#it's still your birthday Bono
Photo
This gorgeous photo is making the rounds uncredited, but I believe it was taken by Bono’s son, John.
14 notes
·
View notes
Note
💐 hi my wonderful birthday girl !! so i was thinking about a dress coded lewis blurb (because i was born a lewis and ts girl) where they just get drunk together and there’s teases flying and stuff. keep it as brief as u wish <333
—you can take it off
lewis hamilton x merc!reader
summ. thank you stephy i love u bad <3 inspo from... ur never gonna believe it... this. hope it's up to your standards my love. 2.7k (kind of got out of hand)
You were half-asleep and half-drunk the night of the Belgium Grand Prix. The air was cool, recycled like all air seems to be in hotels, smelled of too-strong perfume and was filled with the dull noise of elevator jazz. What had begun as a before-we-go-to-bed night cap in the hotel bar with Bono had turned into a seemingly never ending addition of guests.
Valtteri was first to join—never could pass up the opportunity to give you shit, to offer you job postings at Alfa Romeo that weren’t job postings at all—and with him around, there’s no casual drinking. You don’t try to keep up, not really, because you know you don’t stand a chance, but also because he would never let you. After all these years of being just a few months younger than him, he still calls you kiddo, still promises to call your parents when you’re out after dark, and always sends you a text after a race with some… questionable strategy decisions you’re catching flack for online.
A brief appearance from Toto and Susie, just long enough for them to know they had no business trying to go drink for drink with Valtteri, and then they’re wishing all three of you a wonderful summer break and retreating to whatever room is considered prestige enough for Motorsport’s it-couple.
And then there was Lewis, the last to arrive, who never called you kid, who never viewed you as one. He sits adjacent you in the red, high back leather booth and takes up a seat and a half, the toe of his shoe brushing against the side of yours, flashing you apologetic puppy dog eyes every time he bumps against yours.
It’s somewhere between drink number five and six that Lewis gets his first, insists on a toast to the summer break that officially began… six hours and fifty-three minutes ago. For a long season this and a too-short summer break that, you lot had a mouthful of things to complain about, but a million more to be grateful for. “To not having work for a month,” Lewis proposes, clinking his glass against yours, offering a quick wink and holding it up properly over the table.
“To no racing-talk for a few weeks,” Bono adds, clinking his glass against Lewis’.
“To summer-fucking-break,” Valtteri chimes in, laughing at himself before the rest of you get the chance to match it.
“To summer fucking break,” you repeat because you know there’s no better way to sum it all up.
Unlike the other two, you slowed down when Lewis joined, wanted to give him time to catch up, to give yourself time to meet him somewhere in the middle. A glass of water and a virgin rum and coke and another water and the night is still young.
“First summer break as the big boss, kiddo,” Valtteri remarks, and you have to squint to hear him through the alcohol-induced thickening of his accent.
“That’s right!” Bono laughs. Your cheeks run hot at their mention of your title, of your promotion following James’ departure earlier in the season. Lewis smiles against the rim of his glass, bumps his foot against yours and doesn’t give you apologetic eyes. No, he raises his brows so slightly you think you’re the only one that notices, which is probably exactly the way he intended it to be. “Little miss queen of strategy is making the big money now, got any big travel plans?”
Lewis clears his throat, and your eyes dart over to his almost instinctively. “You’re staying in London, yeah?”
He’s right. Your summer-break plans consist of four weeks of trying to remember what it feels like to do nothing, failing at that task pathetically, and spending the rest of the time meticulously picking apart every call you’ve made all season and imagining the million and one things you could’ve done differently and their billion and two outcomes.
You pick apart the drink napkin, tear it into tiny little pieces. “Yeah, yeah. Just staying home, catching up with friends and family,” you clarify, try not to sound as pathetic as you feel. It’s hard not to when you’re sitting next to the guy who spends his offseason snowboarding in Antarctica with his celebrity friends and his weeks off traveling to Paris fashion week for front row seats next to supermodels. Anything you say would sound pathetic to someone who makes thirty-five million a year.
“I love it,” he nods, stares right through you and into your soul so you know he’s being genuine. “That’s awesome.”
You nod, swallow hard, purposely angle your body away from his, to the rest of the group. “What about you guys?”
Lewis laughs, soft, quiet, completely under his breath. The kind of laugh that deserves to be bottled into a jar and kept on a shelf for safe keeping. You know he’s always laughed like that, even before he knew you, but in the last few months it just feels different. Good different, like he’s laughing just for you now instead of everyone else too.
You know you’re crazy, that he’s just Lewis being Lewis and you’re just single for the first time in a long time and also drunk. Not half drunk anymore, just drunk—even if you do think you’re meeting him in the middle, you’re not. He’s just chasing after.
“Back home, too,” Bono concludes. “Take a breather, might head up to the country with the family.”
“You’ll take pictures, yeah?” Lewis asks, starts to pick up the pieces of your napkin tear pile and move them in front of him like a kid who isn’t patient enough to share or destructive enough to rip up his own. You watch in your peripheral, the way he fiddles with the wet paper, gets it stuck to his fingertips. You can’t laugh, so you don’t, but you want to. You think he knows you want to.
Bono scoffs, nods while swallowing a sip of his drink—something dark, something pungent. Not what you would have pegged him for ordering, even after knowing him as long as you have. “So I can compare with the likes of you lot and,” he turns to Lewis, leers around you to emphasize the eyeline, “your million dollar vacations or,” and then the other way, back to Valtteri, “your olympic cycling events?”
Valtteri smiles, swirls his drink—gin, you think. Expensive. “Yes.”
“No chance.”
“I’ll be sure to send you a picture of me having a meltdown when I think about our side pods from the beginning of the year,” you chime in, because it’s not like they all don’t know you well enough to know exactly what you mean by spending time with friends and family at home.
“What sidepods?” Lewis chuckles.
“Fucking exactly,” you add, mirror his mannerisms without even realizing it, all the way down to readjusting in your seat when you’ve had your laugh.
“Could be worse,” Bono offers. “Could be last year.”
Lewis nods, holds his drink up in the direction of Valtteri across the table. “We never should have let you leave.”
He smiles, weak, lips pursed. “I could have told you that.”
The night continues on, all drinks and laughs and yawns, occasional remarks that it’s about time I head up, followed by another round, another joke, another comment about this, that, or the other thing.
You’ve always liked Lewis when he’s a little tipsy. He lightens up a bit, you can actually watch the stress drip from him like sweat, all the titles and the wins and the losses, they all just fall away when he’s relaxed like this. You’ve always liked him like this. Always. Before he was king of the world and before he was the prodigal son and every moment in between.
After every joke he makes—or, after every comment he makes that he thinks could be considered a joke—you find yourself laughing, because it’s Lewis and you have a crush on him and of course you do. And, without fail, everytime you laugh, he winks, like you’re in on some inside joke even though he’s making it to the whole table, like there’s some double meaning to all of his words that are meant just for you, just for the two of you to understand.
Somewhere in it all, it comes back to Lewis, because, well, it always does. “Is your back still bothering you?” Bono asks, and you think you already know the answer. You think you know, because you can’t remember the last time you;d seen him take careful consideration of his posture when he sits. Not even now is he sitting up straight, with his legs perfectly spread a shoulder’s width apart and his feet flat on the floor. Instead, he’s taking up more room than he needs to, all relaxed and comfortable on the leather booth bench.
He swipes his thumb over the condensation of his glass, looking up from the action at you, and then to Bono. “No, no. All good there.”
“All good?” Bono prods, because he was on the receiving end of a year and a half of complaints from Lewis.
Lewis nods, clicks his tongue on the roof of his mouth. “No Paracetamol in a month.”
Across the table, Valterri chimes in. “None?”
“None for my back,” Lewis says, and the whole table laughs. You just watch him, though, because who laughs better than he does? You could wax poetic about it without a second thought, the way that his lips upturn and his cheeks round and his eyes crinkle and go soft in a way that makes you feel like you’re the funniest person in the world even when you’re not making a joke. The way that his smile is brighter than anyone’s you’ve ever seen, and the way that if you look at it for too long, you think about how it would feel to run your finger along the gap in his teeth.
“That’s what I thought,” Valtteri mutters off the end of his laugh. “You're getting old.”
“Not too old to make half a million.”
The entire table’s heads fly to him. You gasp, an embarrassingly wide smile on your face. “You didn’t!” You almost yell, smacking his upper arm with a weak hand.
He mocks your gasp, makes it somehow more dramatic and over the top and laughs sweetly, shrugging your hand off his arm and letting his hand fall to your leg, bumping your foot with his again. “I didn’t.” The table chuckles, you pout, and then you realize that his hand is on your thigh, that it’s staying there quite comfortably, and that you mind it less than he does.
“Don’t be a tease,” you sigh, take a swig of your drink. Your knees are suddenly weak, like you know you wouldn’t be able to stand up if you wanted to. It’s like he can sense your change but can’t quite read it, because then he’s moving his hand back to his own lap, interlocking it with the other and resting it there.
He nods, suddenly shy, suddenly guilty. “It’s as good as done.”
Valtteri laughs. “Yeah, I’ve heard that one before.” You hear what he says, but you’re not listening, not really. Lewis stares into you like he wants to look anywhere else—apologetic eyes and a fear he’s taken a misstep. He hasn’t, you want to tell him. You haven’t, put your hand back, please. Silently, you try to convey what shouldn’t dare be spoken. “I’ll believe it when pen is on paper.”
He snaps his eyes away from you, back to Valtteri. You don’t follow suit, stay fixed on him, on trying— hard—to get your message across. “I’m telling you, they’re announcing it after the summer break.”
“Whatever you say, Mate.”
Bono nods around a mouthful of alcohol, sets his half-empty glass down with an incidental thud. “Who’s to say we still want your geriatric ass?”
Lewis raised his interlocked hands from his lap, to the tabletop, resting his elbows on the wood grain and rattling the empty glasses when he does it. He leans in towards the center of the table, even though the only person separating him and Bono is you. “Would you tell Schumacher ‘no?’”
“What was that?” You ask, your words a convenient excuse to lean in closer, to settle into a spot that much closer to him without raising any brows. To brace for the shift, you leave your hand on his thigh with less subtly than your original movement, but it’s okay. It’s okay—only Lewis knows where your hands are, and you don’t want it to be subtle, don’t want anything to be lost in translation. “I can’t hear you over your ego,” you smile, and your fingers dance up his leg just a few, careful inches.
He drops back into his seat, drops his hands back into his lap. Under the table, he grabs yours and laughs, but it’s stifled, stunted, not quite relaxed. “Very funny,” he humors, and moves your hand back. His stays too, though, and he crosses one leg over the other under the table. His thumb moves over the fabric of your slacks in shudder-worthy circles.
“Someone’s gotta check you,” you smile, nod in the direction of your tablemates without ever looking away from him. “These two won’t.”
Bono scoffs.“Are you kidding?”
Your smile grows. “How do you want me to answer that, Peter?”
“Damn,” Lewis laughs so hard he coughs. “She Peter-ed you. That’s cold.”
“You’re the one comparing yourself to Michael fucking Schumacher,” Bono scolds.
“I didn’t say that, but,”
“But!” You interject.
“But,” Lewis laughs, threatens to continue even though all at the table know he won’t, knows that no matter how often the media and the girlfriends and the friends and the family tell him he should put himself up there with the greatest, he’ll never quite see himself in the same light. “But it’s about time I head up, I think.”
“Ah, see,” Valtteri chuckles. “Old man Hamilton can’t hang.”
“No, he can not,” Lewis remarks, pulling his phone and his hotel keycard from his pocket, setting the latter on the table and if you were feeling a little crazier than you are, you’d swear he nudges it ever so slightly out of his bubble and into yours. He types away rapidly at his phone, and you try to pay attention to the jokes Bono and Valtteri throw around, the pokes at Lewis they make, but suddenly you’re feeling like it’s a good time to head up, too. You try to shake the crazy, to leave it with your backwash in the final sip of your drink, and you do. You do.
You do, but then he’s slipping his phone back into his pocket. He’s leaving his glass just beyond his keycard and telling you to feel free to finish it. He’s saying his goodbyes while he moves out of the booth and his hotel room key is still sat on the table next to you. It stares at you—the hard, thin plastic. Stares at you in its white paper pocket with the intricate printing of the hotel label and dares you to look at him when he walks away.
You do, begrudgingly, subtly, and his eyes are already on yours. They’re expressionless, and yet, say so fucking much. You hold the remainder of his drink in his direction before downing it in a single gulp and then he winks at you. He looks at his keycard on the table, and then to you, and then he winks, and you’re sure you’re absolutely crazy.
You swallow.
“Oh, fuck,” Bono says, reaches over you to grab the keycard from the table. It’s like you were zoned out and he snapped in front of your face, the way it pulls you from Lewis to the table. “He forgot his key.”
“Oh,” you squeak, and then louder, “I can take it to him.”
“No, no, It’s okay,” Bono says, and he makes you stand up to get out of the booth. “I should be heading up anyway.”
“Really,” you half-insist, trying to convince him you can handle it without letting him in on why you’re convincing him. “It’s no problem.”
Bono pulls out his wallet, flips through the pockets of it and fiddles with his bills. “Our rooms are right by each other,” he insists, tosses his share onto the table. “I got it.”
“Okay,” you nod, accept your defeat. “Yeah, I should be heading up, too, I guess.”
#f1 fic#f1 x reader#f1 imagine#f1 fandom#f1 fanfic#f1#formula one#formula 1#lewis hamilton#lewis hamilton x reader#lewis hamilton imagine#sir lewis hamilton#lewis hamilton x you#lewis hamilton fluff#f1 fluff#lh44#lh#mercedes#mercedes amg f1#cameos from#toto wolff#susie wolff#peter bonnington#valtteri bottas
932 notes
·
View notes
Text
Once in awhile, you can get one over on The Man. Finally, after all these years of toiling under his rule, doing his dirty work, begging for his praise, he has well and truly fucked up. And, it turns out, your entire life has been building up to the moment that you can milk him for all he's worth.
Have you ever seen a Dodge Caliber? They're getting sort of uncommon now, but when they were new, they were pretty hateful cars. Cheap, buzzy, surprisingly uneconomical, steering that felt like telling a funeral home operator how to sign a birthday card over the phone by long distance. And they fell apart all the time. Most cars get repaired, but these things got gleefully shovelled into the junkyard at the first chance the owners got.
Not all of them, though. This is a story about one very special Dodge Caliber. You see, my aunt needed a car. And my aunt is very nervous about owning a car. The skills of shitbox repair never made it into her genes, you see, possibly because she is not related to me by blood. So, in order to get that car, she went to the Dodge dealership, and she asked them: can you do a lifetime warranty, unlimited mileage, no questions asked, cover everything? And they said: for you, ma'am, we absolutely can charge you an obscene, eye-watering amount of money.
Once I found out about this, I was mad. And then I figured it out. You see, what my aunt did have was being insanely cheap. That's why she was a part of my degenerate family. She still is, even though my Uncle Larry exploded that one night at Arecibo. Unlimited mileage. There has never been a sweeter phrase uttered in the English language.
Now, whenever anyone we know needs to go for a long trip, we tell them: take the Caliber. Rack those miles up. Punish those stupid motherfuckers for writing such a terrible, open-ended contract. My aunt runs a taxi service consisting entirely of this vehicle, a fleet of drivers constantly rotating in and out, the thing rolling virtually 24/7. I love driving this car, because every single mile that ticks up on the odometer is more salty tears from the low-wattage pig who thought he was a big-time wheeler and dealer down at Old Time Country Dodge.
To their credit, they figured out the enormous error that they had made fairly quickly. When Aunt Hilda rolled in the thing, smoking and wheezing, for its sixth transmission replacement at eight-hundred-and-fifty-thousand kilometers, they offered to buy it from her and give her a brand new luxury SUV, just for being such a great customer. She laughed, and told them to get started overhauling the Caliber, and don't forget to take a look at the squeaking sound it started making in the back.
When things got real bad during the recession, they tried to go bankrupt, thinking that might get them out from having to maintain this economy car until the sun burns out. Ha! Death won't save you, my friend. My attorney Max picked that one up pro bono, despite hating warranty law, just for the pleasure of watching their attorney read the purchase contract. Her eyes got so big that they stuck that way. The paramedics had to use the jaws of life on her eyelids so she could blink again.
If you see me in the Caliber, make sure to honk. I probably won't stop to say hi, because we gotta keep this odometer rollin'. Rest assured, however, that I will honk back, maybe ten or fifteen times. Really get my money's worth out of that horn.
514 notes
·
View notes
Note
3, 4, 14, and 37 for dean and seamus
my darling boys! 🥹 dean and seamus, off we gooooo. thank you @valfromcall!
