#I started seeing the signs a couple decades ago

[foldingfittedsheets]

Mattresses, unbeknownst to many, are a lot like cars. Every year new ones roll out, they’re always tweaking and innovating and you’ll never find the same one you loved decades ago when buying a new one.

Where I sold mattresses had a three month return or exchange program for this reason. New beds take a while to break in, and they’re a big expense. Your body is used to the old one. So we made sure people were loving it. If a bed got returned we’d take it back, sanitize and clean it, then sell it again on clearance.

To sell these we always had to disclose what clearance meant to customers, and they had to sign that they knew what they were getting. (FYI, not every company is as… forthright about the used bed situation)

In clearance we had beds that were floor models, we had returns, and more rarely we had old models whose line had been discontinued. These clearance beds were always final sale, so a bed could only be sold twice.

Now, the manager at the store I was working at had realized a vital fact. Clearance beds in the warehouse didn’t sell, especially old models that salespeople weren’t familiar with. And even more especially in odd sizes, like twin extra longs. So he set up a split king on the showroom floor to exhibit clearance beds, pulling all those forgotten twin extra longs out onto the showroom.

Almost all of these were brand new discontinued models. Beds I’d never learned in training were exhumed to be displayed. The manufacturers had moved on to new lines and they’d been left behind. Why would he take such in interest in selling old stock, you might wonder? Because we made double commission on the sales margin of clearance beds, and if we’d had a bed long enough they dropped the cost in the system so it was a fucking cash cow to sell these. Even with huge discounts the commissions were wonderful so it was a win win.

When I got started I was jazzed about this program, I was so on board to sell weird old brand new beds and make a ton of money. I had a wonderful older couple come in, looking for a split king adjustable set. This was a white whale sale.

The current clearance models on the floor were a latex mattress that was brand new despite being of an age to start first grade, and a tempurpedic floor model. The couple laid down and it was like magic. They each loved the bed they’d laid down on. They wanted to buy the whole shebang.

I. Was. Thrilled. I told them about the clearance program and what that meant, and they weren’t bothered in the least. I wrote up the sale then dashed into the back, fizzing with excitement to tell my manager what I’d done.

“You sold the death bed?!” He asked in delight.

I pulled up short, my smile freezing in place. “What…?”

“Didn’t you check the notes?”

I hesitated for a long beat then slowly shook my head. You see, dear reader, all beds had a personal history. Every clearance bed had logs written up by the person who took the return, as well as warehouse crew after sanitizing. It helped us know what to expect when selling them. “Wasn’t it just a floor model? You said it was a floor model…”

He slowly shook his head. I checked the notes.

It turned out, it had been sold as a floor model. The first time. But the company had made an exception and taken it back as a return two months later. Why? Because it’s owner had passed away.

I stared at the computer in horror and my manager shrugged. “They signed the clearance form. Technically it was a floor model.”

“We know for a fact that a man died in that bed!”

“What they don’t know can’t haunt them,” he said philosophically.

The man came back a week later for more sheets, utterly delighted to tell me how well they were sleeping. I clamped my teeth down around the secret of the deathbed, choosing to let them love their new bed without the stigma. Only one person would be haunted by that deathbed, and it was me.

[strang3lov3]

Happy Trails

“You always get this wet for strange men, sugar?” Kappa asks as he traces his fingers up and down the seam of your cunt. He’s eager to get a look at it, to see all that soft and swollen, wet flesh. “It’s not safe to talk to strangers. Didn’t your mama tell you?”

Tags - dark, noncon, smut, unprotected piv, creampie, fingering, scaryfucking, stalking, kappa drowns you as he fucks you, creepy and eerie setting, breeding kink talks, hair pulling, orgasms that you dread, murdery shit, idk idk

A/N - hey hey :) we’re gonna have some fun with the various culkin characters in this creepy ass murder cabin. For my dear @cvntoid, who I love so much. I hope this fucking hurts you

Oh, how you love hiking. You love biking more, but apparently this trail isn’t very biker friendly. It’s alright, though. You really don’t mind. Any excuse to get outside is a good one.  

You rub a little sunscreen onto your face before you go, then tie your shoes. You check your phone one last time, trying to see if any texts have gone through, but none have. So you leave it on the table before you leave, then lock the cabin door. 

It’s a little exhilarating, no? Leaving your phone at the cabin, in some place you’re not familiar with at all. But really, what are you gonna do though, right? There’s no service anyway. 

You pull an old, weathered map out of your pocket, the corners of the lamination are bent and peeling to hell. You found it in a little drawer in the kitchenette. There’s this trail that begins not too far from your cabin, and it loops right around the lake. It looks like it’ll spit you out right about where you entered. 

And off you go, with your little backpack and everything, your water bottle looped so nicely around one of the straps. You’re wearing this pretty bandana you stole from a friend - oh, how you love her. She’s always worrying about ticks when you go on your hikes. She won’t mind her bandana being stolen if it’s for this cause, you think. 

You descend a couple of steep steps and head right for the trees. It takes you a moment to find the trail itself, half-buried beneath long grass and other tangled plants. They stopped taking care of this place years ago, when…well. When it happened. Supposedly. Maybe. Maybe not. Some folks will tell you the money ran out is all, that the property as a whole got too expensive to keep up with and maintain for season after season. 

But you don’t think that’s true. A lot of people don’t, really. There are some volunteers that keep this place up and running - well, parts of it. Your cabin, for one. Your special little cabin, the urban legend that it is. Something about some terrible man doing terrible things to women in this cabin, you don’t exactly know. You’ve heard about him drowning them in the lake, heard about him mounting their heads on the fence post outside. There’s so many versions of the story at this point, and who knows which is true? Maybe some strange cryptid hurt those women, if those women even existed. Who knows. 

Rumors, that’s all they are. There’s no proof of much of anything happening here, just the stories told by word of mouth for decades at this point. 

Rumors, but you can’t deny the way your skin bristled when you first entered the cabin. That horrible turn back NOW feeling you got, not unlike the feeling that comes when you open that one closet in your home. It could all be placebo, though. Right? Do you think that it is? 

Finally, you find the start of the trail, though it’s overgrown. Not that you mind at all, you’re an appreciator of nature. It’s a strange temperature outside, sort of humid and chilly at the same time, though not unpleasant. But it is…creepy. All of these plants are lifeless. They’re lifeless, not dead. They’re colorless, their shades of green all muted. And there’s this fog that obstructs your view ahead, and it curls around your feet. Maybe it’s just because it’s overcast, or something. You don’t know.

Isn’t it odd how there’s no sign of life out here? You’ve not heard one bird chirp, and no insects buzz in your ear. The bushes rustle, though. When you look ahead you catch a glimpse of something - a figure, maybe. Something humanoid.

Oh, it makes you feel horrible to see that. Why is that, do you think? It’s normal to see others on hikes, sure. And you’re probably not the only one to stay in the cabins around here. But it’s off season, though. 

You can do this. You’re going to walk right past the figure, and you’re going to grin politely as you always do. Your smile is beautiful, you know. So big, so bright. Lots of people love it. 

…Are you okay, honey? You seem nervous as you approach the figure, with your shaky, trembling hands. What is it, sweetheart? Maybe you’re a little out of your depth here, perhaps? Not as brave as you say you are, huh?

The figure’s image sharpens in the fog - it’s - he is a long, elegant man who moves so smooth and cool, with his long strides. Things come into your view one at a time. His arms first, and then his hair, all long and wavy, curling where it hits his shoulders. He’s broad and slim at the same time, wearing a worn, maroon shirt with a deep V cut that shows off the toned muscles in his chest, tucked into his brown trousers. 

You look down as you walk near him, whispering the softest hi. “Hello,” he says back. Before you can sneak past, though, he turns his foot and catches yours, tripping you. You land with a thud, hissing in pain. The man whips around, “Oh, woah there. Watch where you’re walking, sugar,” he tells you as he crouches down. He takes your hand in his and helps you to your feet, and this is when you see it - his beautiful, beautiful deep set blue eyes, so striking and fucking captivating. They’re sharp in a way that matches the beautiful blade of his jawline, his long nose.

“You okay there?” he asks. 

It takes you a moment to snap out of it and gather yourself. “S-sorry,” you stutter. “I’m fine - new to these trails. And uh, thank you. You didn’t have to - fuck.” You wince in pain as you shift your weight, realizing you must’ve twisted your ankle on the way down, or something. 

“I insist,” the man replies, still holding onto you. He’s got these long, spindly veins in his forearms, you notice. His fingers drag up and down your skin, tickling you a little. “New to the trail, huh?”

“Yeah, I’m, uh–” 

Why’d you stop? Kappa wonders the same thing, tilting his head, a hint of a smile playing at his lips. 

“Just new here.” 

Smart. Very smart, sugar. It’s good that it’s occurred to you that you’re giving a little too much information to this strange man. Before it’s too late or you say too much, right? Withholding will keep you safe. It’s never a bad idea, of course. 

“Hi, just new here. I’m Kappa,” he says, touching his chest. Kappa smiles in a way that doesn’t reach his eyes, and he’s still holding your arm. He’s pressing his fingernails into your skin just so, not enough to pinch or to hurt but it feels bad that they’re there, in some awful way. It makes your stomach twist. “I know the trail. I’ll walk with you.” 

Fingernails. There’s something so unbearably intimate about Kappa’s fingernails, pressing into your skin, gently scratching up and down your spine. They scare you too, though. What unsettles you most is feeling your own heartbeat pulse against him - a steady, involuntary throb against his fingertips. You hate that.

“No, thank you,” you tell him softly, tugging on your arm. Kappa still won’t drop it. Not yet.

“Why not?” he asks. 

Why not? No means no. It should end here, but it doesn’t. No, Kappa’s looking you in the eyes, his icy stare unblinking as he traces the tendons in your wrist with his middle two fingers. That horrible tickle it causes - don’t you hate it? Is your skin starting to crawl yet? 

He smiles a little, but not with any sort of kindness. “These woods can be dangerous, you know. I’m sure you’ve heard the rumors,” Kappa says, voice low and measured. “Do you think they’re real?” he asks, “Do you think someone might hurt you here?”

“I…” 

You close your mouth, words evaporating under his stare. You hate the way he looks at you with his terrible, gorgeous eyes. Like oleander in boom, so beautiful and so toxic, every bit of it. There’s something so very dark about this man. Kappa. It penetrates deep into his guts and flows through his bloodstream like poison, and perhaps it is. 

“You’re very pretty, you know. What’s your name?” 

You give him your name - unsure why you do. Kappa repeats it and hums eerily, smiling. “Oh, my friend. It’d be so easy to hurt you,” he purrs softly, tilting his head. “Do you think anyone would hear you scream ? Do you think anyone heard - heard them scream?”

“I - I don’t know,” you stutter. “But I’d like to get back to my walk now, if you don’t mind.”

There’s a pause that hangs heavily, and then he lets go. “Sure, of course,” Kappa says with a slow blink, like nothing happened. “I don’t mind at all.”

He steps back, hands in his pockets now. “Maybe we’ll bump into each other again or something,” Kappa says with that same soft lilt, already turning, already vanishing. “Happy trails, my friend.”

With that, he drops your hand and walks away, leaving you feeling charmed and sort of disgusted all at once. The first step you take has you gasping in pain, your poor, throbbing ankle. You look over your shoulder briefly, and Kappa’s there. Watching you. 

Kappa thinks you move in an interesting way, even without your little limp. But oh, how he likes that. It’s important to him that you’re hurt, even if it’s not so bad. Even if you pretend you’re alright. It’s gonna make this whole process that much easier. You’re not gonna be walking for too much longer, he reckons, and he thinks it’d be best to follow you, watch you carefully. He doesn’t want you hurt, of course. 

…Maybe he does. Kappa bets you bleed so pretty, just like they all did. He can still feel your soft skin under his fingertips and it has his cock twitching in his trousers. You’re so soft, you know. All that woman. Kappa thinks you’d take his seed nicely, and he imagines it - you so beautiful, swollen with his child. There’s nothing wrong with Kappa thinking this. It’s not perverse or unnatural or creepy. He’d just be doing his part, biologically speaking, and what’s so terrible about that? 

When you look over your shoulder a couple more times as you continue your walk, are you bothered to see that he’s still there, following you? Kappa would assume as much, even though he maintains his distance. Oh, you. You’re unnerved, certainly. Kappa can see by the way that you pull your shoulders back and stand up a little straighter that you’re trying to look and feel confident. That’s good, darling. Fake it til you make it, or whatever the fuck. 

It was inevitable that at some point your curious nature would get you into trouble. It got those other girls into trouble, too, and you’re not all that dissimilar from them. Not in the slightest. They too were drawn to dangerous things, dangerous men, and look where it landed them. 

Kappa watches you stop to drink some water. Good, that’s good. You’re a healthy girl, very smart, pausing to look at that fucked up ankle of yours. Kappa’s sure it’s swollen now, all bruised and stiff. The added stress of hiking is likely making it worse. And he watches you continue on, smirking when you approach the fork in the trail. No, it’s not marked on the map. You confused, poor little lamb. Where are you going to go, sugar? 

To the left, okay. Sure. And that’s going to take you right toward the little lake - it’s deceptively shallow looking, but Kappa knows how deep those dark waters go. You’re walking down the hill - Kappa’s still a good distance behind you - and you’re sitting on the dock. He likes that spot, too. It’s a good spot for, well…

That wood’s so rotten, sweetheart. Careful, now. You’re taking off your shoe and putting your foot in the cold water, probably hoping to ease the swelling. That’ll help, absolutely. Very good.

Fuck, you’re so nervous. You’ve been avoiding checking behind yourself for Kappa, because you don’t know if it would make you feel better or worse knowing that he’s gone or still there, still following you. You wish you didn’t meet him at all, honestly. Now you’ve got this ugly, awful, nagging feeling deep in your gut and it all goes back to him. You try so hard to tell yourself that you’re not afraid, and even if you are, you try to tell yourself that you like it. It’s what you asked for, anyway. 

But it’s different when you’re actually confronted with it, right? This fantasy or whatever you could call it has lived in your head for so long and it’s been largely unchallenged up until now. It’s scary when it becomes realized, at least partially, and it’s scary when you lose control. Because it’s not just yours anymore. It might be Kappa’s too. 

Speak of the devil. The dock rocks as Kappa steps onto it, buckling with his weight. You jump and whip around, and quickly pull your foot out of the icy water. 

“You’re uh–” Kappa says, “You’re not supposed to be down here, are you?”

“Oh, shit. Sorry. I didn’t realize it was private property. I’m going.” 

Kappa laughs, taking a seat next to you. Shoulder to shoulder, thigh to thigh. “No, it’s just…nothing, sugar.” He loves the lake, and he thinks about drowning you in it. All that endless, black water, so dark he can’t even see his reflection. “Are you lost?” he asks.

“No, I’m not lost. I just needed a break, that’s all.” 

Kappa nods. “It’s your foot, isn’t it? Is it hurting? Can I take a look?”

You’re silent as you turn and adjust, showing your swollen ankle to him. You’re not sure why you do such a thing. Kappa takes it in both of his hands, inspecting it with his brow pinched together, two gorgeous little lines appearing between them. He twists your ankle, rolls it in a circle. He bends it back enough to hurt you, and how pretty is that sound, you whimpering and struggling against him. Yeah, sweetheart? It’s hurting you? You know what Kappa would like to do to you, right now, is dangle you upside down with your poor, injured ankle in his hand. He’d dip you in the water, and he’d chuckle at the way you splash him as you squirm and fight for air. 

“It’s just a sprain, is all,” Kappa murmurs, placing your foot on his lap. You take it back promptly and put your sock on, your sneaker following. You stand up quickly, wobbling when you put too much weight on your hurt ankle. “Woah there, friend. Where are you off to?” Kappa stands up quickly, again grabbing your wrist. You hate that, truly. His hands are so warm, and that should be nice, but it’s…it’s just not.

“I’d like to get back, now.” 

“Then I’ll walk you there,” he says, leading you back toward the trail. He’s squeezing you just a little too hard, any harder and you’ll start to bruise. That’d be a sight, Kappa thinks. He loves bruises. Loves to dig his thumbs into them, then tenderly kiss them after. Kappa turns to look at you, making an amused face at your terrified expression. “And you’re not gonna say no to me this time, yeah? No, of course not. Because - I mean, think about it, right? Anything could happen to you,” he says, shaking his head. “It’s just not safe, sweet pea.”

Kappa’s glad you’re not fighting him on this. Smart move. He’s glad you’re not trying to run, either, as that’d be even more stress on that ankle of yours. He wouldn’t mind it so much, though. Kappa lives for the chase, honestly. Sometimes he gets lucky and one of you girls will try to run from him. He’ll give her a few seconds of a head start before he catches up, and Jesus fuck. You should see the look on her face when she realizes she’s backed into a corner. Real horrorshow sort of thing.

It’s not that you’re too trusting or too naive. Or, maybe you are. Nevertheless, you are enchanted by Kappa, enchanted by the way he scares you in his special way that penetrates deep into your bones. You’re an odd one, you know. You really are. And it’s going to get you into trouble sooner or later, though likely the former. 

Kappa walks you back the way you came. “Which cabin, sugar?” You point in its direction, and Kappa chuckles. “Ohh, this cabin,” he drawls. “You’re a brave one, aren’t you?”

You shrug. “I guess.”

He worries about you, you know. He does. You’re so beautiful and all alone out here. What if you end up like the others? You’d be powerless to stop it, so vulnerable and fragile. It’d be a terrible thing 

Kappa watches you reach into your pocket to pull out the little silver key that opens the front door, and he likes the tree-shaped keychain attached to it. “Thanks for chaperoning me, I guess. I’m just gonna go upstairs and sleep off my foot - ankle. Whatever. You’ve been really kind,” you tell Kappa, avoiding eye contact as you unlock the door and push it open. You hop inside and quickly close it, but Kappa places a palm on the door, stopping you before you can shut it completely. 

“How’re you gonna get up the stairs?” he asks. 

“I’ll just–”

Kappa pushes the door open and invites himself inside. His eyes are wide and he inhales deeply, like he can still smell the iron, all the blood…

He helps you up the stairs, his wide palm guiding your lower back the entire time. He knows his way around the cabin, these tight walls and low ceilings. He’ll take you to the bedroom, the same bedroom he took those other girls, and he’ll–

“The bathroom, actually. I want to take a bath first.” 

Be his guest, why not. Kappa helps you into the bathroom, then leans against the doorframe as he watches you kneel at the tub. You plug the drain with a stopper and turn on the water, then pause. He’s still here. 

“You’ve been a big help. Thank you, Kappa.”

“Of course, sugar.” 

You smile, awkward and tight-lipped, and Kappa smiles back, arms crossed over his chest. You give him a little wave - not unfriendly, just a subtle cue. A polite dismissal. Thanks again, you can go now, Kappa. Really, you’ve overstayed your welcome. 

Kappa chuckles, low and amused, then reaches back and locks the door with a click. 

Your blood runs cold. 

“Kappa,” you say, voice as firm as it can be, though it still wavers more than you’d like.

“You could slip, honey,” Kappa replies. “And I don’t want that.” 

“You need to leave. Now.” 

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuuuuck. There’s nowhere to run, no way out but through Kappa, who’s now approaching you at the tub. You tense instinctively, squeezing the ledge of the tub. “Let’s get those clothes off,” he says. 

You don’t move. Kappa leans over you and takes your jaw in his big palm, sniffs, and rolls his head from shoulder to shoulder, cracking every joint in his neck. “Don’t make me ask twice now. Won’t be good.” 

You have to surrender yourself to it, to Kappa. You know this. Complying usually works out better than fighting, or so you think.  

You breathe shakily as you pull off your shirt, bandana coming off with it, and Kappa takes care to undo your bra himself. He crouches behind you with his strong, long nose pressed against your head, and he inhales your scent deeply as his hands slide along the curves of your sides and belly. Your stomach flips as he unbuttons your pants, and you watch in disbelief as his hand finds that zipper, and pulls it down, down.

Kappa shoves the waistband of your pants and panties down your plump hips and thighs, letting out a hum as he sees you for what you are. You’re a beautiful thing, you, with your soft curves and gorgeous skin. Kappa especially loves that when he runs his long, spindly fingers down your spine, your skin erupts in goosebumps. Is that because you’re cold, darling, or because you’re scared? Maybe terrified, even? Your breaths are getting sharper now, heart pounding so hard you can feel it in your throat. If Kappa were to wrap his hands around his neck, he’d feel your pulse as well. 

Kappa slides his fingers up the back of your neck and into your hair, where he grabs a fistful of it. He shuts off the water, and it’s eerily silent as you hear him unzipping his pants, the fabric rustling as he shoves them down his slim hips. “Some of them say,” Kappa begins, “That this is how he did it, you know. Drowned each of those poor girls in the bathtub, one by one by…one.” 

The steam rising from the tub feels like a foreshadowing of what’s to come. Tears quickly build and then fall down your cheeks, splashing into the water below. Kappa laughs silently, then asks, “How do you think it felt, baby?”

He’s still got you held by your scalp, but now his other hand is sliding down your back, middle two fingers tracing over your ass, traveling over your tight hole until he finds your cunt and oh, would you look at that. You’re wet. Not just wet, darling, you’re fucking soaked. 

“You always get this wet for strange men, sugar?” Kappa asks as he traces his fingers up and down the seam of your cunt. He’s eager to get a look at it, to see all that soft and swollen, wet flesh. “It’s not safe to talk to strangers. Didn’t your mama tell you?”

You squirm against Kappa, pushing on the bathtub to try and force him away from you. Kappa’s all muscle and mass, though, and so much stronger than you could ever convince yourself that you are. “Oh, no, no, no, no, baby,” he murmurs, pushing himself closer to you. Kappa tightens his grip on your hair and continues rubbing your cunt, pushing two fingers right into your dripping entrance. “You are not going fucking anywhere.” 

He pumps his fingers in and out of you steadily, sometimes doing a little twist before he curls them repeatedly, searching for that spot that makes you tick. “Kappa,” you sob, “Please fucking stop. I didn’t ask for this.”

“I think you did ask for it, actually. It’s okay. They did too.” 

You moan despite yourself, gushing onto Kappa’s fingers. He pulls them out of you and sucks them clean, humming at the taste of your arousal. Girls taste better when they’re scared. He pulls out his cock, letting it bounce between your thighs as he brings his palm to your face. “Spit,” he tells you, and you’ve no choice but to comply. 

“You’re gonna stay right here,” Kappa says. “And if you fight me, you are going under. Do you understand, my friend? Be good for me.”

You’re barely processing his words by the time he’s parting your folds with the thick, blunt head of his cock. No, you’re not thinking at all. Not listening. And that’s why you squirm and twist and wriggle, and it’s also why Kappa forces your head under the water, just as he promised he would. 

You didn’t even have time to take a breath. 

You scream underwater as he enters you in one swift thrust, splitting you in two. Even with his workup you’re still in pain, cunt throbbing and stinging at Kappa’s violent intrusion. He pulls you up by your hair, laughing at that big gasp of air you suck in. That’s it, attagirl. And with all your might, you fight him again. Back under you go, darling. 

