#already have a blue light filter on most everything

[vamptastic]

should maybe get my vision checked again

[xiaominghao]

Imperfections

Genre: Fluff.

Pairing: Hoshi x reader.

Warnings: Reader is implied to be female (and a little bitchy).

“Do you want to have a cat with me?” Hoshi said while joyfully patting your hand.

“I want to sleep,” you groaned, turning your face to look at the clock on the nightstand beside you, it was already past two in the morning and you had been lying in bed for hours talking about a lot of stuff, most of them were very silly. “Hoshi, it’s very late, and I have things to do tomorrow.”

“Okay... But first tell me, what cat breeds do you like?”

Every time Hoshi stayed over at your house, you had to mentally prepare yourself, keeping up with his energy was a very difficult task. For a moment, you wondered if it was really a good idea telling him to spend the night with you…

“Alright, but after this, I’m going to sleep,” you warned him in a stern tone, although he nodded as if he hadn’t noticed. “I like Siamese cats, they’re cute and funny. What do you like?”

“I don’t know much about cats, but Ragdolls are cute.”

“Oh, Ragdoll... They’re very popular on the internet” you yawned mid-sentence.

“They have really nice fur,” Hoshi spoke enthusiastically despite having said he didn’t know much about it. “It looks very soft and fluffy, just like your hair.”

“Do you think my hair is soft and fluffy?” Your tone didn’t sound very convinced, although you tried not to pay too much attention.

“Of course!” he replied, chuckling softly. “You complain a lot about it but I think your hair is really gorgeous, I love brushing it for you.”

That last sentence hit you like a bucket of cold water, dissipating everything: the sleepiness, the bad mood, even the sound of the rain hitting the window seemed very far away and distant. You opened your eyes and turned your face, distinguishing his wide-awake face in the faint light filtering from the living room, through the open door.

He turned to meet your gaze and smiled while stroking a strand of your hair spread across the pillow. You swallowed hard; his loving gaze made you feel so cherished that it hurt…

“Soonyoung, I’m so sorry” you signed deeply before continuing. “Maybe I complain too much…”

“A little,” the naturalness of his response was even more painful. “But that way, I realize all the things I like about you.”

“What are you talking about?” you frowned at such a statement.

“Whenever you complain about something, a good thing comes out of it,” Hoshi fell silent for a few seconds, and when you didn’t respond, he continued. “Remember when you said you’re too tall and it’s hard to find clothes? Somehow, you always find stunning pieces, like that blue dress with tiny flowers.”

“You’re always sooo giddy whenever I wear it” both of you chuckled softly, then you turned to face him. “Come on, tell me more.”

“Well, you say you’re not good at cooking... But you still put a lot of effort into everything, and I appreciate it. Your homemade food is the best!”

“It's a pleasure cooking for you,” without realizing it, you had closed your eyes, speaking with slow, tired voice. “You always seem so happy...”

“It’s because I love you,” Hoshi said almost in a whisper, leaning closer to give you a goodnight kiss on the forehead.

But there was no response; you were breathing slowly while a soft and adorable snore escaped from your lips. Hoshi smiled to himself, closing his eyes and gently wrapping his arm around your waist, careful not to wake you.

“I love you, and all of your imperfections...”

[leahsgirl]

“yes you idiot.”

— in which leah has planned on proposing to you for a long time - except when that time does come; it all goes awry.

pairings - leah williamson x reader (female)

warnings - none, just minor swearing.

a/n - this is my first shot at writing so it may be horrible i apologise

—

“so once i’ve finished setting everything up I’ll text you and let you know i’m on my wa-“ Leah was mid conversation with Beth and Viv; until you interrupted of course, slotting yourself next to the blonde and matching strides with her as you make your way off the training pitch.

“what are you guys talking about?” you questioned as you observed beth and viv give each other a quick glance.

“nothing baby, I was just asking how myles was adjusting.” Leah replied, reaching out for your hand.

You and Leah have been dating for two and a half years, having officially met playing for the England squad a year prior. While Leah wasn’t your biggest fan to begin with - that soon changed when you made the transfer from manchester united to arsenal, allowing you and the blonde to get closer which then resulted in the two of you starting dating.

“oh my god, you have no idea how excited i’ve been to see him again.”

“i still want to know how you taught him to sit the first time meeting him - he won’t do it for me and Viv.” Beth bewildered.

“what can i say? i’m just the chosen one.” you smirked. “are you sure you can’t come Lee?” Now diverting your attention back to your girlfriend who was sorting out clothes to change into. You and a few of the other girls were going to Beth and Viv’s for a little girls/catch up night, unaware it was actually a set up to keep you out the house while Leah put her plan into action.

“i’ve got to go and help Jacob move stuff out of his apartment y/n or you know i’d be there.” She kissed your cheek.

“definitely just a sore loser because ya’ lost the game last time we went.” Katie piped up, appearing next to the taller girl who in turn gave her a petty slap on the arm.

—

“you’re beautiful.” a voice spoke from the other end of the room, slowly getting closer and wrapping their arms around you from behind as you looked at yourself in the mirror, peppering a few light kisses near your ear.

“and you’re late, weren’t you meant to meet Jacob twenty mins ago?”

Leah shrugged it off. “and miss the chance of admiring my girl. no way.” She planted a quick kiss on your lips, knowing you’d just finished applying your makeup. “besides, he changed the time to seven, i’ve got a good half an hour.”

She plonked herself down on the bed, fiddling with the rings she wore on her fingers. “what you thinking about in that pretty head of yours?” throughout your relationship with leah, you’ve got to know her pretty much inside and out, and if theres one thing you do know; she only messes with her rings when something is bothering her. “hm..nothing, just thinking about us i guess.”

“us?” you pushed, now joining her on the bed. “just like how we’ve ended up here and how thankful i am for you and everything.” the blue-eyed girl turned to look at you, as if she was studying your whole face. “well, i’m very thankful for you too, even if you are a pain in the arse most of the time.” the twenty-six year old faked hurt and annoyance. “but i love you.” you said more sincerely, placing a tender kiss on Leah’s forehead.

“i love you too.”

__

Leah kindly offered to drop you off at Beth and Viv’s which you accepted of course. All of the other girls were already there; Alessia and Lottie were fussing over myles, Katie, Caitlin and Steph was in what seemed like a very intense conversion, Jenn and Lia was messing with different filters on TikTok and Beth & Viv were playing host.

“there she is! y/n come in.” Viv ushered you inside and offered you a drink. You immediately making a beeline for the man of the hour, crouching down preparing to be bombarded by a very excited puppy.

Meanwhile, back at the apartment, Leah had began decorating. Her plan was for you to come home to a nice romantic homemade dinner, where after you share some nice conversation and food - she would pop the question, asking you to be her wife.

She’s had this planned for a good couple of months, having gone out with some of your teammates to acquire the goods and then going ring shopping on one of her few days off. To be honest, she was quite proud of herself she’s managed to keep this a secret from you for all this time.

The blonde started by blowing up some heart shaped balloons, followed by scattering rose petals from the front door all the way to the dining table which had been covered with a white table cloth and taper candles. She was making your favourite dishes for the meal of course; pasta with pesto and finishing with churros.

easier said than done however. “how do i make pasta?” the defender flipped the camera so her mum who was now on facetime can see the ingredients. It was times like this where she wishes she helped with the cooking more around the house. After practically what turned out to be a cooking lesson, Leah took the opportunity to change into something nicer, and less covered in flour.

Making her way around the bedroom, she opened her nightstand drawer, sifting a few things around until she pulled out a small black velvet box. She opened it briefly, checking the ring was okay and preyed to god you would like it.

Taking one final look at her work around the house, she pulled out her phone to text the fellow forward.

to: meado

just finished up back here, i’m gonna start heading to yours now.

As the night died down, your teammates and yourself had all congregated in the living room, spread across the sofa and the floor with some kind of cheesy sitcom that Lia put on playing in the background. Different conversations were going on, you finding yourself in a deep conversation with Jenn and Caitlin.

“Well well, look who finally decided to show her face.” Katie announced, pointing at all too familiar blonde locks. “Hey guys.” You got up and walked over to her planting a kiss on her cheek.

“i thought you had to help your brother?” You ask while absentmindedly rubbing her back. “oh..i did, we just finished so I thought i’d come pick you up.”

“Do you want a drink Leah?” Steph offered, holding up a beer in each hand. “No thanks, we have to get back to the apartment.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Do we?”

“Yes we do, now come on.” She took your hand and tried to pull you to the door. “What’s with the rush? You’re being weird Lee.”

“I’m not - i’m just tired that’s all, i’m ready for bed.” She fake yawned. You sighed, “okay grumpy, just let me say bye to everyone.”

It’s safe to say the car ride home was no better. Leah’s leg was bouncing up and down which isn’t exactly ideal when you’re driving, she was cursing out everyone on the roads and kept messing with her bangs if they moved in the slightest. “Are you sure you’re okay love?”

The blonde turned to look and you and gave a weary smile, lifting your hand to her lips and giving it a gentle peck. “I’m fine I promise.”

Walking up the steps to your shared home, Leah stopped you before opening the door. “Okay I need you to close your eyes and only open them when I tell you.”

Complying, you shut your eyes. “Suspicious Miss Williamson.” You stated as you could hear your girlfriend fiddling with her keys in the door. she wrapped her arm around yours and guided you inside. “Okay you can open them now.” You followed her advice and took in your surroundings, suddenly getting an overwhelming sense of love surge over you. “Surprise.” Leah pulled you over to the candlelit table and pulled out a chair for you, waiting for you to sit down to then tuck you in. “Lee..i’m speechless. What’s all this for?”

“Just doing my girlfriend duties and treating you.” The blonde brought over two dishes to the table and sat herself down opposite you. “Shut up! you made my favourite meal?!” Taking a bite off your fork, your mouth practically waters with how good it tastes. “Oh my god, babe this is incredible.” Deciding to be more romantic, you twirl some of the pasta onto your fork and hold it out for Leah to take which she does.

it was all going really well; it had been long overdue since you and leah had a ‘date’ so to speak. While you loved your job and wouldn’t trade it for the world, it often meant romantic gestures like these were far and few in between.

“Is something burning?” The smell of smoke filling your nostrils as you look at the kitchen.

“Shit shit shit!” Leah was quick to her feet, opening the oven where a surge of grey smoke escaped and pulled out a tray with what were now very burnt churros. “For fuck sake.” The defender whined “Well there goes dessert.”

Joining her behind the kitchen island, you looked at the baking tray. “well..you tried.” half-heartedly joking, you looked at the older girl who now had a pout on her face. “It’s okay Leah, you made a lovely pasta. Besides, i’m sure we have some ice cream or something in the freezer.”

“No you don’t understand, tonight was meant to be perfect.” She ran her hands through her hair in frustration. You knitted your eyebrows together “Okay out with it.” sternly said, crossing your arms.

“Hm?”

“You’ve been on edge all day..you change the conversation when i caught up to you, meado and Viv. You couldn’t come to girls night which you never miss; i know you said you had to help your brother but then he suddenly changes times, you was angsty all the way home and now you’re practically arguing with the oven. So tell me what’s going on.”

Leah motioned for you to sit on the sofa. “Okay this isn’t how I wanted it to go down but-“ She took a deep breath. “Y/n, as you know i’m not really big on talking about my feelings, but the past three years have been the happiest of my life. you make me excited for the next day to come, you always push me, you stuck with me during my lowest, especially during my acl recovery, you just make me a better person.”

She takes your hand in hers, caressing your skin with her thumb and looks you directly in the eyes which at this point were working hard to not well up. “I guess what i’m trying to say is-“ She reaches into her pants pocket pulling out the familiar black velvet box. “-Will you marry me?”

As she says those four words, she opens the box and looks down at it, doing a double take as she sees its empty - the ring no where to be seen. “What the fuck, where’s the pissing ring.” Colour is draining from her face at this point as she stands up and frantically starts pacing. “You’ve got to be shitting me, the one day i need things to go smoothly.”

“Do you mean this ring?” You held up a ring with an oval diamond at the centre of it. Leah looked dumbfounded “How-how did you-“ The blonde was at a loss for words.

“Lee you dropped it twice during dinner - i even passed it to you once.” You giggled as you passed her the ring back “Did you?”

“See, you’ve been so uptight you didn’t even realise.” Standing up, you wrapped your arms around her neck, moving closer so that your faces were inches apart. “But my answer is yes.” you say barely above a whisper.

“yes?” at this point you thought you’d broke your poor girlfriend. “Yes i’ll marry you idiot.” Pressing your lips onto hers, you emerged yourselves into a deep kiss filled with passion.

Your now fiancé slipped the ring into your finger, admiring the ring and then you. She picked you up, twirling you around out of pure happiness and relief.

“Now how about dessert?” You winked and tugged her towards the bedroom.

liked by lucybronze and 2,086,773 others

leahwilliamson introducing future mrs williamson

usera SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP

chloekelly congratulations ❤️

userb y/n on that wag life

youruser whose to say it’s not gonna be ‘leah y/l/n’

leahwilliamson replying to youruser y/n williamson just sounds better

kierawalsh congrats lovebirds 😄❤️

liked by alessiarusso and 1,887,201 others

youruser imagine i said no

ellatoone 😍❤️

userc Y/N’s GETTING MARRIED IM DOING ROLYPOLYS

1maryearps congrats kiddo!

userd please the difference in her and leah’s captions

jodiemcomer so happy for you y/n, congrats X

[verysium]

PLEASE DO BLUE LOCK ICKS IM BEGGING🙏😭🌹

😏 coming right up anon. gonna channel my inner critic and not hold back on any of these.

RIN

brother complex. not much else to say except that he needs to get a life. not everything is about metaphorically crushing your older brother's dreams and brooding in the dark hate of retribution.

competitive but only because he is a desperate whore for external validation. ignores everyone but craves the attention of a sole person named sae itoshi. was defeated by isagi once and has never let go of it since. has a one-track mind that is impossible to derail. stubborn when he wants to be.

probably a virgin and will continue to be one until his late 30s.

has not known a single day of peace ever since sae ditched him for the popular girlies. as a result, he has developed a very concerning case of social awkwardness. his idea of a conversation involves a brick wall and thirty minutes of you staring at his resting bitch face. constantly looks like that one grumpy cat meme. judges you for your poor decisions but then gets aggressively defensive when you point out his own mistakes.

reeks of so much teen angst that even metallica can't save him. the problem is that he has nothing to back up his emo persona. his insults lack creativity and, unfortunately for him, phrases like "lukewarm" and "half-baked" and "hell" do not make his words carry more weight. uses the f-word but in the most embarrassing context that it makes you facepalm and internally cringe.

SAE

zero social awareness. this boy's head is empty. the lights are not on up there. there are no picture frames or furniture. the curtains are drawn, and there is not a sliver of clouds or sunshine. cannot read body language and does not know what a filter is.

the source of all of rin's stress. he is the original trauma projector, creator of generational cycles. not even subtle about it. "turns out i was wrong. i thought japan was incapable of ever giving birth to decent forwards." sir....with the way you worded that, you knew exactly what you were doing when you gave rin false hope.

swears but it's even worse than his brother. literally called his elders a "fatso and bob cut duo" and "insect turd." i mean....there is a line between what is considered a legitimate burn and what is a first grader making up insults in his coloring book.

has a horrible haircut and no fashion taste. i already talked about this previously, but it was so bad it deserved a second mention.

a freak but tries to justify it rationally. like what do you mean you can tell a person's athletic ability from their buttock size? just admit you have a kinky fetish already.

somewhat of a coward but i'm gonna give him some leniency due to his tragic child genius backstory. tbh he's just an eighteen-year-old boy who needs a goddamn break.

KAISER

alexa please play clown music. this man sets himself for failure and then wallows in self-pity when he actually fails. like what did you expect? you knew what was going to happen the moment you challenged isagi like that. it was most definitely your fault you got violently humbled.

has a borderline god complex (currently calls himself an emperor but has not evolved into a deity yet.) unfortunately, he does not stand on business. cue the dramatic meltdowns when he realizes there is an actual gap between his ability and his reputation. if you're going to lie, at least make it believable.

insecure and mentally unstable. he probably cuts and re-dyes his hair every single time shit happens. no wonder his locks get shorter every time.

lazy when it comes to anything that is not football and expects others to do it for him. demands princess treatment wherever he goes. unfortunately, not all of us have servants with no self-respect like ness.

"it is not enough that i should succeed, others should fail" type of person.

does not wear shoes and even if he does, it's sandals. put them grippers away.

NAGI

a literal sloth who has so much potential but uses none of it. has no intrinsic motivation of his own, so if he's going to do anything, it has to be you behind the wheel, making sure he gets put to work.

does not have a close relationship with his parents, and so he has no sense of community, holidays, or traditions. no fun at all if you want him to do things like christmas shopping or birthday celebrations.

rots in bed all day and then has to nerve to ask you to carry him around. your back better be strong because his 190 cm body is not going to be light.

not loyal (need i say more.)

REO

second male lead syndrome. also known as that one popular guy who's always picked last.

acts like a victim but then when you realistically tell him to how to change his situation he refuses to do so. you cannot ask for advice and then take none of it to heart. no wonder you're still not over your ex.

"i can fix him" mentality. no, you can't. you are a seventeen-year-old child, not a licensed therapist and nagi isn't even all that.

NESS

touch-starved to the point he will stay in a toxic and abusive relationship in order to gain some scrap of affection. just because you were the black sheep of your family does not mean you can lose all sense of personal dignity.

probably stalks all the people he hates. has a burn book like regina george from mean girls. cuts out and glues little pictures of kaiser all over his bedroom. doodles hearts all over it with glittery gel pen. isagi's face and name are scratched out of every team photo.

delusional and prone to mood swings. medicated but at this point, he is beyond saving.

