#but it hasn’t produced a good second act | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

literaila · 7 months

Note

I'd love to request a reader who's obsessed with love languages (me fr) and is trying to figure out what peter's is without directly asking him

obviously r gets caught in the act

Thank you so much!!

-🔮

stalemate

tasm!peter x reader

warnings: teasing, fluff, complex relationship issues (lying)

a/n: i do believe peter’s love language is physical touch/words of affirmation but that’s a conversation for a different time

“would you rather run errands with someone and hold hands, or run errands with someone and get kicked out of the store cause you’re ‘disturbing the other customers?’”

peter momentarily pauses his chewing, raising an eyebrow at you. “one of these scenarios involves me getting escorted out of the grocery store.”

“yeah, but because you’re having too much fun.”

he shakes his head. “no such thing.”

“clearly, there is.”

he rifles through the remainder of his food, like digging for gold, but his cheek is twitching, and his eyes are thoughtful as he looks down. “why cant i have fun and hold hands with you?”

“okay,” you point at him, leaning back. peter, though you’d put his food across the kitchen table, so you could sit face to face, was adamant that you were too far. so now there’s only a table corner separating the two of you. and these questions, of course, building up a careful foundation. “first of all, i didn’t say it was me—“

“who else would get us kicked out of a grocery store?”

“and second of all, because that’s not the question. holding hands or ribs-hurt laughing?”

“both of those sound equally painful,” peter keeps leaning towards you like he knows something you don’t. which he doesn’t.

you lean forward too, undeterred by his challenge. “so you’re a completely-silent-errand-running-with-a-healthy-five-foot-distance kinda guy?”

“we literally went shopping today.” peter gestures back to the kitchen, where bags of produce and sugary containers (peter’s pickings) remain. after dinner, you’d both swore, but you’re having a hard time finishing your food. “you know what kinda guy i am.”

so it goes, on and on. you asking peter the same type of hypothetical questions you’d been all day. he hasn’t seemed to question it, besides a couple of ill-fated looks.

and you do. know, that is. peter did almost get you kicked out of the store today, when he’d tripped over a sign and knocked down a whole shelf of boxes. this, he claimed, was the crime of a faulty layout. though, he’d bumped into the sign in the first place because he refused to let go of your hand, even when it was less than conscientious.

this, though, you don’t bring up.

“if i bought you a gift,” you continue, ignoring his carefully planned out bantering techniques. “would you want something expensive, or something heart-felt?”

“why is that a question?”

you stare at him, nonchalant, gesturing for him to continue.

“are you buying me a gift?” he asks, rolling his eyes at you.

“maybe. your birthday’s coming up.”

“it is november,” he says, dryly.

“good memory.”

peter snorts. “my birthday is in august. you know, like, two months ago?”

“hmm…” you lean your chin on a hand, staring into hard honeysuckle eyes with feigned confusion. “i must’ve missed it.”

“you got me a spider-man calendar.”

“don’t recall.”

“i can go get it,” he points over his shoulder, leaning, again, towards you. enough so that you can feel his breath, smooth and challenging. “it’s just in the bedroom.”

“answer the question.”

he sighs and leans back again, almost laughing. “heartfelt, obviously. like my very cherished spider-man calendar. which is for this year, i might add.”

“what a wonderful gift,” you smile too, adoringly, “you should thank whoever got it for you.”

peter furrows his brows, though not in confusion. “i did,” he says, softly, trying to break you.

but you remain where you are, smiling as cool as you’ve been all day.

which is to say, of course, that you’ve been dancing circles around peter and hoping that he hasn’t noticed.

you hadn’t even thought of it until two days ago, when out to lunch with your friend and she mentioned a book—fabled and probably recommended by some hot-shot magazine—about how to connect with your partner.

“love languages,” she’d said to you, “are the basis to every relationship.”

and this must have been true because despite a rough patch between her and her girlfriend, they were now as solid as always. and you could tell this, just from how at ease she’d seemed.

which, naturally, put you on edge.

not that you doubted peter, or your relationship with him. besides some run of the mill insecurities, peter was probably the loveliest person you’d ever met. so it was probably a bad thing that you had no clue—not a single suspicion, or thought—what his love language was.

thus, the questions began. and peter’s dubiousness doubled with every one you asked.

evident because he was still watching you. “are we acting out a scenario in which you need a visa and i agree to marry you?”

you kick him under the table. “what? i cant ask you questions?”

“i think this is the fortieth one today.”

“i’ve asked, like, three, and you haven’t even tried to answer any of them properly.”

“you know we’re in a real relationship, right? i know your favorite color and everything.”

you stand up from the table, grabbing your take-out container, and his, and walking to the kitchen.

peter trails after you, clearly noticing your evasion. “do you actually need a visa?” he asks, leaning against a counter, almost knocking over one of the grocery bags. “cause i think you’re supposed to tell the person you’re getting married to. so i can ask you some questions.”

“doesn’t seem like you’re having any problems with that.”

peter snorts and comes behind you while you grab something out of the first bag. his hands are warm as they wrap around your waist, resting on your stomach like a possession. “what’s up with you?”

“i’m unbagging the groceries.”

“you’ve been acting weird all day. do you need to talk to me about something?”

“no.” you pull away from him, putting some apples in the fruit bowl. “you’re crazy.”

“yes. i am the crazy one.”

you hum and walk around him, carefully not meeting his eyes.

after a couple minutes of this, with peter pretending to put things away, you break, uncomfortable with the silence.

“painting a room together,” you start, “or cuddling?”

peter pushes off of the counter, his teeth peaking behind his lips. “cuddling, obviously. you’re a terrible painter.”

he moves about a foot away from you, staring, again, like he knows something you don’t.

“what?” you ask him, closing a drawer. you cross your arms.

“nothing. nothing.”

but peter is grinning at you.

“what’s with your face?”

“what’s with yours?”

you roll your eyes at him, not moving. peter copies your stance, and the two of you remain as still as statues, testing one another.

finally, peter laughs. “you think i don’t know what you’re doing?”

“posing hypothetical questions?”

“i know what love languages are, baby,” peter steps closer to you. his hands just lingering by the seam of your shirt. “you’d make a terrible detective.”

despite the heat running through your body at being caught, you narrow your eyes at him. “me? it only took you all day to figure it out.”

“that’s cause i was giving you the benefit of the doubt. i thought you really wanted to know.”

“i do,” you cross your arms, bumping into him, offended. “i would’ve given up like three hours ago if i didn’t.”

“you’re crazy,” he says, simply. his look is amorous. “you could’ve just asked me.”

“no. i should know just from spending time with you. that’s couple 101.”

peter actually laughs. right in your face. he leans down, resting his chin against your head for support. “cant say i’ve ever taken that class.”

“well you should. it’s very informative.”

“okay, professor, then what’s my love language?”

you open your mouth. then close it. you push him back. “i’m not telling you.”

“oh,” peter tilts his head. “why not?”

“cause that’s cheating. figure out your own love language.”

“you think i don’t know what i like?”

“nope.”

peter shakes his head at you. “you just don’t know.”

“you just don’t know,” you poke his cheek. “you couldn’t even decide which cereal to get. we have three boxes now.”

“that’s called choice paralysis,” he informs you, as if you didn’t have this conversation earlier. “and you agreed to that.”

“sure,” you say to him, turning away.

“you’re a sore loser.”

“we’re not playing a game.”

“the elaborate ‘would you rather’ scheme wasn’t a game?” he asks.

“it was an informative questionnaire.”

peter gets in your way as you try to walk out of the kitchen. “then why hasn’t it informed you?”

you roll your eyes at him again. “c’mon, peter, you know that data can take weeks to process.”

he runs a hand up to your face, easily trapping you. “you just don’t know” he repeats softly.

he’s getting close again; resuming the game he’d lost earlier.

“you don’t know,” you say, stubbornly, not meeting his eyes.

“i know i like you,” he answers, breath marring your reaction skills.

and before you can even smile in response, peter is kissing you.

his lips are soft, pushing at you like he wants you to admit defeat. consoling you into a loss. convincing you to back down.

but you refuse.

you pull away, pushing his hand off of you. “that’s cheating.”

“we never set any rules.”

“well you’re breaking one.”

peter leans and let’s it go, crossing his arms as he looks at you, very arrogantly. “that’s okay,” he shrugs.

you attempt to catch your breath while peter stares at you, clearly thinking that he’s won.

“okay,” you say, pouting. “tell me. what’s your love language?”

peter smiles voraciously at this. he takes a step towards you, molding his body heat into yours.

then he shakes his head, his smile falling into something sweeter. “i don’t know,” he whispers to you, hand reaching down for yours, hair in his eyes. “physical touch, probably, before. but i like everything with you. i always want more, doesn’t matter what it is.”

you brush the hair out of his eyes, smiling.

though your intents are less than straightforward, there’s still a part of you that curls under this confession, like it just can’t take it.

“that’s sweet,” you whisper, leaning into him. he’s bent down so his nose is to yours.

peter hums, breathing in the smell of your skin, and pulling you closer and he stands there, lingering on the briefest of touches.

he tilts his head a bit, lips lined up with yours.

and you smile. “i’m not telling you mine,” you whisper to him, quickly pulling away and moving to the table, whistling as you do so.

you start to collect the trash you’d left there, hearing nothing for a moment, but peter’s heavy breathing.

you smile at the sound of his defeat.

“now that’s cheating,” he says, and you laugh.

1K notes · View notes

callsign-rogueone · 4 months

Text

the last six years - b.s.

Brennan Sorrengail x reader Only one person has remained by Brennan’s side for the last six years, through the good and the bad. [requested] wc: 3.9k 🏷: SPOILERS FOR FOURTH WING AND IRON FLAME. fatal injury, blood, and multiple character deaths. basically every bad thing that has ever happened to Brennan will be in this series. I took some major creative liberties with this one and made a bunch of stuff up regarding Tyrrish culture, but we’re just gonna breeze right past that. more to come, because Brennan is just so husband material… mans had me giggling and kicking my feet every time he spoke.

“Tairn! We need Naolin!” You scream, praying that he is alive to hear you. “Bren, please, stay with me.”

His chest rises and falls slowly; he's still breathing. Breathing is good. “Y’need to get out of here.”

“No. I’m not leaving you. Eyes open, Bren, please,” you beg, pressing your hands deeper into the wound. “Tairn!”

“Thirty seconds out!” He yells back.

There’s not much you can do. To remove the arrow is a death sentence when you don’t have any medical supplies. It’s the only thing keeping the blood in his body, but even then it’s doing a shitty job; the warm crimson continues spilling out through your fingers, seemingly endless.

“S’ gonna be okay, sweetheart,” Brennan soothes, feeling your panic.

“Bren, you need to stay awake. You can’t die. I can’t keep going without you.” Tears are pouring freely down your cheeks, dripping down onto the dark fabric of his flight jacket.

“You’re bleeding,” he mumbles, ignoring your pleas. He’s slipping away, fast, falling into the slow confusion that comes with a shortage of blood to the brain. “Let me mend you.”

“I’ll worry about myself later. Right now we need to keep you alive.”

Heavy bootsteps enter the room. “Holy shit,” Naolin breathes, at your side in an instant. He digs in his bag, producing sutures and gauze.

If you act quickly, and if by some miracle the arrowhead hasn’t pierced Brennan’s heart, you can keep him stable long enough to find another mender. You break the shaft of the arrow, Brennan whimpering in pain as it shifts within his chest.

“I know, my love, I’m so sorry,” you soothe, wiping your palms on your pant legs and moving to cradle his head in your lap as Naolin takes over. You keep whispering reassurances to him, terrified that if you stop, it’ll sever the last thread holding him in this world. “You’re doing so good, Bren. Almost done, I promise.”

Naolin gives you a look that tells you no, he’s not almost done.

Brennan’s grip on your hand loosens, and you scramble to grab his wrist, bloodied fingers trying to find a pulse -- to no avail. “No,” you cry, tears pouring down your cheeks, “Bren, please wake up, please.”

The slow thump beneath your fingertips stops. Brennan’s heart is no longer beating.

You sob, a desperate sound that splits the air of the ballroom, and Naolin makes his decision, grasping Brennan’s hand and yours. “The two of you need each other.”

“Nao, you can’t-” you gasp at the rush of energy that rips through you, the pain in your broken ribs diminishing instantly. You feel like you’ve been given a shot of pure adrenaline.

Naolin stops breathing just as Brennan starts again, collapsing to the marble floor, and your lips part in shock.

“He is gone,” Tairn confirms, fighting to keep his voice even. “May your gods honor his sacrifice and reward him in the next life.”

“I’m so sorry.”

His eyes are closed. That comforts you in some tiny way, that he looks whole, uninjured, like he could just be sleeping, but you know that isn’t the case.

Brennan’s breaths are even, pulse steady. The wound looks days old now, the fresh blood coating the skin the only evidence that he had nearly died today. He’ll pull through, as long as you can get out of here.

You say a prayer to Malek on your friend’s behalf, casting one last glance at his unmoving body, and gather Brennan into your arms -- he’s still breathing, but limp, exhausted. You can carry him out of here, but where will you go?

A man bearing a crossbolt steps into the ballroom.

You make no movement toward your weapon, still holding Brennan’s body to your chest. “We surrender,” you rasp, praying he will take pity on a pair of bloodsoaked young lovers and their fallen comrade.

He steps closer, not responding.

The words escape you before you can think. The old language feels foreign on your tongue, misshapen from years of disuse. “I am a daughter of the house Lindell, and a citizen of Tyrrendor. I have sworn an oath to-”

“I know who you are, Lady,” he says. “Come with me.”

He stops in front of an abandoned farmhouse, painted gold in the sunset. “Bathe, sleep. I’ll be back when I can.”

You remain by Brennan’s side. You stitch up his wounds, wash the dried blood from his skin, count his heartbeats as he continues to sleep.

Night comes, bringing freezing wind through the cracked windows, and you climb into the bed beside him, pulling the few blankets you’d found over the pair of you. He curls into your side, seeking warmth — his skin is still cold, but not as icy as it had been when you limped him over here.

When you wake the next morning, the man has not yet returned.

“Ban?” You ask quietly. You haven’t heard from the dragon since you’d dismounted over a day ago, but she must still live, as you do.

“Nearby, with Marbh,” she reassures. “Tairn has returned to Basgiath to be with his mate. It will take years for him to recover from this loss, but he will live on.”

You continue to stroke Brennan’s hair, taking solace in the steadiness of his breathing.

“Your devotion to the mender is the strongest I have seen from any human,” she says quietly.

“He has become the air I breathe. It was unbearable when he…” you don’t even want to think the words. “I don’t know what I would have done, had Naolin not intervened.”

Brennan stirs, stretching in the cute way you’ve seen him do so many times after waking up, scrunching his face at the bright morning light streaming into the room. He takes you in, thanking the gods that the only injury you bear is a yellowing bruise on your cheek. A gentle hand cradles your face, and it vanishes.

“Naolin?” He asks quietly, and something tells you he already knows deep down.

You shake your head, your eyes brimming with tears. “He gave his life to save you.”

He looses a shuddering breath, and you gather him into your arms, crying together.

You attempt to mentally prepare yourself to enter the assembly room, adjusting your posture -- shoulders back, chin up, eyes forward.

“Not a word,” you warn Brennan quietly. “Keep your shields up, like I taught you.”

“I didn’t know we were taking prisoners,” a lanky teenage boy calls, eyeing you from his perch on the edge of a table. In the years you’ve been away, he’s grown into his father’s dark features, and the lazy confidence that can only come with a noble title. “I was wondering when you’d be back from playing soldier. Have they brought you here to negotiate?”

“Lovely to see you again too, Xaden,” you say dryly, addressing the boy by name, and Brennan’s gaze whips toward you in shock. “No, I am not here to negotiate. We are here to surrender, and if you will have us, we will take your side in this fight to free Tyrrendor from those who have oppressed her for centuries.”

“They would be an asset to us, should this prove to not be a setup,” one of the elders says, keeping his hand on the hilt of his longsword.

“She has proved her allegiance to Tyrrendor time and time again,” Xaden defends coldly, dismissing the man who looks old enough to be his grandfather. “It is the general's son that I’m more concerned with.”

You look him directly in the eye as you speak, raising your chin. “Sorrengail is a strong rider and skilled mender, but above all, he is a good man. I could not have chosen anyone better to share the crown with when the day comes.”

Brennan looks at you like he has no idea who you are, trying to discern if this is a dream.

Xaden finds this amusing. “She really didn’t tell you? Always so secretive, that one. Your girlfriend is heir apparent to the Duchy of Lindell, as I am to Aretia, where you stand.”

He looks to the elders, who all nod in affirmation, deeming your appraisal of Brennan satisfactory. “It’s good to have you back, Lady. Things were getting boring without you.”

You lower your head to him in thanks, Brennan quickly copying you.

You tug Brennan into the hall after you’re dismissed.

“Did you really mean that?” He asks, head still spinning.

“Every word,” you reply. “From the moment you extended that hand to me in our first year at Basgiath, I knew you were good to your core, Brennan Sorrengail. It would be an honor to share my duty with you.”

“Your mate needs you,” Marbh says, making a rare appearance.

Your heart drops. You sprint down the valley trail back to the house, attempting to ascertain what had happened, but you aren’t given a response. Marbh has always been vague.

You find Brennan tucked into a corner of your shared room, back pressed to the wall. He’s clutching a piece of parchment that you recognize to be a Basgiath death roll. He extends it to you wordlessly, and your eyes race down the list, searching for Mira, his mother, another of your friends…

The final name on the list, below the rider’s quadrant cadets, almost as an afterthought… Major William Sorrengail. His father.

“Oh, Bren,” you breathe, gathering him into your arms, “I’m so sorry.”

His entire body shakes with a sob, and it takes everything in you to not cry as well, but you remain strong, needing to be there for him. “I knew I’d never see him again,” he says in a cracked whisper, “but now…” But now it’s real.

You’d never met the man, and now you never will, but you know what a profound impact Brennan’s father had on his life, imparting so many of the qualities that you admire about Brennan; his dedication to his studies, his respect for the scribes that so many others dismiss or overlook, his unwavering compassion…

You offer a silent prayer to Malek on his behalf, asking that He show the scribe the same kindness that he had shown others in life.

“I don’t know why, or how,” Brennan rasps, “I don’t know who was there with him in the end, if Mira and Violet got to say goodbye, if my mother…” he can’t finish the sentence, words cut with shaking breaths. He loses the strength to hold himself up, collapsing into your embrace. “I should be there,” he sniffles, “I should have been there.”

“I know how much you love him. He knew too, I’m sure he did. They all do.” You hold him tighter, stroking his hair. “The girls are strong. They will mourn, but they will get through it together.”

He’s run out of tears, leaving him with a headache and a hollow feeling in his chest. He eventually relaxes, not saying a word as you smooth down the soft waves of his hair, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. He’s fallen asleep. You just hope his dreams will be kind to him.

“Enough,” you command, and all heads turn toward you. “I will not have you disrespect Riorson nor his partner in his own home. Have you forgotten what he has done for our young?”

Ulices stiffens. “My apologies, Lady.” He says the title with an ounce of venom, but yields, returning to his seat.

