#Bear Hands Fake Tunes

[thejoyofviolentmovement]

New Video: Bear Hands Shares Comically Menacing and Catchy "Adderall/Ambien"

New Video: Bear Hands Shares Comically Menacing and Catchy "Adderall/Ambien" @bearhandsband @CantoraRecords @RostrumRecords @grandstandhq

Brooklyn-based dance punks Bear Hands — Dylan Rau (vocals, guitar), Val Loper (bass) and TJ Orscher (drums) — formed back in 2006. They gained early attention with 2010’s “What a Drag,” which led to the trio signing with Cantora Records, who released their full-length debut, that year’s Burning Bush Supper Club. 2014’s sophomore effort Distraction was a critical and commercial success with the…

[righoul]

【Ｍｉｄｎｉｇｈｔ　Ｗｈｉｓｐｅｒｓ】

pairing: logan howlett x f!reader

summary: it's your best friend's birthday, and she wants to go out to the club. you're not much of a party girl, but you do it anyways because you love her like a sister. it's a good thing you went, especially if it's a certain someone who can't keep his eyes off of you 😉

this kinda takes place in x-men origins: wolverine. that movie will always have a special place in my heart idc. also, I had a dream about this last night

warning: SMUT! 18+ MDNI. age gap, oral sex (f! receiving), cursing, unprotected PiV (don't be silly, wrap that willy), drinking, dirty talk, logan being kinda vocal, wingman!wade wilson, size difference, mention of anxiety (because mental health matters), praise kink, nicknames used: baby, darling, sweetheart, princess

words: 4.0k

Your best friend practically drags you through the mall as she makes a beeline to the dress store. What's the occasion, you may ask? It's her birthday today and she wants to go to a party at a club. You dread it, but if she is happy, you'll let down your antisocial wall. She's been begging on her hands and knees for you to come out and live your life. You hate crowded places, and you would much rather be in the comfort of your own home, in your sweatpants and tank top with a cozy cardigan and your hair in a messy bun while reading another Johanna Lindsey book. Is it cliché? Yes. Is it almost predictable? Fuck yes, but you love it anyways. You may call yourself a hopeless romantic, but your friend is right. You need to get laid ASAP. 

While you were mindlessly going through all the various dresses on the clothes rack, your friend pulled you away as she already made some selections for you. "Come on, try these on!" she exclaims. Some of them are not bad, but others are just damn right ugly or not your style. As you are about to enter the changing room, you hear the one voice that could only mean one thing. Your best friend’s boyfriend. “Oh, sweetie pie!” Wade announces in a singsong tune. Oh, great. You don’t necessarily hate Wade, he treats your best friend well and she’s taken well care of, sure, but this day was supposed to be just the two of you. 

“Hi, baby!” she squeals as Wade comes up to her and gives her a big old kiss in the mouth. Hey, God, it’s me again, you thought as you looked up at the ceiling. You close your eyes for just a few seconds to gather yourself and you look at the handsome pair. “Hey, Wade, it’s good to see you again.” You struggle to put the words together, but nonetheless, you put on a fake smile just to keep your friend happy. “It’s good to see you too,” he pulls you into a tight bear hug, cutting off your blood flow. “Oh, sorry, I’m just so excited to be here. I can’t miss out on this special day with my special girl.” He’s like a lovesick puppy. There was just something about Wade that made you be suspicious about him from the very beginning. He’s always gone, he doesn’t tell you or your bestie where he is or what he does. There was something off about him. Almost as if he’s living a double life. “Oh, honey!” your friend squeals again, giving him another open mouth kiss. Gross. 

“Well, while you guys catch up, I’m going to go ahead and try these on.” You mumble as you hold up a pile of dresses in your arms. Off to the dressing room, you go. 

The first dress you try on was a shiny, metallic gold halter top dress that stops at the mid thighs. On the front, it gives a deep V-neckline, making it hard to cover your breasts. It has slits on both sides, stopping at the waist and it is backless, curving at the bottom and stopping at the top of your ass. Sure, it was cute, if you were planning on being a stripper. You try on the next dress. Now, this one was cute, and you thought about saying yes to it just to get this over with. But you thought about it for a second longer and realized you’re going to be dying in it. It was black mesh sequin dress that barely covers your ass, and it had flare sleeves that are see-through. Last thing you want is to have sweaty armpits, causing the dress to have pit stains for the rest of the night. No, thanks. Next one. Too girly. Another one. Makes you look pale. The one after that. Cute, but not ideal for clubbing. Another one. This looks more like a prom dress than anything. You’re about to give up until you notice the last dress. You try it on, and lo and behold, this dress was the one. It is a dark green sequin mini dress that stops at mid-thigh with a sweetheart neckline with an adjustable skinny strap. Perfect.

You change back into your normal clothes, not even bothering to show it off to your best friend. Besides, she’s too busy with her boyfriend, practically eating each other’s faces. You made your way to the cash register, and you made your purchase. You thank them and make your way back to your friend and Wade, hopefully she got the hint that it was time to go. “Oh, you got a dress?” your friend asks. “Which one did you end up picking?” “You’ll see.” You reply mischievously with a little wink. She’s surprised about your remark, but she quickly brushes it off. Little did you know, while you were trying on all the dresses she picked out, her and Wade were conjuring up a plan. Wade was telling his girlfriend about his friend that he can set up with you. Well, he’s not exactly a friend, per se, but a fellow acquaintance of his. They work together, sure, but he’s kind of a grump. Now there’s just one problem. Wade hasn’t even talked to him about hooking up with you. Now that is going to be the tricky part. 

“You think you can bring your friend along?” your friend asked. “Oh yeah, he’ll come.” Wade responded. Your friend was constantly looking over in your direction while you were in the changing room, hoping to not get caught by you. “What if this plan fails?” “Baby, it’ll work.” Wade puts his hands on her shoulders, soothing her. “I’ll make sure to see to it. Besides, he’s not a bad guy. Sure, he’s a little rough around the edges, but it’ll be good for him. For both of them.” Your friend lets out a deep sigh. “Okay. I trust you. But if this plan doesn’t work, you owe me big time.” She jammed her pointer finger at his chest harshly and Wade laughed, but he knew deep down inside, she scares him and that’s what he loves about her. She keeps him grounded, and he always makes sure to fulfill his promises.

*Later that night*

You put on your brand new dress that you bought and you put on a pair of black high heels to go along with it. Meanwhile, your friend put on a baby pink dress with puffy sleeves and white heels that wrap around the calves. She put on some subtle makeup while you put on a smoky appearance. Her hair was done in loose curls in a half low ponytail with a white bow and your hair was done straight as a pencil. When you walked out of your bedroom, your friend was surprised to say the least. She claimed that you look like a totally different person, but you brushed it off. You didn’t think she was being serious and you assumed she was just being nice because you both knew this isn’t like at all. But, she was right. You did look amazing.

You and your friend got there at the club, scanning to find Wade. You thought it was kind of weird that he didn’t pick you guys up at your place, but you dropped it pretty quick. You guys grabbed your drinks from the bar and went out to the dance floor. You were honestly having a good time. You felt so free. So liberating. Normally, you would feel anxious in large crowds like tonight, but with the help of some liquid courage, that all subsided. Wade finally came down to the dance floor and greeted your best friend with a kiss on the cheek.

“Happy birthday, baby!” Wade shouted over the loud bass of the music.

“Thank you!” your friend shouted back.

“Thanks for stopping by!”

“Yeah, of course, Y/N! I wouldn’t miss it for the world!”

As you were about to throw back on your drink, your cup was empty.

“Hey! I’m about to get myself a round two! Did you want anything?” you asked your friend.

“I’m still working on mine! But, thank you!”

“I’ll be back!”

You sauntered your way back to the bar again and asked for the bartender.

“Rum and Coke, please.” you ordered your drink to the tall man behind the bar.

“You got it, miss.” he winked at you.

You felt flatter for the gesture, but you knew deep down you wouldn’t pursue it. Ever since you guys walked into this place, you had men staring at you nonstop. You felt like an innocent fawn in a den full of lions, greedily licking their lips and wanting to get a piece of meat out of you. All the barstools were taken up by men, and now that there was a pretty woman in their proximity, they all of a sudden didn’t know how to think with their heads, but with their dicks. All eyes were on you tonight. The anxiety was about to creep up to your throat to the point it felt hard to breathe. Maybe this wasn’t a good idea. You should’ve stayed at home.

“That would be $5.50, miss.” the bartender smiles.

You were about to reach for your bag when you felt a large hand on your lower back. You looked over who it was, but looking over at the man to your right knocked the wind out of you. He was ruggedly handsome. He has dark brown hair that was done messily with mutton chops to go along with his fluffy hair. He wore dark blue jeans with a belt to hold it up to his hips, a pair of boots, a white wife beater, flannel, and a dark brown leather jacket to complete his bad boy exterior. 

“I got it, darlin’,” the stranger looked at you, smugly. “don’t worry ‘bout it.”

You were just stunned, you didn’t know what to say. This man was so dangerously handsome, you’ll do anything to keep this man’s attention on you. But, remember what your friend taught you. Never chase after a man. If he wants you that badly, walk him like a dog. And you intend to do that.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” the man bent over to your right ear and said with his cockiness, “use your words.”

Shit, shit, shit. So much for taking the reign.

“Oh, um.. thank you.” you replied sweetly.

“Attagirl.” 

Oh, so he wants to play that game. Well jokes on him, you can play along too. You have read so many scenarios where this plays out, it’s time to use that playbook. There was a spot that was available and the handsome fellow sat down, but still maintaining that contact with you.

“What’s your name, darlin’?”

“Y/N. What’s yours?”

“The name’s Logan.”

“Pleasure to meet you.”

“Likewise.”

You didn’t know if it was the drink or you feeling bold, but you made your way to Logan and sat on his lap. His eyes widen and his jaw a little slacked, but quickly bounces back to his usual smug face before you could appreciate your small little victory. Your legs were across his laps and you kept your legs crossed on top of the other, giving Logan an aweing view of your scrumptious thighs. He had one hand placed on the small of your back, dangerously close to your ass and the other hand was resting outside your knee, rubbing small circles with his thumbs,

You guys have been talking and flirting for about 30 minutes, and everything was going so smoothly for tonight. There was a small part of you that didn’t want this night to end, but there was that sinking feeling that you felt that this was going to be a one time experience and you’ll never see him again. Your hand was resting at the nape of his neck, giving him light scratches. Logan let out some low purrs. He loves the way that you’re giving him all this attention from a pretty thing like yourself. But he had this gnawing feeling that he shouldn’t do this to you. You were so young and naive, you never really got to experience life to the fullest. He promised a friend that he was going to hook up with a girl that he knew, get acquainted and maybe get something more out of it. Possibly a relationship. But Logan knows that never comes easily with him. Everyone that he ever loved dies in the end. You were just so sweet and innocent. He couldn’t put you through that. 

“Say, wanna get out of here?” Logan asked.

At first, you were hesitant. Wasn’t this what you wanted? I mean, yes. Look at him. This man is built like a god. You didn’t want to ditch your friend on her birthday to go sleep with some guy. But then again, you’ve been gone for a while and she didn’t seem to notice you. So, fuck it. 

“Yeah, sure.” you replied.

You got off his lap and Logan got off his seat, and he walked you out of the busting night club. You both decided to go to your apartment where you were most comfortable. Logan didn’t seem to mind. It was probably for the best since your apartment is probably nicer than his and he wanted to make sure that you were comfortable. A gentleman, I know. You fished for your keys in your purse and let yourselves in. 

“Please, make yourself at home.” you exclaimed. “Can I get you something?”

“You got any beer?” Logan asked.

“I got Budweiser. Is that okay?”

Logan would’ve died on the spot. It’s almost as if you were made for him. Like he drew a mental picture of you and manifested it. 

“Now we’re talking.”

You giggled at his response and went to the fridge to grab two bottles. If Logan almost died from you knowing his favorite beer, he would’ve melted from your lovely laugh. You truly were made from him.

You both settled on the couch and facing each other, you both went back to talking from the last conversation at the bar. Logan, resting his arm behind the couch while nesting a bottle while you were curled up, tucking your feet behind you and resting a hand on your chin, honing in everything and digesting every word that comes out of his mouth. 

“So, what was a pretty thing like yourself at a bar?” Logan asked.

“Oh, the funny thing is it’s my friend’s birthday and we were out celebrating.” I chuckled softly. “I guess she’s still there with her boyfriend so I don’t feel too guilty.”

Logan chuckled roughly. “Ah man, I’m sorry to drag you away.”

I waved my hand at him nonchalantly. “It’s not a big deal, really.”

After chatting again for about 15 minutes, you noticed that Logan is sitting closer and closer to you. For a moment, you forgot how to breathe because of how handsome he is. His lips were so close to yours, you could almost taste him. You caught him stealing a few glances down your chest, mentally undressing you, but you don’t seem to mind.

“Fuck, you look so beautiful tonight.” Logan whispered huskily.

You automatically placed your hand on his chest, chests basically touching.

“You’re not so bad yourself, handsome.” I whispered seductively. “Mind taking me out of this dress?”

Logan’s heart stopped for a moment when you asked him so bluntly. Of course, he wasn’t going to pass this opportunity. So he reached behind you and unzipped your dress. He gently laid you back on the couch as you moved to take off his flannel shirt. He slowly pulled your straps down one by one, as he was taking his sweet time with you, trying to memorize every little thing about your body. Logan finally slipped your dress off of you and the only thing standing in his way is your black lace thong.

“Fuck.” Logan shuddered a groan.

You tried to cover yourself, but Logan took one of his hands and pinned both your wrists above your head.

“Don’t get all shy now with me.” Logan growled. “I wanna see it all.

I whimpered at his rough exterior and wrapped your legs around his waist. He purred in approval.

“Logan…” You moaned. “Let me touch you.”

Logan chuckled darkly as you begged and whined while you’re getting super soaked in your panties, it was leaving wet spots in his pants. He pressed his hard on your heated, needy pussy. You whimpered at the contact, arching your back, hoping to feel him.

“Ahh, pretty baby wants to touch me?” Logan teased.

You nodded your head and he laughed. He leaned down and started sucking your neck, leaving hickeys and love bites at its wake. You begin to moan, and he chuckles darkly as he’s leaving kisses down between your breasts. Logan sat up straight to remove his shirt and undo his belt. He slipped his pants and boxers down, and went down to come face to face to your pussy. He left a little kiss on your clothed pussy and you whimpered while arching your back so far, it almost didn’t look natural. He chuckled how reactive you are to him and he’s enjoying every bit of it. He went to pick you up and you wrapped your legs around his waist. He placed his hands on your ass, and leaned in for a kiss. You kissed him back happily as you took his face with your hands and you both moaned, fighting for dominance.

“Where’s your room, sweetheart?” Logan asked.

“First door on the right.” You moaned in his mouth.

He then leads you both to your room, still kissing you. As you both entered, he placed you on the bed as he crawled down on you. He forgot you still had your underwear on, so he ripped it off of your body. You gasped, not from ruining it but at how he ripped it off with ease.

“Sorry, princess. It was getting in the way.” Logan muttered and then he quickly went down to eat you out. You arched your back as you gripped the bed sheets. He placed his hand down on your lower stomach to hold you down. “Don’t move.” He growled as he looked up at you.

You fought your hardest to remain still. Logan went back to eat your pussy like a starved man, and you moved your fist to your mouth, biting back some moans. “Nah uh, I wanna hear you. I want this whole apartment to hear how good I’m makin’ ya feel.” Logan said roughly. You nodded your head as he went back to devouring his desert. You moaned loudly, it almost sounded pornographic and he chuckled darkly. “That’s it, darlin’. Attagirl.” He praised you. “Logan, I’m so..” You said sultry. “Go ahead. Come for me.” At demand, you did and you were starting to see white after this euphoric sensation and you were starting to come down from your high.

“On your hands and knees.” Logan demanded. You did as you were told and he purred at how easy you were to please. He’ll keep this in mind. He climbed behind you as he gripped your ass close to his hardened dick. He slowly smoothed your backside with one hand and he bent down to your ear, his cold dog tags touching your bare back, making you shiver. “Let me know if it gets too rough for ya.” Logan whispered sweetly. All you could do was nod your head. “I need words, sweetheart.” “Yes. Yes, I’ll let you know if it gets too much.” Logan smirked. “Attagirl.”

Logan then eased the tip of his cock into your heated entrance, and began to gasp heavily. “Oh, fuck.” You moaned and Logan chuckled. “Easy, princess, just breathe.” He slowly went inch by inch, feeling his length and his girth. It then becomes easy for you, going from painful to pleasure. Going from losing your breath to moaning into a hot mess. Logan began to pull back and slammed it back in. You jumped forward at the brutal force and you moaned in…pleasure? Pain? Honestly, who cares? It feels too good to stop. He kept pounding into you, starting to hit your cervix over and over again.

“Fuuuucck.” Logan growled as he looked up into the ceiling for a hot minute. He went to look back down as the relentless pounding is matching the rhythm to your ass bouncing back to his cock, making wet slapping noises. “You’re gonna be the death of me, princess.” You giggled at his comment as you turned your head at an angle to get a good look at him. Logan bent down again to kiss you on the lips, moaning into each other’s mouths.

Logan then flipped you on your back and his pounding into you again as you wrapped his legs around his waist. He went to intertwined his fingers into yours and he looked into your eyes. “Don’t close your eyes. I wanna see you come undone.” Logan warned. You nodded your head and said, “I won’t.” Logan nodded his head in approval. “Baby, I’m so close.” You moaned. “I know, I know. I’m right behind you.” You then reached your second climax of the night and you were spent. Logan’s hips started to stutter as he made a few good thrusts into you. “Where at?” Logan asked. “Inside. Safe.” You gasped between breaths, finding it hard to find the words. Logan nodded as he made one last thrust before he went still, painting your insides white.

Logan collapsed beside you and he pulled you into a lover’s embrace as you passed out. He kissed the top of your head as he whispered before you were completely out, “You did so good for me, baby. My perfect girl.”

