#now he just offers them to people as souvenirs

[cod-dump]

Soap, watching Ghost dig a bullet out of his arm with no reaction: Shit… your pain tolerance is impressive

Ghost: Thanks, it’s the trauma

Ghost: *pulls bullet out of his arm and holds it out to Soap*

Ghost: Want it?

Soap: N-No thanks… I’m good

Ghost: *shrugs before tossing it*

[eco-lite]

I’m once again returning to do god’s work by bringing you delightful moments from Spock’s World by Diane Duane.

[Text ID: “Spock was bent over [the Science Station], making some adjustment. ‘Readout now,’ he said, straightening and looking over his shoulder at the large, shaggy-fringed rock that was sitting in the center seat. Some of those glittering fringes stroked the open circuitry of the communicator controls in the seat’s arm. ‘Point nine nine three,’ said a scratchy voice from the voder box mounted on the rock’s back. ‘A nice triple sine.’ ‘Nice?’ said Spock. Jim raised an eyebrow: you could have used Spock’s tone of voice to dry out a martini.” End ID]

There’s a Horta crewman on the Enterprise now and they’re great!

[Text ID: “Still working on her doctoral thesis, Jim thought. Uhura was busy working on improving universal translator theory, mostly by taking the old theory to pieces and putting it back together in shapes that were causing a terrible furor in academic circles on various planets. Jim vividly remembered one night quite a long time ago when he had asked Uhura exactly how she was going about this. She had told him, for almost an hour without stopping, and in delighted and exuberant detail, until his head was spinning with phoneme approximations and six-sigma evaluations and the syntactic fade and genderbend and recontextualization and linguistic structural design and the physics of the human dextrocerebral bridge. The session had left Jim shaking his head, thoroughly disabused of the idea (and ashamed of how long he had held it) that Uhura was simply a sort of highly trained switchboard operator.” End ID]

Uhura continues to be a total badass and is amazing at what she does.

[Text ID: Chatroom title in all caps: “COMMON ROOM OPINION, INFORMED AND NON- RANTING AND RAVING PERMITTED NAMES NOT NECESSARY” Regular text: “It was one of the places he came to find out what his crew was thinking. Messages did not have to be attributed to a name or terminal, but they could not be private. The office of the common room system operator rotated through the crew, offered to various members on the strength of their psych profiles in areas like calm reaction to stress and anger. The common room syops tended to be closemouthed and dependable, the kind of person that others refer to as ‘a rock.’ (Once it had actually been Naraht, to the amusement of just about everyone.) Here tempers could flare, awful jokes be told safely, suspicions be aired, rumors be shot down. The common room was sometimes a peaceful place, sometimes a powderkeg. Jim never ignored it.” End ID]

The Enterprise has a dumpster fire chat room that has just as much shitposting and vitriol as twitter.

[Text ID: “Jim bowed over her free hand. ‘It’s been too long,’ he said. ‘It’s good to be back,’ Amanda said. ‘And in the middle of a party as well.’ She looked a little wry. ‘A little entertainment will be pleasant before the deluge.’ Sarek’s eyes flicked to Kirk, a considering look. ‘My wife speaks figuratively,’ he said, ‘in the tradition of her people. Deluges are not common on Vulcan.’ ‘My husband speaks circumspectly,’ Amanda said, just as dryly, ‘in the tradition of his.’” End ID]

Amanda and Sarek are as charming as ever.

[Text ID: “Jim was mildly surprised to see that to his other rank tags and decorations, McCoy had added a small, understated IDIC. ‘If I didn’t know you better,’ he said, ‘I’d think you were going native. When did you get that?’ ‘Today in the gift shop, when you were looking at the snowball paperweights with Mount Seleya in them. Tackiest things I ever saw.’ ‘Yes,’ Spock said; ‘they were imported from Earth.’ ‘You be quiet. We can’t let these people leave the Federation, Jim. At least not until they teach us how to make tasteful souvenirs.’” End ID]

Just this.

[Text ID: “There was Sreil, the burly, brown-haired biologist from the Academy, and T’Madh, a little bright-eyed woman of great age and curiosity, a computer programmer; and her son Savesh, who when asked what he did, said, ‘I am a farmer,’ with a sort of secret satisfaction that hinted he thought his job better than any of the more technical ones that the people around him held. Jim had to smile; the thought of a Vulcan farmer was slightly funny, even though there naturally had to be some. But the image of a Vulcan in coveralls, chewing on a stalk of hay, kept coming up and having to be repressed.” End ID]

I love Savesh the Vulcan farmer!

[Text ID: “’Jim,’ he said, ‘the best translation of nehau would be an old word: “vibes.” The feeling-in-your-bones that something gives you. It’s highly subjective.’ ‘Right. Go on, Savesh.’ ‘Well, Captain, I have heard numerous Vulcans say that losing the Federation and the Earth people would be no particular loss, because they had bad nehau, and that could not fail to affect us sooner or later.. But I must tell you that I find your nehau not objectionable at all; pleasant, even.’ End ID]

Vulcan wanting to leave the Federation because the ~vibes~ are off.

[Text ID: “His grasp of dialect and idiom as amazing for anybody, off-planet or on. He once reduced the President of the United States—then a ceremonial post, but one much loved by the people who lived within the old borders—to tears of laughter at a state dinner, by delivering a learned dissertation on computer data storage technology in a flawless Texan accent. The lady was later heard to propose an amendment to the Constitution to allow off-worlders to hold high public office, so that she could have him for her running mate in the next election.” End ID]

I would give anything to hear Sarek do a perfect Texas accent.

[Text ID: “—but when Amanda became annoyed over what she perceived as his smugness about being right, her eyes would flash and she would become splendidly insulting, usually in bizarre Anglish idiom that Sarek found as refreshing as it was annoying. She caused him to laugh out loud for the first time in many years when she told him, after a disagreement over the translation of the word for war, that he should only grow headfirst in the ground like a turnip. Later that month, when he was right about something again and made the mistake of not immediately down-playing it, she issued him with a formal malediction, wishing that the curse of Mary Malone and her nine blind orphan children might pursue him so far over the hills and the seas that God Almighty couldn’t find him with a radio telescope. Sarek laughed so hard at that that he entirely lost his breath, and Amanda panicked and started to give him cardiopulmonary resuscitation, which was useless, because his heart was somewhere other than the spot on which she was pounding. It took him nearly an hour to recover: he kept laughing. He had never been cursed like that before, not even by union leaders, and it was very refreshing.” End ID]

This dynamic is perfect, no notes.

[Text ID: “The next night they sat in the Rec Deck again, in the middle of a large impromptu party that was going on around them by way of celebration. The sense of relief in the ship was palpable. A group of about a hundred crewfolk, mostly human, had surrounded Spock earlier in the evening and sung ‘For He’s A Jolly Good Fellow,’ accompanied by twenty crewmen on kazoos. Sarek had been given champagne.” End ID]

I really hope the TOS Enterprise has crew performances like on Next Gen. This kazoo band needs to be heard! Also, I can perfectly picture Spock’s annoyed-but-tolerant expression as he resigns himself to the kazoo serenade.

Thank you @dianeduane for making me laugh!

[rea-grimm]

Hi, I hope you are well. Once again, one of your faithful followers (Luffy Dragon fan 💖) comes with a new request (if you can, obviously).

the last chapter of op made me realize that Sanji ignores and is less gentlemanly towards women who show signs of liking him. I wonder if we can get something where the reader is obviously in love with Sanji (corpse of the boyfriend) and he is completely indifferent or clueless about it, while following his behavior in love with other girls and being a great "dude, look what you have in front of you" "

xo ♥️ congratulations on the 2500 likes

Hi, I had quite tought week, but I’m better now. Hope you are well too. I’m happy to hear from you. You have really good request. ❤️

Hope you enjoy this.

Dude, look what you have in front of you- Corpse Sanji

You were head over heels in love with Sanji. Everyone on board knew it, but the only cook was completely blind to you. Yes, he treated you almost the same way he treated Nami or Robin. Although sometimes you had the impression that he took you more for granted. As a sidekick and nakama.

How you wished he felt for you the way you felt for him. To try to woo you like he tried to woo other girls who rejected him when they found out the truth.

You were sorry to see him melt over the other girls. How he got down on one knee and kept asking for their hand in marriage. You knew that was one of the main reasons he was among the living. His biggest regret.

When you saw him with other girls, it always made your heart skip a beat and you had to do everything you could to not let it show on yourself.

The new island was a new opportunity for the chef to find a new girl. You were out shopping and you passed a small square with a small group of beautiful girls among the people. 

As soon as Sanji saw the beauties, he dropped his shopping bags and headed towards them. He showered them with compliments before getting down on one knee and asking for their hand in marriage. The girls were just giggling.

You picked up your bags and walked to the side with them when the wind picked up out of nowhere. This wind was a bad omen for Sanji as it blew his bangs to the side, exposing his eye. Or rather an empty socket where the eye should have been.

The girls he had been focusing on until now ran away screaming and left him kneeling on the ground alone, with a completely broken expression.

The cook walked over to you brokenly, lit a cigarette and took your bags, saying he would take them on the ship. He hated these reactions. It reminded him so much that he was no longer alive. Just a corpse waiting for a miracle.

You wanted to somehow improve his mood, so you used this opportunity and went to the shop you passed on the way. To a shop that sold prosthetics. From limbs, dentures, and eyes. You knew what eye colour to choose for him. No one else you knew had eyes as blue as his.

On the boat you gave him your little gift, like a little thing, a souvenir you would call it. The others were there too and they all saw how happy Sanji was. Heart in his eyes, he hugged you on his knees.

You and everyone else had already started to think that this would make the cook notice you and see how you felt about him. Nothing could be further from the truth as nothing has changed at all. As soon as another girl flashed past him, or Nami and Robin, his head was in the clouds.

Despite all this, you had the impression that it would end like this and sighed in disappointment. You felt like you were chasing an even more impossible dream than your captain was chasing.

You saw that things with Sanji were difficult and apparently impossible and you slowly gave up. You didn't even know how, but you found your solace in the swordsman and the doctor. 

Both of them supported you and Zoro even offered to knock some sense into the cook. It sounded tempting, but you talked him out of it.

This small change didn't go unnoticed by Sanji and he got the impression that you had started something with the swordsman. He didn't understand at all what you saw in that mosshead. That's why he also went to see him, what was his problem, that you spent so much time with him.

Zoro didn't understand at all. It was the chef's bad luck, he had his chance with you. And even though you tried to act like you got over it, Zoro knew full well that you would do anything for a cook.

“Dude, look what you have in front of you,” he said instead, pointing over his shoulder at you. You stood with your back to them, playing the new board game he got in town with Chopper.

Sanji looked at you and he had no idea what mosshead was talking about. Robin, who heard everything, joined in. The two of them then explained it to him.

When Sanji finally saw through it, he made you a dinner with everything you liked as an apology and asked you out on a date. You could see in him that he was serious and so you decided to give him one more chance.

Sanji Masterlist

[sailor-aviator]

Meet Me at the Sea: Chapter One

Meet Me at the Sea: Chapter One

Pairing: Jake "Hangman" Seresin x Reader

Summary: Your best friend, Bob Floyd, had insisted you join him for the summer at his family's home along the Carolina coasts. You had been hesitant at first, but ultimately agreed to his request. Now, here you were in a new town with strange locals who spoke in hushed whispers and cryptic retellings about glistening scales, glowing eyes, and haunting songs that echoed from the sea. You didn't believe them at first, but when you wake up on the beach one morning after having fallen overboard the night before, you can't help but think that maybe you hadn't imagine the strong arms and deep, green eyes of the man that had saved you.

Trigger warnings: Alcohol consumption, Sassy Bob, Flirty Bradley, Supernatural elements, Siren calls. I think that's it?

Word Count: 3.1k

A/N: Here is chapter one!! I hope you enjoy this story as much as I am enjoying writing it lol I'm so excited to continue this one. Just a quick reminder to you all that I will be out of town Wednesday-Saturday, so I'm not sure how much I'll be able to update as I will be attending a wedding! As always, reblogs, comments, and likes are greatly appreciated! 18+ ONLY!! You can also follow me on AO3 under sailor_aviator where I will be posting updates as well!

Series Masterlist || Jake "Hangman" Seresin Tag List

You crossed the bridge to North Island a few hours later, the sun hanging low in the sky, but not quite to the point of setting. You marveled at the expanse of water that stretched on beneath you as you drove.

“Not sure why the founders wanted to settle way the hell out here,” Bob grumbled beside you. “We’re too small to even have a damn Walmart.”

“Walmart is overrated,” you told him, turning the radio down. “Besides, small towns are so cute!”

“Not when you’re forced to live there every day,” Bob retorted with a roll of his eyes. You rolled your eyes back at him, repositioning Rusty who still sat on your lap.

“You’re too close to it to see all the charm it has to offer.”

“I give it two weeks before you eat those words,” he smirked. You reached over to smack his shoulder lightly, and he looked over at you in mock shock. “Don’t hit the driver!”

“Well, maybe the driver shouldn’t be such a cynic,” you teased, leaning back. Bob chuckled as the car reached the other side of the bay, passing the crowded beaches. “Does North Island get a lot of tourists?”

“Only during the summertime, really,” he replied. “It’s a calm, quiet little town with white beaches and pretty views all over the island. The founders have really played into the local legends over the years, so we have a lot of souvenir shops dedicated to those.”

“What local legends?” you asked him, quirking a brow. Bob flushed, the tips of his ears turning a bright red.

“It’s dumb,” he grumbled, but you were listening intently now.

The two of you drove through the downtown area, people milling about and enjoying the end of the summer day. The dinner crowd was beginning to pick up and you could hear the music blaring from several different buildings.

“No, come on,” you grinned. “You can’t drop that little tidbit and then not tell me.”

“Alright, fine,” he sighed, glancing at you. “For as long as the town has been around, there have been stories of…things in the water.”

“What do you mean? Like a really big fish or something?”

He shifted in his seat, turning down a side road that led away from town.

“I mean,” he hummed, “things like mermaids.”

You laughed at that, and Bob grimaced. “I told you it was dumb,” he muttered.

“No, no,” you giggled. “It’s cute, really. I love mermaids!”

He rolled his eyes. “You wouldn’t if you grew up surrounded by them.”

“There you go being all cynical again,” you scowled. “I would have killed to live somewhere like this with such fun local legends.”

Bob pulled down a gravel driveway and past a grouping of trees. You saw a grand, white house perched at the edge of the hill overlooking the water. A porch wrapped around both the first and second floor, and you saw a path lead down the hill towards the beach.

“I’m glad one of us is excited to be here,” he chuckled, coming to a stop on the blacktop as you stared at the large house in front of you.

“You live here?” You asked, looking over at him in shock.

Bob had the decency to look sheepish as he turned off the car. “Yeah, this is home.”

At that moment, a small, blonde woman opened the door with a wide grin. She rushed out onto the porch as a burly, spectacled man stepped out behind her. Bob opened his door, and you followed suit. Susan Floyd rushed down the steps and up towards you, wrapping you in a warm hug before turning to give her son a matching one. Richard Floyd gave you a warm smile as he clapped his son on the back.

“You two must be exhausted after that drive,” Susan cooed, ushering you into the house as the two men moved to get your luggage out of the car. You smiled warmly at her and allowed her to lead you into the house.

“I’m not too tired,” you told her as she sat you down in a stool by the island in the kitchen. It was a spacious room, opening up into the dining room. A set of glass doors led out onto the back porch, the ocean sitting front and center in the beautiful view of the beach below.

“That’s good,” she hummed, stirring the pot on the stove. “Are you hungry, sweetie? I made some of my special spaghetti. It’s Bobby’s favorite, you know.”

Bob groaned as he stepped into the kitchen with his father. “Mom, I’ve told you. It’s not Bobby, it’s Bob.”

Susan smiled at the younger man affectionately. “Yes, of course dear. Were you hungry?”

“Starved, actually,” he smiled, plopping down in the seat next to you. Susan began piling noodles and sauce onto two different plates before setting them down in front of the two of you. Bob uttered a thanks before shoveling a healthy fork full into his mouth. You giggled, watching as he ate like he hadn’t eaten in months. You took a much smaller bite than he had, humming at how good the sauce tasted. It had a hint of red wine that pulled out the flavors of the garlic and herbs.

“How’s it taste?” she smiled at you, leaning against the counter.