3. Obscure headcanon
obscure headcanon 1 - dean thomas was born may 10th 1980, the day west ham won the FA cup. that west ham have never won the cup since remains a source of great regret for east london's golden boy. unfortunately may 10th also happened to be the day in 1997 when gryffindor won the house cup and harry potter scooped his ex from right from under his nose - a bad birthday for the ages. seamus tried to cheer him up by reminding him that may 10th is also the birthday of a proud son of ireland (bono from U2), which dean said was 'not helping'
obscure headcanon 2 - this is dean and seamus' son:
also this isn't obscure but their first kiss was 100% in the finnigan tent at the quidditch world cup after ireland's stonking victory over bulgaria
4. Favorite line
for seamus, it's probably when they're all in the dormitory in GoF and dobby rocks up and seamus nonchalantly goes 'someone attacking you, Harry?' aka mr finnigan giving precisely zero shits about whatever main character moment harry is having and thereby failing his audition for inclusion in the golden trio. bonus special mention to the world's worst pep talk in PS/SS:
“Harry, you need your strength,” said Seamus Finnigan. “Seekers are always the ones who get clobbered by the other team.”
“Thanks, Seamus,” said Harry, watching Seamus pile ketchup on his sausages.
can't a man enjoy a condiment anymore smh
for dean, it's either "send him off, ref! red card!' from PS/SS or this from OotP:
"Well, [Moody] turned out to be a maniac, didn’t he?" said Dean Thomas hotly. "Mind you, we still learned loads."
14. Most heroic moment
seamus 'harry's a liar' finnigan getting beaten to a pulp and unrecognisably disfigured by the carrows. king shit
dean is being the biggest bravest boy in the world all on his own on the run leaving his mum and sisters behind and not being able to have a cuddle when he's lost and alone and scared and hungry all through DH :(
37. What they really think about themselves
i think, as teenagers, seamus was the one with a lot of insecurities and self-loathing: struggling with the knowledge that he was gay and a bit in love with his best mate and not really knowing what to do with it, in conflict with his mum and wrestling with who he was going to be in this big war that seemed to be looming, not the cleverest or the sportiest or the anything-est and generally a bit aggy and restless. dean was the much more relaxed one of the two. he had a strong sense of right and wrong, was sure the goodies would prevail before anything got too out of hand, was content with his kind of chill blokey vibe and got a fit girlfriend that meant he could park any of the slightly confusing feelings he was feeling for shay.
after the war, though, they swap roles. seamus has quite a settled sense of self after his school years - like, he got his fuck up out of the way (not believing voldemort was back, having his big sulk), but then redeemed himself, was on some real hero shit and really became close with the other DA lot, getting a lot out of the prestige of being an auror for a bit, no longer felt like he had much to prove, and felt loved and confident enough to come out. dean, however, really struggled with the impact of the war, feeling an intense sense of isolation and distance from the other's wartime experiences, and both envying seamus' confidence to come out but struggling to accept that he might also not be straight, like it was just another thing that would mark him out as Other. i basically think seamus and dean were hooking up a lot immediately after school and in their early twenties, but always in secret, while dean kept dating muggle girls and playing out this big tension he feels in his own identity, between the muggle and wizarding worlds, as well as over his own sexuality and internalised homophobia. i reckon seamus was the one to (eventually) recognise this was self-destructive and breaking his heart, and ended it. cue the wilderness years!
they obviously get back together eventually, though, hence west ham son (yes i'm obsessed with this child), although seamus threatened to break up with him when dean argued he should be allowed to put the imperius curse on declan rice to stop him moving to arsenal and betraying his beloved hammers in summer 2023
#these boys! break my heart everytime#i knew following UK football by osmosis would come in handy#deamus#dean thomas#seamus finnigan#headcanons#ask game
52 notes
·
View notes
Text
The North Star - Part Twenty Three: Long Term - Terry Bruno x Reader (Final Part)
Welcome to mine and @the-hinky-panda The Bronx universe featuring our favs Terry Bruno & Mike Duarte.
This story takes place several years after ‘Blood Out’. Terry still lives in the Bronx and works in Manhatten SVU.
Following on from @the-hinky-panda story 'The Dog' Mike has retired from the NYPD on medical grounds due to seizures causes by the attack. He has a therapy dog called Bono and lives with @the-hinky-panda character Meredith.
Tagging: @legit9thlunaticwarrior @the-adzukibean @beardedbarba @wooshwastaken @justreblogginfics @im-just-a-mississippi-girl @storiesofsvu @anime-weeb-4-life @witches-unruly-heart @spaghettificationandpretzels @chavez-ashley @kiwiithecrazybird @proceduralpassion @crazy4chickennuggets @callsignartemis @kmc1989
The North Star Series - Part of The Bronx Universe
Part One: Moments (NSFW)
Part Two: Case of the Ex
Part Three: Her Worse Half
Part Four: Always
Part Five: Ask Me Again (NSFW)
Part Six: Degas
Part Seven: The Heist
Part Eight: A Part to Play
Part Nine: Home
Part Ten: Safe Space
Part Eleven: Weak
Part Twelve: Got Your Back
Part Thirteen: Familia
Part Fourteen: Gunplay
Part Fifteen: Friendly Fire
Part Sixteen: Alive (NSFW)
Part Seventeen: Karma
Part Eighteen: Lucky
Part Nineteen: Fucked Up
Part Twenty: Orchard Beach
Part Twenty One: Tuscany
Part Twenty Two: New York
Terry’s unpacking when he finds it, the picture of the two of you in a wooden frame. It’s the one from his desk in the precinct, it’s in the box along with the stress balls you’d gotten him and other bits and pieces that he’d left. He’d asked Fin to send it over after he’d handed in his papers. He sits down as he looks at it, his thumb trailing over your features.
It had been Meredith’s birthday; Duarte had thrown a party in the back yard, and you were wearing that navy blue wrap dress with the daisies on. The one that he had taken off you later that night. He remembers his fingers fumbling with the knot, how you’d tipped your head back and laughed because the two of you had been drinking diet coke all night in case you got a call out. He remembers the way the fabric had fluttered from your body, the way you stood before him wearing nothing but a smile on your face and that compass, your North Star glinting in the lamp light. He’d made love to you that night to the sound of rain pattering against the windows.
It's been over almost two months now, and he still feels the agony acutely. It’s a constant ache in his chest, a wound he carries around with him no matter where he goes. Sometimes he’ll be in the market, and he’ll pick something up, something small that he knows you’ll love, and he has to remind himself that you aren’t in his life anymore, that he can’t show you the trinket in his hand.
He’s thought about calling you, he’s spent nights staring at this phone, his thumb hovering over the button but he never goes through with it. You made your decision, and he made his. He doesn’t want to draw this shit out, he wants you to be happy wherever you are, whatever you’re doing.
He puts the picture down when he hears the knock on his door. He’s expecting more boxes, he’d asked Mike to organise shipping the rest of his stuff. The other man had grumbled but he was proficient, most of it had arrived meticulously wrapped and still in one piece. He had no intention of returning to New York, the thought of it leaves a sour taste in his mouth. He’s given notice on his lease and signed his papers electronically; he has no reason to return to US.
When he opens the door, he’s surprised because never in his wildest dreams does he expect to see you standing there. You look good considering you’ve just come off a nine-hour flight, you’re dressed in leggings and a light grey tunic top, sunglasses on up on the top of your head. He notes your wheelie suitcase propped up alongside of you. It’s not the small one you used last time, it’s bigger and for a second, he allows himself to hope.
“Vacation or long-term stay?” He finds himself asking.
“Long term stay.” You tell him, before gesturing at the villa. “You know if you’ve got the space.”
“Always.” He says with a smile as he opens the door to let you in. “I’ve always got room for you.”
Love Terry Bruno? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.
Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee
28 notes
·
View notes
Text
ok this is a little under 3k words of lewis and valtteri at pre season testing throughout the years. starting with 2017 and ending in 2023. @lewishamil10n naila you asked for happy and soft so i hope you like it. i love you and you deserve the happiest of birthdays
2017
Sebastian grins at him, blond and bold and all decked out in red, and jerks his head, eyebrows raised. He looks five seconds away from making a come hither gesture with his fingers. Valtteri takes the silent invitation for all that he’d have rather stayed away.
Lewis’s cap is backwards and his sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, wrists bare. He moves easily with Sebastian’s elbow jostle, barely raising his eyebrows at the other man in his space. Kimi is on the other side of him, leaning back against the railing, eyes closed. Valtteri isn’t exactly sure if he is awake or not.
“Hi,” he says when he’s reached them, squeezing past Perez. Lewis looks away from Sebastian and smiles, tight and polite and camera perfect. He looks nothing at all like the guy that celebrated that podium with Valtteri when he was back in Williams. Valtteri wonders what it’ll take for Lewis to look at him like that again.
“Hey,” Lewis says and when he reaches out a fist, Valtteri taps it with his. Sebastian watches them, still grinning. For the first time since Valtteri signed that contract naming him the other Mercedes driver, he is starting to feel like he doesn’t fully understand what he is getting into.
“So,” Sebastian says, dragging out the o, obnoxious and vaguely endearing. “Your car looks nice – I thought I should try to see it now.”
Lewis rolls his eyes, visibly thawing. “Why? You’ll be seeing the back of it all season.”
Kimi huffs a laugh beside them and Valtteri watches as Lewis’s smile grows smug, Sebastian laughing, reaching out to push at his shoulder.
“Ah, but see, this is where you are wrong.” Lewis cuts a glance at Valtteri, dramatically incredulous, and Valtteri grins, fingers tingling at the tips. Sebastian ignores them, continuing, “All is too many. We expect to only lap you, maybe, half of the races?”
Lewis laughs then, his whole body shaking, hand pressed into his stomach. Valtteri joins in a split second later and they are set off again when Kimi opens his eyes and rolls them at the three of them.
2018
“So.”
Valtteri looks away from the Ferrari before him and up at the giant yawn of blue sky. He counts to ten. When he looks to his side again, Daniel is still standing there. He raises his eyebrows.
Daniel grins, shuffling closer, curls messy and long. He ruffles them even further, tanned biceps flexing in his short sleeves. “Good break?”
Valtteri shrugs, hands going to his pockets. “Fine.”
Daniel’s smile widens. “So was mine!”
Valtteri nods. Daniel is close enough now that all Valtteri can smell is his expensive cologne that is unfortunately both more familiar and more comforting than Valtteri would like.
Daniel falters then when the silence stretches on and Valtteri tries not to smile. It’s easier when Daniel, strangely at a loss for something to say, goes with, “And, uh, how is Lewis? Treating you well?”
Valtteri narrows his eyes at him. He had thought Lewis and Daniel were friends. “Of course. It’s Lewis.”
It comes out snappish and defensive and too quick and Valtteri knows better. His cheeks heat at Daniel’s stare and slow smile.
“Yeah,” he says, delighted, like he’s discovered something he didn’t even know to look for. “He is Lewis. I know just how you mean.”
2019
“Here.”
Lewis turns, grinning when he sees who it is. Valtteri tries not to read too much into it. He takes the bottle Valtteri is holding out. “Thanks, man.”
Valtteri shrugs, sipping at his. He had noticed it left by Lewis’s things in the garage as he was leaving. Bono had looked up when he saw Valtteri grabbing it, rolling his eyes in a what is he like? It is strange, Valtteri is noticing more and more, how he is becoming included in Lewis’s group of people. “It’s no problem.”
Lewis hums, shifting so his shoulder presses up against Valtteri’s, a long line of heat and muscle. He has bulked up since Valtteri has last seen him. “What do you think?” Lewis asks, nodding at the cars before them, chewing on his straw.
Valtteri blinks at his mouth, wet and pink, and then looks at the cars, head buzzing with static. “The Ferrari looks illegal.” It’s the first thing that comes to mind and he’s just glad there are no microphones nearby.
Lewis chokes on a laugh, head tilting back, god is love stretching long and thin. “It always does. I think it’s the red, you know? To distract you from looking closer.”
Valtteri smiles, shaking his head.
“What do you think then?” Valtteri asks and the space between Lewis’s eyebrows furrows, focused and deliberating. Valtteri is faintly surprised by the flash of fondness noticing it brings.
“I think we will run rings around all of them.” Lewis grins and it doesn’t even sound like a lie, all Lewis Hamilton surety and solid. Valtteri’s life would probably be easier if he hated him but he’s fairly sure it wouldn’t be nearly as fun.
2020
Valtteri can see the moment when Lewis spots him, face lighting up. Valtteri smiles, raising a hand, waving. He’s over at the Williams car by the time Lewis catches up with him, leaving a glowering Pierre Gasly behind him. Valtteri resists sticking his tongue out at him.
“What’s up, VB?”
Valtteri watches Lewis peer into the car, mouth pursing. He squints at Valtteri when he straightens up, waiting for a response.
“VB?” is all Valtteri says.
Lewis falters, blinking. Valtteri can literally see him replaying his previous words over in his head before his face does something complicated. “Uh, sorry,” he winces, closing one eye, and smiles. “You don’t like?”
Valtteri chews at the inside of his cheek. “No,” he replies eventually. “No, I like.”
Lewis grins, nose stud glinting in the sun. “So do I.”
2021
“Would you –”
Lewis fiddles with his sunglasses that are hooked on his collar, shirt pulling down. The hollow of his throat is damp with sweat. One of his hands comes up to touch his face and hits his mask, fluttering back down. Valtteri steps closer, ignoring the bubble rule. Its not like they’re not going to break it at some point this year anyway.
“Would you, uh, you know,” he gestures at himself, more nervous than Valtteri has ever seen him. His hand waves between them and he stops talking.
“Lewis.” Valtteri catches his eyes and smiles, watching, detached and in a strange kind of awe, Lewis smile almost helplessly back, eyes crinkling above the cloth. “Would I what?”
Lewis half winces, smile turning sheepish. He glances over Valtteri’s, running an hand over his hair. Sebastian looks over at them, standing off to the side by his green Aston Martin, Mick chatting at his elbow, and must see something on Lewis’s face that he recognises because his eyes go very wide and then he grins, ducking his head away as he laughs. Lewis breathes in deep, shoulders rising.
“Are you doing anything for the winter break?”
Valtteri blinks at him. He didn’t know what he was expecting Lewis to say but this was not it. “The winter break?”
Lewis shrugs, awkward and clumsy in a way that Valtteri hadn’t seen on him before. “Yeah. I know it’s a while away and anything can happen between now and then, but, like, potentially, maybe, are you free sometime?”
Valtteri presses his lips together, stomach swopping low and hot. “Yes. I think I could be free sometime.” He is grateful for the mask over most of his face. Judging from the growing volume of Sebastian’s laughter, what little of his face that can be seen is bad enough.
The lines around Lewis’s eyes crease further, framing his face. “Cool. That’s – cool. We should do something then. If you want.”
If he wants. Sometimes, Valtteri thinks, all he does is want.
“I do,” Valtteri says and Lewis’s shoulders lower, exhaling. Fuck it. “It’s a date.”
Lewis laughs, that delighted surprised look on his face that he gets sometimes around Valtteri, which never fails to make him feel like he’s winning at something he didn’t realise was even a competition. He hasn’t seen it in a while.
“Yeah.” Lewis’s voice is low, a secret just between them despite all the cameras. “It is.”
2022
“Hello.”
Lewis’s hair is pulled back, blond running through it, and what part of his face isn’t covered by his mask is hidden by his sunglasses. Something in his shoulder relaxes when he turns in Valtteri’s direction. “Hey, man.”
He smiles then, skin around the edges of his glasses shifting. He sounds tired.
“How are you doing?”
Lewis shrugs, one hand going up to fiddle with his ear, pulling at his earring. A camera goes off behind them, the shutter click loud, and Valtteri shifts on his feet so they capture more of his back and less of Lewis, holding out a fist.
“I’m good, yeah.” Lewis taps his knuckles against his, skin warm. No new tattoos. Lewis’s fingers are tight around the lip of his helmet. “You?”
They have not talked much over the break. Valtteri had wanted to give him space. He had wanted not to push. He had wanted not to be yet another thing that Lewis had to deal with on top of everything.
(And for all that he is happy to leave Mercedes and go to Alfa Romeo and the sheer bone deep relief of a multi-year contract, it had been easier to step away without the constant reminder that he is no longer Lewis’s, and Lewis is no longer his.)
“I’m okay. Busy”
Lewis’s mask twitches. Valtteri is kind of starting to hate them. “Yeah, always is this time of year.”
“Yeah.”
It’s been a long time since Valtteri hasn’t been able to talk to Lewis. He isn’t sure how to ask Lewis if he’s feeling the same without making it a problem. It’s been months and he still isn’t sure if he can ask about last year’s testing and Lewis’s not-quite-question and Valtteri’s not-quite-answer.
Lewis slips his hands into his pockets, rocking forward on his toes and back on his heels. “We still on for Monday?”
Valtteri smiles, something in his chest loosening. He tilts his head, blinking against the sun. “Still good,” he says and Lewis’s mask moves again but this time Valtteri knows he’s smiling.
“Roscoe misses you, you know,” Lewis says, taking off his mask, grinning. The gap between his teeth knocks the breath out of him. Valtteri laughs.