Violet continues to study you. You’re dressed simply, head to toe rider’s black mixed with traditional Tyrrish leather armor and intricate braids that she has only seen drawn in history books, but it’s obvious in your posture that you’re nobility - you do not dip your head below the horizon even for a moment, and you speak with the confidence that others will listen.

“We have better things to do than argue about what should have happened. There is no turning back time,” you say calmly. “I agree that we have been given a legion of students rather than trained warriors, but it has become our job to train them.”

Brennan speaks next. He’s been silent since the meeting started. “What professors have joined us should resume modified versions of their courses, and we will fill in the gaps. Match up those with similar signets for mentorship. Emeterrio can continue to lead combat training, and Devera Battle Brief. Kaori has not joined us, but I think there is an obvious replacement.”

You’re saddened by the news, but you smile softly at his praise.

Violet realizes that the scribbled amendments in the dragons section of Brennan’s book weren’t Mira’s, but yours. You’ve been close for years, then. You must have brought him here with you when you deserted. Part of her wonders if you’d attended Basgiath because you wanted to, or as a spy.

“Do not question the royal one’s integrity,” Tairn warns her, but does not elaborate further.

“The riot has decided that everyone here can be trusted,” you state. “And if anyone turns out not to be, we will do what we have to do, without hesitation, for the good of the movement.”

There’s sounds of agreement from the other six, and then the meeting is over.

“Hey,” he says softly, leaning against the doorframe, clutching a bloodied rag to his face.

“What the hell happened to you?”

“Mira’s fist happened,” he explains, lifting it, and you wince at the sight of his nose, the bridge split and bruising. “I’ll be fine in a day or two.”

Your heart twists. Brennan hasn’t been able to see his sisters for nearly a decade, spending the last six years in hiding and the two before that stationed across the continent with hardly enough leave to travel back and forth to Basgiath. For Mira to have punched him straight in the face instead of the tearful hug he’d dreamed of… it must have crushed him.

You press a gentle kiss to his cheek, careful not to bump his nose. “I’ll talk to her,” you say softly. “Go see the healers.”

You’ve only met the middle Sorrengail in passing, nearly ten years ago now, but she’s exactly as Brennan had described her; a younger version of their mother, and just as strong-willed. Evidently, she remembers you, scowling and crossing her arms at the sight of you, but still standing at attention — there’s no missing the Major’s insignia on your chest. Violet stands as well, but doesn’t look as sour as her sister.

You wave a hand. “At ease. I am not here to issue orders, rather to talk about your brother.”

Mira prickles, Violet looking concerned.

You choose your words carefully. “I do not expect either of you to forgive him overnight, nor for you to forgive me for my complacency in this matter. All I ask is that you show him some compassion. It has been hard for him too, being apart from his family. When your father-”

“That is not a sentence you should finish,” Mira interrupts.

“Mira,” Violet scolds softly, “be nice.”

“No,” she snaps, “I don’t think you understand. We mourned him. We called him a hero, thought he died honorably in battle when he really just deserted and changed his name.”

“He did die,” you say, and the eyes of both women flit back toward you. You look over your shoulder. “He bled out on the floor of that ballroom, and his heart stopped. Our friend siphoned away his life to save him.”

“Tairn’s previous rider,” Violet says in a whisper, as if the dragon will not hear her that way.

“Yes. Naolin.” You say his name with a heavy voice. No wonder Tairn won’t speak to her of the one who came before. That explains the gruff dragon’s defense of you, too.

Mira is silent, likely feeling guilt over her outburst as she realizes her brother still lives in the house he’d been killed in, with the son of the man who had ended his life.

“The elders gave him the name Aisereigh — meaning resurrected — as a layer of protection from those who hold vendettas against your mother. It hurt him to take it, and to not be able to give me the Sorrengail name, but it was necessary for his survival.”

Violet’s eyes land on the band circling your ring finger, a smooth strip of silver carved with Tyrrish runes. Brennan had worn a matching one when she’d seen him the day after War Games, but she hadn’t thought anything of it until now. “You’re married.”

You nod. “Three years ago, right on that bluff at the top of the valley, on a gorgeous summer day. Both of us wish those he loves most could have been there.”

“Thank you,” Violet says quietly, “for staying with him through it all.”

“I have been by his side since our first year at Basgiath, and I will remain there as long as we shall live, as I have vowed to,” you reply with the same blunt conviction that she’s used to from Xaden — that must be a Tyrrish thing. “Now please excuse me. I have a class to teach in a few minutes.”

Mira lowers her head to you in a gesture of respect. “I’m sorry,” she says, but she does not say what for.

You give her a soft smile in return, heading back into the house.

“Major Aisereigh will be taking over your dragonkind course, as Professor Kaori did not elect to join us here,” Professor Devera announces.

It’s strange to be standing on the dais as an equal with the woman who’d had a hand in kidnapping you from Brennan’s bed to torture you eight years ago, but nearly everything about your life since that night has been strange.

“I don’t know precisely what Kaori did and did not cover thus far in the term, but given that every person in this room has managed to bond a dragon, you are clearly proficient, and I will treat you as such,” you begin. “Dragons are independent, often to a fault, but do not forget that your health depends on theirs. As riders, you must learn how to care for them properly. That’s what we will be focusing on for the remainder of the term, along with flight mechanics and keeping your seat under stress.”

You glance at Brennan, who is sitting incognito in the back row, broken nose now mended, and he nods, an easy smile on his face. You’re doing great.

The lesson passes easily, your students much more engaged than you remember your peers having been in Professor Kaori’s class.

“I will be needing volunteers to help with the maintenance of the riot while they’re grounded.”

At least thirty hands shoot straight up — half the class.

The trek up the valley wall is never easy, but you make winded conversation with several of the volunteers, mainly nervous first-years who confide that they need the extra practice.

You stop at the top of the trail, cupping a hand to your mouth and calling out a few short notes, and Banrion is at your side in seconds, shaking the ground with her landing. At least a dozen others land nearby, sitting upright in waiting.

“You’ve brought children,” she appraises, eyeing them with distaste.

“Cadets,” you correct, “that you will be helping me teach. So be nice.”

She chuffs softly. “Fine.”

“I have chosen some more agreeable members of the riot to aid me today, to ease you into their care, but let me make this clear,” you say to the class, who have retreated to give you and Ban a healthy distance. “the majority still find it deeply offensive to be addressed by a human that is not their rider. Unless your bonded has joined us today, please refrain from speaking to any directly.”

You wait for nods of affirmation. “Banrion and I will demonstrate pre-flight checks once, and then you will split into groups of two or three to do the same with the remainder here.”

Once you get everyone settled, you find Brennan — he’d tagged along quietly, not wanting to part ways after the morning’s chaos.

“Well done, Professor,” he says, smiling. “You just might make this a day job.”

You laugh. “Is this everything twenty-year-old Bren thought it would be?”

“It is,” he says quietly. “And more.”

You gaze out at the field of cadets. “Marked and unmarked, living in harmony.”

Brennan squeezes your hand in acknowledgment, remembering how scared you had been when the first marked ones left for Basgiath, and each year since. It had hurt you deeply when not all of them returned.

Tairn stalks up to you, dipping his head in greeting. “Good to see you again, royal one.”

You smile. “Glad you’re still around, big guy. You have made an excellent choice in Violet. How is the golden one?”

“Still dreamless,” he answers, not deigning to reply to your compliment.

You worry your lip between your teeth, concerned.

He casts a glance around at the young cadets in the vale, who are taking their tasks very seriously. “You remain as revered a leader as you were at Basgiath.”

You’re actually touched, but you won’t dare mention that to Tairn.

“It is not an easy feat to raise young,” a green scorpiontail says in agreement, looking down fondly at the first-years that are inspecting her claws for cracks, “but the two of you are doing a fine job.”

You smile. “And how are your young?”

“Safe,” she answers. “You may come see them after dark.”

“It would be an honor.”

“Professor?” A cadet calls from across the field, sounding mildly concerned.

You pull apart from Brennan reluctantly. “Duty calls. I’ll see you tonight.”

“Kiss for your thoughts?” you ask playfully, seeing the weary look on his face. It’s been a long day for him, with multiple arguments among the assembly and all the emotions of reuniting with Mira.

“I have both of my sisters back,” he breathes, still in disbelief. “I thought I’d never see them again.”

You lay a hand on his back, resting your head on his shoulder. “I spoke with them before class. Mira was particularly upset, but she softened when I told her what really happened.”

He’s quiet. “She has every right to hate me for what I did. She should despise me for the rest of my life.”

“But she doesn’t,” you remind him gently. “She holds anger, but she doesn’t hate you. You’re her brother, and she knows you love her. You wrote her an entire textbook on how to survive the rider’s quadrant. If that isn’t testament enough, I don't know what is.”

He shakes his head, smiling softly. “How do you always know the right thing to say?”

You grin, moving to climb into his lap. “Because I know you, and I know exactly what goes on in that beautiful brain of yours.”

“Yeah?” he asks, nose brushing against yours, a ringed hand settling on your waist. “What am I thinking about right now?”

“Hmm. Probably about how long of a day it’s been, and how you’d like to unwind after all of it?”

“You’re absolutely right,” he says. “I’ll take that kiss now.”

You lean forward, connecting your lips to his, and the rest of the world falls silent, melting away until all that’s left is you, your husband, and the love you share, love that has endured death itself.

#brennan sorrengail #brennan aisereigh #brennan sorrengail x reader #fourth wing fanfic #reader insert #x reader #fourth wing x reader #fourth wing #mine #dividers by user cafekitsune #Brennan and Duchess

221 notes · View notes

cindylouwhooo · 6 months

Text

Chapter One

Gigi’ POV

There’s something about the spring breeze that instantly calms me.

Well, it usually does.

Now I’m just a ball of anxiety, counting down the seconds until I explode.

I’ve been in the studio for the past three days, wasting the time of my producer and assistant during the day, and getting no sleep while twiddling my thumbs and kidding myself that I can write another album at night.

I thought building a recording studio in my Monaco apartment while I stay here would help me. It hasn’t. At all.

And now I’m standing on my balcony, staring out on the packs of people running around the streets trying to get the place ready for the Grand Prix, contemplating whether I could be a good driver—well, just enough to quit my singing career.

I don’t mind the category; I could do F4. F1 Academy too. I’m really simple.

I drop my head on my hand and groan, just when my phone starts ringing from my back pocket.

“What?”

“Tell me you’ve written something.” Ally, my agent, demands through the device.

“I’ve written something.”

“Okay.” She sighs out. “Now tell me the truth.”

“I’m thinking ways of becoming a Formula 4 driver. Do we still have Susie Wolf’s number?”

“Gigi.”

“Ally, I’m serious. I don’t think I have another one in me.”

Ally starts yapping about something, and I put her on speaker while opening Twitter on my phone.

gigimymother

@gigisantos GIRL!!! RECKLESS THREE YEAR ANNIVERSARY IS COMING!!!! WHEN’S THE NEW ONE????

santoslover

@gigisantos delulu is the solulu cause i still think Gigi is surprising us with a new album on Reckless anniversary…

—> gigifan girl be ffr she’s forgotten all about us

—> santoslover shut up

—> dannylovesgigi SAME!! i do also believe my ex is still in love with me sooooo

—> sandyford absolutely not, she is SO over…fame got to her and she thinks two mediocre albums are enough to stay rich 🤑

dannylovesgigi

y’all why’s the tl saying Gigi quit music???

“Were my albums mediocre?”

“G, get off Twitter for fuck’s sake and listen to what I’m saying.” I do as she says, mainly because I’m pretty sure she’ll fly from Toronto and strangle me if I don’t. “Time is ticking. And not in your favour. There’s so much i can do to keep you afloat.”

It’s the same speech. Over and over.

The same speech that I hear every time I pick up the phone from her call. The same speech that drove me away from Toronto and onto Monaco and the same speech that has drenched all the inspiration from me. I don’t have anything to write about, no words to turn into a song. And with every speech I hear, I don’t even want to try.

It’s draining. I hate it.

“Look, I know it’s difficult but you have to have something.”

I want to cry, I really do because her desperation is so evident in her voice. She believes in me too much and it’s gonna hurt when I disappoint her at the end of the summer.

The phone vibrates against my ear a couple of times and I take that chance to get out of the phone call with my doomed future.

“I gotta go, Ally. Something’s come up. I’ll call you later, okay?”

I end the call before she can butt in and let out the longest sigh in the history of the world. I see my best friend’s name on the screen of the phone and inevitably smile the biggest smile at the words on her text.

francis the king

you, me, alcohol 🍷

tonight

no is not a good enough answer

~ ~ ~

Strangely, the sweaty, already drunk people distantly surrounding our table made my mood quite quickly. Flashes of light spark every other second and I’ve become all too aware of the fact that it’s my first public viewing in a while.

My best friend is nursing on her drink while rolling her eyes at her boyfriend that’s on the phone with her, and I giggle at her facial expressions.

She’s incredibly in love, yet acts like Pierre is bothering her on a girl’s night out.

“Yes, I’ll call you at the end of our night…no we won’t call an UBER…okay, okay. Bye.” She ends the call abruptly and with the biggest, most dramatic sigh. “Okay, now we can start having fun.”

“I was already having fun.” I giggle.

Spending time with Francisca is honestly the only time I feel without the baggage of the third album looming over me. The bartender brings us the second round, and two extra shots on the house, accompanied with a wink for both of us.

“He’s cute.” Kika whisper-yells close to my ear over the loud music.

“Uh, oh. Trouble in paradise with Pierre?”

She rolls her eyes and slumps on my shoulder. “I meant you, dumbass.”

I know she did. But no.

It’s not like I’m cancelling love out of my life, but even entertaining the thought of going through the stages of finding someone and everything that happens after I’ve found someone decent, makes me want to hurl.

“The only man in my life is the imaginary one I created in the studio in order to spike my inspiration to write that damn album. His name is Tim.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“Am not!”

“Shut up and drink.”

“Amen.”

~ ~ ~

Four rounds and five shots each later, we’re laughing at our lives and wiping the runny mascara that’s dripping on our cheeks. I don’t know what time it is but I can definitely feel the early stages of a good hangover that I’ll be having once I wake up.

But I wouldn’t change it for the world. Because four rounds and five shots later, I feel ten times better than I did when Ally called me earlier. And not because of the alcohol, but because Kika has lectured the insecurities out of me. She spent our girls night out talking to me and listening to me go on and on about my block and the expectations I’ve put for myself—I talked about shit I wouldn’t admit out loud.

At the end of the night, we’re clutching each other outside of the club and laughing so loud, heads are turning to look at us.

“Jesus, your boyfriend might be fast on track but he’s taking his sweet time getting here.” I pout and drop my head on Kika’s shoulder. “If I make a joke, like, ‘didn’t know you were as slow as your single seater’ will he cry?”

Kika laughs as she slips and grabs me tighter to not fall. “Yeah, he’ll probably cry.”

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

“Well, now I feel betrayed.” Pierre’s voice reaches us and Kika bounces off me to jump on him. He grabs her immediately and twirls her around, breaking my heart and making me the happiest person at the same time.

gigisantos …

gigisantos girls night was a success 🍷🍾🎉 @francisca.cgomez

Liked by landonorris, pierregasly and 893,409 more

gigiismother give us the new album!!!!!

santosloverrrr girl, get in the studio

pierregasly thank god i arrived in time

—> gigi @pierregasly shut up tripod

gigisantoslvr love her relationship with pierre 😍

f1fanlover why’s lando in the likes???

—> gigigigi because she’s friends with the drivers?

—> f1fanlover yea but they barely speak

francisca.cgomez my soulmate ❤️

As I drop my still clothed body on my bed, a million lyrics fly through my head. Melodies and words swirl in my alcohol infused mind, suffocating me at once and frustrating me as I forget one by one in the aftermath of a night out at the club.

~ ~ ~

#f1 imagine #mercedes amg f1 #mclaren f1 #fanfic #f1 smut #lando norris fic #lando norris smut #f1 social media au #f1 x oc #f1 fanfic #lando norris #f1 #incorrect f1 quotes #formula one instagram au #formula one fic #formula one imagine #lando norris imagine

117 notes · View notes

audreyscahier · 1 year

Text

Off the Record (Pedro Pascal x OFC)

Word count: 4,560 words

Rating: Explicit (18+ only)

Content warnings: Daddy kink (not ddlg; she just calls him daddy a lot), oral sex (m receiving), penetrative sex, fingering, (slightly) rough sex, sweet sex, Big Dick Pedro, Soft Dom Pedro, alcohol, lingerie, a little bit of slapping, dirty talk, a hint of sugar daddy vibes

Summary: Rae is an entertainment reporter who has developed a playfully flirtatious professional relationship with Pedro over the years. Totally professional. Until he invites her to hang out in his hotel room one night after an event—strictly off the record.

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction and written just for fun. If RPF makes you uncomfortable, please do not continue with this post.

The convention is so crowded that it feels like an act of fate when Rae steps out for some fresh air and happens upon Pedro, alone behind one of the side buildings. He’s smoking a cigarette and he gives her a playful, guilty grimace when he spots her, gesturing with a flick of ash.

“You caught me,” he says.

“You’re such a bad boy,” she teases.

He laughs.

“Aren’t you cold?” he asks. He’s looking her up and down and she sees his eyes linger on her bare legs before drifting their way up the rest of her body. The attention makes her stand a little straighter.

She’s used to California weather. This is a rare travel assignment and she hadn’t packed well for the climate.

“Fucking freezing. But that’s the cost of beauty,” she adds loftily, like she’s done it on purpose.

He raises an eyebrow, amused. “Well, it’s paying off,” he says. “You look gorgeous.”

She gives him an appreciative smile. “It’s too bad you didn’t put any effort in; we could’ve looked good together.”

It’s a joke. He’s wearing a cozy, well-fitted cashmere sweater and designer trousers, with a one-inch heeled suede boot. His dark hair is styled at the perfect in-between point of messy and coiffed, with well-defined curls that you could still run your fingers through.

Not that she’s fighting back the urge to touch him. That would be unprofessional.

He’s playing along with the joke, narrowing his eyes at her and shaking his head, ruefully. “You’re always fucking showing me up.”

Her phone vibrates and she glances at it. It’s a text from her producer, giving her a 15-minute warning for their next interview.

“Three more hours,” she sighs. “And then I’m going to go back to the Fairmont and climb under all the covers and stuff myself with room service.”

“I’m at the Fairmont, too,” he tells her. “Don’t order the crab cakes—they’re dry.”

“You should invite me over to hang out,” she says. “I can help you raid the minibar on Disney’s dime.”

He takes a drag on his cigarette and blows the smoke out of the corner of his mouth, away from her, considering it. “What’s your poison?”

“That depends,” she muses. “If you want me to stay good, I like vodka. Tequila? My clothes come right off.”

He barks out a laugh, slowly shaking his head. “Well, I’m in…” He digs in his pocket, pulling out a slim wallet and rifling for his hotel key card to find the room number. “Room 512, if you want to stop by. We can call down for salt and limes.”

It makes her heart beat a little faster, that he’s taken this past harmless flirtation and turned it into… This was an invitation, wasn’t it? Rae schools her expression, trying to remain playfully aloof.

“Maybe I’ll see you later, then,” she says, and gives him a wink as she turns to go back inside.

