#like everyone’s always so pressed that he doesn’t have an irish accent

[leclsrc]

in so deep ✴︎ cl16

genre: friends to lovers, charles has a huge crush and is a lovesick bloke, smut, humor, Fluff 

word count: 13.1k  

It takes you many cities, a botched Halloween costume and a failed break-in to realize how much Charles likes you. It takes Charles several years to realize he doesn’t need to do much to have you like him back. title from this

nsfw warnings under the cut!

18+ because... penetrative sex, praise central, size kink, unprotected sex

auds here… thank u for all ur love during my periods of being awol .... i wrote this over the course of a week and i hope u all like it!!! its very much a self indulgent thing... :P

The first time Charles realized he liked you, you were both posed for a picture.

It happened at a dinner party in London, in late autumn, thrown by you to celebrate your first year on the paddock as a reporter. Few friends had been invited but, with how noisy everyone was and with the ease of conversation, it felt like a houseful of people in your narrow dining area. Lando was in front of the mirror, tipsy, demonstrating his best rendition of an Irish accent to a genuinely interested Alex and Lily. 

Max was playing with your pet cat, Gene Kelly, and mentally plotting a heist to sneak him out with Pierre’s help. Your boyfriend, Liam, was making himself a cocktail. And Lewis had been roaming around with a glass of dry wine and his brand new film camera to document the night’s festivities—but the host was nowhere to be found. Unbeknownst to everyone, full off dinner and tipsy off cocktails, you’d ducked into the balcony to find where Charles had run off to for the night.

The music was muffled when you shut the door, leaving it ajar just a little bit. Lissie had played Cocteau Twins and was singing whatever gibberish lyrics played, fully drunk off a bottle of Tito’s. Still laughing over her predicament, you turned to Charles and refocused your attention on him. Is it boring?

What w… what is? He asked, turning to you. Briefly his eyes flitted to your hand, the bracelets clasped onto your wrist. He noticed you held matching bottles of beer but yours remained full, nail tapping idly on the semi-opaque glass.

My party, you responded wryly, cocking your head to the side. A loose tendril of hair fell over your eye and he itched to tuck it back in place, thumb over your ear. You continued, still pressing for an answer. You left to smoke but you didn’t come back. 

I like the view. A half-lie but truthful in some way. He squinted to try and make out blurry, faraway signage. I should move here. Monaco makes me sick. He tried to say it jokingly, but was betrayed by the raw tone of his voice. You hummed quietly, to signify you were listening.

So move. Who’s stopping you? You smiled slightly. Aside from your ludicrous career, of course. 

You had a natural disposition of—something. He didn’t quite know how to describe it, almost like the rest of him had yet to catch up with something only his heart was already decided on. You spoke and acted with some kind of smoothness that only the most popular kids in secondary school could have reins over, but you always claimed you weren’t very popular in your teenage years. He just knew he liked hearing you talk, watching you smile. He felt something—but he didn’t want to name it even if he knew exactly what it was. Instead he played into your joke. Yeah, I’ve been told I should move to Dubai instead, become a prince.

You laughed aloud. You are terribly unfunny, you know that?

Am I? He asked. Just then, as the cotton of his tee brushed against your bare shoulder, Liam brashly tugged the balcony door open to find you. He had this drunk smile on his face, brushing his blond hair out of the way and raising a Leica to the two of you.

Hey, I got Lewis’ camera. Smile, Liam had said, eyes squinted behind it. You remained still, half-turned to the camera, and Charles gave a smile whereas you remained in a neutral, half-smiling pose. And right there, at that very moment, as a giggle escaped your lips from having to pose so quickly and even awkwardly, Charles realized with a damning force that he had a massive crush on you.

Liam had left shortly after to resume taking pictures, but would later confront you over your “weird, odd, fucking closeness with the Monegasque bloke” that you would vehemently deny despite a gut-churning feeling boiling low in your stomach. But that’s later. Your conversation continued calmly, along the passive whir of London and the streets below. You both people-watched as you thought of things to say—finally Charles said, Are you interviewing me next weekend?

I always try to get out of it when it’s with you. You rolled your eyes, feigning irritance, then smiled to break the illusion. I think so.

I’ll make sure I have good answers. You’re too smart. Hurts to be in the same room. 

Like you aren’t, you said back, but the rebuttal is shy in nature, like he struck you with a compliment so high you couldn’t bear to return it. He felt then like this was the kind of moment where you would start holding hands any minute, timid touches between clinks of bottles. He remembered Liam existed and screwed his eyes shut. He wished so hard to be able to kiss you. Abandon all sense and just kiss you.

—

“It’s 2023 and still London has the most rubbish ass, fucking cunt, stupid wanker stoplights,” Lissie huffs beside you, checking her watch. “Right then. We’re going to be late. You know how Lando is when people are late. Especially because this is his event.”

“We’re not people to Lando,” you reason, tapping the steering wheel. The ETA on your navigation app tells you you’re still twenty minutes away. “We’re his best friends. If he can’t forgive us, we should kick him out of the group chat.”

“Ooh, and add Alex,” Lily pipes up from the backseat, where she’s redoing her eyeshadow to pass the time. “I keep telling you guys he’s funnier than Lando.” Both you and Lissie make faint, vague sounds of dissent and she grunts again, deflating.

“No boyfriends in the group chat,” Lissie repeats an age-old rule that’s been around for as long as you three (four, including Lando) have been friends. “Or girlfriends, in Lando’s case, but we haven’t worried about that much, have we?”

You’re all en route to watch Lando crank out a brand-new deejay set, one he’s spent the summer break working on. It’s all house and inspired by beach music, and he’s very proud of it, so of course you’re all showing up to laud him. You’re not the only ones, though, apparently—whoever’s in the city is showing up to show their support, which includes a whole stretch of drivers.

“Oh, my God!” Lily says all of a sudden, eyes wide at something on her phone; you both gesture for her to show you and she does with speed. “Do you guys remember this? God, Instagram archives are a godsend.”

“Your dinner party in Chelsea!” Lissie coos, immediately sidling into a fond awwww! You tap at the story Lily had then posted: a video of everybody eating. You tap again to view the one she posted a few days later, which was a collage of Lewis’ camera scans he’d gotten developed overnight. There in the upper right corner, you almost immediately spot your photo with Charles.

“Oh, Christ, that picture.” Memories of your subsequent arguments with Liam flash past your head. Playfully, all you say is, “And I never had a boyfriend again.”

“Liam was an Irish arse, anyway.” Lissie scoffs. “Nobody liked him. Lewis joked about cleaning his camera after he used it that night. Plus, you actively avoid dating, so don’t complain.”

“Fair,” you say with a slight smile. Your mind lingers on the picture, the imprint of it burned fresh into your mind. 

“You—it’s also because you can’t take a hint, babe.” Lily says matter-of-factly. “Who knows how many guys have, you know… fancied, or, like, had crushes on you, and you just never knew?”

“Are you saying somebody fancies me?” You ask, voice whittling out playfully as your eyes count down the seconds to the green light.

Funnily, silence is all that answers. Beside you, Lily and Lissie exchange a look—one that communicates their years-long amusement over your cluelessness. You whirl back to them, eyebrows raised, and double down: “Wait. Does somebody fancy me?”

“No!” Lily ekes out; you don’t miss Lissie’s poorly-hidden laugh. “No. I’m just—it’s just—no.” 

Truth is, it truly seems like the only person in the entire paddock (team and Sky Sports staff included) who hasn’t caught on to a certain somebody’s boyish crush is the crush herself, oblivious as ever, even years and years later. One might think you’d have realized eventually, but perhaps owed to your type A personality and immersion with work, and Charles’ pathetic and total inability to express how much he likes you, the crush has always remained just that, despite your two friend groups’ best efforts to hint at it.

It wasn’t to say, though, that you didn’t sometimes entertain the idea of liking him, too. On that one rainy race weekend when he’d brought you a plastic cup of soup, and embarrassed, laughed sheepishly at Lissie’s joking request for one; then returned twenty minutes later with soup for everyone in the media pen. Or that time in Monaco where he’d pretended to be your boyfriend at a bar to ward off a creepo from hitting on you any further. Or another time, in Budapest, when he’d drank half his body weight in jello shots and slurred out a goofy, heavy I’m soooo sorry, baby while you helped him into the passenger seat of his car.

That one, singular time in Cancun you told your friends once and never again.

But those are isolated incidents, you suppose; plus, dating someone you work with has never seemed like a remotely good idea to you, and you don’t think it ever will.

For all your thinking on the topic, you fail to realize that you don’t know much at all—you don’t know the fact that Charles has liked you for years, after getting to know just how charming and funny you were as a friend. You don’t know that he still gets gut-churning butterflies when he sees you, hands shaky and face tinged pink. You miss the fact that he’s not had any long-term partners in the years of his liking you. You don’t know anything. 

“Don’t lie.” You narrow your eyes as you rev the car and continue the trip. 

“We’re not,” Lily says loudly and a touch too defensively, crossing her fingers. Quietly, she continues, “You should just pay more attention.”

Whatever she meant to say is lost on you as soon as you make a left and spot the club Lando’s at, already teeming with high-profile guests and their high-profile cars. Half an hour later you’re in—valet and being on the guest list effectively cuts your entrance time in half. You separate at the entrance—you, to find Lando; your two girls, to find your reserved table. You find him eventually, busy behind the booth churning out high-frequency tropical music; he pauses for half a beat to flash a huge grin and a thumbs-up before redirecting his attention to the knobs and sliders you can’t seem to guess the functions of.

These kinds of parties are affairs in and of themselves. They mimic the afterparties during the season—nothing if not shows of opulence and networking: champagne paid for by business magnates, yachts that barely make dents in anybody’s wallets, thick CVs, fruity cocktails spilled on pieces of clothing that cost upward of 3000 pounds. You make eye contact with at least seven skeevy businessmen before you spot your friends, but only because you hear them first—by them you mean Lissie, her loud voice raised even more to match the noise at this club.

“I said I didn’t fu—ugh—I don’t want ye fahkin’ champagne,” she slurs out to an old man in a pressed suit, eyebrows knitted angrily. “Got it?!” Behind her, Lily and Alex (who’s arrived now, apparently) watch, concerned and helpless to stop her but equally (perhaps more) entertained.

You step closer and make a move to calm down the exchange taking place, but somebody whispers a “hey” in your ear and startles you. You turn, and come face to face with Charles. His black tee accentuates the breadth of his shoulders, which you connect to his crossed arms; there’s a shy, boyish grin playing on his face. “Oh, Charles!” You smile. “Hey! Haven’t seen you in a while.”

“Thanks,” he says with a grin, straining to raise his voice. “You look—you look well. Are you alone?”

“No, I’m—” You turn to your three friends nearby, and to Lissie’s argument heating up. “I actually have to go.” You raise your thumb, jabbing it toward them. “But hi again… again!” You both laugh, but he laughs much louder. “I’ll see you around.”

“I jus—” He says, and you stick around for a second to hear him say what he has to say.

“Yeah?”

He clears his throat and laughs stiffly, abandoning his previous statement in favor of a new one. “I just…. want… to have a great time.”

“Ohhhh,” you holler, nodding, clearly trying to mask your extreme confusion under a polite smile. “Okay, well… go ahead!”

You smooth down your dress and laugh again, evidently more forced but, unfortunately for Charles, not any less pretty.

You carry yourself in a very pretty, graceful way, loud and quiet at the same time, like your confident voice when you’re holding the mic and asking questions or making drivers laugh. He might sound creepy, though, a touch too observant, if he tells you so. He observes you instead, for a second, the low cut of your dress and the way the red overhead light shines on your exposed collarbones—and then you’re leaving. He watches you walk over to hug Lily, realizes how stupid he’s sounded, and smothers a hand over his face, humiliated. 

—

“I just want to have a great time?” Max’s jaw drops and he shakes his head, disappointed above all else. “Charles, what the actual. Like…. fuck?” They’re all camped out at the latter’s hotel room, around the dining table, in varying states of sober and doing different things to wear off the last hour of the night before they’re all due to train or debrief again in the morning. Charles had relayed the disaster of the night to everyone at some point, but Max is the last to hear of it; this, unfortunately, does not inoculate him from the shock and secondhand embarrassment.

“Pierre told me to—” Charles starts, forlorn.

“Oi, no. I told you to say something like I just wish… I’d seen you sooner,” interjects the Frenchman with a tut. “You know, flirting? Not… whatever the fuck you said.”

“I didn’t—I was—I lost my mind,” he groans, burying his head in his hands. It couldn’t possibly be entirely his fault when you looked so pretty tonight, hair down and a wash of glitter on your eyelids. Just subtle little flecks of them. They brought out your eyes, too. And your blush, the pink flush of it that sat high on your cheekbones.

“…llo? Charles.” He blinks and sees Carlos’ deep eyes, wide and staring right at him, so pointedly he’s genuinely startled.

“Jeeesus fucking Christ. What?” He places a melodramatic hand over his chest. “Yeah?”

“What do you mean with the”—Carlos mimics his confused expression—“I asked you a question, tonto.” 

“Don’t bother with him,” chimes in Pierre, half-distracted by his phone. He looks up with a devious smile and continues. “He’s still thinking of Miss Reporter of the Year.” A round of loud, jovial laughter makes its way across the table, a few teasing quips being chimed in here and there.

“I just,” mocks Pierre from across the table, adopting a sing-songy tone as he bumps his shoulder to Carlos’ with a mocking laugh. “Wanna have a great time.” His voice is much higher and more mocking, which is enough to send Charles into a fit of petulant embarrassment.

“This isn’t sixth year,” he grits out quietly, but the blush on his face could just as well be plastered on the cheeks of a twelve-year-old. “Give it a rest.” 

“Mate.” Pierre’s voice mellows into something more austere. “You do know she’s leaving the reporters’ job at the end of the season? She’s going to London full-time. No more seeing her all year round. You know this. And I keep telling you. If you are really, and I mean really, interested, I say go for it. C’est la fucking vie, yeah?”

“Plus, if she says no, you can go for pretty much anyone else, anyway,” concludes Max with a convinced smile.

“It’s not the same,” he admits helplessly, smothering his hands over his face in bleak frustration. Behind his eyelids he sees you still, beautiful and smiling and funny—he seriously needs to institutionalise himself before he goes even more mad with the years-long malady he’s called a crush. And seriously, for a twenty-something to have something he calls a crush is despicable in itself. He feels juvenile.

“I can’t tell her. She’s always told people that dating coworkers is a bad idea.”

“You’re not coworkers.”

“We’re—well, we still work closely together. It is the same.” He groans. “It’s just… I’ve said it before. If I admit I like her, things will become awkward. I’d rather we remain friends.”

“Well… see, nobody said you needed to tell her,” begins Pierre schemingly, eyebrows raising. Around them, everybody groans at the birth of another Pierre-brained scheme that will, no doubt, need the enlistment of everyone’s help and will likely end in disaster. “What?! I’m just offering… I’m just saying, mate—you’ve liked her since forever. Why not make a move?”

“—I can’t—”

“Without telling her?” 

“Pierre,” groans Carlos, ever the voice of reason, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I don’t—whatever this is you’re planning, it’s going to go to shit. I swear.”

“You are acting like I plan to take somebody hostage.” Pierre shrugs. “You know, girls like when you don’t tell them straight up. You have to show you like them. You know, be interested in the things they’re interested in, compliment them, make them laugh. And then they think, oh, how thoughtful, oh, how adorable, and before you know it, they like you. And you’ve got yourself a girlfriend.”

“Mmm. Uh-uh. Untrue.” Max says decisively, shaking his head. “I told Kelly I liked her.”

“Yeah, sí. I told Isa I liked her, too.”

“Will you two—just—” Pierre gesticulates and makes a funny noise that insinuates just go with it. “Okay?” he points out to the latter, rolling his eyes. He turns back to Charles with a ready, dazzling, so-French-it’s-scary grin and continues. “I suggest you let us be your wingmen and help you charm her.”

“Whoa, whoa, wh—us? You’re on your own here,” Max quips with a laugh. “It’s your stupid idea.”

“It’s not stupid, and it’s going to work. She probably likes you already.” His confidence carries the lie with gusto. “We just need—you just need to show her instead of saying the dumbest shit to her face.” Pierre leans back into his chair and shrugs matter-of-factly. “Max and I will be regular wingmen, but we have a secret weapon.”

“Don’t—” Carlos starts with a sigh.

“Yes. Lando, Lily, and Lissie are all close to her, eh? Well, perfect—Carlos will get information from Lando about things she likes, you gift her those things or talk to her about them, bam she’s in love. It’s literally a perfect plan.”

Maybe it’s worth it. Maybe—

“No.” Charles shakes his head firmly, setting the record straight. “This will not work. Who’s to say she even needs a boyfriend?”

—

Despite what his best and closest friends—on and off the paddock—might have you believe, Charles hasn’t always been so hopeless when it came to trying to catch your heart. His closest call came in Cancun, after a long weekend of racing and a flight to the area, early into the night where he thought he was the only one who decided to opt out of partying.

Your skin’s peeling. You turned from where you sat on a barstool observing the shore, startled, immediately relaxing when you found him standing there eyeing you. Your hair was still damp, crunchy with saltwater, and your skin had tanned considerably, a sunburn sitting on the bridge of your nose. You stuck your tongue out.

I spent the whole day swimming. He observed your bikini, yellow and green contrasting the colour of your skin. He blinked slowly, ordering himself a drink to hopefully pass the thoughts away. His eyes couldn’t stop, though, wandering, the translucent material of the scarf you’d tied loosely around your hips, the tinge of heat on your shoulders and nose. I’m burnt everywhere.

There are remedies for that. He smiled around his glass.

I’m aware, you said lightly, crossing your legs and sliding your finger along the salt rim of yours. But just in case I forgot, maybe you could refresh my memory.

Your voice was so sweet, so low, so tempting. Already he knew he was wrapped around your finger, the same finger picking up grains of salt to press on your tongue peeking between your smiling lips. You brought your glass to your lips. It had been some time since the dinner in London so he pressed, his voice deep and a little rough, Liam can do that for you, I’m sure.

Pity, you said meekly as you set your glass down and looked back at him. He’s not my boyfriend anymore.

Out of eyeline, the bartender’s eyes widened at the exchange he was overhearing. 

Is it a pity? He asked, leaning backwards and cocking his head to the side. It’s easy, an easy glide of conversation, flirt, something he’s wanted for a while now. To have you playing into him, and have himself playing into you, just like this. It was naturally easy in a foreign city where nobody knew who either of you were, where you were just two strangers flirting at a beachside bar.

Two strangers laughing while they dug their toes into the sand. Two strangers basking in the water, tinted orange by the sun dipping below the horizon, scarf untied in favor of one last swim before night fell. There was nothing keeping either of you from doing whatever you wanted. Nothing keeping Charles from finally acting on the attraction that honest to God crushed him.

You ended up leaning on the door of your hotel room, keycard fiddled in-between your sandy fingers. You combed a hand through your hair and offered a shy smile. So. 

So, he replied, leaning closer. So.

Sooo. You were laughing and your breath smelled like a mint leaf and vodka. You looked up at him, blinking slowly. I have a rule.

What rule is that?

I don’t date coworkers. He wanted to dip down, place a hand on the dip of your waist, and kiss you.

Pity, he said gruffly instead, a smile forming on his face.

Is it a pity? You chewed on your lip and looked at his barely parted ones, pink and pretty. When I’m about to break it? He was about to help you do just that—eyes fluttered shut already—when a crash resounded from down the hall and you both turned to find the culprit. You broke apart and with your separation, whatever atmosphere of tension you’d built up popped, too, leaving you awkwardly standing beside each other.

Oh m… Lissie? You asked, leaning closer as you recognized your friend more and more. You narrowed your eyes, watching the girl crawl her way through the carpeted floor. Oh, Jesus—let’s—get you—

You both hauled her up and wrapped either arm around your shoulders, unlocking her hotel room with great effort and tossing her onto the bed. You stood back and sighed at her half-blacked out state, slightly amused but ultimately relieved she ended her night unscathed.

She pried one eye open and sleepily, she groaned out, what were… you two… doing together outside your room?

Nothing, you said quickly, face warm and eyes wide.

Because you—Lissie raised a lazy finger in your direction—don’t date coworkers. 

I wasn’t—it wasn’t—goodnight, you spluttered, eyes refusing to meet Charles’ even as you both exited the room, paying him quiet thanks as he pulled the door back closed.

Sorry, you said, pretty as ever. The light shone on the red splotch on your nose. Goodnight.

And so he went to his room that night, bummed out and still high off your scent.

—

“You’re staring again.”

“I’m not,” he lies through his teeth, averting his eyes away from your figure by the shore. Sue him if he was staring (which he wasn’t… but most definitely was) but he finds you much too pretty. After the disaster that was the Mexican GP, he figures he could use some sort of stress reliever. Apparently he was not alone in thinking this, considering half the paddock hauled ass to Cancun and prompty partied.

Across Charles, Joris and Pierre share a knowing look that doesn’t go unnoticed.

“I said I’m not!”

“So you are not staring at her blue swimsuit then?” Joris tests, mouth twisted into a devious smirk. “It’s black,” Charles says matter-of-factly before catching sight of his friends’ smug expressions and realizing he’s implicated himself. He rolls his eyes and crosses his arms, petulantly almost. “And I wasn’t. Can you fucking—fuck off?”

“Just ask her out already,” Pierre groans, nodding when Joris chimes in with agreement of his own. “I seriously can-not handle another bar of this shit. It’s been years.”

“I don’t know how to,” he laments. “It’s going to be awkward if I do it all formal, and she’s going—she’ll laugh at me, and it’s…” He blows a raspberry. “Non. Pointless.”

“Just kiss her at the party,” reasons Joris with an easy attitude, shrugging. 

“Joris! Charles didn’t know about that,” Pierre says, trying to lower his volume, but it’s pointless since they’re barely a metre apart. “Fucking tattletale.”

“Party?!” Charles repeats, eyes wide. “Why don’t I know about a party?!”

“It’s a Halloween party,” Joris says, a wacky grin on his face. “And you said it yourself, didn’t ‘cha? You told us not to tell you if any functions were happening because you’re too tired to go to any. Too… too wrapped up racing.” He laughs. “Or something of the sort.”

“Well the season’s ending,” he huffs, wringing firm fingers over his face, his shut eyes, “and I still fucking haven’t… so I think I’m afforded a party.”

“Alright, then come to the party! Dress code, Halloween. Sexy Halloween.” Pierre wiggles his eyebrows. “You know, speaking of our plan, Carlos overheard Lissie and Lily talking about what your girl’s costume is going to be.” He leans in closer and laces his fingers together. “She’s going as a… Christina.”

“Christina?” The other two echo, confused. 

“Christina. I did some digging, and I think it’s this.” Pierre scrolls and dicks around on his phone for a minute before turning it back around to Joris and Charles, who peek with great interest. They seem to be looking at an outdated movie poster of—

“Cas-per the friendly ghost,” Charles reads aloud, trying to get his accent to dissipate. “Huh. What the fuck is that?”

“It’s a movie, idiot.” Pierre shuts his phone off. “Starring who? Christina Ricci.”

“Vraiment? You think his crush is going to show up wearing… a white gown?” Joris asks, his mind stuck on the outfit he’d seen just seconds ago. “This doesn’t make sense.”

“Well Carlos and I agreed, so. Two to two. And Carlos says she and her friends always wear silly costumes like these. So if she shows up as Christina, what better way to start conversation than to dress up as Casper?”

Charles’ eyes widen with comical horror. “No. No, no, no. Did the ghost and the kid fuck?”

“No!” The two men across him yell in unison.

“Right!” He gesticulates. “So it’s not a couples’ costume!”

“But it’s still—” Pierre pauses. “It still matches. Trust me on this one, mate.” He smiles. “We even brought the supplies.”

—

The party is a hit as soon as Charles and his group enter. The former finds refuge at the table, unwilling to socialize. Pierre roams for a bit and ends up finding you almost immediately—you’re wearing low-waisted pants, a strappy top, and you sport alternating streaks of blond and black in your hair.

“Hey!” He calls, jogging up to you. “I heard you were coming as a Christina. Guess who I am?”

You rake a hand through the streaks in your hair and smile. “Not just any Christina. The artist. Xtina? You know?” You twirl a bit, the dark material of your strappy pants swishing as you go, as if the movement will help Pierre deduce the costume’s identity. “Whatever. You’ll get it. Lando is—we’re matching tonight, but I g—it wouldn’t make any more sense if you don’t understand it.” You sigh a bit and gesture vaguely to the crowd behind you, referring to the Eminem-dressed Lando, who you guess is currently caught in the thick of.

“Xtina?” Iks-tina, he repeats, clearly confused. “I remember hearing… somebody saying you were going as a… a Christina.”

“Chris-tina, Xtina, yeah. Christina Aguilera.” You smile, fingers pinching at the material of your belt. “Anyway—where is everyone? I’ve only seen Daniel’s costume and then yours.” The recent memory of Danny’s neon orange traffic cone costume bumping into everybody flashes in your mind.

“Save yourself,” he huffs, smoothing calloused hands over the denim of his jeans. “Zhou and Esteban came as Bella and Jacob, Max as a Tifosi. Anyway”—he points to his ensemble—“guess yet?”

Your mental images of each cited costume are cut short. “Aha! You’re, um. Yes! You’re Ken from the Barbie movie,” you crack finally, remembering the revealing denim vest and jeans combo from the film you’d watched four times over in theaters a few months ago. “Wow, even your briefs say Ken. Very accurate. Minus the non-bleached hair.”

He tuts and shrugs. “I’m no Alex. What’d he come as?”

“He and Lily matched—Sonny and Cher.”