“Yeah? Well, tell Roscoe I miss him too.” His voice comes out softer than he meant it too. Too quiet for the wide open space they’re in. Valtteri can hear Sebastian laughing at something behind them. Lewis doesn’t seem to mind, smile growing bigger. Valtteri wonders if he’ll ever be able to tell him or if he’ll have to stick to speaking through a dog that probably lives better than he does.
Lewis exhales, stepping in, and their elbows brush. “He knows.”
2023
The afternoon sun catches the metal on either side of Lewis’s nose as he scrunches up his face, laughing. His hair is pulled back, no longer blond. Valtteri absently misses it. He’s wearing sunglasses, giant and dark and fuck off, but Valtteri has spent years learning how to read Lewis when he’s in a completely different car, hidden away behind a helmet, a pair of sunglasses doesn’t stop him.
They talked more over this break than they did over the last which was to be expected. 2021 was. It was. Last year wasn’t much better but it was something. Whatever Lewis did over the holidays, it worked. His face is looser now, shoulders broader. He looks good.
“What?”
There’s a freckle on the side of Lewis’s mouth, tiny, nearly unnoticeable. Valtteri leans back against the railing. He’s too close if he can see it and there’s cameras around. Lewis’s eyebrows are raised.
“What’s with the face?” He gestures vaguely with one hand.
Valtteri opens his mouth to say nothing, to say Lewis should get his eyes checked, old man, to say any number of things. He closes it.
Fernando is chatting to someone who Valtteri doesn’t recognise a few metres down. The green looks strange on him. Valtteri can’t bring himself to like it. He can’t bring himself to do many things he doesn’t feel like doing these days.
“I think,” he starts, looking back at Lewis. There are new tattoos on his hands. Valtteri is struck, suddenly and awfully, with the want to trace them with his mouth. He is used to wanting with more strength than his body allows. He is a racer after all. And a second driver at that. “I think I might be in love with you.”
He does not mean to say it. Doesn’t mean to say it at all — not here especially, at testing, surrounded by cameras and people and the tense hopeful dread of the new season. Lewis’s chin tilts up slightly, and Valtteri knows he’s doing the thing where he’s blinking slowly to give himself time to react.
Fernando is now being interviewed. If Valtteri went up to him and asked what it’s like driving Sebastian’s leftovers and how is Mark Webber he thinks that Fernando might actually kill him on the spot. Then Lewis would never have to let him down slowly.
Lewis is smiling though, impossibly and brilliantly smiling. He keeps pressing his lips together as if he’s trying to stop it, biting his cheek.
“You do?”
Valtteri exhales, diaphragm deflating, spine coming undone. It is very warm here. Maybe he could blame heatstroke. “Yeah. I do.” He tries not to wince. He’s not sure he succeeds. Someday he should learn how to lie to Lewis, how to say no to him off the track.
Lewis hums, mouth pursing. He’s fooling no one, eyes smiling wide. Fernando has seen them now, all eyebrows and frown and teeth. It’s been a long time since Valtteri has seen him that annoyed.
“It’s a pity,” Lewis starts and he sounds like he’s about to tell a joke but isn’t quite sure how it’ll land, nervously delighted with himself. “I would’ve hoped that the guy I love would sound a little happier when he’s professing his, apparently requited, love to me.”
Valtteri starts rolling his eyes in anticipation of the laughter before —
before.
“What.”
Lewis is grinning fully now, obnoxious and big and not half smug. “What what,” he says like he doesn’t know exactly what Valtteri means.
“You,” Valtteri stops, hand coming up to dig his knuckles into the bridge of his nose. “You, and, and me? You — really? Are, are you sure?”
Lewis’s smile folds into something quieter and smaller but no less devastating. “Am I sure?” He takes off his sunglasses, hooking them on his collar, hands curling around the railing. Valtteri wants him to reach out. There are cameras everywhere. He couldn’t have picked a worse moment.
“Of course, I’m sure.” He’s got the same steadiness to him now, the same bone deep surety, that Valtteri has watched for years, that he has seen the team follow time after time. He used to want it before he found out that he isn’t built like that and wanted it even after he realised that he could never have it. I’ve got you, Lewis had told him, two years ago. If you want, I got you.
Valtteri hadn’t wanted it. Not what Lewis was offering. And Lewis had known that. Had only offered so Valtteri knew the offer was there but this. This Valtteri wants more than anything.
“Okay,” he says and his voice does not sound like his own. “Okay, cool.”
Lewis laughs, giddy, and Valtteri smiles back. “Just okay?”
Valtteri shrugs, stretching out his arm on the railing. Their fingers don’t touch but they could. “I don’t know. Maybe we’re not compatible yet.” He stares at Lewis’s mouth for a few seconds too long before watching his eyes go a little wide. “Will have to make a decision then.”
“Hmm. Sounds smart. Couldn’t have you making a wrong decision.”
“No,” Valtteri murmurs. The laugh lines around Lewis’s mouth deepen and Valtteri wants. “Couldn’t have that.”
#when my brain will let me actually write ill fix this up and make it like 3k longer and post it on ao3#but for now here u go. mwah#valewis#f1 rpf#naila tag#little fics
77 notes
·
View notes
Note
obsessed with the thought of going to like a big industry party with matty soon after you get engaged, he's taking you around introducing you to people and you're like "hi I'm mattys ex-gf" and of course people are like "you broke up???" And matty turns to you and is like,"Babe. you have to stop introducing yourself like that." and then goes back to the person and says,"Yes, she's not my girlfriend anymore because she's my fiancee. sorry she finds it hilarious to introduce herself like that, " and you're just giggling to yourself, and matty has a small smile on his face because he loves you and your silly little jokes
(I get birthday party matty vibes from this but tbh it could be any of them)
no you're right this is extremely birthday party!! also it reminds me of that one meme from brother bear, the "quit telling everyone i'm dead" "sometimes i can still hear his voice" one lmao. anyway! literally the night you and matty got engaged in france, the two of you were lying exhausted ;)) in bed and matty was almost asleep, when you rolled over to him and were like "weird to think i'm technically your ex-girlfriend now huh"; he sighed and said "i'm really marrying a fucking weirdo jesus christ", and you both giggled before falling asleep. and a few days after you get home, you get a chance to use the bit at this random little music award show afterparty full of famous people you've never met - fully creased at the idea of matty chatting to like, idk, bono or some shit (i was listening to inhaler earlier lol) and you being like "hi i'm his ex-girlfriend" and matty sighing and being like "ignore her please she thinks she's hilarious. i mean technically she's right, we got engaged last week so she's my fiancee and not my girlfriend anymore, but it's a misleading joke". but he still looks so lovingly at you while he's chastising you for making bono think you broke up lmao, and he pulls you into a little hug and forehead kiss when you both walk off to get a drink - matty loves you, even if you have shit banter lol. even when you insist on doing the bit when he implores you not to (you're like "oh how the tables have turned for us" lmao), he can't bring himself to be totally exasperated because you're just so bloody cute <3
27 notes
·
View notes
Note
So for your Music Festival, I think I've gotta go with "With or Without You" and Loki x Reader. That song is the one I keep thinking of. But only if it inspires you!! 💚💚💚
MCU FANFIC MUSIC FESTIVAL, ENTRY #6
"Of Love and Bono"
Pairing: Loki x Reader
Summary: You explain fan culture to Loki, attempting to quell his growing jealousy as he takes you to a concert for your birthday.
Word Count: 750
Your excited screeches echoed through the office, causing Tony Stark and Bruce Banner to come bursting into your small, private HR office on the ninth floor of Avenger Tower. “What? What’s wrong?” Bruce asked, his voice louder than it usually was when he wasn’t twelve feet tall and green.
They found you sitting on your desk, waving two tickets over your head as if they were the greatest prize ever found. Loki sat next to you, looking quietly amused, as well as proud of himself.
“Best birthday present ever!!!” You squealed.
“If those are Jets tickets, you may want to get your money back, Blitzen,” snarked Tony.
You shook your head, still high with excitement. “He got me U2 tickets to the Garden tonight! It’s been sold out for MONTHS! How did you even get these?!”
Loki smiled and looked into your eyes. “I would do anything for you to have everything your heart desires, my dove.���
You were grinning like an idiot. “But that’s not even the best part! HE GOT ME A BACKSTAGE PASS!”
Tony Stark shrugged. “Only one?”
Loki nodded. “Even I could only do so much while matching wits with the Ticket Master.”
“I literally get to meet and shake hands with the Lord of my Teenage Idolatry, The Bard of My Soul, the Voice of My Generation…okay, my parents’ generation, BUT STILL! Bono! I get to meet BONO!”
Loki chuckled, hiding a hint of insecurity that was only just beginning to tug at his brain. “As I said, anything for you, Y/N.”
------------------
You spent a ridiculously long time getting ready that night, to the point you were almost late to the show. You volleyed back and forth from “total fangirling slut” to “definitely cool and just here to shake hands” back to “fairest in the land and gives zero fucks.” You decided in the end to go for a less-desperate look, choosing a simple, approachable blouse and jeans, focusing instead on perfecting your makeup and hair.
“Aren’t you only allowed to meet him for a few minutes?” asked Loki, the bitterness in his voice growing, startling you.
“Are…you okay?” you asked, turning around.
“It’s just…the way you carry on about this Mono Man--”
“--Bono,” you instantly corrected. “And it isn’t like I’m planning to run off with him.”
Loki shrugged. “I don't really understand why you swoon over a musician so enthusiastically if your goal isn’t to bed him.”
“Loki, Loki, Loki,” you said, lightly kissing his nose. “For your information, Bono has been married longer than I’ve been alive. He has a daughter who is older than I am.”
Your lover still looked a little confused. “On Asgard, musicians are considered talent, but it is simply their chosen career as much as any healer’s or soldier’s. We don't treat them like kings or give them concubines.” He was trying to paint over his jealousy with snobbery, but the paint was too thin to be effective in covering his true feelings.
Smiling, you kissed him again, softly, on the lips. “It’s a mortal thing. We’re just a bit more, as you put it, enthusiastic about the people we admire. You should see the kinds of shit they post on Tumblr.”
Looking into your assuring eyes and seeing nothing but sincerity behind them, Loki’s shoulders finally dropped in relief. “Besides, you like U2’s music too,” you added. “I hear you humming With or Without You to yourself occasionally.”
You didn’t expect Loki to blush at your comment. “Oh? I didn’t realize I was loud enough to disturb you.”
Shaking your head, you took Loki’s hand in yours. “I know you’re a fan too, darling. And admit it, you find Bono attractive as I do.”
Loki thought for a moment. “Not in a personal way,” he said slowly. “But were he Asgardian, I can see where he’d…err…have more than a few interested and willing sex partners.”
You decided that was about as much as you’d be able to wring out of him for now. “Would you rather I not go backstage?”
Loki let out a reflexive laugh. “Ha! After the amount of currency I had to surrender for the pass? Norns, you’re going!”
You chuckled, finding Loki’s insecurity a little more ‘cute’ than you should have. “Oh my God,” you answered, caressing Loki’s soft face. “Here you are telling me I’m being silly for swooning over a singer while also pushing me into meeting him. I guess I can’t live with or without you, either.”
--------
@mochie85 @lokisgoodgirl @roruna @holdmytesseract @muddyorbs @xorpsbane @mischief2sarawr @fictive-sl0th @silverfire475
51 notes
·
View notes
Text
Theo had hoped to slip in the side door, unseen, but Gloria was waiting for her. She didn’t scold, but her thinned lips and the set of her jaw made her thoughts plain enough. You owe your father an apology, said her eyes as her mouth said, “it’s good to say you, baby.” Theo ducked her head in greeting and accepted the loaded plate her aunt pushed into her hands. “Good to see you too,” said Theo, and with her eyes, she said I know.
Previous | Chapter Start | From the Beginning | Next
November, 2015
[Theo listens to music through her headphones]
[Theo sighs|
ABRAHAM | Theo? What are you still doing here?
THEO | Hm?
THEO | I’m busy, Abraham. [sighs] I’ve been spending too much time on pro-bono work, and now I’m behind on billable hours. Do you mind?
ABRAHAM | Sorry Theo, I didn’t mean to interrupt. I just thought you were leaving early. Did your dad’s birthday dinner get rescheduled?
THEO | ...oh shit. I have to go. I have to go right now.
[phone rings, then connects]
THEO’S DAD | Theo? Is that you, sweetheart?
THEO | [nervously] Yeah dad, it’s me. Happy birthday!
THEO’S DAD | Thanks, sweetheart. It’s good to hear from you.
THEO | I’m just getting off work, are you still at Gloria’s?
THEO’S DAD | Yeah, we’re just about to do cake. Should we wait?
THEO | No, that’s ok. I’m about to get on the M, so-
THEO’S DAD | [disappointed] Oh.
THEO’S AUNT | [muffled] Is that Theo?
THEO’S DAD | She just left work, she’s about to get on the M.
THEO’S AUNT | [muffled] She just left work?
THEO | Dad? I should go. Enjoy your cake.
THEO’S DAD | Okay. See you soon, sweetheart.
THEO | See you soon Dad. Happy birthday. [hangs up]
ANNOUNCEMENT | The next southbound train to Denmore is stopped three stops away. The following train is 45 minutes away.
THEO | [sighs] Of course.
#armorica story#chapter 2#chapter 2 part 3#behind the scenes#character: theodosia adams#character: abraham maguire#character: gloria adams#there she is#best girl#character: august adams
26 notes
·
View notes
Text
my official ranking of (basically) every song by The Killers
(excluding remix versions and non-officially released covers. i treat live versions as separate entities to their studio counterparts)
(only the first 20 or so aren’t good. almost every song here is an absolute banger)
158. Goatsucker (objectively odd song, don’t think it was ever officially released)
157. Enterlude (wasn’t needed on the sam’s town album)
156. Exitlude (read above)
155. Get Trashed (”why is the beat made of sandpaper?” - my brother)
154. Who Let You Go? (repetitive)
153. Where The White Boys Dance (dull)
152. Ruby, Don’t Take Your Love To Town (too country)
151. West Hills III (prefer the first version)
150. Mr Brightside - Original Demo (only so low because it’s in direct comparison to the actual Mr Brightside)
149. The Getting By IV (the killers released 5 versions of the getting by. this is the least best)
148. Replaceable (again, not sure if this was ever officially released)
147. I’ll Be Home For Christmas (feat. Ned Humphrey Hansen) (very emotional but very long)
146. Waiting For Love (sounds flat)
145. C’est La Vie (not tonally linked to the rest of the album)
144. Change Your Mind (probably the weakest song, lyrically, on Hot Fuss)
143. Under The Gun (now we’re reaching songs that are good. great bridge)
142. All The Pretty Faces (nice harmonies)
141. The Getting By V
140. Christmas in L.A. (feat Dawes) (this should be higher up but god the killers have so many good songs)
139. Leave The Bourbon On The Shelf (mention of the name Jennifer which I take to be the same Jenny as in JWAFOM)
138. Sweet Talk (people should listen to the sawdust album more)
137. The Ballad Of Michael Valentine (unfortunately this reminds me of P!ATD)
136. On Top (brandon’s voice sounds so young on Hot Fuss it’s mad)
135. I Feel It In My Bones (feat. Ryan Pardey) (more fun christmas charity song)
134. The Cowboy’s Christmas Ball (SO country it’s actually funny. bop)
133. Show You How (experimental)
132. ¡Happy Birthday Guadalupe! (feat. Wild Light and Mariachi El Bronx) (also featuring brandon speaking spanish! kinda)
131. Dirt Sledding (feat. Ryan Pardey and Richard Dreyfuss) (the killers have banger christmas tunes)
130. Move Away (”take your skin off when you listen to me” is an incredible line)
129. Ultraviolet (Light My Way) (U2 cover) (minus points because it made me think of bono)
128. A White Demon Love Song (this was on the twilight soundtrack)
127. Believe Me Natalie (mommy issues)
126. Four Winds (Bright Eyes Cover) (thumbs up from me)
125. Mona Lisas and Mad Matters (Elton John Cover) (bonus points for elton john)
124. Hotel California (Eagles cover) (banger)
123. Oh Yeah, By The Way (again, not sure if ever officially released)
122. Why Don’t You Find Out For Yourself? (fab guitar)
121. Questions With The Captain (bonkers)
120. A Great Big Sled (feat. Toni Halliday) (please listen to this for the HO HO HO’S. very funny)
119. My List (i love the pre-chorus of this song)
118. A Crippling Blow (cool vocals)
117. Joy Ride (the lyrics of the verses are fucking brilliant. chorus less so)
116. Peace Of Mind (slow and beautiful)
115. Why Do I Keep Counting? (daddy issues)
114. Goodnight, Travel Well (lyrics mention “flesh and bone” which is a song on the next album. insert coincidence, i think not! meme)
113. Joel The Lump Of Coal (feat. Jimmy Kimmel) (surprisingly emotional for a children’s christmas song)
112. Daddy’s Eyes (class vocals)
111. Zombie Hands (banger halloween song)
110. Spaceship Adventure (written for a kid’s show. still a bop)
109. The Getting By III
108. Joseph, Better You Than Me (feat. Elton John and Neil Tennant) (bonus points for elton john again)
107. Midnight Show (many Flowerisms in this song. Flowerisms = typical brandon flowers lyrics that i love)
106. The Getting By (why are there so many versions of this one song)
105. A Matter Of Time (worst song on Battle Born but still incredible)
104. When The Dreams Run Dry (i love the format of the verses)
103. Tidal Wave (great vocals again)
102. Running Towards A Place (i feel like i should apologise to Imploding The Mirage for the whole album being ranked quite low but theres just so many good songs)
