#and I’ve been a mess like I love her so so much I cannot even express it and how much serotonin I feel like this is the happiest I’ve felt | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

Visit Blog

Explore Tumblr blogs with no restrictions, modern design and the best experience.

Fun Fact

Hackers stole 65M passwords from Tumblr in 2013.

#and I’ve been a mess like I love her so so much I cannot even express it and how much serotonin I feel like this is the happiest I’ve felt

chrisevansonly · 10 months

Text

𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐩𝐥𝐞’𝐬 𝐬𝐡𝐞𝐧𝐚𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐚𝐧𝐬 | 𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐨 𝐧𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐬

᪥ social media fic

᪥ let’s be honest, you’re everyone’s favourite couple..

᪥ lando is such a cutie i couldn’t resist

y/n’sinsta

liked by mclaren, maxfewtrell, landonorris, yourbsfinsta and 5M others

safe to say I think i’ve been replaced…

tagged landonorris

see 7,000 comments

mclaren don’t worry y/n, we’ll get you one too 😉

>landonorris oh boy..

>y/n’sinsta DONT MESS WITH ME

liked by mclaren and landonorris

username not mclaren saying they’ll get y/n her own😭

username PLEASE

maxfewtrell welcome to the club y/n

>y/n’sinsta i don’t like this club😒

landonorris I could never replace you baby❤️❤️

landonorris you can both be my #1

>y/n’sinsta hmm 🤨

username 💀💀💀

landonorris

liked by y/n’sinsta, danielriccardo, f1, flonorris1 and 8M others

forever irreplaceable ❤️

tagged y/n’sinsta

see 10,000 comments

danielriccardo *insert throwing up noises*

>username HAHAHAHA

>landonorris mate you’re one to talk

>danielriccardo idk what you’re talking about

username time to go sleep on the highway

username i’m too fragile for this today

y/n’sinsta says this when in fact he would choose his car over me💔

>username GIRL-

y/n’sinsta i love you so much lan, thank you for being my sunshine❤️❤️❤️

>landonorris i love you more baby❤️

mclaren i think we need some tissues over here pls

>redbullracing us too🥹

>username HUH

>y/n’sinsta hey @/redbullracing if you send me some peach redbull i’ll come hang in the garage next race 😁

>redbullracing deal😌🤝

>landonorris EXCUSE ME

y/n’sinsta added to their story!

y/n’sinsta

liked by landonorris, yourbsfinsta, charles_leclerc, mclaren and 4M others

back with my boy getting ready to watch him do what he does best, orange is definitely my colour🧡🧡

tagged landonorris

see 5000 comments

mclaren orange is your colour no doubt y/n 😁🧡

liked by y/n’sinsta

username my favourite couple idc what anyone says

username y/n sais ‘gimme all the peach flavoured redbull but then i gotta dip”

landonorris my good luck charm, even when you leave to get redbull 🙄

>y/n’sinsta IT KEEPS ME ALIVE BE GRATEFUL

>landonorris yeah yeah yeah

>y/n’sinsta i still love you though🥹

liked by landonorris

username my heart is clenching i cannot

username can we appreciate that lando and y/n just mess w each other all the time??

a/n: second post for f1 and i decided to go with lando cause he’s just too sweet!!! anyway, requests are open as per usual! happy thursday <3

2K notes · View notes

bettysupremacy · 11 months

Text

Steve-o

Summary: Steve thinks you’re very pretty, and desperately needs your number.

A/N: i love Steve. a lot.

The world stops for approximately 5 second when Steve Harrington first sees you. It’s heavy crashing infatuation that has Steve questioning, is love at first sight real?

He’s never been a believer in this sort of thing, you get to know them, you fall for them. At least, that’s how it was with Nancy. You can’t fall In love with a person you’ve never met, you don’t even know them.

But that’s what Steve found so beautiful, the unknown.

“Dude, why aren’t you walking?” Robin turns from where she stands, realizing Steve is no longer beside her.

“It’s her, Robs.” He breathes.

“It’s who?”

“My soulmate, my pairing, my one true love.” He contradicts everything he believes in.

“Oh my god,” Robin groans annoyedly. “You cannot be serious right now, Steve.”

He nods. “As a heart attack.”

Papers scatter the Scoops Ahoy wheel table you sit at. They’re filled with words and colorful highlighter. Smart, he thinks, I know she’s smart.

“Get your ass over here and keep walking, we’re gonna be late.” He won’t budge. “God, please, Steve.”

“I need her number.” He shakes his head.

“You need one less late clock in.”

Steve whines, breaking his eye sight on you for the first time. “Let me have this, Robs.”

“I’ve let you have 3 late days, one more and Kieth said he’d fire your ass.”

“Kieth says a lot of things.” He turns his head to her. “How do I ask? Name first? Number? Age?”

“Well typically you introduce yours-“

“Fuck off, Robin, I know what I’m doing.”

He takes a moment. Maybe he should’ve let Robin finish her advice, he’s never been this nervous to ask out a girl.

“This level of melodramatic is a new low, Steve.”

“Fuck off.” This pushes him to walk into Scoops.

When he reaches the table, it’s an obvious realization that you’re studying. The papers are neat despite thrown around, and there’s a highlighter key next to your elbow. He feels guilty interrupting.

Be normal! Repeats in his head like a mantra. God!

“Hi,” he starts, he feels like he could throw up. “I’m Steve.”

You startle. “Hi, Steve.”

He laughs nervously. Robin rolls her eyes so hard her head tilts back and her hands come up to cover her face exasperatedly. You smile. Steve doesn’t.

He takes a look around the room awkwardly. How could he ever stand these blue and red lights? “I used to work here yanno.”

You nod. “You work in the video store now.”

“That I do.” He bounces in his new shoes, “Wait, have you been in?”

“Yeah, I come every Saturday.”

“No shit.” He breathes. You look taken aback, a little confused, a little offended.

“I mean! No shit, I would’ve remembered a face so pretty.”

“Good one, dingus.”

“Take a walk.” He replies quickly.

“Do you.. need something?” You ask carefully. His face crumples and something sick in your heart twists. “Not to be rude! I just- English 101 doesn’t finish itself.”

“English 101! You go to Hawkins Community? I was gonna go, I just wanted a taste of hardworking minimum wage life first” his eyes widen, “not that what you’re doing isn’t hard work!”

Can the world just cave in on him now? Shoot me.

“She asked a question, Steve-o” Robin puts in. Unhelpfully.

He glares at Robin. “I was wondering if I could get your number? It’s okay if not!” He adds quickly. “Just like- maybe we could go out sometime?”

Your head spins, pretty boy comes and asks for your number? You can’t mess this up.

“You like movies?”

“Uhh duh,” Steve laughs. Robin doesn’t know how much more she can take of this. “Totally.”

“You pick a movie,” You smile, “and come over Saturday. I’ve got a really big tv.”

Now Steve may be nervous, but he wasn’t born yesterday.

“Yeah!” He seems overeager. “Yeah,” he fixes. “I’ll pick out a movie.”

“Okay.” You smile up at him.

He juts out his wrist. “You can write it.. here.”

Your laugh cuts through his nerves like a sharp knife. “Yeah, okay.”

Pretty pink highlighter seeps into Steve’s unblemished wrist. He watches you write your number moonstricken. Your fingers press into his skin warmly and something turns in his tummy, you’re so pretty.

“Well I’ll be seeing you..” He looks at his wrist, “Y/N.”

“I’ll be seeing you, Steve-o” She takes from Robin.

He laughs, turning to walk with Robin again. “Steve-o” he mouths.

Robin is sure to have an aneurism. They were supposed to clock in 3 minutes ago.

“You happy with yourself?”

Steve grins, big and boyish. “Yeah, I am.”

#stranger things #stranger things 4 #steve Harrington #steve harrington x fem! reader #steve harrington x reader #Steve x reader #steve harrington x fem #steve harrington x you #steve harrington x y/n fluff #steve harrington x y/n #steve harrington x reader fluff

1K notes · View notes

darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 2 months

Text

Dirty Work 32

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as bullying, familial discord/abuse, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You start a new gig and find one of your clients to be hard to please.

Characters: Loki

Note: Well, this escalated in a way I didn't plan.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

Mr. Laufeyson’s voice is a low drone. You can hear his curt tone as he comes through the front door. His slither is met by a booming timbre that makes you jump. Thor speaks loudly, enough for some of his words to thunder through the walls that divide you.

Your ears pulse as you try not to listen. You know you shouldn’t. By Laufeyson’s reaction alone, you know his brother is less than welcome. Thor’s presence brings you little peace yourself as the memory of his creeping touch crawls up your spine.

You sit behind the laptop and try to focus on the screen. If you can distract yourself, it will be over soon enough and Thor will be gone. Maybe then, you can figure out why Mr. Laufeyson has turned to ice.

“...is she?” The two words echo and jar you from your failing battle.

Laufeyson’s response is short and sharp. You fill in the blanks of his deflection; ‘none of your concern’.

“...busy cleaning up your messes, eh?” Thor’s taunting question rolls upwards as footsteps hammer up the stairs, stopped halfway as another pair shuffle after them.

“I did not welcome you in,” Laufeyson is clearer now. You assume they are on the staircase with how their voices waft airily.

“Always the gracious host,” Thor counters.

“Do not lecture me on grace. Say what you’ve come to say and go. I’m busy–”

“Oh, yes, if I had a little maid like that, I’d always be busy as well–”

“Get on with it,” Laufeyson snarls.

Thor laughs heartily, “brother, one day you will see we are more alike than you care to accept. Maybe then you would see that it is the crux of our problems. You might even appreciate our shared tastes–”

“If you’ve only come to ramble, I’m not interested. I’ve spent enough time entertaining you lot–”

“You speak as if we are enemies,” Thor accuses, “you cannot waste time on family.”

“Ah, because kinship has always been sacred in your heart,” Laufeyson scoffs, “you are like a storm, you bluster but only make a mess. Say what you came to say and leave me be. I’ve work to do. Real work.”

“Well, if I am to deliver my message, I think both recipients should receive it, don’t you?”

“Say it,” Laufeyson hisses.

“But it is meant for both of you. The little maid as well–”

You sit up straight and tweak your head. You shouldn’t listen but you’re caught now. You cannot keep from overhearing.

“House manager,” Laufeyson girds, “I’m certain I can efficiently communicate whatever nonsense has drawn you here.”

“And they say I am stubborn,” Thor snorts, “Walpurgisnacht.”

“Walpurgisnacht?” Laufeyson echoes the single word.

“Surely you recall the old ways.”

“Don’t,” Laufeyson warns.

“Mother is having a celebration. Like when we were young. Father’s agreed to it.”

“She didn’t mention.”

