#posting this now instead of throwing it into the queue

[probablygayattorneys]

I have a legion of questions

Why is Lani bringing Layton art to the Sonic the Hedgehog event

Flora and Emmy are key art so why do the Lukes look like fanart

Why is Future Luke even here, she didn’t voice him, Yuri Lowenthal did

Why wasn’t this available on her Streamily while it was open

And most importantly, how am I going to get to San Diego with barely a month’s notice

[carsfandomconfessions]

i feel like im missing out on a huge part of jackson storms lore bc i cant read his official comic online nor have i ever found a pdf reading on it dude

this is the best i got for you, anon. hope its satisfactory for your jackson storm lore needs. i'd say this is better than the comic book adaptations since it includes some more details on jackson's character.

[deerboybreeder]

You should find some dresses in your size to out on a wishlist and see if internet perverts (me) would buy them 🤭

I actually do have some up on my Throne account! I usually put clothing and accessories under the "appreciation" list- the link is at the bottom of my pinned! Y'know, if any internet perverts wanted to buy me dresses, or anything else. ❤��

[leeechin]

jealous sex with jungwon 🙏🏼

monopolizing ( yang jungwon ) 18+

✧ pairing: bf!jungwon x fem!reader ⌗ warnings: unprotected sex (don't do that), rough sex. spanking, slight degradation, size kink i mean look at his broad shoulders pls, jungwon's kinda mean in this 😕 but you love it, thighriding, he takes one video (consented), reader gets fucked dumb (?), mention of heeseung lol.

a/n: kind of short but i changed the req up with a little plot so i hope this meets ur expectations anon <3 reqs r open for short drabbles and fics don't be shy !! 🫶

word count: ( 1.9k )

⊹ enha m.list | post queue | navigation

jungwon's really good at doing his part as a loving and attentive boyfriend that goes by your demands. but it's different when it's in bed.. and you guys are aware the members have heard you guys before. they just love to tease the fuck out of jungwon.

he's watching you on the other side of the room, sitting on the floor playing a card game with heeseung, laughing at whatever he was saying, as if it was the funniest thing in the world. jungwon blinks at your pretty face bursting into laughter. he can't help but wish you gave him attention instead, i mean he could also play a card game with you :(

"yo jungwon! you haven't look away from y/n once since she started playing card games with heeseung!" jake points out, clearly seeing jealously seep out of jungwon's face. jungwon clenches his teeth watching you playfully swat heeseung's shoulder after you lose a card game. the no response from jungwon shows it all. "don't tell me he's jealous—!" sunghoon jokes, eyes staring the same direction jungwon's are.

"w-what?! no i'm not—!" jungwon sputters in response, "you're so bad at lying." jay tsks as he passes by the kitchen, grabbing a plate and leaving. jungwon tries distracting himself from continuing to look at you and heeseung, opening random kitchen cabinet doors until he hears your cheerful voice.

"hi wonnie." you mumble, arms wrapping from behind him and nuzzling your face against his neck. jungwon feels his cheeks heat up at your affection infront of all of his fellow bandmates.

"hi baby." he responds turning around and placing a quick peck on your lips, hands placed on both side of your hips.

"look at wonnie all shy and everything!" jake mocks, causing you to let out a scoff and throw a middle finger at him while still embraced in jungwon's arms. "get a room you freaks!" sunghoon adds on, a look of disgust plastered on his face jokingly.

you smirk, moving your hands to grabbing at jungwon's biceps. once again so grateful that the boys have been dragging him out to the gym. "oh we definitely will, trust. matter of fact, right now—!" you exclaim, dragging jungwon's taller frame behind you as you find the door to his room. everybody else in the house making sure to turn up the volume of the tv and blast music.

"is this because she was playing apples to apples with me was it—?" heeseung asks, frowning at the pile of cards with the unfinished game the two of you were playing. "no shit sherlock."

closing the door behind you, a mischievous smile glints on your face, hands roaming around jungwon's chest. "jealousy is such a sexy look on your face." your lips quirking into a smile, staring at your boyfriend as you await a response. jungwon let’s out a low growl, realizing that you made him jealous on purpose. bending you over the dresser by his door, a loud smack! landed on your clothed ass. you already feel wetness seeping out of your cunt at the contact, squealing and pushing back.

"such a naughty girl. you enjoy doing this to me huh?" both hands pulling down your shorts, hissing at the sight of your pink lacy thong. pulling the elastic away and letting it slap against your skin causing you to yelp at the contact. "mmh please won'—! i’ve been bad, i'm sorry!"

"don't think you can get away with this so easily baby. you think heeseung can fuck you the way i do?" he responds with his hands roaming all over your body, slowly removing every article of clothing left on you except for your cute pink panties.

jungwon had no remorse in teasing you, finding it amusing at how quick you can turn into putty with him barely doing anything to you.

your now naked body trembling at jungwon's teasing touches, eager to feel more. "what happens to good girls when they decide they want to be bad huh?" he chuckled at the wetness pooling down your inner thighs with your body still bent over the dresser. "they get punished." you whine, attempting to free yourself from jungwon's tight pinning. he lets out a sound of approval, loosening his grip on your hips, ridding himself off of all his clothes but leaving his boxers on. moving to sit himself against the headboard and patting on his his thighs. "ride my thigh."

scrambling to crawl on the bed. you look up to see your boyfriend immersed at your eagerness. all you could do at that moment was stare dumbly at jungwon. "i— don't know if i can do it wonnie." you frown, your gaze pleading for jungwon to manhandle you and fuck you senseless. "you wanted to play games with me infront of everybody, don't be so shy now pretty."

your thighs on both sides of his, in nothing but your pink lacy panties. you're admiring the sight infront you, a very evident bulge in jungwon's boxers. crossing both of his arms behind his head. "what's the hold up now baby?" he teases, seeing how your hands were on both sides of your panties to pull it down. pulling your laced panties down just enough, jungwon groaned at the sight seeing it stick to your needy cunt, a string of arousal following the removal. "won' please, i need you in me so bad."

"i'll give you what you want after you ride my thigh hm?" jungwon negotiates, fighting the urge to just pull his boxers down and make you bounce on his dick until you forgot your own name. your head nods rapidly, pulling your panties down to your ankles and kicking it off to somewhere in the room. quickly placing yourself between one of jungwon's muscled thighs. seating your heat against it, rubbing slowly, the immediate friction on your clit making you let out a silent scream.

finding your own pace as you ride jungwon's thigh, feeling the ridge of his muscles as you dragged your needy cunt against it, your small whimpers and moans filling the room, becoming music to jungwon's ears. a satisfied smile wreathed his lips when he sees your eyes on him as you fell apart on his thigh, as he's flexing it occasionally to add on more intensity to your clit.

you could feel your orgasm approaching as your hole clenched around nothing. hands pawing at your boyfriend's shoulders. "wonnie please i need to cum! i'm sorry i teased you—please—!" amusement painted all over jungwon's face seeing how you were so submissive and crumbling at him doing nothing but having you ride his thigh.

"show me pretty girl. cum all over my thigh." the wetness of your arousal coating your boyfriend's thighs, granting your request. your hands tighten the grip on jungwon's shoulders, eyes rolling to the back of your head as the knot loosens in your stomach. jungwon's hands move to hold your hips, helping you slow down your movements.

"shit, you are so fucking sexy baby." and he's almost in pain at how long his boner has been held up in his boxers. you now being on your back, tears forming at the corner of your eyes as jungwon grinds his clothed bulge over your exposed needy cunt. you to sit up, attempting reaching your hand to your boyfriend's boxers, failing miserably as jungwon holds both your thighs back, nearly folding you in half, the sight of your glistening heat practically inviting him in.

moving to push your thighs back with one of his hands, jungwon reaches to the nightstand beside his bed, grabbing his phone that was on top of it, opening the camera app before placing it near him on the mattress. "fuck baby, please. i need to record your pretty face taking my cock." he groans, seeing the mess of the wetness that surrounded your cunt.

"yes jungwon! please wanna feel you stretch me out—!" you whine, your own hands replacing jungwon's hand that was pushing your thighs back, exposing yourself bare beneath him. "fuckkkkk." jungwon hisses as he frees himself from his tight boxers, stroking himself slowly and finding eye contact with you. your big doe eyes begging for jungwon to fill you up. he obliges, pushing his thick mushroom tip in, causing you to let out a loud gasp, then bottoming out.

your hands hold your thighs tightly as jungwon stays still for a bit, allowing you to adjust to his size. "m' so full wonnie." you sigh, bucking your hips up with small movements indicating that it was okay for him to move. jungwon pulls out until only his tip is inside you and plunges into you deeply, making you feel every ridge and vein. you let out a string of moans in response, your warm velvety walls pulling jungwon in and tightening around his length. grunting in response as he scrambles to grab his phone. "keep your legs like that, show the camera how well you take my cock in that tight pussy."

you let a moan of jungwon's name when you see the flash of the camera on, the hand that wasn't recording to grab at one your tits. "so big jungwon—!" your words slur as he sets a relentless pace, the camera capturing the sight of his dick disappearing deep into your cunt, the wet sounds and squelches filling the room. your hands find purchase in holding jungwon's big shoulders, admiring the way the muscles on his arms flexed along with the thrusts he gave you.

"thaaat's it, show the camera who make you feel good." giving you a few more harsh strokes before stopping the video and tossing his phone to the side. jungwon curses at the sight of how easily your cunt sucks in his thick length. "so fucking tight baby, shit—! your pussy feels so good!" jungwon groaning as he feels your walls flutter around him. "so so good jungwon! more more more!" you babble, pleasure stinging in every part of your body. and jungwon was pretty much already giving you every you could'vr asked for in bed.

"you close baby?" jungwon asks, speeding his pace to an even more impossible level, hands moving your thighs over his shoulder, the angle making him hit even deeper, a small bulge displaying thru your stomach, making you press against the bulge. "i am—! please fill me wonnie. wanna be full of your cum mmh—!"

"shit cum around me like the good girl you are." jungwon didn't need to even ask twice as you throw your head back against the soft pillows on his bed, walls spasming around his cock as you let loose on your climax, jungwon following quickly after, making sure to milk every drop of his cum into you.

"i probably can't walk properly after this!" you exclaimed as jungwon came back into the room from the bathroom with a warm towel, wiping your now sensitive, spent heat. he laughs in response, "you were so fucking hot in the video, jesus." looking over the video that was recorded on his phone briefly.

"glad i could be of service." you sarcastically salute, eyes half lidded once cleaned up and with one of jungwon's t-shirts over your body. "sorry went a little too hard baby." jungwon kissing the exposed part of your shoulder blade, making you forget about the unfinished card game with heeseung outside, keeping you all to himself. ୨ ୧

[arahdow]

IT WAS A LOVE BITE !

Pairing. Shadow x reader

Content. fem reader. suggestive notes, shadow is unhinged, mentions of his gun (bcs of his work), blood, dub con(?). MDNI.

Word count. 0.7 k

A/N. THIS IS A THIRST POST YALL SJJDJSJS i squeezed the words out of my brain, it wasn’t supposed to turn THIS horny but i caught myself on my steamy spotify playlist and well 😗 enjoy!!

The gun sometimes had too much weight on his hand. Always killing here and there: bad people and, when his luck runs out, good people that got into the crossfire. It didn’t matter how good or bad the day went, he always went back home tired. His back ached and his head throbbed. Holding back a grunt, the man opened the door, holding the gun tightly with his right hand.

“Welcome ba-” His partner greeted, stopping abruptly at the image of him, panting, holding his gun. “Shadow?” 

The man didn’t reply. His head was spinning, he needed something… Someone to land his thoughts on. Throwing the gun at the sofa and kicking the door shut, the black hedgehog walked hastingly to the girl. Quickly grabbing her face with his gloved hands, he kissed her, roughly.

Her hands, which were holding a wet towel, let the cloth fall to the floor as she grabbed the man’s hands on her cheeks. She whined into the kiss, trying to pull apart from him. It’s not that she didn’t like his kisses or affection, but this was too harsh for her. 

His lips were additive, so she had a hard time pulling apart. She tried softly at first, throwing little ‘mhm’s’ at him, soon running out of air. Shadow had his eyes closed, then he pulled apart abruptly. And she thought he’d stop.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he pulled her again and kissed her deeply again, moving his mouth against hers, savoring her taste, counting every single one of her fangs with his tongue, his teeth nibbling at her lips.

The girl gave in and reciprocated the kiss. If he wanted crazy, he’d have crazy. Pressing her chest onto him, the girl put her arms around his shoulders, one of her hands threading his quills softly, then tugging at them harshly making the man gasp on her lips. For a moment she was confused, he never acted this way, he always was more of a dominant partner, usually mad when she pulled movements like these, but it seemed that today he was more riled up than she thought.

Pushing at his chest, he easily gave in, letting her push him enough so now he was sitting on the couch, the girl straddling him. She didn’t know if she should ask about his demeanor, before it got too bad. 

“Shad- Mhm… Wait- ah, Sha-” The man grunted at her trying to pull apart. Holding the back of her head, he pulled her in, his lips busying themselves on her. Their breaths mingled as he sat on the couch. He opened his legs a little, the girl’s crotch in direct contact with his. Shadow opened his eyes for a bit, pulling apart as she took it as a queue to catch her breath.

“Chaos, you’re so beautiful.” He whispered as his lips connected onto hers again. The girl, with the strength of a breath, took Shadow’s wrists and tried to pin him down to control a bit of the situation. But it backfired as the red in his eyes lit. With a growl, the man used his strength to, in a second, have her back hitting the couch. His legs in between hers, forcing her to raise them. She felt at his full mercy. Then, she suddenly felt something pointy: his fangs. The way he was kissing her so hard, like he was trying to merge both their bodies made her easy to figure out he was almost trying to eat her whole. His teeth got so close, that it tore the skin on her lips making her yank her head to the side in a painful reaction. 

“What? Shadow- what?!” She asked, pressing a hand to his face pushing him back with enough strength to actually get him off of her. The man complied and sat on his knees as the girl wiped her lip with her thumb, noticing a bit of blood dripping from her skin. “You bit me!”

“It’s a love bite!” He justified himself, his voice hoarse, cheeks red from suddenly breaking the atmosphere.The image of his lover with a bloody lip because of him turned him on somehow. Feeling the needy growl itch at his throat, he coughed a bit to get rid of it.

“That’s not a love bite dumbass!” She groaned, a bit in pain.

“Sorry love, I-” He started speaking, but the girl quickly shushed him, her lips pressing onto him, the metallic flavor invading his tongue. Her body pushing him, now her on top of him. 

“No talking, you’re going to pay for this.”

Shadow’s confused expression soon turned into a smirk, amused. “Yes ma’am”

[raitonsfw]

𝚜𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗 𝚌𝚑𝚘𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚜 | 𝚎𝚍𝚘𝚐𝚊𝚠𝚊 𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚙𝚘 ꨄ

𝓈𝓎𝓃𝑜𝓅𝓈𝒾𝓈: Ranpo wasn’t supposed to raid the ADA’s lockers for snacks, but he does anyway. When he opens your locker and spots an enclosed box of Valentine's Day chocolate, he immediately snatched it. Of course, why would he bother to read the ingredients? Cocoa butter, milk, sugar, an aphrodisiac supplement... What could go wrong? Obviously everything; you didn’t know Ranpo was such a whiny bitch when he was horny.

warnings: 18+ mdni, smut, fem!reader, horny!ranpo, slight switch!ranpo (subby then dom), accidental aphrodisiac/drug usage, banter, begging, whining & whimpering, humiliation (ranpo has to ask reader to help him), masturbation, blowjob, ranpo’s a fucking head pusher, teasing, fingering (if you squint), implied sexual intercourse, pet names (good girl), he’s like a dog in heat frfr (or rut, whatever floats your boat), ranpo’s a bit manipulative at the very end, reader works at the ADA, reader has a crush on ranpo & kinda simps for him silently, dazai mention (typical suicide mention & he’s the idiot that started this shit lol)

a/n: hello helloo, my queue posted early but imma keep it up anyways. my lil valentine’s day event starts now (albeit early), with ranpo edogawa leading it with some sexy v-day drug consumption! my first valentine to you until thursday, feb 1st! 💌 wc: 3k. v-day m.list | m.list

divider credit: @hitobaby & @firefly-graphics

“Ranpo, what are you eating?” This was a common phrase that the Armed Detective Agency yelled, much like when you yell at a puppy when they have something in their mouth that they’re not supposed to have. Ranpo’s cheeks poked out slightly as he turned towards you, his head tilting in confusion. He was sitting on top of one of the desks, lounging about like normal but with something noticeably different in his hands; instead of the usual candy he munched on, it was a tiny red hearted box of… chocolate?