101. Money On Straight (the word shit is uttered in this song, scandalous)
100. West Hills II (doesn’t hold a candle to the proper version of this song)
99. The Getting By II (feat. Lucius) ( i think this is the last version of TGB)
98. Blowback (i once thought this was a metaphor for a blowjob. its not)
97. Caution - Wasatch Style (not as good as Caution on its own)
96. Fire In Bone (I FELT UNKNOWN!!!!!!!!)
95. My God (feat. Weyes Blood) (brilliant chorus)
94. The World We Live In (this SHOULD be higher only for the live version is so so so so so so so much better)
93. Neon Tiger (i love the way brandon says reDEEM)
92. Blowback - Acoustic ( i love the piano at the end)
91. Imploding The Mirage (banger ending)
90. Boy (only released a few weeks ago and already a new favourite of mine. SO MANY flowerisms)
89. Shadowplay (Joy Division Cover) (again, this would be ranked higher but the live version is vastly superior)
88. Sam’s Town Live From Abbey Road 2006 (i hadn’t listened to this version before compiling this list and its lovely)
87. Boots (brilliant vibes, almost haunting)
86. Runaway Horses II (not as good as the first version)
85. Dustland (feat. Bruce Springsteen) ( @arcmonkeys may kill me for ranking a song with bruce springsteen so low but alas. there are better versions of ADF)
84. Dying Breed (incredible bridge)
83. Don’t Shoot Me Santa (feat. Ryan Pardey) (NO ONE ELSE is doing christmas songs like the killers. NO ONE)
82. Land Of The Free (beautiful & haunting protest song about gun violence and white supremacy in the US)
81. My Own Soul’s Warning (BUT MAN, I THOUGHT I COULD FLY)
80. Pressure Machine (feeling small from the vastness of the universe, brandon? same.)
79. Life To Come (just really beautiful)
78. Have All The Songs Been Written? (spoiler alert: no! flowers goes on to write two more albums and another is in the works)
77. Run For Cover (such a 2017 song)
76. The Man (brilliant to hear live but not my favourite on the WW album)
75, Out Of My Mind (bonus points for a paul mccartney mention)
74. Forget About What I Said (franz ferdinand vibes)
73. Bones (overflowing with flowerisms!!)
72. Just Another Girl (diana agron is in the music video. bonus points)
71. Smile Like You Mean It (you can tell how high the quality of the killers’ music is when a song this good is still quite far down)
70. Everything Will Be Alright (underrated as hell. this song got me through lockdown a couple years ago)
69. Andy, You’re A Star (brandon flowers wrote a song from the perspective of a gay teenager and yet somehow this song is still more gay)
68. Glamorous Indie Rock and Roll (not as good as the Sawdust version)
67. Caution (sad las vegas vibes baby! but upbeat this time!)
66. The Rising Tide (any mention of neon lights is a win for me)
65. Lightning Fields (feat. k.d. lang) (best song on ITM by a country mile)
64. I Can’t Stay (better live but still great)
63. Prize Fighter (i mean this with so much affection: the lyrics of this song are so stupid <3)
62. Carry Me Home (the morning dove sings with two broken wings...)
61. From Here On Out (jam)
60. Here With Me (we’re on a Battle Born roll at the moment)
59. In The Car Outside (INCREDIBLE lyricism)
58. Somebody Told Me (has a bisexual aperitif or whatever damon albarn said)
57. Rut (I’M NOT LIKE HER YOU’RE NOT LIKE THEM!!!)
56. Deadlines and Commitments (extremely underrated)
55. Quiet Town (so sad and haunting)
54. Bling (Confession Of A King) (perfect lyrics but far better live)
53. Runaway Horses (feat. Phoebe Bridgers) (bonus points for phoebe bridgers)
52. In Another Life (basically perfect from start to finish)
51. Uncle Jonny (banger)
50. Sam’s Town (once again, only ranked so low because the live version is so superior)
49. Some Kind Of Love (brandon sings with his kids at the end and its so precious)
48. Shot At The Night (oh god, our home has long been outgrown...)
47. Flesh And Bone (love the talking at the end)
46. Heart Of A Girl (daddy kink)
45. I Can’t Stay Live From The Royal Albert Hall (the encore at the end is so beautiful)
44. Somebody Told Me Live From The Royal Albert Hall (the whisper voice at the start of the second chorus oh yeah baby)
43. Be Still (slow and poetic and beautiful)
42. Battle Born (UP AGAINST THE WALL!!!!!!!)
41. Human (VERY iconic)
40. Human Live From The Royal Albert Hall (brandon flowers screams LONDONNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNN and it changed lives)
39. Mr Brightside (how can a modern day classic be down so low? because the killers are just THAT good, alright?)
38. Cody (brandon flowers is such a good storyteller)
37. Losing Touch (BUT YOU MADE YOUR WAY BACK HOME!!)
36. This Is Your Life (acab)
35. Romeo and Juliet (Dire Straits cover) (this cover is better than the original and i will never stand down from this opinion)
34. Glamorous Indie Rock and Roll - Sawdust Version (the superior version. also bonus points for the beatles refrence)
33. Runaways (”like a stumbling ghost i haunt these halls” is one of my favourite lyrics of all time)
32. Smile Lime You Mean It Live From The Royal Albert Hall (just a million times better than the studio version)
31. Sleepwalker (IT DOESN’T COME FROM WITHOUT, IT COMES FROM WITHIN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!)
30. Miss Atomic Bomb (worthy sequel to Mr Brightside)
29. When You Were Young (full of flowerisms + he doesn’t look a thing like jesus)
28. Losing Touch Live From The Royal Albert Hall (far prefer the pitched down instrumentals and the outro is fantastic)
27. Desperate Things (this song being so highly ranked must put me on an FBI list. but songs about murder are brilliant!)
26. A Dustland Fairytale (just incredible storytelling)
25. This River Is Wild (flowerisms + the way he says “i SHAKE a little”
24. Tranquilize (feat. Lou Reed) (all around fucking brilliant song. cain & abel reference, creepy children’s chorus, wonderful harmonies)
23. For Reasons Unknown (such emotive lyrics its stunning)
22. This Is Your Life Live From The Royal Albert Hall (you gotta be stronger than the story!!!! oh god, the narrative)
21. Tyson v Douglas (WW is such an underrated album this song is a banger)
20. Terrible Thing (possibly their saddest song... “barbed wire town of barbed wire dreams”...)
19. The Way It Was (i will fight anyone who says BB isn’t a strong album)
18. Shadowplay (Joy Division cover) Live From The Royal Albert Hall (WAITING FOR YOUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU)
17. All These Things That I’ve Done (flowerisms + the iconic “i got soul but i’m not a soldier”)
16. Mr Brightside Live From The Royal Albert Hall (better live)
15. Wonderful Wonderful (when i saw the killers live for the first time they started with this and i ascended into heaven)
14. The Calling (bonus points for woody harrelson)
13. West Hills (every single line in this song is perfect)
12. Jenny Was A Friend Of Mine (first song on their first album and already SO good)
11. Read My Mind (probably the best song in the world, actually. flowerisms galore!)
10. Spaceman (just fucking incredible lyrics)
9. The World We Live In Live From The Royal Albert Hall (DAVID BRENT KEUNING ON GUITARS EVERYONE !!!!!!)
8. Bling (Confession Of A King) Live From The Royal Albert Hall (WHEN I OFFER YOU SURVIVAL, YOU SAY ITS HARD ENOUGH TO LIVE)
7. A Dustland Fairytale Live From The Royal Albert Hall (it feels so personal, so beautiful, and brandon’s voice sounds so much better live)
6. Spaceman Live From The Royal Albert Hall (call and answer bitches!!)
5. All These Things That I’ve Done Live From The Royal Albert Hall (I GOT SOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOUUUUUUUUUUUUUUL BUT IM NOT A SOLDIER)
4. Jenny Was A Friend Of Mine Live From The Royal Albert Hall (LONDON. I SAID LOOOONDOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOONNNNNNNN WHAT YOU GOT? 1 2 3 HA!)
3. When You Were Young Live From The Royal Albert Hall (SING ME A LULLABY, COME ONNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNN)
2. Sam’s Town (Acoustic) Live From The Royal Albert Hall (the best change from studio to live. slow, soft and quiet and beautiful before the tempo builds up to absolute jam. I SEE SAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAM’S TOOOOOOOOOOOOWN NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOW)
1. Read My Mind Live From The Royal Albert Hall (the perfect version of the perfect song)
bless you, thank you. this better not crash my tumblr
27 notes
·
View notes
Video
youtube
Happy Birthday musician Michael ‘Mike’ Scott born 14th December 1958 in Edinburgh.
Scott was born and raised in Edinburgh. His father, Allan Scott, left the family when Mike was ten years old, but the two were reunited in 2007.
Scott was interested in music from an early age. At age 12, after the family had moved to Ayr, he began a serious interest in learning guitar. In 1968 he mentions listening to Hank Williams as a “life-changing” experience. The next year, Scott was playing in school bands and formed the band Karma, they were inspired by David Bowie, The Beatles and Bob Dylan.
Playing in a few bands by the time 1981 came he had started the idea of The Waterboys, he admits that he “is” The Waterboys, the lineup has changed through the years but he say that “ there’s no difference between Mike Scott and the Waterboys; they both mean the same thing. They mean myself and whoever are my current travelling musical companions.”
It’s not all about having hits with The Waterboys, Mike is a natural songwriter, as The Waterboys and Mike Scott he has released 15 albums, 4 of the singles reached the top 40.
In mid-1980s, when The Waterboys supported U2 at Wembley Arena in London, Mike Scott’s band seemed all set for the same global status as Bono and Co.
The following year, when their third album, This Is The Sea, and classic single, The Whole Of The Moon, catapulted the band’s “big music” into the Top 10 such success seemed virtually assured. But it was never what he wanted. Under pressure from his record company to produce more stadium-pleasing Waterboys tracks, he retreated to Ireland… and made a folk record. Mike has lived in the Fair city of Dublin for over 12 years and holds a dual nationality, he said in an interview last year “ ….people have often told me I’m an honouree Irishman, but I feel Scottish. But I’m very proud to live in Ireland. And my children are Irish. So, now I’ve very deep roots here.”
Mike continues to write and tour with the Waterboys, I remember always arguing with a friend that disagreed with me that the Waterboys were (are) a Scottish group, it’s true some of the members of the group have come from Ireland and England as well as the US but Mike Scott, as I said to him and would still say to him IS The Waterboys, The Whole of the Moon is a top class song and the lyric…
“Unicorns and cannonballs, palaces and piers
Trumpets, towers and tenements
Wide oceans full of tears
Flags, rags ferryboats
Scimitars and scarves”
……could only be written by a Scotsman. The song was initially released to a limited success in 1985, it resurfaced again in 1991 and won an Ivor Novello Award as “Best Song Musically and Lyrically” that year and reached number 3. Celtic Women sing a version at their concerts, Jennifer Warnes has also covered it as well as the late great Prince at Ronnie Scott’s Jazz Club during his 2014 Hit & Run tour. U2 used the song as a “walk out tune” during the Joshua Tree tour.
The Waterboys released their 16th studio album last May, I’ve listened to a few of the tracks, Blackberry Girl for me is the stand out tune, Once were Brothers is a decent track too, it’s a cover of Robbie Robertson song.
The Waterboys are set for dates next year in Portugal, Netherlands, the Scandinavian countries and Germany, before heading home with gigs at Glasgow Royal Concert Hall on October 2nd, Edinburgh Usher Hall on the 3rd and back to Glasgow Barrowlands on the 6th, they then head south for a number of dates in England
The song I have chosen this year was originally from The Waterboys Too Close to Heaven album, a collection of outtakes, alternative versions, and unreleased tracks from The Waterboys' Fisherman's Blues period, released in September 2001. This version is sung in a Scottish accent, it is, in my opinion fucking brilliant. The line You feel like you want to have your sporran refilled, just gets me.If I was to describe it, I would say it is like The Proclaimers on Acid.
The mountain is steep
The ditches are deep
The task in hand
Is making us weep
But here's a promise
(I intend to keep
/
That I mean to keep)
Seed it in your mind
And say it each night
Before you sleep:
We will climb higher in time
(och!)
You've got a head full of trouble
And a ship to build
(You think you won't make it
But you know you will
You feel you need your
Cup refilled
Fill it out of mine
We'll drop the defenses
Pool our skill
/
Your heart you're hiding
It's making you ill
You feel like you want to have your
Sporran refilled
Well, fill it out of mine
Let the soulful water
Overspill)
And we will climb higher in time
I've been to the bottom
I've been on the train
I've slept in the gutter
With my head in a drain
I've been brutally proud
I've been mortally shamed
But this is not a crime
I'm just learning, my friends
That it's all in the game
And we will climb higher in time
(Och!)
Climb higher in time
Climb higher in time
11 notes
·
View notes
Text
Michael Hutchence 22/01/1960 - 22/11/1997
I always want to say something around this time of the year, but I never quite know what to say. Right after my birthday it always hits me, why is it so close. I was alive when you were alive, but apart from knowing Original Sin cause it was always on the radio, I didn't know anything about you. My mum had tickets to the Elegantly Wasted tour. I remember seeing it on the news. After finding out Nick Cave sung Into My Arms at the funeral, I could never listen to that song without thinking of you. The Same when I found out Stuck In A Moment You Can't Get Out Of by U2 is the conversation Bono wishes he could've had with you. It's funny how you always wormed your way into my life, even when I wasn't listening to your music I was still hearing you. But it's also strange how much of an impact you've had on my life, I don't even know you. I guess it's not you that's had the impact, by my idea of you. You've projected such a comforting version of yourself, a version that fits so neatly inside my heart & gives me strength & relief when things seem hard. I'm not going to pretend that as I've got older this attachment doesn't feel a little bit silly, looking back at the letters I wrote you & the many poems & school assignments you inspired. But why would I judge something that feels so pure, that makes me feel more in life. You created so much beauty in your brief life, you experienced so much, & yet you didn't get a chance to finish. Maybe with you forever in my heart, your light can continue to shine, & your legacy, your soul can live on. At least it always will for me.
"I'm just a man, my will is so strong" - Michael Hutchence
47 notes
·
View notes
Note
oh my god I absolutely ADORED lucid and born slippy, so the chance to prompt you with something is so so exciting!! as always, no pressure, but how about something about undressing each other? i've always LOVED the unlacing/undressing tropes in capri, and I bet it would be incredible applied to some lovely drarry. do with this what you wish!!!
sidjdjfnndkff thank you, and thank u again for this ungodly prompt. if there’s three things i love, they’re captive prince, drarry, and soft smutty tropes such as the one u hath so kindly bestowed upon me.
i accidentally made a fair few lucid references in here (prizes for all who can spot them, the prize is a poem about u as composed by me) so i suppose, if you’ve read that one and so wish, u can consider this part of the same universe. or smth ://
maybe i’m just hideously unimaginative when it comes to topics for my banter. anywho
rated e, 1732 words.
The thing about Draco’s work robes, is that they’re buttoned all the way up to the throat. Which, hm, doesn’t sound like an issue in and of itself. But becomes one, of sorts, when Harry is overcome by the need to unbutton them every time he lays eyes on pale, elegant throat, the column of it under stiff black fabric.
The thing is, that Draco looks so austere, so tightly laced, and the thing. Is. That Harry just wants to unlace him.
Draco is, of course, not austere. He’s in fact very, erm, flexible. Pliant. He told Harry once, when they first starting fucking, that his body reformed around Harry’s, and he liked the way he went malleable in Harry’s hands.
“I can’t do that with anyone else,” Draco said. Then frowned. “That didn’t make much sense.”
But the buttons. The buttons. The high-necked buttons. They give Draco a look of frigidity, that he’s not to be spoken to, touched (all in a very sexy, aristocratic kind of way, of course), and it’s so bloody hot that Harry’s taken to banishing his glasses and burying his head under a pillow when Draco dresses in the mornings, just to stop himself getting so hard he goes properly blind with it.
Draco asked him, the third time he burrowed under the bedclothes like a “demented ferret” (glass houses, Harry said), what he was doing.
“The buttons,” Harry murmured. “Want to undo them.”
“The buttons?”
“The buttons.”
“You sick, kinky twist, Harry Potter.”
Harry unearthed himself, at that. “Shut up? It’s not about the buttons, you horror. It’s about what’s underneath the buttons.”
“How touching.”