“Ah, yes, well, you’ve much going on. She sent me to inquire after the little maid– house manager. She would require help with arranging the festivities.” Thor explains, “oh, and you’re invited too, I suppose.”

“She has her staff, does she not?”

“Frida is too old. She only serves tea and Gertrude’s never been very strong-minded. Mother needs input, not an empty vessel.”

“Charming,” Laufeyson remarks, "well, I will consider it. Next time, tell mother to call.”

“There will be many old faces. Many may even be happy to see you,” Thor goads.

“I wouldn’t expect so,” Laufeyson retorts, “must I ask you to leave anon?”

Another rolling guffaw fills the house. You hear a grunt from Laufeyson and a muted thump. Thor quiets with a sigh, “ah, fine, fine, I shall leave you to your little– house manager. You will tell her I say hello.”

Silence roils through the air. A scuff cuts through the tension and footfalls clamour down the stairs. The front door opens and closes, leaving you to wallow in the dark cloud left behind. Mr. Laufeyson’s long exhale blows up the staircase ahead of him and you listen to his approach.

You look at the door, expecting him to come through any moment. But it isn’t that one he opens. It’s the study door that slams with a terrible force. His growl permeates through and the adjoined door clicks as the lock is flicked into place. You stare at it and frown.

You don’t suppose his mood will thaw any time soon.

✨

Mr. Laufeyson does not emerge for supper. You barely eat anything yourself as anxiety tortures your stomach. You clean up after yourself and retreat upstairs.

You near the study, lingering before the door as you pluck up your courage. You tap softly on the wood. There’s no answer. You didn’t hear him go but maybe you missed it.

“I made dinner, Mr. Laufeyson. I’ve left you a plate in the oven,” you speak through the wood, to the ghost on the other side.

You traipse away in defeat. You’re entirely confused. What did you do so wrong? Even before his brother’s unprompted visit, Mr. Laufeyson was coolly apathetic. Yet that morning, in the shower, he’d been on fire, consuming you like flames.

Maybe you’re not good enough. Maybe you didn’t kiss him just right or make the noises he liked. Oh, but how are you supposed to know what to do?

You sit at the writing desk and tap your fingers on your chin. You squirm in your chair as the scene in the shower replays in your head. You tear it apart, trying to pick out the exact moment of your offense.

You shift on the seat and the throbbing pressure in your core ripples through you. Just the thought of his touch has you alight. You touch your hot cheeks and flutter your lashes. You shouldn’t be worried about all that, you should be working on that spread sheet.

You glance over at the study door. The house is stagnant once more. Just like those early days when you made your slow progress with a broom and mop. Something’s gone terribly wrong. Maybe… you should just leave.

You put your fingers mindlessly to the touch pad of the computer. You swirl around the cursor mindlessly. You blow out through your lips and sit up, another fraught peek towards the door.

You bring both your hands over the keyboard. No, you shouldn’t.

You need to figure this out. You need to know what you did, or didn’t do. You can be what he wants you to be, you have to. You have nothing else.

You type, then backspace, then type again. After several times, you hit search. You click through to a site with a black background and gasp at the obscene ads that fill the margins.

You bite down as you try to focus past the small thumbnails. You key into the search bar ‘shower’. You hover your finger over the enter key before you will yourself to hit it.

The search results are just as chaotic. You don’t know what you’re looking for. ‘Best Shower Scenes STEAMY’. Your insides tickle and you squeeze your thighs together. Invisible flames lick at you and cluster in your chest.

You mute the computer as the video loads. The house is so quiet that you’re aware of every creak and crack. You fidget as you sit through the ad of a woman giggling over a URL for meet-ups. You press your hands to your thigh, sitting forward so your weight rests on your pelvis, dampening the tingly heat.

The video begins. A woman with caramel coloured hair and a curvy body. You admire her figure and peer down at your own. Maybe that’s it, maybe you’re not hot enough? You remember how Mr. Laufeyson touched you all over, almost as if he was examining you. Did you disappoint?

You flick your eyes back up as a man enters and they step into the shower booth. You chew your lip as you fixate on his large dick. He’s very big but you think Mr. Laufeyson is too. You’re not sure. This isn’t helping, you still don’t understand anything.

They kiss and fondle each other. You lean forward, watching with a stitch between your brows. The woman drags her hands down the man’s body and gets to your knees. She pumps him with her hand and licks his tip, dragging her tongue down his length. He grabs her head and forces himself into her mouth.

She takes him greedily. Oh. That could be it. Last night, you were so afraid, and you got all teary, and you didn’t know what you were doing.

You watch her as she touches his sack, squeezing then works her hand in tandem with her mouth on his dick. You put your hand to the side of your neck and hold your breath. You wiggle on the chair, the friction making your own arousal more obvious.

Finally, the woman stands, the man lifting her by her hair. He spins her and bends her forward. She braces the wall and as he slaps her ass several times before gripping her hip. He’s so rough. You don’t know if you could handle that.

He slides into her and your mouth falls open. Her thighs quake and your own give a tremble. Your walls clench as the pressure knots in you. The thought of doing that with Mr. Laufeyson both frightens you and excites you.

You twiddle your fingers and blink at the screen. The furrow in your forehead deepens as you lean forward. You put your fingers along the touchpad but don’t press them down.

“Ahem,” Mr. Laufeyson startles you as he clears his throat.

You sit up and quickly hit the X in the corner. Your throat closes as you struggle to breathe, caught but not entirely. He stands in the doorway between the study and library. From that angle, he can’t see what’s on your screen.

“You are working hard,” he muses as he strides in with crossed arms.

“Yes, sir,” you answer breathily. You stare him in the face, too afraid to look anywhere else as your mind dares to imagine the shower again, both of you naked, this time, you’re bent over and he’s behind you. “Um, did you get your dinner?”

You close the laptop as you stand. You wince as the fabric of your panties clings to your wet cunt. You feel like he can see right through you.

“I’m not hungry,” he stops on the other side of the desk.

“Okay,” you swallow and your eyes flit side to side.

“I never told you to come out,” he drops his arms, placing his hand on the desk as he leans over it.

“Pardon?” You blink furiously.

“I said to remain in here until I told you it was safe. If you made my dinner, then you did not obey me.”

“I… Mr. Laufeyson, your brother’s gone–”

“And how could you know for sure if I did not confirm it?” He challenges with a wry tilt in his head. “I’ve been patient, pet, but I think you may require a different sort of discipline.”

“Mr. Laufeyson?” You babble, “I’m sorry–”

“Your apologies grow tiresome,” he huffs and stands straight. “Come here,” he points between him and the desk.

You put your head down and swiftly walk around the desk. He swirls his finger in the air and you turn your back to him. He backs away and rounds to the side of the desk.

“Hands down,” he nods to the desktop.

You press your palms flat, bent slightly at the waist. He considers you and strokes his chin with a hum. He circles the desk and you in a single, patient lap.

“Stay as you are.”

“Yes, Mr. Laufeyson,” you utter.

“Ah, no talking,” he warns, “remember your rules, pet.”

You gulp as he turns and struts away. Is it okay again? You can’t tell. He’s still rigid and painfully formal. He hasn’t touched you, he seems to be avoiding getting close. You stare at the wood beneath your hands and shiver.

You hear him in his study. You glance over as he appears in the door frame, his hands hidden behind him. He tuts. “Head forward.”

You look ahead and focus on the wall. He nears, his shadow skewed in the lamplight. He stands behind you, a foot away and he hums. He clucks and strolls around the desk to face you.

He pulls his hands from behind his back, revealing a thick leather strap. The brown leather is faded and cracked. Your eyes round as you stare at it and he brings it taught between his hands.

“Flogging is historically a long held practice. For the monk in his self-flagellation, for the heathen in his cell, and… for the woman in her disobedience,” he explains as his lips curl. “Spare the rod, spoil the child…” He takes a breath, “and you, pet, are growing spoiled.”

Your lips part but you don’t speak. You must follow the rules. This is the test. If you fail this, then it’s over. If you fail, you have nothing.

He walks along the desk and rounds the corner, brushing by as he purrs, “remember your rules. Not a sound.”

He comes up behind you and you hold your breath. He tugs at the back of your skirt and shudders. He pulls the fabric above your ass, his hand trailing along the back of your panties. He hooks his finger in the elastic and tears them down to your thighs. You quiver and clench your jaw tight, fighting back a squeak.

He stretches the leather across your ass. It’s cool and smooth. You twitch as bumps rise across your skin. He pulls back and you lower your head. You wait. Nothing.

You cautiously raise your chin and look back. He snaps the whip across your ass as you do and you spasm with the hot flash of pain. He points to the wall in a wordless demand. Eye forward. You turn your attention back to the grey blue paint as your eyes glisten. He strikes you again, the agony scalding across the swell of your ass.

Your thighs shake as he pulls back again. You await a third but it never comes. You don’t dare move. He paces behind you. You watch his shadow cast before you and he moves abruptly forward. You bite your tongue as he lashes you again. Harder as he lets out a thick grunt.

Your hands slip and you fall forward. You plant your palms more firmly as you push yourself straight. A fourth comes and sends tendrils down to your toes. You hiss through your teeth, quaking, fighting not to collapse.

You deserve this. Whatever you’ve done, you’ve earned this.

A fifth and your knees knock together. You barely keep afoot as the sixth lands with extra bite. Seven, eight, nine… He lashes you in quick succession, as if he cannot stop himself. The tenth has you heaving, about to vomit with the pain.

He stops himself, his shadow holding up the stap. He lowers it and steps back. He sighs and turns away.

“Tomorrow you will pack for our departure,” he declares, “we leave on Friday.”

We? So you are to go with him. You don’t dare ask or say a single word. You stay as you are, shaking as you roll your eyes back against the flood.

“You will be on your best behaviour,” he warns as he nears the study door, “I trust this lesson will not be forgotten.”

He passes into the study and the door closes harshly. Your legs fold and collapse beneath you. You land in a heap, holding yourself off your ass as you whimper. You won’t ever forget.

#loki #dark loki #dark!loki #loki x reader #dark fic #fic #dark!fic #series #au #maid au #dirty work #mcu #marvel #avengers #thor

212 notes · View notes

its-time-to-write · 9 months

Note

Final one for today

This one is a little odder but I feel like a single parent story would be great for Jamie

Like maybe reader is a single parent and is out in the park where the child is playing alone with a football (maybe trying to do some tricks) and accidentally kicks it to far and it hits Jamie (Who maybe is jogging by) jamie brings it over and does some tricks and the kid is like omg can you show me how to do that! reader is like embarrassed but Jamie is like sure so they spend a bunch of time playing football. The kid is a fan of Richmond but tickets are expensive so Jamie invites them to a game (Free) and they get to meet the team and it becomes a regular thing

Jamie is trying to work up the nerve to ask out Reader (He has never dated someone with kids before) and he doesn't want to mess up the relationship finally the child is like please ask my parent out!