“Ifs delisus,” Bob said through a mouthful of noodles. She scowled at him before throwing a napkin at him.

“Don’t talk with your mouthful,” she scolded before turning to look at you expectantly. You chuckled before nodding your agreement.

“It’s delicious, Mrs. Floyd.”

“No, none of that,” she scowled. “Call me Susan.”

“Yes, Susan,” you smiled. She smiled at you before turning to clean up the rest of the kitchen. Bob inhaled his first plate of spaghetti, and Susan was quick to load his plate up with more.

“Has Bob told you any of the town’s history yet, y/n?” Richard asked you from his spot at the dining room table. Bob groaned, hiding his face in his hands as you smiled.

“He told me about the mermaid legends,” you grinned. You saw Susan pause out of the corner of your eye as Richard gave you a wry smile.

“I don’t know if I would call them mermaids,” he mused, giving a pointed look at his son who refused to meet his gaze. “But our town has a long, storied history, yes.”

“Oh?” You asked, eyebrows shooting up in surprise.

Richard hummed, leaning back in his chair. “No, mermaid is an insulting term for what these creatures are. They’re fierce hunters, preying these waters with deadly accuracy. Sometimes they even hunt on land.”

“What do you mean?” You frowned. Susan gave him a warning look, but he continued.

“They say these creatures come out of the depths to prey on humans on the land, dragging them into the depths never to be seen again.”

“Alright, that’s enough,” Susan snapped at him, Richard giving her an apologetic look. “I don’t want to hear any more of that nonsense tonight. Why don’t you make yourself useful and go take out the trash?”

Richard heaved a sigh, standing to obey her. He passed you with a wink, dropping a hand to your shoulder.

“I’m sure you have nothing to worry about, y/n,” he smiled, turning to head out the door. Susan sighed, turning to look at you once she heard the door close behind him.

“I’m sorry about him,” she grumbled, shooting a glare at where her husband had just disappeared. “He loves those crazy stories. Don’t even pay him any mind, okay?”

“I don’t mind!” You assured her. “I think it’s all very interesting. The most anyone talks about where I’m from is Bigfoot.”

“As much as I would love to hear you go on your bigfoot theories tirade again,” Bob spoke up, rolling his eyes. “I thought you might want to go out tonight.”

“Bobby, I’m sure she’s tired,” his mother started, but you shook your head, turning excitedly to look at your best friend.

“No, it’s fine!” You chirped. “I think it would be fun to go out and get to see the sites. Where did you have in mind?”

“I was thinkin’ I could take you down to the Hard Deck,” he mused.

Susan rolled her eyes at him. “You want to take her to a bar of all things?”

“Why not? The gang is going to be there tonight, I already texted them to make sure. They’re anxious to meet her.”

Susan seemed to brighten at that. “Oh, you’ll love’em, y/n! They’re such a good group of kids, and I just know they’ll love you too.”

“So we have your blessing then?” Bob joked, earning another scowl.

“Yes, you kids go out and have a good time, but don’t be out too late! I think your father said something about wanting to take the boat out tomorrow morning.”

“Yes, ma’am!” He mock saluted, earning a smack to the top of his head this time. You chuckled at the two of them as Bob rubbed the back of his head. He turned to look at you with a scowl at your obvious amusement. “C’mon, I’ll show you your room.”

The night was warm despite the cool breeze blowing in through the window from the ocean, and you chalked it up to the densely populated bar you now found yourself sitting in. You had followed Bob inside, having to grab his hand in order to keep from getting separated amongst the crowd.

“Bob!”

You turned to see a group of five seated at a large table on the far wall next to the patio. The only woman in the group raised her hand to grab his attention, and Bob eagerly dragged you over to them.

“Hey, college boy,” grinned a tanned man with long, curly hair that was slicked back. “How’s it hangin’?”

“More importantly,” said the dark-skinned man across from him, looking at you, “who’s your friend?”

“Guys, this is y/n, my best friend from Duke,” he gestured to you with a grin. “Y/n, this is Mickey, Reuben, Natasha, Javy, and Bradley.”

Each of them waved to you at the mention of their name, and you waved back with a small smile. The mustached one, Bradley, grinned up at you before shuffling over on the bench.

“Ain’t no need to be shy, sunshine,” he winked at you, gesturing to the now open seat next to him. “We’re all friends here.”

You sat down slowly next to him, Bob scooting onto the bench across from you and next to Natasha.

“So, y/n,” she smiled, leaning forward with intrigue clear in her eyes, “where you from?”

“Oh, I’m from Missouri,” you smiled at her.

“Missouri?” Mickey snorted, earning a ribbing from Javy. You chuckled, feeling your cheeks heat up.

“Yeah, it’s not glamorous or anything, but it’s home,” you explained.

Reuben leaned around Bradley to look at you. “So you were in the same major as Bob, right? How did you even get into that?”

“Oh, I’ve always had a fascination with the sea, I guess. Felt like I might have been a mermaid in another life,” you joked, and the group chuckled, earning a look from Bob as you looked around uncertainly. “Did I say something funny?”

“Nah, sunshine,” Bradley grinned. “It’s just cute is all. Imagine you being a little mermaid.”

“In fairness, I was five,” you blushed, and he reached down to pinch your cheek gently.

“Don’t go gettin’ shy on us again,” he drawled. Javy rolled his eyes, taking a sip from the glass of beer in front of him.

“You’re almost putting Jake to shame right now,” he chuckled, causing Mickey and Reuben to both snort. Bob looked around the bar, brow furrowing.

“Speaking of, where is he?” He asked the rest of the group. Bradley let out a low chuckle, resting his arm behind you as Natasha rolled her eyes at the name.

“Mandy has been especially clingy, as of late,” Reuben frowned, peering towards the bar with a pointed look. Bob turned, frowning at what he saw. “Been dropping hints left and right for weeks. She barely leaves his side.”

“Well, yeah,” Bradley scoffed, taking a swig from his bottle. “I’m not surprised since it’s almost time for-”

Natasha cleared her throat, giving a pointed glance to you.

“Almost time for what?” you asked, looking around at the table. No one said a thing, giving small glares at Bradley who shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He cleared his throat and looked down at you, an easy smile spreading across his face.

“I just noticed that you don’t have a drink, sunshine,” he said. “Why don’t you come with me to the bar, and I’ll get you something?”

You gave one last look around the table before nodding slowly. “Yeah, okay. I could use a drink.”

You stood, Bradley close behind you, and you looked over at Bob. “You’re usual?”

“Please,” he said, giving you a tight lipped smile. You returned it softly, following Bradley up to the bar.

“Bradley,” hummed the older woman behind the bar, green eyes narrowing in on him as she saw you next to him.

“Penny,” he smirked, leaning against the counter. She walked over to the two of you, placing a hand on her hip as she frowned at him.

“What can I get you?” She asked him.

“Two beers and?” He turned to you, eyebrow raised.

“A jack and coke, please,” you smiled at her. She returned the gesture warmly, moving to make your drink.

“You best be careful around this one, honey,” she drawled, eyeing the man next to you. “He has a habit of goin’ around breaking hearts.”

“Penny, you wound me,” Bradley cried in mock hurt, gaping mouth quickly turning into another grin. He shot you a wink. “I would never do that to sunshine here.”

Penny snorted, handing him two beers and you your glass. “Right. You’re no better than Seresin over here.”

She jerked her head to the other side of the bar. You followed her gaze, seeing a blond man turn at the sound of his name. He glanced over to where Penny was looking at you and Bradley leaning up against the bar. He had an easy smirk on his face that rivaled Bradley’s, and when he turned his green eyes to you, you swear your heart stopped beating for a moment. His eyes were like sea glass, a frosty, almost moss colored green. It was like the world faded to black around you as you looked at him. You felt something that you could only describe as a tether snapping into place as his eyes bore into yours. If you didn’t know any better, you could have sworn his eyes started glowing as he continued to stare into the very depths of your soul.

“Y/n?”

Your eyes snapped to the side where Bradley was watching you worriedly. You shook the silly thoughts from your head. “I’m sorry, what?”

Bradley chuckled down at you, a hint of worry still tugging at his lips.

“I was just asking if you were ready to head back to the others?”

“Oh,” you trailed off, glancing back at the stranger across the bar. He was still staring at you, face unreadable. The brunette standing next to him looked very put out as he continued to ignore her.

“Jake!” She hissed at him, gripping his jaw and turning his face to look at her. “Are you listening to me?”

Jake looked down at her, a puzzled expression on his face. “Huh?”

“You are so dense sometimes,” she snapped, dropping her hand back to her side. The stranger, Jake, glanced back over at you, and the brunette followed his line of sight, scowling when she saw you. Bradley let out a low whistle before nudging you with his elbow playfully.

“Would sure hate to be him right about now,” he joked, an exaggerated grimace making you giggle. “Mandy is no joke when she’s pissed.”

“Jake!” Mandy shrieked. You chanced another look across the bar. Mandy looked like she was about to blow a fuse as she stared daggers between you and the man at her side. Said man was now frowning, eyes darting between you and Bradley. “I’m talking to you!”

“C’mon, sunshine,” Bradley said with a roll of his eyes at the couple across the bar. “If we stay any longer, I might lose my hearing.”

You followed him back to the table silently, still feeling the heavy weight of two green eyes on your back.

You slept with the window open that night, eager to feel the sea air on your skin as you slept. Your curtains billowed lightly as the moonlight poured into your room. You tossed and turned, trying to find a comfortable position to fall back asleep in. Your bed wasn’t uncomfortable, quite the opposite in fact, so you weren’t sure what had woken you up. You glanced at your phone, the numbers on the screen showing that it was far too early in the morning to still be awake. You huffed out a sigh, listening to the waves as they crashed against the shore below. That was when you heard it.

You weren’t sure what it was at first, it was so unlike anything you had ever experienced. It was a low hum that slowly turned into a lamentful cry amongst the breaking waves. You tossed your blankets back, quickly getting up and padding over to the window. The cry turned into what you could only describe as a song, not too dissimilar to one a whale would make, but this sounded almost…human? You peered out the window, heart racing as you continued to listen to the strange song. You felt a yearning unlike any other crescendo inside of you, calling to you from a distance almost like it wasn’t even your own. Your mind began to feel heavy, hazy with what, you weren’t sure. The song continued, calling to you, begging you to follow. Your eyes grew lidded, skin warm as you felt the call seep into your skin, drowning everything out but the inherent need to obey. You turned, taking a step towards your door.

A dog began to bark, causing you to jump and the song to stop. Shaking the cloudiness from your mind, you looked out the window once again. You caught sight of what you could only describe as a fish’s tail, silver scales gleaming in the moonlight, rising up before disappearing back beneath the waves.

[mayuichi]

“You want to spend our money on... that?„

Scaramouche x Reader. No warning. No real distinction in between Scaramouche and Wanderer here, I usually both call them Scaramouche so...

Official art from Genshin Impact.

Walking around Inazuma, he kept mumbling in annoyance to the reason you both are here. A huge part of it is your fault, for wanting to go in vacation there. He kept refusing until Nahida chimed in.

“You should, though. It'd be a good way to relax and see your homeland.„ were her exact words. But none of you expected it to be so crowded in early December.

Which is why he is pissed off now. He glanced over you, taking your hand in a possessive gesture. Or perhaps he was scared you'd lose yourself. In any case, you appreciated it.

Hurrying you in a quiet street, he sighed and turned to you. “When will we go back to the hotel? I'm tired of hearing people.„ he frowned when you rolled your eyes.

You wanted to tell him you weren't about to go home yet, since there was so much you wanted to see. “Not soon. Plus, Nahida asked-„

Your words faded in your mind when you realized how he got closer to you, his nose practically touching yours. At your sudden silence, he smirked and cupped your chin. “Nahida what ? Go on. Don't mind my closeness.„

He enjoyed seeing you at a lost of words, and you knew this. Yet, you gulped. “Nahida... She asked for... For a souvenir... You know..?„

He didn't answered, instead, he caressed your cheek with his thumb. You became self conscious of your flushed cheeks and tried to look away.

“Don't look away, idiot. Keep your eyes on me.„ but you couldn't. So he chuckled and pressed his lips against yours in a passionate kiss, as he squeezed you tightly against him.

He craved for you, you knew it. He was so possessive, so jealous over every little thing. but he took care of you and protected you. You had to gently push him away so you could catch your breath. It made him laugh to see your pathetic expression now.

“I'll make an effort, just for you. But you better repay me when we'll be alone, got it?„ he winked, and it made your state worst. You nudged against him. You took a deep breath and took his hand.

Going back in the busy streets, there was plenty your wanted to buy, but yet, you couldn't just get everything. You may have saved a lot of moras for this, it'd be way too expensive.

You let yourself some time to think, and instead decided to buy Nahida her souvenir. Perhaps a mug would be fine... But it wasn't really something you wanted to give her.

Wondering what you could offer her, your eyes spotted a stand a little left out, with a huge amount of snow globes. You rushed over to inspect all of them. They were all so adorable.

To more classic ones with just a few trees, to some villages, forest animals or just snowmen. There was so many interesting you. You called out for Scaramouche, making him come near you.

When he saw those snow globes, he raised an eyebrow, skeptical. “You want to spend our money on... that?„ he found little to no interest in it. He couldn't believe that's what you were into.

Yet, when you made those sad puppy eyes, he sighed and crossed his arms. “... Fine, but stop looking so sad. How many do you want?„

He would've slapped you when you almost yelled you wanted them all. If you weren't his lover, he would've definitely did. But he cared and couldn't let you be hurt.

So he just shook his head in disappointment; yet that was the whole reason why he loved you. So it wasn't so bad. He wasn't truly disappointed and you knew it.

He took out his wallet and paid for it all, carrying the bag as he walked off with you. He squeezed your hand gently, walking across the streets as he leaned to whisper.

“You better repay me tonight if you don't want to get punished.„

/ᐠ - ˕ •マ Ⳋ mayuichi's property. do not repost, copy or translate without permission.

[bunny-dr34ms]

'i missed you. i've always missed you.' ˖⁺‧₊˚ ♡

- g. satoru x f!reader

summary. satoru is away on a mission and you realize you can never get your mind off of him whenever he leaves...maybe it's time to do something about that w.c.1668

cw/ tw; fem!reader, satoru is just satoru, angst, confessions, i'm not sure what else ;;;

features; g.satoru, mentions g.suguru, f.megumi, f.toji

an; im having a writing session listening to the soundtrack of riko in the aquarium. it's so bittersweet :( comments, reblogs, and hearts are much appreciated<3

Gojo Satoru is the strongest. This is a fact that's accepted by everyone in the jujutsu world. Week long missions is a day's work for a man like him. He is a man more god than human. He is the strongest. So why? Why is it that you are here on Jujutsu Tech's grounds on a day off? Why are you here worrying thinking doubting him, again? On your walk here, you kept reminding yourself that it's more likely that Satoru would stall on the mission to look for souvenirs and snacks than get a scratch. But even so, you needed to keep reminding yourself that Satoru is the strongest. And it's never enough and you always wind up on the same staircase waiting for him to come back. Gojo Satoru is the strongest but through your eyes he's just Satoru.

Satoru, your good friend from high school. Satoru, who always puts others before himself. Satoru, who has to stabilize the ground and hold up the sky on his own.

Satoru, whose gaze is lonely and lingering when no one is watching.

You wish you could help hold his burden. It must be heavy on his shoulders. With all that strength, he still bears it on mortal shoulders. He still has a human heart and human emotions. Satoru, as godlike as he is, is still human. On days he looks tired, you offer to take a mission but he says the same thing every time. "Aw ya worried or something? Whatcha worrying for? I'm the strongest after all!" And you hate it. You hate it when he says that--though it's more like you hate how the elders use Satoru like a tool. They work him to the bone and they think that's how it's supposed to be. There's always missions for him because ‘other people can't do it as efficiently' or it's tasks impossible for anyone but Satoru. Every time, Satoru takes the mission because he rather himself than another colleague. All that while chasing his dream to rebuild the jujutsu world through education and the new generation.

The thought of it makes you want to storm up to the elders and scream at them because why. Why him? Why just him? Satoru in your eyes is still too human, too mortal, too close to your heart, to be always fighting alone. Maybe you're paranoid after seeing all the signs in Suguru but not doing anything about it. That's what you tell yourself. But really, isn't it a bit much to wait on the stairs in front of his office, feeling around for his presence entering school grounds? For how long will you continue to lie to yourself that feelings will pass and just resorting to silently standing by him?