Kappa’s got one hand on the back of your head, holding you deep under the water, and the other on your ass as he rolls his slim hips against you. He watches himself draw in and out of you, long cock coated in creamy ribbons of your arousal. And you, you’re moaning. Even underwater, Kappa can hear it. They come out in these silly gurgling noises, but he knows exactly what they are. It’s sort of pathetic and almost disturbing to him the way you take him so well, but he has to hand it to you, honestly. They didn’t take his cock like you’re doing now.

Kappa pulls you up again, still fucking you as he lets you catch your breath. “Easy, sugar, easy,” he coos. “Breathe, sweet pea.”  

“Kappa,” you cry, sobbing when he kisses your cervix so brutally. Your nose is stinging, your throat burning with the water forced up it. “Please.” 

“You’re going under again,” Kappa tells you. 

“No, don’t. Don’t, don’t don’t, please. I’m being good for you, don’t you see? Kappa–”

Last time, he promises. And Kappa agrees, honestly. You are being good, but that doesn’t inherently save you from his torture. Anyone can be good, and it can mean fuck all. And right now, it does. Sometimes, sweet pea, bad things just fucking happen to good people like you. Sorry. Life’s not fair, is it?

Kappa grunts as he fucks you, loving the way your underwater moans come out when he hits that special spot deep inside you. He lifts your head up a little, hovering it over the water. Your back aches and so do your knees, holy fuck. The raw, naked brutality of it all. 

There’s a certain point in which your muscles relax, and you quit squeezing his cock so fucking hard. There’s a quiet before the storm, and there’s a quiet after it, too. Quiet except for those whimpering sobs and little uh uh uh’s you make, fuck. 

“You wanna look at me, baby? You wanna watch it happen?”

“No, Kappa,” you beg. “Please, just - just finish.” 

Kappa ignores you and pulls out of you, then forces you onto your back on the cold, wet tile of the bathroom floor. He peels off his shirt and you get a better look at him here - all of his toned, pale skin. He reaches for your wrist and pulls off your hair tie, then ties all of his curls and waves back into a messy, tangled bun. His erection is so long and thick, the tip of his cock resting just below his belly button. He’s got the most gorgeous happy trail leading into a thick patch of hair that surrounds the base of his cock, and his eyes - oh, his beautiful eyes. His pupils eat into the ocean of his irises, signaling how fucking hungry he is for this. For you. 

“Yeah, look at me. Eyes on me, my friend, and watch it happen. Watch.” 

Kappa forces you to look as he enters you again, burying himself to the hilt. You let out a loud sob as he bottoms out, and Kappa wipes your cheeks with his palm. “It’s okay,” he coos, rocking into you. He pins your hands above your head and finds a steady roll and rhythm that has you moaning and sobbing his name at the way his cock drags against your g-spot. For all of his violence, he rapes you rather kindly here. Long, deep thrusts that have your toes curling, your hands squeezing his. 

You feel disgusting on this floor, and you feel disgusting because it feels so fucking good. Oh, you poor, sweet little lamb. You’re going to cum on Kappa’s cock, and there is not one goddamn thing that you can do about it. You’re probably gonna be killed after, too. Probably…probably gonna be stabbed to death, or something like that.  

Your stomach and your thighs burn with that awful pleasure, and there it is. You moan loudly as you cum, pulsing around Kappa’s length. It coaxes along his own orgasm, and Kappa grunts and moans loudly with his release, pumping you full of his seed, fucking it into you so deeply. 

He pulls out of you and leaves you there sobbing on the tile, then tests the temperature of the water. “In the tub,” he demands, and you feel sick. He’s gonna slice you open here, cut you from one set of lips to the other and let you bleed out. 

He’s not, actually. When you’re in the tub, Kappa washes you clean with a bar of soap and his bare hands, bare hands that slide over your breasts and your aching, raw cunt. It’s a short bath, and then he’s drying you off and tucking you into the same bed he raped those other girls in. 

Kappa rifles through your bag for some toiletries and finds a bottle of pills - just some ibuprofen he hands to you and makes you drink. “For the swelling,” he adds, taking a pillow and putting it at the end of your bed. “You keep that elevated, now. See you around, my friend.”

-

reblogs would be nice :) or asks, or whateve. get weird, perverts. thank you for reading.

[withleeknow]

lost cause.

pairing: minho x reader genre/warnings: established relationship, fluff, kinda angsty idk?; unedited bc we live just to suffer, erhm i don't think there's a lot of warnings here, open to interpretation if oc is depressed 🤔; basically “it's rotten work,” “not to me. not if it’s you,” + that one scene in nobody wants this (if you’ve watched the show you’ll know what i’m talking about) word count: 0.6k listen to 🎧: risk - gracie abrams

as always, i’d appreciate any thoughts or comments you may have, and please drop a like and/or reblog if you enjoy reading ♡

navigation / masterlist / ko-fi

“i think i’m starting to hate myself again.”

your voice is casual when you say it, indifferent, nonchalant, as if you’re merely bringing up the weather or reading from a shopping list. you’re used to it by now — the fact that it comes and goes, that if there are highs then there must be lows too. that sometimes, there are no good days, just better ones.

you know minho hasn’t fallen asleep because you still feel him playing with your hair while you lay on his chest, his index finger twisting a lock around before letting it fall over your back. he doesn’t falter, not even once. no change in his calming breathing, no sign that he’s all too surprised by your sudden announcement. you suppose he’s used to it as much as you are.

he’s quiet for a while, like the night outside the comfort of your bedroom. the weather forecast warned you of thunderstorms, but everything remained still and safe. there wasn’t even a spark of lightning to be found.

when minho finally speaks, only a simple “okay,” comes out, followed by a question. “then i’ll love you more to make up for it. how much time do you need? couple weeks?”

you shake your head. “longer,” you say.

“couple months?”

a beat of silence. another shake. “longer.”

“couple years?” he asks. no hesitation. “couple decades?”

minho can’t see you from this position, but you can hear the sound of his heart. he’s steady and secure and you’re nothing more than a fickle flame that’s always on the verge of going out.

“you can’t handle it,” you tell him. “better to quit while you’re ahead.”

it would be so easy, wouldn’t it? for him to pack up before he realizes somewhere down the line that he’s wasted his time and effort on a lost cause?

“i know what you’re doing, by the way. stop that.”

you pretend to ask, “what am i doing?”

before you know it, he’s already managed to flip the both of you over. he’s hovering over you with his forearms on either side of your head, effectively caging you in, chest to chest, and his hips pressed flush against yours.

“i told you i’m not going anywhere,” minho says, brushing some hair away from your face. “stop trying to get me to leave.”

you blink. he’s so close and oh so warm, so beautiful as he stares down at you, so patient and kind when you’re telling him that you need him to love the parts that even you can’t bring yourself to love.

your hands settle on his shoulders. “don’t blame me when you regret it.”

“i won’t regret it. not if it’s you.”

then he’s kissing you, soft and slow, and that’s when you finally hear the first roar of thunder that should’ve arrived hours ago. he kisses you like he was made for you — or you for him, you’re not really sure, but it can’t possibly matter that much.

“so?” minho prompts after he’s pulled away, “how long?”

his eyes are sparkling and you’re still a little dazed. lightheaded but you know that you’ll always love him the most, know that you’re pushing it, know that you’re asking for what many would never be willing to give. “what if i say i’ll need you for the rest of my life?”

his lips curl into a tender smile, one that he presses to your mouth once again. you taste devotion in the kiss, in the way one of his hands crosses the short distance to hold your face so delicately it makes your heart hurt.

“i’ll love you more for the rest of our lives then.”

all rights reserved © withleeknow. reposting, translating and/or modifying is not permitted by any means. [posted 30.10.2024]

[just-call-me-by-yn]

TORNADO WARNINGS - spencer reid

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!reader Content warning: angst, first person pov (most of the fic), swearing, y/n used twice, micro mention of typical CM violence Word count: 2.4k Summary: years pass, but the love you have for Spencer doesn’t disappear. Even though he left you a long time ago and you haven't talked since… until now. a/n: my first truly angsty fic so please be gentle with me. I was playing with this concept for a while and finally got the courage to sit down and finish it recently. hope you like it!! 🤍

I’ve been thinking a lot lately, and I came to the conclusion that love is like a flower, it dies over time. But what if the hypothetical flower would be fake? What if it was made out of plastic or some other durable material? That would be true love. One that’s everlasting.

“When the last flower dies, I’ll stop loving you” he said with a shy smile passing me a fake flower bouquet. “I– JJ said it would be more romantic to give you fake flowers and say that phrase instead of giving you roses or some other fresh flowers, so I just-”

“They’re perfect, but just so you know, I will have to throw them away if they’ll die.” I replied, my tone was playful in hopes that it would calm his thoughts, which I simply knew were running at sonic speed.

The flowers made out of plastic lose color with time, the vibrance of the petals washes away and the pigment of the leaves turns into a gray-ish tone of green. But the reminder of what used to be great and strong, colored and saturated is still there.

My hand reached for the blend of fake flowers, a grimace appeared on my face. It’s been years since I’ve even talked to him. The thought came to my mind of how I shouldn’t feel this hurt after over half a decade from the break-up. I am well aware that I shouldn’t keep the flowers, not even when they bring me comfort on lonely nights, smiles on awful days, just to make me uncontrollably sob later. I know it isn’t healthy. They were the sign of empty promises. Lovely words from a liar's mouth. But I still couldn’t push myself to take them off the shelf. Throwing them away would also mean that my part of the promise would be broken as well, and I just needed that safety net to keep up the peaceful state of mind. They didn’t die yet. Sure, maybe a couple of leaves have broken off and the petals started to tear, but the fake plant was still mostly intact.

My heart didn’t feel like it was going to be mending any time soon. I wasn’t obsessing over Spencer, but when I had a rough day at work, I used to put earbuds in and play any old voicemail recordings he had left for me. The most beloved one was of him telling me how proud he was of me. It was recorded after I announced that I got promoted.

“It’s not going to work out” he muttered under his breath as he pinched the bridge of his nose. “I am not interested in seeing you anymore.”

My whole body froze. Did I hear him properly? Was this a nightmare or maybe a cruel joke?

“Excuse me?” the question came out of my mouth faster than I could process it.

“I am sorry, it’s not because of you, it’s me. I just can’t continue this relationship.” he looked everywhere but not at me, which felt like opening a wound that hasn't had any time to heal.

All I could do was choke out a weak, surprised laughter as I blinked away the tears.

“It’s so cliché. You can hear it in most romantic movies.” my voice sounded like it didn’t belong to me, oddly strange.

“Actually according to Merriam-Webster the phrase was originated by Zachary Spence in a newspaper as a sporting reference, though it morphed into a break-up line in 1991, but it was widely popularized in 1993 by– what?” he answered finally giving me his attention, confused as why I couldn’t stop looking at him, but I was taking every second to let his image sink into my memory.

“It’s just that- I’m going to miss your constant rambling, the oversharing” The corners of my mouth twitched as I tried my very best to smile, even if it hurt like hell.

And I do, still, after six years, going strong with a hollow chest. The moment I took off the ring of my finger felt like a punch in the gut, though a little piece of me knew that he wouldn’t leave me without a strong, fundamental reasoning.

Now, every time I read an article about god knows what I keep asking myself: does Spencer already know that? What I tell myself, is that he is a walking encyclopedia, of course he would know. But I shouldn't care, right?

My friends repeat “life goes on” like a mantra, and my parents say “it’ll get better”. But it’s not that simple.

Not when we were planning our future together and all of a sudden it gets thrown, like pawns off the checker of a chessboard. Game over. Start again. Good luck next time… with someone else.

Of course our relationship wasn’t perfect. Though constant worrying probably has reduced my life expectancy by a long run, I would gladly rather live less with him by my side than spend eternity without him.

Then a sudden knock at the door shredded all the thoughts that occupied my head, just to replace them with a question of who could it be? It was already getting dark out early and chilly rain was hitting the windows, quickly running down the glass panes, making a calming sound.

I took one… two… three careful steps out of the bedroom, another five to the front door. My fingers touched the cover of the peephole that I was instructed to set up by Reid when I was living in my former apartment. His story about a 'murderous peeping Tom' case (which was my name for it) got stuck in my mind, so this item was the last thing I took from my old place and the first thing I installed in the new home.

A quick stare through the viewer made me stumble backwards, turn around from the door just to cover my mouth with a shaky hand and place the other arm around my stomach. Suddenly I felt the heat run through my body, that couldn’t contrast more with the weather outside. I felt sick. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath and before I could regret the decision I was about to make I unlocked and opened the door.

And there he stood in all his glory though his face was drained of emotions, he had dark circles under the eyes and a shadow of stubble, quite honestly he just looked like he had seen better days. But it was still Spencer.

“How did you–”

“Garcia.” I nodded at his response. “May I come in?”

As a silent invitation I just moved away from the door frame letting him pass me in the threshold. I could feel my hands begin to tremble, my nostrils started flaring and then there was a bitter taste caused by his presence, that somehow felt like venom in my mouth. All I was thinking of at that moment was that I couldn't hold it in any longer, and that the best outlet I could think of was the door, which I slammed as hard as my strength would have let me. A loud thud filled the apartment making Spencer flinch and his hand to fly to his chest almost instantly.

“How fucking dare you, huh?” I blew up.

It was weird how quickly my emotions could change. I didn’t know that I could be this sour, until the time I heard him speak, telling me that his friend from BAU basically stalked me down, for him to walk right into my safe haven, and make all the ghosts of memories disappear and for him to stand there, flesh and blood.

“You have to hear me out. Please." He was very hurt, I could even hear it in his voice as he pleaded, but it didn’t make sense to me. At least not at first, not until he explained it to me later.

“Spencer, you broke up with me, and that was years ago. What? Did you come by to get a cookie for breaking my heart? Like goddamn it.” I was clenching and unclenching my hands, open hand to fist, again and again.

“Let me explain,” he pinched the bridge of his nose, as if the words he was about to speak were slowly causing him a headache “It wanted to protect you, and I am sincerely sorry for hurting you. You have to understand that it was all for your safety. It wasn't my intention to cause you pain.”

“What are you even talking about?” my anger was slowly washing away to let the confusion take its turn.

“I had too. There was this one unsub, when we started getting in his way he decided to target the people who were close to us . I got worried when he-” he paced around the room and he looked like he was struggling with what words to use to make it all make sense.

“When he what?” I demanded an answer.

“We found his letter addressed to us and you were on the list. It was a hit list. Breaking it off with you was the only idea I had besides trying to have someone watch over you when I couldn’t. If I told you, you would have been trying to find another way to make it work. I know you, y/n. You would try to fight and risk your life. I couldn’t let you be so reckless”

“And what took you so long to tell me about it? It’s been years” I grabbed my shirt right around the collar and crinkled it in my first. My heart was burning in an unknown sensation, that was something I couldn’t describe. I wouldn't be able to do it even now.

“He was on a run for all those years. Just leaving breadcrumbs. We finally got him a few weeks ago,” His eyes were looking everywhere but mine and it felt like agony, though it didn’t cut deeper than betrayal. “y/n you have to know I did it all because I care about you, and it hurt me as well.”

“You know, I never… never truly found anyone, I couldn’t move on and it’s all because of you. It’s because you wrecked me Spencer. Ruin me for everyone else. Because a piece of me still loves you. A piece of me waited, but-” He reached with his hand to touch on my arm “don’t you dare touch me! You have no right to just walk back in and expect me to act, as if I wasn’t lonely and feeling unwanted for over half a decade”

I couldn’t hold back tears any longer, saying those words made me finally acknowledge the feelings I felt for so many years. And it made me ache, like someone ripped my soul out, stomped on it solely to put it back into my body again.

“We were engaged for God’s sake!” I tried to stay calm. I really did. However, yelling out my feelings made me think clearer. “And I tried to be a bigger person, tried to give you space. Forget about it, but it’s hard, when you told me it wouldn’t work out, out of the blue.”

“I tried to keep you alive y/n! And I am genuinely sorry. I am not begging you to forgive me because I know it feels like it was ages ago when we were together. I just want you to consider us and try to make it through this.”

“You sound like a crazy person right now,” I shook my head in disbelief, my mouth flew agape “lying to me, hiding the truth when omitting the fact that someone was planning to take my life, one way or another… I fear this is not something I can get over Spencer.”

From the perspective of time this wasn’t the greatest fear of mine. The thing I was frightened by the most, was that I would give in too easily. I knew I was able to forgive him, deep down I was sure I would bend if he asked me again.

“Okay,” he nodded, almost like he suddenly dissociated himself completely from being present. It felt like he mentally disappeared though his body still stood tall in front of me. He was no longer confident in what he believed in after my words, like all his will to fight for the relationship that we used to have, exited his being with a single lonely tear escaping his eye. He wiped it off immediately with the back of his hand. “I better get going then.”

"I think it would be better for the both of us, if you did." The emotions started to settle in my gut. I couldn't make him stay.

"Alright. goodnight." he said those words, probably hoping this wouldn't be our last goodbye. "Just think about it, okay?"

I nodded as I opened the door before him. When he left the tears started to flow down my cheeks again. This time they were like waterfalls of my broken heart and they were running wild. I just dropped to the floor. The loud sobs were echoing through my apartment as I curled myself into a fetal position.

"So…" you started not knowing what else to say "what do you think?"

The woman on the chair next to you carefully removed her glasses and set them on the table, along with a notepad.

"I think this story you just told me is a very unique and tragic love story," she said confidently "and a very unfortunate one at that"

You shifted uncomfortably on the couch you were sitting on for the past thirty minutes. You were nervously playing with your hands and chewing on your already puffy lips. Dumping the trauma was tiring you even more than your lack of sleep, due to the situation you were still digesting.

"Then, what should I do?" you ask looking up at the therapist, expecting a clear direction.

"I am not here to tell you what you should or shouldn't do…" she said in a calm voice and took a sip of whatever was in her white mug. "My only input here is supposed to be helping you understand your emotions, however, I can tell you to trust yourself and what you decide to do, the instincts usually don't lie"

my masterlist ♥

[onlyangel4]

the one that got away. cm punk.

cm punk x ex!reader. finn balor x reader

synopsis: you were his sancturary in a world that saw everything. back when cm punk was at the top of wwe, he found something real in you fiery, fearless, and rising fast. but when he walked away from the company, he left everything behind including you. now, nearly a decade later, he’s back. same brand. same locker room. and there you are, no longer the same girl he left behind. you’ve changed. you’ve grown. and you’re with someone else now. and punk is forced to watch you live you life with someone else. to him you will always be the one that got away

faceclaim: eliza taylor

angel's playlist

wwefan posted a story

written: every so often i am reminded that y/n is not the only one who has this tattoo. she dated punk in 2013 and they got them together. i always forget about their lore.

y/nlover

liked by user1, user2, user3 and 98,283 others

y/nlover: so i love y/n and finn as much as anyone else but i just found these deepcuts and i was reminded how much i miss y/n and punk. they were the first wwe couple that really made me believe in love.

view all 4,384 comments

user1: THIS. like i know finn treats her right but the smile she had when she was with punk was unmatched

user2: it's a bit odd to bring this up when it has almost been ten years since they were together

user3: as long as y/n is happy i don't care who she dates

user4: when i was younger i always wanted a love like they had

y/ninsta posted a story tagging finnbalor

written: thank god for him because there is no way that i could navigate public transport alone

finnbalor posted a story tagging y/ninsta

written: game night with the mrs

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘

you sat curled into finn’s side on the couch, the low hum of the tv filling the room. neither of you were really paying attention to it. your phone buzzed again, the same message you’d opened and closed at least three times.

this time, you didn’t ignore it.

shifting slightly, you glanced up at him. "hey, there’s something i should tell you."

finn muted the tv and turned to you, concern flickering across his face. "everything alright?"

you nodded. "yeah. it’s not a big deal. or it kind of is." you hesitated, then sighed. "stephanie texted me earlier."

he didn’t speak, just waited patiently.

you looked down at your hands before saying it. "punk’s back. he’s signed. he’ll be on raw starting next week."

there was a pause. finn’s jaw tensed slightly, but his expression didn’t shift much.

you reached for his hand and laced your fingers through his. "i wanted to tell you myself before it got out online or in the locker room."

he nodded, his thumb brushing against your skin. "thanks for telling me."

you looked him in the eye, your voice steady. "i don’t feel anything for him anymore. that chapter ended a long time ago. i’m with you. completely. you know that, right?"

finn held your gaze, then gave you that quiet smile, the one that always made you feel safe. "i know. i trust you."

you let out a soft breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. leaning in, you pressed a kiss to his shoulder before resting your head there.

"he’s not the enemy", you murmured. "just the past."

finn nodded, pulling you closer. "and i’m your present."

you smiled. "and my future."

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y/ninsta posted a story

written: see you tonight chicago

wwe

liked by user5, user6, user7 and 827,938

tagged: cmpunk

wwe: what a way to end this year's war games

view all 48,928 comments

user6: knowing the lore between punk and y/n this is kinda nuts

user7: i screamed

user8: i have seen that he will be going to raw, y/n can't escape that man

user9: punk vs balor needed to happen yesterday

user10: everyone talking about y/n needs to stfu. she dated him for eight months ten years ago and has been with finn for four years, they are happy let them be

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘

the noise from the arena still echoed faintly down the halls, but back here, it was quiet. too quiet.

punk walked slowly down the corridor, still buzzing from the crowd’s reaction. It had been deafening. surreal. like time had folded in on itself and dropped him back where it all began.

he wasn’t sure what he was expecting to feel.

not this.

ahead, just past a row of equipment crates, he spotted you.

you were laughing, head tilted back, eyes crinkled as Finn dipped his head to murmur something in your ear. his hand was gently resting at your waist, protective without being possessive. the kind of touch that said this is mine and more importantly, i know how to keep it.

punk froze for a second, unseen.

god, that laugh. he hadn’t heard it in years, but it still hit him like a memory you thought you’d buried deep, the kind that resurfaced when you least expected it.

he remembered what it was like to be the reason for that sound.

that should’ve been me, he thought. could’ve been me. if i hadn’t walked away.

you looked so different, and yet exactly the same. older. stronger. happier.

without him.

he swallowed hard, forced his expression blank, and started to turn away

then your eyes caught his.

you blinked. just for a second, your smile faltered. then it came back, softer this time.

"punk", you said, loud enough to carry. "hey."

finn glanced over his shoulder, noticed punk, and gave a polite nod. nothing more.

punk hesitated, but you were already beckoning him closer.

so he stepped forward.

"didn’t expect to see you back here", you said. "hell of a return."

punk gave a faint smirk. "figured i’d crash the party one more time."

finn extended a hand. "welcome back, man. big moment."

punk took it, shook once, firm but not hostile. "thanks. you’ve been killing it lately."

"appreciate that", finn said easily. his arm slid back around your waist like second nature.

punk didn’t miss the way you leaned into it.

you looked at him then, really looked. "it’s good to see you."

punk nodded, but something behind his eyes flickered. "yeah. you too."

and he meant it. even if it twisted in his chest.

because seeing you happy, seeing you loved the way he didn’t love you back then, it was a reminder.

a reminder of what he gave up.

what he lost.

and what he would never get back.

