#who makes a will when they're sixteen you might ask

[halogalopaghost]

TIL that you can assign an AO3 next of kin to control your account in case of your death???

#ao3 #this is actually really neat #I had a will at one point that included passwords and usernames specifically for my sister so she could manage certain social media #including my fanfic accounts #if anything happened to me #I need to update it it's been like...idk a decade #who makes a will when they're sixteen you might ask #ppl who want to be dead I will answer very seriously while shaking my bottle of SSRI like a baby rattle

[wynnyfryd]

Trailer park Steve AU part 10

part 1 | part 9 | ao3

cw: recreational drinking

When they get to Eddie’s trailer, Steve’s mom is sitting on the couch, eyes unblinking as she watches the TV.

There’s just static on the screen.

“Steve?” she slurs when she finally realizes they’re there. Sways a little when she stands. There’s a dreamy quality to her voice, a blank look on her tired face: agreeable but distant, a smudge of campfire smoke curling far over the trees.

Double-dosed her pills again. Jesus Christ.

“Oh, Stevie, baby, it was just awful.” She reaches out for him, and he wishes he could find comfort in the way she cups his elbows with delicate hands. Wishes he could lean into her touch and offer comfort in return, but her tone is so dull and mild that bile rises in his throat. Chemical calm bullshit, and Steve has had enough.

“Ma, just…” he sighs, shrugging her off. Scrubs a hand over his face. Too young and too old for this. “Just go home, okay?” The street is quiet again, all the neighbors tucked back in their houses now that the show has run its course. He doesn’t think anyone will notice her stumbling across the road. “Get some rest. I’ll be over in a bit.”

“Sure, baby.” He leads her to the door, and she turns there on the threshold, eyes glassy and unfocused; looks through him like he’s a ghost. Then her gaze shifts around the room — the hats, the mugs, the clutter; the lived-in explosion of color that Steve’s annoyed he likes so much — like she’s just seeing it all for the first time, and absently, she murmurs, “This place is dreadful, isn’t it?”

“Mom.”

“Hmm?” she asks, but she’s already drifting out the door.

Steve’s face is on fire. He stands there for a moment, just staring dumbly out into the dark. What the hell is wrong with her??

Behind him, Eddie snorts. "Oh, she’s on the good shit, huh?”

Steve whips his head around. Eddie’s eyes are full of mirth, his dimple peeking out, and it startles a laugh out of Steve. He thinks maybe he’d take offense if he weren't so busy being mortified.

But also, like.

It is a little funny.

Or maybe it’s so unfunny that it circles back around.

“Jesus, man,” he huffs, “Sorry. I don’t— I don’t know why she…”

“S’fine,” Eddie says with a casual flick of his wrist. Seems like he means it. He rocks back on his heels, hands in his back pockets, just sort of eyeing Steve up. Assessing. Running his tongue over his lips. They're big, for a guy's. “…You want a beer?”

“Fuck.” That sounds so nice. “Yeah. Please.”

“Have a seat.”

Steve takes the offer when Eddie nods at the couch, too tired to do the whole song and dance of ‘oh heavens no, I couldn’t possibly impose.’ Who’s got the energy for that?

The couch is old. His skull thuds against the un-cushioned back when he sinks down into it, but he’s too tired to care. Worn out as the lumpy springs under his ass, the frayed fabric beneath his arm. A wave of exhaustion rattles his bones, reverberates in his teeth. He thinks he could sleep for sixteen years.

Eddie clears his throat when he comes back with the beers, a sudden cautiousness about him as he hands Steve an unopened can like Steve might claw him in return.

"Sit down," Steve rolls his eyes. "I'm not gonna bite."

Eddie makes a strangled noise. The springs bounce as he plops onto the seat beside Steve, sitting sideways with one leg up on the couch between them, his arm resting on the back. "So, ah...." He gives a wavering chuckle; pulls a lock of hair across his face to hide himself. "Is this the part where I formally apologize for trying to knife you?"

Ugh. No the fuck it isn't. Steve’s too drained for it, absolutely at capacity for more serious shit this evening, thanks; and besides that, it was...

Whatever. It's old news.

Instead of giving a real answer he reaches into his pocket, snicks his own knife open and pretends to brandish it at Eddie, asking, "Eye for an eye?"

Eddie's eyes go huge. "Dude, what the fuck??"

"Just fucking with you," Steve laughs, lifting the can up to his mouth. "But there; now we're even. Shoulda seen your face."

“Ah—!” Eddie’s jaw drops in offense. “Ex-cuse you!”

God, of course he’s more dramatic than all the kids combined.

Steve jabs the knife into his beer, pops the top and starts to chug, throat working as he gulps the whole thing down in four big sips. It tastes like frothy, bitter piss, but it's cold and it soothes the scratch in his throat.

Eddie lets out a low whistle. "Well, goddamn, Harrington."

"Is that supposed to impress me?" "You're not?"

Steve grins and wipes his mouth.

—

They get drunk pretty fast (Eddie refused to be upstaged in his own house, so one shot-gunned beer became two became four), and somewhere along the line the conversations get weird; hilarious and dumb. Saying shit just to say it, chipping away at the ice wall between them with bare fingernails.

Eddie hollers some shit like: "What are you even talking about?" and his arms fling out wide, almost spilling his beer. "The deep sea is so much scarier than the mountains!"

"Are you joking?" Steve throws back. "The mountains have, like, giant cats and shit! Birds of prey with wingspans the size of your van."

"Yeah, and the deep sea has eldritch monsters that live in volcano vents and hunt with no eyes and eat their young for fun or whatever the fuck. You ever heard of an anglerfish? Or a phantom anglerfish? Tell me that shit isn't right out of a Lovecraft story."

"A what story?"

"How am I the one who hasn’t graduated yet?"

Then later:

“Dude, Batman? Seriously?”

“He’s the world’s greatest detective!”

“He’s a greasy little weirdo. You only like him because of your whole…” Steve gestures at his tattoos.

“Whatever, Spiderfan.”

And later still:

"Okay, okay, okay. Fuck, marry, kill... Shit. Y’know this would really be easier in a town where so many people hadn’t died."

Steve grimaces at himself; expects Eddie to call him out. It’s too insensitive, too soon.

Eddie just cracks a grin and suggests, "Fuck, marry, revive?"

—

They talk for a long time. Eddie's kind of charming when he's not being a dick. A nice smile, deep laugh lines. Steve can almost see why the kids are so obsessed with him. He's never met someone so animated; feels like he's talking to a Saturday morning cartoon. The conversation mellows out after a while, and he doesn't realize he's dozed off until Eddie shakes him awake.

"Hey, man," he says, voice just above a whisper. "I'm going to bed. You're welcome to crash on the couch, but, uh,” he scratches the back of his neck, “I mean, your back is probably gonna hate you for it."

Steve rubs his fists against his eyelids and blinks himself awake. Feels jittery and weird, yanked out of the start of a bad dream. When he looks up he sees that he’s got his shoes up on the couch; and there’s dried drool on his chin, and all at once he feels embarrassed, off-balance and panicked like he missed the last step down a steep flight of stairs. Of course he's overstayed his welcome. He's being fucking rude. "My bad," he mutters as he jumps up off the couch. Stands up way too fast, makes his vision tilt and swirl. "I'll get out of your hair."

Eddie reaches for his arm. "Dude,” he says, “you're fine. You can stay if you want.”

Steve moves out of his hold. “Nah, get some sleep; I’ll see ya around.”

Eddie frowns at him, a little furrow between his brows, and somehow Steve feels like he’s in the wrong, like Eddie isn’t the one who just kicked him out.

Like maybe Steve’s just running away for a second time in one night. Always back and away, this guy.

Who's the fucking coward now?

—

part 11

y'all know the drill, tagging whoever commented on yesterday's installment provided your tumblr settings let me <;3 @thealwithnoname @violetsteve @manda-panda-monium @stuftzombie @bronwenmarie @aliea82 @slowandsteddie @acedorerryn @anne-bennett-cosplayer @ahsokatanoss @steveshairspray @hallucinatedjosten @estrellami-1 @ppunkpuppyy @stevesbipanic @silver-snaffles @yourmom-isgay @eddie-munsons-missing-nipple @zombiecreatures @im-a-disgrace-to-humanity @faery-god @hotluncheddie @runninriot @a-little-unsteddie @teatimeeverybody @newtstabber @pearynice @hellion-child @cuips-not-cute @steddieas-shegoes @steves-strapcollection @loguine-linguine @griefabyss69

#trailer park steve au #steddie #steddie fic #steve harrington #eddie munson #tw: alcohol #tw: drinking

[caesium-55]

—everything is orange. [ i ]

pairing: lando norris x kpop idol! reader

summary: a racecar driver who needed a fake girlfriend to dispel rumors and a kpop idol who needed publicity for her song. somewhere in between orange cars and orange sunsets, stands something they're afraid of naming.

author's note: i wont take tags for this im sorry 😭 also, i changed the faceclaim

masterlist.

The room is dimly lit. You didn't like dim lighting. It reminds you of your childhood bedroom. A barely functioning lightbulb hanging on the ceiling, your mother never bothering to change it. You were too short to change it yourself. You asked your neighbor once to do it for you but he had asked for a night with you in exchange so you kicked him out of the house before he could change the light bulb. You chose to study under the sucky light which became the reason behind your poor eyesight today.

You sit on a chair across Atty. Kim Jin Hwang, HAN entertainment's legal representative and one of the best lawyers Seoul has to offer, with a table dividing the two of you. He’s a man in his fifties, quite close to the age of retirement. He’s a veteran and despite his age, his mind is still sharp. 

You refrain yourself from tapping your foot against the floor anxiously. Anxiety does not look good on you and you refuse to show people that you're anxious. Anxiety is weakness so you keep your posture straight and make sure to keep eye contact with Atty. Kim. If you look away first, you're a coward.

“Tell me honestly. Is this you in the pictures?” Atty. Kim Jin Hwang points at the pictures sprawled across the table. They’re blurry and grainy and incredibly zoomed in. You can't even tell it was you from some angles. You look quite different from the person that you were when you were sixteen. HAN Entertainment is particularly fond of investing in their idol’s plastic surgeries and while they only fixed your crooked teeth, removed the hump on your nose bridge, altered your uneven ears, bleached your skin, and plucked your brows—which are quite minor changes—you still hold very little resemblance to the teenage you. 

You grew up well. Thankfully, you inherited only the best parts of your parents. Or at least, the best parts of your Mom. You have no idea what your father looked like, only knowing that he was from Brazil or some country in South America.

“Yes,” you answer immediately, not bothering to lie. What is the point of lying anyway? People have been calling you all sorts of malicious names across different social media platforms and you’re sure Atty. Kim has seen some of them. There’s no point lying to his face and saving your image anymore. Might as well admit that you are exactly the kind of person they’ve been yapping about. An illegal driver. A criminal. 

“Why did you do it?” Atty. Kim asks and truthfully, you did not expect the question. You expected the what and how and where and when but never the why question. You fall into a thoughtful pause.

“I was sixteen,” you shrug your shoulders, almost uncaringly so. “I wanted to leave home as early as I could and to do that, I needed money. Nobody wanted to accept student part-timers and I tried doing stuff like tutoring and doing other people’s assignments but it wasn't enough. I have a friend who joins street races. He’s not a good driver but he’s got a good car. He really wants to win so he cheated and let me drive his car on the condition that if I win, he’ll split me the winner’s money. I did it. I won races in that car, acting as if he was the one driving it.”

Atty. Kim gives you a long look. You don’t know what it means. 

“Alright,” Atty. Kimlifts his chin and rises from his chair. “That concludes our meeting. In the meantime, you lay low. We’ll handle everything.”

You nod, “Okay.”

True to Atty. Kim’s words, HAN entertainment handled everything. They released a statement that you watched one race because you were sixteen and clueless and didn't know you were getting yourself involved in an illegal activity. It helped that you drove under a different name so people were easily convinced of this lie. You knew your friend—the owner of the car— wouldn't even reveal that it was you who’d driven the car. His ego would be bruised once the people discovered that he cheated on the street races and a sixteen-year-old girl with no license and no personal car outperformed him. 

Additionally, HAN announced that you were to depart your group—ORACLE—which absolutely destroyed you because ORACLE had been the place where you felt like you belonged. ORACLE had been your goal. You worked yourself to the bone to the point of collapse because you wanted to be in ORACLE and wanted to remain in ORACLE.

Nevertheless, you accepted your fate easily. There was no point destroying the other members because of your fault alone. 

Your members cried for a whole week after the announcement was made public through HAN Entertainment’s official social media platforms and you spent every single day you could still spend inside the dorm reassuring them, telling them that you’d still be there for them, that you’d be standing behind them in each step to their success. You loved your girls so much. You wouldn't even choose to leave them. If only fate was a bit kinder to you. If only life was less brutal.

Furthermore, HAN made you publish a handwritten apology letter. You couldn't remember what you wrote anymore but you did remember how heavy the pen felt, how your hands trembled as you wrote each sentence, how writing the damn letter took three hours because you kept breaking down midway. They announced your hiatus promptly after. They used the term indefinite hiatus but it might as well be retirement.

You can't believe that you suffered through sixteen years under the same roof as your incredibly abusive mother, left home with only a backpack and a paper bag of cash just as you hit eighteen years old, worked your way in the harsh world by juggling three part-time jobs and a scholarship-shouldered university education until a scout noticed you, undergone the rigorous and borderline suicidal training of a KPop idol to-be, and sacrificed everything you had—mental stability, blood, sweat, and tears—just so you could pass every monthly evaluation and become your company’s darling, only to have everything disappear because someone found pictures of you predebut in an illegal street racing event. Fuck. 

You were fucking sixteen at that time! You didn't know any better. You only wanted money. You didn't have a license. Getting one is too expensive. You borrowed a car from a friend. It's an unregistered car. You drove the car. You won races. You stopped when you turned eighteen. That was it. 

Knetz decided to crucify you for a sin born out of your desperation when you were sixteen. When a dog was hungry, it ate whatever was thrown its way, uncaring if the food thrown at it was good or not because its primary instinct was only to cure its hunger. It was not as if you sexually assaulted someone. It was not as if you bullied someone and involved yourself in school violence. It was not as if you drank alcohol and drove or even involved yourself in gambling. Sure, street racing was illegal but you never even hurt someone! You never even crashed into someone mid-race.

You’re sure you’re going to leave the company and you won't fight their decision if they want you to do so. People spit out their gum when they lose their flavor. That's also what the industry did. You saw it happen too many times to too many idols. They collect pretty faces, push them to their limits until they could be loved by the public and once the public decides they’re not worth loving anymore, they’d spit them out. You are a gum in this story.

You feel like you’re eighteen again. You want to run away from home all over again. You ran away from the house you were born in once and now, you’re going to run away from the house you worked hard to live in. You want to pack your bags and board the next plane to another country even before the light of the rising sun touches the ground. That gnawing feeling of not belonging to a place that’s supposed to be home kept tormenting the cracks of your heart and the only way to seemingly get rid of it albeit only temporarily is to pick up on your feet and run away, never to leave anything behind you. Not ghosts, not traces, not memories—nothing.