He opens the door on her second knock. The room is nicer than hers—it’s a king suite with a huge tub that she spots through the open bathroom door as she steps inside—and he hasn’t been in town long enough to make it very messy. The lighting is muted, just a couple of table lamps on in the corners and a golden sheen from the setting sun filtering through his open curtains. He’s kept on the nice sweater, but changed his trousers for a pair of dark, comfy-looking sweatpants, and abandoned the shoes in favor of bare feet.

Rae slips off her flats by the door, making herself at home.

“I thought you might stand me up,” he observes.

“Of course not,” she says. “It’s not like I can afford to break into my own minibar. I needed to get to yours.”

Pedro clicks his tongue, mock-hurt. “You’re using me. You know, Meryl Streep warned me about this. She said the more famous you get, the less you know who you can trust.”

He’s joking around, she knows, playing off of her comment and name-dropping the most absurd famous person he’s acquainted with just to make her laugh. But the sentiment still makes her feel a little sad, and it probably comes out too earnest when she tells him, “You can trust me.”

He looks at her and gives her a quiet smile. “Yeah, I know.”

There’s a plate of lime wedges and a shaker of salt already sitting on the counter with a bottle of tequila and two shot glasses. She raises an eyebrow, delighted he’s chosen her favorite vice.

“I warned you about the tequila,” she reminds him.

He makes a face, dismissive. “You don’t scare me.”

She waggles her eyebrows, like, maybe you should be scared, but he just shakes his head, amused, and pours them each a generous shot.

“Salud,” he says, clinking his glass to hers.

They don’t go overboard. A 7:00 AM wake-up in this time zone will be 4:00 AM as far as her west coast-attuned body is concerned, and she likes her job too much to sabotage it by getting seriously drunk the night before a long work day. But with two or three shots apiece, they make it through a few of the tiny, overpriced bottles, and they each have a pleasant, relaxed buzz going.

Pedro makes for good company. Off the press line and away from any cameras, inhibitions lowered by the tequila, his sense of humor comes out a little dirtier. Every time one of his jokes lands, sending her into a fit of laughter, he grins, looking pleased with himself. Not for the first time, she finds herself thinking that it’s almost maddening how charming and charismatic he is.

“You know,” Rae tells him, “A lot of fangirls out there would pay good money to take a shot with you. I’ll never be able to tell anyone about this because they’d rip me apart out of jealousy.”

“Oh please,” he teases. “Don’t pretend like you’re not right there with them, getting all hot over the Mandalorian every week.”

Her jaw drops, but she swiftly recovers. “Actually, I belong to the camp that believes Din Djarin is a virgin. I don’t think he’s probably even that good in bed.”

He’s offended. He goes from a lazy sprawl to sitting upright, just like that. “Excuse me?”

She raises an eyebrow. “Do you have a take on this? It’d be an amazing scoop if I could get a quote from you.”

“Hey,” he says warningly. “This evening is strictly off the record.”

“Of course,” she agrees. He holds up his hand, pinky extended, and she scoots closer on the couch and hooks her pinky around his, promising. “So?”

“Din Djarin is not a virgin,” he says decisively. His tone says he thinks the mere concept is ridiculous.

“Well, who has he had sex with?” she challenges him.

He counts off on his fingers. “He fucked that twi’lek girl with the knives—”

“Xi’an,” she supplies.

“Of course you remember her name,” he laughs, but not unkindly. They both know she’s nerdier about Star Wars lore than he is. He ticks off the next finger. “He fucked Omera. He obviously fucked Cobb Vanth, if you can’t see that you’re blind.”

He has to raise his voice to be heard over her laughter. He’s holding back his amusement, too.

“I can’t believe you’re questioning Mando’s sex life when you’re the one calling him a daddy all the time.”

“Uh uh,” she corrects him. “I think you’re a daddy.”

Over the course of the conversation she’d continued to unconsciously slide closer to him, and now as he watches her in amused contemplation, they suddenly feel very close. The realization of it, in the silence following her overtly flirtatious statement, makes her smile fall and her pulse pick up. She looks down, taking a breath, and when she glances up he’s still looking at her face. His voice has turned husky when he speaks again.

“Can I kiss you?”

She bites her lip, trying to stay cool, and nods. He leans in closer, lightly gripping her chin under his thumb.

“Yes?” he checks.

“Yes,” she says breathlessly.

His lips are soft, and dry, and a little tangy from the salt and lime they’ve both been consuming. He slips his tongue lightly over her bottom lip, adding a little glide to the kiss. She follows his lead, melting into him and feeling flushed. He’s cupping her face, and the firm press of his hand on her cheek is simultaneously grounding and makes her feel like she’s caught up in a dream.

“Can I—” she starts. She curls her fingers, closing around nothing. His eyes are dark, watching her patiently. “Can I touch you?”

“Yes,” he murmurs. He takes her hand in his and guides it to rest on his upper thigh, close enough the permission is clear—not so close that he’s making her move too fast.

He kisses her again, and she closes her eyes and lets herself follow her instincts. Her fingers inch higher on his lap until she feels his bulge, stiffening under the soft fabric. She runs her fingers along him and his breath hitches. She squeezes, lightly, and he grunts, shifting his hips up into her touch.

“Can I—” she starts again. He cuts her off, answering against her skin as he works his mouth down the length of her neck, telling her, “Yes,” before she can finish the question. “Yes.”

So she makes her way to the edge of the couch and sinks onto her knees on the floor, pushing his legs open to settle between them. He’s looking down at her there, looking turned on, looking like he likes what he sees—but when she reaches for him he stops her, grabbing her wrists in one hand.

“Wait,” he says. His voice is lust-rough. With his other hand, he picks at the fabric of her top. “Take these off first.”

She bites her lip, feeling a rush of arousal pulse through her to pool between her legs. She misses his grip when he lets go of her wrists, but she stands obediently and strips off her clothes, until she’s down to just her underwear. Pedro’s mouth falls open, taking her in. Focusing in on the matching bra and panties.

“You brought this for a work trip?” he asks, sounding awed.

Maybe she hadn’t done such a bad job of packing her suitcase, after all.

“I just… like lingerie. I like to wear it under my regular clothes,” she tells him. “It makes me feel sexy.”

She does a slow turn, letting him see the cheeky cut of her panties.

He looks a little dazed. “It’s very sexy.”

His gaze follows her breasts, perched filling out the lacy, balconette cups of her bra, as she kneels before him again. This time he doesn’t stop her when she reaches forward, brushing her hands over his growing bulge as she grasps his waistband and tugs it down to unveil him to her.

She was certain it would be big, but the sight of his cock still makes her mouth drop open and her eyes widen as she takes it in. Her hands look small, touching him, wrapping around his length. She feels that rush again, pussy going wet and her mouth watering for him. She licks her lips, purses them tight, and leans in to slide her mouth open around the tip of his cock.

He swears.

She sinks her hot mouth onto him, sucking him off and savoring it, her saliva mixing with the mild salt-tang spurts of his pre-come spilling onto her tongue. She slides her hands down to the base of his cock where she can’t reach her mouth, slicking him up and working over his length in firm strokes.

Rae pulls back for a moment, wanting to watch his face while she jerks him off. She has one hand wrapped around his shaft and she reaches the other down to massage over his balls. His eyes are heavy-lidded, watching her, and his breath is unsteady, hips twitching like he wants to thrust hard into her heat. He grabs the back of her head with one large hand, tugging her forward just gently, telling her without words that he wants her mouth back on him. When she doesn’t take him in immediately, he taps his cock lightly against her cheek, nudging at the corner of her mouth.

Her eyes flutter closed. “You can be rough with me,” she tells him. “I like it.”

“You like it?” he repeats. There’s a pause, as she meets his hot gaze and silently nods. “Then take it.”

Pedro’s grip is tight on the back of her neck as he forces his cock past the seam of her lips. He fills her mouth, hitting against her throat, and she moans, focusing on avoiding him with her teeth and distracted by the way her clit throbs from the rough treatment. Her body is rocking, legs pressed tight together, head bobbing on his dick, all her senses overwhelmed by the taste and smell and sound of him—by his soft stomach where she’s braced one hand, tucked under his shirt, and the ache in her jaw and her vision blurring with unshed tears from taking him too far and starting to choke.

He pulls her off, to let her get her breath back, and squeezes his fingers around the base of his dick, steadying himself as she runs the back of her hand over her wet mouth, wiping away the drool that’s gone running down her chin.

“Come here,” he says, gentle again. He pulls her into his lap, straddling his legs, and kisses her softly at the corners of her mouth, soothing over her swollen lips.

He runs his thumbs delicately along the tops of her bra cups, feeling the lace bordering her soft skin, then smooths his hands down her sides to her hips. He looks up, watching her face as he slides one hand over the thin fabric of her panties, but his controlled expression changes as much as hers does when he touches her and feels the arousal soaking through.

“You got that wet for me?” he rasps. “From sucking my cock?”

She nods slowly, feeling exposed and shivery under his gaze, turned on even more by hearing those words in his deep voice.

“I told you I liked it,” she whispers.

His jaw clenches. He slips his fingers under the fabric, teasing over her skin, feeling along her folds—watching her gasp when he finds her clit. Then he pinches it, hard enough to make her cry out and buck her hips in his lap, and her breath comes out unsteady when he lets go.

“Rae,” he says. “Go get in my bed.”

The command sends a wave of calm through her system. She takes a deep breath. “Yes, daddy,” she murmurs, and climbs carefully off of his lap.

In the bedroom, she follows his instruction, stripping off her lingerie and tossing it aside before climbing onto the plush bed. She leans back on her elbows, legs demurely crossed at the ankles, and watches him pull his sweater over his head, revealing his softly toned body and broad shoulders. Then he shoves the sweatpants off his hips, stepping out of them where they pool at his feet, and her gaze is drawn back to his cock, bobbing enticingly between his legs. Her eyes glaze over, hypnotized with want.

He kneels onto the bed, reaching to uncross her ankles and make space between her legs. His eyes rake over her, drinking her in, absently biting his bottom lip as he lingers on her pussy. Then he makes his way up, straddling her thigh, one knee by her hip and the other just below her cunt, not quite close enough for her to grind against his leg like she thinks she might like to try. He kneels over her like that, leaning forward to brace one hand next to her shoulder, and caresses her face with the other, running his fingers lightly over her cheekbone. She melts under him, meeting his dark eyes, taking in his handsome face and his lush lips and thinking maybe he’ll kiss her again.

Pedro slaps her face, just hard enough to send a jolt through her, making her gasp. Her eyes snap back to his, pulse racing.

“Tell me what you want,” he demands, voice gone husky.

“I—I want your cock,” she moans.

“Tell me,” he says. “Say it again.”

“Please,” she begs, “I want your big fucking fat cock, daddy.”

He laughs, a low, dirty chuckle. “Where do you want it, baby?”

Her face is flushed; her whole body is on fire, all hot and needy for him. “In my pussy.”

“Yeah?” He rubs his hand over her mound, warm on the smooth-shaven skin, then feels down into her slick folds where she’s soaking wet. “Your pretty little pussy? You think she can take it?”

“Yes,” she whines. He pushes three thick fingers inside her, making her cry out and tilt her hips up, greedy for it. His knees are spread wide to balance himself and hold her legs pushed open with his own. When she writhes under him he sets his weight down harder, pinning her.

With his free hand, he slaps her tit. The sting makes her yelp and her cunt clenches tight around his fingers. He twists and pulls them free, then thrusts inside her again, working in and out until she feels like she can’t form a full thought, head all empty but for the sound of her moans and his hot, heavy breath, and the fast, dirty squelching sound her pussy makes as he fucks her hard.

When he pulls his hand away she can see her slick coating his fingers, shining wet in the dim lamplight. He falls forward so that he’s hovering directly over her and feeds his fingers into her mouth, making her taste her own arousal. Her eyes flutter closed as she sucks them clean.

“Dirty girl,” he murmurs. He pulls his fingers gently out and lowers his face to hers instead, giving her a deep kiss to chase the taste of her with his tongue.

He grinds his hard cock into her hip and eventually pulls out of the kiss, murmuring against her mouth, “I have to grab a condom.” He brushes his thumb over her mouth as he pulls away, tender. “You still good?”

“Mmm,” she breathes. “So good.”

He rifles in his travel bag, unzipping a small pouch and retrieving a condom packet. When he returns to the bed, he runs his hand along her thigh and then slaps her flank. “Get on your knees.”

She rolls over, pushing up onto her knees, and braces her forearms on the bed, arching her back. It feels primal, presenting her cunt like this for him to take, and behind her he growls with want.

She feels the head of his cock press blunt and thick at her entrance, and he starts working his length into her in shallow, prodding thrusts, a little deeper each time. He starts slow—he has to, she’s so fucking tight around him, and it’s only because she’s so turned on that the stretch isn’t too much to take. Gradually, he pushes his cock into her hot, slick center, and it leaves her gasping for air, like he’s fucking all the way up into her lungs.

“Christ,” he groans. His voice has gone impossibly deeper. “You feel so fucking good, baby. How does that feel?”

She tries to speak and it comes out a strangled moan, incomprehensible.

He withdraws a little, fighting against the grip of her pussy trying to keep him inside. His hands are strong on her hips, holding her in place.

“Tell me,” he commands. He thrusts in again as she opens her mouth, and she cries out.

“Tell me, baby. Tell me how this cock feels in your sweet—little—pussy—” He emphasizes each word with a deep thrust. She feels lightheaded from it, but it’s like it breaks something inside her and her tongue finally works again, babbling needy words at him.

“It’s so good, fuck, it feels so good, daddy,” she moans. “Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me—” The friction is easier now, with her body opening up to take him, and he’s moving faster. She’s gripping desperately into the bedsheets above her head, moving with the push-pull rhythm of his sex, and she’s starting to feel almost high from it, a little spaced out on the sensation of his dick driving into her.

He leans forward, draping hot over her back, and it shifts the angle of his thrusts, so that he’s suddenly hitting a spot that makes her see stars.

“Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit—” He probably can’t make out the words; her voice is muffled in the sheets. Her body is trembling, on that pre-orgasmic high, pure pleasure running through her with every stroke of his huge dick. She wishes she could stay suspended like this forever, in this luxurious bed being fucked by this perfect cock, balancing right on the cusp of ecstasy.

When she comes, she collapses flat onto her belly, shattered, and he follows her down, pinning her to the bed and continuing to fuck her just as hard. She cries out, the sounds of her orgasm tearing out of her throat and ringing in her ears as her pussy pulses and flutters around him. Finally, he slows and pulls out of her, and the sudden emptiness feels too big, like he’s left her hollowed out in the tender space of her cunt. He turns her over, onto her back, and braces over her, eyes focused on her face when he slides his dick back inside and fills her in again. She whimpers, needy and overwhelmed, feeling every long, slow inch of his cock dragging through her.

He kisses her, languid tongue matching his steady thrusts. It’s intimate in a way Rae’s not sure she’s earned the right to be with him. But it doesn’t surprise her, learning he’s sweet like this. He’s always looked at her like he wants the eye contact, like he wants to be close, like he thrives on connection. She’s always seen him act kindly to everyone in the room, and it only follows that when you’re the only one in the room with him, he’d devote himself to you and take his time.

She wants to make him feel good. To see him lose control and let go. She squeezes her cunt around him, experimentally, and he breaks their kiss to exhale a gasping breath, rhythm faltering.

“Fuck,” he breathes, mouth on her chin. “Do that again.”

She clenches again, running her hands down his body, teasing at him with her long nails and feeling him tremble. “You feel so good, daddy,” she whispers. “Your cock is so big, I don’t—fuck!” she exclaims, when his pace picks up and he rams into her, harder. “I don’t know how you even fucking fit inside me, your big—fuck—fucking cock—shit—”

He’s panting, making ragged, desperate sounds, pushing up into her like he can bury himself even deeper. Teeth sharp, biting at her jaw. She’s not even thinking about the words spilling out of her, just lets every filthy thought slip free, riling him up. “Fuck me, daddy, fuck—you’re fucking splitting me in half—I want you to come inside me—fill me up—I want it, I want it, I want it—”

He groans, hiding his face in her neck, stiffening and releasing inside of her. She wishes, insanely, that he had fucked her bareback so she could feel it coating her pussy, dripping out after. She would have let him if he wanted to, she thinks, and it’s a terrible thing to realize about herself.

It doesn’t stop her from holding him in place before he can pull out, keeping him deep inside her cunt, and rubbing at her swollen clit until she comes on his dick one last time, savoring the orgasm and the rumbling sound of his groans in her ears.

He doesn’t try to kick her out after—in fact, he orders a slice of caramel cheesecake from the room service menu and asks if Rae wants something, too—but in the end, she reluctantly says that she should go.

“I have to be up early to interview that kid from the new Marvel movie,” she sighs.

Pedro laughs, unsympathetic. “Oh, your life is so hard.”

“Yeah, harder now,” she complains. “I’m gonna be walking funny on the press line tomorrow.”

He bites back a laugh, but then furrows his brow in concern. “Are you alright? Did I hurt you?”

She hums, giving her nude, exhausted body an experimental stretch. “That was the biggest dick I’ve ever taken,” she tells him. “And… it was the best.”

He relaxes again, looking like he’s not trying very hard to hide a satisfied smirk.

“Don’t let it go to your head or anything.”

“Oh,” he says, shaking his head dismissively, “Way too late for that, sweetheart.”

When she sees him again they’re back in LA, at a premiere for his new indie film. He greets her with a familiar, professional smile, but she can see the change in how he looks at her now, the new, interested sparkle in his eyes and how he lingers on her longer. He gives her a tight hug goodbye, murmuring, “Bye, baby,” too quiet for the mic to pick up, and she slips a folded note into his hand as she pulls away.

I had to buy a bigger toy—you’ve ruined me. Asshole.

She hears his dirty, delighted cackle and she fights to school her face, tamping down the light, giddy feeling in her chest as she turns her focus to the next guest on the press line.

She’s not sure how he got her home address. It probably wasn’t that hard, she supposes, to have his agent contact her company and sweet talk it out of them with the promise of exclusive promo material, or something of that kind. It’s probably not worth questioning how one of the biggest rising stars on the planet can get something he wants. In any event, she’s grateful he did, because she might have received this package in the middle of the office, otherwise, and that would have been more than a little embarrassing.

He’s got her size right. She wonders if he’d snuck a peek at the tags before she put her underwear back on—if he was already planning this even then. The thought of it makes her feel—something. She’s not sure what it makes her feel. She’s walking a tightrope between a dangerous mistake and total euphoria and it’s all she can do to keep her balance, because she can’t risk taking a misstep.

The set is from a luxury brand so expensive she would never buy it for herself. It’s an ethereal blend of ribbon and tulle, the thong nothing more than a scrap of beautiful fabric, and she knows it will have cost him several hundred dollars.

There’s a gift note, sitting on top of the tissue paper-wrapped goods.

A ‘sorry for ruining you’ gift. So you can feel sexy at the season 3 premiere. Show me after, if you want.

-P

Her stomach swoops, as she tries not to fall.

#pedro pascal #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal x ofc #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal fanfic #pedro pascal rpf

509 notes · View notes

pommpuriinn · 2 months

Text

(｡•̀ᴗ-)✧﹐txt﹕🎤﹒ʬʬ DEJA VU ERA HIGHLIGHTS

𐙚 synopsis 𐙚 - little Joohyung highlights that stuck with moas during the promotion period of ‘Deja Vu’ along with Joohyung’s styling during the promotions.