ISAGI

a home wrecker. has ruined more relationships than he can count on ten fingers yet still manages to smile like he's some angelic saint.

solves jigsaw puzzles for a living (not very cool if you ask me.)

has some unresolved anger management issues. probably repressed all his negative feelings when he was younger, so it all comes out when he's on the field. unfortunately, his twilight-sparkle-friendship-is-magic agenda is not going to work if he keeps cussing out his teammates like that. but then again, he is the main character, so i guess his plot armor makes up for his pitfalls.

says that he's a good guy but then holds personal vendettas against rivals he doesn't like. boy was so ready to throw hands when #kaisagi was trending on the internet. but when you actually think about, he's similar to kaiser in more ways than he'd like to admit.

BAROU

has the worst case of high and mighty "holier-than-thou" attitude. isagi put his ego in check, but it still peeks out from time to time.

he was the ugliest baby when he was born. i am not going to hold back on the child barou slander because it is true. no, he was not a cute and lovable bundle of joy. he looked like a demonic gremlin.

he needs to take more risks in life and try cross-dressing. simply imagining him in a maid uniform will not suffice. it needs to be made into a reality.

with how nit-picky he is, i doubt people can realistically stay within a 1-meter radius around him. unless you are a clean freak yourself, his constant complaints will start to get annoying after a time. even if he does have good intentions, he needs to let people have a little breathing room sometimes. a messy room is not going to kill you.

BACHIRA

this boy's brain is smooth. no folds. no gray matter. no intelligence either. his pencil and eraser have been left untouched since day one. if he wasn't crazily good at football, he would be unemployed and homeless in the future. not even a mcdonald's wants him.

one of those people who will do the literal opposite of whatever you say. you want him to stop talking? well, now he's never going to shut up. you tell him not to step on a pile of dog shit? well, now he's going to walk right into it. you want him to quit running around and act normal? well, now it's his life's mission to make you as annoyed as possible. please pray for your hair follicles because at the end of the day, you're not going to have many left with how much he makes you want to tear your hair out.

has the cerebral capacity of a toddler. if he thinks monsters are real, he's going to think anything is real. super gullible when it comes to any form of scam, ploy, or trickery. the only way he would not be fooled is if he's also played the same prank before.

SHIDOU

a brazen pervert. says the most out-of-pocket things and refuses to apologize for them. sometimes it comes out a little too sleazy for your liking.

"to me a goal is fertilization! a shot is the seed and the goal is the egg!! and the birth of that joy i call an explosion!! my genes are gonna knock you up!" let us give ourselves a moment of silence to digest this quote. only shidou ryusei would come up with a sperm and egg metaphor to describe football. (i guess protection means nothing to him.)

has no empathy. if you dislike him or cannot keep up with him, you're a literal nobody in his books. no sportsmanship. no compassion. no self-awareness.

you cannot say "balls" to him in a serious tone without him misinterpreting it as something dirty. that alone should tell you enough. stay the hell away from him.

where do men get the audacity? right here. from this little bastard. he invented the term "shameless slut." boy was getting off during the u-20 arc and on live TV too. no wonder sae said he was disgusting.

and finally, he comes from a long line of cockroaches. he's even got the antennae to prove it.

i think this might have been a little excessive, but i have no regrets about it. you're welcome anon ♡

[engeorged]

Harry's Stag - Part One

As I stepped out of the taxi, the cool Amsterdam air washed over me, and I couldn’t help but smile. The canals, the narrow streets, the lively hum of the city—it was just what I needed. A lads’ weekend with my best mates, a chance to unwind before I marry the man of my dreams.

I glanced at the guys, a wave of affection washing over me. Jim and I had been mates since we were kids, practically growing up together. Tall, lean, with that rugged, outdoorsy vibe and piercing blue eyes that seemed to cut through any nonsense, Jim was the steady one—the rock who always kept us grounded.

Banning and Noel came into our lives during university when we all played rugby together. Banning, with his quiet confidence and sharp mind, was always thinking a few steps ahead. He had this knack for coming up with a plan, making sure we stayed out of trouble and found our way home in one piece. Then there’s Noel—scruffy, blonde, and a bit shorter than the rest of us, but with a cheeky grin that could charm his way out of any mess he managed to get himself into. He was the joker of the group, ensuring we were never bored.

And then there’s me, Harry, the soon-to-be groom, the guy who’s somehow managed to land the most amazing man in the world. Jason is everything I’ve ever wanted—6’5, blonde, and brilliant, working in finance but with a heart of gold. He’s got this mix of confidence and kindness that makes me fall for him all over again every time I see him. I’m the luckiest guy on the planet, and I know it.

But right now, all I want is to forget about the wedding planning and just enjoy this weekend with the guys. We’ve been through so much together—high school dramas, university antics, and everything life has thrown at us since. This weekend is our chance to let loose, to celebrate before everything changes.

The morning light filtered through the curtains as I woke up, feeling the familiar buzz of excitement. Today was going to be one for the books. After a quick shower, I headed downstairs with the guys to tackle the hotel’s breakfast buffet. I’d always seen buffets as a bit of a challenge—something I’d perfected during our rugby trips in uni when the lads and I would try to outdo each other with how much we could eat.

The spread was impressive: stacks of pancakes, sizzling sausages, crispy bacon, eggs done every way imaginable, and fresh pastries that looked like they’d come straight out of a bakery. My stomach growled in anticipation, and I grabbed a plate, ready to dive in.

Jim, always the early riser, was already at the buffet, piling food onto his plate. “Morning, mate,” he said with a grin. “Hope you’re hungry.”

“You know me,” I replied, grabbing a bit of everything and then some. “Never one to turn down a good breakfast.”

We settled at a table, and I started working through my plate, enjoying the food and the banter. Before I could even make a dent in my meal, Noel appeared with a plate stacked high with more food. “Mate, you’ve got to try these pancakes,” he said, dropping them onto my plate without waiting for a reply.

I laughed, not thinking much of it. “Alright, alright, keep them coming.”

Banning, ever the strategist, chimed in as he sat down. “You’re missing out on the scrambled eggs. Here, have some more,” he said, adding a generous portion to my plate.

As we ate, the conversation flowed, and I found myself reminiscing about our old rugby trips. “Remember that all-you-can-eat steakhouse in Leeds?” I asked, chuckling. “I think I put away enough to feed a small army that night.”

Jim nodded, a mischievous glint in his eye. “Yeah, and you still managed to play the next day. You’ve always had a hollow leg when it comes to food.”

They kept the food coming, and I kept eating, not really noticing how often one of them would toss something extra onto my plate. I was too caught up in the nostalgia, the friendly competition from our uni days, and the general excitement of the weekend.

But as I started on my third plate, I felt a familiar tightness in my stomach. The kind that crept in during those old eating challenges when I’d push myself just a bit too far. My belly was starting to feel heavy, the waistband of my jeans pressing uncomfortably against my skin. I shifted in my seat, trying to ease the growing discomfort.

Still, I wasn’t one to back down from a challenge—even a self-imposed one. I kept eating, even as my stomach began to bloat, pushing out slightly against my shirt. Each bite was a little slower, the food sitting heavily in my gut. I could feel my belly rounding out, the once-flat surface curving just a bit more with each mouthful.

“Feeling full yet?” Jim asked an innocent enough question, but there was a twinkle in his eye.

“A bit,” I admitted, patting my stomach, which was now firm and slightly swollen. “But you know me—never one to quit while I’m ahead.”

The guys exchanged quick glances, subtle but not lost on me. I shrugged it off, thinking they were just reminiscing about old times like I was. But deep down, I had a nagging feeling that they were up to something. Still, I was too focused on the food and the fun to really care.

As I polished off the last of my pancakes, the tightness in my belly became more pronounced. I leaned back in my chair, rubbing my slightly rounded stomach, feeling the pressure building inside. Regret started to creep in—a familiar sensation from those rugby days when I’d pushed my limits a bit too far. My shirt stretched a little tighter across my middle, and I couldn’t help but wonder if I should’ve shown some restraint.

But then I caught myself. I’d eaten way more than this before, especially during those wild university days. This was nothing compared to some of the eating challenges I’d taken on—and won. A bit of bloat wasn’t going to slow me down. I could handle it, no problem.

With that in mind, I shrugged off the discomfort. It was just breakfast, after all, and we had a whole day ahead of us. “Right, lads,” I said, standing up and stretching, trying to shake off the heaviness in my gut. “What’s next on the agenda?”

Jim clapped me on the back, and I could feel the tension in my overstuffed stomach as he did. “Let’s head out and explore, mate. We’ve got a full day ahead of us.”

I nodded, determined to push through the fullness. I reminded myself that this was all part of the fun, and I could definitely handle more. With one last glance at the table, I followed the guys out the door, ready to see what the day had in store.

As we headed out into the bustling streets of Amsterdam, the food still sitting heavily in my stomach, I told myself I was just being paranoid. These guys were my best friends—they wouldn’t pull anything on me, especially not right before my wedding.

After finishing breakfast, we decided to take in some of the sights. Amsterdam was a beautiful city, and I was excited to explore it with my best mates. The weather was perfect—clear skies and a gentle breeze, making it an ideal day for wandering around.

We started by visiting some of the city's iconic spots, like the Anne Frank House and the Van Gogh Museum. But as we strolled along the canals and through the narrow streets, I could feel the heaviness in my belly from the massive breakfast easing a bit. By late morning, we found ourselves at one of the bustling local markets. The place was alive with vibrant colours, delicious smells, and the chatter of vendors selling everything from fresh produce to local delicacies. It was the kind of place where you could easily lose track of time, wandering from stall to stall, sampling the best that Amsterdam had to offer.

"Harry, check this out!" Banning called out, waving me over to a stall where a vendor was selling fresh stroopwafels, still warm from the griddle. He handed me one, and before I could even think about whether I was hungry, I found myself biting into the sweet, caramel-filled treat. It was delicious, the perfect balance of chewy and crunchy, and despite the fullness I still felt, I had to admit it was hard to resist.

"How about some cheese?" Noel chimed in, appearing beside me with a small platter of local Dutch cheeses. He popped a piece into my mouth before I could protest, grinning as I chewed. The rich, creamy flavours melted on my tongue, and I couldn’t help but smile at how good it tasted.

As we moved through the market, the guys made sure I didn’t miss a thing. Every few steps, they’d find something new for me to try—a slice of fresh apple pie here, a handful of chocolate-covered nuts there. They seemed to be in a competition to see who could find the most delicious treats, and I was the unwitting contestant.

“Harry, you’ve got to try these!” Jim called out, holding up a tray of poffertjes, tiny Dutch pancakes dusted with powdered sugar. He handed me the tray, and before I knew it, I was popping the fluffy little pancakes into my mouth, one after another.

With each bite, my belly grew heavier, the tightness from breakfast now back and mixed with the new wave of food. But the guys kept bringing me more, their excitement and enthusiasm contagious. They seemed to be enjoying themselves, watching as I dutifully sampled everything they put in front of me.

At one point, I realised I was starting to feel a bit overwhelmed by it all. “Guys, I think I’m good for now,” I said, laughing nervously as I held up a hand to stop another treat from making its way into my mouth.

“Fuck that!” Banning said, laughing. “We’re just getting started. You’ve got to experience everything, mate!”

Despite my growing discomfort, I couldn’t help but go along with it. After all, this was supposed to be a weekend of indulgence, and I didn’t want to be the one to spoil the fun. So I kept eating, letting the guys guide me from stall to stall, each new bite adding to the growing pressure in my belly.

By the time we were ready to leave the market, I could barely keep track of everything I’d eaten. My stomach felt impossibly full, a heavy, warm weight pressing against my waistband. As we walked away, I noticed the guys exchanging amused glances, but they didn’t say anything, and I didn’t push it.

As we left the market, I was feeling stuffed from all the sampling, but the guys weren't done with me yet. Just as we were about to head back towards the city centre, Banning spotted a stall selling fresh pastries. The aroma of warm, buttery dough filled the air, making my mouth water despite the heaviness already sitting in my gut.

“Hold up, lads,” Banning said, veering off toward the stall. “We can’t leave without taking some of these with us!”

Before I could protest, he was at the counter, ordering a large bag of assorted pastries—croissants, danishes, and something that looked like a massive cinnamon roll, all warm and fresh from the oven.

“Here you go, Harry,” he said, shoving the bag into my hands with a grin. “Something to snack on as we walk.”

I chuckled, trying to hide my unease at the thought of eating anything more. “You sure you guys don’t want to share these?”

“Oh, we’ll help,” Jim said, but I noticed the sly smile on his face. “But you’ve got to lead the charge, mate. You’re the groom, after all.”

With no real way to refuse without seeming like a party pooper, I sighed and reached into the bag. The croissant I pulled out was soft and flaky, practically melting in my hands. I took a bite, the buttery richness spreading across my tongue, and I had to admit—it was damn good.

As we walked, I found myself nibbling on the pastries, more out of habit than hunger. The guys encouraged me with every bite, grabbing a pastry here and there, but always making sure the majority of them ended up in my hands.

By the time we reached our next destination, the bag was nearly empty, and I felt like I was carrying a lead weight in my belly. The waistband of my jeans was digging into my skin, and I subtly tried to adjust it to relieve some of the pressure. The guys, of course, were loving every minute of it, exchanging knowing looks as I dutifully finished off the last pastry. 

I couldn’t shake the feeling that they were up to something, but for now, all I could focus on was the heavy, bloated sensation in my gut. It was hard to believe I could still stand, let alone keep eating, but with the lads around, I knew there was no way I’d get out of it. 

After leaving the market with my belly full of pastries, we found ourselves wandering through the winding streets of Amsterdam again. The city was buzzing with life, tourists mingling with locals, and the smell of food and drink filled the air. My stomach was still groaning from all the food I'd packed into it, but when the guys suggested stopping for some beers, I figured it might help take the edge off.

“Let’s hit up a few local breweries,” Jim suggested, his eyes lighting up. “We can’t leave Amsterdam without trying some of the best beer in the world.”

I agreed, hoping that a few drinks might dull the ache in my overstuffed belly. The first brewery we hit was small and cosy, with wooden tables and an impressive selection of local brews. The guys ordered a round of pints, and I gladly accepted mine, taking a long, deep sip. The cold, bitter beer slid down my throat, and I could feel it spreading warmth through my chest.

The first pint went down easily, and for a moment, I almost forgot how full I was. The alcohol worked its magic, numbing the uncomfortable pressure in my stomach. The guys were in high spirits, laughing and joking as we finished our beers and moved on to the next brewery.

By the time we reached the third stop, I was starting to feel a bit more relaxed. The bloated sensation in my gut was still there, but the beer had taken the edge off. Each point seemed to settle on top of the food in my belly, adding to the warm, fuzzy feeling spreading through my body.

The guys were keeping pace with me, ordering pints at each stop and making sure I always had one in my hand. I knew I should slow down, but the alcohol was doing its job, and I found myself caring less and less about how full I was. Instead, I focused on enjoying the moment, the camaraderie, and the laughter of my best friends.

At the fifth brewery, the drinks started to catch up with me. My head was buzzing, and the bloated feeling in my stomach was returning, more pronounced than before. I tried to keep up with the guys, but I could feel my belly straining against the waistband of my jeans, each sip of beer adding to the swelling pressure.

I glanced down at my gut, now noticeably rounder and heavier than it had been earlier in the day. The fullness was almost overwhelming, but the beers had numbed me enough that I could push through it, at least for a while longer.

Jim noticed me looking at my stomach and clapped me on the back. “You alright, mate? You’re keeping up like a champ!”

I managed a grin, even though I could feel the tightness in my belly with every breath. “Yeah, just feeling it a bit,” I admitted.

“Don’t worry, we’re almost done with the tour,” Noel said, raising his glass. “Just a couple more, and then we can grab some food to soak it all up.”

The mention of food made my stomach churn, but I pushed the thought aside and lifted my pint in a toast. As we moved on to the final stop, I could feel the beers sloshing around inside me, mingling with the pastries and everything else I’d consumed that day. 

But the guys were right—the beers had dulled the ache, at least for now, and I was too buzzed to care about what might come next.

By the time we reached the final brewery on our tour, my belly had become an undeniable presence—both to me and, I suspected, to anyone who glanced in my direction. It felt like a boulder, heavy and firm, pressing outwards against the fabric of my shirt. The once-flat surface was now a taut, rounded dome, the skin stretched tight and smooth. Every step I took made it sway slightly, a reminder of just how much I’d eaten.

I rubbed my swollen middle, trying to ease the growing pressure. Suddenly, a deep belch forced its way up, loud and unexpected. The guys turned, grinning, and immediately erupted into cheers.

“There he is!” Noel laughed, clapping me on the back, which only made my belly slosh uncomfortably. “That’s the spirit, mate!”

Another belch rumbled up, and this time I didn’t even try to hold it back. The guys whooped and cheered even louder, egging me on as I laughed along with them.

“Keep ‘em coming!” Banning shouted, raising his pint in a mock toast.

I shook my head, grinning as yet another burp escaped me. The relief was temporary, though, as the pressure inside me continued to build. Every step made my belly jiggle slightly, and I could feel just how bloated I was becoming. The gas from all that beer wasn’t helping, either, making me feel even more stuffed than I already was.

I couldn’t help but enjoy the moment. The lads were loving it, and there was something satisfying about knowing I could still outdo them, just like in the old days. Even if my stomach felt like it was about to burst, the cheers and laughter made it all worth it.

Despite the discomfort, there was a part of me that was fascinated by how much my body had changed in just a few short hours. My normally lean frame had been overtaken by this massive, swollen belly, and I couldn’t help but marvel at the sheer volume I’d managed to pack away.

The guys noticed, too. I caught Banning’s eye as he glanced at my gut, and he grinned, clearly impressed. “That’s one hell of a belly, Harry,” he said, his voice full of admiration. “You’ve really outdone yourself today.”

Jim nodded in agreement, raising his pint in a toast. “To Harry’s belly,” he said with a laugh. “May it keep growing!”

The others joined in, their laughter filling the air as I gave a half-hearted chuckle. I could feel my stomach stretching even more as I took another sip of beer, the pressure building to a point that was almost unbearable.