I can't wait to see what you do with these!!

Here’s another one that I’ve been sitting on forever! Finally got around to it. And in case you couldn’t tell, I freakin love Keeley Jones. I think she’s great. Enjoy!

if only love were true

Thank god that Keeley Jones is your friend and she promised you’d never have to go stag to a work function.

“Keeley,” you say over the phone, “I need you to be my date for this fancy dinner/gala/thing I have for work next Sunday. I absolutely cannot go alone.”

“Next Sunday?” she says. “Let me check my calendar.”

You wait a moment as she presumably scrolls through her phone, checking her availability.

“Sorry babes,” she says after a long moment, “I’ve got a work thing too. Otherwise I’d totally be down to go as your hot trophy date.”

You groan. “Is there any way you can get out of it? Out of all the things I’ve taken you to, this is the one I need you at the most.”

Keeley’s silent. You can tell she’s thinking. She knows why this one is important.

“Alright,” she says finally. “I can’t go, but what if I sent you with a friend of mine?” She continues loudly over your beginning protests. “He’s really sweet and fit and funny, and he owes me favors pretty much for the rest of his life. You’d have a great time I SWEAR.”

“I don’t know,” you say. “Do you think he can go along with everything? There’s a 50/50 chance it’ll be a shitshow.”

“Absolutely,” Keeley replies without hesitation. “He’s fucking great. Can be a bit of a prick sometimes, but he’s learned how to use those skills for the greater good.”

“Uh huh,” you say. “Right. I’m trusting you on this one, Keels. If he’s as good as you say, I’ll take him. But I really, really need this to be good.”

“Trust me,” she says, “You won’t regret it.”

—

Jamie Tartt arrives at your doorstep, fully briefed by Keeley as to his responsibilities.

Be a gentleman, make her laugh, don’t fucking leave her with Harry.

Keeley showed him pictures of Harry’s instagram so Jamie would know exactly who he is on the lookout for.

It’s funny and it’s weird, but he’s not uncomfortable standing at the door, waiting for some woman he doesn’t even know. He’d do anything for Keeley, well aware that if she’s asking a favor, it’s for a good cause.

This is far out of his usual realm of expertise, but he reminds himself that he’s a person outside of being a footballer. A regular person would be a blind date for a friend of a friend at an awful work function.

Right?

Jamie doesn’t have time to dwell on the normality of this situation because the door is opening and you’re standing in front of him in some long gown that he swears outshines the stars.

“Hi,” you say. “It’s nice to meet you. Sorry about this.”

You call a goodbye down the hall before shutting the door. Jamie assumes it’s to a flatmate or something, whoever the owner of the other car in the driveway is. He just smiles.

“I’ve had weirder dates,” he says. “Don’t worry about a thing, love. Tonight’s gonna be fucking mint.” He offers you his arm.

You take it and feel yourself relax. It’ll be fine.

—

It is not fine.

Harry’s there, and god help you if you don’t want to kick him where it hurts. He’s surrounded by girls, shining that far-too dazzling smile and you’re pretty sure you’re going to throw up. Your grip on Jamie’s arm tightens, and he follows your gaze to your ex-flame.

“He’s fucking old,” Jamie comments.

“Yeah, well, that’s kind of how he gets you,” you reply. “Acts all charming and smart and shit and then next thing you know, you’re in his bed. Soon as that’s over, you’re done.”

“Twat,” Jamie responds with such conviction that you chuckle a little, despite yourself. That is, until Harry sees you and sheds his little entourage as he makes his way over.

“Shit,” you whisper. “How do I look?”

“Fuckin’ gorgeous,” Jamie replies without missing a beat.

The words are barely out of his mouth when Harry is upon you, leaning in for a hug that Jamie doesn’t allow. You’re grateful for his block as he pretends he was going for a handshake. You don’t want Harry touching you and the sentiment is reinforced as he gives you a once-over and says, “Didn’t expect to see you here, darling. What, are you neglecting your duties for the evening?”

That sentence must have some hidden meaning, because your teeth are bared and it’s gone over Jamie’s head.

“My duties,” you say through clenched teeth, “include being here at this gala because we both work for the same company.”

Harry tilts his head in mock sympathy. “Yes, but if I recall your priorities have… shifted.”

Jamie might be losing circulation in his arm and he may not know exactly what is happening here, but he knows enough. Keeley told him Harry was a right git without really saying why, but he is in no need of an explanation. In fact, he thinks that “a right git,” is too much of a compliment.

Harry turns his attention toward Jamie. “Has she told you?”

Jamie doesn’t know what he’s talking about, but he’ll be damned if he lets this prick win.

“Yes,” he replies forcefully.

Harry raises his eyebrows. “Ah, and that’s not a dealbreaker?”

Jamie shakes his head.

“How…progressive of you,” Harry replies, meaning the exact opposite. “You see, I wouldn’t want someone who… well, you know.”

Jamie’s about to say, “No, I don’t know,” and also maybe punch Harry when more people come up, demanding your attention. As you both turn away, Harry calls, “Let me know when you get tired of the immaturity and need a real man. My bed is always open to you.”

Your face is bright red and you think you’re going to bolt. Jamie starts like he’s going to fight Harry and for a moment you wonder if Keeley sent him because he’s a little bit feral.

Unfortunately for Harry and fortunately for you, he spoke a bit too loudly.

You’ll find out later that he was heard by some higher-ups and removed from the premises. However, since that information is not made available to you until the next day, you spend the rest of the evening looking over your shoulder for Harry’s reappearance.

Jamie, god bless him, is a wonderful date. He goes the whole nine-yards, holding your hand, tucking your hair behind your ear, cracking jokes with you and others at your table. He’s making you look good, and feel relaxed in the process. By the end of the night you’re feeling confident and have made a good impression on several people on the board.

You have new opportunities at your disposal, as well as a potential promotion. You put a reminder in your phone to send Keeley some daisies as a thank-you. You’ll send something for Jamie as well.

—

He walks you to your door, ever the gentleman. You thank him profusely for the night, and tell him you’ll be rooting for him next time Richmond has a match. He grins. “You a fan?” he asks.

You laugh. “Yeah, I am. Used to go to every match till… well, I just don’t get out much anymore.”

Jamie grins. “We’ll have to change that, darling.”

Darling.

He says it so differently than Harry. It’s all… bubbly. Not condescending, not designed to make you feel small.

“Good night, Jamie,” you say.

—

You don’t really expect to see (or hear from) Jamie again, except you do. Because he’s texting you.

The content varies, from messages passed on from Keeley to gifs to memes to weird little stories from training. You think you’d like his coaches, even Roy. It already felt like you knew them from all their interviews that you’ve seen, but hearing the behind-the-scenes snippets solidifies the feeling even more. Your chatting is regulated to the early morning and your lunch breaks, as you’re not much of an evening person anymore.

Jamie doesn’t seem to mind, he’s up early to do extra training with Roy and you’re up early to prepare for the day. You enjoy hearing from him at 6am on the dot every morning.

Saturdays are nice, because you don’t have work. Keeley comes over sometimes, but today you’re on the Richmond Green. You’re sitting on a bench, watching a boy kick a small football. You’re so completely absorbed in the way he’s running back and forth that you are startled when a shadow casts over your face.

“Fancy seeing you here,” says a distinctly Mancunian voice.

“Jamie!” you exclaim. “What’re you doing here?”

Jamie points to his trainers. “Going for a quick run. Roy’s out of town, but he still makes me take laps. Fucking mental.” He shakes his head. “What are you doing here?”

You open your mouth to reply when the boy with the tiny football comes flying over. “Are you Jamie Tartt?” he asks.

Jamie crouches to his level. “I am. What’s your name, mate?”

“Liam!” he replies. “I have a football like you!”

Jamie smiles. “Good lad. Keep up with the practice, and you’ll be better than me someday.”

Liam’s bouncing up and down, so excited that he throws his ball in the air. Jamie catches it and does a trick. At this point Liam is completely enamored with Jamie, and you are as well. He’s giving this kid his complete attention, making his whole day. Anyone else would have just shooed him off, but not Jamie.

He’s good with kids, your brain yells.

You tell your brain to shut up.

Jamie tosses the ball back to Liam. “Where’s your mum?” he asks. “Might have tickets to a match for you.”

Liam points. Jamie turns to look behind the bench where you’re sitting, as that’s where Liam is pointing. There’s no one.

“Which one?” he asks, turning back to Liam.

“Me,” you say. “I’m his mum.”

Liam climbs into your lap and holds your face in his tiny hands. “Mum, Jamie Tartt says we can go to a match!” he says.

You laugh. “Don’t get your hopes up, love, Jamie hasn’t made any promises.”

Liam settles into your lap, facing Jamie. He can’t see your face or the pleading look you’re giving Jamie.

Please don’t mess this up, you try to say with your eyes. Jamie must get the message because he keeps smiling and asks Liam if he wants to kick the ball around for a bit. You watch them go, dreading the imminent conversation.

—

Liam’s asleep in his little Richmond pajamas. He loves football, and you watch every single match the Greyhounds play. Tickets are expensive, and you promised you’d take him to a real game one day. Truth is, you aren’t sure when that will be. It’s not easy being a single mum, but as you watch Liam’s sleeping face, you know you wouldn’t trade him for anything.

You sigh and get out of the rocking chair. Might as well call Jamie and get it over with.

Please pick up, you pray, and he does; you’re in the dim kitchen lights, poking at a cup of tea.

“Hey!” comes Jamie’s surprised voice. “You alright? Need anything?”

You shake your head even though he can’t see. “No, I wanted to talk about today. And Liam. Harry’s his dad.”

“Figured,” Jamie replies. “Made his comments at the gala make more fucking sense.”

“Yeah,” you say. Harry is a fucking prick. “Harry… he doesn’t have any custody. He’s not allowed near Liam. He also doesn’t pay child support. Or want a child. Or anything, really. He just wants to fuck around and do what he wants with no consequences. I should’ve known better honestly, I’m not even one to go around like that. Figures the one time I do it ends up like this. Not that I’m complaining,” you continue, “Liam is the best part of my life. It’s just hard when I keep losing people because they don’t want him too. Keeley’s the only one who stuck around. Did you know she’s a surprisingly great babysitter? Even kicks around a football in the yard with him.”

Jamie makes a surprised noise. It’s hard to picture Keeley in that exact situation, but not hard to imagine her doing anything that her friends needed.

“Anyway,” you continue, “I get if this makes things weird. You don’t have to get us tickets to the match. Liam’s still pretty little anyway… always taking bathroom breaks and needing snacks.”