You had already started walking towards him with a bit of a rush calculated into your step, eyeing the familiar box of chocolates that were abandoned now on his lap as he leaned back. He popped another piece of chocolate into his mouth as you recognized the wretched package. He had stolen your aphrodisiac chocolate Dazai had jokingly gifted you for Valentine’s Day. “Ranpo!”

“What? You shouldn’t leave chocolate lying around when I’m here.” He said in a matter of factly tone, reaching for another one. You grabbed his wrist quickly to prevent him from eating another, throwing the near empty box in the trash. “What’d you do that for?!”

“Ranpo, those weren’t yours! And they weren’t lying around, they were in my locker!” You pulled him off of the desk by his hand and he stumbled into you slightly as he gained his footing on the floor. “You didn’t even look at the ingredients.”

“You didn’t have to trash ‘em!” He pouted at you, looking back at the trash can with an overexaggerated whine. “Why would I have to look at the ingredients? It’s chocolate.” 

“Because– they were drugged.” You barged into the restroom with him, making sure it was unoccupied. You left him in the middle to wander and he immediately took a seat on the long counter adorned with sinks. The lengthy mirror stared towards the back of him and you could see out of the corner of your eye that he was swinging his feet as you locked the door. 

“Drugged? Drugged with what?” Ranpo asked, a bit too calm. It’s like this has happened and he’s not very surprised. You’ll ask about that later, right now your main priority was getting him water and a nice place to sweat it out for the next few hours– or day considering he ate almost the entire box.

“Aphrodisiacs.” 

“Isn’t that the drug that like… stimulates you?” Ranpo interrupted your thoughts, stretching his arms out with a yawn. How was this man tired in such a constrained situation? “I don’t feel anything.” 

Maybe you should go back and read the amount that’s housed in each chocolate, you could figure out the percentage exactly and then you'd be able to gauge just how much time he would need alone. If you could get him out of the door towards his dorm, of course; that was another issue as you don’t know how fast he consumed the hearts.

“Oh trust me, you will.” You huffed out, mentally checking off everything you needed to do in order to get him out of the office. You needed to collect your paperwork so you could do it while making sure Ranpo didn’t keel over from the dosage and acquire a water bottle in case it's too late to get him to the dorms. “I’m going to get you water, stay right here okay?” 

“Sure, bring me some more snacks while you’re at it.” He leaned back against the mirror with his hands tucked behind his head, crossing his leg over the other with a sly wink at you; perhaps the only time you’d see his green eyes bright before they darkened like a storm. “Don’t keep me waiting long.” 

Fucking idiot.

As you scampered about trying to find a water bottle for Ranpo, you gathered up your belongings and wrapped your head around the situation. You were going to thoroughly kill Dazai if he hasn’t done so already himself, the thought of poisoning your coworker with a shit ton of sexual stimulants weighing heavily on your mind. You knew Ranpo most likely wouldn’t care who you got it from or why you even had it, he would probably brush it off as some weird shit you’re into. Realization suddenly hit you like a million bricks; you didn’t know him sexually, so you had no idea how exactly the aphrodisiacs would affect him.

You were close with Ranpo, but not on this level. 

You also had a slight crush on him ever since you started working with him; he had bothered you for treats on the very first day as you sat down in your office chair. You haven’t even had the chance to set up your desk, trinkets filling the box in your arms as he wheeled over in his chair to you. You liked his personality and gave him a small piece of candy you had stashed in your pocket, which was the worst mistake of your life because now he toyed with you every chance he got; whether you had snacks, candy, or a sweet drink in your hand, it was a ‘can i have some?’ 

“Ranpo?” You knocked on the bathroom door as you returned from the depths of the office, relieved to hear quiet shuffling about the tiny room.

Your relief turned to dread though when you heard his voice answer you back in a tiny whimper. “D-Don’t come in.” 

Oh, you were too late…

“I have water for you.” You said through the door, trying to bask around the uncomfortable situation that’s handed itself to you. Of course it would hit him while you were trying to find things that could help him get through it; why couldn’t the drug have waited a few more minutes?

Ranpo didn’t answer and your mind wandered, what if that dosage was lethal? Dazai would have yet another crime on his fruitful list that he so explicitly told you about, but now you’re an accomplice because the twisted chocolates were in your fucking locker. You tried to open the door, but he had locked it behind you when you had left. You could hear faint breathing on the other side, but it was too hard to make out if he was saying anything. 

“Y/N…” Ranpo managed to speak up after a few moments, quiet desperation overtaking his voice. “Why’d you have that type of chocolate in your locker anyway?” 

Oh, so he does care. It must be serious then. You hung your head against the door, a quiet sigh escaping your lips as you contemplated whether to tell him why or not. 

“Here, let me in. I can help.” You offered, gathering up the things in your hands a bit more neatly as you tried to get him to open the door. You didn’t have a choice but to stay there with him and your paperwork was sitting stale in your hands, the time ticking away and your deadlines getting closer.

“Help with what? I-I got it under control.” Ranpo stammered at the idea and you realize it sounded like you meant something else.

“Not that. I have snacks, you idiot.” 

He opened the door a few seconds after, his cape had been pulled around him towards the front of his lap and he briskly walked back to where he was sitting on the sink’s counter. You could already see the hardened bulge of his cock within the mess of the fabric that covered it and his face had become increasingly red with a blush you’ve never seen on him before. His legs were pried open on the counter and he looked so so desperate, even as he tried not to show it, he failed miserably through the small pants that huffed out of him through every syllable he managed out.

You set the snacks near him on the counter, taking in the sight of his flushed skin peeking out from underneath his clothing. He glanced towards you and your eyes immediately met the mirror in front of you, a blush creeping up on your own face. “Do you want me to stay here with you?” 

“C-Can you sit outside the door and make sure no one comes in?” Ranpo stuttered, looking away from you as he squirmed against the counter. You felt the sudden rush of heat between your legs and you tried not to stumble in front of him as you walked back towards the door. God, what a dream it would be for him to ask for your help but you knew he didn’t like you like that; he would’ve shown interest by now or have been begging on his knees for you to touch him. What a sight that would’ve been…

As you sat amongst the door in the middle of the hallway, you didn’t hear him eating his snacks which was dreadfully odd. He didn’t talk to you through the door either, the man was quiet for once; not a word spoken since you left the bathroom. It must’ve hit him really hard and all you could think about is what if he actually touched himself? What if he was pumping his cock to the thought of who knows who right now, behind the thin door that separated you too? 

You so wished you could hear the potent whimpers that slipped from his mouth as he sucked his tie between his teeth, careful to not let you hear the wretched sounds. The way that his chest would rise with heavy breaths as he went ahead and pleasured himself to get rid of the ache, the strain of his cock from those damned aphrodisiacs he was so unfortunate enough to eat. You could barely sit straight, the door awfully cold against your back as the heat emanated from you, pleading for you to touch yourself with him.

You heard one of the stall doors in the bathroom slam shut or maybe open, you didn’t know but it spooked you out of the dirty thoughts that crossed your mind. Of course you would stray off track as you sat there, thinking about your coworker– your fucking coworker. Christ, get a grip.

“Please, please, please help me Y/N.” Ranpo called out and your heart skipped a beat, taking back everything you just preached to yourself. “I can’t take it anymore, I don’t know what to do.” 

“Help you? You must be out of your mind.” You mocked back, but in reality all you’ve been thinking about was that mental image engraved in your head; he must be dripping precum by now and you couldn’t help but squeeze your thighs together to keep your slick from pooling into the middle of your panties.

“Come here, please Y/N...” He whined out, a quiet moan bouncing off the walls of the bathroom and you’ve never moved so fast in your life. It felt like you yourself had eaten one of the aphrodisiacs, how fucking needy you were for him now just because he asked for you, no– whined for you.

You opened the door, your eyes meeting the empty spot of where he was previously sitting. Then you noticed the last stall’s door open and you rounded the corner to peek inside. When you did so, you did not expect to see Ranpo fisting his cock over, his back leaning against the wall of the stall with his knees nearly buckling underneath him. 

“This is so fucking embarrassing…” Ranpo muttered out as he noticed your presence, but his hand didn’t stop pumping his cock and he let out a quiet whimper. “Y/N, help me? Shit, please–”

“Are you su–” You started to say but you were cut off by some more of his obnoxious rambling, albeit it was slightly hot as his voice knocked up a higher pitch with desperation seeping through.

“Yes, please– fuck, I just need someone to–” Ranpo gasped out, his head nearly slamming back against the wall as he bucked up into his hand. White spurts of cum painted the floor as he came (probably again), his face screwed up in pleasure with a lengthy moan. “Ah–! I need you.”

He needed you… What did you do to deserve this? Not that you were complaining, everything went according to fate in your eyes as you realized he entrusted you to take care of him during this uncomfortable situation. 

“I’m not going to get on my knees inside this tiny stall, go sit back on the counter.” You said in an even tone, trying your best to not lose your cool. You followed behind him as he hopped onto the sink, his cock still leaking with more precum as it stood proudly against the pudge of his clothed tummy.

On top of admiring that, you finally noticed his outfit; or the lack of it anyway. Ranpo’s black vest was nowhere to be seen, his light tie had come undone, and the top buttons of his white collared shirt were ripped from their threads, some hanging off loosely. He looked absolutely mangled, sweat gleaming on every inch of his skin and you knew you’d both probably never talk about this again– best to enjoy it for the time being.

“Shouldn’t have eaten those chocolates, huh?” You tutted, pushing his legs open a bit more so you fit snugly in between them. You crouched down with your knees closed, eye level with his cock and you nearly choked when you saw it twitch.

“S-Shut up and help me.” Ranpo whined out and you silently grabbed at his cock, running your hand up it. He openly groaned at the sensation, thrusting up into your hand with defeated relief. His head had tipped back, his hat nearly slipping off and you took the courtesy to reach up and place it on the counter. 

“Want me to suck it?” You looked at him through your eyelashes, teasing him lightly as your breath fanned over his cock. “Or you wanna fuck me?” 

“Both… God, please Y/N, put your mouth on it already…” One of Ranpo’s hands threaded into your hair and pushed you towards his cock and you immediately shut up, taking him into the warmth of your mouth. He was bitter and slick against your tongue, the precum dissolving against it as you lapped at it. A heady moan escaped him as you swallowed him down, his thighs trembling underneath your palm and you felt his fingers grip your hair. 

“Feels so good, shit, please keep going–” Ranpo groaned, his eyes slinking down to where your mouth hollowed out around him and he couldn’t help but push you down a bit and you gagged around him– he was thick and it was hard to breathe as he started to thrust up shallowly into your wet mouth. You braced yourself on both of his thighs now, letting him fuck up into your mouth and with watery eyes, you glanced up at him again. 

Ranpo’s entire body was on fire as you complied to his thrusts, your throat slack for his cock and he couldn’t help it– as he saw one of your hands start to unbutton the top of your dress pants and disappear into the lace of your panties, his hips jutted still and he came instantly into your mouth without a warning. 

“Fuck, atta girl…” He drew out in a long moan as he watched you swallow everything he had to give, pleasure shooting through him and his vision went a little hazy as you pulled off of him with a wet slurp. Ranpo’s eyes were still glassy with lust when he opened them, the aphrodisiac wearing down slightly but not by much. As he caught his breath, he wiped the excess that dribbled out of your mouth when you swallowed, his fingers caressing the side of your cheek. “Should’ve asked for your help sooner…”

“You came so fast…” Your voice was raw and you coughed a bit afterwards, a quiet chuckle answering you.

“Thanks to the sexy chocolate you had on hand.” Ranpo mentioned with a smirk and you pressed down on his thighs as you stood up, your legs nearly giving out from the position you were in. You fell against him, his hands coming to catch you by your waist and you realized you were close to his face now. He looked considerably better, he wasn’t nearly panting as hard now but there was still a prominent flush to his cheeks. 

“Which you shouldn’t of fucking eaten in the first place.” You retorted, pouting at him with puffed out cheeks and he laughed, his hands dragging down to the plump of your ass. You let out a surprised sound as he squeezed gently, looking you dead in the eyes still.

“Oh, boo hoo. Look where it got you.” He teased, his fingers hooking through the loops of your dress pants. “Aren’t you happy you finally got your hands on me?” 

Ranpo pulled them down in one swift motion and you blushed profusely, looking away from him quickly as his fingers swiped through the mess of your cunt. He grabbed you curtly by your chin, making you look at him again and you shook with pleasure as one of his fingers curled up into you. You moaned around your words as they spilled out of your mouth in a rushed tone. “W-What are you talking about? Ranpo…” 

“It doesn’t take my deduction skills to know you like me~ Now, why don’t you ride me like a good girl? You’d like that, huh?” He breathed out against your lips as he pressed them against yours, slipping his tongue inside swiftly whilst adding another finger to the swell of your cunt and earning a wanton moan from you.

Ranpo’s other hand made you grip his cock again, which was still rock hard against the soft cotton of his shirt. His bigger hand practically covered yours in one fell swoop as he made you start to pump him again, quiet whimpering falling against the frame of your lips. “It’s your fault, y’know… you should take care of me.”

This was going to be a long work day.

a/n: wanna get tagged in future writing posts? join my taglist!

[bronzepascal]

father figure - pedro pascal

pairing: pedro pascal x fem!reader warnings: physical anxiety, panic attacks, alcohol, long distance, relationship establishing, the reader is her late 20s, pedro is 50. no proof reading done. author’s note: please note that i’m dyslexic & non-native english speaker - i make mistakes! feedback is very welcomed! enjoy! you can also buy me a coffee here to support my work & help me with my medications. word count: 7k!!! NO MINORS! 18+ READERS ONLY!

It had been a year since you found out the truth—not through confession, not through closure, but through an Instagram message from one of your closest friends. A direct message that changed everything: a single grainy photo, forwarded without warning, along with a message that read, “I didn’t know how to tell you. I thought you should see this.”

You were back in your home country at the time, visiting family—reconnecting with people you hadn't seen for months, catching your breath after a long period of work and city noise. The visit was meant to be restorative and a time of relaxation. A kind of a reset from everything. You had even FaceTimed your now ex-boyfriend the night before, his face pixelated and warm on your screen, telling you to enjoy yourself and not to worry about anything back in the UK. But his messages started to dry out and became very short, to the point where he did not even take the time to answer your messages.

And yet, there he was in the photo your friend had sent. Blurry but unmistakable, taken in a crowded bar somewhere in Nottingham city centre, leaning in close to a woman with curled hair and red lipstick. His hand rested low on her back. Too familiar and way too intimate. The timestamp on the story said it had been posted just hours ago—while you were asleep under your parents’ roof, thousands of miles away, still trusting him.

Your stomach had dropped before your mind could even make sense of what you were seeing. The smile on his face was the one you used to think was yours. The kind that used to say, I want you here.

You didn’t cry at first. You didn’t throw your phone or rage against the walls. Instead, you felt an eerie kind of stillness—like your body had gone completely quiet to protect you from something it wasn’t ready to process. You just sat there, phone slack in your hand, staring out the window of your childhood bedroom while the world outside remained oblivious.