The next morning, you stirred awake as you stretched your arms above your head. You looked out to your window and then you looked over to your right side of the bed, noticing that it was empty. Your heart sank to your chest. You were disappointed, but not surprised. Wishful thinking, you thought. You got out of bed and put on a fresh pair of panties and a short, silky bathrobe. You made your way to the kitchen and then you noticed a tan bare back with dark fluffy hair. He’s wearing his jeans low on his hips with no belt on. He’s cooking eggs and bacon on the stovetop. Logan turned around, took notice of your morning attire and he’s breath was taken away.

“Good morning, princess.” Logan said in his deep morning voice.

“Good morning.” You sighed happily. You went over to him and he grabbed you by the waist, making you gasp out loud. He leaned in for a kiss and you happily kissed him back.

“Oh, good!” Wade announced himself in the kitchen. “I see you met Y/N. The one that I mentioned to you before.”

Surprisingly, Logan didn’t growl at him. He stopped kissing you as you looked at Wade with a slack jaw like a fish in a hook. He went back to look down at you, and smiled, “Yeah. Yeah, I guess you can say we got to know each other very well.” Logan winked at you after your “acquaintance” last night. You playfully slapped at his bare chest and he laughed.

“Next time if you guys are going to fuck, can you at least keep it down?” Wade whined. “It’s like coming across the Animal Channel.”

I picked up a towel and threw it at him. “Fuck off, will you, Wade?” Logan laughed as Wade scurried away. Logan wrapped his arms around my waist, palming my ass. “Hmmm. And here I thought I was gonna regret meeting you. But, Wade never described you. I guess I got lucky.” I leaned up to kiss him on the lips and he happily kissed me back. “To be honest, I didn’t know about any of this. I’m glad that I stumbled upon you.” Logan smirked at me. “Come on, before breakfast gets cold.”

[joelscruff]

keep it squeaky (joel miller x f!reader) 18+

a/n the way this just kinda happened and idk how to explain any of it. if it's not your thing pls move along!! but if it is your thing...enjoy. bear with me, it was written in about 30 minutes. summary: joel miller has a problem, and it's his daughter's new best friend. or, alternatively, joel listens to you pee while he's in the shower. rating: 18+ explicit warnings: age gap (you're in your 20s, joel is in his 50s), piss kink (????) i honestly don't know if this classifies as actual piss kink. he can hear you pee (and then watches you). you're on the toilet. idk if i can get any more clear than that, jerking off in the shower, joel having dirty thoughts cause he's a dirty old man, imaginary creampie, imaginary tummy bulge word count: 1.8k

You've been teasing him. You love teasing him.

It's been a long, grueling week of teasing.

But you and Sarah finally head back to college tomorrow, and he can't thank his lucky stars enough. He'd thought it'd be nice having her back here, even nicer that she decided to bring a friend along.

How wrong he'd been.

You're, for lack of a better word, persistent. Very persistent. And he's flattered, don't get him wrong, he's extremely flattered; beyond awestruck that someone as young and beautiful as you would have any interest in an old man like him. It had taken a few days for him to actually even accept what was happening; the flirty comments, the seductive glances, the little touches here and there. He'd thought he was making it up, that maybe you were just a touchy-feely kinda person, a lover of intimacy with everyone.

Until you'd been on the couch together on the third night. You'd leaned over to grab something - the remote, your drink, he can't even remember now - and you'd purposely made sure to brush your knee against his bulge. You'd kept it there for a few seconds, rubbed it gently, and then with a wink you'd grabbed whatever you'd been reaching for and settled in next to him again. Sarah, on the opposite side of you, hadn't noticed a thing.

But he had. And he'd noticed everything else you were doing after that. Nudging your foot against his ankle under the kitchen table, brushing past a little too closely in the kitchen so that your breasts pushed against his back, wiped crumbs of dessert from his mouth with your thumb and then sucked it into your own with a wide-eyed and flirtatious expression.

Not to mention the shit you wore - when you'd first arrived you'd been in a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, nothing unusual. But after that first day of meeting him you'd suddenly switched to dresses exclusively. Short little things that barely covered the tops of your thighs, frilly material that bunched up in the back whenever you bent over.

He's now seen the plump shape of your ass and those delicate little panties you wear way too many times to count.

But he can't. He cannot act on the desire he feels for you, even though you're quietly begging for it. You're his daughter's best friend, not to mention he's three times your age. Only a dirty old man would even consider reciprocating the things you've done to him this week.

It's just one more day, he tells himself. Just one more day and she's gone.

It's on that final day that he finds himself where he usually does on a Saturday morning - in the shower. He's humming along to a tune he can't place and scrubbing body wash along his arms when he suddenly hears a knock at the door, light and almost shy. He freezes, raises an eyebrow.

"Mr. Miller?" he hears your voice on the other side, "Can I come in? I have to pee."

His eyes go wide; is she serious? She can't wait a few minutes for him to finish?

"I'll be out in a few," he calls back, trying to ignore the speed at which his heart is suddenly pounding.

"I don't think I can wait, I really have to go," you reply almost immediately, voice edged with a desperation he can't tell is real or fake. He lets out a low groan, hand coming up to pinch the space between his eyebrows as he figures out what to do.

Before he can decide he hears the squeak of the bathroom door, opening just a little bit. Fuck.

He could yell at you. He could tell you to leave him alone, to give him privacy. He'd have every right. Even Sarah would back him up.

But then he hears your little voice again, soft and eager.

"I'll be quick, I promise."

He brings his hand to his mouth, bites at the flesh on the back of it and shakes his head underneath the stream of water. This is a bad idea. This is a very bad idea.

"Okay," he manages to say, voice husky and muffled against his skin.

He hears you close the door behind yourself, hears the soft footsteps of your bare feet against the tile. He wonders what you're wearing; if you're still in your pajamas - those cute little pink shorts and that tiny white bralette - or if you're already dressed. What if you're wearing another one of those little dresses?

His cock, which only a moment ago lay soft against his inner thigh, starts to harden.

"M'sorry, I really had to go," he hears you say sweetly from the other side of the shower curtain, "And you guys only have the one bathroom, so..."

"It's okay," he replies, voice almost pained, "It's okay, I don't mind."

And he hates that it's the truth.

He doesn't hear you sit down on the toilet over the sound of flowing water, isn't sure whether you've already started or you're still waiting for him to say something else. He clears his throat awkwardly, willing himself not to look down at his growing erection.

"Y'good there?"

"Yeah, sometimes it just takes me a minute when I'm around someone else."

Then why the fuck couldn't you just wait? He wants to ask, desperation and arousal clawing at his thoughts as he leans his head back against the shower wall. He brings his hands up and covers his eyes, wills you to just do what you need to do and get out.

His cock bobs against his stomach.

And then he hears it - it's different than the shower, less heavy. More light, delicate. An almost melodic sound that echoes against the bathroom walls, overwhelms his senses to the point where it's suddenly all he can hear. It flows out of you slowly at first, then steadily.

Oh fuck.

Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.

You're doing this on purpose. He fucking knows you are. He knows you're dragging it out, taking your time, knows that you're probably hoping he'll take a peek at you as you do it.

And fuck, he hates that you're right.

He removes his hands from his face and brings one down to finger the shower curtain quietly, pulling it the tiniest bit so he can see past it. He feels like such a fucking pervert, the dirtiest old man that ever existed, and yet the throbbing in his now fully hard cock and the sound of you pissing inches away is telling him that he needs to look.

So he does. And there you are.

You are wearing one of your dresses, pink and tiny and perfect. Your pretty little panties are around your ankles and you've got your dress bunched up over your thighs, almost up to your chest. He can see so much of you, so much that's been hidden only just out of sight all week. The tops of your thighs, round and soft, the perfect pouch of your belly that peeks out under where you're holding the material of your dress. And there...just barely in view... he can see the smallest hint of your pussy.

He stares. And he listens.

You must know he's watching you, but you don't let on. You stare straight ahead, holding your dress high above your tummy and pushing out the remainder of your release with a dazed little smile on your face.

He wonders if your clit is throbbing. He wonders if it's poking out while you sit there, wonders what colour it is and how it would feel beneath his fingertip. He hears that beautiful twinkling sound and imagines what your pussy must look like as it relieves itself, wonders if it's pulsing, wonders what your little holes must be doing under there, just out of his eyesight.

With barely any thought he begins to stroke his cock with his free hand, mouth popping open as he pulls and pushes and continues to watch you - the prettiest little thing he's seen in way too long - in such a vulnerable state. He knows you're almost done, knows you can't make it last forever - even though you both want it to.

He tilts his head a bit, brows furrowed, eyes dark. He stares at your tummy and imagines the outline of his cock poking through from the other side. Would your little hole take all of him? Would it fit? Would you beg for it?

If you don't leave in the next minute he's going to fuck you.

And just as that thought crosses his mind, your pretty little stream dies out. The sound of the shower centers his world again and disappointment floods his body. Don't go. Don't leave yet. Show me that soft little pussy, please.

Much to his chagrin you carefully pull yourself up from the toilet. He watches as you flush, watches as you turn away from the shower to slowly bend over, reaching for your panties. His jaw goes slack, fist still pumping his cock as you do just what he was wishing. He can see your folds, see the little drips of liquid still clinging to your outer lips, can almost see the hint of your little clit peeking out.

He comes almost immediately, white heat gurgling onto his fist and down into the drain below as he stares at that perfect little seam, wet and dripping and begging to be fucked. He wishes he was filling it up, wishes he was painting your insides and making you squeal, holding you close with his balls pressed firm against that perfect ass.

You pull up your panties slowly, making a bit of a show of it before you're suddenly standing straight. You start to turn around, back toward the shower, and at that he lets go of the curtain and allows it to fall back into place, concealing him - and his now softening cock - from your view.

He listens as you turn on the tap, doesn't mind that the water goes a bit cold as you do - anything to get some clarity.

"I'm done now, sorry about that," he hears you say over the sound of water hitting the tiles, "I just really had to go."

"Th-that's okay," he manages to get out, voice strained and practically wrecked, "Whatever you need, sweetheart."

"You're so nice," you reply, and he can hear that you're smiling, "Enjoy your shower, Mr. Miller."

--

That evening, he calls for you while you and Sarah are watching a movie downstairs. Jumping at the chance to be alone with him, of course you tell Sarah not to pause it, tell her to keep watching because you've "seen it before" and you "won't be long".

It's almost like you know.

You know that when you find him upstairs he'll be standing in the bathroom, know that he'll pull you inside and close the door behind you.

"You forgot to wipe, sweetheart. Lemme show you."

[messylustt]

݁   𓂃 ៸៸៸ maybe more? — miguel o’hara + reader: you make a decision that miguel isn’t too pleased about. miguel doesn’t like this ‘someone’.

contents : includes fluff :(( bit of angst (ends well). mentions of cheating (not miguel or reader) — pls let’s just ignore the comic miguel (coz he may or may not have cheated) and focus on movie miguel. thank you. wc 1.4k.

pt one pt two pt three

you walked alone, head muffled. you've found taking one step in front of the other helps focus those muffled voices. maybe then you could make sense of them. maybe then your heart wouldn't feel so heavy.

so, toe after toe you ventured around HQ, humming a soft tune to focus on your breath rather than the voices you found you couldn't make out. but then there was a clearer one, a deeper one, getting your attention.

you look up to see miguel eyeing you and your distracted self. you smile. "miguel, hey."

miguel's eyes dart. ever since the news of your hug had circled the spider society every spider-person had made their own assumption. lovers? close friends? related?—that was a strange and short lived one to circulate. but people could just not fathom how miguel would ever want to hug anyone. you being a family member seemed more plausible at the time.

but now everyone has circled back to potential lovers. but you have someone. had someone... you aren't too sure. because the reminded tug at your heartstrings earns your smile to slightly drop. miguel notices. his inspection of you turning more detailed. "you don't look annoyingly happy." he states monotonously.

you focus your gaze and push away your heart, placing that smile you always seemed to bear back on. "what? you mean how you don't look everyday?" you tilt your head.

to outsiders you would seem normal, fine, happy. but to miguel you seemed far from it. to miguel you seemed troubled, not yourself. and it sets an uncomfortable feeling low in his stomach. he didn't like not seeing you as your bright, bubbly self. Because slowly you had become his rock, his comfort of sorts. and if you weren't stable, how could he ever be?

he steps closer, tapping your chin to raise it up, as you had begun to get distracted in the slightly shiny floor. you meet his gaze, forcing that smile back on. but Miguel places two clawed fingers against your cheeks, drawing that smile down. "don't smile unless you mean it." he muttered.

you were quite surprised by how intensively he had begun to take note of you. you had caught him always eyeing you in briefings, or in the cafeteria (if you can call it that). it now kinda makes sense the whole assumption of 'lovers'. but you weren't. and you personally didn't think you'd ever be. miguel wasn't the type.

you step backwards, away from his close hold, and miguel has the urge to pull you back, his hand slightly moving with you to hold your wrist. "are you free?" he asks quietly. and now you could spot the slight bags under his eyes, proving his need for "comfort".

but you had been thinking. though it's been nice, and you haven't minded it. miguel's hands have begun to drift more permanently around you. the hugs had become to feel far more intimate. you have someone...had someone...someone who you still liked, and someone who you hoped still liked you.

that's where the confusion settled, and the tug of your heart. you couldn't carry on this...whatever this thing was with miguel. it wasn't right. because your feelings had began to not feel right. you have/had someone.

you take your hand away from his hold and miguel's eyes narrow, quickly darting up to your face again. you place that forced smile back on and miguel's lips twitch in a snarl. He didn't want you to be fake around him.

"i'm sorry...not this time...I'm...busy." you space the words out far too randomly and of course miguel takes notice.

"this time?"

you gulp. "and maybe next time."

miguel grinds his teeth. "and the time after that?" he speaks a fraction harsher.

"...and the time after that." you confirm, looking away from his gaze, because you did feel bad. but it wasn't right being that alone and intimate when you have…had—god, just whatever this 'someone' was, point blank you felt it was wrong.

you stand straighter, finally meeting his gaze. and you almost flinch. not because of an expected hardness, but because of a soft...desperation? That couldn't be right... miguel didn't need your hugs like he does air...no.

yes. miguel has been forced to realise that himself. he does need your hugs, he craves them. and in all honesty he hadn't had the chance to think of himself without them. but here you stand, telling him 'that's it'.

"that's it, then?" he asks slowly.

you slowly nod. "i am sorry. but I know for a fact that peter is a great hugger. plus his pink dressing gown makes everything fluffy—“

miguel cuts you off. "peter? you really think i want a hug from him?"

you shrug. "as i said: great hugger."

miguel opens his mouth then pauses. "how do you know that?"

"uh...well, cause I've hugged him before?" you lightly chuckle.

maybe miguel had also noticed the 'intimacy' that had grown between your hugs. because now his chest is aching with a form of...jealousy? over peter? and not in the way a lover feels jealous necessarily. but in the way he wanted your hugs for himself.

yes, that made him selfish, and probably unreasonable. but he liked the thought of something so special as a hug from you being something for him. and now you were saying no, and offering peter up as a substitute? no one could substitute you. no one.

so, miguel began to shake his head. "do you really think that peter's hug could suffice for yours?" he narrowed his eyes, seeing if you truly believed that.

you again shrug. "it's just a hug, isn't it?" because if it was something more than you were right to stop this. miguel's jaw clenched. it was supposed to be, wasn't it? a bit of relief.

maybe that relief has turned into an addiction? maybe the term 'a simple hug' has turned into so much more? all miguel knew was that he didn't want to stop this. he didn't want to not be able to have your body pressed against his.

a voice suddenly calls your name, making you spin. your heart thumps, seeing that 'someone' walk up. a 'peter' spider-man variant. generic, so you chose to call him by his middle name, 'jessy'. named after his childhood dog.

"jessy..." your smile was the brightest miguel thinks he's ever seen. and that seems to only dampen his already soured mood. "finished a mission?" you eye his heaving chest.

jessy nods, looping his arms around your waist and giving your cheek a kiss. miguel almost flinched at the visual, his gaze getting caught up in jessy's hand. it's placement somewhere miguel had used quite often. but then miguel looks back to Jessy's face. and then back to your bright smile.

you two couldn't be...because that would mean...jessy had cheated.

miguel remembers passing by a room, moans and whimpers piercing the otherwise silence. miguel had pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering in annoyance. he banged on the door, not daring to look in. "this is communal space...you know that right?" he growled out, as he heard the moans quiten, as voices muttered together. "get out of the office." and then he left, but not before his gaze caught the sight of jessy's face and the girl that certainly wasn't you.

miguel would probably have reacted differently if he'd seen you there, pressed against jessy like that.

miguel now hardens his gaze on jessy, because then he leant forward and pecked your lips, making miguel's claws cut skin. your bright smile showed that you were oblivious to jessy's "secret" doings. but that's why your heart tugged so hard. you knew. those muffled voices were your subconscious trying to drown out thoughts of reason.

things like 'you deserve better', 'don't let him kiss you'...'end it'. all those sensible thoughts getting shoved into a basin of water, left to drown and die. you hated to admit to yourself that someone had cheated on you. it made more prominent thoughts circle the top of the water, free from harm. 'am I not good enough?', 'did I do something wrong?'...'it's probably my fault'.

miguel speaks your name, making you shift your gaze to him. "a mission. you're needed." he says, beginning to walk away. a mission? but you follow anyway, waving jessy goodbye as you slipped into miguel's office.

"sorry, i didn't know i had one today. i would've been more prepared—"

"jessy..." miguel is turning back to you, brows furrowed as he thinks of how to word this. "how long?"

your brows furrow a moment, before the lines smooth. "...a decent while. why?"

miguel grinds his teeth. "there isn't...really anyway to put this..."

you lightly chuckle, trying to ease the settling tension. "you...okay?"

no. he wasn't. because you had said to 'stop this'. but now wasn't the time... "i caught..." god, this was a lot harder to say then he had initially thought.

but when he had said that you had begun to clock on. it's not a surprise someone else had seen them. they were being rather loud. your smile had begun to fade as you muttered. "i...i know..."

miguel immediately looks up at this. "what?..."

you lick your lips, avoiding eye contact. "i appreciate you trying to tell me. that must have been annoying to hold." you lightly chuckle. but this time its void of any happiness. "but just...can you please forget you saw anything?"

you finally meet his gaze, fiddling with your fingers, as you try not to produce a sad expression. but miguel catches it. he always does. his chest is beginning to heave. because jessy cheated on you, of all people. and you knew about it. and you still let him touch and kiss you.

miguel wasn't having any of it.

he stalked forward, making you slightly stumble back. "i'm sorry...did i catch that wrong? you knew? you fucking knew, and you let him..." he's breathing hard, and you don't know why he's so worked up.