Ever since you laid eyes on this man--back when he was just a boy--you found your heart racing when he was near. The sound of his voice teasing you made you blush, the way he fights with a cocky grin, and his eyes. Oh, his eyes. They were bright and blue and perfect. No one dared to stare in his eyes for too long but you couldn't stop even if you wanted to. They pulled you in and made you look past his strength to search for his vulnerabilities. There you found that he wanted nothing more than to protect those around him with the strength given to him by the heavens, even at his own expense. Since then, you were only able to love him deeper and then some more. When the catastrophe that was the mission to transport Riko--you didn't like to call her Star Plasma Vessel because she really was so much more than that--you saw how Satoru slowly pushed every one away. He became so much stronger that now he could shoulder the duty of each mission alone. Since then, you saw how Satoru began to take on more and more and more. It started with him taking in the son of the man that sent the mission into absolute chaos--Fushiguro Megumi. The little boy was a striking image of his father and to this day sometimes you see him and see the other, more traumatic Fushiguro. He started taking on new students and new missions and challenging the elders. He did it all in hope that he can nurture a new generation stronger than himself, strong enough to rewrite the jujutsu world. Ever since Suguru left and Shoko isolating to focus on her technique, it was just you and Satoru. How could you resist him when he's now so much more mature in ideals and how his eyes would sparkle when he tells you about the world he's working hard to achieve and how his students are becoming stronger each day to you. You couldn't. "I'll only add to his burden", you say to Shoko when she asks. You'd blush while you shake your head at her but you're genuine. You would hate to add to his worries. "It's okay Shoko. Just being by his side is enough." The sound of the door opening behind you makes you jump and you scramble to your feet to look behind you. Oh. It's Satoru. He has been in his office all this time. He's still in his Jujutsu Tech uniform but his blindfold has been opted out for sunglasses. He closes the door behind him and walks to you, standing so close that you can see his confused expression even in the night. "Y/n? What're you doing here? Don't ya have the day off?" Your eyes are round and blank as you stared at him. What are you supposed to say--I was waiting for you? I happened to pass by? I worried about you? I missed yo- "You missed me didn'tcha." Satoru breaks the silence created by you scurrying in your brain to find the right answer. This was nothing new and actually was a typical Gojo Satoru answer. However. Your thoughts were already swirling in your head. Your heart was already hammering in your chest. He was already grinning while he peered down at you through his sunglasses. You were already way too in love with him to let typical Gojo Satoru teases pass as a joke. Maybe other days your resolve was stronger and you'd roll your eyes and snap at him. Tonight was just too overwhelming for your heart and before you knew it, you were nodding. Your lips parted as you looked up at him with wide eyes that searched for his bright ones. Then softly, you whispered the words Satoru thought he could only dream of hearing.

"I did. I missed you. I've always missed you."

Satoru would be a liar if he said he didn't love you. He's loved you ever since you practically held his hand and rejuvenated him when Suguru first left. He knew it affected you badly too but nevertheless you checked up on him every day and night. He had mental time stamps of each time he pummeled deeper in love.

When you offered to help him take care of Megumi. When you helped him with his first batch of students. When you moved stood in favor for him against the elders. When you cried for him and cheered for him and laughed with him. And he notices when you're waiting for him to come back from each mission. Suddenly, he was so in love with you that he didn't know what to do with himself. He didn't want you to have to carry even the smallest of his burdens and he didn't want you to be targeted. More than anything, he wanted you safe.

But now in this moment he thinks that his strength was given to him for a reason. It's to protect his loved ones right? Won't you be even more protected if you were his? He thinks yes. So his arms are already around you before you could truly process what you said. His body curved over yours as he held you closer to him. The two of you stood there silently save for the breathing and other nighty sounds of the wind. Satoru is..hugging you..right now. He is hugging you right now. Again you're searching for things to say but the words seemed to melt from your brain each time he pulled you closer. His body was warm around yours and even with no apparent danger around, you felt comfortably safe. Your arms found their way around him and you closed your eyes. All the feelings that were suppressed, all the words left unsaid found it's way back to the both of you. Satoru smiles now he's given time to think. You must've been waiting for him to come back from the mission. You thought he'd come back late at night so you didn't know he's been back and in his office since 3 hours before you arrived. You were worried about him and the thought alone warms his heart. He thinks you're adorable and so lovely. The cuteness aggression overtakes him and you're suddenly in the air as he pulls you up into a tight hug. "Wait- Satoru!?" You squeal as he squeezes you again tightly before setting you down next to him. Satoru thinks you're beautiful like this with a blush across your cheeks and the moonlight gracing your skin. He bends down and his sunglasses slide down his nose. Your eyes meet his your breath hitches. They're so different from just watching from afar but they're still so pretty. He notices your intense stare and smirks. In turn, you see his cocky smile and you pout a little. Was he going to make fun of you now? It'd be so Satoru if he did. To your surprise, he leans forward and kisses you. It was a short and sweet kiss and you were barely given the time to return it. When he pulls away, he tucks your hair behind your ears and smiles again. It's soft and gentle. The wind lulls into a soft breeze and the cicadas quiet down for this moment. Satoru breathes out words you didn't know you were holding your breath for. "I missed you too."

[reztoru]

“You’re a dumbass for not bringing a jacket, you know? You gotta be better prepared.”

Satoru tossed a big sweater at you and you just barely caught it. You looked at it hesitantly before sliding it over your head. And when you did, you were consumed with the scent of lavender and cedarwood — it smelt just like him. It was a calming scent and it steeped over your nerves . The lavender offered a soft, airy feeling, and the cedarwood being the grounding pull; pillowing you back to earth. The lingering warmth gave a comforting feeling — a warm body without the physical touch.

“I didn’t tell you to come here and lecture me. I asked you to bring my jacket.” You sniffled out.

“I wouldn’t be me if I didn’t bother you, now would I?”

You snort, “The Satoru Gojo I know doesn’t give lectures, he receives them.”

He only chuckled and brought himself to plop down beside you, letting his shoulder bump into yours. He dangled a bag of treats in front of your face, wiggling his eyebrows; saying something about how they’re your favourites. And they were. All your favourite things that you swore you only mentioned once or twice in a conversation you barely remembered.

Satoru was terrible with words of comfort, but he made up for it in other ways. His acts of love have always been giving. Things like souvenirs from his trips abroad to remind you that he was thinking of you, even if he was oceans away. Or buying you coffee right before noon because you mentioned you get sleepy around that time. He remembered all the little things about you that most people would probably forget.

Even if he wouldn't say it out loud, he remembered because he loves you. And he thinks that every little thing about you is worth remembering. It's worth the space in his head; his brain probably has a spot dedicated just to you.

“I’m here.”

And so when you started crying, he really didn't know what to say but he hoped you knew. He was here, and he’d show you he cared, and that his love ran deeper than expensive gifts, and one too many coffees.

[mysteryshoptls]

SSR Jamil Viper - Platinum Jacket Voice Lines

When Summoned: I should be able to observe a vast number of precious art today. This is a good opportunity. I'll make sure to fully enjoy myself.

Summon Line: I'd like to take my time especially when viewing the paintings of the Sorcerer of the Sands. I'll have to keep an eye on the clock and plan accordingly.

Groooovy!!: A street rat married a princess... I wonder just how long their happiness lasted.

Home: The 100th anniversary, huh. Wow.

Home Idle 1: Deuce was staring at the paintings with a furrowed brow. He may look like he's viewing them with great focus, but it seems to me like he's not that good at knowing how to appreciate the art.

Home Idle 2:  When making a wish to the genie of the lamp, you have to choose your words carefully. You'll want to make sure that you wish is properly carried out without any misinterpretation.

Home Idle 3: Don't cause a scene in the museum. I'm not really worried about you, but... He's always with you, right? That rowdy little fellow.

Home Idle - Login: I can more or less give commentary on most paintings. I've had many opportunities in the past to listen to the explanations of merchants who specialize in art.

Home Idle - Groovy: I wonder if Idia-senpai really would pass out if he were to be encircled by a crowd of people. I'll have to test it out sometime using some dormmates... I kid.

Home Tap 1: Whenever I see a painting of the Sorcerer of the Sands' parrot familiar, I can't help but think how stup... how charming it looks.

Home Tap 2: So, even the Museum of Art in the Land of Dawning sells reproductions of the magic lamp... I mean, they're just a standard souvenir back home.

Home Tap 3: While I was gazing at the painting of the Thorn Fairy, Sebek approached me... He just started rambling on about just how wonderful she was.

Home Tap 4: Floyd must have gotten tired of looking at the paintings, he's starting to mess with people. I'll have to make sure I stay out of his sightline.

Home Tap 5: I have to dress up formally similar to this whenever I attend parties as Kalim's attendant, as well. Does that surprise you?

Home Tap - Groovy: Hey, looks like you've been staring at the same painting for a while now. If you like it that much, why don't you buy a postcard of it from the shop?

Duo: [JAMIL]: Idia-senpai, please, step forward. [IDIA]: J-Jamil-shi, you must be joking!

Birthday Login Message: So, you're here to celebrate my birthday. Well, thanks... Eh? You're offering to help me make some dishes as your birthday present? Heh, really, there's no need. I'm pretty used to doing it every day, so it's not really anything I need help with. But, I guess since you're offering... Maybe I can get you to test the food for poi... I mean, test the flavor of the food.

Requested by Anonymous.

[raccoonfallsharder]

rocket raccoon prompt week ✷ day six bite ✷.⁺⋆˚₊

low-grade spice & fluff | no use of yn | gn reader | minific | word count: 2,266.

“That’s — a big frickin’ scar you got there.”

Your eyes flare wide and you twist in your seat so fast you nearly spin off it, staring at the stranger who has just hoisted himself onto the barstool next to you. Not because you recognize the voice — you don’t yet, though you will — but just because it’s such a personal remark.

And you’re a little bit sensitive about the scar, if you’re being honest. It’s something of a souvenir.

Then recognition clicks in. Because there he is: short. Covered in fur. Velveteen ears and a dark mask, and a plush ringtail that sweeps behind him. Eyes like red stars.

Cutie.

You stare at him, breath sucked right out of your lungs. He’s got hesitation scrawled and sprawled all over his face: ears flicking down and tail lashing once, nervously. His claws clink against his massive, nearly-empty stein of Xitarish whiskey. 

You tear your eyes away and stare down at the ring of pearly ridges stitched into your arm — like maybe there were answers carved into your flesh there all along, and you’d just never noticed. Or like each toothmark is a lodestar, and together the circle of them can help get you home. 

“Isn’t it rude? To comment on a stranger’s scars?” you breathe out, trying to buy yourself time as all the pieces begin falling together. 

He blinks at you, and shifts uncomfortably. “Uh, Jemiah.” He gestures at the owner of The Boot, who just so happens to be your boss. “Next drink’s on me.”

“Sure thing, Rocket,” Jemiah says warmly — far more warmly than you’ve ever heard from him before. 

You feel your eyes flare wide. “You’re Rocket?” you manage to utter, eyes scrolling up and down him again. “One of the people who bought this damn skull? The pilot — the Guardian of the Galaxy or whatever?”

Somehow he looks even more uncomfortable. “Guardians of the Galaxy. Plural. We’re — a team.”

You exhale slowly — measuredly — and try to loosen all the small feathers of confusion crowding up your head, downy-soft. And as you let go of all those wisps, adrenaline rushes in to take their place: the intoxication of suddenly seeing him. Meeting him — for real this time. Having a name to put with the memory. 

Your smile blows wide. You can’t help yourself. 

“The cutie has a team,” you murmur under your breath, and you feel the blood rush to your cheeks when his eyes sharpen on you. He shifts on his stool, but his shoulders relax a little, and the corner of his mouth twitches. 

“Don’t listen to him, Jemiah,” you call out. “His drink’s on me.”

Your boss ducks to hide his grin even as the cutie in question — Rocket, you think, with a pleased little grin — grimaces. “Wait—“ he starts.

You click your tongue and shake your head, cutting him off and grinning. “Not a chance. You bought this stupid skull out from under the Collector and made it a tolerable place to live? There’s no way you’re buying the drinks. I have to show my gratitude somehow.”

You drop your lids to half-mast and raise a brow, hoping he knows that you’re happy to show your gratitude in a few other ways as well. The risk of offering brings a nervous little buzz to your belly. 

As for him — well, you get the sense that he’s a guy who doesn’t let himself flounder very often, but right now his face is flickering between so many emotions that you can’t possibly catch them all. Shock, and then a brief flash of something like smugness, followed immediately by a flash of narrow-eyed skepticism — then a sort of uncertain hesitance, a brief twinge of humor, and finally, a cynical half-sneer. Then he starts right back at the beginning and does it all over again.

It’s fascinating.  

“Did you know,” you say slowly when Jemiah sets down the fresh drinks, “that I work here at The Boot?”

The stranger — no longer a stranger, you suppose; no longer just the cutie — no, Rocket pauses in his cycle of expressions, takes a slug of his new stein of whiskey, and shakes himself out. 

Where the hell does he put it? you wonder. The stein is as big as his whole torso, you think.

But he doesn’t seem buzzed at all. Instead, he casts you a measuring, sideways glance, entirely too alert for your tastes. 

“You don’t say,” he drawls at last, one brow raised as his spine eases a little more.

“Mmhmm,” you say mildly. “It’s my day off.” You pause meaningfully and take another sip of your own drink. “Didn’t used to get days off in Exitar. Or anywhere else on Knowhere, as a matter of fact.”

His eyes track your hands, and flick to your face. 

“Guess the difference is all thanks to you,” you tell him lightly, and tilt your glass toward him. “Here’s to the happy change in leadership.”

He studies you, and waits till you set your drink down again. 

“So. Uh. How long you worked here?” he asks — as if he didn’t already have at least some idea.

You grin into your glass. “Long enough to have developed a very strict set of rules for my survival.”

His ears flick. You’re glad he’s indulging you — playing along for now. “What’re the rules?”

You lean back. “I’m glad you asked,” you tease, and splay out one hand so you can count them on your fingers. “Number one. Avoid the Collector at all costs.”

He snorts. “Well, guess you’re not a complete idiot,” he mutters, and then slashes his red-amber eyes at you and flinches, like he thinks maybe you’re going to be offended. 

But you only wink at him. Not a chance, cutie.  “Number two. Never hide all your units in one place — or on one datacard.”

A smirk curls the corner of his mouth and his nose twitches.

“Three. Always lock your doors behind you. And four, Don’t walk home alone from the Boot.” The smirk slides off his face at that and his eyes flash, so you rush along to the next rule, hoping to lighten the mood again. “Five. Always get customers’ money before you hand them their booze.”

There you go. The little curve is back at the corner of his mouth, even if his brow is still furrowed — almost like he’s distressed. 

You lean sideways and nudge him with your elbow. “And finally, number six.” He looks up at you and his ears tilt, eyes locked on yours like glimmering red stones. You lean so close you know your breath will flutter in the curve of his ear, and you drop your voice to a whisper. “Don’t try to break up fights.”

The pilot rears back, nearly tumbling backward off his stool, and you reach for him before you both catch yourselves. Reeling your outstretched hand back into yourself, you instead gift him a reckless grin and turn to your drink once more.

“It’s not a comprehensive list,” you tell him pragmatically, “and it isn’t in any particular order, but it’s kept me alive this long.” 

“Oh, yeah?” Rocket says, and his voice is suddenly raspy and low. “Even that last one?”

The laughter surprises you, fluttering up behind your ribs and escaping between your lips, soft  and velvety and hushed. 

“I only broke that one once,” you tell him, lifting your glass to your mouth and half-hiding your grin behind it. You can tell your eyes are sparkling, though. “And it’s not like I ever regretted it.”

He makes a sound in the back of his throat. “Sounds like you got a story.”

“Mmm,” you acknowledge, and you keep your voice playful. “It was years ago, now. I knew all the regulars back then — well, I still do, but more of them were jackasses back in the day. And this guy comes in — someone I’d never seen before. Swaggering, carrying a cannon twice as big as himself. Maybe — three feet tall? A true Short King.”

He’s got his stein to his lips and he chokes on a mouthful of whiskey, sputtering. “A what?”

You ignore him, still casting him that teasing half-smile and raising an eyebrow. “He had pretty eyes, and I remember him being more foulmouthed than a landlocked Ravager.”