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘

finnbalor posted a story tagging y/ninsta

written: she said yes!

y/ninsta posted a story tagging finnbalor

written: forever sounds about right

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘

the hallway outside the locker rooms buzzed with the usual energy, crew members passing, someone shouting about a production note, a camera being wheeled into position. but punk stood still.

he’d seen the news.

the photo had gone up two nights ago: your hand, held up to the camera, the diamond catching soft golden light. finn kissing your temple. that effortless, glowing smile on your face. the caption had been simple: forever sounds about right.

everyone was happy for you both.

so was he.

mostly.

he spotted finn standing near catering, half-distracted by his phone, and without overthinking it, punk crossed the space between them.

"hey."

finn looked up, then smiled, not wary, not cold. just calm. finn was always calm.

"hey, man. what’s up?"

punk shoved his hands in his pockets. "mind if i steal you for a second?"

finn raised a brow but nodded. "sure."

they moved a little off to the side, tucked near a quiet hallway where the noise dulled.

punk exhaled, then looked him straight in the eye. "i wanted to say congrats. to you. and to her."

finn’s face softened, his smile honest. "thanks. that means a lot."

punk nodded, gaze dropping for a beat. "you’re a good guy. solid. i know she’s... she’s got everything she needs with you."

a pause stretched, not uncomfortable, just heavy.

"i wasn’t always good at that", punk added quietly.

finn didn’t speak right away, but his expression was unreadable, not judgmental, just listening.

"i could’ve been", punk went on, forcing a tight smile. "maybe. in another life. if i’d stayed. if i'd been different."

his voice didn’t crack, but something in it strained. like regret carefully folded beneath every syllable.

finn gave a small nod. "we’ve all made choices we have to live with."

punk huffed a soft laugh, the sound bone-tired. "yeah. some of them don’t really leave you, though."

there was silence again. and then, punk looked back up at finn.

"just take care of her. that’s all i ask."

finn met his gaze. no bravado. no tension. just quiet sincerity.

"i will. every day."

punk gave a single nod. "good."

he turned to leave, but hesitated.

"she used to talk about marrying me, you know" he said, almost like he wasn’t supposed to say it out loud. "back then. said she could picture it."

he smiled again, the kind of smile that doesn’t reach the eyes.

"i couldn’t."

and with that, he walked away.

finn stayed standing there for a moment, thoughtful.

across the hallway, you appeared, eyes searching and when you spotted finn, your whole face lit up.

he smiled back at you as you walked into his arms, completely unaware of the man who had just left.

and somewhere down the corridor, punk didn’t look back.

but god, he wished he could.

[stellaspectral]

Hi there! Do you think you'd be down to write a fluffy 2003 Raph x tomboy reader fic? Like maybe she works at an axe throwing place that Casey goes to and one day he forgets his stuff so she offers to go drop it off and accidentally walks in on Casey and Raph having a beer and watching a wrestling match? Which leads to an awkward meet cute and Casey introducing the two of them and teasing Raph about having a crush on her when she leaves?

A/N: For some reason, I can’t remember whether Casey had a cell phone in the 2003 series? But he does here (because I’m sure April insisted he have one.)

Enjoy! 💖

Axe Marks the Spot (fluff)

❤️ 2003 Raphael/Female Reader ❤️

CWs: Fluff, mild language, alcohol consumption, discussions of sports violence, a bit of an unconventional meet-cute, and some teasing. All characters are aged-up.

You adjust your stance, the worn leather grip of your favorite throwing axe a familiar comfort in your palm. With a practiced flick of your wrist and a smooth follow-through of your arm, the axe arcs through the air, embedding itself dead center into the painted bullseye.

“See?” you say, turning to the nervous couple you’re instructing. “Just commit to the throw. Don’t overthink it. Feel the weight, aim, and let ‘er fly.” You retrieve the axe from the wood. “Any other questions before you give it a go?”

They shake their heads and shuffle towards their lane. As they start their practice, you spot a battered duffel bag left abandoned over at lane three—and you know immediately whose it is: Casey Jones, a regular here and practically a friend at this point. And this isn’t the first time he’s left his stuff behind, either.

Matter of fact, this is the third time this month.

“Seriously?” you mutter under your breath as you go over to it, scooping it up before slinging the strap over your shoulder. “For a guy with such a good arm, he’s real bad at remembering his crap.”

You check your phone, shooting him a text as you head to the employee break room.

You: You forgot your bag, dumbass.

You wait. No reply.

You: Want me to come over and drop it off for ya?

Again, no response. You sigh, checking the time; your shift is almost over. You know the guy well enough, so you decide to stop at his place.

After punching out, you leave Axe the Landing and hop on your motorcycle to drive to Casey’s pad. His place isn’t far—just a half dozen blocks away. In the meantime, you allow yourself to enjoy the ride. You like the city at night, the wind whipping past your face, the neon signs of late-night diners and closed storefronts blurring into streaks of electric color. You weave through the traffic, grateful for the familiar rhythm of the road.

You pull up to Casey’s apartment building, a brick structure that looks like it’s seen better decades. Parking your bike, you kill the engine and dismount with his bag and your helmet tucked under your arm. You’re still grumbling to yourself about his chronic forgetfulness while you enter the building and take the steps, two at a time, to his third-floor apartment. Even before you reach 3E, you hear a commentator getting overly excited as you approach the door.

You knock. No answer. You try again, louder this time—even though you know he probably can’t hear you because of his TV blaring.

“Casey? You in there?” you call out.

There’s the sound of yelling—someone getting body-slammed, maybe? Then it finally clicks. Of course he left in a hurry, forgetting his stuff; tonight’s the wrestling match he’s been looking forward to all week. He talked your ear off about it a few days ago, and you humored him, even though you’re not much into this sport in particular.

You reach for the knob, finding it unlocked. “Casey?” you repeat, pushing the door open a crack. “You left your junk again!” You proceed further into the apartment.

The wrestling match blasts from the TV while two figures are sprawled across the worn couch, illuminated by the flickering screen. Casey is the first to notice you. He turns with a start, a beer halfway to his mouth.

“Yo!” he blurts, eyebrows shooting up as he forces a grin. “Uh … didn’t hear ya knock!”

“Clearly,” you deadpan. “Figured I’d just bring your bag by. Again.”

You toss the duffel toward the cluttered corner where it always ends up, but your eyes don’t stay there long. Because sitting next to Casey—slouched comfortably with his arms crossed, a beer in one hand—is someone you most definitely weren’t expecting.

A red-masked turtle. With broad shoulders and a physique that makes even the wrestlers look scrawny. He turns his head at the sound of your voice, and you see intelligent eyes widen slightly in surprise.

You blink, hard, as you struggle to register what you’re seeing. An awkward silence descends upon the room, broken only by the grunts and slams from the TV where two dudes are beating the hell out of each other.

Your brain stutters, and so does your mouth. “Uh … Sorry, I didn’t know you had company.” A giant, bipedal turtle. Drinking beer. Watching wrestling. It’s a lot to take in on a Thursday night after a long shift.

“Uh,” the turtle says. Voice low, gravelly. “Hey.”

Casey’s eyes flick between you and his companion. His grin falters, replaced by a sudden, dawning ‘oh crap’ expression. He clears his throat and stands abruptly, almost sloshing his beer. “Right! Uh, yeah—this is … this is Raph. He’s, uh, a friend.”

You raise an eyebrow at Casey. “Right. A friend. Who happens to be a tall talking turtle.”

Casey laughs loud, tipping back his beer. “I just got weird friends, ya know?”

“Weird? You’re one to talk, Case,” Raph retorts.

You blink again, not sure if you’re tired, hallucinating, or both. But Raph doesn’t disappear. He just gives you this look, like he’s trying to gauge whether you’re about to scream, faint, or bolt. You do none of the above.

Instead, you shrug. “Cool shell.”

Casey nearly chokes on his drink.

Raph stares for a second before a quiet, raspy chuckle escapes him. “Didn’t think you’d take it that well. Not many humans do.”

“Honestly?” you say, setting your helmet on the counter and crossing your arms. “After working customer service for four years and dealing with bachelorette parties hyped on tequila for another two, this barely cracks my top five weirdest nights.”

That gets a full-blown laugh out of Casey. “Knew you two’d get along!”

Raph’s eyes flick over to you again, this time with a little more curiosity—and maybe something else. You’re not sure if it’s the lighting or just the way his posture subtly straightens, but he looks … intrigued.

“Anyway, Raph,” Casey begins, “this is the axe-chucking badass I keep telling you about.”

You raise a brow, tearing your gaze from the mutant turtle to frown at Casey. “You’ve been talking about me?”

Casey grins, a mischievous glint in his eye. “Only, like, every other day! Gotta sing your praises, right?”

Raph’s low chuckle rumbles from the couch. “He ain’t wrong. He said you were a real pro with those things.”

You blush, a faint warmth spreading across your cheeks. “I just throw them. It’s not rocket science.” You shift your weight, suddenly feeling a little self-conscious under Raph’s steady gaze. He’s looking at you again, that same intense, curious look. It’s almost like he’s trying to figure you out, piece by piece.

“So, you do this for fun?” Raph asks, leaning forward slightly, his eyes still fixed on you. “Or is it just a job to you?”

“Both, I guess,” you reply, shrugging again. “It’s my job, but yeah, it’s fun. Good way to blow off some steam.” You glance at the wrestling match, then back at Raph. “Speaking of blowing off steam, you guys are really into this, huh?”

“Nothing beats a good old-fashioned beat down,” Casey declares, raising his beer in a mock toast.

Raph nods in agreement, a small smile playing on his lips. “Gets the blood pumping.”

You smile, too. It’s strange how quickly you’ve already adapted to the idea of a talking turtle. Maybe it’s just how laid-back he seems, or maybe it’s the sheer absurdity of the situation that winds it back around to being almost … normal.

“Anyway, nice to meet you, Raph,” you say. “I didn’t mean to interrupt boys’ night. I can bounce—”

“But you’re already here,” Casey interjects. “Grab a beer, chill a sec.”

 “If ya want,” Raph adds, his tone almost … hopeful?

You hesitate before answering. “Fine. But if this match sucks, I’m holding you personally responsible, Jones.” You grab a beer from the fridge—Casey’s stocked up on the cheap stuff, as usual—and sit in the beat-up recliner across from the couch.

To your surprise, things are actually getting exciting in the match. Two guys in spandex are trying to murder each other theatrically while the crowd loses their minds. You take a sip and glance at Raph. He hasn’t looked away from you much, and now he leans forward, forearms on his knees, like he’s about to say something else.

“So,” Raph begins, “you ride?”

You smirk. “Yeah. Bike’s downstairs. You?”

“Yup. I’ve always liked ‘em. Loud. Fast. Kind of like you, huh?”

You arch a brow. “Was that a compliment or an insult?”

Raph smirks, and there’s this little spark in his eye that wasn’t there before. “Guess you’ll have to figure that out.”

“Okaaayyy,” Casey cuts in, dragging out the word. “Don’t make me get the hose.”

You stick your tongue out at him. “Jealous you’re not the most interesting one in the room anymore?”

Casey gasps, clutching his chest like he’s wounded. “Et tu, axe queen?”

Raph chuckles quietly, but you catch it.

The match continues. Casey yells encouragement and insults at the screen, fully invested. You find yourself getting caught up in his enthusiasm, occasionally wincing at a brutal-looking move or laughing at the commentators’ ridiculous lines. Raph is quieter, but his eyes are fixed on the action, and you see his fist clench a few times.

During a commercial break, Casey heads to the kitchen, presumably for a beer refill. An easy silence settles between you and Raph. And he’s still watching you with that same half-guarded, half-interested expression.

You don’t hate it.

You swirl the cheap beer in your hand, watching the fizz settle. The sound of Casey rummaging in the kitchen is background noise now. Raph shifts on the couch, glancing sideways like he’s trying to figure out the best way to break the silence.

“You always this chill around mutants?” he asks, his voice low and just a bit unsure.

You turn your head to look at him fully. His posture is casual, but you catch that subtle tension, like he’s bracing for judgment. “You always this self-conscious around girls with axes?”

His lips twitch, and you spot the faintest hint of a smile. “Touché.”

You lean back in the recliner, letting your shoulders drop. “Look, I’m not saying it’s normal. But I’m not gonna freak out either. Casey trusts you. That’s enough for me.”

His eyes hold yours a second longer than necessary. It’s intense but not threatening. More like he’s not used to being looked at without flinching. And maybe you’re not used to being looked at like you’re interesting.

“So what’s it like?” you ask, “y’know, living in New York when you kinda stand out?”

Raph raises a brow ridge. “Loud. Smelly. People suck. But the pizza’s good,” he replies, and you’re unsure if he’s joking to cover up the actual answer.

Still, you laugh, and he smiles, pleased he got a reaction out of you.

Before you can ask more, Casey returns with three more beers and an open bag of chips and flops back down on the couch. He tosses you a can, which you catch one-handed, and sets the chips between himself and Raph, who gives him a look.

“Don’t look at me like that. You’re the one who didn’t wanna stop at the bodega.”

You crack the beer open, watching the two banter with a comfort that speaks of years of friendship. As you take a sip, you still try to wrap your head around how easily you’ve settled into this moment. Then again, you’ve always been the type to go with your gut, and right now?

Your gut says this feels right.

Raph glances at you between bites of chips, and there’s a pause in the air that he doesn’t seem in a rush to fill. You notice he’s quieter when Casey’s not teasing or poking at him. Like he’s used to blending into the background, or maybe just doesn’t know what to say to someone new.

So you decide to say something first.

“You ever tried axe throwing?”

Raph tilts his head, considering. “Nah. Never really had the chance. Closest I’ve come to it was, uh … throwing my sai at bad guys. Not quite the same vibe.”

You grin, making a mental note to ask about the ‘bad guys’ thing later. “Not unless they were painted with targets.”

That gets a genuine laugh out of him. Low and rough, but real. It sounds good. You like it.

“Anyway, I could show you the ropes sometime,” you offer casually. “You know, if you ever wanna hurl sharp objects at hunks of wood and feel mildly powerful.”

Casey coughs pointedly from the couch, muttering something about mildly powerful under his breath. You ignore him.

Raph shifts slightly, his gaze lingering on you, contemplative. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

Eventually, the match ends, and Casey throws his arms up in celebration. “Called it! Dude’s undefeated!”

You shake your head, finishing your beer. “You’re way too invested in fake fights, Jones.”

“Blasphemy,” he gasps, feigning offense. “Fake?! That was peak drama!”

You snort and stand, stretching your arms over your head. “Alright, I’m heading out. Gotta work tomorrow. We have a booked party with a bunch of finance bros who’ll probably try to flirt and fail at throwing straight. Can’t wait.”

You grab your helmet from the counter, catching Raph’s eye one last time. He’s watching you again—quiet, attentive, like he wants to say something but can’t quite figure out how.

“Later,” you say, flashing a quick smirk. “Try not to break anything—or each other.”

“Good luck with the suits,” Casey calls out with a grin, lifting his beer in a lazy salute.

You nod, and your gaze flicks back to Raph one last time. “Nice meeting you, Raph.”

His reply is slower, softer, his eyes lingering on yours for a beat longer. “Yeah. You too.”

You’re halfway out the door when you pause, your hand resting on the worn wood of the doorframe, turning back just enough to catch Raph’s eye over your shoulder. “Before I forget,” you say, “you still think you’re up for that axe-throwing lesson?” You arch an eyebrow, daring him, just a little.

A grin pulls at Raph’s face, the kind that reaches his eyes and makes them crinkle at the corners. It’s a surprisingly disarming expression, softening the rugged lines of his face and making him look younger. “You free sometime soon?”

Your heart does a little flip. “Ask Casey for my schedule. Or just show up. I’m usually there.” You smile. “Looking forward to seeing you.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

Your gaze flicks to Casey, who’s been watching the entire exchange with a wide, almost comically invested grin. “I’ll return your bag in a week when you forget it again.” Before Casey can retort, you say, “See you around, Raph.”

You go out into the hallway, closing the door behind you. You’re only four steps away when you hear Casey’s—and Raph’s—voices muffled but distinct, through the door.

“Dude! Seriously? What was that all about?”

“What’re you talkin’ about, bonehead?”

“Oh nothing,” Casey says, his voice dripping with fake innocence. “You were totally checkin’ her out! I saw you! That little half-smirk thing you do when you’re tryin’ not to look impressed?” You hear a can being opened. “Never seen you so quick to agree to a ‘lesson’ before.”

“She offered. It’d be rude to say no.”

“Rude?” Casey snorts. “Since when do you care about being rude, Raph? Especially with humans you just met.” He pauses, probably taking a swig of his beer. “And that whole ‘loud, fast, kind of like you’ line? Real smooth, Romeo. Did you come up with that all by yourself?”

“Shut up, Case! I was just makin’ conversation.”

“Conversation, huh? Looked more like you were tryin’ to see if your eyeballs could actually pop out of your head from starin’ so hard. I thought you were gonna start droolin’ when she said she was lookin’ forward to seein’ you.”

“I was not starin’! And I don’t drool.”

“Coulda fooled me,” Casey sing-songs. “You were quiet as a mouse when she was talkin’, too. Usually, you’re all grunts and one-liners. But with her? Suddenly you’re Mr. Chatty.” There’s a brief pause. “Admit it, tough guy. You like her.”

“Casey, I swear—”

There’s a thwack, followed by Casey’s yelp of mock pain.

“Hey! Violence! I’m tellin’ April!” Casey’s voice, still laced with laughter, rings out.

Raph’s growl is too low for you to make out most of the words, but the exasperated, defensive tone is clear as day, even through the closed door. “Just … shut it, Jones!”

You can’t help the small smile that tugs at your lips as you continue down the stairs, the echoes of their bickering fading behind you. As you hop on your bike and put on your helmet, you replay Raph’s voice in your head. You hadn’t expected that kind of softness from someone who looks like he could bench-press a sedan.

The engine growls to life as you start your bike, rolling your shoulders once to shake off the adrenaline buzz. You’re not flustered. Not really. But you are smiling like an idiot as you pull away from the curb, a strange flutter in your chest.

You’ve taken plenty of shots before—but none of them were ever as interesting as him.

[definitlynotdumb]

transcription of the rolling stone article featuring car seat headrest that came out a few days ago (since it's paywalled and barely legible on archive.org), continues under the cut for length

Car Seat Headrest come back from the brink

After a serious health scare for Will Toledo, he and his bandmates reconnected with the joy of playing music together

By Simon Vozick-Levinson

March 4th, 2025

Car Seat Headrest: Dalby, Ives, Katz and Toledo (from left) Image credits: CARLOS CRUZ

Will Toledo has taken fans of his band, Car Seat Headrest, on some epic adventures over the years, leading them through concept albums full of lengthy songs and countless thrilling concerts. But he’s never spun a story quite as dramatic as the one he’s revealing this spring.

The Scholars, out May 2 on Matador Records, features at least a dozen distinct characters, in settings that include a mysterious university and a clown school. There are references to a 16th-century Venetian playwright, an old American folk song, and Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales. At a private performance of the album at New York’s Bitter End club last month, guests were handed a printed libretto explaining all of this, with lyrics cheekily credited to “my great-great-great-great-grandfather, the Archbishop Guillermo Guadalupe del Toledo.”

There's a lot more mythology where that came from, including an enigmatic online game. If you don't have time to race down the rabbit hole, though, here's the most important thing to know about The Scholars: it's the most directly pleasurable Car Seat Headrest album in a while, packed with anthemic choruses and satisfying live-band crunch. Songs like "The Catastrophe (Good Luck With That, Man)" and "Devereux" are bright, catchy, and instantly accessible. The lead single, "Gethsemane", stretches out for nearly 11 minutes of proggy rise and fall.

“It came from jams, mostly,” says Andrew Katz, 34, the band’s wry, energetic drummer. “We hadn’t really played together in a while. Let’s just rip, record it, and see how it sounds.”

A couple of days after the Bitter End performance, Toledo and his bandmates are gathered in the basement of Matador Records’ downtown Manhattan office. Katz sits next to guitarist Ethan Ives, 31, and across from bass player Seth Dalby, 34. In the middle is Toledo, 32, lanky and thoughtful as always, with an N95 mask and long hair hiding much of his face.

Car Seat Headrest began 15 years ago as a solo project for Toledo, who built a devoted fanbase on Bandcamp before moving to Seattle, assembling the musicians who now make up the band, and signing with Matador. Though this lineup has now been together for nearly a decade, they’d never fully brought their live dynamic into the studio before. 

“We found that we had a sound as a four-piece that had not really emerged on any of our previous records, because those were more like me coming up with solo demos and then giving that to the band,” Toledo says. This time, he adds, “I was more of an organizer than the composer.”

The Scholars is a hard swerve away from Car Seat Headrest’s last album, Making a Door Less Open, whose glossy pop surfaces and occasional satirical edge were the result of a long, fraught recording process. Almost as soon as they’d released that album into a pandemic-stunned world in May 2020, Toledo says, he started thinking about doing things differently next time. He recalls listening to Mozart’s Magic Flute and forming the beginnings of an idea for an album structured like an opera, with songs in the voices of multiple characters — an “exercise in empathy,” he says.

Before he could develop that idea any further, though, he was sidelined for months with an unexpected medical crisis that put the band’s future in question. 

Car Seat Headrest previewed their new album, The Scholars, with a private show at the Bitter End in New York. Image credits: GRIFFIN LOTZ FOR ROLLING STONE

IT STARTED IN the spring of 2022, when Car Seat Headrest mounted their first tour since before the pandemic. “When we came back, we found we had a lot of younger fans,” Toledo says. “Fans who had never seen Car Seat before. A lot of them, I think, hadn’t seen rock shows before at all.”

Those audiences made for some memorable nights, as documented on the live album Faces from the Masquerade. At one March 2022 show in Brooklyn, Toledo wore a fursuit onstage for the first time, drawing rapturous cheers from the furries in the crowd. “That was kind of a spur-of-the-moment thing that went with the energy that we were riding at the time,” he says. “And the audience loved it… The best shows were, I think, the best shows that we’d played up to that point.” 

“We were like, ‘Finally, we’ve hit the peak. We’re having fun now,'” Katz says.

“And then just a couple shows after that, I got Covid,” Toledo adds.

They canceled their next few shows, and the rest of the band flew home to Seattle. Toledo spent a few days isolated in a Washington, D.C.-area hotel room, resting up and “scrolling through Twitter, looking at all the very nice responses” to the fursuit he’d debuted in Brooklyn. After a week or so, feeling recovered, he flew back west to join the rest of the band.

Once he was home, it became clear that Toledo was still dealing with a serious health issue. “I started feeling worse and worse again, and I didn’t know why,” he says. “I would wake up in the morning, feel OK, and then as soon as I started eating, it seemed like my tongue was burning.”

Toledo got through the next few months with difficulty, canceling some shows and doing his best to tough it out at others. “We played Seattle, and that was by far the worst I’ve ever felt during a show,” he says. “I’m still not sure how I got through it.” Many of his problems were digestive in nature, leading to a mistaken diagnosis of stomach flu. But no matter how many times his symptoms seemed to improve, they always came back.

Finally, in October 2022, he made the decision to scratch all of Car Seat Headrest’s upcoming dates. Toledo broke the news to fans with a grim message posted on social media: “After another month of struggling to regain my health, I am currently forced to face the fact that my body lacks the basic levels of functionality necessary to leave the house most days, let alone embark on a tour.”