As we finished our drinks, I leaned back in my chair, trying to find some relief from the tightness. My belly was now a prominent, round sphere, pressing outwards with a fullness that I couldn’t ignore. It was a strange mix of discomfort and pride—I’d never seen myself like this before, and despite the ache, there was something almost amusing about the sheer size of my belly.

By early afternoon, I was starting to feel the effects of our beer-filled morning. My head was buzzing pleasantly, and my steps were just a bit slower as we made our way through the bustling streets. I was thinking about suggesting a quick stop back at the hotel to freshen up, but before I could, Noel was already leading us toward our next destination.

“We’ve got a special lunch spot lined up, Harry,” he said, slinging an arm around my shoulders. “Proper local place. None of that touristy crap.”

I was too relaxed to argue, letting him steer me down a side street and into a large, rustic-looking restaurant. The inside was all dark wood and heavy beams, with long communal tables and the rich smell of roasting meat filling the air. My stomach rumbled in spite of the heaviness I was already feeling, and I figured a good meal might help soak up some of the beer.

We found a spot at the end of one of the tables, and Noel didn’t even bother with menus. “We’ll take four of your specials,” he told the waitress with a wink, and she nodded, jotting it down before disappearing into the kitchen.

I leaned back in my chair, glancing around at the other diners. Most of them were locals, digging into plates piled high with food, glasses of cider clinking together in toasts. It was lively, warm, and exactly the kind of place that made you feel at home, even halfway across the world.

“So, what’s the special?” I asked, eyeing Noel suspiciously.

“Wait and see,” he grinned, taking a long pull from the glass of cider that had just been set in front of him. “You’re gonna love it.”

Moments later, the food arrived, and my eyes widened as the waitress set a huge platter in front of each of us. There, in the centre, was a whole roasted chicken, crispy and golden, surrounded by a mountain of fresh bread and a full litre of cider.

“Bloody hell,” I muttered, staring at the feast. It looked incredible, but there was no way I could finish all that. “You guys trying to kill me?”

Banning smirked, already tearing into his bread. “Consider it a challenge.”

“Come on, Harry,” Jim chimed in, pulling a hunk of chicken off the bone. “You said you were hungry this morning.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t mean all day,” I laughed, even as I reached for my fork. The smell of the roasted chicken was too tempting to resist, and I figured I could at least make a dent in it.

We dug in, the conversation flowing easily between bites of juicy chicken and sips of the strong, dry cider. The bread was warm and crusty, perfect for soaking up the rich drippings from the chicken, and despite my full stomach, I found myself going back for more, over and over.

The guys were relentless, though, nudging the bread my way whenever I slowed down, refilling my cider glass before I’d even finished it. Every time I thought I was done, Jim would carve off another piece of chicken and drop it onto my plate, or Noel would push the bread basket back toward me with a grin.

“You’ve got to try this with the cider,” Noel insisted, handing me a slice of bread slathered in the drippings. “Trust me, it’s worth it.”

I took the bread, biting into it with a mix of enjoyment and trepidation. It was delicious, of course, but I was starting to reach the point where every bite felt like a struggle. My stomach was stretched tight, the combination of beer, cider, and food weighing me down.

But there was something infectious about their enthusiasm, the way they kept the mood light and fun, and I couldn’t bring myself to say no. These were my best mates, and they were making sure I had the time of my life. What was a little discomfort in the grand scheme of things?

“Only the best for you,” Noel added with a wink, though there was a glint in his eye that made me wonder just how much more they had planned for me.

After finishing the meal, I leaned back in my chair, feeling utterly stuffed. My usually firm belly was now uncomfortably stretched, the tightness pressing against my shirt. The button on my jeans felt like it was about to pop, and I had to loosen my belt a notch to alleviate some of the pressure.

The full feeling wasn’t just in my stomach but seemed to radiate through my entire body. Every bite of the juicy chicken and every piece of bread had added to the bloated sensation, and the cider had only intensified it. My stomach was protruding noticeably, an unfamiliar softness replacing the tight abs I’d worked so hard to maintain. It felt heavy, like a weight pressing down from within.

I looked around at my friends, trying to ignore the discomfort, but the sight of their grins and the way they patted their own full bellies didn’t help. “I think I might have overdone it,” I admitted with a chuckle, rubbing my distended stomach.

“No way, mate,” Jim said, giving me a friendly thump on the back. “You’re just getting into the spirit of things.”

“Yeah, you’ve got to stay in top form,” Noel added, his eyes gleaming with mischief. “You don’t want to be the one to miss out.”

Despite the lighthearted teasing, I could barely move, feeling the fullness with every breath. I glanced down at my bulging belly, the fabric of my shirt straining against the roundness. It was a far cry from the trim figure I was used to seeing.

As we finally left the restaurant, I had to walk slowly, my steps deliberate and careful. Each movement reminded me of just how much I’d eaten, and I knew that if I didn’t get some relief soon, the discomfort would only grow. But with the guys still in high spirits, I knew the day was far from over, and whatever they had planned next, I’d have to muster the energy to keep up.

As we left the restaurant, the afternoon started to blur together. The combination of food and cider had left me pleasantly tipsy, and the usual sharpness of my thoughts had softened. My bloated stomach felt heavy, but the excitement of the city kept me moving, albeit at a slower pace.

After the epic lunch, I was convinced I couldn't possibly eat another bite. My stomach was so full and bloated that it felt like a lead weight was strapped to me, each step making my distended gut jiggle slightly under my shirt.

We started walking again, heading toward the canals for a leisurely afternoon tour. The sun was shining, reflecting off the water as we strolled along the cobblestone streets. I tried to focus on the sights—the charming, narrow buildings, the boats gliding by—but the heavy, stuffed feeling in my gut was impossible to ignore. Every step made me acutely aware of just how much space my belly was taking up, stretching my shirt tight across the firm, rounded expanse.

We hadn’t gone far before we passed a street vendor selling fresh Bitterballen. The savoury aroma of deep-fried goodness filled the air, making my stomach rumble despite the fullness. Bitterballen are traditional Dutch snacks, deep-fried balls filled with a rich, creamy beef or veal ragout, crispy on the outside and soft on the inside. They’re often enjoyed with a dollop of mustard.

Noel, ever the enthusiast, was already haggling with the vendor before I could even process what was happening. “Harry’s got to try these!” he said, handing over a few euros and grabbing a serving of the hot, golden balls.

“Mate, I’m so full I can barely move,” I protested weakly, but Noel just grinned and handed me a paper cone filled with Bitterballen.

“Come on, you’ve got room for one more,” he said, winking. “It’s part of the experience.”

I took the cone and popped one of the Bitterballen into my mouth. The crispy exterior gave way to a rich, creamy filling that was both indulgent and comforting. Despite the tightness in my belly, the flavour was irresistible. With each bite, I could feel the food settling heavily on top of everything else I’d eaten, adding to the relentless pressure in my gut.

We continued along the canal, and it wasn’t long before Jim spotted another vendor—this time selling churros dusted with cinnamon sugar. He practically sprinted over, eager to buy a bag for me before Banning could get there first.

“Here you go, Harry,” Jim said, thrusting the warm bag into my hands. “You’ve got to keep your energy up!”

I stared at the churros, my stomach groaning in protest at the mere thought of eating more. But the guys were watching me expectantly, their excitement palpable. I couldn’t let them down, so I forced myself to take a bite.

The churro was crisp on the outside, soft on the inside, and coated with just the right amount of cinnamon sugar. It was delicious, but as I swallowed, I felt my belly swell even more, the tightness becoming almost unbearable. Each bite seemed to expand my gut further, stretching the skin to its limits.

“Harry, you’re a machine!” Banning laughed, clapping me on the back as I forced down the last of the churros. “I don’t know how you’re doing it.”

Neither did I. My stomach was now so full that it was starting to feel rock-hard, a firm, rounded dome that pushed out from under my shirt with every breath. The waistband of my jeans was cutting painfully into my sides, and I could feel my skin pulling tight over the swollen mass of my belly. I wanted to stop, to sit down and let my overstuffed gut settle, but the guys weren’t having any of it.

We passed another vendor, this one selling warm, cheesy croquettes, and before I could even protest, Banning had bought a handful and was offering them to me.

“Last ones, I promise,” he said with a mischievous grin, though I could tell by the look in his eyes that he was far from finished.

I took one, biting into the crispy, gooey centre, and immediately felt another surge of fullness. My stomach was now a tight, distended ball, and each bite made it feel like I was stretching it to the breaking point. But the guys kept egging me on, practically shoving the croquettes into my hands as we walked.

By the time we finally finished the canal tour, my belly was truly enormous—a swollen, overfilled sphere that jutted out in front of me, heavy and round. The tightness was almost unbearable, and I could barely stand up straight, the weight of my gut pulling me forward with every step. 

And yet, despite it all, I couldn’t help but laugh along with the guys, the absurdity of the situation hitting me. My friends were practically fighting over who got to feed me next, and I was helpless to stop them. My once-lean frame had been transformed into something out of a cartoon, my shirt now riding up to expose the pale, stretched skin of my bloated belly.

As we headed back toward the city centre, I couldn’t shake the feeling that this was far from over. The day was still young, and the guys seemed determined to see just how much more they could cram into me. And as much as I wanted to protest, I knew deep down that I wasn’t going to stop them.

By the time the afternoon sun started to dip, I was struggling. Every step felt like a monumental effort, the heavy, swollen mass of my belly swaying in front of me, throwing off my balance. It had gone from feeling full and stretched to being outright painful, a tight, solid ball that was almost too much to bear. The guys were still in high spirits, laughing and joking as we walked, but I was finding it hard to keep up. 

"Guys," I groaned, finally coming to a stop and placing a hand on my distended gut. "I need a break. Can we head back to the hotel for a bit? Just a quick snooze, let my stomach settle."

I was expecting some pushback, but surprisingly, they all nodded in agreement. Maybe they could see the strain on my face, or maybe they were just ready for a break too. Either way, we turned in the direction of the hotel, and I started to imagine the sweet relief of lying down and letting my poor, overworked belly rest.

But of course, it wasn’t going to be that simple.

As we rounded a corner, we passed a small, bustling shop with a line of people snaking out the door. The smell of fried potatoes and various toppings filled the air, and Jim’s eyes lit up when he spotted the sign.

“Wait a second,” he said, grabbing my arm and pointing toward the shop. “This is the place I’ve been telling you about! They make these famous fries with all sorts of toppings. We’ve got to try it.”

I felt a knot of dread tighten in my already cramped stomach. “Jim, I’m seriously about to burst here. I don’t think I can fit anything else in.”

But Jim wasn’t having it. “Come on, Harry, you can’t come all the way to Amsterdam and not try this. It’s part of the experience! We’ll just get one big platter to share, no big deal.”

Banning and Noel were already nodding along enthusiastically, and before I could argue any further, they were steering me toward the door. Inside, the place was a fry-lover’s paradise—massive trays of golden fries, each topped with a ridiculous amount of extras, from melted cheese to pulled pork, jalapeños, and creamy sauces.

We ordered the biggest platter they had, a monstrosity as wide as the table itself, piled high with fries and every topping imaginable. It was the sort of thing meant for a group of a dozen, not four guys who had already been eating all day. The sight of it alone made my stomach lurch in protest.

I tried to push back. “Guys, seriously, this is insane. I can’t eat all this.”

But Banning grinned at me, eyes twinkling with mischief. “We’ll help, don’t worry. But you’ve got to at least give it a shot, Harry. Think of it as a challenge.”

I knew there was no way out, not with all three of them looking at me like that. So, with a resigned sigh, I picked up a fork and dug in.

The first few bites were delicious, the crispy fries and rich toppings a perfect combination. But with every mouthful, I could feel my stomach stretching further, pushing against my waistband and straining the limits of my shirt. The tightness that had been a constant presence all day was now bordering on unbearable, a pressure that made it hard to focus on anything other than the sheer fullness of my gut.

Still, the guys kept urging me on, and somehow, I kept going. They were making a show of eating their share, but it was clear that most of the food was ending up in front of me. Every time I slowed down, they’d shove another forkful of loaded fries in my direction, laughing and cheering me on like it was some sort of competition.

“Harry’s taking the lead!” Noel shouted at one point, and the others whooped in agreement. 

I felt like I was in a daze, barely able to comprehend what I was doing as I continued to eat. My belly was now so bloated that it was pressing against the edge of the table, a round, firm dome that seemed to be growing larger with each bite. My shirt was stretched tight across the distended curve of my gut, and I could feel the seams straining with every breath.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, I dropped my fork, unable to eat another bite. The platter was mostly empty, but my stomach felt like it was about to burst. I leaned back in my chair, groaning as the pressure in my belly intensified. It was a strange mix of pain and satisfaction, the kind of fullness that made it impossible to do anything but sit there and let my body digest.

The guys, of course, were loving it. They were all grins and high-fives, clearly proud of themselves for pushing me to this point.

“You’re a legend, Harry,” Banning said, clapping me on the back with a laugh. “I don’t know how you did it.”

I didn’t either. All I knew was that my belly was now so swollen and distended that I could barely move. It jutted out in front of me like a solid, round ball, the skin stretched tight and smooth over the massive bulge. I could feel every inch of it, the fullness pressing down on my lungs and making it hard to breathe, let alone think.

As we finally left the fry shop and started heading back to the hotel, I could barely keep up, my gait slow and awkward as I tried to accommodate the heavy mass of my gut. It felt like I was carrying a bowling ball strapped to my stomach, the weight of it pulling me forward with every step.

And yet, as uncomfortable as I was, there was a part of me that couldn’t help but marvel at the sheer size of my belly. I’d never been this full in my life, never even imagined it was possible to eat this much. It was almost impressive in a way, and despite everything, I found myself laughing along with the guys as we made our way back to the hotel.

By the time we finally made it back to the hotel, I was exhausted. My belly was so full and heavy that each step felt like a challenge, and the thought of just lying down was the only thing keeping me going. As we entered the room, the guys were still buzzing with energy, laughing and recounting the day’s events, but I could hardly focus on their words. All I could think about was getting out of my too-tight clothes and giving my aching stomach some relief.

I headed straight for the bathroom, barely pausing to acknowledge the banter going on behind me. Closing the door, I leaned against the sink for a moment, taking a deep breath as I let the tension drain from my shoulders. Then, with a grunt of discomfort, I began the laborious task of peeling off my clothes.

First, I unbuttoned my jeans, which had been digging into my sides for hours. The moment the button popped open, my belly surged forward, free from its confines at last. I couldn’t help but gasp slightly at the sensation—the relief was immediate, but the sheer weight of my gut was startling. I tugged the waistband down over my hips, letting the jeans fall to the floor, before yanking off my shirt, which had been stretched to its limits.

Once I was finally free of my clothes, I turned to face the mirror, and what I saw stopped me in my tracks. My belly—normally flat and firm—was now a completely different shape, swollen and rounded out in front of me like a tightly inflated balloon. The curve of it was almost shocking, jutting out so far that it seemed impossible it was my own body. My skin was stretched taut over the massive dome, with the light fur that usually covered my stomach now spread thin and sparse across the smooth, distended surface. 

I reached out tentatively, running a hand over the swell of my gut. It felt solid and unyielding, the kind of fullness that left no room for anything else. My fingers brushed against the fine hair that coated my belly, usually soft but now pulled taut over the curve, emphasising the tightness of my skin. The fur seemed almost out of place on such a massively bloated belly, a reminder of how much my body had changed in just a few short hours.

I took a step back, turning slightly to see my profile, and my eyes widened at the sight. The curve of my belly was even more pronounced from the side, a heavy, rounded bulge that hung low and full. It almost didn’t look real—like something out of a cartoon, exaggerated and impossible. And yet, there it was, a testament to just how much I had consumed.

I stood there for a moment, just staring at myself in the mirror. I knew I’d eaten a lot, but seeing the evidence in front of me like this was almost surreal. I couldn’t believe how much I’d managed to pack away—how much my belly had expanded to accommodate it all. I looked like I’d swallowed a beach ball whole, my normally lean frame now dominated by this massive, swollen gut.

A mix of shock and disbelief washed over me. I’d seen my belly bloated before—college eating challenges had often left me stuffed, but never like this. This was on another level entirely. I could feel the weight of it, the sheer fullness pressing down on me, making it hard to stand upright. Every movement made my gut jiggle slightly, a constant reminder of how tightly packed it was with food.

Despite the discomfort, there was something almost fascinating about it. The sight of my body so utterly transformed, my belly swollen beyond anything I’d ever thought possible, was strangely compelling. It was as if I’d crossed some invisible line, entered a new territory where my body was no longer my own but something else entirely—something massive and insatiable.

I ran my hand over the curve of my gut one more time, feeling the tightness beneath my palm, the way my skin stretched over the fullness. Then, with a deep breath, I turned away from the mirror and headed back into the room, where the guys were waiting. 

I stumbled out of the bathroom, still in a daze from the sight of my bloated belly, and made my way to the bed. My legs were heavy, my body protesting with every step as the weight of my overstuffed gut dragged me down. As soon as I reached the edge of the bed, I let myself fall backward, the mattress groaning beneath me as I sprawled out on top of the covers. The sensation of finally lying down was a relief beyond words. My belly, round and tight, stretched upward, and I could feel the strain in my skin as it tried to accommodate the ridiculous amount of food I’d packed away.

I let out a long, contented sigh, resting a hand on the taut dome of my stomach. It was firm to the touch, barely giving under the pressure of my fingers. My eyes drifted shut, and for a moment, I was lost in the sensation of being so full, so heavy, so utterly stuffed.

The sound of laughter pulled me from my reverie. The guys were still buzzing with energy, moving around the room as they started to get ready for whatever was coming next. Jim was the first to strip off his shirt, revealing a flat but slightly rounded belly—nothing compared to mine, but still showing signs of the indulgence we’d all participated in today. He patted it with a grin, turning to show it off to Banning and Noel.

"Look at this," Jim said, chuckling. "I’m usually flat as a board, but today... man, I’m starting to show a little gut. Must have been all those pastries at the market."