“The owner’s box would be perfect,” Jamie blurts.

That isn’t the reply you were expecting, so you’re silent for a moment as he continues, “I mean… It’s easy to get in and out of, Rebecca’s got a fridge and a restroom…People bring their kids all the time. He’d love it. I’d love it,” he finishes.

You’re not sure. This is the longest anyone has ever stuck around when it comes to Liam, and you don’t really want to go to jail for murder if Jamie breaks his heart. All he could talk about for the rest of the day was how Jamie Tartt played football with him. Isaac McAdoo is is number one favorite, but you think Jamie is now a close second.

“Alright,” you say finally. “We’ll be there.”

—

It’s past Liam’s bedtime, like way past, and he’s asleep with his head on your shoulder. Your arms are tired from holding him and your throat is sore from screaming at the Richmond match. Jamie was right, Liam loved it. He wore his McAdoo jersey and got to meet the whole team before the game. You have a picture of him on Isaac’s shoulders, smiling so big. It’s weird to think that he probably won’t remember any of this when he’s older.

You’re waiting in a lobby of some kind for Jamie to come out. You’re leaning against a wall, feeling Liam’s steady breathing as he dreams.

Meanwhile, Jamie’s in the locker room, freaking out.

“Coach,” he says, wearing a hole in the floor, “how do you ask out a girl who’s got a kid?”

“Well Jamie-” Ted says.

“Are there some kind of rules I’m supposed to follow?” Jamie continues, oblivious. “I mean, what the fuck am I supposed to say?”

“I think-” Ted tries again.

“Nah fuck it, I’m just going to ask,” Jamie says.

Ted grins. “That sounds like a good plan, son.”

Jamie smiles back. “Thanks, coach. You always have the best advice.”

Ted shakes his head, still smiling as Jamie leaves the locker room.

—

Jamie rounds the corner to find you half-asleep against a wall near some trophy case, with Liam breathing out tiny snores. He swears that he’s never seen anything more beautiful, and it freaks him out for a moment. It’s…domestic in a way he didn’t ever expect his life to be.

He shakes off the weirdness and walks over.

“Hi,” he says, unable to contain a smile. “D’you want me to hold him for you?”

“That would actually be amazing,” you reply. “My arms are killing me.”

The sight of Liam asleep in Jamie’s arms is enough to make your brain go oh shit. Because, oh. Shit. This boy is going to break your heart if you’re not careful.

“How’d you like the game?” Jamie asks as you begin to walk to the car park.

“I loved it,” you reply sincerely. “Haven’t actually been to a match since this one.” You pat Liam’s back affectionately. “Kid had a great time too. Talked about meeting Isaac McAdoo the entire match. He’s like some football aficionado in a four-year-old’s body, swear down.”

Jamie’s still smiling as he helps you get Liam into his car seat. “What’re you doing the rest of the night?”

You laugh. “Oh god, I wish I could say going to sleep. But I have to meal prep for the week while Liam’s asleep. Otherwise he gets his sticky fingers in everything. Gonna take a solid two hours, at least.”

Jamie hesitates. It’s now or never. “Could I come over?” he asks. “Can’t cook for shit, but I could keep you company.”

You pause. “Jamie- I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”

But god, you want it so bad.

“I’m being serious,” Jamie says. “Not trying to mess with you. I like you. Think you’re fucking fit. I like being around you and I liked kicking the football around with Liam. He’s a good lad. I think it’s worth giving a try.”

You look at Liam. He’s still fast asleep, oblivious to his mum’s turmoil.

“Alright,” you say, still not looking at Jamie. “Let’s give it a try.”

Jamie grins and ghosts his thumb across your cheek, making you look at him.

“I’m going to kiss you now,” he says. “So now’s your moment to tell me to fuck off.”

You smile. “Can’t say that in front of Liam anyway,” you say as you crash your lips into his.

#jamie tartt x reader #jamie tartt fanfiction #jamie tartt imagine #jamie tartt x y/n #jamie tartt x you #jamie tartt #ted lasso

626 notes · View notes

babydollmarauders · 6 months

Text

MEDIA MANAGEMENT — JACK HUGHES (23-24 SZN PART 9)

au masterlist

notes: written while extremely tired

y/ndevils00

liked by tofff73, lhughes_06, and 245,187 others

y/ndevils00 THESE BITCHES ACTUALLY WON!

i mean— Devils won 5-4 tonight against those island guys!

we got on the board by a goal made by my favorite ginger tea! and even more than he likes scoring, doug-doug likes to lay on the ice and gossip like a schoolgirl 🫶

uncle toffee got his very first goal as a devil tonight and i’m SO PROUD OF HIM! despite the fact that he’s actively in kahoots to steal my man (see: slide 9) (i’ve got my eye on you, toffoli 👁️👁️)

bestie number 2 pushed a man to defend babygirl, tonight— my heart is so filled with love ❤️

MY SMUSH GOT HIS FIRST GOAL OF THE SEASON!! LOOK AT HIM GO! I LOVE HIM SO MUCH, I WANNA SMUSH HIS CHEEKS AND KISS HIS FOREHEAD! he, however, did not appreciate my words of encouragement (see: slide 6). little spit-fire, you! don’t ever do that again 🫶

not pictured: timothy got his shit rocked… yet ended up with a roughing penalty?? i’m actively suing the refs FOR him. @tmeier96 i hope you appreciate me

AND FINALLY, THE MOMENT YOU ALL (me) HAVE BEEN WAITING FOR: MY MAN, MY BABYGIRL, MY LOVE, MY CAT-DAD, MY BEAUTIFUL MEME-SHARING, HOODIE-HOARDING, BLUSH-INDUCING BOYFRIEND, SCORED TWO (2) GOALS TONIGHT! INCLUDING THE OVERTIME, GAME-WINNING GOAL! THAT’S MY PERSONAL HAND HOLDER RIGHT THERE!

p.s. my heart is filled with hate, and for once, barzy the bald is not enemy #1. Ryan Pulock, however? count your days and say your hail mary’s bitch, cause you hurt my slut

tagged dougieham, tofff73, john.marino97, lhughes_06, and jackhughes

Load more comments

lhughes_06 you already DID smush my cheeks and kiss my forehead…. in front of the entire team

y/ndevils00 AND I’LL DO IT AGAIN!! C’MERE!

lhughes_06 @/jackhughes GET YOUR GIRLFRIEND, SHE’S TRYING TO GET TO ME ON THE BUS

lhughes_06 was that 6th picture taken on a toaster?

y/ndevils00 listen, you brat, the islanders fans don’t like me because i threaten their bald man— i was working with where i was because they wouldn’t let me through, which meant taking an extremely zoomed in picture from across the rink

lhughes_06 maybe if you, idk, stopped threatening their players?!

y/ndevils00 i can’t do that.

user10 y/n and luke are so siblings already 😭

user72 dougie is so me

john.marino97 your heart can’t be filled with love and hate at the same time

y/ndevils00 don’t tell my heart what it can and cannot do?? stop policing my body, asshole

john.marino97 i wasn’t policing your body?! do what you want with your body!

y/ndevils00 thank you, i will!

john.marino97 so what are you gonna do with your body?

y/ndevils00 @/jackhughes

john.marino97 i expected too much from you

y/ndevils00 what DID you expect?

john.marino97 “spread love”

y/ndevils00 well i mean, i AM spreading love iykwim

john.marino97 delete your social medias

y/ndevils00 i can’t, it’s my job 🤷‍♀️

barzal97 you know i’m not BALD right? it’s just a buzzcut

y/ndevils00 YOU’RE BALD! YOU’RE BALD AND YOU’RE TORTURING PEOPLE WHO HAVE HAIR

barzal97 okay, i tried

y/ndevils00 👨🏻‍🦲 <- you

barzal97 @/jackhughes your girl is a little messed up, but i think i like her

jackhughes step off, barzal! that’s MY messed up feral raccoon

y/ndevils00 @/jackhughes that’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said about me 🥹

user94 toffoli has kissed jack before nico has kissed jack… nico is fuming

user08 i’m gonna frame the 5th picture and put it on my wall oh my god

jackhughes why the 7th picture?

y/ndevils00 you look like how i imagine a toddler playing soccer… like you just stopped in the middle of the game to chase a butterfly

jackhughes i-

jackhughes i got something off of my visor, BEFORE A FACEOFF

y/ndevils00 DON’T YELL AT ME! I’M SENSITIVE!

jackhughes i’m sorry, i love you to pluto

y/ndevils00 because….

jackhughes because pluto IS a planet

tofff73 i promise, i’m not trying to take your man

y/ndevils00 well why not?! he’s a catch!

tofff73 i’m a bit confused here

dawson1417 she’s always confusing. you learn to live with it

dougieham i DO like laying on the ice!

y/ndevils00 i can’t blame you! that’s what i do too!

jackhughes @/y/ndevils00 that’s cause you have no other choice. you can’t skate

tmeier96 i appreciate you, i love you, please do not sue the refs

y/ndevils00 you just said two nice things and then proved them untrue

dawson1417 i’ll do better next game, i promise! i’ll earn a feature!

y/ndevils00 you did great, bestie! don’t listen to ruff-ruff, you deserve top-line, babycakes!

dawson1417 no “do better”?

y/ndevils00 never “do better” for you!

dawson1417 but like 3 weeks ago…

y/ndevils00 i have no recollection— short term memory loss— hi, my names dory!

dawson1417 you’re a special little nutcase

y/ndevils00 thank you 🥰

nicohischier i have a name?

y/ndevils00 yes!

nicohischier so you KNOW i have a name…

y/ndevils00 indeed!

nicohischier so why don’t you USE IT?!

y/ndevils00 okay i think YOU don’t know your name

nicohischier my name isn’t slut

y/ndevils00 that is your given name and you will like it!

nicohischier i don’t wanna like it!

y/ndevils00 tough luck, slut

#media management au!#media management series <3 #jack hughes #jack hughes x reader #jack hughes imagine #jack hughes fic #jack hughes blurb #nj devils #nhl imagine #nhl fic #faithlynn’s insta edits <3 #faithlynn’s writings <3

255 notes · View notes

ovaova · 9 months

Text

TW: Blood, suicide, cheating, etc

<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<

“I told her…I told her that, I was pregnant….”

That’s when Bakugo froze.

His relaxed position against his desk became strict as his face started to morf into disbelieving shock.

“You what…” He hissed, looking at his assistant, Uraraka, as if she had grown two extra heads.

Uraraka stood there twiddling with her thumbs

“I told her that I was pregnant…and that it’s yours, I’m sorry-“

“No no no-“ He interrupted, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“You didn’t do that, you couldn’t have-”

Katsuki started to pace back and fourth as the panic started to creep in, causing Uraraka to start to buckle.