During that long period of uncertainty about his health, Toledo’s bandmates let him know they were OK with Car Seat Headrest ending if that’s what it took for him to get better. “I think we had a phone call,” Katz says. “I was like, ‘Dude, if you got to quit, just quit. It’s not the end of the world. We are all capable people. We’ll figure something else out.’”

“Hey, maybe another album’s not in the cards,” Dalby recalls thinking.

Eventually, Toledo was diagnosed with histamine intolerance, a chronic condition that he was able to manage by going on an extremely limited diet. “I remember I did a grocery run,” Katz says, turning to Toledo. “All you could eat was what, carrots and one other thing? It was really scary.”

By the spring of 2023, with Toledo’s health under control at last, they were ready to start work on their next album. The mood was open and collaborative, from those liberating full-band jams to the newly prominent songwriting contributions made by Ives.

“One of the first things we did was just me and him sitting down on one of our friends’ lawns with acoustic guitars and going back and forth,” Toledo says. “Just listening and seeing, ‘Where can it go from here?’ It felt good to step back from the role of having to provide the material.”

The guitarist — a big-time Neil Young fan who’s wearing a Steve Albini T-shirt when we meet — ended up taking a turn on lead vocals at several key points on the album, including on a majestic power ballad he co-wrote called “Reality.” (In the libretto, he’s credited as “Artemis.”) “I had wanted to contribute more writing to the band, and I had already been sort of vocal about that,” Ives says. “It ended up being fortuitous.”

“I thought of our practice space as a workshop,” Toledo adds. “And days when we were working on Ethan’s songs were easier for me.” He liked how it all fit into the storyline he was sketching out, comparing it to the way dancers come on and off the stage in Tchaikovsky’s Nutcracker: “I really feel like my strong point is less coming up with the original content and more prodding something that’s already there into a direction that I see it going.”

Ives (left) with Toledo at the Bitter End show. Image credits: GRIFFIN LOTZ FOR ROLLING STONE

TODAY, TOLEDO SAYS, his medical ordeal is in the past, for the most part. “I feel better now than I ever have in my life, in terms of the vigor and energy of my body,” he says. “That still varies from day to day, and there is still fragility there. Sometimes I still do have a day where, for no discernable reason, I have a downturn.”

He’s been able to limit his symptoms most effectively by sticking to a strict diet: “In case any readers out there think they might have this, try a diet of oats, pumpkin seeds, rice, potatoes, carrots, broccoli, and, if you eat meat, chicken and turkey.” He also feels he’s benefited in other ways from the clarity that can accompany a health scare.

“Being very sick puts you in touch with what’s real in life and what isn’t,” he says. “As I started getting better, I tried to keep having that time for stillness in my life, and I started meditating more. And I’ve kept that up as a daily practice.”

At both the Bitter End performance and our interview, he’s wearing a tight-fitting N95 mask, which he tells me he does both to protect himself and out of consideration for a close friend who has been battling post-Covid symptoms for five years. “I wear it pretty much whenever I go out in public now,” he says. “It’s more worth it to me to stick on a mask when I’m in public and then have people in safe spaces that I can unmask around.”

He’ll be wearing the same mask when Car Seat Headrest return to U.S. stages this year for a series of carefully limited engagements. “We’re not going to tour in the sense of getting on the road and doing a different city every night,” he says. “Every couple weeks, we’re going to fly out and do a show. And that was a very practical decision based on estimates about my health.”

He and his bandmates are currently working out a new setlist that will have room for some of the more sprawling songs on The Scholars — the longest of which, “Planet Desperation,” rages on for almost 19 minutes on the record — along with at least a few older fan favorites.

“I love how simple they are and how big a reaction we can get,” Katz says of the more concise songs from albums like 2016’s Teens of Denial and 2018’s Twin Fantasy (Face to Face). “I love it. But obviously, you have to fucking move on at some point. You can’t just keep playing ‘Drunk Drivers’ for 25 years.”

Toledo agrees. “I get so excited playing these new songs that I would rather spend less time on the old songs,” he says, and though I can’t see his expression, I get the sense he is smiling slightly. “If they hate the record, we’ll go back to Twin Fantasy. But we’re hoping that they like it.”

here's all, thanks for reading! consider reblogging to support my efforts (no pressure)

tagging @cosmicanchorite and @thoseareyougotsomeniceshoulders since you said you were interested on my other post!

have a good one :)

[bullet-prooflove]

The Fixer: Harry Wilson x Reader

Tagging: @kmc1989 @buckysteveloki-me @hagarsays @misskrose @pascal-rascal424

Summary: Harry returns to the place it all started in an attempt to reconnect wiith you.

Companion piece to:

Sugar - You're Harry's first stop when he makes it back to New Orleans.

Bourbon (NSFW) - The things you and Harry get up to with a 10k bottle of bourbon... it's sinful.

Court Days - Court days are your favourite days.

The Corkscrew - You realise Harry isn't the person you thought he is when you see him on a date with another man.

You are a force of nature.

A tempest of movement and motion as you hurdle across the pasture on the same sleek black racehorse that bucked you three years ago, giving you a head injury so severe you lost your hearing.

Your hair blazes behind you in the breeze, your knees pressed tight against horse’s flank as you bolt towards the gate of the paddock like it’s a finish line.

No hesitation, no fear, just sheer force of will.

It’s one of the things Harry loves the most about you.

You don’t think twice, you just live the way that you’re supposed to.

Wild, free.

You slow to a canter, your palm smoothing over Midnight’s neck as you trot slowly towards the fence where Harry’s standing. He keeps his mouth shut as you disembark, watching as you gather up the reins in your fist pulliing them taut before you walk towards him.

“I thought you’d have the sense to stay away from here.” You say gesturing to the sign representing the Riverland Horse Sanctuary you started over a decade ago.

It’s how the two of you met. Some nefarious individuals from the racing world trying to shut down your business because you were bad for theirs. Instead of letting injured horses go to the chop shop, you bought them and retrained the ones with the right temperament to be therapy animals for the equestrian centre you partner with. It had ruined some reputations out on the track because the owners had claimed their horses were irreparably injured, when the truth was they just didn’t want to pay surgery or rehabilitation costs.  

When threats, bribery and one very shoddy attempt at blackmail didn’t work, they’d stepped it up a notch which is where Harry’s team had come in.

As far as you’re concerned after a couple of meetings with Harry and Sophie, Harry had worked some legal angle investigating your claims. He’d handed over evidence to racing officials and local authorities about the fucked up shit that was going on behind the scenes and those assholes were arrested, leaving you to take care of your horses in peace.  

You had no idea what Breanna had gone undercover as a jockey to get proof on the bribes. That Eliot and Sophie stole their money by playing a Texas Ranch owner and  a Southern Belle. That Parker had broken into a dozen different places to steal records on the horse doping and bloodline fraud, ensuing that if they ever did get out of prison, they would never be welcome back in those circles again.

Harry has kept you well away from that part of his life because the secrets he keeps, they’re not just his secrets. He has four other people to consider as well as an entire network he’d be putting at risk if he discloses the reality of what he does. It’s the reason he couldn’t tell you why he was on that date, not until he’d spoken to the rest of them to make sure they were on board with his decision.

“Look.” Harry says, rubbing his palm over the nape of his neck. “Can we talk?”

“We’ve got nothing to talk about Harry.” You tell him as you stride towards the stables in order to remove Midnight’s tack. “You betrayed me in the worst possible way-”

“But what if I didn’t?” He asks, walking parallel along the fence, his expensive shoes sinking into the grass. “There was no kissing, no sex, handholding was only as far as it went-”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” You snap, turning your head towards him. “You went on a date with another person hours after we’d…” An angry flush creeps across your cheeks as you stop yourself from saying the words ‘made love’. “It doesn’t matter, I am clearly not enough for you-”

“That is not true.” He says fiercely, his eyes blazing as he meets your gaze. “That has never been true.”

“Then why were you having dinner with another man? Why were you holding his hand, acting like you wanted to take him home and fuck him in front of the fireplace?” You retaliate, your voice raising an octave. Beside you Midnight whinnies his disproval at your change in tone and you run your palm across his nose to sooth him.

“I…” He begins, searching for the right words and failing. “It was a con.”

“So you’re here because the man you took on a date catfished you?” You summarise incredulously. “And you think I’m going to what, feel sorry for you?”

“No…” He drawls out the word as the two of you come to a halt outside the stable, the literal end of the line. “I was the catfish, or the honeypot. I’m not sure if they both mean the same thing, there’s some semantics involved...”

You laugh and it’s a harsh, bitter sound that makes him flinch. You can’t help yourself because the audacity of this man, it astounds you. “So what? You’re a con man? Is that what you’re telling me?”

Harry clears his throat before placing his hands on his hips and meeting your eyes.

“It’s called a Fixer.” He tells you. “But basically yes, I’m a con man.”

Love Harry? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.

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[allthecanadianpolitics]

Just a decade ago, syphilis infections among infants were nearly eradicated in Canada. Yet there were warning signs the bacterial sexually transmitted infection (STI) — known for causing painless sores, organ damage, and stillborn infants — was making a comeback. First, rates started rising among adults in the early 2000s, followed by an alarming spike in congenital infections passed from mothers to their babies.  The latest federal data shows there were nearly 14,000 cases of infectious syphilis across the country in 2022, as well as 117 instances of early congenital syphilis. That's a nearly 15-fold increase from just eight nation-wide cases of syphilis reported in infants five years earlier. "When I started in clinical practice, just over 20 years ago, we'd see syphilis like every couple months," said Patrick O'Byrne, a nurse practitioner with Ottawa Public Health's sexual health clinic. "And I would say it's now daily."

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Tagging @politicsofcanada

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Day 29: time capsule

Masterlist flufftober 🎃

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You couldn't believe what was on the table in front of you. The silver metal box was filled with dirt, but you could still read a label, which had once been white, with a couple of names written on it and a year beneath them. Fifteen years ago, to be exact.

Although you still received some news about Spencer Reid (from his mother, in particular), the truth was that after he left Las Vegas, your friendship was not the same. Distance was a determining factor, and also, the means of communication were not the most accessible.

Years ago, you had asked for his phone number at the hospital where his mother was staying (something unethical, but it was a favor for a friend), but you had never dared to call him. It would have been strange, for sure, so you simply decided to leave things as they were.

But now the opportunity was right there, and to be honest, you were a little curious about what your friend had hidden in that time capsule. You barely even remembered it, a sign that five more years had passed since the date you were supposed to open it, and you had only found it thanks to the gardening work you had paid for your backyard.

You thought for a long time about what you should do. Should you call him? Just leave it as it was? Open it without him? The point of those kinds of boxes was to see them with the person you had filled them with; it wouldn’t make sense.

In the end, you decided and pressed the call button for that number you had gotten so many years ago, hoping it would still be the same today. If you knew Spencer well enough, you knew he preferred to keep things the same.

“Hello?”

“Uh, hi… Am I speaking with Spencer Reid?”

“This is he, who is this?”

You stayed silent for a second, smiling unconsciously at the fact that it was your friend on the other end of the line. You didn’t even know how to start.

“Are you still there?”

“Yes! I don’t know if you remember me…” you murmured, giving a hint of your identity. You almost imagined his face lighting up on the other side.

“Of course I remember you! It’s been a long time, sorry I don’t have your number saved.”

“No problem,” you lied. You preferred to let him think you had exchanged numbers. “Are you busy? I don’t want to take up too much of your time.”

“I can talk. Go ahead.”

You explained the situation you were in, how while digging in your yard, the shovel had hit a metallic object with your names written on it. Spencer expressed the same nostalgia you felt about it, and that’s when you asked about the most appropriate destination for the capsule.

“I know traveling from Washington for something like that is a waste of money and time; I’m not asking you to do that, but…”

“No! I’m going to visit my mother in two weeks, so it’s perfect. If you want, we can meet during those days.”

The date was set, and the box remained on one of the shelves, waiting. You had cleaned it as much as possible to reveal its original shine, with only the slightly brown label as a remnant of having been buried for three decades.

You tried not to think too much about the dates, sure that this way time would pass more easily. So it was, because when you least expected it, the day had arrived. You tried to have everything ready to host your guest and waited for the hour of his arrival, watching television to kill time. It was already close to dusk when someone knocked on your door, making you jump up like a spring due to the anxiety you felt about seeing him.

You were not disappointed in the least when the sight before you was of a boy, a man, dressed in a formal shirt, a tie around his neck, khaki pants, and a pair of black-rimmed glasses.

“Hi,” you exhaled, more surprised than you would have liked.

He was so different that if you had seen him under other circumstances, you wouldn’t have recognized him.

He greeted you the same way, and you gestured to hug him, waiting for him to reciprocate. Spencer did, and then you let him into your house, which was still the same as he remembered. You were friends in school, which meant that more than once your mother had realized that no one had come to pick him up and had offered to drive him to your house.

First, you asked him about Diana, wanting to know what her current state was, and he offered his condolences for what had happened with your parents. You talked for a while about how their lives had been during the time you were apart, drank, and ate what you had prepared until finally the much-anticipated moment arrived.

“I’m embarrassed I didn’t remember this when I’m supposed to have eidetic memory.”

“Even you can forget something sometimes,” you justified, shrugging and sitting down beside him on the couch.

You thanked the heavens that the box didn’t have a key; otherwise, you would never have discovered its contents, and you let him take the honor of opening it.

With the time capsule completely open, the air seemed to be filled with nostalgia. The first thing that appeared was a bunch of letters, some carefully folded and others hurriedly, as if they had been left at the last minute before burying the box.

You took one of the letters that had his name written in youthful, somewhat shaky handwriting. You laughed as you remembered the time when both of you had decided to write letters to the future, convinced that, in a few years, you would become completely different people.

“‘Dear future me’…” you read aloud, and Spencer covered his face, blushing.

“Please don’t read that,” he said, laughing, trying to reach for it, but you slipped away with the letter in hand.

“It’s adorable. Here you say that by this time you would already be a famous scientist.”

Spencer let out a shy laugh.

“I guess I dreamed big… although, in a way, I’ve fulfilled some of those dreams.”

After setting the letters aside, you found a small notebook full of notes and scribbles. You opened it and, to your surprise, discovered a plethora of small illustrations of everyday things you shared in those days. Drawings of the school cafeteria, the park you went to after classes, and even a cartoonish drawing of Spencer trying to solve a Rubik’s cube.

“Who drew this?” you asked, looking at an animated version of yourself with a concentrated face while studying.

“That… was me,” Spencer admitted, scratching the back of his neck, embarrassed. “I remember I was trying to draw you without you noticing in science class. It’s not my best work, clearly.”

You burst out laughing.

“It’s great! I didn’t know you had artistic talent.”

“It was easier to remember things by drawing them. Besides, you always seemed so focused, and that inspired me. Drawing you helped pass the time.”

Just below, you found a folded and somewhat worn photo. The image showed both of you at a birthday party when you were kids. You, with a funny smile and a party hat, and he, with his typical serious expression, as if he was wondering how he had ended up in the middle of a celebration.

“How did you always end up at my parties, even though you said you didn’t like them?”

Spencer shrugged, blushing a bit.

“Your mom insisted on inviting me, and well… I didn’t mind spending time with you.”

You fell silent for a second, surprised by the honesty of his words. Then you decided to leave the topic and continued checking the box.

At the bottom of the capsule, two books remained intact, covered in a fine layer of dust. One of them was Great Stories of Sherlock Holmes by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, which Spencer had chosen years ago, and the other was And Then There Were None by Agatha Christie, your favorite back then. You picked up Spencer's book, flipping through it carefully so as not to damage the pages.

“Why did you choose Sherlock Holmes?” you asked, not taking your eyes off the book.

Spencer smiled, somewhat nostalgically.

“For me, it represented what I wanted to be as an adult. Someone who could solve any mystery. Although I think in the end, real life is much more complicated than I thought back then.”

You nodded, and while stroking the cover of his book, you shared your reason. “I chose Agatha Christie because… I wanted my life to be exciting, like the mysteries in her stories. Something that, over time, I realized was not so realistic.”

You shared a knowing smile, as if those books told not only stories of detectives and murders but also of your own youthful aspirations.

Then you found a small plush figurine, a worn teddy bear that both of you had called Bobby. You used to take turns caring for him when one of you was sick or sad.

“This poor Bobby survived all these years,” you said, holding it between your fingers.

Spencer took the bear gently, remembering a time when he had spent difficult days at home due to his mother's health problems.

“I gave it to you when my mom was in the hospital… I didn’t know how to tell you what was happening, so I left it in your locker so you would know I needed support without saying it out loud.”

You felt a lump in your throat, remembering how you had kept Bobby beside your pillow every night until Spencer told you that his mom was better.

“I never told you, but I always understood what Bobby meant. It was as if we were talking without words.”

You continued exploring, and suddenly, you found a small box with golden edges and a rusty latch. You opened it carefully and discovered a couple of old braided string friendship bracelets, each with a small crystal charm. They were the friendship bracelets you had made together one summer, a symbol of the promise that you would always be friends, no matter the distance. You took one of the bracelets and slipped it onto your wrist.

“I remember spending hours picking the colors. Green was your favorite, right?”

“It was,” he replied, taking the other bracelet. “And you chose blue because, according to you, it matched the sky, and you always dreamed of traveling and seeing the world.”

You looked at the bracelet on your wrist, feeling a strange mix of nostalgia and joy.

“It’s funny… I feel like, by putting this on, I’m ten years old again.”

Then, beneath the bracelets, you found a small disposable camera wrapped in a plastic cover. Spencer held it in his hands, reminiscing about the times when you both tried to capture your “adventures” with the few photos you could take. You took the camera and, without thinking, aimed it at him and pressed the button, emitting a soft click, only to have a strip of photo paper eject from the slot a moment later.

“I knew you would do that,” he said, laughing. “Do you remember when we tried to take a picture of the shooting star and ended up capturing a picture of our feet by mistake?”

“That photo was a disaster! But I think I still have it somewhere,” you replied. “We always tried to take photos as if we were explorers on some important expedition.”

As you continued unpacking, you found another small book, somewhat worn with hard covers, titled “Survival Guide for School” written in marker on the cover. When you opened it, you saw a series of notes and tips you both had written, from how to “survive a history presentation” to “how to avoid the math teacher in the hallway.”

Spencer read one of the tips out loud: “Tip number five: if you sit next to the window, you have a better view to imagine you’re anywhere else.” You both looked at each other and laughed, recalling the times you sat together at the back of the classroom.

Finally, you reached the last items in the box: two lists of goals for the future. You took yours, noticing how you had listed objectives like: learning another language, traveling the world, and writing a book someday. Spencer, on his part, had listed goals that included: becoming a genius in at least three fields, finding a real mystery to solve, and marrying the most incredible girl in the world.

You frowned, looking at Spencer with curiosity.

“And who is that incredible girl you mentioned?” you asked with a playful smile.

Spencer blushed slightly, trying to maintain his composure.

“Oh, you know, someone who is a real challenge,” he replied, shrugging as if to downplay it.

“A challenge?” she retorted, leaning towards him. “Sounds exciting. Do you have her number?”

He burst out laughing, enjoying the joke. “No, I don’t have her number. But I’m sure she’s someone who laughs at my bad jokes.”

“Then that means she’s not so hard to find,” you said, smiling back. “Maybe you should talk to her more often.”

“Yeah, maybe I should. Perhaps I’ll even invite her for coffee or something,” he replied, pretending to be thoughtful.

“That sounds like a plan,” you joked. “But how can you dare to do that without knowing if she likes coffee?”

Spencer raised his hands in surrender.

“Okay! Maybe I should just stick to my goals and let the universe handle the surprises.”

“That’s the attitude,” you said, smiling conspiratorially. “But if you need advice on how to win over that incredible girl, just ask me.”

You both laughed, feeling the atmosphere fill with fun and complicity over the secret that, though unspoken, had come to light.

Spencer fell silent as he looked at the notes and memories you had unearthed. For a moment, both of you got lost in time, feeling those fifteen years of distance fade away, leaving you once again as the inseparable friends you had been in the past.

When everything was laid out on the table, you looked at each other with a smile and dared to lean towards him, causing the man to hug you gently. You both knew that, although life had taken different paths for each of you, those small objects connected you to a shared past that would always be present, a reminder of the friendship and dreams you had shared.

With a deep sigh, you began to put each object back into the box, one by one, and closed the lid carefully, as if preserving a priceless treasure. You both knew you had unearthed much more than a simple time capsule; you had unearthed a piece of yourselves, and at that moment, your paths, though temporary, had found each other again.

[trickphotography2]

'tis the damn season | Epilogue

Pairing: Jake "Hangman" Seresin x Julie/Cece (OC, no physical description)

Word count: 4.9k

Synopsis: After six years away from home, Jake ‘Hangman’ Seresin was finally going to make his parents happy and surprise his family by spending Christmas in Magnolia, Texas. Introducing his pregnant fiancee to his family is a culture clash, with rural Texas meeting California influencer. Though unhappy in his relationship, Jake knows he has to buckle down and do the right thing with a baby on the way.

The last person he expected to run into was his high school sweetheart and the one that got away, Julie.

The holidays are already going to be hard enough for Julie. Her home baking business, which had started as a fun side project, exploded after a few TikToks went viral. Just when she was getting the hang of juggling her job and business, tragedy struck. Facing her first Christmas as an orphan, the last thing Julie expected was to hear that once familiar nickname - Cece.

After almost a decade apart, Jake and Julie can't help but feel that old familiar spark. Even with the realities of their lives pressing in, they can't help but wonder what might have happened if just one of them had fought for their relationship all those years ago.

Chapter 10 | Master List | Ao3

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Epilogue

Jake rolled over and quickly silenced the alarm. The house was quiet, and he half expected Cece to be sleeping. She’d been exhausted over the last few weeks and took every opportunity to nap. But she was awake, thumbnail caught between her teeth as she stared at the ceiling. “C’mere, honey,” he rasped, tugging her so she rolled and rested her head on his chest. 

His parents had finally upgraded the bed in his room to a full-sized one, and Jake was surprised he missed the twin. There was a certain nostalgia for coming home and crawling into a small bed, limbs twining together to ensure no one fell off. 

Of course, back then, his parents hadn’t known that he was sneaking Cece into the room. 

Pressing his lips to the crown of her head, Jake gently pulled her nail from her mouth and rested her hand on his chest. “You sleep at all?” he asked. 

“Maybe an hour. Your snoring kept me up.” Her gentle teasing made him feel slightly better. 

“Shoulda kicked me.”

“I did.” Her head bounced on his chest when he chuckled, her cold fingers twirling in his chest hair. “We should get moving before your parents get up.” 

“Alright,” he grunted, glancing at the time and seeing they’d have to get up soon for chores. “First thing first, though.” He brushed the hair from her face when she hummed, turning so her chin rested on his pec. “Merry Christmas, Cupcake.” 

“Merry Christmas, Farm Boy.” Jake smiled tiredly when she moved closer and kissed him. Curling his hand around her cheek, he kissed the tip of her nose before pecking her lips again. 

“No matter what,” he said when she started to pull away. “Everything’s gonna be okay.” In the dim light, he could see tears welling in her eyes and kissed her again. 