𐙚 author’s note 𐙚 - I plan on writing for the little fan meetings they have after music banks and fansigns/fancalls. Hope you enjoy :3

𐙚 Deja Vu 𐙚

𐙚 I’ll See You There Tomorrow 𐙚

✧ let’s start with some negative things that happened during the promotion period. The number one thing was that knetizens didn’t like how much skin Joohyung was showing with all of her stage outfits

✧ Joohyung didn’t have a safety undergarment for her chest area. Knetizens were saying how inappropriate it was and that her stylist “should’ve known better”. Joohyung shut those knetizens up by posting many photos of herself in those “revealing” outfits with the caption ‘I love being me🥰’

✧ another controversy was Joohyung’s tattoos and how their staff didn’t cover them up with tape. As everyone knows when idols have tattoos and they go on music shows they have to cover them up with body tape, but for Joohyung she didn’t want to and the staff just let it slide plus the music bank staff didn’t mind it either

✧ how many lines Joohyung got for txt’s title track ‘Deja Vu’. Even though Joohyung wrote the song and mostly produced the song she got one second lines, only ad-lids, and the only time you fully hear Joohyung’s line is towards the end of the song. This cause a division online with some moas. One side was mad at bighit for only giving their genius idol so little lines for the title track even though she created the masterpiece. The another side was fine with the little lines because Joohyung gets the dance break and the iconic kick

✧ the final thing is Joohyung got no solo variety show appearances. Throughout all of txt’s career Joohyung hasn’t gotten any solo variety shows appearances. This is also a debate if Joohyung even wants to go by herself or just rather stick with going with her members instead

✧ aside from all the negativity there was a lot of good things that happened during the promotional time. Even thought some people didn’t like the styling for dumb reasons many actually really liked all of Joohyung’s outfits. Many started recreating and posing tiktoks about getting the ‘Joohyung look’

✧ Joohyung’s stylist wasn’t the only one getting praise Joohyung’s makeup artist was getting praise for using gems and glitter as tears (ex: 1, 2, 3) since the song is a more emotional and the makeup artist want to emulate pretty tears in her art

✧ Joohyung’s stage presence and acting during every single performance shocked everyone. Joohyung expressed the sad emotions of the song beautifully that it even got the locals talking about how they never seen someone acting so well, while singing and dancing not looking tried or missing a beat. Because of all the big twitter accounts talking about Joohyung and sharing her fancams along with trending, Hybe did get some exciting emails from movie/shows production teams

✧ speaking of singing, Joohyung vocals were a big topic online. Joohyung was praised for her raw vocals even though she had little lines she made sure to sing them along with her ad-lids. Moas that went in person to the music shows said that ‘Joohyung unnie was always louder than the back track!’. During the encore stages Joohyung would give extra ad-lids and little highs notes that were considered but not made into the final production of ‘Deja Vu’

✧ another viral moment while performing their title track was towards the end of the inkigayo stage after the dance break/kick Joohyung was able to shed a tear while singing passionately. The camera man deserves a rise because he zoomed in just in time to capture the viral moment. Online many moas in ‘awe’ and rightfully so bragging about their idol, and the other moas were making jokes;

‘ why is she singing like she just got divorced and got separated from her kids😭’

‘ did members not want to cuddle backstage 💀’

‘ she just wiped her tear, smiled, and wave then just walked off stage like nothing happened she was like 😢😐🤗🚶🏻‍♀️’

✧ the two members who constantly don’t think they’re cute have been proved wrong again. Both Joohyung and Taehyun had sharp eyes during their end pose, and once the staff yelled ‘cut’ their eyes instantly went big and sparkling. Once again proving everyone right, they are the cutest

✧ Joohyung performing’ISYTT’ just causing heart attacks because of her mischievous and flirty actions towards the camera

✧ articles having the headlines saying ‘Gen Z ‘it’ siblings strike again with a new trend’ the article was talking about how Yeonjun and Joohyung kept on showing the top of underwear (ex) especially in the ‘ISYTT’ performances

✧ during this era Joohyung was more on the quiet side, but she was very unintentionally cute. There was many clips of Joohyung just being in her own world zoning out, members taking care of her, and treating her like the maknae

#div cr yu-nari #txt 6th member #txt additional member #kpop added member #kpop additional member #kpop female addition #txt female member #txt female addition #kpop female oc

51 notes · View notes

suhstaste · 3 months

Text

im going to rant about carlos sainz and charles leclerc and lewis hamilton for a second and this is all in regards to ferarri and recent achievements (or lack thereof) of certain drivers.

firstly i do want to say that carlos is a good driver. i think he’s hitting his prime right now and is arguably the hottest prospect in the drivers market for next year. but. i think charles has a higher ceiling and higher prime.

yes carlos outperformed charles in bahrain and australia and in regards to aus there wasn’t massive issues w charles car unlike in bahrain. but in bahrain with a massive brake issue charles still wrestled that car into p4 right behind carlos.

the point is, carlos and charles are pretty evenly matched but statistically more times than not charles does seem to outperform the spaniard. they’re both very good at the end of the day and ferarri made the decision they did and carlos rightfully so is putting up the performances of his life cuz he’s fighting for a seat! either way that car is very good and i think if circumstances allow we might see another ferarri win (hopefully charles this time).

speaking of which, im glad that ferarri car is good because whatever mercedes got going on does not look too hot. im not going to damn mercedes right now because that’s a story for another day.

on lewis. there has been annoying takes on him recently. don’t let the last 3 races allow u to forget that he was 1) p3 in the drivers championship last year, ahead of BOTH ferarris, and mclarens who had finished the year off pretty strong, and 2) was the main reason that mercedes finished p2 just mere points ahead of ferarri in the constructors.

i saw a podcast say that if u took a sample size of lewis’s career in the last 4-5 years it wouldn’t be as impressive and that is such a bs take bc he has quite literally won 2 (3) WDC’s since 2019 and yes, since 2022 he hasn’t won a race and that is troubling but the machinery that mercedes has produced hasn’t been that great. george did win in 2022 but 1 win in over 2 years isn’t a good look on mercedes.

let’s not act like a 7 time world champion, who has a 103 wins under his belt, if given that ferarri wouldn’t win more and be fighting for the championship. let’s not do this recency bias thing.

is carlos sainz a good driver? yes. will he be at the top of the drivers market for 2025? yes. will ferarri lose sleep over not having him anymore ? no. they have lewis fucking hamilton now.

next year will be exciting and im curious to see where carlos goes and how lewis will perform with a capable car finally ( and if ferarri are successful in poaching adrian newey hehe )

#sir lewis hamilton #lewis hamilton #carlos sainz #charles leclerc #scuderia ferrari #mercedes amg f1 #formual one #f1

34 notes · View notes

novantinuum · 2 months

Text

Fandom: Steven Universe Rating: Teen Audiences Words: ~1K Summary: “What’s going on—?” he croaks to absolutely no one (weakened, vulnerable, alone, pathetic—), a jolt of fresh panic surging through his entire system. He’s never seen a gem flicker before. He has no idea what this means.

Got a short one-shot for y'all today! This was a quick lil' guy I whipped up within the past week to boost my Camp NaNoWriMo word count in between working on other projects.

It's a canon-compliant fic set during the SU movie.

Enjoy!

____

“What’s going on—?” he croaks to absolutely no one (weakened, vulnerable, alone, pathetic—), a jolt of fresh panic surging through his entire system as he watches the diamond at his core outright flicker.

He’s never seen a gem flicker before. He has no idea what this means. But even more urgently… his gaze snaps up to all the gemstones littering the grass like it’s a damned battlefield… he has no idea how he’s supposed to de-escalate this situation if he can’t successfully bubble this rogue Gem. The others will reform in no time, of that he’s sure— but so will she. And when she does, what’s stopping her from pulling out another weapon and attacking them all over again?

Steven shakes the grim thought out of his head, exerting a surprising sum of energy in dragging himself back to his feet. (Stars, he’s so out of breath…) But no— no. He can’t allow himself to get so caught up in the brambles of such nebulous what-ifs. Come on, Universe. Stay resilient. Stay positive. There’s only one mission that matters at the moment, and that’s gathering up that weapon and all these gemstones and moving them somewhere safe. He’s capable of that much, at least.

Still… that anxious, always hyper-vigilant part of himself he tries hard to keep buried can’t help but dread the worst as he shoves that heart-shaped gem and the pink scythe into the deepest depths of his jacket pocket and drags his spent, trembling body up the hill to retrieve all his loved ones.

Steven collapses face-first upon the couch the second all the Gems are safely deposited on the living room coffee table, heaving what has to be the single most exaggerated groan of exhaustion any one soul has ever produced.

Ugh.

Good golly.

Amethyst is usually back by now. That sure doesn’t shine any optimism on this situation, now does it? What on Earth did that scythe do to them?

And what the heck did it do to me, he thinks, the mere act of baseline existence leaving him as wiped as a marathon runner even though he’s literally lying as flat as a board. It’s a kind of total body exhaustion he rarely experiences, far more intense than a hard day’s workout or multiple nights of poor sleep.

In fact, now that he ponders his predicament, he hasn’t felt as drained as this since—

He pales, his heart pounding at a somewhat uneven tempo. With much effort, he pushes himself upright again… yanks up the bottom hem of his shirt to splay his opposing hand across the familiar planes of his own gemstone, tracing their edges until his pulse calms down and he stops feeling so itchy and paranoid. No. Stop. it’s not like The Incident at all. He’s whole. They’re together, not split in half, not disconnected from one another.

Or at least… (he swallows. Hard.) Not physically.

Flashing a frustrated grimace, Steven gathers the gem of their attacker in his palms and attempts to form a bubble around it again. And again. And again. No dice, alas. The result is the same no matter how hard he tries. Even if he manages to fashion one large enough, it bursts only a few heartbeats later, leaving him breathless and haggard and with nothing to show for it. He wipes away the sweat that’s started to bead upon his forehead, and— rather defeated by this failure— dumps that damned gem back on the table a tad rougher than he probably ought to.

Okay. So no bubble. Great. Just great. Absolutely peachy. What else about him is broken right now?

He throws out his arm, envisioning his shield bursting to life in front of it. And to his credit this hard-light weapon does briefly appear, but only as a glitchy flicker. Ugh. All right, so his shield’s a complete dud, too. With this in mind he sees no real point in testing any of his other powers. It seems his gem’s simply on the fritz now, no thanks to her. (He shoots a dirty glare at those pink, ever-taunting facets.) Plus, he figures an attempt and failure to float might prove disastrous. Best not to test fate today with how his luck’s been so far.

Steven clenches his fingers tight, painfully aware of how tense his whole body is right now. He outright can’t help it. This is the single most stressful thing that’s landed on his doorstep since the Diamonds crashed Garnet’s wedding. And not only that, but with all these muscle groups activated at once he can feel his pulse thrumming like a never-ending mantra within his wrist, its tempo frustratingly irregular. It reminds him a lot of how Dad describes his caffeine intolerance. Both keyed-up and jittery. Thrown to the brink of fight-or-flight but also exhausted to the point of collapse. It’s insufferable, and without the guidance and encouragement of the Gems he has no clue what he’s supposed to do about it.

Although…

His breath quivering as he feels his gemstone glitch out within him yet again, he pulls his phone out of his pocket. (And boy, is he surprised the screen isn’t cracked after the mighty tumble he took up on the hill.) He taps into his messages and— his finger hovering over Connie’s picture for a moment longer than it ought to— (no, don’t worry her, just let her enjoy her space camp)— ultimately selects his dad’s contact.

Pls come quick as you can, he types furiously. Town in danger (???) from new Gem, everyone got poofed. At house.

Send.

The teen slumps back upon the couch, letting himself sink back into its plush, reassuring comfort. There. At least Dad might be able to help. And even if he can’t, well…

(He wipes away that annoying stray tear pooling at the edge of one of his eyes. Childish, he chides himself. Stupid.)

At least it’s better than weathering this storm on his own.

#su #steven universe #su fanfiction #su fanfic #steven universe fanfiction #my writing stuff #tumblr hates underlines so y'all get bold.#see the ao3 post for the intended formatting.

27 notes · View notes

cariantha · 3 months

Text

Friends Again

Book: Open Heart Pairing: Dr. Ethan Ramsey x F!MC (Dr. Sawyer Brooks) Rating: General Category: Fluff Word count: 2.2K Summary: Ethan loses something important. Prompt: Imagine your OTP where both of them have a piece of jewelry that symbolizes their friendship, and it was just for fun and definitely not serious. But when one of them loses their jewelry, they start to realize that it (and their relationship) meant more to them than they thought. A/N: This is a prequel of sorts to Bad Dream. Some of the dialogue used is taken directly from Open Heart: Second Year.

A week before the conference in Miami…

The hour-long drive seemed to pass in the blink of an eye with conversation flowing easily between the attending and his intern. They had reached their destination, the Boston Medical Library, situated on the University of Massachusetts campus.

“Thanks again for coming and helping me with this research. I’m sure you had better things to do this weekend,” Ethan said, parking and turning off the engine.

“You. Are. Welcome,” Sawyer playfully chimed as she unbuckled her seat belt. "And what’s better than solving a medical mystery and saving a man’s life?”

She didn’t have to add “duh” to the end of that sentence. Ethan heard it in her tone and it made him smile on the inside. “God, where have you been all my life?” he thought to himself.

As they headed towards the library, they couldn’t help but notice the large farmer’s market set up in the adjacent parking lot.

“That looks fun,” Sawyer remarked as she eyed the various booths from a distance. A variety of vendors sold everything from fresh produce, to homemade baked goods, to arts and crafts.

Knowing it would make her happy, Ethan couldn’t resist. “Do you want to check it out?”

“You wouldn’t mind?” she asked, surprised.

“Not at all. Believe it or not, I enjoy going to the farmer’s market. My dad and I would go when I was young. There’s a good one at Copley Square you should check out sometime,” he recommended, guiding her toward the first row of tents.

The pair strolled from booth to booth, inspecting all the different goods for sale. Along the way, they laughed at the silly products, exchanged personal stories, and sampled some of the food and drink.

“Ohmygod,” Sawyer moaned, the chocolate melting on her tongue. “You have to try this,” she insisted, holding a sample to Ethan’s lips. Naturally and without thinking, he leaned forward eating the morsel right out of her hand, his lips brushing softly against her fingertips.

“It’s good, right?” she watched as he chewed and nodded affirmatively.

“Would you like me to pack up a box for you?” an older gentleman approached.

Ethan reached for his wallet, “We’ll take two boxes.”

“Happy wife, happy life! Am I right?” the vendor chuckled as he filled a container with chocolate truffles.

Seizing the opportunity to have a little fun at Ethan’s expense, Sawyer quickly replied. “Oh, he’s not my husband… yet. Two years of dating and he still hasn’t put a ring on it,” she waved the back of her ringless left hand.

Ethan snapped his head to Sawyer and with bulging eyes silently asked, “What are you doing?”

“Back in my day, you took a test drive and either made the purchase or kept looking… none of this leasing business,” the outspoken elder shook his head. “I proposed to my beautiful Margie one month after our first date, and I married her three months later. When you know, you know… you know?”

“That’s what I’ve been telling him!” Sawyer continued the act, gently backhanding Ethan in the gut.

Ethan pinched the bridge of his nose and whispered under this breath, “For Christ’s sake.”

Sawyer burst out laughing, finally breaking character. When the vendor looked at her puzzled, she confessed. “Sorry, we’re not actually together.” Elbowing Ethan in the side, “I just couldn’t resist messing with him. We’re just friends.”

“Well, in my experience, that's a good place to start,” the man winked, handing Ethan his purchase.

As they walked away, he shoved a box of truffles towards Sawyer with feigned annoyance. “Friends? Ha! More like a giant pain in my ass,” he contended.

A short while later they found a fresh produce booth. Ethan quickly occupied himself, inspecting and sniffing different fruits and vegetables. If Sawyer had been paying attention, she might have learned how capable he was with all the beautiful ingredients, but she was distracted by another nearby vendor. When Ethan struck up a conversation with the produce farmer, she slipped away to make a quick purchase.

“Where’d you go?” Ethan asked when she returned.

“I got you something. Hold out your hand,” she urged.

Ethan raised a skeptical eyebrow, but reluctantly did as she said.

Sawyer looped a braided leather bracelet around his wrist and fastened it.

He took a closer look, examining the metal charms. One with the letter E, and another with the letter S. “What’s this for?”

“It’s a friendship bracelet,” she explained, “and since I'm giving it to you, it's official now. We are definitely friends.”

“Is that so?”

“I don’t make the rules,” she shrugged.

“I’m pretty sure you just did.”

Ignoring his snark, “Oh, and it’s tradition that when someone gives you a friendship bracelet, you get to make a wish.”

Ethan just rolled his eyes. But as juvenile as it seemed, he knew exactly what he would wish for. “I’d wish for you,” he said to himself.

“Hey,” she took his hand and held it for a moment. “In all seriousness, you know I’m here as a friend, right? I mean… I’m learning a lot working with you on this case, and I’m grateful for the experience, but that’s not why I volunteered to help. I’m not here as an intern kissing your ass.”

Ethan knew from the very beginning that Sawyer was someone he could trust. Unlike other interns who would expect something in return, like a leg up in the competition, he knew she had no ulterior motives. Just the kindest and most genuine heart.

He looked her in the eye and squeezed her hand. “I know, Sawyer.”

Five months later…

Alone in the beer garden at Donahue's, Sawyer sat on her tucked leg, facing Ethan’s glowing profile. He stared straight ahead, transfixed by the firepit's dancing flames.

Having mustered the courage to confront the elephant in the room, Sawyer broke the somber silence that had settled between them. “Ethan, why didn’t you keep in touch?” She watched him take a deep, anticipatory breath. “No word from you at all for two months? After everything that happened between us?”

Ethan took a moment to find his words, then turned his head to meet her eyes. “Everything that happened between us is exactly why I didn’t contact you,” he began to explain. “Sawyer, if we’re going to work together on the diagnostics team, we need a fresh start.”

Resisting every urge to reach out and take her hand when she looked away from him, he pressed on. “Your professional development is too important to jeopardize it with whatever… whatever it was that we had.”

Sawyer snapped her head back to face him, “‘Had’, past tense.”

Ethan reached for the whiskey bottle that he had grabbed from inside and poured himself another glass. The sleeve of his green leather jacket rode up just enough for Sawyer to notice a braided bracelet wrapped around his wrist. The same one she gave him a week before their relationship went from friends to forbidden fruit.

“Yes. And the past is where it has to remain,” he added. Ethan’s eyes bored into hers, searching for understanding and begging for forgiveness.

After a long moment, Sawyer broke the connection, looking down at his wrist again. She thought it ironic that he would wear a reminder of “whatever they had,” while insisting that they must now ignore and bury their feelings for one another. That cheap piece of jewelry meant something to him. And the fact that he wore it now, meant that she did too.

So without concern for the consequences, she tested her theory. Surging forward, she wrapped her hand around the back of his neck and kissed him. A long and gentle kiss. An act of forgiveness, and one that he seemed willing to accept since he hadn’t pulled away. But when she leaned back, she saw the turmoil written across his face. Just as she had months ago in Miami.