And then more teasing, and Harry had it up to here and said, “I’ll burrow again.”
So Draco sat next to him on the bed, robes all secured, and said, softly, but still smiling like a git, “Tell me, love. Why the buttons?”
“You’re just—they’re, you know. So—God,” and then Harry had reached out and rent the sides of Draco’s robes apart, the little cloth covered studs clattering over his polished walnut floors, and pulled Draco down on top of him, and fucked him right there until Draco was late for work, and later still because they’d had to spend half an hour charming the wretched things back into place.
Now, Draco says, “the buttons are still wonky from that little stunt you pulled.”
Harry can see only Draco’s legs (crossed over each other on the couch, back flat on the ground, because Draco feels it centres him to drape upended from the furniture at the end of a long day) from where he’s decanting the wine in the kitchen. “I’ve always been pants at tailoring charms.”
“Was that a pun?” says Draco, sounding pained. “I’m leaving you, if that was a pun.”
“But then who will do your bidding? Aerate your wine, iron your silk pants—”
“I’ll get a house elf.”
“—not finished, suck your brains out your cock, make you pasta with butter and cheese when it’s cold and you’re in a mood—”
“I’ll get a gigolo, too.”
“I still wasn’t finished,” Harry says, and Levitates the wine into the living room in front of him.
Draco says, “did you get the right glasses, this time?”
“You’re very funny,” Harry says, because after months of trying to educate Harry, Draco has finally accepted that his one true love is cheap beer, and sorted all the wine glasses he keeps at Harry’s flat into labelled little boxes. (‘This is a coupe, Potter. If you bring me red wine in it again, I’ll throw it at you.’ ‘These are for dessert wine — after dinner, before a good hard boffing.’)
“Why don’t you just go snag one of those fucking — sommiliars.”
“Sommelier.”
“Yeah,” Harry says, happy because Draco’s wearing his work robes and speaking French and looking all twisty, and it’s Friday night, and there’s wine and music from the record Draco put on, and Harry gets to untwist him.
“Did you know,” Draco says, arching his back into a luxurious stretch before rearranging himself right side up and plucking a glass from the air, “that Amantea is starting her own firm.”
“God. Really?”
“Quite. It’s a pro bono thing, evidently. You know she’s been on the exec’s for months about how they direct all their mandatory hours towards corporations, not, you know, people who actually can’t afford legal counsel.”
“‘Course.” Harry distinctly remembers being cornered by Amantea when Draco brought him along to last year's Christmas drinks — he was a decent few in, and Draco kept palming at him through his formal robes when no one was looking, and he thinks he may have agreed to some kind of public crusade in the name of her cause that he doesn’t remember the details of to this day.
“Merlin, that’s incredible. She’s just quit, then? Starting it from the ground up?”
Draco nods, sips his wine. “She asked me to come with her. Ford, too.” And then, into his glass, “Said yes.”
Harry chokes, and Draco smirks at him behind the rim while he expires into his Pinot. “Bastard,” Harry coughs.
“Mm,” Draco hums.
“That’s—fuck, hang on—that’s great, love. Draco, it’s brilliant.”
“Really?” Draco says, tangling his fingers in Harry’s. He can see now that he’s doing that Very Draco Thing where his eyes go a bit too wide and his tongue keeps darting out to wet his bottom lip. “Cause I haven’t quit yet.”
“Of course. I think it’s really, really incredible.”
Draco rolls his eyes, but his cheeks flush pink. “Any more of that, and I won’t go near your cock for a week.”
“I’m proud of you,” Harry says, smiling.
“Two weeks.”
He leans on his haunches, hooks a blond tendril behind Draco’s ear. “I’m so proud of you, Draco. Everything you are.”
“A month. A year! Harry,” Draco complains.
Harry snorts. Sits back. “Fine. So would you still be doing all the same work?”
Draco nods. “I’d still be a defence counsel. I’d just be, you know. Not getting paid. At least, not for a while.”
“Good,” Harry says. “We’ve got a horrific amount of money, between the two of us.”
“I’m glad you think so, because we’ll be living off your salary alone. What’s the going rate for darling of the Wizarding world?”
Harry walks his fingers over Draco’s knee, daubed in the heavy black wool of his robes. “Several million a year darling. Are you excited, then?”
Draco shuffles around so he can rest his back against the couch, keeping Harry’s palm pressed to his knee with his own hand as he moves. “Yes. Very. I love my job, but the fees they charge our time at are outrageous. I was always thinking, Mother and I wouldn’t have been able to afford that right after the war. Had we even been allowed a solicitor, but don’t get me bloody started.”
Harry thinks that’s Draco down to his bones. He gives cold little glares to people he doesn’t want to talk to, and shrinks in on himself like a turtle whenever Molly tries to hug him at Sunday lunch, and he’s selfish about stupid things, like letting Ron have the last of his chips at pub night.
And then he does things like drop lunch by Hermione’s office when he has afternoon meetings with the Wizengamot, or quit the job he loves so much, where he’s finally respected and secure, to work for free with Scary Amantea because he actually cares about the abysmal state of the Wizarding justice system, or rent out an entire Muggle theme park for Harry’s birthday, because he’d said, off handed, one night in Draco’s arms, that he’d always been left behind when the Dursley’s took Dudley as a child.
“You’re so nice,” Harry says.
Draco frowns. “Take it back.”
Harry says, “Won’t,” and gives him a good, slow kiss that tastes like wine. Wine from a proper glass.
“I have bad news, too,” Draco says into Harry’s lips.
Harry can’t think of how anything could be bad, wrong, when Draco’s mouth is so soft and so close, but he murmurs, “What,” anyway.
“No dress code, at the new firm.”
Harry pulls back, stricken. “No more buttons?”
“Less regular buttons,” Draco amends, and Harry places a protective hand over Draco’s clavicles.
“This is completely tragic,” Harry says.
“Dare I say, Potter, you’ll just have to make the most of them. While you can.”
Harry nods, leans down again, a hand either side of Draco’s hips, and kisses him again.
When he pulls back, it’s so he can get his hands on the reeling column of buttons that runs from Draco’s navel to his Adam’s apple.
There was a certain carnal appeal in tearing them off him that first time, but now Harry likes this. His hands on Draco, his mouth following. Pushing the silken studs through the loops, undressing Draco inch by milk white inch.
“Yes,” Draco says, as Harry licks and nips his way down every bit of skin he exposes. When Draco swallows, Harry feels the movement of it roll beneath his palm. When Draco’s legs fall open, Harry mouths at his hip bone as it shifts under his tongue.
Harry disrobes himself with slightly less worshipping finesse. Pushes the tailored cloth off Draco’s shoulders, helps him arrange himself underneath Harry, ankles clasped lazily at his back. Fucks him slow, and sweet, and two more times.
Really, Harry doesn’t know why the robes do it for him so utterly and completely. They look kind of like the type of thing a vicar would wear, which is also what Harry remembers thinking when he saw Draco in his dress robes at the Yule Ball (although now it’s more a very rich, very sleek sort of vicar vibe, and less of the fusty, I-took-a-celibacy-oath-at-thirteen-and-am- now-seventy-two thing he had going back then. With all the velvet. Draco looks much better in silk. Anyway.)
On that, it’s probably because it’s a reminder that it’s Malfoy who he’s with. Malfoy, not Death Eater, tormentor, but pale limbs, plush, pink mouth and naked vulnerability before him. It’s how far they’ve both come, and how Draco presents himself to the world — so far away from what Harry gets to see. What’s Harry’s. What’s theirs.
“Also,” Draco says, when Harry tells him this in bed that night, “I look positively indecent in black.”
459 notes
·
View notes
Text
Idle Hands by Unusual_Raccoon
Fandom: Daredevil (TV), Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Rating: Explicit
Relationships: Matt Murdock/Peter Parker
Characters: Matt Murdock, Peter Parker
Additional Tags: Established Relationship, Dom/sub, Dark Matt Murdock, Dom Matt Murdock, Sub Peter Parker, Domestic Bliss, Kink Negotiation, Daddy Kink, Rough Oral Sex, Public Blow Jobs, Face-Fucking, Anal Sex, Rough Sex, Subspace, Subdrop, Barely Legal, Consensual Non-Consent, Manipulation, Explicit Sexual Content, Impact Play, Face Slapping, Aftercare, Consensual But Not Safe or Sane, Don't Like Don't Read, Bad BDSM Etiquette
Word Count: 8k+
Summary: *Pro Bono Sequel* Peter had started as a freshman at MIT, was sort of juggling a job as a freelance photographer for a blog site, and he was still a full-time crime fighting vigilante by night. The heater in his apartment still didn’t work right. Life was far from easy, but on the upshot it also wasn’t boring - Oh! Not to mention being a live-in fucktoy for his ex-lawyer, kind of boyfriend? Yup, boring definitely wasn’t part of Peter Parker’s vernacular.
Link
3 months - that was how long Peter had with Matt. 3 months before he started up at MIT in the Fall. 3 months of being a sweet boy, and using his colors, and being taken care of. It all seemed very structured, very formal, and he loathed the idea that whatever he and Matt had going on, had an implicit expiration date.
Except their 3 months had passed, two months ago…
They had passed their expiration date and neither one of them had felt the need to mention it.
Peter had started as a freshman at MIT, was sort of juggling a job as a freelance photographer for a blog site, and he was still a full-time crime fighting vigilante by night. The heater in his apartment still didn’t work right. Life was far from easy, but on the upshot it also wasn’t boring - Oh! Not to mention being a live-in fucktoy for his ex-lawyer, kind of boyfriend? Yup, boring definitely wasn’t part of Peter Parker’s vernacular.
They had been eating takeout on the roof of Matt’s apartment building, the husky timbre of the Devil’s voice in his ear, breaking through the shuttering-clicks of him snapping photos of the city skyline. Peter’s camera was filled with stuff he liked - a completely relevant side note: he had a shit ton of photos of Matt.
“Your birthday’s coming up,” Matt hummed, body arched back against the blanket they had laid out before sitting down to eat. Peter lifted his head from his camera, obscenely zoomed in on the glitter of sunlight scattered across Matt’s eyelashes in the photo he had taken mere moments earlier. The refracted light looked like stardust in his hazel eyes - yeah, he was totally printing that one up.
“I know,” Peter sighed, cracking a smile when Matt nudged him with his knee. Of course once he caught a glimpse of Matt, he couldn’t tear his eyes away. A simmering twist of want coiled in his stomach.
“So, what can I get for the birthday boy?” Matt asked, a coy tilt of his head, his glasses sitting in the pocket of his button down. Hazel eyes creased at the corners with a soft smile.
Peter wriggled on the blanket, nose scrunching up with sugary fondness that made him so pleasantly lightheaded.
“I don’t know?” Peter shrugged, reaching for the half-eaten container of fried rice.
“Well, you’ve got time to think about it.” Matt suggested, oozing contentment laid out on the blanket. There was rice on the blanket when Peter decided to straddle Matt, legs braced around his firm middle, drunk off the husky sound of his laughter.
“What if I’ve already got everything I want?” Peter asked coquettishly, letting out a dreamy sigh as he settled against Matt. A heavy hand settled over his lower back, sinking decidedly lower.
“Then you sound like a very lucky boy,” Matt hummed, voice dropping an octave into a range that was pure seduction, low and rumbling and sending glittering heat pulsing down Peter’s arched back.
“The luckiest,” Peter crooned as he lowered his mouth over Matt’s, smothering a giggle against the auburn scruff that stung his skin.
The color of the sky reminded him of sherbert ice cream, pastel reds and eye-catching shades of orange, as their evening passed, it faded into a boozy blue dusk. There was solitude on that roof, peace and quiet, just him and the Devil.
--
Peter descended from a silken length of webbing, head tilted as he watched the Devil wade through the mess they’d made, into his field of view.
A fluttering street lamp cast a soft glow across his inky black silhouette. Rough ropes knotted around his fists were stained crimson.
“So,” Matt panted, kicking a gun out of his way on his path to Peter, “think of anything you want?”
He bore the thick sole of his boot down on the hand of a biker subtly trying to reach for a knife, there was a crack and a scream, the blade scratched the pavement, and the Devil didn’t flinch. The sight definitely toed the line of being one of the scariest and sexiest things Peter had ever seen. Matt’s covered head was tilted towards him, the delicate border of white that framed his mask was freckled with spots of cherry red blood. Peter hadn’t been raised particularly religious, but watching that body in the flickering halo of the street lamp, he was fighting the urge to drop to his knees in worship.
“I-what?” Peter stammered, descending to the ground, landing deftly on his feet.
“For your birthday.” The Devil answered, an easy smile on his lips.
“Oh,” Peter exhaled, his voice sounded stupid and small, and ridiculously breathy like a bitch in heat. His cheeks throbbed hot, grateful for his mask, certain it wasn’t the only part of him that was throbbing.
“Why, what were you thinking about, sweet boy?” Matt rasped knowingly and Peter’s knees knocked together. It totally wasn’t fair that Matt was allowed to be that hot.
“Uh, my birthday gift, totally-” Peter lied lamely through his teeth, what blood that hadn’t migrated between his thighs, turned to ice in his veins as that looming shadow drew closer.
A bloody hand seized him by the jaw, the heat of his breath still stung through the material Peter’s mask.
“You’re a terrible liar,” Matt hummed as he forced the fabric of Peter’s mask over his chin and nose, so it looked closer to the mask the Devil wore. It was raining out, the air tasted of copper and ozone.
“I’ll think of something,” Peter panted against the wicked gleam of Matt’s hellish smile.
“I know you will,”Matt agreed as he hiked a knee between Peter’s thighs.
“My brilliant boy,” Matt purred as Peter found a happy rhythm rutting against the Devil’s knee.
Peter was tracing his fingers across the scars on Matt’s chest that night, tangled up, his feet hidden against the backs of Matt’s knees.
“Can my birthday gift be body armor?” He asked, mouthing the words against Matt’s skin as he replaced the motion of his fingers with his tongue.
“Workin’ on it, baby,” Matt replied with a curl of amusement in his voice.
“And, no, gotta be something for you.”
He wanted to point out that Matt, and in this case, his body was definitely for him, but making that argument would’ve meant pulling his mouth away from the hard muscle of Matt’s chest. As far as Peter was concerned, he still had time to figure it out.
--
“It can’t be anything expensive,” Peter said over breakfast.
“I can do that,” Matt said eagerly, sliding into his seat at the table, opposite Peter.
“In fact, can we make a rule? I don’t want you to buy me anything for my birthday.” In a way, he knew he didn’t have to justify the decision, not with Matt. In the two months since they were supposed to call it quits, he had learned a fair bit about the man he shared a bed with; for example, Matt had grown up poor - single parent poor.
“Yeah,” Peter huffed, finding more confidence in his decision the longer he thought about it, “Acts of service are more my speed anyway.”
Matt chuckled on the other side of the table, head angled low and eyes deliciously dark.
“Okay. So, how do you want me to serve you?” He drawled, nearly leaving Peter slack jawed, he practically whited out over breakfast. Just barely recovering by the time Matt gave him a soft smile and a gentle reminder that his eggs were getting cold, but Peter could hardly think with his face heating up.
Torture like this couldn’t be humane, could it?
“Pete,” Matt hummed, “Did you have something in mind?”
A shiver bolted down his spine, of course Matt knew he was thinking, he could probably smell his thoughts or something…or the pre-come soaked into the thin cotton of his briefs. His heart hammered a little harder in his chest, his head was beginning to tingle and his body felt shimmery and on the verge of weightlessness - all that and Matt hadn’t even touched him.
“It’s dumb-” Peter breathed, lifting a forkful of fluffy scrambled eggs that melted like clouds on his tongue, silken and buttery, to avoid speaking.
“I doubt that very much,” Matt hummed as he lifted his mug of coffee to that tantalizing red mouth of his, rasping his tongue over the sumptuous swell of his lower lip. Matt set his mug down, leaning back in his chair with the posture of a man that looked content to wait as long as he needed to, to get what he wanted. And Peter knew what he wanted.
“You know I’m my own boss, sweet boy, if I need to take the day to make you cry and beg until you tell me what’s rattling around in that pretty head - I will.”
Peter’s fork clattered against his plate and a filthy chuckle drifted from the other side of the table. He was nearly certain the front of his briefs were soaked, clinging all wet and sticky to the swell of his leaking erection. A small moan simmering to a boil in Peter’s throat.
“There’s my boy,” Matt purred knowingly, voice full of pride, like he could just taste how eager to please Peter was.
“So,” Matt hummed, “Tell Daddy what you want.”
Well, Peter supposed when he phrased it like that, he’d say anything to make Matt happy.
“I,” He sucked in a breath, wringing his hands together, “I want you to chase me…”
Matt leaned forward, elbows hitting the table, his biceps and forearms making the seams of his button down scream; Peter wanted to run his tongue over every inch of the man sitting across from him.
He didn’t say anything at first, just listened.
“Like as…the other you.”
He watched Matt’s brows lift from behind the silver rims of his glasses. No sign of apprehension or disapproval, just surprise.