The betrayal was worse because you had trusted him across the North and Baltic Sea. You had believed in time zones, phone calls and the space between visits. You had believed in the loyalty of someone who kissed your forehead in airport terminals and promised he’d wait. You had believed him.

But he hadn't waited. And worse—he hadn’t even hidden it that well. It was way too transparent. A wicked action.

When you returned to the UK, nothing felt the same. Your flat in Nottingham, which had once been full of warmth and morning light and his toothbrush in the bathroom, felt like someone else’s life. You had thrown away his stuff to the bin so you would not feel any of his presence in your small flat. You barely unpacked after arriving back. You barely slept as the thought of being cheated on was flowing through your mind . Panic began to seep into your skin, creeping up on you in the most mundane moments—waiting in queues, crossing the street, standing under hot water in the shower. It was becoming quite obvious that you sometimes forgot how to breathe without trying. Every photo, every object, every café held a ghost.

So, three months later, you left Nottingham. Without notifying even your closest members in your circle - you could not just stay in that city anymore.

You packed up your life and moved to the buzzing and bustling city of London. Not for adventure and not with excitement. You just needed space and distance from the city that you had created for yourself and defined it as home. You also never thought in your life that you would ever move to London but here you were now. It had to be somewhere the thought of him could never catch you again, somewhere the echoes of him did not ring in your head.

The panic attacks started in Nottingham, long before you even knew what to call them. At first, you called an ambulance, thinking it was a heart attack. The lovely team of nurses of the NHS were assuring you that it was just a panic attack and nothing to be worried about. Afterwards, they felt more like tightness in your chest or a fluttering in your throat—things you could write off as stress or maybe just not enough sleep. Just your own body rebelling against you, in the silence.

You found yourself on the floor of your bedroom one night, wrapped in your duvet like it might shield you from whatever your body was doing to itself, the fabric pulled so tightly around your shoulders that it felt like armor. Your forehead was pressed to your knees, legs drawn in close, your entire body curled into itself as if trying to shrink away from an invisible threat. The room was silent, but your mind was loud—heart pounding too fast, breath catching in your throat, skin prickling like something terrible was about to happen. You told yourself to breathe, repeating it like a mantra: In through the nose, out through the mouth. Again. And again. It didn’t work right away. Nothing did. You stayed like that for what felt like hours, waiting for the world to stop spinning.

You hadn’t been sleeping well, not since the breakup. Maybe your body was just reacting to all the stress—maybe it was nothing. But three nights later, it happened again, and this time it was worse. You felt it coming like a wave from far off, slowly building, then crashing over you without mercy. You hadn’t even made it to bed that night—you were standing by the kitchen counter with a cup of tea in your hands when your knees buckled slightly and your vision blurred at the edges, and you had to sit down on the cold tile floor to steady yourself, your hands shaking so hard that you spilled hot tea down your arm without noticing until the burn registered minutes later.

From that point on, you started sleeping with the lights on. At first, just a lamp on your nightstand, but soon, the overhead light too, humming quietly above you as you lay in bed wide-eyed, unable to surrender to sleep because sleep had begun to feel like a place you might not come back from. You began checking the front door twice before bed, then twice more after you’d already crawled under the duvet. Some nights, you’d get up a fifth time—just in case.

It was as if fear had taken up residence in your flat. At first, it lived in the shadows, tucked quietly behind the wardrobe or underneath the sink—just out of sight, just out of reach. But soon, it made itself known in every corner of your day. It whispered to you when your phone lit up unexpectedly. It pressed against your chest during meetings, on buses, in the silence between texts. It crawled into bed with you at night and reminded you, again and again, that nothing was safe anymore—not your heart, not your body, not even your thoughts.

You stopped recognising yourself. The version of you who had once laughed easily, who made plans without hesitation, who trusted her instincts—she had been replaced by someone you didn’t quite understand. Someone who flinched at doorbells. Who forgot entire conversations. Who avoided mirrors because she didn’t like the sadness she saw staring back. That was the night you realised this wasn’t something you could manage alone.

The walls of your Nottingham flat felt smaller every day, closing in around you like a cage you couldn’t unlock. The memories clung to the paint and the worn floorboards—the echo of his laughter in the hallway, the scent of his cologne lingering in the air long after he was gone. Each room held a weight that made it harder to breathe, harder to pretend you were okay. You realized that no matter how many therapy sessions you attended, how many nights you forced yourself to sit with fear, you needed distance. Not just from him, but from the life you had shared and the place that now felt haunted by what was lost. So, after months of restless nights and quiet goodbyes to friends and routines you once cherished, you packed your bags and moved to London. A city vast enough to swallow your past and loud enough to drown out the doubts swirling in your mind. You weren’t running toward something —you were running away—from pain, from memories, from the girl you used to be. And somewhere, beneath the noise and the unfamiliar streets, you hoped to find yourself again.

Your company had been kind enough to transfer you to their London office—a gesture that felt more like a lifeline than just a change of scenery. From the moment you arrived, everyone you met was friendly, welcoming in a way that made the city’s vastness feel a little smaller and less intimidating. No one pressured you for explanations or asked about the sudden move—your colleagues respected your privacy and you appreciated that unspoken understanding more than words could say. It was a relief to be part of a workplace where your silence wasn’t mistaken for weakness and where kindness didn’t come with expectations.

What you didn’t have to say aloud, your company anticipated. They were fortunate to have a partnership with a mental health therapy organisation, a benefit they encouraged all employees to use if needed. One morning, your manager quietly slipped you a small card with a phone number and a simple note: “For whenever you feel ready.” The offer felt like a soft hand reaching out in the dark—a chance to take care of yourself on your own terms, without judgment or pressure.

That number became a quiet promise to yourself. You didn’t call immediately, not yet. But knowing it was there, waiting, was enough for the moment. It was a reminder that healing wasn’t a path you had to walk alone.

You started going to therapy slowly, taking your time with each step—making the appointment, walking into the quiet waiting room, sitting with your own thoughts before the session even began. You were no’t in a rush; some days, just getting yourself there felt like progress enough. The therapist never pushed you to speak before you were ready. Sometimes you came with stories, sometimes you sat in silence, simply letting the space hold you. Over weeks and months, the sessions became a steady thread, weaving a new kind of strength into your days.

But those moments stayed private—your sanctuary away from the busy hum of office life.

One evening, your company announced that there would be a social gathering between all the teams in the UK—a chance to unwind outside the usual meeting rooms and email chains. They had booked a spot at a posh, tucked-away venue in Soho, known for its elegant decor, craft cocktails and a clientele that included some of the most celebrated people such as Hollywood actors and actresses. The place had a reputation for discretion and charm, a haven where stories whispered in hushed tones and laughter lingered under soft lighting.

As you stepped into the venue that night, the atmosphere wrapped around you like a warm embrace. The clink of glasses, the murmur of conversations, the subtle glamour—you felt, for the first time in a long while, the possibility of joy quietly blooming again. It wasn’t about dating or drama. It was about connection, even if just with colleagues, in a space that sparkled with life and whispered promise.

The party was alive with a vibrant energy that pulsed through every corner of the sleek Soho venue. The room was filled with a swirl of colors from elegant dresses and sharp suits, the soft glow of chandeliers casting a golden hue over smiling faces. Laughter spilled from clusters of people, weaving through the steady hum of conversation and the rhythmic beat of music that encouraged some to dance with carefree abandon. Glasses clinked repeatedly, carrying the sharp tang of citrus cocktails, the crisp bite of white wine, and the deeper warmth of red one. Groups formed and reformed, exchanging stories and jokes, some animated and loud, others whispered and intimate. You found yourself drifting from one circle to another, soaking up the lighthearted atmosphere, the way the laughter lifted the heaviness you’d carried for so long. For the first time in what felt like ages, the weight in your chest loosened and your smile felt real, not forced. It was a rare moment where the past felt distant and the present felt… almost too easy for you.

Making your way to the bar for your second bottle of white wine, you paused, letting your eyes wander across the room. That was when you noticed the man standing beside you, ordering tequila shots and a glass of red wine with an easy confidence that piqued your curiosity. He glanced over, breaking into a small smile before asking, 

“What are you ordering?” 

You matched his smile with a playful smirk and answered, 

“Try to guess.” 

He studied you for a moment, as if trying to read the expression on your face, and then guessed, 

“Whiskey?” You laughed, a soft, genuine sound that surprised you with its lightness. Shaking your head, you said, 

“Nope.” That little exchange sparked something warm between you, a flicker of connection that felt unexpected and welcome.

Then, with a friendly nod, he introduced himself. 

“I’m Pedro,” he said, holding out his hand with a sincerity that felt both natural and disarming. Recognition flickered in your mind. 

“Oh, you’re that guy from the Kingsman film,” you said casually, as if naming a colleague at work rather than a famous actor. He laughed—a rich, easy sound that didn’t carry an ounce of arrogance—and shrugged, clearly used to the recognition but not defined by it. The moment was simple, unforced, a brief crossing of two very different worlds in the middle of a bustling party. It wasn’t about fame or flashing cameras; it was just two strangers sharing a laugh and a connection in the soft glow of a London night.

You took a long swig of your white wine, almost chugging it down like it was the only thing keeping the nerves at bay, when Pedro caught your gaze with a teasing smile. 

“Easy there, little birdie,” he said, his American accent rolling around the words in a way that made you laugh out loud. There was something utterly charming about hearing those casual words come from someone so effortlessly confident, and you shook your head, still smiling as you set the glass bottle down. The nickname stuck with you, a playful reminder of the evening’s unexpected lightness.

The two of you peeled away from the bustling bar, navigating through clusters of guests with their animated chatter and clinking glasses, until you found yourselves sinking into a pair of plush, velvet sofas tucked into a quieter corner of the room. The soft, amber lighting wrapped around you like a gentle cocoon, muting the noisy hum of the party into something distant and soothing. You felt the tension in your shoulders begin to unravel as you settled back, the leather cool beneath your fingertips. The glass of wine warmed your hands as you took slow sips, matching the unhurried rhythm of the conversation that blossomed between you. There was an ease in the way words flowed, a give-and-take that didn’t demand more than you were willing to offer. His eyes held your gaze with steady kindness, and you realised you hadn’t felt quite this heard��or this safe—in a long time. For the first moments that night, the weight of your past, the knot of anxiety and fear that had tightened inside you for months, softened, melting away into the background.

Time seemed to stretch and compress all at once, until a subtle shift in Pedro’s voice caught your attention. His usual easy cadence faltered just a little, as if he was weighing his words before sending them your way.

“I should probably tell you something,” he began, the faintest hesitation lining his tone, “I’m leaving London in a week. Not exactly sure when I’ll be back.” His eyes searched yours briefly, then softened into a warm, rueful smile that carried a mix of regret and hope. 

“But I’ll make sure I come back. I love a long getaway here.” The honesty in that moment struck a chord deep in your chest—it was an unexpected, bittersweet truth laid bare amidst the lightheartedness of the evening. You nodded slowly, feeling the ache of his impending absence, but also the quiet thrill of knowing he wanted to come back—to you, or at least to this shared space. When he finally asked for your number, it wasn’t with urgency or expectation, but with a gentle hopefulness that made your heart flutter in a way you hadn’t expected tonight. Your fingers brushed as you handed over your phone, a small, electric connection that promised possibility, no matter how uncertain the path ahead might be.

Over the weeks that followed, you and Pedro settled into a rhythm of daily texts and late-night FaceTime calls, bridging the thousands of miles between New York, Los Angeles, and London with a steady stream of shared moments. Each morning, you’d wake to a good morning message, sometimes a simple “How are you doing today?” that carried more warmth than you expected. The conversations were unhurried and honest—talking about your day’s small victories and struggles, the funny things that happened or just the quiet spaces where neither of you needed to fill the silence. Pedro’s easy laugh came through the screen, a comforting presence when the city outside your window felt too big or too lonely. You found yourself looking forward to those calls more than you’d admit, a tether pulling you back from the isolation that had clung to you after the breakup. It wasn’t romance at first—not the way you’d imagined it—but a steady companionship, a connection that felt safe and real. After six weeks of these digital exchanges and long distance communication, Pedro surprised you with a message that made your heart skip: he was flying back to London, just to see you. The anticipation that followed was like a slow-burning flame, both thrilling and terrifying.

When you finally met again, it was at a posh restaurant tucked away in a quiet corner of North London—the kind of place that felt like a well-kept secret, where the soft lighting and muted chatter wrapped around you like a warm embrace. The scent of fresh herbs mingled with the subtle flicker of candle wax, and the hum of other diners created a cocoon of intimacy around your small table near the window. You smoothed your dress nervously as Pedro arrived, his smile immediately putting you at ease. He looked exactly like you remembered, relaxed yet attentive, his eyes lighting up as he greeted you. 

“It’s good to see you in person again,” he said softly, pulling out your chair with a quiet charm that made your heart flutter unexpectedly.

The dinner unfolded gently, like a carefully composed melody. Between sips of wine and shared bites of food, you talked about everything and nothing—his work trips and meetings to and in New York and LA, the quirky little moments that made each day feel different, and the small victories and frustrations that peppered your own routine in London. 

“I’ve got to say,” Pedro confessed, leaning in slightly, “I missed this—just talking with you. No cameras, no scripts, just… us.” You smiled, feeling the warmth of his words settle deep inside. 

“Me too,” you admitted, “I didn’t realise how much I needed something like this. Something real.” There was a pause, a quiet space where your eyes met, and you felt something shift—a flicker of connection that went beyond the casual.

Pedro reached across the table, his hand briefly brushing yours, and you caught your breath. His smile was warm and easy, full of that quiet confidence that made the night feel safe. He didn’t know anything about what you’d been through—the panic attacks, the nights when fear took hold so tightly you could barely breathe. He only knew the you sitting here now, laughing softly, sharing stories, making jokes. 

“I’m really glad we’re doing this,” he said gently. You smiled back, but inside, the old doubts stirred—could you really let someone in again after everything? 

“I wasn’t sure that I would have wanted to be here tonight,” you admitted and it sounded worse in your head, hoping that it would not put off Pedro’s thoughts about you, “not after a year of being out of the dating world. But tonight feels… different.” Pedro’s eyes softened. 

“Sometimes the best things come when you least expect them.” 

After a while, as the easy laughter died down and the music softened in the background, playing Somebody Else by The 1975, you found yourself wanting to say more—something deeper, more honest. Pedro’s steady gaze gave you the courage you didn’t know you had.

 “There’s something I haven’t told you,” you began, voice low and a little shaky. “Before I moved here, back when I used to live in the middle of England, in the city called Nottingham, I went through a really hard time. I was back in my home country and something really fucking shit happened.” Pedro was listening patiently, not interrupting your talk.

“I have told myself that I would not speak about it until like the fourth date or something but I feel like if we want to get to know each other, then why the fuck not say it right now,” you chuckled, a bit of a panic surging in your body as the adrenaline increased in you. Your neurodivergent brain was really telling you to say everything out loud, on a proper hamster on the wheel moment.

“I was cheated on and it fucking broke me to bits. I did tell myself that I would never fucking date again or go out for a dinner with a male person so that’s why I was quite hesitant about today. I started to have very strong and bad panic attacks, the anxiety was killing me inside—it was like a shadow I couldn’t shake. I’ve never really talked about it much.” You took a breath and looked at him.

“I didn’t want to scare you off or make things complicated. But I’d rather be an open book than some little bird locked in a cage, pretending everything’s perfect when it’s not.” Pedro reached out, his hand warm over yours, his smile gentle and steady. 

“Thank you for trusting me,” he said softly. “That means more than you know.” In that moment, something really heavy shifted from your heart and shoulders—a quiet relief, a doorway opening between you, inviting trust. He was an absolute gentleman, something you never thought would happen in your life again. Pedro wanted to make sure that you were seen.