But HAN entertainment won't let you. Yoon PD-nim knocked on your door, a contract in hand. He offered you an apartment to live in, a salary, a place in the company, and told you to keep creating songs. HAN Entertainment knew your talent in song making and producing was partly behind the success of ORACLE, their rising girl group. You were too useful to get rid of easily. 

And like that, you spent the last two years making music for every kpop group under HAN Entertainment. You mostly made B-sides for the junior girl groups, AURORA and PRIZMA, and the title tracks for boy groups, HIRA and 1THEBOY. You worked for soloist, Ciel, once for his last comeback before his mandatory military service and worked on half a mini-album’s worth of songs for ORACLE every comeback. Thankfully, the songs gained positive feedback from the general public. That was your ticket to keep staying in HAN entertainment as a ghost producer and ghost song-writer.

Two years. You rotted in your apartment and the studio. This felt no different than the time you lived under your parents’ roof. You felt like a ghost, present but also not quite there. It's quite fitting, you think. You're a ghost producer and a ghost song-writer. 

This was not a life worth living but you’d rather a life not worth living than have nothing at all. 

You empty your fifth cup of coffee for the day—an unhealthy brew of Americano with five shots of espresso—before standing up from the ergonomic chair where you’ve glued your ass on in the last two to three business hours. The demo for Sunset Paradise is almost finished. There are still a few parts that need major adjustments and refinement but you’re confident that you’ll be done by midnight.

Manager-nim enters the studio just as you reach the door. You jump, almost kicking the indoor potted plant inconveniently positioned near the door. The caffeine made you extra jumpy today. Once you get over your tiny shock, you bow your head in greeting. Manager-nim mirrors your actions.

“You're still working?” he asks.

“You're still bald?” 

Manager-nim rolls his eyes at you, smiling. You chuckle. 

Manager-nim, or rather, Song Dan, is ORACLE’s manager. He is a middle-aged man who only came up to your shoulders. He’s shaped like a square with round glasses sitting on the bridge of his nose. He treated you and the other members of ORACLE as if you were his daughters. 

“I’m going to go get coffee. You can sit here for a while,” you invite, gesturing to the tiny cream couch. You use your feet to nudge the potted plant and clear Manager-nim’s path.

“No coffee,” Manager-nim stops you, taking a seat. “That's enough coffee for you today. Sit down here. We need to talk.”

“You can't kick me out. I won't give you Ciel’s first post-military mini album and ORACLE’s summer title track if you do.”

Manager-nim’s eyebrows draw together, a vertical wrinkle appearing between them, “What? No. We're not kicking you out.”

Your shoulders sag, relieved.

“Yoon PD-nim wants you to release a single.”

At that, your entire body stiffens, eyes going wide as saucers. You let out a noise in disbelief.

“You're joking.”

Manager-nim’s face doesn't shift in the slightest.

“You're actually serious,” you rub your chin with your hand. 

What is Yoon PD-nim trying to pull now? Two years have passed since you’ve disappeared from the limelight. You're certain that you're not returning to the world of flashing lights and stage performance anymore and you’ve already accepted that your career has ended.

“Why?” your voice slightly wavers as you ask. Manager-nim sighs heavily, patting the vacant space beside him.

“Take a seat. We’re going to be talking for a while.”

The girl in the mirror stares back at you. She looks exhausted. She has deep bags underneath her eyes. Her shoulders are bony. They look like they're about to pierce through her pale skin. Her lips, which should be a nice shade of pink, are pale. Her eyes hold emptiness.

You pull your gaze away from your reflection and direct it to the bathroom sink, where a hair brush sits on the white tiles quietly. Fallen hair gathers up in its numerous sharp teeth. At this rate, you’re going to end up like Manager-nim—bald. 

You can't go bald. You have a weirdly shaped head.

“Yoon PD-nim wants you to release a single but before the release, he needs you to be in a PR relationship with someone.”

You hiss loudly, slapping a hand on your temple. God, you want to act like Manager-nim never said that. You don't want to remember it.

You? A PR relationship? With someone you don't know? How atrocious. You didn't even need to hear Manager-nim out until the end. You are out. You do not vibe with romantic relationships. They make your skin crawl.

“Listen, [Name]. This might be your only chance to come back again.”

“What if I don't want to come back again?”

“Then why are you still here? Why are you still making music? You're good at leaving so why didn't you?”

The public still terrifies you but you will never tell that to anyone. You can’t even go out and buy groceries without trembling. So many eyes. So many judging eyes. They're all waiting to destroy you again with their stupid eyes and stupid mouths with sharp teeth. A stupid PR relationship won't save you.

But what if it will?

You hold the edges of the sink and lean the majority of your weight against it. Your knuckles slowly turn white. Your knees feel weak. You close your eyes and let out a shaky sigh.

Why are you still here? A voice in your head asks.

I just want to be home. You reply.

Do it. This is your ticket to go home. It says.

You open your eyes and gaze into the mirror. 

Do you want to be home?

More than anything.

With a nod, you push yourself away from the sink and exit the bathroom.

Yoon Sang Hyuk, CEO of HAN Entertainment—the black marble desk name plate indicates; the text an intimidating shade of gold. The owner of the name sits behind the table, his legs crossed over the other. His face is sealed with a neutral expression. Suddenly, a satisfied smile works its way across his face and you swear the wrinkles that permeated his entire face doubled in amount.

“I knew you still had it in you,” he says calmly. “That's good.”

“Thank you,” you say, your tone coming out bland. 

“I’ll give you a manager and you are to leave for Singapore tomorrow.”

You nod, “Yes, Yoon PD-nim.”

“Oh and [Name]?”

“Yes, Yoon PD-nim?”

“I know you're smart and you're hardworking and you're strong,” he begins. “I am confident you’ll do well so when you fly out there, don't be intimidated by any of them. You're as powerful as them. Remember the reason why you're there in the first place and do what you think is best.”

“You're putting a lot of trust in me,” you observe. 

It's questionable; the amount of trust he’s giving you. You already expected that Yoon PD-nim would send out an entire escort team just to make sure that you're not going to mess up again and get yourself involved in a PR nightmare incident. Who knows? Maybe someone will dig up pics of you copying homework from your seatmate in middle school and crucify you for being an academic cheater while you're out there holding hands with your fake boyfriend.

“I know you won't make the same mistake twice.”

You finally catch the underlying message behind his seemingly harmless words.

Focus on coming back and don't make another mistake. 

You nod, “Yes, Yoon PD-nim.”

“Lando Kinder Norris,” you read the name on the folder, brows furrowing. That's a rather unique middle name. “British-Belgian. Born November 13, 1999—” 

It's good that your fake boyfriend and you were born in the same year. You're not very fond of age gaps.

“—in Bristol, England. Currently racing for McLaren. Car number 4. First entry is the Australian Grand Prix.”

Below is a series of long paragraphs detailing his racing history that you’re definitely not reading. Shoving the folder aside, you lean back into the seat and cross your arms over your chest. Your eyes flutter close. Jinnie, a HAN entertainment manager who looks like she’s half white and half Asian, gives you a judging look from her seat. 

“You should read it,” she advises.

“No,” you say.

“I spent hours compiling that information,” Jinnie frowns. 

“You compiled the wrong info,” you tell her, not even bothering to glance towards her. “Nobody will believe we’re real if I only know the things written in Wikipedia. You should have asked his PR team how he likes his coffee, if he prefers brunch dates or dinner dates, if he likes staying in or going out, if he likes the sunny weather or the rain, if he’d rather get food delivery or cook, if he’d like to hold hands and walk side by side or walk ahead of you so he can act like your guard dog. Those things.”

To be loved is to be known.

“You speak as if you have romantic experience.”

“Do poets have to experience the things they write poetry about?” you retort. “Immanuel Kant believed that everything depended on how individuals interpret and respond to his environment based on their personal opinions and feelings. I don't need to experience it to know.”

Recurring observations are your common source of knowledge. Reading is another.

And besides, this isn't your first PR relationship. You like to think that you know exactly what you're doing.

“Tell me something that's not written in the folder, Jinnie-ssi,” you open your eyes and tilt your head so you can lock eyes with her. “For example, why does a distinguished racer need a fake relationship? I can’t be the only one benefiting from this agreement.”

Jinnie purses her lips, “I don't know much.”

“But you know something,” you rest your chin on the palm of your hand. “Tell me.”

“There have been rumors that Lando Norris got a girl pregnant. The woman marched into Woking and demanded to see him. Apparently, he got her pregnant when they slept together in a bar,” Jinnie shakes her head. “It's a messy ordeal but McLaren recently proved that Lando wasn't the father. Too bad though, the public isn't believing them.” 

“And they think giving him a girlfriend would somehow make the public love him?”

“They need to show the world that their boy isn't an asshole,” Jinnie says. “That he’s a loving, loyal partner. That he isn't capable of committing fuckboy crimes because he has a girlfriend waiting for him at home.”

You snort. McLaren really decided that you’ll be the best girlfriend? How did they even know your existence? The KPop community and the F1 community are worlds far away from each other. It's easier for them to choose a supermodel, an American actress, or even a pop star. But no, they really decided that a washed-up KPop idol is a good girlfriend for their star boy. You can think of a few reasons why they chose you. 

“Are you sure he really isn't the father?” you ask. Companies can ignore morality for the sake of protecting their golden images. HAN Entertainment is no different. For all you know, you’re going to be fake dating an asshole who made a woman pregnant and refused to take responsibility. He’d be no different from your father who left your pregnant mother.

“Beats me.”

An hour later, the plane lands in the most expensive city in the world, Singapore.

You have three choices: a VAQUERA blue devil sweatshirt, Motel Rock chute trousers, and a Adidas forum low shoes combo, or a varsity baseball jacket, Bonbom rhee cargo pants, and a Curetty C round toe mary janes combo. You went with the varsity jacket-cargo pants-mary janes combo. You put on a bonnet to finish the look. When Jinnie enters the hotel room and sees what you're wearing, she immediately says:

“No. You're definitely not wearing that.”

“What's wrong with this?” you ask, looking down at your fit. This is what you usually wear. They're comfortable and acubi fashion is a trend nowadays. 

“You're a WAG now. Dress like it.”

Your eyebrow arches.

“WAG?”

“Wife and girlfriend,” Jinnie replies. Your confusion isn't absolved, not even the slightest. Your mouth pulls to the side.

“And how does this correlate to my fashion sense? Do race car drivers control their girlfriend’s fashion style?” you genuinely question.

“No,” Jinnie says. “But they’d prefer it if you dress in something befitting for a WAG, you know? Elegance? Classic timely looks?”

You put a finger up, “No.”

Jinnie huffs, “I’m not taking a no for an answer. Wear a satin dress. Wear cotton trousers and silk blouses. Look like you're from an old money family, not some hip hop dancer from the streets. You're no longer your own person, you are an extension of Lando Norris. You have to look a certain way, act a certain way, talk a certain way. Your goal is to make Lando Norris look good.”

You push your tongue to the inside of your cheek, annoyed. Your jaw is tense.

“And when Lando Norris looks good, you’ll look good. Good enough that the public will love you again to support your new song. Do you understand?”

She's right.

She's right.

You hate that she's right.

No matter how bitter the truth tastes, you are irrelevant and Lando Norris is your ticket to going back. In any other world, you will never ever allow yourself to become a jewelry for a man to wear. So you grit your teeth, keep the ugly prideful monster within you at bay, and clench your fists. You have nothing and when you have nothing, you need to be resourceful and make use of the people who have the things to push you to the top again.

You let out a sigh, “Jinnie, choose my outfit for me.”

Jinnie nods and leaves the room immediately.

It's three days before the Singapore FP1 2023. Jinnie drives you to meet Lando in his hotel. They organized a lunch gathering with you, Jinnie, Lando, and the other McLaren PR representatives who are responsible for this entire PR scam. 

You're wearing a Versace tweed cardigan and a boucle tweed skirt paired with high heel leather boots and Greca goddess large shoulder bag. All black in color. Jinnie is the one who styled your hair. She insisted on it actually, claiming that your beach waves hair isn't doing it. She flat ironed the hell out of your hair so now, it's straight as a pole. She also sprayed your bangs with strong hold hairspray to keep them in place.

The outside world is nothing but a blur of high-rise buildings and cement pavements as the car runs. You're picking on your nails. They're clean but bare of manicures. Your two pinky nails are a bit too short. You tried to stop yourself from biting them in the airport but you can’t resist.

Two years is a long time. A bit too long in your opinion. You don't remember the things you learned in your etiquette classes anymore—how to stand in the public, how to walk, how to pose in front of the cameras, how to smile, how to greet people, how to look completely in your element despite being anxious of having a thousand eyes staring at you, how to act as if you're not crumbling at the pressure of looking good for everyone. That's the only way they’ll love you. If you look good in their eyes.

“We’re here.”

You blink.

“Come again?”

Jinnie points outside the car window. The car stopped and you didn't notice.

“Sorry,” you mutter, flipping your hair over your shoulder. You let out a breath, roll your shoulders back, and push the door open. Your entire face relaxes and you smile politely at the valet when Jinnie hands him the keys of the car. You ignore the starstruck expression on his face as you gesture to Jinnie to lead the way, following after her but not before saying your thanks to the valet. You're polite. You're trained to be.

You keep your shoulders square and your walk confident as you enter the hotel lobby. There aren’t a lot of people inside. There's a family of four in a corner, a group of elderly people sitting in the waiting area, and a group of posh friends chatting near the front desk. You can see a few heads turning in your peripheral vision. You can't blame them. You can be stunning if you try to be.

Your heart begins to ram violently against your rib cage. A million butterflies infest your intestines. Your ankles feel like it’ll snap in half a few minutes later. Your mind chants: DID THEY NOTICE HOW SCARED I AM? DID THEY NOTICE HOW TERRIFIED I AM? DID THEY NOTICE? DID THEY?

You want your ball cap and your sunglasses and your face mask. You want to hide your face.

You have to control your breathing as subtly as you can but you continue walking as if you're the prettiest yet the most down-to-earth creature to ever grace the planet. You fix your hair again once Jinnie and you stop in front of the elevator. Jinnie presses a button and you wait. While waiting, you twist the sole of your boot against the floor. It's better than tapping it against the floor. The elevator dings and the two of you enter the empty box.

When the doors close, your knees give out. You slam your hands against the stainless steel walls to stop yourself from dropping to your knees on the floor. Jinnie’s hands wrap around your waist, supporting as you pull yourself up. Her face contorts in worry.

“Are you alright?” she asks. You nod quickly.

“Yeah, yeah,” you lay your palm against your chest, right above your drumming heart. “Thanks.”

You straighten up, tugging the hem of your Versace tweed outfit to smoothen the creases and fixing your hair again. You clear your throat. The elevator dings and the doors open. You step out and your mask slides in place. 

Jinnie leads you to a private dining hall. In the middle of a hall is a table occupied by five people wearing tacky orange-black polo shirts. You recognize one of them to be your fake boyfriend, Lando Norris. 