“Let me guess,” Pierre starts, and already you’re nodding because you can tell he’s going to predict exactly how the night has turned out, “Alex is Cher?”

“Wig and sequined dress and all.” You nod, laughing and squinting; Alex’s tall figure, head clad in a long, fringey, black wig, stands out above the rest. “Oh, I did see Carlos at the bar. Ricky Martin?”

Pierre really laughs at that, a loud, distinctly French guffaw involuntarily forced past his lip glossed mouth. “What the fuck, mate! Ricky Martin?! He’s El Profesor from La Casa de Papel. You know, Money Heist? Bella ciao? Oh, my God, he’s going to fucking freak if he hears—heard you said that.”

“He seriously gave off Ricky Martin vibes,” you defend in-between laughs of your own. “So that’s everyone? Oh—oh. Charles! What did… I never saw him! He kept telling me how excited he was for his costume, too…” Just a few hours ago, at that—a boisterous voice honing into the your voicemail inbox, boasting about a costume while you prepped for the party with Lissie and Lily. Your eyes peruse the room, but the lighting is too dark and vague for you to make out anything you haven’t already seen.

“Oh. Charles?” Pierre’s voice lilts higher. “Um. Yeaaah. Um.”

You, however, are sufficiently distracted by your own search for him, and you fail to notice Pierre’s clear scrambling attempt to stall you. He takes a long swig of beer and clears his throat. “He’s just, well, around. I should actually—excuse me, I need to actually go look for him. I owe him a drink.”

“Oh? Oh, okay. Well—be careful?”

You’re a bit surprised by his sudden, jolted departure, but bid him a rushed goodbye anyway. He waves back vaguely, his eyebrows furrowed into an expression of worry as he shoves his way back into the crowd and toward the area littered with tables. It’s only then that Lissie surfaces from the crowd, scratching absently at her nose as she crashes into you with a floaty giggle.

“Lis, you’re all sticky.” You place two palms flat against her shoulders and push her off. “Are you high?” 

“Yes but not drunk.” She giggles again, eyes fluttering.

“Oh—that’s not. Whatever, I guess.” You exhale and cross your arms over your chest. “Who’ve you been with?” She listens, plays with the braid in her hair, matching her getup as Lara Croft. 

“Um, the deejay. I gave him my number, but he’s actually pretty fucking weird. Come on, I want to pee.” As always, her speech quickens to something inhuman, an effect elicited by alcohol; giving you essentially zero time to react, she loops a hand around yours and drags you with ferocity to the nearest restroom. She moves so aggressively through the thickly-packed crowd you barely have time to react or say hi to people you’re acquainted with en route.

You whiz by the door, and in the rush, you notice Pierre entering the one adjacent with a worried expression etched onto his face. Just minutes ago you’d been conversing—you wonder why he’s suddenly become privy to worries.

“So the deejay,” says Lissie, effectively distracting you for the time being. You hum to signify you’re listening, fixing bits of your outfit in the mirror as she kicks different stalls open to judge their cleanliness. “One, he was dressed up as James Bond. Which is just about the most fucking pretentious thing ever. Two, all he played was Chainsmokers. You’re telling me this pub—club—whatever—in Mexico could only afford to commission this guy? Three, he was”—she kicks the last door open and a gasp escapes her and morphs into a semi-shriek—“a ghost?!”

“Ghosted you? Already?” Your eyes, focused previously on re-lining your lips, flits to Lissie’s in the reflection. She’s distracted, staring at the contents of a stall with comically wide eyes. “What’s up? S’that a fucking glory hole or something?”

“No!” She yells when you approach, immediately lunging forward to pull it shut. “No. It’s—I saw a roach. Serves us for going to a fucking… pub. Don’t go in there, it’s…” She exhales a long breath. “It was a mama roach and… with eggs.”

“What are you talking about?” This isn’t even a pub, it’s a nightclub—one with a door fee that definitely did not warrant rogue cockroaches in the water closet. “Lis, you’re drunk-hallucinating.” You’re not even sure if that’s a thing, but you shove past her and push the stall door open again, ready to come face-to-face with, maybe, a sleeping Tinkerbell or a puking black cat. Worst case scenario, shit on the floor; worst-er case scenario, Lissie is right and you’ve stepped into a den of roaches.

Weirdest case scenario, though, if that’s an actual thing: Charles Leclerc seated on the closed toilet seat, face painted white, wearing an all-white ensemble of a large white shirt, shorts, high socks, and sneakers. He’s got two hands on either side of the wall, as if he’d been preparing to escape; how or to where, you’re clueless. Why he’s here, you’re even more stumped.

His entire face is a stark white, with black smudges of face paint on his forehead (eyebrows, you’re guessing); his hair’s been curled by the humid air at this club, and he looks like himself in all the ways he totally does not, eyes big and caught when yours click onto them. 

Despite confusion, you chalk it up, as one would rationally do at a party, to intoxication. You spend a few bated breaths staring at him staring at you, his face of pure shock and embarrassment enough to sober up a drunk for a few days. “Hi.” You can hear yourself say it, but you’re so caught off-guard and full of confusion it feels alien.

“Hey,” he says, wiping four fingers over his stubborn face paint with a smile. The smile and the paint barely fade. “I’m a ghost.”

“I see. Classic.” You pause. “I’m Chr�� nevermind. Um—are you okay?”

“A bit, uh—a tad bit drunk. I seem to be in the ladies’ room.”

“Yeah, you seem to be,” you recite back to him, amusement quickly overtaking confusion. “I think Pierre was looking for you. Let me go get him. Lis, make sure he doesn’t…” You gesture a puking movement, and the pair watch and listen to your shoes click against the tile, before the door swings open and then shut again.

“Coast is clear.” Lissie’s voice has been lowered to a conspiratorial whisper. “I reckon everyone you know is already looking for you?”

“This is a disaster.” He rubs frantically at the face paint, but it’s horribly futile. “You know, I didn’t even realize I was in the ladies’ room until you two came in. She cannot see me like this.”

“She already fucking has, mate.” Lissie sounds exasperated. “Whose idea was this? If you say Pierre I swe—”

“—Pierre—”

“—ar to Jesus fucking Christ, Charles—I can’t keep saving you from Pierre’s antics.” She grumbles out a sigh. “What are you supposed to be, even? Have you—did you see how hot she looks? This is like… you look like a… I can’t—” She lets herself taper off, so disbelievingly shocked at his odd costume.

“I’m Casper the Ghost!” Lissie mentally forms a crude picture of the kid ghost, which looks absolutely nothing like what’s in front of her. “Casper was opposite Christina Ricci. Pierre told me so.”

“That’s the dumbest analogy ever, holy Christ. You look like a poster child for some…” She regards him for a moment. “Anemia advert.”

“Take that back.”

“You don’t really have the upper hand here, Charles,” says Lissie with a grimace. “I’m texting Pierre. Are you—did you even get drunk?”

“No,” he woes. “I am totally sober. I had to lie. Pierre went to the table and told me that my—that the costume we planned—it was wrong, and I just—I ran to the bathroom.” Lissie can’t help but laugh at the story, raising her camera to record the incriminating evidence.

Mid-video, Charles’ white face droops and his painted lips part to ask: “You think she found me cute?”

—

Charles likes finding things about you. He supposes the first time he realized just how much he liked hearing you talk about yourself—which you rarely did—happened in São Paulo. He’d been stressing over a spiel to recite in front of a camera, rewriting over words for hours to make everything sound more natural.

Each margin had been hastily written on with pencil, run-on sentences with semicolons in the place of periods. The team scriptwriter didn’t do much to make his lines sound more natural and less like they’d just been spat out of an online translator. You peeked into the media pen and coughed. You don’t belong here, do you?

Tch, he clicked his tongue, turning to offer a smile. I’m working on a script for Sunday. Portugese stuff.

I can help, you responded, walking slowly over toward him. You smiled quietly, approaching slowly like you were waiting for him to greenlight your offer. He did so by pulling a chair out for you, and once you sat you traced a nail over each line, murmuring them under your breath.

You speak Portugese?

You looked up and gave a half-shrug, laughing like you were amused with yourself. Kind of. It’s not very good, but it’s enough. You resumed your editing and he felt content to stare, admire, watch every movement of your lips align with the syllables of the words. You asked for a pencil and began writing something much cleaner. He couldn’t help but let himself be in awe of your intelligence.

You read over the last few lines and turned to face him. Let me guess, you said. You want to make a pun on Ferrari before you say bye.

Ah, he laughs. Yeah.

See, I know you so well, you half-joked, scrawling idle edits on the margins of his script.

He was already looking at you when you turned back to him, seeking his response, agreement, anything. When your eyes met, something caught at your chest—it tugged, tugged, then tugged again, a dull feeling burrowed deep in you. Words failed to wrench themselves free, but once they did, all you could manage was a faint—What?

Nothing. He smiled and shook his head, like he was waiting for you to figure it out. You know… sometimes, I wish I met you sooner. He does. He wishes he knew you back then, when you first learned Portugese. Or when you were in high school, so you could see just how exponentially awkward he was in his own teenage years. He thinks sometimes that he’s lost too much time, met and liked you too late.

Hm, you breathed out, because you didn't know what else to. I know why—so you could always have me. As a proofreader. Right?

Hah. The tilt of his laugh was high and mocking, and he stuck his tongue out, as if to punctuate that. He looked away then, like he wasn’t ready to say certain things to your face just yet. Quietly he added, Always have you… something like that.

—

If you ask Charles what he’s doing hiding in a laundry basket of a luxury hotel in São Paulo, he wouldn’t be able to answer you, either. It’s been some time since the disaster that was Caspergate Cancun 2023, and if he’s perfectly honest, he doesn’t feel like facing you again for the rest of his life. Pierre, of course, has other plans. 

All he knows is last night, Pierre suggested he leave a huge vase of roses for you to arrive to in the living room of your hotel; as he planted it in said room, the door’s lock turned, and he sought a hiding place in the adjacent bedroom. Judging by the prevalent scent of Dior Sauvage, this is Lando Norris’ room.

Did u get to escape??? Pierre’s text irritates him. At the same time, the light flips on; Charles curls in on himself, remaining perfectly still. Lando’s voice trills through the room. “I didn’t leave those roses for either of you,” he’s saying to you and Lissie.

Charles hears you hum. “They’re so beautiful.” His heart swells. “I gotta run for a sec, pick up something from Will’s room.” A few seconds pass and the door opens and shuts, which means Charles is currently alone with Lando and Lissie. Which means he needs to plot his escape as soon as he can. Otherwise he’ll be caught in the crossfire and much too embarrassed to—

A foot meets his concealed body and he lets out an oof! as he’s sent flying out of the hamper, along with strewn-around clothes. He keeps his eyes screwed shut, scared shitless and in a fetal position; he only unfurls when a socked foot kicks at his ass. Above him are Lando and Lissie, both extremely confused. 

“How did you know I was…?!” He asks, aghast.

“My fucking laundry was breathing, mate, s’not that hard to leave alone,” Lando retorts sharply. “What are you doing?!”

“I left roses for her,” he explains fruitlessly, gesturing to the vase outside. “But you came in, and this was the closest hiding place. I was told this would be a great gesture.”

“Right. Where did you even get that advice?” Lando tries to suppress the critical tone in his voice, but judging by Charles’ embarrassed grimace, he’s failed. Beside him, Lissie makes a hm? noise, goading Charles to answer quicker.

“I got it from.” Charles pauses. “A friend,” he ekes out vaguely.

“No shit. Who?”

“Um—” Charles’ eyes are shut. “Pierre.”

In unison, Lissie and Lando both release incredulous gasps, throwing their hands up in the air. Lissie points at the mess of clothes in the corner of the room to emphasize her point and asks loudly, with comical cynicism: “This seemed like proper romantic advice to you?”

“Scratch that. Pierre’s words seemed like proper romantic advice to you? His girlfriend is—!” Lando places a flat palm a few inches off the floor and shakes it a few times to insinuate Kika’s age, his disbelieving expression growing funnier by the second. “Mate!” His voice cracks mid-syllable, though even this mishap seems to be the least crazy thing about tonight.

Charles, burning with humiliation, releases a shaky sigh. “I know! I know!”

“You don’t know!” They shout simultaneously in response, disappointed if anything. Just then the door opens again and your two best friends hurry to throw assorted pieces of laundry on the lying Charles, exiting to make sure you don’t suspect anything. 

“Hey,” you say slowly, because they’re both posed the exact same. “Am I… missing something?”

“A shower, girl,” Lando says, and you flip him off before retreating into your room.

Belatedly you ask, “Did you find out who sent those flowers?”

“Some loser, probably,” he calls right back. Charles emerges to poke him accusatorily, but Lando just shrugs. Charles definitely does not have the upper hand here, anyway. 

“Just get out,” Lissie says, completely done with Charles’ antics. “And stop. Listening. To Pierre.” 

He rinses the odor of laundry off him once he’s at his room, but thinks, despite himself, that you called the flowers beautiful.

—

Are you—

—no. I’m not. You wiped a hand over your face and caught mascara along with it. I’m fine, it’s fine.

What he said, it wasn’t…

I said, you turned to face him, eyes rimmed and mouth trembling. You didn’t finish your sentence, just tore the microphone off your lapel and buried your face in your hands. There was always going to be a first time. Your first time insulted on a live feed, after the Abu Dhabi weekend, was not any less shocking. You felt small. You felt humiliated.

You didn’t want to show Charles any of it. You moved around the green room, picking up shit to throw into your bag. Thank God the season was fucking over, you kept thinking. I feel so, you said, still failing to finish anything you started to say. You’d been called an annoying bitch by a fan of one of the drivers—to your face, as you exited the paddock.

He moved nearer. Charles, you said, a half-sob, and then you were allowing him to crash, allowing him to hug you. Your arms were weak when they wrapped back around him, linking softly in the small of his back. You sobbed hard into his chest until his grey tee was dark with tears. I want out, I just want out.

You’ll lord your career over that prick when you’ve made a million dollars doing this, he said. You do it too well to want out. You’re too smart. You’re too good. You cried harder, your face hurt and every word felt wrestled unintentionally, like it took too much work to say much at all. I’m sorry, you said. You should go. 

No, he said. He held you closer. Not until you feel better.

—

He cries after Abu Dhabi. Bad season, everyone’s said. You snap a few smiling pictures with Max, who wins, and Lily and Lissie and the lot of them, the people who made the year so great. You notice an absence in all the pictures and you find it in a room in the Ferrari motorhome.

You’ve found you both find solace in words. In reassurance. But you’ve also found that your connection enables you both to reassure without having to say anything at all. You sit beside him, lean your head on his shaky shoulder, and wait.

“I was waiting for you to come,” he admits brokenly. “I was just not feeling good.”

“I know,” you respond. “It was a bad race. Shit strat.”

He’s quiet. His breaths are ragged and wet and shaky. “Will you stay? Until I feel better?”

You don’t move. “I’ll stay for longer.”

—

In the kitchen Charles unscrews himself a beer. The sky outside is pink and the sun hides behind faraway mountains, gradually darkening the entire atmosphere, save for the few woolly clouds. He’s by the patio door so he can spot people in the wide yard: Pierre, exchanging a Frisbee with Lando. Max, Alex, and Lissie engaged in an intense match of Uno.

They’re all gathered here in Spain at Carlos’ behest to celebrate the dawn of winter, and the end of the season, Max’s third championship.

He’s yet to spot you—he’d been told earlier you’d be late—but it doesn’t matter. He’s been feeling uncharacteristically himself all day anyway. He wrote that on his notebook this morning, on the flight here, verbatim. Looked up the word to spell it right and everything. He remembers you saying it, that time in London where you and Lando took him around and annihilated Borough Market before lounging on the grassy knoll of a nearby park. I feel so uncharacteristically happy, you’d joked. The syllables were too stunted and too fast for Charles to nail it. But he feels it now. Uncharacteristic.

He tells everyone he’s fine, though, and does a good job of it. Three beers in and he’s beginning to trick himself into thinking he actually is doing fine. Nobody suspects he’s been feeling empty from such a bad finish to the season—the season that was already bad in itself. He hasn’t been feeling his usual drive, his usual appetite. He doesn’t know when it will return.

“Here you are.” Carlos has this goofy smile on his face when he bounds into the kitchen, depositing empty dishes at the sink. “Listen, I have to tell you something.”

Charles and Carlos have always shared an easy dynamic—they’ve both always wanted the same thing. Racing has always been at the forefront of their minds. It makes conversation passionate, easy, fun; it was what helped build their now-natural rapport in the first place. “Yeah?” He prods, leaning against the counter and tipping fizz into his mouth.

“I invited everyone here to announce… something important.” Carlos crosses his arms. “But I wanted you to be the first to know.”

“Me?” Charles knits his eyebrows and smiles. “Wow.” He gulps, cocks his head. “What is it, then? Are you switching teams?”

Carlos’ goofy smile grows. “Isa and I are engaged. I’m retiring next year.”

“You—you’re—” Charles laughs and shuts his eyes all at once. “Oh, my God, mate! Congratulations!” The overload of information isn’t lost on him, but he channels it all into a hug. “Are you really retiring, though? I mean. Wow, this is amazing news—but—”

“I was sure as soon as I asked,” Carlos says squarely, smiling as if he’s conjured an image of Isa’s smiling face (which is likely the case). “As soon as she said yes. As soon as I bought the ring!” He laughs aloud, so overwhelmed with happiness of recalling everything. “I’m so glad you were the first person I told.”

“Besides Lando,” Charles says, because he knows it’s true.

“Besides Lando.” Carlos smiles. “I’m… dios, I’m happy. I always knew I’d have something to look forward to after racing.” They hug again, and then he clambers past Charles and into the patio, where he resumes the façade of being unengaged and still a driver. Left behind, Charles thinks over it himself. What does he have to look forward to after racing? All his life, racing is all that ever existed to him. 

The announcement comes eventually—when it’s dark out, intermittent stars white and twinkly against the black above. Charles has once again turned into a blushy mess because you arrived a few hours prior, wearing a lovely dress and with your hair down in messy waves and you said hi to him earlier without him approaching first. They present a stupid, but very Carlos-and-Isa ring-shaped cake to announce it, and somebody queues up music and everyone’s cheering. Of course everyone’s cheering—it’d be impossible for this announcement to not come with bouts of yelling and cheering and goodbyes to Carlos, who accepts them with glee and—dare he say—excitement.

Charles remembers their first year as teammates, the jokes they’d made about needing to beat the other out. For both of them, he recalls, it’s only ever been the drive to race. He didn’t think Carlos would even entertain the idea of retiring yet. He wonders when he will. The thought of it alone is enough to send a well of anxiety run deep into him—which happens after he congratulates the couple, so he excuses himself to the empty outdoors area to get fresh air back into him.

He didn’t mean it, but he finds you already there. “Hi,” you say when he slides the door shut. “You okay?”

“Just… yeah, I’m fine.” You smell faintly like smoke. “It’s crazy, huh. Everyone’s… moving on.”

“So Carlos told everyone, then,” you say, pursing your lips and waiting for his response. He closes his eyes and lets a soft exhale escape him, warm air out and fresh air in, a welcome change from the heady atmosphere in the party. “I knew. I bought that God awful cake. I kept saying get a normal one but they both wanted it to be shaped like a ring.” You punctuate your sentence with a crisp laugh, a stunted exhale of air to break the tension.

You have a natural sway over words, graceful and beautiful and commanding, something he only wishes he could be. For so long he’d been told the feedback loop of one and the same thing: you’re good. You’re the best. You’re going to be the next big thing. And this season had just… aggravated every single insecurity he’s picked up in his years of racing. He wishes sometimes he’d been told something else: you suck. You’re normal. You’re irrelevant. Then at least he wouldn’t exist in some odd panopticon of feeling on top of the world and yet looking at it from the bottom of a pitch black abyss.

“Yeah,” he says instead, wringing his hands. He mimics the wrist movements he’s made to do during gym hours. “It’s wild how—I mean, not really wild, but. I just can’t… even picture my life after racing.”

“You’re young, that’s warranted,” you laugh. “You’re also… I mean, even if you drop out of racing tonight, it’s not like you’re going to become dirt poor or anything. You could become a bloody orthodontist and people will still love you.”

“Will they?”

He didn’t mean to say it aloud but out it comes, garbled and rushed and he’s a bit embarrassed for sounding like a child in front of somebody he finds so beautiful. The silence is suspended and dry, and for a minute all he hears and feels is the slow rise and fall of his chest. To somehow mend the vulnerability, he tries again. “It’s not—I just think I’ll be lonely if I decide to stop racing.”

The fact that Carlos can say with so much ease that he’s willing to drop his career to ensure his pending marriage lasts is almost terrifying, because Charles knows he wants that. He knows—he’s always known—that he wants that intimacy, that realness, but for it to come at the cost of something he’s known for so long is so scary it’s almost a dealbreaker.

“Lonely?” You echo, voice tinged with concern. “Charles—”

“Lonely.”

He says it with an edge to his voice, so final, so steadfast. Loneliness is what he’s always feared and he knows, with a deep drawling punch to his gut, that loneliness is what will come if he decides to stop racing. Even if he’s tired. Even if he’s so pent up with frustration and loss and anger. Racing is all he’s ever known, it’s all he is—when he’s not tied to it, who is he? “Like no one… like I’m just standing in front of what I’m supposed to be, and when people see me, that’s all they see—what’s behind me. Right through me.”

“Well, you’re off racing right now,” you respond, trodding carefully. “So, well. Do you feel that way?”

He knows what you mean: it’s winter break, so he’s not driving or doing some form of it every single day. And he knows in turn what to answer: no, not really, he doesn’t really feel detached from it because there’s a low anticipation in his belly that tells him he’ll be doing it all again soon. But he chooses to interpret it differently; differently, but not falsely.

“I th… I don’t feel lonely,” he says, “when I talk to you. You see me.” 

Your stomach drops and your heart begins to pulse a mile a minute, knuckles tightening where they’ve gripped onto the wooden post of the patio. You can feel the air in your lungs pass through every divot of your body as it escapes and arrives in long, shaky breaths. He’s looking at you, his eyebrows knitted like he wants—needs an answer, if you’d be kind enough to please give him one. 

“I…” You bite your lip, every thought in your head at odds with the other.

Time feels like rubber, like it’s been stretched and manipulated and Carlos is ducking out to announce that it’s time to blow out candles on the stupid ring-shaped cake and you’ve taken too long to respond and your body feels too heavy but your heart feels too light and your eyes are blinking, open and shut and open again, and you feel like the wind could honestly blow you away now because Charles has given you a neutral nod and left you alone again, to contemplate the weight of what he’s finally, finally admitted, tonight here under the sky of Spain.

You move a hand over your hair, watch him walk away. The words lodge themselves in your throat, but they’re there.

—

One minute after  you realized you liked Charles, you swallowed the feelings until they were barely decipherable.

In happened in Dublin, at a pub on St. Paddy’s Day, when you’d emerged fresh out of a breakup with the most arseholic Irishman you’d ever had the displeasure of meeting. And funnily enough, it happened without Charles’ presence. You’d spent the day at Liam’s, hours of fighting over so many things—the growth of your career and the decimation of his, where your relationship had soured, why you never came to visit him, Charles, the sodding bloke you like so much—until finally, you took your things and left.

Wise, because you might’ve honestly gone insane if you stayed a minute longer, attuning your ears to the deafening feedback loop of his voice. Also decidedly unwise, because you had a piece of luggage and barely any battery, in a full city of people you didn’t know at all.

There was no chance Liam would let you return, and no chance you wanted to, for that matter—the fact still stood, though, that you needed to kill the night before your flight to France left at 6AM. You entered the first pub you heard, deposited your bag at the coat check for an extra couple of euros, and accepted the first pint thrust into your hand and first leprechaun hat plopped atop your head.

In between watching people compare how they poured Guinness pints, Sinead O’Connor songs, and exchanging headdresses with a random stranger, you found yourself impressingly drunk. The Irish did it too well.

A university student stumbled past your stool, tears in her eyes; she stopped to steal a shot of whiskey lying unattended on the bar. You looped a hand around her wrist and stared at her menacingly. Manners?!

Fuck manners, she said wetly, wrenching every word out with great effort. Nobody paid either of you any attention. I just caught my best friend and boyfriend kissing. Her accent was unmistakably Irish and was stronger with the tears.

Oh, you said, loosening your threatening grip. Sorry.

Don’t be. I’m sorry I could ever be so stupid, she said, aghast, before finally stalking outside the pub. Half an hour later, you wound up at a table of thirty-somethings, all belting along to a folky sounding song.

Drunkenly you slurred out, I thought it was a stereotype.

What was, love? One of them paused her singing, dipping down to listen to you properly. Your cheek was smushed against the varnished wood, moving with every syllable you eked out.

The songs. You sound like… you belong in the 19th century.

She laughed at that, surfacing and yelling something to the band onstage you couldn’t quite decipher. The song reached its peak, loud and getting the whole crowd singing along, before fading into a familiar opening. S’this better? She asked, her voice slightly raised above the guitar.

You looked up. I liked the other one too, to be fair. M’not a fucking anti-Irish.

Nobody said that, love. Come sing. She hauled you upward, exaggerating her arm swinging in the air so you’d follow suit, which you did. You hummed the opening, eyes fluttering open and closed. You imagined opening them again and finding Charles across the room, already looking, with the same charming, boyish smile on his face that came to you as comfort.

You thought back to the dinner in London, the feeling of his shirt against your shoulder, the way he’d gotten you so easy and laughing and babbly, something you never got with Liam. You squeezed your eyes shut and exhaled raggedly. Fuck.

Linger’ll do that to you, your companion mused. Around you, the entire pub sang along to the song that served as the backdrop to your all-encompassing romantic epiphany. Missing a lover, huh?