“Pretty — what?” 

“Keep up, Rocket,” you taunt lightly, tapping a finger to the air just an inch away from the top of his nose, and his eyes go narrow. Everything on his face is suddenly promising retribution, but you’re reckless with glee now.

And you’ll be happy to pay up if he actually comes to collect. 

“I told him that I needed payment up front when he ordered—“

“Get the money before you hand them their booze,” he echoes Rule Five, eyes still hunting you, and you nod with mock-approval. 

“You get it,” you say with a chuckle. “Anyway, his response was just to swipe another patron’s datacard right in front of me and hand it over.” You can still fucking see it: his challenging half-grin, one brow raised.  “I think I stared at him for a full thirty seconds, but this cutie just smirked up at me. Brazen as fuck.”

You laugh softly at the memory, and Rocket — who might as well be your new landlord, you’ve realized — grumbles something under his breath. 

“Anyway, I was kinda smitten,” you admit with a little curve in your mouth, still buzzing the inside of your belly. 

It’s the truth, too.  You’d never thought that raccoon can get it before, but there you were. 

And here you are. 

To your surprise, Rocket goes quiet at that. The pilot of the famous — or infamous — Guardians of the Galaxy, and one of the new owners of Knowhere: still and silent for a long moment. 

Maybe he’ll slip out of his chair and leave, you think, and the flutters in your belly twist in sudden regret. Maybe you’ve scared him off. 

But when he speaks, his voice is like crystallized maple syrup: rich and gritty, waiting to crumble and melt and scrub against your skin.

“He’s why you got into a fight?”

You weigh out your options here. What to say? You’d lost sight of the cutie thanks to his height and the constant surge of new customers, and you’d sort of forgotten about him in the moment, to be honest — though you’re sure you’d have remembered later, alone in your shitty little room — but then you’d heard the sudden cacophonous boom of his enormous augmented cannon. There’d been screaming and crashing, and you’d woven yourself  between the bodies toward the sound. Just to assess, just to figure out what kind of danger you’d been in—

Fucking B’darl — the worst of your regular patrons — had entered into view and suddenly hoisted the cutie right up into the air before slamming him down into the orloni fighting ring. 

You hadn’t thought about it — about anything, really — just thrown yourself through the crowd, toward the fighting ring. By the time you’d gotten there, B’darl had the cutie pinned to the miniature arena’s floor by the throat.  Both the orloni and the f’saki had cowered back, blood-soaked and wounded, from the sudden interference in their battle-to-the-death. 

Looks like you wandered outta the ring, the fucking brute had sneered.Time to go back to brawling with the other vermin, you little monster. 

B’darl had lifted his other fist, easily the size of your entire head.

My money’s on the f’saki, though. 

You’d surged between them without thinking, latching onto B’darl’s massive forearm, knocking his fist to one side.

You shrug. “It was worth it,” you tell Rocket mildly, and take another sip of your drink.

His eyes drop to the ring of teethmarks in your arm again. He opens his mouth to speak, and you cut in.

“My own fault,” you tell him. “I should’ve known the cutie could handle himself. I got in the way.”

You can still remember how his firelight-eyes had stared up at you from behind a mouthful of flesh and blood, stunned and maybe horrified, teeth sunk almost to the bone.  In a worse timeline, maybe you’d have tried to rip your arm away. But here, in this one, you’d curled around him instinctively. Protectively. 

And then he’d reached around you smoothly and snagged B’darl’s ion pistol, and you’d heard the gun go off as he’d squeezed the trigger, blind.

“My only regret is that I lost sight of him in the aftermath,” you tell him with a shrug. You try for a teasing smile but it suddenly feels strained, tense on your mouth. You’d been too flushed with adrenaline when you’d first started this conversation. Now, suddenly, the nerves are present: rattling and twitching behind your sternum. Your fingers shake a little and you clamp them onto your glass. “Didn’t even catch his name.” 

He doesn’t say anything, and you squeeze your eyes shut. When you finally get the fluttering in your vagus nerve under control, you hazard a look up at him. 

His eyes are on your forearm though: the circle of silken raised marks, just three shades lighter than the rest of your skin, and strangely — almost prettily — translucent. His finger reaches out: dark and clawed, his touch like warm leather. You go so still that you can’t blink, can’t even breathe as he paints a ring of warmth on your skin, looping the circlet of scars onto his fingertip like pearls threaded on a string.

The flutters are back, full-force. 

Slowly, Rocket drags his gaze up to yours, sunset-eyes glowing.  “Cutie works.”

@hibatasblog deserves so much more & better than this little ficlet but i am dedicating it to them anyway because they regularly call rocket "short king" and i cannot get it out of my head. deepest love to them & all their writing (please do yourselves a favor and check out their ao3 fics if you have not already)

look i just feel like (1) rocket is a cutie and if you say it in the right tone, he'll be flattered enough to not kill you and (2) there's no way he'd ever forget the stranger who jumped into a fight on his behalf — and probably got scarred for it — back before he met the guardians. which is when the og encounter takes place fyi. forget about the fact that i don't think we know if he had ever been there before gamora brought them along — i headcanon that where two or more lowlifes gather, so too there is rocket.

sidenote oh my god i literally cannot stop with the increasing wordcount. day seven (when i eventually get around to it) is gonna be SHORT. it's a promise/challenge to myself. anyway i think my writing quality peaked with machinery and i'm sorry this is so late

day five. machinery. ✷ day seven. home. rocket prompt week masterlist ✷ main masterlist rocket raccoon prompt week list

taglist ♡ @evolvingchaoswitch ♡ @glow-autumz ♡ @wren-phoenix ♡ @suicidalshitstick ♡ @pretty-chips

[rustbeltjessie]

To what purpose, April, do you return again? (or: finally, a pinned post for April)

Hi all. I'm Jessie Lynn McMains, aka Rust Belt Jessie. I'm an Xennial/Elder Millenial (please don't call me a Geriatric Millenial, thank you) writer/artist/zine-maker/etc. (I wear many hats.) I'm queer and nonbinary/genderfluid, and as far as pronouns go, I’m okay with any human pronoun (they and she are my most-used, but I like he, too, and I especially like it when people switch up the pronouns they use for me). I’m disabled and neurodivergent.

I live with my partner and our two kiddos, both of whom are also neurodivergent, and right now I’m supporting all of us on whatever money I earn. I do freelance copywriting and editing as my main thing, but I also make a decent chunk of my income from selling my zines and books and pins and whatever else I make, so the more I sell, the better able I am to pay bills and take care of my family.

Through my Ko-fi, you can buy my zines and books (I have both poetry and prose available) and pins, as well as commission me to make you a music-inspired mini-collage or hire me to edit your own writing. Or also just throw me a few bucks if you appreciate the content I make available for free.

If you live outside the US (I can only ship within the US via Ko-fi, because setting up shipping for multiple countries is a pain the butt), or just prefer to purchase something or donate via a different platform, I also have PayPal and Venmo (@ JessieLynnMcMains).

I also have a Substack newsletter. I try to send something out at least once a month. Sometimes it's a longer piece about music and nostalgia (I recently started a series called These Fucking Songs, for just that purpose), sometimes it's just updates on what I'm up to, sometimes it's something else. I'm currently working on one about poetry, and my writing process, and revision.

As if that weren't enough, this month I'm doing a 30/30 on the Tupelo Press site, which not only means I have to write a poem every day to be posted the next day, but I am also fundraising for Tupelo Press. My goal is to raise $350 by the end of the month. You can follow along with my daily poems here (the newest is always at the top; scroll down to read previous days), and the fundraising page is here. (I'm also offering some cool incentives for people who donate; more info about all that is available on the fundraising page.)

I'm pro-trans, pro-vaccine, pro-sex worker, pro-abortion, pro-Black Lives Matter. I'm for harm reduction for any drug user or addict, meaning I want them to be able to use drugs as safely as possible, rather than forcing them into rehab or incarcerating them. I'm anti-censorship and anti-fascist. I believe everyone, everyone, should have a safe place to sleep and enough to eat without having to earn it. I consider myself an anarcho-socialist, basically, but I do vote. I'm telling you all that because if you are vehemently against any of those things, we'll probably not get along.

I'm a forever-goth/punk who loves all kinds of music. (Things on heavy rotation for me as I write this are: The Replacements, Einstürzende Neubauten, and Oliver Nelson.) I'm femme but I'm a disaster femme; when I use nailpolish it's always sloppy and/or chipped, when I wear eyeliner it's always crooked and/or smeared, and I am incapable of not ripping a hole or two in every pair of tights and stockings I own. I love art and film and theater and literature and music. I'm a Shakespeare stan, I love growing my own vegetables, I collect souvenir pennies and stick and poke tattoos. I'm always a slut in theory, even when not always in practice. I'm perpetually nostalgic, melancholy, and restless. I spend all my free time posting pictures of myself on the internet and trying to prove I'm punk to anyone that'll listen.

Want more Jessie content? There's my website (still under construction, but it exists). Or you could try searching the my writing, my art, Jessie Lynn McMains, or Rust Belt Jessie tags on this blog. I also have a side blog, where I tend to post more frequently than I do on this blog. If you ask nice, I'll probably give you the URL.

On that note, my DMs and asks are open, and, as of right now, anon is on.

I think that's it! As always, whether you can send any $$ my way (or to my fundraiser) currently or not, keeping this post circulating helps. Thanks much. 🖤

[astroboots]

RED FLAGS ║ PART 5

CO-WRITTEN WITH @THIRSTWORLDPROBLEMSS

Pairing: Steven Grant x female reader x Marc Spector

Summary: You try to befriend Marc with mixed results. Or alternatively: God this man is cranky.

Word Count: 7080

Series Masterlist | Astroboot's Masterlist | Thirstworldproblemss' Masterlist

[PREVIOUS] - [NEXT]

The thing about vanishing off the surface of the earth is that even if the missing person themselves doesn’t notice, people around them will. 

We live in a society where we’re all accountable to someone or something. Your landlord will want the rent paid at the end of month. Your parents will ring to moan about you not calling them often enough. Your boss is going to send chaser emails asking for progress reports. A person cannot just disappear for a week, reappear and expect nothing to come of it. There are always going to be repercussions. 

So it doesn’t come as a surprise to you when Steven stands before you, looking absolutely gutted as he tells you that his supervisor has assigned him the worst possible schedule. He’ll have the unenviable honour of manning the gift shop every Saturday and Sunday for the rest of the month, and on top of that he’ll be on the second shift most weekdays where he’ll be stuck unboxing inaccurate ancient Egypt souvenirs late into the night.  

“I’m sorry, love.” Steven looks down at the ground, then back up at you, all contrite apology and puppy-dog eyes. “I tried talking to Donna about it, but she just threatened me with more inventory. Not sure why she’s got it in for me, but it’s been worse than ever this last week.”

You hum sympathetically, though you’ve got a pretty good idea of why his supervisor might be hacked off—missing a whole week of work can’t have endeared him to anyone at the museum.

"Sorry. I'm so sorry that I’ve gone and messed things up again.” He looks like a sad puppy in a rescue video, disappointment and remorse colouring his features. 

“You haven’t messed anything up,” you reassure him, reaching over to touch his arm. “You don’t have control over your schedule. Besides, we can still spend the nights together, even if we can’t laze about together in the morning. And maybe you can ask Donna nicely to switch you back to your old schedule when you have your performance review at the beginning of next month?” 

He gives you a small nod, but he still looks like the world is ending. It’s frustrating and painful to watch him struggle with the consequences of a disappearance he knows nothing about and couldn’t control. Having his body arbitrarily borrowed and spirited away is hardly something he planned just to spite his supervisor. Not that you could tell her that (or Steven for that matter). 

“We’ll have plenty more weekends together.”  You slide your hand up his arm until you can cup the back of his neck and pull him close, resting your forehead against his. "Not going anywhere, remember?" 

You hope it’s the truth.

Steven smiles a bit at that, and warmth blooms in your chest. All you want is to make him feel better. 

“Maybe I can phone in sick tomorrow?” you offer up as a consolation prize, “Skive off work so we can have a proper lazy morning together.”

His eyes light up like a Christmas tree at your suggestion. “That’d be amazing!” he enthuses, then hesitates. “But are you sure you can do that? I don’t want you to get in trouble for chucking a sickie on my account.” 

“It should be alright. I haven’t taken a sick day for years, I can afford to do so now so long as we don’t make a habit of it. One day shouldn’t cause too much trouble.”

You’re wrong about that. 

The situation in Steven's flat the next morning proves as much. 

You’ve never understood the expression cooking up a storm, but there’s no other words to describe the way Steven Grant lays waste to the kitchen. 

It’s chaos. 

Steven whirls through his kitchen space with the uncoordinated choreography of a drunk elephant. Pots and pans are banging. There are tomato specks spattered across the kitchen tiles like a scene from an Alfred Hitchcock movie. Smoke is rising, and there’s a strong burnt smell permeating every inch of his flat. The fire alarm has already gone off twice, and no doubt would be doing so again now if not for your executive decision to remove the batteries. 

Even with the smell of smoke hanging heavy in the air, you’re smiling as you watch him destroy his kitchen. His enthusiasm is contagious, lighting up the whole of the room. 

Half an hour and two fully open windows later, the storm subsides, and Steven makes his way over to where you’re seated on the bed, balancing a tray in his arms.

“Breakfast is served,” he announces, setting it down on the duvet with a flourish, and you can’t help the bubbly laughter that rises to your lips at the grandiose theatricality of it.

You watch his expression, enjoying the way he beams with pride as he starts plating out the cutlery and leans down to steal a confident kiss before neatly folding a napkin on your lap. 

He’s gone completely overboard, but you can’t help but love it, love him. 

“You know," he muses as he takes a seat beside you, "I’ve always wanted to do this. Serve someone a romantic breakfast in bed I mean. And now, here we are, and I’m just… I’m thrilled! Can’t believe I’m lucky enough that I get to do it with you, but I’m thrilled.”

And suddenly the joy is gone.

You sit on the top of the duvet, staring down at the breakfast tray of burnt toast and charred baked beans that Steven has prepared for you with such love and devotion, and all you feel is guilt.

You can’t help but wonder how much of his over-the-top enthusiasm is simply because he is so excited to finally have something he's been denied for such a long time. And he has no idea why he’s never been able to have it before. (But you do, and you’re lying to him about it.)

The happier the two of you are, the deeper the guilt festers in you like rot spreading under the still-shiny skin of spoiled fruit. It doesn’t matter that you haven’t seen Marc again. The very fact of his existence is impossible to ignore, haunting your time with Steven like a dark shadow that looms large in the corner of every room you share. You know now that somewhere underneath that shy and sweet exterior, there’s another man hidden behind the curtains, controlling his life. 

You can’t go on like this. You need to tell him. Steven deserves to know. 

Squaring your shoulders, you take a deep breath, gathering the courage to initiate the conversation. You can do this. It will be okay. 

You look up to his warm eyes, which narrow slightly in confusion, and for the briefest of moments you think you see a reflection of Marc within them. That’s all it takes for you to lose your nerve. 

You don’t want him to be taken away from you.

“Everything alright, love?”

Steven’s voice snaps you back to reality and you  refocus your gaze to find those gorgeous brown eyes filled with concern.

You can’t tell him. 

“You looked… worried.” Steven picks at the charcoaled edges of the toast with his fork, brows knitted with concern. “I’m sorry, this is really quite burnt, isn’t it? I’ll make new.” 

You’ll lose him forever. 

You glance at the charred bread and try to smile back at him. Wouldn’t it be nice if burnt toast was all you had to worry about? 

No one else is going to save him from Marc. You’re the only one here, the only one who knows. You’re the only one he has. 

The words falter on your tongue, and when you open your mouth they’re replaced by a different sentence entirely. 

“You don’t need to make me a second breakfast, just come back to bed.” 

You wrap your arms around his waist and drag him in towards you, feeling the curve of his smiling lips against your forehead. He’s warm and solid in your arms, yet the precariousness of his position has never been so apparent. 

You need to protect him. 

“Oh? And just what exactly are you planning for us to do in bed?” Steven asks, and you hear a hint of amusement in his tone. “Cause I don’t think it’s sleep, now is it?”

Your fingers thread through his curls, as you pull him downwards to your lips. “We can sleep after.”

It's noticeably lighter in the room when you wake, you can tell that much even with your eyes still shut. You must've had quite a lie-in if it's gotten late enough to be this bright.