Banning, who was already down to his boxers, laughed and flexed his own stomach, which was a bit bloated  than usual but nowhere near as distended as mine. "Yeah, I’m feeling it too. I think I’m still carrying around half that platter of fries we demolished earlier."

Noel joined in, lifting his shirt to reveal his own slightly swollen belly. "Same here. It’s like we’ve all turned into little food balloons, but I gotta say, Harry definitely wins the prize for the biggest gut." 

They all turned to look at me, sprawled out on the bed with my massive, bloated belly on full display. The contrast between their smaller, slightly rounded stomachs and my own overstuffed gut was almost comical. I looked like I’d swallowed a whole watermelon, while they’d only nibbled on a few snacks.

Jim grinned and gave his own belly another pat. “How are you even still conscious after all that? You’ve gotta be on the verge of passing out, mate.”

I could only groan in response, too full and too tired to form a coherent reply. My belly felt like it was about to burst, every breath a reminder of how far I’d pushed myself today. But despite the discomfort, there was a strange sense of camaraderie in the room, a bond forged through our shared gluttony.

The guys continued to joke and laugh, comparing their own bellies and teasing me about mine, but I barely heard them. All I could focus on was the heavy, aching fullness that filled every inch of my midsection. I rubbed my hand over the curve of my stomach, trying to soothe the tightness, but it was no use. I was beyond stuffed, my gut stretched to its absolute limit.

Even so, as I lay there, I couldn’t help but smile at the absurdity of it all. I had no idea how I’d let myself get talked into eating so much, but in some weird way, it had been worth it. The guys were having the time of their lives, and despite my current state, I couldn’t deny that a part of me was enjoying it too.

For part two

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[goldfades]

𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐅𝐈𝐄𝐋𝐃 𝐎𝐅 𝐃𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐌𝐒, 𝐄𝐍𝐆𝐔𝐋𝐅𝐄𝐃 𝐈𝐍 𝐅𝐈𝐑𝐄 / 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐀𝐑𝐒𝐎𝐍'𝐒 𝐌𝐀𝐓𝐂𝐇 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐒𝐎𝐌𝐁𝐄𝐑 𝐄𝐘𝐄𝐒 / 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐈❜𝐋𝐋 𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐋𝐋 𝐒𝐄𝐄 𝐈𝐓 𝐔𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐋 𝐈 𝐃𝐈𝐄 / 𝐘𝐎𝐔'𝐑𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐋𝐎𝐒𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐌𝐘 𝐋𝐈𝐅𝐄 ─ SC⁸⁷

TRACK 12 ─── LOML

TTPD CELLY MASTERLIST !

౨ৎ ─ summary | caught in a cycle of love and heartbreak, you find yourself constantly returning to sidney crosby, the one person who promises everything but never follows through. as the years pass and the same promises echo between you, you’re left questioning if holding on is worth more than letting go

─ word count | 6.3k

─ warnings | ANGST ANGST ANGST, oh my god i teared up writing this (im on my period shut up). a rollercoaster of emotions, young love -> soulmate kinda vibe. on and off, just overall angsty (with no happy ending... its ttpd, what do u expect?) idk what else to add but like... if u need a good cry, read this

The night is colder than you remember, and the city lights are muted, softening the edges of every memory you have of this place. Pittsburgh’s skyline blurs through the frost on your windshield, each bright glow fading into the next as you pull into the parking lot of a bar you used to know so well. It’s different now—a new name, new sign, but the same chime of the bell when you push through the door, like a greeting from the past.

You used to come here all the time, back when the two of you were something. Not official, not permanent—never those things—but something more than a fling and less than a promise. He used to sit right there, at the corner booth, baseball cap pulled low and face half-hidden, and you’d slide in next to him like you belonged there. Because, for a while, you thought you did.

But now you stand there, scanning the faces, waiting to see if he’ll show. The text he sent still hangs heavy in your mind, words you could almost memorize by heart: Can we talk? I miss you. It’s always like this—a cycle you’ve danced for longer than you’d care to admit. He always says the right things, words that feel like they could anchor you in the storm of his life, but it’s always just a promise, never reality.

And that’s what scares you most.

Because this time, you don’t know if you’ll fall for it again.

───

It was summer, and everything was golden.

The sun filtered through the trees, casting shadows that danced along the edges of the makeshift hockey rink. You remember the smell of freshly cut grass, the distant hum of cicadas, and the way the air buzzed with a warmth that clung to your skin. You were barely a teenager, and the world felt infinite, stretched out before you like the blue sky above. It was one of those summer afternoons when the days felt endless and you thought you had all the time in the world.

The rink wasn’t anything special—just a patch of concrete nestled in the middle of the park, surrounded by chain-link fences and littered with the scuffs and scratches of a hundred other games. But for you, it was everything. Your brother had dragged you along, promising it would be “cool” and that the guys he played with wouldn’t care that you tagged along. You’d insisted on wearing his old jersey, the one that hung loose over your frame and brushed against your knees when you walked. It smelled faintly like sweat and summer afternoons, and even though it was too big, you wore it like armor.

He was already there when you arrived, leaning casually against the boards with his stick resting on his shoulder. He wore a backwards cap that made him look like an absolute douche, but you could still see the way his grin spread wide when he laughed. He was tall, at least compared to the other boys, and he had this presence about him—like he knew exactly where he belonged, and it was right there on that concrete. He radiated this easy confidence, the kind that made people naturally gravitate toward him, and you found yourself watching him, even when you knew you shouldn’t.

“Hey, kid, you play?” he called out as your brother introduced you to the group. His voice was light, teasing, but there was something in it that made you straighten your shoulders, determined to prove you weren’t just some tag-along.

You lifted your chin, clutching your stick a little tighter. “Yeah, I do.”

A laugh rippled through the group, and he tilted his head, an eyebrow raised in a way that seemed to dare you. “Alright, show me.”

You skated out onto the concrete, feeling the rough texture beneath your sneakers, the familiar push and glide that came as natural as breathing. You could feel the eyes on you, the judgment, the expectation that you’d stumble or falter.

But you didn’t.

You skated like you always did—like you had something to prove, even when no one was watching. You could feel the summer breeze tugging at your hair, could hear the sounds of sticks clashing, wheels spinning, and the distant shouts of kids playing in the park. The world faded into a blur of movement and sound, and for a moment, it was just you and the puck, gliding across the concrete.

When you stopped, stick planted firmly, the puck resting right where you aimed, you turned to face him. His grin had shifted into something softer, something that looked like approval. He nodded, a small movement that somehow felt like a victory, like you’d passed some unspoken test.

“You’re pretty good,” he said, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “I’m Sidney.”

You told him your name, trying to play it cool, but there was something about the way he looked at you, something that made your heart beat a little faster. You brushed it off—he was just another kid, another boy who thought he ruled the rink. But when he passed you the puck during the game, when he skated close enough that you could hear his breath, quick and heavy, you felt something shift, like the start of a story you hadn’t planned on telling.

The hours blurred together, the sun sinking lower as the sky melted into hues of orange and pink. You played until your legs ached and your cheeks hurt from smiling. He was quick, his movements sharp and precise, but he had this way of gliding past the others like he was weightless, like he’d been born on skates. And every time he sent the puck your way, you felt that rush again, that thrill of being seen, of being chosen.

At one point, when you stopped to catch your breath, he skated up beside you, close enough that you could see the way the sunlight caught in his eyes. “You should come out more often,” he said, a smile playing at the edge of his lips. “We could use someone like you.”

You shrugged, pretending like you hadn’t already made up your mind. “Maybe.”

But deep down, you knew you’d come back.

And when he grinned, that slow, easy grin that made you feel like you were sharing a secret, you realized that maybe this was the start of something. Something that felt like endless summer days and the thrill of chasing after something just out of reach.

He was only a boy then, and you were only a girl with skates too big for your feet and dreams too big for your chest. But that was the thing about summer—everything felt possible. And standing there, the light catching in his hair and the warmth of his presence radiating like a sunbeam, you felt like you’d met someone who could make it all come true.

The years rolled on like they always do, slow and steady until you looked back and realized how quickly time had slipped by. What started as childhood games on concrete rinks and sticky summer nights turned into something deeper, something that felt like it could last forever.

When you were sixteen, things shifted. You’d always been friends, maybe even best friends. By then, he was already “Sid the Kid,” the local legend whose name was whispered with reverence around the rinks. But to you, he was just Sidney—the same boy who laughed with you when you scored, who always had an extra stick in his bag just in case, who stayed up late with you, lying on the cool grass, tracing constellations with his finger.

Somewhere between the late-night talks and the secret smiles, friendship turned into something more. It wasn’t a single moment; it was a thousand little ones, each building on the next until you both looked up and realized you weren’t just kids playing pretend anymore.

The first time he kissed you, it was right before his first big tournament. You’d been nervous for him, more nervous than he seemed to be. You’d walked down to the empty rink at dusk, the air cool and the sky the color of fading ink. You remember how his hand felt, warm and solid as it slipped into yours, and how he turned to you, eyes bright with something you hadn’t seen before. The kiss was tentative, like he was testing the waters, but it felt like fireworks, a spark in the night that you carried with you long after you pulled away.

From then on, you were something more—together but not quite official. You tried not to think about it too much, content with what you had. You showed up at every game, standing in the crowd with his number on your back, feeling that thrill when he’d glance your way. You’d spend the evenings together, sometimes in the rink, sometimes out by the water, stealing moments in between practices and tournaments. For a while, it was perfect.

Then, life happened.

He got drafted, and everything changed. He moved to Pittsburgh, and suddenly the boy who was always around, who could text or call at any hour, was miles away, caught up in a whirlwind of cameras, contracts, and the pressures of professional hockey. You were still in high school then, watching him from afar, cheering him on from a distance. You told yourself it was fine, that the distance didn’t matter, and that you were both still too young to worry about anything more than the present.

But even then, you could feel the space between you growing.

In his rookie year, you made the decision to move to Pittsburgh. You’d gotten into a college nearby, and when you called to tell him, he was ecstatic. You’d never forget the way his voice sounded on the phone—relieved, almost. Like he’d been waiting for you, hoping you’d make the leap. And so you did. You left your friends, your family, everything familiar to be closer to him. It felt like a grand, romantic gesture—the kind you saw in movies. But in the back of your mind, you knew it was more than that.

The first year was a whirlwind. You were in the stands for his games, holding your breath every time he took a shot, cheering louder than anyone when he scored. Off the ice, it felt like the two of you were creating a life together, slowly but surely. You moved in together, and even though his schedule was insane—practices, games, interviews—there were still those quiet moments.

Mornings when you’d wake up to him already gone, but with a note on the counter that read, I’ll be back soon. Evenings when he’d come home exhausted but would pull you into his arms like nothing else in the world mattered. It was enough, more than enough.

Until it wasn’t.

Somewhere along the way, the cracks started to show. At first, it was small things—missed dinners, texts that went unanswered because he was “caught up in meetings.” Then, the fights started. You’d ask him about the future—where were you going, what were you to each other? He’d dodge the questions, promising you that things would be easier once the season was over, once the next championship was done, once his contract was sorted out.

You tried to believe him, tried to convince yourself that you were both still young, that you had time. But every time you saw him, it felt like you were grasping at something that was always just slipping out of reach.

The first breakup came after his rookie season. You’d been together for two years, and you could feel the weight of it pressing down on you, the uncertainty, the feeling that maybe you’d given up too much, too soon. You remember standing in the doorway, watching him lace up his skates, and asking, for the first time, why you weren’t moving forward. He looked at you, eyes soft but distant, and said he didn’t know. That maybe things were moving too fast. You didn’t yell, didn’t cry. You just nodded, kissed him one last time, and left.

It was the first time you thought that maybe he wasn’t ready to be with you the way you needed him to be. But it wasn’t the last.

Over the next few years, it was the same dance—back and forth, the two of you pulled together by some invisible force that neither of you could name, only to be pushed apart by the same old arguments, the same doubts.

Each time you broke up, it felt like the end.

You’d tell yourself that this time, it was really over. You’d pack your things, move out, and try to rebuild your life. But then, he’d call. Sometimes it was months later, sometimes just weeks, but it was always the same: I miss you. I’m sorry. I wasn’t ready then, but I am now.

And every time, you believed him.

Maybe it was the way he looked at you, like you were the only person who really knew him, who understood the weight he carried every time he stepped onto the ice. Or maybe it was the promises he’d make when he held you close, whispering that one day he’d put a ring on your finger, that one day you’d have a family together. You told yourself that this time would be different, that you could trust him, that he was finally ready.

But each time, it ended the same way. The season would start, and he’d get caught up again—first in the games, then in the championships, then in the next contract. And you’d find yourself alone, the same questions building up, the same empty promises echoing in your head.

It went on like that for years. You tried dating other people, tried moving on, but it was always temporary. No one else felt like home the way he did, and you hated yourself for it. You’d built your life around someone who couldn’t give you the future he kept promising, and the worst part was, you kept going back.

You remember the last time you walked away. It was after another fight, the same one you’d had a dozen times before. You’d asked him about the future, and he’d given you that same look, the one that told you he was already pulling away. But this time, when he said, I just need time, you didn’t have the strength to believe him. You nodded, the lump in your throat too tight to speak, and left before he could see the tears in your eyes.

And now, you find yourself back where it all started, years later, wondering if he’s changed. If this time, when he said I miss you, it really meant something. But deep down, you already know the answer.

It’s the same as it’s always been.

───

You scan the room, your heart pounding, eyes darting from one face to another, hoping—no, dreading—that you’ll see him. Part of you wants to run, to turn around and pretend you never agreed to meet him. But the other part, the part that still holds on to the memories of you and him when things were easy, when love was simple and uncomplicated, keeps your feet rooted to the floor.

He’s always late, and you’ve learned to hate it. It’s not just a bad habit—it’s a symbol of everything between you two, a reminder that he always has something, or someone, else pulling him in another direction. Every time he tells you he’ll be there, every time you stand waiting, it’s like a countdown until he lets you down again.

You glance down at your phone, the screen lighting up with the time: fifteen minutes past when he said he’d be here. You think about leaving, about saving yourself the heartache. You’ve done this dance so many times before. You know the steps, know the way it’ll play out if you wait long enough. He’ll walk in, breathless and apologetic, and those eyes—God, those eyes—will soften when they find yours. He’ll look at you like you’re the only thing that’s kept him steady in a world that’s always moving too fast.

And you’ll feel your resolve slip, just like it always does.

Your hand tightens around the phone, knuckles turning white as you try to steel yourself against the pull of old memories. You think back to the last time you saw him, to the way he looked at you when you said enough. It had been one of those fights, the ones that started small—something about how he missed dinner again, or how you were the only one trying—and escalated into everything you’d ever bottled up. You told him you were tired of waiting, tired of hearing him say he was ready when all he ever did was prove otherwise.

He’d stood there, silent, watching you with that look—the one that said he was sorry but not enough to change. And you left, thinking that maybe this time, you’d finally meant it. That you could walk away and not look back.

But now, here you are, back in the same place, waiting.

A familiar ache spreads through your chest as the seconds tick by, every moment without him another chance for doubt to creep in. You don’t want to be here, don’t want to be the person who keeps holding out hope when all it ever does is hurt. But despite everything, you can’t help the part of you that still believes. The part that whispers this time could be different, even when you know it won’t be.

Just when you’ve almost convinced yourself to leave, the door swings open. Your breath catches as you spot him, shoulders hunched slightly like he’s unsure of how to approach. He looks older, wearier than you remember, but it’s him. The moment his eyes lock with yours, you feel it—the same rush, the same pull that’s always been there, drawing you back in.

He smiles, that small, tentative smile that used to melt your defenses. It’s like he knows exactly how to walk that line between sincerity and charm, and you hate how well it works. You fight the urge to return it, to let that familiar warmth bloom in your chest, and instead, you keep your expression neutral.

He crosses the room with that unhurried stride, his gaze never leaving yours. When he finally reaches you, he stops, just a foot away, close enough that you can smell the faint hint of his cologne—a scent you’d once known better than your own. For a moment, he doesn’t say anything. He just looks at you, like he’s memorizing the way you look right now, as if he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he blinks.

“Hey,” he says, voice low and careful, like he’s testing the waters.

“Hey.” Your response is cool, guarded. You’re not going to make this easy for him, not this time.

He shifts, rubbing the back of his neck—a habit you know means he’s nervous. “I’m sorry I’m late. Got caught up—”

You cut him off, tired of the same excuses. “It’s always something with you, Sid.”

He flinches, and you almost feel guilty. Almost. But then you remember all the times you waited, all the empty promises, and you stand your ground.

“I know,” he says softly. “You’re right.”

The words hang between you, heavy with everything that’s come before. It’s different this time. Usually, he jumps right into the apologies, into telling you how much he missed you, how he’s ready now, how he’s changed. But tonight, he just stands there, the look on his face a mixture of regret and something else you can’t quite read.

And maybe that’s the problem. You’ve never been able to fully read him. You’ve spent years trying, and every time you think you’ve figured him out, he slips away. You wonder if he knows how much it hurts—wonder if he even cares.

“So, what is it this time?” you ask, folding your arms across your chest, your eyes searching his for any sign of what he’s thinking. “Why’d you want to see me?”

He exhales, a slow, deep breath that seems to carry the weight of everything you’ve been through together. “I just—” he starts, then stops, his eyes dropping to the floor. “I miss you.”

You shake your head, the familiar ache settling into your bones. “You always miss me when I’m gone.”

His gaze snaps back to yours, and for a moment, you see something raw in his eyes—something real. “No, I mean it. I’m tired of pretending everything’s okay when it’s not. I’m tired of losing you.”

You want to believe him. You really do. But the words feel like echoes of promises he’s made a hundred times before. And the part of you that’s always been waiting, hoping, feels like it’s hanging by a thread.

“Prove it,” you say, your voice steady even though your heart is racing. “Because I can’t keep doing this, Sid. I can’t keep falling for the same lines.”