Jinnie had already shown you what he looked like in her tablet and a few printed pictures but the pictures didn't do him justice. He looks extra charming personally.

He's still not your type.

The entire group rises to a stand just as you and Jinnie reach the table. You give a ninety degree bow, hands flat on the collar of your top so you won't accidentally give the McLaren people a view of your chest. (It's not like they have something to see anyway. Your chest is flatter than a rice field.) The edges of your lips curl upwards in a polite smile. You see Lando, your supposed fake boyfriend, try to imitate the bow, although he doesn't go as deep as you did. Your head tilts slightly at his action. 

Jinnie is the first one who speaks, stretching a hand in front of her to shake hands with the McLaren team. She introduces herself in fluent English, “I’m Jinnie Jo of HAN Entertainment. It's a pleasure to meet you. This is [Name].”

They each introduce themselves one by one. Nicole, Greg, Kyla, and Louis. You try to memorize their faces and their names, drilling it into your brain so you won't forget. You're going to be working closely with them after all.

“Hi,” you greet them. You also shake hands with each of them. It feels weird, shaking hands as greetings. You are more accustomed to bowing. 

“Wow, Jinnie, your accent is good,” Kyla compliments your manager.

“Thank you,” Jinnie smiles pleasantly. “I was born in Chicago. English is my first language.”

“How about her? Does she speak English?” Louis inquires. He's giving you a funny look. You ignore it.

“She does,” you smile at him pleasantly. “I’m very fluent. You don't have to worry.”

Risha, the Canadian member of ORACLE, was the one who helped you master English. You even have a Canadian accent when you speak English because of her. Additionally, you also took language classes when you were a trainee—Japanese, Chinese, English, and you even requested Portuguese, Spanish, French, and Korean sign language. You dabbled a bit on Tagalog, too, because you know how large the ORACLE fanbase is in the Philippines. You continued taking the classes up even after debut, even after all the members of the group had stopped, because you wanted to master the languages for the fans, to be able to hold conversations with them, to connect with them. You only stopped going to the classes after leaving the group two years ago. It's nice to see that your English skills are still in perfect shape.

“Please take a seat,” Nicole invites. You and Jinnie sit down. You place your bag on the empty chair beside you and when you pull your gaze up, you coincidentally meet Lando’s eyes. They're blue and green with flecks of hazel dusted in the middle. It's the first time you've seen someone with eyes wielding three different colors. They're stunning.

You smile at him. He smiles back and then averts his gaze. You turn to Nicole, who’s sitting beside you.

“Now,” she says, putting two folders on the table. She slides them towards you and Jinnie. Jinnie picks them up. You don't. Instead, you stare at them. 

“What are these?” you question, slowly bringing your eyes up and meeting Nicole’s gaze.

“Contracts,” she answers.

“Contracts?” you echo, picking the folder up and opening it. You take your sweet time reading from top to bottom, tilting your head a bit to the side.

“You don't have to read it all. It's all just formalities. Just sign it,” Louis inputs. “Reading can be hard for you since it's not your first language—”

“I read just fine,” you interrupt, not glancing up as your eyes thoughtfully scan through the words printed on the paper. “Thank you for the concern but this is a contract that involves me and my future. I wish to know what I’m agreeing to.”

Louis wisely keeps his mouth shut. You put your hand on your mouth so you can discreetly smirk.

When you finish reading, you slowly set the folder back on the table. You press your tongue against the inside of your cheek as you tap your finger on the wooden surface of the table. 

“This is unfairly written, don't you agree?” you ask. “You're putting rather lots of demands on me but so little on him.”

From beside you, Jinnie thins her lips. You know she's also thinking the same thing. Fucking HAN Entertainment. They didn't even make sure that the contents of the contracts are not disadvantageous towards you. You are disappointed but not surprised. They really just sent you to be devoured by wolves and demanded you to not make a mistake.

McLaren also thinks they can just choose a washed-up KPop idol to cosplay as their golden boy’s trophy girlfriend and make her do all their demands with little benefits and zero complaint. They deliberately chose someone who still holds popularity but little power. Someone who needs them as badly as they need her. They chose you.

Assholes. The two of them.

“What do you want him to do anyway?” Louis sneers. His face is beginning to look a little too annoying. “He's busy building his career. All you have to do is support him and make sure everyone knows it because you have none. That's all. Or is that a little hard for you?”

Louis is getting this all wrong. Jinnie told you that you're going to fix his reputation for him so his career wouldn't be ruined. In exchange, he gives you publicity so you could bring your career back from ruination. This is not a parasitic relationship where only their side gets the benefits. How could you even work on that comeback of yours if you're going to be glued by his side? 

Your jaw ticks with restraint yet you choose to smile, “He’s not the only one building his career.”

You pick up the folder and toss it to Jinnie, who catches it skillfully. 

“Throw that away. We're flying home. I don't need a PR relationship to promote my single that much.”

Satisfaction fills you when their faces grow alarmed. 

Ha.

“Wait,” Kyla stands and she shoots a dirty glance towards Louis. Your eyebrows scrunch a little. “The contracts are open to revisions.”

You clap your hands together, smiling widely.

“Perfect. Jinnie, hand me a pen.”

The team leaves you and Lando alone in the hall to eat, to give you both a chance to get to know each other. 

You allow your eyes to scan the hall. It has a bright spacious ambiance. The windows are stretched from the floor to the ceiling, allowing as much natural light inside. Singapore looks absolutely breathtaking down below. The flooring is made out of natural pine and a crystal chandelier hangs atop the table where you and Lando ate. You keep thinking: what if it'll fall? You shake the thought out of your head and put a fork full of pasta into your mouth.

“Is the pasta good?” Lando asks. You nod, humming and smiling. You don't like it one bit. You're also mildly allergic to shellfish. You're definitely going to get a bad case of rash later. You hope Jinnie is prepared with a medicine kit. You forgot to bring yours.

You wipe your mouth with your table napkin, announcing, “I’m full.”

You have only eaten half the plate.

“Oh you have a…” Lando points at the corner of his lips. You wipe the same area in your face. “No, the other side.”

You wipe the other side, “Is it gone?”

“Allow me,” he says, standing up from his chair and leaning across the table to thumb the stain. 

“Is it gone?” you ask again. Lando nods.

“Yeah, it is.”

He goes back to his seat.

“Thank you,” you smile. “You're already doing great with the whole fake boyfriend act.”

A flustered smile splits Lando’s face, shaking his head.

“I try.”

“By the way,” you begin, leaning a little forward. “Did they also give you a folder with my information?”

Lando nods, “Yeah.”

“Did they also suck?”

He purses his lips.

“Well….” he drawls.

“You can tell me if it sucks. The one my manager gave me looks like it's copy-pasted from Wikipedia.”

Lando chuckles. 

“I mean, your biography is very…detailed? Too detailed, I think. I didn't remember most of them, sorry. I only remember a few of them. Like your birthday. January 1, 2000.”

“1999.”

“Pardon?”

You wave your hand in a theatrical flourish, “I was born in 1999. The company manipulated my public information.”

Lando’s brows raise in surprise.

“They do that?”

“You’ll be surprised,” you lean back into your chair.

“But why?”

“So every member in ORACLE can be born in 2000. I don't know,” you shrug your shoulders. 

“That seems like an unnecessary change.”

“It is,” you agree. “But HAN wants everything to be perfect. They see a flaw. They fix it to their liking immediately.”

“What are the other things that are a scam in your biography?”

“Scam is a big word,” you tell him, amused. “But I’ll tell you. In exchange, tell me about yourself. Not the info I can read in Wikipedia. In order to make this work, I have to know you.”

To be loved is to be known.

“Alright,” Lando says. “We can take turns asking each other questions.”

“Cool,” you bring a glass of water towards your lips, taking a sip. “I’ll start. How do you like your coffee?”

#lando norris #lando norris x reader #ln4 #ln4 x reader #ln4 fic #f1 x reader #f1 fic #kpop idol! reader #formula one #formula 1 #f1 imagines #fanfic

[overtake]

every time i remember that gifset of daniel laughing and talking pre-race with max and his dad in spa 2014 and realize that max saw daniel win his third race and red bull's 50th race live and IN PERSON....like daniel must have seemed so cool and larger than life. and then come to find out a few weeks later it's max's test and he had made a welcome video for him. like...it's too much they're TOO MUCH.

This response got ludicrously long.

It’s such “fated to be in each other’s lives forever” shit. It’s always been Max and Daniel. In 2011, before Max was even a red bull junior. In 2014 at spa, ahead of Max being announced for toro rosso. In video form at his super license drive, when Max being his future teammate wouldn’t have even been thought in Daniel’s mind. The things Max got to see Daniel achieve and dream that he might have that and more, and the hot guy doing it is paying attention to him.

He wins that race and backs him, saying he couldn’t have done what he’s about to do and saying Max has the talent to be there… I just know it was good to hear that the man you just watched on the podium believes you deserve this oppprtunity. And if he wasn’t ready at your age and is sitting in front of you a three time winner, what can you achieve by his age?

Obviously, Max has never needed other people’s validation on his skill. He knew he could be successful and had no issue staring his naysayers down. He’s a cactus, not a delicate orchid. You cannot kill him. Your opinions mean nothing to him if you are not in his inner circle (though Daniel certainly worked his way into being someone whose opinion Max holds, hears, and values).

But still, it has to be nice to hear back then that there are people with achievements you want who believe you’re capable of getting there. Even the most brave-faced sixteen year old (with a father who tries to toughen his emotional resolve by saying he will never be anything more than a truck driver) still appreciates having someone believe in him, even if he doesn’t need the validation.

I think people tend to wrongly characterize young Max as some delicate friendless loser and Daniel was the only person to ever show him kindnesses etc etc etc. Max is extremely confident and never relied on Daniel to build self-worth or whatever pathetic way people try to write him. But he always just glowed around him — textbook of that first crush that makes you have the italics “oh. oh” moment. It’s very apparent that Daniel meant a lot to Max as a teammate and that the two of them just liked being around each other, such an anomaly for that era of f1 (ex: like they mentioned in on the sofa 2017, Lewis, — who had been busy with the life altering downfall of his relationship with Nico — was in awe of Max and Daniel and asked for the scholarship of how they got along so well).

It’s so clear that this draw between them started for Max so early from just the way he looks at Daniel on that phone, shy and not knowing quite what to say, and his gaze lingering on it even after it stops playing with that smile. He has to tear his attention away to say his sweet little praise of Daniel. Daniel respected Max as a serious competitor from day one with his quotes about Max’s talents, and that already meant something to Max — but then he also went ahead and liked Max and was kind to Max in a time where he was drenched in doubters.

It’s a great tragedy that we will never know what it would’ve been like to see the two of them in a car that could compete for championships. Obviously tensions would have altered their relationship (I mean, the Renault engine frustration and natural increase in rivalry as it became Max’s team already meant their relationship improved post-leaving), but I’m going to be delusional and think that they never could have hated each other in that bone-deep way because they like each other in a way that is so natural that it feels encoded in their DNA.

Things would have gotten messy as competitive battles do, with many a wall punched and inflammatory quotes in the media pen — especially as Daniel would have to reckon with the inevitability of Max being a generational talent whose already sharp elbows in their early days only doled out more hits on the road to WDC. It’d be claws out, teeth bared tension.

Still, I employ my delusion to say that in that universe, at the end of their careers, they could sit on Daniel’s farm and still enjoy being around each other — like Daniel said in 2019, they had a heated rivalry and pushed each other, but there was always respect. At the end of the day, Max has never stopped looking at Daniel outside the track with anything but effusive love, and Daniel is always there looking back with his mouth open and ready to make Max laugh — and I genuinely believe they would have cared enough about each other to keep their fight contained to the environment and time period and rebuild anything lost when it’s all said and done.

It’s the eternal thesis of them, that everyone has said a million times over: they like each other so much, so genuinely, without a veneer of fakeness and PR to it. They’d like each other in any universe in any conditions, even ones where they were built to hate each other. There could still be fighting and resentment and cold shoulders, but they are not built to hate each other, and that’s why I like them so much.

#ask #i wrote this in the shower and it’s been the world’s longest shower #so sorry to the environment #maxiel

[atinylittlepain]

Part Two

no outbreak!joel miller x f!oc

series playlist

joel miller masterlist

series masterlist

She's tired. He's tired. They're neurotic. They're in love. Something needs to change. They need to change.

word count | 5.1k

chapter content info | 18+ little angst, couples counseling, just two tired people trying to figure out the tangle of their relationship together

a/n | part two is here, and i'd just like to say thank you to everyone being so kind about the first part - i know this isnt the usual peepaw fare, so thanks for giving her a chance - and also big thank you to @wannab-urs for beta-ing this bad boy <3

............................................

This is not a failure. She is not failing. They are not failing. Every Thursday at four o’clock she shuts her laptop and locks her office and stops in the bathroom at work, silently repeats these things to herself in her mind while she rubs her fingers at smudged mascara in the bathroom mirror. Like a mantra, though she’s not sure she’s fully bought into it yet. Because the truth is, she has had plenty of conversations with plenty of girlfriends that, really, they shouldn’t have been having about other girlfriends, not in the room with us girlfriends who, did you hear, started going to therapy and, did you hear, started going to therapy with their, oh no, husbands. Yes, she has been the bitch who has made jokes about death knells and a marriage’s last gasp for breath, jokes about the husband having the emotional range of a goldfish, and the wife being so up the husband’s ass she should give him a colonoscopy while she’s at it. She’s not really making jokes like those anymore. 

She’s not supposed to be doing what she’s doing this Thursday at four o’clock. When they first went to Vicky (LMFT, for the record) her fundamental decree had been a period of full separation. Sixteen years, she had asked, and they had nodded, and she had said whoa boy, yeah, y’all need to back off each other before we do anything else. If Paula Dean had a penchant for self-help instead of butter, she’d be something like Vicky. And so, with all the care of a drill sergeant delivering commands, or a mechanic running a diagnostic on a fucked-up car, Vicky had told them how this is going to go. An apartment, she said, don’t care which one of you lives in it. Minimal contact between sessions, right, keep it civil, right, this isn’t for forever, right. So Joel got an apartment, and Tommy helped him move all the furniture in the basement with admittedly minimal, but still present, wariness, and for the last four weeks they’ve been doing everything their beloved herr-therapist tells them. She supposes it’s working, although you can’t really do much fighting when you only see the other person for ninety minutes every Thursday so, the results might be confounded, actually.

“Hey there.” Hey there? What the fuck, what the actual fuck. He doesn’t think he’s ever said those words to her, ever, maybe not to anyone actually. He feels a little insane, a little itchy under the skin, mouth full of cotton, brain too, because they’re not supposed to be doing this, not really. The first time she’s seen the apartment, or, well, the doorway of the apartment, doesn’t really seem interested in stepping further inside, running her curled palm up and down the strap of her purse and right, not here for that. He shuts the door behind him and then they’re on their way to therapy because it’s four o’clock on Thursday and this is what they do now at four o’clock on Thursday.