“Promise?”

“Promise.” With a nod, she climbed over him and stepped onto the cold floor, her arms wrapping tightly around herself. The temperature had been dropping steadily overnight, and when he tugged back the curtains, Jake wasn’t surprised to see that a couple of inches of snow had fallen with no sign of stopping. The rustling of a plastic bag had him flicking back the covers. “What me to come with you?”

“No, not for this part. I’ll… I’ll be back in a minute.” 

“Alright. I love you.”

“I love you, too.” The floorboards creaked as Cece tiptoed out of the room, and Jake collapsed onto the bed. Sleep tugged at him, but he refused to let his eyes close. 

A few minutes later, Cece crept back into the room and pushed the door shut, leaning back against it. “All good?” 

“Pretty hard to screw up peeing on a stick,” she replied, tapping the capped white sticks against her thigh. They’d had to drive two towns over to buy them, using the guise of last-minute Christmas shopping.

Even after being gone from Magnolia for two years, they knew the gossip mill would love nothing more than to talk about Jake and Julie Seresin buying pregnancy tests. 

While Cece was slightly panicking about possibly having a baby, Jake secretly hoped they had a little one on the way. They had been moving slowly, carefully rebuilding their relationship, and now that they were married, he was ready for the next steps. 

After deciding to move to San Diego, it took Cece another two months to get everything wrapped up. Reluctant to sell the house, she’d decided to rent it out and make the decision later. Many of their marathon video calls involved her cleaning the house. It hurt to watch her cry while sorting through her parents' things, trying to decide what to keep and what to donate. Complicating things was her decision to rent a room with someone rather than have her own space, further limiting what she could keep. As much as Jake assured her that they would have plenty of room between the farm and his own place, she wanted to make sure she did things on her own terms. She’d even turned down his offer to rent her a storage locker but later decided to get one and pay for it herself. 

From the night she’d told him about the move, Cece was determined to do everything on her terms. Including them getting back together. “We’re gonna date,” she’d told him. “I know my Farm Boy, but I need to find out who Hangman is.” 

So they’d taken it slow. His offer to fly out and drive back with her had been kindly declined, as Cece wanted to do the two-day drive solo. Instead, Jake was at her apartment when she drove in from Magnolia, pulling a trailer behind her SUV. He met her roommate, someone Cece had met while working at the hotel, and helped her unpack. While waiting for her business to grow, she returned to working at the hotel as an assistant pastry chef.

But Jake made sure she knew his intentions. Not a day went by when Cece didn’t hear “I can’t wait to marry you” or “When we’re married…” 

Between their work schedules, it was hard to find time together. It was torture, knowing that she was so close - in the same damn city - without being able to spend every minute together and waking up without her in his arms every morning. The first time he’d grumbled about it, Cece had kissed him before reminding him that she was trying to establish herself in a new place, and that took time. So he tried to be patient. He kept an overnight bag in his truck to stay at her place and invited her to stay at his whenever she wanted. His spare apartment key was quickly handed over. And when she started baking again, he offered to go with her on deliveries. 

Throughout it all, Cece kept posting. She was careful not to catch him on camera, scouring her videos for glimpses of him before posting. Her followers peppered her with questions about their relationship, but she didn’t respond. But one of her fans commented on her video, outing them when they spotted him behind the wheel when Cece dropped off an order. 

It wasn’t all work, though. While Cece wanted to explore her new home and find her own spots with the help of friends she made at work, Jake introduced her to some of his. He brought her to some of his favorite restaurants and haunts. And, instead of sitting at home on those nights alone, he forced himself to go out with the Daggers, repairing the friendships he’d neglected while with his ex. He still battled moments of jealousy when they left him in the office to fly. When he was forced to stay at his desk or listen to the cocky new recruits in his lectures without being a part of the team to humble them in the air. Slowly, he was allowed to join them in the gym, and their teasing of how weak he was after taking months off was all the encouragement he needed to push harder.

When the flight surgeon finally cleared him to fly, Cece was his first call. It took all of his willpower not to drop to his knees and propose again when he came home to find her there, having let herself in with the key he’d given her. Leaning against the wall, he watched her dance around his kitchen, headphones in as she cooked his favorite meal. Sneaking up behind her, he glanced at a plate of cookies decorated to look like his jet and his gold wings on the island. She jumped when he wrapped his arms around her waist, drawing her from the stove and removing one of her headphones. He ducked his head to press his lips to his favorite spot on the curve of her neck. Felt her relax against him when he murmured against her skin, “Hey, baby.” 

“Hey, Hangman,” she replied, resting her hand on his arm and letting her head fall back onto his shoulder. Jake chuckled, running the tip of his tongue over her pulse point and enjoying her shaky inhale.

“It’s Farm Boy to you, Cupcake.” The music started again when he put her headphones on, and he chuckled at hearing a twangy song about a woman approaching a cowboy in a bar. After glancing at the stove to ensure nothing would burn, Jake took another step back and turned her, guiding one arm over his shoulder and holding the other, hips pressing together as he led her in a quick two-step. Cece laughed, eyes sparkling as she sang along.

“Excuse me, you look like you love me. You look like you want me to want you to come on home. And baby, I don't blame you for lookin' me up and down across this room. I'm drunk and I'm ready to leave, and you look like you love me.” 

After dinner, Cece met the Daggers for a celebratory drink at the Hard Deck. She was nervous, and Jake fought against her taking his cookies to the bar, but her kiss and promise to make him more somewhat made up for it. 

Unsurprisingly, the Daggers loved Cece. They especially loved when he’d snapped back at something Rooster had said, and she’d smacked his chest and scowled, “Be nice, Farm Boy.” 

“‘Farm Boy’?” Nat echoed.

“Nope, no one calls me that but her,” Jake said quickly, wrapping an arm around Cece’s waist and pulling her into his chest to kiss her temple. It was worth the teasing about being soft for his girl the next day because it was absolutely true.

“How long is it supposed to take?” Jake murmured as they sat on the floor beside the bed, backs against the mattress. 

“Five minutes.” His groan made her chuckle nervously. 

“That’s forever.” Cece moved the tests from where they rested on her thigh to the floor, crawling into his lap and burying her face in his neck. His hands slipped under the back of her shirt, holding her tightly. “Talk to me, baby.” 

“I’m just nervous. The store opens in a few months, and what if I can’t fill the orders because I’m huge and feel sick all the time?”

“Then we’ll deal with it. You’ve got staff that’ll help.” And she did. Along with a friend from the hotel, Cece was finally taking the plunge and opening her bakery, with her friend also using the space as a coffee shop. Her home bakery company grew quickly - especially after word got around that she offered a discount for first responders, military, and veterans - so much so that Cece had to become more selective with her orders. 

The last year had been a whirlwind. With both of their rental leases ending, Jake and Cece had agreed to move in together and had started looking at houses to buy rather than rent. Keeping her business in mind, they’d tried to find a big kitchen before deciding to find a fixer-upper and renovate. 

And, after a long, tearful discussion, Cece decided to sell her house in Magnolia. The couple renting it had let her know they were interested in buying, especially with their growing family. So they went home for a week to sign the papers, and Jake felt helpless when Cece sobbed after driving away from the house for the last time.

But that evening, when they’d gone out for a horse ride after dinner and ended up under his favorite tree to watch the sunset, she’d told him it was the right thing to do - her daddy had encouraged her to sell it, and, as much as she wanted to hold onto her childhood home, she knew that she couldn’t move back into that house again. The likelihood of her ever moving back to Magnolia became slimmer with every day she spent in California. 

Jake had been absentmindedly playing with her fingers as she talked, his thumb grazing her ring finger. “Hey, Farm Boy?” she sighed, lifting her head from his shoulder. He hummed, turning to brush his lips to her temple. “Wanna get married while we’re home?” 

Few things surprised him, but her proposal was one of them. Jake just stared at her for a long moment, mouth opening and closing without uttering a word. Finally, he choked out, “I don’t have your ring.” Smiling, Cece reached into the neck of her shirt and pulled out the chain, revealing her old engagement ring. 

“I have it. And yours is in my suitcase.” 

“Honey…I… I…” Shaking his head, Jake scrambled to his feet and pulled Cece up. She laughed when he spun her, fingers quickly undoing the necklace clasp and lifting the chain over her head. Sliding the ring into his palm, he spun her back around and sank to one knee, holding her left hand in his. “I thought I’d have more time to figure out what I wanted to say - ”

“We can wait,” Cece grinned, gently pulling her hand away. Jake tightened his grip, not allowing her to move an inch.

“Not a chance, Cupcake. Just gimme…gimme one second.” Staring up at her, he swallowed hard against the lump in his throat, blinking away tears. Her smile softened, and she lifted her free hand to run her fingers through his hair. His eyes fluttered closed as he leaned into her touch. “I love you, Julie Louise,” he rasped. 

Movement forced his eyes open, and Jake watched as Cece knelt before him, cupping his cheek and drawing him closer. Her lips brushed his before curving into a smile. “Yes.” Tears clung to her lashes, her chin wobbling before she cleared her throat. “I don’t need a fancy speech or promises. We did that before. Just promise me I’ll have you forever.”

“I promise,” he breathed. After slipping the ring back onto her finger, Jake tugged her into his lap and kissed her hard, slowly lowering her onto the ground. 

Plans came together quickly. Given that he was in the military, they were able to waive the 72-hour waiting period. But what they imagined as a trip to the county clerk's office was derailed when word of their engagement spread across Magnolia like wildfire. Jake and Cece couldn’t go into town without someone stopping and congratulating them on finally working things out. Even Betty Roberts offered them her blessing, saying that Julie’s parents were surely working some magic upstairs to get them back together again.

Cece had only smiled graciously at that, her fingers squeezing Jake’s hard enough that he had to keep himself from flinching. 

Mama and Lucy spearheaded throwing the wedding together in three days. Determined to make sure that they were celebrated appropriately, the two women quickly promised Cece that the only thing she needed to worry about was finding her dress and baking the cake when she tried to stop the fuss. Jake, meanwhile, was roped into renting a hall in town for a small reception after he was stopped a few too many times by firefighters who had worked with Cece’s daddy, none too subtly implying that he needed to do right by Cece and it’s what her daddy would have wanted. 

But the biggest surprise was when Ally and Will missed family dinner the Friday night before the wedding. Mama and Pops had gone upstairs to try and get Tyler down for bed, leaving Jake and Cece alone to finish their wedding cake. Jake was more of a hindrance than a help as he crowded into her space and continuously snuck tastes of the frosting and cake shavings. It was just past eleven when lights flashed in the yard, followed by loud voices. Distracted by licking the frosting from Cece’s neck as she piped thin strands of frosting and figured out where she’d put flowers in the morning, he didn’t hear it until she pushed him away and went to investigate. “Jake,” she breathed, eyes wide when she turned away from the window to look back at him. “Go get the door.”

His parents stood on the stairs, barely suppressed smiles on their faces. Flicking on the porch light, Jake opened the door and felt his jaw drop when he saw the Dagger squad piling out of a fleet of cars. “Didn’t think you were gonna get married without us, did you?” Coyote laughed, pulling him into a hug.

Which was why, after a morning of watching the idiots struggle with basic chores and almost getting kicked by the cows, Jake drove the truck out to his tree with his buddies in the bed. They set up chairs while Cece and the women worked on the hall. Once everything was set up, Jake retreated to Will’s house to shower and change while Cece got ready at the main house. Rather than wear his uniform, Jake pressed his button-up shirt and jeans before cleaning his boots. The casual clothes earned him some teasing from his friends as they put on their dress whites, but he didn’t care. They would die in the Texas heat in all that Navy Twill while he married the girl of his dreams. 

The ceremony was short, and Jake would be hard-pressed to remember their vows. But the image of Cece walking up the makeshift aisle on Pop’s arm, a bouquet of grocery-store flowers in her hand, and wearing a simple white sundress with her own pair of boots was something he’d never forget. The judge, a friend of her daddy’s, was happy to give up his Saturday afternoon to officiate. Other than a goodnatured jab - “I now - finally - pronounce you man and wife” - there was no comment on how long it had taken them to get to this moment. 

While everyone else picked up the chairs, Jake and Cece escaped. They had a stop to make on their way to the reception - they needed to pay their respects to her parents. The cemetery was just outside town, and after laying flowers on their grave, Jake sat and pulled Cece into his lap. “I wish they were here today,” she said softly.

“Me too. Your mama would have been gloating along with mine.” 

“Daddy would’ve asked me if I wanted to make a quick getaway.” When he squeezed her sides, she giggled before kissing him. “I woulda turned him down.”

“Good. Cause I woulda come after you, Mrs. Seresin.” Cece scrunched her nose.

“I’m gonna have to get used to that. Makes me think your Mama’s around.” 

“That right, Mrs. Seresin?” Jake smirked, pressing his lips to the curve of her neck. “I can work with that.”

After another few minutes, Cece pushed to her feet and reached down to help him up. “We should get going. They can’t start the party without us.” Jake let her lead him to the rental car, turning and making a silent promise to her parents that he’d take care of her. 

“That’s gotta be five minutes,” Jake murmured. Cece tensed, refusing to lift her head from his shoulder. “Want me to look?” At her continued silence, he sighed. “Honey.”

“I know.” Slowly, she lifted her head, tears glistening on her cheeks. Cupping her face, he ran his thumbs under her eyes and guided her forehead to rest against his. 

“We’re gonna be okay, no matter what.” 

“I know. I just... I wish my Mama and Daddy were here.” His arms wrapped around her waist, crushing her to his chest. “It feels… different this time.” 

His heart swooped as his stomach dropped. Jake hated that Cece had gone through two pregnancy scares without him and knew that she missed her parents at significant moments. But the idea that this time was different made him feel a little hope that their family of two might grow in a few months. “I know, baby. I wish they were here, too.” And as much as he was itching to pick up those tests, he was happy to wait until his wife was ready. 

Eventually, she pulled away and wiped at her face. “Alright.” Crawling off his lap, Cece flicked on the bedside lamp and settled beside Jake. Reaching over him, she grabbed both pregnancy tests and handed him one with the results face down. “On the count of three?” At his nod, she took a deep breath. “One… two… three.”

Pregnant

Jake grinned. He turned and looked at the test in her hand, showing she was pregnant. Tears streamed down her face, and she brought a hand up to stifle a sob. “Julie, we’re gonna have a baby.” Nodding, she flung herself into his arms and cried. “Hey,” he cooed, rubbing her back. “We’re gonna be okay, honey. I promise.” 

“I-I’m happy, I s-wear,” she gasped. Pulling away, Cece smiled down at his blinding grin. “We’re g-gonna be p-parents.” 

“You’re gonna be a mama.” The words made her gasp, and Jake managed to get them back into bed, holding her tightly as she sobbed. “It’s alright, honey.” And as much as he wanted to touch her stomach, to feel where their little one was growing, Jake didn’t want to push it. So he held his wife - the mother of his child - until her tears turned into hiccups. When the alarm went off the second time, he reluctantly let her go and tapped the phone to silence it. Cece sniffled, tucking herself closer to him. “How’re you feeling, sweetheart?” 

“‘M okay… tired.” Nodding, he brushed a kiss to her forehead and squeezed her tightly.

“Why don’t you take it easy this morning? Sleep in for a bit.”

“Gotta make breakfast.” Even as she said it, her eyes remained closed. 

“Mama can put the casserole in, and you made the scones last night. Relax. Take care of yourself and our little one.” A hint of a smile tugged at her mouth, and Jake felt himself relax at the sight. When her hand drifted down to rest on her stomach lightly, he took that as permission to do the same. 

“‘M scared but ‘m happy,” she whispered again. 

“Me too.” Slowly, her eyes opened and met his, and he couldn’t help but grin. “Best Christmas present ever.” A tired smile graced her lips, and she shook her head. 

“Can we keep it just between us for now?” 

“Yeah,” he agreed quickly, as much as he wanted to shout the news from the rooftop.

Getting Cece to stay in bed only took a little more convincing. Jake felt her eyes on him as he dressed, and he climbed back in to kiss her, one hand resting on her stomach. Only the sound of his parents' footsteps in the hall and the call to “get a move on, son” forced him out of the room.

Even the bite of the cold and the sting of snowflakes pelting his face couldn’t dampen Jake’s happiness. And as soon as the last cow was put back into the barn to shelter from the snow, he was hurrying back inside to check on Cece. He found her in the living room, Tyler sleeping curled on her chest as she dozed on the couch. The sight of the toddler in his wife’s arms, his towhead tucked under her chin and his thumb in his mouth, made him ache. “Ally said she’d help Mama if I watched him,” she said softly. 

“I’m surprised he’s still sleeping and didn’t check to see if S-A-N-T-A came,” he chuckled, glancing over at the presents stacked under the tree. But she pushed against his chest and wrinkled her nose when he leaned down to kiss her.

“Would you…uh… mind showering first?” Laughing, he kissed his fingertips before pressing them to her forehead.

“Gonna get you under the mistletoe for a do-over, Cupcake.”

“Count on it, Farm Boy,” she smirked. “Once you don’t smell like a cow.” 

Less than an hour later, they stood in the kitchen, Cece leaning back against Jake as he leaned against the counter. She held their shared plate of French toast casserole and the orange cranberry scones while his arm wrapped around her waist, thumb tucked into her sweatpants and lightly pressing against her stomach. Jake watched Will and Ally at the table, trying to get Ty to eat breakfast now that he’d spotted the presents. Every time the kid looked toward the living room, his brother cupped his cheek and blew a raspberry, turning his head back to his mother. Tyler shrieked with laughter, face a mess of syrup and half-eaten bread, while Ally huffed and tried not to smile.

Jake thought that could be them in a year, pulling his wife closer. 

As soon as Pops came downstairs from his shower, he clapped his hands. “Whose ready for presents?” he boomed. Tyler squealed, throwing up his dirty hands toward his grandpop, who scooped him out of his chair. Mama quickly cleaned Tyler’s hands and face, wiping some syrup from Pops’ face as well. 

Jake and Cece sat on the couch, watching Tyler open his gifts as they sipped their coffee. They made the appropriate noises with each gift as the adults unwrapped theirs.

When it came time for them, Jake was surprised when Mama handed them each a light package and told them to open them at the same time. At first, he was confused about why she would have knitted him a light blue sweater until he realized it was a little blanket. Cece had a pink one, her wide eyes flitting to meet his. The blankets were pretty and clearly took a lot of time to make. “Getting a bit ahead of yourself, aren’t you?” Jake asked, forcing a laugh. 

Mama just shrugged and gave them a knowing smile. “Had a dream a couple of months ago. Pops and I were visiting you in California with Julie’s folks, and her mama and I were getting ready for a first birthday party.” 

“Got somethin’ to share with the family?” Will asked, his eyes darting between the two. He and Ally had been gifted a blanket a couple of months before letting the family know Tyler was on the way - and, unbeknownst to them, another baby blanket was sitting under the tree, waiting to be unwrapped. 

“Nope,” Cece croaked before clearing her throat and blinking back tears. The idea of her Mama and Daddy being at a party for their baby made it hard to speak. “Nothing yet. And besides, as pretty as this one is, you know we’d end up using this one.” Reaching out, she lightly stroked the blue blanket - after all, everyone knew the Seresins had boys. There hadn’t been a girl in generations.

“You never know - the odds are 50/50,” Ally quipped. “Maybe Mama’s hedging her bets.”

“Maybe,” Mama smirked. 

Seven short months later, Jake smiled down at his son while walking around the hospital room. Just a few hours old, he looked like a grumpy little man, nose scrunched like his mama’s. He looked so tiny in his arms, and Jake swallowed hard.

A grunting noise made him turn in time to see Cece reaching into the bassinet. She grimaced slightly at the movement, and he quickly strode over. “Here, take him. I’ll get her.” 

“I can do it,” she huffed. 

“Lemme take care of my girls.” Shaking her head, Cece relaxed back against the pillows and held her son, sighing when he started to root against her breast. “Looks like he’s hungry.” 

“I’m sure she will be in a second.” 

“Well, Daddy’ll distract her while you take care of brother,” Jake grinned, lifting his daughter from the bassinet. She’d gotten her pink hat off while sleeping, revealing wispy hair that looked just like her mama’s. Unable to stop himself, he pulled his phone from his back pocket and snapped a picture of his little girl - it probably looked just like the other fifty he’d taken of her in the last couple of hours, but it didn’t matter. 

Despite his best attempts, she started crying and wouldn’t be soothed by her daddy cooing at her. Jake carried her back to Cece. “He’s not done yet,” she said, glancing between the babies. Her free breast ached at the sound of her daughter’s screeching, and milk beaded on her nipple. Too tired to figure out the logistics of feeding the twins alone, they called for a nurse who helped Cece get the babies situated on a nursing pillow. Once both babies were latched, she quietly slipped out of the room.

“Damn,” Jake breathed, carefully sitting on the bed next to her, afraid to jostle anyone. 

“Make one joke about cows, I dare you,” Cece said, dropping her head back onto the pillows and fighting the urge to shift away from the uncomfortable tugging sensation in her breasts. 

“Never crossed my mind,” he assured her. Dropping his arm across her shoulders, Jake leaned over to kiss his wife. “I love you so damn much, Cupcake,” he murmured against her lips. 

“Love you too, Farm Boy.” 

For just this moment, Jake was able to ignore his buzzing phone demanding updates. He didn’t hear the voices in the hallway or worry that they’d left the house a mess when Cece had woken him in the middle of the night when her water broke. That he needed to make sure his paternity leave was submitted. That they needed to make sure her business partner knew her maternity leave was officially started. 

All that mattered to Jake was that his whole world was safe in his arms.

His perfect family of four.

And that was enough.

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

Author's Note: This chapter was very bittersweet to write. I didn't expect for this fic to take so long to write, but I've loved every moment of it - from the brainstorming with May after seeing set picks from Twisters, to actually writing, to seeing your reactions to it.

There are parts that I didn't get to include, like Pops giving Jake and Cece the part of the property with his tree, so they'd always have roots in Magnolia. And Jake and Cece coming home with the twins over the summer to help paint the house when they're a bit older, and four Seresin kiddos chasing fireflies in the field (Ally and Will had another boy). I didn't include the names for the twins, but their middle names are Cece's parents.

As always, thank you so much for taking the time to read my story. I appreciate you so much. And I'm always happy to revisit these two if you ever want to see more of them.

Read Epilogue II

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[wisps-writes-fic]

For the beautiful, wonderful, and so very talented @roriannesmoon

Ship: Michael “Robby” Robinovitch x Jack Abbot x Fem OC

Read on AO3 | Masterlist

Summary: After making it through life as a beta for twenty-five years, her late presentation was the last thing she expected to upend her life. Thankfully there are two alphas willing to help with such an adjustment.

AN: Every fandom needs omegaverse, so here we are.

CW: Polyamory, smut, praise kink, age gap, soft dom robby, shenanigans typical of omegaverse fic (knotting and the like), dub-con in the sense most heat fics are dub-con

Chapter I

Hailey

Hailey knew something was wrong deep down. Or at least changing. It started with the clinginess, in a hurry to help with tasks when Robby got home and curling up in his lap the moment he settled for the night. He didn’t seem to hold it against her. Never showed annoyance, despite clearly being exhausted after each shift. But he’d always taken good care of her.