Despite the warmth the afternoon sun brings to this space tucked up under the eaves, the bed feels colder than it should. It's only when you open your eyes that you understand why. 

Steven is not in bed with you, which means...

In a panic, you lurch upright, head swivelling frantically as you search the cluttered flat for any sign of– There! You let out a sign of relief when you spot his familiar figure in the kitchen. He’s standing at the counter with his back towards you. Shoulders square and stiff, his movements sleek and sparse. Calculated. 

It’s all very… un-Steven-like. 

“Morning,” you call out hesitantly even though it must be well into the afternoon. You’re trying to confirm your suspicions, and sure enough, he doesn’t turn around. Doesn’t answer you either. 

Definitely not Steven. 

You draw up the covers and clutch them tightly to your chest. It feels like a distorted deja-vu of the first night. But unlike that night, you’re not engulfed in darkness; the slanted golden sunlight is streaming through the large windows of the flat, illuminating every dusty nook and cranny. Unlike that night, he has yet to speak to or even turn towards you, and you don’t have to fumble for your clothes this time. They’re there, neatly folded, in the empty spot of bed next to you. 

Carefully dipping your toes onto the floor, you wrap the covers securely around you before slinking into the loo to get dressed. When you emerge, he’s still there, ignoring you. The silence is unnerving, a warning sign. 

Stay away. Do not engage. 

Given the experiences you’ve had with this man so far, you really should heed that warning. Anyone with half a brain or a scoop of survival instincts would quietly gather their stuff and flee the flat immediately, but not you. You hesitate. If this were a horror movie, you would be yelling at the daft woman on the screen to get the bloody hell out of there.

But if you do, then Steven is bound to wake up to an empty bed and an empty flat. You don’t want him thinking you’ve disappeared on him again, not after he told you how much it upset him last time. Particularly not after you’ve had a taste of the experience yourself. You don’t want to do that to him again. You need to leave Steven a note or something at the very least. 

Your eyes skim the clutter, settling on a yellow pad of sticky notes on Steven’s desk. Perfect! 

As quietly as you can, you tiptoe over to the desk and reach over for them. There’s a loud crash, and you jump, startled, your eyes darting to the floor by your feet. Steven’s pyramid paperweight lies there, staring back at you accusingly. You must have knocked it off the desk, a casualty of your graceless attempt at stealth.

So much for being inconspicuous. 

When you look back up, Marc has turned around to stare at you.

It’s uncanny how unalike they look. It’s like one of those spot-the-difference photo games. The same face, the same body, but where Steven’s gorgeous dark eyes are wide and vulnerable, this man’s are narrowed and impatient. His brows perpetually drawn together and a constant stubborn set to his jaw as he grinds it. 

He’s staring at you like that now, arms flexing where they’re crossed over his chest, and it feels like another warning. 

A red fucking flag. 

Every inch of your skin prickles at the hostile attention, but you can’t leave yet. You haven’t written the note. You can’t leave Steven in the dark again.

Doing your best to pretend that your heart isn’t trying to beat its way out of your chest, you take a deep breath and bend down to pick up the paperweight trying to steady it with your slightly trembling hands. It’s undamaged thankfully, and you quickly find a more secure spot on the desk to set it down, then search out the stack of sticky notes and a pen. 

You can feel Marc’s penetrating gaze on you as you scribble down a quick message to Steven, and it’s all you can do to keep your shoulders from creeping up to your ears. You sign off with a heart for good measure. Hopefully that will allay some of Steven’s anxiety when he inevitably wakes up alone with no memory of seeing you leave.

Sneaking another look at Marc as you finish, you find that he’s still looking at you. Somehow though, it feels different than it did that first night. Less predatory and more... cautious. He is no longer a wolf eyeing his meal, but a wary stray sizing up whether you might pose a threat.

You square your shoulders and lift your chin as you walk over to the fishtank, more aware than ever that he’s watching your every move. He’s eyeing you with all the distrust of a shopkeeper who suspects you of shoplifting. You wonder with nervous annoyance if he thinks you're somehow planning to smuggle the gigantic tank out of Steven’s flat in your handbag.

“I don’t want him to worry,” you explain as you stick the yellow note onto the side of the fishtank. 

At this, Marc finally officially acknowledges your presence.

“The fish?” he asks, raising one perfectly arched eyebrow in apparent confusion.

The… fish? 

You stare stupidly back at him, not quite able to understand what he’s referring to until you follow his line of sight, turning your head to trace his gaze back to the fishtank. 

Dear God. Is he joking or does this man seriously think you’re writing a message for Gus’ benefit? What kind of daft, idiotic— 

“No, not the fish!” You interrupt your own mental tirade. “Steven. I don’t want Steven to worry.” 

Marc doesn’t seem to have anything further to say to that. He just watches you with narrowed eyes as you finish gathering your belongings in silence. He doesn’t mention the dropped paperweight, or check in on your promise to keep his existence a secret from Steven. Apparently, Marc’s biggest concern is how the crazy lady Steven is sleeping with on a regular basis has learned to communicate with fish through written language. 

The fish. Good God.

You want to laugh. All of a sudden, the formidable, larger-than-life image you’ve held of the man in your mind cracks, crumbling slightly around the edges. Amusement at the sheer knob-headed stupidity of his question lingers at the corners of your mouth as you turn and head to the door. 

“Bye,” you call out, but he doesn’t respond to you as you close the front door behind you. You can’t believe you took a sick day for this. 

Steven goes missing again.

When lunchtime rolls by and his trademark silly texts and photos of the odder artefacts from the museum’s collection fail to show up on your phone, you know that Marc must have disappeared into the ether and taken Steven with him again. 

God. No wonder Donna always has it in for Steven if Marc keeps pulling stunts like this. If Steven was in the doghouse before, you can’t even imagine the torture she must be planning for him now. She’ll probably drag the doghouse into the inventory dungeon and throw away the key. 

You glance at your phone where it’s lying next to you on the sofa, then at the palm of your hand where the numbers Marc had once scribbled down have long since washed off. 

You’re allowed to initiate texts, right? He never mentioned that you couldn’t. And why else would he have given you his number in the first place? 

Your hands are sweating as you swipe up your contacts, fingers a little shakier than you would like. It makes it hard to type correctly, despite your text being only three simple words. 

You Is Steven okay? 

You stare at the screen and watch the single tick turn into two. The message has been delivered. There’s no reply, but that makes sense, he hasn’t seen it yet. 

Nothing further happens, but you watch the screen for a long time before eventually forcing yourself to put the phone down. This is not healthy behaviour. You try to busy yourself by pottering around in your flat, tidying the laundry you’ve left strewn about haphazardly, hand washing dishes and clearing out clutter. Anything to keep yourself distracted. But you still find yourself obsessively checking your phone every two minutes. 

An hour goes by, then two. Still nothing. 

And then, on yet another check, you notice the two ticks have turned from white to blue. He’s seen it. Still no reply though. Shit, this was a mistake. 

The phone dings and vibrates in your hand, and you nearly shriek with surprise. 

Marc He’s safe. 

You When will Steven be back?

You don’t receive a reply to your second message, even though the two ticks turned blue almost immediately. But, just like the previous time, Steven returns shortly after, safe and sound and still none the wiser.

Your daily life settles into an odd sort of routine. You spend as much time as you can with Steven, but Marc is never far behind. In your early dating days, you only saw Steven a handful of times a week. It had never occurred to you before how omnipresent Marc was in Steven’s life. 

The pattern goes like this: you and Steven get to play house and enjoy your relationship uninterrupted for a few days at most until, lo and behold, you wake up in the morning to an empty bed and neatly folded clothes next to you. Then it happens all over again. 

At this point, your life has become some bizarro remake of Groundhog Day. 

Wake up in bed together with Steven, and he’ll lovingly make you burnt toast for breakfast, blow up your phone with cute nonsensical texts during lunch, and surprise you with your favourite takeout for dinner. 

Wake up alone in bed, and Groucho Marx is there serving you cold silence instead, and you spend the hours (or days) alone until Steven, still oblivious returns. 

Rinse and repeat. 

Eventually it occurs to you that mostly ignoring Marc isn't going to get you anywhere in the long run. He is clearly an all-time world champion at the quiet game. If something is going to change, it’ll have to be because you make it happen. You’re going to have to at least try to talk to the man if you want to get enough information to be able to protect Steven from him. 

It’s this half-baked plan that comes to your mind, some weeks after, when you find yourself in Steven’s bed again, with no Steven next to you. 

Instead you find him in the far corner of the kitchen, and your clothes folded on the bed next to you. 

You’re not dumb. The odds of you chumming it up with this man are about the same as an ice-cube’s chances in hell. Your interactions so far have informed you that Marc is not the friendly type. In fact, he seems to be allergic to chit-chat. It makes the act of trying to befriend a person you still find somewhat intimidating all the more difficult. 

Still though, these recent encounters have been downright bland compared with the time he revealed himself by threatening you in your bed. And even that was nowhere near as unnerving as your first encounter. 

Maybe he isn’t as intimidating as you had made him out to be in your head. 

“The fish?” he had asked with genuine confusion in his voice, and you almost crack up all over again at the memory of it. 

Hell, if you do spend enough time with him, perhaps he’ll stop being scary to you altogether (unlikely, the little voice in your head tells you, but necessary, you rebut).

The end goal isn’t to befriend him. You’re never going to be besties. You just need things to be cordial between you, friendly enough that you can make sure that he doesn’t actively put Steven in harm’s way. 

You call out a greeting on your way to the loo. Marc doesn’t answer and he doesn’t even look up or turn around when you emerge, ignoring you completely while you dress. 

He's putting away dishes from the sink from last night at a snail’s pace, trying to make as little noise as possible. When he runs out of dishes, he stands there tapping his fingers as he looks around the kitchen, opening and closing a few cupboards, before he chooses one apparently at random and starts organising the items inside. 

For a second, you just observe him, confused by his actions. Then it occurs to you that he’s busying himself in the kitchen so he doesn’t have to talk to you. That could be rather insulting if you allow yourself to dwell on it, so you don’t.  

Instead, you turn your head, eyes roaming the walls of the space, desperate to come up with some topic of conversation to ease the tension. Your gaze catches on the heaps and heaps of books in the flat. There’s nothing that sets off Steven into an excited flurry of conversation like the mention of Egyptian history, if you’re lucky, their body isn’t the only thing that Marc shares with Steven.  

“Do you have an interest in Ancient Egypt as well? Steven’s told me he’s read all of these books at least twice.”

Marc goes still, then turns slowly to face you. The silence is thick and heavy, and his eyes are mere slits as he looks at you. You suspect he’s hoping to scare you into dropping the subject so he doesn’t have to engage in conversation. But instead of looking away, you stand your ground, meeting his stare with as politely expectant of a gaze you can manage under the circumstances, waiting for his answer. 

Kill him with (strained) kindness, that’s your strategy now. 

After what seems to be an eternity, he opens his mouth to answer. 

“No.” Statement made, he turns his back on you again.  

One word. Apparently all you get is one, single, word, in the negative. Then it’s back to silence. 

Even Steven gave you three words on your first date. God. The all-familiar frustration and deep desire to bang your head against the wall returns, and it takes more of your willpower than you would like to resist the urge. 

You walk over to the fish tank, trying to give yourself a moment to think. Trying to recover. You find yourself smiling indulgently at the one-finned champ through the glass, as you watch as a row of bubbles leave his mouth. 

"Do you think you’ll be gone for long this time? I don’t want Gus to get lonely." 

Marc doesn’t answer, and your eyes catch the postcards that Steven has hung haphazardly all over the wall above the fish tank. 

It’s a collage of iconic landmarks from various holiday destinations, and you read the locations of each postcard hanging on the wooden ledge. Morocco, Venice, Porto, Iceland, Moscow… Gosh, Steven’s mum is quite impressively travelled, isn’t she? 

“Oh hey,” you turn around to face Marc. “When’s your mum coming back to London?” 

He jerks around to stare at you, shoulders raised in a painfully firm line that’s stiff and defensive, even for Marc, and you have to stop yourself from apologising, though you’re not sure for what. 

“What do you mean?” he asks. The words are said with such caution. He’s on guard as if bracing for a blow.

“From her travels?” you try to clarify.

His eyes narrow. The hostility is back. “What travels?” He asks. 

You point to the postcards. 

“Steven tells me she’s currently on a trip abroad. She’s sent him these?” You don’t know why the pitch of your voice rises as you speak, turning the last sentence into a question. There’s just something about Marc’s behaviour that makes you doubt every word coming out of your mouth. 

“I don’t know. I don’t–” his voice breaks, fingers flexing as he curls them into agitated fists then releases them again. 

“We don’t really talk anymore, we’re…” he stops and looks up but not at you. Instead, he looks to the ceilings as if the words he’s searching for will be etched somewhere in the wooden beams. “Estranged.”

That’s not right. You know that can’t be right. The cards are from Steven’s mother, who is always off travelling on some new adventure or other. It’s why he’s never introduced you, despite his excitement to show you off to her. 

“What do you mean? Steven talks to her on the phone almost every day. Where do all these postcards come from then, if not from her? Surely they weren’t sent by a ghost?”

Something painful flashes in his eyes. Marc bites into the bottom lip, so hard it goes bone-white, and you know you must’ve struck a nerve, you just can’t tell which one or what it was you said that’s upset him. 

“Marc?” you try again, voice cautious. 

“I send the postcards,” Marc finally says. 

“Then why does Steven think they’re from his mum?” 

Marc doesn’t answer you, just turns his head to look away, and you’re getting more confusing by the second. 

What the hell does he mean he sends them? And if so then why does Steven think they're from his mum? Either Marc's lying to you or– 

“Wait! Are you sending these postcards to him while pretending to be his mum? Why are you lying to him?"

“Steven doesn’t need to know.”

“You say that a lot,” the words, sharp and bitter, come out before you think to stop them. 

He stays quiet at your accusing tone. Doesn't move and stays seemingly unemotional. But there’s something there. It’s subtle. From the distance between you, it would’ve been easy to miss. 

There’s a tick in the small muscle of his jaw. His nostrils flare ever so slightly.

Regardless of how hard Marc tries to hide it, trying to school his expressions, you know every intimate detail of this face too well for him to hide from you. It’s not an expression you’ve seen on Steven’s face, ever, but it doesn’t take a genius to figure out what it all amounts to. 

He’s really quite upset, isn’t he?  

Any sensible person would stop right about now. You’ve always prided yourself on being a sensible person, but since you met Steven, sensibility seems to have flown out the bloody window. 

“Whatever it is, Steven can handle it. He’s so much stronger than you give him credit for.” 

“Steven shouldn’t have to handle it," he snaps back at you. Voice losing any restraint he held before. 

Once again the sensible thing would be to drop it. But the dismissive, know-it-all tone in his voice rubs you entirely the wrong way.

“He deserves to know. It’s not right for you to keep him in the dark like this. He deserves better. He’s an autonomous adult, and he should be allowed to make decisions over his life just as much as you do. You have no right to control his life the way you do. You’re torturing him.” 

“I am not,” he all but shouts back, voice raised for the first time since you met him. “I'm protecting him. You know nothing about the world I live in. If Steven finds out about me, about the work I do, he will be drawn into that world. Steven will be in danger. Do you understand? Is that what you want? For him to know he's sharing body with a– ” Marc stops himself mid-sentence. Eyes wide in shock, as if surprised by his own outburst. 

A silence falls between you, and he steps back, physically distancing himself  from you. He continues to retreat until he bumps up against the kitchen counter, grabbing onto it to steady himself as he looks down to his feet, sharp eyes now hazy and unseeing, a guilt ridden tinge to his usually unshakeable expression. 

You appreciate the space he’s giving you, but a more pressing thought pushes to the forefront of your mind. What was Marc going to say before he stopped himself? Did you want Steven to know that he’s sharing his body with… what, exactly? 

You search his face, free to stare as much as you like now as his eyes remain downcast. “Just what is it that you do, Marc?”

“You don’t want to know,” he answers, voice quieter now, devoid of any emotion.  

His stance is no longer as straight and firm and usual. His shoulders sag as he continues to stare fixedly at the ground, avoiding all eye contact. The lines around his eyes are marred with sadness, a mark of defeat. He’s curled into himself, the entirety of his body shrinking like he’s trying to make himself invisible. For a beat of a second, he reminds you all too much of Steven, and your heart breaks for him. 