He takes a step closer, and for a moment, you feel the pull again—the magnetic force that’s always drawn you back to him, no matter how many times you’ve tried to walk away. You can see the struggle in his eyes, the way he’s fighting to find the right words, and you wonder if maybe, just maybe, this time will be different.

But as he reaches for your hand, you can’t help but brace yourself for the familiar sting of disappointment. Because no matter what he says, you know how this story ends.

He glanced down, looking down at the promise ring on your finger. Your ring finger. The same ring he'd given you many years ago, before he left for Pittsburgh. He told you it was just the beginning, a placeholder for something bigger. Something that, back then, felt like a certainty. You remember the way he slipped it on your finger, his hands steady and sure. His eyes shone with the same excitement you felt—like the future was a road you were both eager to walk down together.

“I’ll get you the real thing one day,” he’d promised, his voice brimming with that youthful conviction. “Just wait for me.”

And you did. For years, you wore that ring like a badge of honor, a symbol of everything you believed you were building together. When he left for Pittsburgh, you told yourself it was only temporary. Distance was just another hurdle, and the two of you had overcome so many already. You visited him during breaks, and every time he came home, it felt like picking up right where you left off. You thought nothing could break that bond.

Now, standing in front of him, you can see it in his eyes—that same look he’s always given you when he knows he’s let you down. But there’s a hesitation there, too, a weight he’s carrying that wasn’t there before. You wonder if he’s finally seeing it the way you do—if he’s finally realizing that words and promises are never enough.

He reaches for your hand, his thumb grazing the cool, faded metal of the ring. “I know I’ve said it before, but I—”

You pull your hand back, your chest tightening with all the years of waiting, all the times you’ve heard those same words and let yourself believe them. “Don’t. Don’t say it if you don’t mean it.”

His jaw tenses, and he looks up, his eyes searching yours. “I do mean it,” he says, but there’s a hint of desperation in his voice now. “I know I haven’t been fair to you. I know I’ve asked too much.”

You shake your head, the anger and sadness mixing together until they’re almost indistinguishable. “No, Sidney, you’ve taken too much. You’ve taken years of my life—years I can’t get back.”

He winces, and you can see the hurt flash across his face, but you don’t pull back. You can’t. “I’ve given up everything for you—my job, my plans, my own life—because I believed in this. I believed in us. But every time, you leave. Every time, you break your promise.”

He opens his mouth, but you cut him off before he can speak. “I can’t keep doing this. I can’t keep living my life waiting for a future that’s never going to come.”

There’s a moment of silence between you, and you can see the struggle in his eyes, the way he’s fighting to find the right words—words that you know won’t change anything.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, and it feels like the final nail in the coffin. “I know I don’t deserve you. But I’m here now, and I want to make it right.”

You look down at the ring, that small circle of metal that once meant everything to you. It feels heavy now, like a weight dragging you down, a reminder of all the time you’ve spent waiting for something that never happened.

“I can’t wait forever,” you say softly, your voice barely above a whisper. “I need more than just words, Sid.”

For a moment, it looks like he might finally say something real, something that could change everything. But instead, he just stands there, silent, and you feel your heart break a little more. Because you know, deep down, that he doesn’t have an answer. He never has.

“You still wear it,” he spoke slowly, glancing down at the ring. “Doesn't that mean something? Anything? That maybe, maybe we should give this another try?”

You let out a shaky breath, feeling the weight of his words settle around you like a storm cloud. It’s so typical of him, to latch onto the smallest signs, to twist reality just enough to make it feel like there’s hope. It’s the same hope that’s kept you coming back time and time again, like a moth drawn to the flicker of a flame.

But this time, that flame feels like it’s burning out.

“Sidney, I never stopped loving you,” you admit, and it’s the raw truth, the kind you’ve tried to keep buried for so long. “But love isn’t the problem. It’s everything else. It’s you telling me we have a future and then disappearing when it matters. It’s you making promises you can’t keep.”

He reaches out, fingers curling around your wrist, holding on like he’s afraid you’ll slip away for good. “I’m different now. I’m ready. I know I said that before, but this time—”

“No,” you interrupt, pulling your arm back, the frustration building in your chest. “You’ve said that every time. You tell me you’re ready, that things will be different, and I believe you because I want to believe you. But then the same thing happens—you get busy, the season gets hard, and suddenly I’m on the sidelines again, waiting for you to make time for me.”

His shoulders slump, and he looks down, like he can’t face the truth of his own words. “I know,” he murmurs. “I know I’ve messed up. But I swear, this time—”

“Sid, listen to yourself.” You cross your arms, trying to steady the tremor in your voice. “This time, next time—there’s always a next time. But it’s just a cycle. It always has been. And I don’t know if I can keep believing that things will change when they never do.”

His eyes lock onto yours, and there’s a flash of something you haven’t seen before—fear, maybe, or the realization that you’re slipping away. “But I don’t want to lose you,” he says, his voice breaking. “I can’t lose you.”

For a second, your resolve wavers. You see the boy you fell in love with, the one who used to hold your hand in the stands and tell you he couldn’t imagine his life without you. But the boy grew up, and his dreams took him places you were never a part of, no matter how hard you tried to be.

“You already have, Sid,” you whisper, feeling the ache spread through your chest. “You lost me a long time ago when you chose everything else over us. And I don’t think you even realize it.”

He steps closer, his hand hovering near your face like he’s afraid to touch you, like you’re something fragile that might break. “I’m trying, okay? I’m here now. I’m trying to make it right.”

You close your eyes, fighting the tears threatening to fall. “You always say that. But it’s not about showing up when it’s convenient for you. It’s about showing up when it’s hard, when things aren’t perfect, and proving that I’m more than just an option.”

When you open your eyes, you see the pain on his face, and it almost makes you want to take it all back, to say that you’ll try again, that you’ll believe him just one more time.

But you can’t. Not anymore.

“Tell me what to do,” he pleads, desperation clear in every word. “Tell me what to do, and I’ll do it.”

But that’s just it. It’s not something you can tell him. It’s something he has to want, something he has to choose—without you holding his hand through it, without you putting your life on pause, waiting for him to catch up.

“I can’t tell you how to love me, Sid,” you say, and it feels like the hardest thing you’ve ever done. “You either do, or you don’t. But I can’t be the one always holding this together. It has to be both of us, or it’s nothing.”

He looks like he’s about to say something, but then he hesitates, and in that silence, you feel everything shift. It’s as if the reality of the situation is finally sinking in for both of you.

“Maybe…” you start, your voice cracking, “maybe this was always going to be the end.”

His face pales, and you see the fear flash through his eyes, but you hold firm. “I can’t keep living in the past, hoping you’ll change. I need more than just words, and if you can’t give me that, then…” You take a deep breath, the weight of the years falling away with each word. “Then maybe we need to let go.”

Sidney’s lips part as if to protest, but then he stops. His hand falls away from yours, and the emptiness between you feels colder than the Pittsburgh winters.

You let out a bitter chuckle as the tears begin to fall. “We could've had a good life together, Sid. Everything you could've wanted. Kids, a nice house and some... some cute dogs,”

It seemed silly to say, but it was the truth. You swallowed as you looked, trying to stifle your incoming sobs. “And it would’ve been ours. Not just mine, or yours—ours.”

The words are raw, cutting through the stillness between you. You can feel the sobs building in your chest, threatening to spill out, but you hold them back, just for a moment longer. “But you never wanted that. Not really. Not enough to make it real.”

Sidney’s face crumples, and he looks like he’s about to speak, but you don’t give him the chance. “You always talk about wanting it all—wanting me, wanting the life we could have had, but then you pull away the second it gets too real. And I’m tired, Sid. I’m so damn tired of giving everything to someone who can’t meet me halfway.”

He shifts, taking a hesitant step forward, like he’s testing the waters, his eyes pleading. “It wasn’t that I didn’t want it,” he says, voice rough and cracking. “I just—” He rubs a hand over his face, frustration evident. “I didn’t know how to balance it all. I thought I’d have more time, that we’d figure it out eventually.”

“Eventually?” you repeat, the bitterness seeping through. “Sid, we’ve been at this for years. Years of back and forth, of me waiting for you to choose me. To really choose me. And every time, it’s the same story. I don’t know how much longer I can keep pretending that things will be different.”

He stands there, shoulders hunched, and you can see the struggle in his eyes. It’s the same look he’s given you countless times before, like he wants so badly to fix things but doesn’t know where to start. It makes your heart ache because you know, deep down, he’s not a bad person. He’s just… lost.

And maybe, you realize, he always will be.

“I never wanted to hurt you,” he says quietly, almost to himself. “I just—every time I tried to make things work, it felt like something else came up, and I kept thinking if I waited just a little longer—”

“Then everything would magically fall into place?” you cut in, shaking your head. “Life doesn’t work that way, Sid. Love doesn’t work that way. You can’t keep putting off what you want, what you need, and expect everything to turn out okay in the end.”

He takes another step forward, reaching out like he’s about to pull you in, but you take a step back, needing the distance. “I’m not asking you to be perfect,” you say, the tears finally streaming down your cheeks. “I just needed you to try. To show up. To prove that I was worth fighting for. But it feels like every time I turn around, you’re already halfway out the door.”

His expression falters, and you know he wants to argue, to tell you that it’s different this time, that he’s ready now. But you’ve heard it all before, and the words have lost their meaning.

“I wanted the house,” you whisper, voice breaking. “I wanted the dogs, the kids, all of it. I wanted us, Sidney. And I believed we could have it. But you kept pushing it off, and now… I don’t know if I can keep waiting for something that might never come.”

He reaches out again, and this time, you let him. His hand closes around yours, and it feels both familiar and foreign—like holding on to a memory that’s slipping through your fingers.

“I love you,” he says, and there’s a desperation in his voice that makes your heart clench. “I’ve always loved you.”

You give him a sad smile, knowing that, despite everything, that much is true. “I know,” you say, squeezing his hand one last time before pulling away. “But sometimes, love isn’t enough.”

And as you turn and walk away, leaving him standing alone in the cold, you hope—maybe for the first time—that you’ll be strong enough to let go. Because you know if you don’t, this cycle will only repeat itself. And you can’t keep breaking your own heart for someone who won’t give you the life you’ve always wanted.

That night, you dreamed of the house. The kids, and the dogs and of him. You'd wake up, it would feel like how it did the day you met—warm and safe, like everything in the world had finally fallen into place.

The sun would stream through the windows of that little house you imagined, its golden light wrapping you in the kind of warmth you’d always craved. You’d roll over, and there he’d be, his arm draped lazily over your waist, his eyes still heavy with sleep but soft, so soft, like he was seeing the whole world in you.

The kids would run down the hall, their laughter echoing, filling the space between your shared breaths. You’d rise together, slowly, and there would be no rush, no impending flight or long distance to worry about. Just you, him, and that perfect slowness of a morning spent together. The dogs would bound into the room, tails wagging, and the day would unfold in simple, perfect moments—breakfast at the table, messy hair and pajamas, the feeling of his hand on yours as he refilled your coffee cup.

It would feel right.

And in that dream, it would all make sense—why you’d waited so long, why you’d kept coming back, even when you knew better. Because in that world, in that life, you had everything you’d ever wanted. It was real, and it was whole, and there were no questions, no doubts, no space for the silence that always lingered between you in reality.

But then, you’d wake up.

You’d open your eyes to the quiet, dark room, the emptiness of your side of the bed. There’d be no warm sunlight, no laughter echoing through the halls, no weight of his arm pulling you close. Just the cold, still air of your apartment, the hum of the city outside, and the realization that it was all just a dream—a dream you’d had a thousand times before, and one you knew you’d have again.

And as you lay there, staring up at the ceiling, you’d feel that ache settle in your chest. The one that reminded you that no matter how real it felt, it was only ever going to be a figment of your imagination. Because the truth was, you had to wake up alone.

In that moment, you’d wonder if he ever dreamed of it too—if he ever pictured that life, those mornings, the way you did. If he ever saw a future where he stayed, where he chose you and didn’t let go. But you knew that even if he did, it wasn’t enough. Because while you were left clinging to dreams, he was off living a life that didn’t have room for you in it.

You’d curl back into the blankets, pulling them tight around you, pretending for just one more moment that the warmth was him. That maybe, one day, you’d wake up to the life you’d always imagined, and it wouldn’t slip away like morning mist.

But until then, all you had were the dreams and the memories of a love that almost was—almost, but never quite enough.

↳ make sure to check out my navigation or masterlist if you enjoyed! any interaction is greatly appreciated !

↳ thank you for reading all the way through, as always ♡

[shinakazami1]

TSPUD: closer look at IOS / Free Trial / Paywall Ending

Me and @decomposten looked through the video of the new ending and here is the summary of our thoughts on it :^]

Table of Content: 1) The two doors room 2) The video 3) The Paywall (room next to it) 4) Ending thoughts

DISCLAIMER: This post talks mostly about stuff SHOWN, not said. If people would be into my analysis of the Narrator's lines, let me know :D (it's a long post - that's why Read more is used >:D )

1) The two doors room

Here, there are two different elements that I want to present.

First - the windows. Or - more important, the light coming from them. This is the ONLY part, in the entire series, that the lighting change comes from the windows.

At any other time in the games, the light change came from lamps, screens or untold spots (just like in the corridor as there are no external windows in there).

Based on the New New Content next to Infinite Hole, we assume these lights are scenery lights.

It's a neat detail to me - it is possible to have either LED options that change colours or a colour filter for the scene to work. But...if that's the case, one detail is wrong. And it's the whites of this scene.

While it's not as visible on the door, the papers and the reflections (noticed by deco) really show that this light does not work how it's supposed to. That could mean that instead of the typical lighting options, the Narrator might have overlayed red separately on the different objects and forgot to do it on some, making the light source possibly still red. It's a small detail but, to me, it only showed more how this Parable is just a playground for the Narrator.

Which, the vault in the floor only shows even more.

First - we've already seen a similar vault in one of the trailers. Though the construction is new - the closest resembling one I could find is in New New Content. it's possible Narrator added this in instead of having all the floors like that from the start. He either might be able to expand the Parable, or as we've seen in past, has some scrapped storage spots here and there he can reinvent later.

Now - onto the longest section of this post.

2) The video

That one single video is packed with a lot of content but, I will try to keep it coherent, mostly showing them and focusing on one part of the video the most.

Before we start, though - a quick shoutout to this blue drapery. They seem similar to the one in the Madness ending.

The Stage seems new, the only thing that resembles its shape is the Bucket Quiz stage.

The video brought two different interpretations from us. To decomposten, this video is so well done, it looks like someone else made it (no credits anywhere, too high of a production).

To me, however, this is the mix of his past video/presentation works that he's done in the past, showing his progress as a creator.

The last video we had made by him was Figley ending. It was the start of his editing journey, where he used Windows Media Editor. Everything else feels like it's been there. The same Stanley renders as usual. The usage of stock images (though that does feel more like Crowsx3 trademark), old movies with silly tone (some trailers), falling money, and much more. and of some weird sophisticated ref to an important and well-known painting (Wanderer above the Sea of Fog by Caspar David Friedrich, 1818).

I feel he's been just working on editing skills and I couldn't be more proud of him :]

Besides that - there are many writings and images worthy of discussion.

First - the content. As someone who made the Fernator AU Apple story, you won't be surprised how happy I was with the food mentions. This man knows about humans but probably doesn't exactly know what's edible. Or he's playing with us. Flavoured styrofoam takes the cake.

The Second - new features. A few are familiar ones (dog mode, theme of forgiveness, eternal contentment as the Bucket) but there are also some other ones. Yellows are typical RPG material (we know the Narrator is a fan), some foods and other game-related stuff. The guarantee resembles writing in the Mind Control facility but - that's a minor detail.

Both of these show how he understand the outside world but likes to play with it and us, as he calls us, the player, a friend. He's on the joke.

But then - the more choices. It's interesting that it only seems to have some chronological continuum. 2011 mod -> 2013 (red blue-door) -> TSPUD: New content -> Skip Button flower ending. But then, it gets to number 3 ending -> New content again -> Bucket Apartment -> Bucket in Expo -> Bucket Quiz -> and THEN returns to Skip -> Jump Circle (Expo) -> entrance to the Memory Zone -> Apple ROOM -> Final Skip.

I was trying my best to find some logic in this part of the video, in how he showed all of these. Here are my thoughts: 1) The Narrator gives a sneak peek to his past traumatic event, showing those who know that he is now above it. That's why this part has the most slides. 2) The Jump Circle, if you look at the video, is scratched out. Decomposten thinks it's due to no spoilers. And I feel that's plausible. After all - he rebranded that part of the game to himself. 3) The Memory Zone entrance is right between the Jump Circle and the same flowered Skip Button. It does serve, in a way, a tunnel between them. To him, both are a memory - he played this already. In his memory, there is a silly phenomenon - of the past that will never come, and the future, that had already been there. And - to me, this shows through the fact the Apple Room is next. Because it shows exactly that - a fake memory. He lived through all this and yet, once you play the game, he will experience it again, like before. Final conclusion: The 'More choice' segment is to show how scrambled his memory really is. He remembers things happening but as each story sits by itself, he tries to stitch it all together. He first made the game. Updated it's looks and then, out of nowhere, someone broke in. The flowers were his mind toughing up, trying to make something beautiful for Stanley. That's why the next two are in the Show category (Stanley making a presentation, and devs showing New Content). And to the Narrator, that's the Bucket. He shows his change and love for his story (Bucket apartment) and to Stanley (Bucket entrance) - who, as the story went, was there to press buttons (Quiz, Skip Button). The narrator wanted to open up to Stanley more. Through reusing ideas (Jump Circle), through safe spots (Memory Zone), mutual memories (Apple), and through freedom.