"it's...complicated, alright?" you say. "and if that's all, i think i'll go." you move to turn but miguel is grabbing you back, forcing you close to him, because he was pissed.

"you let him touch you...kiss you. after he touched and kissed someone else?" miguel's words are harsh and they bite at your heart.

your face has actually fallen to a scowl. "i again appreciate the concern, or whatever. but you have no place to say that."

you'd hugged a few times. that's it. miguel isn't blind to that fact. but he can't be blind to the one that is making him want to tear jessy to shreds. "maybe it's not. but i'm making it my place. because you aren't doing anything about it. you can't just let him touch you after—“

"he's touched someone else. yeah, i got it, miguel." you try to get out of his tight grip again, but to no avail. "miguel." you say harsher. because all this talk about jessy feeling up someone else is making your heart crack wide open, leaving tears to well in your eyes. you didn't want to cry.

crying would mean that the basin full of water would drain, leaving you to the dead carcasses of your reasonable thoughts. you don't think you could face yourself after seeing that.

"let. go." you say slowly, willing the frog in your throat to just hop away. miguel's grip only tightens, because he's noticing your glistening eyes, he's noticing your crumbling stature. and in all honesty he wants to catch you. this time be the one to comfort you.

so, he brings you closer, lifting your arms to wrap around his neck, as he engulfs your waist in a hug. and that's when you finally break, tears spilling as your hiccuped sniffles meet miguel's ears, only making him hold you tighter.

you were crying into his neck, that basin now draining as you tightened your hold around miguel like a lifeline. after a while miguel had begun whispering things in your ear, as you took note of the empty basin full of your dead reasonable thoughts. "you deserve so much better...he doesn't deserve any bit of you...por favor."

you had never heard miguel sounding so sincere...so vulnerable, even though you were the one crying. then his lips were grazing your ear, drawing you even closer if possible. "don't let him kiss you...don't let him...touch you..." and then as his hands had begun to find solace under your split suit by your hips, rubbing your warm skin, he whispered "...end it".

he had spoken all those dead thoughts of yours. given his own voice in turn for your faulty subconscious. he wanted you to listen to him, seeing your hesitance in leaving ejssy. through sniffles you say "i don't know...if i can..."

"why not?" miguel's tone had entirely softened, your breathing—even though shaky—still your breathing against his neck, calming him.

"i...don't know." you finally say. because you didn't. maybe in truth you felt you couldn't get much better. you didn't want to lose someone that had been so prominent in your life. and miguel seemed to read between the lines, or maybe you head said that out loud?

"you can get anyone...cariño...really anyone." miguel muttered, open mouth dragging close to your ear. "and i..." he drifts off, making you lean your head away, brushing your tear stained cheeks as you met his gaze. miguel tightened his hold around your waist, scared you were going to step farther away, and so he rushed the rest out. "i can be more prominent."

you stare at him, eyes widening a fraction. miguel licks his lips. "can...i be more prominent?"

your mouth is opening and closing. "prominent?" you ask, feeling stupid.

miguel actually feels nervous as he stares down at your slight red eyes and nose, his hand moving up to brush more tears away. "or be just...more."

"more?"

"mhm." miguel hums, the air feeling calmer. your muffled voices now gone in replace for miguel's. "please end it."

you gulp. miguel hasn't stopped caressing your face and waist, not until you agreed. maybe not even after that. "por favor...please."

then you found yourself nodding, and miguel doesn't think he's ever felt so...happy. In a very long time at least. and then he was drawing you back in, this time with his breath tickling your neck, his lips actually drawing in an almost kiss. "gracias, mi cariño....gracias.”

you had always liked his hugs. maybe they had brought you comfort too. maybe they give you more solace then you think you needed. and as miguel actually began to lift you, placing you on his desk, he found a new position, with your legs widened around his hips, his hands circled around your waist, his head in your neck, and the faint brush of his lips that you could quite possibly call a kiss.

more. this provided you two with more.

© messylustt.tumblr please don’t steal, copy or translate my work onto other platforms.

[mercurycft]

𝐘𝐎𝐔'𝐑𝐄 𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐋𝐋 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐎𝐍𝐄 - 𝐋.𝐖

## leah williamson/beth mead x teammate-(ex)reader !! MINIFIC

hi pookies!! i wrote this after watching love actually and I'm still fuming about the whole CD situation iykyk. this is roughly and loosely based on that scene, which is HEARTBREAKINGGGG. this kinda has a cringey ending but my little cringe heart loved it. thank you all for the love recently! i hope you're enjoying all the content. love always - RGx

1.8k words.

emotional. beth being the best best friend. talks of a break up. not proof read.

"you know we dont have to watch it, right?" beth spoke lowly and no louder than a whisper, breaking the silence that had stretched out between you both like a tightrope.

you allowed a small and meaningless smile to crack in the corner of your mouth for a beat as you took a sip of the tea in your hands, eyes still glued to the TV screen. only flicking to beth briefly and for less than a second - as if you were unable to bear the contact. "i know," you admitted. "i want to." you spoke with a fake conviction, leaning forward to lay your mug onto the coffee table.

you watched on in silence, heart hammering in your ears when leah finally came on screen. she looked good, and it pained you to realise. to realise that whilst you're at home, curled up on your sofa, she's out doing brilliant things. you watched as leah sat beside her piano teacher, who you recall fondly after spending many evenings in his company. leah's fingers danced over the piano keys, the camera zooming in to capture the intensity of her practice.

you tried to rid your mind of the hurt for a few minutes, attempting to squash them into microscopic parts of you. you could feel beth's eyes burning holes into the side of your head, but you didn't dare look away for even just a second. scared you would miss something important, or miss her on the screen.

you watched as she prepared for her performance and made her way towards the concert piano, you knew her well enough to tell how nervous she was - breathing uneasy and hands fidgety. the camera followed her every step, until she sat down and found her bearings. as the camera pulled out, you saw the full orchestra behind her, tuning their instruments. you watched on eagerly as the anticipation grew in the room, a storm of nerves brewing in the pit of your stomach.

there was a moment of silence from the tv, before you watched the conductor lift their arms and a chorus of instruments began to play - including leah. as they began to play, it was hard to ignore the hurt bubbling up and into your throat. as her keys fell in perfect unison with the accompanying music, it was like you had been transported back in time.

you can recall it as if it was yesterday - being back in her living room, watching her play it for the first time. she had looked up at you from her spot in front of the keyboard, eyes shy yet hopeful, asking if you liked it. "it's beautiful," you had said, not knowing then that it would become so much more.

leah's eyes remained on the keys as she played, her expression serene. her hair fell around her face like a curtain, obscuring her features slightly. the way it used to fall when you held her close, comforting her after a stressful lesson. it was a stark contrast to the sharpness of her posture now, the determination in her hands as they flew over the piano.

you felt the weight of the moment, the gravity of her talent. the sound of her playing filled the room, swelling like the crescendo of the symphony of your past. you could almost smell the scent of her shampoo, feel the warmth of her skin. your chest tightened and your eyes stung with unshed tears. but you didn't look away. you couldn't. because, as much as it hurt to admit, you were bursting with pride.

beth couldn't bring herself to speak, overly aware of the tears threatening to spill from your eyes. instead, she layed a hand gently and slowly onto the leg pressed close to hers. heaving a quiet sigh as she watched you break for the fifteenth time today.

as the final notes echoed through the speakers, you couldn't help but let out a breath you didn't know you were holding. leah's eyes finally lifted and she took in the applause, her face breaking into a smile that was so familiar and yet so foreign. your heart felt like it was in a vice, but you found yourself smiling back at her, even though she couldn't see you.

you felt beth's hand move to your shoulder, squeezing gently. "are you okay?" she asked. you nodded, not trusting your voice.

"yeah," you whispered back, "i'm okay." but you weren't. not really. you were just watching your past play out on live television, painfully reminded of what you could never get back.

the show continued, but you couldn't focus on anything else. the music had left a hollow space inside of you that only leah could fill. you looked at beth, her eyes filled with sympathy and something else. "you know it wasn't your fault, don't you?" she spoke softly.

"what?" you replied, trying to shake off the emotional fog that had enveloped you.

beth squeezed your shoulder again, "everything, i mean. she wasn't herself and she was angry at the world. she shouldn't have taken it out on you." her words stung to hear, but deep down you knew she was right. leah had always been driven, always been passionate about her career. it was one of the many things you loved about her. but seeing her up there, so poised and professional, compared to the person she was not even a month ago when things ended between you, was like watching a stranger.

you nodded, swiping at the tears that had escaped. "i know," you murmured. "but i can't help but feel like i just missed something. like i could've been there." beth didn't respond, she just held your hand, her thumb tracing circles on the back of it, offering silent comfort.

the applause from the audience on the telly grew louder as leah took her bow, her cheeks flushed with excitement. you felt a pang of jealousy, watching her revel in the moment, knowing that she has finally caught up with the feeling she had been chasing.

beth's grip on your hand tightened. "you know you can talk to me, right?" she said. her voice was gentle, like a soft summer breeze, trying to soothe the storm in your chest.

you nodded, "i know," you whispered. "but i don't know what to say. it's just…it's a lot." your voice cracked slightly, and you took a deep, shaky breath.

"it's alright to feel this way," beth assured you, her eyes never leaving yours. "you loved her, and she was a part of your life. it's natural to miss her when you see her doing something that makes her seem okay."

you tried to force back the tears that now are fighting for release, held back by nothing more than your waterline. it didn't take long until they began to litter your cheeks. "i miss her," you stammered through a small sob, collapsing into beth's chest as she stoked your back.

"i know." she whispered into your hair, gently rocking the pair of you back and fourth.

"she's still the one,"

[devildomwriter]

Toys In Every Store | Luke x Reader

1K+ words | GN! Reader | Familial/platonic relationship | CW: Absolutely none, I’m not a monster

Christmas tunes played over the speakers on the crowded snowy streets but the sounds of people bustling and cars honking nearly drowned it out.

You held Luke’s hand as you crossed the street, he was happily skipping and humming to himself.

He’d been overjoyed to be able to visit the human world with you and his excitement grew when he learned you’d be exploring the city during the Christmas season. Simeon thought this was a good idea. That way Luke could adjust to how humans celebrated Christmas—extremely commercialized.

Luke paused to point out every nativity scene he saw in the store windows or the lawn of the church in the middle of the city.

He skipped right along with your pace, not really caring to look around too much until he passed by a certain window and his eyes lit up. You felt resistance in your hand and stopped to see Luke glued to the store display.

It reminded you of the scene from Christmas Story. Propped against the back were Nerf guns, teddy bears, and toy soldiers. A train rode through everything with fake steam coming from the top of it.

Luke was far from the only child looking at it but he was certainly the most behaved as the other children flailed to stay longer or whined that they had to have that toy.

Luke gave you a hopeful look and you chuckled, “Wanna check out the store?” You suggested

Luke nodded eagerly, “Can we!?”

You nodded too and he jumped for joy as you waited for people to finish exiting the store so you could both slip in.

Luke let out an audible gasp as he took in his surroundings. You put your ear mits back on to block out the more annoying sounds in the store like screaming kids who didn’t get what they wanted.

Luke looked distressed at the children’s upset and gave them a bright smile which seemed to instantly calm them down. The parent with the upset toddler was so surprised at the sudden change from aggrieved to giggling that she turned right around to see Luke smiling and profusely thanked him.

Luke was embarrassed and hid behind you.

“You’re a good parent,” she told you with a grin. “He’s so well-mannered.”

You and Luke turned red and you mumbled words of thanks as Luke dragged you by the hand to the toy aisle.

You couldn’t wait to tell Simeon that Luke had been mistaken as your child. You couldn’t tell if the blush that stayed on Luke’s cheeks was from embarrassment or happiness. After all, Luke was actually your self-appointed guardian angel. Though he may be young he was often much wiser than you. You had Simeon’s guidance to thank for that.

You watched Luke examine the Brio Trains, Nerf Guns, teddy bears larger than the both of you, pottery sets, and mystery hatchimals.

“What are these?” He asked you holding a hatchimal proudly above his head.

“A stuffed animal,” you explained and he frowned.

“It doesn’t hatch into a real animal?” He asked and you nodded.

“This isn’t the Devildom, magic animals don’t live in the human world.”

“Unicorns do!”

“Wait what?”

Luke did not answer you as he was distracted by the remote-controlled Mario cars that looked similar to the ones in the game he always played with Levi.

“Want it?” You asked him after he held it for a while, the excited glimmer in his eyes not fading.

He gasped and looked at you. “You mean it!? Can I? It’s so expensive though!” He admitted and you realized it was nearly 100 USD and swallowed your words of regret.

You smiled instead and nodded and he cheered, “Thank you! Thank you! Thank you! You’re the best ___! An angel!” He exclaimed and you blushed as some parents looked at you, curious.

“Yeah, yeah,” you said quickly hoping he’d calm down.

You reached for a second car and grinned, “you’ll need someone to race against, won’t you?”

Luke cheered even more loudly. “I can’t wait! This is the best day ever! You’re the best ___!”

You shushed him embarrassed as he gave you a big hug. You carried the two cars to the checkout line. The poor cashier was overwhelmed as the lines reminded you of Disney and there were just two of them able to check people out.

When it was finally your turn Luke tried to pay with some of his allowance but you snatched it right back and handed over your card.

Luke pouted at not being allowed to help you when you were already being so generous but he quickly got over it when you handed him his car.

Luke grinned brightly the rest of the day and his allowance instead quickly disappeared into a donation bin guarded by a very grateful Santa.

When you finally returned home to Purgatory Hall Luke immediately showed Solomon, Taphale, and Simeon what you had both gotten and Simeon smiled and thanked you.

“Who are you going to race first?” Raphael asked looking at the cars.

“___! They got them for me after all! I want them to do the honors.”

Solomon chuckled at his cute response. “These are good quality. Let me know if they die quickly or not, I can just enchant them to keep running.”

Raphael gave him a side eye, worried about what such an enchantment would really do as these things easily gained sentience and went off the rails.

Simeon handed everyone food and said the blessing. As you sat there eating an idea popped into your head and you smiled widely enough that the others noticed.

“So, Simeon. Can I take your other kid out shopping too?”

Simeon raised an eyebrow, “pardon? My other kid?”

Solomon snorted so hard a noodle shot out his nose as he immediately realized who you meant.

“Yeah, Raphael.”

Raphael glared at you as Simeon nodded. “Yes. I’ll spare some change for you, I’m sure he’d love a Nerf gun or race car.”

“Ugh, spare me,” Raphael grumbled as Luke laughed.

It was a good end to a great day.

[hipsdofangirl]

lucky numbers

time/dimension traveler! seungcheol x reader

summary: you work as a gas station attendant and cover your coworker’s night shift.

genre: lowkey crack fic or premise, sci-fi mixed with modern au, kind of deep themes mentioned, angst end, implied fem reader but can be gender neutral, lowercase intended

notes: i forget how some aspects of the lottery works just bear with me—. not proofread as always

wc: 2.9k

you’re not sure if this was worth it. you’ve seen the video games, the movies, the tv shows, and hell even the news; working, by yourself, at your small town’s local gas station is foreshadowing trouble. unfortunately, the only sound besides the late-night radio station is the tv with static crackling your eardrums.

sitting at the counter, you glance at the clock’s hands, seeing only an hour has passed since you started your shift.

you scratch your scalp out of disbelief of your character: a people-pleaser who can only hope the frat guy you exchanged shifts with will follow through when you are in need.

the tv static scratches your ears, your fingers move to cover and rub the flabby lobes as if it will heal them.

you glance around wearily, before bending over, using the crappy metal swivel chair as balance, to pick up a remote that lays under the counter. without looking above, you aim the remote upwards and turn it off, static fizzling into the air.

you let out a sigh of relief for your eardrums and sanity. you set down the remote and angle it back as if it looks like you never touched it. then, you lift your body up to sit on the chair once again, and slouch.

your eyes flicker over the clock, seeing not even 10 minutes have passed since you last checked. you look outside the windows, scanning the pothole infested pavement for any customers or potential perpetrators.

with nothing in site, you swivel off the chair and walk into the workers-only side room, which is also behind the counter.

you sit down at the desk, staring at your reflection on the black screen. with a purse of your lips, you push the button on the side to turn it on. the machine is advertised as being a ‘fast actor’ for its generation, but you pray it can improve. your nails methodically tap the desk in a rhythm as you wait.

you observe the break room, peering into the women’s bathroom. since you were the only one working till morning, you just left it open in case of an emergency.

four separate screens then emerge on the single monitor, positioned for maximum security.

a white light—brighter than the fake LED ones—zaps across the screen.

you raise your brows in confusion; as out of the corner of your eye, you were able to see the store counter. you saw no ‘zapping’.

the machine then goes back to normal—or at least what it looked like when your boss showed you how to use it.

then you hear it: rustling as if a raccoon broke into your trash and words being whispered.

you freeze. how the hell did someone get in without you knowing? it hasn’t been that long since you left the front counter and even if it had the security cameras would have shown it right?

you go to push yourself up when your mind begins playing possible tricks on you: what if it’s not a customer? the noises sound very close to the register. why would they be quiet if their frantic muttering admits they have some level of anger issues? what if it’s a burglar?

slowly, arms frozen in midair as if once you rest onto something everything will collapse, you turn in the chair as much as you can. carefully, and in tune with the fight or flight senses, you stand up, the chair creeks a tiny bit and you pause in a squat stance.

the rustling still persists. you take this as a sign that you are still clear. leaning on the locker, your fingers curl around the handle of a metal bat your boss praises for its good luck it brought him; if only it can bring you luck now.

you tip toe your way to the doorway, slowly peeking out from behind the halfway closed door.

your suspicions were somewhat accurate: someone was and is up at front counter and spitting words at himself. at the same time, his fingers flick through slips of lottery tickets; after a few slips, he runs his thumb under his tongue for a better grip before continuing his search.

your hold on the bat doesn’t drop it but you don’t tighten it either.

instead, you push open the side door with a creek. “what are you doing?”

the man’s eyes widen as he snaps his attention toward you.

you then get a better look at the built man. you squint your eyes at his creamsicle colored hair and weird clothing.

the man goes to open his mouth but you interrupt him. “you know what. whatever ritual you seem fit, i do not judge.”

he closes his mouth, and you notice his eyes narrowed in guilt or distrust. you follow his eyes to your own hand. you look back up at him and walk back towards your chair, bat dragging across the floor; your boss is going to kill you when he finds the scrape marks on the floor and bat, you could only hope this hot stranger might get you first. if you were going to die might as well go out looking all cool.

as you sit, basically in front of him, he man huffs and scans over the available selections’ pictures. his arms tense and you observe the prominent veins in his arms bulge.

immediately going into work mode and therefore relaxing (out of sleep deprivation you don’t quite understand), you use your free hand to point to the options. “lately this brand hasn’t been in the news at all for any jackpot earnings across the state, so if i were you, i would pick this one.”

he grumbles under his breath and waves you off. instead, he goes the brand you wouldn’t pick at all.

you wince at his standoffish-ness and choice. “i don’t know about that brand, sir. that one just had a massive winning so it’s unlikely—“

“17 08 04 30 95,” he interrupts, still scrounging through the stack.

you blink and stare at him. “excuse me?”