No, just… You opened your eyes, watched the band sing out the rest of the prechorus before they slid into the next verse. A new kind of air had crept over the pub, one that exemplified just how much this song could mean to anyone, no matter who. You shut them again and saw Charles. The green of his eyes, mossy on some days and bright on others. The moles on his face. The grooves of his hand, the way it wrapped around things like pens, mics, bottles, your fingers. His voice, how he curved around words. He always knew exactly what you meant even if it took you ages to get to the point, even if you felt like you didn’t know what you meant exactly. 

You opened your eyes. Suddenly fights with Liam didn’t matter. Whatever little sympathy you had left evaporated as you listened to the lyrics and realized, with a damning force, that you were thinking of Charles. And this was not weak, this was not vague, this was a strong thing that took you off your feet like a gust of wind, hurtling you out of the pub. You thought of every time your eyes met his, both of you already laughing at something else present. Every time he saw you at the end of a busy work day and asked if you were doing alright.

Just this guy, I suppose. His name’s… yeah. We’ve been friends for ages. He’s really very talented. Very kind. Your voice was drowned out by the music but you didn’t intend for anything to be heard, anyway. And he’s the smartest person I’ve ever met. He always knows what to say. He’s not in Dublin tonight, not even in Ireland, for God’s sake. 

He’s your boyfriend, then?

You closed them slowly. No. T’wouldn’t be very smart to date him.

Is he an arse?

No either. It’s just too late.

I’m sorry, love.

Don’t be, you mused, eyes still shut as Linger came to a close. I’m sorry I could ever be so stupid.

—

Charles should be in Monaco. You should be in London. But at four-thirty PM, leaning against the counter of a tiny café in Dublin, you cross paths for the first time in weeks, and everything tilts on its axis.

He notices you first, because he hears you thank the barista quietly. It’s not your reporter voice, not the one you put one when you’re interviewing him or his teammate or his fellow athletes. But it’s your real one, and it’s the one he thinks he could hear through a snowstorm.

A tuxedo-clad man exits and suddenly you’re there. You’re wearing a white top, low neck and thin straps covered by a cardigan. You’re sliding coins into the pocket of your jeans and he watches your hand freeze, drags his eyes back up to you, finds you’re already looking.

You look beautiful, he thinks. You put on a lot of makeup for the cameras, and you looked gorgeous, but seeing you like this—caught, almost, in a moment you didn’t expect to see him—you look unbelievably beautiful. He aches with it. 

“You look well,” he says first when he opens the café door for you. “What’s your business in Ireland?”

“Acquainting myself with my new coworker.” You wait for him to follow and squint when the sun hits your eye. “We’ve been here three weeks, fly back to London next Monday. You?”

“It does seem weird for me to be here,” he observes absently. “I needed a change of pace, I think. Gear up for the season.” He shakes his half-full cup of coffee. “Where are you staying?”

“Just up ahead.” A slow silence overcomes you both. “Come over. I have beer. I know you can’t be fucked to have coffee.” He laughs and nods, following you through the road and up into a flat—a BNB, if he’s guessing. There’s a tiny landing and then stairs to a wider living area, where you proceed to unwrap the croissant you’d gotten a few minutes earlier. You chuck it into the fridge and produce two bottles of beer in one go.

“Sit,” you gesture to the spot beside you, and he sits himself there. “We can talk. We should.”

You’ve shrugged your cardigan off, and he observes every detail of your exposed skin, the way your hair layers atop it. Right as he opens his mouth to respond, a blond girl enters, rings of mascara caking her eyes and a wine glass twiddled in-between thumbs. She’s talking her head off and only pauses when she spots Charles.

“Hhhh…iiii.”

“Salut.” 

“You’re Charles?” She notices how close the two of you are seated together.

“Yes,” he says. 

“Charles, this is Robyn—my coworker’s friend. And by extension my friend.” You pat her knee and point to Charles to get them properly introduced. “She leeches off the apartment.” 

“You love me,” she retorts, mockingly—but sweetly. “Anyway, sorry to intrude. I was just on the phone with my situationship.” She rolls her eyes. “Does he think I give two shits about goodnight texts? It feels impossible to be romantically satisfied these days.”

Charles grunts. “I hear that,” he says, just to make Robyn feel less excluded. You get up then, to fuck around at the kitchen sink—he suspects you’re not actually doing chores—but you come back with wet hands and you sit yourself across Charles, on the loveseat, instead of next to him. 

“The thing is, right,” she gulps wine, “there’s such a thing with dating now,” Robyn says, not missing a beat, her Geordie accent curving round the syllables with a distinctive twang. She stares at the opaque red liquid in her glass, like that will supplement her with more words. “Like a deal. A big deal. Everyone’s making this huge thing out of it, and it’s like, can’t we be in our twenties and fuck around occasionally?” She laughs, a high-pitched, tapered noise.

You shift from where you’re seated, buried into the material of the seat. It’s quiet and beginning to touch awkward, so you speak in a rough voice: “I dunno, I kind of… get it.”

“Oh do you, now,” she responds, voice saturated with wine. “No, it’s—I was joking. Of course you would, you’re absolutely fucking gorgeous, is all.”

Suddenly you feel all too seen and inclined to touch a fingertip to your cheek, feather light. You blink so you won’t feel tempted to meet Charles’ eyes, because you feel them on you. “It’s—thank you, I mean. It’s nothing to do with that. I just always feel it’s impossible to find someone who loves you. I feel like I’m not very lovable.”

“You? You’re bloody fucking likable!” Robyn’s laugh is so disbelieving you find yourself semi-convinced. “You’re a bit intimidating, yeah, but you’re lovable as fuck, babe.”

You double down anyway, voice thin. “Right. I don’t think I’m very good at being… affectionate.”

“Hah. Bull. You’re affectionate with… with Charles! I’ve heard you talk about him to Jane.”

She turns to Charles before you have the chance to defend yourself. To him she asks: “Is she affectionate with you?”

But it’s basically rhetorical. Everyone speculates, sees the way you two bend the line between friendship and romance, the care with which you treat Charles, the way you two understand each other in ways impossible for anyone else in your orbit. Fuck if it’s not overtly physical. Robyn’s known you three weeks and has never even met Charles until seven minutes ago and already she’s sensed the energy, the difference, even if she hasn’t seen you do so much as embrace.

“It’s—” You say and say too quickly. You wind up slowing your speech so you don’t sound too defiant and lean backwards, willing yourself to relax. “It’s… different with Charles.”

“Different?” She repeats, miming every dip and rise of your voice. “Why?”

“We’re close.” You refuse to meet his eyes. “Be—because we’re good friends. I feel… things are… just. They’re different. That’s all, really.” Barely satisfied with the answer you eked out, you cross your arms over your torso like it’ll help shield you from the interrogation going on. Briefly you let your eyes fall on Charles; he’s reclined, eyes all over the place, blinking in quick flashes.

“But you admit it, at least?” She smiles. “That you’re affectionate, I mean.”

“Only with…” you taper off, unwanting to dig yourself a deeper hole. “Right. Sure, yeah.”

“Well then,” she says, eyebrows raising as she dows the rest of her glass. She sets it down on the low wooden table with a clink. “I’ll get going. Don’t let me keep you two from shagging or whatever.”

“We don’t f—shag,” you interrupt, voice sharp. “And you’re not keeping us at all. Me, at all.”

Us sounds so exclusive, you realize as it leaves your lips. Us. It tastes like sour cherries on your tongue, bleeds all over. Robyn gives you a look. In response, you insist on seeing her out, leaving Charles at the sofa, elbows on his knees, hands toying with the neck of the beer bottle. He can make out faint words but he doesn’t try translating or deciphering them, just listens to your muffled voice peek through every few words. You sound amused, also accused, also endeared—a bit irritated. You end it with a laugh.

You clamber back in after a few minutes and find him at the top of the stairs.

“Sorry,” you wave off, rolling your eyes to fend Robyn’s earlier interrogation efforts of. “She’s very strong-willed.” You climb the stairs, your striped linen shorts folding with every movement of your legs. Finally you make it to the top, on the second-to-the-last stair, staring up at him.

“You know,” he says, watching you ascend to the top finally, but you’re still staring upward. “You should know.”

“Should know what?”

“I missed you.”

You inhale and are grateful to find the air is all him. “I missed you, too.”

“In a different way.”

“Me, too,” you echo again, voice quiet. “I missed you. It feels like I’ve missed you all my life.”

He can hear your still, controlled breathing. “Thank you for seeing me. Even when, you know, it’s… hard. You know what I mean.”

“I do,” you say. “It’s never difficult, not…” With you.

He leans down and captures your mouth in his then, like it’s a thirst he’s always needed quenched. You allow it, kiss him back like you’ve needed this your entire life. His lips are chapped, but you don’t mind—Dublin’s cold. He kisses like he’s smiling, like he’s happy, and you think maybe that’s not far off. He moves downward, to your jaw; lower, along the column of your throat, around your collarbones, cornering you against the wall, letting you lean against it.

Charles’ kisses are light and soft, but also heavy, like he’s trying to waste as little time as possible. You sigh, feeling light, feeling ecstatic. He puts two hands on either side of your face, presses your foreheads together, and shuts his eyes. 

You feel the divots of his fingers on your hip, your waist, places he’s never touched before. “I’m sorry I left,” you breathe into him. “Back in Spain. In Madrid. I wanted to think about it. About what you said. About everything, about you.”

“I’m glad I found you here, then.”

You tiptoe to kiss him again, because now that you’ve had it once you’re terrified you won’t have it again. In-between kisses he picks you up, cages you fully against the wall, and you breathe shaky little exhales. It builds up quicker and harder; you feel his cock at your hip and shiver, eyelashes fluttering. “Upstairs,” you say breathlessly.

He likes knowing you want this, because he’ll give you whatever you want. He’d fuck you for hours. Have you shaking, eking out moans of his name. He’d whisper praise up and down your ear. He wants this just as much, if not more.

“I want you, so much,” you exhale when he lies you both down on your bed. “So much.”

He tugs your shorts off, then your panties. He doesn’t usually lack self-restraint, but he thinks he’s never felt this much temptation in his life. He’s so hard. He brings one hand to his thigh and squeezes his dick through his pants, but it doesn’t provide him with any kind of relief. You’re needy already, whimpering, mind dizzy. He slides a finger up your slit and watches you screw your eyes shut.

Slowly he sinks in, watches you accustom to the stretch. “Wanted this,” you breathe out.

He thrusts in further, feels your warm cunt stretch around him, feels your breaths get hotter and quicker against his lips. But he takes it nice and slow, so he can feel every little ridge inside of you as you take all of him. “You like it?”

You nod, too dumbed down to speak. “Good girl. Pretty, pretty girl.”

He’s wanted this for so long, fucking you deep and slow and desperate. He thrusts harder, watches you unravel and your hot breaths pick up in pace. He reaches down, smears wetness around your clit as your thighs begin to shake. Your pretty, flushed face is enough to send him into overdrive, your eyes rolling back as he goads you into orgasm.

You’re still cumming around him when he takes a shaky breath, pulls you tightly back against him, and lets the pleasure take over. He fucks you full, rides his orgasm out while you ride yours out—buries his dick all the way inside, so each spurt fills your contracting pussy up.

He pulls out and collapses beside you, pressing his lips to your shoulder before lying on his back. “I’ll clean you up in a minute.” It’s quiet for a second, just you two breathing.

Then: “I did, I did think about it,” you say, voice reedy. “I thought about you.”

“Yeah?” He watches you blink at the ceiling, lets you clasp your hands onto his.

“About me, too.” You open your eyes and stare into the green.

“D’you want this?”

“Believe me,” you say, threading your fingers into his tightly. Your hair’s fussed from the sex. “I do. But—”

His heart drops.

“I don’t want to… I want you to not…” You sigh. “You know, I like seeing you. I like being that. I like knowing I make you feel good. And I want you to know you… you make me feel amazing. Like you and I… we understand each other.” You pause. “Sometimes I feel like you’re the only person who understands every inch of me.”

“Ditto,” he says, and you smile.

“I look up to you, you know? I don’t want you to anchor yourself onto me. I want you to realize that on your own. You’re smart. You’re a great driver with a shitty fucking team I hated reporting on last season.” He laughs shakily. “You know I look up to you. You know… you know I love you.”

“I do. I love you.”

“I always have. It wasn’t… it didn’t always make itself clear, but I always have. And I know I always will.” You smile. “We’ll be in different cities, in separate timezones, but if we survived the years of not telling each other how bloody fucking much we liked each other, this is nothing. When we’ve sorted ourselves out, we’ll know the right time to finally call this what it is.”

He’s never thought of himself as a writer, but his notebooks might beg to differ. Many times you’ve told him yourself that he has an affinity for describing things, especially when he lets go of language as a limitation. He wonders what you’d say if you knew the amount of times he’s tried to write about you. Careful letters or typefaces, in an effort to form a coherent picture of you, the way he sees you, the way he loves you. But he’s so scared he tears the pages off before they get too intimate, too personal, crossing the border from having a crush on you to being in love with you.

For once he’s not. He nods. It’s bittersweet, but it’s a segue to a better ending. He moves a hand over your hair and holds you close.

“You could never be unlovable,” he says, pressing a kiss to your forehead because finally, he can. “I mean it.”

#f1 #charles leclerc #charles leclerc x reader #charles leclerc imagines #charles leclerc drabble #charles leclerc smut #f1 x reader

[auyouni]

waiting for love to come around // septiplier

If someone were to keep a tracker of how Jack’s been spending his time, it’d probably reveal an alarming amount spent with his best friend. It's just very, very easy to find excuses to be around him, and harder to think of reasons to keep to himself. He came to this school solely to be closer to and spend more time with Mark, after all, didn't he?

And there's that whole “being hopelessly and unrequitedly in love with my best friend” bit, but he tries his best not to dwell on it. Easier said than done.

Mark, for his part, seems to welcome the company, always excited to have the Irishman take up his time, or even just sit on his bed as Mark edits, randomly telling him jokes or showing him pictures of cute animals. Just because he can.

It kinda surprises him one day when Mark is the one to enter his room without knocking instead of it being the other way around. The American just lays back on Jack's bed, looking… a little more dressed up than usual, actually. He's so used to Mark in pajamas or the most casual clothes he can manage that the change is a little jarring. Not bad, though…. definitely not bad.

“Oh how the turntables?” he asks with a small laugh, turning away from his computer to look at Mark properly. Mark chuckles warmly, head rolling a little to the side to look back up at him. God, he's gorgeous, his brain unhelpfully notes, bittersweet warmth running through him. He just smiles bigger though, tucking away those cracks. He wants Mark to be happy, something much more important than these feelings he's been harboring for much, much too long. 5 years now, he thinks. Jesus.

“I suppose so, huh? Does that mean that now I have to pull up shitty memes for you to put up with while you work, forever hoping that this time, please, it'll be a cute doggo?” Jack scoffs a little, offended.

“You love my memes!”

“That's what you think.”

“You laugh!!”

“Pity laughter, Jackaboy. Or do they not have that in the ass-end of Ireland?” Jack splutters, half laughing at the words, and Mark's eyes seem to shine a little.

“I'll have you know, the Irish are fuckin’ fantastic at memes. Not as fantastic as we are at pub brawls, but close.”

“You wish.”

“And, as an honorary leprechaun, all my wishes can and do come true.”

Mark gives a soft laugh, sitting up a little and grinning big, and the smile blankets over Jack like a perfect summer's day. “Shit, you got me there. Can't believe I've been bested by a man that always sounds like he's got potatoes in his mouth.” Jack snorts.

“Irish accents are sexy according to literally everyone else in the world, Marky, fight me.”

“Maybe I will!”

“I'd love to see you try.” Mark narrows his eyes a little at him, but Jack just responds with a smirk, one eyebrow raised. A few seconds pass, neither of them moving, and Jack laughs to himself, shaking his head as he turns back to his computer. “See, ya got nothin’--”

A solid wall of flesh slams into him, pinning him to the ground. It doesn't hurt, just knocks the breath out of him, and he finds himself staring up at Mark's grinning, smug face, so damn proud of himself.

What follows is a short but energetic wrestling match, both trying to get the upper hand. Mark is all experience and muscle, and Jack's got muscle too, but more importantly, he's fast. They're decently matched, but Jack ends up pinned uncomfortably in the corner of the room between wall and floor with no way out. Mark’s thighs grip him tightly as he straddles him, strong hands holding him in place, looming over him. Honestly, Jack could probably get out of this if he tried harder, but even with the way his back is protesting the position, he really doesn't want to move. It's not every day you get a lapful of your best friend, after all.

Mark's grin almost looks a little predatory as he seems to lean a little closer, and Jack's kinda thankful they're both still panting from the play fight. It hides the way his breath hitches.

“I won! What's my prize???” Mark asks, pressing a little harder into him, which is wholly unfair and a bit too distracting.

“Didn't know we were fightin’ f'r a prize here,” Jack manages, trying his best to glare up at him, but there's no real force behind it.

“Um, of course we were. What's the point if there's no prize???”

Jack grumbles, as if he wouldn't do absolutely anything for the man pinning him down. He’d steal the stars to light up his room at night with real constellations if he asked. “Wha’ d’ya want then, Marky?” he asks with an exaggeratedly exasperated sigh.

Mark's grin falters a little, that confidence wavering, which catches at something inside of him. He's actually kinda concerned for him now. Mark bits his lip, seeming to debate something heavily in his mind. Jack can only watch as Mark slowly comes to a resolution, brown eyes fixing back on his own blue.

“Go out with me?” Mark asks, faux-confidence ringing in every word.

“Ya don't have ta beat me in a wrestling match ta get me to hang out with ya, Mark - we spend most ‘f our weekends together, anyway.”

“No, Sean…” Mark looks a little frustrated at himself, and almost… nervous? Jack's not sure why - friend hangouts are pretty regular for them, something they both enjoy immensely, and-- “On a date. Go out with me… on a romantic date.” 

At first, Jack gives a breathless laugh, sure he's joking (and hoping desperately he hasn't caught on to Jack's feelings yet), but the sincerity on his best friend's expression causes it to die out pretty fast. Does… he actually want to go on a date with him? He can't breathe for a moment, mind suddenly racing, trying to figure out what exactly he's supposed to make of this.

“You wanna… take me out… on a date? Real date?” Jack asks slowly, and Mark's gaze falls from his, landing on the wall beside him.

“Sorry, it's stupid, just… a thought. I don't know.” The pain and disappointment behind the words are so clear that Jack kinda aches for him.

“No!!! I-I mean… yes? Yes to the date, no to you trying to take it back, because don't you dare,” he says all in a rush, and Mark's eyes return cautiously to Jack's, confused, and a little… hopeful? How… long had he wanted this? “Marky, I'd… love to go on a date with you. 1000% yes. Like, it's not even funny how much I want that. Just to… try it, I mean. I…” He's not sure how casual this request is, doesn't want to be too  eager - though his stomach is basically made of butterflies at this point - and yet doesn't want to appear too uninterested, because he is anything but disinterested.

Mark smiles slowly, something sweeter than the kind of smile he’d worn when he beat him, something fond and lovely and all for Jack, and he feels kinda like the breath’s been knocked out of him.

“Good, good!!! I… I wasn't sure you’d say yes.”

“I never thought you’d ask, so kinda the same boat,” Jack replies with a breathless chuckle. “I… I can't wait.”

#septiplier #sean #mark #drabble #main youni

[mmercerz]

an i the only one that thinks ronan just has an average joe american accent

#like everyone’s always so pressed that he doesn’t have an irish accent #or insistent that he has a southern one but like nowhere has it been said in the books that he has one #like adam specifically has a southern accent cause it was written in the book #gansey too #but not ronan and not everyone in virginia has one so like #i just imagine he talks in your average joe accent #ronan lynch

[struggling-with-time]

Stressful streaming [Corpse  x reader]

Paring: Corpse husband x Female!reader

Summary: “What if y/n isnt a good gamer (they do something else on yt and never really got into it) so they just really suck at being the imposter? And everyone is trying to make them feel better but they feel super crappy about ruining the game for everyone- especially when they get paired up with corpse?” Requested by anon

“can I request something where y/n and corpse are dating, she is the group's baby and everytime she kills everyone's like 'yeah, that's cute bUT YOUR BOYFRIEND THO'.” Requested by anon

Warnings: Idk, this took a complete 180 midway through, and even idk what’s going on anymore. Fluff?  Comfort? Cuddles???

Words: 2k

A/N: Open for requests. And a two for one, you know me at this point.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

The two of you had been living together for quite a while now. And you had been public about your relationship for a long time, had it been up to either of you, nobody still wouldn’t know. But it’s definitely better on both of your nerves not having to tiptoe around each other when you recorded, or he streamed.

You really enjoy books, so that’s what you naturally made the topic of your YouTube channel, book reviews. You had always recorded yourself reading and made it into a time-lapse after, it was when easier now that you didn’t have to worry if Corpse said anything and you looked up to answer him. You weren’t really into gaming so it surprised you a lot when Corpse had sat you down yesterday and asked if you wanted join them in the game today. The other had been bugging him to get you on call for longer than just saying a quick hi and then leaving him again. You weren’t much of a people person, honestly neither of you were. But Corpse was still better at interacting with others. Both of your setups was already in the studio, due to you liking edit your videos when he streamed, so you could still be together. Despite you mostly reading whenever he streamed, because then there wasn’t a chance he accidentally got caught on your camera.

Your routines worked for each other, but this was new territory for you. Both being live and gaming. You were nervous. To put it out there you were straight up shaking of nerves. Sure you wouldn’t be live yourself, and it was just among us, you had seem him play it a million times, but it still scared you what if you said something stupid, or did something stupid. Then you wouldn’t be able to cut it out, everyone would know in an instant.

Corpse greet his stream, as you load up your game, you’re fiddling with the hem of his sweater, makes him feel like he’s closer than the short distance that’s between you, because right now he seemed like an ocean away.

He shows you how to join the call and you accidentally squeak in chock as someone yells into their microphone. You can feel Corpse moving beside you, as he tries his best not to laugh at you.

“Shut up.” You mumble, and lightly shoves his shoulder.

“Me?” A guy with an irish accent asks.

“No! Not you, I’m so sorry that wasn’t to you- Corpse stop laughing at me!” You cut your own sentence off. As he now is completely failing at keeping himself from laughing, inviting everyone and their mom to listen to his beautiful laugh. You sulk for a bit, before he composes himself.

“But you’re just so damn cute.” He pets the top of your head, and walks back to his own setup, where chat is going rocket speed. He tries to read a couple in passing, but he turns his attention back to you when you whine.

“I’m not a child!” you pout at him and sticks out your tongue. A smile right on your lips as he copies you. You just love this man with all of your heart.

“Never said you were.” He teases back, before he starts to greet the people in the call. You realise most of your nerves have disappeared, no longer shaking, you’re getting a bit excited to do this. You listen closely when corpse says the name of each of the people in the call. You only knew the names before joining, but not what voice that belonged to whom.

When you’re finally in the game, Corpse suggests you put on the white skin and a flower. Your reply?

You lean close to the microphone and goes. “No.” And picks the yellow skin with the plant hat, declaring you’re now a citrus fruit.

“Corpse, how in the world did you catch someone like her?” you think her name was Rae asked.

“I didn’t she caught me.” He admits, happily. “Still having trouble believing she chose me.”

Earning an awe from the rest of the call. Two lovebirds.

“Simp!” someone yells in the call, you’re not really sure who, in the sea of mixed noises. Earning a laugh from you.

Crewmate flash across your screen, and you didn’t totally mean to peak, but you saw the red flash from his pc. As the game starts up and your character isn’t moving you realise you don’t know what you’re doing. Corpse realises too when his character starts to circle yours and nothing happens.

“Babe you good there?” He looks over at you, as you’re pressing each key on your keyboard testing out what happens. He chuckles at the sight. “let me help you.” He gets up, and leans over you, as he shows you how to move. His own character standing still, as he helps you around the map and shows you how to do the tasks. You happily let him guide your hands, enjoying the warmth he radiates as he stands near you.

That’s when a warning flash over the screen. Emergency meeting. You think it said. A screen with a portrait of all of your characters comes up.

“Corpse you good there, you haven’t moved all game?” Felix asks.

“Oh, sorry, I was helping Y/N with how to play.” Corpse answers over your mic.

“Hey guys, how do I make my name red like Corpses?” you innocently ask, with a gleam in your eyes as you look up at Corpse knowing damn well why his name is red. He’s the bad guy.

Corpse furrows his eyebrows at you. Glaring at you, as the rest of the call is laughing, it doesn’t take long before his astronaut is floating across the screen ejected into outer space. He leans close to you, making sure to mute your microphone first.

“You sure you want to play like this kitten?” He whispers to you, you respond by smacking his shoulder, and once again telling him to shut up.

Corpse helps you through the rest of the game. He makes sure you’re good before walking back to his own chair and greets his chat, finally paying attention back to them. Another game starts and the two of you  are imposters together. Corpse quickly goes over the rules of impostors, and it doesn’t take long before you have made your first kill, not noticing Sean was in Nav together with Rae.  But before he’s able to report it,Corpse comes to your rescue by venting into the room and killing Sean. The relief is short lived as  Felix comes running into Nav and see the two of you standing over Seans body, quickly reporting.

“Y/N you’re doing good, but you need to press the report button when it comes visible.” Felix starts out. “Also, it’s Corpse, there was a body in Nav, Sean. Wait Rae and Mark is dead too.” You smile to yourself as you realise he didn’t discover Raes body in there too, you feel a bit of pride.

Corpse looks over to you grinning at him. “We walked in together I was showing her where the report button is and how to use it.” Corpse defends himself. “She never found a body in the last game.”