You felt it like the subtle change in air pressure like something that happens before a summer storm appears—gentle, but undeniable. Pedro didn’t let go of your hand right away. His thumb traced a slow, thoughtful line along the edge of your knuckles, not absentmindedly, but as if he were grounding himself in the weight of your presence, in the fact that you were sitting across from him and letting him see just a little more of who you really were.

There was a pause then—not awkward, but thoughtful. He tilted his head slightly, eyes searching yours in that way that always made your chest feel too small for your heart. 

“Can I ask you something?” he said finally, his voice careful, but not unsure. You gave him a small nod.

“I know I’m flying back to New York soon, and I don’t want to make anything complicated or overwhelming… but would you want to go out with me again? A proper date this time. Just… you and me, somewhere quiet as I know a few places around here.”

You hesitated and were not sure about that—not out of fear, but out of surprise. Not because the idea scared you, but because for the first time in a long time, it didn’t. And that alone felt like something worth acknowledging. You looked down at your joined hands, then back up into his eyes. There was no pressure in them, only warmth. Only patience. 

“Why not,” you said with a slow, genuine smile, your voice light but sure. “I’m actually feeling… comfortable with you.” The word ‘comfortable’ wasn’t flashy, wasn’t poetic—but it was rare, and true, and exactly what he seemed to understand the value of. Pedro smiled like he’d just been handed something delicate and precious, and nodded.

 “Good,” he murmured. “Then let’s make it a date.”

Three days later, the real date happened—an evening that shimmered with a different kind of anticipation, heavier than casual, lighter than pressure, but undeniable all the same. The restaurant Pedro chose was nestled on a quiet side street in Fitzrovia, one of those hidden gems that felt both intimate and electric, the sort of place that whispered of slow conversations and long glances across candlelight. The notes and sounds of different genres of music spilled warmly from the speakers, not too loud, just enough to score the night with a pulse of elegance. You wore something that made you feel beautiful—not for anyone else, but for yourself—a soft satin dress the colour of red wine that brushed your knees and shimmered just a little when you moved. Pedro stood when you arrived, pulling your chair out for you with a shy, almost boyish smile, and you felt your heart stutter unexpectedly at the quiet charm of it.

As the night unfolded, the conversation deepened in that unspoken way two people sometimes fall into when the timing is just right. You laughed—really laughed—at something ridiculous he said about trying to make sourdough during lockdown and accidentally creating what he described as "a weaponised crouton." In return, he listened with that warm, undivided attention that made you feel like your words had gravity, like they deserved to be heard. You talked about your favourite films, the weirdly specific type of cereal you couldn’t live without, your favourite parks in London, and whether or not dogs should be allowed on restaurant patios (you both agreed wholeheartedly that they should). Each time your hands brushed on the table, each shared smile held just a little more weight, a little more charged air, as if the night was quietly asking you both to step closer, if only a little.

Halfway through the meal, somewhere between the second glass of wine and the shared chocolate fondant you didn’t plan on ordering, a strange warmth had settled in your chest—not from the alcohol, not even from the food, but from the simple, gentle truth that you felt safe. Not just physically safe, but emotionally, too. You could feel it in the way Pedro looked at you—not with hunger or expectation, but with something steadier, more curious. A part of you, the part still tender from your past, wanted to pull away, to protect what was still healing—but another part, braver now, let itself lean in. 

“I didn’t think I’d feel like this again,” you said quietly, swirling the last sip of wine in your glass, your voice dipped in vulnerability. You weren’t even sure what “this” was, but you knew it mattered. Pedro didn’t flinch, didn’t try to fill the silence with jokes or assurances. He just reached across the table, his fingers curling gently around yours, his thumb brushing the back of your hand. 

“Neither did I,” he said, his voice low, sincere, and steady. “But maybe that’s why it’s worth seeing where this goes.” There were no fireworks, no declarations of love, but at that moment—two hands joined across a table in the corner of a softly lit restaurant—it felt like a beginning. A quiet promise between two people still figuring themselves out, but willing, cautiously, to try.

As the evening wound down, the plates were cleared and the final drops of wine sipped slowly, both of you reluctant to move too quickly, to shatter the delicate stillness that had settled between you. The conversation had softened into low tones and shared glances, into stories told with your hands and laughter traded in the pauses. The rain had begun sometime during dessert, soft pitter-patters at first, then a full symphony against the windows. London outside had turned blurry and grey, its chaos muted by the falling water, streetlights smudged into watercolor glows.

Pedro walked you out, always the gentleman, one hand at the small of your back as the maître d’ held the door. The air was cool and damp, the kind that kissed your cheeks and curled at your hairline. You both stood beneath the overhang, watching the rain coat the pavement, the smell of wet stone and the far-off sense of the dust hanging between you. Your taxi hadn’t arrived yet—it was running a few minutes late—and neither of you minded.

You turned to say something, maybe a thank you or a joke about the weather, but Pedro beat you to it—not with words, but with a look. There was a softness to it, a careful weighing of a question behind his eyes. He shifted just a little closer, close enough that you felt his warmth, but not enough to crowd. 

“Can I ask you something?” he said, and his voice was quieter now, not nervous exactly, but reverent, as if he didn’t want to disturb the shape of this moment. You nodded.

His eyes didn’t leave yours. “Do I have your consent… to kiss you?” The question hung in the air, simple and respectful and more intimate than anything he could have done without asking.

There was a beat of silence—not hesitation, not fear. Just stillness, like your heart needed a second to catch up. You felt something shift inside you again, not a door this time, but a window cracking open, letting in air you hadn’t breathed in ages. You smiled, slow and sincere, your cheeks warm even in the rain.

“Yes,” you said, your voice soft but certain. “You do.”

And when he leaned in—gentle, unrushed—it wasn’t the kind of kiss that made your world spin, but the kind that made it feel like, for the first time in a long time, it had steadied.

The kiss was exactly how the films tried to sell it—the good ones, the ones you used to watch on weekends with a blanket pulled to your chin and hope tucked somewhere quiet inside you. It was soft at first, barely there, as if Pedro was still giving you a chance to change your mind. But you didn’t. You leaned into it, into him, into the moment that felt like it had stepped straight out of a romcom and into your real life.

His lips were warm, unhurried, and somehow... familiar, like a song you didn’t know you remembered until the melody started playing. It didn’t make your knees weak or your heart race into a panic—instead, it calmed everything. Your shoulders didn’t tense. You didn’t feel like you were about to be pushed aside or left hanging in the dark again.

For the first time in what felt like forever, the press of someone else’s lips against yours didn’t feel like a risk—it felt like home. Like permission to stay a little longer. Like maybe, just maybe, the worst had already passed, and this—this simple, steady kiss in the middle of a rainy London street—was something you were allowed to feel good about. Something that could be yours. You didn’t want this night to end, as you were telling yourself - expect the unexpected. The thought of Pedro going back to the United States was something that you did not want to happen but his work was there and you didn’t have a say in it - you just accepted it.

The days after Pedro flew back to New York passed with a strange kind of ache. You weren’t unfamiliar with missing someone—it was a feeling that had carved itself into you long before—but this was different. This wasn’t the hollow silence of absence; it was a hum beneath your skin, a low thrum of connection stretched across an ocean. You found yourself looking forward to his texts more than your morning coffee. The FaceTime calls became part of your routine—some sleepy and quiet, others filled with stories about his long days on set or you venting about the nightmare of the Northern and Piccadilly Line at peak times and rush hours. Sometimes you’d fall asleep with the call still connected, the glow of your screen dimmed and his breathing soft through your headphones like a lullaby you hadn’t known you needed. You did snore but he did not mind it, although in your anxious brain, it was telling that he definitely did.

Pedro missed you, too. He didn’t hide it. He told you in ways that felt easy and honest—“I saw someone at Whole Foods today who looked like you from behind. I almost called your name like a total idiot.” Or, “The pizza here tastes like cardboard now. It’s your fault - your European taste has changed me.” And in quieter moments, he’d say things like, “Wish I was there tonight,” voice low, thumb rubbing absently against the side of his whiskey glass. There was a tenderness to the way he said it. A yearning that settled in your chest and made you whisper, “Me too,” even when it hurt.

Four more weeks passed like that—half-lived, half-waiting—and then he booked the flight. No big declarations. Just a simple text one morning: “Coming back next Friday. I can’t wait to see you.”

This time, you invited him to your flat.

It was still strange, letting someone into that private, quiet space you’d built for yourself in North London. A place that had become your little sanctuary—the one you’d slowly reclaimed after heartbreak and fear. But it felt right. It felt like the next step you were meant to be ready for.

The buzz of your intercom jolted through the stillness of your flat, pulling your heart into a stuttered rhythm as you moved toward the door, equal parts anticipation and nerves pooling in your chest. You opened it slowly, fingers trembling slightly on the handle, and there he was—Pedro—standing in the dim, golden light of the late afternoon, framed by the hallway of your building like some beautiful, familiar scene from a film you didn’t want to end. He looked the same and yet different somehow—maybe it was the way his eyes lit up at the sight of you, or the relief that visibly softened his features the moment you stepped into view. He wore his usual soft hoodie layered beneath a tailored coat, dark jeans that clung just right, and that grin—the crooked, sleepy one you’d seen over blurry FaceTime calls, now right here in front of you. In his hands, a bouquet of tulips—your favourites—fresh, delicate, still beaded with the faintest hint of water, in a pale blush pink so soft it made your throat tighten. In the crook of his other arm, a bottle of the same white wine you’d both accidentally gotten tipsy on at the bar in Soho all those weeks ago.

“Hi,” he said, his voice low and warm, like the word had been waiting on his tongue for far too long. 

“I come bearing gifts... and a really average case of jet lag.” His eyes searched yours, half teasing, half sincere, and you couldn’t help but laugh—one of those real, from-the-stomach laughs that bubbled out before you could think. You stepped aside to let him in, and as he passed through your doorway, everything about your flat—the familiar books stacked by the window, the soft throw blanket draped over your worn couch, the faint scent of the candle you always lit in the evenings—suddenly felt brighter, more significant. Pedro dropped his bag gently in the hallway without taking his eyes off you, then leaned in with no hesitation and wrapped his arms around you, pulling you close like he’d been counting down the minutes to this exact embrace. You sank into him instinctively, your face pressed into the fabric of his hoodie, his arms secure around your waist, and for a long, quiet moment, the world outside ceased to exist—no ticking clocks, no emails, no endless distance—just the warmth of him, real and solid, right here.

Then, without a word, he leaned back just enough to see your face, eyes flicking down to your mouth in a way that made your breath hitch. He didn’t rush. His hand came up to brush a strand of hair away from your cheek and then—slowly, deliberately—he leaned in and kissed you. It was soft at first, gentle in the way that said I missed you before it said anything else. It wasn’t urgent or frenzied like in the movies—it was intentional, grounding and quietly electric. The kind of kiss you’d always seen in romcoms, the kind where the camera lingers, the world goes quiet and everything else blurs out except for two people standing in a hallway lit by the promise of something unfolding. His lips moved against yours with the kind of care that didn’t try to take anything, just offered. And for the first time in a long time, you didn’t flinch or hold your breath or feel the old fear curling at the edges. You felt steady. You felt chosen. You felt… home.

Later, after the tulips were placed carefully in a glass jug and the wine poured into mismatched glasses you’d forgotten you even had, the two of you settled into the low hum of an ordinary evening—the kind that asked for nothing more than time and closeness. You didn’t bother with anything elaborate. No plans. No pretense. Just the quiet lull of your living room, low lamps casting soft amber across the walls, and Amy Winehouse crooning from your old speaker, her smoky voice curling like incense through the room. Pedro had kicked off his shoes and was now stretched out on the sofa, his back leaned comfortably into the armrest, one arm slung across the top as you lay with your legs draped over his lap. It was domestic, almost dangerously so, but it didn’t feel heavy—it felt good— it just felt…real. His hand rested on your thigh, warm and unmoving, just there, a gentle reminder that he was with you, and you were with him.

There were kisses, here and there—nothing urgent or scripted, just soft brushes of lips exchanged in between shared comments about the music or the weather or how surprisingly nice your North London flat was despite your constant complaints about it over FaceTime. His presence was steady, grounding, like gravity reimagined in human form. And for the first time in a while, your body didn’t feel like it was bracing for anything bad. You were just... there. Existing. Breathing. Safe. The kind of safe you almost didn’t recognise at first because it had been so long.

But then, just as “Love Is a Losing Game” faded into the next track, the atmosphere shifted—not in a bad way, but like something was pressing gently against the surface, asking to be let in. Pedro’s fingers, which had been absently tracing lazy shapes against your leg, stilled. His eyes found yours—not intense, not heavy, just... clear. Present. His voice was low, careful. 

“I have a question to ask,” he said.

You sat up slightly, heart ticking up, and nodded, trying to read the sudden seriousness in his face.

“I know we’ve been taking our time, figuring this out in our own way,” he began, voice steady but laced with something fragile around the edges. “And I’ve really loved that—every moment of it. But I’d be lying if I said I haven’t been thinking about what this actually is. What we are.” He reached for your hand, his thumb brushing against your knuckles in small circles. “I guess what I’m trying to say is... are you ready to take this to another level? Like, properly—me and you. As in, boyfriend and girlfriend.”

The question hung there, full of breath and weight and possibility.

Your mind didn’t go blank—it went loud. Questions rushed in like a flood: How does he really feel about me? Is he just being kind? Does the age gap ever make him hesitate, even if he’s never shown it? What about my anxiety—does he really know what he’s signing up for? The days I might shut down or pull away, the nights I might cry without a clear reason? Can he handle the version of me that isn’t put together and pretty?

Your breath caught, not in fear exactly, but in the overwhelm of suddenly being seen so clearly and offered something real. Pedro must have noticed the flicker of doubt in your eyes, because he squeezed your hand just slightly and tilted his head. 

“Hey,” he said softly. “I don’t want you to say yes because you think it’s what I want to hear. I want you to say yes if you want this too. I already know you’re not perfect. You think I don’t see when you get quiet and go somewhere else in your head? I know. And it doesn’t scare me. If anything... it makes me want to be here even more.”

You blinked, lips parting, your heart tightening with something that almost felt like relief. The part of you that always braced for people to run... eased back just a little.

“I don’t know if I’ll always get it right,” you said quietly, voice a little shaky. “But I think... I want to give it a go, again. I want to try it with you. Because I feel safe with you. And that doesn’t happen often.”

Pedro smiled, his eyes softening, and leaned forward to kiss you again—slow and sure and full of something that didn’t need words.

And just like that, something shifted—quietly, powerfully. No fireworks. No dramatic music swells. Just the steady heartbeat of two people choosing each other in a world that rarely makes things simple.

please do not copy and translate my work (unless it’s in my native language and you give me full credit)! you are more than welcome to support me by buying me a coffee - link in the blog!

[marlenesluv]

charles + gf living together in monaco (hc)

note: saw charles’ story of him playing piano this morning (feb. 10) and felt the need to make this bc my mind spiraled. (this led to more than i expected, maybe marriage. tf is wrong with me) also i wrote the “he won monaco” bit in february 😭 imma say i manifested that.

pairing: charles leclerc x fem!reader

warnings: none

head-cannon: yours and charles’ lives after moving in together in monaco.

۵ after dating for about three years, charles proposed the idea of you guys moving in together. the two of you decided on buying a new house in monaco instead of picking between the two of yours.

۵ if you thought living together would be a bad idea, you’d be wrong.

۵ it was the best idea you guys had ever had.

۵ no more ‘can you come over?’ texts at 2am because one of you couldn’t sleep. no more keeping clothes in his closest and some of his in yours. no. everything was perfect now.

۵ you shared a bedroom, a space, a closet, and a home.

۵ when you woke up in the morning, you occasionally would wake to charles playing the piano. a beautiful sound that you thought angels would come down from heaven to hear.