Still, being needy was easy for her to ultimately ignore—for him to find amusement in. It was days later, noticing the steady gathering of blankets and pillows in her apartment and the fact his “borrowed” sweatshirts were never washed and returned as per usual, that Robby began to suspect the reason for her behavior and finally called out what she hadn’t been willing to consider.

“I am not an omega." One hard look and she was scrambling to deny it further. "I'm twenty-five, Robby,” she protested, suddenly tempted to shrug out of what might have been the last hoodie her boyfriend owned. “I would have presented almost a decade ago.”

“Delayed presentation is rare, but not impossible. I suspect a few more days and you’ll go into your first heat.” She blanched at that, turning away before he could see her flush at the thought. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of, sweetheart. Perfectly natural and no one will think less of you for it.”

“None of your colleagues, maybe. There are plenty of people beyond that with something shitty to say. It’s hard enough making it as an artist without designation bias.”

He huffed, pulling her into his lap so she couldn’t hide. “Eyes here,” he ordered, raising her chin. “You’ve built yourself considerably over the last few years. Whatever changes this might bring will be brief. I don’t want you stressing over it.” 

And with him keeping that reminder on repeat when they were together, she didn’t. ~~~~~

“Good evening.”

Dana, as usual was the first to greet Hailey upon arrival. There were only a few minutes left for the day shift, but she liked chatting with the staff she could. Driving to pick up take out some nights when her boyfriend wrapped things up. “Robby told me not to let you back here if you tried to show up these past couple days. Care to tell me why?” She rolled her eyes, hoping the charge nurse didn’t see right through her lie. “You know Robby. Assumes the worst over a little cough. It’s not a big deal.”

“Right, now try again. Might not be able to put my finger on it, but something’s up with you.” She began to argue, but the instant shift stole her breath. There was no steady build, no warning signs. Just a shock of heat flooding her very veins.  Aside from the obsessive nesting and new need for physical contact, nothing else had surfaced to show her heat cycle was coming on. She figured the hour she’d be out of the house was no problem. “Shit, kid. Come on. Staff lounge,” Dana ordered. “Before some asshole alpha clocks you. Princess, page Robby.”

“On it.”

“No. He’s busy, I’m fine,” she tried to lie. “Please don’t.” 

A horrid cramping set in and she nearly doubled over. “Yeah, sure thing,” a new voice groused. Of course Jack had to come in early and seen her acting a fool. “I’ll get her over there, Dana. Just track down Robby. Night shift can handle whatever he’s wrapping up.” Hailey leaned into him the second he took her from the charge nurse and for once she didn’t care how it looked—didn’t care if they were seen like this, should someone come down the short hallway. God, his scent was going to drive her crazy. “How long have you known this was coming, Hails?”

“Uh, few days, I guess.”

“And you weren’t waiting it out at home?” He shook his head, resuming the walk down to the staff lounge. “Sweetheart, you have got to take care of yourself. Do you know how many alphas are on the staff?” She blinked back at him, waiting for his words to sink in. “Too many. And half of them don’t have enough restraint to walk away from an omega in their first heat.” 

Hailey could only imagine how she looked, flushed with the sudden fever, pupils blown. Even mid-scolding it was a struggle not to lean over and bury her nose against his scent gland. “Shit. C’mere, baby.” She scrambled to obey, straddling his thigh in her hurry to nuzzle close. “What I should do is put you over my knee. Certainly earned it,” he grumbled, gripping her by the waist before she could so much as think to grind down on him. Locked in place she could feel the slick already coating her panties. “But I think I’ll leave that to Robby this time.”

“Mean,” she panted, not entirely opposed to either one of them taking her in hand. “Jack, I’m scared. I always keep control of myself. I won’t be able to.”

“Oh, sweet girl. Hailey, you know he’ll take care of you.”

The door swung open before she could respond to his attempt at consolation. And there Robby stood, brow pinched, arms crossed, clearly caught between worry and frustration. It was no surprise when he cracked, crossing the space in a few steps to take her from Jack’s hold. There would likely be another lecture at some point, but for the moment her comfort seemed to be his priority.

She had her arms and legs locked around him in an instant, once again seeking out that newly addictive scent her alpha carried. “Purr?” she whispered as he sat on the edge of the table. Everything happening, each urge and change and pain was unfamiliar territory, but instincts were developing just as quickly as the rest of it. He’d never purred for her before, but she already knew it would mellow the overwhelming sensations coursing through her.

He kissed her hair, granting her request even if it was broken by clipped conversation.

“Fuck. I never requested the rest of the week. I’ll put it in the system now and—”

“Don’t. I’ll be fine.” Hailey had no illusions the rest of his coworkers wouldn’t eventually put two and two together, but she really didn’t want them coming to that conclusion while she was out of it,  or giving Robby any shit for taking extra time in the unlikely event the staff who hadn’t seen her didn’t end up putting things together. “By then I’ll be fine.”

“You won’t. Especially not during your first heat,” Jack said from his place in the chair. “But the extra time on such short notice might not be approved, explanation or none. My long break is right after yours.” He paused. “Wouldn’t be the first time I filled in regarding your girl. What do you say, Hails?”

He was right about it being a familiar arrangement. Jack had joined them in bed before—most often with Robby present, but that wasn’t to say he never had his fill of her after his shift when Robby had already left. There really was no question when it came to his place in their dynamic. Still, while neither of them intimidated her, there was an undeniable vulnerability when it came to an omega’s heat. But this was Jack they were talking about. And after the way she’d reacted to his scent and touch mere moments ago… “I’d—Yes, I’d appreciate that.” However they were keeping from being awkward about this, she was eternally grateful.

He rose from the chair with a nod, stooping down to press a kiss to her temple. “Get her home and settled in her nest, Robby. I’ll pick up the slack here.” 

“Thank you.” Pushing off the table, Robby followed him out, splitting away to take an exit that wouldn’t require them to pass the nurses’ station. At least she was spared that mortification. “Where’d you park, sweet girl?” he asked, fishing the keys out of her crossbody.

“Next lot, I think. West entrance.”

Quickly spotting the vehicle in question, he made short work of getting her buckled in and adjusting the driver’s seat to suit his height. “Couple minutes, Hailey,” he soothed, resting a hand over her thigh to keep a point of contact through the short drive to their complex. Trusting him to get them where they needed to be, she stopped fighting the crawling heat, focus on breathing through the throbbing ache low in her belly. “Almost there, sweetheart,” he said a moment later. “Just parking.”

Robby didn’t let her protest being carried up. Thankfully they were only on the second floor. Two minutes later he had her stripped down to her underwear and got her settled in her nest, taking the place beside her without moving anything out of place, scrubs tossed aside in his rush to help her. “Dropping by a hospital packed with alphas was not your best idea,” he grumbled, shifting to sink down in the cradle of her thighs. She whimpered, feeling the hard line of his cock up against her. “But sitting here alone and refusing to call me to help before I was due home would have been a worse one, so I’ll forgive it.”

She didn’t deny the accusation. He and Jack took care of her, but that didn’t mean putting herself first wasn’t still a work in progress. 

“Ugh. Lecture later. Need—” She choked, a full shudder working through her the moment those two fingers slipped beneath her panties. Feeling him press up against her slick gland, coherency was a forgotten thing. “Please.”

What exactly she was begging for wasn’t much of a mystery. He could touch and tease her a dozen different ways to dull the need coursing through her, but only one thing would fully satisfy it. “Soon,” he promised, but seemed in no hurry to deliver even as he removed the soaked crap of cotton. “Breathe, honey. I’ll give you what you need when you’re ready for it.”

His hand reclaimed its place between her legs, those same two slowly curling until she trembled beneath him while he moved down the bed, finally stopping when he could brace her thighs over his shoulders. “Robby—”

Even with his intentions so clearly presented, the wet heat of his mouth over her clit was a shock through her system. “Fuck,” she hissed, gripping the fabric beneath her until her knuckles paled. She could already feel the increase in slick, wetting  the sheets, surely soaking Robby’s beard—not that he seemed to mind it. “More.” 

The word was barely more than groan, but her hand shifting to the back of his head must’ve gotten the demand across. Gripping her thighs a little tighter, he dragged his tongue up her center, a man entirely devoted to his task. A few strokes of his thumb over her clit and she was riding the edge in half the time it would have taken without the heat affecting her body. “That’s it, baby.” The slightest scrape of his nail was the hair trigger. Habit alone had her biting her lip to keep from crying out. Never did she hate living in a complex more than that moment. 

That first orgasm left her reeling. Enough that she didn’t register Robby discarding the last scraps of clothing between them. Wasn’t fully present until she felt his mouth on hers, the taste of slick lingering—and not entirely unpleasant. “With me again?”

She nodded. “Achy, Alpha.”

“I know. I know, sweet girl. Doing so well for me. Just need filled up, don’t you?” He tilted his head, nipping her earlobe before skimming his teeth across her neck. “Need a knot.”

“Please, Robby.” He slid a hand down between them, thumbing one nipple along his way, a different kind of heat running through her with that brief contact. A second longer and he was sliding into place, pushing deep enough for his knot to graze. “Oh, God. More. Need more.” 

Eyes fluttering shut, she could only feel the slight shift in his weight before his hand was in her hair and his mouth was on hers again, muting the whimper brought on by the next roll of his hips. “Such a good girl,” he groaned when they parted. His hands fell again, bending her legs just enough to sink a little further. The first true taste of his knot since the start of all this. She’d taken before. Though it had certainly taken more preparation before she could produce true slick. She’d enjoyed it. But she’d never needed it. She couldn’t hold back the growl of frustration. “Hailey—”

“Stop teasing.” 

He chuckled, though it sounded strained like he was just as close to the edge. “Alright, sweet girl,” he agreed, each thrust of his hips building in pace. Finally, his knot locked inside of her. She came with a sharp cry, the mounting heat and pressure melting into what she knew would be an all-too-brief satisfaction, feeling him spill inside of her. “Christ,” he groaned, face tucked into her neck for a long moment before he pressed a soft kiss there and rolled them so he wouldn’t have to worry about keeping his weight off of her. “Alright, sweetheart?”

She grumbled something only half-coherent and he chuckled fondly. “I’ve got you.”

She didn’t realize she’d started to doze until Robby tried to slip out from beneath her. “No.”

“Just going to grab a few things. I’ll only be a minute,” he promised. 

Kissing the back of her hand, he slipped out of her hold only to return a moment later with a wet cloth and water bottle. “Fuck,” she hissed, clear headed enough to finally register just how much of a mess she looked—and how much of the bedding was soaked with her slick.

“Nothing that can’t be fixed, Hailey,” Robby soothed. “Take it easy.” Gentle, but efficient, he cleaned the worst of the mess and adjusted things so she was sitting at a partial incline to drink the water he offered. Her half-hearted pout was the first thing he acknowledged. “You can fix your nest in a few minutes, little one. Right now you need fluids. I doubt I’ll be able to get much in you when the worst of it comes on.”

She huffed at that. “A doctor before all else, aren’t you?”

“Doctor, alpha. You can blame it on what you’d like, as long as you’re drinking.” Too tired to argue, she did as she was told. “Good girl,” he offered when she handed back the empty glass. As always, the words were a balm to any tension or worry she held. “Get settled back in and rest while you can. I’ll be right here with you.”

[queenmelodis]

Animal HRT - Two articles that changed the world.

(before I begin, content warning for a fictionalised bigoted newspaper article, and disclaimer that this is all fiction)

The following is a newspaper article in a lesser-known local broadsheet. It was not particularly widely-read, except for by other journalists for big newspapers looking for a scoop of their own. Little did the author know, this was the very first article about therian HRT to release in general news, and would indirectly cause the beginning of a period of fear and trepidation for those undergoing these treatments. Which is a shame, because the original journalist seemed very progressive and accepting for the most part.

New Horizons - A deep dive into those undergoing a radical new medical procedure.

By Vanessa M.

Part 1 - The Sighting

“Vanessa”, the portly gentleman I call ‘boss’ asked to me, globules of spittle flinging themselves in my general direction, “Why is it that I saw a bleedin’ werewolf on my way to work?”

“Um? A werewolf? I don’t know, sir, why do you ask?” I balked, unsure whether this was supposed to be a test or not.

“Gah,” he sighed, putting a palm to his creased, sweaty forehead, “Me eyes don’t work like they used to, but I know it was there. I was close to ‘em. But you, you’re young and spry, so I want you to be our… investigative journalist for this one.”

I gaped for just a moment before composing myself.

“You’re putting me on a case? Thank you, sir, I’ll get right to it and get you a story!” I couldn’t hide the smile on my face.

“Ah, grand,” he said gruffly, shaking my hand, “make it a good one too. Readership isn’t great at the moment.”

“Right…” As I slinked out of the office door, I heard the flick of a lighter and a mutter.

The high street wasn’t exactly bustling this time of day as I headed down… nor was it really bustling any time of day.

Where once proud department stores stood, shuttered shops stretched far, interspersed with the odd betting shop, kebab joint, and Turkish barbers’.

I walked briskly past the few groups of drunks that were dotted along the pavements, ignoring the hollers and cat calls made not to me but to a passing car most likely - I keep my head firmly down walking through here, not wanting to attract any unsavoury attention or associate myself with it in case of patrolling police officers.

I kept my pace, slowing only to let a stray plastic bag slowly amble its way across my path, until I reached the outskirts of the town, where this so-called ‘werewolf’ was last seen.

And so, I waited. The sun continued to slowly wheel its way around the sky as I accosted random passersby with the question “excuse me, have you seen… a werewolf, or any form of furry humanoid, pass by here recently?” The most common responses were either a confused glance, a handwave and a ‘sorry’, or an attempt to pretend they hadn’t seen or heard me.

A couple of hours in, however, as I was starting to lose hope, I received a peculiar answer: a narrowing of the eyes, a pull to one side, and a low ask of, “why?... Are you a cop?”

“H-huh?” Flabbergasted, I could not speak for a moment. I had to quickly try and regain my composure. “No?” That was probably a failure.

A spark of recognition, however, flashed across the person’s eyes, and I could see he was a small but stockily built man with a slightly unkempt face, and clothing that reminded me of a scene kid from a decade ago. “Oh. Ohhhh… Are you, uh…” He proceeded to wave his hands around in what looked like a type of… gang sign? It was a bisected circle and a triangle - which I recognised from my old Classics course as a theta and delta.

I didn’t know what the modern meaning was, but… this could be my only chance to find out what’s going on. I knew I didn’t have time or the possibility to question or falter at this moment. This could be a breakthrough, and after hours of nothing I was getting desperate. So, in what was perhaps not the best idea ethically in retrospect, I just said “yes.”

And that, dear readers, is how I ended up unintentionally infiltrating the Therian Community.

Part 2 - A Community

We established a bit of a rapport after that. For the sake of privacy, I will refer to him by a fake name - Keith.

“Sorry about the intimidation earlier - she’s kind of vulnerable at the moment, and I…” Keith looked somberly to the ground, clearly an empathetic man, “I don’t want her suffering any more than she already is…”

That was the point where I started to think ‘what have I gotten myself into?’ There were a lot of questions I wanted to ask in that moment. Her? This werewolf is a person? And, suffering any more? What’s going wrong?

I asked if it would be possible to see her one day - see if I could help, perhaps. He said he’d consider it. Naturally, I gave out a fake name and my journalistic burner number. I then asked if there was a way to keep in contact outside of that, and apparently there’s a small online community which he invited me to! Jackpot.

Before I decided to go any further, I wanted to do a little research.

In brief, this ‘theta-delta’ sign is not, in fact, a gang sign, but one for ‘therians’, a community of people that identify with animals, to some extent, and would rather be an animal than a human. The kind of animal you are is known as your ‘theriotype’ or ‘kintype’. Some of them wear costumes, some role-play, and some enjoy it sexually.

I did my research, and created a fake little profile - I picked my favourite animal, the skunk, and joined. Let me tell you, I’ve never had a more friendly welcome to any group ever than I did at this one. They accepted my fake persona entirely and treated her with absolute kindness.

And there were all sorts of people here. Cats, dogs, reptiles, cows… dragons? I was surprised by how diverse this phenomenon was - a lot of them were in the LGBTQ+ community, many were from minority or disabled communities, and many were neurodiverse or even something called ‘plural’ which seemed to be similar to Dissociative Identity Disorder?

I wanted to make sure I didn’t come across as suspicious or journalist-y, and while I did record all conversations, I won’t be revealing any names or identities, as it would obviously put these people at risk. Asking questions in a more friendly banter sense, I did get some answers.

“I suppose it’s a spiritual thing for me” said one of them, a friendly fox-man, “I feel a sense of kinship with foxes. I behave like one, and I dream of them. Sometimes it feels like I’m in the wrong body - I get phantom limb in my tail, too.”

“It’s my ideal form!” Said another, a goat person, “Who’d want to be human anyway? Sounds boring!”

I later learnt that this so-called ‘werewolf’ was actually a lemur girl. But here’s the kicker. She is on a treatment program to actually turn herself into a lemur. And I’m not talking about plastic surgery that breaks your bones and transplants butt hair and makes you look like Johnny Rotten at 200% punk. I’m talking about a real treatment program that transforms her on a genetic level. There’s a clinic on the ‘dark web’ that lets you start that procedure, which is officially listed as a clinical trial of various types of skin cream. That’s where this story, this journalistic opportunity, went from a piece about a strange community of people, to perhaps the scoop of my lifetime. How has this not been reported on before?

Apparently, this clinic, run by a ‘Dr. Erian’, running semi-legally, can prescribe you a treatment plan with only a few hoops needing to be jumped through. This worried me. I’d heard horror stories about people travelling to other countries to take on cheap cosmetic surgeries with fewer hoops to jump through and things being completely botched before. And the people taking this treatment are of so many different ages, from school-children to older adults. Are they being scammed? Are they in danger?

And thus, with this line of questioning, I decided to book an appointment with this ‘Dr. Erian’. I don’t think that’s his real name, however, as the profile gathered for him doesn’t line up with any birth records I could dig up. I got an appointment surprisingly quickly, only having to wait a few days. And those days were some of the most stressful of my career, and I’ve been at crime scenes and war zones.

I had to ask myself ‘how do I get answers out of this guy?’ I got the feeling that he wouldn’t have been particularly receptive to an interview if I told him I was a journalist. Getting the information I needed but not having him kick me out, or stop talking, or worse, turn me into some kind of animal, was going to be a huge challenge, but it was what I had to do.

Before the appointment itself, Keith recontacted me to say I could meet with the lemur girl. I prepared myself for another tricky interview.

Part 3 - Face to face

A few days passed, and it was time to meet with this lemur girl, ‘Kayla’ (not her real name). The day was bright, and I brought along some pastries and snacks from the local bakery to break the ice a bit.

I walked slowly, nervously across the town to a small apartment block in an average area. Normal human people walked around; I felt their presence drilling into me like they knew I was hiding something. I stood, finger hovering by the doorbell, for what felt like hours. I was about to step foot into a whole different world, and I froze.

And then she opened the door, and I could do nought but stare. She was almost like out of a fantasy novel. Fur covered huge patches of her body, rich whites, blacks, and greys. A furred tail hung behind her, swishing left and right. No socks on, her feet were like long hands, fidgeting with the carpet fibres. I describe the bottom first, because, well, she was shorter than me by quite some margin. Hoer slightly oversized head craned up to mine, giving an expectant gaze.

“Yes?” A slightly squeaky voice asked. I stammered out a quick apology, and said Keith had told me to see her, and she softened, asking if I was the one interested in ‘the treatment’, and that she know “that wishful gaze you gave me” well. On the inside, I was confused, but I just chalked it up to nerves.

She offered me tea, and set about making it. Her face was mostly furred except for patches without on her cheeks and the bridge of her nose - now more of a short snout, ending in a wet dark point. Almost glowing, her yellow irises searched the kitchenette. Fluffy, white, round ears poked up out of her grey head-hair which was tied into a high ponytail.

Using her hands and feet, both with opposable thumbs, she climbed onto the kitchen counter, filling up the kettle with two hands and grabbing mugs dexterously with her left foot, while her tail wrapped around a cupboard handle. Her whole kitchen routine was so elegant and awe-inspiring, and she shone so brightly while doing it. You can tell when someone is so happy it radiates out into the world filling it with colour for everyone else. Her tail uncoiled as she moved and waved, coiling again to another cupboard handle to keep balance. It was breathtaking.

After the tea was done, we started to talk. I explained that I was still new to the community, that I wanted to know more about Therians, how she knew what was right for her, and about Dr. Erian and the process. I tried to come across as someone who was innocently asking these questions, and I guess either my acting skills were great, or there was more to myself than I knew.

She asked whether a skunk ‘felt right’ to me. I said I wasn’t sure, and she asked whether it was because I could be a hybrid of some sort. I wasn’t aware that was even a possibility - apparently yes! It’s not just animals and dragons; there are also hybrids, slimes, fictional species, eldritch beings, and more. Even though the numbers of people undergoing this treatment is in two digits, the variety is more than I could even imagine. I stammered out ‘maybe kangaroo?’ and we carried on.

How did you find out about yourself? I asked. And the answer she gave was very enlightening. She said, tail almost wagging, that she first saw lemurs at a zoo when she was five. She stayed with them for the whole day, something feeling right. Like she belonged with them.

The pure authenticity and emotion in her voice and body language cannot be understated. And while it took her a long time after that to understand her feelings and that she wanted to be one, I could tell that with every fibre of her being, she really did feel like, maybe even was, a lemur.

“Of course, yes, they’re cute and sweet,” she told me, “but to me… it’s more than that. It’s a form of being.”

I said - “I’m guessing, then, that as soon as you heard of this Dr. Erian bloke, you were right on it.”

“That’s right!” she chirped, “I’m not the first, but I am an ‘early adopter’, to use that term. Half a year later, here I am! Finally the real me. Yeah, primate HRT is quicker than other mammals, and other animals too.”

She remained still for a moment, and I knew not to interrupt.

“The interview’s pretty simple. Convince him this is what you’ve always wanted. He’ll ask you if you’ve lived as your preferred species for a year or two. Fabricate some evidence for that, he doesn’t look too deeply. Stay strong, my friend.”

The process is apparently very strange. A mix of surgeries, hormone therapy, and gene editing over the course of months if not years. Watching your own skin change colour and grow thick fur or scales, or something else. Feeling your bones and limbs shift around, grow new ones, or have them wither away. Experiencing your whole body grow or shrink. It all sounds terrifying. You can’t deny the dedication of these people, and their bravery.

But she seemed so happy about it, saying that the pain and hassle was all worth it.

Our meeting did eventually have to end, and we bid farewell on good terms. It was at this point I began to feel pretty bad about the whole thing. I’m fine with talking to Dr. Erian, but… lying to these people leaves a sour taste in my mouth. These are marginalised outcasts for whom the one bit of hope they were looking for has finally arrived. What if my reporting contributes to something bad? But, I suppose my job does hang in the balance. Whatever happens, it was now time for me to meet with the infamous Dr. Erian.