“you’re excused.” he smirks and laughs to himself, appearing proud of his comeback.

your chin drops down in bewilderment and in subtle offense. his laughter dies off awkwardly as he glances at your lackluster reaction.

he clears his throat. “sorry.”

you tap your fingers on the edge of the bat’s handle, dipping your head down and finding more appreciation to your decaying shoes. you can’t wait for this jerk-wad to leave.

you can feel his eyes glance over at your form frequently.

he clears his throat again. you don’t give him attention. it’s too late—or well early for this—and his attitude dampened your mood.

he softly talks, “those are the numbers i’m looking for.”

you turn your head so only one of your eyes can watch him.

“lucky numbers or something? that’s a lot of them and i doubt all of them would be there,” you sluggishly replied.

he lets out a sigh and rests his hands on the counter, leaning into your space a bit. “it’s..complicated. i need to buy that one before someone else does.”

you glance at the clock, seemingly no time has moved since you last took note of the hands.

you raise your brow, subconsciously leaning closer to him. you feel your cheeks become warmer—from his breath and the proximity.

your own sigh melts into his. “tomorrow, we are supposed to put out the recent shipment…” his polished brown eyes meet yours with a gaze you can’t understand at the moment. you hesitate, “i can grab out the brand you want and maybe—just maybe it’s there somewhere.”

he whispers, a plea embedded within, “that would be lovely.”

you whisper back, “okay.”

you back up from him to stand up, just processing that during this conversation you began to turn the circular metal through your fingers.

before you can enter the worker’s room, you glance at the ceiling corner, waiting for the blinking red light on the camera to blink in. it never did.

you saunter through the worker’s room with shaking hands. your mind fumbles through what the actual hell just happened.

a hot guy appears in the connivence store at odd hours in the morning and doesn’t seem to be a druggie with those types of clothes—in fact you can’t even imagine where those clothes would have came from. the man is rapidly searching through a specific brand of lottery tickets and only looking certain numbers in a certain order.

you don’t even realize you’re grabbing the box with the latest shipment.

and why are you so willing to help him? out of fear, arousal, drowsiness, or familiarity?

you briskly walk back to him, not noticing a blinking red light perpetually turned on in the women’s bathroom.

you enter the front to see the guy pacing towards the front doors, scanning outside and talking to something on his shoulder.

“here it is.” you toss the box lightly on the counter.

the loud noise causes the man to jump, his arms flexing to protect himself as he makes himself somewhat smaller.

you laugh at the sight: a grown buff man being scared from a loud noise. you glance into the dark tree-line, realizing that he still is a person.

you cover your mouth with your hand, hiding a soft smile. “i’m sorry about that.”

he straightens up and presses his head into his shoulder, saying something you can’t quite distinguish before strolling back over to you.

he runs his fingers through his hair, dissipating the small pout that previously formed.

“a rough night—“ he meets your disheveled gaze, “for both of us it seems.”

you blow air through your nose. “don’t even get me started.”

he laughs, peeks of his gums entering your sight, causing your smile to widen a bit more.

he then gestures towards the taped box. “can you or do you want me to?”

“oh! no, no i got this! i would be buried even further if i let you open this along with getting access to it,” you ramble.

you grab an army knife that rested under the counter and flick it open. the man’s eyes widen in awe as he watches you slice open the tape along its crease.

you flick the blade back into place and set it on the doubter to your side as you peel back the cardboard lid, the man hovering over it as well. holding your breath, the sight of many slips you expected to be there cause you to release it. unknowingly, leading to your head bumping against the man’s.

you both reel back, touching your foreheads in sync as you both apologize.

you then apprehensively look at one another, gesturing to dig their hands in first: he won. rolling your eyes, you fingers stretch to grasp as many lottery tickets as you can. you take the bundle out of the box and set it to the side, gearing up for another pickup as you watch the man’s arms flex once again as he picked up his own stack.

“what were the numbers again?” you ask, ready to help him search.

the man blinks. “you don’t have to help out, i’m just glad you were able to find these for me.”

you wave him off with a laugh. “it benefits me so i can possibly stay at this piece of shit job for longer.”

his eyes gloss over and he purses his lips. “why do you stay here?”

you flick through the slips—not telling him you remember some of the numbers and not wanting to seem like a creep. “i can’t apply to any other job right now. this place doesn’t even cover my rent and i want to walk out here at any moment—“

“but you can’t bring yourself to? scared of the unknown?” he interrupts.

you hum. “maybe,. well i don’t think so.”

his eyes watch over your form as he pauses in his own search. “let me rephrase that. scared of the unknown and possibly leading to being seen as a disappointment?”

you pout your lips. “17 08 04..?”

his eyes still look for continuation of the conversation, but your shut down prompts him to go along by your rules.

“does it have 30 and 95 at the end?” he inquires.

your brows furrow. “oh my god.” you flip the side over to him. “your entourage of lucky numbers actually came up!” you chuckle out of disbelief.

his eyes narrow in light anger. “i don’t have that many lucky numbers.”

you chuckle at his reaction and hand him the slip.

he scans the lottery ticket—front and back. “yep!” he pops the ‘p’.

your shoulders sag in relief. “i—wow i can’t believe they actually came up.”

he hums, still observing the ticket. “i knew it would, you still have the magical touch, (name).”

you laugh at his proclamation before stopping. you don’t wear name badges.

you clear your throat. “so what did you say your name was? since we went through this emotional moment together.”

his arm slowly drops down to the counter. that once expression-ate smile fades into a solemn one.

“se—sebastian,” he answers after a moment, not meeting your gaze.

you know he is lying, but you can’t bring yourself to say anything. he slides over the lottery ticket to you.

“write your name and turn it in first thing in the morning, okay?” he asks, that pleading undertone returns.

out of awkwardness of the situation and now wanting to be as far away from him as possible, you can only nod. you bite your lip.

out of spite, something does escape your lips. “can’t put your real name, sebastian?”

he sighs and tilts his head down, not meeting your gaze. “i’m already putting you into so much trouble by being next to you. i can’t let them hurt you even more. just trust me.”

for some reason, your eyelashes feel damp.

you whisper, “i’ll trust you.” you languidly clasp the lottery ticket, waiting for him to reach his hand out and clasp yours. he doesn’t.

he glances around, never looking at you. “sorry about the mess you’ll have to clean up…and i’m sorry. take this money and quit right now.” you wonder if he is crying as he rubs his cheeks with his arm. “that boss of yours is a piece of shit.”

you hug the slip, daring it not to be soaked with your tears.

the camera’s red light blinks on.

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turns out, that ticket was the jackpot winner: a whole 970 million dollars.

you didn’t think much when you turned it in. hell, you didn’t think much when you grabbed all your things and left the gas station in the middle of your shift. your boss called many times, berating you for leaving and threatening to ruin your life.

somehow, a few days later, the scheme of him installing and spying on the girls in their bathroom was revealed. when you watched the news segment on it—on the brand new tv you bought—it appeared to have been hidden in a spot you don’t even recognize; only someone who knew this was going to happen could have figured it out (obviously..).

you think back to that man every now and then. eventually, you believe you conjured him up and that the whole scenario was a dream or premonition; that theory doesn’t go far as you did win the lottery against all odds.

this reminds you of when you were retelling this dream to your friend, they brought up how you might have found a time or dimension traveler; since, according to them, lotteries are just a scheme to expose them.

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“yah..that was really risky coupsie,” jeonghan mumbles under his jacket, covering his mouth to shield him from the cold.

scoups—or rather sebastian or seungcheol—kicks a pebble for some form of control.

“you told me that we didn’t need to let that lottery ticket fall into that asshole’s hands, and i didn’t,” seungcheol retorts.

jeonghan sighs, a puff of air flowing through the fabric. “yes, that was the mission. but you just had to see your partner—or well this universe’s version of them.”

seungcheol scoffs. “like you weren’t the one that redirected the shipment to their workplace.”

jeonghan giggles with a smirk, face molding into his chest as far as it can. “that wasn’t me. that was shuji—“

“don’t bring me into this.” joshua walks past the open doorway where the other oldest are conversing.

jeonghan clicks his tongue.

the second oldest now directs his attention to his friend. “well now you are their dream man, maybe when this universe’s version of you runs into them, something of recognition will spark.”

seungcheol looks away. “yeah recognition of fear and anger.” he rubs his temples, squeezing his eyes shut. “ahh, i can’t even think of this universe’s-me getting his shit beat out of him for something i did.”

jeonghan points out, “they never seem to have a mean bone in their body.”

seungcheol laughs. “this one does—i can tell when they hide it. it’s always the same habit of fiddling with something. i thought they were gonna snap when they brought out the baseball bat.”

jeonghan laughs and claps his sweater paws. “that was hilarious! i’ve never seen hoshi turn that pale when he tuned in when a loud slam reverberated through his ear piece!”

seungcheol cannot hide his proud smirk. “someone needed to give them a push—even if my life is at stake.”

the two travelers laugh together.

jeonghan’s smile softens toward his friend.

seungcheol continues, “if i can make this one’s life a little easier, i’ll do anything.”

a/n: remembered the whole tumblr post about the conspiracy about lotteries being traps for time travelers and had to write something. also mainly for @jcxbliss cause how they have been having a rough time at work.

also another scoups fic returns after i reached 2.5k likes?!??

as sad yet hopeful as the ending sounds, i hope this did make you feel better or cathartically worse. i did write this in two hours LOLOL

anyways have a good day/night! 🫶🫶

[tomriddleslove]

Pt 2 - The one that you want.

✩Theodore Nott x Reader

Pt 2 to Hey, trouble (DELETED)

Summary: The one where just as things are beginning to look up, everything comes crashing down. Alternatively: Tension, Fluff, Angst.

A/N: This fic was written very sleep deprived so I ask you to bear with me. The second part is my favourite so just stick with it.

Songs: The Way - Mac Miller, Ariana Grande

Lover, you should have come over - Jeff Buckley

Promise - Laufey

NOTE: I accidentally deleted my account and did not have the first part of this mini series saved! I will probably rewrite it but there is some context you should know, so i’ll try summarise it as concisely as possible:

You and Theodore used to be really good friends when you first joined Hogwarts. Naturally, as you both got older, you changed slightly. Theodore came back one summer and he seemed completely different, he was not only incredibly handsome but he had generally flourished as a person. The girls all loved him and he found a new set of friends, essentially forgetting about you. Time skip a few years and you become friends with Pansy, and the rest of the group. Theodore greets you as though nothing has changed. You habour a lot of resentment to him initially, but realise you really do love chilling with the group and so you set it to the side. In the fic, you’re at a party and you head up to the roof. Theodore appears and you chat for the first time in ages. It gets a bit tense when you subtly call him out but you try brush it off as a joke. He noticed you at their quidditch practice earlier on in the day with mattheos number painted on your face, and he sounds a bit jealous. You assure him it was only for jokes, though you’re confused as to why he’d be upset. Theodore (internally ) alludes to loving you and you’re both emotionally stunted idiots in love.

AND that brings us back to now. Enjoy xx

Friday had finally come, and you couldn't think of a word that could place just how relieved you were feeling. Don't get it wrong, you hugely valued your education, and took pride in working hard, but at the end of the day, there's only so much history of magic one could tolerate before their brain tuned out. The surprise quiz you took in class today told you that you had reached that point many months ago. But it was ok, that was an issue for the future.

You click open the door to your dorm room, tossing your bag haphazardly to the side as you undo your tie, pulling it loose with a groan of relief. Pansy is sprawled out comfortably on your bed because apparently, yours was comfier (they were the exact same thing, she just couldn't be bothered to make hers in the morning.)

You flick a strand of hair that fell in front of your face with a dramatic sigh as you flop down onto the bed, lying perpendicular to Pansy as you rest your head on her lap. She has a half smile of amusement as her hand comes down to pat your head, eyes trained on her book. You raise a brow and shuffle up slightly to catch a glimpse of what she was reading.

You see the word ‘shaft’ once and that's all you need to see as you gasp with fake indignation.

“Pansy… Whilst I'm sitting here?” You groan and she grins, her face slightly red as she shrugs, shameless.

I mean, come on. You weren't a stranger to smut, but right in front of you? You grab the book from her hand and toss it across the room.

“None of that whilst I'm here. Your amazing and beautiful friend is vying for attention so focus on me.’ You say and she playfully rolls her eyes as she lies back on her bed.

“It's disgustingly hot. I can't be bothered for this year anymore. The days are as hot as hell depths and the evening has me freezing my nonexistent balls off.” Pansy moans, and you hum in agreement.

You’re grateful for your friend and her seemingly never-ending talent of speaking because you currently couldn't even muster the energy to speak.

“Do we have to go watch the boys today? Lila told me Madam Pince has charmed the library with a cooling spell. We could go there instead.” Pansy says, sitting up, and the idea is incredibly tempting. You live for nothing more than to get out of this dastardly heat, especially in the comfort of the library (Pansy and yourself had mastered the art of smuggling snacks in. The key was in making sure you triple-checked what you bought in, which you learnt after Pansy had accidentally sat on a Fizzlebees Exploding Sherbet last winter. The poor 1st year who had sat next to you was sure that there was some kind of attack and leapt under the nearest table.)

The mention of practice has your mind thinking back to your most recent encounter with Theodore. Just thinking about it again elicited that strange feeling in your stomach. You were, perhaps, close to a path of redemption (though it was more Theodore redeeming himself.)

With a sigh, you shake your head.

“We promised them we'd come. Besides, imagine the absolute havoc Mattheo will cause when he finds out we ditched for the library of all places. He would get us banned for a month, at the very least.” You say, and Pansy grumbles but ultimately knows you’re right. She sighs, muttering.

“Yes yes, I suppose you're right.” She begrudgingly admits and you grin, sitting up. You walk over to your closet, looking for something else to wear as you felt as though you were positively melting in your uniform. You flick through your closet, cursing the endless void that conveniently was full of sweaters and thick jumpers now summer has come. You dig around and find a pair of black denim shorts towards the back. You don't even know when you got them, but they fit and they'll do the job. You're thankful for the fact that you love the feeling of freshly shaven legs on your bedsheets, because heaven knows you would not bother to shave your legs for a man. You manage to find a green shirt, and you slip it on. It's nothing special really, but you weren't dressing up for anyone. You were long past those days now, you found that it was lovely not giving two shits. Pansy called it alarming, but you liked to think of it as… eclectic.

Pansy brings over her signature red lipstick (which you're sure only she can pull off) and holds your cheek in place to draw a number 10 on it, as standard practice. You reach up to grab her hand.

“Wait. Do 7 instead.” You say. She widens her eyes slightly and wiggles her brows as she looks at you.

“Oh? And why is that?” She probes and you playfully swat her, rolling your eyes.

“Theodore just asked me to. Besides we shouldn't inflate Mattheo's ego too much.” You respond a bit too quickly, and she has a shit-eating grin on her face. Pansy knows you well though, and she knows probing any further will only give her a stinging hex and nothing more, so she simply looks at you with a pointed look as she draws the 7 on instead. You watch as she traces the number 7 on her face too, adjusting her hair as she pouts and blows a kiss at herself in the mirror. You pointedly roll your eyes to tease her and she throws a pillow at you.

“Alright alright, you humble lady. Let's go.” You muse, holding your arm out. The two of you link arms as you descend down to the quidditch pitch. The sun is shining blazing down on you, and you feel uncomfortably hot and sticky within a few seconds of being outside. You truly weren't built for warm weather.

The grass on the pitch is a beautiful rich green and the sky is so picturesquely blue that it seems more like a postcard as opposed to real life. You imagine that this must be their favourite season; you had entertained the idea of watching one match in the winter season and immediately stopped after a gust of wind sent a bird flying into the girl sitting above you (You were sure it had given her that scratch on her cheek.) You couldn't cope with watching a match in such harsh weather, and you couldn't even begin to imagine how it must be to play in such conditions.

Idiots, really. They brought it on themselves. They definitely came to that realisation when they would be dragged out of bed at 5:00 am to go play in the freezing cold whilst you remained blissfully asleep under your warm covers.

You clamber up the stairs of the stands and curse under your breath. For all the beauty and wonders the wizarding world had, was it really that damn hard to have a few escalators here and there? You wanted to watch a practice game, not train to have the thighs of Hercules. You finally reach the top and shimmy down the benches with Pansy, leaning against the railing, The team was already up in the air, circling around whilst tossing the ball to one another. For all the grace and elegance Draco exuded on the ground, you couldn’t help but snicker when you catch the sight of him looking like he had slathered himself in red paint, all sweaty and grimacing; strands of his blonde hair clinging to his face.