“Dammit, Sawyer.”

A few weeks later…

As much as he hated to admit it, Ethan desperately missed Sawyer. He missed their easy friendship. The way she always seemed to know what he was thinking. The way he could talk to her about anything. The way he could be himself around her. Not Dr. Ramsey, but just Ethan.

Though they saw each other almost everyday, their interactions were mostly transactional. It had been difficult to let their guards down around each other. Ethan found it too tempting to cross the line, and Sawyer grew tired of the knock-backs.

The night that she helped him set up his Pictagram account reminded Ethan of the way they once were, before he left for the Amazon. It felt normal again. The friendly banter, the trust, the laughter… everything seemed right in the world for those few hours.

After she had gone home that evening, Ethan opened his desk drawer, finding a cherished item. It was something that he’d kept near and dear since the day he left for the Amazon.

“...how are you supposed to know when you’ve met the right person?”

“It’s love, Ethan… you just feel it…”

He slipped the leather over his fingers and rolled the charms with his thumb, as their conversation echoed in his mind. Then he thought back to the day Sawyer gave him the bracelet.

“When you know, you know…” he recalled the old, outspoken man saying.

There was no doubt he felt something for Sawyer, but was it love? Not having much experience with the feeling, he allowed himself to consider the possibility. But how to know for sure? That’s when Ethan remembered something else the vendor at the market said, when Sawyer told him they were just friends.

“Well, in my experience, that's a good place to start.”

A few days later, Sawyer approached the diagnostics team’s office. She spotted Ethan through the glass windows and paused to watch his odd behavior. He was searching for something, lifting up files, checking around the coffee station, and rummaging through the pockets of his outdoors coat. He was on his knees looking under his desk when she finally entered the room.

“Shit…” he muttered, unaware of her presence. When she cleared her throat, he startled and stood up.

“What’s going on?” she asked.

Ethan tried to act normal, organizing items on his desk. “Nothing.”

“You sure? It looked like you were searching for something. Can I help you look?”

“It’s fine. Don’t worry about it,” he clipped. Fortunately, June and Baz joined them for the start of their meeting, and the rookie team member didn’t press any further.

A couple hours later, Sawyer bumped into Bryce as he stepped out of the men’s restroom. “Oof!” he grunted.

“Sorry!” she quickly apologized as he caught her shoulders.

“Geez, Brooks, I know how bad you want to hit this, but at least buy me a drink first,” he teased, soliciting a roll of the eyes from Sawyer. “Whatcha up to?” he asked.

“Just a quick bathroom break, then off to check on our DT patient. You?”

“I’m on Ortho this week. On my way to scrub in for an ACL reconstruction.”

“Niiice. Well, have fun. I’ll catch you later,” she said, putting her hand on the door to the ladies room.

“Oh hey, do you know where the lost and found is? I found this bracelet on the floor.”

Sawyer instantly recognized the accessory. The personalized charms featuring the letters “E” and “S” were undeniable proof. Then it hit her. Was this what he was searching high and low for earlier?

“Luckily, I know who that belongs to, and I’m more than happy to return it to them.”

“Cool, catch you later,” he waved.

That afternoon, Sawyer returned to the diagnostics suite. There she found Ethan standing in front of the smartboard, studying MRI results.

Acknowledging her presence with a side eye glance, “Did you need me for something?”

Sawyer demanded that he hold out his hand.

“Whatever for?” he asked, turning and giving her his full attention.

“Just. Give me. Your hand,” she insisted.

He yielded and held out his hand.

Sawyer fished the leather band from her pocket and wiggled it in front of his face with a satisfied smirk. "Could this be what you were desperately searching for in the office earlier?"

Ethan hesitated, contemplating what he should admit. He finally decided on, “Maybe.”

She took his hand in hers. But before sliding the bracelet onto his wrist, she looked him in the eyes. “Will you, Ethan Jonah Ramsey, be my friend again?”

He rolled his eyes, cracking a big smile as she batted her eyelashes and eagerly awaited his answer. Then he twisted his lips playfully, as if he had to think about it.

Sawyer squeezed his hand hard, letting him know there was only one acceptable answer.

“Okay, okay,” he begged for relief, “I’ll be your damn friend.”

“Good…” she said, her tone more serious as she slid the bracelet over his hand, “because I’ve really missed that lately.”

“Honestly… me too,” he confessed quietly.

“There. That’s a much safer place for it. Wouldn’t you agree?” she asked, making sure the reminder of their friendship was snug and secure.

“I suppose you’re right,” he agreed, giving his wrist a twist.

“Well, friend, maybe we can talk later tonight and catch up a little?”

“Sure, call me,” he started, but then, “No, wait–”

Sawyer’s face fell immediately, assuming he suddenly remembered that he was trying to maintain those infuriating professional boundaries.

“What are you doing right now?” he asked. “How about a walk to Derry’s for a coffee break?”

Sawyer’s happy smile returned. “I would love that… bestie.”

“Let’s not push it, Sawyer.”

Tag List: @choicesficwriterscreations @openheartfanfics @peonierose @potionsprefect @trappedinfanfiction @jerzwriter @queencarb @coffeeheartaddict2 @quixoticdreamer16 @jamespotterthefirst @liaromancewriter @zealouscanonindeer @tveitertotwrites @tessa-liam @youlookappropriate @kyra75 @socalwriterbee @txemrn

#open heart #open heart choices #open heart fanfic #ethan ramsey #ethan ramsey x mc #ethan x mc #ethan x sawyer #choices stories you play #choices open heart #playchoices #choices fic writers creations #cfwc fics of the week

47 notes · View notes

beaker1636 · 9 months

Text

A is for Altoid (Vinny)

AN: Part 1 of the Alphabet Game! This one definitely was way more fun for me to write than I expected it to be! Next is B is for Body Oil with Ryan! Enjoy!

“Hey Vin, we’ve been home for three days, the time has come,” Vin groans as soon as the words leave Chris’ mouth, not ready for this shirt to start.

“I know, so what do you assholes have for me?” He glances around the room while asking his question.

“Who even gets to start this? We said whoever just did a letter gets to assign the next one but no letter has been played yet,” Rick says, having an idea but unsure if he would be allowed to give it.

“If you have an idea then just say it, does it really matter being the first one who does it?” Ryan says, taking a drink from his water bottle as he groans when Vin shoots him in the game.

“Okay… well here you go Vin,” Rick says, pulling a tin of Altoid mints out of his pocket and hanging it to the younger man, a smirk on his face as he knows that more than likely Vin hasn’t tried something like this.

“What exactly are you trying to tell me to do here?” Vin asks, looking over at Rick as he slides the tin into his own pocket.

“You have seriously never heard of this? Jesus, just get Carlotta to have one in her mouth when she blows you. One, it produces more spit and two, the cooling feeling is fucking great,” Chris says, rolling his eyes. “If you don’t know these things I feel sorry for Lottie, your bedroom life has to suck.”

“First of all, she would kill you if you call her Lottie, she only allows me to. Second, maybe I’m just so good that we don’t need anything extra to enjoy ourselves. She said I have magical hands… just saying,” Vin responds with a smirk, knowing he just got Chris to shut up.

“Okay, so it's decided A is for Altoid. Remember she has to tell one of the girls about it for it to count,” Ryan says, wiggling his eyebrows at Vin as the words leave his mouth.

“That was fucking creepy, please don’t do that face again,” Justin says, glancing over at Ryan.

“Shit you’ve been so quiet I forgot you were here too, you must have really been into the game,” Ricky says with a laugh at the sudden reminder that Justin was there.

Later

“Hey Lottie, how was your day?” Vinny greets you from the couch with a smile when you walk in his front door from work.

“Could be worse but it also wasn’t great, my kids were awful today,” you say back as you pull your shoes off your feet before trudging your way over to the couch and sitting down with a sign next to your boyfriend.

“Well I am in a good mood now that you are here, happy to have you home. I was serious when I said move in with me last night you know,” he says, pulling you in for a light kiss before letting you settle back into the couch, moving to fiddle with something in his pocket.

“So what is in your pocket that you keep playing with? It is related to that stupid game the boys have come up with isn’t it?” You ask, giggling when he chokes on air as the words leave your mouth.

“I-it’s yeah. Rick gave me these and I’m supposed to make you blow me with one,” he blushes slightly as the words leave his mouth, pulling the tin out of his pocket.

“It still amazes me that with everything we have done you still get so flustered about things. You’re shy about the fact I have to suck your dick? You act like I have never done it before, I was expecting something awful,” you tease him, laughing as his face turns red when you pop one in your mouth.

You slip off the couch, settling on your knees in front of him on the floor and rubbing a hand along his thigh as you try to get him to relax.

“We’re doing this right now? You can wait if you want to relax a little bit first,” he says, shifting a little when he feels you start to palm at him through his jeans.

“May as well, I would rather now than wait,” you shrug, moving to reach his zipper.

Taking the hint he moves to slide his jeans and boxers down for you, leaning back in his spot as he reaches for his half hard shaft, giving himself a couple strokes before you slap his hand away.

“You’re not touring so that means this is my job now,” you hum, replacing your hand with his own.

“I thought you liked watching me get myself off?” He asks, turning the teasing back on you now, leaving you a little flustered.

Rather than responding you blow a teasing breath of air that is now cool from the mint over his head, smiling to yourself when you feel him shudder underneath your touch from the new sensation.

“You don’t have to tease me with this, you do enough of that the way it is,” he whines, making you giggle.

“Hey, I’m just following the rules and making sure you get the full effects of the mint, gotta complete our challenge right?” You can feel a smile pulling at the corners of your lips when you meet his eyes.

“Sometimes I hate you Lottie, you know that?” he groans.

“No you don’t.”

Before he has a chance to respond you bend down, making sure the mint was on your tongue as you lick up the underside of his shaft, knowing that he can feel it moving along with your tongue, the sensation making him shift. When you reach the tip of his cock you wrap your lips around it, again making sure that when you swirl your tongue around his head that he can feel the mint moving along with it. You absolutely love every little shift of his hips and the shudder that he gives you, knowing that he is enjoying the sensations that you are making him feel.

“Fuck,” he groans, his hand finding it’s way to your hair, brushing it out of your face because he wants to see himself between your pretty lips. There is something so erotic that he enjoys about being able to see you pleasuring him, taking care of what he needs from you.

Deciding that you have teased him enough you slowly begin to take more of him in your mouth, slowly bobbing your head more and more as you go, but not quite ready to give him the satisfaction of taking all of him.

Vin makes that decision himself, tightening his grip that is in your hair and pulling you down, making you take all of him. He holds you there, loving the feeling of you swallowing around him, seeing your saliva starting to make its way out of your mouth while you choke on him. When he finally lets go he gives you only a second to breathe before pulling you back down on him and repeating the process

“Fuck, I love it when you choke on me, letting me take what I need from you. Am I able to get rough with you tonight baby,” he asks, pulling you off of him, his dark eyes following yours as you nod.

“Lose your clothing and go lay down, head off the bed,” he says, standing up and helping you up with his hand, following you to the room and enjoying the show when you start to shed your clothing along the way, leaving a trail of clothing on the way to his bed. You make sure to slip a new mint into your mouth before you leave the room, wanting to keep that cool feeling that he seems to be loving going.

“No, on your back,” he says, watching as you lay down. “I want to see all of you while I fuck your pretty mouth.”

You roll over, leaning your head back to allow him to do just that, opening your mouth with your tongue out waiting for him to do it. He thrusts harshly into your mouth, searching for his own pleasure that only you could give him right now, groaning as he continues to do so.

Reaching down he rolls one of your nipples between his fingers, you moaning around him and him groaning at the vibrations that it sends down his cock, the pleasure getting to him.

“The coolness and added wetness, baby, I am getting close. Should I return the favor once I cum?” He knows you can not answer him but when you groan he knows that you are enjoying this more than he honestly expected you to.

He thrusts harshly, not giving you a chance to recover from choking on him before he does it again, a few more times before he spills himself inside of you with a groan.

“Please, let me see it before you swallow baby?” he asks, pulling himself out of your mouth and smirking to himself when you are there, his load in your mouth before you swallow it.

He helps you move up from your position so you are laying on the bed, rubbing your neck for a moment before he lays down next to you. Pulling you in for a kiss, tasting himself on your tongue.

Sliding a hand from your hip to your center you can see his eyes darken slightly.

“Seems blowing me gave you a problem of your own…”

He pulls his lips away from yours, moving towards the foot of the bed before he pulls you down by your thighs, quickly getting to work with his tongue which he uses to tease your clit, knowing it will make a pretty moan fall from your lips.

You shift your hips, hoping he will get the hint that you want him to move things along, craving your own release and growing frustrated with him.

“Should I continue like this? I could sit and eat you for hours and never get tired,” he says, pulling away to glance at you. Taking in the beauty of your heaving chest, the way your eyes are half closed as you whine, chasing your own pleasure that he is denying you right now.

Without warning he sinks two of his fingers inside of you knuckle deep, rather roughly but he knows that you can take it as he continues at a relentless pace, knowing that this will get you close, but also not be quite enough. Edging you closer to the edge of your own release, but not giving you enough to fall over.

“Should I give you what you need, let you finish?” he asks, slowing his movements when he realizes that you are about to finish, making you whine at your ruined orgasm.

“Fuck, please Vin,” you whine, looking up at him.

He smirks at you, moving to kneel on the floor at the edge of the bed.

Using his free hand he spreads you open, giving him access to torment your clit with his tongue as his hands get to work, knowing that the feel of his tongue is going to bring you back to the edge quickly, especially when his fingers start pounding into you again.

“Vin, I’m gonna,” you don’t get the rest of your words out before it hits you, making you arch your back and let go with a moan as he continues to lap at you, removing his fingers so he can clean up your release with his tongue before he moves to sit on his knees, looking up at your proudly.

“So did I fix your bad day?” he asks, knowing it’ll probably be a few seconds before you respond, catching your own breath.

“Shut up,” you groan, covering your face with your hands as you slowly come back down to yourself.

“We may have to try that again, the coolness of the mint and the fact it made you a lot more sloppy…. Fuck it was amazing.” he says, moving to lay next to you and brush a strand of your hair that fell behind your ear.

He leans down giving you a soft kiss, followed by another and another. Knowing that you love it when he is sweet with you, and smiling to himself when you giggle at his actions.

“My fucking throat hurts now though… you get dinner duty, I need to go take a shower now,” you say softly, smiling when his head lays on your chest while you play with his unruly curls, enjoying the afterglow of what just happened between the two of you.

“Or I can order dinner and we both shower together… after I thank Rick for this,” he says, sighing in content at your comforting touches.

Slowly the two of you get up, him going to do just that and you going to let Naomi know that her boyfriend’s suggestion for A was complete, not wanting to but knowing Vinny won’t get credit for his letter if you don’t let one of them know.

#motionless in white #vinny mauro #motionless in white imagine #fanfiction #bree sucks at fanfiction #chris motionless #ricky olson #ryan sitkowski #justin morrow #ricky horror #Vinny mauro smut #vinny mauro imagine #vinny mauro fanfic #vinny mauro smut #vinny mauro fic #vinny mauro x reader #vinny mauro fanfiction

39 notes · View notes

tired-biscuit · 2 years

Note

How would the Naruto idiot friend group survive or how long they’d last during no nut november I wonder 🤔💭

—🐻

i actually have a moot that did a similar kind of post, here's the link. it was a really fun read, so check it out if you feel like it!!

i know it's not a group of idiots necessarily, but i chose kiba and naruto simply because i think they have the most potential to share custody of a single brain cell (and because they're my faves, lol.) it's all under the cut, because it's obv nsfw.

𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀: just two horny morons suffering because of NNN 🧡 fem!reader, 18+ mdni

𝘄𝗰: 900+ words

𝗞𝗜𝗕𝗔

Fails.

Don’t get me wrong, the man is determined to last – and is loud about it, too – but as soon as it comes to actually committing to NNN, Kiba is all bark and no bite. He lasts not even two full days before his hand winds up in his pants, which, if you take his sky-high libido into consideration, is pretty good actually.

His ego makes him act all smug and proud the first night; he’s messing around in the group chat, talking about how good that first nut on the 1st of December is going to feel, and yet by the second night he’s already growing agitated and snippy because he’s used to jerking one out before bed or early in the morning when he wakes up with a literal coke can in his sweatpants.

He’s so pent-up that he even dreams some whacky-ass scenario with you between his legs, his best friend; drooling and sucking the literal life out of him with that cutesy mouth that always likes to talk shit whenever he teases you, and for some odd reason: it’s enough to make him admit defeat.

He wakes up in the middle of the night, drenched in sweat like he’s just had a nightmare despite that it was the literal opposite, and with the image of your cute face covered in his cum still somewhere in the back of his mind. He can still feel your hands on his thighs, the weight of your slick tongue on his dick. So he says ‘Fuck it.’ and opens up Pornhub on his phone. He taps the first video that catches his eye and finishes at the initial blowjob part not even five minutes in whilst his mind insists on replaying that goddamn scenario with you instead.

The amount of cum he’s managed to produce just because he hasn’t touched himself in two days is unholy. Or it might be because you’re someone who he’s just now realized that he wants so, so badly. Who knows.

He sleeps like a baby afterwards, despite that the post-nut clarity chews on his pride a little. The confused feelings he harbours for you don’t help either. And when he wakes up in the morning, still grumpy but now at least without the persistent ache in his balls from being so horny all the time, all he does is jack off again because it’s literally pointless now and he might as well try to feel good about being a lovestruck loser.

The others know he’s failed the moment he’s actually quiet in the group chat. He doesn’t tell them about the reason as to why, though. Just slaps that ‘seen’ like the sensitive cancer sign that he is, and texts you instead.

𝗡𝗔𝗥𝗨𝗧𝗢

Fails.

Naruto lasts surprisingly longer than he initially thought he would, despite that he took the entire thing as a joke at first. Still, he’s determination incarnate and competitive – as most young men his age are – and he’s going strong for about a week or two just to prove a point that consequently doesn’t even hold any meaning in the end.

And it shows. Not being able to spill his load makes him impatient. He’s always jittery; bouncing his knee whilst sitting on the couch in your living room while you watch movies and a suggestive scene pops up, staring at you from the corner of his eye for just a little bit too long all the time. After all, Naruto is already touchy and needy on the norm, especially around you, so not being able to stuff his dick inside your warm cunt and bully it to his heart’s content is simply annoying.

What do I even get out of this? Is it worth it? What’s the fuckin’ point, really? – These questions are the only thing he thinks about lately.

However, despite the lack of intimacy during November, his evident struggle is awfully amusing to you. So you egg him on, acting all sweet and coy whilst executing your plans that would lead to his demise like some evil mastermind in the making.

You wear those pretty dresses that show off the tops of your thighs whenever you step onto your tippy-toes and wrap your arms around your tortured boyfriend’s neck. Press your chest to his own real tight, so that he can surely feel your soft tits squish against him, especially late in the evening when you’re both just chilling at home and you’re not wearing a bra underneath the tiny shirts you all of a sudden like putting on around him.

It’s all fun and games – for you, of course. Still, Naruto doesn’t yield all that easily. He just refuses to give.