“I couldn’t hold it in anymore, okay!? Do you know how much guilt I’ve had since that night? Since I told you I was even pregnant? I can’t even look (y/n) in the eye! I can’t even talk to her like I used-“

“YOU DON’T THINK I FEEL GUILTY TOO? HUH? That’s my fuckin wife! Do you know how much I love her?? Let’s not forget, that all this was a goddamn mistake, all it took was one too many at a shitty award party..and now look at where the fuck I am-“ Katsuki groaned, his sentence being muffled at the end by him stuffing his face in his hands.

“Katsuki..”

“NO- do NOT call me that. DO YOU KNOW WHAT YOU’VE DONE TO ME?? I should’ve listened to my first fuckin thought when it told me to tell you to get a goddamn abortion. But no, you just had to be so smitten by this mistake that I let you keep it...”

“SHUT UP- it’s not just my fault okay?! And it’s definitely not this baby’s fault that we both messed up! Look I know you love (y/n) okay? That’s why I HAD to tell her, it’s unfair to her to be living a lie when her husband has a whole child!”

Katsuki didn’t even say anything, he just grabbed his coat and keys before storming out the office.

“Where are you going?!”

“I’m going home, from now on, don’t call me, don’t text me, don’t come near me. You’re ducking fired and I don’t want you near me OR (y/n) for the rest of your goddamn life- have the child or not but don’t come to me.”

And with that he left, slamming the door leaving Uraraka more then stunned and shocked. But what did she expect?

She had ruined something good…

<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<

He was going way over the speed limit but he didn’t care, all he cared about was getting home to you

“The number you have dialed cannot be reached, please try again..” His car spoke to him, he had constantly been trying to call you.

His heart sunk but he couldn’t do anything but just press on

Eventually, after what felt like a millennium, he finally made it home.

He didn’t even try to park right, he just pulled up and ran for the front door.

After quickly unlocking it, he entered and immediately noticed that the whole house was off.

Non of your music was playing in the background, the smell of your delicious food didn’t greet his nose, not even the background sound of your favorite show played on the living room tv…

It was just silence…

He slowly tipped around the house in search for you

“Baby? Where are you? (Y/n)?”

It wasn’t until he made his way to the bathroom, where he finally got his answer

His body stilled in horror as he saw you in a bloody stained tub fully undressed as if you were just taking a bath.

Your wrist oozing and pouring out crimson red as your eyes remained shut

He immediately rushed to your side, engulfing your body into his as he held you dear, your blood immediately staining his work suit

Tears automatically swelled in his eyes and he started to rock you back and fourth with his left while his right hand shook as he dialed 119

“Hello, 119 what’s the emergency..”

He knew he sounded like mush trying to explain everything at once while also being in shock and sorrow but he couldn’t help it…it was over.

Katsuki was your husband…

YOU wanted kids…

YOU trusted him…

YOU were supposed to be the only one to touch him…

YOU loved him so much…

But if another had woman already took everything that was supposed to be yours…

What was the point of staying anyway…

#bakugo #mha fanfiction #katsuki bakugo mha #fiction #mha smut #dad bakugo x reader #bakugo x reader lemon #katsuki x reader smut #kirishima x reader smut #original post #trigger words

329 notes · View notes

astroboots · 2 years

Text

RED FLAGS ║ PART 5

CO-WRITTEN WITH @THIRSTWORLDPROBLEMSS

Pairing: Steven Grant x female reader x Marc Spector

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

Word Count: 7080

Series Masterlist | Astroboot's Masterlist | Thirstworldproblemss' Masterlist

[PREVIOUS] - [NEXT]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You hope it’s the truth.

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

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

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

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

You’re wrong about that.

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

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

It’s chaos.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And suddenly the joy is gone.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Everything alright, love?”

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

You can’t tell him.

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

You’ll lose him forever.

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

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

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

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

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

You need to protect him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s all very… un-Steven-like.

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

Definitely not Steven.

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

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

Stay away. Do not engage.

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

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

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

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

So much for being inconspicuous.

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

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

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

A red fucking flag.

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

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

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

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

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

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

At this, Marc finally officially acknowledges your presence.

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

The… fish?

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

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

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

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

The fish. Good God.

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

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

Steven goes missing again.

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

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

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

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

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

You Is Steven okay?

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

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

An hour goes by, then two. Still nothing.

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

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

Marc He’s safe.

You When will Steven be back?

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rinse and repeat.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“From her travels?” you try to clarify.

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

You point to the postcards.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Marc?” you try again, voice cautious.

“I send the postcards,” Marc finally says.

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

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

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

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

“Steven doesn’t need to know.”

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

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

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

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

He’s really quite upset, isn’t he?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m protecting him,” he’d said.

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

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

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

You Are you and Steven okay?

Marc Steven’s fine.

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

You When’s Steven coming back?

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

You He has his performance review at work on Monday.

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

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

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

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

“Good morning,” you call out.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He hums in acknowledgment. A hum. Stubborn…

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wow, this man is blunt.

“I know we don’t have to. But…”

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

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

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

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

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

Except it doesn’t come.

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

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

“I like Switzerland.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shit…

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

“You’re hungry,” Marc states.

Oh for fuck’s sake!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Marc Yeah. He’s safe.

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

Marc No. He’ll be back.

You Thank you.

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

You Be safe.

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

Marc Thanks.

~ CONTINUE~

Credits/Dedications

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

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

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

1K notes · View notes

emo-batboy · 1 year

Text

Lately, I’ve been thinking about Battinson who actually has naturally curly, dirty blond hair that he got from his parents. Picture this:

Bruce whose hair is a kaleidoscope of golden blond and strawberry blond and dirty blond that can’t be tamed when it’s humid out because it’s too wavy and curly and voluminous all at once

Bruce who looks so bright and cheerful with his soft facial structure and crazy hair that cannot be replicated because it’s so uniquely Bruce

Bruce who is a spitting image of his mother’s gorgeous natural color and his father’s wild mane

Bruce who absolutely destroys his natural hair because it reminds him too much of his parents

Bruce who tries desperately to avoid the gut-wrenching comments from those stupid rich people who thought they can bring up his parents just because they used to be friends

Bruce who feels physically ill whenever he hears “Oh you look just like your parents.” “They should have been here to see you.” “You’re a spitting image.”

Bruce who religiously dyes his hair a boring brown and straightens the shit out of it until it’s damaged beyond belief by the age of 18 but at least he doesn’t hear those stupid remarks anymore

Bruce who forgets to wash it sometimes but doesn’t care because his hair is his least favorite thing about his appearance

Bruce who gels the ever-loving fuck out of it to avoid it getting it in his eyes, but he also hates getting haircuts so it gets way too long and happens anyway

Bruce who gets greasepaint in it all the time, wears hats and hoods whenever appropriate, just can’t stop messing with it but hates bringing attention to the thing so he has to glue his hands to his side in public

Bruce who is a stranger to everyone and himself, especially his hair

Bruce who mourns it like he’s still mourning his parents

Now imagine:

Bruce who is going through the aftermath of the Riddler case and the floods

Bruce who only just realized that vengeance is not the answer

Bruce who wants to become Hope but doesn’t know how yet

Bruce who decides that he can’t hide himself behind a cowl all the time now so he chooses to develop a better public image

Bruce who realizes this requires a public appearance as well

Bruce who is way too busy saving the city to keep up his hair dye routine so he forgets to touch up his roots a couple of times

Bruce who is advised to stop gelling his hair back so much because it makes him look less approachable

Bruce who feels so awkward and vulnerable when his hair isn’t hidden behind a hat or some product or his cowl but he goes through the motions because he wants to try his best to be the hero Gotham needs right now

Bruce who walks into Mayor Real’s office one morning, hair sticking up all over the place after stopping no less than 10 muggings the night before, his natural dirty blond in full effect and strikingly…warm

“Did you dye your hair?” Real asks. Bruce pauses. “Uh, no. I stopped dying it a few weeks ago.” “I didn’t know your hair was blond.” He braces for the comments, but she doesn’t mention his parents. Instead, she just smiles. “It suits you.”

Bruce who genuinely doesn’t know how to handle the simple compliment so he just awkwardly shuffles around it and into their discussion on infrastructure

Bruce who stands outside of her office for five minutes after their meeting because he hasn’t stopped thinking about the mortifying reality that his natural hair is visible again

Bruce who also can’t stop thinking about how she said it. It suits him.

Bruce whose natural hair suits him?

Bruce who finally gets the time to dye it again after two months of nonstop work but when he thinks about what Real said…he decides against it. For now

Bruce who starts getting used to seeing his dirty blond hair in the mirror again, even expects it. visualizes it

Bruce who knows when it’s getting too dirty because the small peaks of gold disappear so he starts washing it more regularly

Bruce who watches the volume come back and doesn’t hate it

Bruce who sees the rat’s nest in the morning of golden brown and random reds and even a streak of chestnut and doesn’t immediately reach for gel and a straightener anymore. Instead, he just runs a hand through it and thinks ‘to hell with it, it’s fine like this’

Bruce who gains favor from the public along with a new look, a fresher one

Bruce who becomes a familiar face on TV as the soft-spoken billionaire with the dirty blond hair that never looks right but it’s personable

Bruce who shakes hands and holds babies and hugs kids and the most compliments he gets are for his hair

Bruce who always has just a few strands of hair sticking up in the most random direction but he just swats it away (in another wild direction) and that’s that

Bruce who stops caring so much about being clean-shaven and now sports a bit of stubble because he just likes it that way

Bruce whose hair gets naturally much lighter in the summertime because he’s outside so much now and so his golden roots bleed into a rich strawberry blond

Bruce who has so many unflattering photos from the press of his hair actually looking like a rat’s nest, like seriously how does it look That Bad (Alfred thinks it’s hilarious)

Bruce who gets haircuts regularly now and always asks if they can use as little product as possible because “I don’t like when it’s sticky” but he always likes when it’s just a bit long too

Bruce who tugs on his hair, not to push it away but to fidget with it during meetings, making it even crazier

Bruce who can be recognized from the back by his crazy swirl of hair

Bruce who’s been sporting this new hair for a year now, the summer has passed and his hair is comfortably golden brown again (emphasis on the golden) and it’s bittersweet because he actually finds that he misses the striking blond streaks in July

But it’s all worth it when he notices his curls are finally coming back in the front

Bruce who looks like a completely different person than before and he’s so so happy

#battinson #bruce wayne #batman #the batman 2022 #magical hair Bruce Wayne #yes hair does change colors in the summertime #take it from a strawberry blonde who looks almost brunette in the winter #his hair possesses magical qualities #magical girl battinson #dc universe #the batman #batman 2022 #battinson needs a hug #gotham #soft bruce wayne #I said what I said #long post #alfred pennyworth

707 notes · View notes

toushindai · 2 months

Text

totk spoilers but are we ACTUALLY meant to think it’s poetic or flattering or triumphant that Rauru was like “oh YEAH? Well in thousands of years this guy called Link is gonna kick your ass”

How much has he even heard about Link? He must have had at least one more conversation about him with Zelda because the Master Sword doesn’t come up in the Zelda and Sonia tear, and by the King’s Duty tear Rauru’s just like oh don’t worry, if we don’t finish Ganondorf off I’m sure your bf can handle him. As I’ve said before, his “We rely on your knight” line rubbed me the wrong way starting with its appearance in the trailer, and it really does not feel less entitled after watching said knight (and that legendary sword he carries) very very VERY nearly get one-shotted by Ganondorf at the beginning of the game. And Zelda knows this! What does she feel watching her Better Dad Substitute sacrifice himself and simultaneously sic the evil bad guy on Link—a siccing which explicitly shapes Ganondorf’s attitude towards Link at the beginning of the game? At what point did she have the emotion of “welp. I know why Ganondorf knew Link’s name now.” The musical blending of the LOZ theme/hero’s theme with Rauru’s theme seems to suggest that it’s not an emotion meant to be had at exactly that moment, but I cannot watch Rauru sneer “remember that name” without yelling HE DOESN’T NEED THAT INFORMATION at the screen.