“You alright up there Draco? Mummy forget to send you some sun cream?” You call out teasingly, and he sneers at you as Mattheo cackles, swooping down on his broom to greet you and Pansy.

“There they are!” Blaise says, a small grin on his face as he flies down to your level, joining Mattheo. You don’t even have the time to greet him because a loud gasp escapes Mattheo's lips, his hand coming out to grip your chin, tilting your face to the side.

“Traitors!” Mattheo says, eyes flickering between Pansy and yourself. You can't keep the grin off your face as you pry your face out of Mattheo's hands.

“Oh come on Mattheo. We love you all equally and need to express that love as such.” Pansy drawls, a taunting grin on her face.

“Fuck off, I'm the only important one,” Mattheo responds, puffing out his chest as he points to himself.

Blaise has to hold back from rolling his eyes, looking over at you exasperatedly. You exchange a glance with him and you feel your lips curl up into a small smile as you stifle a laugh.

“This was your doing! What did you do to them? Now I'm going to play like shit!” Mattheo whines, as he turns to look up at Theodore.

Theodore.

Your eyes flicker up and sure enough there he is. And god, how dare he look so good in this disgusting heat. His eyes are (and you have the feeling they were like that for quite a bit) trained on you, an unreadable expression on his face. He keeps his gaze on you, and you're sure at that moment he was trying to seduce your soul or play some stupid kind of mind tricks on you to have you thinking of him all day (it was working.)

His lips curl up into that godforsaken smile that borders on a smug little smirk. It has you embarrassingly weak in the knees and suddenly you're very glad it's hot, for you could blame your red cheeks on the heat. He flies down, tearing his gaze away from you as he comes close to Mattheo.

“Come on Mattheo, I’ve got an audience so I need to make sure I beat you embarrassingly quickly today,” Theodore says, egging his friend on.

“Yeah fucking right,” Mattheo says, turning to Theodore as the two engage in the most awful, embarrassing trash talk. You and Pansy exchange a glance and the two of you side-eye them with disdain.

The simple mind of boys managed to amaze you every time. Their attention span was impressively short.

Proving your point, Mattheo flies up to poke fun at Draco and Lorenzo, who both didn't seem to be holding up too well with the heat. You lean your elbows on the railing and stiffen slightly when Theodore flies up next to you. He hovers on his broom mid-air, resting his elbow on the railing in front of you. His face is incredibly close to yours, analysing your face with those sinful eyes of him which should be illegal because

Fuck, you were deprived.

“You wore it.” He says, and he sounds oddly breathless. You were assured by Blaise mere minutes ago that they had barely started practising.

Why did it seem so hard to speak? Why did Theodore seem so surprised? Why did you feel so bashful?

“You asked.” You respond, and his eyes search yours for a second before a smile tugs at his lips. His hand reaches out to cup your face, tilting it to the side as he looks at the 7 on your cheek.

Was this all it took for Theodore to touch you?

You’d have to start drawing 7 everywhere.

His fingers brush against your jaw, and you let out a shaky breath as his thumb runs along your cheek.

His touch leaves a fiery trail in its wake, and you are sure he has to be doing some sort of nonverbal magic because you feel as though you are going crazy. You resist the urge to let your eyes flutter shut because Theodore Nott simply has that effect.

He turns your head back and you stare at one another for a second more before he pulls back, and your mouth feels awfully dry.

“Mattheo smudged it.” He says, and his voice sounds slightly strained as he says so. You can't keep the corners of your lips from lifting slightly as you nod.

“Right.” You breathe out, looking at him. He grins, and this time you have to be sure you have not secured yourself a one-way ticket to the Janus Thickey Ward of St Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, because you swear his eyes flicker down to your lips for a brief second before he leans back like he's been forced to do so, wordlessly looking at you once more before he grips the broom with one hand, effortlessly flying up to start practice.

You don’t even have the time to process whatever that was because your ever-eloquent and insightful friend speaks the very thoughts running through your head.

“What in the ever-loving fuck was that?” Pansy utters, eyes wide as she stares at the spot where Theodore was standing.

Amen to that, Pansy. What in the ever-loving fuck was that?

Your hand hovers over your cheek, ghosting over the place Theodore had just touched.

You part your lips to say something, but can't even formulate the words, and Pansy recognises that.

“Holy Shit! He- That-” She says, hands grabbing your shoulders as she shakes you. You're ashamed to say you needed it because you were sure you were dreaming.

“What's going on between you two? First, you’re wearing his number to the match. Then he's practically eye fucking you and you're both literally about to make out.” Pansy babbles and you roll your eyes at her dramatics.

“Oh calm down, Pansy. He barely looked at me, and he was just fixing it because Mattheo had smudged it. There's nothing going on.” She says and Pansy narrows her eyes.

“Oh yes, and I’m fucking straight. We both know that's a lie.” She deadpans, and you shake your head with an exasperated smile.

You couldn't tell whether you wanted to crack up with laughter or strangle the shit out of her. With Pansy, the line blurred more often than not. It’s why you loved her so dearly.

“Genuinely Pansy, nothing’s going on between Theodore and me. We used to be really good friends. That's all.” You say, with a tone of finality. She sighs, mumbling under her breath.

“….Painfully obvious”

“Both know that's a lie…..”

“Hopeless idiot…”

You shoot her a glare at her mumbling and she returns the sentiment with a pointed smile, enough to make you roll your eyes with amusement. You rest your head on her shoulder as the two of you watch the match.

The day Theodore had walked past you like you simply didn't exist was the day you swore to yourself you'd never, EVER, let yourself be good friends with him again. You stuck to your word always, yet this was proving to be one time where you didn't.

You prayed you wouldn't regret this, but alas, the universe is cruel at times.

The news of Draco’s father cancelling their annual summer holiday trip came surprisingly as great news to your groups as you all lounged in the library (which was as packed as it had ever been thanks to Madam Pince’s cooling charm. You all begged her to teach you the spell but she refused, and you were sure she kept it hidden to make sure people came to the library. Luckily for the group, you were one of the most conscientious students in your year, so you'd all get away with things due to the teachers favouring you greatly. A few other groups were kicked out immediately.)You all sat in a cosy arrangement in the far back end of the library. Pansy sat on the floor beside you, whilst you lounged in an armchair, feet thrown over one arm. Blaise sat on the other arm of the chair, with Draco and Theodore sitting opposite you. Between the armchair and sofa facing one another was a third sofa and a small round table. Mattheo and Lorenzo sat on that third sofa. Lorenzo stretches, sprawled out as he props his feet up on the table. You reach out and slap him with the book you were reading, and he cowers sheepishly as he puts his feet down.

“I was looking forward to summer in Versailles,” Draco complains, and you sigh. Would be nice to be able to go on such trips.

“Actually…” Pansy says, sitting up as though she’s just had an idea. Knowing your friend, you can't help but feel terrified about what's about to come out of her mouth.

“My parents have a beautiful holiday home down in France and they're going to Australia this year, so it's not being used. Why don't we all spend a week there?” Pansy says.

It's actually a very clever Idea, and a chorus of murmurs of agreement and nods echo throughout the group.

“That actually sounds good” Lorenzo says, and Blaise hums in agreement.

“I have family who live in France so they could sort out travel for us when we are there. I'm sure I can go.” Baise says and Pansy claps her hands excitedly, rubbing them together like some kind of evil genius (sometimes you were sure she was.)

“Draco, Theo?” Pansy says, and the mention of Theo's name has your eyes flickering up from your book. He's looking at you but the second your eyes meet he quickly looks at Pansy and nods, clearing his throat.

“Huh? Oh, uh- yeah.Sounds good.” He says. You lightly smile to yourself as you look down at your book.

“ I suppose I’ll tolerate it.” Draco sighs, and a chorus of groans escapes the group at his melodramatic behaviour.

“Oh piss off Draco, just admit you like us,” Mattheo says and Draco scoffs.

The boys very quickly once again get into a semi-play fight, and a stern hush from Madam Pince as she glares at the group of you sends them both sheepishly quiet. She walks away and it’s your turn to glare at the two boys.

“She may like me now, but if you two don't shut up she sure as fuck won't, and ill set your robes on fire if you force me to get through the summer whilst being banned from the library.” You spit, scolding them.

Mattheo and Draco both look down like children being chastised and Blaise has to hide his amusement as he nudges your shoulder, getting up.

“Right well, that's our cue to leave anyway. Have the real match tomorrow so we need an early night.” Blaise says. One by one everyone gets up, Pansy pushing off the floor with a sigh as she dusts down her skirt.

She turns to you, raising a brow.

“You coming?” She asks, holding a hand out and you look up, shaking your head.

“Nah. Gonna stay here for a while. Finish reading this.” You say, holding up your book with a weak smile. Pansy shakes her head with a smile, ruffling your hair (much to your dismay).

“My little neek. Have fun!” She says, and you flip her off at the comment. She grins, blowing a fake kiss back at you as she manoeuvres past the wooden bookshelves and out of the library.

You sigh and feel as though you're sinking further into the plush armchair, a pillow held to your chest as you read your book. Everything about the library was so pleasantly calming. The dim lights that cast dancing shadows of the book spines across the wall. The bibliosmia that you inhaled deeply as you lay for what felt like hours, reading whatever you could get your hands on. You’re so caught up in the allure of the library (Pansy might have a point, you definitely were a neek), that you don't even notice the presence of someone coming to sit down on the sofa next to you until the sound of the leather cushions sagging under weight draws your attention up from the pages of the book.

Seriously? Were you actually that oblivious? It was extremely alarming if you were.

You look up and see Theodore moving to take a seat on the sofa next to you. He stretches out his legs, his large frame suddenly making the space seem a lot smaller.

“Hey.” He says, and your lips quirk up in a smile as you speak.

“Hey,” You respond, folding the corner of your book.

“What are you reading?” Theodore asks, and you raise a brow.

Did he really have an interest in the book you were reading? A few years ago the Theodore you knew would never touch a book (though he would listen to you ramble on about them for an hour.)

But Theodore has changed, And so have you. He’s no longer the Theodore you knew, and the reminder turns the feeling in your stomach unpleasant.

You hold up your book, weakly smiling as you show him the cover. It was rather beaten and bruised, but you had owned this copy since your first year. You’ve reread it more times than you can count.

“Little women,” Theodore says, a small smile of recognition on his face. He remembered you, always walking around with that book. Theodore couldn’t comprehend what half the words in the book meant, but he remembered hearing you talk about it and thinking you were truly the most incredible person he had ever met.

That hadn't really changed.

“Mhmm. Must be my 5th time rereading it this year.” You say, with a small smile, and Theodore lets out a low laugh.

He's looking down at the table, and you admire the way the dim light dances along his features, making them look surprisingly soft.

“Love Jo all your days, if you choose, but don't let it spoil you, for it's wicked to throw away so many good gifts…” Theodore starts, gaze trained ahead.

“......because you can't have the one you want” You finish, quietly.

Theodore's gaze drops to his hands, fiddling with the threads on his bag. The air is thick with unspoken words. A quiet dance of regrets lingers in the spaces between your words.

"Little Women," Theodore repeats, his fingers tracing the zip on his bag. "I remember how you used to quote passages from that book like they were sacred verses. It was almost like a religion for you."

You can sense the undertone in his words—the acknowledgement of a shared past that now exists as a distant echo.

The silence that follows hangs heavy.

You shift uncomfortably in your seat, the worn pages of the book suddenly feeling like a fragile shield against the currents of emotion. Theodore's eyes, once familiar and comforting, now carry a hint of regret and a touch of something unsaid.

"Jo March was always your favourite," he continues, his voice soft, almost hesitant.

“Still is,” you say, and he nods, looking up at you. His smile is tight-lipped, and you fight the urge to reach forward and massage the furrow of his brow. He reaches into the side pocket of his bag, pulling out a book.

Little women.

You frown as you take the copy from him, flicking through it. There are scribbles and annotations all over the pages.

You hate the way you instantly recognise his handwriting - another testament as to how Theodore was weaved into everything you did.

Theodore takes the book back, his fingers lingering on the worn cover. He opens the book, thumbing through the pages, his eyes fixing on the annotations.

"I've been reading it," he admits, his voice a low murmur. "Annotating it. I wanted to see it through your eyes, to understand why it meant so much to you."

You watch him, and your heart clenches at his voice. At his eyes, At the way he speaks, and the way he keeps his head down. The realisation that he held onto this piece of you, even as you both drifted apart, is enough to send you into a spiral.

"I see you in these pages," Theodore continues, his gaze locking onto the annotated paragraphs. "I see you in between the lines, and in the words. I see you in Jo, I see you in the witty comments. Every time I read this, It's like a piece of you is still here with me."

A lump forms in your throat, and you swallow hard, trying to push back the tears that threaten to spill over.

Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry

“Every time I read these words, I feel like I'm back with you, even if just for a moment." He admits, looking up at you.

The devastation in his eyes is surely mirrored in your own.

You want to cry. You want to shout, because how dare he sit here, and speak of you with such reverence, and act like he cares for you when he had forgotten about you so easily? How dare he say he sees you in everything he does when he looked right past you when you stood in front of him?

How dare he act like he missed you when he didn’t?

You can't say anything. You physically can't, because every time you open your mouth it hurts. Grief clings to the pipes, scratching at your throat. It restricts your breathing, it gnaws at you.

Theodore looks at you and clears his throat, quickly looking down. You fail to make out the fact that his own eyes are threatening to spill with tears, as your own teary eyes cloud your vision.

It was always like that with you and Theodore.

Amid your shared tears, the unspoken suddenly becomes the unsayable.

He gets up, and he can't bear to look at your face because every glance of those tears in your eyes eats away at his heart. He grabs his bag and throws it over his shoulder, rushing out for fear of what you might say.

“See you” He murmurs, walking away. You can’t tear your gaze away from where he walks away even as his form disappears, and you swear the boy had taken part of your heart with him.

The quote “Fate was a cruel mistress” Never made much sense to you. Fate was beautiful even in its destructive nature. Fate was unstoppable, she didn't wait for anyone or veer away. You used to admire that about her. You found it to be a beautiful thing. Of course, it's because you also believe that fate would only wait for you. Wait that one extra second. Then, perhaps, Theodore and you would be on the same path. Instead, you were two, walking the same path only a heartbeat apart. As if time itself conspires to teach that love can occur in the same book, but pages apart.

You cannot love the beauty of her tenacity and cower from it too.

[the-kr8tor]

Y’know that one scene in 10 Things I Hate About You where Heath Ledger serenades the main girl with a love song at the football stadium, only to be chased by security guards?

May I request Hobie doing the same thing for a spider!R at the Spider Society as a surprise Christmas present? 💀🥹

- 😅 (don’t worry about writing this if you have a lot of requests, take your time ❤️)

I had to google the scene and it was so adorable what?! I need to watch this movie! Thank you for requesting, I hope you like it ❤️❤️

Pairing: Hobie Brown x fem! Reader

Word count: 1.4k

Tags: no use of Y/N, no specific physical description of the reader, spider-woman! Reader, spider trio appearance, lovestruck! Hobie, fluff!

ʕ⁠·⁠ᴥ⁠·⁠ʔ

You huff, heart beating wildly in your chest just as when the fighting simulation ends with you standing victoriously. Wheezing, but still the victor of the fight against a Mysterio ai. The said hologram fades, pained groans turning into a digital whirr of pixels until the orange glow is gone from its prone position on the cold tiles.

Hands on your knees, sweat dribbles off your brows, making you take off the sticky and uncomfortable mask off your face. Hobie and the others were supposed to train with you today, hence why you almost got beaten into a pulp by a fake Mysterio because you cranked the level up a notch on the difficulty. You're patting yourself on the back for even surviving it that long.

Looking around, you gather your bearings, finding the training grounds void of your friends and partner. Your nose scrunches up, still heaving in place.

“Where in the world are they?” You scratch your head, stretching your throbbing wrists and walking towards the water cooler to grab a cup. They can't be out on a mission without you, right?

The door hisses open, hope blossoms in your chest but when you see a different group of spiders stride in, your smile wavers. Huffing, you gulp down your drink, already feeling better now that you're hydrated.

The group waves to you all friendly, beckoning you to join them. They probably saw you alone in the big training room and felt bad. With a polite smile, you jog towards them.

“Hey!” They say in chorus. There's a couple of Peters in their group, together with a spider-rabbit chirping to you in greeting, a spider-woman with horns protruding from her mask, and a robotic spider-man with one eye.

“Hi,” you smile, wiping away the sweat off your forehead as best as you can. “Have you seen Hobie?”

“Spike or no spike Hobie?” A Peter asks.

“Spiky Hobie— Wait, all Hobies are spiky.” You shake your head. “With a Gwen probably tagging along with him? Maybe with Miles and Pavitr?” You reply, and they shake their head, earning a disappointed groan from you. “Thanks, they're probably in the cafeteria—”

The speakers suddenly squeak awake, the sound of someone tapping on the mic echoes throughout the entire society. Knowing Miguel, it's bad news.

Gulping, fists closing, you wait for his gruff voice to announce the said news. But the sound of the ever familiar voice echoes out. You blink in surprise, fists unfurling and smile slowly curling around the corner of your lips.

“This is for my girl. Saw you beat the shit out of that mysterio, love, felt bloody inspired after that knockout.” With a chuckle, Hobie sings, belting out a tune.

“Found him!” The Peter next to you chuckles, “man, he's not very good at that huh?”

You shake your head with a smile whilst he continues to sing a pop love song that you didn't even know he knew existed. You're probably rubbing off on him.

“No, he's brilliant at it.” With a nudge at Peter, You bolt off outside the training grounds and into the expansive hallways that's always filled to the brim with fellow spider people.

Grinning from ear to ear, you find that everyone else has paused in place to listen in on Hobie singing in the PA system. They stare at you, knowing that the ‘you’ he's singing about is standing right in the middle of the crowd.

