - and he was not going to let the title on his mug fall to some other asshole. “I’m… f-flattered you wanna spend time with me,” he said, searching for the right words and finding none. Lord, he was bad at this. “Hey, I’ve got an idea. Let’s do something you’ll actually like. You wanna go burn some of those leaves your mom made me take earlier instead? And we can bust into my good candy stash she doesn’t know about–” “Keep telling yourself that, babe,” Kris called again. “...instead of eating bland ass crackers.” Karl made a mental note that he would need to change his hiding place yet again. 

“Fuck yes,” Lottie bounded to her feet. “Oh, Papa, can we also torch that awful dress Aunt Alcina sent? Please please please–” “With pleasure, Butterfly.” Karl enjoyed a hearty laugh for a few seconds before the chair finally decided that it had had enough. 

[paperstorm]

Hi Andie!! So loved your latest one shot, so silly and fun. I could really picture it happen on the show too, maybe Owen wouldn't find as much lube or any for that matter tho cuz of Fox censorship 😂 Was wwondering if we can get a little preview for tomorrow's chapter? Firehouse has me by chokehold 😭😭

Thank you so much! I had a dumb amount of fun writing it (maybe I should write silly things more often instead of just breaking these boys into pieces, but not today! because today is....)

WIP WEDNESDAYYYYY

I was tagged by @lightningboltreader @carlos-in-glasses @alrightbuckaroo @strandnreyes and @theghostofashton

Here is a mean preview for tomorrow's chapter of The Firehouse

“Come with me,” TK says.

“Where?”

“To my place. I wanna show you something.”

Carlos nods and follows him out the door.

He’s never been to TK’s apartment. He’s never asked to be invited – it went unspoken between them but Carlos intrinsically understood that despite every other rule they’ve shattered, it was just a bridge too far for Carlos to be made aware of where TK lives, when he’s the one investigating him. He wants to offer to close his eyes as they get into TK’s car, so that he won’t know the address.

He doesn’t offer it, and TK doesn’t ask him to.

He doesn’t live far. It’s a short drive, through semi-deserted streets because it’s the middle of the night. It’s a much nicer building than the one where Carlos has been staying. Newer, with an elevator and air conditioning and marble floors in the lobby. TK leads him down a hallway to his door, and the inside of his unit is clean and high-ceilinged and nicely decorated. Carlos comments on it, on how nice it is. What he doesn’t say is that it doesn’t feel like TK should live here. It’s stylish but it’s cold. The floors don’t creak underfoot like the floors in New York did. There are no pictures on the walls, no individual touches, nothing out of place. It feels like a hotel room; it feels, in a way that Carlos finds a little haunting, like the apartment he’s been living in. Nothing identifying is left lying around, nothing that speaks to his taste or his personality. Like TK, too, has been living in a home that’s staged to look like something it’s not.

TK leads Carlos into his bedroom. His bedspread is a deep green that looks nice with the taupe walls. His furniture is dark, glossy wood. It’s all very nicely styled, like the rest of the place, but it makes Carlos sad to think how little of TK is in it. When they were kids, he had a lamp shaped like a hockey stick and reptiles on his comforter.

Carlos watches, standing in the center of the room, as TK opens the door to his closet and pushes some hanging clothes out of the way. He crouches down, reaching for a safe that’s tucked into the corner. He rummages, making a face as he has to twist at an odd angle to reach what he’s searching for, and then he pulls out a box.

He walks over toward the bed but instead of sitting on it he sinks to the floor. Carlos lowers himself down to sit next to him, looking over curiously as TK opens the box.

“I didn’t bring much with me, from Manhattan,” TK says quietly. “These are the things I did bring.”

I haven't been around much this afternoon I don't know who's done this but how about @tailoredshirt @thebumblecee @chaotictarlos @wtfuckevenknows @goodways

[cynicalmusings]

IMAGINE A MASQUERADE BALL WITH XIAO???