I played through the GSI in Japanese recently and Rauru did seem a touch less entitled to Link than I’ve been reading him—mostly because of the formal, polite, outgroup-equal language he used with him—but I still can’t get over the extent to which Rauru heard about Link a few times and decided, sight unseen, that he was going to clean up Rauru’s mess. My man what made you think that. What gave you the right to decide that. And how frightening to be Zelda and watch Rauru pin all the world’s hope on her beloved knight who Ganondorf absolutely fucking wiped the floor with. We see this worry in her in the Master Sword in Time cutscene! To what extent can Zelda’s transformation and before that her petition to the other tribes of Hyrule for Link’s sake be understood as a forced action due to Rauru’s conviction that Link could do this no sweat? Almost entirely, I feel—but does the game know that?

I just. Isn't it intentional? Doesn't it have to be? The fact that Rauru already needs the correction, once, that he cannot and should not face the Demon King alone. Then his melodramatic claim that Link has got this on lock. Then Zelda being like 😬 not sure about this actually and going through the whole process of talking to the ancient sages + draconifying for the sake of the Master Sword. Because Rauru absolutely set Link up to fail and Zelda is the one making sure Link has the resources, including the support of others, he needs to succeed. And the game is so much about community, about not doing things on your own.

And yet the way the scene is scored and animated and the way all the other characters talk about Rauru's sacrifice seems to treat this as a a moment of culmination, of triumph. I am getting such mixed messages here.

Understand, I’m saying all of this with an aching fondness for this poor self-deluded hypocrite. And also teeth-grinding frustration. I think he deserves to feel suffocatingly humiliated when Link almost didn’t survive Ganondorf’s attack and I also have tremendous sympathy for the shame and terror that it might be far too late to correct his mistake that he must have felt as he waited for Link to wake up. Both of those things. Hopelessly lonely man who found people to love him and built himself into a role he was never adequate for. I wish the game looked at this a little more. I wish I could tell if the game intended this at all.

(This is not the most intelligently written post but I assure you I mean every word of it.)

#totk spoilers #tears of the kingdom #totk rauru #rauru (lozbotwtotk)#tou and the tearful kingdom #bad and imperialist zonai get put in the goat wiggler #nintendo look at me. look at me. do you KNOW how interesting your character is. did you do it on PURPOSE. or am I making this UP.#I love him I hate him I am shaking his terrarium SO SO SO SO HARD every day

63 notes · View notes

cutexlr · 3 months

Text

Getaway Pt. 1

Summary: There’s been tension on the farm ever since a group joined you and your family. Your father doesn’t like the fact they’ve given him more mouths to feed and look out for. However, your tension was for a slightly different reason; Rick. Once you both finally acknowledge that tension, the two of you cannot find getaway.

Warnings: afab!reader, age gap (reader 24, rick 39), secret relationship, forbidden love, hyperfeminine reader, groping, Rick getting frustrated, almost caught, thigh riding, jerking off, quickies, virgin reader, kinda perv Rick

I was planting some flowers off to the side of the house when I felt a presence above me, I look up and see Rick. “Hi” I wave.

He gives me that soft smile and leans down with me, “whatcha doing?”

“M’ planting daisies” I cover the seeds with soil as I speak with him. “Why?” His question caught me off guard.

“Why? Because they’re pretty, and it’s what you do in the summer” I give him a slight head shake indicating I didn’t understand his question.

“Why not use your time planting something useful? Like food” he helps me with my gardening even though he protests.

“We had some flower seeds left and I thought: why not? It’s nice to have something pretty to look at” I shrug.

“That’s true” he looks at me, his hand brushed against mine as we finished the planting.

Later on that night, Carol and Lori cooked us dinner to show their gratitude. I thought the gesture was completely sincere but my father was still holding a slight grudge.

“The foods amazing” I break the terrible silence.

Carol smiles sweetly and Lori gives me a nod. I hadn’t interacted with Lori much as she was always off doing something. All I do know is that her and Rick are separated because of another member of their group: Shane.

Eventually the awkward dinner is over and I go upstairs to wash up for bed. Rick and his group set up camp outside so I never saw him at night. I brush my teeth and put on my floral nightgown, it was one of the few I had. I decided to head downstairs for a glass of water and I unexpectedly find Rick standing in the kitchen.

His eyes found me, his mouth quirks up in a grin and now I’m really embarrassed. “What’re doing here?” I question him.

“Me and your father were discussing plans about my groups future” his hands were resting on his belt buckle.

“Oh, then where is my father?” I squint, his story doesn’t quite add up.

“He went out to his shed to find a few maps, said he let me have them” Rick tilts his head, “you think I’m lying?”

I shake my head, “not anymore…”

He takes a step closer and I back into the kitchen counter, “you really like flowers don’t you?”

“Uh huh” my mouth went dry, Rick took a hand and messed with my nightgown.

“Very pretty” he tucks a strand of hair behind my ear.

“Thank you” my eyes were big and innocent.

“Can I touch?” He wasn’t really asking because then his hands went to my shoulders, then down to my breasts, he squeezed slightly.

“Rick we can’t” I huff.

“Who says?” He shrugs, “there’s no rules anymore, only secrets”

I hesitantly nod, “I’ve never done this before, I haven’t gotten this far.”

It was embarrassing but the apocalypse kind of got in the way of any social life.

“It’ll feel good I promise, but we gotta keep it a secret baby, just you and me” his southern accent was getting thicker.

Rick pulled up my nightgown, revealing my underwear, “cute panties too?”

I giggle, “maybe”

He finally kisses me, it was so sweet and hot. His tongue between my lips, I let him take the lead.

Then the floorboard creeks.

We immediately break apart and Rick steps back. It was my father.

“I could only find a few, I had much more- y/n what’re you doing down here?” My father finally looks up from the varied maps.

“I was thirsty” Rick glances at me but I don’t look back, I don’t wanna seem obvious.

“That’s fine but could you give me and Rick some privacy when you’re done?” He smiles and ruffles my hair.

“Yes” I roll my eyes playfully. I get my long awaited water and head back up to my room.

Rick knew he couldn’t just go upstairs once he and my father were done talking, so I presumed he went back to camp with the others.

The next morning I tried very hard to keep my face at a normal color but I could only think about the fact that Rick lifted up my nightgown in the very kitchen where everyone was having breakfast.

I keep my head low but then Rick speaks, “eggs?” He grinned, holding up the frying pan.

“Oh- yes please” I grab a plate and Rick spoons the eggs on.

“Why’s your face so red hun?” He whispers.

“Shhh” I look up at him, “I’m gonna go eat my breakfast over there, far way from you”

Rick chuckles, he plates his own eggs along with Carl’s.

***Rick was working out things in his mind, he was wondering how he could get that sweet girl alone with him. But he knew that somewhere there was always an interruption. And if anyone found out that the leader of the group was sleeping with Hershel’s daughter. Ricks sure that Hershel would break his “no weapons” rule.***

“Psst” I heard someone behind me. I was giving some water to the horses. I turn around and see Rick.

I giggle, “what was that for? My fathers not gonna shoot you for speaking to me”

“He might be tempted” Rick steps closer, his hands in his back pockets, “I wanna pick up where we left off.”

“Not here-“ I squeal as he comes up from behind and squeezes my ass.

“No but we could go behind the barn hm? Just wanna touch you a little come on” he whispers in my ear.

“Rick I don’t think we should” I sigh as his mouth attaches to my neck.

“Don’t be scared, no one will see us” he chuckles, then licks my neck.

Suddenly leaves crunch.

I turn to the barn door and no one was there to see Rick handling me, but moments later there was glenn.

“Hershel wants to give us a few pointers on looking for Sophia” Glenn announces awkwardly, “hi” he acknowledges me.

Glenn could sense something was up but he trusted Rick enough to not bring it up.

“Sure thing, I’ll be right there” rick huffs, another moment interrupted.

I give him a look that says I’m sorry, he nods.

Little does Rick know I’m planning something tonight where he’ll get exactly what he wants.

***PART TWO COMING SOON***

#rick grimes smut #rick grimes #the walking dead #smut #rick grimes x reader #rick grimes x you #rick grimes x y/n #farmers daughter #forbidden love #andrew lincoln

125 notes · View notes

aconflagrationofmyown · 7 months

Note

You’ve definitely become one of my favorite Elvis writers on here, Marina.

And I wanted to ask you, are you planning to do more Elvis series? Like a series of Hollywood!Elvis, where he fights to be a serious actor and falls in love with one his co-stars. Or more Elvis AU, since we already have Pirate!Elvis. For example Cowboy!Elvis. Spy!Elvis like a James Bond or Agent Elvis. Mafia!Elvis. Even a Superhero!Elvis.

I think you’d do such a good job bringing all those concepts to life 🤭

My sweet anon, thank you so much, what a kind thing to say, I’m so glad my writing has brought you joy. 💋🌸💋 As for AU’s I did start a series about Hollywood E, yet never finished it. And for now I’ve got riverboat Captain E and father figure E to chew and that’s a lot on its own…but never say never. I think this would be something I’d have to have pitched to me and see if it resonates? So far I’ve not fully cooked up anything else original that hasn’t been done better by others. I’m always happy to dish out recs, fyi.