However, two weeks are certainly a lot for a man with a sex drive so high that it reaches past the clouds. Every little thing, may it be intentional or not, is like a trigger inside that horny pea-brain of his. And because of it, it takes you literally nothing more than bending over in your tight gym shorts for his willpower to finally crack.

You’re in the kitchen, searching for a freaking pot to cook dinner in and not attempting to appear enticing at all for once, and yet the moment his warm hand traces the curve of your ass over the smooth spandex, it’s game over.

Soldier down, his dick ends up buried deep inside your pussy before you can even lay eyes on the stupid pot.

#naruto smut #naruto uzumaki #kiba inuzuka #naruto x reader #kiba x reader #naruto uzumaki smut #kiba smut #naruto #kiba #🐻 anon #biscuit drabbles

174 notes · View notes

demonicintegrity · 2 years

Text

So I’m seeing a lot of cold takes so let’s talk about Stella for a second.

First of all, let’s acknowledge that the writing isn’t always fantastic, but it’s usually not hard to see what was being intended. At no point am I saying the writing is flawless, but I am saying there’s nothing malicious about it. And so far the entire show has been from Blitzo or Stolas pov and focus, so we will have something more directly from her at some point.

First off to recap when we first see Octavia speak she is screaming loud enough to wake up her daughter down the hall in her room and throwing things, as well as an imp. She is doing this because she is still upset that she was cheated on. Being upset about being cheated on is valid! Especially in her own bed! Throwing things is definitely not. She also makes derogatory remarks about that he wanted to go to the motel like a plebeian and the fact that he slept with an imp of all creature.

This establishes three key details: a valid motivation to be upset, an invalid (and abusive) way to deal with that, and a prejudice based in a class system.

Just because these things are straightforward doesn’t mean there’s not depth to it. Inherently there is depth to having prejudices because there has to be a source of where that came from. There’s also patterns. Octavia says “are you two done screaming for the day?” which implies this isn’t the first time she’s gotten like this. Hell theres added depth to her throwing things besides it’s wrong. Throwing objects is a deliberate show to demonstrate strength that could and intent to hurt somebody (stolas), meaning in the moment she saw that as a valid thing to do. Throwing pots in any direction as well as an imp at stolas shows she doesn’t care for collateral damage. (The imp was an innocent bystander and Octavia was nearly hit.)

Now are these things spelled out? No. And they don’t need to be. Characters can and should have depth without it being spelled out. Esp in a show meant for adults.

Now when we later see Stella, we learn she has hired Striker to kill Stolas. This is an intense leap in action with no explanation. But we learn she’s willing to take things to extremes even we don’t quite get why yet. It’s also reaffirmed that she doesn’t care for collateral damage. Octavia would be devastated if her father was killed, and here Stella is demanding it in front of her. While the anger from episode two was in the moment rage, this is simmering wrath. Built with time because she’s been waiting on this for a while and hasn’t backed out despite the consequences. Not only would it devastate Octavia, but it also wouldn’t be hard for people to realize the woman who just got cheated on hired the assassin.

And then there’s season 2 episode 1. We establish more sympathy for Stella, an arranged marriage with intent to bring an heir, and at no point is that framed as a good thing. It’s a terrible no good thing and she and stolas are both victims of being in this arrangement unwillingly.

But then we see she is cruel even when not angry and upset. She throws an anniversary party to gossip and badmouth Stolas while he’s right there. She mocks his performance in bed seemingly unprompted. She states that he just lays there staring at the wall, that does not sound a man who wants to have sex and is getting any pleasure from it. That sounds like someone who is putting up with it because he has to produce an heir. Now, she is in the same boat of also putting up with both the act and the carrying of an egg. Neither of them want this marriage or the sex, yet she is the only one mocking and degrading him. That is a conscious choice on her behalf that she does not have to do.

Now I’m not saying she has to be happy in a loveless marriage. They both have a right to that. I am saying that you can be in a loveless marriage and not needlessly degrade the other. Stolas can be unhappy enough to take antidepressants yet he still doesn’t mock or yell or insult her. He has not made a targeted attempt to hurt her emotionally or physically. We also see them both turn to binge drinking to cope, which is depth to both their characters.

And then later on see that despite being separated and taking Octavia somewhere else on the weekends, she still actively makes the choice to show up at Stolas’ palace. Introducing her presence with yelling and command to stop whining. As far as he knew he was alone and she still felt entitled enough to demand he not lament in his own bedroom and house.

She states herself she wants to torment him. She says it with a smile. That shows us she is delighting in personally making him suffer. That’s not a side of effect of being angry as shown in previous episodes, that is deliberate. Because she gets satisfaction from it.

He tried to make the most of this arrangement, and I do believe he made a genuine effort because he does so well with Octavia, but it was never was enough for her. And instead of trying to communicate what could’ve made her happy, or attempt to make peace with this, or cope in any healthy way, she deliberately insults and is cruel to him for all these years.

They stayed together for Octavia. I am going to say that was bad decision on the principal that staying together for the kids causes more problems and makes all parties involved miserable. She and stolas obviously didn’t like each other. Yet despite divorce always being an option, the entire anniversary party being titled Not Divorced to poke fun at the fact that they haven’t, she insisted. Even after the affair, which gives her a perfectly valid reason even within noble court bs to divorce, she insisted on staying with a man she explicitly does not like and wants to harm.

Her only redemption in that is that Octavia claims they hadn’t always hated each other. Implying that while the issues continued, she was mostly kept out of it. Or at least was attempting to keep her out of it. Which is good.

But now it has been 17+ years of this and Stolas has hit his breaking point and is insisting the divorce. Octavia is old enough to understand a divorce and is already being traded off on weekends. And Stella goes to hit him because of their reputation. There is the other priority, reputation amongst the nobles which she has already won by virtue on being cheated on. But she wants to rub salt in the wound by tormenting him and name dropping her brother because she is getting pleasure out of it.

There’s your depth, Stella and Stolas were both unhappy in an this arranged marriage because it was against both their wills. Instead of finding solace and a middle ground with him who understands the circumstances and made an effort, she copes with alcohol and taking it out on him. After being given an out and thus can start putting it behind them, she chooses to stick around for the explicit reason to tormenting him. Because she feels happy making him suffer. And when she is forced out because of that torment, she insists on making him pay for that.

This is a character deeply motivated to make her target suffer. The depth comes from how she does not care for collateral because of how high she prioritizes this. Motivated first by circumstance and now by delight of power over him, it is her choice to make him suffer. This depth does not paint her in a flattering light but no depth is obligated to.

You can be sympathetic to the circumstances that started this while still condemning the abuse she willfully turns to. Her depth comes just how much she’s angry and wants to take it out on Stolas.

#it’s 4am I spent like two hours on this augh #anyways stolas isn’t a great person by any means but no one on this show is #and he at least doesn’t intentional harm anyone #helluva boss #helluva stella

224 notes · View notes

knockyasocksoff2022 · 14 days

Text

Bungou Stray Dogs Harry Potter AU

Part 1 - Gryffindor

This is kind of long, so it's under the cut.

I decided to do it by house instead of affilation (ADA, PM, Guild, etc.) just to keep it more organized.

Fukuzawa Yukichi

Blood Status: Half-blood

Head of: Gryffindor (Defense Against the Dark Arts professor)

Sorting Time: 40 seconds

Wand Wood: Red Oak

Wand Core: Dragon heartstring

Length: 10 inches

Flexibility: fairly pliable

Patronus: wolf

Memory most often used to produce patronus: Meeting Fukuchi when they were both kids. (that memory is kind of tainted now though) Finding Ranpo alive in the warehouse after he was taken by V

Speciality: Duelling

Extra Ability: N/A

Favourite subject during his schooling: Defense Against the Dark Arts

Least favourite subject during schooling: History of Magic

Favourite Past Time: Heading the duelling club or duelling with his colleagues. Cheering on his house during Quidich matches.

Yosano Akiko

Blood Status: Pureblood

Sorting Time: 55 seconds

Wand Wood: Willow (the wand she uses when doing healer work), Hawthorn (wand used for everything else.)

Wand Core: Thestral hair (in the Willow wood wand) and Unicorn hair (in the Hawthorn wood wand)

Length: 12 inches

Flexibility: not super pliable, but not stiff super either

Patronus: Blue butterfly (Celastrina ogasawaraensis)

Memory most often used to produce patronus: Shunzen giving her her gold butterfly hair pin. Or meeting Ranpo.

Speciality: Healing

Extra Ability: N/A

Best Subject: Herbology

Worst Subject: History of Magic (she has good grades in all of her classes but doesn’t care much about history of magic so it’s her lowest grade)

Favourite subject: Defence Against the Dark Arts

Least favourite subject: History of Magic

Favourite Past Time: Apprenticing in the infirmary

Tanizaki Junichirou

Blood Status: Pureblood (his parents died when he was a baby so he was adopted by a family of nice muggles. They were all very surprised when his letter came.)

Sorting Time: 65 seconds

Wand Wood: Larch

Wand Core: Dragon Heartstring

Length: 9

Flexibility: flexible

Patronus: Red Squirrel

Memory most often used to produce patronus: Getting his letter (besides the fact that being a wizard is cool he got to be away from Naomi. Bless this poor boy)

Speciality: Hexes (he hasn’t been given much opportunity to try out curses.)

Extra Ability: Invisibility (nobody knows how, but they think it’s a genetic thing)

Best Subject: Defense Against the Dark Arts (he’s also skilled in the dark arts themselves. He doesn’t intend to use them, but his peers and teachers have noticed the skill and it worries them a bit.)

Worst Subject: Care of Magical Creatures (all the creatures are scared of him for some reason)

Favourite subject: Charms

Favourite Past Time: Reading in the library or skipping stones on the black lake

Many might think that he would be in Hufflepuff, and most times it would appear that way, except when he SNAPS. When this happens many think he should have been put into Slytherin, but actually, I think neither is correct. Tanizaki isn’t cunning, or particularly ambitious, when it comes to Naomi he doesn’t play fair or desire a level playing field, and she is the only one he’s loyal to. Despite being somewhat neutral to his housemates, his loyalty to his sister landed him in Gryffindor. When things get bad he doesn’t care who he hurts as long as he completes his objective (protecting his sister). Even though he doesn’t have very strong/clear morals most of the time, when he goes into protective mode, he doesn’t think, he acts (a very Gryffindor quality) with determination and bravery, doing what he believes to be right (protecting Naomi) with little care for how it affects others.

Authur Rimbaud

Hirotsu Ryuurou

Blood Status: Half-blood

Professor of: Herbology

Sorting Time: 30 seconds

Wand Wood:

Wand Core:

Length: 11 inches

Flexibility: fairly pliable

Patronus: purple camelia

Memory most often used to produce patronus: Seeing Gin alive after they were stabbed by Tachihara

Speciality: Making herbal healing mixtures and poisons

Extra Ability: N/A

Favourite subject during his schooling: Care of Magical Creatures

Least favourite subject during schooling: Astronomy

Favourite Past Time: Making herbal concoctions, duelling with his colleagues or playing wizard’s chess. Cheering on his students during Quidich matches.

Akutagawa Gin

Blood Status: Nobody knows (the Hogwarts owl found them where they were staying at the time.)

Sorting Time: 25 seconds

Wand Wood: Pine

Wand Core: Thunderbird Tailfeather

Length: 11.5

Flexibility: very flexible

Patronus: silver lion dragon (Albino Chinese Fireball)

Memory most often used to produce patronus: getting their letter and knowing they’d be able to join their brother at school

Speciality: Non-verbal magic

Extra Ability: N/A

Best Subject: Defense Against the Dark Arts

Worst Subject: Muggle studies (they grew up in they muggle world so it doesn’t make sense to them why they’re studying it, they often fall asleep in that class)

Favourite subject: Astronomy

Favourite Past Time: Quidditch & Duelling

Tachihara Michizou

Blood Status: Muggle born (his muggle parents resented him and all wizards because his brother, who was their favourite child, was killed by death eaters for being muggle born. Afraid having another wizard in their house would bring more misfortune they kicked him out.)

Sorting Time: 20 seconds

Wand Wood: Blackthorn

Wand Core: Dragon Heartstring

Length: 11.25

Flexibility: pliable

Patronus: Dog

Memory most often used to produce patronus: finding a friend at Hogwarts (Gin), seeing his brother’s portrait in the memorial hall, and being told by his professors that he looks like him.

Speciality: Transfiguration

Extra Ability: N/A

Best Subject: Defense Against the Dark Arts

Worst Subject: Muggle studies. (He hates it because it reminds him of his parents and of his brother.)

Favourite subject: Transfiguration

Favourite Past Time: Flying (he’s a chaser for the Quidditch team), duelling or taking dares

Lucy Montgomery

Blood Status: Muggle born (her parents sent her to an orphanage when they realised she could do magic)

Sorting Time: 10 seconds

Wand Wood: Holly

Wand Core: Thunderbird Tailfeather

Length: 13

Flexibility: not that flexible

Patronus: Doll (Basically Annie from Anne’s room)

Memory most often used to produce patronus: escaping from her orphanage, and meeting Atsushi and realising someone understands her.

Speciality: Wizard games, like chess and enchanted desserts. (Cakes with colour changing frosting)

Extra Ability: Infusing her magic into cloth. She uses it for making magically enchanted garments (like dresses that change based on the wearer’s mood)

Best Subject: Transfiguration

Worst Subject: Flying

Favourite subject: Transfiguration (also Care of Magical Creatures)

Favourite Past Time: Sewing, sneaking into the kitchens, finding new hiding places

Margaret Mitchell

Blood Status: Pureblood

(Her family estate and wealth was pillaged by the Death Eaters in the first Wizarding war after they refused to join. They were then accused of being death eaters by the Ministry and fell from grace. Purebloods are wary of them for waiting to be different and not go along and others are afraid that they’re death eaters. Margaret wants to reclaim her family’s honour.)

Sorting Time: 36 seconds

Wand Wood: Elm

Wand Core: Veela hair

Length: 14

Flexibility: somewhat flexible

Patronus: N/A

Memory most often used to produce patronus: N/A

Speciality: Charms

Extra Ability: N/A

Best Subject: Charms

Worst Subject: Defense Against the Dark Arts

Favourite subject: Charms

Favourite Past Time: Bookclub, Tea & Gossip w/ Kouyou, and Yosano

Mark Twain

Blood Status: Half-blood

Sorting Time: 10 seconds

Wand Wood: Sycamore

Wand Core: Dragon Heartstring

Length: 14

Flexibility: pretty flexible

Patronus: huck and tom (like his ability)

Memory most often used to produce patronus: getting his pet crup (wizard dog)

Speciality: Duelling and Jinxes

Extra Ability: N/A

Best Subject: Care of Magical Creatures

Worst Subject: Transfiguration

Favourite subject: Care of Magical Creatures

Favourite Past Time: Being a beater on the house Quidditch team, going with Howard and John and messing with the Giant Squid in the black lake

Fukuchi Ouchi

Blood Status: Pureblood (Lycanthrope)

Sorting Time: 65 seconds

Wand Wood: Hornbeam

Wand Core: Dragon Heartstring

Length: 9

Flexibility: not flexible

Patronus: werewolf

Memory most often used to produce patronus: meeting Fukuzawa

Speciality: Hexes & Curses

Extra Ability: Being a werewolf (idk if that really counts)

(He was offered a position as Quidditch coach shortly after graduation, but hasn’t been heard from in a long time. Even his close friend Fukuzawa has no idea where he’s gone. There are rumours he’s joined the Death Eaters.)

Best Subject during schooling: Defense Against the Dark Arts

Worst Subject during schooling: Muggle Studies

Favourite subject during schooling: Defense Against the Dark Arts

Favourite Past Time: Quidditch

Shirase Buchirou

Yuan

Koda Aya (hasn’t started Hogwarts yet b/c she’s only 10)

Blood Status: Half-blood

(Her father insisted her mother leave the wizarding world for him, so she did and Aya was left with her muggle father after her mother was killed in a car accident.)

#bungou stray dogs #bungo stray dogs #bsd #bungou stray dogs alternate universe #alternate universe #bungo stray dogs alternate universe #bsd au #au #harry potter au #wizard au #magic au

4 notes · View notes

spiralparadox125 · 1 year

Text

Teri Hatcher Movieline Interview 1996

"Seriously," she continues, "it's really nice right now between Dean and me. He's off doing his first real movie with Drew Barrymore. He called me two nights ago, and we talked for 45 minutes. Drew has been around a lot and I think she can offer a lot of acting experience to him. It was wonderful hearing him tell me how this or that had happened on the set and I found myself going, 'I'm not so bad, am 1? You thought I was nutso but I'm not really, am 1?' It makes me feel really good that he's come to appreciate me more than maybe he did initially, that now he really thinks I'm cool and a great actress. I don't think that he always thought that." Some people do think Hatcher pushes the star envelope on certain occasions. I run down a few of the things said to make for a bumpy ride on a Hatcher set. "I'm driven. Really professional and nor the kind of person who will just let things go," she declares, "On the show, I do go, 'No, it's not supposed to be like that,' rather than just take the resigned attitude, 'It'll be easier if we just do it this way and nobody will notice.' The shows means something to me. I'm really proud of my work on it. Sometimes I step back and think, 20 years from now, 'Lois & Clark' will be part of American history like 'Gilligan's Island,' or 'The A-Team' or 'Charlie's Angels."' I ask Hatcher whether she'd watch "Lois & Clark" if she didn't star in it. She hasn't a ready answer. "I don't watch television," she says, falling silent. After a few moments, she finally remarks, "I have so much baggage about what it takes to make the show, about what it's taken from my life, that it would be skewed for me to say I wouldn't watch it if I weren't on it. Would I watch the show? Dean's really cute, so I guess, if I had nothing --if I was just flipping through the channels, I'd probably be like every other woman in America and go, 'Wooo, he's cute." On to the topic, then, of Cain's tights: padded or all Dean all the time? Hatcher leans in, smiling like a minx: "Haven't you heard those rumors? From what I've heard, there's no padding involved." And how does Cain rate on Hatcher's kiss-o-meter? "l haven't kissed anybody but my husband for four years," she frets, before giving it up. "Well, except Deem, who is a great, great kisser."

"In terms of relationships and almost everything else," she says, "I call this the 'Microwave Society.' Everything has to be fixed in a minute. It leads us all to feeling like the second anything gets a little bit uncomfortable, move on. [Personally-] I have not found this business to be full of temptation, even though I work with attractive people. You're put into situations where you get close to people very quickly, and if things are at all rocky in your normal life, you can get confused in fantasies of how things could be with this or that person. [But] I am very clear about the line between fantasy and reality." "Television is in your face every week, so l think TV people are probably bigger than movie stars. There are probably far more people who want to know what I'm up to than what Meryl Streep's doing. "All I know," she continues, "is that I'm on that show every week and I'm, like, a big deal on the Internet. What more could I want? Well, I did write my first script this year. It was only for 'Lois & Clark,' but still. And I'm going to direct a 20-minute short. See, I have a goal, not a 'soon' goal or a 'near' goal, but still a goal that I haven't really admitted aloud. I want to produce, direct, write and star in a romantic comedy. Whew! There, I've said it. I'm a firm believer in putting your money where your mouth is."