“As the Devil,” He supplied, voice turning a hint huskier than it had any reason to be without his mask on.
Peter gave an eager nod, cheeks warm and voice pitched high.
“Yeah,” he licked his lips, “Like, pretend I’m a bad guy and chase me.” It sounded juvenile and shallow when he described it, but Peter pictured it perfectly in his head.
“Okay, and hypothetically speaking, what would Daredevil do when he catches this alleged bad guy?” Peter shivered again, his brain felt like it was pulsing, bright and ephemeral outside of his body, Matt sounded obnoxiously hot when he did his lawyer talk.
“Uh,” Peter swallowed hard, “Whatever you- I mean, whatever he wants to, I guess. Rough me up a little? Make me cry, make me come.”
Matt nodded his head in understanding, his expression was stern, contemplative and it’s nearly unnerving to Peter.
“Peter,” Matt drawled, his voice was smooth and polished and Peter had heard him talk like that before, “Have you ever heard of CNC?”
Peter blinked, “Uh, should I have?”
Matt’s stern expression melted into something sunny and adoring and Peter was nearly certain that was pushing him to his limit faster.
“We’ll talk about it later,” Matt said, taking another sip of his coffee, before carrying his cup to the sink.
Peter stared at the way the material of Matt’s dove gray button down clung to his muscular back, bewildered that he’d even left the table.
“W-wait,” Peter stammered, watching as Matt unfolded the length of his cane, “Where are you going?”
He was still teetering on the promise of tears and orgasms and bruises being pressed into his skin.
“Work,” Matt answered with a cruel smile, dipping down to brush his lips against Peter’s, the coy flick of his tongue made Peter’s toes curl tight with a drawn out, needy moan.
He whined again, head swimming in the clouds and so far from logic.
“Oh and sweetheart,” Matt murmured against Peter’s skin, the vibration tingling across his hyperaware skin, “No touching until I get back.” The older man purred with sadistic glee as he pressed one last kiss to Peter’s lips. He practically wanted to cry, but his unaddressed erection was crying enough for them both.
Definitely a cold shower to start his day.
--
His first few google searches yielded some pretty bland results, but with some digging, Peter eventually struck gold.
…Consensual Non-Consent. Huh, is that what he was asking for? He scrolled a little. He wanted Matt to dress up - as the Devil - and run him down like he’d seen him do a hundred times to actual criminals. He could do without standard fare broken hands and smashed teeth, but if the Devil wanted to find another way to punish him, he wouldn’t complain.
He scrolled a bit more, clicking through various articles and blog posts. Was he supposed to fight back, in this scenario? Daredevil was supposed to be chasing Peter Parker, not Spider-Man…though, the latter certainly wasn’t a bad idea.
He heard the rattle of keys and his tingle tingled, the click of Matt’s cane came from down the hall.
“Peter?” Matt called softly, his voice was faintly hoarse like he’d done a lot of talking at work.
“In here.” Peter called back, blowing out a breath at the sight of Matt, suit jacket clutched in one hand, the sleeves of his shirt were cuffed at the elbow; he looked like the embodiment of sin. Matt paused, leaning on his cane, head tilted faintly to the side. His mouth quirked slightly in a smile.
“How long have you been down that rabbit hole?” He asked knowingly, gesturing in the direction of Peter’s laptop as he moved to the fridge for a beer.
“Just a few hours,” Peter answered honestly, listening as Matt’s laughter bounced out of the fridge like an echo chamber.
“Had to do something with my hands,” Peter tacked on as Matt got closer to the couch. Peter folded up his cane, neatly placing it on the coffee table as Matt joined him on the couch, spreading his thighs wide, crowding into Peter’s space.
“My poor baby,” Matt crooned callously as he took a sip of beer, cold and carbonated and fragrant on his breath. Peter was a college kid, but he didn’t like beer, conversely, he did enjoy the taste of it on Matt’s lips.
Peter pushed his laptop aside and climbed into Matt’s lap, he fit comfortably there, anchoring his hands against the breadth of the older man’s shoulders. Scarred knuckles bumped against the waistband of Peter’s pajama pants, toying with the drawstring.
“You were really mean this morning,” Peter whined all breathy and high in Matt’s ear, pressing fluttering kisses down the reddish scruff that made his lips burn.
“I’m always mean,” Matt countered with a dreamy sigh, letting his head fall back as Peter’s mouth wrapped around the jut of his Adam’s apple, “Besides, I made you eggs.”
Peter smothered a laugh against Matt’s throat, the sound pitched into a moan, inevitably letting his thighs part as a heavy hand slipped into the breezy material of his pajama pants.
Matt cradled him through the thin barrier of his underwear, and Peter expelled a breath through his teeth as his cock started to stir - because his body absolutely knew who it belonged to.
“Pete?” Matt murmured and Peter could only humm back a fluttering sigh, angling his hips so Matt could touch him some more.
“Didja wanna talk…or play?” Matt rasped, like he was still willing to have a lengthy discussion about kinks and domination while rolling Peter’s balls in his palm.
Technically it was later and they were supposed to talk, and Peter had no doubt that they would, just maybe not right that second.
“Wanna play with you, Daddy.”
Matt let out a low rumble of laughter, cold and cutting and shooting straight to Peter’s twitching dick.
“That’s what I thought.”
--
They talked about it after the afterglow and before they turned in for the night after their patrol. Peter was pressing gauze to a cut on Matt’s back, he was super serious about that body armor.
“So, I did some reading about it…” Peter mentioned as he methodically cinched the thin, spidery cut on Matt’s back closed with little butterfly bandages.
“I noticed,” Matt hummed, reaching over his head with one hand to tug off his shirt the rest of the way. It billowed to the floor with some of the bloody gauze that looked more like an abstract watercolor painting, alongside Peter’s gloves.
“So,” Peter began, bracing his hands against Matt’s shoulder as he tested his range of motion, rolling it and angling his neck until even Peter heard a soft pop and a groan.
“You’re cool with it, right?” Peter asked, slinking back a little as Matt rose up off the covered lid of the toilet, all yellowing bruises and raised scars and Matt. Matt’s mask was sitting on the bathroom vanity like a smudge of ink, even still he sort of looked like the Devil, in just his boots and pants.
His expression parted with a smile, a soft Matt kind of smile as he let out a quiet laugh.
“Am I cool with chasing you around a few blocks and pressing you up against a chain link fence while I make you cry on my cock?” Matt asked with a sly smile and Peter blew out a little nervous, giddy laugh - because, holy shit, Matt had thought about it too.
“Yeah, I’m cool with it,” His smile dimmed a little and something guilty twisted in Peter’s stomach, “Are you?”
“Peter,” Matt sighed, he sounded very serious, very grown up, “This is important, okay? In a scene like this you’re essentially giving up your consent, do you understand?”
Peter nodded.
“You want me to treat you like a criminal, that’s fine, but when was the last time you saw me slow down to ask them what color they were on?”
Peter’s ears burned with embarrassment, he had known this wasn’t the same as playing in Matt’s room with his toys and his lube and his silk sheets, it would be visceral and violent and push unforgivingly at his boundaries.
“I know that, Matt, you don’t have to treat me like I’m five,” Peter shot back sharply, wounded and trying very desperately to hide the insecurity his youth brought with it.
A sharp breath whistled through his teeth, labored and frustrated, “Don’t - Don’t do that, Peter, don’t twist my words around-”
“-Why not, you do it all the time? Putting words in my mouth and thoughts in my head and making me think things.” He huffed, breathless and exasperated and shaking.
His whole body felt like it was primed to explode at the clamp of a weathered hand, free of stinging coarse ropes, just littered with calluses, digging into the nape of his neck. The touch stung like a defibrillator, the shock to his system, his neurons were firing faster than he could keep up.
“Peter,” The sound of Matt’s voice, low and authoritative cut through his panic - in that moment, he was sure that was it, his borrowed time was surely up and Matt would finally realize he was a couple months behind schedule and give Peter the boot, belt, whatever -
“Breathe.” Matt instructed, his voice heavy and resonant, and so Peter listened. He sucked in a breath and that pressure weighing down on him, lightened. His head didn’t feel so full.
“Again.” Matt demanded, and Peter obeyed. Drinking in air that scraped and stung past a sudden lump in his throat as his lungs swelled up.
His chin quivered and Peter wished he knew why he felt like he was underwater. God, it felt like an avalanche of awful had just spilled over him - he was tired and aching, more so than usual after a hard fuck and a night of patrolling.
“That’s it,” Matt hummed, fingers still pressed hard on the nape of Peter’s neck, grounding him in the feeling - in the sensation.
“Keep breathing, just like that, sweet boy.”
Peter whined, he didn’t feel sweet, there was a mounting pressure swelling behind his eyes and he had been mean to Matt, he had been bad - air was rapidly becoming scarce again.
“Pete - honey, I know you’re scared, you’re just dropping.”
“Dropping what?” He hiccuped, staring down at his shaking hands before clinging to Matt’s bicep as they backpedaled out of the bathroom.
“Emotionally, sweetheart.” Matt explained in a gentle voice, ushering Peter back to sit on the bed. Peter liked it when he talked like that, he wanted to wrap himself up in the soothing sound of Matt’s voice.
Matt joined him on the bed, close, but not touching and Peter hated that. The nearness, but blatant denial made him feel unwanted.
“You did a lot of reading today,” Matt said gently, fingers coming up to sweep at the damp hair at Peter’s hairline. Peter nodded, his head was swimming with so much he could hardly recall what he had read. Instead he just leaned into the fleeting contact of Matt’s skin on his.
“Did you happen to stumble on anything related to sub drop?” Matt asked, a featherlight finger tracing the soft skin behind Peter’s ear.
It sounded familiar and Peter gave a soft shrug, breathing was still an effort and he wanted to crawl into Matt’s lap, burrow under his skin, live inside there safe and warm.
“Okay, okay,” Matt breathed, “well, we’ve played a lot this week, haven’t we?”
Peter nodded, because they had.
“Think of all that stimulation, everything I put you through,” He added gently and Peter shivered at the overwhelming memory of it all. The sting of the flogger, the heat of Matt’s mouth moving across his skin, swallowing around him, the width of him stretching Peter open…
“Now imagine what all that excitement and all that stress did to that big, beautiful brain.”
Peter paused, blinking through wet lashes at Matt. Brains…brains were chemistry and biology, Peter knew brains.
“Th’brain releases chemicals - endorphins, dopamine, adrenaline, oxytocin…” He said in a small, drowsy voice.
Matt nodded, hazel eyes lingering in the direction of Peter’s mouth.
“Exactly,” Matt praised and Peter felt a flush of something warm begin to thaw the block of ice that had settled behind his sternum.
“All that’s happening right now is that your well’s run dry.”
“Oh.” Peter exhaled, he still felt like he could sleep for a month straight, but at least now it made sense why. He had literally run out of happy chemicals in the wet lump of meat that was his brain.
“It’s my fault,” Matt sighed deeply in that very self-flagellating way that he had come to associate with the older man, “I should’ve known better.”
Peter gave a soft sound in his throat, tugging at the heavy weight of Matt’s forearm. Matt winced like the touch was too much for him to handle and it made Peter want to cry.
“It’s easy to forget with the web-slinging and super strength that you’re not invulnerable…that you’re still human.”
The words made Peter feel fractured and fragile and so very close to breaking.
“You need rest, sweetheart.” Matt murmured fondly, letting Peter lift his hand to drop the point of his chin into the welcoming heat of Matt’s palm with calluses that tickled his boyish face.
“Okay,” Peter breathed, his limbs felt heavy and he wanted to drag Matt into the sheets with him. He stared down at himself, still dressed in his suit.
“Can we -“ his breath stalled in his throat as he glanced up at Matt, his brain still foggy, “will you lay down with me?”
Matt let out a sigh, his mouth pressed into a firm line, Peter could taste the creeping rejection.
“I’ll be good,” Peter added in a desperate little voice, he didn’t want to be alone. Matt’s features quivered, brows curved and eyes creased in a soft expression that Peter struggled to place beneath the glaze of tears in his eyes.
“I know,” Matt breathed out reverently, soft and so completely adoring, “I know you will, sweet boy.”
Peter felt sort of dizzy with relief, head swimming and sinking simultaneously. He dozed off to the sound of Matt murmuring gentle, soothing affirmations in his ear as he helped Peter out of his suit and into an old Columbia sweatshirt with scratchy, yet comforting pilling on the hem and a soft interior. Peter snuggled gratefully into the sweatshirt and under the covers.
He felt Matt join him in bed, losing the dark, bloodstained pants and thick boots he wore as the Devil, before sliding under the silk sheets.
Peter drowsily tested the waters by rasping the sole of his foot over the length of Matt’s shin, eager for closeness, for affection.
“Are you mad at me?” Peter mumbled amidst a yawn, half of his face hidden by the hood of his borrowed sweatshirt, breathing in the faint scent of Matt’s shampoo lingering on the fabric.
Matt’s expression tightened visibly even through Peter’s heavy lids.
“Not at you,” Matt sighed, “Never mad at you.”
Peter wriggled closer, tangling his legs up with Matt’s, feeling some of the pressure pressing down on the front of his skull, fading as a heavy arm draped over him; protective and possessive.
“Are you still gonna fuck my brains out on my birthday?” Peter asked, face pressed against Matt’s throat, feeling like it was the closest he could get to burrowing beneath his skin, to existing in the warm hollow of his lover’s chest.
Matt shifted against the bed, playing with Peter’s hair beneath the cover of his hood.
“Did you still want me to?” Matt asked back in that soft, considerate voice, all while dragging his fingers through the dampness of Peter’s curls.
“You could end up dropping again,” Matt added somberly, and while Peter could admit he felt like shit, it was only made bearable in the tangle of Matt’s limbs.
“I want it - want you.” Peter said with as much certainty he could muster in his current state, he was nearly certain Matt would put him through another round of questioning in the morning and every morning until his birthday, but Peter knew what he wanted.
“You might not when we’re finished,” Matt rumbled and Peter’s lashes fluttered lazily.
“You’ll take care of me,” He yawned against Matt’s throat, “you always do.” He dozed off inevitably, the call of sleep was too potent to resist, particularly as the arm draped over his waist tightened its grip.
--
They had planned a lot, talked some more over take out on the roof after Peter recovered completely.
Peter pretty much had free reign of the Kitchen, a generous four block radius to play in, and an endless number of routes he could explore during their orchestrated game. The idea of being able to go anywhere in the part of New York City the Devil called home, seemed daunting.
What if Matt wouldn’t be able to find him?
Oh, I’ll find you, Matt had assured with a smile that stirred a gust of butterflies in Peter’s belly.
He let Matt shower him with silly little things that morning with the knowledge of what the night held. Peter was too hopelessly lost on the older man to complain about the fragrant bouquet of flowers that Matt had aloofly pretended he didn’t purchase; Peter described the array of colors of each silken, dewy petal between soft, fluttering kisses to his lover’s lips.
He nearly wanted to skip his classes the day of his birthday, it wasn’t like he was in the headspace to tackle anything remotely academic, buzzing with excitement and anxiety and fear. But he knew sitting at home with that combustible mixture of emotions frothing in the pit of his stomach wasn’t the best idea either.
So, he tried his damndest to stay busy. To keep himself occupied.
It was going pretty well too, Peter had nearly forgotten it was his birthday until he had gotten back to Matt’s apartment to a stifling silence. The dishes they had eaten breakfast on were sitting in the sink, the flowers Matt had gotten him to commemorate the special day nearly appeared phantasmal in the dark.
It didn’t feel real until he spotted the undone lock dangling from the latch of the heavy old trunk Matt kept his gear in…
The lock stared back at him like a brass smile, hanging from the latch; a silent invitation. His heart pounded hard and his head swam before Peter worked up the courage to pull the lock free of the latch, tipping the trunk’s heavy lid back. It impacted the floor with a thunk, the hinges groaned and the box tipped, the barren wooden interior staring back at him. The lock clattered noisily to the ground and Peter jumped in surprise, suddenly hyperaware.
This was happening, this was really happening.
He shrugged off his backpack, slinging it onto the couch before hurrying out of the door and down the stairs.
Had Matt followed him home? Was he already watching? Peter had a hail of questions peppering his brain as he elbowed his way out onto the sidewalk.
Shadows seemed elaborately deep and light appeared flickering and wane, every sensation sent his senses screaming.
Peter stuffed his hands into the pockets of his jacket, fingers twitching and head kept low, walking along the slick sidewalk with bated breath. His cheeks felt hot and his lips lifted in a vaguely panicked smile.
He probably looked insane, he felt insane - you’re driving me crazy, he thought, pausing in the mouth of an alley, eyes lingering on a shape that his brain wildly elongated in the recesses of the dark.
Peter felt hypnotized, stuck in that spot with his brain convincing him of something that wasn’t there, his scope of focus had shrunken to that patch of darkness.
A body collided with his and Peter nearly yelped, apologizing to the terrified looking woman that had accidentally knocked into him.