“Thanks again. I didn’t think my car would still be in the shop today.”

“Oh of course, you said it’s a transmission leak?” 

“Yeah, the bad, expensive kind that’s above my paygrade. Guy said they’re still waiting on a part for it.”

“Well I’m off work tomorrow if you need a ride anywhere.”

“Vicky’ll get pissed.”

“If she finds out. Are you gonna tell on me to Vicky?” It’s a joke, they can joke, right? She laughs a little on the end of her words to make it clear, hey, it’s a joke, awkward and out of touch and unsure of what the rules are. But he offers a breath of a laugh, at least, fine, it’s fine, they’re fine, and now they’re silent driving to Vicky’s office. 

Should he ask her how her week has been? If the kitchen sink is still leaking? He’s not sure. Not sure about any of it, really. Every week, Vicky asks them how they think they’re doing and Cass doesn’t even hesitate. Good, she says. Not fine, not okay, but good, usually with a sure, terse nod. It takes him a little longer to find the right word to describe how he’s doing. Not sure about that either, but it’s definitely not good. Some things are better, sure, easier not to argue when under foot, easier not to remember all the ghosts they’ve built up around themselves. But at the most basic level, he misses her, even misses arguing with her, in a perpetual state of missing something, walking around and wondering if he left his wallet at home, or if he remembered to call a client about a new build, wondering if he’s missing something essential, a limb or an organ he didn’t know about. No, none of that. Missing something else.

“You’re not wearing your ring.” She flexes her left hand over the steering wheel in response, her very bare ring finger making him feel a quick pinch of something he’ll call anger, though it’s probably something else entirely. 

“No, Vicky advised I try not wearing it during the separation.”

“Why the fuck would she tell you to do that?”

“Joel.”

“I’m just asking.”

“You’re swearing.”

“Well, why didn’t she say the same thing to me?”

“Maybe because I told her this is how you would react.”

“I think I’m having a pretty normal reaction to it, actually.”

“It’s not a big deal. It’s just for now.”

“Right.”

“It is.” 

“Seems like a strange thing to advise someone to do when they’ve been married for nearly two decades.” She parks outside of the office complex that Vicky works in, lets out a long sigh through her nose and doesn’t spare him a glance as she reaches around to the backseat and pulls her purse up front, producing her ring from somewhere deep inside of it and sliding it back on her finger. 

“There, are you happy now?”

“Why the hell were you keeping it in your purse?”

“Oh my god, really?”

“That’s a real easy way to lose it is all I’m saying.” The truth is, she’s been keeping it in her purse in order to have easy access to it. Like a pulsepoint, sometimes she just needs to know it’s there, reaching into her purse underneath her desk and yep, still there, still okay. Sometimes she doesn’t get through a whole day without putting it back on. Like reflex, like ghost limb aching. But she’s not about to tell him that.

“Do not bring this up with Vicky.”

“Why not?”

“Because then she’ll know we drove here together.”

“You’re that worried about what Vicky thinks?”

“She’s our therapist, I’m a healthy and appropriate amount worried about what Vicky thinks.” 

“You know she’s not the arbiter of marriage just because she has a couple of degrees, right?”

“Really, the arbiter of marriage?” 

“Are you doing that thing you do, is that what this is?”

“What thing?” 

“Cass.”

“What thing?”

“Are you trying to win therapy?” Fuck him. No, really, fuck him. He’s doing that thing, his thing to her thing, half a smile in the passenger’s seat like he’s got her. Awful, of course he’s got her, smug and sure in his getting her. She doesn’t answer his question, knowing that her silence is an answer in and of itself and not really caring because they have therapy, damn it, and it’s going to be his fault if they’re late to therapy, damn it.

“You know, I’m starting to see why Vicky told us no carpooling to sessions.” Slammed shut, he sighs when she gets out of the car, thinking idly to himself that yes, he doesn’t necessarily disagree with that commandment of their therapist either. At the very least, Cass’ ring is still on her finger. He tried a few times in the past to get her something new, something nicer than the gold band he had given her when they were still young and still not able to afford much of anything, but sure enough in each other to want to keep doing it, all of it, together. No, she would tell him, doesn’t want anything other than the gold band. What she doesn’t know is that he pawned his grandfather’s watch and an electric saw for the ring the shop owner kept in a padlocked display case. Twenty-six years old, and looking back, he thinks he would have sold a whole lot more just to get it for her. 

He used to call her pearl. Something about grit that would make her roll her eyes and ask him what late night National Geographic TV special he got that line from, all the while inwardly swooning because sure, she had been baby before, babe, an errant sweetheart even, but pearl was new, and tooth-decayingly sweet. And when he proposed, Sarah bouncing around them like a manic cupid, Cassandra made an ugly sound somewhere between a laugh and a cry, little black velvet box and a ring that was more signet than wedding, simple and gold and a single pearl set in the center of it. Her hands clasped, she runs the pad of her finger over her ring, wordless and worrying it on the elevator ride up to Vicky’s office. 

Vicky has a thing for lamps and art prints of naked women. Her waiting room is a little dim, no windows, green velveteen loveseat and two high-backed wooden chairs that they always take when they get here, his eyes scanning over the coffee table laden with back-ordered Psychology Today magazines, headlines about overcoming anxiety and exercising your way out of depression. There had been one about postpartum  depression somewhere in the pile the last time they came, but he had made a point of hanging back after Cass left, some excuse about checking an insurance thing with Vicky, though what he really did was pluck out that magazine and throw it away in the men’s restroom down the hall. One less thing to worry about, at the least. 

“Hi, you two, come on back.” The sessions always start the same. Vicky asks them how they think the week went, and they both offer up some iteration of fine. Vicky asks them if they’ve been upholding their phase of separation, and she answers before Joel can, pointedly not looking at him, yes, no contact between sessions. But apparently, this week is going to be different.

“We are nearing the end of the total separation phase. After this initial period of cooling off for both of you, the real work can begin.” Right, phases, because Vicky works in phases like this is some sort of military siege. He tries not to roll his eyes at the real work beginning. 

“Can either of you remember the last date you went on together?” 

“It would’ve been in August, right before the separation.” Cass scoffs at his answer, tilt of her head like, really?

“Tommy and Maria’s baby shower hardly counts as a date. But we did go to dinner at the end of July.”

“I don’t think your work banquet counts either.” Vicky hits them with that look, that yeah, that’s what I thought look, all raised brow and scrunched nose and nodding. Not that she is, but if she, hypothetically, were trying to win therapy, Cassandra thinks she wouldn’t be doing a great job of it right now.

“Right, well, you’ve made my point for me. It’s not unusual for people who have been together for as long as you two have to let things like this fall to the wayside. However, it can be very helpful to reestablish some of these routines. Think of it as marriage maintenance.” 

“So you want us to start going on dates again?” 

“Yes, but not with each other.” Did she? Did he? Hear that right? Cass is nodding like it’s the most reasonable thing in the world, like, yes, of course, this is just the solution they’ve been looking for. This time, he doesn’t hold back a laugh.

“I’m sorry, what?” Both of them look at him like, yes, keep up, please, let us explain this to you very slowly so you can keep up, please. Something about seeing what life is like outside of their marriage, testing the waters, seeing if they still like the same things without their extra marital limb, something about making a decision about their marriage, though he tunes most of that part out because, no, thanks, no new decision has been needed since he got down on one knee during that trip to Galveston, sunscreen and sticky sweet and he’s not sure if he or Sarah was more excited, but he was definitely more nervous. And Cass said yes, and then he wasn’t nervous anymore, not scared anymore, and that’s all there was to it, is to it, right? Right. 

“This is the closing exercise of the total separation phase. It’s really important that you both have this opportunity to see what it’s like to be back in the dating pool. Think of it as a trial run of if you decide to make this separation–”

“No, no thanks. That’s not– we’re not those people, so, you know, we can just move onto the next phase.” 

“Joel.” The mom voice of all things, and he knows for certain now that Cass is trying to win therapy, nudging her shoe into the side of his, and, come on, really? She’s really bought that hard into what Vicky’s selling? Now that, that isn’t like her, at all. 

“What feelings are coming up for you right now, Joel?” She fucking hates that question, and she imagines that he does too, fingers drumming on his knee, long sigh, and she knows that look, that’s his getting ready to bolt look. Big man, big, skittish man who has accidentally nailed his fingers to house frames and hardly shed a tear. But feelings? Yeah, forget it. 

“Uh, I guess I’m confused as to why that is so important for us to do. We came here to help our– to help us, not to create more problems.”

“And you think that if you and Cassandra went on dates, one date, with other people, that it would create more problems in your marriage?” Well, it’s hardly rocket science, Vicky, though judging by the way she’s speaking to him, he’s pretty sure he failed some kind of test of hers. He doesn’t particularly care.

“I imagine it’d do that to anyone’s marriage.” 

“It’s just one date, it’s a part of the process.” She’s starting to get pissed, and trying very hard not to show it in front of Vicky should she get the what feelings are coming up for you treatment. When they agreed to start going to therapy, like a pair of dogs gagging down a pill, they had both agreed to put their full effort into it, and if Vicky wasn’t in the room with them currently, Cassandra would sharply remind him of that agreement. 

“Maybe I should clarify the expectations around this exercise. It’s one date, preferably with people outside of your shared social circle, and it would be best if the focus is just on the date, no sexual relations.”

“Oh really, you think that’d be best?”

“Joel.” He gives her a slack and slanted look, speaking two different languages, apparently. And really, she doesn’t see what the big deal is. One date versus sixteen years is pretty obvious math for her to square up, though it doesn’t seem to be for him. But, watching him engage in psychological tennis with Vicky, some new jab dripping in sarcasm for every reassurance she tries to offer him, the realization comes to Cassandra slowly, simply. Joel is scared. 

By the time they leave Vicky’s office, he feels deflated, defeated, because yes, they are, apparently, going to do this fucking exercise that fucking Vicky has fucking assigned to them, scheduled in three weeks instead of one to give them time to do this fucking exercise that fucking Vicky has fucking assigned to them. 

“Can’t we just, you know, say we did it but not actually do it?” 

“Are you serious right now?” Judging by the look she gives him, a quick, sharp flicker of her eyes before she focuses back on the road, he thinks he probably shouldn’t say anything else. He shouldn’t, but, well. 

“Is this about pleasing Vicky, or are you just that interested in dating someone else?”

“Don’t be a child about this, Joel. It’s a therapeutic–”

“It’s bullshit is what it is. I don’t– I already know what I want, and I don’t need to go testing the waters to be sure of it. What I’m not so sure about is if you can say the same.” She can’t put her finger on anything specific,  probably just a slow-building amalgamation of things. Stressful week at work, and the leaking sink getting worse, and her doctor increasing a medication dosage that’s made her body feel like something other than her body, and this fucking therapy and this fucking trying and she’s trying so hard and she feels like she’s failing and when she glances at him he looks hurt, really hurt, a close crumple in his face, deep frown, and it frustrates her because all she’s trying to do is do it right, and all she gets is this constant rhythm of resistance, this push and pull and yes, it’s all of that, all of that creeping up her throat tight and hot and curling behind her eyes sending salt pinpricks and sharp pangs. When the first sob breaks, it does so as a gasp, like a small and stunned thing in her chest. And, well, it’s never uphill from there, is it?

“Do you– do we need to pull over?”

“No, I don’t need to fucking pull over. I’m not an invalid, I can cry and drive at the same time.” Except it doesn’t come out quite like that, not smooth like that. The words get stop-started with each new shudder, new stutter, hiccuping on fucking and invalid. The world has gone to slanted stained-glass through all her tears. 

Unsure what to do, but that’s nothing new. He doesn’t say anything else, watches her through the wary side of his eye, sobs turning into something more subdued, little wounded sounds high in her throat, a choice fuck you with a little more bite behind it when someone cuts her off merging onto the highway. He feels useless, feels like, maybe, this is what Vicky should be talking with them about instead of her siege on marriage plan. All he knows is that he seems to get it wrong every time, so this time, he doesn’t interject or intervene, doesn’t say any more than he already has. He lets her cry, and he lets her drive.

He doesn’t know when it happened. When he decided he was going to fix things for her, or just fix her, really. His lady in pieces and he was going to put her back together, and it seemed like every time he tried to, she just shattered a little more. That April is the obvious answer, the most shattered he had ever seen her. But the fighting had started before then, and so had the fixing that wasn’t really fixing. Like a relief, like a release, the slow realization that no, it never worked, and no, it was never going to work. The sobs turn into shivers turn into something even smaller. By the time they pull up in front of his apartment complex, it has passed. 

“I just– I want to do this right, this therapy thing, and I want it to work, and I want it to work so we can be okay again. That’s what I want.” The words hang between them. He makes no move to get out of the car, and she counts her inhales in the silence, waiting for him to say something, anything. It feels like a child’s logic, or maybe a hail Mary, and she knows it, feels a little insane saying it, the words fitting strangely in her mouth. The brief wondering comes to her, what would she have said about where they are now to her girlfriends, what snark, what sharp jokes at their expense? Him in an apartment and a fifteen minute drive separating them and a woman named Vicky unraveling (and in theory, putting back together) their marriage in phases, fucking phases, and fucking Vicky. She doesn’t want to go on a date with someone else, and she doesn’t know why she’s taking Vicky’s instructions as gospel. But she does know, doesn’t she? It’s not about Vicky, not about Vicky and her fucking phases. Fixing, being fixed, that’s what she wants. 

“So, you’re saying you want us to date other people in order to fix our marriage.” Grateful that she takes it for the joke he meant it as, it’s just enough to slough off some of the tension, roll of her eyes, please. They both let out a sigh, too tired for much else. But maybe, he thinks, this counts as progress, sitting here with her in the car and the sun washing everything down burnt and orange. He watches her eyes drop shut for a moment, fine lines like porcelain fissures and he loves those lines, liked catching her in the bathroom with her face pressed up close to the mirror and her fingers pulling those lines taut around her eyes, her mouth. He’d pull her hands away from her face, ask her if she was planning her halloween costume for next year, earning a scoff and a roll of her eyes and her trying to pull away from him, and he wouldn’t let her. Making it better with kisses to those lines, and eventually, her pressing her fingers as light as prayers over his, an implicit wondering, where did the time go?

“Look, if it really makes you that uncomfortable, let’s just lie to Vicky. We could still get like, an A-minus in therapy if we leave just one thing out.”

“I didn’t realize therapy came with a grade.” He smiles, all soft, and she can’t help the sheepish bloom in her chest, rolling her lips back into her mouth to hide her own grin, eventually, reluctantly, admitting in a quiet, skewed to the side voice, okay, so maybe, maybe I was doing that thing, that winning thing. He doesn’t say anything, and that’s a mercy. Just nods, of course, and of course, he knew, maybe even before she did, and is that knowing not a mercy too? She thinks it is. 

“I want to do this right too, Cass. And, I mean, we’re paying Vicky enough money that we should do what she tells us to.”

“Are you saying you want to do it then?”

“Want is a strong word.”