Part 4 - Man of New Medicine

The infamous Doctor himself is located in [REDACTED]. Turning off the M25, I drive [REDACTED] and, realising that I’d held my breath for about fifteen minutes, I turned left into the clinic. It’s not a particularly fancy place - there’s no signage or anything, and the front just looks like someone’s house. But I knocked, sweatily, not knowing whether this would be my last knock or the beginning of a new journey. A few nerve-wracking seconds follow. And then, I hear it. A shuffle, then a cough, a sigh, and the door opening. And there he was. Wrinkles on his face beneath his glasses, a bushy moustache emulating that of Nigel Mansell at the front, and wispy strands on top the only stars in the void of hair between the graying sides behind his ears. A white doctor’s coat over tweed framed a beerbelly, situated in the center of his short, chubby body. Not the look I expected from a scientist and doctor in charge of a revolutionary new therapy. Holding a mug of lukewarm coffee designed with the familiar theta-delta sign, he gestured for me to come in.

Having sat down, I stared awkwardly at my own mug of coffee that he’d given me. It seems he wanted to give me the floor. But, for all of my journalistic training, for all of the advice I’d been given, for the script I’d made which I tried to memorise, I just froze at that moment. Was it his piercing gaze? The elderly-style room filled with decor that seems to have eyes that follow you around the room, judging you? The wallpaper, intricately detailed and patterned with - eyes? Who is this guy? Or, wait, is it just me seeing things?

“So, skunk, huh?”

I was dropped out of my stupor by that casual comment from the man. “Oh, um, yes. That’s what I was… hoping for.” Some of my confidence had been restored, but I just wasn’t in the groove yet.

“Look. It takes a lot of effort for someone to find my services - a lot of effort,” he repeated, “to go through, to seek it out, to search for someone who can recommend you, to fill in the form, even to come here. So, if you’re serious about this, which you have to be to go through all of those steps, I’d like you to open up a little more. We can do this more casually. This isn’t a job interview where I’m analyzing your handshake and posture, but I do need to find out what route is best for you.” Leaning back, he pushed up his glasses with his index finger, them reflecting the light from his weak sepia-toned incandescent bulb, concealing his eyes in the light.

I recentred myself with a few breathing exercises, slipped back into the persona I had crafted, and began. I told him about the desire to be a skunk my whole life, that I felt a strange kinship with them, everything that I’d been told before repeated through my mouth. We went on, me telling him exactly what my friends had said to, him asking me simple questions, easy peasy. I didn’t even make any jokes about skunks being smelly or farting. Then came the first obstacle.

Have you spent time living as your preferred species? Yes, I said. He asked for proof, but this is where I decided to go into journalism mode, and ask him something. Why is that required? He gave a sigh, and provided what I wanted.

“Technically, you don’t need it. And I’m well aware that not only is it impossible to really do so - given that in order to even make an appointment with me, you’d have to participate in society: something that you can’t really do if you’re properly living as an animal. The question’s more like a test. I know that most people lie, but it’s how they lie that’s interesting. Do they dress up? Act like an animal in public? Private? And so on. It’s just… interesting.”

We carried on after that for a little longer, until I reached the second of my journalistic questions. Are these procedures safe? Where did you get them from?

“There is a risk to any procedure. Anyone who has experience with transgender hormone replacement treatment, for example, knows it increases the risk of certain cancers. Therian hormone replacement therapy is much the same, except radically different in almost every way. And the process is elementary, my dear, um.” The man let out a light cough. “Simply take the essence of what that person feels on the inside, and let the medications do the trick for the outside! With certain species, surgeries are needed, especially when it comes to vertebrae - and the physical therapy is part of it too, but for the most part, it isn’t ridiculously complicated!”

I noticed he didn’t answer me on where the research from this came from, but I wasn’t sure how to tell him that without arousing suspicion. If he was dodging questions already then that might be a bad sign. Or was it that he just didn’t remember I’d asked? I tried a slightly alternative angle. “So what, is it like CRISPR or something?”

“I’m afraid it’s classified information, but you’ll feel it once you’ve…” He seemed to be lost in thought for a few moments, “started the treatment.”

A wall pushed down on my head. I righted myself and pushed further against it. “How many people are in your care?”

“Oh, many. A hundred, officially? Maybe a few more.” He lowered his head, the light reflecting off his glasses obscuring his eyes from me. “But who’s counting?”

I felt the wall’s pressure even more. Was I starting to buckle? Beads of sweat formed at my forehead. “Are they all animals or are some of them, um… fictional… creatures?”

“Oh, it’s ever so varied. Perhaps you’ve seen the results of some of my work, but there are others; others so beautifully different to everything we thought we knew about nature.” He let out a hearty chuckle. “We don’t need to constrain ourselves to what’s real any more. People can be whoever, or whatever, they want to be.”

“A-anything?”

“Anything.”

I stayed silent for a long time after that, eyes wide and unfocused, mouth hanging somewhat limply open. The wall pressed upon my hunched back.

“I’ve heard,” the Doctor broke the silence with a hoarse, crackly voice, “many peoples’ worries and trepidations over the years. People worry about the danger the treatment poses to them, and the danger they might pose to others. But I trust that my patients will do the right thing. Now all that’s left is for me to trust you. Are you sure you want to be a skunk? That you want to go on this journey? And that you can keep yourself safe and sane until you have finished?” Upon saying this, he leaned forward, eyes drilling into mine. 

The wall pushed and pushed, my back creaking under the pressure, until it all let go at once. I had decided my next plan of action. Of course, it’s all fairly straightforward. I was just here as an information-gatherer, and I’d found out quite a lot. The idea intrigued me, and perhaps in the ultimate journalistic sacrifice I should go through with it - though I’d certainly demand a higher salary to do so. But I needed time to think. To process everything.

“No.”

In retrospect, it was a simple answer, but perhaps the most difficult no I’ve had to make in my life.

—

And that was the end of the article. But not the end of the story. After this got published, a few days later another article was found in a national tabloid. It had poached items from this story without the consent of the author, and was eventually taken down, but the damage was done. Because instead of a deep and emotional look into one author’s journey down the rabbit hole of knowledge, it was merely a bigoted hit-piece against a newly forming marginalized community. Little did either of the authors know, that these two articles would be the first dominoes that brought about something much greater.

This is an extract from the tabloid article in question.

The new woke claiming to be ANIMALS, DRAGONS and FICTIONAL CREATURES, and worse, taking risky surgeries to become more DANGEROUS predators.

In a bizarre and disturbing twist of fate, there are people taking dangerous medical procedures on taxpayer money to turn themselves into disgusting animals.

“The woke left are finally showing their true colours”, a disgruntled co-worker of one of these so-called ‘therians’ said to our reporter. “My employee enters my fast food establishment and she’s covered in fur. Probably flea-ridden too.”

A story in the local news of the town of [REDACTED] was brought to our attention by our reporter. He contacted the author of this article but she declined to comment.

This reporter’s boss was almost brought to his knees by the sighting of a savage beast roaming the streets. But instead of a bigfoot rumour, this was once a human whom the author calls ‘Kayla’ - but as an exclusive, we managed to find her real name, which will be revealed at the end of this article.

The reporter meets with Kayla, while pretending to be one of them, and is directed to the literal Frankenstein that conducted all of these procedures. It is revealed that not only do they ‘fabricate evidence’ of what seems to be a case of ‘species dysmorphia’ in order to get the surgeries they want, the doctor knows that and still goes ahead with these dangerous procedures anyway.

“You don’t need [proof of species dysmorphia]... I know that most people lie.” He told the reporter.

“There is a risk” he later says, regarding the procedure itself, which often takes months if not years and can be incredibly painful and debilitating, meaning patients often have to get themselves classified as disabled and live off the benefits our taxpayer money is spent on. Similarly to “transgender hormone replacement treatment… it increases the risk of…cancers.” 

The doctor himself even confesses that he and patients are worried about “the danger that [those very patients] pose to others”, but that he simply “trusts them to do the right thing”. He says that people can, and should, be “whoever, or whatever, they want to be.”

This man is not only creating dangerous creatures that are then let loose into society, he is trusting them to make their own decisions. How long will it be before one of these ‘therians’ murders or preys upon an innocent child? How can we protect our own families from those that seek to turn themselves into the very predators that used to lurk in the shadows of our ancestors, waiting to pounce and eat them? We at this newspaper urge the government to stop this madness before it is too late.

The real names of the people involved are as follows:

—

This was the second article written about therians. And things only got worse from there. While Dr. Erian’s real name was not found out or spilled, Vanessa and Kayla were targeted. Therians were outraged that Vanessa’s article would find its way into the national news as a hit piece. While some directed their anger at Vanessa herself, some were supportive of her. Kayla fled her home, and is now reported as being on the local missing person’s registrar. Keith was sentenced to minor community service after finding this out and assaulting Vanessa, who later moved away from her hometown after losing her job. Erian still works at his practice. The world is in a slightly more unstable place now, with public knowledge of therians pretty much guaranteed.

The first government debate about the existence and classification of therians is just around the corner. This could be a pivotal moment in the history of mankind, and I for one am not sure which way the pendulum will swing.

[boy-comics]

HOME SICK

── .✦ pairing; jungsu x gn!reader

── .✦ summary; home is a complicated word.

── .✦ word count; ~6.0k

── .✦ tags; alcohol use, angst with a happy ending, hurt/comfort, fluff, small town romance, childhood best friends to lovers, not actually unrequited love, seungmom™, momsu™, the mortifying idea of being known

── .✦ a/n; still alive!!! happy valentine's day everyone n just know that i am sending you all a big heart <3

Stifled and sweaty inside your layers of winter wear, the heat in the car turned up to the max, you sit boneless in the passenger seat and wish for the summer.

"We missed you, you know," Seungmin says behind the wheel. He seems unfazed by the temperature, not a drop of sweat on his brow. "Now we'll get to hang out again like we used to."

You hum.

The reason the heat is still blasting is because you had told Seungmin earlier that the plane was freezing. Telling him that it's too hot now feels like an inconvenience, and you don't feel like removing your coat.

"I visited in September," you say.

Your cousin sniffs loudly, the telltale sign that he's about to start nagging. "That was three months ago," he says, "and you've called maybe twice since then." You lean against the window, closing your eyes when the cold glass sticks to the side of your head. "And you mostly slept the whole time. Plus, you completely avoided Jungsu, who didn't even know you were visiting home—"

You keep your eyes firmly closed when his name comes up. "Does he know what happened?"

"I didn't tell him …" He trails off, and your heart sinks before he even continues. "But … Auntie must've, because he confronted me about it last week. I'm sorry. You know how your mom is." His tone is softly apologetic as you exhale. "He was pretty hurt you didn't tell him yourself."

You know.

That had been your plan, telling Jungsu. But the shame hasn't eased like you had hoped, and before you knew it, two weeks had passed and it currently roils in your stomach along with guilt when you think about seeing Jungsu in person now.

You just didn't want him to know you're a failure.

"Maybe this is for the best." Seungmin turns into the exit, calm despite the flurries of snow flying into the windshield. The roads have long since been salted and you think you can feel each chunk being ground to dust underneath the tires. "Think of it as a time to finally rest? All you did for the past two years was work."

"I got laid off right before the holidays, Seungmin. This isn't really a vacation."

His eyes dart over to meet yours for a split second before you look out at the snow-covered fields blurring by.

Seungmin sighs a little. His hand finds your shoulder, patting it through the winter layers.

"I know. Just trying to help."

That's all anyone in this town ever does, you think, the sounds of the heater and the rumble of the tires taking over what's left of the conversation.

—

Your childhood bedroom is the same as you had left it. Well, mostly; the decade-old bedsheets have since been cleaned, and there are fresh tracks in the carpet from when your mother had vacuumed earlier today. You leave your suitcases and bags by your desk to unpack later.

"Auntie told me to stay for dinner," Seungmin tells you, falling back onto your bed and unlocking his phone. "So you'll have to put up with me for a couple more hours, at least."

"You're not gonna help with dinner?"

"I offered, but I got permission to hang with you instead."

"Suck-up," you say, and Seungmin rolls his eyes upward, poking his cheek with one finger.

You join him on the bed, taking a peek at his messages. He lets you be nosy. This is what you do best when you spend time with Seungmin—even now, you guess, you're just a kid in grownup clothes, watching your cousin navigate life and relationships with a maturity you try your best to emulate. You envy him as much as you love him, sometimes.

While watching him catch up on his mutuals' Instagram posts, your own phone buzzes beside you. Reluctantly, you flip it over, and your mouth parts when you see the notification.

"Who is it?" Seungmin asks, eyes still glued to his screen.

"Um," you slowly swipe the lock screen away, "Jungsu."

His attention turns to you fully when you admit as much. "What'd he say?"

You open your messages, a little self-conscious as Seungmin scoots closer to see the conversation. The last time you'd texted Jungsu outside of the group chat was a month ago, when you were still blissfully unaware of the upcoming layoffs and merely amused by a funny animal video that reminded you of him. The thumbnail of the cuddly, sleep-rumpled kitty is halfway visible, Jungsu's emoji-filled reply nestled right between it and the text he had sent just now.

jungsu: was your flight okay?

"Does that sound … passive aggressive to you at all?" you ask tentatively.

Seungmin squints at the message, scratching his head. "Nah, I don't think so. He's just asking."

"Okay."

you: it was fine. seungmin picked me up ^^

jungsu: good!!

jungsu: i wish i could've gone to the airport too to welcome you ㅠㅠ

you: me too haha but it's ok

"He should be off work in about an hour," Seungmin tells you, then nudges your shoulder with his own. "You want him to come over for dinner? Your choice."

The thing is, you should say yes. It should be as natural as breathing, because that's how it had been for as long as you can remember, and because Jungsu is probably still a little upset even if he doesn't admit it.

But you hesitate, and Seungmin takes it as a no.

"If it's too many people, that's—"

"No, it's okay. I don't want to leave him out," you murmur, already typing.

Like Seungmin, Jungsu will be in your life until its unspectacular end. And despite how distant you've been lately, that is still where you want him to be.

you: seungmin's staying for dinner, u wanna come over too?

—

An hour later, the doorbell rings, and you open the door to a stiff breeze, stray snowflakes, and Kim Jungsu.

His nose and cheeks are rosy from the cold. The front bangs of his hair (blond, freshly dyed, longer) stick out from underneath the knitted cap he's had since high school, dusted with snow, and the white of his breath dissipates before it can reach the toasty threshold of your home.

(You think, as you always have, that he looks pretty.)

His eyelashes flutter when he meets your gaze.

You bite the bullet. "Hey."

"Hi," he breathes.

You move to let him inside. He quickly sheds his winter gear, and you get a whiff of ginger and fried food when he gives you a hug.

"Welcome home," he whispers before he pulls away. He smiles at you, and even though you look for it, you can't find a single drop of resentment.

You manage to give him a small smile in return. His hands are a bit cold when they squeeze yours once, but the rest of him is warm. You try not to linger too close.

"Yo, Jungsu!" Seungmin leans over the back of the couch just a few feet away, and Jungsu walks over to hug him as well. "How was work?"

"Good, just busy. Some out-of-towners are staying the night because of the storm warning."

"Oh." You trail after Jungsu and Seungmin to the kitchen, where your mother has set the food out. Jungsu greets your mother affectionately, and she responds in kind before filling her own plate and heading to the living room to allow the three of you to gossip. "Anyone our age?"

"Nope."

"Damn."

"You know the only people that pass through here are old couples and families with little kids," you say, settling into your chair. The arrangement is the usual one—you on the side closest to the sink, Seungmin on your right, Jungsu right across from you. "We've never had anybody our age stop here for the night."

Seungmin points at you with his spoon. "No, there was that one guy when we were in high school, remember? The one with the shady van. Our moms thought he was trying to sell us drugs."

"He told me he was an artist," Jungsu adds, "but the entire time he stayed at the inn, I didn't see any artwork or supplies. He just had a small duffel bag that he carried everywhere."

"Drugs," you say.

"Or money from drugs," Seungmin says.

"He was really creepy." Swallowing his food, Jungsu leans forward as if you hadn't talked about the strange man countless times before, on nights just like this. "But he paid for the two nights he was here."

"In cash, right?"

"Yeah."

"If he was an artist," you say, thoughtfully, "he would have painted the view behind the inn."

Jungsu nods with a smile. "I think so, too. I don't think an artist would've ignored it." His glance towards you sticks. You shift just slightly in your seat as he chews his bottom lip and then asks, tone careful, "Do you guys want to go tomorrow morning? The sunrise will be pretty after the snowstorm."

"Sure," Seungmin readily agrees. He raises his eyebrows at you. "[Y/n]? You game?"

You open your mouth for a reply that you haven't yet formed. "... Oh, um," you finally say, nervous from the two pairs of eyes peering over into yours, unassuming and familiar though they are. "I don't know. I'm kind of tired from the flight ..."

Seungmin's mouth presses into knowing disappointment at the corners. Jungsu blinks and nods; his hopeful smile shrinks the tiniest bit, though to you it might as well be by a mile.

"Ah, right, you should rest," Jungsu replies in a softer voice, and he reaches across to pat the space in front of your bowl. "Maybe later this week?"

You stir your food around. "Sure."

"I can still meet you at the inn tomorrow morning, Jungsu," Seungmin says. He keeps his gaze on you. "I'll leave at seven, so if [Y/n] is awake, we can walk there together. Sound good to you, [Y/n]?"

The offer is well-meaning. You wonder how much pity your cousin holds for you right now, for it certainly bleeds into your own self-pity, and there is not much for you to do in response other than bob your head half-heartedly. Underneath the table, Seungmin's foot bumps yours.

The three of you finish dinner in relative silence.

And yet, after you use your excuse of fatigue once more and hug them goodbye for the night, taking a hot shower and settling into bed, you set your alarm for a quarter to seven.

—

"You're here." Jungsu sounds surprised within the warmth of his scarf and winter jacket. "You're not too tired?"

You note how the snow rises up above your knees as you nod slowly. Jungsu's eyes crescent with a hidden grin, and he takes a hold of your arm as the three of you march across the yard towards the edge of the hill behind the Kim family's inn.

Jungsu's family has owned this property for several generations, but it was only during his granddad's generation that they had decided to develop it and make a bit of money off the folks who pass through your hometown. The building is a small thing, but it is clean and very well taken care of, and the meals are always warm.

The best part of the inn, however, is the view.

It's still pretty dark outside. You stop at a bench, brushing it off and sitting down between Jungsu and Seungmin while you observe the thin sliver of orange peeking out from behind the trees.

"It's too cold."

"Don't fall asleep," Seungmin teases. "You'll get hypothermia."

"I won't," you grumble, though your eyes are half-lidded. "Jungsu has the coffee, doesn't he?"

"Here," Jungsu says, handing a small thermos to you before suddenly retracting. "Ah, wait. It might still be too hot." He unscrews the lid, steam bursting upward into the icy morning air and then sideways as he blows over the top of the drink a few times, taking a tentative sip before deeming it acceptable to share. "Okay, here."

He brings the thermos almost to your lips, but then seems to think better of it and simply hands it over with a slight blush, though not quick enough to beat the blood crawling to your cheeks.

"Thanks, Mom," you mutter, drinking from the cup. Truthfully, the drink is more of a hot chocolate, with some instant coffee added in. You refrain from being greedy and pass it to Seungmin.

Mouth and throat and stomach now warmed, you settle back, watching the sky as the darkness slowly peels farther and farther back.

When you hold your breath, you can almost hear the sun stirring underneath the indigo.

"I think you're right, Jungsu," Seungmin says over the lip of the thermos. "This is going to be a really good sunrise."

"They're always extra beautiful after a storm."

"Wow. Deep."

"It's too early and cold for deep thoughts," you mutter.

Jungsu tilts his head. "Do you need more layers? We have some inside."

"Oh, no, it's okay. I'm just finding things to complain about ..." still, Jungsu's brow remains furrowed, and you stumble slightly over your words, "as one does ..."

"Have some more coffee," Seungmin says, pushing the thermos in your direction.

You do as you're told.

The red-orange dappling the clouds has given way to something light and golden. As the minutes creep by, the sun shows itself above the trees, a shock of bright yellow whose glow reaches out and up.

It's blinding, the light, but you look anyway, wondering how something you've seen a million times can still feel like the first.

"Wow," you state into the still air, mostly to yourself.

The boys hum in agreement. You continue staring at the sky, hearing Jungsu finish rest of the coffee and snap the lid shut.

"I have to pee," Seungmin says suddenly. "See you guys inside for breakfast?"

You blink rapidly. As your cousin stands up, leaving only you and Jungsu on the bench, the slightest bit of nerves overtakes you. "Oh, I—"

"Okay," Jungsu says at the same time you start to stand, and you freeze. He is still seated, though now he casts you a surprised glance. "Oh. Do you have to go too?"

You avoid Seungmin's eyes and slowly sit back down, shaking your head. "N-No, I just thought we were all going now. Let's stay for a few more minutes."

"... Alright."

The crunch of Seungmin's boots through the snow fades into the distance as the two of you look back at the pale sky. Golden sunlight brushes the expanse of snow at the bottom of the hill, smooth and bright.

You burrow your chin into your scarf, the winter morning showing its bite in exchange for the view it is granting you.

"It's really pretty."

Jungsu's soft voice breaks through the silence. His expression is one of perfect contentment; his eyes catch the early light in a gentle way, and you find yourself momentarily at a loss for words.

When he meets your gaze, you smile quickly with your eyes, and a laugh like a small bell escapes through his scarf.

"[Y/n]," he says, "I'm glad you showed up."

"You didn't think I would."

"I hoped you would. You usually do, even though you always complain about waking up early." Jungsu pauses for a moment, and then his gaze flickers downwards. "But ... I don't know. It's been a while, I guess, so I just didn't want to get my hopes up."

He doesn't have to specify that he's talking about more than just the sunrise.

"I'm sorry." The apology is quieter than you had thought it would be, and the shame speaks louder than you had anticipated. You clear your throat. "Are you still upset with me?"

"Honestly?" He sighs. "I was still pretty upset until yesterday. But then I went to your house, and you opened the door—and then, well. I was just happy that you were back."

Oh. "Oh," you say.

Jungsu is quiet again. He tugs on the fingers of his gloves, and you track the movement idly, hyperaware of the hands that those gloves keep warm, steady hands that hold and play and tap. You swallow. Your throat feels tight.

"Can you promise me something, though?"

"Yeah?"

"Just be honest with me from now on," he requests. "We're best friends. You can tell me anything, you know that, right?"

"I know, Jungsu." The sentence is little more than a breath, but he hears you nevertheless, and he smiles before making a noise of realization.

"Ah, right, we should head inside, huh? Seungmin's probably waiting."

"He's a patient guy ... it's cold, though."

"Yeah, you've mentioned that once or twice."

You chuckle sheepishly as Jungsu stands and holds out a hand, helping you up. The sun shines behind your heads while you walk back to the inn, shoulder-to-shoulder.

You think about what he had said, and about the feeling of his hand in yours, and your heart clenches as if in warning.

Anything, but not everything.

—

Two weeks pass, and the boys still find things to keep you busy nearly every day. You suspect that it is partially at the request of your parents and partially due to worry they had mustered on their own; you are currently unemployed, after all, and they fear that idleness will make you depressed or delinquent or some other "D" word that describes small-town people your age whose hopes and dreams have been crushed by the big bad world outside. If you occupy yourself with cooking dinners and buying groceries and taking snowy winter walks, you won't have time to spiral into despair (which also starts with "D").