“That’s true.” You choose to ignore he fact you’re lying to these strangers, and tell yourself that you’re technically speaking the truth. You never found a body in the last game.

“I’m sus of you Corpse, but we have no other evidence.” Felix says,

“And we shouldn’t vote on 7.” Toast comments. Everyone votes skip, and the two of you live to see another round.

The next kill is by Corpse, and you immediately report it, stating you found it in… what was that room now called?

“We found it in… that room?” You try and look over at Corpse for help.

“Electrical, headed there for wires.” Corpse quickly takes over to cover for you. Knowing full well the rest very much knows it’s the two of you.

“I think it’s a self-report, Y/N you’re trying out some big brain strats, but I saw you vent from med bay.” Toast tells the rest. You curse underneath your breath; you are starting to catch on the rest are trying to be nice. But you get it, you’re ruining the game for them, especially Corpse. A few seconds passes as everyone votes and your astronaut is sent into the vacuum of space. You sigh.  You watch as Corpse, gets one kill before it gets reported.

“What was everyone’s last task?” Grease asks the group. He gets an array of answers, but all to him seems nowhere near the body.

“I’m still sus of you Corpse.” Felix says, “You either failed card swipe twice, or forgot you already faked it.”

“How could it have been me? I was with you the entire time.” Corpse responds.

“That’s not true, when lights went out I couldn’t find you, and we just split up before I found the body now.” Felix tells the other incriminating Corpse. It doesn’t take long before he gets voted off. He looks a bit annoyed at the outcome. Knowing it was a risky kill. But instead in your mind you take it as he’s annoyed you were his partner. You reach out for his hand, and he takes it, you stroke it a few times and he seems to calm down again.

“It’s been fun you guys, but I’m not really good at this, I think I’m going to get back to do some reading. It was fun though.” You announce to the rest, Corpse watching in confusion over the sudden need to leave. The others bid their goodbyes. You get off the discord call. And closes up the game and shuts off your pc.

“Hey chat, I’ll be right back, I’m taking a quick break before we continue.” Corpse mutes his setup and walks over to you. While doing that you’ve frustratedly put your head in your hands, and is onboard the blame train for ruining the game for the others. Corpse wraps his arms around you and brings you right back to reality and where you belong, in his embrace.

“Babe, are you okay? Do you need me to stop the stream?” He carefully asks.

“I’m sorry I ruined your game. I really tried my best, I promise.” You sigh, looking at him, and leaning into his hug and the warmth.

“You didn’t ruin anything, Y/N. You made it better, I had a fun time with you, even if we weren’t the best pair.” Corpse starts peppering you in kisses alround your face until you start giggling.

“There is my beautiful Y/N.” He smiles at you, he knows he’s so whipped, and he wouldn’t give it up for anything in the world when he sees that smile of yours.

“Thank you.” You mumble as you put your neck into his neck, cuddling up against him. “Can I stay for the rest of your stream?” He doesn’t need to answer, he just sits back down in his own chair, and you automatically and easily, swing a leg over him. You cuddle into his chest and listens as he starts talking to his chat again.

“Y/N says thanks for everything, but this is really out of her comfort zone, and I’m proud of her for having done it.” He praises you to the rest of the world. He looks down at you smiling. He mute his mic as he whisper to you. “You’re still my favourite impostor, kitten.” You giggle, and he turns his attention back to the game. Getting ready to be a crewmate.

#corpse husband #corpse #corpse husband x reader #corpse x reader #corpse husband fic #corpse husband fanfic #corpse fanfic #corpse husband x y/n #corpse husband fanfiction #delias own writing

[fandomfic-galore]

You’re not my brother

Chapter four

Warnings: smut, public sex, fingering, handjob, fluffy? Like if you squint a little bit.

A/n I know it’s been a while but here you go. Ask not Beta’d so 🤷🏻‍♀️🤣

Nothing had seemed fair to you. Uhtred, Finan and Sihtric seemed to have formed a brotherly bond, leaving you out of their inside jokes. The way they would make fun of each other but mean no harm in the jest.

There was still a tension between yourself and Uhtred, that had not yet been addressed. Every time you wanted to talk to him, one of the other men would interrupt you.

Sitting on the grass, your legs itch slightly at the feeling. The dirt underneath you made your skin crawl. You had been walking for five days and you wanted a wash, there were plenty of lakes around, they all seemed to glisten in the sunlight and call to you but alas Uhtred wanted to keep going.

Your thoughts were interrupted as Finan stalked towards you, holding onto his kill for the evening as he was delegated with providing for the group. His big muscly arms were bare to the world, watching as he held up three rabbits with a playful smirk on his face, it made your heart skip a beat.

“Food will be ready shortly,” he grinned at you, as he skipped away.

Sitting around the fire you watched the men rip into their portion of the rabbit. The embers of the fire dying down caught your attention. A twig snapping brought you out of the trance as you saw Uhtred walk towards you. Biting your lip, you wanted to say so much to him but looking at him, his brow was creased and you can see within his eyes that the thoughts within kept turning and causing him worry. He sat down next to you and took a deep sigh.

“We have to find Ubba, Y/n” his ocean blue eyes, took your breath away as you sat there silently, listening to his every word. “We have to tell him what happened to Ragnar and...everyone else,” biting your lip, you knew he was right but you didn’t want to admit it. Your uncle was always an eccentric character that you never seemed to understand.

“He won’t help us,” you interrupted Uhtred, he looked at you as shock washed over his face. “He doesn’t seem to care about us Uhtred, he...he is too into his own world,” gulping you waited for the words to register with Uhtred. Standing up, he straightened the furs that hung in his shoulder. “We still have to try, goodnight Y/n”

The darkness of the night engulfed the sky, the coldness brought a bitterness that caused goosebumps to appear suddenly over your body. The hairs on the back of your neck stood up as you watched the last flame die on the fire. Uhtred and Sihtric were fast asleep, their light snores filled the air. Looking over at Finan as he laid on his own furs a very playful smile spread across his face. “Wanna help keep me warm, Dane,” his thick irish accent, sent a shiver down your spine. Biting your lower lip, you glanced at the ground.

“What if I said no,” you whispered, trying not to wake the other two men. “I would say that is up the Dane, if she wanted to or not. But I do promise m’lady it will be a night to remember,” Finan winked at you as you chuckled to yourself.

You approached him with caution, as you knew a Uhtred had ears like a wolf. You didn’t want to get caught by either man, but the way Uhtred has been acting recently, you didn’t want to push more of his buttons.

Shuffling quietly towards Finan, you laid down as he placed his furs over the two of you. Looking up to him, he placed a finger under your chin. Leaning towards you, he placed his soft rosy lips gently on yours. You tried not to moan as his hand was on your lower back brought your body even closer to his.

Wrapping a leg around his waist, you could feel Finan getting hard underneath his tunic. You rocked your clothed sex over his erection, earning a moan from the Irishman. Breaking the kiss you shhed him and looked over your shoulder, checking the other men.

Finan turned your head to his, he started to kiss your jawline and left butterfly kisses down your neck. Rocking your hips harder this time, a slight fuck could be heard under Finans breath. Smirking to him you reached between your two bodies grabbing his erection. Rubbing him through his tunic, Finan bucked his hips into your hand.

Cupping your breast, Finan started to massage them. Arching your back, you needed to feel him. You needed more. Hooking your fingers into his trousers, you pulled them down slightly. Finan lifted himself up and helped you push them down further, freeing his cock as it hit his covered stomach. Doing the same to your lower half, your hand returned and wrapped around Finan’s thick throbbing cock.

You started to pump his cock slowly at first, the man in front of you gritted his teeth. Knowing he couldn’t make a sound. His hand cupped your sex and you rocked against it, gaining friction onto your awaiting clit. Both of you matched each other’s rhythm. Finans fingers hoovered over your wet entrance, teasing you. His long finger entered you and curled, causing you to gasp at the sensation.

“Finan,” you purred into his ear. “What is it, m'lady?” Finan teased you. “I need, more, I need you inside or me,” looking up at him and biting your bottom lip, Finan kissed you. It wasn’t sweet or loving as it was previously, this kiss had hunger and passion behind it. Teeth clashed together, tongues fought for dominance.

Pushing your shoulder, you laid down as Finan placed himself between your legs. Hooking your leg over his waist, he teased you with his cock. Rubbing his cock through your wet folds, he covered himself with your hot slick, applying slight pressure as he grazed over your clit. Pushing your hips up into him, Finan entered you slowly. His cock filled you perfectly, pumping into you slowly he hit every nerve ending inside of you.

Finan’s deep thrusts hit your cervix, sending you nearly over the edge. Pressing your nails into his back, Finans back arched as he bit his lip to quiet himself. Smirking up at him, Finan grabbed your leg and hooked it over his shoulder. The new position meant Finan was hitting every part of you in a way you didn’t know was possible. Your eyes rolled into the back of your head, toes started to curl.

Your breath started to quicken and legs started to shake as Finan thrusted into you harder. The coil inside of your stomach tightened as Finan grabbed your chin with his hand. “I want to watch you as your climax m’lady,” his words sent you over the edge as you bucked your hips up into him. Finan never slowed down his thrusts as he helped you ride out your high.

Pulling out of you, Finan stroked his cock as he chased his own high. Leaning towards the ground, Finans sorts moans filled the air as he climaxed.

Both of you with heavy breaths looked at each other with an afterglow. He leaned into you and kissed your forehead. Signing you reached for your clothes and covered yourself up. Sitting up, an arm wrapped around you interrupting you from standing.

“Stay,”

Taglist

TLK @gearhead66 @geekandbooknerd

Everything @escapingthoughtsandsecrets @foxyjwls007 @xoxabs88xox

#finan fanfic #finan smut #finan x y/n #finan x you #finan x reader #uhtred ragnarson #uhtred smut #uhtred x you #uhtred x reader #uhtred fanfic #the last kingdom smut #the last kingdom fanfic #the last kingdom

[ewritesthangs]

I really love your last corpse fic, it was really soft and comforting. For your next drabble, could your write something about playing video games with him?

Giggles filled the apartment as you squirmed. You were being tickled by your boyfriend, Corpse. He only smirked and continued on with his torture. Fingers tickling you, causing you to squeal.

"I give! Please!" He stops his torture and let's you regain your composure.

"I win. Means you play with me."

"Alright alright. I'll play a game. Just nothing thats gonna scare the piss out of me. Mark did that to me once and let me tell you he got a black eye from my head."

"Noted." He chuckles and kisses your forehead.

"Lips down here." He licks his lips before pressing a soft, supple kiss to your lips. He rubs your noses together.

"You make me happy."

"I love you, sappy dork."

"I love you more."

"Lets not rehash this argument." You giggle and sit up slowly.

"Lets playyyyy um hmmmm, among us?"

"Again?"

"Its so fun!"

"True. True. Okay. But I only have my phone."

"Come play as me, with me, while I'm playing with the guys."

"Okay." You shrug, agreeing. Wanting to be engulfed in his embrace for a few hours. You could never get enough of him in any way. Him holding you, singing to you, being with you. You guys walk together to his recording room. You waddle inside, waiting for him to sit so you could sit.

He opens his discord and the game. You hear Sean first. Then felix.

"Fucking hell he better not kill me first this time."

"I will. Don't you worry your little butt, Jack." Felix laughed out.

"Hey guys! Did you miss me?"

"Hey Y/N/N! Where is your-?"

"I'm playing with corpse. Im staying with him so he said I could play as him."

"Hey guys. Im here."

"Hes being kind enough to let me play a little as him. Hes gonna help me win." You giggle maliciously.

"I did not like that laugh." Sean says with a chuckle.

"Here we go, 2 imposters in one avi." Felix beams, sarcasm lacing his voice.

"Be happy youre graced with my presence." You smirk.

"Alright true." Sykkuno was always so nice.

Shhhhhhhh

Crewmate

2 imposters among us

You were running around, doing some tasks. You make Corpse do the card swipe so he got more practice. He gets it the first try. "Good job babe! I'm so proud!" You beams, sarcasm lacing your voice.

"Yeah I owned that shit. Watch out, I sus Toast."

"Dont you like always sus toast?" His hand lays atop yours while you are using the mouse. He helps you get the asteroids for thats always your hardest one to do. You don't get killed but Sean did and Sykkuno reports the body.

"I sus Corpse. They have been faking tasks." Felix says.

"Have not! We've been doing tasks all along. Im just bad at asteroids so Corpse here is helping me." You pout.

"I'm only joking Y/N. Calm down." He chuckles.

"Okay where is the body?"

"By the gas tank thing. Bottom left storage."

"Toast has been acting weird." Corpses voice booms through the mess of people talking. He stays silent for a moment.

"I've been doing card swipe."

"Hey thats my line." Corpse laughs out.

"But I was actually doing it. I was in admin. Charlie can vouch for me."

"Actually i dont remember seeing you but its possible." Greaseball states.

"Were voting toast!"

"No don't do it."

"Speedrun!"

"I'm going for blood." The familiar Irish accent cheers.

Toast was ejected .

You take your avi over to electrical where Charlie was. He alone. Then Sean comes in and does the lights. Once you finish your tasks you leave, but the doors are closed.

"Oh my God were gonna die! Charlie no!" You scream, in hopes that, telepathically you can get him to not kill you. He doesn't but a body was found and reported by Sean.

"Rae, care to explain what just happened?"

"Uh you killed poki."

"Uh no. You did. I saw it with mine own eyes."

"Guys he stabbed poki! I saw it happen!"

"Ummmmmm uh yeah I dont know who to believe. Corpsey?"

"Hmmm, I believe Sean. I saw Rae acting sus awhile ago."

"Yeah thats right!" Sean yells. Corpse pulls your hand towards Rae and votes for Rae to be booted off. So does everyone else.

Valkyrae was ejected.

Victory.

"I knew it!" You clap happily, wiggling in Corpses lap. He chuckles and kisses your head.

"You're too cute. I love you." You gasp.

"Wait, you do?"  You feign innocence.

"Uh yeah? How could I not?"

You blush and turn to press a kiss to his lips. "Feelings mutual."

"They do know they're unmuted right?"

Tag List: @the0nlychrissy

#corpse husband imagine #corpse husband

[eternalstann]

Crushes & Co-Stars

You and Tom are in an interview together when you have an unexpected guest. Tom finally realizes what he needs to do. So he does that...and more.

Pairing: Tom Holland x Reader

Warnings: Smut!!!! + jealous!Tom ;)

You’re trying your hardest to concentrate on the woman interviewing you and Tom for your upcoming movie, it just felt like every person you talked to was leading you closer to something you couldn’t put your finger on.

“Tom who’s been your favorite person to work with so far?”

Tom doesn’t even hesitate, “Jake Gyllenhaal”

You gasp, “I’m telling Jacob and Zendaya!”

“What, you know that’s my husband! And I told you we could listen to ONE One Direction song on the way here, NOT the whole album. That’s a strike for you” he jokes.

“So Y/N, you’ve always been a big fan of One Direction! Are you excited for their possible reunion?” the interviewer asks and you feel the entirety of your teenage years flash before your eyes.

“Oh absolutely! I just hope they wait until after the movie is out, cause if they do get back together I won’t be able to focus on anything else!” You joke, nudging Tom.

Your costar nods in exaggerated agreement, “Trust me, I’ve seen the pictures of her childhood bedroom. I know”

You giggle and shrug, “What can I say? They just had that one thing”

Tom groans, “That was so corny”

He pretends to be unimpressed but you can see the ghost of a smile on his lips. Talking about a movie for weeks - day in and day out got boring. But doing it with you made it all worth it for him.

“Well then Y/N, we have a little surprise for you” the interviewer goes on and your eyebrows furrow. A surprise?

You watch as the door to the small interview room opens and you nearly faint when Niall Horan himself walks in.

You fumble your way out your chair, walking behind it and putting a hand over your mouth; eyes practically bugged out. Everyone laughs at your reaction, but you’re literally on the verge of a heart attack.

“No fucking way..” you breathe out, and Niall smiles big at you.

“Aren’t you gonna hug me darling?” He asks with that Irish accent you’d obsessed over for years.

You don’t even say anything, it’s like you aren’t in control of your own body and you run to him; jumping into his open arms. Your legs wrap around his waist and he holds you up.

“What a greeting!” Niall Jokes. “How’re you?” He asks and you can barely answer.

“I’m perfect now” you fawn and you definitely hear one of the videographers whisper- ‘this is totally going viral’

Niall sets you down, and you stare at him. Still unable to believe he was standing in front of you. You then realize how unprofessional you acted and apologize.

“I am so sorry for...pouncing on you like that” you smile sheepishly and you swear his blue eyes literally twinkle. “Don’t be sorry, I love when beautiful girls jump into my arms” he flirts and you think your heart might jump out of your chest.

You try to play it off with a laugh, and so does Tom. He watches this little love connection play out with the girl he’d had feelings for for months and all he could do was laugh.

“Good to know, it’s just I’ve literally had a crush on your since I was like fourteen” you gush, and Niall pushes a strand of hair from your face.

“Yeah well I think I’ve got a bit of a crush on you now...” he replies easily and you’re certain you’re dreaming now.

Toms had enough now, standing to make himself known.

“Niall, mate! How’re ya?” Tom asks stepping between the two of you, and you watch them hug. He knows everyone you think to yourself.

“Aye, Tommy! I’m great man, we have to go golfing soon!” Niall chirps and Tom nods. You roll your eyes as the two of them chit chat.

Two white boys of the month together. The power that they hold

Niall slaps Tom on the arms, something about texting him later before turning to you again. “Y/N, I was hoping that I could bother you for your phone number. Maybe we could get together some time?” He asks, holding out his phone to you.

“That’d be really nice” you hum, punching in your number.

Niall hugs you and says goodbye, and now it’s Toms turn to roll his eyes.

He doesn’t know why he’s so jealous, he’d never even made a move. He guessed he thought he had more time. And then it dawns on him. The two of you were done shooting, and this press tour wasn’t gonna last forever. You’d both go home and that would be that. Sure you’d stay in contact but it wouldn’t be the same as seeing your everyday. He had to move fast.

The interview wraps up and your both say thank you’s to interviewer and crew, walking out to the hallway.

“I cannot believe I met Niall Horan!” You exclaim, and Tom chuckles a little.

“You really gonna go on that date?” He asks, already dreading your answer.

You pause for a moment, “Yeah, if he actually texts me!”

“He’s definitely gonna text you...” Tom trails off and he can already see it playing out in his head. He doesn’t think he can take watching you and Niall galavant through town... or trend on Twitter if you ever did get together.

“He’s literally got a million other girls he could text, what makes you think so?” You nudge him, smiling softly at how your arms brushed against each other when you walked. You and Tom had become so close during the last few months, you felt like you’d known him forever. And knowing Tom you were expecting him to say some sarcastic answer, about he’d text you for premiere tickets just to really see him.

“Because you’re beautiful for one thing. Because you’re smart, and funny and talented. Because you’re kind and loving. I can think of a million reasons why I’d text you...why I’d do so much more than text you” he smiles, rubbing the back of his neck and you’re frozen in shock.

“Tom...”

“You don’t have to say anything back, I’ve gained a best friend in working with you and I don’t want to mess that up. I just wanted you to know”

You grab his hand and pull him into his dressing room.

“What’re you doing?” He asks confusedly.

“I didn’t want to cry in the hallway” you say, finally letting the tears fall.

“Tom I’ve been so anxious about all of this ending because I love being around you. I’ve never had a friend like you and I was so sad thinking about not seeing you all the time” you gush and Tom pulls you into a hug.

“Then we just won’t let each other go” he mumbles, face buried in your neck.

You pull back and wipe your tears, smirking at your friend “Did you tell me all this because you were jealous of Niall?”

“I mean, you literally jumped into his arms...” he teases.

You laugh, biting your lip before jumping up and Tom gets the memo to catch you.

“Now you’re even” you whisper looking down at Tom, wrapping your arms around his neck.

“Hmm, I could get used to this”

You take a deep breath, staring into his eyes. It wasn’t weird or awkward, it was like the two of you understood each other without speaking. You could feel his thumb rubbing against your back, tracing gentle circles.

“Are we about to kiss right now?”

Tom throws his head back in a laugh, “Only if you want to”

“I really want to”

You press your lips to his, eyes fluttering shut. His lips were soft and they tasted like the cherry chapstick you’d bought him as a gag gift for finishing filming on Cherry. The fact that he’s kept a silly thing like that from you made you weak.

You tilt your head, letting your tongue run against the seam of his lips and he parts them for you. Your tongues touch, mouths moving together effortlessly.

You don’t even realize Tom walking towards the couch in the center of the room until he’s laying you down on it. You pull your lips apart for a moment to catch your breath and Tom is hooking your leg over his side.

You can feel his hardness pressed to your center and you feel dizzy at how fast things escalated. But you loved it, and you wanted more.

You lift your hips to grind against him and Tom groans, shoving your dress up around your waist. You gasp, the cold air on your thighs creating goosebumps and Toms hands run over your skin, the warmth in from his fingertips almost felt like it burned.

He left a trail of fire from your bellybutton to the waist band of your panties, slowing pulling them down.

“I want to taste you” he hums, and your toes curl in your heels at his words. You’d be lying if you said you’d never thought of Tom like this, and god it was better than you imagined.

He kisses the insides of your thighs, one if his hands pushing you leg back to your chest. He looks up at your, brown hair falling just about his eyes as he takes his first lick up the length of your pussy.

“Oh god Tom...” you moan out, letting your head fall against the cushions.

He absolutely devours you, taking his time to explore every part of your wet heat. Your legs shake next to his head, and Tom puts his mouth over your clit, sucking gently and pushes two fingers into you.

You grab a pillow off the couch, placing it over your face to muffle your screams and Tom doesn’t let up. He curls his fingers upwards, working you closer and closer to the edge and you feel bad when the heel of your shoe digs into his back as you orgasm.

Tom licks you through it, a big smile on his face and all you can do is stare at him. Oh, he was definitely a problem. You glance down at the bulge in his pants, biting your lip.

He catches your stare, “You sure you want to?”

“Tom I’m positive” you assure him, repositioning yourself on the couch to make for a better angle.

Tom is kicking his way out his slacks in seconds, and you laugh at his antics. Your laughing stops when he pulls out his dick though.

“Jeez, Tom, where do hide that thing?” You ask and he rolls his eyes.

“You’re hilarious Y/N” he answers, climbing back on top of you.

Tom rubs himself through your folds and your pussy clenches in anticipation, you brace yourself waiting and ready for him but Tom pauses.

“This isn’t going to be a one time thing is it?” He asks, voice sounding small.

“You think you can eat my pussy like that and then we just go about our lives?” You joke but Tom wants a serious answer.

You tangle your hand in the hair at the back of his neck, “Tom, I want this. Us. Whatever we may become” you say softly, pulling him down for a kiss.

That’s all Tom needed, and he pushes into you. You moan against his lips, back arching. He filled you up perfectly, and when you thrust into you the first time you knew you wouldn’t last long.

“Y/N you feel amazing” he whispers next to your ear and you just hold on onto him, taking all the pleasure he was giving you. Everything just felt so right. The way he felt on top of you, and inside of you.

“Tom please don’t stop, don’t ever fucking stop” you beg and he groans again, lifting so he can look at your face.

“Fuck I won’t baby” he promises, hips moving faster now. He pounds into you, pushing against the way your legs wrapped around your waist. You just wanted him closer and closer.

“Tom...I’m gonna cum” you pant, hand moving town to his shoulder and digging your nails in.

“Cum for me Y/N” he encourages you, pushing all the way in and grinding.

You scream and shake, Toms hand shooting up to cover your mouth as you cum again.

You clench around him as he thrusts a few more times before cumming inside of you. He collapses on top of you, burying his face in your chest.

“So you’re gonna block Niall when he texts you right?”

———————————————-

skfjsksjdn hey guyssss❤️ i literally live for jealous Tom :))) I hope u all enjoy this, drunk part 4 will be up Saturday!!

Photo Creds to @spiderszman 📸

#tom holland #tom holland x reader #tom holland x you #tom holland blurb #tom holland preference #tom holland fluff #tom holland one shot #tom holland smut #peter parker #spiderman #tom holland imagine

[just-a-poor-boy-queen]

(This is based off the lovely prompt you gave me a while ago, and I decided to incorporate it into the kid!verse. Khaleel is five years old now.)

Part 14 of Jimercury Kid series

Freddie’s hands were shaking as he held the wrapped package in his hand and he cursed himself internally, wishing his nerves would settle long enough for him to just open the door and give Jim his damn present. He had never been this apprehensive about giving someone a gift before; he usually couldn’t wait to surprise his loved ones, to see the absolute delight on their faces when they unwrapped the paper and saw what he had bought them. It was usually something expensive, something unobtainable to them, something grandiose that only someone with his paycheque could afford.

That’s what everyone wanted, right? Big, expensive presents?

Not Jim, apparently.

Jim was a simple man. That’s part of the reason why Freddie had fallen so hard for him, aside from his unmeasurable kindness and rugged good looks, of course. And being a simple man, he preferred the simpler things in life; he appreciated the lavish gifts and parties that Freddie treated him to, of course, but Freddie knew fully well that he could have been a road sweeper and Jim would still be in love with him. That’s the kind of person his husband was.

Which was precisely why Freddie was in the predicament he was in now.

--

He had been trying to figure out what to get Jim for his birthday for weeks, enlisting the help of Phoebe and Mary to scout out all the local department stores in search of the perfect gift. Phoebe found a nice pair of garden shears, which would come in useful, given that Jim’s current ones were old and rusting and Jim was always talking about replacing them. Practical, thought Freddie, but not exactly the most personal of gifts. Mary found a lovely ceramic cat ornament, its features hand painted by the artist; Jim would love it, Freddie knew, but he had already bought him a similar gift years before. In the end, Phoebe and Mary purchased the presents to give Jim themselves and the search continued.