“Okay, are you saying you’re willing to do it?” 

“It’s just the one?”

“Just the one.” 

“Alright, fuck it, let’s do it. We better get a goddamn A-plus at the end of this.” 

“Mmm, gold stars too.” Another sigh, another settling. How nice, another sigh, another settling. It’s a strange equation, but she thinks it still adds up. Neither of them want to do this, not really, but they’re willing to, and they’re willing to because of each other. Willing to try and get it right for each other. Just, well, ignore the finer details of what getting it right entails. 

“You hear from Sarah lately?”

“On Monday, yeah. Called to wish me a happy birthday.”

“Well, only off by four days, not too bad.”

“Oh no, she called on Monday because she was, and I quote, too busy the rest of the week to call.”

“Wow.”

“Right?”

“Is it bad that sometimes I kinda hate it?”

“Hate what?”

“That she’s like, a fully-formed person now. I miss the days when she was a little blob who liked holding onto me by one of my belt loops.” He has to smile, nod, because he knows exactly what she means. And the truth of it is that Sarah was so good, maybe the best, if he’s allowed to give his completely biased opinion. And the other truth, Cass is, was, one of those people simply meant to be a parent, a mother. He remembers when they first started dating, and all the exhausting maneuvering he did, getting his parents or Tommy to watch Sarah, a string of canceled dinner plans when his kid couldn’t seem to stop catching things at daycare. He was sure that Cass would lose interest every time another piece of his reality was revealed to her. After all, he was not unfamiliar with being left behind. But that never happened, she stayed every time. 

It was Cass who first suggested it. Didn't want to impose, but what if, maybe we could, would it be okay if, why don’t we. They went to the zoo that weekend, if he remembers correctly, Sarah in tow, shy at first around the woman she barely knew, though she bloomed over the course of the day. Yes, he thinks, it was the zoo, because he remembers how by the end of the day, Cass had her on her hip, as easy as anything, so she could get a better view of the rhinos. He knows now that, even in those earliest days, she loved his kid just as much as she loved him. He knows now what a gift that was, and continues to be. 

“She’s gonna be alright, Cass. We did good with her.” She sighs, yeah, we did. She had been worried about telling her about the whole lieutenant-LMFT thing, the whole quasi-separation thing, but that was a direct command from Vicky, letting the family know what was going on. Sarah had taken it surprisingly well when she called, could be good, mom, like a reset. Of course, they kept the worst of it away from her, and of course, she still knew something had changed, something not right between them. No one was left unscathed after that April.

From the start, loving him included loving Sarah. It was never difficult for her to do both. Sweet girl, bright like the sun girl, rounded cheeks and bouncing curls, and Cassandra found that her love for her had a particular effect on her heart. Whenever small hand reached for one of hers, whenever small face tucked into her neck, whether tear-damp or milk-tired, and eventually, whenever she was given the name mom, like a stop and restart of her heart, like something turning back on inside her and finally working right. An everything kind of love, to not only be chosen by him, but to be chosen by her too. 

“Well, anyways, Vicky didn’t make any stipulations about birthdays, so I have something for you.” Just a small thing, she says, leaning over the console and into the back seat, and he knows better than to say no, shouldn’t have, because there’s already a perfect package being placed in his hands, navy blue wrapping paper and a white bow, and her hand cups underneath his for just a moment, there and gone. 

The truth is she had already picked out this gift two months ago, what feels like a lifetime before this separation. Now, watching him open it, she’s a little worried it had been presumptuous of her, if not completely narcissistic. But if he thinks that, he makes no show of it, lets out a quiet laugh as he takes the watch out of the box and holds it up in the fading light to look at it. 

“It’s a little sappy, maybe. But, well, we have something that kinda matches now.” Something is unfurling in his chest, heat loosening something he didn’t even realize he had been tightening up around. It’s a beautiful watch, rich leather strap and polished silver. And the face of it catches and shimmers a little in the light. He knows right away that it’s mother of pearl. 

Here, she says, let me, and he does, feeling a little indulgent watching her fasten the watch around his wrist, and definitely breaking one of fucking Vicky’s fucking rules when he ducks his head down and steals a kiss, another one, letting the third deepen just a little, both of them humming because missed this, missed this, didn’t realize how much, but missed this. 

“Thank you, pearly.” It feels good to be so close to him, noses brushing and smiles curling around each other. Feels like a relief. 

“Happy birthday, one day ahead. We could, you know, do something tomorrow? Get dinner maybe?” Before he can answer, say yes, she’s already caught herself, sheepish smile and pulling a little further away and oh, right. She says sorry, wasn’t thinking, and they do an awkward dance around the whole thing, right, yeah, probably shouldn’t, right, yeah. He is not a hateful man, and it would be too strong to say he’d wish Vicky harm. But if something were to happen, in theory, that’d make Vicky go the fuck away, in theory, he wouldn’t be too torn up about it. 

“See you next Thursday then?”

“Well, next next Thursday, because we have to do the– yeah.”

“Right, yeah.” Right, yeah, this is the part where he gets out of the car. The part where he goes up to his apartment and she drives home and they don’t eat dinner together and they don’t brush their teeth together and they don’t go to sleep together. Right, yeah. They say goodnight. He’d like to say love, but he doesn’t. She’d like to say love, but she doesn’t. And they part ways. 

She hates being in this house alone. Leaves all the lights on all hours of the day and checks all the locks three times before going upstairs to bed. Passes by the closed door that remains closed with her breath held. She knows it makes no sense, but she’s been sleeping in the guestroom, makes the whole thing a little easier. Always had a tendency toward insomnia, tossing and turning brain and body. 

When they were just starting to get more serious, and she was just starting to stay over at his more often, she got worried that eventually it'd drive him mad enough for the whole thing to not be worth it, neither of them getting much sleep as they learned how to share a bed together. And she doesn't remember how it started exactly, maybe out of a moment of pure exasperation, him draping just enough of his weight over her to press slower breath into her lungs and still her body. It became a routine, she'd ask could you? And he'd already know what she was asking for without her having to say any more than that. What she also doesn't remember, when that stopped working, when she stopped asking, and he stopped answering. She supposes it all happened slowly, just like the rest of it. 

#joel miller fanfiction #joel miller #joel miller angst #joel miller fluff #joel miller series #joel miller story #joel miller fic #joel miller au

[esamastation]

Part thirty-three of Shizuroth, aka, the SOLDIER General's Self Saving Shizun.

Ao3 link.

Previous parts: one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four, twenty-five, twenty-six, twenty-seven, twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty, thirty-one, thirty-two

-

Reno hates the fact that in the last twenty four hours he's somehow become the Turk Expert on SOLDIER behaviour. Well, Rude did some of the research too, but still, this is not the way Reno expected to see his career going.

"I think the fundamental problem with the entire SOLDIER corps is that they don't know how to take a fucking break," he decides, rocking his chair back and forth on its back legs while making faces at the ceiling. "I mean, just look at the shitshow that started just because Sephiroth took some time off! They couldn't even let him have that."

Rude hums, shuffling through what looks like all of the camp's paperwork.

Reno continues, crossing his hands behind his neck. "Rhapsodos and Hewley don't leave him alone, everything he does is scrutinised -"

"Mostly by us," Rude comments.

Reno ignores him. "The other Firsts take him out training, because they don't do enough of that in their work hours, clearly, and then Rhapsodos drags him out shopping, and that's just the first day. The second day he goes to train in what was at the time an empty training room not in use, and the moment he does, people call Hojo on his ass," he waves a hand. "The poor schmuck took a break, and all he got was so much stress for it! And that's without even taking into consideration his memory loss!"

Rude hums in agreement and then looks up. "SOLDIERs don't have work hours."

"What?" Reno asks, his momentum halted.

"SOLDIERs aren't paid by the hour - they're paid by the mission. They, technically, pick their own hours. They can and do regularly make thousands of Gil in a matter of hours."

The front legs of Reno's chair bang against the floor, rattling their entire paper hut of a house. "Well, I know that, yes, everyone knows that. It's a big selling point, aside from the whole become a hero by having Mako pumped into your veins thing."

Rude hums in agreement. "With his mission completion rate, Sephiroth regularly makes up to quarter million Gil in a month."

"... By working how many hours, in general, per day?"

"Seventeen - 

"Seventeen?! When does the fucker sleep?!"

Rude shrugs and puts the papers down. "According to his medical file, he generally can do with five hours of sleep while maintaining optimal function."

"And who the fuck determined that - Professor Hojo?" Reno scoffs. "Un-fucking-believable. Also my point is made! SOLDIERs don't know how to take a fucking break."

"Truly a detrimental view on work," Rude agrees.

"It really fucking is! I mean, come on! You take a bunch of jacked up meatheads, give them a system that massively rewards their overwork, you keep them on call all the time, keeping them on edge and hyped up, all the while Hojo looms over them like the fucking boogeyman and can pull them into the labs any time he wants!" Reno scoffs. "Never mind the fact that they're considered, technically, Shinra property, with all the Mako in their veins, so they have fuck all employee's rights."

"Might add to the reason why so few take time off," Rude agrees.

"They do have paid time off, right?" Reno asks. "The program isn't that much of a shit, right?"

"They do, standard rate… which is on average about a fifth of what they'd stand to make working. Or in Sephiroth's case… one-thirtieth."

"Of course it fucking is," Reno scoffs with disgust.

"... And the Science department can still call them in, if they're in Midgar."

"So either work yourself to early death or take a massive hit to the wallet and still Science can just grab your ass if they feel like it! What the fuck," Reno mutters. "Who the fuck designed the SOLDIER program, anyway?"

"According to the paperwork, originally Professor Gast… but its current form is mostly Professor Hojo's handiwork."

"Guess I should've expected that," Reno mutters and rocks back in his chair again, glaring at the ceiling. "The whole fucking system is rigged to blow. Nice fucking experiment you got there, Professor."

And now it's his problem to deal with. Wonderful.

He thinks of the way Angeal said it, time and privacy, like it was a joke, an impossible task. It makes him so fucking mad.

The only fucking reason work as a Turk is worth it sometimes is because it comes with some sweet fucking benefits - including properly paid time off and all the incentive on the fucking planet to use it, too. Because way back when Turks were first put together, then still called the Investigation Sector of the General Affairs Department, someone had the common sense to look at these guys, with abilities and access of fucking spies, and go, "yeah, you know what we don't want to see - what happens when these assholes get burnout." Because that's how you end up with your asshole bosses assassinated in the night.

To this day Turks will fight tooth and nail to keep their off work hours off the fucking clock. Because what happens on the clock is bad enough, and if it doesn't justify being able to fucking punch out at the end of the day, then what's even the fucking point?

Time and privacy aren't impossible to get, for the Turks - those are fucking contractually enforced benefits they're entitled to, and just a few of many! They keep them fucking sane! And woe be the fucking asshole who tries to mess with them. Even Heidegger knows better.

It's so damn wild to realise that just a few floors down there a bunch of bastards who just don't… care? Who are incentivised not to care. Who'd rather work themselves to death rather than risk being seen at loose ends. Guess that's how Shinra keeps the SOLDIERs in check - they're clearly all of them too overworked to even think straight anymore. And those who are not working still might be pulled into the Science Department any time. Shit.

Dragging his hands down his face with a groan, Reno rolls out of his chair. "I hate this fucking assignment already. Did you find anything?"

"There are a few potential sites," Rude agrees and shows him a drawn map of the area. "A charcoal burner's house over here has been abandoned for months, and might be in bad condition. A hunter's lodge over here, it's higher up on the mountains and might be within view of Wutai patrols from Fort Tamblin. And here there's an old farm, partially burned in a bombing two years back, abandoned since."

Reno considers the locations. The hunter's lodge is right out… "We'll start with the charcoal place," he decides. "If that doesn't work out, then the farm."

"Sounds good," Rude agreed. "How will we justify it?"

"Do we justify it? It's Turk business," Reno scoffs, taking out his PHS. "And so, it's no one's business."

Rude thinks about that for a moment and then nods. "I'll requisition supplies."

"You do that," Reno agrees, checks his watch to make sure it's office hours back home and makes a call. It takes no time for the call to connect. "Good morning, boss, how's the weather in Midgar?"

"There was a storm, but it looks like the worst is over now," Tseng answers. "What's the word for Sephiroth?"

Reno flashes back to the moment he heard the arguably strongest man in the world sobbing into his hands about how fucked he is. "Yeah, so, about that. We're making some new arrangements."

-

What I love most about the Turks is how they definitely know how to appreciate time off.

#Fanfiction #ffvii #ff7 #reno of the turks #rude of the turks

[frayazicat]

what if Triplets Dan, Danny, and Ellie?

like, people like to make at least Dan and Danny twins, but why not all three?? i never see that happen.

here's what i'm thinking. Reveal Gone Good, but Danny now has to tell his parents about the OTHER TWO biggest secrets he's kept from them; Dan and Ellie. he's a little hesitant cause this is not Phantom Planet compliant so they don't know about Vlad.

Dan's still in his thermos timeout thinking about what he's done and Ellie is...somewhere.

so, he tells them about his clone and his future self. this includes what Vlad has done to him. does it include who did this? maybe, i don't know. dealer's choice. anyways, the Fenton parents want to meet their new kids.

Team Phantom gets in touch with Ellie to get to FentonWorks as soon as possible while Danny introduces them to Dan.

it..might not go as planned, might end up fine, that's also dealer's choice. but! in the end, they somehow redeem Dan. Ellie arrives and the duo are welcomed into the family!

but, there are two problems now.

1) how do they explain away their new children?

and 2) Dan is full ghost (and adult-sized, i'm not sure the parents are old enough for a kid his age) and Ellie is an unstable clone - both half Vlad, and really not wanting to be half Vlad.

their solution to the second problem? make new bodies for them! they made two fully stable Halfa clone bodies from Danny, had Ellie and Dan fuse their cores inside these clones near the end of making them, and waited for them to pop out of the tubes at the same age as Danny! this might take some help from Clockwork and Danny to pull off without more melting clones..

anyways! now, they have three Halfa children. all they have to do at this point is find a way to explain the sudden appearance of TWO MORE KIDS!

their solution for THAT problem? hack into the database and change the medical files so it showed that THREE kids were birthed instead of one; Danail Jack, Daniel Jackson, and Dannielle Jacklyn Fenton. Dan, Danny, and Ellie.

but the parents take it SO MUCH FURTHER. they bribe the local schools and hospitals, they make fake receipts of things bought for them and fake records of government child support, and they even photoshop younger versions of Ellie and Dan into the family photos to make it legit. heck, they might have even gone back in time via Clockwork to add the birth certificates! they're THAT committed!

so, we got a new family of six gaslighting, gatekeeping, and girlbossing their way into legitimacy.

"What do you mean we only had two kids this entire time? Look at these records! Look at how similar they are to their triplet brother! The evidence says otherwise!"

"Listen, if you just play along and say nothing contrary to anybody who asks, we'll stop ghost hunting or driving for one month every time you do so. Sound good? We'll even put in some money to sweeten the deal."