“Always the showstopper, Hobie.” You whisper to yourself, hearing the singing get louder.

The crowd parts, and you tilt your head at the approaching figure swinging towards you. You gotta hand it to him, he's keeping the song's pitch right even when he's swinging.

Biting your lip to stop a giggle from escaping, you watch him gracefully drop down on the same hallway as you. He saunters towards you, boots thumping softly against the floors. His hair is windswept, probably from swinging away from a particular spider from 2099.

Hobie stops a few steps away from you, mask tucked in his pocket, pointing at you whilst he stares at you lovingly as if you're the only person in the crowd of spider suits.

“...you.” He sings, winking at you. You wink back, flusteredness hiding underneath your flirty wink.

Music suddenly plays from within the crowd, then a few spider people make way for the marching band that is composed of Gwen playing a drum, Miles on the xylophone, and Pavitr, who's lugging around a boombox playing the actual music. They're led by Lyla in front who's twirling around a baton. Wait, Lyla?

“What's happening?!” You laugh, shock written on your face.

The crowd start to clap to the iconic song, some even join in on the impromptu marching band, forming some sort of conga line around you.

“It's your gift!” Pav excitedly says, carrying the boombox over his head whilst dancing to the beat. “I don't know this song!” He laughs, inviting in more people to join in on the dancing.

Hobie shrugs, smiling and continuing to sing his heart out. He slowly makes his way towards you, making a full show of his love for you. Hips wiggling, shoulders rolling, and foot stomping to the beat, he dances as he makes his way to you. His attention is on you and only you.

Opening your arms to receive him, you stop when you see Miguel's figure quickly swinging his way towards the commotion. Your eyes widen, pointing at him.

“Watch out, the fun police is here!” You warn Hobie, chuckling as he swings away just in time before Miguel could land on him.

“Hobie!” The disheveled Miguel yells, pushing himself off the floor to chase after him. “Give me back the mic! It's for important announcements only!”

Most of the spider people cheer for Hobie as he dodges Miguel and his claws. Hobie backflips away, hops over spider-cat, swings over everyone's heads and Miguel still can't catch him. All the while he never missed a lyric or a beat.

Scarlet Spider suddenly appears from the sidelines, exaggeratedly swinging his way to help Miguel. “I'm here to help!”

With a subtle aim at the guy's foot, you web him up, pulling him down to meet with the cold hard ground. “Whoops.” You feign innocence, ignoring Ben's groans, and listening intently to Hobie's singing while looking out for him.

The song is just about to end with Hobie swinging his way towards you. Understanding his plan, you open your arms for him. He lifts you off your feet, snatching you away from the scene.

“Hi.” You hold onto him as he grins at you, still holding onto the microphone. “I'm guessing this was the surprise you told me about earlier?” He smirks at you in reply. Miguel's frustrated groans follow you with Hobie still managing to escape his grasps.

Hobie ends the song with a flourish, eyes shining brightly as he belts out the last lyric. You see the flicker of the portal's glow right behind you. Your escape route.

“Surprise number one, love.” Your mouth opens in absolute happiness, hands holding onto him tighter. He nudges your nose lovingly, lips brushing along your cheek. “One out of five.” He tilts his head, dodging Miguel's hand last minute. The sound of your giggling irks Miguel as he lunges at the two of you but fails at grabbing him from your grasp.

Leaning closer, you look over his shoulder to aim at Miguel. You web Miguel's hands together, causing him to fall backwards, staggering before ripping off the webs and immediately swings back into action.

You ignore his yelling. “Good thing I've also got a surprise for you planned for later.” You whisper against the shell of his ear, sending goosebumps to appear on his neck, making you blow on his skin just to tease him. “But we have to go home first.”

Hobie glances at you, eyes flirting back as he beams at you. “I think I know what it is.”

“You do, huh—?”

“Hurry, Hobie! Stop flirting, man!” Miles yells behind you before jumping inside the whirring portal.

“Happy Christmas, love.” With a kiss on your cheek, he tosses the mic behind him. The mic hits Miguel’s face directly, the high pitched sound reverberating around the society. He falls on his back, cradling his throbbing forehead, preventing him from following after you.

Cupping Hobie's cheek tenderly, you peck the corner of his lips with the promise of a proper one later as he escapes into the portal with you.

[vnards]

Bear!Price pt 6

Price made light conversation during the ride to his place. He tries to ignore that itch under his skin to touch you. But he keeps things polite. He’s stays gentle with you.

He pulls up to his den house and turns off the car. He hoped you like the place. We’ll change whatever you want. Price tried to breathe through his nose and keep his focus. He counted to three before he got out the car.

“I like your place.”

John put his hands in his pockets to distract himself from rumbling happily, “I’ve been fixing it up a bit since I’ve moved up here.”

You looked back at him and smiled, “It’s nice.” Price was fucked.

“We should start our lesson.” He saw you beginning to stretch and get your hair out of your face. He could of swore you were doing it on purpose, but he couldn’t call you out on it. So he tried to look as politely as possible.

John walked to the porch of the house and took his jacket off. He felt eyes on his back and he tried not to preen under your attention like he did a few days ago. But this time was different. This time his purpose is to teach you to fight. Just in case.

“First things first,” He walked back over to you, rolling up his sleeves, “If anything happens where you feel unsafe, you call me.”

Your forehead creased, “Call you?”

He gives a firm nod, “Absolutely.” You must have saw how serious he was about this; about your safety. You showed you understood, your playful manner dropped for the moment. “If you ever feeling in trouble, I’ll take care of you.” That was more of a promise than he could ever mean.

There was a moment between you, a silent acceptance.

Price smiled, content and pleased. You followed suit. “Now,” He changes the subject and steps back, preparing his stance, “Show me what you got.” He teased.

Your smile turned devilish and a spark of adrenaline shot through Price unexpectedly. His vision became focused and fully on you.

You ready your own stance, much different than his, but he’ll correct that later. He spots your hand, noting the way you are about to throw that punch, uneven and unsteady. You swing and he feigns easily. “You gotta try better than that, sweetheart.”

Your smile becomes devilish as you try again. This time, your punch was faster, held more weight behind it. “Good girl. Again” He doesn’t think as he praises you, but your cheeks still tinge with color.

The next time you throw a punch, you connect it with a combo. If Price hadn’t ducked, you may have landed your strike. I smile in triumph as you notice his delightful surprise.

“My girl’s got some bite to her, huh?” Price taunts, dropping his guard for you. “Give me what you got.”

You accept the challenge with stride, going for a left fake-out combined with a low right, aiming for the body. She knows how to attack. Price’s breathing gets heavier the more you force him to dodge. He can’t deny the burst of energy that burns through him. He notices his senses becoming clear and in-tuned to you. A quick glance down to his knuckles, lets him know he still has his usual fingers, furless. Good.

You take advantage of his distraction, almost catching him off guard as you go for a body shot. You were fast. Price was faster. He was able to grab your wrists and bring you closer, pinning your hands to his chest. You smelled so much better up close. “Cheeky, I see.”

You shrug as you tilt your head up to look at him. “I’m a fast learner.”

Price tries to keep his cool and lets go of you, letting you step away and reset. The space between you both lets him breathe fresh air for a second before you notice how you’ve affected him. “The one thing you’ll learn from me is to fix your stance.” When you look down, Price pushes your shoulder and you stumble. “Your center of gravity is off.” He places his hand on your side to keep you upright. “If you’re gonna attack you need to know your defense is strong.”

You nod, giving him your full attention. Those eyes had him trapped. But, he stepped back, trying to remember this lesson is for you, not him. He almost could see you deflate before he continued, “Get back in your stance.” You do as instructed.

John takes in your stance again, this time beginning to circle to evaluate. You feel like you’re on display, a predator sizing up their prey. Price notices the shift, “You can relax, deer.” And you listen beautifully.

Price is pleased when you become more confident in your stance. “Good girl.”

next part -> <-previous part masterlist ->

[longhardtransitionreturns]

Author's note: This is birth and medical fiction. It's all fake, just a fantasy. Of course I don't want this to happen to me or anyone in real life.

I'd like to have a high risk twin pregnancy. The type where I have to fight my obstetrician to let me try to give birth vaginally and then they try to insist I have an epidural so they can cut into me without delay if something goes wrong. I'll finally get them to agree to let me try it natural if I am invasively monitored throughout and I understand I'm going under general anesthesia the second things go south.

When the day comes for me to be induced, I change into a hospital gown & follow nurses instructions as they put IV ports in both of my wrists. I'm catheterized -- a situation that isn't made any more pleasant by the twinges already squeezing my middle -- and by the time I'm being strapped into the stirrups for the doctor to swipe my membranes, I'm so trussed up I can barely move.

It's my first pregnancy & I didn't expect it to hurt so much just to be pregnant. My hips have been sore practically the whole nine months, in part because of how heavy and low I am carrying the twins. Baby A practically lodged himself between my hips last week and the pressure has been slowly increasing. My breasts are cumbersome and it's painful to even feel the hospital gown brush against my areolas. By the time the doctor is settling between my legs to start my labor, I'm eager to face whatever delivery holds for me to make this pregnancy end.

I'm singing a whole different tune 16 hours later. Or rather, screaming one at the top of my lungs. I am in the throes of transition and suffering the pinnacle of a truly agonizing labor. Baby A is posterior and the pain in my back has me at the edge of my sanity, especially now that the contractions are lasting for 90 seconds, with barely a minute in between.

I'm incoherent at this point. I'm in so much pain I'm only able to think about surviving the second I am living. I'm minimally aware when the nurses move my aching body back into the stirrups so I can push my son into the world. I bear down at their direction and it feels like my ass is gonna bust when his head plunges down.

What actually happens is his precious posterior facial features lodge against my clit as a desperate push shoves him just past crowning and my poor little nub starts to sting. It feels like it's being ripped off and I'm humiliated to find I'm begging my doctor to save my clitoris while I'm straining a massive baby out of me.

I don't know how long I howl a about the pain in my clitoris but the next thing I know the doctor is roughly pulling the shoulders and then the body out of my hole, tearing me more in the process.

I'm aware that my aching canal is empty for the moment. I don't realize I am gaped so badly my asshole is almost inverted. It stings something fierce as birth fluids continue to pour out of my loose, sopping cunt. I start to cry when I realize I am still going to have to push Baby B through my ruined pussy.

I drift in and out of consciousness, occasionally aware of the sharp stab of a contraction. I wake fully to a nurse tapping my cheek to see if I've passed out. When I force my eyes open, she informs me Baby B isn't face down anymore and the doctor is about to perform an internal version. She tells me to brace myself because it will be uncomfortable.

I didn't fully realize the medical actuality of an internal version was for a grown man to stick his entire grown man hand through my cervix and into my uterus. I'm in such utter agony I barely register that the nurses are holding me down by my arms and where my thighs are not strapped to the stirrups. I am experiencing the most pain I have experienced up to this point in my life and it seems to last forever.

I never stop screaming, even when they put a mask pumping gas over my face to try to give me some relief, but the tenor of my yell changes when something shifts and then I feel something rip deep inside of me.

Suddenly all the pain that has come before pales in comparison to what I am suddenly feeling in my abdomen. It is indescribable burning combined with a sudden sense of dread that takes over my body. I am 100% certain that my reproductive organs just gave way with my daughter trapped inside me and I am going to die if something isn't done very, very soon.

It must only be minutes, maybe not even that long, that I lay there while the medical team catches up to the realization that me and my baby are in mortal danger. Time slows down and I feel the rip in my uterus expanding as the contractions, one on top of another now, injure me more by the second. Despite no medical knowledge, I know instinctively that the renewed flood out of my pussy is blood and I am hemorrhaging, possibly to death.

I am utterly helpless now. Strapped down in stirrups, paralyzed by pain, my strength seeping from me as fast as the blood flowing between my legs. I faintly register the monitors start to alarm as I lose the battle with consciousness and my world goes dark.

*******

I wake up groggy and disoriented on a stretcher being wheeled somewhere. I immediately start to panic because there is a tube down my throat and I am really, brutally aware of a long, deep vertical incision that extends from above my belly button down to my public bone. I swear I can feel the layers upon layers they sliced through to deliver my baby. I won't know until later about the battle the surgeons waged, first to save my life and then to save my fertility.

Right now I am only aware of how much it hurts to be jostled on a stretcher with a massive cut down my middle. When the two male nurses move me into the bed, I plead for unconsciousness as my body is roughly transferred to a bed. My tailbone hits the mattress and reverberates in the form of a sharp pain through my pussy. I've still got a catheter and I feel like every inch down there has been stitched up.

I hope one of these nurses will realize I am aware and therefore in indescribable pain but it seems like the paralytic they gave me before intubating me is the only drug of the cocktail still in effect. I suffer as they lift my hips and put a pillow under my butt. Then they start taking off my hospital gown completely.

My confusion quickly turns to fear as one gloved hand on each side grabs one of my fat titties and starts tugging. Breast pumps are whipped out and the men make quick work of shoving as much of my massive milkers in to each before turning them on simultaneously.

My uterus, even after the brutal surgical repair, still tries to respond to my milk suddenly dropping. The pain of contracting after uterine repair and a cesarean combined with the sudden gush of warm pressure on my aching tits brings tears to my eyes. I must be a strange sight: intubated and naked, massive breasts attached to pumps, with my deflated belly sporting a huge incision hanging above a pussy so bruised and stitched it looks entirely purple.

The elder nurse pats my naked thigh just before he makes to leave. It jostles everything and our eyes meet as I wince at the pain it causes me. A chill runs through my body as I realize he knows I am awake and feeling way more than I should be.

He looks at me the entire time he lubes his gloved fist, a sinister smile on his face. He settles between my legs and pauses to look up at me again.

"I bet you wish you'd had that epidural, huh, dear?"

My vision goes white as I feel his whole fist plunge into my pussy with a force absolutely intended to cause me a fatal amount of pain. My vision goes white and I feel pressure building in my chest as the stitches holding my cervix together start ripping. The last thought I have before I go into cardiac arrest is how I don't want to my last memory to be of being brutally fisted in my obliterated, post-birth pussy while my heart explodes in my chest.

[thejoyofviolentmovement]

New Video: Bear Hands Shares Eurodance-like "Intrusive Thoughts"

New Video: Bear Hands Shares Eurodance-like "Intrusive Thoughts" @bearhandsband @CantoraRecords @RostrumRecords @grandstandhq

Brooklyn-based dance punks Bear Hands — Dylan Tau (vocals, guitar), Val Loper (bass) and TJ Orscher (drums) — formed back in 2006. They gained early attention with 2010’s “What a Drag,” which led to the trio signing with Cantora Records, who released their full-length debut, that year’s Burning Bush Supper Club. 2014’s sophomore effort Distraction was a critical and commercial success with the…

[mister-eames]

Secret Saito 2024

Happy Secret Saito to you all, I hope you're having a great holiday season x

This is my @secretsaito gift for @motionalocean, whose prompt was lurid. I hope you enjoy this darling <3 thank you for the prompt!

Prompt: lurid Pairing: Arthur/Eames Word Count: 5.4k Warnings: Alcohol, post-break-up, make-up, miscommunication, some angst but with a happy ending, mild drunkenness and anxiety, blink-and-you'll-miss characters and references from dated 90's movies, trust me they live happily ever after.

----

Eames tugs the lapels of his jacket and squares his shoulders, projecting an air of confidence that he isn't quite sure he really feels. Knows he doesn't, in honesty, otherwise he wouldn't be trying it on.

But it doesn’t matter, really; he can fake anything for long enough to fool who counts. Eames once convinced the Prime Minister of Australia that he was raised by a red kangaroo in the red soils of the outback after being abandoned by his mother. He once convinced a travelling group of tourists that he was the next in line for the throne. No doubt about it, if he's assured of anything, it's that Eames can convince a bunch of people he doesn't even know that he is a confident, wealthy, self-made man.

Two out of three isn't bad.

He pushes the door to the ballroom open and feels his mouth stretch into the genial smile of a man with his shit together.

---

The noise around Arthur is near deafening. A live band plays a rotation of top forty hits from the last several decades and the countless surrounding conversations of too-loud family make for an incomprehensible cacophony. He’s only been here for an hour but his head is already pounding like a pick into an ice-shelf.

The venue is noisy. The decorations are showy, a riot on the senses. It's all very gauche. Very Cohen family. Very Aunt Edith, who he must lovingly admit this is very fitting.

By means of having attended here alone Arthur has found himself in the orbit of some group of people he only vaguely recognises, three drinks in already, trying to politely refrain from checking his watch for the right time to excuse himself. Although he’s long tuned out, he’s still nodding at all the right places, interjecting with the odd "Oh, really?"

Hand to god he's not normally such a drinker in social settings, especially not the bottom-shelf spirits and wine that this bar is serving, but—well. He tips his drink back, emptying the flute in a single gulp. It doesn't bear thinking about.

"And what do you do for work?" a young woman holding a full flute of champagne asks Arthur.

"I'm a freelance consultant."

"Nice," she says, eyeing him up and down with interest. "In what industry?"

The reply rolls practiced off his tongue. "Quantum technology."

Arthur doesn't even know who he's talking to anymore. His third cousin's second born partner, maybe. Could be. Aside from his immediate family Arthur couldn't name most of the people here. It’s sloppy of him, perhaps. At least from a security standpoint, maybe. But Arthur isn’t on the job anymore, and he’s grown weary of watching all the exits and having eyes in the back of his head for events like family birthdays all the damn time. His nerves are so burned out they're beyond resurrection.

"Who's that?" someone asks.

He looks to the entrance. His stomach drops to his feet.

"What the hell is he doing here," Arthur mutters under his breath, feeling his face heat up. Someone grabs his arm and shakes it.

"Eames is here," his Uncle Sandy says excitedly. "I thought you said he wasn't coming!"

"He said he couldn't make it," Arthur says through his teeth. He said he wasn't going to be here. 

He watches as Eames takes an offered glass of an amber drink, smiling widely as he is greeted by relatives and their partners, people who Arthur, still, can hardly name. He looks hale and healthy and whole, shoulders relaxed, making easy conversation like it's his own party.