#Lois and Clark #lois and clark: the new adventures of superman #Teri Hatcher #Dean Cain #Clois #Lois x Clark #Clark x Lois #Clark and Lois

10 notes · View notes

rainbowchewynuggets · 11 months

Text

Update - re: Focus and Rags

So remember how I said I’d be working on my first original comic next, Rags, now that I’m done with TMA: Encore?

I haven’t actually worked on it in months. I’ve instead been hopping between other writing projects and working on a much less conceptually complicated video project.

And that makes me feel terrible. But the thing is, I’m not sure I should feel that way.

On this edition of I’m Having to Rethink the Way I Learned to Make Art and Am Posting About It to Organize My Thoughts and Maybe Help Someone Else, I’m gonna be considering the entire purpose of why I make art. Wheeee here we go.

POINT ONE: The Thing vs. the Making of the Thing

So I was raised to make art as an object, not an action. Any project needs to have a beginning, middle, and end, or else it’s a failure. I accepted that because people encouraged it. Having a finished piece that people would appreciate made me feel good. And I liked having a finished piece of art. The drive to see something sparkling and complete in my hands has pulled me through many a difficult spot in a project.

However, it was always framed to me as a business thing, extended as a self-worth thing. If you want to be an Artist, you have to produce art. You have to sell it effectively. It’s about proving that you deserve the role of making art in the first place. The second I started being “good” at art, people were telling me to cut out the “bad” pieces for my portfolio. And that’s awful. I can’t stand the fact that that’s something someone taught me before I turned ten.

And that’s what Rags is. Was. Is. I had a really low point a couple months ago where I never felt like I’d measure up in life if I didn’t start selling my art. Rags is a fully original idea with a finite scope that could be made into a book and sold, which might bring me closer to the role of Artist. The story and design of it are all tributes to things that I love emotionally and writing it brought me joy, but it was being made out of a fear of failure and inadequacy. That’s... also awful. Honestly. I don’t want to make art for that reason. I may never get to make art full-time or even part-time, but nobody can take away my role as Artist. That’s just not how it works.

Furthermore, I don’t think finishing things even why I make art. I make art because the act of making it does something for me. It’s interesting. It’s educational and a little bit spiritual. It’s a physical stim and meditation activity. Writing feels like a simultaneous act of building and solving a puzzle. Drawing, painting, and sculpting feels like a wild experiment with turning feelings into lines and shapes. Making art about bigger art may be a never-ending copyright firefight, but it helps me process why I like that art.

And therapy. Art’s a great opportunity for therapy. It is the only form of therapy that has ever helped me. Pouring my woes and flaws into the shoes of my characters and then having to research and conceptualize solutions for them to build their arcs is a kind of self-loving praxis that is slowly peeling back layers and layers of trauma and ignorance in me. I want to do it and share it with people forever.

In embracing this, I remembered that my childhood wasn’t all business anxiety. There was also this really cool person making the coolest videos I’d ever seen and giving it out for free on purpose. Her name’s Nina Paley. Go watch Sita Sings the Blues.

POINT TWO: Going in Circles

So having the object of art hasn’t turned out to be as valuable to me as doing the process of art. Which is why I can’t seem to finish anything. Which is because I rapidly switch between projects. “Rapidly” sometimes means spending months on something or an afternoon, it always depends.

This never happened to me as a kid, but it’s been a nonstop occurrence in my adult life. Maybe it’s just that I don’t have eight classes worth of homework to keep my ambitions down anymore, I don’t know. But I always felt bad about it. It’s the kind of thing the kids with ADHD in the seats next to me got yelled at for. And I should get yelled at, because it means I’m never going to get anything done.

Well, no. Because that’s not the point. And fuck them for yelling at people.

Also, I do get a lot done. I looked back at my personal website a few weeks ago and felt floored looking at all the little things I’ve made over the years. No big impressive monetizable comics, but a lot of cool ink drawings, some weird paintings, a big group project, and one music video that I literally still can’t believe I made. (Here’s a link to all that, if you wanna look at it, too.)

I through my docs and found so much fun writing that I’d given up on because I “failed” to finish it. So I went back to them, and now they’re a little bigger and even more beautiful than before.

I did all that amidst the circle-going. Because I’m not broken. That’s just how my brain works. Leaning into it works so, so, so much better than fighting it. I realized this while watching an anituber I like, Hazel, talking to her illustrator wife on a Q-n-A about how they get projects done (genuinely can’t remember which one, but here’s her channel). It turns out that they both cycle through projects like I do and have both made enormous and wonderful bodies of work (and careers) that way. I can’t tell you how good it felt to find that out.

POINT THREE: What now? / TL;DR

I’m gonna not latch onto big projects... declaratively anymore. I’m just gonna post updates to things I’m working on currently. If the thing I’m fixated on is a thing that’s already on the index, I might put a little flag to it so that people popping by can see what I’ve added to most recently.

But in short, I’m treating the blog as more of a living archive. I might even put up stuff from my website, too. If I make a poster, it’s a poster and not an announcement. I've always wanted to make trailers for big projects, but it would be better off interpreted as a stand-alone thing made for the sole joy of the art of a trailer. Dev art is dev art. Etcetera.

If I get something big all the way done someday, that’ll be icing, not the cake.

Right now, I’m working on an animatic entitled Chuncho, about Yma Sumac and birds and Peruvian festivals. Here’s some stuff from it:

I’m trying to get it done by mid-September (Yma’s birthday). But if I don’t, that’s okay.

As always thanks for reading,

Rainbow / Carlie

#update #focus and rags #rapid switching #lack of focus #chuncho #rags #rainbowchewynuggets

7 notes · View notes

jhsgf82 · 2 years

Text

Feel the Beat, Always Part I

A/N: Thanks to @daydreamsandcaffeine for encouraging me to write this and for the little brainstorm session! I’m not very good with edits, but above is a little visual anyway. It’s kinda long. Enjoy!

Katniss raises her arms above her head, stretching her lean, lithe body; she links her thumbs, bends her knees, and arches her chest as she drops her head back, leading with her fingers. Slowly, she goes into a full standing backbend, then drops down and catches herself. She bends her elbows and goes into a reverse tabletop position for about ten seconds, then lowers herself down to the mat.

She’s been up since sunrise, limbering up and running through her dance routine, twice. Now she’s completing her post-dance stretches. Maybe she’ll go through the routine once more though, for good measure.

After all, her big audition is TODAY.

And big shot producer, Alma Coin, is going to be there.

Dance is Katniss Everdeen’s life. And she’s good at it, really good. Oh, she’s not a star by any means, but she’s managed to land a couple of larger roles which have gotten her name out there, and she’s kept steady gigs in the chorus line of several popular stage shows. It’s been enough to make a living without having to work two or three jobs, which is a small miracle here in New York City. Her place isn’t a penthouse, obviously, nor is it a rat’s hole‒it’s just a simple loft, and it’s just right for her. What she loves best is that there’s plenty of space to dance.

A small town girl leaving her small town life to make it as a performer in “the big city” is relatively unheard of–well, no, not unheard of. It’s all too common. What’s not common is being successful at it. But Katniss has talent, and she’s aware of it. She can sing; she can dance, and if only she could act, she’d be a triple threat; however, she sucks at acting. But that’s okay. She doesn’t really need to; she can make her body work for her when her words and facial expressions fail her.

Katniss goes into a butterfly stretch.

Her mangy old muddy-orange cat, Buttercup, whom she inherited when her grandmother passed, comes up beside her, brushing her with his tail as he passes. He stops to stretch out beside her, elongating his body and sticking his butt in the air as he digs his nails into the gray and beige geometric-patterned rug. Then he trots over and jumps up on her couch and assumes the loaf position. Lazily, he watches her with rotten squash-colored eyes. He blinks at her once, and Katniss’s lips twitch.

Buttercup, an unlikely companion (and one she didn’t like very much at first), is quite possibly the ugliest cat she’s ever seen with his mashed-in nose and half an ear missing. He was definitely unwanted at first, but he’s grown on her. He’s her only company, truly, the only person in her life, and he’s not even a person. Well, Katniss hasn’t had a date in…some number of years, but that’s okay. She doesn’t really need anyone; she only needs the stage.

As for family, there’s only her dad. She’s an only child, and her mom left when she was little. She does try to call her father at least once a week. They don’t have much to talk about, but they get each other all the same. For one, he’s good about not guilt-tripping her for never coming to visit; he’s just happy to hear her voice. It’s not that she doesn’t want to go back to New Hope, West Virginia, or maybe she doesn’t. Admittedly, it would be too hard to see…certain persons, namely one, and of course, she’d have to hear everyone drone on and on about how she abandoned the town to make her way in NYC.

She finishes her stretches, showers, braids her long hair up in a high braid, and dresses in her dance attire as she doesn’t know what the changing room situation will be like‒she hates crowding in a room with dozens of other girls, all fighting over the last mirror. Not that Katniss cares about the mirror so much; she’s not a heavy makeup wearer. She checks the weather, and of course, it’s raining, so she grabs a trench coat and slips into it on her way out. In the elevator, she buttons it partially up and cinches it at the waist.

Midtown traffic is a killer, per usual. Actually, it seems much, much worse today. What the heck is going on? It takes her nearly twenty minutes to hail a cab, and her once leisurely commute is suddenly a rush. When the cab comes to a stop, she says a silent thanks. But then, she sees a middle-aged woman with long gray hair across the street, and she’s going for the same cab as her.

Oh no, no way. That’s my cab! thinks Katniss.

Her competitive side kicking in (and also her survival instinct‒Katniss Everdeen doesn’t get pushed around by anyone), she runs for the cab as fast as she can in her character heels, and without being hit by traffic. Fortunately, it’s come to a crawl. The other woman gets to the cab just ahead of her and opens the door, and Katniss slips right in, calling out, “Thank you!”

“This is my cab!” the woman screeches.

“I’m sorry, but it’s a matter of life or death.” Katniss shuts the door and gives the driver the address, and he’s speeding off, leaving the woman standing there in the rain‒she’s lost her umbrella, so she’s getting pelted. For a moment, Katniss feels bad, but she can’t miss this audition; this is her big break. Wherever the woman has to go, it can’t be as important as where she’s going. She probably has some cushy office job, anyway, where it doesn’t matter much if you’re a few minutes late.

Briefly, Katniss thinks of someone she used to know. He was always such a do-gooder that he’d never approve of this kind of behavior. He’d never make it in this city, she thinks; NYC would chew him up and spit him out. Even so, she decides to do something nice for some random stranger later in his honor; perhaps she’ll buy coffee for the next person in line at Starbucks after she nails this audition.

-----

Katniss gets to her audition with only five minutes to spare. It’s good she decided to wear her crop top and tights to the audition rather than change there; now she only needs to dry off her shoes a bit, so she doesn’t slip.

When her name is called with a group of several others, Katniss heads confidently to the stage. She’s not nervous, not really. There was a time when she used to get nervous before auditions, but such a thing does no good. It’s better to appear confident, even if you’re not; although, she is.

Katniss performs the routine perfectly. She noticed a couple of the dancers getting off the beat, but it didn’t throw her a bit. Those two will surely be cut. She makes it through the first round of cuts, and then the second, and she’s practically flying, her smile wide, her face glowing with hope and just a bit of perspiration.

“Now, Ms. Alma Coin would like to have a look at you,” Coin’s assistant, who’s been doing the cuts, says.

Katniss stands tall, strikes a pose, and smiles just as the cab woman walks out on stage.

Oh crap.

Katniss prays this woman won’t recognize her, but of course, she does, her thin, lipstick-less mouth curling up into a snarl-grimace. Then she hopes for Ms. Coin to be professional, to choose the best dancers, regardless of petty vendettas. But no. She immediately begins dressing her down for her outlandish behavior, says she’d never allow such a disgraceful person to perform in one of her shows. It seems a bit much to Katniss. Just because she inconvenienced her and ticked her off she’s going to ban her from being in any of her shows? And not only that, but Ms. Coin also declares, in an overly dramatic fashion, that her ‘career is over.’

She can’t just decide that, announce that she’ll never work on Broadway again!

Katniss tries to explain herself, smooth things over, but that only results in her accidentally knocking Alma Coin off the stage and injuring her. Not knowing what else to do, Katniss rushes out of the audition.

-----

On her way back to her apartment, she receives several texts from her friend Cinna. Apparently, someone captured a video of her knocking Alma Coin off the stage and posted it on social media. The ridiculous thing is up to 30,000 views.

Cinna, what am I gonna do? she texts.

Cinna: Just give it some time. Lay low and try again after a month or so. It’ll die down.

A month? she texts back. I don’t have a month. I’m already behind on my rent since the money from my last show ran out, and I’m sure my sleazebag landlord isn’t gonna be happy.

Cinna: Don’t worry, darlin. Just let me know if you need some money.

I don’t take charity, Cinna, she texts.

Cinna: I know.

-----

Over the next three weeks, Katniss does everything she can to make ends meet, even cocktail waitressing, something she never thought she’d (or wanted to) go back to. Additionally, Cinna had the brilliant idea that she should audition for Portia Rose, a big Broadway producer, who’s apparently the only one not intimidated by Alma Coin. But how is she going to audition for her? Her agent dropped her after the video, and it isn’t exactly easy to take meetings with wealthy show biz people.

Her one chance comes after Cinna does a little detective work and discovers that Portia will be dining at the ritzy Capitol Bar & Grille for lunch Friday afternoon. It might be crazy, but if Katniss can put on a performance on the sidewalk as Portia is coming out of the restaurant, maybe she’ll catch her eye. Dressed in her best dance ensemble, a sparkly silver little number designed by Cinna, she waits outside for Portia. Sure enough, she’s there, and the moment she leaves the restaurant with her group, Katniss goes right into it.

Unfortunately, Portia either doesn’t notice her or doesn’t care because she walks right by. As she’s trying to get her attention, Katniss runs into a hot dog vendor and ends up covered in ketchup and mustard.

For the topper on the crap sundae that is her day, and her life, when she gets back to her apartment, her stuff is in the halls and there’s an EVICTED notice on her door in bold black letters. And the locks have been changed. Did her asshole landlord throw her out with no real notice?! Okay, so maybe he’d been threatening her for weeks, but how could he just toss her stuff into the halls and change the locks? It could’ve been stolen! At least he put Buttercup in his cat carrier rather than turn him loose. She considers going to her landlord to plead her case, but he’s already made it clear he won’t be lenient anymore, that is, unless she wants to sleep with him. She’d rather be homeless. She doesn’t want to live in a place managed by such a creep anyway.

Katniss slumps against her door between the boxes and slides down to a seated position. Her head falls back against the door with a thunk. Buttercup yowls from beside her, and she sticks her fingers through the holes of the carrier to let him sniff her.

“We’re gonna be okay, Buttercup. We’ll be o-kay.”

Just then, her phone rings, and as if he sensed her despair, it’s her dad.

She hesitates, then answers the video call. “Hey, Dad.” She attempts for bright and cheery, but she’s sure she’s grimacing, and she can feel hot tears pricking at the corners of her eyes. Katniss hasn’t cried in years, not since her mom left, and she doesn’t plan to start now.

“Hey, Catkin! How’s my best girl?”

“Just…paying my dues, Dad,” she mutters. She can’t fake it much longer, but she doesn’t exactly want to give him the deets.

“It’ll happen, sweetie,” her dad assures. “You’re so talented. You’re gonna make it.” He goes on to tell her how proud he is of her and how he’s saved the playbills she’s sent him for all of her Broadway shows. He’s only made it to one of her shows, but she knows that was difficult enough for him to manage, so she’s thankful.

“Thanks, Dad,” she says, plastering on a small smile.

“Are you…sitting in the hallway?” he asks.

Oh God. She positions the phone to ensure he only has a view of the door, not the boxes and bags littering the hall.

“Yeah, just, uh, waiting for my take-out,” she says. And he seems to buy it. Her dad knows how much she loves food.

“Oh,” he clears his throat, “what’d you get?”

“Chinese,” she answers immediately.

“Oh. Sounds good.”

There’s a pause.

“Well, uh, Dad, I think that’s my food coming up the stairs now, so I better…”

“Okay, honey. Call me later. Love you.”

“You too.” She hangs up and sighs.

She stares across the hallway at her neighbor’s door until she hears a little ding. She looks down at her phone. It’s from Dad.

Dad: You can’t fool me, sweetie. Just come home.

Dad: You can stay in your old room as long as you want. It’s all set for you. Haven’t changed a thing.

Katniss sighs. She doesn’t want her dad to think she couldn’t hack it; she doesn’t want to admit failure. But what else can she do? Presently, this city is sucking the life out of her, and she needs a recharge. She can crash at home, er her old home, maybe get a job and save up some money, and once she’s back on her feet, she can work on getting to Portia again.

-----

Against her will, her dad bought her a plane ticket and insisted on picking her up at the small New Hope airport. Probably for the best. There aren’t any cabs. Even Ubers are extremely rare. And unless she wants to hitch a ride on Old Farmer Diggs’ tractor, it’s best that she lets her father pick her up.

They sit quietly in his truck; Katniss has barely said anything since their greeting and hug at the airport. After several minutes pass, her dad starts humming a little song they used to sing together, which successfully breaks the ice, and she starts humming, then singing along. Her dad has an amazing voice, always has. She swears he can make the birds stop to listen. Truthfully, he was her inspiration to get into show business, although she's more confident and comfortable dancing than singing.

Just as they’ve passed the New Hope sign, “So, uh, heard from your mom lately?” her dad asks out of the blue, effectively putting the ice wall back up.

“Nope,” she replies. She doesn’t know why he would think she would after all these years.

Suddenly, Katniss has a terrible thought. Not that she should care about what the person who abandoned her thinks, but… “I hope she didn’t see the video.” Katniss groans. “Or anyone in town. I’d die.”

“Oh, now, don’t be too full of yourself, sweetie. People around here have other things to worry about, you know. Their own lives.”

“I know.”

“Probably just me stalking your Instabook.”

“That’s Instagram, Dad.” Katniss smirks.

“That’s what I said.” Her dad laughs a little, and Katniss’s lips quirk. But not long after, her lips curve into a frown. “I hate the internet,” she says on exhale.

“Me too,” her dad replies. “Just keep up with it for my pride and joy.”

That brings another little smile from her.

They’re driving past Town Hall when they see Coach Odair and his football team. He’s barking at them to pick up their feet and run faster, so they’re not the slowest football team out there, as well as other little passive-aggressive encouragements.

Katniss’s dad throws up his hand. “Hey, Finnick.”

“Hey, Mr. E, how ya doing?” Finnick waves back, then proceeds to ride his team.

“I see the football team still sucks,” remarks Katniss.

“Ah, they’ve had their good years and bad. Finn’s a good coach. He rides ‘em hard, but he’s actually a big softie.”

That sounds about right.

Katniss and her father make idle conversation about his job in the mines, which Katniss wishes he’d give up, and about the possibility of making the farm his sole source of income, which she encourages. But he isn’t a risk taker, he tells her. Not like her.

“Some risk taker,” she mumbles. “I take these huge risks and fail.” Katniss sighs, and Buttercup meows from the truck bed. “I really screwed up, Dad.”