"If we never had these children before, then why do we have memories of Dan viciously beating up Danny and Ellie's bullies at school?"

that sort of thing.

they're COMMITTED. it's INSANE. the town is going CRAZY.

where did these kids come from?? did we seriously forget about two teen kids for sixteen years??

(things go off the rails when Sam and Tucker get in on the action.)

now, i'm putting this under DCxDP, cause of just ONE little detail. Ellie's obsession involves moving, right?

well, what if the Fenton family becomes a wandering family of crime-fighters/mad scientists with an interest in the occult?

what if they get on the JL's radar because of one too many supernatural cases being solved by the Fentons in the JL's local cities?

they're at Gotham? suddenly, it feels as if the air is lighter and that it's not as drenched in evil and insanity as before. what did they do? fought the curses in the local Lazurus Pit like someone wrestling a pig in their mudpen.

they're in Metropolis? Lex woke up one day to find his entire stash of Kryptonite was missing with no trace. what did they do? the triplets broke in after sensing the gems and ate them like candy, their natural ghostliness shorting out the security feed as they do so.

they're in D.C.? all of the ghost relics in the local museums have been stolen with only a note saying, "Sorry for the disturbance! These were too dangerous for the living, so we put them somewhere safe! Don't worry! :)" left behind. what did they do? they took them and chucked them into the ghost portal where some allies on that side put them in safe places.

and that's all i got.

TL,DR; Fenton family goes full mad scientist in order to welcome Dan and Ellie into the family before packing up and wandering the states, effectively gaining the JL's attention with their suspicious and crazy appearances.

(i hope i didn't accidentally steal this idea from another. if i did, i'm sorry. feel free to smack me or something if that's the case.)

#dc x dp #long post #Danail is apparently pronounced Dan-a-il? #idk how to but okay #also #yes i'm imagining the FentonWorks building just going around the states like a weird crab-spider thing #so they always have the ghost portal nearby for emergency ghost relic chucking #commit to the bit Fenton family #instead of being normal people and claiming adoption #they made clones of their son so their new kids could have better bodies #and gaslit everyone #they left for Ellie #and also #the townsfolk are divided on the issue #they needed a CLEAN bit #triplets Dan Danny and Ellie Fenton #Fenton Triplets AU #they got the same name because of how funny it would be to confuse everyone #they also wanted similar middle names to show Vlad how little they wanted to do with him #and to piss him off with how similar they are to Jack's name #they like to publicly flaunt their names before Vlad because of how mad he gets #and because he can't do anything about it

[melanieph321]

Ruben Dias x Reader - City Girls Part 6/8

Yeah, it keeps getting worse and worse 🙃

Reader plays for the Man City girls academy. She struggles a bit but gets Ruben to mentor her. The the two don't hit off despite having many things in common. It all gets worse when Reader eventually catches feelings for Ruben.

Enjoy!

Living with Ruben was not like you imagined it to be. The guestroom where you stayed was practically a master bedroom. But having previously slept on a pull-out couch when sharing apartments with Ester, you were undoubtedly grateful. However, Ruben was never home. His match and training schedule was busier than yours. Sometimes days would pass where you were completely left alone in his apartment. Your heart sank once you realized that when Ruben wasn't at home or training he was probably spending time with his girlfriend. He did say that whatever the two of you had was a mistake. But there would be nights when Ruben would come home late from game, slip into your bed and wrap his arms around you until the two of you fell asleep in each other's arms.

Ruben also had rules for your stay. Rules that any girl who wasn't as desperate as you, might have seen as red flags. Most of the rules were understandable, like don't leave the apartment around the same time as he did, and don't post pictures of you in the apartment or anywhere near it. However, there was one rule you just couldn't wrap your head around and this rule involved the locked door down the hall from your bedroom. You had mistaken it for an additional bathroom, but when Ruben caught you yanking the doorhandle he got angry and snapped at you to never go near the door again. But like you said, you were desperate for a place to stay, ignoring the internal warnings. Not even your parents knew about what went down between you and Ester. They would never know. All you wanted to do was fulfill your dreams of playing football, staying with Ruben reassured that.

"Morning, beautiful. Did you sleep well?"

You woke up to the memories of last night. The smell of freshly baked bread brought you out of bed and into the kitchen. Ruben stood behind the counter, whisking something in a bowl. He was bare chested, wearing sweatpants only. Grey sweatpants, revealing more than was appropriate.

"Morning." You mumbled and climbed to sit on the stool next to the counter. To your suprise Ruben stopped what he was doing, leand forward and kissed you.

"You look grumpy, why?" He asked.

You shrugged. "Just tired, I guess."

Ruben kept you up all night. The two of you had done more than cuddle last night. You had sex, all of it initiated by Ruben who came into your room after another late return from an away game. The sex was good but it made you wonder how serious the relationship between Ruben and his girlfriend was. And who were you to Ruben, his mistress?

"Care for some breakfast? I got bread freash from the oven. I'm also making some protein pancakes."

"Sure Ruben, thanks."

The day after an away game was usually Ruben's day off. He had time to stay and make breakfast, serving you a plate of the tastiest pancakes you've ever had.

"They're amazing." You said, wiping your mouth with a napkin.

"Nice to see them bring back that smile I love on you." He stretched out to caress your cheek, wiping some crumbs off the corner of your mouth. "Mist a spot." He brought back his thumb from your face and into his mouth. Your heart flared watching him suck the tip off it, his brown eyes never leaving yours as he did.

You cleared your throat. "Ruben, about last night."

He smirked, the thought amusing to him.

"I thought you said..."

"I know what I said Y/N." He nodded. "It won't happen again. I was just happy about the win. It was an important game for the team."

You had watched it on TV. The win had granted Manchester City a slot into the round of sixteen teams fighting for the Champions League.

"I get that, but you told me that you have a girlfriend. Sleeping with me makes you a cheater Ruben. "

He snorted. "I don't think so. Cheaters never win and I won last night, both on and off the pitch."

You were stunned for words. With time you had gotten to know Ruben a bit better and like anyone he had different sides to him, sides you weren't all too keen on exploring. You thought it might jeopardize your relationships if you questioned his ethics too much. Or worse, Ruben might stop helping you improve your football.

"Which time are you leaving for training?" He asked, changing the subject.

"Two, I'll be there all afternoon."

"Alright, I'll give you a ride."

"Really?"

You watched him get up and wipe his hands on a cloth.

"You're surprised?"

"Well, won't someone see us?"

He smiled. "My car windows are tinted, Y/N. Besides, I'll be dropping you off a block away from the Ethiad."

Your heart sank. "Oh, of course."

Training went well that afternoon. Perhaps too well. You had feard facing Ester again  after her lame threats to tell on you and Ruben to the club. However, Ruben insisted that you shouldn't worry about her, and you hadn't. But the fact that Ester completely alienated you during trainings, caused you slight paranoia.

"Listen up!" Coach said, gathering the players as he blew his whistle. "I have a few call ups for the first team's game this weekend, so listen carefully. Fowler..."

"Yes!" A girl hissed.

Coach continued reading from his list "James..."

"Yes!" Another girl cheered.

"....Dawson, Espinosa, Philips, Adilović..." It must be a friendly, you thought. The majority of girls were getting called up. "...Richards and Hofman."

The majority of girls, except for you.

"But coach?" You protested. The session was over. You trailed after your him as he walked off the pitch.

"I'm sorry Y/N, but my hands are tied." He said.

What exactly was that suppose to mean?

"But coach I'm not sick anymore." You thought back to your little spew fest during a forgettable training session with the first team. "It was one time. I'm better now, I swear."

Coach seized to walk, turning to you. He looked conflicted. "Look. I'm very sorry Y/N, but like I said, my hands are tied. Perhaps the first team didn't find you performance that impressing this month?"

He left you with those words.

Impossible, you thought. You played excellent this month. You even managed to gain a few pounds with the diet Ruben put you on. You were strong enough to pass any defender, let alone the defenders in the first team. It was all impossible.

"Can you believe it, they picked Ester but not me." You told Ruben about your day. You were a bit suprised to still find him at the apartment. After all, it was his day off. Was his girlfriend sick or something?

"I wouldn't dwell too much about that Y/N. Like you said, it's probably just a friendly game against another Super League team."

"Yes, but I could use the experience." You sighed, plotting down beside Ruben on the coach. His arms stretched across your shoulders, railing you in. "You'll get it in time." He said, kissing the top of your head. "Just be patient."

It was nice, being held by him. The TV was showing a documentary about rhinoceros' and you easily got swept away by it, resting comfortably against Ruben's chest. However, a thought came to mind as your eyes darted around his apartment. "Ruben, I was just wondering," You said, voice a little hesitant. "Why aren't there any personal items in your apartment. No photos, no nothing?" It was strange really.

Ruben's expression changed, his eyes darting around the room as if he was searching for something. "Oh, that," he said, his voice evasive. "I just like to keep things simple. I don't really have any family or friends to speak of."

Oh."

You felt a wave of unease wash over you. Something about Ruben's answer didn't sit right. "What do you mean you don't have any family or friends?" You pressed on, because you had met one of them and his name was Bernardo. You raised your head from his chest, meeting Ruben's eyes, and for a moment, You saw something in them that made your heart race. It was a look of pure terror, as if he was trapped in a nightmare and couldn't escape.

"I, uh, I just don't like to talk about it," he stammered, his eyes darting away. "Can we just forget about it and enjoy this movie or whatever. Why are you asking me so many questions anyway?"

A chill ran down her spine. You had never seen Ruben like this before, and you didn't like it one bit. But you also didn't want to push him too hard, so you nodded and went back to watching the documentary with him, ending the night this way.

#fanfiction #football imagine #ruben dias #man city #manchester city #ruben dias x reader #ruben dias imagine #footballer imagine #footballer x reader #football angst

[tommysversion]

What about a reader x joel fic where reader is insecure of her body but joel doesn't care what her body looks like cause he loves her, and shows her how much he loves her with loads of fluff and maybe smut?

CWs: body image issues / insecurity / mild hints of internalised fatphobia / fatphobic language & insinuation

Notes: I went down the fluff route for this one, Anon, I hope that's okay.

It's not that you don't like how you look. In fact, you've spent a lot of time over the years actively fighting the impulse not to.

You've always been bigger. Curvy. Hell, as an adult, you have no problem labelling yourself as fat, because it's not a dirty word. Sure, there are people who would use it as a slur, but you've long since come to the conclusion that that's their problem, not yours.

You've fought tooth and nail to be comfortable in your own skin, in a world that valued your complete opposite.

It seems like nowadays, most people are on the slim side. That, or they're walls of solid muscle from hard labour. Being stocky is an asset; it means you can survive.

Unfortunately, the tendency towards bitchiness that runs in some people didn't get the memo that the world ended almost twenty two years ago.

You're not blind to the looks some of the people in town give you. The sly suggestion that putting you on kitchen duty was a terrible idea, surely you must be sneaking extra.

You know it's bullshit, know that the words are just hateful remarks from people who have never once lived in your skin - either through luck of genetics, or simply from being young enough to have been born into a world on the constant precipice of hunger.

Still. Sometimes the words sting. Remind you of middle school. Of self imposed small portions and your mother's worried expression as you refused cakes, refused sweet teas, refused anything bigger than a fist sized helping, until your aunt had pointed out all of the happy, beautiful women with your body type on the internet, on TV, in magazines and on Broadway.

It had been the start of a long journey of self acceptance, of riotous body positivity, of wearing t-shirts with slogans proclaiming fat positivity, of punching a boy who called you a slur in the balls and getting suspended for a week. That same aunt had taken you to see a musical while you were suspended, had bought you a journal to write in.

You like to think you're a strong person. You've lived through that, lived through the literal fucking apocalypse. But you're only human, and sometimes words sting.

Leave you standing in front of the full length mirror in your shared bedroom, poking and jiggling at yourself with a critical eye that you know is distinctly un-feminist, so unlike you.

Your gaze is critical as you inspect stretch marks. On a good day, those are your stripes. You make jokes about being a zebra whenever Joel touches them, never remotely critical himself.

Joel. He was... something else. He'd come into town with his adopted daughter, remained cold and closed off to almost everyone except her and his brother for months, until he'd seen you make Ellie laugh. Until he'd heard her ask you how to make cookies, heard you promise to show her.

Then he'd started, slowly, to come out of his shell. To spend more time with you. Brought you flowers. Now you lived together, with Ellie just down the hallway, because there was no way in hell a sixteen year old was going to live by herself, even in Jackson.

You're confident in yourself enough to know that you're well matched, but when you get like this? Sometimes it's easy to think differently. To worry that maybe he might prefer someone younger, with a more traditionally, socially accepted standard of beauty.

You're just getting lost in that spiral when Joel comes in from the shower, already dressed for the day in jeans, flannel shirt, and jacket over the top.

"What're you doing, darlin'? You'll catch a cold."

He snags a spare shirt from the edge of the bed, comes to wrap it around you. He's broad as hell, so you can wear his shirts without feeling self conscious. Not that you ever would, anyway, stealing his clothes is your favourite pastime.

"Honestly?" You've always prided yourself on being truthful with him. "I'm feeling kind of crappy."

You let him wrap the shirt around you, put your arms into the sleeves and exhale at the scent of him still lingering in the fabric.

"You think you're getting sick?" His hand moves to your forehead, and in spite of yourself, you smile.

"No, it's not that, it's just..." You sigh. "You don't mind how I look, right?"

Joel stares at you as if you've just spoken a foreign language, grown a second head, and told him you're giving up baking, all in one go.

"Of course I don't mind. What's that even s'posed to mean, do I mind?"

"Because I'm fat, Joel. Because there aren't exactly many women who look like me in town, and people talk, and -"

"Don't call yourself fat." Joel means well, and god he loves you, but he's still got that mindset that older people have where fat is a dirty word, even though you've explained the concept of reclaiming a slur to him.

"I mean. You can. But don't... say it to put yourself down."

The fact that he's listened to your rambles about body positivity makes you feel better.

"People still talk..."

"Fuck 'em. Let them talk. See if I give a shit." He says gruffly, wraps his arms around you then squeezes gently. "Don't care that there aren't many girls who look like you. Makes you special."

Another hug, before his hands rub over your stretch marks, over the softness of your tummy, of your thighs.

"You're perfect as you are. Absolutely perfect. I don't want you to change. I love how you're confident in yourself, and I wouldn't change a damn thing. Ellie needs that sort of role model."

You offer him a watery smile. How is it that someone so stoic can be so sweet when he wants to?

"C'mon. Push those bad thoughts away, lets get you dressed before you freeze. Didn't you promise Ellie a baking day?"

You smile again, lean in to kiss him lightly on the cheek before you glance once more at your reflection; the shadow of your earlier mood gone when you look at yourself, wrapped in Joel's arms, safe and loved and perfect, just as you are.