His shoes squelched against the pavement, nape damp and cool from a passing drizzle that darkened the already glum evening sky.
Counting the blocks as he crossed them and jaywalking when his frantically beating heart felt like it would explode if he had to stay still a moment longer. Every shadow he passed seemed to chase him, snapping at his heels, urging him faster.
Peter liked to think of himself as observant, but he’d grown used to observing the span of Hell’s Kitchen from rooftops and perches, and casting his gaze in a hurried circle of his environment, he found himself hopelessly lost.
He tried turning back the direction he’d come from, glancing up through the drizzle, glazing everything in a haze that smelled of ozone and damp earth.
A plastic bag whisked by him on the street and Peter’s tingle burned down his nape, throbbing down his spine.
Distantly, between the wet blinking of his damp lashes and the claustrophobic space between two buildings, there was a faintly flickering street lamp. The air was dense and smelled of wet garbage, the slick suction of rain being swallowed by noisy gutters filled the air, but all Peter could focus on was the haven of the street lamp. The light…
He hurried towards it, feeling a sinking feeling swirl in his stomach as the enchanting glow became barricaded by the crosshatched links of a fence…
Glass shattered distantly, it sounded like a lazy, complacent sound amongst the rush of rain growing heavier.
He could climb a fence like that in his sleep, hell, he could scale up the walls of either building, slick as they were…
Peter chewed at his lower lip nervously, body going tense as another bottle broke closer than the last.
Heat hissing down the back of his neck as he shakily felt possessed to glance over his shoulder. So he did, moronically he did. Staring into the darkness, senses muffled in the rain, yet simultaneously unbearably alert.
The same maze of space, hard industrial edges, narrow gaps between buildings that led to an alley wide enough to accommodate a car.
Peter skirted closer to the center of the alley, palms trying desperately to grip onto the faded bricking of an old laundromat that he had passed on his way in.
Blowing out a shaky breath, that heat simmering in his belly cooled as he turned back to the fence, a scream pulling taut in his throat as a hand tangled in a lattice of knots clamped hard over his mouth. His vision blurred when his head impacted against the wall, feet kicking frantically beneath him, wet and skidding over gravel and glass.
He blinked back at the leering shadow of a man pressing him into the uncomfortably cold wall.
“Don’t scream,” A dark, snarling voice breathed into his ear, a charged warning. Peter nodded hurriedly, grateful for the cruel press of the Devil’s palm over his jaw, hiding the manic smile that stretched painfully wide over his lips.
--
The rain had been happenstance, but it hadn’t slown Matt down for a moment, no, his itsy bitsy spider had never truly left the scope of his senses.
If anything, the rain flushed him out, right into Matt’s waiting hands.
Listening to the elevated thump of Peter’s heart rate as he spun himself in dizzy circles, down this block and up that one.
His grip was harsh, a cruel twist jerking Peter’s arm behind his back, the angle was painful but not unnatural, Peter could handle it. He huffed out wet breaths and a stuttering gasp as Matt thrust him against the hard, unforgiving bricks.
Beneath the scent of rainwater, sort of earthen and dilute, Peter smelled of the bouquet Matt had gotten him, like flowers and fear.
A groan churned low in Matt’s chest, unrepentantly hungry. He made a show of pressing his nose against the boy’s damp curls, drinking in the scent with animalistic want.
Peter whimpered pathetically into Matt’s palm, twitching with faint, uninspired protests. Each little spasm pushing his body into Matt’s.
“I’m going to move my hand,” The Devil growled, “if you scream,” he explained, giving the grip he maintained on Peter’s arm a faint tug, straining towards a position that was decidedly unnatural, “you’ll regret it. Understand?”
Peter gave another frantic nod and a choked sob that shot straight to Matt’s cock. He sucked in air, panicked breaths like he’d never known the like with his face still pressed to the bricks.
“What’s your name?” The Devil demanded in a growl.
“P-peter…” The boy replied in a broken, quivering voice.
“How old are you, Peter?” The Devil asked with a rolling undertone of hunger.
The saltiness of his tears was discernible from the rain pelting them and Matt relished in it. He swallowed hard, mouth dry and tongue unresponsive.
“Eighteen…I’m eighteen.”
Matt felt a blistering wave of arousal sweep through him.
“Eighteen, that’s a special age - old enough to buy a pack of cigarettes…”
“P-please,” He slurred, “Please, sir,” his words withered into a bit of babbling, sobbing and pleading.
“I don’t have any money,” Peter managed eventually, voice thready and high.
Matt rasped out a callous laugh, “You think I want money? From you?”
The boy squirmed, gasping and thrashing against the wall, arching back into Matt’s chest in an attempt to alleviate some of the pressure he was pressing on Peter’s arm.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” He panted desperately, toes flexing when Matt loosened his grip a little, enough so that it didn’t throb, the previous discomfort had become commonplace, like the tendons and muscles had learned the elasticity the Devil demanded of him. He adapted to the pain.
“You’re angry,” Peter heaved, “I’m sorry,” he lathed in that sweet voice, arching back into Matt’s chest along with his apology.
“Eighteen is a special age, Peter,” The Devil drawled again, “In the eyes of the law you’re an adult, funny isn’t it, probably doesn’t feel like it, does it? Still a kid at heart, aren’t you, Pete?”
The boy gave a halfhearted nod.
“I just, I don’t know what you want, sir, I’m not a criminal-”
Peter’s words were cut off as Matt’s hand clamped over his mouth, harsh breaths were snorted out through Peter’s nostrils with Matt’s firm grip over his mouth.
Peter bit the inside of his lip, the scent of copper wafted through the humid air.
“You want to know what I want?” The Devil growled in the boy’s ear, feeling him nod into the clutch of his palm, “I’ll show you.”
He seized Peter’s body back like a puppet on strings, guiding him to the hard jut of Matt’s erection, letting the heavy threat pulsing between his thighs grind against the inseam of Peter’s khakis.
“The world’s a scary place, huh?” Matt mocked as he let Peter squirm and cry on the bulge of his erection, “It’s full of people that’ll treat you like a kid if you let ‘em. But don’t you worry, Peter, I know the truth, I would never treat you that way - I’ll turn you into a man.”
Matt released the arm he had pinned behind Peter’s back, deftly clutching him in a headlock as the rush of sensation flooded his newly released arm. The boy spasmed, clawed at the ropes on Matt’s forearm.
“You can thank me later,” Matt hummed, slinging Peter’s weight down into the dirt.
--
Peter listened to the thump of approaching footsteps, his head swam beneath the rain and the stinging rush of oxygen, and sensation, so much sensation.
He dug his nails into the crumbly mix of dirt and rain and asphalt, clambering on hands and knees towards the distantly blinking street lamp through the chain link fence.
His cheek was swollen, tingling with the first dredges of healing as he crawled towards the fence.
The wet thunder of footsteps got closer, his nape was on fire, his tingle hadn’t stopped tingling. He hiccuped out a sound as a hard hand covered in ropes seized him by the scruff of his neck, dragging him forward until he clattered noisily against the chain link fence. Nose and chin pressing uncomfortably against the metal, hearing it screech and scrape against the wet mix of asphalt and run-off. He stared at the winking street lamp through the gaps in the fence, mourning the safety visible in that tempting ring of light.
Peter hardly had time to register the sound before he was spun around, back pressed to the fence with a towering body that looked infinitely larger from the ground standing over him.
A hand gripped his jaw like he wanted to pry it away from the rest of Peter’s face, he blinked up at the ghoulish shadow of man - at the Devil.
Fear writhed cold and slippery in his stomach.
The Devil dealt with his belt with his free hand, letting the clasp of his pants fall open and a sigh to be hissed in a visible cloud between his teeth.
“Please,” Peter cried, grunting when a hand struck him effortlessly, the ropes left a throbbing burn beneath his left eye before the same hand reaffirmed the cruel grip on his jaw.
“Peter,” The Devil chastised, “I’m doing this for your own good.”
Something hot and something icy warred within him, cyclically, freezing and thawing his blood as he dazedly stared up at the swell of the Devil’s erection straining beneath the fabric of his jeans. He wasn’t doing this to him, he was doing this for him.
A hand dipped into the clinging, wet fabric of Matt’s dark pants, stroking at his erection, not that that particular fire needed anymore kindling. Peter squirmed, hot tears spilled down his cheeks, the grip on his face made the scrape beneath his eye sting.
“You bite me and I break your jaw,” The Devil warned as he pulled his erection out with a hiss, working a coarse handful of knots over the daunting length. It must’ve hurt, Peter thought, watching as the Devil stroked himself with a hand covered in rope, the sight made something sympathetic squirm in Peter’s belly.
“Understand?” The Devil asked and Peter attempted a teary nod.
A whine bubbled low in Peter’s throat as the same hand holding his jaw forced it open, rain water hit his tongue, tasting of ozone and minerals.
It was nearly like a palette cleanser, a calm before the storm, as the broad head of the Devil’s want touched his tongue. The taste corrupted his mouth, chasing the fleeting faint notes of ozone and minerals away and replacing them with the salt and musk of skin. The syrupy slickness of pre-come sinking into his taste buds threatened to short-circuit his brain, his mind going foggy, pleasant and powdery and pink, with dirt beneath his nails and a smarting scrape under his eye.
He could feel himself slipping into the right headspace, shimmery and silken and outside his own body as more want saturated his tongue.
He pushed at the bulk of the Devil’s thigh vainly, feeling the sting of open-palmed strike against his cheek.
He wanted to hiss, but the Devil didn’t leave much room, sinking comfortably into the velvety clutch of Peter’s mouth.
“There you go,” The Devil groaned, the blunt tip of his cock pushing at the back of Peter’s throat was like pressing an off switch. Peter gurgled around the Devil’s length in his mouth, urging at the flimsy film of flesh until the boy’s throat welcomed him. His hands remained braced on the vigilante’s thighs, but he didn’t fight, just drowsily let the man do what he wanted - take what he wanted.
Peter swallowed around the intrusion, feeling a hot flex of taut flesh pushing at his throat.
Both heavy hands, twined thick with rope settled on Peter’s head, and for a moment he had deluded himself into miscontrusting it as affection. The moment didn’t last when the Devil’s grip turned mean and he started to thrust.
Peter gagged suddenly and violently as the vigilante started to fuck his throat, roughly and without warning. Drool dribbled down his chin and his eyes watered angrily, the forceful wet sound of the heaving length of the Devil’s cock punching into the hot clamp of his throat filled the air.
It was all Peter could hear, it wouldn’t come as a surprise if other people could too. Curious heat spiraled in his churning belly.
His jaw ached and his knees throbbed as his throat was violated. The Devil didn’t take pity, but eventually pulled out, a long ugly trail of slime from Peter’s throat clung viscous and wet to his cock. Peter panted against the man’s thighs, shuddering and sweating as he gagged on nothingness, his body still feeling the trauma of the Devil railing away at his throat.
He stared up at the man through tears, deliriously empty headed. He swallowed and the burn of his used throat made him heave again, nearly slumping into the dirt. A part of him wanted to slow down, wanted to go home where the heater worked and cold wind didn’t whip at his back beneath wet clothes, where Matt could use him at his leisure and Peter could use his colors.
There were no colors in the inky darkness with the Devil. Peter’s cock gave a lazy twitch.
“If you vomit, I’m really going to hurt you,” The Devil threatened and Peter swallowed thickly, feeling the ache of his throat more sharply with the threat in mind. Peter briefly wondered what real hurt looked like, if he hadn’t seen it already.
He was roughly torn up from the ground, like a weed being pulled, before he was thrown against the fence. His fingers flexed lazily through the gaps in the fence, wriggling when a hard hand pulled at his pants.
“Please,” Peter rasped, his voice sounded weak and worn in his own ears, “Please, don’t-”
“Don’t, what?” The Devil growled in annoyance, dragging a possessive hand over Peter’s hip and over the obtrusive fabric of his pants.
“Please don’t…I can take them off,” Peter stammered, cheeks flushed hot as he stared down at the distressing state of his semi starting to plump up through the wet material of his khakis.
The Devil laughed something cruel into Peter’s ears.
“Fucking whore,” He lathed and Peter’s cock flexed again, “You’re not begging me to not rape you,” Peter flinched at the word, but he was stupidly erect, “You’re begging me to leave your clothes intact.”
He almost sounded surprised, amused, excited, beneath his near constant degradation.
“You want it so bad, dontcha, sweetheart?” The pet name sounded far from fond, it was nearly antagonizing and Peter shook his head stubbornly, childish tears clinging in his eyes.
“I don’t-” Peter swore, whimpering as a hand braced hard against the front of his khakis. The silent threat was there, lingering between the heavy breaths.
“Beg for it,” The Devil commanded hoarsely, when Peter hesitated, the hand clutching at the front of his pants pulled at the seams hard enough to make a few stitches pop. His point was illustrated beautifully. He loathed the idea of having to walk home in the rain stripped bare, perhaps that was a line he wouldn’t have crossed. So, he’d do whatever the Devil asked if it meant retaining that simple dignity.
“Beg me to fuck you,” he said again and Peter babbled.
“Please,” He swallowed, the words stung the back of his throat like bile, “Please, fuck me, sir, please - I n-need you inside of me.”
He knew the shaky, choked up words were about the farthest thing from any resembling seduction. He must’ve said something right because Peter's face was shoved back against the fence with an impatient grunt, a dimpled masculine chin dug into his shoulder.
“Hurry up,” The Devil spat, and Peter’s hands shook gratefully to undo the slippery button.
“You have three seconds,” Peter’s brain was pulsing, his heart was pounding, his hands wouldn’t stop shaking.
“Two seconds,” The vigilante grunted, one hand braced against the fence next to Peter’s head, rattling it distractingly.
“One,” The Devil growled as Peter finally managed to push the button through the wet material of pants. Feeling a rush of relief shooting to his head as he undid the zipper and tugged at the sodden fabric.
“You are my fucking whore,” The other man said harshly and Peter’s chin quivered and his cock flexed as he lowered the fabric to his knees, “Undressing for me…”
His underwear soon followed and the rain stung sharply on his bare bottom. A rough hand shoved him against the fence, crude fingers pried him open as the searing head of the Devil’s cock pressed at the clenched cleft of his entrance.
“Peter,” The vigilante rasped, “You know better than to fight me.”
Peter gave a shaky nod against the fence, trying to will some of the tension twisting in his body to leave. It didn’t. The Devil didn’t seem to care.
He maintained his grip on the fence, the other hand on Peter’s hip, urging the bloated head of his cock into the stubborn ring of muscle. Feeling the tip breach him, popping inside of his snug hole, Peter whimpered a broken sound, glittery striations of pleasure and pain bolting down his legs.
A guttural sound was wrung of the man forcing his way inside, spasming muscles trying to urge him out, but he didn’t relent…and Peter knew better than to fight.
By the time he was full seated, buried deep inside, Peter’s face was flush with the fence, his cock was going soft and drooling. More vibrant bolts of pleasure-pain pulsed through him from the waist down.
He was clinging to the fence just like his hole was clinging to the cock stuffed inside of him. The first rock of the Devil’s hips had him drifting outside of his body, outside of his pleasure, outside of his pain, drifting - floating on a tidal wave of chemical bliss.
Another thrust and he was gasping, feeling violent momentum ramming against his prostate.
His body arched and the Devil laughed, cruel and taunting.
“Say it,” He urged and Peter slurred, feeling so desperately lost in his own mind, so stupidly eager to please his attacker at the cost of his sanity.
“Say you’re my whore - admit it,” The Devil growled breathlessly, thrusting into Peter’s entrance, ravaging the snug muscle into elastic submission.
Peter puffed out a breath, his face hitting the fence as the vigilante used him, “I’m-” He began, but degradation urged his mouth shut. He bit down on his tongue until he tasted blood, feeling his body shift forward and back, torn apart on the Devil’s want. A vessel for pleasure.
“Say. It.”
He punctuated each word with a jarring thrust, like the impact of a bullet, sending jagged bits of shrapnel and desire cutting through him.
“I’m y-your whore,” Peter sobbed defeatedly against the fence, hearing the wires scritch and scratch against the floor as he collapsed under a want so pervasive and ugly.
“I’m your whore,” He yelped again with more certainty, wantonly letting his back arch while his fingers fit in the gaps in the fence.
“You’re my fucking whore,” The Devil panted, low and crazed as he pounded into Peter.
Peter’s toes flexed inside of his shoes, enduring a pleasure so agonizing it threatened to burst his already buckling seams.
His cock had gone stiff again between his thighs, feeling himself stretched over the want of the other man pressed into him, filling him. The blunt tip of the Devil’s cock brutalized Peter’s prostate.
A heavy hand knotted thick with coarse ropes strummed at Peter’s erection, making the boy squirm and sob and squeeze tight and vice-like over the want stretching him open.
“Go ahead, Peter,” The Devil grunted between his teeth, working up a sweat pounding into the boy’s velvety clutch, “come all over my cock like the whore you are.”
And he did. He was so deep in the headspace, shimmering, floating, his body had gone limp, a little toy for the Devil to entertain himself with.