By the time he's noticed, Eames has already looked up and met his gaze.

Eames raises a toast to him.

He barely refrains from raising his middle finger in return.

Arthur is going to kill him, that little fucking liar. Arthur is going to kill him in front of everyone here. There will be so many witnesses and Arthur will go to jail but it will be so worth it. That smarmy, little prick, look at him. Schmoozing and disrupting Arthur’s entire night like the little liar he is.

He tosses back his own drink, finding it somehow already empty.

Easy fix, Arthur thinks, unlike everything else. He abandons whoever is speaking to him to march over to the bar and orders a martini.

---

It takes all of five minutes for Eames to lazily wander over and side up next to Arthur, gesturing to the bartender for a second drink. He is wearing a suit Arthur has never seen him in; something so immaculately tailored and well-made that it can't be new.

"You said you weren't coming."

"Actually what I said was that I'd rather masturbate into a cheese grater than show up, but as you would know," Eames affects an air of disinterest, "changes of heart are just so common." 

“You really should have done yourself a favor and gone with the first idea.”

“Yes, well. After very little deliberation I came to the realisation that I have as much right to be here as you do."

"It's my family."

"Funny," says Eames humourlessly. "I thought I was family too."

Arthur clenches jaw, retort dying in the back of his throat. Eames isn't wrong. Eames is practically part of the furniture at his family functions, and has been for over ten years. Up until---

"Besides," says Eames. "Aunty Edith likes me best. And I have her gift."

"Whatever," Arthur pulls the lapels of his jacket, squaring his shoulders. "Just stay out of my way."

"I intend to," Eames replies.

"You better."

"I will."

"Good."

"Great."

Arthur turns his body away, his skin crawling like a horde of ants were underneath it. "You can go back to your corner of the room now."

"Ta ta," Eames says, easily plucking the olive from Arthur's martini glass. "Pleasure seeing you, Arthur.  Parting is such sweet sorrow, etcetera."

"Go find yourself that cheese grater." 

Eames leaves with a satisfied glint in his eyes. Arthur sips his oliveless martini, uncaring. He hates olives, anyway.

---

“Why aren’t you here with Arthur?”

A fabulous question, really, considering no one here is a blood relative of his, or even a friend, besides the birthday girl.

"Well," Eames tells Arthur's drunk cousin, Barry, perhaps a little drunk himself. He lowers his voice to a conspiratorial tone. "But we had a falling out recently, see. We're not together anymore."

"Really?"

Eames nods. "Over post-it's, if you'd believe."

The crowd of four he's speaking with pause in unison, aghast, as they no longer pretend they're not eavesdropping. 

"Post-it's?" Someone repeats, incredulous. 

Emerging from the bathrooms, draped in a fabulous red feather boa is the birthday woman of the hour. Arthur’s Great Aunt Edith. She is resplendent amongst pomp and circumstance, a withering cigarette in one hand, wine in the other. She spots Eames and waves him over.

"Long story," Eames says, downing his drink. "Anyway, nice seeing you." He waves back to Edith and heads over.

"Eames, my dear," Edith embraces him. "So good to see you."

"And you, my lovely lady," he kisses her flushed cheeks, feeling a knot in his upper back come loose. "I hear it's your eightieth birthday," he pulls back, assessing her. "You don't look a day over fifty."

"Oh, stop," she swats him away. "Where's Arthur? I've hardly seen him all night."

"Ah...I'm sure he's about," Eames smiles mildly, immediately feeling the knot coming back. "You know how he is. Can't sit still, that one. Anyway, tell me what you've been up to."

As he eagerly anticipated, she puts on a show, eyes widening with all of her witnessed tales: The headliner: Distress, despair, drama. She clutches his arm, steering him away from the crowd.

"Oh, Eamsie, darling, where do I even begin."

---

It's been two whole hours. Arthur hasn’t stuck around a family function this long since his youngest cousin’s Bar Mitzvah in ‘02.

"I haven't seen you since you were this high," his aunt Michele exclaims, gesturing to her bra-line. "Still, you barely look a day over twenty, you Cohens and your genes. I'm so jealous. Who are you wearing, Armani?" 

"Tom Ford," he blinks. 

"And what are you doing here all by your lonesome, hmm? Where's your beau?"

"My ex, you mean" he says, a little more drunkenly than he intends to, wiping his sweaty palm down his tie. He turns around on his stool and picks Eames out by the far end of the room and points to him. Luckily, Eames doesn't notice, or doesn't acknowledge this.

"No. When did you break up?" She looks genuinely sad.

"Like, yesterday."

"Oh my god."

"Yep."

"You two were, like, so cute together. What happened?"

"Post-it's,” Arthur mutters murderously. “Post-it's happened." 

"Huh?"

"Pretty ballsy of Eames to show up here at a family function like that if you’re not together," Barry says, cutting in. “Y’know. Considering.”

"...He is family," Arthur says quietly, eyes sliding to the small crowd Eames has amassed, each lured and falling to his natural charm. He fits right in, he always has. Like a missing piece of a prevailingly incomplete puzzle; he's as much a branch of the family tree as Arthur is. "...Even if he and I are not... anyway. Leave him be."

He lets that hang in the air and slides off his stool, and heads to the bathroom. Eames seems to have wandered off elsewhere, Arthur notes. Not that he was looking or anything.

---

Eames has just received a dollop of fancy-smelling soap in the palm of his left-hand when the bathroom door swings open. He's lathering it over his fingers when he looks up at the mirror and meets Arthurs gaze.

A thunderous look overtakes Arthur's features as he stalks to the urinals at the far wall, looking pale and unsteady despite his visible agitation.

Well, whatever. Ignoring him, Eames waves his hand uselessly in front of the sensor tap, failing to elicit a stream of water, Eames can't help himself, Arthur is fucking swaying on the spot. "Had a bit much, have you?"

The reply is instant.

"Fuck off."

He fucking hates these things. By the time Arthur has finished taking the world's longest piss Eames is still wriggling his soapy fingers towards the sensor without success. 

It prompts a huff and a bitchy "Jesus christ," before Arthur is leaning over and waving his hand under the stupid handlebar structure that Eames thought was decorative, eliciting a stream of cold water.

"Stupid fucking things," Eames mutters, dipping his hands under the spray.

There's an awkward moment where they finish washing their hands at the same moment and reach for the same paper towel dispenser.

"New suit?" Arthur gruffs, wiping his hands roughly.

"It is actually," Eames mutters, heart drooping like a forsaken house plant. He'd bought it six months ago, intended for their anniversary next month. He'd been hoping to surprise Arthur with it. 

In a way, he supposes he has. Just not the way he'd envisioned.

He checks the state of his hair in the reflection. "Not up to your high standards, Arthur?"

In the mirror Arthur rolls his eyes as he bunches up his paper towel. "I just didn't take you for a bow-tie man, is all."

Arthurs hair is down; long and curly, just the way Eames likes it. Used to like it. Compliments and insults gather and tangle amongst themselves on the tip of his tongue. He wants to say something between fuck you and you look unfairly lovely in that suit. He wants to say he's sorry, that he wishes more than anything he could reach his hands into time and reverse the clock, to go back and not say the things he did.

"You always did profess to know me better than you do," is what he says instead.

Ten years down the fucking drain. He turns then and, much like he did not so long ago, leaves. 

---

Arthur thinks his suit might be too tight.

Or maybe his tie is too close to his throat. Maybe someone has sucked all of the air out of the room, there's too many people. It's hot in here, too hot. In any case, Arthur is finding it harder to breathe than he did twenty minutes ago.

Trembling fingers worry with the knot of his tie for the nth time as he attempts to draw in a deep, heaving breath but finds his lungs refusing to expand to capacity. And it's as if someone has turned his hearing up to a hundred; the ballroom both quiet and deafening at once, he's sure everyone here can hear his galloping heartbeat, they all seem to be looking at him. Maybe he's making all the noise. He can't remember.

Maybe he has had too much to drink. 

Arthur has always been a bit of an outlier in his family. Never like his cousins. Too trapped in his own head. And now he's turned up to this party and everyone knows he's been unable to save his marriage, that it's back to baseline at his age when all of his cousins are having kids. Arthur is at one of these things alone again even with Eames swanning about, avoiding each other like they are strangers.

Intimacy has a fatal backlash, and this is it.

He has to get out of here.

Pasting on a smile, he finds Edith by the bar. She's graciously shared half of her feather boa with Aunt Michele as they speak.

"I'm heading out," he interrupts them, embracing Edith. "Happy Birthday, again. Thank you for inviting me."

"Oh, Arthur dearest," she says, her hands finding his shoulders, her rouged lips sloping into a frown. "So soon?"

"I have an early morning," he lies. "A work thing."

She shares a look with Michele. "Could you please do one thing for me before you leave?"

"Sure."

"I'm feeling a bit of a chill. Would you be able to retrieve my coat from the cloak room?"

It's the least he could do dipping out early on her special day. "Of course."

"Number sixteen,” she passes him a paper ticket. “Lime leopard print, you can't miss it."

The cloak room, if he recalls correctly, was in the grand hall, out of the ballroom, towards the entrance.

So close, but so far, he thinks wryly, heading in.

---

It's quite stuffy in here, generously sized for a glorified closet, he has less room than he'd like, but it's hot work, rummaging around the large coats and jackets.

It's as he's spotted the lime leopard print monstrosity, way at the back, when he hears a tell-tale snick.

He drops the item and lunges for the door handle. It doesn't open. 

“No, no, no…” He jigs the handle, twisting it this way and that, bile rising up his throat. It's locked. He can't open it. Either this is a huge mistake or some fucker has just locked him in here. "Is anyone there?"

He calls out again, louder. No one answers him.

Then he kicks the door.

It doesn't budge. He pulls his phone out with nervous, shaking hands, desperate enough to call Eames to get him the fuck out of here. Not even Eames is petty enough to leave him in the lurch in a situation like this. He tries, but it goes to voicemail for each time Arthur tries.

No service. Of fucking course. Why would anything go right for him.

His eyes slip shut briefly and suddenly he is in an elevator; a tiny, cramped elevator that is going to descend and crash at any moment. A wave of vertigo washes over him so suddenly that his knees buckle, taking him to the floor.

The tie is loosened, and wrested from his person and thrown to the ground.

"Fuck," he says to himself. He buries his head in his hands and laughs, eyes burning, suddenly very, very sober.

---

If asked, Eames would generously say he is mostly a fan of Arthur's family. His mom, bless her memory, was a darling. Sandy, Michele, Edith, all gold star members of the Cohen clan, whether outsourced or made in-house. But some of them, however, are insufferable.

A dominant Cohen trait, it would seem.

He's been stuck speaking to some old fart who is drunkenly admitting to having a mistress while some other, older fart next to him nods and openly shares stories of sneaking gropes of the younger women who work in his office. 

"Well, that's depressing," he mutters, downing the rest of his champagne, skin feeling greasy simply by proximity. "Nice talk, chaps."

He leaves that circle of degeneracy to find someone more up to his speed. But as he turns, and turns, and turns, there doesn't seem to be anyone to fit that brief. He can't even see Arthur. Perhaps he left already. Without saying goodbye, or even a middle finger, that scoundrel. Not that Eames cares. 

He smooths a hand down the front of his shirt and considers that it is perhaps time to leave.

The birthday girl finds him before he finds her.

"Oh, Eamesie," she kisses his cheeks again. "You heading out, are you?"

"I am," he takes her hands in his, pressing a kiss to the back of each one. "Early morning, see."

"Worst news of the night! You'll come visit me soon, won't you?"

"Of course. We have to do happy hour."

"Of course! Can you do one thing for me before you leave?"

He smiles, fond, a happiness to indulge her blooming brightly in the cracks inside of him. "Of course."

Her shoulders shake with a theatrical shiver. "I'm feeling a bit of a chill... would you be able to retrieve my coat from the cloak room? Number sixteen."

---

Arthur estimates that he's been sat on the floor, staring into nothingness, for at least twenty minutes when the door to the cloak room opens.

He's instantly on his feet, a thank god on his lips, when he sees that it's Eames who's come to his rescue.

Eames is staring at him, dumbly. "What are you doing in here?" he asks, the yellow light of the bulb above his head giving him a halo. “Did you pass out or something?”

“What?” Arthur pauses. "What are you doing here? Then it occurs to him exactly what Eames is doing in here. The blood rushes out of his upper body. Then he says, "Fuck."

Snick.

“Did—?”

Hysteria wells up where hope has vacated as he watches Eames whirl around and re-enact the same thing that Arthur had done earlier in trying to get the door open.

"It's locked," Arthur informs him.

"It's locked," Eames exclaims as if he hasn't heard him, roughly shaking the door handle. "Arthur, it's fucking locked. We're locked in." He pounds on the door and calls out, but no one comes, even when Eames resorts to bellowing for help.

Arthur sighs, head pounding.

Eames whirls around, anger writ over his face. "Are you going to fucking help or what, Arthur?" He takes his phone out of pocket, "Useless. I'll just fucking---" he taps the screen roughly. "No service? How is there no fucking service?"

"I've already tried that."

Eames rummages through the racks of coats, trying to look for something. "Surely there is something to jimmy that fucking door open." He pats himself down in a panic. "I don't have my fucking kit with me. The one day I don't have my goddamn kit."

Arthur knows. He left his lockpicking kit at their house, along with all of his other possessions.

"Did Edith ask you to get her coat?"

Pausing his assault on the door Eames sends a suspicious, caged look. "How did you know? Did you fucking plan this?"

"What the fuck?" Arthur blinks, taken aback. "Why would I plan this? Do you think I want to be stuck here with you?"

"I don't know, do you?"

"I don't want to be anywhere fucking near you," he snaps. Unbelievable. “This is the last place I want to be in." He punctuates this by pressing himself to the furthest wall, a whole four feet away from Eames. "Edith asked me the same thing," he swears. "What did you tell her?"

"I didn't fucking tell her anything, just that we split up."

"And what else?"

"I didn't tell her to lock me in a fucking closet with you if that's what you're asking," Eames snaps. "No doubt this is her idea of a joke."

More like her idea of a daytime soap. "I'm not laughing," Arthur mutters darkly.

"I suppose you wouldn't be," Eames says, mouth twisted in a facsimile of amusement. "Can't run away when someone's got you locked in."

Arthur strips his jacket off in angry motions, suddenly very warm, and drops it to the floor beside his tie. Beads of sweat roll down his back as the walls seem to close in with every verbal jab. 

"Rich coming from you. I'm not the one who ran away."

"I left after you left me." Eames adds.

"I didn't fucking leave you!" Arthur snaps, wishing he were anywhere else, that the floor would open and swallow him whole. He's so sick of talking about this. "God, you're so self-absorbed! You can't ever be wrong, can you?"

“Oh, are we doing this now?” Eames' arms cross over his chest. "What part am I wrong about—"

"—All of it—"

"—was it the note you left on the PASV that said 'I can't do this anymore'? Or was it the second that said 'I'm leaving?'".

"Leaving for a job for fucks' sake!" Arthur frustratedly wipes his hands down his face. "You weren't back from Berlin yet!"

"You'd been ignoring my calls for an entire week," Eames says. “If that’s not precisely what you meant, what was I supposed to think? That you’d announced your departure for milk and eggs down the shops?"

"You were supposed to ask me! Like, 'Hey, Arthur, what's this about?'"

"So you could break up with me to my face?"

Arthur shakes his head. "You always do this. You always cut the goddamn cord when you think someone is going to let the other end go first. I wasn't breaking up with you, asshole. You misunderstood."

"Yes, well," Eames huffs defensively, "it was only a matter of time, wasn't it? It was always going to end this way. It always does."

Arthur doesn't think so, but is too angry to bother refuting him. His fingers, slippery with sweat, struggle to unbutton his cuffs. He gets there and pushes his sleeves up messily, then works on the first few buttons of his shirt. He takes hold of the fabric and pulls it away from his chest, using it to fan himself.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm--" he wipes the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. "It's too hot. I can't breathe." The room is too small. The room is too fucking small, there isn’t enough air—the elevator is falling—

"...sit down." Eames voice is muffled. "...sit down, Arthur."

His legs abruptly collapse beneath him at the command, knees buckling like a puppet that had its strings cut. Curling in on himself Arthur buries his head in his shaking hands again so he doesn't have to see.

Several long, quiet moments pass before he hears Eames shuffle and sit in front of him, clothes shifting noisily before him.

"Do you remember when we broke up over stamps that one time?" Arthur says into his hands when it feels like he’s not going to fall anymore, when there is a little more oxygen in the room. 

“Yeah.”

"I thought that was the dumbest reason for anyone to break up and nothing could ever top it.” He huffs darkly, laughing a little. “I was wrong."

"To be fair, they were my Uncle Micks' stamps."

"Your Uncle Mick was an asshole."

"Yeah but his collection was worth a mint. Until you threw them out."

"I didn't realize what it was,” he says sadly. “I thought it was trash."

"You misunderstood."

He presses his fingernails into his hairline until it hurts. "Yeah, I guess I did."

---

Every second that it takes for Arthur’s breathing to even out Eames counts out. Each of those seconds he wishes the closet door would magically open and give them both what he can’t, a solution to everything wrong between them.

"You're never going to forgive me about following Dom, are you?" Arthur says after a long time. 

"It's not that I haven't forgiven..." Eames swallows, tracing a line over the curve of his thumbnail. "There was never... I've forgiven you. Long ago."

“Then why did you say—? Yesterday. Why did you...”

Maybe Arthur was right, that it was Eames looking for an out this entire time. Maybe he wants some benevolent force to open that door so Eames can flee for good, unable to stand this peeling back of his skin, the under surface exploration that has never become easier, even after all this time.

Finding the right words is like digging for gold in a bargain bin at a discount store. In all of the white noise he tries to find the words; but they come out clumsy; insufficient. "When you left that time. It was...it felt..." He feels stupid even saying it, "...it hurt so tremendously that I think it took out a part of me."

"Eames."

"And the only way I could cope with that was to shut off that part of myself that cares with the same ferocity. To just turn it all off. I think I never put myself back together quite right. And every time I start thinking you're going to leave again..."