It was their son who ended up inspiring Freddie, though that was hardly surprising because Khaleel was always inspiring him. Freddie had come home from a long day at the studio and found the little boy painting at the kitchen table with Phoebe, old newspapers spread out to make sure he didn’t make a mess. They had been at it for a while, judging by how many paintings there were scattered around; paintings of flowers, and dinosaurs and, of course, every one of the cats with their names scribbled underneath in felt tip.

‘These are lovely, Bijou.’ Freddie beamed, after Phoebe had excused himself to wash the paint off his hands. ‘You’re so talented. We should hang them up in your room.’

Khaleel nodded enthusiastically, adding one final dab of paint to his wonky picture of Garden Lodge before setting it beside the others. ‘Daddy said you paint too, Baba.’

‘Did he now?’

‘Yeah. He showed me a painting of Delilah you did. It was pretty.’

Freddie couldn’t help but roll his eyes fondly. He had thought he’d thrown out the unfinished portrait of his favourite cat, but he should have known Jim had held onto it. ‘Baba doesn’t really have time to paint anymore, darling. I’m too busy with my music.’

Khaleel looked disappointed. He glanced down at his messy fingers and began to fiddle with them. ‘Your painting made Daddy smile so much, Baba. You should do it again. It’s pretty.’

Freddie was at a loss for words. He had always loved art and still found himself doing the odd sketches and doodles now and then; but painting was something he had given up long ago in favour of singing. He simply didn’t have the time or the patience to commit to it. But Khaleel’s words were now engrained in his mind.

‘I’ll think about it, Bijou.’ He said softly, before leaning down to pick the child up. ‘Come on, you’re going to need a nice, warm bubble bath to get all this paint off you.’

He smiled as Khaleel squealed with excitement. (1/2)

It had taken Freddie a while to figure out what exactly he was going to paint. He still had the old brushes and materials Phoebe and Joe had bought him years ago, when he was ill and had temporarily been inspired to try his hand at art again; but as he sat there, staring at the blank canvas in front of him, he realised he had no idea what he intended to make for his husband.

He considered finishing the painting of Delilah but couldn’t summon up the motivation to continue it. He tried doing a landscape of the garden, but after a few attempts on some scrap paper, he gave up and decided to stick to what he knew best – portraits.

It was only when he leaned back in his seat and surveyed the room a moment that his eye fell upon the large photo frame he kept beside his bed; the one of himself, Jim and Khaleel, professionally taken a year before. There was a copy of it hanging up in the lounge, over the fireplace, but Freddie always kept the original right by his bed, so it was the first thing he woke up to every morning. Safe to say, of all the hundreds of photographs that lived in Garden Lodge, this one was by far his favourite. He and his two favourite boys. His perfect family.

Without giving it a second thought, he picked up his brush and began to paint.

------

It had been two long weeks of staying up late and sneaking around to make sure Jim didn’t catch him, but on the eve of his husband’s birthday, Freddie’s portrait was finally complete, and he carefully wrapped it in brown paper in preparation for the party the next day. He was satisfied with the finished product, and yet, he couldn’t help but feel his gut twist with uncertainty as he stored the painting away in a drawer to keep it from prying eyes. He knew there wasn’t a materialistic bone in Jim’s body but… what if he didn’t like the gift? Phoebe and Mary had bought him such lovely things, what if Jim was disappointed when he got to Freddie’s?

Thoughts like that were why Freddie was now standing outside the door to the lounge, trying to gather the courage to go back in. He had excused himself under the guise of getting another bottle of wine and had quickly darted up to the bedroom to collect the package and bring it down. Taking a deep breath, he finally pushed open the door and re-joined the others, who were already sitting down to start opening Jim’s presents.

‘Mary, I love it!’ Jim smiled widely as he examined the ceramic cat, turning it over in his hands before carefully placing it on the coffee table beside the garden shears Phoebe had gifted him. ‘It’s beautiful. Thank you so much.’

Mary smiled back, ‘you’re welcome, Jim.’ And they leaned forward to give each other a kiss on the cheek.

Freddie’s heart fluttered in his chest. Mary hadn’t been very supportive of his relationship with Jim at the start, most likely out of overprotectiveness and jealousy. But once they adopted Khaleel, she finally had to accept that Freddie had found the love of his life and it was time for her to move on. She seemed a much happier person for it. It touched Freddie to see her and Jim gradually becoming good friends.

Finally, it was Freddie’s turn to present his gift. Despite his best efforts, he still couldn’t help shaking slightly as he watched Jim slowly tear off the paper. Maybe this was a mistake. Maybe he should have gotten Jim a new suit. Or a pair of cufflinks. Or-

‘Freddie…’ Jim sounded breathless and when Freddie looked up, he could see the Irishman’s eyes were sparkling with tears. ‘Freddie, did you paint this?’

The singer nodded, his mouth dry. ‘Do… do you like it?’

His answer was Jim leaning over and pressing their mouths together in a passionate kiss. When they pulled away, the tears in Jim’s eyes had spilled down his cheeks. ‘Sweetheart, it’s beautiful. It’s amazing, it’s perfect.’

Jim wasn’t usually one for PDA, but he was so overwhelmed in that moment, he couldn’t stop himself from kissing every inch of Freddie’s face, while their guests admired the gift that had enthralled him. It was a painting of Freddie, Jim and Khaleel, almost an exact copy of the family portrait hanging up above the fireplace except they were surrounded by flowers; yellow freesias, azaleas, and Khaleel’s favourite, Eden roses, all painted in watercolour.

When Khaleel saw it, he almost fell off Phoebe’s lap in excitement. ‘Baba painted me! Baba painted me!’

After the party was over and their friends had gone home, Jim snuck up behind his husband as the singer was placing the canvas on the mantlepiece and wound his arms around his waist. ‘So, this is why you wouldn’t come to bed all those nights? You were working on this?’

Freddie nodded, leaning back into his husband’s embrace. ‘I was going to buy you something, but I know how you always feel guilty when I spoil you. I wanted to give you something personal, that I made with my own two hands. Even if it isn’t perfect…’

He felt Jim kiss his ear, his thick Irish accent murmuring softly, ‘it’s the greatest gift anyone’s ever given me, sweetheart. And the best thing about it is that it came straight from your heart. I love it and I’m going to keep it with me. Always.’ (2/2)

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

OMG THIS IS PERFECT😭😭😭 This is the best interpretation of the prompt, MY HEART😭😭

Call me dumb, but whenever I'd think of Freddie doing something for Jim, it'd always be related to music. Until now, I had never considered art as one of the possible ways in which Freddie could've expressed his love for his husband. But this... this is so beautiful, oof.

I genuinely marvel at your ability to convey so many emotions in these short drabbles. You managed to portray Freddie's insecurities, his want to please his husband and do something special, his nervousness and fear so brilliantly. And Jim's reaction was so sweet🥺 This was truly such a special gift for him, and for their family, I am crying😭

Thank you so much for this, anon💙💙

(More drabbles by writer anon)

#ask response #jim hutton #freddie mercury #freddie and jim and their baby #anon writing

[holidayspirits]

Pros and Cons (Nathan Young x Reader)

I’ve never written anything before but I had the idea and I’m procrastinating so enjoy I guess. 

This was actually quite fun so maybe I’ll do more if people like it but also I’m so far behind my actual work so don’t expect much. 

You were both sat on the roof of the community centre, in a comfortable silence as the sun slowly set.

“You can’t hide from this guy forever, ya know?” Nathan suddenly spoke, looking at you with a smirk. The guy in question was your ex boyfriend, who had turned up after radio silence for the last four months and declared his love for you in front of everyone.

“I know” you sighed. Your difficulty to decide whether to take him back was almost a shock to you. A few weeks ago you would have jumped into his arms without a second thought, but a lot had happened since you had started your community service, including the introduction of a certain curly haired Irish man.

“So how’re you going to decide?”

“I don’t know. Flip a coin?” You finally looked at him as he shook his head disapprovingly, but smiling. Suddenly, you had a thought and jumped up in search of your backpack, pulling out a notebook and pen.

“What’re you doing?” Nathan asked as you sat back next to him and flipped to an empty page.

“Pros and cons list” you replied, matter of factly.

“Right. The most sensible way of making romantic decisions”

“Exactly”

“What happened to just following your heart?” He exclaimed dramatically, hands covering his heart.

“My heart is an idiot” he laughed at that, and you finished drawing the table, trying to think of your first pro.

After around 20 minutes of you and Nathan throwing suggestions around the list was as follows:

Pros =

A boyfriend is always nice

He loves you (apparently)

He is nice (when he wants to be)

Hot??

Was okay in bed

Cons =

He broke your heart

Self-centred

Probably only back because he’s bored

His friends are dicks

And he’s always with them

Was ONLY okay in bed [Nathan insisted this should be moved to the cons list]

You deserve only the best [Nathan had written himself, causing you to blush and softly shake your head. “Don’t cross it out it’s true!” he had insisted]

You don’t love him

“Well, there’s your answer then” Nathan pointed out.

“I guess so” you failed to mention the last, and possibly biggest con: that you were falling for someone new. “I should probably get going. Don’t want to miss the bus”

“Do you want walking to the bus stop?” He asked sincerely, watching you as you put the notebook away and slung the backpack over one shoulder.

“I’ll be okay. See ya tomorrow” you ruffled his curls as you walked past him.

“Yep” he smiled at you softly, still watching you as you left.

You walked to the bus stop quickly, with it now being pitch black and getting cold. You still had 10 minutes before your bus arrived, so you decided, to help pass the time, you would make another list. Finding the notebook, you found a new page and wrote the following:

Pros =

A boyfriend is still always nice

He is very sweet (when no one else is around)

He is funny

Definitely hot

But also cute

You like hanging out with him

Those eyes!

That accent!!

Would fight someone for you (even if he would probably loose)

He cares about people (even when he acts like he doesn’t)

You really like him

Cons =

He’s homeless (for now)

He can be a prick (but it’s endearing)

???

Just friends (also for now?)

He probably doesn’t like you back

Sighing, you ripped out the page, putting the notebook away. You reread the list at least ten times, smiling to yourself, before you heard the bus in the distance. As the headlights drew nearer, you made your decision, grabbing your backpack and heading back towards the community centre. Your heart was pounding as you made a plan in your head. What would you say? What would he say? How would you escape if he rejected you? That was the last bus for the evening and you didn’t have enough money for a taxi. Maybe this was a mistake. The bus had already left but maybe you could just say you missed it and need to spend the night with him.

As you walked into the community centre, you heard Nathan humming to himself. He must have his earphones in and didn’t hear you come in. Being too scared to confront him, you decided to fold the list into a plane and, before you could change your mind, threw it towards the ledge where Nathan slept. You couldn’t see where it landed or if he even saw it, so you sat on the bottom step deciding you would give it a few minutes before you’d go up and check. Just as you sat down, you heard movement from above you and you felt your heart stop. Moments later, a different paper plane flew past you. You got up to retrieve it, noticing that it was one of the flyers that get left in the community centre, advertising a baby and parent meeting. You unfolded the plane to reveal yet another pros and cons list:

Pros =

She’s beautiful

She’s funny

She’s really cool

She always matches your banter

She’s nice to you

Well she’s nice to everyone but especially you

She doesn’t love him

Cons =

She’s way out of your league

You are not the best

You couldn’t help the smile that broke across your face. Looking up at the ledge you saw Nathan staring down at you, holding your list in his hand and smiling back at you. You just looked at each other for a moment before Nathan made his way towards the stairs, towards you. You also went towards the stairs, meeting him half way, you going one higher in order to even out the height difference. He placed his hands on your waist, looking down at his feet as he softly said “he definitely does like you back”

“Good” you replied, lifting his head up to look at you. You leaned in, gently pressing your lips to his. His arms wrapped around your waist, drawing you in closer. Pulling away, you looked at him, admiring how green his eyes were under the centres bright lights. “You are the best”, you told him, gently touching his cheek with your thumb.

“I’m not” he scoffed.

“Well, you’re at least better than him”

“I’ll take it” he laughed, leaning in to kiss you again.

#nathan young #nathan young x reader #nathan young fic #idk where this came from I opened my laptop to watch a lecture and an hour later here we are

[blushing-starker]

Another holiday one: Peter and Pepper going caroling together and they visit Tony in the workshop. The bots are wearing Santa hats

"Peter, darling, you know you can get him anything and he'll be over the moon, right? He loves you and it'd kill Tony to know this is causing you so much stress. We could always do a joint gift if that helps? After caroling, the night is ours and so is the mall."

God, what did he do to deserve Miss Potts? She has a solution for all the problems in the world, never hesitates to take what she wants and could probably kick his ass twenty different ways without breaking a sweat. Just last night, she'd cocked her head, put on a disappointed face and Peter was done, defeated, tore himself away from Tony's side at the lab to devour some freshly baked pie Rhodey had dropped by. They'd been working for hours, basically a hair's breadth away from a breakthrough, but Miss Potts didn't like her boys tinkering too long without eating.

Now she's holding his hand like it isn't serious, like it doesn't set Peter's heart aflame because this is Pepper Potts, kind and strong and witty and amazing, showing affection in a public place without shame or fear. And yeah, Tony would never be cold to him outside, but the man's a koala when you earn his trust. Peter has to practically pry the billionaire off from Pepper when the CEO has a meeting to conquer (he's dating a CEO, he's dating a billionaire, he's dating a CEO, he's dating a-

"Sweetheart, I see the gears turning in that head of yours, same as Tony. What is it, Peter?" The snow starts to fall a bit harder and they quicken their pace, catch up with Nat, Bucky and Bruce as they line themselves up before the next porch, ready to start caroling their hearts out. Who'd have thought they enjoyed the season this much?

The others didn't come because decorating the tower and baking dessert for 20 plus people took a team effort. Peter had wrapped an arm around Miss Potts' waist and swung them to the car before they were snatched up by Steve to help in the kitchen. They'd been pressed pretty close, Peter not wanting to risk hurting his, what, lover? Girlfriend? His lover's wife? Either way, he had curled around the tall woman, tried to not jostle her too much in case she got sick. It had been nice. Very nice, really.

The whole thing had lasted maybe thirty seconds so yeah. Technically, this is the first time they've had physical contact for a relatively long period of time. He's eighteen now, not supposed to be getting so hyped and nervous over something as simple as holding hands and going caroling along a snow covered neighborhood adorned with a thousand Christmas lights. But, but he's always been a romantic at heart and the neon glow is reflected off of shiny snowflakes that taste like something pure and special, his teammates are joyous, look decades younger, Bucky's cat Alpine has stubbornly decided to crisscross his ankles and Miss Potts ' is just really fucking pretty, ok?

"Peter?" He gets why Tony can submit so easily to the force of nature that is Pepper Potts ; is rather sure it has something to do with honest eyes and a gentle way of loving broken men.

"Um, you're very pretty, Miss Potts," way to go, Peter. It's a wonder he and Tony even got together when they share one brain cell and it's mainly dedicated to superhero work. Or to Miss Potts.

She softens, tugs at him until they wrap around each other and then kisses him. Light, barely there kisses on pale cheeks, his eyelids, the curve of a red nose, under an unhinged jaw. Nat shoves the team forward, says the next house will probably give them candy while winking at Peter, grins when he turns scarlet. Bucky grumbles, "it's not exactly Halloween," but she yanks the supersoldier away from them so there's some semblance of privacy present.

Miss Potts sighs, sets her chin on his head and Peter short circuits right there, is delighted by the fact that she's taller than him, vows to buy her as many heels and high boots as possible because this is extremely nice and being tucked under her is a dream come true.

"You're so nice, Pete. I don't think Tony's gonna last a month before he says he loves you, not with someone so considerate and amazing. Nat bet it'd take me three months, but right now? Tony would take one look at me and say three weeks. We've been outside for a while, how about we head back home? See if our ridiculous baby got away with sneaking to the lab?"

Oh. Oh, is he supposed to speak after that? Function when she just sent his world tumbling down in a second or two? He inhales slowly, presses his frost bitten lips to a long neck and shivers when Miss Potts laughs, sound as pure and lovely as the freshly fallen snow around them.

---:---------:----------:---------:-----------:---------:--------:---------:---

On the way back home (HomeHomeHomeHomeHomeHome), he catches sight of a pretzel stand and nearly slams them into the side of a building. Miss Potts does that thing where she chuckles almost silently and maybe it'll take her three weeks but Peter's ready to declare his love for her right then, absolutely smitten and aware of it. He wonders if this is what Tony felt when he fell for Miss Potts. Wonders if his boyfriend would tell him all about it soon enough.

Miss Potts strokes his cheek, smile this side of sharp and mischievous. "Does my boy want something?" It's a soft question with a soft touch with a not so soft look in eyes that could tear him apart any day of the week. His web snaps and they tumble down to the street, are saved by the fact there's three feet of snow by the building's back entrance and they weren't that high up.

Peter gets a pretzel from Miss Potts.

------:--------:--------:--------:--------:--------:--------:--------:-------:-

Their lover (loverloverloverlover) is, in fact, hiding in the lab. There's a neon glow here, too, wrapped around Tony as he reassembles holograms, sketches new designs for the spider suit, revises old architecture plans with the gaze of a hawk.

"Anthony Potts, you put down that hologram right now! You were supposed to help out and decorate; not adjust Peter's suit. Again." Tony jolts back, clicks his fingers and everything disappears from the lab table as if Jarvis had never brought several of the genius' secret files to life. He looks like a little kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar and Peter isn't gonna let him forget this for as long as they live.

There's plenty of space on the table now so he settles there, swings his legs up and down, grins up at a fidgeting Tony. "Anthony Potts is new." A cookie tray is tucked away behind a pile of papers and it's too tempting not to snack on one even if he just inhaled a pretzel.

"I can call you Peter Potts, too, you know. Don't tease him, I know you would've been here helping Tony out if we hadn't gone caroling."

It's Tony's turn to grin and Peter's turn to flush now. Two more cookies are snatched, shoved into his face. "I kind of like that. The Potts thing. It's nice."

Miss Potts crosses over to them, wraps a finger around the one curl he can never tame and pulls on it until he's leaning on her palm with the sudden urge to never leave the lab. "I'm glad you like it, Peter. Anthony here has to go clean the dining table, but we can cuddle on the couch to warm up before seeing what's already cooked. How's that sound?"

"It sounds like your husband is being punished for upgrading your boyfriend's suit and making sure he doesn't die fighting some weird alien dog." Tony huffs, steals Dum-E's Santa hat with a pout before dragging himself up the stairs to the kitchen. "I'm saving everyone's lives, but no. I gotta see Steve butcher a Christmas tradition."

"There's nothing wrong with how Steve cooks the meal."

"Tell that to my grandmother and nanny. Even Jarvis could cook better and he doesn't have any hands." Said A. I hums in a suspiciously noncommittal way as his creator starts yelling about blood being spilled if a single stain is found in his prized kitchen.

The bots all seem to sigh in relief, roll over to bump Peter's knee or shoulder as affectionately as Alpine. He patiently fixes their elf ears and hats, rubs a few bells clean from grease and motor oil because Tony probably hadn't noticed and wouldn't notice until they accidentally stained something. Don't ask him or Miss Potts how, but Tony's children could ruin a fifty thousand dollar couch with purple paint without there necessarily being a can of paint around the lab.

Miss Potts' plan of cuddling on the couch is derailed when they hear screeching and curses pertaining to five different languages coming from above. She sighs, takes Peter's hand and he already knows she'll come up with a solution. She always did.

(Maybe it was time to explain he'd already found their gifts, twin silver rings with all their initials engraved hidden in his coat pocket.)

(And then Tony starts shouting something in Italian, Steve might be reverting to an Irish accent, Alpine hops on the dining table to pounce on the chicken, Miss Potts has to yank her husband away from the oven, Bucky's hair nearly catches on fire and yeah, he'll just show them on New Year's.)

#peter parker #tony stark #pepper potts #ironspider #starker #peter x tony #peter parker x tony stark #i am sleepy #i forgot #once again #the ot3 name #my writing #thank you darling katie #katie bug #🐞 #pepper x peter #pepper x tony

[himbowelsh]

Drunk BOB guys??? Who are the softie hug-loving cuddlers and who are the loud and obnoxious ones? The ones who break out of their shell when intoxicated? The unusually quiet ones? The ones who throw it tf back when Usher comes on? I'd love to hear some thots

oooooh my god okay okay, here are the biggest thots

Richard Winters:  Umm, alcohol whom? Has never been drunk in his life and doesn’t intend to start now. He gets all the buzz he needs off the exhilaration of a brisk jog, or a cool glass of water.

Lewis Nixon: The Literal Alcoholic. Thinks he’s more fun when he’s drunk than when he’s sober; is actually not a very fun drunk. Is even worse when he’s sobering up! At this point, he has to have some liquor in his system 99% of the time, otherwise his body feels like it’s out to destroy itself. (Alcoholism is a disease, boys and girls.) Nix buzzed is Nix at peak performance; he’s friendly, efficient, and capable. Nix drunk is a slowly spiralling plane crash. He usually passes out before he hits the ground, but god forbid he gets there, because...  it’s messy. He can occasionally be a messy, emotional, overdramatic drunk, but only when he’s really overdone it.

Carwood Lipton: The Respectable Drunk. A very calm, kind of sleepy drunk. Doesn’t get drunk often, even though he holds his liquor well, because he doesn’t prefer it  ---   when he’s had a few, he prefers to just watch the people around him, smiling and only half paying attention. His mind tends to wander when he’s drunk. Drunk Lip does have one fatal weakness:  if he’s out with his partner, and his partner shows even the slightest bit of encouragement, Lip will get riled up very quickly. He goes from calm drunk to horny drunk in a very short time; will eagerly press his partner up against the wall if given the chance. (Drunk Lip is way more inclined to PDA.)

Ron Speirs: The Soft Drunk. Literally, he’s such a tender drunk; he has absolutely no balance, and is a little confused, but he’s sweet, okay? Ron is far more expressive when he’s drunk; he gets touchier, ramblier, kinder. Drunk Ron has faith in humanity where Sober Ron gave up long ago. He’s a really relaxed drunk, unlikely to go off and do anything wild, but he wants to be around other people  ---  around his friends. Ron never has a good time when he drinks alone. (Plus, he’s got a reputation to uphold, and only certain people are allowed to see him with his guards down.)

Harry Welsh: The Bionic Drunk. Nothing can injure him; nothing can kill him. Many things have tried. Harry has done so much dumb shit when intoxicated, things that would have wounded him in a heartbeat if he was sober, and has never gotten a scratch to show for it. He’s a very fun drunk  ---  he laughs a lot, is very affectionate, and super pleasant to be around  ---  but common sense and self-preservation goes out the window. Look out, because he might too, if someone dared him.

Eugene Roe: The Changeling Drunk. Who is this man and what did he do with Doc Roe? Drunk Gene is...  an experience, alright? His inhibitions are gone. Suddenly, his personality has been turned up to eleven; he’s extroverted, he’s exciting, he laughs loudly and jokes around...  he’s dancing on top of the bar, holy shit. Is a very fun time, but you have to keep an eye on him, because he sometimes goes off and does something insane, a-la-Sober-Speirs. Drunk Gene fears nothing, including himself.

Joe Toye: The Depressed Drunk. Zoinks, Scoob. Drunk Joe is actually willing to talk about his emotions  ---  and maybe he shouldn’t, because he’s got some sad stuff going on there, man. Drinking is supposed to numb your worries, but Joe often finds the opposite is the case; his burdens somehow get heavier, harder to ignore, and if he’s allowed to slip into them he’ll end up dwelling in them for the rest of the night. So long as he’s around buddies who are actively keeping his spirits up, he’s a decent drunk guy to have around. If neglected, however, Drunk Joe may shed a few tears into his Guinness.

George Luz: The Showman Drunk. His jokes and impressions get way sloppier, but somehow he’s twice as hilarious, so he can get away with it. Drunk George is way more animated, with a seemingly endless supply of energy; he teases everybody, he laughs the loudest in the room, and he really seems like he’s just come out to have a good time. The kind of buddy you want to get drunk with.  (Be warned: comes with a rarely activated Depressed Drunk mode, when he shuts off and wants to be left the hell alone. Maybe his battery runs out after a while or something. During this time, George is feeling a lot of things very strongly; this condition is best treated with a cozy blanket and glass of water. Very rare, but once you’ve seen him in this state, you can never unsee it.)

Bill Guarnere: The Loud Drunk. Is there a difference between sober Bill and drunk Bill? Debateable. Drunk Bill is just Bill turned up to eleven. He doesn’t actually get drunk a lot  ---  somehow he ends up the designated driver, and minds less than he should  ---  but social drinking usually leads to Bill shouting over a crowded bar. He’s usually up for a good time, he just has no volume control. (Also, the accent. It thickens. Can someone translate, please? Is he speaking English? What the hell is he saying?)

Babe Heffron: The Weird Drunk. Drunk Babe will break it down on the dance floor (should he? maybe not) and do his president rooster impression in public, but he’s equally likely to just...  confuse everybody else. He’s got a lot of thoughts. A lot of feelings. Some of them are about the meaning of life, some of them are about the best kind of sandwich bread, some of them are about whether the Loch Ness Monster has a favorite type of bird.  He talks so much when he’s drunk, and will ramble anyone’s ear off about any of these topics. Escape while you can.

Joseph Liebgott: The Volatile Drunk. Really a mixed bag; you never know what you’re going to get from him. Sometimes, Joe can be a very fun drunk, the life of the party, willing to do anything anybody dares him to. That’s if he’s drinking in a good mood. If he starts drinking in a sour mood, it’ll only get worse from there. Honestly, he can be a mean drunk. He lashes out at people, gets angry, sometimes starts crying...  it’s not great. You have to keep tabs on him while he’s drinking, because if his mood looks like it’s dipping, he should not be allowed any more alcohol.