Even though this isn’t Steven you’re looking at, that all-familiar instinct to protect swells up in your chest. Your arms want to curl around him, drape yourself over him and tell him it’s okay. 

You open your mouth, trying to come up with something to salvage the situation. The first words that come to your head is ‘sorry,’ but the problem is that you’re not. Not really. Sorry means that you condone his perpetual lies. 

You hesitate for a long moment, but you don’t know what the right thing to say to him is. Probably because there is no right thing.  And you’ve already bollocksed things up quite enough for one night, haven’t you? Perhaps it’s best to cut your losses now and try to do better next time. 

As quietly as you can, you gather up your handbag, and head towards the door. “I’ll see you around, Marc.”

There’s no answer, and you don’t look back, as you close the door with a quiet click behind you. 

Blue Planet is on in the background at your flat. It’s become yours and Steven’s weeknight ritual, but Steven is nowhere to be seen. 

You sit on your sofa, a dull weight perched oppressively on your chest, as you think of Steven’s other half. 

His words ring loud and sharp in your ears, overpowering Attenboroughs sombre narration on the telly, until Marc’s voice is all you hear. 

“I’m protecting him,” he’d said. 

You think of how small he’d looked this morning, completely unlike the other times you’ve seen him, but somehow, heartbreakingly, you suspect it’s the most honest you’ve ever seen him as well. 

What reason does he have to lie to you? None. 

Fishing your phone from your handbag, you pull up Marc’s contact details. You stare at it, fingers hovering over the keyboards, unsure of what you want to say. 

You Are you and Steven okay?

Marc Steven’s fine. 

It’s only a half an answer, and not quite the answer you would’ve liked. But part of you is surprised he responded at all considering the way things ended earlier. 

You When’s Steven coming back? 

He doesn’t answer you (surprise, surprise), and you’re just about to call it in for the evening when you remember Steven's upcoming performance review. If Marc is telling the truth– If he cares about Steven’s well-being the way he claims to, then he wouldn't want him to miss it, surely? 

You He has his performance review at work on Monday. 

There’s no reply, and you’re left on read once again. 

Still, despite Marc’s lack of acknowledgement, Steven returns in time for work on Monday. He’s even on time for once.

You’re awoken in Steven’s flat by the quiet clattering of dishes being put away. The bed beside you is cold and as you reach out your hand, patting the mattress, instead of Steven, you find your clothes folded into a neat square. 

You sit upright in the bed turning your attention to the kitchen, sure enough Marc is standing by the sink, tidying up after you and Steven the previous night. 

“Good morning,” you call out. 

Save for a brief pause in his work on the dishes, he doesn’t respond. The silence between you has taken a different tone now. It’s not unnerving or scary to you this morning. Instead it makes the heavy weight settle even deeper, until it’s carved a hollow dent into your chest at the thought of how you two last left it. 

Dipping your toes onto the floor, you gather your clothes and once again make the habitual walk of shame to the loo to get dressed. 

When you emerge, Marc predictably pays you no attention. You pad across the room until you find yourself standing in front of the fish tank. 

You wonder how long you could stand here, without saying a word before he would have to give in and acknowledge you. An hour? A day? You suspect that you could very well stand here until you both grow old enough to claim pensions, and he’d still keep his silence. 

It’d be easy to just walk out of the door. You have no obligation to Marc. He’s a stranger who wants nothing to do with you. The thought makes you sad.

You grab the shaker of fish food and sprinkle some into the water. It’s at least double the portion size Steven would usually give, but God knows how long he’ll be gone this time. Gus deserves a decent meal before he’s left to fend for himself. 

When you’re done, you put the food back away above the fish tank. A postcard of the Alps catches your eye. Green fields full of cows peacefully munching away against the backdrop of ice-clad mountains. It’s so picturesque and idyllic. 

“This one’s new,” you say out loud, and you observe Marc through the glass panes of the fish tank where he’s standing at the opposite end of the room. He looks over at you, and you gesture to the postcard.  

“It’s so pretty. We went to Switzerland once when I was a kid.” 

No response to that, but you continue to natter on mindlessly, “I got a cheap music box as a souvenir. I loved that thing. Used to listen to it for hours. I cried for a week when it broke and my dad threw it out.”

Marc doesn’t answer. He’s clearly still upset about last time. But instead of capitulating, you keep going. Sooner or later he has to crack and respond. Right? 

“The melody was from The Sound of Music. It was my favourite movie growing up. Used to watch it on repeat on my mum’s old VHS player every day after school until it was completely worn out. Tried to run away once just so I could join a nunnery thinking I could work as a nanny for a handsome colonel and his kids”. 

He hums in acknowledgment. A hum. Stubborn… 

“I was kind of hoping I could take Steven for a weekend trip one of these days. A couple’s holiday.” 

Still no reply, but as you watch him through the glass-panes of the fishtank, you can see his shoulders loosen, body language visibly relaxing. 

“If you don’t mind, that is. Since we’d be bringing you along as well.” You say it facetiously, with as much humour in your tone you can muster, trying to invite Marc to share the joke. Unsurprisingly he doesn’t take the bait. 

"We don't have to do this," he says. Zero inflection in his voice, but at least it’s a response.

You straighten up slowly and meet his gaze over the top of Gus’ tank. "I'm not sure what you mean?"

"This,” Marc reiterates. He gestures to the space between you. "You and me. Conversation. We don’t have to be friends,” he clarifies. 

Wow, this man is blunt. 

“I know we don’t have to. But…”

But what exactly? What are you trying to do here, really? The man has made it perfectly clear that he’s not interested in your friendship, barely willing to tolerate your mere presence in his vicinity. 

“But,” you start again, “I’m hoping to be with Steven for a long time. And my understanding of the situation is that you and Steven are not…” you hesitate, unsure of what wording to use. If there’s a way to make this sound pretty, you can’t think of it, but you forge ahead anyway. “Well– That you two come as a package deal.” 

Across from you, Marc straightens his posture, folding his arms. He assesses you guardedly from top to toe. 

“It would be good if we could be friendly with each other,” you add hopefully, “Maybe even friends? We don’t have to be, of course, if you’re not willing, but… I think it would make Steven’s life easier. Better.” 

There’s a subtle change in his face, and he rolls his shoulders, looking up at you from underneath his striking lashes. His expression is softer somehow, not the stern, unsmiling face he’s been perpetually giving you. It makes you hold your breath waiting for his answer. 

Except it doesn’t come. 

Seconds tick by, and the line of his lips presses down firmer. He looks away, something akin to frustration in his face, eyebrows pinched tightly together. Once again, you’re left to linger in the limbo of awkward silence. He clearly doesn’t want to continue this conversation.

You try to think of something else to add to your filibustering, but your well of potential topics to keep this one-sided conversation going has run dry. At least you tried. Giving up with a sigh, you flash him a resigned half-smile and turn to pick up your bag. You’re collecting the rest of your things when he finally speaks. 

“I like Switzerland.” 

You turn to stare at him, and you can feel your mouth gaping in what is probably a very unattractive imitation of Gus. You’re in complete disbelief that he actually volunteered information, completely unprompted. Well, mostly unprompted. 

Marc shifts his feet slightly,  redistributing his weight, and then miracles of all miracles he actually continues. “The mountains are nice. Quiet.”

You manage to snap your mouth shut, disproportionate elation building in your chest. You can’t entirely contain the gleeful smile that wants to spread across your lips, but you manage to tamp it down to something a bit more muted so he won’t think you’ve lost the plot entirely. 

“They really are,” you agree warmly, “Nice and quiet.”

The two of you look at each other for a moment, and he doesn’t quite smile back, but something in his face relaxes marginally from the ever-present frown he likes to sport.

You can’t help but be happy (happier than you probably should be) that he finally opened up to you. That moment of joy and relief, of simply staring at this man as he softens before your very eyes extend into a much longer one, until you’re not sure how long you’ve been standing there but you’re too afraid to move in case this armistice breaks the moment you blink. 

Out of nowhere, your stomach cramps. Before you know it, a growl of hunger reverberates across the cluttered walls of the flat. 

Shit… 

A shiver of embarrassment runs down your spine as you stiffen. Surely, it’s one of those moments where the silence of the room intensifies any sound. You’re just aware of it because it’s your own stomach. Surely Marc didn’t hear it. 

“You’re hungry,” Marc states. 

Oh for fuck’s sake! 

It’s the sort of comical nonsense that constantly happens between you and Steven… Not with Marc. If only the Universe had gotten the memo. 

Turning his feet, Marc walks towards Steven’s fridge—or is it his too?—which immediately starts whirring noisily as soon as he opens the door. “There’s not much, but I can manage scrambled eggs and sausages.”

“I… um…” You hesitate. Not sure if you should take him up on the implied breakfast invitation. You can’t help but feel that you’ve pushed your luck about as far as it will go already this morning, and that you’re bound to upset the delicate progress you’ve miraculously managed to achieve if you stay. “I don’t want to impose…”

Marc looks back at you, eyes narrowing as he studies your reaction, and it’s like he can read you like an open book. 

“You’re not imposing. I’m no gourmet cook, but my food won’t kill you. Can't be worse than Steven’s. You ate that and survived.”

You’re stunned. Blinking at his comment, it takes you far too long to realise he means it as a joke. A rush of laughter rises up to your lips, once you do. He’s offering you food and joking with you. That’s a friendly gesture if you’ve ever seen one. 

You stay, and he’s right. The slightly runny eggs and soggy vegan sausages left in Steven's fridge are nothing to write home about, but you eat them with a smile on your face.

You Hi.  Have you taken Steven again? He’s not answering my texts. 

Marc Yeah. He’s safe. 

You When’s he coming back?  We have a date on Saturday. I’ve made a reservation and they’ve taken a deposit. Do I need to cancel? 

Marc No. He’ll be back. 

You Thank you.

You’ve just put your phone face down on your nightstand when an impulse you can’t quite explain pushes at the corner of your mind, and you reach for it again. 

You Be safe.

Placing your phone back down, you expect that to be the end of it.  When your phone pings and vibrates against your night table a moment later, you jump, startled. You unlock the screen to see the new message. 

Marc Thanks. 

~ CONTINUE~

Credits/Dedications

Forever and always to my wonderful, amazing and most perfect friend and co-writer @thirstworldproblemss. I'm just going to keep this simple and true. I love you, in fact I love you the m💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗st

Also a shoutout to @the-ginger-hedge-witch @radiowallet @write-and-buried who have listened to me scream about this.

And last but absolutely not the least to everyone who's followed and read this story. I appreciate you so big-ly!! I am so so excited to share this chapter with you and finally get to delve properly into Marc beyond... mystery guy who frowns a lot. Whether you're lurking, liking, commenting or reblogging, thank you all so much for reading this little work of ours!

[yuurei20]

Ace Info Compilation part 19: Ace and Deuce (pt2)

Ace describes Deuce as “a boar who charges headfirst into everything. His internal breaks are busted. I feel like he sees me as a rival. I’d wipe the floor with him if he ever wanted to throw down, of course.”

Ace’s bullying is a theme throughout Book 5: Ace forces a piece of apple pie into Deuce's mouth (breaking Vil’s rules about snacks), and when Deuce gets lectured by Vil for trying to stand up for Epel Ace says, “You’re not exactly smart about this stuff.”

Deuce gets frustrated with Ace constantly insulting his intelligence and runs off, but Ace doesn’t seem to understand that he has done anything wrong.

Grim says that he should really start thinking about other people’s feelings before he speaks and Ace responds, “Why should a guy with his act together walk on eggshells around a guy slowing down the team? We’re doing the same rehearsals. Not my fault he can’t do the moves.”

This is followed by a scene of Deuce revealing how much Ace’s comments really do bother him, and he and Epel make a pact to win the VDC and prove themselves to both Ace and Vil.

Deuce follows up afterwards and Ace says, “You’d better not be expecting an apology.”

Deuce responds, “I’m not letting you outshine me” and Ace becomes confused, asking, “Did he just declare war on me? Is he nuts? That knucklehead wouldn’t outshine me in a million years.”

When Deuce learns his unique magic at the end of the story Ace mocks it, at first, as “just a way to get payback for when you get in fights,” but soon admits his shock at Deuce mastering the spell before him.

Ace and Deuce seem to be considered as something of a set by the other students, with Trey attempting to tempt Ace into a study session by offering to call in Deuce as well. Ace insists, “We’re not a married couple, you know!”

Ace does seem to know Deuce very well: during Wish Upon a Star he comments that “If I know Deuce—and I think I do by now—he’s gonna be so freaked out he’s frozen stiff,” and the scene cuts to Deuce looking terrified by his imminent performance.

When Deuce disappears during Spectral Soiree Ace says, “I’m not exactly worried about Deuce, but I guess it is too quiet without him.”

During Phantom Bride we see Ace manipulate Deuce into volunteering by telling him that Trey is waiting for him “to swoop in and save the day.”

Cater comments, “Oh, Deucey. You can’t even see how he’s playing you.”

Ace is extremely confident going into Beanfest, telling Deuce that “horsepower alone doesn’t cut it” and “you gotta have brainpower to make the right calls."

Deuce says he won’t let Ace capture him, if nothing else, but then the game begins with Ace and Sebek setting up an ambush that Deuce walks right into (after being tricked by Cater).

Deuce manages to outrun them to the point that he reaches Riddle, who takes out both Sebek and Ace.

Deuce reflects that Ace was correct about not being able to depend on horsepower alone but Riddle points out, “At least Ace got knocked out of the game a few minutes ago,” not specifying the fact that it was he who took him out.

Despite the bickering and competitiveness, however, when Deuce gets into trouble with three Heartslabyul upperclassmen Ace is quick to save him by pretending that Vargas is approaching, which sends the bullies running.

Deuce reacts with “Where’s Coach Vargas? Did he leave?”

Despite everything that Deuce puts up with, he still picks up a souvenir for Ace during the Glorious Masquerade event: "You can get caramels like these in the Queendom of Roses. But here in Fleur City, they've got a salted butter flavor. I should get some of these for Ace."

[dawndelion-winery]

You Too? I Hope

Them as things my crushes have done

Ft. Arlecchino, Capitano, Childe, Dottore, Pantalone

Arlecchino:

She remembers all your food preferences and diet restrictions you mention, even the ones in passing

Hanging out with friends? Hold on a moment, didn't you say you can't eat that ingredient?

Yeah, she's stopping you

She'll get you something else that's just as nice, so don't worry about missing out

"I promise you, it's not even that good, and definitely not amazing enough to sacrifice your health over."

She won't eat it either, to make sure you don't feel left out, so she'll have whatever you're having

Capitano:

He carries you around if you're injured

No, you're not too heavy, certainly not for him

He can't have you making your sprained ankle worse, now can he?

When you finally relent, he leans his face closer to yours as though expecting a kiss before remembering you aren't dating yet and quickly pulling away again

"Ahaha, whoops. My bad, that one, err, if you could forget I did that, it'd be great."

He's clearly flustered and trying to distance himself before remembering he's carrying you

You offer to walk yourself but no, he insists

"We're going to the same places anyway, it's no trouble for me."

Did I mention he's also carrying your stuff?

Childe:

Follows you around like he's lost to have an excuse to talk to you and walk you places

He tells you about his ideal type while looking you in the eye with some sort of expectancy like he's waiting for you to realise something

Maybe if you'd paid more attention you'd notice how he only ever describes the physical features while looking at you

Hands that interlock with his perfectly? His hand is slipped in yours

"Yeah, and of course they'd have to have pretty eyes that look like they hold my future for me to jump right in with them."

Dottore:

Sends you pictures of his solo trip overseas to flex on you how he can travel alone

And takes pictures of plushies at the gift store telling you how stupid they look, knowing you like them

Asks you which one he should take as a souvenir since he's not that into plushies but wants to get something

Then when he returns he chucks the plushie you chose at the back of your head before you realise he's there, acting as though he had no part to play in the plushie currently in your lap

"Thanks for the plushie~"

"What plushie? I've never seen this ugly thing in my life. It's yours."

"Oh, sure then."

"Do you like it though..?"