So, yeah. To me, this video shows his growth, not only as a person but as a creator. Glad he cracked that Premiere B]

But now, let's follow the arrows to the last element of this post:

3) The Paywall

This one is more self-indulgent cus the fact this fucking plant is here only makes me believe Fernator is real and in this essay, I-

Ok ok but, I will try to wrap this part quick. If you reached this part, you're a true soldier. Here have a cookie. 🍪

Anyway, here are a few interesting elements to me about this: - You resetting in the same room after he's done talking is the same like the 2013 Serious Room. Seems he used the mechanisms again. Good for him. - The picture on a wall shows room 430 - the 5-click achievement one that he was most joyful about. - Very lit room (4 lights for such a small space). - The walls: the og Serious room had blue walls. Thanks to help from @/Boz in the Crowsx3 Discord server, we found that the same stripped wall colouring is in the cargo room. But - if you remember the basics of colour theory, yellow is complementary to purple BUT some shades to get into blues. - the. The fucking flower. The hh. The. The... (pls look at my Fernator theory post explaining the significance of nature in the game)

CONCLUSION: This room is the opposite to a serious room - it's a kinder rendition of it. Maybe not the kindest but still, it seems more welcoming.

4) Ending thoughts

While this is more of scratch surface observation, I hope you can enjoy this silly ramble of mine :^] I'm glad to see that after 13 years, this game finally ended up where it was supposed to be - in a mobile form. The Narrator seems to have grown quite a bit and I'm proud of him <3

If you got here - thank you for spending your time on this :] And thank you decomposten for doing this with me.

[i2rizz]

We Fell In Love in October

Fandom: Blue lock

Characters: Chigiri x reader

------------‐---------------------------------------

The crisp autumn air nipped at your cheeks as you walked through the park, the leaves crunching under your boots. The world was painted in hues of red, orange, and gold, and despite the chill in the air, you felt warm. Maybe it was the way the sun filtered through the trees, casting everything in a golden glow. Or maybe it was the way Chigiri Hyoma walked beside you, his hand brushing yours with every step.

You glanced at him, your heart fluttering when you caught him smiling softly at the trees overhead. His long, red-pinkish hair fell in waves over his shoulders, catching the light like something out of a dream.

“Why are you staring?” he teased, not even looking at you but clearly aware of your gaze.

“Because you’re pretty,” you replied, grinning when his cheeks flushed a light pink that rivaled his hair.

You hadn’t expected to fall for Chigiri, not like this. You’d met during the summer, at a mutual friend’s party, where he’d spent most of the evening sitting alone on the porch, sipping a soda and watching the stars. You’d joined him out of sheer curiosity, and before you knew it, the two of you had spent hours talking about everything and nothing.

By the time autumn rolled around, you were inseparable. There was something easy about being with him, like the two of you existed in your own little world.

“Let’s sit here,” Chigiri said, gesturing to a bench under a massive oak tree. The ground was covered in fallen leaves, their vibrant colors contrasting against the dark wood of the bench.

You sat beside him, pulling your coat tighter around you as the wind picked up. He noticed and shrugged off his jacket, draping it over your shoulders without a word.

“You’ll freeze,” you protested, but he just shook his head.

“I’ll be fine. You, on the other hand, are terrible at hiding when you’re cold.”

You laughed, leaning into him. “Guess I’m lucky to have you, then.”

He hummed in agreement, resting his head on top of yours. The silence between you was comfortable, filled only by the rustling of leaves and the distant laughter of children playing.

“Do you ever think about how we got here?” you asked after a while, your voice soft.

Chigiri lifted his head to look at you, his expression curious. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t know. Just…how we met, how quickly we became close. It feels like it was meant to happen, you know?”

He considered your words for a moment before nodding. “I get that. Sometimes it feels like you’ve been in my life forever.”

There was a vulnerability in his voice that made your chest tighten. You reached out, threading your fingers through his, and gave his hand a reassuring squeeze.

“I’m glad we met,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Me too,” he replied, his lips curving into a soft smile that made your heart skip a beat.

As the sun began to set, casting the park in shades of pink and purple, Chigiri turned to you with a glint of mischief in his eyes.

“Want to do something stupid?” he asked, already standing and tugging you to your feet.

“What kind of stupid?” you asked, laughing as he led you toward the pile of leaves under the oak tree.

Without answering, he let go of your hand and jumped into the pile, sending leaves flying everywhere. You stared at him in disbelief before bursting into laughter.

“Hyoma, you’re such a child,” you teased, but he just grinned up at you from the pile of leaves.

“Come on, live a little,” he said, holding out his hand.

You hesitated for only a moment before taking it, letting him pull you into the pile with him. The two of you ended up tangled together, leaves clinging to your hair and clothes as you laughed like kids.

“This is ridiculous,” you said, trying to catch your breath.

“And yet, you’re smiling,” he pointed out, his own grin softening into something more genuine. “You’re beautiful when you smile, you know that?”

Your laughter faded, replaced by a warmth that spread through your chest as he leaned closer. His eyes searched yours for a moment before he closed the distance, his lips brushing against yours in a kiss that was as gentle as the falling leaves.

When the two of you finally pulled apart, Chigiri rested his forehead against yours, his breath mingling with yours in the cool air.

“You know,” he said, his voice soft, “I think I’m falling for you.”

Your heart swelled at his words, and you smiled, brushing a stray leaf from his hair.

“I think I’m falling for you, too.”

And as the two of you lay there, surrounded by the colors of autumn and the fading light of the day, you realized there was nowhere else you’d rather be.

Because falling in love with Chigiri Hyoma felt as natural as the changing of the seasons, as inevitable as the leaves falling from the trees.

------------‐---------------------------------------

[last-starry-sky]

kinktober day 2 - oral fixation

ghost x gn!military!reader

[MDNI - NSFW - MIND THE WARNINGS: 1k, vague descriptions of anxiety and self-destructive behaviors, oral fixation (obviously), no actual sex but it's suggestive as hell, lmao.]

tag list (lmk if you'd like to be added!): @slut-lmao, @mishaglass

This is his fault. Mostly.  

Your nervous ticks were entirely innocent, absolutely unintentional. Never intended to annoy, let alone provoke anyone. But old (bad) habits die hard, and once your anxiety takes hold you find yourself falling back on them. If anything, they only harmed you in the end. Your stubby nails, picked skin, and raw lips were evidence enough of that. 

You find yourself chewing on your nails in the middle of the meeting. It’s nothing high stakes, at least not right now. Not that you’ve been told. If you’d learned anything in this job it’s that anything can go wrong at any time. Even when you’re overprepared. Even when your superiors are sure. Old mistakes can come back to haunt you at the worst times. The worst part is that, nine times out of ten, nothing happens. Everything is fine. But that other ten percent? It has you up late, sleeplessly rummaging through data for the hundredth time, trying to prepare for the unpreparable.

You’d just finished gnawing through your thumbnail when Price called for a break. Most of the crowd, the several teams and special teams gathered for this specific mission, filter out. They chatter about grabbing a snack, some water, of stretching their legs. The Scot on your team: Soap, you believe Price had called him, roped an arm around another teammate in a blue baseball cap, asking to bum a smoke. The other man scoffs, mumbling something unheard as he digs in his breast pocket for his pack. They amble out of the room, Price not far behind. He peels off in the opposite direction to the other two, phone pressed to his ear, grumbling low responses that disappear in the thud of boots down the hall. 

That leaves you alone. Finally. You let out a sigh of relief. You’d been surrounded by people for the better part of a week and it had done nothing to soothe your fraying nerves already strained with anxiety. You went into data analysis for a reason. You didn’t mind people, but computers made for better coworkers. You ran your finger over the destroyed edge of your thumbnail. Can’t keep doing this to yourself, you think with a scowl. You looked over the others on the same hand before reaching for the pen slotted in your notebook. 

Perfect. 

You slid the cap of the pen along your bottom lip. The cool plastic was more soothing than your thumb. You slid it back and forth absently, stimulating whatever strange part of your brain needed it, while you flipped open your notebook. Your eyes quickly darting around the page and a half of scrawled notes you’d managed to take in the dark during the presentation. Not that the dim lighting now was any better. Your eyes were almost zoned out, on the edge of absorbing into your notes, the little square of table you’d claimed for yourself your whole world, pen in your mouth long forgotten.

If he hadn’t moved, you’d never have caught him. The sight of him alone at first gave you a fright. You flinched, biting down on the cap as your hand pulled the rest of the pen out of your mouth. You’d thought you were alone. Shame didn’t even have time to flush your face, because, as you took in the hulking brute of a man sat in the chair across the room, he stood up. You asked yourself how you could be so stupid to not notice someone that big, (and tall, good lord was he tall) let alone one dressed so conspicuously. Yes, his gear was mostly black, but a skull mask? Your brain must be especially fried to-

“‘ear me?” he asked gruffly, using the time you’d wasted in your head to cross the room. You swallowed, the cap falling from your lips in the process. You looked up at him, finding his shadowed brown eyes, ringed in black with stark blonde eyelashes. They peered out from behind the bleached, skeletal white of his mask. They were nice eyes, quite pretty with rare flecks of broken amber that caught the light. 

“No,” you answered guiltily. 

He huffed, gloved fingers reaching and taking the pen from your hand. It looked ridiculously small in his thick fingers. They’re decorated in skeleton print as well, you notice. He made the clear plastic tube look as delicate as spun sugar, flipping it easily between deft fingers. Good with his hands, you think. The motion distracts you, you don’t see his other hand until it’s on you. The second time he’s caught you out so far. 

The spinning suddenly stops as he grips your jaw, petting his own thumb across your sensitive lips. It doesn’t take much persuasion or strength on his part to open your mouth, letting him graze the pad of his gloved finger across your teeth. Your tongue darts out, tasting the worn, rough plastic.

The pen, laced between his knuckles, snaps. Your eyes dart up to his, wanting and frightened. He tossed the shattered remains of the pen to the floor, hand coming back up to adjust himself. He watches as your teeth leave permanent scrapes in the plastic pads the whole while, saliva absorbing into the fabric until it drips down his palm.

“Asked if you’re doin’ that shit on purpose,” he grumbled, pulling his thumb from the bite of your molars to stroke his middle and pointer fingers across your tongue. You close your eyes and moan as your lips close around the oversized digits, shuddering in your cold plastic chair. He doesn’t stop to motion of his hand, sawing in and out past your spit-slicked lips. It’s lovely how blank your mind becomes. Absolutely nothing in there except the motion of your teeth and tongue against the hard, dull material of his glove. He laughs at you when you reach up, laying your hand on his wrist. 

“Figured,” he huffs, stroking himself through his pants. “Newbies always get the shakes. Happens,” He grabs your jaw again, forcing your blissed-out gaze on him. Your cheeks pinch as he slowly draws his fingers from your mouth, lips still sucked close. He groans when they pop free. He inspects his glove and the slick shine you’ve left on it. “Could blow off some steam m’self,” he says, a groan following a squeeze of his thick cock through his pants leaving no doubt of his intention before he sauntered away.

[hrtbeomi]

NEW ROMANTICS ⭑ PREVIEW .ᐟ

summary⭑with a new album release and a successful career, you find yourself on top of the world, except that you're completely alone and with no one by your side to celebrate and cherish it with but what happens when you meet a guy in a bar, sleep with him and then you find out he's one of the most famous actors of all time and he's gonna be your co-star in your upcoming debut as an actress? and what if all you need is him?

wc⭑0.8k warnings⭑mentions of being naked, not proofread

a/n⭑here's a preview of new romantics! i'm so excited for thiss, satoru actually knew who reader was (ofc) but didn't say anything cuz he didn't want to make it more awkward than it already was T_T

You woke up to the soft sunlight filtering through the hotel room’s curtains, as if on cue, you quickly felt your head throbbing not just from the alcohol, but from the realization of what had happened the night before as you felt something or someone else weighing down the bed.

You turned your head slightly and that’s when you saw him, a white haired man lying next to you, he was still asleep, his features built like a god and the light entering the room making him seem more beautiful than he already was, for a moment, you simply watched him, trying to piece together the fragments of the crazy night you had, then it all came back rapidly, the bar, the easy conversation, the magnetic pull between you two that had led to you being naked beside a complete a stranger in your hotel room.

Your heart started pounding as the realization kicked in. You slept with a stranger, or well, that's what you were thinking but for some reason he seemed familiar but decided to ignore everything as you searched for something to put on.

Your gaze went to the man again as soon as you found a shirt large enough to put on your naked form, trying to make sense of your feelings, the night had been intoxicating, a rare escape from the pressures of your erratic and busy life that now felt like a complete mistake.

This wasn't supposed to happen.

You took a deep breath, steadying yourself, it was just a one-night stand, nothing more. You looked at the male, his breathing steady and his expression peaceful, you reached out to him, hand brushing lightly against his shoulder and as he stirred at the touch, his eyes stared fluttering open and for a brief moment, you just looked at each other, the weight of the night hanging between you.

“I think you should go,” you said softly but firm.

The stranger blinked, his sleep fading from his eyes as he processed her words. There was a flicker of something —surprise, maybe even disappointment—but he nodded, sitting up slowly, “You sure?” he asked with a grin.

You nodded, “You need to go, i have things to do today, and this wasn’t supposed to. . .well, i didn’t plan for this to happen.”

He studied you for a second, as if he was searching for something in you but whatever he was looking for, he didn’t find it. With a small sigh, he got out of bed, pulling on his clothes that were scattered around the room.

Part of you wanted to say something, to break the tension, but you couldn’t so you waited for him to get dressed while you drowned in a very uncomfortable silence.

When he finally finished putting his clothes on, he looked at you with a little almost nonexistent smile, “I'm Gojo Satoru, you?” he offered you his hand as he finished introducing himself and you widen your eyes the moment you hear him say his name.

Gojo Satoru? As in one of the most famous actors in the industry right now? This couldn't be happening, right? How the hell did you not recognized that snowy hair and beautiful blue eyes?

In that moment you decide that you're the biggest idiot with poor judgement that's ever existed and as you started spiraling into a bunch different scenarios that led to chaos, Satoru cleared his throat, hand still in the hair and waiting for it to be held.

“Uh. . .Yn, Yn Ln, nice to meet you, i think” you answered, feeling awkward the second you finished saying your name.

“Yeah i kinda figured you were,” Satoru admitted and you flushed because of course he knew who you were, he was at your album celebration, you invited him even if you didn't knew him, in fact, you didn't know him at all except for the fact that he was or is friends with one of your closest friends, Shoko Ieri.

How are you gona explain to her that you slept with her best friend? Would she totally kick your ass for doing it while drunk out of your mind or would she laugh in your face for such idiotic mistake?

However would her reaction be, you knew you were screwed but the man in front of you just smiled like he regretted nothing and truth is he didn't but you were ignorant to that fact and with that, Gojo Satoru said to you a "take care" before he opened the door and walked out, closing it softly behind him and leaving you alone to freak out.

You sat down on the edge of the bed, staring at the door before closing your eyes, this was just going to be another story you'd bury beneath your music.

But as much as you tried to convince yourself it was just one night, something that was over now. The thought of Gojo Satoru lingered in your mind.

You sighed, the reality settling over you like a weight you couldn’t shake when the sound of your phone ringing filled the room.

« Unknown Number »

“Hello?” You answered, unsure of what to say or do.

“Hey it's me, Satoru, wondering when we could meet up again?”

Oh you were so screwed.

masterlist ⭑ next

TAGLIST ❪ OPEN ❫ ⭑@xxaestheticvibezxx @rcveriees @scaranthropy @chxrryvibes @httpstoyosi @poopooindamouf @kalulakunundrum @lalalasillybilly3000

© HRTBEOMI 2024

[221beloved]

"What are you wearing?" - "It's laundry day!"

(Link to ao3)

When John opened his eyes in the morning, it was to Sherlock watching him, diffuse morning light filtering through the curtains.

"Morning love," John mumbled and stretched his body under the blanket.

"What time is it?"

"Seven," Sherlock murmured back, not taking his eyes off John.

"Everything alright?" John asked, shifting a little closer to the warm body next to him.

Sherlock frowned, then smiled and nodded. "Perfectly fine."

"Right then," John smiled back and pressed a kiss on Sherlock’s lips.

"Let's have a nice lie in then."

Sherlock rolled his eyes but shuffled deeper under the blankets as well, tightened his arms around John's body.

"You looked, stressed. In your sleep. I was just… checking."

There was a slight tingling sensation in John's stomach at the confession, and he wanted to melt here and now.

"It's all fine," John murmured, already drifting back into a light sleep, wrapped in their mixed scent and cosy warmth.

It was the clattering in their kitchen that drove them out of bed about an hour later. Together they padded into the loo and tried to coordinate their morning routine, always standing in each other's way despite the practise they should’ve gathered in their time living together.

When they finally emerged from the loo, clothed and somewhat prepared for the day, to see what their landlady – not housekeeper – was up to this morning, they were in for a little surprise.

They stopped short in the doorway to the living room, gaping.

"What, what are you wearing?" Sherlock got out first.

"For the love of God, Mrs Hudson, come down there, your hip, you'll break your bones!" was what John shouted.

Their landlady turned on the spot where she was balancing on a side table – not a chair, she was standing on a small table – as if she were a tightrope walker.

"It's laundry day!" She stated, apparently as answer to both questions.

"Now that you're up, boys, could one of you get me this duster over there?"

John was hurrying towards her, and Sherlock was about to point out that he'd forgotten the duster, but John was already ordering the woman off that table. Yes, ordering.

"You should've just told us to get the curtains down. And honestly Mrs Hudson, on that table?"

Mrs Hudson patted his shoulder.

"I know you mean well dear, but I can do that myself. You were having a lazy morning, no reason to bother you with cleaning and all this," she tutted.

"Not exactly lazy with all that noise," Sherlock mumbled, and although John shot him a sharp look, their landlady apparently didn't hear.

Louder, Sherlock asked, "And what has laundry day to do with what you're wearing?"

Mrs Hudson looked down her body.

"I don't know what you're trying to tell me. I got this just last week, it's nice, isn't it?"

John and Sherlock eyed her outfit, searching for the right words.

She was wearing a yellow shirt and a light blue apron with cherries and strawberries on it. On top of that she was wearing a blue… it looked like a bath cap.