Today, the activity is preparing classroom decorations for the new year. Seungmin has tasked you with making lanterns and people out of colored construction paper, and so you have cluttered the table in the corner of the inn's dining area with clippings of various colors, being careful not to drop any on the floor.

"Wouldn't it be easier to print a coloring page and cut them out?"Jungsu asks after he finishes cleaning the other tables, sleeves rolled up to his elbows in a way that looks too good to have been done thoughtlessly. He leans over your shoulder, and the back of your neck prickles with heat. "Where's Seungmin, anyway?"

"Went to the store to get more stickers and colored duct tape," you say, unsheathing a craft knife to tackle the more minute details. "He'll probably come back with snacks, too."

Jungsu hums. "You're good at this," he says, sitting down next to you and picking up a cutout. You had clothed it in layers of different-colored shapes of paper, and he inspects the hem of their skirt with the tips of his fingers. "I bet you could become a teacher's aide for Seungmin's classroom."

"Probably." You take the cutout from him to paste googly eyes onto it. "Waste of my degree, though."

"… Well … I don't think we have any good tech startups around here. Or any at all. Maybe an IT job?"

You remain noncommittal, cool, even as the thought of job hunting all over again fills you with gut-curling dread. "That's probably what I'll end up doing," you say. "Not like I'm going anywhere anytime soon."

Your voice must hold more bitterness than you think, because Jungsu looks a bit uncomfortable at your words, furrowing his brow.

"Is it really that bad to live here?"

Count on you to sour the mood again. "I—no," you reply slowly, "but I mean, come on, Jungsu. You know all the good-paying jobs for me are in the city, right?"

"Seungmin and I are doing okay," Jungsu defends.

"Your family has been here forever and runs a business here, so of course you'd stay. And Seungmin is Seungmin. He'll be okay wherever he is." You tilt the cutout back and forth. The googly eyes move in response. "But I'm just me. I have to take every opportunity I can so I don't waste my life."

Jungsu opens his mouth and then closes it. His lips purse, and you can tell that you've displeased him.

(Jungsu has always been the sentimental type. He has found his dreams within the realm of your hometown; even while you both had gone to college in the city and been dazzled by the promises of big careers and changing the world, in the end, he had kept his love for the simple comforts of family, the inn, and the known. And so he had come back to stay. You understand, and at the same time, you don't think you ever will.)

"I'm never going to change your mind," he replies, laughing a little dryly. "Am I?"

"Probably not."

"Geez ..." A long sigh escapes him. He fixes you with a wistful smile and picks up a pair of scissors. "Then I guess we should keep putting you to work while you're stuck here, wasting just part of your life."

You kick him underneath the table. Jungsu snickers, taking a sheet of paper to cut out the lantern trapped in the middle of it.

The box of permanent markers is on the other side of where he's seated. You stand up slightly to reach around him, hooking your fingers over the edge of plastic and dragging it closer.

"You could've just asked me to pass them to you."

"Well, you were being mean, so"—you make the mistake of turning your head to look at him, and promptly choke at the close proximity—"so, uh ... um ..."

He tilts his head unbearably slowly, blinking up at you with a look of both amusement and bewilderment as you make a fool of yourself once more. Your eyes trace down the slope of his nose and pause on his lips, and your tongue sticks to the roof of your mouth.

"... Are you okay?"

Soft.

"I'm ffine," you blurt, sitting down swiftly with a hot face. You do your best to hide it from him. "Stop slacking and go back to work."

"Now who's being mean?"

Jungsu gets up after cutting out the rest of the lantern, pushing it and the offending box of markers closer towards you. He pats your back gently before sauntering off to continue his daily tasks.

—

"Aw, look. It's Ankle Sprain Seungmin."

Seungmin drops his head back against the couch. "Once again, that's the dumbest thing you guys could have ever called me. C minus. F, even."

"It's more about how you got it," you explain, elementary school yearbook propped up against your torso as you tap a scrawny, cheeky-looking Oh Seungmin in the corner of one page. "It was a warm spring day, and you just had to show Kim Hayeon that you could jump down from the top of the jungle gym." Seungmin rolls his eyes. Jungsu bites down on his bottom lip, muffling a laugh, and you continue somberly. "Instead, you sprained your ankle and we had to carry you to the nurse's office."

"It actually worked, though," Jungsu counters. "Because Hayeon came up to him afterwards and asked if he was okay."

"All part of the plan. She thought I broke my ankle and was pretty worried for me."

You give a thumbs down. "Boo. Lamest way to pick up a girl."

Your cousin shrugs and takes a swig of beer. He purses his lips, flicking at the tab of his now-empty can as he says casually, "Didn't you have a crush on our homeroom teacher in sixth grade?"

This time, Jungsu bursts into laughter. "Oh, my god, you totally did!"

You slam the yearbook shut, mortified, and hit Seungmin over the shoulder with it. The jerk doesn't even have the decency to look sorry. "Shut up! Why would you even bring that up?!"

"What, I can't counterattack?"

"You're older than me, so you have to put up with it."

Seungmin squints. "Shouldn't it be the other way around?"

"No! Jungsu, you're the oldest. Tell him to toughen up."

"Okay, okay," Jungsu steps in, hands out in a placating gesture even as he recovers from his laughing fit. "Let's just say you're both even now. We all had embarrassing crushes."

"Speaking of which, Jungsu, I only remember you having one crush in high school," Seungmin says. "What was her name? She was in choir."

"Oh Jimin," you answer.

You remember Oh Jimin.

"Yeah, Jimin. She had a really nice voice."

"She did," Jungsu agrees. "I was too nervous to ask her out, though. She actually got married last year to one of her classmates."

"Really?"

Seungmin pulls his phone out to show you the wedding photos on Instagram. You look with mild interest. She's beautiful, has that glow that brides have. Her smile is the same. You remember when it would reduce Jungsu to wide-eyed, red-faced silence.

Seeing her now makes you feel guilty for the resentment you held for her as a teenager.

"Seungmin, please get married soon," you say, attempting to redirect yourself. "People will start to think something's wrong with the three of us if you don't."

Seungmin raises an eyebrow. "Find me someone to date, first," he shoots back. "And why should it be me? Why don't you or Jungsu get married?"

The 'or' in the second sentence does a lot of heavy lifting in your mind.

You cross your arms, scoffing. "To who?"

"I dunno." Seungmin pauses. Then, to your horror, he lifts a finger and waggles it between you and Jungsu. "But at this rate, if both of you are still single in twenty years, you might as well marry each other."

It's almost two o'clock in the morning. Perhaps you can blame what happens next on the late hour, or on the presence of alcohol, or maybe if you are really honest, you can just blame it on yourself.

Jungsu's cheeks have long been flushed, but you wonder if they've become just a little darker when he responds, chuckling, "O-Oh, no. No, [Y/n]'ll find someone before then."

You blink, your heart ripped in two.

"Wow, not even a maybe?" You do your best to sound upbeat, but your voice pitches oddly at the end, and you know Jungsu notices when his smile stiffens. "Am I that bad?"

He shakes his head quickly. "No, I meant that you'll find someone else—"

"But what if I didn't?"

The living room falls silent. The way Jungsu's expression turns pained tells you all you need to know.

Seungmin utters no more than half your name before you stand up and dash out of the room.

Your cousin's house is small. You reach the guest bedroom within seconds and fumble with the doorknob to open it, closing the door hard behind you.

Your feet carry you towards the hidden space between the bed and the far wall. Once you sit down, what feels like a decade's worth of waterworks turn on, and you cover your mouth and sob.

You had imagined Jungsu's rejection time and time again. But recently, you had also begun to think that, maybe—

Well. Maybe it was never.

Hiccuping, you draw your sleeve across your eyes.

Why would he even want you, anyway?

You spend what feels like hours wiping your face until your nose and cheeks feel scraped raw. More than once, you think you are finished, only for Jungsu's pitying expression to resurface in your mind and open the wounds all over again.

But eventually, the tears begin to run dry, and that's when you hear a knock at the door.

"[Y/n]?" It's not Jungsu, but Seungmin. His tone is coaxing. "Can I come in?"

You gulp. The backs of your eyes ache, and you wipe your nose. "Okay."

The latch bolt clicks. You hear the sock-clad footsteps of your cousin approaching before he sits down beside you.

He says nothing for a moment. When you lean against him, eyes closed, he wraps an arm around your shoulder.

"I'm sorry," Seungmin says. "I don't know why I said it. You can hit me, if you'd like."

"You know, don't you?"

Your voice is tiny. Seungmin squeezes you and exhales slowly, and you slump, defeated.

"Yeah."

"Does he know?"

You are deprived of an answer for a good minute. Finally, Seungmin clicks his tongue softly, and he says, "I think the two of you should talk to each other and clear everything up."

"He knows, doesn't he?"

"If he does, he'll tell you. He's still here, if you're willing to talk to him now. I just figured I should check on you first. But you need to talk to him and he needs to talk to you."

"I don't want to."

"But you have to," Seungmin says. His warmth leaves you, and you look up at him desperately as he grabs the throw blanket on his bed and tucks it around you. "You're strong. However it goes, you'll get through it."

The corners of his lips quirk upwards. You can't manage a smile, but his words touch your heart, and you curl into yourself.

"He's still here?"

"Want me to go get him?"

You nod almost imperceptibly.

A few moments later, Seungmin returns with Jungsu and a glass of water. The glass of water is given to you, and Jungsu receives a pat on the back before your cousin leaves the two of you alone.

You bring the glass to your lips and take a long, thin drink. It's cold, but not too cold, with no ice. It makes you feel marginally better.

Eventually, Jungsu speaks up hesitantly.

"Can I sit down?"

You nod, not looking at him.

So he sits down beside you, carefully moving the blanket wrapped around you so as not to sit on it. He brings his knees to his chest. There is an inch of distance between you and him.

You rest your mouth on the rim of your glass, the water touching your lips but going no farther.

"[Y/n] …" Jungsu starts. "I'm really sorry."

The second rejection stings more than punches, alcohol over the raw cut. You breathe out steadily.

"You didn't do anything wrong."

"I hurt you." You can hear the quiet shake of anxiety in his voice. "I shouldn't have laughed, but I—I got nervous, and then your question caught me off guard, too, and I panicked and didn't know how to reply—"

"Jungsu." You turn to meet his eyes, and you hear him swallow. "I'll be fine. It was a stupid question." You rip your gaze away again, digging your toes into the carpet. "Deep down, I think I already knew it wouldn't happen, anyway."

Jungsu is quiet for a long time.

You realize, with a shameful belatedness, that this is a painful conversation for him as well. Jungsu feels others' emotions like they are his own. He shies away from negative ones, sensitive to them like paper to a flame, and more often that not he appeases them with tight smiles and agreeable responses.

But here, in the dim lamplight of the bedroom, he is holding himself over the fire. He cannot run anymore, just like you.

He finally speaks, his voice nearly a whisper.

"It's not because I don't feel the same way."

Your world stops on its axis.

Your head snaps up. You stare at him with wide eyes. He faces you fully, and you scan his expression for a hint of dishonesty, but it is once again nothing but open. He looks sad. Small.

"What?" you rasp.

"I would," he confesses. "Marry you twenty years from now. Or ten, or five. If I had moved with you to the city, or if you moved back here with me. But we're ... I don't think I could make you happy."

You are sure this is your third rejection. But you are still reeling, because it sounds like it is not your feelings that he is rejecting.

"You're afraid to even try."

"You have bigger dreams than here."

"You had bigger dreams once, too. We could have been together in the city." Old grievances rear their head like a reflex to pain, souring your tongue. "But you backed out."

Jungsu's face pinches. "And if I had stayed with you in the city, what then?" he replies. "We'd hardly visit home? Call Seungmin once a month? Work ourselves to death at a place that wouldn't think twice about getting rid of us?"

Blood rushes to your face.

This is too much. Too many different feelings mixing together, too many things spilling out.

You wring out a laugh and grip the glass in your hands until it's just shy of shattering.

"You liar," you huff, new tears spilling over. "You said you weren't upset anymore."

"Well, maybe I am," Jungsu says.

But his voice wavers, and you know that he is no better than you.

So much for talking it out. The room feels as cold as it had when you'd first entered it.

You don't bother to dry your tears this time. Beside you, Jungsu sniffles quietly, the shuffle of fabric letting you know when he rubs his sweater sleeve against his face.

Somehow, it reminds you of years long past. Crying then didn't feel nearly as pathetic.

"I miss when we were kids."

"... Me too."

You stare into your glass, then drain the rest of the water and set it aside.

"I shouldn't have said that," Jungsu mumbles into his knees. "I'm sorry."

"It's ... it's okay. Um." You lick your lips and say, slowly, "I don't think I ever actually apologized for not keeping in touch as much as I should've. I'm sorry."

"… I forgive you."

"You do?"

He nods.

You relax just the slightest bit. Your shoulder touches his, and when he leans into you in turn, you feel a small amount of relief, heart no longer angry but still sore and bruised.

There's nothing left to lose now. You might as well say everything that's on your mind.

"Jungsu." He hums. "You've always made me happy. Just so ... just so you know."

His brow furrows. "I just made you cry."

"What I mean is that it's always been you."

You are being honest, like you had promised, and the way Jungsu flushes to the tips of his ears is honest as well.

"You deserve better," he says.

"I don't deserve anything. I want you. Don't you feel the same way?"

"I do, but ..." He takes in a breath, his hand finding the crook of your elbow and squeezing. "If we hurt each other and never talked again, I don't think I would be able to handle it. These past two years were already ..."

He trails off. There is a pang in your chest as he bites his lip and presses the edge of his sleeve against one of his eyes, and it dawns on you then just how much you have to atone for.

"I really hurt you," you murmur. "Didn't I?"

Jungsu turns. You are suddenly enveloped in a tight embrace, warm wool and clutching fingers. His heart beats against yours, and it's enough to make you tremble, knowing that this is far more than you will ever deserve.

"Jungsu ..."

"Can you wait for me?" The request is a whisper. "Just give me some time?"

You breathe. "Of course."

His weight bears down on you until you're nearly crushed. You find it within yourself to crack a small smile as he clings to you.

Pressing your cheek against his shoulder, one last question leaves your tongue. "Can we still be best friends?"

His answer is muffled and soft, but sure.

"Always."

—

(You wait for him. Jungsu waits for you, as well. It's a long and slow journey but you find yourselves and, in turn, find each other again.

And you are happy.)

[al-the-remix]

don't think I saw Climbing up You Walls but I am so intrigued

I just realized i really fucked up that typing, it's supposed to say "Climbing Up Your Walls" lol, but still, this one is about Tommy's house being in a permanent state of renovation--he's too busy--he has years to make decisions--he doesn't know what he likes--he's too specific--and then in swoops Buck with just enough construction experience not to be a nuisance when lending a hand and applies his foolproof Clipboard Treatment to helping Tommy get his act together (and it becomes their house along the way). Also, there's some mild angst from Tommy's side as he wonders if Buck's feeling as serious as Tommy is this soon into their relationship (Buck's impulsivity makes him nervous).

“See what I mean?” Evan had his hands on his hips, surveying the impact zone that is the central room of Tommy’s 1920s Californian bungalow.  Tommy had tried to tidy up…he really had. But half way through trying to decide if he should take the sawhorses out from the middle of his living room and push the old coffee table back last night Tommy had decided his efforts were futile. He was better off letting Evan get an honest look at what he was signing up for. “It’s not that bad…”  “Evan.” “What? It’s not!” He held his hands up in defence, the tips of his ears glowing siren red.  Tommy just shook his head. “You’re not that good of a liar, babe.” “Seriously,” Evan walked up to one of his more recent projects and examined it, a side table Tommy had begun to re-stain then had to bring back inside during a freak storm…a month ago.  “I was worried it would be more of a hoarding situation or something but besides all the sawdust and power tools, this place is pretty neat.” Tommy glanced sidelong at the stack of tile boxes he’s been using as a side table for upwards of two years. “That’s very generous of you.” “When did you buy this place?” Tommy signed and sat down on the arm of the couch, knowing there’d be a big dust stain on his ass when he stood and not caring. “2008, I never really spent any of my money when I was in the army and spent most of my two weeks between deployments couch-surfing. I got some money from selling my grandfather’s place after he died, but it wasn’t much.” Evan frowned. “So you’ve had this place for almost two decades, it’s hard to believe you haven't done anything to it. ” “Okay, I did all the major stuff.” Tommy started listing stuff off on his fingers as Evan listened intently. “There was some siding that needed replacing, a few windows, and I spent a whole summer re-insulating and re-shingling the roof. The plumbing is updated. The guts are solid. And I spent about the rest of my savings at the time on the garage… It’s more the cosmetics that aren’t my strong suit. “I want to keep the character of the place but there are some things that just need to be updated. And the more I dig, the more issues I find and then I never actually get around to making things look nice.” Tommy shrugs, feeling like maybe he said a little too much. “I guess because it was just me here and I don't really mind living with patchy drywall and holes in the walls.” Evan only looked more enthused. “Look, we can work with this. I've done a bunch of odd jobs over the years, including construction. And I've got two hands. I can help."  Suddenly Evan’s grin dimmed, and Tommy watched as he visibly reeled himself back in, shoving his hands in his pockets and scuffing the toe of his boot against the drop sheet that had been doubling as an area rug. "If you want, of course, I don't want to overstep.” We. No matter what, it was always “we” with Evan. It didn’t matter how fresh this relationship was, Evan had a way of making Tommy feel like no matter what, he wasn't in it alone, whether the “it” in question was couples pickle-ball on Sundays or unpacking decades worth of emotional baggage.  It was an unexpected, yet pleasant feeling Tommy was still trying to get used to. He wanted to trust it with his whole body, lie down in it and let it slowly creep over his face like warm bathwater. He wanted to trust Evan. “You could never,” Tommy assured. “I’d love your help.” The smile Evan gave him lit up his whole face, breathing life into something small and dim nestled in the hollow of Tommy’s chest.  Evan clapped his hands together, already onto the next thing. “Okay, so first I think we start–”

[heartsmadeofbooks]

[New Story]: Through Crooked Aim.

Hi everyone! Hope you're all doing great.

I wanted to share with you the preview of my upcoming Klaine fic, Through Crooked Aim, which will start next week, Thursday December 12th.

This is a story that I've wanted to write for a while now, and I'm excited to finally get to share it with you all. I hope to see you next week for the first chapter.

Hope you like this little snippet. Story is beta'd by @christinejaneanderson and the picture for the preview was made by @nerdishedits.

See you on the 12th for a new adventure!

The sun was hinting its presence in the horizon as the car took the last turn. The radio was playing softly in the background, the weather man of the usual show he listened to as he got his day started predicting a lovely April day, Spring in full swing, perhaps a bit chillier as the night returned to cover Lima, Ohio. But until then, it would be a warm, beautiful day – it made Kurt smile as he parked the car in his usual spot.

The diner looked good. They had given the exterior a new coat of paint just last month. The only thing that showed just how long it had been there was the sign on the roof, the one Kurt refused to change because it had been picked by his father, many, many years ago: the second m on Hummel’s was dimmer than the other letters. Kurt knew it could be easily fixed or replaced, but he refused to. Sometimes it was okay to choose history over esthetics.

And there was so, so much history here.

Hummel’s had been around for decades. It was the go-to diner for most of the residents of Lima, founded by his own father when he was barely out of high school. It had had a bumpy start – Kurt had heard the story ever since he could remember, how his father had turned years of savings and some money he’d gotten from his family after graduation, into his livelihood. It had been hard at first, doing everything himself because he couldn’t afford to hire any help, a few friends popping over here and there to help flip pancakes or make small repairs as Burt did everything else. Eventually, though, it began to grow, and Burt had enough money for new furniture, for a better grill, for a couple of waitresses. The business grew, and there had been plenty of sweat, tears and sleepless nights invested in it until it did. But Burt Hummel had been a proud man, and when things got hard, he worked harder, until he beat all the odds that had been against him.

“I didn’t have many choices after high school,” Burt had told his son on more than one occasion. “I knew I had to start my own business – I wasn’t exactly book smart, I’ve never been. For a while I entertained playing football in college, but then I got hurt during my senior year in high school so that was out. My dad owned a garage back then, and I thought about following in his footsteps, but there was enough competition in town that my dad was already struggling and going to work with him would have been a terrible idea. It was also probably a terrible idea to open my own diner – I didn’t even know how to cook, for god’s sake. I don’t even know where I got the idea to begin with. But I just knew I wanted my own business. And we all used to drive all the way to Kenton or even Dayton on the weekends for a good dating spot. There was nowhere decent to have a meal with your friends or your girlfriend here. I know you still call Lima a small town, but it certainly was small back then…”

For a younger Kurt, who dreamed of big cities filled with skyscrapers, Lima was certainly small – small-minded, too. He couldn’t imagine anything smaller than that.

Nowadays, Kurt wouldn’t think of Hummel’s as a dating spot, but he guessed back then it had been a pretty decent option, before places like Breadstix opened when he was a teenager, or even the Lima Bean, the local coffee shop that Kurt had loved when he was still in high school. Slowly, Hummel’s had become everyone’s go-to choice for a quick breakfast before school or work, or even a dinner stop at the end of a long day. Everyone had loved Burt Hummel – he had been a bit gruff, but always decent and kind and he would always sneak an extra scoop of ice-cream on every kid’s order of waffles.

A couple of years ago, that thought had sent a pang through Kurt, ache and grief mixing to make everything in him feel tight, tight, tight. Now, it had dulled into a manageable ache, and he was able to smile whenever one of the patrons shared a memory of his father with him. He still missed him – what he wouldn’t give to get one more hug, one more piece of advice, to hear his laughter once again – but it didn’t take his breath away, as it used to.

Kurt unlocked the door and went into the diner, turning every light on as he went. First order of business, every morning, was to turn the coffee machine on, so he went straight to it on the counter and got it started before he went into the office to leave his bag. As the scent of freshly brewed coffee began to fill the empty diner, he started to take the chairs down from the tables, getting everything ready for the first few customers, who would surely be here soon.

The inside of Hummel’s had a classic American diner vibe. In recent years, Kurt had only allowed himself to change a few things in the décor, mostly those that were too worn with age. He kept all the framed photographs that filled one of the walls, though, the ones that showed the history of his family with this place. He had only added a few, marking the moment he had taken over the diner after his father got sick and eventually passed away. Now, alongside pictures of his parents in their 20s, you could find pictures of Kurt’s twin daughters sitting side by side on the counter, or of his husband, Ryan, helping to fix a leak in the kitchen sink. His chest filled with pride as he stared at them, as he did each morning – he had never imagined they would end up here, and yet now… well, he couldn’t picture himself elsewhere.

The little bell above the door twinkled as it opened. Kurt turned and smiled at Marley, the morning shift waitress, as she came in. She was already wearing the dark blue uniform, her hair pulled up in a pony tail. She was also a recent addition to Hummel’s. Kurt liked her – she was kind and quick and responsible, and she was never late. Whenever he had to hire someone new, he wondered whether his father would approve. He thought he had nailed it with Marley.

About a minute after she had arrived, the door opened again and Blaine Anderson walked in.