David Kenyon Webster: The Emotional Drunk. He’s just...  got a lot of feelings! And he really wants to talk about them! Becomes extremely talkative while drunk; this is not always a good thing, because he’s pronouncedly less eloquent. Drunk Web is very passionate about politics...  and the environment... and marine biology...  and the commercialization of public holidays. He has something to say about most things. Sometimes he’s just muttering to himself, and no one can keep up with what he’s saying. Makes so many notes, either in his phone or scribbling them down on napkins, because he’s “going to need to remember this”, but they’re all illegible come morning. Feels things very strongly. Might cry.

Johnny Martin: The Feral Drunk. Wrangling Johnny when he’s had a few too many is an experience. Holy shit, this man knows no fear. Drunk Johnny has 5x less patience for everyone’s bullshit, and wants them to know it. The amount of bar fights this man has gotten into... the best part is, he’s never lost. (Yeah, because he has Bull right there to make sure his drunk friend doesn’t get himself killed.)

Frank Perconte: The Confused Drunk. Only kind of knows where he is. Complains a lot; puts things down, misplaces them, and blames someone else for taking them. Drunk Perco has a ‘Real Housewives at Brunch’ mode, only activated when someone gives him tequila; he will scream and throw drinks. Otherwise he’s just kind of tiresome and needs someone to make sure he makes it home okay.

Floyd Talbert: The Mom Drunk. Yes, he did just do four shots of gin, but he’s still going to make sure everyone else is drinking water and not wandering off with anyone creepy. Drunk Floyd’s got an eye on everyone; he’s kind of the mama hen wrangling all her chicks, making sure they don’t stray far. He parties like a frat boy, but will wrangle everyone like a girl scout mother. 

Shifty Powers: The Missing Drunk. What the hell? What happened, where did he go? He was sitting right there a second ago  ---   when he’s drunk, Shifty tends to wander. He just likes the quiet. His friends will always find him in bizarre places, after a few minutes of panicked searching. Once, he was laying on top of a car; once he was on the club’s roof. He’s fine, he knows where he is, he’s just thinking about stuff.

Donald Malarkey: The Absurdly Lucky Drunk. He’s got some Irish faeries looking out for him or something, because Drunk Don is literally living his best life. If he gambles, he’s going to win. If he misplaces his wallet, he’s going to find it with an extra $30 inside. If he trips, he’s going to land in an attractive person’s lap. Everyone wants to be in proximity to Drunk Don, not only because he’s a pretty good  (if emotional)  time, but because some of his luck might rub off.

Skip Muck: The Giggly Drunk. What’s so funny? No one knows. Skip might not even know, but he’s going to laugh anyways, because everything is hilarious. He somehow tells even better jokes when drunk, but he laughs at them himself, so that measures it out. He effortlessly makes himself the life of the party; Skip will get up and karaoke with the band, cheer all his friends on in their dumb shit, drink way more than he reasonably should...  going out drinking with Skip is always a great time.

Herbert Sobel: The Alarmingly Fun Drunk. No, I’m not going to elaborate. Fill in the mental images yourself.

#winters and i say teetotaler rights #headcanons #band of brothers #hbo war

[yeetingmyfeeling]

Run, Run, Run!

Chapter Five

Everyone had begun eating, and loud chatter filled the room. It was comforting, in a sense. Though the blanket was going to break soon enough.

“These meatballs are so good!” Jarren mumbled through a mouthful of food. He was sat directly across from Brian, John on his left. On his right was Ryan and Luke.

John rolled his eyes at the pale boy. “Eat with your mouth closed,” Jarren swallowed his food and stuck his tongue out. The elder went to stab it with his fork, making the younger squeal.

“You know Evan, instead of doing whatever you were going to do,” Anthony pointed at Evan with his fork, then at John and Jarren. “Remember you have two literal children already,” The two shouted their protests, making the table laugh. 

“No wonder I’m already getting wrinkles,” Jon sighed over dramatically, pressing a hand to his forehead. “I’ve been babying two overgrown men.”

“There there dear,” Evan patted Jon’s thigh. “There’s ointment for that.”

“You’re supposed to say I don’t have wrinkles, dickhead!” Jon swatted Evan’s chest. “You bet I’m killing you soon, old man. For your fucking money.”

“I always knew Jon was a gold digger,” Marcel chuckled. “Scott, cough up the tenner.”

“Eat my ass Marcel,” Scotty shoved spaghetti into his mouth. 

“Take me on a date first,” Marcel rolled his eyes jokingly.

“I wouldn’t take your bitchy ass on a date,” Scotty swallowed the spaghetti in his mouth, coughing slightly. Marcel asked who he would on the table. Scotty looked around. “Brian.”

“Me?” Brian tilted his head, and a light blush coated his cheeks. He knew this was just a stupid joke, but the sentiment was nice. No one ever really wants to take him out on a date

“Oh so, you’ll take Brian but not me?” David was offended. “We’re the same! Both irish, and cute.”

“You’re not cute,” Tyler snorted, now a part of this conversation. It seemed everyone was watching this interaction now. “Brian is cute though, and his accent just sounds better. At least it sounds like he’s speaking mostly english.”

David scoffs loudly. He looks at Brian, who was sitting awkwardly next to him. Both because nerves, and the two mens long legs squished his own. “Brian,” Brian looked at David in question. “Do you think I’m cute?”

Brian stuttered for a second. “I- um, yeah,” Was what he managed to get it out. “You’re very cute David!”

David grinned, feeling something swirl in his chest. He went to say something, but Scotty interrupted him. “Yeah yeah, whatever. Brian, since you’re the cutest out of everyone here. Come on a date with me?” John, Ryan and Luke knew what he was doing. Brian had a hunch. 

Brian was stuttering again, but David spoke first. “Sorry, he’s busy going on a date with me,” He stated firmly.

Brian heard a growl to his left, and he was sure the only other person who heard that was Anthony, on Tyler’s other side. “Who says he has time to go on a date with you? Our date takes up a lot of time, so he’ll be with me.”

Brain could feel his face burning. He did not want to be a part of this conversation! So he just busied himself with his food. 

People moved on from that conversation, and were now talking in their own little groups. Brian was the only person sitting there quietly. He silently ate his food, admiring how good it actually tasted. Brian had cooked a few times, but not many.

He lifted his head up to look around the room. He felt like this was his new family. Although he felt some major attractiction from the two men currently squishing his legs, everyone else felt like brothers.

John and Jarren were in a heated conversation with David, something about realistic food. Brian didn’t understand it. Luke and Ryan were talking to Marcel and Scorry. Luke had an arm over Ryan’s shoulders, eating with only one hand. Tyler was talking to Anthony, and Brock was talking with Evan and Jon.

Brian still felt out of place a little bit. He wasn’t here as long as the rest of them, and he came from another pack. On those really bad nights, Brian swore he could still smell the old pack on him. This made him shiver.

He finished off his beer, noticing he finished it off quickly from his nerves. It made him feel warm, but he was nowhere near drunk. Maybe another night.

He heard the conversation to his right, and noticed David was now eating his food. John and Jarren talking to each other. Brian smiled, he could tell they had a thing for one another. Brian turned to David and poked his foot with his own.

David lifted his head, spaghetti dangling from his lip. Brian laughed and David quickly slurped it up with a blush. He wiped his chin and chewed at the food. “What’s up?” He asked after he swallowed the food.

“I was wondering if you could help teach me how to cook? Since you’re the big cook of the house,” Brian asked. “I sort of know how to cook, but nothing like.. This.”

“I don’t usually cook at home, maybe once every two weeks,” David stabbed at a meatball. ���But I can help teach you. Actually,” He quickly ate the meatball then turned to Brian. “Did you want to go on a date? We can go to this cafe. The restaurant I work at partners with them, and we get bread for them. So it’s more like a bakery. It’s really good though, it would be nice,” David kept going on a tangent, nervous. 

Brian’s face was warm, but he had a giddy smile threatening to break. “That sounds good David,” Brian finally spoke. “I’d like that,” He mumbled. David smiled. 

David would have said something else, only he was interrupted once again. By Tyler. “A date?” He asked, and it sounded quite angry. He huffed loudly. Brian heard Anthony say something, making Tyler wave him off. “Bri, wanna go to the bar with me Friday night? I can get Anthony to give us a secluded table.”

Brian flushed even more. “Wha- I-,” That giddy grin was starting to come out. “I’d love to go to the bar with you.”

“So on Sunday, you’ll come to the cafe with me?” David asked, bringing Brian’s attention back to him. “They close at two, so maybe we could do brunch?”

Brian nodded quickly. “Brunch sounds nice, I’ll have to set lots of alarms,” He laughed, making David laugh as well.

“I’ll work on Friday, but we can still get there before it gets too busy,” Brian turned back to Tyler. “I get off early anyway on Friday’s.”

“That’s handy,” Brian grinned. “Maybe around six thirty we could get there?” Tyler seemed to agree with him.

Brian heard a huff next to him, and saw David shoving another meatball in his mouth. Looking at Tyler, he was smirking as he finished off his bear. Oh boy, what did Brian just get himself into. He looked up, and John winked at him. Ryan made the sex movements with his hands, and Luke pushed his mates hands down.

Brian’s face turned even more red, if that was even possible. He was sure he looked like a tomato at this point. 

“So Brian,” Brian knew from Scotty’s tone, he was about to start something ugly. “I think you’re the cutest at the table, and you said David is cute. But who do you really think is the cutest?”

All eyes were on him again, and he could have let out a whimper. He suppressed that classic omega noise and stared at his plate. He did not want to make accidental eye contact with someone. 

He would say Jon, but Evan would get pissy. Maybe Brock? He has been one of the nicest thus far. Brian really knew who was the cutest, but didn’t know if that answer was allowed.

“Am I allowed to say two people?” Scotty shook his head. Brain frowned, seriously considering his options. He sighed. “Brock is the cutest.”

“Yes! I knew the charm would work!” Brock joked and everyone laughed. Except for a certain beta, and a certain alpha. Brock noticed this and his lips quirked up in a smirk. Aside from the couples, who does everyone else think is the cutest?” John and Jarren said each other's name. “You two are basically a couple, hush.”

Anthony answered Brock. Marcel answered Scotty, Scotty kept with his answer of Brian. Brock said Marcel. David and Tyler were quiet. Brain felt the tension, and went to joke about how Brock didn’t think he was cute back when Tyler spoke up.

His voice was thick and heavy, and it sent a shiver down Brian’s back. “I think Bri is the cutest,” He answered. “Especially with those diamond eyes.”

Brian heard a grunt from the beta. “Bri is the cutest, he beats all your asses,” David tried to match Tyler’s voice, so his accent was thick. “He’s cute in every way. Look at him blush.”

Everyone could feel the tension seeping from the beta and alpha that sat beside the nervous omega. Brian looked at the people across from him with pleading eyes, but they just shook their head. They were trying not to laugh. 

Tyler wrapped an arm around Brian’s shoulder, and the omega immediately tensed up. He wasn’t prepared for the sudden contact. David noticed first.

“Hey, get your hand off him,” David pushed Tyler’s arm off Brian’s shoulder. “He was clearly uncomfortable with that.”

Tyler scoffed, shaking out his arm. “Were you uncomfortable Bri?” Brian shook his head slowly, looking down at his lap. “See, dude, it was fine.”

“Brian you’re allowed to speak up,” David placed a gentle hand over Brian’s that rested on the table. “Just because he’s an alpha, doesn’t mean you have to put up with him being a bitch.”

Brian blushed, his arm twitching from the touch. That’s when Tyler leaned over, harshly grabbing David’s hand and pushing him away. He nearly fell out of the chair. “Uncomfortable, remember,” Tyler mocked.

“Tyler! You act like such a child!” David groaned. “Stop being petty.”

“I am not being petty, alphas don’t get petty.”

“Alphas are some of the most petty people I know. Maybe you’re upset because I got to Brian first, but maybe if you weren’t such a dick at the beginning.”

“Not upset. You haven’t even gotten to him yet, you asked him on a date, that hasn’t happened!”

“You are upset! And at least I asked first, I was also kinder, not a cunt.”

“I’ll show you a cunt.”

Tyler stood up quickly, the chair going back. David stood up as well, eyeing the slightly taller male. Brian sat in between the two, alarm bells ringing. He looked at both of them, knowing he should say something. He was too scared. He looked around the table. The two other alphas seemed ready to jump in if necessary, but otherwise, they just sat and watched.

“Tyler, you have always been such a moody bitch,” David rolled up the sleeves of his sweater. “Since day one. You use the fact you’re an alpha to scare everyone, and you don’t care when it genuinely hurts people. You’re never nice, never say thank you or sorry. You need a reality check mate.”

Tyler glared at the other. “Oh get off your high horse, you were no piece of cake either,” Tyler pulled off his flannel, laying it over the back of his chair. “I remember when you first came here and Brock tried to help you. You nearly ripped his damn eye out.”

“I was scared and angry! What the fuck did you expect me to do!?”

“Not attack him!”

“Oh I’m sorry, who’s talking again? How many fights did you get in with Evan?”

“They were reasonable.”

“Stupid alpha fights.”

“They were pretty stupid,” Evan muttered, only to be slapped over the back of his head by his mate. Evan just snickered.

“Fine, David. Have it your way.”

“My way?”

Tyler stepped forward, and his fist collided with David’s cheek. Brain yelped standing up and pushing back into the table. David stumbled back, a hand coming up to rub his jaw. He knew he wasn’t going to win this fight. Tyler was trained, and a strong alpha. David was no weak beta.

David went forward, sending his own punch into Tyler’s gut. Tyler had little to know reaction, grabbing David’s wrist and twisting. David scowled, sending a leg into Tyler’s knee. This got a reaction, and the alpha bent slightly. David brought his knee up, slamming it into Tyler’s bottom jaw. He yanked his wrist away and pushed his other fist into Tyler’s chest. This caused Tyler to stumble back.

All while, Brian was gripping to the table. His eyes were wide with fear, and his breathing had picked up, his heart hammering in his chest. His knuckles were turning white, whimpers falling from his lips without him knowing.  

Brock rushed over, standing in front of Brian. Brian couldn’t help but reach out and cling to the back of his shirt. The two were still fighting. Throw kicks, punches and insults.

Anthony stood up and stood between the two, trying to push them away. He got a kick to the hip, and a punch to the jaw. Accidentally, but he didn’t budge. Luke came over next, wrapping his arms around the betas skinny waist and lifting him up, taking a few steps back. Evan was in charge of Tyler, and simply went about grabbing the collar of his shirt and forcing him back. This caused Tyler to on to his knees. He knew his alpha was the one holding him back, so knew to stay put.

The two were breathing heavily, glaring each other down. Anthony took a step back, standing next to Brock. Brian poked his head out over Brock’s shoulder, staring at the two angry males. Evan cleared his throat, going to speak. Only his mate was the one to talk.

“What are you two ididots doing!?” Jon shouted, walking to stand between the two. “Fighting? Actually fist fighting? At the fucking dinner table! Ryan spent all this time cooking for us, and although it was mainly for Luke, he was down in the kitchen since midday trying to make this right. Now you two knobheads have to come along and completely ruin it!”

“What Jon is trying to say, is that we are disappointed,” Evan’s tone voiced how everyone felt. “We are family, and we have all gone through a lot together. You both have gone through a lot, and it’s okay to have pent up anger, but fighting is not the way to solve it.”

“It’s my fault,” Brain spoke up with a frown. “I-I’m in the way, I’m the reason they started arguing.”

“No Brian,” Brock tried to reassure the omega. “It’s not your fault.”

“But it is!” Brian tried to argue, his voice cracking.

“Look what your fighting has done!” Jon yelled. “Brian is going to cry!” The two heads snap to Brian’s direction. He sunk down, hiding behind Brock again, sniffling. “Luke, Evan, please take the two to their rooms. They can stay there until they calm the fuck down.”

“Who put you as boss?” Evan asked with a smirk. Jon raised an eyebrow at him. Evan just rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah,” He yanked at the back of Tyler’s shirt. Tyler got the idea and stood up. Evan let go, and led them out of the room. Tyler looked at Brian one last time, guilt swimming in his eyes.

After a minute or two, Luke put the lanky Irishman down. David brushed off his middle, only to be shoved by the larger. “Gonna act tough, treat you tough,” David just snorted. He gave Brian a sad smile, then the two left the room. 

“Desert anyone?” Jon asked the room. 

#banana bus squad #bbs #brian hanby #tyler wine #david nagle #the gaming terroriser #i am wildcat #daithi de nogla #daithi de wildcat #daithi de terroriser #brian hanby / tyler wine #h20vanoss #h20 delirious #vanoss #moo snuckel #bigjigglypanda #cartoonz #ohmwrecker #smi77y #kryozgaming #basicallyidowork #fourzer0seven #abo #alpha beta omega #alpha tyler #beta nogla

[deniigi]

@puffins-studio is my Selkie Verse enabler.

We were chatting about where Mike would fit in the Selkie Verse and then this AU of an AU happened lol

Title: twin hearts twin coats

Summary: Mike’s an unruly little seal who wants nothing more than to give Jack high blood pressure and he is on a crusade not to make a single friend in Ireland. Unless they’re Matty’s friends. In which case, he needs to steal them.

Context: Matt and Mike are born as rare twin seal pups. This bit assumes that Mike was there for all of Whispering Seas but then fades out of view for a bit as he does his own thing until Matt gets his coat back.

-------

For as long as the two been walking, Jack had been missing a twin.

Usually, it was Mike.

Usually, Mike was trying to sink his sharp little teeth into something he knew Dad did not want him too.

Usually, whatever he was trying to swallow whole would result in a call to poison control and Jack would be on the line for half an hour, reading through ingredients with a patient but stern woman while Mike beamed up at him, proud of his latest accomplishments.

After Matt’s year of hell with foster care, however, Mike had been traumatized. And had taken to keeping Matt within sight at all times.

You would have thought that that would have prevented Mike from being the missing twin these days.

But no.

No, now Jack wasn’t missing one twin.

He was missing two.

Constantly.

Both of his children were un-findable at practically all times.

Grace did not have these problem with the boys. Grace simply made a sound in her throat that Mike called back to immediately, regardless of where he was.

Jack did not have this power.

Over Mike, anyways. Jack had more power over Matty because Matty had a deep-ingrained instinct to only want Daddy when he was upset. But that shit didn’t exactly have range, now did it?

Grace told him he should simply learn how to make the throat-noise, which was easy for her to say: as if Jack could make seal noises.

Jack could barely speak a form of English that folks around here understood. He wasn’t makin’ any damn seal noises. He’d just figure out how to find his kids, thanks.

He was good at it, anyways.

His boys were eight.

They were on the way to being geniuses and criminal masterminds, but they were not there yet, so Jack had a good 76% chance of finding them in the first place he looked.

The bathtub.

He always looked in the bathtub. And, like he said, 76% of the time, there they were. Both of them. Looking guilty as hell—big liquid seal eyes or not.

Matty usually got quiet and scared of punishment around then and would make sad tiny seal noises at Jack and let himself be hauled out of the water and rubbed down with a towel.

Matty was the good twin.

The extremely traumatized twin. Jack didn’t like to think too much about how compliant he became in the face of a stern tone. It was enough that he was home again and that he was healing. Slowly. Very shyly.

It was enough. Matty was allowed to be a little fragile.

Now Michael had no shame and, true to character over the last eight years, refused to feel anything about his disobedience but ‘caught.’

Jack loved Mikey, the little shit, with his whole heart, but that big smile and those baby blues did not work on him anymore.

Up you go, monster-child. And into towel-hell—yeah, yeah, whine all you want. Look how nicely your brother did it.

As soon as towel-hell was over, Mike went tearing out of the bathroom, turning back only to hiss at Jack and then run into the door. Jack watched him vanish out of sight and then sighed. Matty pawed at his side, making those little throat-sounds.

“You’re okay, baby,” Jack said. “No one’s in trouble.”

Matt clung to him and hid his face in Jack’s belly.

Really, he was the one who should have been trouble. He was the one who Jack should have been chasing after to grab the hand of—to be keeping a constant vigilance over to prevent him from falling off cliffs and getting too far out into the surf.

But no.

That would be Mike.

That would always be Mike.

A pot banged and clattered in the kitchen.

Matt covered his ears and made even more urgent sad chirps.

Jack sighed harder.

“Come on, let’s go make lunch before your brother destroys the whole lighthouse,” he said.

 ----

 Matty had Foggy and thank fuck he had Foggy because that gave Jack time to go pry Michael out of whatever deathtrap he threw himself into after school.

Jack didn’t understand what this kid wanted from all the dark places he crawled into.

Was it adventure?

Was it the bugs?

Was he trying to fish?

Mike was more seal-like than Matt. Grace noted this with approval. He jumped into the water and swam deep and ate fish whole and let Mags groom him with minimal fuss while Matt wailed and whined like all those things were a death sentence.

He was simply more human, Grace said. The seal behavior didn’t come as naturally to him, so he was resistant.

Jack thought it was more like Matty had enough sense in him to not want to be suffocated by pelts and people prodding and prodding and dragging his fuzzy little coat this way and that.

Matty was a sensible child.

Foggy was slightly less sensible, but he had the right spirit. He was a good friend for Matty.

Mikey refused to make friends.

“They’re boring and human,” he told Jack. “I want a friend with more style.”

Mikey was a New Yorker through and fuckin’ through and he talked like a fuckin’ Newsie no matter how hard Jack tried to get him to imitate his mama’s cadence.

That accent would serve him no decent purpose when he was older, whereas something more Irish would at least make him come off as friendly. Jack knew—boy, Jack knew.

“Why don’t you try making friends with Foggy, too?” Jack offered, once the Trouble Twin had been dumped in the boat. Mike popped up and immediately tried to jump ship. Jack pushed the boat further away from the dock with his foot and got a face of pure betrayal.

“I don’t want a friend like him,” Mike snapped. “He’s gooey. I ain’t got time for some fruit snack.”

For fuck’s sake, child.

“Just because Foggy doesn’t wanna steal footballs with you, doesn’t mean he’s not a good friend,” Jack said. “He don’t like the church, Mikey. It’s not you, it’s the church, son. I told you this a thousand times.”

“If he’s scared of the church, he’s gonna be scared of shenanigans, Dad,” Mike said. “I live for shenanigans. No, we just ain’t compatible, Father.”

For.

Fuck’s.

Sake.

Jack wasn’t letting this one watch any more tv. No more Guys & Dolls. It was bad for everyone.

“Michael,” Jack said.

“Jonathan,” Mike shot back, haughty as hell with his arms crossed and back straight as a board.

“Son, you need to make friends,” Jack said.

“I got loads of friends at home,” Mike said. “And we’ll be home in no time. I don’t need any more ‘til then.”

Mike hated Ireland.

Jack could not understand this.

There were rocks to climb and there was sand to dig in, there were clams to bang against each other, bricks to throw, a local witch to antagonize—this was Mikey paradise. Or it should have been.

But no.

Mike had learned the word ‘cosmopolitan’ and, even though he thought it meant ‘good enough to be in a magazine,’ he’d declared Ireland not that and had set out on a crusade against being happy with it.

Grace said he was too much of a city boy was all. She said that he’d realize after some time that he was lonely and he’d do what he’d always do, which was charm half the girls at his school and become a popular kid within days.

It had been months now, though, and Mikey was still refusing to budge.

It was exhausting.

“Boy, you’re givin’ me heartburn,” Jack told him.

“Well, you’re givin’ me Lupus,” Mike said.

God.

No more House either.

 ---

 Matty came home around four thirty, which Jack could tell made Mike green with jealousy. Mike wanted to stay out like him, but he didn’t want to be associated with Foggy or his sister.

They weren’t cool enough, apparently. Or tough enough.

Jack didn’t know what that meant. Foggy had helped them relocate Mike’s brother. That was plenty bad-ass to Jack, but what the fuck did he know about kids?

Clearly nothing, since Mike had outsmarted him again and somehow managed to watch a whole three Emergency Vets reruns while he wasn’t looking.

This child wanted to give himself nightmares.

“What did you and Foggy do, hm?” Mike nagged as Matt struggled with his shoelaces. Matt sat down to go at them better and Mike flopped down next to him.

“Hm?” he pressed.

“Made homes for ants,” Matt said. “They live in hills. So we made some for them. Put leaves on top to make sure they stay dry ‘nd stuff, you know?”

No. Mike did not know.

“Ants bite you,” Mike said.

“Only if you’re mean,” Matt said.

“No, they got grains of sand for brains,” Mike said. “They’ll bite you.”

“Well, they got a home now, bitey or no,” Matt said.

“Hey, let’s make a cave—”

“I want a snack.”

“Cave then snack.”

Matt tried to work through that order of events and Jack sighed before he agreed.

“Boys,” he said. “Close the front door. It’s gonna storm. No caves for now.”

Mike turned back to him mutinously.

 ---

 After an hour of shooing the babes away from windows and then telling them that it was time to settle down and do indoor activities or listen to a book on tape, the house had gotten quiet.

That was trouble.

Jack put a lid on the pot on the stove and began the Hunt.

The kids were not in the tub. They were in their room.

They’d made a blanket fort.

It wasn’t a good one—they didn’t have that many blankets, but they had some pillows and Mike had a flashlight. They’d cuddled up in the middle of the room with a pile of pillows from the couch and the spare duvet and were nestled up against each other in their coats.

Mike hissed when Jack parted the sheet curtain they’d gerry-rigged around the perimeter of the nest. Matty turned his way and made a happy throat-sound.