۵ you’d sneak up behind him and kiss his cheek as you sat beside him and played for a while with him.

۵ when you met charles, you didn’t know anything about pianos. but after three years, he’s taught you everything and you enjoy the hobby more than a lot of things.

۵ piano became a staple in your daily routines. at least an hour everyday, you sat down at the piano and practiced.

۵ which usually ended with charles behind you, kissing your neck as you giggled, pushing him off, “charles! i’m practicing, stop that.”

۵ maybe you guys even came out with a song on his spotify. a little duet on the piano, which everyone loved.

۵ grocery shopping was always fun. you insisted that charles didn’t need to go, he was busy after all. but he would never miss it.

۵ he probably will grab to the most unhealthy things and you’re just like, “wont your trainer be mad…?” and he just shrugs and throws the cereal into the cart.

۵ you and kika are bestfriends. obviously.

۵ since your boyfriend’s hangout all the time, you guys started talking and hanging out together and leaving the guys to train.

۵ since you and kika became so close, pierre and charles shared a jet more often.

۵ races were even more fun with you had another girl to talk to. sure, you were friends with the other girls, but you and kika had a connection.

۵ and you had always gone to the family dinners.

۵ pascale saw you as one of her own, she knew you and charles were meant for each other.

۵ and arthur and enzo knew that too.

۵ of course, they all expected charles to propose, which after a while, he told them he would eventually.

۵ but before that, you told kika how much you wanted to get married, and she kept telling you, “just wait, i’m sure he will soon.”

۵ and yeah, maybe pierre told kika that charles was planning to purpose after monaco this year.

۵ and he won monaco. he won at his home.

۵ and he proposed to you on that podium, asking you up there to celebrate, and he got down on one knee.

۵ sobbing, of course you said yes. which fans loved and his friends cheered, kika recording the whole thing.

۵ the wedding was gorgeous, and the honeymoon was incredible.

۵ but you both looked forward to going back home.

۵ you yearned for your simple routine.

۵ and, of course, charles threw out the idea of christening the house now that you were officially married.

۵ and christen you did.

۵ the bedroom, the sofa, the shower, the island, the kitchen table, the balcony, the guest bedrooms, and his new ferrari.

۵ anyways….

۵ you also tried to reach charles how to cook.

۵ he burnt the cookies, let the pasta boil over, served raw burgers, and made the scrambled eggs smoke.

۵ so you quickly took over the home cooked meals.

۵ the two of you loved living together, but it was even better as a married couple.

(guys this posted on queue OMG😭 i’m so sorry it wasn’t finished! i’ll keep it up tho lol)

[djpepitaqueenforpresident]

𐦍༘⋆ Mnemonics - B.Barnes

‘The air could not be filled with Winters vocals, but his ears worked better than fine, and instead of hearing someone he could not remember the name of beg in his skull, he listened to you.’

Summary: In which Bucky walks the path of regaining his memories, and he has to figure out wether you are real or just an apparition of hope his own mind conjured up to help him push through the hard ways of Winter.

Warnings: Ptsd, blood, violence, guns, swearing, murder, sad Bucky

A/N: first time posting my writing in tumblr kinda nervous.

English is not my first language!:)

This’ll be a short fic because I honestly started this without even really thinking every thing through. I only really wrote it for real to satisfy my own melancholia. As its stated in the summary, this story mainly revolves around the time Bucky was still the Winter Soldier and how he found a sliver of peace inside your presence.

Teehee

I

Grocery shopping was, Bucky found out, not something made for him.

He stood and stared at every aisle that held his desired items, contemplating for at least two minutes on what brand to get for every product that he had written down in a messy handwriting onto the crumbled piece of paper.

Overthinking was something he was good at, and the too many choices displayed in front of him only added to his indecisiveness. He didn’t think it was possible to have multiple sorts of apples, or that there was any difference in which country they came from. Didn’t every one of them grow from the same trees and under the same sun?

He dropped the Pink Ladies back into their respectful shelf, not all that interested in the fruits anymore, the frustration of not knowing which ones to pick making him lose his motivation to continue down his shopping list.

But, right now, he only had a dozen of eggs (the biological ones, his heart doing a pathetic flip at the thought of the little innocent birds living the same life he had), one sad bottle of plum juice and one pack of ready-made lasagna staring up at him from the basket hanging from his left lower arm.

So, he strolled further, his eyes skimmed across the peaches and tangerines, searching his tastebuds for what he was craving. Next to the tangerines lay oranges, packed in nets of 4.5 pounds. He halted, blinking down at the round fruits with a sudden increase in appetite. He couldn’t remember the last time he ever had an orange, but the vivid image of drops of sap leaking down onto a black, marble kitchen counter with bitten off orange peels discarded to the side, was enough for him to throw them next to his plum juice.

“Did you know the sweet orange isn’t even a real fruit?”

Yes, he did.

He couldn’t remember how.

The products now present in his cart were not nearly enough to last him even a day, but he ignored the rest of the names sprawled across the paper, stuffing it angrily into the pocket of his leather coat with a furrowed brow. Today had been a good day, with at least 4 hours of uninterrupted sleep and a beautiful sunrise to greet him on his morning walk.

But, just like that, he was pushed back by the cold grip of his past, taking him back to the unknown of Winter’s history. It felt like a dream, those where you run with all your strength and might, with your heart driving through your ribs, but you just can’t seem to move forward.

How a single fruit could push itself in between the folds of his brain to force out moments of his life he wasn’t even conscious of. He was well aware it might have only been a lie. Sometimes, he got his memories wrong. Mixed up or glorified by his own mind to keep him away from the dark pits of his truth.

He didn’t take the change from the cashier behind the checkout, only muttering a ‘have a nice day’ under his breath while the older man continued his actions of scanning the next items in a inhumanly slow fashion, creating a domino effect of frustration on the queue behind Bucky.

The walk back to his single bedroom apartment was a long one, but this was the only supermarket away from the crowds and the only one that had employees just, if not more, grumpy than him, allowing him to get lost in the crevices of his thoughts without having to be conscious enough to paint a forced smile on his face. It always resembled more of a grimace, anyways.

The sun was relentless with it’s warmth, cooking Bucky alive in his dark clothes, the fabrics sticking to his skin. The light reflected off the buildings, blinding him even through his sunglasses, like some merciless god was putting in extra work to annoy the super soldier. He could step out of the way of a faux fur coat just in time, or he would most definitely have gotten a Guess handbag to his head.

The only thing that greeted him once he lazily kicked the door shut of his sleeping place, was a lonely Chinese Money plant, its round leaves (turning yellow, which Bucky tried to fix by giving an extra cup of water, resulting in even more discoloration) hanging pathetically off the side of the windowsill, lower than he knew they should hang. He got it as a gift from Sam, because nothing said ‘I forgive you for trying to kill me and my friends’ like a plant that looked like little pancakes and still had the price tag on it.

Bucky clung to it like its his own heart.

His fridge was as empty as the rest of the room, even with the newly bought products. He left the net of oranges abandoned on the counter, after doing a 360 turn, looking for any kind of bowl or dish he could put them in, but realizing he had absolutely nothing.

This temporary stay was getting to be more and more permanent, six months being by far the longest he stayed in the same place, and it scared him. It was a taunt, a fever dream that made him dizzy and he could not shake himself out of. The small sliver of hope and promise that came unvoluntarily with it crawled across his skin like a centipede, every little leg pushing into his skin, urging him to get out, to run away again.

It was still as lucid as it had been six months ago.

Taking a shower helped with the insistent nerves, and by the time the third episode of The Real Housewifes started playing, he was back in a semi-peaceful state of mind, the previous black kitchen countertop now only an incessant bug in his mind.

The slightly burned lasagna had been devoured within minutes, and Bucky was still hungry.

He was too indolent to make himself eggs, and so he settled on the round fruits instead, knife in hand gripped unnecessarily tight.

He stared with narrowed eyes down at the food, willing another flash of whatever his mind was trying to provoke out of him.

He cut off the front and behind, before slicing the knife right through the middel. The smell alone was enough to get him to close his eyes, a nostalgic sensation washing over him without a real direction. For a moment, he was gone, swimming in the sweet scent while his tongue was dancing with it’s sap. A taste of the sun, which seeped through the thick skin and glowed in its center, now gliding down Bucky’s throat.

He cut off one slice, eagerly setting it between his teeth, ripping the flesh off its peel in one clean motion. A drop of sap escaped out of the corner of his mouth and dripped down his chin, landing onto the cheap, brown countertop in a perfect drop.

Nails made crescent shapes into its orange husk, only a hairs breath away from the serrated knife. The wooden cutting board now held a large stain, the slight force which the fruit was held down with making its sap leak away. Despite the dim lit room, he could still make out the pair of defeated eyes across from him, liquid honey consisting of a warmth he could not ever begin to comprehend.

An outstretched hand held out a slice for him.

He ignored it.

He forced down another slice with a grimace, like every piece was another segment of his memory, despite the protest his throat was giving him.

“Did you know the sweet orange isn’t even a real fruit?” The voice was quiet and melodic, like the juices of it’s core had sweetened their vocal chords, playing his cochlea like a perfectly tuned violin.

He gave no response, but his companion didn’t seem indignant at carrying the one sided interaction.

“It was created from two other fruits, somewhere in Asia, I think. It’s a modified berry, actually.”

Slice after slice went up into their mouth, the meat ripped off with force, until all that was left was the skin, now laying forsaken beside the white plate.

Excess sap was wiped off their face with their sleeve, unable to stop the few meandering drops from escaping in time, that now rested like fallen stars on the black marble.

He couldn’t see the face, like he was staring at a ghost, his eyes refusing to focus. The only memorabilia he could take with him from this quick gaze into his past, was the feeling of serenity enveloping his entire being.

He dropped the half eaten orange into the trashbin, his tastebuds not experiencing the same, unfamiliar glorification of the fruit that his mind was convincing him of.

Real or not, he basked in this strange presence, holding it close to his heart with utter devotion.

☆

Walking the same streets up and down almost everyday should have made him tired, but routine was exactly what Bucky needed.

It diminished his social anxiety to only a dull ache across his chest. Tiresome, but manageable.

Steve told him it would get easier.

That was four months ago.

But, he had a place to sleep - one he didn’t have to leave again after a few weeks -, his childhood best friend back, and the terrorist organization who previously held Bucky’s live and future in their hands, were now only present in his dreams.

Yes, his soul was still scattered across the earth, taken apart piece by piece by every person who’s stared into the barrel of his gun or who’s breaths fogged up his knife in their throaths. But that wasn’t him, not really.

He was starting to see that now. And with every name crossed out, he felt he was slowly replacing those gaping holes in his heart. He would never be James Buchanan Barnes again.

But, maybe, he could just be Bucky.

And right now, Bucky needed some much needed vitamin D. Socialization was also a requirement to the road of rediscovering his identity (something Bucky responded to with many grumbles and much defiance), but the only reason he had agreed to meet up with Steve and Sam, was because Bucky’s kitchen was pathetically vacant, and they promised to pay for the food.

He rounded the corner, stepping over the protruding tile three tiles left of where the grey, cemented road started. He ignored the flyer pushed in his face, ‘Jezus loves you!’ printed in bold yellow letters on the cover while the long haired blond stayed persistent with his yelling, even after Bucky’s third month of walking past the fanatic.

Another left, his eyes greeting the texas shaped crack in between the two dark red bricks about two feet away from the advertising board, this week showcasing a shirtless man who looked to come straight out of Ancient Greek, riding a beautiful palomino horse on the beach. Bucky didn’t know what he was advertising.

The redhead nodded at Bucky as he passed while she placed two cappuccino’s and one cheesecake with two forks down on the table, conversing with the same elderly couple who spend their every single morning at that café.

He always let his features soften ever so slightly when he passed the shop window of Pets&Co, the same grey British shorthair that had been there since Bucky started this routine still occupying the space on the windowsill, it’s fur flattened against the glass. It didn’t look up when he passed, busy licking its paw clean with lazy strokes.

He wondered when the other shoe would drop.

When things would change again, when something would come crawling out of his own shadows to snuff out even the littlest sparks he had experienced since his return. Dr. Raynor says it’s paranoia, but Bucky would be a fool to believe a past the magnitude of his own would stay hidden and quiet.

Six months of roaming Brooklyn like a forgotten phantom, without consequences, was far too long to be real.

How was it, that he had marked his fists with the blood of his brother no more than three years ago, and he was now on his way to dine with said man and his friend, like nothing had happened?

He hoped Sam had brought beer

-

He stepped over the protruding tile and ignored the flyer smashed against his chest, shaking off the man’s hand on his shoulder with something that could only be described as a growl.

Texas was still there to greet him in between the red bricks, like it was every day.

The advertising board had changed its poster from the palomino horse and Greek god, to the newest Iphone, with four different colors to choose from and an one time only sale for new members.

The redhead nodded as he passed. So did the elderly couple, their cheesecake halfway gone.

The british shorthair blinked up at him, exhibiting a row of sharp teeth with its left upper canine missing when it yawned. It immediately closed its eyes again and went back to sleep.

He wondered when the other shoe would drop.

-

Step over the tile and duck out of the way from the unabating believer.

Texas was not Texas anymore, an extra crack directly beside it made it deformed, forcing a wave of annoyance through Bucky.

A new poster took the place of the previous one.

He nodded back at the redhead.

Its grey fur was rolled up into a little ball, not even poking its head out to regard the young girl in front of its cage trying to catch its attention. Bucky wondered if maybe he should take the cat with him, just to get it away from all the prying eyes and-

He halted.

Beside the feline was another enclosure, this one new, housing a white ball of fur with two large ears poking up into the air.

His heart gave a tug as two bright red marbles stared back at him. It twitched its nose, hopping one step forward, closer to the glass separating the two of them. Bucky could almost see the blue waistcoat around its small body, its paw disappearing into the pocket to take out a golden pocket watch.

“You know the story?”

Silence.

“I hope you don’t, or else I’ll just be reciting.”

Bucky cocked his head to the side, the picture disappearing from his retina like a puff of smoke, taking the deep and hot feeling of longing with it, like it hadn’t been there in the first place.

He turned to his initial goal of the day again, walking under the brown sunshade (pondering when the last time the fabric had seen the inside of a washing machine, like he did every day) as the little wave of Mr. Takemoto wiped the frown from his face, previous state of mind forgotten.

-

Step over tile.

What day was it again? Friday?

Avoid flyer guy. Bucky seriously considered taking another route just to evade the man.

Greet Texas- No, not Texas anymore.

Another perfume ad.

Redhead wasn’t in today, because she’s always off on Sundays. Right, it’s Sunday today.

The old couple is, and he nods.

The grey feline still there, nose turned away from its white, next door neighbor. Bucky believed the cat should really try and be more open, since it is stuck in a 3 by 3 feet cage and didn’t really have that many choices for socializations.

He understood, though.

-

Tile. Flyer. Not Texas. Ad. Redhead with two cappuccinos and a cheesecake. White furball.

Bucky hadn’t even noticed when grey turned into white, but as he was at the end of yet another week gone by, and he had step to the left to let some pretend rich man slide past, he spotted the empty right cage for the first time.

And he felt disappointed, because it was yet another part of his well structured routine that was now gone. First Texas, and now grey cat.

It had been a sad looking little thing, with more attitude than should be possible to hone in such a small body, but, now that it was gone, it was like a missed opportunity.

Not that he would have ever bought it, but still. The choice was there, and now it wasn’t.

The other animal, the one taking Bucky in with a thorough inspection, as if now he was suddenly the one on sale, looked extra lonely without his unbothered friend beside him.

He’d love Chimney, Bucky guessed, since Nat’s incessant orange tomcat could not have been more demanding. A shrill, whining sound - it can not be called meowing - coming from the back of it’s throat like it had the world on its tiny, uneven shoulders and he was the president commanding his people.