#my writing #joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller fluff #joel miller fic #pedro pascal #pedro pascal character fic #the last of us #soft!joel

[armoricaroyalty]

𝐕𝐀𝐋𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐄'𝐒 𝐃𝐀𝐘 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟒 / ❛ boy crazy ❜ part two (@nexility-sims)

When Zofia walked into a room, everyone noticed. It might have been the enormity of her hair or the constant noise of her rings and bracelets or else the overwhelmingly sweet scent of her favorite body mist, but she was captivating in every sense of the word. Hannah had been jealous of her, once upon a time. It would have been impossible to grow up with her without any jealousy: next to Zofia, everyone became shabby and dull. Ranks didn't matter at all, no title or royal honor could ever compete with that kind of natural charisma. Hannah loved her, but there had been days when she'd hated her, too. Now, though, she was only grateful. When Zofia walked in, nobody noticed the rest of them slipping out.

read part one here

author's note: @nexility-sims and I have been working on the zofia/rui romance since....early 2022? some time in 2021? since #rufia has completely dominated 2/3 of our joint brain power for years, it seemed fitting to finally let them out of our DM's to celebrate Love Day Valentine's Day. Happy V-Day, everyone!

Transcript under the cut.

CHEF | Aren't long nails against dress code, anyway? SERVER | [laughs] Girl, I don't give a fuuu— SERVER | You wanna know who else is wearing acrylics tonight? CHEF | [bored] I dunno, who? SERVER | Oh, nobody, just the Princess Zofia. CHEF | [gasps] CHEF | Shut. Up. You actually talked to her? What was she like? SERVER | She's fucking gorgeous. Like, obviously, but up close, she's even more beautiful. CHEF | Yeah, yeah, but what was she like? SERVER | Okay, so I didn't actually talk to her because she was all over her new boyfriend. They were like, so into each other. It was so sweet. CHEF | Really? I heard it's just a PR relationship so people will think she's over Sigis. SERVER | No way! They're obviously crazy abut each other. You can't fake— UNIDENTIFIED MAN | [offscreen] EVERYBODY OUT! HUGO | What, do I gotta say it again? All of you, clear out! HANNAH | [sighs] Please excuse us. HANNAH | My cousin and I need somewhere to speak privately. Will you please excuse us for a moment? CHEF | ??? SERVER | [shrugs] HUGO | ...anyway, did you see it? HANNAH | See what? HUGO | That stupid little hair flip. He did it a million times. HANNAH | He's growing it out for her. HUGO | Really? Hard to believe, he's so fucking vain. HANNAH | She told me she asked him to grow it long. [deep, beleaguered sigh] She thinks it's sexy. HUGO | What, are you for real? HANNAH | Oh yeah. She's always had a thing for guys with long hair. HUGO | ...huh. HANNAH | Anyway...what's your take? Personally, I don't see what she sees in him. HUGO | [snorts] He's better than Marshall. HANNAH | That's the world's lowest bar. Subterranean, in fact. HUGO | So what are we going to do? HANNAH | He's not a dog, we can't just run him off. HUGO | Well, you can't, but maybe if I— PIDGE | [offscreen] HEY! What are you two talking about? PIDGE | ...and why are you hanging out in the kitchen? ARTHUR | ....hi. HUGO | [icily] Farrier. HANNAH | It's late, Pidge. What are you still doing up? PIDGE | Uh, excuse you. Mama said I can stay until midnight. ARTHUR | ...you two aren't talking about Rui and Zofie, are you? HUGO | ... HANNAH | ...no. PIDGE | You two are such LIARS! PIDGE | Both of you are judgy control freaks! I thought he was really nice. HUGO | He could barely string a sentence together. ARTHUR | I mean...Armorican is his third or fourth language, isn't it? HUGO | Whatever! He gives me the creeps. HANNAH | Well, she says she's in love. HUGO | [scoffs] In love? They've known each other for six months. PIDGE | So? What if it was love at first sight? HANNAH | [exasperated] Pidge— HUGO | Just ignore her, she's fourteen. PIDGE | For your information, I'm fifteen. And I'll be sixteen in May, sooo— HUGO | Yeah, a baby— ARTHUR | Can I remind everyone that Zofia is twenty-two? She's an adult, she can make her own choices, and this is none of our business. HUGO | You're right, Farrier. It's none of your business. HANNAH | [offscreen] Hugo, enough. PIDGE | [mouthing] Rude. HANNAH | Arthur, what was your read? ARTHUR | I don't know, and I don't want to form a judgment until I've actually gotten to know him. He seems...fine? On par with the other guys she's dated. HANNAH | [sighs] "On par with all her other boyfriends" is the entire problem. HANNAH | I just don't want her to get hurt again. This happens every time, you know? She falls hard and fast and then the guy turns out to be a scum-sucking lowlife. PIDGE | [laughs] Hellooooo, what about Van? He was— HANNAH | Probably thw worst of all of them. Trust me, Pigeon. He's...he's no good. HUGO | [jokingly] You see, baby bird? That's why you're not allowed to date until you're thirty and why Hannah's gonna join a convent— PIDGE | No way, that's not fair. HANNAH | [tiredly] Hugo, shut up. No one asked. PIDGE | Yeah, Hugo. No one asked. ARTHUR | Look, I think we should at least give the guy a chance. HANNAH | [sighs] I guess we owe her that much. PIDGE | Guys, I actually talked to him, and trust me: he is like, sooo nice. HUGO | ... HUGO | I bet I could take him. PIDGE | Hey! Hannah, did you hear what he just said—

#armorica story #behind the scenes #character: hugo st. fleur #character: hannah st. fleur #character: margaret st. fleur #character: arthur farrier #holiday special

[xoxobuckybarnes]

March 2024 Stucky Fics

Completed

Now! That’s What I Call 90’s Slow Jams (Rated: M, Words: 10K) by deadonarrival

Summary: Steve goes home for the wedding of Becca Barnes and while he’s there he runs into his old crush. Her brother. Except now they are both hot as shit. Oh no whatever will happen.

(You Can't Choose) What Stays and What Fades Away (Rated: G, words: 3K) by Taste_is_Sweet

Summary: At some point in everyone's life, the first words their soulmate will ever say to them will appear in deep black writing on their skin. The words fade to light grey when a soulmate dies. Sometimes new words replace them, whether they're wanted or not (These were the words Steve was born with, running in a messy, uneven line across his skinny little chest, beneath both his collarbones: You okay, pal? Those jerks didn't hurt ya too bad, did they? Steve woke up from the ice in 2011 with the words, Who the hell is Bucky? circling his heart, in printing so precise it barely looked human. Steve hated them.)

For Words to Say it Right (Rated: T, Words: 25K) by Squeaky & Taste_is_Sweet

Summary: Turns out when you're missing an arm, everyone asks are you okay? all the damn time. And when your soulmark is one of the most common questions in English, it's even worse. Generic soulmarks are a bitch.

Lost Vocabularies that Might Express (The Memory of These Broken Impressions) (Rated: M, Words: 111K) by dorian_burberrycanary / @burberrycanary

Summary: The worst of times, like the best, are always passing away. How’s that for some consolation on the road? A post-The Falcon and The Winter Soldier Stucky fix-it as part of the all-American road trip, detours included.

The Simple Life (Rated: E, Words: 114K) by howler32557038

Summary: "The simple life." "You'll get there one day." "I don't know. Family, stability...The guy who wanted all that went in the ice seventy-five years ago. I think someone else came out." Bucky wants to be part of Steve's life. He wants to be an Avenger. He wants to be a good partner. Unfortunately, sometimes that means not telling Steve everything.

WIP

a league of our own (Rated: E, Current Words: 40K) by burning_brighter / @burnin-brighter

Summary: Steve's sixteen-year-old son's one and only dream is to play in the Major League. He thinks he has a shot when the team get a new coach, retired MLB legend and Steve's high school crush, Bucky Barnes. Steve hasn't thought of the man in many years, but seeing him brings back many memories that push Steve to reach out to an old friend and maybe make new ones on the way. What happens when Steve gets to know Bucky properly? What happens when they open up about their darkest secrets and deepest fears? There's really only one thing that can happen.

hey now, you're an all star (get your game on, go play) (Rated: E, Current Words: 81K) by buckyismybicycle / @buckyismybicycle

Summary: Boston Bruins trade notorious party animal/human disaster Bucky Barnes to the Dallas Stars, and captain Steve Rogers is not impressed when Fury puts him on babysitting duties. But, as he gets to know Bucky - really gets to know Bucky - he wonders if maybe the media has got it all wrong - very, very wrong. PS - you do not need to know hockey for this, I promise.

Every Me and Every You (Rated: E, Current Words: 60K) by deadto27 / @deadto27

Summary: Bucky Barnes is doing his best. He's getting by after the blip, after Sam became Captain America, after Steve...well, it's best he doesn't think about that. The point is, his life is different now, and he's trying his best. He just wishes the hollow feeling in his chest would go away. ----- Bucky gets blinded by a bright light as the tear seems to implode in on itself and there’s an odd little jolt as the pulling stops, and then Bucky’s blinking, trying to get his vision right again as he loosens his grip on America. “You okay?” he checks, still squinting. He’s probably not blind, he thinks. It just feels like it right now. “I’m okay,” America tells him and he sees her nod shakily as his vision starts to clear, and he carefully lets go of her, seeing that she can support herself, hands pressing onto the floor next to her. “Uh…I don’t think I am,” says another voice, and Bucky turns his head so fast he might give himself whiplash. Because he knows that voice. He knows that voice better than any other voice on the planet and he’s missed that voice

#Stucky #Steve and Bucky #Steve Rogers #Bucky Barnes #fanfic #XOXOBUCKYBARNES' Stucky Fic Reading List #march reading list

[blacklegsanjiii]

Domestic Marco and Sora on the brain, because they're so gross in love I'm going to be sick. Also they're both so cute with their son.

When Sora joins the crew, she takes to helping Marco make medicine first or sewing clothes back together because they're the White Beard fleet, they fight as much as they party. Marco is just thrilled to have someone actually want to listen and learn no matter the reason. Then when they start "dating" which is just doing what they've been doing but way more touchy and Marco will use whatever excuse he can to have Sora in his lap or hold her or whatever. When they ask Sanji for what is basically his blessing for them to be together, he's looking at them in all his like nine or ten year old glory like 'yeah, that's fine, I thought you already got married or something' which makes Marco laugh so hard he's wheezing as Sora explains that's not how relationships work necessarily and they'll talk about it more when he's older.

The first time Sanji refers to Marco as "dad" Marco puts him on his shoulders for the whole day after Sanji's embarrassment subsides and Marco assures him it's alright and he would love to be Sanji's dad if he'd let him. Sora calls White Beard 'Pops' and Sanji calls him 'Old Man' because truthfully they're in the family, have been since Marco's bird brain brought them to the fleet but they let them name them as family in their own time.

White Beard is always excited to have more people join the family. He tells Sanji stories and he's so loud and boisterous but he'll take Sanji so Sora and Marco and can just have some time together. Maybe they'll go to an island and go shopping or something. Sora is really good at keeping Marco's phoenix side in check but he will constantly play with her hair and everyone makes fun of him for it. Marco decides to become a pro at braiding so that he will have an excuse to play with her hair and have her in his lap.

The wedding happens on an island definitely not suited for the size of the bash they throw. Like it so fucking big. The ENTIRE fleet is all the subordinate captains and crews, it is a full week of drinking, eating, dancing, singing, and all the other debauchery that comes with being a pirate. It is the best excuse Marco has had to hold his wife, she's his wife now, he can't fucking believe she married him, he is on cloud nine if not fucking higher with how much luck he thinks he had to fucking land her. Sora in a similar boat of just absolutely over the moon that Marco loves her so fucking much and the fleet welcomed her and Sanji so easily that she has so many happy tears that week and obviously everyone knows the government is going to come after them, if not Germa so like they are balling that whole week, no indulgence is set to side really.

Shanks rolling up to talk about a possible alliance after that and meets Sora and Sanji who Marco has to like haul out of the galley to meet a fellow emperor. Marco is holding a twelve year old Sanji who is just struggling to get back to the galley and the Redhaired Pirates fucking lose it at the sight of Marco holding Sanji away from and introducing him like he is some sort of feral kitten and when he is set down Sanji fucking books it to the galley and yells for Thatch to get his dad. White Beard is chuckling at the show of his grandchild as he and Shanks go to talk and waves off any worry the visitors might have about him or Sora.

Marco probably still takes Sanji on his first mission when he's sixteen and Sanji gets that 100m Beri bounty and now he has take a verbal lashing from his wife and White Beard. Both of them demanding to know why he would take Sanji out. Marco says it's good learning and he needs to be prepared when he comes up because Thatch chose him as his successor, they're pirates and Sora has a sizable bounty already and has been on raids and such with them. Sanji is a pirate, he's been a brat of the fleet since he was eight, he has plans to find the All Blue and reign as a monster of the sea. Marco tells this all to Sora when they're in bed and she knows, she does, but she risked so much to save him and Marco just holds her.

Sora is a fearsome pirate in her own right, she doesn't hold a real rank in the fleet outside of Marco's wife, but her bounty does match the commanders and she's a remarkable swordsman. Her bounty is over a billion beri Marco has it in his office, next to Sanji's and the small photo of the three of them. Sora's locket has a photo of Sanji and Marco in it. They're so fucking gross in love. I adore them.

#black leg sanji #vinsmoke sanji #sora x marco #marco one piece #marco the phoenix #vinsmoke sora #shirohige!sora #shirohige!sanji

[nihilityart]

Infinity Incorrect Quotes

(Asmodeus/Fizzarolli Edition) (Third Wheelers/Wingmen Rimuru & Ciel)

Fizzarolli: *yawns*

Asmodeus: Yeah, being that pretty must be tiring.

Fizzarolli: Then you must be exhuasted.

Rimuru: Will you two shut up? Some of us are lonely.

Fizzarolli: Is letting someone win at chess sapiosexual bottoming?

Rimuru: Can everyone in this godforsaken group please learn the skill called "Think Before You Speak"?

Asmodeus: Ya know... it might be.

Asmodeus: *pretending to joke* So when are you going to go out with me?

Fizzarolli: I don't know. When are you going to ask me to?

Rimuru: And you just ran away?!

Asmodeus: I didn't expect him to flirt back!

Rimuru: Who do we know that has handcuffs?

Asmodeus: Well Fizzarolli and I-

Fizzarolli: *elbows Asmodeus*

Asmodeus: ...wouldn't know.

Rimuru: *sees Asmodeus and Fizzarolli together*

Ciel: They're cute. I would put them on a boat :)

Rimuru (exasperated): You mean... you ship them?

Rimuru: Why do you look like that?

Asmodeus, laying face-first on the floor: Like what?

Rimuru: Like you’re dead.

Asmodeus: It’s because I’m dying. Leave me here to perish.

Ciel: Asmodeus accidentally called Fizzarolli “babe” in front of everyone today.

Asmodeus: *sobs into the floor*

Fizzarolli: This food is too hot... I cant eat it.

Asmodeus: You’re very hot, and I still eat you.

Everyone at the table: *silence*

Ciel: YOU GUYS ARE DISGUSTING!

Rimuru: One dinner... I just want ONE DINNER!