"You do what you think you need to to protect yourself. "

He shrugs, profound shame heating his face. "I do it before I know I've done it. I can't feel left behind if I convince myself I don't love you anymore."

"And you don't?"

"I only convince myself long enough to get out the door," Eames admits for the first time out loud. "It's pride that he keeps me from walking back in. I don't know if I can fix it."

"I wasn't going to leave."

It’s been forty hours of the same argument. Eames is beyond tired of this. "Then what the fuck does 'I can't do this anymore' and 'I'm leaving' mean, Arthur?"

Out of the corner of his eye Arthur looks awful, more awful than he did when Eames walked in. Ten years older and barren of any human vitality; smaller. "I was leaving for another job. It was going to be my last because I'm quitting."

Eames blinks. "You are not."

"I'm done. No more dreaming, no more consulting. None of it."

"You wouldn't last five minutes without it."

"I knew that's what you would say," Arthur fiddles with his hands, not meeting his eyes. "But I am. I mean, aren't you tired of it?"

"I was tired of it five years ago, Arthur. Remember, before you pulled me back in for the Fischer job?"

"I wish I'd quit then. Right after Mal." He laughs, darkly. "I wasted so much time. I fucking regret it. We could have had more time; now look at us."

"I can't believe you wrote that on fucking post-its," Eames wipes a hand down his face. "Why didn't you write 'let's quit dreamshare', you stupid idiot."

"It was only a first draft. You were home earlier than I expected. You weren’t meant to find them."

A long silence passes between them, taking up all of the available space in the tiny cloak room.

"You're right," Eames nudges their knees together, heart breaking a little. "This is way more stupid than the stamps break-up. Or the time with the bagel."

"I hadn't eaten in three days," Arthur says, ire momentarily flaring like a stoked fire as Eames knew it would, bringing a bit of life back to him. "Fuck. I was so mad when you ate that. I was so hungry."

"It was a stale bagel, for what it's worth."

"...I'm sorry you found the notes like that. I didn't think-- I didn't think. I was just trying to plan what to say. I was scared it was going to be a deal breaker."

"I suppose it was, in a way."

"Yeah."

An uncomfortable silence passes between them. In the far distance the can hear echoes of the ballroom music, but no voices, or footsteps.

"Eames?"

"Mm?"

"I..." Arthur visibly appears to take a moment to measure his words. "When you said yesterday that I was a flake looking for the next out... I'm not a flake."

Regret slides down Eames throat in a hard, solid lump. "I shouldn't have said that. I know you're not."

"And I shouldn't have said that you weren't in this to begin with."

"I was, you know," he says.

"Yeah."

"But this up and down thing," Eames says, finally loosening his bow-tie, the old aches in his knees and the small of his back making themselves known. "I had it wrong, but I had it right. We can't keep doing this.” 

“No.”

An air of sadness and finality permeates the room so thickly that Eames can't take it. He isn't going to let post-its of all damn things be their end. So he does what he does best, and takes a gamble.

“...We'd need to do something different."

The dividends are paid out in Arthur blinking at him in surprise, the ghost of a hopeful smile tugging at his lips. 

"Yeah,” he agrees. “Like... not working in an industry we resent?"

"Or not getting mad over stamps."

"Or bagels."

"Or not seeing family you like often enough."

"Not explaining things clearly," Arthur concedes, inching closer. "I was wrong, Eames. I messed up, big time. I am an idiot."

"Will you write that on a post-it?"

"A hundred times over."

"I do love you, very much, for what it's worth." Eames tells him. "I can't unlove you. I've tried. It doesn't stick."

Eames did try. But in a rush of blinding colour Eames can see at once the worth of the immaterial; the cost of his own self-preservation, or the risk of further turbulence with Arthur. A lifetime of missing the shape of him, of waking up beside him. Of being known by him. No part of Eames has known or longed for another since Arthur; and he feels it still, at this moment, pressed thigh to thigh, alone together, two inches and two thousand miles apart. Eames would be okay without Arthur, but he's so much better with him.

"Me too." Fingers thread through his. Arthur’s palm is slick and his fingers faintly tremble with lingering adrenaline.

Despite all of it, this simple point of contact threads some part of Eames back together. 

"Fourth time has to be the charm, don't you think?"

"I'll do it as many times as needed," Arthur says, his other hand coming up to cup Eames cheek. 

A chaste kiss is pressed to his mouth.

"Which coat is the best to shag on, do you think?" he mumbles against Arthur's lips after a moment, dirtying up the kiss with a swipe of his tongue.

"There should be some genuine mink in here, I think," Arthur tugs on Eames' bow-tie. "It's a shame we're going to crumple this suit. It's gorgeous."

Eames doesn't think it's a shame at all. It was the purpose of him buying it in the first place, after all. It was always intended to end up in a rumpled, crinkled pile on the floor.

And it does.

---

One year later.

"Oh, don't you two look cute," is the first thing his Aunt Michele says at Edith's 81st birthday party.

"I'd prefer devastatingly handsome," says Eames, linking his arm with Arthurs.

Michele blinks. "Okay. Nice seeing you!" Then she's off, chasing another woman calling her name.

"I prefer dapper," says Arthur, looking at Eames, seemingly somewhat offended. He gestures to their suits. "This is not cute."

"Au contraire, my dear," Eames begins walking them forward, waving across the room to some of Arthur's cousins, "we are the cutest. I could pinch our cheeks."

Arthur fixes him a look that halts a hand wandering downwards that intends to do just so. Recovering, Eames only smiles placidly at him as they approach the bar, where Edith is already flirting with the bartender. This year she's in a studded leather jacket and a red sequinned dress with a dramatic, sultry slit up the side. It’s tacky. It’s as lurid as the rest of the venue. It’s perfect.

"Didn't think either of you would show up," Barry mutters into his drink, face scrunching up as if he'd just tasted something sour.

"Oh honestly, how many times must we apologise for that little incident," Eames waves him off, referring to the previous room when Barry was the one to find them in the cloak room, post-coitus, having thoroughly defiled the gaudiest of outerwear.

"You haven't even apologized once."

"Well, if we're honest, nothing about that incident was little," says Arthur.

"Right you are," says Eames.

"I'm leaving," says Barry.

"Oh, how I missed you two," Edith smiles brightly welcoming them into her embrace as Barry departs. She kisses both of their cheeks. “Tell me, darlings, what’s news?”

Arthur shares a look with Eames.

It hasn’t been a year without setbacks; to be expected, of course, when quitting dreamshare and recharting the trajectory of their lives. Not without quibbles and slammed doors, sneers and snarls and fucking spectacular make-up sex. But it’s been the best year of Eames’ life, so far, he would put good money on saying, full of making up things as they go and plain old making up and out, over and over. Growing up and older together, more stable than they’ve ever been before. 

Arthur squeezes his fingers.

Eames slips his other hand into his pocket, feeling for the folded up piece of paper he knows is in there. A post-it that simply reads I love you.

“We’re thinking of relocating nearby,” he announces. “A change of pace.”

Edith's gasp is genuine in its delight. “Oh, that is the best news of the night!”

Arthur’s voice is soft. “Yeah,” he catches Eames gaze, smiles fondly. “We’re pretty damn happy.”

They are.

[queenaeducan]

Codex: Stronger Where it Breaks

Pairing: Non-binary!Lavellan x Solas Characters: Solas (Fen'Harel), Non-binary/Non-Inquisitor Lavellan Fandom: Dragon Age: The Veilguard Rating: G Warnings: Mental Health Discussion Other Tags: DA4 Spoilers, Post-Veilguard, Fake Codex Entries Read here on AO3.

An unsigned note found within a well-tended corner of the Fade, written in an experienced hand, yet one that bears the trappings of a self-taught writer. The handwriting changes subtly with each line, as though the writer had to return to the project over a long period.

Ian has suggested that I take some time to reflect upon more than my regrets, and record what I cherish.

I will not argue— even should I have wished to, I would find myself at a disadvantage. He has always been more stubborn than he cares to admit, and the years have made him moreso. Instead, I will mind his wisdom, as time has taught me that it often outpaces my own.

Putting paint to canvas and notes to a tune; reminding myself that creation is always within my grasp.

The next line is obscured by a sharp scratch, though its impression has not been struck out entirely.

The look upon [illegible]’s face when [illegible] Elgar’nan rhymes with [illegible].

It has proven difficult, although perhaps not more than anticipated. Regret is a disease, as contagious as the blight we seek to soothe. Even that which I cherished is riddled with its infection, and I do not know if a day will come where I do not see its spectre over me. Ian is more encouraging. It is a beginning, he says. He reminded me of when we first met, when I recounted passing moments witnessed in the lives of strangers as though I were reciting a great, heroic tale. Remember them when I reflect upon my own life, and begin with small steps.

He likened it to a muscle in a newly healed leg: atrophied and at times stumbling in its step, but in need of exercise.

How like him it is to speak of this in surgeon’s terms.

May you learn— an old curse, a cruel curse. Yet there is an older saying, a prayer, or perhaps in this godless age I ought to call it a hope: may I learn. Not every lesson is easily imparted, but I do not begrudge them as I did.

Labouring over a puzzle for the better part of an afternoon. Satisfaction at its completion.

There is gold in the sky. A passing sheaf, but not lessened for its finiteness.

My favourite tune. He knows it by heart, now.

The words stop abruptly, the following pages contain sketches for what appear to be murals, drawn in the style of ancient Elvhenan. While the words before were hesitant, the pictures flow with a more certain hand, the words before lending conviction.

One bears the figure of an elf holding a paintbrush kneeling before a mostly empty page; the tilt of their head is reverent, as if in awe at the limitless potential before them. Another, a beating heart behind a thin body made up of roots. The next is a complex looking puzzle turned between a pair of hands.

The final page is a picture of a Dalish elf with thin, leafless branches, broken at the brow by a sun-shaped scar. Behind him, there are scenes of grief and loss— flaming swords bearing down upon a Circle; a woman with a tree-shaped crown; an Archdemon upon a black tower; a broken arrow— but the figure in the foreground eclipses them all, a neverending future blooms in the palms of his hands.

A final line follows:

Being here, with him by my side.

[xianhuashi-second-blog]

Big Hero 6 was 9 years ago, going on 10. Next year is when it takes place. So, this is an appreciation post for the movie, and what it’s done for me.

Trigger Warning ahead, the post mentions de@th and $u1c1d3, (spelled wrong so I don’t get flagged/shadow banned by the Tumblr gods.) complex grief and mentions of mental health.

BH6 came out when I was 4-5 (what a long time ago omfg-) so its importance to me was non existent. Me and my (much) Older brother watched it together a few years later in 2016. Young me didn’t know the nuance and severity of Hiro Hamada as a character. All I saw was “Two Asian siblings” that had a relationship like me and my brother. I tuned out the rest of the movie that night because I had *and still have* the attention span of a goldfish with dementia. Years later, very recently, (near the end of 2023, but school still in session ) he jumped. He passed away that day. I think I cried an ocean when I got the news from my father.

I cried, not only because I love and miss him with all I am, I sobbed because he was my other half, essentially another father. I cried because I felt, I knew I could have done something differently, so then maybe he’d be alive a bit longer. And, I cry because of all he put himself through for me. It’s hard to imagine the suffering and agony he put himself through to be there for me.

I have diagnosed High functioning Autism. My brother had a feeling, but he helped me understand how neurotypicals interact, how to fake making eye contact, how to hold up a conversation, learn body language, you name it. He even bought me noise canceling headphones because I’m sensitive to loud sounds, and fidget toys that I could use during school. My parents, on the other hand, thought I was just a spoilt brat who needs to pay attention to people, and stop being so picky with foods and their textures, a brat that has to be more social, stop shying away from kids my age. My brother was the one to convince them to get me tested for Autism, to prove I wasn’t just a bratty kid.

He sat through my ramblings about Steven Universe and The Stanley Parable. He helped me work through my meltdowns, and told me it wasn’t my fault that certain things make me upset.

I crumbled to the ground. My world was shattered. After I was “back into reality,” I realized my father was holding me in his arms. I hugged him tightly. My face was smushed against his chest so hardly that it felt like my cheek was about to break. It felt like him. It felt like how he’d wrap me in bear hugs. Weeks went by. We had his Funeral. I looked at the picture of him near his casket. It felt surreal knowing that the same man was inside of the wooden box, awaiting his burial. I wanted to cry, I wanted to scream and shout and cause myself to have a breakdown, but I physically couldn’t. I couldn’t bring myself to be angry at him either. So I just stood there, fingers slightly touching his coffin, where I knew his face would be.

Later on, being forced to go back to school the following week because the American school system sucks 🖕 🇺🇸

I got back home. I went on disney plus to elevate myself of my grief. I scrolled through the home screen, when Big Hero 6 showed up. I remembered watching it with him, so I convinced myself- despite not wanting reminders- to watch it. “Welcome to Nerd-school. Nerd.” I watched the fire alarms blair. The infamous “someone has to help” scene before he ran into the fire. Then, the scene where Hiro was sitting alone on the staircase in his memorial outfit. That frame alone was truly a perfect representation of sudden loss and grief. I felt seen, and acknowledged. I felt understood. I kept watching. Near the end, Hiro was trying to “fix Baymax” with the violence chip thing. “Is this what Tadashi would have wanted?” “It doesn’t matter!” And then finally, “Tadashi’s GONE! Tadashi’s… gone….” The feeling that scene gave me was complicated. But, it left me with the knowledge that he was with me in memory. That, of course, didn’t take away everything that was happening to me.

That movie helped me through complicated emotions, and I cannot thank the BH6 team enough for what they’ve done for me, and how that movie helped me. I still blame myself for what happened. I’m still grieving, and it’s still hard to live without him. And the idea that Tadashi doesn’t get to see his baby brother’s super hero team, yet said team wouldn’t exist without his death, helps me realize that without my brother’s death, I wouldn’t have such a kind community of fellow fans of the movie, who enjoy my art and my storytelling.

Thank you for all you’ve done. Thank you for everything. It was an honor to have you as my brother, and I miss you so much. I know not many people have good relationships with their older siblings right off the bat, so I am so grateful you could give me that friendship. I promise i’m gonna make you proud.

[hresvelged]

 ♫ HAPPY HOLIDAYS~ ♪ 

by all accounts, a princess and a pauper should not have much in common—two born to different destinies, forever expected to remain stationed at their respective ends of the spectrum. in spite of that, it hadn't taken dorothea long to find the common thread between them. whether one was deemed important and the other insignificant, it was still a terribly lonely path to walk. both bound by a longing for something more than what their titles afforded them, both with bright eyes fixed on a kinder future, one that might allow them to choose their own fates rather than follow the whims of wicked men.

maybe that's why she approaches her esteemed house leader in a more pensive mood this time around, though still happy to see her. "beautiful evening, isn't it, edie?" and it is, to dorothea. the sunset is remarkable, woven with lilacs and rosy oranges, the gentle gusts of wind carrying the scents of spiced goods and the season's fragrant flora. "i was hoping it would be. i wanted to give you your presents on a perfect one."

the corners of the songstress's eyes crinkle affectionately as she takes one of the princess's hands in hers, pressing something cold and metallic into her palm. a charm bracelet, which dorothea points to delicately. her finger first hovers over a musical note, for herself, before moving to the purple bear for bernadetta, a black tome for hubert, and so on. "you may be our future emperor, but you'll always be our friend first and foremost. we'll be there with you every step of the way."

once she’s sure the gift remains secure in edelgard's hand, dorothea retrieves another present from the side. a book, bound in cherry blossom pink and topped off with a silver bow. "and this is for those long nights when you can't sleep. i'm told it's a fantastic read, full of characters and plots that stir the heart." she places the book gently onto the other's lap, but not before a small giggle escapes. "you know, one day, i really am going to write an opera about you, and it'll rival everything you've ever seen or heard. only the best for my edie."

Edelgard is no songstress, but she feels fortunate that the beat of her yet unveiled tune coincides with Dorothea's. "Hello, Dorothea. It would be a shame not to take advantage of this weather." While she prepares herself for conversation, her path curves. It is rare for her to be presented with such heartfelt gifts. Oft is she shown surface level items, plastered by fake smiles and vocals coated in falsities.

In truth, these are words she has wished to hear. It is the emperor's duty to stand by themselves; to take orders from none and herald the empire. Her locked heart presses on. Yet, Edelgard has always hoped to have others to rely on. "You hardly needed..—" She begins before cutting herself off. She is instinctually drawn towards the jewelry and its finer details. Every color and charm is perfectly attuned to someone close. "I'm.. very impressed. This detailing, it's.. Truly incredible. With this.. It's as you say. My friends will always be beside me, isn't that right?"

The princess takes a few seconds to put the bracelet on her right wrist. Hesitant as she usually is to remove her gloves, she thinks she can allow herself to just this once. They lay to her side as she shifts the token proper. It brings life to her skin. While Edelgard is more than content with what she has already received, her eyes widen as she is presented with more. A laugh leaves pink lips, curiosity sparkling in lilacs. "You really do know me well," she says as her palms fall atop the book. "I could use something like this. Once I finish reading, I'll let you know of my opinion. I can even lend you this copy and we can discuss its contents. How does that sound?" Soft of a tone it may be, her usual seriousness remains ever so prevalent.

A pink blush pours on her cheeks as the mention of opera finds itself stirring the air, breaking the eye contact to peer back into her lap. ".. Let us hope that opera continues to remain in the far future. I can't imagine a time where I won't feel flustered over it." If there is a production about her, only time will tell of its finale. She may not have said it aloud, but she would like to watch Dorothea perform such a feat. Not as the the role of the emperor, but of a friend who believed in her.

".. I need to thank you properly. I'm grateful— Not only to know you, but to call yourself a dear friend. It's evident you considered me above all else. That's.. Well, it means more than I can say." Raising her right hand, she taps the musical charm with her left index finger. "You are something truly special, Dorothea." As she lowers her hands to clutch the book into her chest, she smiles: "Hm. Perhaps a sudden question, but.. What would you say to a little trip, you and I? A brief respite away from Garreg Mach. It would please me greatly if you were my company."