…see, you’ve done the very dangerous thing of reminding me of the 100 followers special continuation i was planning that includes xiao and heizou… and a little of my cinderella au with him, too. 

but i need to brainrot about this now.

thing is… we could go down the usual route of fantasy masquerade ball with big fancy chandeliers and a nice ballroom, but i feel like a spin could be put on it to make it more interesting.

namely, cyberpunk; a setting that i think fits xiao very well. (let me generate some ideas for a second…)

maybe this masquerade ball is inspired by old fragments of books and paintings uncovered in the wreckage of historical buildings, and a group of people are trying to resurrect it, just for fun. it’s likely nowhere as grande as the ‘proper’ ones, and takes place in some abandoned warehouse or the basement of a pub. the music is an electronic, bass-y version of some classical pieces, performed by a mini-orchestra of electric classical instruments. there are some asymmetrical make-shift chandeliers welded from old bits of metal hanging from the ceiling, sporting some LED light bulbs. 

people come wearing all sorts of clothing; most try to imitate the gowns and suits worn in the old days but with a spin of cyberpunk, with metal masks and hand gauntlets, while a few wear visors and their typical fashion.

xiao’s mask is no doubt based on his yaksha mask, put together with metal and cogs and some pieces of wood, and there are neon blue lights around the eye sockets, which mirror his original mask’s glowing eyes. the fangs are made of steel and bronze. 

the atmosphere is lively, although the location is quite dark. as they dance, people try to guess who the person behind the mask is. xiao prefers not to know. 

xiao is a really, really good dancer. he meets you in one of the dances, and you’re floored by his dancing. his movements are fluid and graceful, almost like water, and each step and twirl is precise, like he’s been doing this all his life. he’s actually quite courteous while dancing, too; he’s a guy who prefers actions over words, so it’s no wonder that he lets his dancing speak for itself. he finds it so much easier to carefully spin you around than start a conversation, in which he’s certain he would come across as brash.

meanwhile, you try your very best to figure out who this person is, and whether you’ve met him before, but his identity eludes you. you only spend a brief time together before the music changes and you’re both met with new partners, but somehow he still stands out to you the most. 

after the dance, the crowds disperse, and you try and look for him, absentmindedly taking off your mask because the dance is over. for a moment, you catch a glimpse of glowing blue in the crowd, meeting your eyes from behind a familiar metal mask. when you blink, he’s gone, and you don’t find him again afterwards.

(meanwhile, xiao probably just ducked behind some wall or pillar because he was not prepared for you to be so stunning behind that mask and needed a second to gather his thoughts.)

[dmwrites]

Knock, knock, knock

Techno was on his feet, hand already curled around the cold metal of his sword before he even really realized what was happening. He blinked the sleep out of his eyes, looking around his dark bedroom in confusion. Had he imagined the knocks?

Knock, knock, knock

No, he hadn’t imagined the knocks. Techno looked to the clock- it was the middle of the night. It had been a long time since anyone had called upon him at this hour, and he knew from experience nothing good could come from it. Techno let out a long sigh, and climbed down the ladder to the ground floor. He opened the front door in a swift tug, and greeted whenever stood on the other side blade-first.

“Wh- heh? Who the fuck are you?”

The man on the other end of the sword was no one Techno had ever come across on this server before. He was dressed in a fancy red suit, to start with, complete with a comically large top hat. He looked like he had hopped right out of a steampunk convention wagon, like the one Techno could see parked on the front lawn of his house.

Seemingly oblivious to the sword pointed right at his face, the man adjusted his top hat and grinned at Techno.

“Well hello there! Lovely place you have here, very snowy. Now, you seem like the type of man who needs very specific wares. Wares which, you see, I happen to have with me. If you would, kind sir, to just step with me out-”

“Heh? You’re kidding, right?” Techno gave the man a look of pure disbelief. “I- you- let me get this straight. You and I don’t know each other. I’m pointing a sword at you. And you think it’s chill to just start trying to sell me something? You are, I assume, aware that it is the middle of the night? You’re two seconds away from being skewered and hung on my wall unless you start explaining who exactly you are.” Techno moved closer, moving his sword so it was mere inches away from the man’s stomach.