Come splashed down his thigh and Peter’s body tingled with numbness and hypersensitivity. The Devil laughed cruelly in his ear, whispering all manner of ugly insults as he used the boy, Peter dazedly let every word drift into his thoughtless mind.
“Please,” Peter croaked in a thoroughly dick-drunk voice, trying to unscramble the mess his attacker had made of his brain, “Please…”
He was begging for something, without prompting, without antagonizing.
“Please, what?” The Devil rasped, slowing his thrusts into a pointed grind, pressing down unforgivingly on Peter’s abused prostate.
“P-please,” He panted, so thoroughly ruined beyond repair, “Please come.” He pleaded with a quivering chin and teary eyes and a fluttering hole. He needed it, viscerally, like a balm for his broken soul.
The Devil let out a deep sound, low and animalistic, that launched Peter further into that fuzzy pink place in his mind. He seized Peter’s body back, a bruising grip tightened crushingly on his hip as the Devil used him with frightening vigor.
Distantly he heard the grumble of an engine, but was too far gone to react.
His whole being threatened to spill through the gaps in the fence as he finally registered the flash of colors through the fence.
The fickle flare of blue and red. oh.
He was seized back over the lip of the building beside the chain link fence, pulled flush over the Devil’s cock buried inside of him. His body was sprawled back against the other man’s chest, eyes rolling back as a hand clapped over his mouth, silencing him as they trembled through a shared orgasm. His toes curled as he felt a hot torrent of the other man’s whitehot release spilling into him.
Come dribbled down his thoroughly used hole, milky and thick, even with the vigilante’s cock still plugging him up.
Peter could hardly see, he hardly wanted to, his body felt so deliciously detached.
“Thank me,” The Devil demanded in a chilling whisper that urged some energy back into Peter’s limp body.
Licking his lips, Peter had never felt anything come to him more naturally than the words his tormentor wanted to hear.
“Thank you, sir.”
And Peter meant it. God, he meant it.
--
He woke up to an indulgent breakfast in bed and tingling limbs swaddled in Matt’s Columbia sweatshirt the next morning, safe and sound.
“How are you feeling?” Matt asked tenderly, feeding Peter bits of fluffy french toast and vibrant, tart slivers of strawberry.
“Like a very lucky boy,” Peter hummed with a deliriously happy smile as he chewed another bite of his breakfast.
“The luckiest?” Matt asked in return, a hopeful lilt to his voice that enamored Peter like nothing else.
Peter reached over his plate to tug Matt forward, rumpling some of the sheets and nearly toppling the beautiful stack of french toast and strawberries - thankfully Matt’s reflexes compensated even as Peter pulled him into a needy kiss.
“The luckiest.” Peter agreed giddily, feeling Matt’s smile widen against his lips.
“Happy Birthday, sweet boy.”
#my writing#matt murdock#peter parker#matt murdock x peter parker#daredevil fanfiction#spider man fanfiction#spideydevil
11 notes
·
View notes
Text
AOT Characters’ Modern Jobs Headcanon; The Vets Edition!
The jobs that The Vets would have in modern!au, their workplace antics and their back story. There might be some inaccuracies when describing the job as obviously I don’t work at these industries to know its intricacies. Most of the jobs are office jobs. Enjoyyyy!
My Masterlist .::. Pt. II: Zeke Yeager’s Modern Jobs Headcanon
Most recent work: Dream Me Home (Before Shiganshina) | reader x erwin smith
A/N: I really need to finish a presentation deck due tonight for an early morning meeting tomorrow but of course, this comes first hahaha
erwin!
A/N: Basically lawyer!erwin is the way to go, innit?
He's in his 40s, so he may have a settled career
He came from a white-collar, middle-class family. So he wasn’t silverspoon-fed, but his parents had enough money to put him through good school
Got a scholarship to go to one of the nation’s finest law schools
Kept it lowkey in college’s social circle, graduated with summa cum laude, developed a strong academic relation with his professor, and got recommended for an internship at top law firm at the capital city
Starting his career as a corporate lawyer, but then built his expertise as white-collar crime attorney
In his early 30s, he represented a union suing against conglomerate corporation in a big case that had national coverage, from then on he began to know his calling
Expanding his portfolio and became well-known for defending workers, consumers and civilians against corporate fraud scheme
Currently doing a lot of pro-bono cases for deprived victims of big corporate fraud. You would see him frequently gracing your local newspaper we love us some socialist king
On the side, he often writes for law journal and fills in as guest professor at local universities for summer courses
Established his own law firm with some of his partners, specializing in white collar crime and labor & employment law
He’s damn accomplished, but never really had any time for self-indulgence. Even after he becomes a household name in the country, with tens of attorneys working under him, his employees would still see him working on New Year’s Eve
He was always attentive to his employees, though. Although he has a very strict, borderline no-life work ethics, he never forces his employees to follow his habit, in fact he despises when his employees works on holidays and can be seen blaming himself for it a bit of a hypocrite but thats ok
He still takes metro to work. He prefers a very lowkey, ordinary lifestyle because he fears if he shows any knack for indulgence, he will be susceptible to gratification from potential enemies or crooked politicians
Definitely a sight to see at the workplace, for he's tall and always oozes a sense of authority in the way he speaks and carries himself generally
His emotional intelligence is top-notch, you would never meet someone who is able to be very objective and calculating, while being kind and compassionate at the same time
His fellow attorneys put a lot for respect for him, and hundreds of applicants come to his considerably small firm every week, because a lot of aspiring attorney find him inspiring to work with
He wasn’t oblivious to his shiny reputation, but he’s trying his hardest to not let the compliments get to his head. Sometimes he doesn’t give himself enough credit for it
Was approached by one of the political party’s committee to run for local senate, but turned it down
basically he’s perfect if you like a man who’s never home for christmas
Hange!
A/N: Ok ok, I really wanna see Paleontologist!Hange because it has always been my fave dream job, but I want Hange to be out and about with people so here it is
Hange is the type to be incredibly good at one thing, that she will dedicate her whole life for that pursuit, but will be awfully oblivious to a whole lot of things (not intentional of course, they just have a very limited attention span) (they wouldn’t know who kanye west is or what tiktok is)
Like Erwin, they came from a middle-class family. While Erwin’s parents might have been teachers, accountants or other common profession, Hange came from a family of academician and researchers
Hange studied Human Geography at uni, but later found passion specifically in its relation to industrialization and urban development
Hange aims to advocate for a better living condition for workforce, and nearby inhabitants of industrialized city detroit would be a beautiful city if only they let hange designed it
Hange is a professor at university, where they also led a non-profit research think-thank that also serves as pressure group for better government policy.
The university that Hange teaches in, is also the uni where Erwin teaches in summer. They’re close-knitted colleagues as they share similar passion. Erwin relies on Hange a lot for some intellectual insights to help his cases
Hange is relentless in their cause, you may find Hange everywhere! From street protest to a hearing in the government court. They are passionate and will do anything for the cause they believe in
Hange was once hired by the government as an independent consultant for a new housing project, but left because they grew to be frustrated by the government’s bureaucracy and their outward reluctance to follow Hange's recommendation
Hange spends a lot of time overseas, consulting and advocating development in newly industrialized countries
On Hange’s birthday, her fellow researchers surprised them with a ‘pampering day’ where they took them to an optometrist because Hange had been complaining about their eyesight for a YEAR that gave them a lot of migraines, but was always either too busy or too lazy to go
Hange never really considers themselves as working, because they enjoy their job very much. Hange likes to spend months observing a community, talking to people for hours, and trying their best in understanding their problem
Out of so many great qualities that Hange has as a researcher that meets different set of people everyday, prejudice or preconceived judgment is completely absent in Hange’s demeanor and perspective
Hange doesn’t get a lot of free-time, even if they do, they’d wander around the city to do a little observation. But when the weather’s bad and they’re stuck at home with their pet lizard, they would logged into Quora to answer random internet questions
They’re an avid writer for National Geographic, and one time Hange won a pitch to make a documentary about an industrial city project they were working on
After the docu-series got broadcasted, Hange gained a small but passionate and loyal fans on the internet. You could even find a subreddit dedicated for Hange’s works
for real I want to be Hange. I want to have that kind of passion in life
levi!
A/N: I spent a lot of times thinking about Levi’s job in modern!au. Because here’s the thing, either we adopt his unfortunate childhood into its modern!au equivalent, or let’s just recreate his whole upbringing. But I think his personality stems from a specific things he experienced during childhood, so let’s not dismiss that.
Levi came from a struggling working class family. I reckon his parents might have had worked multiple jobs to sustain their living expense. Unfortunately they both passed away when Levi was very little, and left little to no inheritance
Levi’s parents were not close to their extended family, so when they died, Levi was admitted to the system and had to brace several foster families who didn’t really pay attention to him
Little Levi had come to realize that life’s all about survival and so he had been able to fend on for himself since very young age, he never asked for things
His uncle, Kenny, finally won custody over Levi when he was in elementary. Kenny made money from small-scale racketeering here and there. Levi never asked what he did for living, as long as he got food to eat and tuition paid off
Kenny was emotionally absent, but he loved spending time with the oddly quiet little child, teaching him a lot of crafts, from carpentering to how to flay pig’s skin
Levi didn’t really care about getting into college, and thought that he’d probably end up working for his uncle, so he put his bare minimum throughout school, although he was really good with numbers, especially in math, accounting and finance
One time in high school, Levi’s teacher asked him to sign up for the olympiad team, Levi turned it down because he thought that was a rich kid thing
He didn’t even apply for college, and worked odd jobs after high school. Probably working as cashiers or assistant to retail shop’s owner for couple of years, enough for him to afford a cheap studio apartment on his own
One of his bosses came to acknowledge Levi’s talent, and trusted him to handle the company’s accounting
By sheer luck, the company hit it big, and Levi found himself running the day-to-day accounting of mid-sized business with over 300 employees
He made good money already without a college degree, but with a new-found confidence Levi applied for uni, where he chose to study accounting (of course)
Although he was confident with his skills, he understood he needed to widen his horizon and network -- thus uni
Levi was one of the oldest members of his cohort in uni, but graduated with highest distinction
After graduating, with his skills and experience, it wasn’t hard for Levi to score a job at top accounting firm
There, he discovered an interest for forensic accounting, where through audits, analysis and investigation, he basically finds out if a company is doing fraud and embezzlement or not
This is where he came to know and get acquainted with Erwin and Hange (yippie they’re together again)
The firm he works for was assigned to investigate the finances of a troublesome company that had been sued by its workers for a jeopardizing working condition. Erwin was on the case, and Levi helped him with evidences for legal proceeding.
By chance, Erwin introduced Levi to Hange. At first, Levi would find Hange annoying and overtly energized, but after learning the things they have done, Levi grew to appreciate Hange’s passion (and secretly wants to have more of his positive outlook)
Levi is fucking good his job. In short amount of time, he could get a really ideal position in the office. He was almost foolproof, finding even the tiniest bit of discrepancy in his audit. He’d get assigned to the big league case/project.
Although really good at his job, he’s not a social person, especially in his office. He couldn’t understand the lavish lifestyle that finance and banking people often lead. He will only show up to office party if it is really necessary for him to show up (usually to receive some kind of informal awards for, again, being so fucking good)
He leads a no-bullshit attitude at the office, largely because of his background. He is a self-made man, and is not easy to impress by some young executives from posh school that talk bigger than they can chew
His cold, seemingly dismissive attitude gained him a reputation of being scary, when actually he is very considerate
One of the things he enjoys doing is to actually teach, he really likes when a new kid at the office come to him with none of that pretentious, big talk, and really asks for his guidance. He would love to teach you a thing or two
He would frequently check on his mentee, just to keep up with their development
And he doesn’t take credit too. When his mentee makes a milestone, he believes it’s 100% your work
If you’re his mentee, he probably doesn’t give a crap about your personal life, so don’t expect him to make small talk about that (and don’t ask him about his personal life either). But he really cares about your skill and career development
Same with Erwin, he leads a very ordinary lifestyle. He doesn’t go out often and would rather reading detective novel with his cat on the couch
He likes to spend Sunday at Uncle Kenny’s house, because he finds himself worried about the old man very often. They became close as Levi grew
Overall, Levi is a really kind and caring person if you know how not to push his button
#aot#snk#aot headcanons#snk headcanons#aot modern au#levi ackerman#hange zoë#erwin smith#modern headcanon#lawyer erwin smith#professor hange zoe#accountant levi ackerman#attack on titan#shingeki no kyojin#kojin writes
167 notes
·
View notes
Text
The North Star - Part One: Moments (NSFW) - Terry Bruno x Reader
Welcome to mine and @the-hinky-panda The Bronx universe featuring our favs Terry Bruno & Mike Duarte.
This story takes place several years after 'Blood Out'. Terry still lives in the Bronx and works in Manhatten SVU.
Following on from @the-hinky-panda story 'The Dog' Mike has retired from the NYPD on medical grounds due to seizures causes by the attack. He has a therapy dog called Bono and lives with @the-hinky-panda character Meredith.
Tagging: @mysoulisasunflower @legit9thlunaticwarrior @bbyxoo @the-adzukibean @xoxabs88xox @crazy4chickennuggets @beardedbarba @wooshwastaken @justreblogginfics @im-just-a-mississippi-girl @storiesofsvu @anime-weeb-4-life
There were a thousand different things that Terry loved about you; it would take an age to list them all, but it started with the way you said his name.
Terry…
It was a sweet drawl emitting from your lips as your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging just a little. He moaned at the sensation, pleasure erupting through his synapses as he moved inside of you with slow, deliberate strokes.
“Oh, pretty girl, the things you’re doing to me.” He mumbled against your mouth, his thumb skating over the apple of your cheek as his lips brushed over yours once more. You whimpered against his stubbled jaw as he hit that deviant little spot inside you, the one that made your hips arch and your body tighten. “You got me right where you want me.” He whispered. “So, fucking in love with you, I can’t tell which way is up.”
You keened for him, your core gripping him like a velvet fist as that beautiful rose flush blossomed across your cheeks. It was bliss, pure unadulterated bliss and it shot through his veins like a narcotic stealing away as his breath as you climaxed. It was the most magnificent fucking thing he’d ever seen. Lips parted, head tilted back into the pillow, sensuous body taut underneath his. It was perfection frozen in a single moment.
The thing about Terry, he collected these moments, treasuring every single one of them.
----------------------------------------------------------------------
The problem with early morning wake up calls was that they always made you late. In the aftermath of this morning’s love making, you’d fallen asleep in Terry’s arms, your naked form draped across his chest, his fingertips combing through your hair. There had always been something about him that soothed you, he was the only man that made you feel loved and cherished. The only person that made you feel safe.
You were a flurry of motion and activity, damp hair pulled back into a messy bun that somehow coordinated with the tailored grey blazer you were pulling on over a white V-neck shirt that clung to your form. That tiny gold compass hung on a slender chain around your throat, a pinprick diamond glinting in the light from the cluster of Edison light bulbs that hung from the black fixtures in the ceiling.
So that you can always find your way, he had smiled when he’d given it to you for your birthday.
It was beautiful and understated, just like you.
Terry couldn’t help but be fascinated by your actions as he stood in the kitchen decanting a cafetiere of Cuban blend coffee into your polka dot travel mug. You were always a pleasure to watch, a purposeful whirlwind that had entered his life out of nowhere. He hadn’t been looking for love when he’d met you, he wasn’t looking for anything but there you were, a Sergeant in the Bronx Homicide Unit. The instant you shook hands it was like a lightning bolt had struck him, it was a raw dynamic feeling, a stirring of something more and suddenly saw the potential. He started to envision a future. He’d been living in the moment for so long after Rose had left him, he’d forgotten what it looked like to move forward. That had been almost two years ago, and he hadn’t looked back since.
“What?” You said glancing up at him, shoving some of the paperwork you had been working on into your black leather satchel.
“Nothing.” He said, a small smile twitching at his lips as he leaned on the counter. “I just like having you around.”
“I like being around.” You responded, clipping your badge to your belt.
“Maybe we should make it more permanent.”
You paused for a moment, tilting your head to look at him. There was silence between you, he sensed your hesitancy before he nodded his understanding.
“Terry I…”
The words lodged in your throat; you couldn’t seem to spit them out. They grew in your chest like an ache, swelling until you tasted copper on your tongue. It was a rush of adrenaline, your heart pounding in your chest as your back hit the wall, the shatter of glass falling around your head.
“It’s alright.” Terry said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I get it.”
He didn’t and you couldn’t explain. He picked up the keys before grabbing your travel mug, the matching polka dot lunch bag clung over his shoulder as he pulled open the apartment door and gestured for you to step through it.
“Come on, I don’t want to make you late.”
Love Terry Bruno? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.
Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee
63 notes
·
View notes
Last Seen Blogs
haly-reads
halin
fyhendrikduryn
Hendrik Duryn Gifs
cinnamonsakura666
Fandoms are my drug
hornymono
🌻дильк
jadedaceofspades
👑🍯🐝