You told him there was another one you preferred, and that you thought that one suited him more

To which he still insisted you keep it so you'd think of him whenever you saw it

Pantalone:

Nothing short of sweet to you, it was no wonder you fell for him

And it was pretty obvious to everyone just how close you were, leading to his subordinates mistakenly assuming you were together

A rumour he never bothered to clarify

He even played into them sometimes, thinking it was amusing to watch the people around lose their shit when he slips his hand in yours instead of denying their suspicions

Sometimes even you weren't sure just what he was trying to pull

You'd brush it off as am act to mess with people if not for the fact that he behaved the same when it was just the two of you

"Special treatment? You're not wrong, I do treat you differently, but shouldn't it be expected when you're that much dearer to me than everyone else?"

Taglist[send an ask to be added/removed]: @myluvkeiji @pluvioseprince @aqui-soba @favonius-captain @tiredsleep @raincxtter @loverofthe-stars @gensimping-for-all @irethepotato @almond-adeptus @mx-kamisato @yuzuricebun @chaosinanutshell @heizours @codename-hiraeth @andreiling01 @callmemeelah @sadlonelybagel @plinkuro @thevictoriousmoon @mastering-procrastinating

[agendabymooner]

seb’s best girl: meeting mick in malaysia || sv5 scenario (2)

foster dad!sebastian vettel x daughter!ofc (filo!ofc)

EXTENSION TO CRAZY RICH WIFE AND SHE’S EVERYTHING… AND HE’S JUST MICK

Summary: Sebastian Vettel understood the downfalls of infertility just by being there for his wife. What he didn’t know, however, was that his life would drastically change when their foster daughter, Barbie Blanco, was put into their care. OR, what made Sebastian the best father figure to a teenager who had nobody but herself. 

Scenario summary: Sebastian and Bel had taken their foster daughter to her first race, where she met the friends that she’d have forever. OR, it turns out that being alone in high school can could lead to happiness as Barbie met Mick for the first time in Malaysia— with the boy and his sister Gina getting curious about the Filipino girl.

Content warning: Fluff, mentions of isolation and sadness (Barbie not making friends in school), attentive people, Mick and Gina being siblings and wholesome, brief Tagalog dialogue + translation

Note: I’m planning to run on no sleep all day tomorrow so I’m going to post this before I nap hehehe enjoy some Mick and Barbie! xx

a - n masterlist

o - z masterlist

if you’d like to get on one of my taglists, check this post out!

Sebastian made an effort to stay in the Philippines way before the 2014 season started— and throughout those two months of having Barbie in their care taught him quite a lot about her.

One of those things being the amount of sadness on her face whenever he’d ask her how classes went for her whenever he picked her up from school (he loathed the traffic in the Philippines with a passion). 

She never said it aloud, seeing as she barely spoke English, yet her face — one that told him that she’s indeed his daughter — showed enough for him to understand her struggles. 

Barbie loved people. She was attached to the hips with the sisters in the orphanage and now that she was a part of the Vettel family, Sebastian and Bel assumed that she’d easily get along with them and her peers at the private school.

Oh how wrong they were. The first month of high school told the couple enough that she wasn’t coping well nor adjusting— her peers in school didn’t make her feel less isolated and she was often found alone during the break, her teachers told them. 

Sebastian and Bel hated being so helpless. Sebastian was due to start his season soon, and all he wanted to do was ease Barbie into the life she was introduced to. He wanted her to have many friends and have fun. What else was there for him to do? 

Right. 

A race passed by so quickly and the second round of the season started for the Red Bull driver when Sebastian and Bel flew her to Malaysia with her nanny, Angie. Or rather, Sebastian anticipated his wife’s arrival with Barbie and Angie in the hotel and found himself grinning at the sight of Barbie as the girl’s eyes brightened at the sight of Sebastian.

Barbie waved at him before Sebastian approached the girls and wrapped one arm around Barbie’s shoulder. It was a gesture that Barbie truly appreciated— Sebastian’s hug — and it was something she couldn’t deny herself such a gesture if he offered it. 

Their first day in Malaysia consisted of touring the nearby attractions and buying souvenirs. Bel and Sebastian tried to coax Barbie into buying more than what she asked for— they knew that she was simply being humble and while they appreciated it they wished for her to ask for more. But alas, their attempt didn’t work as well as they had hoped.

Their second day was the very beginning of Sebastian’s race week in Malaysia. Barbie’s VIP pass slung over her neck as she walked side by side with Sebastian and Bel as the Red Bull driver taught her everything there was to the facilities and areas of the track during the race week— including the paddock.

Cameras took photos of the Vettel couple. The sight of the girl, however, was new for the media outlets as they captured some images of the girl as well while she listened attentively to Sebastian. It spooked her off— having her photos taken like she was a public figure and a celebrity— that she decided to hide a little more behind Sebastian and held onto the hem of his shirt as they both made their way around the grid. 

Bel, noticing the behaviour of the girl, looked around and saw the cameras before she nudged Sebastian and gestured to the photographers subtly. 

Sebastian had taken notice of what was happening as he leaned towards Britta— who walked alongside him and his family — and asked, “Can you please tell them not to take some photos, please Britta? It scares Barbie.” 

Britta, his dear manager who’s done everything to keep him on a leash, nodded before walking off to handle the situation. Sebastian eventually led Bel and Barbie back to the Red Bull hospitality— where they found a group of blondes standing and chatting with other Red Bull staff. 

“Oh hey! You guys are here!” Bel exclaimed, making Barbie flinch slightly at the tone of her foster mother’s voice. 

Barbie could only observe their faces and it was safe to assume that they were relatives. The young boy looked about Barbie’s age and he looked… kind? Or cute. Barbie wasn’t sure.

But Sebastian and Bel knew these people so much that they could immediately tell Barbie that she would get along with the boy— that the boy was a kind one. 

The older woman and another girl, one that looked a bit older than Barbie, chatted with Bel and Seb gleefully. Barbie wasn’t sure what it was about seeing as she was approached by the boy immediately. 

“Hi,” he said with a smile, sticking his hand out as he introduced himself. “My name is Mick. I know Sebastian. What’s your name?” 

Barbie’s face flushed, unable to answer the boy while she worried about what to answer. She was still learning English— and so this was very difficult for her.

“I— m—“ Barbie paused, looking at Sebastian and Bel for help. Her nanny was nowhere in sight, as well. She looked back at the boy— Mick, who tilted his head with an expectant look as she answered, “Barbie.” 

“Barbie?” Mick’s blue eyes shrunk for a moment as he squinted and looked down at her Prada bag — one that Seb had bought her recently. “Like your bag— pink Barbie?” 

“Mick,” the older woman chastised, “be nice, okay?” 

“Mom, I’m just asking about her bag! She said her name is Barbie so I asked if that meant her bag— kind of like Barbie pink!” Mick reasoned out before Seb and the older woman looked at each other with a teasing smile.

“Yes Mick, that’s her name,” Bel answered for the girl, offering the boy a smile. “Barbara is actually her name and you’re going to have to bear with her— she doesn’t speak English as much yet.”

“Oh,” Mick uttered. “So how do I speak to her?” 

“She can understand but not speak it, stupid,” the girl snorted, making Mick shoot her a glare before the girl approached Barbie. “Hello! I’m Gina— I’m this idiot’s sister.”

“Hi,” Barbie nodded politely. 

“Hör auf, mich dumm zu nennen, Gina,” stop calling me stupid, Gina. Mick muttered in annoyance, the foreign words making Barbie pause and tilt her head in confusion. 

The adults chuckled before Sebastian reached out to mess with Mick’s hair with a grin. “Ugh, Seb! Don’t do that!” 

“You kids,” Sebastian tutted with a cheeky grin. “You know what? Why don’t you guys take Barbie around the track or paddock?”

Barbie’s eyes widened as she looked at Sebastian with a warning look, leaving the man to shrug, “You’ll like it around here, liebling— I think you’re going to get tired of having adults around all the time so Mick and Gina are here!” 

“Absolutely,” Bel nodded with a smile, “besides, you’ll spend a lot more time with the two of them.”

Barbie shot her parents a puzzled look before Bel explained, “Mga kaibigan namin ‘yong nanay at tatay nila Mick at Gina.” We are friends with Mick and Gina’s parents. “Gets?”

Barbie nodded in agreement before asking, “Hindi ba puwede dito na lang ako?” Can I not just stay here? 

“Puwede pero,” Bel paused, “nagtataka kami kung bakit tahimik ka sa school. Sabi ng teacher mo hindi ka daw nakikipagsocialize sa iba — they don’t want to, right?” You can but we’ve been wondering why you’re quiet at school. Your teacher said that you’re not socializing with others. “This is for your good, Barbie. Mabait yung dalawa and you’ll get along with them well.” The two (Gina and Mick) are nice.

Barbie looked back at the two blond kids with hesitation, but their smiles reached their ears as they spoke to their mother and Sebastian — it was no doubt that they were, indeed, kind.

Meanwhile, out of Barbie’s earshot, Mick asked his mother Corinna and Sebastian something that piqued his curiosity, “What language are they speaking, Mom? Seb?”

“Bel’s first language, duh,” Gina replied. “Taga- Tag-a-log? Is that right, Seb?” 

Sebastian nodded, “Tagalog— Filipino— it’s Bel’s first language.”

“How come she can’t speak English?” Mick asked, referring to the girl. 

“Some people can’t speak it well, Mick,” Corinna replied. “Remember she’s from a different country— like you are.”

“But I can speak English,” Mick pointed out. 

Sebastian laughed at the boy’s comments as he said, “Barbie’s life is a bit more… complicated than ours, Mick. All you need to know is that she’s learning to speak English and if you kids don’t mind— help her out a little bit. Be friends with her.”

“She’s a very good girl,” Sebastian added. “I think you three would make a good chaos in the paddock once you start driving in the grid, Mick.”

“Eh, I don’t cause chaos,” Mick protested.

“Thus, he lied again,” Gina joked before nodding at Sebastian, “okay well, I’m taking her with me for some ice cream. It’s hot in here.” Then she walked off, approaching the Filipino girl to invite her for a walk around the paddock. The pair then left and waved goodbye at Bel and the adults. 

Mick’s eyes widened, his bright pupils widening as well as he rushed after the two and exclaimed, “W- Oi! Wait for me, Gina!” 

The adults looked at each other with knowing smiles, adoring the teenagers and their presence. 

“So,” Corinna Schumacher grinned, “Bel, Seb— tell me how’s it been with Barbie at home so far!” 

The red bean ice cream on her cup was melting, all thanks to the weather in the circuit. That— and Mick’s excited tone as he spoke about the sport. Barbie was too drawn to and curious about anything that the Schumacher siblings were talking about. 

“Dad actually knew Seb since he was a kid! You should ask him about the photos of him and Dad on his races back then,” Mick grinned before saying, “I also race but I’m not in this level of competition… yet.”

“Ah,” Barbie nodded, eating her ice cream while both Gina and Mick devoured their pandan flavoured ice cream. 

“How about you?” Mick asked with a smile. “What do you like to do?”

Barbie hummed quietly and answered the best that she could, “I like to cook.” Her accent wasn’t as thick, but it was different. 

“You’re a chef,” Mick nodded in approval, “I like that. I like food.”

“Ooh! Like that food Angie made before,” Gina piped up with an enthusiastic grin. “Chicken adobo. There’s a lot but that cuisine? Divine.” 

As they chatted amongst themselves, Barbie couldn’t help but smile and nod. She’d sometimes pull up her phone to translate some things to interact with them if she couldn’t speak her thoughts out in her second language. And if Google translate was wrong, Gina and Mick would correct it and help her learn the sentence. 

The way they spoke of her culture was… endearing. It was as if they were trying their best to understand who Barbie was and for the first time, Barbie felt like she belonged for once. Not even her peers in the Philippines were friendly like this. 

She could get used to travelling with Sebastian and meeting with the Schumachers. Hell, she could get used to being best friends with them. 

She wouldn’t mind being best friends with them. 

And it seemed like Mick Schumacher was going to be stuck with her forever. They just didn’t know it yet. 

♡ moony’s reminder 🅶 (general): @hiraethrhapsody @avaleineandafryingpan

[ammg-old2]

In the last decade, cacti have exploded in popularity, becoming a mainstay of hipster decor around the world – from the homes of China’s growing middle class and the meticulous cactus gardens in Japan to the fashionable cafes of Europe.

In the US alone, sales of cacti and succulents surged 64% between 2012 and 2017; a market that is now estimated to be worth tens of millions. But rising demand has met a thorny problem: cacti are extremely slow-growing, with some species taking decades to grow from seed to full maturity. Hence, many opt for the shortcut: pulling them right out of the ground.

For land managers and scientists who work with cacti, the problem appears to be on the rise. While the precise scale is difficult to measure, and catching thieves red-handed in remote deserts is nearly impossible, major busts offer clues. In 2014, more than 2,600 stolen cacti were seized at US borders – up from 411 just a year before. But law enforcement officials and field scientists say that data represents only a tiny fraction of cactus actually being stolen.

“When I first started we rarely investigated cactus theft,” said one US Fish and Wildlife Service detective, who asked not to be named due to the undercover nature of his work. He has covered the south-west region for more than a decade and says the problem is increasing. “Now we are prosecuting cases involving thousands of plants at a time. The demand is so high that I fear we can’t stop the illegal trade going on.”

While many plants fall victim to underground cactus cartels, a seemingly more benign form of theft has become part of the problem, too. International visitors who come to the south-west specifically to view rare cactus in the wild sometimes take a souvenir home, and social media is exacerbating the problem.

“We’ve had Austrian, German and Italian collectors express strong interest on social media for these plants and they share GPS coordinates,” said Wendell “Woody” Minnich, the former president of the Cactus and Succulent Society of America. “Some of these people come to steal, especially when a new species is identified. They hide the plants in their suitcase and take them back to their greenhouse in Europe.”

Minnich, 71, has been a cactus grower and nursery operator in New Mexico for 50 years. He said the internet had significantly accelerated theft of rare, slow-growing cactus species over the last decade. A case in point: Sclerocactus havasupaiensis, which is native to one drainage at the bottom of the Grand Canyon, was being auctioned on eBay in early January by a seller in Ukraine. It was just one of more than 365 internationally protected plant species that are openly traded on Amazon and eBay.

“Do a Google search on Sclerocactus and you can find people in Russia selling them,” said Minnich. “I have been on public lands in Arizona, New Mexico and Colorado where years ago Sclerocactus were everywhere, and recently I found just a bunch of little holes in the ground.”

[mollymauk-teafleak]

oh the times that we believed

More of the fantastic @minky-for-short's human Huskerdust painter and muse au! A bit of plot motived hurt/comfort!

Please reblog and comment over on Ao3 if you enjoyed this!

cw: abuse, sex work, it's Angel Dust working for Valentino and all that implies in canon

-------------

Angel wondered when he’d start believing the things Husker told him. 

Some things he didn’t believe and wasn’t supposed to. Husk’s stories from his ragged upbringing on the Strip were clearly bright, shiny pearls formed around small grains of some truth, given to be admired and enjoyed, even if it was artificial. Husk would launch into tales of impossible, artful cons, victories snatched at the last moment thanks to a card up the sleeve, run-ins with the mob where Husk’s life hinged on a dice roll and a mad dash on stage to blend into a big band. 

When he told Angel these stories with obvious delight when the younger man laughed until he cried, gasped at just the right moments, hung on his every word, it was like sitting with a younger version of Husk. He’d see the great showman his lover could have been if he’d had quieter demons and more certain luck, the dreams he’d once had that still clung to him, a jacket he’d outgrown a long time ago. Angel couldn’t quite believe any of those stories but that wasn’t the point of a magic show, was it? 

It wasn’t those stories that Angel struggled to believe. It wasn’t anything big, really. All the languages Husker could speak, the achingly beautiful art he made, the places he’d been that Angel only knew as names in a book. All that he could swallow easily, he didn’t doubt that he’d found something special in Husk, a man made of dizzying highs and crashing lows and interesting stories, like an antique store in paint-stained shirtsleeves. 

The problem wasn’t the big things. It was the little things Husk said that Angel didn’t know how to believe, small handfuls of words he whispered gently or scattered like handfuls of seeds, almost unaware of the blooms they’d grow into inside Angel’s mind. 

 I remembered those were your favorite flowers. I just worried you might be cold. I wanted to let you sleep, I know how tired you are. We can take a break. I’ve got you. I’m here. I won’t leave. 

I love you. 

“We don’t have to do this if you don’t want to?”

Angel sighed internally and added it to the list, wishing Husk’s love was as easy to believe in as his lies. 

“What do you mean?” he murmured, the question he really wanted to ask but shrunk down small. 