BUT THAT SAID…I’m messing around with little snippets, a filthy fairytale in collaboration with @elvisabutler and this demented Regency Elvis headcanon below that “my sexy secretary” @ab4eva took down from a chat. Enjoy…

I Bet on Losing Dogs -🥀 A Regency Elvis Blurb

18+ blurb, warning sexual content ahead, arranged marriage, romance novella style stuff

Imagine this: Regency Elvis whose wife has recently left him for a foreigner, taking with her his only child -a daughter who cannot inherit. He needs an heir.

Zero promises of love or fidelity or even bare respect for his new wife but…there’ll be position and status and jewels so long as you perform your wifely duties without complaint.

Jaded and lonely, I need freshly betrayed Elvis buying off a nobleman for his daughter, a Baron who’s mortgaged his estate for debts, Mr. Presley gets the association with your family’s nobility and you get the much needed wealth that new money brings.

And so your new husband comes in nightly in an embroidered robe and a solitary lit candle to consummate your union. He’s got all that chest hair displayed and a lil ponch of a belly showing out his robe as he slowly undoes the tie every night, never rushed, and you can feel the jitters down to your toes every time as you hug the sheet to your chin.

*Let go, Darlin,* he’s always murmuring as he pulls the sheet from your grip, *must do what needs done*

He fucks you hard and fast for such a delicate woman and then tosses you spending money to make up for it.

Reminds you after each visit to yoru chambers that you have a job to do. One single job.

*Gimme that son and maybe you’ll get that sea bathin’ ya been hankerin’ for*

(Elvis is from Yorkshire if he was ever transported to an English Setting AU, ok? No question, unless the question is Irish versus Yorkish)

Each time, when he finishes and pants into the humid crook of your neck, his hand blindly strokes away your tears and he whispers in gravelly apology, *I’ll leave ya alone, moment ya start to swell, I swear it, I’ll leave ya alone lil girl*

But that’s not why you’re crying, you wish he’d stay, he doesn’t know how cold you get when he leaves you and his sweat and spend cools on your skin and leaves you shivering.

You could curse the woman who laid here before you, who broke his heart and still haunts this place, like the wall opposite the bed with its outline of a portrait missing on the sun-bleached wall.

You wonder what she looked like, this missing wife.

You wonder if she secretly craved the burning stretch of him like you do, possibly not if she left for someone more…continental. Was he too voracious for her? Or was it the loneliness that finally ate her through like the moths who try the same with the bed canopy.

One night, Mr. Presley’s hand slips from your shoulder down to your breast, very rarely does he maul you there except in his direst paroxysms of pleasure, but tonight he slips and grabs and it’s so sore you nearly cry aloud from the ache.

*I swear I’ll leave ya be* he had said and you bite your lip savagely, cinch your corsets cruelly and wonder how to make him love you, tolerate you even. Anything so that you’re not left alone like he promises.

Are your breasts sore from being with child? You worry so.

So the next night you scheme, and when he shakes atop you and catches his breath and makes to roll away, you grab hold of him and keep him close.

*Six months* you murmur, and he seems confused by your meaning, *six month’s you’ve visited me nightly save for menses and Lent, and no child to show for it. Won’t you stay? Nurse says if the man remains…after…the chances are greater.*

Ensuing cockwarming between two people who’ve barely spoken outside of bed…little chats…because neither can sleep and in fact, he doesn’t really sleep that much at all, he admits.

*what do you do then? At nights?* you ask.

He reads a lot, he tells you and he’s got a telescope, and you tentatively ask if he’ll read to you.

He agrees with a shy *i-if ya want that, I will*

About the books. You asks if he will tonight instead of leaving and he says yes.

Then he hesitates and asks lowly, *can we…once more?…before?*

He asks if he can do it again, before he grabs the books, because he firmed up again while acting as a stopper in your warm cunt.

You’re already a wet mess down there and perhaps he moves you around, spoons you.

Puts himself back in and you’re so wet from what he gave you before and your excitement at the intimacy you feel in this movement.

And due to the difference in angle, for the first time, you actually come from the feeling of your husband inside you. His flaming hot body behind you, his thick arms wrapped around your body, the delicious rub of him in your womb.

And you’re quite sure you’ve already made a child but he doesn’t need to know. Not yet.

Anything to keep him coming back.

#elvis presley #regency Elvis #elvis fanfiction #Elvis blurb #elvis fanfic #Elvis smut #regency #bridgerton #elvis imagine #elvis x reader #elvis #mine

75 notes · View notes

causenessus · 4 days

Text

binary stars

part 0.5. EQUIPMENT ROOM

NOW PLAYING . . . no other heart by mac demarco

iwaizumi opened the door for them as they arrived.

“how’s he holding up?” hanamaki asked, stepping in first. him and matsukawa both had their usual relaxed faces, with small smiles on their lips. sure, a part of them were worried for their friend's wellbeing but overall they were finding his struggles stupidly entertaining.

“he’s got his head in his hands, grabbing his hair like he’s gonna tear it out but he would never actually do it. not much else,” iwaizumi shrugged, closing the door behind them.

when they saw him, his knees were pulled to his chest and he stared blankly at the wall.

“damn, you messed up that bad?” matsukawa took a seat next to him.

oikawa only curled up into a tighter ball, hiding his face, “yes.”

“you wanna tell us what happened? maybe we can help,” hanamaki offered, sitting on the floor along with iwaizumi so that the four formed a small circle.

“she found out i liked someone and when she asked who i said i couldn’t tell her like an idiot,” oikawa answered. “i want to dig myself a hole and never come out.”

matsukawa and hanamaki shared a look while iwaizumi rolled his eyes. “how’d she find out?” hanamaki asked.

“bokuto said something about it,” iwaizumi answered.

“and now i’m doomed,” oikawa lamented, finally lifting his head up, “how do i come back from this? even if she did like me a little bit before this, now i’ve made it seem like i like someone else and that i don’t trust her.”

iwaizumi only shook his head. he'd already heard all of this before, from both oikawa and y/n.

“she’s not going to give up that easy. you’ve been close friends with her for years, give her a little more credit. and you need to not give up this easy,” iwaizumi said, staring oikawa dead in the eyes.

“yeah, you can still amend this, and you better. try spending more time with her, and act normal with her, or flirt, you’re always doing that with other girls,” hanamaki suggested.

“that’s because i don’t care about them,” oikawa ran his hands through his hair with a sigh, “it’s all fake when i flirt, but when i’m with her, i’m just all open with my feelings, you know? i can’t flirt when i’m like that, and even if i do, what if she thinks i’m just toying with her? that’s even worse.”

“well then, it sounds like you really like her,” matsukawa caught oikawa’s gaze, “do you want to tell her or not? if you’re serious about this, then that’s more reason to fix this. make her know that things are normal between you guys, which will show her that you’re still comfortable with her. then, get closer to her.”

prev. | m.list | next

extras <3

at certain times iwa gets so fed up and is on the verge of saying things like "OFC SHE FUCKING TEXTED ME ABOUT WHAT YOU FUCKING TEXTED HER SHE'S IN LOVE WITH YOU YOU BLIND ASSWIPE" but he knows if he says anything like that he'll just get "oh that can't be 🥺 she would never like me blah blah woe is me" and has just given up

when tooru texted y/n she saw what he had texted her a few days ago again which only continued to make her feel conflicted about how he was treating her

tooru genuinely cannot and will never flirt with yn bc he wants to be all sweet and honest with her he never wants to even act like he's toying with her

hinata is begging takeda and kiyoko for another practice match with seijoh bc he wants to see y/n again <3

taglist: @anonnreader777 @daisy-room @deluluforcarlos55 @eggyrocks @hikikaimar @httpakkeiji @intergalacticrory @localgaytrainwreck @mitfloya @reallyvexin @sunarins @usermins @yenonnoff @wyrcan (form to be added to taglist <3)

#oikawa tooru #tooru oikawa #oikawa tooru x reader #tooru oikawa x reader #oikawa x reader #oikawa smau #haikyuu smau #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu #hq #hq x reader

23 notes · View notes

toomanyopinionss · 7 months

Text

I want to talk about

Surviving Summer

(nonspoiler/spoiler)

hey y’all, it’s been a minute since i’ve done one of these. let’s get into it…😏

So i genuinely like this show. Just finished watching the second season, in fact.

I feel like it’s the good amount of cheesy and adorable and mind numbing without being too formulaic and basic like some of these Netflix originals tend to be. Now it can be annoying and cringy sometimes, don’t get me wrong. But it’s got some pretty good actors and actresses with enough heartfelt moments and playful scenes to make one feel content. She’s not a top ten, but she never tries to be, you know??

As for the show itself? Surviving Summer is the perfect name for it, because Summer the character? a HOT mess. I cannot stress this enough, the frontal lobes on that one are not fully formed. It’s especially apparent in season 1. Even so, i love her 🥰. I cant help it ok? She has the confidence that i dreamed of having in high school, and now tbh.

I won’t go to deep into every character, but let me just say this: they will ALL annoy you at some point. It’s so obvious that they’re teenagers, cuz they childish. But they all care about each other most of the time, and surfing. It’s a great summer watch! go for it, don’t be shy

7.5/10. Surface level fun with shenanigans galore and annoying teenagers.

SPOILERS

Y’all the second season was gooood. I liked it better than the first tbh. Summer, like i said before was much more serious and focused, but it didn’t change her personality at all, which i loved.

I liked how they got more into Bodhi’s conflicts with surfing and the racism in the industry on her end. If anything, i wish they had time to do even more with it. Because everything else they did with her character this season was just bleh. A half hearted conflict between poppy blown WAY out of proportion and a half assed queer relationship that was cute but barely touched on because hottake Netflix hates their wlws and their black main characters 🤭(oop who said that)

Poppy and marlon were cuteeeee. sidenote, who else forgot that bodhi and marlon had a thing, cuz i sho did 👀. they have such good chemistry and it just warmed my heart. SPEAKING of good chemistry…

✨“summer have you seen yourself?”

summer and baxter are the only mf choice, im SORRY.

immediately side eyeing anyone who says that summer and ari should be together, because i’m not sure you and i watch the same show. another steaming take, but I never bought into summer and ari. they are too sibling for me. i was taken ABACK when they kissed in season one. I genuinely did not see it coming. they play off each other nicely, but in a romantic way? NOPE, i don’t buy it.

but from the first scene with baxter and summer, i knew. it was intense. the casual touches, the instant bind they formed, the way bax looks at her 🤭…

you cannot compete where you don’t compare, Ari is not the one 🤷🏾‍♀️

anyone else? hmmm…

oh, y’all join me in a big FVCK you to Elo and Wren. they both suck actual ass and i hate them both.

it’s the way that they treat everyone like shit equally. even their own brother? like what the fvck is wrong with them?

like especially wren. being jealous and overly competitive is one thing. but they way she handled the bodhi situation, plus the way she outed her old teammate? literally bordering on racist and homophobic like wtffff. maybe a lil psychotic too, cuz why is she literally a threat to summer’s life? don’t take it out on her cuz your boyfriend is an indecisive disaster. at least they didn’t give wren a redemption, i would have been so pissed off like fvck her.

ok this is getting long. tldr, Season 2 was entertaining and fun. poppy and marlon were cute, summer was awesome, ari does not need a girlfriend, justice for baxter, and wren and elo will not be seeing the pearly gates.