Rimuru: I spy with my little eye something that begins with the letter “s”.

Ciel: *looks over at Fizzarolli and Asmodeus*

Ciel: is it sexual tension?

Fizzarolli: That's ridiculous, Asmodeus doesn't have a crush on me.

Ciel: Yes they do.

Rimuru: Yes they do.

Asmodeus: Yes I do.

Rimuru: Why are your tongues purple?

Fizzarolli: We had slushies. I had a blue one.

Asmodeus: I had a red one.

Rimuru: oh.

Rimuru:

Rimuru: OH.

Ciel:

Ciel: You drank eachothers slushies?

Rimuru: So, how long have you and Fizzarolli been together?

Asmodeus: No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no. Fizzarolli and I are not together. No. No.

Rimuru: Really? Sixteen ‘nos’? Really?

*at 3am*

Rimuru: *runs into Fizzarolli’s room and turns on the light* Wake up sleepyhead!

Fizzarolli: *wakes up* Dude!

Rimuru: *cackles*

Asmodeus: *sits up from where they were sleeping behind Fizzarolli* What the fuck, gramps?

Rimuru: *jaw drops* Wait WHAT-

Asmodeus: Someone take me to art museums and make out with me.

Fizzarolli: But they said not to touch the masterpieces.

Asmodeus: Well somebody's got to pin the artwork to the wall.

Rimuru, on a walkie talkie: This is Rimuru, those idiots are fucking around in the East wing again.

Rimuru: That shirt looks great, Fizzarolli.

Fizzarolli: Thanks.

Rimuru: But I bet it would look even better on Asmodeus' floor.

Asmodeus: Are you hitting on Fizzarolli... for me?

I love the idea of Asmodeus and Fizz doing this inappropriate stuff much to the chagrin of Rimuru and Ciel. Like bro, keep the lustful stuff to yourselves aight?!

#tensura crossover #crossover #tensura #rimuru tempest #helluva boss #helluva boss crossover #supreme deity rimuru #helluva boss asmodeus #fizzmodeus #helluva boss fizzarolli

[jungle-angel]

Lost in Literary Madness (Bob Floyd x Reader)

Summary: In which Bob helps teach your English class and shows his inner theater kid

Tagging: @bobfloydsbabe

"Gather round o' children of mine," Bob announced to the group of sixteen and seventeen year olds. "Mrs. Floyd will be in soon for English, we've got a double English period this afternoon."

Everybody in the room pushed their desks together and waited eagerly for your class to enter the room. As soon as everybody had come in, Bob fixed the chalkboard drawing along with his notes while you and your students entered with their copies of The Fellowship Of The Ring. Everybody knew the drill, up on the desks and watch the fireworks.

"Alright my batty bunch," Bob said. "Who can recall where we left off?"

"I think we left off on the part where they're heading for the inn at Bree?" Kelsey Perrault answered hesitantly.

"You might be right, but I think it's a little further than that," Bob told her.

"Wait, Mr. Floyd I've got it marked," Justin Daly said suddenly, raising his hand. "We got to the part where the Fellowship ends up in Rivendell."

"Oh there we go, one of my favorite parts," Bob chirped. "Does anybody remember why Gandalf was late in the first place?"

A few shook their heads.

"What do you think Mrs. Floyd?" Bob asked, turning to find you comfortably perched on his desk. "Shall we have a little refresher?"

"I don't see why not," you answered happily.

You could tell by Bob's little eyebrow wiggle exactly where this was going.

"So," Bob began. "We remember Gandalf's search through the library of Gondor for any records pertaining to the Ring, right? You find a mysterious soul-sucking ring that turns you into a complete crazy person, you're going to want to investigate, right?"

"Right!" responded the students.

"We remember that Gandalf's search led him to a person he'd never suspect in a million years and that was an old wizard by the name of......Mrs. Floyd?"

"Why Saruman The White of Course," you responded, already feeling the intensity beginning to build within your husband.

"EXCELLENT!" Bob declared. "Ten points to Mrs. Floyd and the rest of Ravenclaw."

You snickered a little bit, blushing at your husband's complement.

"So anywho," Bob continued. "Our grey-bearded friend arrives in Isengard where Saruman's tower stands looming over these HUGE TRACTS OF LAND!"

Both you and the students were laughing and snickering at Bob emphasizing "huge tracts of land" in a rather loud voice and making a gesture for the female chest that was a little more than suggestive. You couldn't help it, knowing your students were doing "Spamalot" for their class play.

"He sees this and is probably thinking, 'ok, old friend, I've got it made going into this," Bob continued. "They talk when all of a sudden BAM! Saruman's got Gandalf in a trap!"

The slam of Bob's hand on the desk made everybody jump, including you.

"Way, way up in that tower, Gandalf's imprisoned," Bob told them, the intensity in his voice growing. "Saruman's doing all sorts of terrible things to him, like 'ha ha, I've got you now' and Gandalf's pretty much at his mercy, watching these forests getting chopped down to feed the orc forges."

You laughed, pinching the bridge of your nose. It wasn't every day that your husband got this dramatic or this into storytelling, at least not with your students.

"So Gandalf figures, 'I've got one last trick up my sleeve and it had better friggin work.' So as Saruman's torturing the hell out of him one day, Gandalf realizes his plan to get out of there has worked at las and he declares that 'there can only be one lord of the rings......and he does not share power!"

Now he was really getting into it, his whole body moving, the tone of his voice, his words, his gestures, it was all so theatrical.....and you loved him for it.

"He finally makes it to Rivendell where he's united with Frodo, the hobbits, Strider and the others," Bob continued. "They celebrate a little bit and rest up and catch up with each other......and SHIT!"

You and the students busted out laughing when Bob's heavy owl bookend fell off the desk and clunked to the floor. He calmly picked it up and set it back up on the desk on the end of the row of books as though it had never fallen.

"Class......is......dismissed," Bob informed them when he heard the ringing of the hand bell in the hallway.

The students gathered up their books, bags and anything else they needed for the weekend, leaving you and Bob as the only ones left in the room.

"How'd I do sweetheart?" he asked.

"Very dramatic Mr. Professor," you chuckled before you kissed each other. "I'm very impressed."

"Maybe it'll translate well when I get a chance to work on the book later tonight," Bob remarked.

"Ah still dissecting the influences of Tolkien's works are we?"

Bob wiggled his eyebrows again before pressing a soft kiss to your lips. "I may need your help with it," he told you.

"Oh I can help you with alot more than just that," you purred. "Wanna practice making a little um.....something, something when we get home?"

Bob's eyes widened. "Think you're ready Mrs. Floyd?"

"More than I've ever been," you purred again.

And that was a challenge Bob was willing to accept, the two of you hurrying to the truck and racing to get home while the heat blasted and banished the winter cold.

#top gun maverick #robert bob floyd #teacher!bob #teacher!bob floyd #teacher!bob x teacher!reader

[zephyrrhiesfyrian]

I have finally finished the first set of sixteen expression doodles/chat stickers! A thank you to @slugsjunk for indulging my nonsense and giving me characters to draw :3 This was fun for a lot of reasons, but a big one was that it gave me a reason to draw characters I never had before, which is always good for practice.

Here they are! :D (some of them I envisioned as having specific scenarios attached to them lol)

Ambulon: I imagine this was his expression when First Aid told him about jump-starting.

Swerve: he's nervous because he's not taken his visor off in front of anybody before, but don't worry, the person he's looking at thinks he's cute. (they're in my next set >:3)

You might notice he's missing his visor. @slugsjunk's sent an edit of a visorless Swerve to the "cursed-images" channel in our Discord server and then asked me to use him for one of the expressions. I deigned to make him a little less deeply upsetting.

Whirl: he's flirting with Cyclonus ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

Cyclonus: oh shit he flirtin' bACK- (＃°Д°)

Getaway: I just wanted to make him cry. Is that so wrong? Kinda makes me angry how nice his highlights turned out.

Megatron: he just handed Minimus a poem he wrote about him and now he a lil nervous 👉👈

Thunderclash: (I already posted this one earlier) he's laughing at some silly joke Rodimus made because he's a himbo in love with his captain <3<3<3

He sparkle because that's the way @lush-specimen describes him in their fantastic fics :>

Rodimus: the opposite shot of the previous one; he's not happy about Thunderclash finding his joke funny. First the guy takes his quest, now he's like the only person who laughs at Roddy's jokes? This guy's GOTTA be hiding something! (spoiler alert: he's not, Thunderclash is just a massive dork :D)

Trailbreaker/Trailcutter: he angy >:(

Lyzack: Black Shadow cannot tell her and Leo apart nor does he care to, and she's getting tired of being called the wrong name. That man better be glad he's made out of ununtrium or he'd be dead metal.

I've never understood why she looks like a recolored Starscream in canon, nor am I particularly a fan of how blocky and unmoving Leozack's helm is, so I made my own design. Fight me.

Black Shadow: speak of the devil He's lookin' at Blue Bacchus and being hella gay for him :>

Blue Bacchus: he was not prepared to deal with a genuine Shady smile this early in the cycle. Please, Shadow, he's trying to fuel. Let the man drink his energon before you make him swoon.

Perceptor: he blushi blushi 'cause he watching Brainstorm do marginally safer science than usual. He is very proud that his constant nagging is paying off.

Dai Atlas: oop priestman with the big sword is not pleased. I wonder who's the cause...*looks at star saber*

Fulcrum: I bet Misfire took his drink or something. Or maybe he's just regretting that he didn't detonate and now he's stuck with these idiots.

Tarn: I choose to believe this is the face Tarn is always making behind his mask. *blep*

Reminder that I still have at least sixteen more of these still to complete; you are never safe. >:D

#transformers #transformers idw #transformers mtmte #transformers art #transformers ambulon #transformers swerve #transformers whirl #transformers cyclonus #transformers getaway #transformers megatron #transformers thunderclash #transformers rodimus #transformers trailbreaker #transformers lyzack #transformers black shadow #transformers blue bacchus #transformers perceptor #transformers dai atlas #transformers fulcrum #transformers tarn #chat sticker sillies

[sepublic]

All the way back when S1 was airing (so, prehistoric times), I actually had this crack theory that Bonezai and Dr. Julien were the same character.

Now who is Bonezai you might ask? He's one of the Skulkin, he was from that era of Ninjago where each enemy was advertised in sets and canon as a unique individual with a name, but in the show itself, he's just a placeholder model meant to represent multiple nameless soldiers.

In Bonezai's case, he was one of the Skulkin of Ice, alongside Wyplash; We had two sets of Skulkin, one with the standard minifigure head, the other with a specialized skull mold. Each set had a Skulkin representing one of the four elements of the time, Bonezai was ice. Not in the actual show, but definitely in product descriptions, side lore like the guidebook, and especially in the spinner game, where his character card lists Ice as his primary element. You can see all of this reflected in the color of spike and loincloths the Skulkin had, with white being Ice, gray being Earth, red Fire, and blue Lightning.

Bonezai never really got a proper story appearance, not even in supplementary materials; His only true characterization as an individual was in online descriptions and the like. But he was described as the inventor of the Skulkin vehicles and other machinery, generally chill, but fiercely defensive of his creations; He turned a Skulkin into a tool rack for scratching his Turbo Shredder, and damaging Bonezai's work is a reliable way to distract him.

This was early Ninjago, this was years before we got the Cursed Realm, or the Departed Realm. This was back when the Underworld was apparently THE afterlife for all of Ninjago, with the website in 2011 even stating this. There was the strange implication that all of our protagonists, sans Zane, were destined to become Skulkin, and the Underworld as the arrival for all deceased is kinda played with in the pilots too.

Wu's sacrifice at the Fire Temple is clearly meant to play into the idea that he died and went to the Underworld as a result, taking the Sword of Fire with him. It's even said that no mortal can cross over into the Underworld, implying that Garmadon and Wu both died, and 'banishment' is like being banished to the Shadow Realm in Yugioh, it's just another way to say they died.

Shortly after the pilots aired however, we did get the canon mini-movie shorts, which revealed that there's a passage to the Underworld inside the Fire Temple. So I guess the writers realized the implications of Wu being technically undead, so they did a soft retcon by revealing there was just a portal there the entire time, and that's how Garmadon was able to manifest as well.

But I digress; The point is that up until S4, the canon was that the Underworld was the afterlife. Then we got the Cursed Realm, which differentiated itself as Ninjago's Hell. And finally we had Day of the Departed, which built off of the sixteen realms reveal by making a new, much tamer afterlife called the Departed Realm. During Day of the Departed's release, a lot of lore of dubious canonicity was revealed in the website, including the claim that the Underworld was where disgraced warriors go to where they die. Obviously this was an attempt to differentiate the Underworld and Cursed Realms if they're both Ninjago Hell now, and explain what the Skulkin even are if the Departed Realm is a thing.

All of this is to say: The established lore implies that Dr. Julien became a Skulkin when he died. So we have two dead inventors, affiliated with Ice in some way (in Julien's case, due to having invented Zane) and being very emotionally attached to their creations. So kid me thought it'd be a fun twist if Bonezai was Dr. Julien's undead alter-ego this entire time, because there's no fucking way his name was Bonezai when he was alive.

As for why Bonezai didn't react to his son Zane, I reasoned that the individual named Bonezai never actually encountered Zane; All those lookalikes were just other Skulkin using the same character model for animation ease. As I said earlier, Bonezai never had an actual story appearance, especially not a canon one, so it was easy to imagine that he was just in the Underworld the entire time, blissfully unaware of who his comrades were fighting.

BUT THEN we got S2, which jumpscared us with Dr. Julien's return, and in a way very odd in regards to the Bonezai theory because like. It was retconned that Julien invented the Skulkin vehicles, which at the time upset me because it just undid all of Bonezai's existence as a character. And it was kind of funny because the writers semi-confirmed my theory that Julien created the Skulkin's machines, but in a way that had him replace Bonezai, rather than make the characters the same. So I guess if I really wanted to stretch it, I could still say they're the same, that during Julien's brief stint working under Samukai he became a Skulkin, and then got his flesh back...???

But yeah, it's definitely not canon now, especially with 2016 bringing us the Departed Realm, which is where Julien actually would've gone post-mortem, both times. In 2011 we had books written by Greg Farshtey, who also characterized Bonezai, that established Zane’s amnesiac past before S1 did, and alluded to Garmadon somehow knowing where he came from. So I wonder if Greg Farshtey knew what the Hagemans had planned, if they told him, if they read his work and decided to roll with Zane having a mysterious origin. So maybe Samukai and Julien’s connection was an attempt to follow through on that, a year later.

It was a fun and interesting saga, and my thought process was insane when I saw Samukai and Julien on-screen at the same time, and then saw the blueprints. I suppose the fact that there was already blueprints for Samukai to show means that Bonezai created the initial designs, and then Julien perfected on them; We already got something like that back in 2011, when the guidebook mentioned how Chopov unwittingly improved upon the Skulkin motorcycle design, and his version got approved over Bonezai's, to Bonezai's dismay. So I suppose it was nothing new.

#Ninjago #Bonezai #Dr Julien #Skulkin