“Well…” Husk’s gaze was knowing, though he didn’t mean that as an attack the way most people in Angel’s life did, he didn’t want to know so he could hurt, “You’ve been sitting in that robe for half an hour now, Legs?”

It was news to Angel, though he wasn’t surprised. Time had always been something slippery to him, running through his fingers like water when other people could grasp it and be sure of it. He’d been prone to black outs when he was a child, snatches of time he wouldn’t be able to recall afterwards, only bruises in the shape of his father’s fists and his sister’s fruitless tears to show him what had happened while he was gone. He’d started escaping into them as a young man, using chemicals to open the doors to oblivion, again relying on souvenirs to piece together the story afterwards when it was safe. When it could almost be something that happened to someone else. 

And now, brain still slick and foggy from the night before, he wasn’t surprised that he slipped away, not wanting to think about what was going to happen when he took off the robe, when Husk saw what was underneath. 

What did surprise him was Husk’s offer. 

“But I’m supposed to sit for you today,” Angel’s fingers toyed with the cheap fake fur that edges his robe, worn flat and matted from how long he’d clung to it as his comfort blanket, “Val ain’t paying you to paint me with my clothes on.”

“And if I gave a rat’s ass what Valentino thought, you wouldn’t spend more time in my bed than you do in front of my easel,” Husk pointed out with a wry smile, coming to sit beside him on the sagging old couch in the corner of the studio.

“I’m coming,” Angel insisted, though his voice was wearing so thin the lie showed through, “I’m just tired. Had a late night, that’s all.”

Angel didn’t know who he was kidding, trying to fool a man who’d grown up on the Strip speaking fluent bullshit, who could see the way his hands were trembling, the way he only pulled his robe tighter around him. But Husk didn’t seem angry or even irritated by the feeble attempt, just studying Angel with a careful, warm gaze. 

“There doesn’t need to be a reason,” his voice was gentle too, light, willing to play along and pretend this was just going to be a regular day, “If you don’t feel like it, you don’t feel like it.”

“You know what my job is, right?” Angel gave a bitter laugh, staring at his hands, trying to force them to relax and not look so desperate, “You know what my life is?”

“Baby,” that broke Husk’s voice a little, the sadness welling up in the cracks, “You ain’t at the club right now. You’re with me, you’re safe here.”

Another thing Angel didn’t know how to believe, another thing to toss into the chasm between what he wanted and what he could do.

“When are you gonna get sick of trying to convince me?” the words slipped out of Angel, past his better judgment, taking advantage of his bone deep exhaustion and clouded mind, “When are you gonna get tired of saying this shit to me and it not making a difference?”

There was a moment of quiet or at least as quiet as this part of the city got, down to just the riot of horns and curses from the street outside. Angel’s stomach went into a sickening freefall, leaving him burning with self hatred. He never could have anything good in his life without bending it to see when it would break, so he could cut his hands on the jagged edges and tell himself the pain had been inevitable, that he’d been right to expect the worst, that he didn’t have to change because the outcome would always be the same. 

“Can I touch you, baby? That okay?”

Angel jumped like a gun had gone off by his ear, the nod shaken out of him before he could think whether it was smart to be honest right now. 

Words were hollow at best and weapons at worst but something about the solid presence of Husk’s hand on his shoulder was more certain, something he could trust in. It hurt, of course it did, there was nowhere under his robe where it wouldn’t, but Angel kept it off his face. He knew it would hurt far worse if Husk took it away. 

“Short answer, Angel? Never,” each word came slowly, like he was checking it over to make sure it was right before putting it in place on the end of his tongue, “Do I wish things were different, yeah, of course I do. I wish you’d never been hurt the way you have, I wish the idea of me loving you and caring about you wasn’t new. But, fuck, I don’t blame you for that, how could I? It ain’t your fault.”

“It isn’t my fault that Valentino has a contract with my name on it?” Angel took a sharp, ragged breath, whipping around to face him, “I was a junkie long before I met him, Husk. My life was well and truly fucked before he decided to make a profit off it. I signed my body over to him and I meant it, how is that not my fault?”

“Because you trusted him back then,” Husk’s voice grew firm, roots digging deep and refusing to bend under Angel’s attempt to wrench it up, “And I know I’m asking you to do the same for me, telling you I won’t hurt you when that’s all anyone’s ever done. Believe me, the asking don’t come easy either. Before you walked into my studio, I was ready to just drink my way to hell and be done with it. Believing I deserve you, that I got any right to tell you I love you…it’s hard.”

For a wild moment, Angel wished he had two sets of arms, one for the part of himself that burned to shove Husk away, one for the part that ached to pull him close, “So why do it? Why try when it’s so hard it feels…impossible?”

“Because you’re worth it.”

Husk said it so plainly, without hesitation, like he was telling Angel the sky was blue, that water was wet. Like he just knew. 

Angel had never had any use for faith, his nonna and his sister had tried to convince him but when he looked at the stained glass, his eyes were always drawn to the snake coiled around the tree, the twisted shapes with horns and claws more than the pure, perfect saints with their palms upturned to the light. Even when he’d been too young to know himself, he had known that when the priest spoke about temptation and deviance and sin, he was talking about Angel. Those were the first words he learned to describe himself and that kind of shame never fully went away. 

But when Angel looked at Husk, he saw something in his eyes that could only be faith. Belief for its own sake, belief because it filled a space inside him, because it felt good when so many other things felt bad. 

“So I’ll never get tired of telling you I love you, baby,” Husk murmured, “I’ll never get tired of telling you you’re safe here. Whether you believe me or not, it’s true and it’ll always be true.”

“Husk…” tears blurred his vision but he still felt that gaze, anchoring him in place. 

He didn’t have the words to finish that sentence, he didn’t know what to call the emotions thrumming in his chest, scared that if he looked too closely they’d crack and fall away. Instead he shrugged out of the robe, letting it turn into a faux silk puddle around his hips, letting Husk see what he’d been hiding from him, why he hadn’t been able to imagine showing him before. 

Husk’s voice was strangled, like something was gripping his throat, something not outside but inside, “Angel. Fuck, what did he do to you…”

The bruises had looked bad that morning when he’d dragged himself upright, showering and dressing quickly so he didn’t have to see them, only feel them, but Angel knew they’d look worse now. Husk’s expression, the tremor in his voice, told him enough. 

“Apparently some big shot was in the club last night,” Angel’s voice was flat, distant, echoing oddly in his ears like it was someone else speaking, “Someone Valentino wanted to impress. I was headlining like usual but I fell, went down hard. No way to recover.” 

He lifted one shoulder, a more misshapen, more natural bruise throbbing like it knew he was talking about it. 

“Val was furious,” he closed his eyes against the memory of flashing eyes and bared teeth, smoke pouring out with every curse and cutting word like there was a fire inside his mouth, “I was in for a beating anyway but then…then I made it worse. I told him I’d slipped because my hands were shaking. I wasn’t gonna tell him why, I’d said too damn much already but…but he made me tell him.”

“Tell him what?” Husk prompted gently, not demanding, just giving him permission to say it. Just promising him he’d be heard. 

“That it was the shakes. That it was because I ain’t had a hit in…a week?”

It sounded such a small thing to say it out loud, a pathetic, scrambling first step up a mountain that stretched into the clouds. Seven days, seven hard, painful, blinding days, felt like nothing to boast about, a child holding up a shiny candy wrapper and calling it treasure. Sitting here, all Angel could think was how seven days wasn’t worth a beating, not when he was just going to fall off the wagon at any moment. 

But Husk’s voice was awed, a tone that would make Angel think of the colorful prayer candles and brightly painted wooden rosary beads in his nonna’s little closet, the place where she carefully tucked her faith and her home away, keeping it safe from their family’s darkness. 

“That’s incredible, baby,” he murmured, finding Angel’s hand and holding tight, “I mean, I’m sorry that asshole flew off the handle but, fuck, I’m proud of you.”

Angel gave a dry, bitter laugh but he held on just as tight, “Don’t get used to it, can’t promise it’s gonna last.”

“Don’t matter,” Husk’s voice was as firm as his grip, keeping Angel anchored, “I’m proud of you either way. For doing it and for telling me, for letting me see. I know what it costs you.”

The smile came easily, easier than it had any right to when he was sitting here wearing nothing but the streaks of tears and blooming bruises, “No more than you’re worth, Husk…sorry, I ain’t gonna make a pretty picture today.”

Husk paused a moment before a light flickered in his eyes, a light that took years off him, that turned him into the main character from those impossible bullshit stories. 

“Well…I’m sure as fuck not lifting a finger for Valentino today, except to give him a taste of his own medicine,” his eyes slid over to his cluttered workbench, deeply stained with turpentine and oil paints, old whiskey jugs and jam jars filled with water in half a hundred swirling colours, “But I still feel like painting. Work with me here, Legs…”

Angel watched in bemusement as Husk began loading the coffee table with half crushed tubes of paint, watercolor palettes that had wept half of their pigments away, his most delicate brushes. He navigated the chaos of his studio almost without thinking, always knowing what he needed and where to find it, even if he never put it down in the same place twice. 

“The hell are you doing, handsome?” Angel tilted his head, putting his arm out when Husk gestured, without even thinking because he just didn’t need to. 

“Trying something new,” Husk sat beside him, dipping a feather light brush into water, then pressing it to a square of dusty pink paint until the horsehair drank the color, until it looked like a flower bud, “Call it inspiration.”

“Like I’m your muse?” Angel flashed him a grin, knowing Husk thought his gold tooth was hot.

“Like you’re the love of my life,” Husk gently touched the tip of the brush to his skin, “Let me know if it hurts…”

It didn’t, the brush was as delicate and gentle as Husk’s own fingers, like it really was an extension of him. A few strokes and that bud bloomed into an orchid on Angel’s skin, with a burn scar in the center. Suddenly it wasn’t where Valentino had pressed the smoldering end of his cigarette to wrench the confession out of him, it was something beautiful. 

“It won’t last forever,” Husk murmured, eyes holding Angel’s, “But neither will the hurt. Either way you’re beautiful and either way, I love you.” 

“I love you too,” Angel’s voice trembled along with his hands, making the orchid dance as if in some breeze, “Can you do more of them?”

Husk raised his knuckles to his lips, “Fields of flowers. A galaxy’s worth of stars. Moons and suns and whatever the hell else you want, baby. I can’t give you much but I can paint you the universe.”

“I’ll take whatever you’ve got,” Angel laid his head against Husk’s shoulder. 

He said it wasn't much but to Angel, it felt like everything.

Every scar, every bite, every bruise was given something beautiful. Some got flowers until Angel was wearing a necklace of them, some became clouds in a sky that began as daylight at his fingertips and ended at night by his shoulder, with every color in between. Dragons curled around some, guarding them fiercely, planets orbited around others and made them the core of distant solar systems. 

Husk painted almost without thinking, like he was letting whatever he felt for Angel spill out through his brush, giving him a hundred other stories than the ones the bruises told. He made him a fae prince with garters of wisteria on his thighs and serpents curled around his wrists, a young god with the world in his palm, a literal angel with a folded pair of gorgeous wings on his back. He was right, they wouldn’t last, but Angel knew he’d always remember. Nothing was going to take this from him. 

And while he painted, almost as great a gift as the escapes he was offering, Husk listened. He seemed to know which scars to ask about and which to let lie, which ones to frame and which ones to cover. Angel told him about the jagged slash on his back, the bullet that had whizzed overhead while he crouched behind a bar in France, after the drag show he’d been performing in went to shit when an enemy soldier felt the knife strapped to his thigh. He told Husk about the pinhole scar on his ear from his very first, very stupid attempt to pierce them, the one that had ended with his sister bending him over the sink and holding her favorite scarf to his ear until the bleeding stopped. He showed him the bump in his nose, where he’d fallen on his face, smack bang into the sidewalk, right off his very first pair of high heels. 

Husk might have been a showman once upon a time but he’d clearly spent a lot of time in audiences too. His laugh was a smoky wheeze, like an accordion with a hole in the bellows, and he used it at just the right moments. He asked the right questions, he groaned and gasped and chortled and made Angel feel as though he was standing on a stage, bringing the house down. And all while he wasn’t wearing a stitch of clothing, with Husk crawling all over him to paint his chest, his back, down to his ass and between his thighs. It tasted like relief, to be naked but not offered up, to be exposed but not sexualised, touched but not grabbed. He loved when Husk fucked him, of course he did, but it was nice to know it didn’t have to be an inevitability, something to make him feel more powerful rather than powerless. 

Angel didn’t think there was an end to his scars but, by the time the sky outside was bleeding orange, he was standing in front of Husk’s dusty mirror, a completed work of art. Every mark on his skin, from his childhood to last night, was decorated and adorned and loved. He would cry but he didn’t want his tears to ruin the sets of bright, golden eyes Husk had painted on his cheeks. 

Instead he choked out, “Thank you…fuck, Husk, thank you so much…”

Husk wiped smudges in half a hundred colors off his hands, eyes warm and admiring, “Should be me thanking you, baby. You let me help.”

“Now that I don’t believe,” Angel reached out and snagged his collar, pulling him into the frame of the mirror so he could look at himself and Husk at the same time. 

“Listen…there was something else I wanted to give you, not that you need to take it,” Husk’s voice softened, eyes ducking and an honest to God blush darkening his cheeks, “You tell me if I’m being an old fool here…”

Angel paused, watching his lover’s expression in the mirror, struck with the sudden sense that the ground was about to shift beneath his feet. 

“Ever since you introduced me to your friend, Charlie?” Husk cleared his throat, suddenly sounding like he was reading from a prepared speech, “She commissioned me for a couple paintings of her girl, the mean eyed one.”

“Vaggie?” Angel chuckled, “Yeah, she said she was going to. She’s a generous girl, huh? A toff but she’s nice about it.”

“Real fucking generous. I ain’t had pricetags like that since before I blew it all,” Husk admitted with a small, almost disbelieving laugh, “But…it got me thinking. Between what I’m getting from that asshole Valentino and your friend…well, your contract with the club has to have a price attached, right?”

Angel’s heart sank with the bitter, shameful taste of a dream he’d been a fool to believe in, “Yeah. It was a fortune when I first signed it and it’s only gotten bigger every year. Val finds any excuse to add to it, room and board, make up, costumes, the fucking drugs. When I was younger, I thought maybe one day…but it’s impossible.”

“Not for me.” 

The reflection wasn’t enough anymore, Angel turned and looked at Husk, jaw slack, eyes wide, “What?”

“I could give you the money to buy your contract out from under that creep,” Husk’s voice steeled, a fierce determination bolstering it, “Then you wouldn’t have to live with him, you wouldn’t have to work at his whorehouse calling itself a nightclub. You’d be able to get clean, you could find a new job or, hell, you could still strip but it would be on your terms. And he wouldn’t be able to say shit. And…you could leave the city. Get away from all this.”

Husk’s voice stumbled at the end, the words clearly paining him but he said them anyway, not flinching from Angel’s gaze. 

It was a fantasy, an impossibility, like the things he’d painted on Angel’s skin. And in spite of himself and the life he’d lived, in spite of every second that had come before this one, all Angel could do was ask for more. 

“Or?” he prompted, his voice a whisper like it was scared to be heard. 

Dawn broke in Husk’s smile, “Or…I buy the apartment above my tiny, shitty studio. It’s also tiny and shitty but it’s got enough room for two people. You move in, I succeed in pulling my career out of the gutter and give you the chance to build a life you actually like. I make you coffee and flapjacks every morning, you make me your nonna’s recipes, we go out dancing, I drag you to art museums, you make me go to the ball game. And…and I guess we live happily ever after?”

“I guess,” Angel smiled, feeling his heart crack open, all the hope he’d been so scared of rushing in, “I want that, Husk. God, that’s all I want.”

“Then let’s go get it, baby,” Husk drew him close, his embrace smudging the paint but it didn’t matter, this dream meant more. 

Maybe it was just a daydream. Maybe it was one of those stories too fantastical to really believe, the work of a Vegas showman, a beautiful con, the throw of a dice. Maybe it was another escape into oblivion, an idea that would melt away like a high. Maybe it would fade into a scar or blur like paint under a thumb. 

But Angel didn’t care. If it did fall apart, the way everything had before, he’d still say this feeling had been worth it. 

Angel realized now, he didn’t have to wait until he started believing the things Husk told him. He had to choose to believe in them. 

That's what made it faith.