"It's, er..." John trailed off.

"It's practical, that's what it is. I'm washing most of my clothes today, and on top of that things like your curtains, which haven't seen water for years, I don't want to get all dirty.”

Sherlock blinked at her. "And you're wearing that apron, because..."

"There are so many pockets, it's practical, dear. One day you'll see sense and accept that sometimes function is more important than design.”

Sherlock and John both frowned, thinking about how their landlady would get all dressed up for a visit at Mrs Turner's. Or for the grocery store, at that.

"Besides, no one's seeing me like this. Well, apart from you boys, but you'll help me anyway."

Sherlock was still busy blinking, John already ahead of him. As always.

"Of course we'll help Mrs Hudson. Just tell us what you want us to do, and it will be done. And no more climbing on tables."

"Or chairs," Sherlock added, slowly catching up.

Well, there went their lazy day in. They'd just go to bed early this evening. At least they would be clean by then. And their flat would be too. Not that Sherlock liked the idea of that, but he'd lost this argument with his landlady often enough to know that it was futile to try and refuse. Besides, John liked the flat clean.

So they would be cleaning today. Well, washing, mostly, but that laundry day could develop into much more if they weren't careful.

Sherlock sighed, already thinking about how he could sneak in cuddles with John on the sofa over the day.

--

Please tell me if you want to be added or removed from the list!

@flufftober @meetinginsamarra @a-victorian-girl @lisbeth-kk @topsyturvy-turtely

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[jobean12-blog]

Sunshine in the Dark

Pairing: Werewolf!Bucky Barnes x Vampire!Reader

Word Count: 803

Summary: You share a recent dream with Bucky and he makes it come true.

Author's Note: This is another entry for @pupandkisasaesthetics aesthetics challenge! Thank you to the beauties @sgt-seabass and @rookthorne for hosting! HUGS and LOVE! 💕The picture I got is posted below. I know it's a bright a colorful picture but when I saw it this is where my brain went. I also love this pairing because it's not the usual love story. And you can interpret what he gives her at the break in the story any way you want- could just be cuddles, could be much more intimate...anything you like from him. Thank you all so much for reading! Much love always! ❤️❤️❤️Divider by the lovely @firefly-graphics thank you Daisy! 🥰 **Dream description is in italics**

Warnings: it's really soft and sweet with a tinge of sad but it's a happy ending!

PS: this is how I picture my soft werewolf!Bucky in human form. Just beautiful and beefy and that hair and the beard and YUM!

“Tell me what it is that has you smiling like that doll.”

You walk into his open arms, tucking yourself against his chest and resting your cheek to his bare skin.

“I had the most wonderful dream,” you sigh, your smile fading.

“A dream,” he muses. “Tell me about it.”

After you remain silent for some time he strokes your back, gently coaxing you with every brush of his fingers.

“The sky stretched for miles in a brilliant expanse of cerulean blue, devoid of clouds. And the sun…it was dazzling, blessing everything in it’s path with it’s radiant warmth. My skin was glowing as I soaked it in and a soft breeze caressed it just enough to keep me cool…”

Bucky looks down at you, grasping your chin between his long fingers as he tilts your face up to meet his eyes. His brow is drawn in as his thumb sweeps across the outline of your lips.

“And?” he whispers.

“And the sun’s golden rays danced across the water, turning it into a dazzling stretch of blue and green where each gentle ripple was transformed into a glimmering ribbon of light that sparkled and swayed.”

A single red tear rolls down your cheek.

His thumb catches it and he brushes it away, resting his forehead to yours.

“You miss it,” he states sadly.

“So much.”

He presses a soft kiss to your temple, then to your cheek, moving to the other side to do the same before capturing your lips.

“If I could bring this dream to life, I would,” he murmurs against your lips.

“I know,” you answer, ghosting your mouth along his jaw and nipping lightly with your fangs.

Your lips continue to his ear, pressing a kiss just below before you run your nose down his neck with an inhale and rest your head to his shoulder.

“What would you have me do?” he asks. “Anything to have you smiling again doll.”

You fingers graze his forearm, the corded muscles flexing under your touch, then teasingly glide them higher until you reach his collarbone.

When you look up into his eyes, blue like the water you dreamed of, his lips twitch with a smirk and you feel the shift begin, soft fur growing beneath your fingertips. 

“As you wish,” he says, his voice already more of a growl.

The wind rushes past you, your heart pounding with excitement and anticipation. The air is rich with the scent of damp soil and pine and the light of moon filters through the entwined branches above, casting flittering shadows across the ground.

Suddenly, the forest opens up into a small clearing bathed in moonlight. Bucky slows down to a graceful trot, his ears perky and alert. Your breath catches at the sight before you.

“Bucky,” you whisper, slipping from his body but still holding tightly to his dark fur with one hand.

He stills and nudges you forward with his cold nose, staring at the cave entrance. You nod and move toward it, cocking your head when you hear a familiar sound.

You move slowly, taking in every noise and smell with your heightened senses. Bucky’s claws scrape quietly along the rocky floor, echoing off the walls as he follows closely behind and when you reach your destination, you stop dead in your tracks.

The scene is a symphony of darkness and light that unfolds beneath the soft glow of flickering candles and the light of the moon. There in the shadows the pool reveals itself, it’s water shimmering under the illumination of the countless candles surrounding it and an opening in the cave’s ceiling that allows the moon’s glow to infiltrate and bathe it all in a silvery glow.

The light flashes and glitters on the water’s surface, a mirror of liquid moonlight, moving with graceful fluidity. Every ripple becomes a cascade of sparkling diamonds, capturing the moonlight and transforming it into a thousand fleeting stars and each time a soft breeze floats on the air the candlelight falters, casting intricate patterns along the walls of the cave.

You whisper his name again, your voice breaking with emotion.

Then you hear him start to shift behind you, his bones realigning and fur receding. When you turn to look at him his muscles are still rippling under his skin, adjusting to his human form.

He strides toward you, his long hair brushing his shoulders as he bends to scoop you into his arms.

Your lips tremble as they brush his softly. “Thank you.”

He smiles against your lips and walks into the water, cradling you against his chest until you’re submerged up to your chin.

“You’ve given me everything,” you whisper, unwrapping yourself from his arms and spreading yourself out to float above the surface of the water.

“You are everything,” he murmurs.

@book-dragon-13 @hiddles-rose @randomfandompenguin @sebstanwhore @kmc1989 @littleseasiren @buckysdollforlife @late-to-the-party-81 @blackwidownat2814

[dckweed]

TORMENTED TRAGEDY, benedict bridgerton

summary: in which ruth archibald participated in her first social season in two years, re-introduced to high society after a years long retreat to a rest home after having had a horrid break down during her first season. she expects the whispers and sideways glances, the purely evident lack of suitors (what man wants a crazy wife?), however she doesn’t expect to find companionship in that of Benedict Bridgerton, and least if all the affect she so unknowingly craved.

warnings: brief mentions of abuse & attempted suicide. depression is going to be a heavy theme throughout the series so if you're uncomfortable, please do not read any further. cold and uncaring maternal figure, crazy twin brother who helps his sister be happy by sneaking off with her favorite bridgerton brother, loving father figure, its brigerton so ofc she's gonna be featured in whistledown and most likely bullied by the ton...eventual smut

series masterlist here. if you would like to be tagged in future parts, please comment on the separate taglist post!

i. seasons greetings

The sun rose over the blackened iron gates of the Archibald family’s city home, a grand structure (much too large for their family of five) situated on it’s own city block merely four streets over from the royal palace, and with it, Ruth Archibald woke to the sights of here own bedroom for the first time in two years.

The walls were still the peachy pink color of her girlhood, her room still decorated with that of the last things she’d touched, a book on the table next to her bed, her hairbrush and jewelry and in the corner, that god forsaken baby blue dress..She stared at the ceiling, unmoving from her bed despite the early morning light filtering in from behind the drapes. She felt like a stranger to herself in these four walls..Ruth had left a crumbling mess of a distraught girl, and had come home an entirely different person. 

Two years in a glorified mental facility could do that to a person, though deep down, she had always quite felt like this, like she was just going through the motions and painting a bright smile on her face while doing what was expected of her, and there was always so much expected of her. 

The Marquess and Marchioness were of one of the highest rankings, The Marquess, Lord Archibald serving as advisor to King George and Queen Charlotte. His children were expected to be intelligent and beautiful, sociable. They were expected to be prim and proper, to be knowledgeable in politics as well as being proper hostesses, fine horsemen and cordially impeccable. They were expected to be the most popular of the Ton’s high society, the most desirable for courtships and the perfect marriage for even someone as high ranking as a prince. 

All of which, Ruth had been. Perfectly perfect in every aspect..though it seemed never perfect enough for her mother. 

Marchioness Archibald was not an easy woman to please, the three of her children had learned that together, growing up competing for the womans cold affections their entire lives. It seemed that Ruth had finally won them two years ago when she had landed herself the fancy of a soon to be Duke, someone she had known her entire life..The boy was handsome, her mother had said, his father worked closely with the king and queen, he had troves of money..they would make a fine match, she had said. 

Ruth couldn’t do it. 

The soon to be Duke was not a kind nor caring man, something that Ruth had known growing up. Her brother had protested (having gone to eton and oxford with the man), her father had seemed angered by the arrangement that had happened behind his back. Ruth had tried to tell him no, but her other had already betrothed them, making the plans with his father,.the family would be receiving an ungodly amount in the form of her dowry. 

Ruth tried. 

She smiled politely, she wore her most flattering dresses, she spoke kindly and intelligently. She did everything she had been taught to, Cecil seemed to have responded well, though he spoke hardly in a cold tone not unlike her mothers. Her mother, though, had seemed quite pleased with her for once and Ruth basked in it, feeling the warm tickles of her conditional love. 

The girl had managed to keep up with it, her upcoming nuptials the talk of the ton. She kept up the smile, the ruse of love drunk bliss, had done all that was expected of her by society, and most importantly, her mother. She thrived under the pressure, until she couldn’t. 

It had happened on the eve of their wedding, the two families had been rehearsing how the next day was supposed to go, where each person would stand at the ceremony, what the couple would say as their vows..

Ruth couldn’t quite meet Cecil’s eyes as she repeated the vows after the priest. Something about the man she was set to marry the next afternoon seemed extra foreboding, his entire body looked rigid, tense, and his voice was cold and empty when he spoke his words. Short and to the point, as if he’d rather be anywhere else in the world. Honestly, Ruth couldn’t blame him, she herself would rather have been anywhere besides there. 

The rehearsal came and went easily enough, and the entire party went back to the Archibald manor, where the grooms family was joining the Archibalds for a friendly, but formal supper. 

Ruth had taken to her room nearly immediately, having politely mingled with her mother and father in law to be for a few minutes before feigning exhaustion and retiring herself upstairs, where se paced tirelessly, attempting to calm her nerves as she thought about the wedding, how in mere hours she would belong no longer to her own self but to a man that she had been afraid of when they were younger. 

It had terrified her how unhappy she already was. 

Ruth knew not how long she paced for, but a soft knock at her door brings her out of her reverie. At her approval the door opens and her lady’s maid Esther appears. 

“Yes, Esther?” Ruth asks, feigning a smile as she looks her young maid in the face. The girl was a shy thing, her face flushing at being put on the spot by her mistress. Ruth envied her something awful. 

“Your betrothed has asked me to come fetch you, Miss..your families are sitting down for supper and noticed your absence.” The girl can’t even meet her eyes, staring down at Ruth’s bare feet poking from under her skirts. “He seemed most irritated, Miss..” 

Ruth sniffs, turning towards her window. “Kindly inform my betrothed and his family that I will not be joining them for supper, I am unwell. I bid them good evening..” She says, voice stiff. “And then please help me prepare for bed..” There was noway she was going to get the stays of her dress or untie her corset without help..her mother had been insisting on her wearing them as tightly as possible the past few weeks. 

Esther rushes out, leaving Ruth alone to her thoughts once more. The girl, resumes her pacing, mind reeling about her impending nuptial. She so desperately did not wish to marry this man, but she saw no way out without facing her mothers wrath or ruining their family reputation, unless her father put his foot down of course..

An idea formulated as she paced, her mind working on what to say to her father that would make him give final say on the matter. The Marquess had always been soft on his daughters, so really, she knew it would be easy. 

A short moment later a sharp knock sounds on her door, thinking it her maid she’s quick to allow entry, not even bothering to glance. “I should like a hot bath prepared, Esther” Ruth says, opening her wardrobe to find herself a nightgown. 

“Well, i’ll be sure to let her know on my way out.” His vold voice sent her body rigid, a chill creeping along her spine. Ruth turns slowly to face him, offering a soft smile. His face was blank, eyes dark and empty. Slowly he walks towards her, as if stalking prey, until he comes to a stop merely inches from her. “Your young maid said you were unwell and had taken to bed, i thought i would do the husbandly thing and coem check on my bride to be..” His lips purse as he stares down at her, his hand raising to caress her cheek. Ruth felt no emotion behind what should have been a loving touch, and instead her nervousness increased. “Though it seems to be unnecessary, you appear quite well.” 

Ruth wondered where Esther was, they weren’t yet married and she knew they still require a chaperone. “My apologies, your grace,” She says, hoping the smile she wore would help her matter. “I am feeling unwell, nervous about tomorrow I suppose..I was hoping to prepare for bed early so I could be well rested.”

Cecil purses his lips, removing his hand from her face. A feeling of relief flow through Ruth, though it is only for a moment as her cheek is met with an open handed blow, skin stinging as her head is flung to the side. The metallic taste of blood hits her tongue as tears fill her eyes, threatening to spill over. 

Ruth looks to the man that she was meant to wed, eyes widened in fear as she presses a delicate hand to her smarting cheek. “I do not tolerate liars, darling. “ His voice is cool, uncaring that he had just struck his bride as if she were a man. “I will tell our families that you are unwell and wsh to not be bothered.” He caresses her cheek once more, almost affectionately this time, before turning on his heel and marching out. 

A sob wracked her body as the door slammed shut, crumpling to the floor in front of her wardrobe. Esther had nearly fainted at the sight of her, but had stood by her mistress through the night as she lay in bed weeping. It wasn’t until the early hours of the morning when Esther had gone to fetch something for the girls aching head that she had done it. Ruth wasn’t entirely sure what possessed her to take the ornate silver letter opener to her arm, but she had done it. Panicked by the sight of her own blood, the girl had collapsed to the ground, a heap of sobs. 

Her mother had shipped her off to the rest home quicker than she could eat breakfast. Hadn’t come to visit her but one time within two years, to tell her with contempt that it was time to come home and marry. That was how she wound up back here, with these memories plaguing her..

A sharp knock at her door moves her mind from the past and into the present as the heavy door swings open, a tuft of graying hair peaking around the edge. 

“Papa?” Ruth asks, sitting up in her bed, worried that something may be wrong. The man sighs and steps into the room, he had not entered it since the morning of the almost tragedy. 

“I just wanted to make sure you were alright, my dear..” The older man speaks, placing a warm and loving hand to his daughters cheek as he takes a seat at the edge of her bed, near her pillows. “I know that your Mama didn’t give you much choice in coming home, I begged her to at least move your room, or for god sake get the damn dress out of here..” His jaw ticked as he stared at the scrap of fabric as if he had wished to burn it on the spot. 

Ruth places a hand on her fathers arm, giving a reassuring squeeze. “I’ll be okay, Papa..” Her voice was soft as she spoke, as was the smile that her fathers face bore. “I’m sorry to make you worry, but I promise, it won’t happen again..” 

A large hand covers her own along with a squeeze as he looks down at the smaller form of his youngest child, eyes watery. “I know my daring, I won’t allow it.” Another squeeze, an unspoken promise to do better. To protect her better. “What have you got there?”

And thus began a quiet morning of reading the novel Sense and Sensibility to her father, a fond memory of him reading to her in her youth crossing her mind. When she finally heads down for breakfast with her family, she notices her Mother and older Sister reading little leaflets, the words ‘Seasons Greetings’ emblazoned across the heading. 

“Mama, when may i see the dress for tonights ball?” She asks, sitting down across from her twin brother, who tosses a melon ball in her direction as she’s being served. She rolls her eyes, returning the warm smile he offers her. She had missed her twin brother something awful. He had been her best friend growing up, always getting up to no good with each other. 

Maybe being home isn’t such a bad thing, she thought. 

taglist: @cherrylovers-world @little-boats-on-a-lake @imgondeletedis

[sparkanonymous]

Let's get one thing out of the way; I messed up.

If you want to go more in-depth, read this post. If you don't want to, here's the jist of the situation: For the last year - I think - I have been coloring Raj's skin tone lighter. This is completely and utterly my fault.

I'm not going to make any excuses, in fear that it will give others an excuse for their own deplorable actions. Though I don't see myself as a racist person, this is still an example of colorism, and I can't stand by it.

Total Drama is something I hold dear in my heart, and Raj is one of my favorite characters in the entire series. The fact I did him this dirty makes me never want to draw him again.

I'm so sorry. All I can do is apologize, and that's definitely not good enough. I will do better in the future. I don't want anything like this to happen again, and I won't let it happen again.

There is nothing I can say that'll fix this situation. I have disappointed myself and hurt an entire community of people. I hope I can eventually make up for my mistakes, but I know that isn't possible in a short amount of time.

I don't expect this to be taken lightly; it shouldn't be. If this is the last I see of some of you, I hope you take care.

The rest of this post directly responds to parts of thesicklycowboy's post.

○■○■○

For this portion, I have also edited Raj's hair to be the correct color. (I didn't know where else to put this part, sorry.)

I won't be responding to everything, as I do think the post was well-spoken and something that certainly needs to be said, just parts that I felt I should respond to.

Blue is for them, and red is for me.

"So when you were addressing this and saying "it's color theory" excuse why did you not show your earlier pieces of Raj as well? The ones with far darker hair and deeper skin tones? You only referenced all the ones after after the lightening had begun."