“I have tnt.” The man was still smiling, and gave Techno a knowing look.

“…I'm listening.” Techno replied after a moment of silence. “How much?”

“Three shulkers full.” The man said.

“What’s a shulker?” Techno asked.

This, not the sword or the intimidation, was what seemed to snap the man out of his suave salesman pitch. “I’m sorry, what? How do you not know what-”

Techno, without warning, suddenly dropped his sword and grabbed the lapels of the man’s coat, dragging him into a kind of odd bow. The arrow wizzed overhead, missing Techno’s own head by millimeters, and lodging itself into the wood of the back wall of Techno’s living room. The man in the top hat screamed.

“The fuck is this bitch?” Phil asked, another arrow already pointed straight at the man, the only indication he was even standing in his doorway being the arrow tip that had caught the moonlight.

“Phil. Bruh. My wall.” Techno grumbled. “This is an old friend of mine, uhh…”

“Goodtimeswithscar.” The man in the top hat, who had moved to stand slightly behind Techno, supplemented.

“The fuck kind of name is goodtimeswithscar?” Phil muttered. “Stripper-ass fucker-type name.”

“Go back to bed, old man.” Techno said, and backed up, pushing Scar with him, and closing the door. A moment of silence passed, and then Techno heard Phil’s front door close. “Right.” He turned around, only to find Scar leaning against his kitchen counter, clearly catching his breath.

“What was all that about?” The man gasped out, indignant despite his breathlessness.

“That’s Phil. You’re very lucky I didn’t just let him kill you. It would have been very funny, to be fair.” Techno said, walking over to the far wall and wrenching the arrow out of it.

“Without even so much as a hello?” Scar asked indignantly.

“Eh, Phil is more of a shoot first, ask questions later type of guy.” Techno chuckled. “So, what about this tnt you speak of?”

Scar straightened up, a glitter coming back into his eyes. “Ah, yes. Well, you see, Technoblade, I traveled quite a ways from my home, and came across a nice young man in very cozy pajamas. He housed me for a while, as my Swaggon, that wagon you see on your front lawn, a spectacular model, had broken down. Now, this young man was quite poor, but, he told me of a warrior by the name of Technoblade who always needed tnt and other valuable weapons. So, I made my way over here, just to give you the best and finest tnt ever crafted.”

“Wait- who was this dude you were talking to?” Techno asked, eyes narrowing.

“Can’t quite remember his name, but he was wearing a sanic, or was it panic, onesie. Lived wayyyy out in the middle of nowhere.”

“Connor.” Techno muttered. Of course Connor would be the one to send Scar his way with no warning.

“Anyway, you seem like a man who lives in dangerous times. How about this, a special deal for my new friend who saved my life today- a stack of diamond blocks for all of the tnt I have with me.” Scar said, that damn smile on his face.

“Diamonds? How many sets of armor could you possibly have to make?” Techno asked, looking the man up and down. “Actually, don’t answer that. I get the distinct feeling that you go through diamond armor quickly. Yeah, sure, lemmie get it. I’ll come to your swag wagon out there.” Techno went to his chests and found a couple stacks of diamond blocks lying around.

Scar was standing by his wagon, beaming at Techno, eyes locked on the diamonds in his hand. “My friend, it is lovely to do business with you. Here is your tnt, and you can keep the shulkers.”

Techno tossed the diamonds to Scar, and picked up the odd-looking boxes Scar gave him. “Shulkers…”

“It’s like a movable chest- I swear, this land must live in the dark ages.” Scar said cheerfully. “And speaking of, here comes the morning sun! I must be off now, Technoblade, but it was so nice doing business with you! Goodbye! Have a nice time!”

And off the man went. Techno watched him until he was out of sight over the horizon, holding the shulkers in his hands. How very odd the whole night had been.

“So who was that, mate?” Phil sidled up to Techno’s side, looking out with him.

“Dunno. Doesn’t matter, really, because we’ve got fuck loads of tnt now.”

“Aw, mate, that’s awesome. I love tnt.”