Natasha was a loyal citizen of its world, of course, worsening its already spoiled behavior by meeting every demand of her president.

He could bring it with him whenever he and the ex-widow would meet for training, so that it didn’t have to feel lonely. Not like he- it, did now.

Or not.

No. No, definitely not.

He could barely take care of his Money plant, he’d didn’t want to imagine the damage he would do to an actual living thing.

He didn’t need to imagine it.

-

The steam rolling off his fresh coffee helped him turn inwards.

The older, - technically, younger - red lipped waitress sweetening Bucky up with a roll of her tongue. ‘You tell me if you need anything, Sugar’

It always took a good moment of staring blankly ahead, watching a couple display an uncomfortable amount of pda right across from his booth, to make his thoughts set straight.

He knew by now he was a regular customer in the coffee joint, every waiter that worked here knew his order by heart.

Medium black coffee.

He didn’t even like it.

But, it kept him going enough, the bitter taste shocking his nerve system like he was swallowing poison. Might as well.

It was a hoax. Something that should come with a warning sign. The stark black liquid did not live up to the immaculate smell of its original form. It made you think you had discovered a new world wonder. Standing in a field under the trees, watching the flowers work and feel the wind singing with a reclaimed love for oneself and life.

The drink tastes like unnecessary ache.

The leather scratched his fingertips as he opened the overly used notebook, turning to the page he last worked on, pointedly ignoring the sentences he wrote on the left page.

His coffee was his company.

It grew cold and untouched.

[antianakin]

Also, I had another question for you, if you don’t mind giving your thoughts on it: I recently came across a post criticizing Obi-Wan and Yoda for not telling Luke that Anakin was ‘Darth Vader’: AKA: his father. And I think it’s been kind of established that they were going to tell Luke when they felt he was ready, but when things spiraled out of control at the beginning of ‘A New Hope’ that they thought it would just be too painful? And like… OBVIOUSLY they are not telling Luke he needs to kill Anakin to be cruel. They’re telling him Anakin WILL force Luke’s hand into having to defend himself because Anakin will try to slice Luke’s fucking head off. Lol.

But anyway, the reason this tumblr post I came across bothered me is because it was really vindictive and bitter in accusing Yoda… of wanting revenge. Like… saying THAT’S the reason Yoda tried to get Luke to kill Anakin. And not… idk… the fact the galaxy was on fire. 🤦‍♀️ Essentially, they admitted that what the Jedi went through was a genocide. But instead of showing SYMPATHY, they turned it around by saying that Yoda was CRUEL and demonizing him even if he DID want revenge… as a GENOCIDE victim. And it just felt… SO gross. 😭🤢 Because it was OBVIOUS what they cared about the most was Anakin’s pain in the suit and Luke’s conflict with killing Anakin. But Yoda being a GENOCIDE VICTIM meant nothing to them. And that isn’t even the REASON Yoda and Obi-Wan say Luke may have to kill Anakin! It’s because Anakin is dangerous and burning the galaxy down with Palpatine at that point in time. Essentially; they believe it’s for the greater good.

But what REALLY grinds my gears is how even if their theory about Yoda WAS true… they would demonize the GENOCIDE VICTIM over wanting justice/revenge over the actual guy who helped slaughter them. 🤦‍♀️🤢 It just… pissed me off SO much. Lol.

But anyway, you don’t have to give your thoughts if you don’t want to, but I always love hearing your take on backwards logic like this from radical Anakin/Anidala/anti Jedi fans (this was from a radical Anidala fan, which I guess makes sense now that I think about it why they didn’t care about the Jedi’s plight and just the Skywalker family’s pain).

Someone else sent me an ask about something very similar to this yesterday. My response is in the queue, so I don't want to completely overlap this. But whatever post generated these asks, I'm so glad I've curated my dash enough not to have to see it.

I think people seem to overestimate the amount of time Obi-Wan and Yoda have in which they could have told Luke about Vader.

Obi-Wan is a stranger to Luke for most of his life, something that generally gets explained away in other media as Owen not wanting Obi-Wan around, but it's not super clear in the films themselves why Obi-Wan has kept his distance for so long. But regardless, he has. And Obi-Wan DOES give Luke quite a lot of information that his aunt and uncle have been keeping from him in the immediate aftermath of them meeting in ANH. He tells him that his father was a Jedi who was "killed" by Darth Vader, and he tells him Darth Vader was his student and that Vader betrayed them all. The only thing missing is that these are the same people, but also this is their FIRST conversation about this and Obi-Wan is pretty clearly trying to gently bring Luke into this wider world he's never known and not just drop a bunch of massive bombshells on his shoulders. He's also trying to convince Luke to leave Tatooine with him, and it likely won't help to tell him that his father is a traitor who is currently still an incredible danger to him.

And then Owen and Beru die and Luke is in mourning and Obi-Wan's primary focus is on getting to Alderaan and not throwing more pressure on Luke than he can handle in a situation where he's already going to feel under a lot of pressure. And then he dies. And while Obi-Wan is occasionally able to speak to Luke after he dies, it seems to be pretty sporadic at best and he can't stick around for very long until after Luke gets to Dagobah. So his ability to have a nice long conversation about Vader is incredibly minimal.

And finally there's Luke's time on Dagobah where he does seem to have more ready access to both Obi-Wan and Yoda, but Yoda is still seeing a LOT of reasons to keep this information from Luke. Luke struggles with believing in himself, he takes a weapon into the cave, he's reckless and impulsive, etc. And there's no telling just how long the two of them have together and it's more important to get Luke as trained as possible so that he stays alive (and also so that when it IS time for him to learn this information, he can HANDLE IT).

And that's it. There's always bigger priorities and good reason for both Yoda and Obi-Wan to believe that Luke isn't quite ready to learn this given how painful of a truth it would be. And you know what? When Luke IS given this information, he nearly gives up on everything as a reaction. He wasn't ready. Yoda and Obi-Wan were right.

The other ask I answered is more about Obi-Wan telling Luke he has to prepare himself for the super likely possibility that he'll have to kill his father, so I won't go into that much here. It's weird to put accusations on Yoda since, to my memory, Yoda and Luke never HAVE a conversation about Vader, let alone one where Yoda tells Luke to kill him. Is the argument supposed to be that Yoda kept the information from Luke so that Luke would always hate Anakin and therefore be more likely to kill him?

But. Yeah. The kinder, more objective answer to this is like you said, they're preparing him for the possibility that Anakin will try to kill HIM and so he might have to defend himself. They're preparing him for the possibility that Anakin CANNOT BE SAVED because he's shown exactly no inclination to stop murdering people for the last twenty some-odd years, even when faced with people he used to claim to love. Don't lose a thousand people just to save one. If Luke refuses to do what has to be done and dies as a result (or is turned into a Sith himself), the entire galaxy suffers. Leia MIGHT be able to pick up the torch after him (although she'd never have a living master to help her train), but it would probably take YEARS before she could manage to do what Luke could not.

The more bitter answer to this from someone who's not a fan of Anakin is that Anakin deserves it. Like you said, I'm more inclined to feel sympathy for the people who are genocide victims wanting justice or even vengeance for what was done to them than I am inclined to feel sympathy for the person who committed said genocide. It's why I feel a hell of a lot more sympathy for Reva than I ever have for Anakin (Reva also stops killing people WAY earlier than Anakin and shows more empathy towards people she's not personally related to than Anakin ever does). I'm over here HOPING that suit hurts him, I HOPE that he struggles to breathe every day, I hope his breath burns in his lungs every time air is pumped into him, I hope he feels that pain every moment of every day he has to stay alive. I could not give less of a shit about Anakin's pain. It's not even just the one genocide, either. Every single clone who dies after Order 66, their enslavement and loss of what little autonomy they had, can thank Anakin for what was done to them. And then he spends over TWENTY YEARS spreading pain and destruction and death across the galaxy. There are MILLIONS of lives gone exclusively because of Anakin. Anakin is DROWNING in the blood of the people he's killed. I hope it suffocates him. Even if Obi-Wan and Yoda DID want Luke to kill his father out of vengeance, I wouldn't blame them.

So yeah. Fuck Anakin. Who gives a shit if he's in pain. Luke is so lucky he didn't have to actually get to know his complete shit heel of a father and that his primary father figures ended up being Owen, Obi-Wan, and Yoda. Imagine how awful his life would've been if he'd actually had to live with Anakin as a father at any point. Luke dodged a bullet in so many ways.

This is why I don't engage with people like that anymore. There's so little point. I'm set in my ways and opinions now for the most part and they likely are, too. Arguing with them is just going to make everybody feel worse. I'd rather stay in my corner, even if I'm ranting in that corner.

[ecoustsaintmein]

covet, part iii of ???

part i here | part ii here | part iv here | part v here

pairing: paddy x eoin; rating T (so far), slow burn. hurt/comfort. angst. unreliable narrator (paddy i'm looking at you)

based on this tumblr post by @cloudyfacewithjam:

"Canon Divergence AU: Paddy gave the Claddagh ring to Eoin as a friendship gift back in Ireland, and Eoin kept it during and after the war despite their falling out (because they were both stupid and emotionally compromised). They eventually reconcile, but after a while, Paddy notices that the ring has changed its placement - and he promptly loses his mind, while Eoin is stoically silent about it."

--

he walks with a limp, now, and a stick. the way stirling did when he spoke to paddy in jail, to coax him into joining the sas.

except paddy's much older now. his bones creak the loudest even with the tiniest movements. he doesn't know if these scars will ever heal. between the agony of his body and the pains of his soul, paddy thinks, i need something to distract myself. i need to immerse myself in work, even if i hate it. i need to help around the house, help francie and barbara, even if i don't know how to. i will learn how to smile and stand up straight even if it kills me.

but at night he will go to sleep and feel helpless. feel like he is nothing but a burden, a useless impostor who's got no reason to be the secretary of whatever and whichever society, or the man of the house since billy left. he's an invalid.

he can't even mow the lawn right. he goes to work and groans when the meetings go on and on about choosing stationery and furniture instead of actual solicitors' work. he goes to the shops with barbara and gets irritated by the time it takes to choose between four types of butter, or the queue at the cashiers, or the way people stare at him between the awe and the fear. he goes home and the door to the study needs fixing. the hinges fall off. he lost the screws and he lost his mind.

eoin finds him throwing vases at the door, smashed and broken. the rug is wet and the flowers wilt next to the monster that paddy's become. shattered glass pieces on the floor, akin to the shattered remnants of paddy's sanity. eoin tiptoes around the broken glass the way he tiptoes around paddy, crouches next to him, saying, paddy.

paddy.

paddy.

i'm worried about you. let me help you.

paddy snarls at him then, the way he's never snarled at eoin before. this is how he knows he's sick, though he doesn't want to admit it out loud. he says, i dont need help. help is for the weak and i don't want your pity. you've got your life and i've got mine. this is what i look forward to every day, this waking nightmare. i relive the wars of the old days when i go to bed and wake up to a raging battle inside my own head. there is no respite. there is nothing to live for, now, save for the mundane.

aye, eoin sighs. i know this is not the desert, paddy. this is not sicily or normandy. i know even if it's home, it's not home for you. the world's changed and i know it's hard work to adapt. but i know you, paddy. you always adapt even if you'll do it kicking and screaming, but let me help you. i can't help you if you're not willing to let me help you.

you sound like stirling, paddy huffs. you have your own life now and I've got mine, eoin. this is my battle to fight now, not yours.

eoin clenches his jaw, brows furrowed. i've got one more year in trinity, paddy. then I'll come back up. I'll come back here to work. i'll come back.

but paddy's not listening. what is eoin saying, when he says that he'll come back? come back where? come back to paddy? to flaunt his perfect life with his perfect smile and a perfect wife? while paddy is languishing?

but then, paddy thinks: eoin deserves a good life. he's a good soul. he deserves to have a perfect life with his perfect smile and a perfect wife, even while paddy languishes.

i saw you die, paddy says, instead. closes his eyes. tries to shake the image away.

that wasn't me, paddy, eoin says, as if he knows about the dreams that paddy's been having. the shame of it makes paddy angry, the fact that eoin's seen him like that. so he lashes out, even when eoin's trying to show kindness.

paddy spits, you can help me, eoin. if it would please you to help me. please go back to dublin with siobhan and leave me alone, because there's nothing you can do here for me.

he is bitter and eoin looks at him like he's a lost cause. paddy had been unyielding then, many years ago, when he'd grabbed that captain's balls despite eoin's pleading. paddy's seen the way he's knocked off his king on the chessboard, as if to say, i give up.

eoin's got the same look on his face now.

as if to say, i'm giving up on you.

back in heliopolis, in that mess hall, paddy's had the captain to direct his rage.

now, there is no one here but eoin; sweet lovely eoin. so paddy directs it at the one person that hasn't deserved it one bit. even if paddy hasn't meant to. the words come rushing out before he could stop himself. if he could swallow them back in, no matter how venomous, he would. even if it kills him.

but they're out and paddy can't take them back and eoin's hurt. paddy could see it in his eyes.

quietly eoin picks up the broken pieces of glass. holds them gingerly in between his long, beautiful fingers. the claddagh ring glinting in the afternoon light. i don't want you to get hurt, paddy, he says. even if it's the last thing I'll ever do for you.

then, eoin leaves.

--

two months later, paddy writes: sorry, eoin. please forgive me for all the things that i've said and done.

eoin replies, there's nothing to be sorry about. are you getting the help you need, paddy?

this life is not for me, eoin, paddy's written back. purposefully ignoring eoin's question about getting help. and then: i keep seeing you die, in my dreams.

i'm here, eoin reassures him.

i'm here, and i'm alive, paddy.

--

don't worry about me, eoin says. i worry about you.

--

paddy spends his time composing letters and managing people and administrative work. they bore him to death, but he's coping.

for eoin's sake, and for his family's sake. he will cope. even if it's out of spite, sometimes.

he drinks, and he drinks, though it's not as if other people don't.

he gets a tiny bit giddy when he gets the post and he sees an envelope stamped at dublin. after what he's done, he's surprised that eoin still replies to him, after what he's said.

out of courtesy, he asks, how siobhan's been doing.

aye, eoin replies, she's well. she asks after you, too.

what paddy doesn't ask, is 'what is siobhan to you?' instead he asks, 'have you seen any rugby? i'm coming down for a match. maybe we could meet.' he tells eoin the date and the time.

eoin says, 'i've got an exam i need to study for, so i'll have to miss the match. but maybe we can meet after?'

aye, paddy thinks. he'll take that.

he'll take what he can get, even if he doesn't deserve eoin's kindness.

--

the problem with the drink and the morphine and the hypnosis sessions he's been going to, is this:

it doesn't mix well when paddy's in a rowdy crowd, in a rugby stadium in dublin.

eoin and his mam and francie and barbs have been asking him to get help, so begrudgingly, he did. except he thinks that dr taylor is a quack with his freudian-jungian method and the dreams get worse. so he self-medicates.

they don't mix well when paddy's in a rowdy crowd, in a pub in dublin.

so he drinks, and he drinks some more, and thinks --

yes, i'll go and find somewhere familiar to go to, even if i can't see eoin tonight.

it's not home, but at least it'll be close enough.

--

this is how he finds himself in a jail cell in dublin, and eoin bailing him out:

he didn't realize that the house he went to was categorically not the rugby club he once attended in his youth. he didn't realize that he'd punched a senator in the face and destroyed his furniture. he didn't realize that he'd passed out, until he woke up in a cell.

and eoin was outside the locked bars, watching him, waiting, waiting.

like he always does.

now, why does this feel so familiar? eoin asks, rhetorical, when paddy stirs. he manages to sit up straight, not without a loud groan, his back curved against the wall. ah, yes, eoin chuckles to himself. i bailed you out the last time you were in jail, too.

the police officer unlocks the cell and gestures for paddy to leave. eoin tuts and shrugs at the officer, smiling a cheeky smile. as if taunting them, eoin walks out of the gloomy station with paddy, whistling away, like he's got no care in the world.

the sun shines bright in paddy's eyes. but in that moment, eoin seems to shine even brighter.