“You two getting into trouble?” Jack asked, folding himself into a pretzel to join them on the duvet. Matt immediately wriggled up to climb into his lap, which Mike scowled at.

Mike was of the opinion that this was ‘baby’ behavior. He was highly concerned that his sibling was still exhibiting it, as if Mike didn’t immediately bury himself into Grace’s side when she came up to take the two of them out for a swim.

Jack pulled Matt into his arms more comfortably and reached over to snag his coat to drop over him.

“Are we telling ghost stories?” he asked the boys.

Matt said yes. Mike told him they weren’t ‘doin’ nothin’’ which meant ‘yes, I am trying to give my brother dreams about banshees again and your presence is destroying all of my hopes and life goals.’

“I have a ghost story,” Jack told them.

“Lana’s not dead, Dad,” Mike said. “You can’t tell ghost stories about ladies who aren’t dead.”

“You ain’t gotta be dead to haunt stuff, son,” Jack told him. “Lana will haunt the blue apartment long after we’re all gone.”

“Nuh-uh,” Mike said. “Me and Matty are gonna live forever. Selkies live for hundreds of years.”

Oh really, now?

“Come here, oh ancient one, then,” Jack said, holding out a hand. “Come indulge a poor, aging human.”

Mike huffed but allowed himself and his coat to be dragged over to join Matty in Jack’s lap.

“A long, long time ago,” Jack told them, “There was a guy trying to raise two squirmy little kids.”

Mike rolled his eyes by rolling his whole head into Matt’s so that he’d giggle.

“Was he a boxer, Dad?” Mike asked.

No, oldest child.

He was a lighthouseman.

Mike sighed harder than ever.

Damn, everyone’s a critic, huh?

“One day, the lighthouseman’s two squirmy kids went out to play on the beach in a storm,” Jack said. “They transformed into seals. But the sea was strong and the tide rose high and it swept them away from shore. They went all the way out to sea, far from their home. And they were lost and scared. But soon they decided that being scared wasn’t any help anymore, and they picked a direction to swim for shore. They went from island to island, asking the people there if they’d seen the lighthouseman because the kids were worried you know? Because their old man was just human, unlike them, and the sea back home had been so strong and the tide so high that it might have crashed against the lighthouse and taken the lighthouseman away. But no one had even heard of a such a guy.”

Matt dug fingers into his sleeve and made a soft distressed sound.

“One day,” Jack said, kissing the top of his head. “The kids came across a load of swans in the middle of the ocean. So they asked the swans, ‘have you seen our dad? He’s kinda tall with a busted up nose.’ And they said, ‘no, we lost our dad, too. Maybe we can help each other find them?’”

“Did they?” Mike asked reluctantly.

“Of course they did,” Jack said. “The swans were secretly the children of Lir. They knew what it was like to be separated from their father, but, unlike those kids, they knew their father wouldn’t recognize them. So they flew up and the kids swam after them all the way back to Ireland, so that they wouldn’t end up like the Children of Lir, waiting hundreds of years for their dad to bring them home.”

Matt did not like this story.

Matt had had plenty of bird people in his life. He wanted no more. He wrapped himself around Jack’s neck and made grumpy sounds to indicate that he was done with this whole story business.

Mike’s little brow stayed furrowed.

“You’d recognize us right away,” he said. “We wouldn’t be like the Children of Lir, Dad, first off, ‘cause we wouldn’t ever leave you by yourself. Second off, because Mum’s carryin’ your soul for forever, so even when you’re old and dead, we’ll still have ya. And third off, ‘cause you’re a hero. We could find you just by sniffin’.”

Matt made louder grumpy noises to remind everyone that he didn’t like this conversation.

Jack hummed and rubbed Matt’s back and used the other hand to smooth down Mike’s hair.

“Maybe you’re right,” he said. “But that don’t mean that I don’t miss you guys while you’re paddlin’ around in the sea without me.”

“TUNA,” Matt snapped.

Jack was startled.

“Tuna?” he asked.

“I’m hungry,” Matt said. “Let’s eat tuna.”

“You hate tuna,” Mike reminded him. “I’m the one who likes tuna.”

“Well I hate tuna less than I hate stories,” Matt snapped. “So I wanna eat tuna.”

Ah.

Bless him.

Okay, tuna it was.

 ---

 Grace told Jack to stop telling the kids that he was going to die. She said it was making them cry out in the sea. She reminded him that she didn’t take the damn kids to the sea to cry. She took them to fish. And they were still both shit at fishing.

Jack apologized.

But he didn’t feel too bad.

The fae in the woods told him he didn’t have too much longer in human form. He didn’t want the boys to be surprised.

Lord knew that they’d already been surprised enough over the last few years.

 ---

 Mike decided that he wanted to learn how to sail and, in lieu of him finding children his age to play with, Jack set to teaching him how to row. It was a good start. Grace approved. She even went out and found a little tub with a set of oars for Mike to play around in.

He immediately nearly drowned by taking it out into the bay.

Jack set him on the other side of the sandbar by the lighthouse and he did better. He was closer to where Matt and Foggy liked to play too, so if something went wrong again, the other kids would start shouting.

After a whole afternoon of no shouting, Jack went out to collect the munchkins and found Foggy out in the bay chatting with Mike with hands on the edge of the tub.

That was surprising.

What was not was the fact that Matt and Candace were digging a fuckin’ hole in the sand. Again.

Foggy must have gotten bored of them.

Jack watched as Mike took ahold of his wrist and heaved hard and brought Fogs over the end of the little tub. They both tumbled down into it.

Then Foggy popped up and leapt right back out into the water. Mike nearly followed him, shaking his oar after him.

Jack couldn’t help but snicker. He left them to it for another ten minutes before calling the boys in.

 ---

 It was hilarious.

It was adorable.

It was the cutest fucking thing Jack had ever heard, indignant as Matty was, standing on his toes, all puffed up and agitated.

“Mikey’s got a crush on Foggy and he won’t clear off,” he’d told Jack.

He didn’t appreciate Jack’s giggling.

“Foggy’s my friend,” Matt told him. “Mike can play with Candace.”

Uh-huh.

Sure, son. That was gonna go down real well.

“Daddy.”

Jack forced himself to stop laughing. He cleared his throat.

“That’s not how these things work, bud,” he said. “Why don’t you talk it over with Mikey?”

“I did,” Matt said. “An’ he told me to bug off.”

Ah, you poor child.

That was older brothers for you. Jack knew the feeling intimately.

“He’s rude,” Matt complained. “An’ he’s stealin’ my friends. He’s already stolen my identity, Dad. Tell him to stop.”

It would never not be funny that these kids thought that people confused them out of spite.

“You can both be friends with Foggy,” Jack told him. “Unless Foggy only wants to be friends with one of you.”

Matt puffed up and then deflated.

“Mikey’s got loads of friends at home,” he mumbled. “Why do I gotta share my one friend when he doesn’t share any of his?”

Oh, baby. No, it wasn’t like that.

It was just that Mike was outgoing, that was all. He just had that special knack for being around people. Jack didn’t know where he’d gotten it from, both he and Grace were not people-people. Matty was the natural extension of their mutual social awkwardness. Mike was more like Jack’s own brothers, actually. Smooth, suave, and oh-so likable.

Dangerous shit, that was.

He would be unstoppable after 14 years old.

“Here, come here, you,” Jack said. “Having friends isn’t about the number of ‘em. It’s about having fun. You have fun with your brother all the time, don’t you? And Foggy brings Candace along with you two all the time. Why don’t you guys try to be friends as a group of four, huh?”

Matt didn’t love this idea, but he relented.

“Only if Mike stops tryin’ to be a pirate,” he said. “He keeps hittin’ me with that stick.”

Ah. Okay. Well, that Jack could do something about.

 ---

 “But I am a pirate, Dad. I’m stealin’ Matty’s friends.”

For.

Fuck’s.

Sake.

Jack could not with this boy. He simply could not.

“Son,” he said. Then paused.

No. Mike wouldn’t hear anything he said.

This was a job for Grace.

 ---

 “Is that what Jesus would do?” Grace snapped.

Mike sulked.

“No, Mum,” he groaned.

“Then why’re you doing it to your brother?” Grace demanded.

“Cain didn’t like his brother,” Mike mumbled.

“Michael. You are named for a saint.”

Mike groaned with his whole body somehow.

“I’m sorry God,” he said.

Grace vibrated.

Jack didn’t know who to protect here.

“I just wanna be a pirate,” Mike explained. “And pirates steal things. They gotta, Mum. It’s how they make a livin’.”

Grace’s eyes narrowed.

 ---

 Grace did this occasionally.

She kidnapped one of the twins for some personal time with them. Jack was grateful for it because that twin was usually Mike and he usually came back looking guilty as hell.

It wasn’t that Jack didn’t love his kid. It was just that Mike didn’t really show much regard for his authority.

Affection? Oh, sure. Both boys wanted nothing more than to show Jack everything they’d ever done or made. They wanted to be cuddled and tossed around and tickled. It had been ages before they understood why Dad didn’t come out swimming with them anymore—they couldn’t show him their cool seal tricks that way.

But authority? For Mike?

Nope. This kid was on the path towards trouble, and he’d probably already be there if his mama didn’t routinely take him under her flipper and remind him that he needed to think about other peoples’ feelings.

Matty, of course, had decided early on that personal time with Mum was a punishment, however.

When Jack came home without Mike, in full awareness that Mags was probably just gonna throw him in the water and tire him out until he was pliable and open to suggestion, Matt sniffed all around him and came up in tears.

It took a good ten minutes to convince him that Mike would be coming home.

What helped were some cheerios and letting Matt smell the tuna that was to go into the tuna salad sandwich that his brother was currently obsessed with. Jack reminded him that he wouldn’t be making two different kinds of sandwiches for dinner if there wasn’t gonna be someone there to eat them.

Matt played with the dry cheerios in the bowl Jack had given him and quietly asked him if Mike would be mad if he learned that Matty wanted to be a human hero like Jack.

Jack’s heart melted.

Grace had told him that Matt had told her this. But Matty hadn’t said it to him directly and he sure as hell hadn’t told Mike.

That was fair—the second bit. Mike, like most other selkies, tended to see humans as replaceable things. Kinda boring. Kinda selfish. Not overly worth his investment unless they were investing in him.

Jack thought that Mike might change his tune if he realized that his twin thought humans were kind of grand.

Or maybe not. Who knew what Mike would think.

“I think that if you tell him, he might be really confused for a while,” Jack said.

Matt dropped his handful of cereal back into the bowl and squirmed all the way back in the chair.

“’M not hungry,” he said.

Aw.

It’s okay, little one. Things will get easier with time.

 ---

 Objectively speaking, it wasn’t long after that that Jack died.

It was what it was.

His kids were ten. They were safe. Mags tried to wrangle them.

Jack went to sleep.

Five years, he slept.

He woke up to Matty having a breakdown and Mike nowhere to be found and it was another three years before Jack managed to have enough awareness and mobility in the afterlife to get both of them to not fuckin’ do that shit.

Then it was another four years before Mike reappeared out of thin air and announced he was stayin’ in the city and where the fuck was his evil twin, which coincided with Matt showing back up from orientation at law school to shriek at Jack that Foggy was there! Foggy was back! Foggy was studying law with him and staying in his dorm and OH MY GOD, DAD, IT’S FOGGY.

Kid was love-fucking-sick.

Grace told him to watch his mouth. Matty didn’t know yet. They needed to let him figure it out on his own.

Jack thought that it had already taken Matty a good 16 years to realize that the reason he hated his brother crushing on Fogs was because he was crushing on Fogs. He was not the most self-aware of people. He deserved a little help.

Grace told him that he would speak to their younger son only upon pain of being stuffed into her flute.

Jack did not like the flute.

So he kept mum. But only in Matt’s presence.

This did not include Mike’s presence. Because Mike had other problems which looked like him trying to join a local mob, deciding that they weren’t cool enough for him, and then bouncing off to go join a pod of selkies, making enemies of all of the guys in it and then coming back to New York from a trip to Florida in the arms of a pixie who was actively trying to kill him in his sleep.

Mike was, predictably, a hot mess.

And he loved it.

God help this boy. He required all of Jack’s energy.

“Michael,” Jack reminded him exhaustedly when he stopped in the street as a gal with butterfly wings glanced over her shoulder at him. “You’ve got one at home and she’s mad enough to spit.”

“Uh-huh,” Mike said without listening.

This fucking kid.

“Hey, pops, why don’t you go be someone else’s angel for like, twenty seconds over there, huh?”

Hm. No, you’re right, what a great idea—AHAHA. No. Nice try. Jack wasn’t born yesterday.

It was his new purpose in death trying to keep this one on the straight and narrow. He’d been assigned the mission by a nun. It was now a holy quest.

“You can’t say that about everything Mom tells you to do,” Mike scowled.

He did not, however, pursue Ms. Butterfly wings.

“Where’s Matty, anyways? None of you will tell me where Matty is,” Mike pouted.

Matty was, according to Grace, being heartsick because Foggy had gone home for the holidays.

“Mass,” Jack said.

Mike rolled his eyes.

“I’m not goin’,” he said. “I’ve got a job, Dad. Tell Matt to get one, too.”

A job, huh?

What a job. Sluggin’ people on behalf of other humans.

“I can feel your disappointment and—oh, wait? It’s my life? I can do what I want? I am allowed to sustain myself with offerings however they come? Oh my god, Father. What sense you speak. You’ve turned over a new leaf, truly.”

This?

This was a Grace problem.

 ---

 Jack didn’t expect Matt to be the one who came home with a secret violent identity.

Then he didn’t expect Mike to be the one to break down Matt’s door and stand over him and ask him what the fuck he was thinking.

Then he didn’t expect Mike to be the one to bodily drag Matt out to sea in an attempt to bring him back to his roots.

Mike nearly drowned his brother.

It was certainly one way to get everyone back on the same page. Jack wasn’t about to lie and say it was the best way, but it was definitely a way.

Mike came to church and accused him and Grace of keeping Matt’s secrets from him. Not just the devil, but the coat situation and Foggy.

Mike was justifiably upset, but Grace pointed out that Mike’s current approach to humanity did not exactly jive with his brother’s existence, and not even Mike could argue with that. Although he did try. Let it be known that he tried.

He kept cutting himself off though, saying that Matt was different from other humans. Matt wasn’t like them. He was better than them. Which was exactly what Matt took issue with. And unfortunately for Mike, his brother had supersenses, and that included super hearing.

Grace asked Jack out to go calm Matty down.

He was pretty upset.

He tucked himself into Jack when Jack got to his hiding place on the roof of his loft and asked him why Jack had told Mike about the coat to begin with.

But Jack hadn’t told Mike about the coat. No one had. Mike found out these things on his own. He was clever like that.

“He’s always treated me different,” Matt said. “I thought it was ‘cause I’m blind, but it’s always been ‘cause I’m more human, hasn’t it?”

Horrible things to hear your kids say to each other.

Also untrue.

“Mike doesn’t treat you different because you’re blind or you’re human, bud,” Jack told him. “He treats you different because you’re his brother and he’s protective of you. That’s where this is coming from. It’s nothing you did.”

“Doesn’t feel like it,” Matt said.

Well, no.

It probably didn’t.

 ---

 Mike came around. And he came around by encountering the Hell’s Beast that little baby Franklin Nelson had become.

Foggy, to put it kindly, was one hell of a selkie.

He was huge, to start with. He’d grown from a chubby, pale little glow worm to a good three hundred pounds of enormous, white seal. He was staunchly traditional, if flexible, in his dealings with other fae, and he had zero patience for humanity while somehow acting entirely in their favor.

Foggy was a selkie in a textbook somewhere. He had to be. He was paranoid and untrusting of humans, but he would throw himself in the line of fire to protect anyone who he dealt with. And Mike, who’s relationship with humans tended to be more on the Trickster spectrum than the whole Noble Being one was a smidge intimidated.

At first.

Then he was violently jealous.

And let’s just play this record once more, shall we? Take it from the top.

He nagged Matt to bits, asking him to give up his bond with Fogs and to entrust his human soul to Mike.

We’re twins, Mike argued, it’s only right that I guard your soul.

Matt told him he’d lived his mortal life in plenty of dumpsters, thanks. He was looking for a change in the afterlife.

Mike told him he’d get him the nicest dumpster blood money could buy.

Matt told him to try to take the question to Fogs and see what would happen.

Mike took that to heart.

Grace asked Jack what they’d done wrong to end up with a stubborn devil-child and a vulture selkie.

Jack thought it was probably the tugboat.

Foggy, however, thought that it was the fact that Mike had zero impulse control, manners that only came out when he didn’t have the upper hand in a situation, no respect for boundaries, and shit fashion sense—not to mention a lack of interest in fae hierarchies, a fondness for antagonizing people, and, in Foggy’s opinion, a brain that didn’t properly register pain chemicals or empathy.

He told Mike that Matt’s soul was his and that if he wanted, he could fight him for it and Mike decided that that was a vow good enough for his little brother.

He switched tact and began trying to court Foggy instead and, to his credit, it sure as hell de-escalated the situation.

 ---

 Grace told Mike that Matt was going to get his coat back, but they didn’t hear from him. Jack wasn’t sure what to do, but Grace said that they didn’t have time to wait.

When they got home and Matty was trying to relearn how to swim and struggling like a zebra on a tightrope despite having both Grace and Fogs there to keep him from sinking, Mike reappeared in a pew at the church.

Jack found him and settled in next to him.

Mike asked him if Matty was okay.

He’d gotten the message only a few days ago. His hands were a little shaky when Jack smoothed his hair back and told him that he was just fine.

And not only was he fine. But he was very recognizable now. Or he should be, to Mike more than anyone else in the world.

Mike asked if Matt was still angry with him. If Foggy was still hellbent on chasing him off.

Jack thought that maybe, what Matty really needed right then wasn’t his mama or his bondmate, but his brother. His twin.

It had been a long time since Mike wanted a hug.

He told Jack that he was sorry for being a dick all these years.

Jack told him that he wasn’t a dick. He was fiercely independent and even if Jack didn’t always agree with him, he was still proud of him and proud of that drive and that passion.

He asked him if he was ready to go make up with his brother and Mike nodded instead of saying yes out loud.

 ---

 Matty’s new coat was white for the time being and Mike would not and could not drop that. He cooed at Matt and told him he was too fluffy to swim. Grace had to break them up before they got to neck-slamming.

But at the end of the day, Mikey was right.

Matt’s new coat was a baby’s coat. And Matt was a good 14 years out of swimming practice. His muscles had forgotten how to work as a seal. He was angry about it, which was endearing, but not especially helpful.

He explained to Mike that he’d made a deal with Fisk and Mike went dead quiet before exploding at him and once they’d mutually worked through that argument, the intensity of the swimming lessons rocketed up. Grace stood back and pulled Foggy back with her and they watched on as Mike harassed Matty back into fighting shape.

After the third night of Matt’s refresher course, Jack went to go check on them and found them piled together in their coats on Matt’s couch.

You couldn’t tell where one began and the other ended and to Jack, it felt like home.

He found threw a blanket over them both and took the time to kiss both foreheads before turning off the light and letting the purples and pinks of the billboard outside wash over them.

It was its own kind of rippling sea.

---

#ficlet #matt murdock #mike murdock #jack murdock #fic #selkie verse

[sometimesiwritebadly]

The One Where You Meet The Doctor (11th Doctor x Reader)

Summary: A man with a bowtie shows up in your house. You definitely don’t know him, but he clearly knows you. Oh, and there’s an assassin from the future trying to kill you. Y’know, a normal thursday afternoon.

Warnings: Language

Notes: hahaha this took so long to write. it’s nearly 5am as I’m finishing this. also it’s very difficult coming up with a unique plot that feels like it could actually happen in the tv show. anyways this is part 1 of a series! right now i’m for sure doing at least one other part, but i may add one or two more that’ll happen in between this part and the one i have planned. future parts will all have different doctors! 

Word Count: 3.1k

Masterlist

A weird wheezing noise awoke you from your mid-day nap. Well, you weren’t necessarily asleep. Your long-term boyfriend, Maxwell, had dumped you last night. You had been trying to sleep, but instead you were just softly crying and reminiscing over everything you and Max had been through. Even though the noise had distracted you from your memories, it didn’t bother you enough to get out of your bed. That is, until you heard a loud crash coming from outside your bedroom. You immediately jumped out of your bed, wiping the tears from your eyes. If there was an intruder, you needed to look intimidating, not depressing. You unplugged your desktop lamp and held it over your shoulder like a baseball bat, ready to attack whoever was in your home. Quietly, you opened your bedroom door, then tiptoed out into the hallway. 

“Doctor, I can’t believe you broke her vase!” You heard a woman with an accent say. Scottish? Irish? You couldn’t tell, but clearly not from around here.

“Well in my defence, It’s not usually there when I visit!” A man responded, clearly annoyed at his friend. 

“Great. Two people breaking into my house.” You thought. He had said the vase wasn’t usually there when he visits...had these people been in your house before? Were they stalkers or something? Why would they have not seen the vase? You’ve had it since you moved in…

You stopped before you rounded the corner to your living room, trying to build up courage. Now that you’re here, you realize you probably should’ve called the police before approaching these people, but, well, you’ve always been an “act now, think later” kind of person. So, instead of going back for your phone before they noticed you, you jumped around the corner and alerted the pair of your presence.

“Who the fuck are you and why are you in my house?” You inspected the pair of intruders; first the woman, a young redhead, then the man, who wore a dorky suit and bowtie. Behind them was a phone box, but instead of the normal red, it was blue and made of wood. You had no idea how they had even gotten it into your small living room. There’s no way just the two of them could’ve carried it in.

“Y/N! Finally! Sorry about the vase. It’s Amy’s fault. Anyways, we just met Vincent Van Gogh - he’s a great man, maybe a little too into Amy - and Amy suggested checking if you wanted to visit Esto with us - they have telepathic plants - Wait, no, what did you say? Do you not know me?” The man spoke so quickly, you momentarily forgot that he was breaking into your house.

“...Am I supposed to know you?” You lowered your impromptu-weapon, holding it to your side instead. You weren’t sure why, but for some reason you knew that these people wouldn’t hurt you. The woman, who you assumed was Amy, widened her eyes, and turned to watch the man’s reaction. He was playing with his hands nervously, studying you. He seemed so sad..but only for a moment. He was obviously trying to hide his emotions.

“Doctor?” Amy said, clearly concerned. The man - Doctor? That’s a weird name - glanced at her, then replaced his stunned face with a smile. 

“Well, always knew this would happen one day! Y/N, you are in for the adventure of your life!” He reached over and grabbed your hand, and he attempted to pull you towards the phone box.

“You still haven’t told me who you are, or why you’ve broken into my house! How do you know me?” You ripped your hand from this “Doctor,” glaring at him.

“I know your name because we’ve met before; We’re time travelers. Always meeting people in the wrong order, trust me, it gets quite confusing. And I didn’t break into your house, I always park here! You told me to! Or rather, you will tell me too…” He muttered the last part, rubbing the back of his neck. “Probably shouldn’t have told you that...spoilers and all.”

Your mind was racing now. Time travelers? You didn’t want to believe it, every logical part of you knew you shouldn’t; but still, the same part of you that felt like these people wouldn’t hurt you told you to trust him. Your gut was telling you that this guy is for real. 

“Prove it.” You said, causing the man to smile. 

“Just step into the box.” Both he and Amy stepped out of your way, so you had a clear path to the small box. You looked at them, obviously confused, but they only sent wide smiles your way.

Slowly, you walk toward the box, placing the lamp on your coffee table as you pass it. You reached the box, and pushed the door open, walking into what should have been a small room, no wider than a few feet. Instead, you found a giant ship. Behind you, you heard the man say to Amy, “I love this part.” But you weren’t focused on that. You ventured a little deeper into the room, making sure it was real, before you ran out. You inspected the walls, made sure there wasn’t a trick, a secret trap door, something to explain it. You pinched yourself - twice - checking that you’re actually awake.

“That’s not possible..it’s..” You trailed off. 

“Bigger on the inside? Pretty cool, isn’t it?” Amy said, causing you to turn your attention back to her and the man.

“Who are you people? Really?”

“I’m The Doctor, that’s Amelia Pond. Like I said, we’re time travelers, and what you’re looking at is my TARDIS; our time machine.” The Doctor said, stepping forward and adjusting his bowtie cockily.

“The Doctor?” 

“Go on, say it, everyone does.” He looked towards Amy with a smirk on his face, clearly missing your confused expression. 

“That’s a stupid name.” The Doctor’s head snapped back to you, insulted. Amy began laughing immediately, causing the Doctor to glare at her as well.

“That’s not what you’re meant to say! You’re supposed to say ‘Doctor? ‘Doctor Who?’ then I say, ‘Just The Doctor’ and you look stupid and confused! That’s my favorite bit!” The Doctor complained, walking past you and into his box - or, the TARDIS.

“I didn’t realize there was a script! You told me to say what I was thinking, so I did! Not my fault I’m not as predictable as the other people you meet!” You sassed him, walking into the machine after him. Behind you, Amy was still laughing. 

“Lovely to know that you’ve been mean to me since day one - I don’t know why I keep you around, honestly, you’re always making me look bad.” He mumbled, flicking switches and pressing buttons on the console after Amy closed the doors behind you guys.

“What’re you doing?” You asked, following him as he moved around, watching his movements.

“You told me to prove it, didn’t you? We’re going to travel in time.” He paused, and looked at your excited expression. “I’m thinking 16th century, that’s a fun one… France? Germany?” The TARDIS began moving violently, causing you to grasp onto the railing. The same wheezing you had heard earlier filled the room, and a few moments later, everything stopped. “Go on, take a look. Your proof is just outside.” Excitedly, you ran towards the doors, taking a deep breath before opening them to see...your street. You were outside your house.