#surviving summer #surviving summer netflix #netflix #2023 #sky katz #summer x baxter #summer x ari #poppy x marlon #baxter radic #summer torres

76 notes · View notes

kay-elle-cee · 6 months

Text

@jilytoberfest 31 Prompts: Day 19 || 712 Words || Read on Ao3 —

“Mate, I brought you here to help, not ogle the other bloody mechanics.”

“Keep your fucking voice down, Sirius!” James splutters. “And I am not ogling her!”

James turns his back to where the ogled-mechanic-in-question stands, lovely red hair pulled back and out of her face as she works on a car across the garage. Instead, his focus is on the man—his supposed best friend—within arms’ reach, who's currently hunched over his motorcycle and tinkering away, desperately looking to James like he needs some sort of slap across the head.

“She didn’t hear me. She’s always got earplugs in when she works.”

“Yeah you know, you should probably invest in some of those as well.”

“But I aspire to the day where I don’t have to hear you fretting over me like your mother.”

“Oi, you keep my mother out of this!”

Sirius breaks his concentration to look up, grinning at the fact that he’s hit a nerve. “Why? You think she’d be mortified to know her kind and respectful only son is just openly salivating as he gives the poor girl the glad eye?”

“I am not doing that!”

“You kind of are, though,” a voice—amused and so close—answers from behind him.

Sirius lets out a bark of laughter as James spins on his heel to come face-to-face with the woman in question (the ogled mechanic, not his mother). He doesn’t have to see his reflection to know his cheeks are red with embarrassment even at her clearly-not-offended reaction.

As a matter of fact, she raises a brow in interest, her sparkling green eyes glued to his even as her head tilts slightly to the side in consideration.

“Black,” she starts, and the volume is loud enough that James knows with absolute certainty that this is a conversation with Sirius, even if her eyes are still connected with his. “Decide to bring a friend to help you with that mess of a bike of yours?”

James can hear Sirius laugh behind him but he cannot seem to pull himself away from this woman’s gaze. “Help’s a bit of a strong word. He’s my best mate, but dead useless when it comes to auto repair.”

Indignantly, James whips his head around to where his friend sits, this insult apparently enough to break the trance of the ogled mechanic. “Hey! Then why even invite me along?”

He doesn’t miss how Sirius’ eyes flicker quickly between James and the woman behind him, nor how his brow arches as he shrugs his shoulders with a satisfied smirk. This was a set-up. “Honestly, James, I’ve got no clue.”

“Ah, so you’re James.” As he turns back to face the woman, he notices as her eyes look past him to Sirius and a small flush creeps up her neck. Before he can spend too much time deciphering whatever silent conversation the two seem to be having, her eyes are back on him—appraising.

“Er, suppose I am. And that makes you…”

The woman grins, chin raising ever-so-slightly. “Lily Evans.”

“You’re Evans?” James blurts, turning once more to stare wide-eyed at his friend, who’s watching the whole scene playout with amusement. James had heard about nothing but Evans for weeks on end—how she drove Sirius up the wall, how she was admittedly a very skilled mechanic, how she had the absolute gall to correct him (and even worse, in Sirius’ book—had been right). Sirius couldn’t stop talking about how much Evans annoyed him, which meant she was alright in his book.

After a particularly rough day the previous week, Sirius had recounted how Evans had caught him smoking out back and ripped him a new one. Unfortunately he had done this while pulling out another smoke and receiving a similar lecture from James—which he did not receive well. (“You two are bloody made for each other, Christ!”)

“Suppose I am,” she answers with a smirk. “Well, considering this arse just insulted you, would you mind coming and helping me with something?”

“Oh, I’m not sure—I’m really not—”

She turns on her heel, walking back to her side of the garage with a look over her shoulder that James knows he would follow literally anywhere.

“Relax, James, I just need another set of hands. You won’t break anything, I promise.”

#it's (always) you #jilytober2023 #jily #jple #james potter #lily evans #31 prompts

54 notes · View notes

avatarmerida · 1 year

Text

I caved and I wrote a Paulina/William drabble. I don’t have context except that I HC Paulina would take longer to switch to the plant track and William meets the squad earlier in this version. Maybe I’ll explore this AU more lemme know if I should yo 💚💛

———

“Oh Lina, it’s absolutely stunning!” He marveled at the large colorful flower she was trying desperately to hide. But his praise only caused it to grow larger as a very flustered Paulina tried to control it.

“It’s nothing, I swear!” She insisted, but the vines has already made themselves comfortable. Summoning them had clearly taken skill, it would a challenge for anyone to make them disappear at a moment’s notice especially if they didn’t really want to.

“I have to disagree, I think it’s very much something.” William laughed. “It’s something wonderful!”

“No, it’s so embarrassing!” She said, brushing the flowers out of her hair. “I can’t control them anymore than I can control my other magic. You don’t have to lie to make me feel better.”

“I promise you, I’m not lying!” He insisted, gently removing a white rose from behind her ear. “I would never! I could never!”

“No, William I promise it’s okay I won’t be angry at you for it.” She said. “I guess… I was just nervous to show you. I… haven’t really told anyone I’ve been practicing plant magic.”

“Well, if you ask me you should practice it more. It suits you.” He said with a smile, feeling she looked so natural surrounded by the flowers.

“You’re sweet,” she said with a smile, and her calmness spread to the plants who did not whither away but made a slow return to their pots. “You’re wrong, but sweet. I know it’s silly to try another type of magic when I can’t even get the basics of my track.”

“Paulina, I promise I would not lie to you. In fact I cannot lie.” William said, his normal vigor lacking. “Like… I’m unable to.”

“What do you mean?”

“A secret for a secret?” He said, raising his pinky which she took in hers (thankfully this time there was no goop incident). “It’s part of my curse,” he began to explain. “If I am to lie, I am overtaken with great pain. It feels as though my bones are shifting and trying to escape. It matters not how grand the lie is, any lie will trigger it.”

“How do you know?”

“I did lie once, to my uncle.” He said, shuddering at the memory. “I had snuck out of the castle and when he asked me where I’d gone, I denied having left. And suddenly it felt as though my heart was being ripped from my chest, the pain so severe I could hardly stand. He said ‘this is what happens when you lie to me, you’re only hurting yourself by doing so. I will always know.’”

“Woah,” Paulina whispered, often forgetting William was related to the Emperor. She always views him as cold and scary and William seemed just the opposite, despite his attempts to seem intimidating. She wondered where he had gone before it struck her. “Was this… the night you came to our conjuring?”

He nodded and Paulina felt her heat sink.

“Oh William, I’m so sorry if I had known I would have never-.”

“No, please don’t be sorry princess,” he insisted. “It was a lovely night, truly. It was the first time I felt… normal. I didn’t think about my curse or my duties I just had… fun. That night meant a great deal to me.”

He smiled at the memory of holding her hand beneath the light of the full moon, the sound of her laughter as the managed to navigate the Owl House before Eda found them out. The way her eyes shimmered when she walked him to the door and said how happy she was that he had come.

“Well, you probably would’ve been back sooner if I hadn’t messed up the spell.” Paulina said, her voice low.

“If I had arrived on time I could’ve left on time, don’t blame yourself for something beyond your control,” he said, remembering the time he had put into his outfit, trying to impress her. “I was bound to discover it sooner or later, and knowing the effect has made me more careful. You can take credit for that, but nothing more.”

She smiled, knowing he meant that. She believed even without the curse William valued honesty. But such great pain no matter the lie? Not even a harmless white lie?

“Wait, did he mean every time you lie or just when you lie to him?”

“Well I… don’t really know,” he admitted, furrowing his brow. “I haven’t tried since then. But royalty shouldn’t lie anyway, so it doesn’t really matter. I intend to be an honest and fair ruler.”

“But what if you need to?” Paulina inquired. “What if by lying, you can help someone? Like what if Boscha was looking for me and asked you where I was, it wouldn’t be wrong to lie to her.”

“I would gladly endure the pain to keep you safe.”

Paulina blushed. He didn’t even hesitate.

“But when you go on missions, what if your identity is supposed to remain a secret and someone asks you if you’re the prince? It would be okay then, wouldn’t it?”

“I suppose you’re right,” he said stroking his chin. “Hmm, we should investigate this. Paulina, may I lie to you?”

She giggled, always finding his formality endearing. “You may.” She replied, matching his regal tone.

“All right,” he straightened his spine and cleared his throat, searching for a lie to tell. “Okay um… you are not very beautiful.”

He closed his eyes and prepared for the impact his only lie had given him, but to his surprise he felt no pain. “Huh? I did it! I lied!

“Well, I don’t know if it’s a lie exactly,” blushed Paulina. “It’s kind of subjective.”

“Oh? Oh, yes I suppose you’re right, as usual.” He scrunched his face as he tried to summon a more probable truth. “Okay then, I do not think you are very beautiful.” He clarified for the powers that be. He waited a beat and again felt no pain and raised his arms in victory. “Huzzah!”

Paulina blushed once more. “I mean… I’m still not sure that’s the best example,” she said quietly. “I mean, because what if that’s-.”

“Oh, yes I see what you mean,” he said, reading her mind. “I know opinions and fact can differ, but I can only lie about what I know, correct? Even if it just a lie to me, because I do believe you’re very beautiful. See? Neither sentence triggered the curse. I promise you the truth is the latter, you can ask Luz I’ve said that well before I ever thought about trying to lie.”

“Oh, well okay.” She said with a smile as Willam did not falter from the sincerity of the compliment. He simply acted like her beauty was a universal truth. She wondered how often if came up that he instantly felt that way. But despite how nice the sentiment made her feel, something about the delivery troubled her. “So… if you only feel pain when you lie to your uncle does that mean…”

“Does that mean… what?”

“William… is he the one who cursed you?”

#huntlow #huntlow dupe #winter toh #I like Willina #I’m calling it Willina #willina #beta huntlow #toh #the owl house #Paulina toh #William toh #Willow park #Hunter toh

175 notes · View notes

Last Seen Blogs

blythelyunaware

takingapause

TAKING A PAUSE

mybeauty4myhusband

My Beauty Is For My Husband To See Not The World ™

neuralmerc57

Mer

neuralmerc57

Mer