--

why don't you stay with me for a bit? eoin asks.

i can't, paddy says. you've got exams to study for. i've got to go back to belfast, there's ma, there's work.

maybe you should take a holiday. maybe you can help me study, eoin insists. after all, aren't you the secretary of the incorporated law society of northern ireland? paddy scoffs at eoin's jest, before eoin purses his lips and falls silent.

and maybe, eoin says, almost a whisper, maybe i can help you, too.

paddy takes a sharp, deep breath.

help with what, eoin doesn't say.

--

Eoin thinks:

It's not home, for Paddy at least, but at least it'll be close enough.

--

An Interlude:

Eoin remembers the turmoil of warfare. It’s become part of him; formative in the way discipline is drilled into him and a saving grace when it keeps his cool under pressure. This was what he learnt in Ballymena with the Ulster Rifles, and then the 10 Commando.

But the war became more fucked up. So the only way to win is to become fucked up. Who in their right minds would go behind enemy lines and do the things they did? Who would've jumped out of a perfectly good airplane? And Paddy had marched into the calamity, chaos blazing, and yet they've all eventually turned out alright. 

When Lewes died and Stirling Junior was captured, Eoin's noticed how Paddy became more unsure of himself, doubting his own leadership capabilities. Eoin could have laughed at that, because he'd never doubted it for one second. Yes, Paddy was insane. Yes, Paddy was unhinged. But so were Jock and Tonkin and Fraser. They all had to be. Nobody would've screwed up in the SAS, unless GHQ wanted them to screw up. Paddy was just trying to look out for his men.

Paddy was just trying to look out for him.

--

The long walk home is frighteningly silent.

The metal key is warm between Eoin's fingers. He feels the burn of Paddy's stare on his skin, intently studying him while Eoin goes through the mundane motions of opening a locked door. He steps into the darkness of his flat, before Paddy follows right behind and switches on the lights. The door clicks shut, with Paddy standing between Eoin and the front door, quietly gauging Eoin's reaction.

Paddy looks angry. He always does, but here, in Eoin's private space, he looks angrier than ever. Uncomfortable.

Back in 1941, Paddy's always had something to rile against. Then they joined the SAS and Paddy was in his element. This cloying domesticity that he's living in now, at Mount Pleasant, is not it. Paddy is a Lewes bomb waiting to explode. And Eoin knows that Paddy tries to douse the fire with drink and pain medications. Francie's told this as much to him.

Paddy needs someone to rile against, and Eoin doesn't want it to be Paddy himself.

So Eoin offers the next best thing.

He says, "Paddy? Hit me."

Paddy's eyes widen with disbelief. As if surprised that Eoin's been the madman all along. "What the fuck are you on about?"

"Hit me," Eoin repeats himself, slower, calmer. "I know you've been angry about a lot things. So hit me."

"I don't want to hurt you."

Eoin tilts his head and narrow his gaze. "But you've thought about it. You want to hurt something. Hurt me."

"No," Paddy says, firm. Loud. Clear.

"I'm not fragile, Paddy. I can fight. You've seen me fight, so fucking hit me, yeah? And I will hit you back. Just because you fucking hurt your back doesn't mean I'm going to go easy on you."

Paddy still stares at him incredulously, although Eoin could sense that his alcohol-fogged brain is turning, whirring, analysing. Eoin takes the brief moment to step closer to Paddy and flicks his left ear with his thumb and forefinger. A cheeky taunt. Eoin grins like a madman when he sees Paddy's throat move, letting out a menacing growl.

"So, you think you're that good, pretty boy?" Paddy asks.

"Old man," Eoin jeers, not unkindly. "Show me what you're made of."

"Fuck you."

"Well," Eoin tuts. "Fuck youse too."

Paddy stands tall, and nearly menacing in this light. He's restless on his feet, with his hair coiffed up to give him the extra height he doesn't need. It is also Paddy, who eventually lunges first, full of fury and despair. Yet -- tactically advantageous, swift, precise.

Eoin very nearly fumbles in surprise, but only nearly – and he wishes that there's a different way to do this, to tame Paddy's id. But they're here now, between the four walls of Eoin's flat. He wishes he could just evade Paddy's advances, but Eoin's mind decides to retaliate, to think one step ahead. He steps to the side causing Paddy to lose his balance, and Eoin takes that chance to hold Paddy in his grip, seeing as Eoin still has the physical advantage of being taller. Paddy tries to free himself, but fails to do so, so they end up struggling while holding onto each other, panting into each other’s skin, while trying to make the other lose his balance.

Eventually Paddy manages to slip away from Eoin’s hold, throwing him off-kilter, causing him to fall down – but Eoin grabs Paddy in a headlock instead, breathing into the crook of Paddy's neck. He sees a trickle of sweat running down Paddy's neck, and while Eoin's never been the most religious, he swears to God that he wishes he’d never seen that. He wishes that the thought of wanting to lick the spot and taste the salt on Paddy's skin, has never crossed his mind. The thought of wanting to leave a bite mark to claim Paddy as his.

But this is a civilised world for civilised men.

They were no longer the men that they were.

When it was the desert, and him, and Paddy.

Paddy uses the opportunity of Eoin's momentary lapse in concentration to roll them over, tangling his legs with Eoin’s, before clamping down directly above him. Making sure that Eoin has no room to escape beneath Paddy. Eoin could easily kick back, but he is lost in Paddy's feral grin, before it changes to something completely different in a split second. It reminds Eoin of the night when Paddy's asked if Eoin would come to Burma with him. It reminds Eoin of the day when he's told Paddy that he would join the SAS too. The slight elation, the anticipation in Paddy's gaze. And now, as Eoin is trapped beneath the warmth of Paddy's weight, he realizes that Paddy's expression is exactly the same. Except -- Paddy's pupils are blown wide, there's a tenderness there that Eoin's never allowed himself to see before, his face close, as Paddy dips his head down lower, lower–

Paddy hesitates, just for a brief moment, and Eoin uses this chance to knee him in the chest before rolling them around again, straddling Paddy in the process. Paddy wriggles underneath him, as Eoin pins his arms above his head, leaning down – and it seems that Paddy’s fighting spirit seems to have waned, as he resists less and less. Completely giving in to whatever Eoin is doing to him, his mouth partially open and eyes half-lidded, all while staring up back at Eoin.

Eoin has to close his eyes for a brief second, before Paddy’s hips snap up. Eoin opens his eyes and stifles a gasp when Paddy lets out his name, 'Eoin', gutturally. As if begging him to do something more. Begging him for something that the world will curse them for.

This isn’t sparring.

This isn't Paddy being angry.

This, Eoin doesn't even know what this is.

--

"Paddy, talk to me."

"I can't," Paddy says.

He can't, and Eoin knows this, because there are no words for it. There are no words for the exquisite type of torture that Paddy's currently experiencing.

Instead of talking, Eoin is pulled into a firm embrace – a brotherly, camaraderie-like, no-nonsense manly hug complete with awkward pats on his back – and he remembers sharing a similar hug with Paddy on the last day before they went on separate ways -- Paddy to the Falklands and Eoin to Belfast.

Paddy's gone silent, then he could hear what he thinks was laughter -- before realizing that he's got it all backwards. It's Paddy crying, full racking sobs against his chest. "I don't know what I'm doing. Everything is so hard and nothing clicks together, the way it had clicked when we were in Kabrit. I'm home," Paddy chokes, "--but I'm a stranger to my own family."

"You're not a stranger to me," Eoin says, because it's the truth.

"They're scared of me. They're all scared of me. I try to be kind, I try to be good, but they could see the devil in me."

"I'm not scared of you, Paddy. I'm not scared of you," he says, again and again. Hoping that Paddy will listen, hoping that Paddy will understand, as his sobs begin to quieten. "Shh, Paddy. Let it out," Eoin whispers on the crown of Paddy's head. "Let it all out."

And Eoin begins to sing,

"Oh, Paddy, this London’s a wonderful sight, With people all working by day and by night. Sure they don’t sow potatoes, nor barley, nor wheat, But there’s gangs of them digging for gold in the street."

Paddy starts to chuckle against Eoin's chest, shoulders shaking, face wet with tears. "It's Mary, you eejit," he hiccups. "Not Paddy."

Another hiccup.

Eoin begins to laugh too. "I know. I just wanted to make you smile."

And Paddy does smile, then.

And they sing together,

"At least when I asked them that’s what I was told, So I just took a hand at this digging for gold, But for all that I found there I might as well be Where the Mountains of Mourne sweep down to the sea."

They finish the song, in harmony, holding each other --

"There’s beautiful girls here, oh never you mind, With beautiful shapes nature never designed, And lovely complexions all roses and cream, But let me remark with regard to the same: That if of those roses you venture to sip, The colours might all come away on your lip, So I’ll wait for the wild rose that’s waiting for me In the place where the dark Mourne sweeps down to the sea."

--

That night, after dinner and Eoin's had his shower, he makes sure that Paddy's comfortable in the spare bedroom.

He retires to his own bed, and stares at the ring on his right finger.

Maybe, maybe.

He takes it off.

Puts it back on.

The other way around.

--

tbc

part iv here

[snepfeathers]

since my wife and I need to build up funds a little bit more, I've been trying to brainstorm ideas while working through my commission queue. I'll probably tackle multiple of these ideas at some point, but which sounds most interesting to you right now?

notes:

a competition style gain drive would probably be between Nyx, Aleyxi, and Zephyr, although I might see if my wife would want to throw their sona(s) in the mix too. likes/reblogs would count towards the weight gain as usual, so people can participate without sending money (although it would definitely add up faster than interaction alone, lol). the top donors would get their own character drawn in the next piece of the sequence too if they want

a solo gain drive would probably be Nyx focused. I like the idea of styling it as "offerings to the moon goddess," or some pun about full moons, y'know the drill here. it'd probably be a bit more comic styled, with some background work instead of the typical empty void drives tend to take place in. again, top donors would get their characters featured if they want.

Your Character Here options, pretty self explanatory. if you vote for this one let me know what you'd like to see. I might set up some short sketch style sequence options.

general commission sale: it wouldn't be a huge discount but probably something like throwing in free shading, or a reduced price for sequences/multiple characters. I'm a bit undecided at the moment

adoptables: design work is pretty fun, I'd entertain the idea of making some characters to auction off. winner gets a sketch style front/back/bust ref and autobuys would have extra art

general commissions are still open, you can see my prices here:

and my wife is having a commission sale too! check out their post here:

[mrghostrat]

yall went so hard on my kofi, and have continued being so so supportive of my fics and art, my “easy food” fund just dipped below 3 digits for the first time since i posted about it in april 🥺 thank you all so fucking much

a life update:

meds are back in stock, and i’ve gotten into a much better mindset for motivation and general work flow. i’m leaving the house more to work at the local library or eat my breakfast at my fave nearby cafe. the easy meal fund has lifted a massive burden and eating has been so much more consistent.

meals and cooking are still hard; i can’t remember the last time i cooked, thanks to zita taking charge, but she’s falling under a lot of work stress at the moment too, so we’ve been ordering out more. it’s worked out pretty financially even to order uber eats more often, which gives us full rich meals and leftovers for the next day, instead of buying tons of groceries we just end up throwing out.

i’m also looking for a 9-5 job, which you might’ve seen me mention. i’m applying for every admin/assistant/reception job i can find, because i just want to get out of the house and into a Work Culture and do something steady and helpful all day. i wanna come home and have no thoughts of work, and draw/create only for fun. i left my commission queue on hold to start with, but now i’m in the flow of it, i’m starting to take one or two a week again, since i’ve nearly emptied my savings.

thank you again for all the care and support, even yall who can’t donate but leave hugs and nice words in the replies. it’s very sweet to feel so protected from all over the globe 🙈

[leeechin]

☆ he got that in him

shy bf jungwon ! (18+) 🪽 🦢 ☀️ 🫧

a/n: i feel like this isn't rlly jungwon :( !! but it's all just fiction 🙄 and i just love this man sooo much. please do let me know if there are typos! i do go over before i publish but i sometimes miss it 😢 reqs are open !! don't be afraid to ask :)

✧ pairing: idol!jungwon x influencer!reader + warnings: smut with plot YAYYY. dom!jungwon x subfem!reader, unprotected sex (don't do that), jungwon hits it from the back lol, riding, ass slapping, degradation (use of the words whore, slut, etc), pet names (baby, won, wonnie, etc), size kink, orgasm denial (so mean jungwon), rough sex, jungwon is such a shy guy wrapped around your finger in public, but is such a freak in bed it’s insane.

word count: [2.8K]

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you quite literally needed jungwon every second in your life. your attachment to him was so strong it was sometimes concerning.

"are you sure you don't want to just go with me in my car?" your boyfriend asks, walking out of your bathroom with a towel wrapped around his lower waist.

you didn't respond but instead stared at the muscles on his stomach, watching how his lower abdomen sucked in a little bit and you were so entranced by the sight infront of you, mouth watering slightly. your whole world stopped for a bit to just simply admire yang jungwon.

you're finishing up some assignments for class. you decided that you're joining jungwon at his group's house gathering an hour or two later than the time he's arriving. you didn't have to worry about missing out too much, the gathering will be going on for a while.

it was jake who decided to throw a mini gathering, including all of the members, and a few other people including you. the gathering including your favorite, an outdoor barbecue and bonfire.

"yeah won." you frown, "have to finish this thesis or else professor jeong will not give me the end of it." scoffing at the mention of your professor. you turn around and your eyes nearly pop out of your socket at what you see. "actually.. are you sure we even have to go..?" you tease, now standing infront of your boyfriend and teasing the sides of the towel that could be down with one small tug, wanting to pull it off your boyfriend.

"quit it perv!" jungwon jokes, "you'll get what's under this towel later tonight." he winks, wrapping a hand around your waist to give you a kiss, you whined when he pulled his soft lips away. "now be a good girl and finish your assignments, i'll see you there in couple hours." patting the back off your ass playfully. going to the closet and picking out an outfit.

you curiously watch your boyfriend style his hair, focus completely shifted from the work you had left with school. "don't you have some assignments to finish?" eyebrows raising at your eyes not blinking once.

"yeahyeah your right." you respond a little flustered, a slight tint flowing on your cheeks. jungwon walks over to your desk, placing a kiss on the top of your head. "see you later baby." then he walked out of your room.

you sigh, already missing the presence of your jungwon. it takes another hour and a half before you're finished with all of your assignments for the week. closing your laptop aggressively, victory filling in your head as you don't have to worry about completing your work this weekend.

you're quick to change out of jungwon's t-shirt, putting on a pair of dark green cargo shorts that hugged your thighs perfectly, and a simple white baby tee with the brands cute logo on the back. grabbing your keys on the counter by the door, dashing out the door, to your car. you had a feeling that you wouldn't be returning home tonight, instead staying over at enhypen's house.

"what's that look on your face jungwon? missing y/n huh?" jake teases him. "she's got him wrapped around her finger! see how she always initiates everything!" jay adds on. "she probably controls ALL the shit that goes on in bed!" someone else says.

"i am NOT talking to you guys about my bed activities." the members laughing at jungwon's quick defense. knowing they're right, atleast they think so.

arriving at the house, you might've underestimated the weather, feeling a little bit cold as you welcomed yourself in, kicking your shoes off at the entrance, carrying them with you to the backyard to put them on again.