“Uh, Doc, as exciting as my street is, this isn’t exactly 16th century France or Germany.” You turned back towards the Doctor, folding your arms across the chest. Sure, you had teleported from your living room, which is very cool, but he promised you time travel.

“What? No, that’s not right - Why’d you bring us here, old girl?” He said, rubbing the walls of the TARDIS as he looked out the doors. He took a step out, grabbing a rock from the ground, and licked it. Gross. “In my defense, we did time travel. It’s June 19th, 2020.”

“No, it’s June 20th.”

“It was 3 minutes ago. But now, it’s June 19th. Welcome to the past!” He exclaimed, gesturing his arms widely.

“How do you kno-” You cut yourself off noticing...yourself. Or rather, your past self. You were jogging on the sidewalk across the street, too immersed in whatever music was playing through your headphones to see the phone booth that wasn’t supposed to be there. “That’s me!”

The Doctor turned towards your past self, looking concerned. Amy poked her head over his shoulder, staring as you jogged off. “Yes, yes it is. Best not interact with her-” Suddenly, something emerged from the alley that your past-self had just jogged by. Some kind of robot walked out, turning its head to watch you. As if that wasn’t weird enough, its form suddenly changed from a creepy metal robot to looking like a regular human woman. “That’s not good..” The Doctor mumbled.

“What? What’s wrong? What is that thing?” Amy asked, as the Doctor walked back into the TARDIS. He messed with one of the screens for a moment, before a live feed of the robot walking after you showed up on the screen.

“Ok, what I’m going to say next might sound a little scary, Y/N, but I’m going to keep you safe, I swear it.”

“What? Why do I need to be kept safe? What is that thing?” You said, repeating Amy’s original question with more urgency.

“It’s a hit-man. Or, hit-robot. From the future. Someone in the future wants you dead, and that robot used every bit of knowledge about you in its database and has calculated that this day, June 19th, is the day you’re most vulnerable. It’s going to try and kill you in the next 24 hours.” The Doctor immediately began messing with the controls of the TARDIS again, causing the wheezing and shaking to return for a moment.

“What? That doesn’t make any sense! I’m still alive aren’t I? You said you know me in the future, how could I die on June 19th?” You ask, running back over to where the Doctor was, still messing around with the controls of the TARDIS.

“Time doesn’t work like that. It can be changed, rewritten. Sure, you’re alive now, but that robot can change that. Your future can cease to exist.” The Doctor said, not looking you in the eyes.

“Well why’d we leave? The robot thing is trying to kill her past self, shouldn’t we be there, protecting her?” Amy asked, now standing next to you protectively. Clearly, you two would be close in the future.

“We’re going to go back! We just needed some time to prepare. Y/N, I need you to tell me everything that you did yesterday.”

~~~

After explaining everything you had done yesterday, the three of you had an extensive planning session, the Doctor had come up with a plan; First, he was going to drop Amy off at your house, the exact moment they had left earlier. Her job was to follow you around all day, making sure the robot didn’t make a move. He’d even made a small device for her; which he claimed would “Go ‘ding’ when there’s a robot hit-man around” since the robot had shape-shifting capabilities. You and the Doctor would skip to what he thought was the moment the robot would most likely go after you; right after Max dumped you. Both he and Amy had given you sympathetic looks when you told them, but the Doctor assured you that you’d get over him rather quickly. You remembered leaving the coffee shop that he decided to break the news to you in tears around 7:30. He’d given you a ride there, so you were left to walk home. You hadn’t been paying too much attention to your surroundings, and it was a decent 20 minute walk back to your place, which meant plenty of time for the robot to get to you. He had calibrated his sonic screwdriver to reprogram the hit-robot once they found it, and had even let you and Amy each borrow one of his old screwdrivers just in case she ran into the robot. 

“Now listen you two, this is very important. This robot is programmed for one thing right now, and it’s to kill Y/N. It’s also programmed to kill anyone that tries to get in the way of its mission. If you see it, you need to sonic it before it realizes what you’re trying to do. Understand?” Both you and Amy nodded, excitedly each taking a sonic for yourselves. Even though the Doctor had very explicitly stated that he wasn’t letting you keep them forever, and that letting you borrow them was only because it’s a life-or-death situation, it was an exciting tool to have access to. Amy had filled you in on all the things a sonic could do, and you felt like you had a magic wand in your hands. 

After The Doctor dropped Amy off outside your house at the beginning of the day, he went back to the TARDIS console to take you guys to the end of the day. “So, just to be clear-” You started, wanting to go over the plan one more time. After all, it’s your life you guys are trying to save. “Amy is watching to make sure the robot doesn’t make a move before we get there, and when it does make a move, she’ll make sure past-me gets away safely…” The Doctor nodded, so you continued, “I’ll distract the robot, because it won’t be expecting two of us in one place…” 

“Right, seeing both of you should confuse it’s hard drive long enough for me to deprogram it with my sonic.” He finished, flipping the sonic in his hands and putting it into his inside pocket.

“And if something goes wrong?”

“Erm, I’ll figure it out as I go. I’m pretty good at that.”

You and The Doctor waited a moment, making sure there was no call to receive from Amy, before he guided the ship to the time Max was meant to break up with you. Right as you landed, however, the TARDIS phone began ringing. The Doctor ran to it, and quickly picked it up, holding it so you could listen.

“The robot is here at the coffee shop! I think it’s the waiter!” Amy’s voice urgently said through the phone. You and the Doctor ran outside the TARDIS, just as your past-self walked out of the coffee shop, tears running down your face. Behind you, the robot, disguised at the waiter, followed, with Amy a healthy few paces behind.

Amy immediately noticed you and the Doctor running towards her. “Amy, go after past Y/N, get her as far away from here as possible. Y/N, we need to-” The Doctor was cut off by yelling. Just a few yards ahead of you, you watched as the robot-waitress turned into a robot-Max. It began yelling after your past-self, begging for you to take him back, which caused you to turn back around and run towards him. You instinctually ran towards him as well, hoping the Doctor was right in the fact that it's hard drive wouldn’t be able to handle the idea of two of you in one place. The Doctor and Amy ran after you.

Before your past-self reached the robot-Max, your day-younger counterpart glanced over its shoulder, and saw you running towards the robot. “What the fuck?”

The robot-Max looked over its own shoulder as well, and sure enough, it began to malfunction. Instead of just standing confused, however, it’s weapons systems began shooting randomly all over the place. Amy grabbed your past-self, who was still crying from the breakup and now freaking out over everything else going on, and pulled her to hide behind a car. You and the Doctor both pointed the sonics at the robot, attempting to avoid the laser beams flying all over the place. You pressed the button on the sonic, just as the Doctor had shown you, and willed it to deprogram the robot. After a moment, the lasers stopped, and the robot-Max turned back into the robot you had seen earlier.

The Doctor walked up to it, soniced it once more, before the robot disappeared in a flash. “Where’d it go?” You asked, causing him to turn back to you.

“Sent it back to whoever hired it. With a rather harsh message from myself.” He said, before pulling you into a hug. “Told you I’d keep you safe.” He mumbled into your ear. Even though you didn’t really know the Doctor yet, you happily hugged him back.

“Um, What the fuck just happened?” You and the Doctor released each other from the hug, and turned your attention to your past-self, who was marching over with Amy trailing behind.

“Y/N, how much of this do you remember?” The Doctor asked you.

“Um, none. I just remember walking home, eating some ice cream, and going to bed.”

The Doctor met your past-self halfway, and ignored her angry questions as he put his fingers to your head. Your past-self almost immediately passed out, landing in the Doctor’s arms. He carried her back to the TARDIS, which took all four of you back to your house. He carefully placed your past-self on your couch - that’s where you had woken up this morning - before taking you back to your own time.

“Here we are! Not even 5 minutes after we left!” The Doctor said. He walked out of the TARDIS with you into your living room, Amy opting to stay in the TARDIS. 

“When will I see you next?” You asked, looking at the Doctor. 

“No idea. Soon, I’m sure. But it might be a younger version of me, so make sure you don’t tell him any specific details about this.” He said. A weird look flashed on his face for a second, as if he realized something, “Oh, and don’t be surprised if I look a little...different.”

“What do you mean?”

“...Spoilers. You’ll figure it out soon enough.” The Doctor opened the doors of the TARDIS with a snap of his fingers, but hesitated before stepping in. He leaned closer to you, and gave you a soft peck on your cheek before moving into the TARDIS. “I’ll see you soon. Promise.” With one last look, the Doctor closed the doors of the TARDIS, and it began to wheeze before once again disappearing. You stared at the now empty spot, before you turned to walk back to your room. Before you made it there, however, the wheezing noise returned. 

“Why is he back already?” You thought, quickly walking back to your living room. Surely enough, the TARDIS had reappeared. The doors opened to reveal...a stranger. This guy was wearing a brown suit, a pair of converse, and had truly great hair.

“Y/N! You up for an adventure today?” He asked, a wide smile on his face.

“...Doctor?”

#the doctor x reader #11th doctor x reader #doctor who fanfic #11th doctor #amy pond #the doctor x you #the doctor x y/n #dw imagine

[biihoebi]

@newsiesgiftexchange

for @what-goesaround-comesaround for the Newsies Winter Gift Exchange 2020

aaaah ok so this unbetad because usually I bully you into betaing my stuff so it's quite stream of consciousness but whateverr. also maybe I took some creative liberties on the historical accuracy but who cares

(its kind of a shit show but shhhh Irish Spot)

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read on ao3 here

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While it was Jack's father who taught him not to starve it was his mother who taught him the value of his heritage. Which is why when the new kid at the lodging house was sitting at the end of his bed, distressed over a throwaway comment Albert had made, Jack was doing his best to comfort them.

"He said I was losing my accent" Rua had all but wailed. "How can I be Irish without me accent. And Granda said he used to have flaming hair like mine before it went dark with age. Then I won't even look Irish." they continued.

"But yer Irish by blood not by hair or by voice. I mean my hair ain't red but you'd be hard pressed tryna tell me I isn't Irish." Jack sighed. "Look, I've never stepped foot in Ireland, youse is ahead of me there, but my Mam kept it alive in the stories she told. Some were legends and some were just memories of her and her siblings getting into all sorts of trouble in the fields. And I can speak Irish just as good as the next guy, no matter what Spot Conlon says" he finished. Rua let out a short sniffle.

"But my Mam works in a factory. I never see her no more" they said wiping their face with their sleeve.

"We ain't the same, I'm Irish sure but I was born here. Youse is better off asking Spot about this, he was born in Dublin, didn't come here til he was about 8. And seeing as Albert started this whole mess he can be the one to go to Brooklyn to deliver the message after he's done selling. Now it's time for newsies to go to bed, you ain't no use selling if your half asleep." Jack declared.

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To a bright eyed and bushy tailed Rua morning couldn't come soon enough and neither could the circulation bell nor could the final sell of the day. By the time Albert left for Brooklyn every newsie in Manhattan knew about it and was sick of hearing about it.

"Just because Albert's gone today, don't mean Spots gonna visit today. Heck he mightn't even visit at all. Do youse really think this is a big enough deal for the King of Brooklyn to take time out of his busy sche-

"Stop shit stirring Boots" Jack interrupted sternly. "Just because Spot doesn't like Brits like you doesn't mean he won't help out a fellow Paddy" he joked. At that Boots straightened his back

"I'll have you know Mr Kelly that Spot Conlon said I's is the best 'Brit' he knows" he said, smugly straightening an imaginary tie.

"Best of a rotten bunch" a new voice chimed in. Every newsie in the room suddenly started scrambling to look half presentable. "I got your message Kelly, now where's the young wayne?" the person continued. In response Jack stepped aside revealing Rua, who had been hiding behind his legs.

"I-I'm Rua" they stuttered out. The man crouched down to their eye level.

"I'm Spot Conlon, but I thought youse was supposed to be Irish. Where's me 'dia duit'? It's like you ain't even tryin'. No wonder youse losing yer accent" Spot said. That did nothing to help the already nervous wreck that Rua was.

Spot shot up suddenly, shooing everyone but Jack, Rua, Crutchie and Race out. He sat down on the middle bed and kicked his feet up, gesturing for everyone to follow. Ever the rebel Race decided to lean against the bunk instead while the rest settled into the surrounding beds. "Look, Jack says youse is struggling with moving on with yer life while staying Irish. I went through the same thing when I first came 'nd look at me now, King of New York"

"King of Brooklyn" Race coughed out which Spot shot daggers at him for.

"I'se is the King of New York, don't let no street rat tell you otherwise" he spat "but I wasn't always, I was once a youngin like you, fresh off the boat with only my poor parents and a sack full of stuff between us…"

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The dock bustled with workers and passengers alike. Some leaving but most stepping off boats and into their new lives. Among those coming off was a young Seán Conlon. With wild hair and big eyes filled with the wonder and excitement of seeing somewhere beyond the slums of Dublin. It was an outbreak of TB amongst the tenements that did it in for his parents.

Seán didn't have long to admire the new world he had just entered before his hand was grabbed and he was dragged off into a long line filled with fellow immigrants. Hours passed before the tired young boy would make it through the front door to his new home. It was a small one room apartment completely unlivable by today's standard but to someone from the worst slums in Europe it might as well have been Buckingham. "Go bhfoire Dia orainn, tá sé linne!! Níl aon theaghlach eile ina gconaionn liomsa?" Seán gawked in awe.

"Tá, ach b�� curamach, níl cead agat bí ag caint as gaeilge nuair a tá tú taobh amuigh" his father responded.

"Cén fáth?"

"Mar ní maith a lán daoiní, duine eile ag caint as gaeilge agus sin é sin a bhfuil."

"Ceart go leor"

That night Seán lay awake in his bed wondering why anyone could dislike speaking Irish. Well besides the British but Uncle Seamus always said that their opinion didn't matter and that he and a few of his friends from the Irish Republican Brotherhood would soon rid Ireland of them. Whatever that meant. His father would always laugh alongside and say 'that would be the day' while his mother would give out to him for encouraging Seamus.

It wouldn't be for a few weeks that Seán would find out what his dad was talking about. He was out selling papers to help make ends meet, as small as the room was all three of them had to work hard in order to pay for it. He stood there waiting at the gate for the circulation bell to ring, when it happened. On his first day one of the older kids taught him a few tricks and gave him a few pieces of advice. One of those pieces was 'stay away from Acton Williams'. An unspoken rule he had managed to avoid up until that point.

Acton had walked right into him, dropping a strange wooden item in the process. Seán liked to think that his mother raised him right so he apologized and bent down to pick up the trinket

"Brón orm" he mumbled as he crouched, item in hand.

"The fuck you say to me?" Acton grunted. Seán froze realising his mistake and everyone went silent at the sound of Acton's voice.

"I was just saying sorry" Seán rushed out, trying desperately not to get baited so soon after joining the newsies. Acton let out a laugh.

"That's not what you said though is it?" he said " see I think youse was speaking some stupid language from the stupid country you came from. So I'mma ask again 'the fuck you say to me?"

"I said 'brón orm', you heard me the first time," Seán said, gaining confidence. It was one thing to be intimidated by an older kid who would definitely knock your block off but his Nan taught him better than to let someone talk shite about Ireland. Acton scoffed.

"I pity the Mum who raised such a rude brat " he spat taking a step towards Seán.

"Yeah well I pity the Mam who gave birth to such an ugly ogre"

And they were off! Acton could easily outrun Seán's tiny legs so his only hope was to lose him with twists and turns through the back alleys and busy streets. After what felt like hours of running, Seán finally ran into a deadend. Turning to face a panting Acton, Seán gulped and started reciting any and all prayers he could think of to any saints that popped into his head. In fact it wasn't until Seán went to clasp his hands in prayer that he noticed what he had picked up earlier.

A slingshot!!

Grabbing the nearest rock Seán loaded the sling. 'Dear St Anthony, pleeaassee help me find the ability to aim well' he prayed as he scrunched his eyes shut and released.

The next thing Seán heard was the large thump an unconscious Actons body made as it hit the ground. Opening his eyes to examine the noise he had heard Seán was shocked to see his feeble attempt at fighting back was actually a success. Seán quickly pocketed the slingshot and left before Acton had time to wake up.

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"...and that's what it means to be Irish" Spot finished proudly

"Beating up British people is what it means to be Irish?" Rua said in awe of Spot's story. Spot grinned.

"See, this kid gets it" he joked, ruffling Ruas hair.

"That was a lovely story yer highness but how is that surppsoed to help 'em keep their accent" Race chipped in.

"Well what about you then Higgins if you have so much to say? D'you have any stories worth listening to?"

"What about being Italian? Well I-"

"Italian? Are ye not Irish?"

"No? What made you think that?"

"Yer surname is Higgins"

"Yeah, Higgins is a classic Italian name"

Jack and Spot made eye contact for a good minute before bursting out laughing. "Yer telling me this entire time youse never knew you was Irish?" Jack choked out between laughs. Even Rua stifled a giggle.

"My own mam was a Higgin, Racetrack" Spot roared. "Yee just can't make this stuff up" he said wiping a tear from his eye. Race's face was a brilliant red as he sputtered out excuses.

"Yer just joking, right guys? Right guys??"

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BONUS :

At the gates the next morning Seán stood there absolutely shitting bricks. What had happened yesterday had been a stroke of luck but if Acton decided to continue the fight he was dead meat.

"Wait, is that Williams? No way what's with the giant bruise on his forehead?" a voice spoke interrupting Seán's train of thought.

"No way that's a bruise, he doesn't get those" another shot back. Soon a whole symphony of voices were arguing over whether it was a bruise or not.

"Wait a minute, weren't you getting chased by him yesterday, newbie? How come there's not a scratch on ya, and why's there only a big bruise on him?" the first voice said piecing the puzzle together. Soon everyone was crowding around Seán, looking for the story of what happened.

"Look nothing really happened" Seán reassured trying to downplay the situation "he chased me for a bit before I eventually shot him with this sling and he passed out on the spot."

Apparently telling them he knocked out the bully of the newsies was not the right thing to say to defuse the situation. Some started cheering for him others just rolled their eyes at his story.

"He clearly made that up on the spot" one voice chiming in.

"Nah, look at Acton, that's a massive bruise, obviously from being shot with a sling" another rebutted. Eventually the crowd settled a bit and someone had the common sense to ask for his name.

"Oh! I'm Seán." he responded. Everyone groaned.

"Not yer real one, yer newsies one" someone said. After Seán told them he didn't have one, everyone put their thinking caps on.

"Let's call him Spot, 'cause we'll never really know if he knocked him down on the spot or made up that story on the spot."

#boots newsies #jack kelly #livesies #newsies live #crutchie morris #jack newsies #race higgins #racetrack higgins #albert newsies #albert dasilva #spot newsies #spot conlon #newsies holiday exchange

[oceanera12]

Fives has the Force (AU edition)

“Ah, Leave him alone. They kept him in his growth jar too long.“ - Cutup (Rookies)

Part 3: The 501st

The 501st is different than expected. Which isn’t necessarily bad, but it isn’t technically good either.

On one hand, their General is a little insane. So a lot of weird stuff happens on and off the battlefield with the 501st. That’s good for Domino because it’s easier to blame anything out of the ordinary on their General, keeping eyes off Fives

On the other hand, their General is a little insane. Therefore, there’s going to be a lot of situations where Fives is probably going to do something with his “gift”, intentionally or unintentionally.

Also, they have to share barracks with a lot of people now. There’s not a secluded room anywhere to duck into, or an empty training room they can invade. So if Fives has a nightmare and random things start floating around-- let’s just say someone is probably going to walk in and/or notice. And it’s not something you can really blame on General Skywalker because he isn’t always on the ship.

It was agreed upon all of the Dominos that Fives was to do nothing Force related for the time being. Meditation in bed to keep some control, but nothing else. (Which Fives was actually annoyed by this because Rishi had been the first time he did something back and it had woken something inside of him)

All in all, it’s a lot of hand-gesturing to one another, silent conversations through facial expressions, note passing, and low key panicking anytime Five’s gets attention from anyone.

Not to say the 501st isn’t bad. Captain Rex is a good man, who checks on the Dominos weekly to make sure they are keeping up with everything. Commander Tano is young, yes, but she is quite fun to be around (and Echo has found it easiest to ask her about Force questions, which is nice) and very loyal to her men. And General Skywalker, despite his crazy moments, is a good General and a good leader in battle. The men are friendly, and although they don’t understand Domino’s aversion to everyone around them, they are patient and don’t push harder than necessary.

At first, everything was fine. Domino fell into the ranks, made a few friends, and managed to keep Fives off the radar (there was a lot of dancing around General Skywalker but they could pretend it was fear of someone of a higher rank, as they were still under experienced)

War kills, that’s just how it goes. Anyone who thinks a squad can survive the war is just kidding themselves. Someone is going to die-- even if you have the Force on your side.

It was on Kamino. The squad had been split up for separate assignments. Fives and Echo were ordered to sniper positions. Droidbait was required in the medical bay (to help keep an eye on the Kaminoans). Hevy and Cutup were directed to help with the assault.

Even across the facility, Fives felt Cutup’s panic, pain, then nothing as his “bond” with his brother snapped, leaving this empty hole in his chest. Fives could barely breathe, let alone shoot. Thankfully Echo was able to pick up the slack to finish the assignment.

99 showed up to help as well and the arrival of lost cadets made Fives push aside the pain. At least for a little while.

Despite Fives and Echo’s best (sans Force), they ended up losing 99 as well. He cradled the man in his arms, for a selfish moment pretending it was Cutup. Didn’t matter to him. Losing a brother felt like a searing hot knife stabbing in his chest.

Fives managed to slip away after the battle for a moment and find General Shaak Ti. She kindly explained what she could about Force bonds (she suspected he had formed something of the sort with his batchmates) and also recited the Jedi Code, encouraging Fives to commit it to memory. Mainly the last line. “There is no death, there is the Force.”

Losing Cutup put everyone on edge. They had lost their brother, and also their main distraction for Fives. Course no one really thought of that until Captain Rex walked into what he thought was an empty training room 

What he found instead was the Dominos, yelling at each other, the situation pressing heavy on all of them. Hevy was trying to get Fives to calm down. “I could have done something!” “Fives, none of this is your fault! I was there! There was nothing you could have done!” “Well you can’t do this!” Fives threw his hands at the training dummies, throwing them across the room without touching them.

And suddenly Rex couldn’t breathe, his datapad dropping to the ground with a clatter.

Cutup would have tried to convince the Captain he had been seeing things. He would have insulted his eyesight, or played the incident as a prank, laughing until he couldn’t breathe. Probably earned some laps around the ship and most likely KP duty for a week. But Cutup wasn’t there and suddenly Domino couldn’t move.

Hevy just stuttered about the weather, Echo started cursing in multiple languages, Droidbait stood in silence and his mouth gaping, and Fives tried to lie (and failed miserably).

Rex ordered all of them to their barracks, asking them to see him in the morning.

No one slept that night. Tossing and turning in bed, the four remaining Dominos desperately searched for a way out of their predicament. Nothing came to mind short of desertion, something none of them wanted to do. They were all loyal to the Republic!

Imagine their surprise when Rex met them, alone, in a briefing room the next morning. He informed them he hasn’t told the General and he doesn’t intend to. In his hands is a briefcase with several shots of something Rex called a “Force-suppressing drug.”

“It’s only for emergencies. Okay? I don’t know exactly how this works but I know it causes disorientation, mental and physical fatigue, and can be damaging to Force users. But if something happens: take one. For the following twenty-four hours, you will register to most tests as non-Force sensitive. Most tests, not all of them.”

Confusion and relief fills the Dominos. Hevy is the one to question Rex’s motives.

Rex explains he had a batchmate who was Force sensitive-- but the clone hadn’t told Rex or anyone else in the squad. One of the Kaminans had found out during their early cadet days and had taken his friend away. Two days later, he had been replaced and Rex never saw his batchmate again.

The revelation is shocking to say the least. Rex promises to help Domino to the best of his abilities, encouraging Fives to keep doing what he can to keep his connection under control. Especially because of what Rex wants to ask of the boys next.

He’d been impressed by their actions on Kamino. As had General Skywalker. Rex carefully explains that he had, with the General’s approval, recommend Fives, Echo and Hevy for ARC trooper training. Droidbait would also be promoted, but as an advanced medic and sent away to train for a time as well, but at a different facility.

With the present revelation, Rex offered to pull the recommendation out, but also cautioned it would rouse suspicion. He left the decision to them, but expressed the need for good men in the ranks.

After talking the matter over, Domino determined it would be best to continue forward with the promotions (and I’m gonna stop there because KRIFF look at how long this got).

((More random notes from trying to figure out who’s who in the episode, “Rookies” (seriously, it’s a problem). Do these boys change their armor number in between training sessions? Because I KNOW Cutup is the one with the hint of irish/scottish accent in his voice. And in their final test, he’s in clone armor #4. But in the test they fail, pretty sure Cutup isn’t the one who wants to stay with Droidbait (who has been shot at this point), and that’s clone armor #4 (pretty sure it’s Echo, but Echo is #3 in their final test... and also in the practice test... wait, what?). Also, Fives is not #5 at the beginning of the episode. Trust me on that because it drives me crazy. But he is #5 in the final test. so in other words: I CONFUSED. WHO’S WHO?))

Part 4: https://oceanera12.tumblr.com/post/615933158444138496/fives-has-the-force-au-edition

#star wars the clone wars #domino squad #hevy #fives #echo #cutup #droidbait #fives has the force #part 3 #sorry about cutup #i had to kill someone #he ended up being the someone #this ain't a fairytale #but hoping for a happish ending #still debating #au #captain rex #anakin skywalker #ahsoka tano