“Oh now, honey. That’s what the term risk implies, that you might fail. But you haven’t failed. This is just one missed opportunity, a minor setback after multiple successes. Like you said, in a profession such as yours, you’re bound to have to pay some dues.”

“Thanks, Dad.”

“Come on, gimme a smile.” She does her best to. “Aw, you can do better than that.”

“This might be the best I have in me right now, Dad.”

“Ah, that can’t be it. Hey, I know what you need…cheese.”

Katniss quirks a brow. She does love cheese. Cheese and chocolate: two substances she could pretty much eat (or drink) her weight in.

“Or better yet, cheese buns!”

“No, Dad.” Katniss shakes her head. “Can’t we just get some cheese at the market? You know I can’t go to the bakery‒”

“Not to worry, Catkin. He won’t be there. He’s never there this time of day. I’ll even go in for you, just in case.”

----

Katniss waits outside Mellark’s Bakery while her father goes in for bread and cheese buns. She decides to get out of the truck for some fresh air. As she leans up against the truck, she cranes her neck to see if she can see who’s inside working.

“Katniss?”

Katniss spins at the sound of the high-pitched affected accent of who could be none other than Ms. Effie Trinket, her dance teacher from when she was a pre-teen through high school.

Sure enough, there she is. She’s a bit older, though she looks much the same (probably thanks to Botox, and all the makeup). Naturally, her hair is dyed a vibrant color; today, it’s bright pink. She’s dressed in her usual flamboyant style and wearing at least three or four-inch stilettos. She’d always change into dance shoes for practices, but otherwise, she’d be wearing high heels around town.

“Oh, h-hey, Ms. Trinket.” Although she’s married to the surly town drunk with a heart of gold, she still uses her maiden name. “How are you?”

“Can’t complain, dear. How are you?” She raises her voice on ‘you.’ “The big Broadway star!”

Katniss feels her shoulders slumping, but she puts on the hint of a smile. “Fine. Just fine. How’s Haymitch?”

“Oh, goodness! He’ll be the death of me, I’m sure of it!” she wails.

“You two are still…together?”

“Heavens, yes.” Then Effie launches into a number of complaints about her alcoholic husband, who is apparently sober now (for the most part) and assistant coaching the football team, interspersed with sprinklings of praises throughout. These two have an interesting relationship. They’re so different, yet somehow, they’ve made it work all these years.

“And what about you, dear? Any special man in your life?”

Katniss shakes her head. “No, not really.” She knew it was a mistake mentioning Effie’s relationship, for it was bound to lead to questions about her own, or lack thereof.

“Oh, speaking of, I just saw Peeta!” trills Effie Trinket.

Katniss feels as though a large thorn has been jabbed into her side at the mention of his name.

“Peeta?” another voice chimes in. “Oh, I saw him this morning!” Delly Cartwright has just strolled up the sidewalk hand in hand with her little girl, a light brunette girl with her hair in buns wearing a pink tutu and leotard. The last time Katniss saw her, she was a baby; she recalls that her name is Emmy. “Katniss! Is that really you?!”

What is this? A reunion?

Well, Katniss knew she was bound to run into people from her past in town. But does every one of them need to bring Peeta up?

Katniss nods and smiles faintly, and Delly claps her on the back.

“I thought it was you, but I couldn’t be sure! I mean, I thought you were in N-Y-C. I’m so glad you’re back.”

“I’m not back,” Katniss protests, though they both seem to ignore her.

“Ohhh,” Ms. Trinket claps her hands together. “It’s almost as if nothing has changed.”

Delly smiles. “Minus Katniss and Peeta being attached at the lips, that is.” She giggles.

Another thorn in her side.

Katniss rolls her eyes out of Delly’s sight. It wasn’t like Peeta and she were super into PDA. Okay, maybe they were. Peeta, anyway. Oh, he was perfectly fine with showing his affection for her anywhere and everywhere, and he was, quite frankly, hard to resist, so that made Katniss a little more lax on her no-PDA policy.

“Have you seen him yet?” asks Delly.

“Who?” Katniss plays dumb.

“Peeta!” exclaims Delly.

“Uh, no, I haven’t.”

“He’ll be glad to see you.”

No, he won’t, thinks Katniss.

“You know, back then, you two were pretty cute,” says Delly. “Some people thought you were a little sickening,” Delly giggles again, “but I always thought you two were perfect together. I really thought you were gonna get married and have a bunch of babies.”

Yeah, well, that was a long time ago, Delly. People grow up. They change.

“Oh, but then you went off to dance school while Peeta waited at home and you got that audition in Manhattan, and then came ‘the text’.” Delly uses air quotes.

Why is she giving her the play-by-play? As if Katniss doesn’t remember what happened.

“Oh yes, the text!” bleats Effie. “How scandalous!”

Katniss certainly doesn’t need to be reminded of the infamous text. She can’t help that she’s no good at saying things and chose the worst way possible to break up with her high school sweetheart. And apparently, Peeta went around telling everyone in town about it. She can’t believe he did that.

“When you two broke up, it really messed with his head, you know,” says Delly. No, she didn’t. “He was moping around town for months, barely spoke to anyone, and you know how friendly he normally is. We were all very concerned about his depression.”

Peeta was depressed? Katniss feels awful about that, but it was the way it had to be. It wouldn’t have worked out with her going to New York, and Peeta, quite obviously, wanting to stay in their hometown. Whatever existed between them was nice while it lasted, but it’s gone now.

“Oh, you remember my youngest, don’t you, Katniss?” Delly pulls Katniss from her reverie, presenting the little girl in the tutu. She’s holding a stuffed pig. “She was in Pampers last time you saw her. Emberlyn. Emmy for short.”

“Of course, I remember,” says Katniss as sweetly as possible. “Hello, Emmy. You’ve gotten big.”

“Hasn’t she?! And she’s taking dance now, just like you!”

“That’s nice.”

“Ohh, and she’s doing just marvelously!” Effie chimes in. She bends slightly at the waist as she can’t quite squat in her skirt and heels and taps Emmy on the nose. “You know, Miss Emberlyn, Miss Katniss was my star pupil.”

“That’s right!” chirps Delly. “And star soloist in the choir, too.”

Wow, that was a long time ago. Does everyone in this town have the memory of an elephant?

“And now she’s on Broadway!” adds Ms. Trinket with an air of pure pride that makes Katniss feel sick to her stomach. She hates the thought of letting down these people who believe in her.

“How’s Gale?” deflects Katniss, needing a change of subject.

But it’s short-lived as all Delly says about her husband is: “Oh, same old Gale, you know.”

Katniss nods and says, “Give him my best.”

“Will do!” bubbles Delly.

“Oh, darling,” Ms. Trinket interjects, “while you’re in town, you simply must come by and see the girls at the dance studio!”

“Uh,” Katniss pauses, “I’d love that, Ms. Trinket…except…” She pauses. Being in a dance studio is the last place Katniss wants to be after the audition debacle; she doesn’t want to be anywhere near anything related to dance, in fact. Plus, she knows her dad was just blowing steam and she actually is under the town’s scrutiny‒it’s a smaaall town‒and she can’t face the looks and little whispers once they learn what a failure she is and how she blew her big shot. And as primitive as this little town is, someone is bound to see that video and pass it along. She doesn’t want to lie to them, and yet she can’t stand the notion of telling them the truth, either. So, she lies. “Except, it’s my dad. He’s sick.”

As soon as she says it, her dad walks out of the bakery, a white bag tucked under each arm. He shoots her a curious glance.

“Oh dear,” says Ms. Trinket. “I do hope it’s nothing serious.” She looks between Katniss and her father.

Katniss looks to her father. “Oh no, don’t worry. I’m fine,” he says. “Catkin is just being overprotective, you know.”

Katniss glimpses Delly, who also has a concerned look on her face. “Always such a trooper, Mr. E! Well, I’m gonna bake you a casserole!”

Ah, small town hospitality.

“Well, um, we…better be going, Dad.”

“You’ll consider stopping by the studio?” Ms. Trinket jumps in before they can get in the truck. “Perhaps around…5:30? I know you need to take care of your father, but the girls…it’d be such a thrill for them. I’d hate to disappoint them.”

Katniss opens her mouth, but her father speaks for her. “Of course she’ll be there. I can get by for an hour or two on my own, and we wouldn’t want to disappoint the girls, now would we?” Her father gives her a pointed look, and she’s toast. Although, why would they be disappointed if Ms. Trinket hasn’t told them anything yet?

Katniss looks between her father and Ms. Trinket then says, “Sure, I’ll be there at 5:30.”

“Wonderful!” shrieks Effie. “Well, you feel better now.” She pats Mr. Everdeen’s shoulder and announces that she’s off. Delly tosses out some last well wishes, a ‘good to see you, Katniss’, and a promise for that casserole ASAP.

-----

After waving goodbye to her father, Katniss stands outside the New Hope Dance Studio. She stares up at the brightly painted sign with the dandelions on it, which was hand painted by Peeta, she recalls. She takes a couple of deep breaths before making her way inside.

The place hasn’t changed much. It’s still painted a bright sunset orange. The reception area is exactly the same with the box of dance-related pamphlets on the counter and a couple of spare leotards and tutus hanging on the wall. She wanders over to the opposite wall with the corkboard. This area has changed a little. Namely, there’s a large framed collage photo of Katniss in various stages of growth in dance attire as well as the newspaper clipping with the story about how a local girl made it big in NYC on Broadway, also framed.

Miss Trinket hums as she comes up behind Katniss. “I know I only taught you for 6 years 10 months and 22 days before you went off to real dance school in Chicago, but I’d like to think I had a hand in you becoming a Broadway sensation.”

Katniss turns, smiles faintly, and nods.

“Thank you, Ms. Trinket,” she humbles herself. “I’m grateful.”

Miss Trinket sniffles and looks like she’s about to cry. She waves her hand in front of her face, then says with a hopeful expression, “Grateful enough to teach a master class, or three?”

Katniss sighs. Not that grateful, no.

“Oh, but don’t worry about that right now.” Effie tugs on Katniss’s arm. “Come on, let’s not keep the girls waiting.”

Once inside the dance studio, which also looks exactly the same, and could probably use some renovations, Katniss surveys the young dancers while Ms. Trinket brings over a folding chair for her. Delly is also there. She’s a committed dance mom, of course.

“Have a seat now, dear,” says Ms. Trinket. Then she turns to the girls. “Girls, this is Miss Katniss. She was one of my best students and is now a big Broadway star! Make her feel welcome, please!”

The girls all clap, save for one. Katniss catches sight of none other than Primrose Mellark off to the side, and she looks none too pleased to see her.

As for the rest of them, Katniss does her best to commit their faces and names to memory as best she can as Ms. Trinket introduces them. Meanwhile, Delly is signing alongside her.

There’s a deaf girl with pale skin, amber eyes, and bright red hair. Katniss has already forgotten her name, but her face and nose is elongated like a fox, so she’s calling her Foxface. So, it must be for her benefit that Delly is using sign language.

There’s Rue, a dark-skinned girl with soft brown eyes who gives off a very birdlike quality. At least she has the body of a dancer, so there could be hope for her yet.

Then there’s a girl named Camille, who places a flower crown she made atop Katniss’s head. Katniss recalls Peeta doing the same thing one day in the meadow. It feels like so long ago…

Speaking of Peeta, Katniss knew that Prim was interested in dance because she used to prance around in front of her constantly. And she didn’t seem half-bad for her age. She wonders how she’s progressed. Hopefully, she’s learned some actual steps.

Katniss doesn’t know Peeta’s youngest sister as well, but she seems energetic, and maintains close proximity to her brooding older sister.

Delly’s girls are there as well as Finnick Odair’s brood: a little girl with dark brown hair and sea green eyes named Morgan, and apparently, he leaves his son Rusty, a bronze-haired, green-eyed boy, there while he’s at football practice. Rusty just watches and colors.

Ms. Trinket gets through the introductions, then decides it would be fabulous to have a Q&A session with Katniss, so the girls can learn from a real life success story.

They ask questions like: When did you start dancing? Does the most talented dancer always get the part? Etc. And Katniss answers in brief. When one of them asks what show she’s in now, Katniss moves on to another topic.

They’re all overly excited now, as if they’ve had sugar, and just about every one of them has announced that they want to be on Broadway someday. One of them raises her hand and asks how to get on Broadway.

“Well, first of all, don’t ever make a mistake in front of anyone important,” Katniss says. Alright, so maybe she’s a bit jaded from her recent experience. “But here’s the thing. You don’t always know who the important people are, so that means you can never make a mistake in front of anyone, ever. Oh, and also, hard work and talent.”

The girls are staring blankly at her.

Katniss knows she should stop, but she keeps going. “I’d say you all have a .0001 percent chance of making it.” Delly signs it, then adds an enthusiastic little fist pump after as if to soften the blow.

Despite Delly’s false enthusiasm, their faces collectively fall. And a few of them are even cuddling each other for comfort. But it’s better she tells them the honest truth now before they go out and fall on their faces. They look like criers.

This seems like a good time to take her leave, so Katniss excuses herself (but not before Ms. Trinket slips a dance competition flyer into her bag). She feels a little bad about dashing those little girls’ hopes, but maybe she’s done them a favor. The life of a Broadway dancer is not at all glamorous.

When she steps outside, Katniss is blindsided by the sight of her father standing next to none other than Peeta Mellark.

Katniss comes to an abrupt stop and gapes.

“Look who I ran into, Catkin,” her dad says.

Peeta is grinning at her. And he looks great. “Well, well, well, look what the cat dragged in,” says he.

“Peeta,” she mutters like an idiot, blinking rapidly. She’s not sure why she’s reacting this way; it’s not like she didn’t know it was a strong possibility she’d run into him while she was home.

“You remembered.” He smirks.

Katniss clears her throat. “Of course.”

“So, the rumors are true. You’re back,” Peeta says. And she can’t tell if he’s happy about that or simply stating the fact.

“Temporarily,” she clarifies. “I’m just home visiting my dad. He’s…” She looks to her father, who quickly chimes in with the fake story she made up in order to save face, which is probably already going around town anyway.

“I’m sick,” her father chimes in. “I’ve been sick.”

“Oh,” Peeta’s brow furrows. “Really? Mr. E, I’m…” Peeta doesn’t finish his sentence, but instead lays a hand on Mr. Everdeen’s shoulder.

“Yeah…” Her dad gives a clearly fake cough. “I better go rest…in my truck.”

Peeta nods solemnly, but the quirk to his lip indicates he knows it’s a lie. “Feel better, Mr. E. I’ll bake you a pie,” he promises as he waves goodbye to him.

Well, at least thanks to her lie her father is going to be well-fed. He’ll have Delly’s casserole and now Peeta’s pie, both delicious.

Once they’re alone, Katniss offers Peeta a thin smile. “So, um, what are you doing here?”

“What am I doing here?” repeats Peeta, clearly amused. “Did they wipe your memory while you were in New York? I’m picking up my sisters from dance class. Remember Primrose and Poppy?”

“Of course I remember Primrose and Poppy.”

They stand there a moment, Katniss shuffling her feet, Peeta staring at his.

“So,” Peeta speaks up, meeting her eyes again and folding his strong arms across his broad chest. Has he gotten even broader? Peeta always had muscles, but now he’s…like a brick wall. A very cozy brick wall, she’d imagine…

Katniss shakes off her delusional thoughts.

“So,” she repeats, folding her arms and arching a brow. She hopes to appear nonchalant, although she feels completely the opposite.

“So?” he repeats, the corner of his mouth twitching. He still has that damn dimple. Of course he does. She’s not sure why she’d think it would go away, or that it would stop having an effect on her.

When she says nothing more, Peeta starts up a conversation, filling in both his and her parts. “So, how are you, Peeta? What have you been up to?” he says. “I’m great, Kat. Busy. Baking, of course. Doing odd jobs around town. And my Grandma Mags has been getting a little forgetful, so I’ve been taking over more with my sisters. You know, doing the grownup thing. Oh, and by the way, your dad is still on me about fixing the barn from that time we, uh,” he raises his brow, “accidentally started that fire.”

Katniss’s cheeks warm, and Peeta adds proverbial fuel to the fire by saying, “Who knew starting a fire,” he winks, “could actually start a fire?” He gives her a sly grin. “Guess that broken lantern had something to do with it, huh?”

“Guess so,” she mutters, suddenly unable to look him in those blue-blue eyes.

Working up her nerve, Katniss decides to just come out and say what needs to be said. “Look, Peeta.”

“Mhm?” He strokes his chin and stares at her thoughtfully. Why does he have to make everything so difficult.

“Since...” She sucks in a bit of air. “Since I’m going to be back for a bit, and we’re clearly going to be running into each other a lot, I should say…I know I broke your heart.”

Peeta pokes out his lip and bobs his head up and down. Is he mocking her?

“I know I didn’t end things in the most…thoughtful way…”

“‘Sorry to do this in a text,’” Peeta quotes, “‘but I’m going to New York, so we have to break up. -Kat.’ No, see, I thought it was very thoughtfully-worded.”

Katniss smirks and shakes her head at him.

“I just wanted to make sure, uh, that there weren’t any hard feelings…”

“Oh, Katniss, Katniss, Katniss, Katniss, Katniss. That was high school. Ancient history. I mean, it’s not like we were ever gonna work out.”

For some reason, the way he says it so casually and cheerfully turns Katniss’s stomach.

“Well, I better be going,” says Peeta, reaching out to graze her arm. She feels an electric current pass between them. He then tosses her father, who’s in his truck across the street, a ‘see ya later’

Mr. Everdeen calls out in reply, “That barn’s not gonna fix itself, young man!” Peeta just laughs.

-----

Katniss is in a foul mood on the drive back to the Everdeen farm. And her dad doesn’t help matters by saying, “Well, it’s good he’s finally over you.”

Katniss grimaces.

“At least his skin’s cleared up.” Katniss shoots her dad a bewildered look, and he quickly changes the subject by pulling the dance brochure out of her bag. “Oh, what’s this?”

“Just some dumb dance competition thing.” Katniss sighs. “Ms. Trinket actually wanted me to teach, can you believe it?”

“Well, I think that’s nice. Means she thinks a lot of your skill.”

“No, it means I’m a failure, Dad. I should be doing the dancing, not teaching.”

“I told you, you’ll get your shot, honey.”

Katniss huffs. Her dad clears his throat and starts reading through the brochure.

“Hey, this doesn’t sound so bad. There’ll be all kinds of big name judges there.” Katniss gives a skeptical exhale. “No, really.” He starts naming them off, one of which he claims she is friends with, although she only danced in a benefit she hosted. “Then there’s,” her dad goes on, “Por-tee-uh Rose.”

Katniss slams on the brakes and pulls off to the side of the road. “Portia Rose?” She snatches the brochure from him, and sure enough, Portia Rose will be one of the celebrity judges at the finals in Atlantic City.

“I’m going to do it, Dad,” she announces. “I’m going to teach dance.”

#JHsgf82 writes #Based on Feel the Beat #Feel the Beat Always #dancer!Katniss #exes!Everlark #Prim and Peeta siblings #Peeta has sisters instead of brothers #Mr. Everdeen is alive #AU #dance teacher!Katniss #dance teacher!Effie #dance dad!Finnick #dance mom!Annie #dance mom!Delly #everlark #Gelly #Odesta #hayffie

41 notes · View notes