"look who's here! we were just talking about you!" ni-ki greets you. "nothing bad i hope." you respond, "don't worry it wasn't anything bad! just talked about how you've practically got jungwon wrapped around your finger." sunoo says, maybe he ran his mouth a little too much, sunghoon glaring at him as sunoo placed both of his hands over his mouth.

you laugh in response to that, "jungwon's just such a loving boyfriend. i really hit the jackpot with this one." beaming at jungwon, you were being held with one arm around your waist. jay started the barbecue and the rest of the members went to help with setting up everything.

jungwon noticed your body slightly shivering. "are you cold sweetheart?" "mm, just a little bit" murmuring that as a reply. your boyfriend taking off his sweatshirt that he was wearing and putting it on you. "i'm not that cold anyways. gotta go help set up stuff, karina's by the pool chairs." he gives you a kiss on your cheek.

"nice arms" you tease, moving one of your hands to squeeze his now bare biceps. you were definitely going to thank heesung later for urging jungwon to frequent the gym more. that white t-shirt was hugging all the right parts of jungwon's upper half.

"not right now baby." he speaks in a low voice to you, "can't help it you look so hot right now." whining and looking up to your boyfriend. jungwon leans down to give you a quick kiss on your lips. karina's waving over to you as you walk towards the poolside, giving a quick turn to see your boyfriend immediately jump in to help with setting up the table.

"girl you have been oogling and staring at your boyfriend for the past five minutes now, without saying anything!" karina says, waving her hand in front of you, making you finally blink again for the first time in a few minutes. "seriously thank your brother for me. he's been taking jungwon to the gym more often." your best friend just scoffs at you in amusement.

"dude, y/n has not looked one second away from you." sunghoon points out, nudging jungwon with his elbow. the members snicker at jungwon's flustered reaction, going back to setting up the table.

"jungwon!" you call out, jungwon jumps at the sudden sound of your voice. "yeah babe what's up!" he exclaims, nearly stuttering at every word. "were you guys bullying my boyfriend." you frown at his fellow members, "because he only gets like this when someone's been teasing him."

"no definitely did NOT!"

"sure, sure." you roll your eyes jokingly, turning to jungwon with a mischievous glint. now he knew that you were up to something.

"won, i think i left something in your room when i was staying with you a few days ago, can i go look for it?" "yeah i'll help you find it pretty." the other members not noticing you and jungwon disappearing, too focused on the food grilling on the barbecue and setting up the table.

walking into the house, your eyes are set on the entrance of jungwon's room, looking behind you and throwing a smirk at jungwon, quickening your pace to his room door. but you felt yourself being tugged into the bathroom.

"do you enjoy teasing me infront of everybody?" he growls, using a hand to hold both your cheeks and turn you to face the bathroom mirror infront of the counter, his other hand gripping your asscheek. you don't respond, eager for jungwon to bend you over the counter and just fuck the shit out of you.

"i asked you a question baby." jungwon says, staring directly at you on the mirror. hand gripping your asscheek a little tighter. you whine and push your hips back, feeling his bulge rub against your clothed ass, shorts rising up and you continued your movements. "need you so bad wonnie please." your boyfriend laughs at your neediness. using both of his hands to grip your waist and hold you in place.

"i don't know sweetheart. you've been teasing the fuck out of me since you've got here." jungwon murmurs, unbuttoning your cargos shorts, sliding your panties down to your knees and moving two of his digits to collect your wetness. "please jungwon! i can't help it that you feel so good everytime!" you babble attempting to wiggle your hips side to side. jungwon finds you so desperate for him to be so amusing.

"you enjoy being a needy whore for me don't you? the way you're dripping around my fingers show me that you do." humiliation tints on your face as you look at yourself on the mirror. it's thrown away when you feel two of jungwon's digits enter you all of a sudden.

you let out a gasp at the intrusion, the stretch of his two fingers hitting you so deep as jungwon already sets a relentless pace, his other hand moving up to push your hair to the side, trailing soft kisses on your exposed collarbone.

"oh shit wonnie, feels so good!" you moan, shutting your eyes as you revel in the feeling of jungwon's fingers working wonders deep inside your cunt. your small noises spurring jungwon to add a third finger.

the feeling of him scissoring and hitting your g spot repeatedly made the pleasure feel so overwhelming. "you gonna close baby?" jungwon noticing the way your pussy tighten and swirled around his fingers. in response, you nodded.

feeling jungwon's pace fasten, your pussy clenches around his digits so tightly, you felt that knot in your stomach about to be undone, but wait… that feeling fades when jungwon pulls his fingers out abruptly, laughing at your pathetic attempt to grind back against him.

"two more hours until i fuck the absolute shit out of you." your eyes widen as you whine at your boyfriend's words. jungwon helped you pull your panties back up, along with your cargo shorts. he gives your ass a playful smack, making you turn around and throw a pout at him.

"you're so mean." your lips curl into a frown looking at the way jungwon has no remorse.

. ✦ · .

⠀⠀ ⠀⠀˚ ⊹ ˚

⠀⠀ ⊹

the sounds of your and jungwon's lips smacking against each other filled the room. everyone else being long asleep, as it was pretty late in the night and the gathering ending a couple hours ago.

all that was left on your was your bra, thin material barely holding together your tits that jungwon adored and worshipped so much. the straps slid off your shoulders, being pulled down and showing your lucious tits. with your bra not even being properly off, jungwon's hands grabbing at your boobs, nipples in between his fingers as he twisted and fondled at them.

you let out low sighs of pleasure, feeling like jelly from your standing position, you would've fell down if it wasn't for jungwon's tight hold. "fuck baby, i would have you blow me right now but i need to fuck that sweet pussy of yours." your boyfriend manhandles you onto your front, onto the bed.

"arch that back for me pretty." jungwon says cursing at the slight of your slick dripping out of your spent pussy, down your legs. if only his fellow members knew he had you wrapped around his finger like this. the way you begged for him to fill you up with his thick cock that sent you into an overdrive of pleasure, fat tears streaming down your face as you go thru an intense orgasm.

and you didn't care to conceal or cover your sounds. jungwon completely forgot about that.. only focused on ruining you tonight.

but before all of this, he gave you a prior orgasm by eating you out. the sight of your needy hole throbbing, practically looking like it was ready to pull his cock in made jungwon let out a long groan.

loosing all of his patience to tease you any further. jungwon's hands are on the side of your hips guiding you to the position. you turn your head, tears slightly fogging your vision, seeing how jungwon slid off his boxers and gave his cock a few harsh strokes, you admired the veins that were decorated along his length, his pre-cum oozing out of his mushroom tip. you were entranced by the sight, mouth watering as you watch jungwon align his tip with your entrance.

circling his tip around your wetness, collecting it on his tip to use as lube. he pushes into you, one hand on your hip, and the other pushing your face into the pillow to try to suppress your loud shrieks and moans of his name. it didn't really help much because the walls were quite thin.. and the sounds of his hips smacking against the the soft plush skin of your ass echoing around the room.

you really tried to contain your sounds, hips pushing back to feel more of jungwon's cock stuffed deep into you. a hard smack lands on your left ass cheek. "naughty girl, is this not enough for you?" you mouth shapes into an 'o' as you felt jungwon increase his pace, relentless strokes hitting all parts of your body so so good.

"oh shit." you groan, eyes rolling head spinning at the sensation. it was nearly impossible with the speed jungwon's cock kept sliding in and out of you. "such a fucking pretty cockslut for me." jungwon groans, the feeling of your walls tightening around him from his words. he moves his hands to spread your asscheeks to see the way your tight walls you envelop his dick over and over again.

you let out a particularly loud moan when you feel your orgasm approaching, jungwon stopping his movements briefly to pull your head up, "shush baby, you don't want everyone hearing you like the cockwhore you are do you?"

"ngh no! too good wonnie i'm close pleaseplease?" you beg, attempting to move your hips back, jungwon's grip was too tight, just simply laughing at your state. he goes back to his moment, one hand pushing your face into the pillows, but the sounds were still quite loud, your muffled moans only spurred jungwon on more.

you lift your face up from the pillow telling jungwon that you're close, he knows by the way your body is tensing up, cunt clenching around his length so impossibly tight.

his fingers moving to your clit and rubbing your pearl as your release approaches, the coil in your stomach finally snapping around jungwon as you drop your body back onto the mattress, arms giving out and just leaving your whole upper body to rest on the sheets.

a laugh falls out of jungwon's mouth as he look at the state of you, slowing down his pace as he finishes inside of you, pulling out and seeing his cum dripping down the insides of your thighs. patting your ass softly, jungwon leans over you mumbling against your ear, "just one more pretty. i want you to ride me."

⠀⠀ ⠀⠀˚ ⊹ ˚

"oh shit" you moan as jungwon finally bottoms out in you, your walls flutter around his walls causing him to throw his head back and groan at the feeling of you. hands placed on both of your hips in a tight grip, moving you up and down on his cock. another moan escapes your lips when one of his hands move to slap one of your ass cheeks, his hand easing the sight pain afterwards. "ride me like you mean it pretty."

jungwon's hands leaving your hips and rests behind his head, enjoying the sight in front of you, your eyebrows furrowed as you try to find a good pace, soft moans of his name repeating like a prayer over and over, it was all just too good.

finally finding a good pace, you feel tired as your pace slows, jungwon groans at the feeling of his cock practically splitting you open. finally giving you some help and moving his hands back to your hips as he moves you up and down.

"mmph jungwon! m' close!" your hands find placement on both sides of his shoulders, velvety walls tightening around his length again.

"come for me y/n." was all it took for you as your eyes rolled back, nails digging into his shoulder as jungwon finishes at the same time as you, stilling his movements and painting your walls white.

⠀⠀ ⊹

your body is sprawled on the sheets, eyes half lidded as your boyfriend brings you up to help you redress yourself in a new set of clothes.

"you're insane." you sigh, knowing the next morning that your legs will be limp. jungwon laughs at you, giving you a small kiss and lays himself beside you.

as the morning comes, jungwon greets the other members a good morning, but an awkward silence is met. jungwon raises and eyebrow at the silence and the way his fellow members looked at him.

"holy shit jungwon! we didn't know you got that in you!"

[antimony-medusa]

man, just going through and queueing my thousandth emduo fan art and considering my emduo writing I'm doing this evening and with a VOD of an emduo stream open in a tab and with emduo art as my desktop background and I was just struck by a thought:

Undoubtedly this would be kinda weird to see people getting this into your friendships.

Like not even getting into whumping characters or aging them down or shipping or doing deep lore and meta of off-hand comments, just like, just the fact that I have been posting emduo art approximately 12 times a day for the past three years. Not even getting into the fact that one of those creators is dead. Like. That's gonna be a little weird to come across in the abstract, if you are a person with a friendship, seeing this friendship be like someone's blog theme. Multiple blog themes. The hashtag updates hourly.

Like I'm sure fandom is flattering, but also, there is undoubtedly a point where someone is like 'oh wait, so your entire hobby is about these characters that have my name? Like you spend hours a day on this? You have art up?" And then they go Oh Dear.

Which is why I think it's just so much greater for everyone if we keep our little derangement in fandom-specific corners of the internet and do not throw it into the creator's face. At all. Even the harmless stuff! Do not TTS about your fanfic! Sharing fan art and cosplay in the designated fan art channel— awesome. Inviting creators into your fandom group chat— boy. Can we not. As much as I am like man I could probably reach so many people, I probably should not promo fandom events in the philza discord! The actual guy is there, saying "here people can request gifts made for them about you" is gonna be weird.

There's just— there's a thing on twitter right now where this artist was making music and videos in a created world with characters, all very dreamlike and artistic, based in their childhood. And because it's the internet, someone wrote/drew NSFW of these characters. And because the internet is the way it is now, people were finding, searching out NSFW content to send it to the creator, presumably so they could take it down?

And I know these people had good intentions, however much I think that they're wrong, but I would argue that sending someone porn of characters based on you/on your kidfic is pretty close to harassment? Like do not show them that stuff. Come on. But the 'tattle to the creator' mentality was too strong.

And the creator, unsurprisingly, did not deal well with this! And then in what I think is a mistake, they have put together a team of people and a google form so that you can report if you find inappropriate or offensive content with their characters and the team will presumably try to copyright strike it. Which. Uh. Again. Is a whole horrible boundaries discourse, is going to lead to witch hunts, and I'm not sure about the legal success of copyright striking fan art and fanfic ANYWAYS.

But like this could have been avoided if instead of going "the creators need to know about this Bad Stuff" people just blocked and moved on. And I think so much more of modern fandom would take a step towards health if we could put more of a creator/fandom separation in place.

Like when I think back to the heyday of DSMP fandom and how these creators— many of them underage— were getting people sending them porn of themselves/their characters, to tattle. Oh look isn't this dark fic too dark. Look how horrible this gore is. This is borderline shipping. People were sending Phil's mods stuff tagged as QPR, because they couldn't get to Phil but he clearly so desperately needed to know this, so that he could condemn it as too close to shipping? Because that is respectful and a great idea?

And like this ranges from stuff where I'm like bro, he doesn't need to know that (small /neg, about stuff that isn't a big dealt), to bro, he doesn't need to know that (LARGE /neg, stop sending the creators porn), because like, okay, yes, you have correctly identified that this would be weird to have happen to you/to a character based on you. What you are missing here is that unless you want to usher in an era of insane copyright overreach that would make disney's lawyers ascend to a higher plane and also kill transformative fandom, there is effectively very little way to stop most of the bad stuff. Those characters are out there, people get to do what they want with them, no matter how much it's in poor taste. All you're doing when you show creators the bad stuff is making them look at stuff that is going to be unpleasant and they can't stop. So, y'know, harassment?

And even the good stuff— I know how to behave myself and act cool in public spaces the creators are in, but if they were to see the full depths of how much of my brain space is taken up by the blocks, I'm sure they'd kinda be left going hahaha you what????? Tomathy Innit was struck speechless by a single person doing a video essay analyzing L'manberg. I see that energy on the dash from dozens of mutuals every damn DAY.

Just like, man. Fandom is just a lot to shove at creators, and if they want to step in willingly that's fine, but I really think we should be so so so cautious about throwing them in bodily when they didn't ask for it. Do not rec family dynamic fics to tommy in his youtube comments. Do not tell tubbo to scroll his hashtag on tumblr. Stop telling Phil about your fanfiction in TTS. I"M SURE THE POSTING YOU ARE ALL THINKING OF IS FINE IN TERMS OF TECHNICAL WEIRD STUFF, but like— even the good stuff! Even the good stuff is a lot! "I was having a bad day but I watched some videos with the friendship in it and now I'm okay" is just a lot to drop on someone! Can we allow creators/writers/musicians/actors/authors to opt into this stuff, and not shove it at them?

And for the love of all things good stop sending people porn of themselves.

[fuck-customers]

Is this petty? Yes. Will I do it again, if necessary. Also yes.

There's 5 registers at the checkout area. 2 of them are not usually used, since they're in awkward corners, so those spaces are usually used for storage. 2 of them are next to each other against the wall where the entrance door is. The last one is on its own little island across from the other 4. I hate this one.

On a personal level, I despise the island register because I hate having my back exposed. Customers love to fucking sneak up to me instead of using the designated queue line. (No I haven't been to jail, but I am aware that being paranoid about your exposed back is a jail thing)

On a professional level, the island register is trash. You're lucky if you can get through 3 transactions before it freezes and you have to reboot the whole thing, with a 50/50 chance of losing your progress. If it's not frozen, it's lagging. You could scan 20 items 2 minutes ago, and it'll only have 1 on screen. And if you somehow manage to get to the payment part of the transaction, you better hope the customer isn't paying with card, because there's another 50/50 chance it won't read the card.

Due to all of these reasons (and probably more that I'm forgetting right now) I refuse to use that register unless I absolutely, positively have to. And even then, I'm going to complain about it.

I'm not sure what particular bug was up my boss's ass this day, but she was throwing a fit about me not using the horrible island register. I explained all of the above to her, yet she still pitched a fit and insisted I use it anyway. So to be petty, I specific called her over the radio each and every single time the register froze, was slow or malfunctioned in any way.

I only had to use that register for 20 minutes before she let me switch.

Posted by admin Rodney.