As mentioned before, I don't know when the lightening began. The pieces I grabbed for comparisons were the ones that I could actively get the flats for. A lot of my previous pieces have been deleted from my iPad after being moved to my laptop for storage reasons. While you can tell that Raj is darker in my oldest TDI posts, I wouldn't have been able to color grab the original skin color to compare it to the others, which is why I added ones that I could find the flats of directly off of my page. I do wish I had gotten the flats for the oldest ones, but I can't really do anything about that now.

"The beginning of your ask responses is blatantly false and you contradict yourself at the end? So why keep that whole schpiel at all?"

Here is the part that they are referring to: "I didn't? I think he just looks lighter because of the filters I used on top of it."

I left this in for transparency because I genuinely thought that that was actually the case. But it wasn't. This is why I added, "Looking into the color issue..." I wanted to double check the claim because it very well could have been an issue. And it was.

... "And not yet another piece that is still super light."

Okay. I think I might know what the problem is here in particular. I add texture overlays (the layers with the filter of 'Sl' - Soft Light) to give my pieces... y'know, texture. The layer color I use is usually an off-white. I do this in all of my pieces because I thought it might help with keeping my work safe from AI, and because I like the paper-like look that it gives my art. I didn't put it over the entire piece because the background already has a ton of texture.

The one above is at 50%, and the one below it is at 30% for both Raj and Bowie.

Here is the same piece with the texture overlays turned off:

(Left is w/o the overlays, Right is w/ the overlays)

I don't want this argument to seem like I'm lessening my actions. This is the only thing that I think I have the right to stand up for. Texture is something I most likely won't take out of my work, though I may replace the texture overlays with something that is more full proof against AI, like those AI-disturbance layers that Ibis Paint has.

None of my actions were excusable, but I felt this needed to be explained.

Other than that, though, I don't know what else I could possibly do to fix the piece, considering I have fixed Raj's skin tone in this piece.

○■○■○

The rest of the post is not something I feel the need to respond directly to. I do think you should go and read the original post criticizing me and decide what you want to do in this matter.

This was not a "silly mistake." What I have done is genuinely messed up. I'm not going to run from this situation and say that I was ever justified in my actions. Because I never was.

I can only hope to be given the chance to amend this situation with future works, whenever that might be. I will most likely not continue to talk about this unless asked to. Idk what else I could possibly say that wouldn't make this situation worse. I am the guilty party, and the only thing I can do is learn from this and do better in the future, which I will.

Again, I am so sorry. I have fucked up, and I am prepared to take the consquences of my actions.

[c-e-d-dreamer]

When We Howl, the Moon Will Cower: Chapter 1

A/N: Listen, I know this chapter is like super expositiony, but I need to set everything up, okay? Trust the process! Nessian will proper interact at their wedding next chapter, I promise 😉

Read on AO3 // Chapter Masterlist // Previous Part // Next Part

Nesta

The Moonstone Palace looms tall before them, the white stone somehow glinting and sparkling like it was truly made from pieces of the silent giant above, even despite the heavy gray clouds shrouding the moon. Moonflower vines creep along the walls and the spires, purple bleeding from the centers and through the blooming white petals. Despite the sweet scent floating toward them on the breeze, Nesta can’t help but shudder.

No matter how beautiful it looks on the outside, Nesta has never particularly cared for the palace that the vampires call home. The blacked out windows and heavy curtains make it seem as if there may be someone watching at all times, an unseen gaze grating across her skin, and the whole building just screams of the wealth the vampires have acquired through their near immortal years. It doesn’t help that they always only visit this place in the dead of night either.

“I better not hear a word out of any of you tonight,” Elinor reminds her daughters, lifting up her skirts enough to lead the way up the front steps.

“Yes, Mama,” Nesta agrees quietly, speaking for both her sisters as well, and following their mother up the steps.

“I mean it,” Elinor clips, pausing just in front of the door and turning over her shoulder to glare. But those icy, blue eyes aren't pinned on Nesta. It’s Feyre on the other end of their mother’s ire.

Even with the distance between them, Nesta can see the way her youngest sister’s jaw clenches, the way her fingers twitch in the skirts of her own dress. Despite their mother's efforts to beat that defiance out of her youngest daughter, it's clear it still thrums just beneath Feyre's skin. But it's faint and dimmed. The black gossamer fabric twisting down Feyre’s arms hides the bruises Nesta knows have bloomed across her upper arm, remnants from the most recent lesson with their mother.

“I’ll be on my best behavior, Mama,” Feyre confirms, dropping her gaze away from Elinor. “I promise.”

“You better be,” Elinor says, turning back around and raising her hands toward the large, arching front doors with a flourish. “You all have no idea how important tonight will be. The future I am building for us all.”

With a flick of Elinor’s wrist, magic sparking across her fingertips in the dark, the large doors slide open, the old wrought iron hinges creaking. There’s a near echoing boom as the doors settle, and they all step inside, into the large room that makes up the front entrance. Towering pillars line each of the walls, stretching higher and higher toward the domed ceiling above. The heavy curtains that live there have been pulled aside, allowing milky pale light to filter through the stained glass and paint patterns across the marble floors.

Elinor strides forward with practiced ease, down the long halls covered with thick rugs and dotted with the occasional lush plants. Almost every single one is some sort of variation of a night blooming flower, thriving and green despite the shadows that shroud the whole palace. Various open doorways lead to other sitting rooms, dining rooms, and work areas, gossamer curtains swaying in an almost phantom, magical breeze dividing them from the main hall, but they all seem empty as they pass by.

The hall finally opens at the end into a massive dining hall, a large dark oak table taking up the majority of the space at the center of the room. And sitting around the table, already gathered, are the various leaders and their immediate circles. Nesta supposes she shouldn’t be too surprised that their family is the last to arrive for this meeting. She swears her mother feeds off the way all the chatter in the room dies as they step inside, the way every set of eyes turns to them.

With her shoulders back and head held high, Elinor continues forward to the remaining open chair around the table, but as Nesta follows behind, settling at her mother’s shoulder, she eyes the others in attendance, everyone in attendance for this meeting.

The Vanserra coven sits immediately to the right. It seems strange to see Eris Vanserra sitting front and center, the exact details of what happened to Beron Vanserra one of the coven’s best kept secrets. Still, the eldest seems to have stepped into the new leadership role quite seamlessly. He has an almost bored expression on his face, but Nesta doesn’t miss the way his amber eyes dart toward the dark shadowed corners of the room.

Two of Eris’s brothers stand at either of his shoulders, his second and third. Nesta recognizes the youngest of the Vanserras, Lucien. Even with his long, red hair hanging around his face, the scars around his eye are stark in the low light of the room, the result of a spell gone wrong that also killed two of the other Vanserra boys.

The vampires have claimed the seats directly across from Nesta and her family, Rhysand lounging casually in a high backed chair as though it’s a throne. His violet eyes flit around to everyone gathered, straying just a moment too long on the Archerons. Nesta almost thinks she imagines it, the shift in his eyes, dancing across his expression, before his attention turns to picking a piece of lint off his sleeve.

His second and third sit either side of him, the two vampire women completely different. The one sitting on his right has short, black hair, cut in a harsh bob right beneath her chin. Her gaze practically dares anyone to try and say a word to her, not an ounce of shame on her face as she drinks from a goblet filled to the brim with blood. The other woman, sitting on Rhysand’s left, has long, blonde hair running down her shoulders and back, brown eyes bright but no less threatening.

And to the left, taking up the final end of the table, are the wolves. The alpha of their pack, Cassian, sits at the center of their group, the dark curls of his hair pulled away from his face and piled atop his head in a bun. His arms are crossed over his chest, drawing emphasis to the width of his shoulders, the bulge of his arms, the span of his hands that come with being the quite literal top dog.

A man stands just to Cassian’s left, shaggy brown hair falling forward into a pair of brown eyes, and to Cassian’s right sits a woman, dark hair braided down over her shoulder. Surprisingly, her gaze is already pinned on Nesta. Nesta's spine straightens as the woman's eyes sweep up and down over her frame, and she can do nothing but watch as the woman leans over, clearly talking about her as she speaks quietly to Cassian.

Whatever is said, it has the alpha's eyes snapping to Nesta too, the hazel of them burning golden beneath the candlelight. For a moment, the breath hitches in Nesta's throat, having that attention solely on her. She wonders if he can hear it, the way her heartbeat starts to thud a bit quicker, wonders if he can see the way her pulse flutters in her neck, with those keen wolf senses. But Nesta refuses to back down. She raises her chin that little bit higher, daring to look down her nose at him.

“Elinor,” Rhysand breaks the silence, drawing the attention back to him.

“Rhysand,” Elinor offers back, her tone cold and face neutral.

“We all know why this meeting was called. The Cauldron is missing.”

“It was stolen,” Elinor corrects, her blue eyes narrowing across the table.

“Right from under your nose, it seems,” Eris sneers, earning a snicker from one of his brothers.

Elinor’s attention snaps to her right, and Nesta shifts uneasily as magic starts to spark at her mother’s fingertips. “If you’re going to accuse me of something, then do it.”

The atmosphere in the room turns tense and stifling, as though all of the air has been sucked out. It claws at the back of Nesta’s throat, scraping across her skin. Everyone around the tables seems to be holding their breath, seems to be bracing for the worst. Nesta swears she sees the vampires’ lips part, a hint of fangs peeking through. Swears she sees claws beginning to extend from the wolves’ fingers. It has her instinctively and protectively moving closer to her sisters.

“I’m merely commenting on the fact that the Cauldron was under your family’s protection, and yet you didn’t know it was even gone until the next morning,” Eris offers idly, arching a single, red eyebrow.

“I’ve warned you all for months about the threat Hybern poses, that their King’s strength is in spellwork, and now, suddenly, you’re all surprised? Questioning it?”

“No one is questioning or accusing anyone,” Rhysand cuts in, ever the placating host. “But Elinor, we all remember the Archeron’s reticence to the Accords, your family’s hesitance to sign the Treaty.”

Elinor scoffs at the vampire’s words, but it takes all of Nesta’s willpower to swallow down her wince. She still remembers overhearing her mother’s and grandmother’s words when she was a girl. Her grandmother's sharp, cutting words toward the vampires and wolves, at the idea of having any sort of Accords with them. The agreement from both matriarchs that working with the other factions was beneath the purity and power of the Archeron line. The criticism that the Accords makes their family weaker, not stronger.

“You’re right that Hybern is a threat,” Rhysand continues, his violet eyes dancing around to the others at the table before cutting back to Elinor. “But if we want to stand any chance against their King, if we want to find and return the Cauldron, it has to be together.”

“So what? You called a meeting just to scrutinize and ensure my dedication to the Accords?” Elinor asks, her tone derisive and mocking. “Was your spy not able to glean enough information? Where is your Shadowsinger hiding, anyways?”

“He’s not relevant right now,” Rhysand fires back, his own tone beginning to dip with annoyance.

“Honestly, Elinor. Your mocking questions aren’t helping your case here,” Eris adds, the frown tugging down his lips betraying the bored tone of his voice.

Elinor rolls her eyes. “Fine. I’d be more than happy to prove my family’s commitment if that’s what you’re after.”

“How?” Cassian speaks up to ask, his first words all night.

Nesta swears she sees the flicker of a smirk twitch up her mother’s lips, but as soon as she sees it, it vanishes like a trick of the candlelight. Elinor settles back in her chair, stretching her arms out either side of her.

“My daughters,” she answers the alpha’s question simply. “What better way to demonstrate than to offer a blessed union with each of them.”

“You can’t be serious,” Eris comments, something like surprised laughter coloring his voice.

“You all know how powerful my daughters are. You can’t deny that such unions would strengthen your own factions and strengthen the Accords.”

“You’d really force your daughters into marriages? Just like that?” Cassian asks.

“Force? My daughters would be more than happy to further solidify this alliance between us all. In fact, I’ll even let them choose.” Elinor turns over her shoulder, meeting Nesta’s gaze, but Nesta is all too familiar with that look, the fake smile and cold, burning eyes. “Nesta. You’re the eldest.”

Nesta’s entire chest feels tight, dark claws sinking into her lungs until she has to force air in and out. How long had their mother been planning this? Was this what she meant when she explained how important the night would be? No wonder she’d taken the time earlier to make sure all her daughters were in their best dresses, to ensure that Feyre swallowed down her defiance and kept her mouth shut. And now here they all stood, perfect little future wives on full display.

But what happens if she denies her mother’s suggestion, if she says no? Would the other factions oust the Archerons from the Accords? Loath as she is to admit it, Nesta knows that Rhysand is right. The only way they can defeat the King of Hybern and his magic and troops is as a unified front. Her family, her sisters, will only be vulnerable without the Accords. And the Mother only knows what Hybern would do if he got his hands on three of them.

This is the only solution. No question of if, but merely a question of who.

Nesta feels Elain practically shaking like a leaf beside her. Perhaps, she can have it so Elain ends up with the Vanserras. Ever since the accident and Beron’s death, there have been less stories of cruelty being whispered, and going from one coven to another, being around other witches, might be easier for her sister.

Nesta chances an accessing glance toward Feyre, but she finds her youngest sister already in some sort of glaring match with Rhysand. It seems the turn in conversation has solidly piqued the vampire leader’s interest and even more so, drawn his interest toward the youngest Archeron. But Feyre looks to be seconds away from slipping a shoe off her foot and throwing it at Rhysand’s head. It’s clear Nesta’s sister can hold her own, but that just leaves…

The wolves.

Swallowing hard, Nesta turns her full attention toward Cassian, refusing to balk as she meets his hazel gaze head on. “It would be an honor to join your pack.”

~ * * * ~

Cassian

Cassian sighs, pacing once more across the length of the room and digging his fingers up and through his hair. He still can’t quite wrap his mind around the events of the night, everything that’s happened. Every attempt to sort through it all feels like moving through a thick forest on a new moon’s night, like trying to navigate around trunks and brambles in shadowy darkness.

Ever since he’d heard the news of the Cauldron being stolen, he’s had his suspicions, his theories. Hell, there had always been something that hadn’t sat right with him, something that made his inner wolf’s hackles rise, even if he wasn’t confident whether it was merely witches or the Archerons specifically that stoked his wariness. And he’d known the Accords meeting was going to be a disaster, but he’d never expected this outcome, couldn’t have predicted how the meeting ended.

Marriage.

Of course, Rhys had all but jumped at the suggestion. Even Eris had agreed; although, he’d decided it would be his brother rather than the witch himself that would marry the middle Archeron daughter. Cassian still isn’t sure what Elinor Archeron gets out of this. Why she would suggest this or why her daughters would agree. He especially doesn’t understand why the eldest daughter would choose him and his wolves.

Cassian sighs again, pausing his pacing and settling his hands against the table, leaning heavily against his palms. “That had to be the stupidest decision that counsel has ever come to.”

“Hybern is a threat,” Baz reminds him, leaning casually back in his chair, feet propped up on the table. “A very real threat. And now their King has the Cauldron.”

“And this is the answer?”

“We all know the prophecy. ‘The gods will bow before the strength of three,’” Emerie offers from her own seat. “Having one of the Archeron sisters forever linked to the Pack might just be our best defense against whatever is coming.”

“And she’s the eldest too,” Baz adds. “We all know the eldest wolves tend to be the strongest. Perhaps it’s the same with witches.”

Cassian wants to laugh, shaking his head with a quiet huff. “A witch in our Pack…”

The notion feels absurd. Just speaking the words aloud has Cassian feeling like he’s stepped into another reality, an upside down world. He’s heard the demeaning whispers, seen the scornful looks, through the years. Since he rose through the ranks and took over as alpha, and even before then too. The comments, the pretentious expressions, they colored his childhood just as much as they trail and haunt him now.

It’s clear how everyone else views the wolves. They don’t have the money and wealth that comes from centuries of living like the vampires. They don’t have the power that comes from the magic pulsing through the witches veins like a raging, stormy sea. They have the strength everyone seems to want when conflicts arise, but nothing more. They’re the bastards of the factions. They’re expendable. Nothing but grunts and brutes.

“This really is a terrible idea,” Cassian mutters, pushing up to his full height again and rubbing a hand along his jaw.

���At least it’s the hot sister that wants to marry you,” Emerie comments, her brown eyes practically glinting in amusement as she smirks at him.

Cassian knows she’s just trying to lighten the mood, the remark drawing an easy laugh out of Baz, but Cassian still rolls his eyes and shakes his head. His second had made a similar observation at the meeting when the Archerons had first arrived, and though Cassian will never admit it aloud, he couldn’t deny it then and he can’t deny it now.

Witch or not, Nesta Archeron is one of the most beautiful women he’s ever seen.

Her face was all high cheekbones and cutting lines. She had her hair pulled up into an intricate braid style at the meeting, but the strands had still glinted like burnished gold under the candlelight, and Cassian had certainly been curious how it might look tumbling down along her back. How it might look threaded between his fingers. She’d held her shoulders back and her head high, a haughty witch certainly, but a warrior in her own right too, armor firmly in place and daring anyone to go toe to toe with her.

And her eyes. They’d been a stormy blue-gray, a fire burning within them as she met his gaze head on, as she refused to back down or look away. Something had sparked within Cassian then. Something had sat up and demanded attention, whispering and goading in the back of his mind.

“Perhaps, you should marry her instead then,” Cassian says, clearing his mind of the memory and offering Emerie a teasing smirk of his own.

“I’m sure Cresseida will appreciate us getting another wife,” Emerie drawls dryly with a roll of her eyes.

Baz chuckles quietly. “And a witch too.”

Emerie hums, shrugging her shoulders, but then her face turns serious again. “Rhysand and his vampires and the Vanserras have already agreed.”

“That doesn’t mean we automatically have to agree too,” Baz points out, turning his attention fully back to Cassian. “It’s ultimately your decision what we do.”

Cassian knows that they’re right. He knows that he could reject this proposition if he wants. But he also knows the prophecy, knows the stories that the Archeron witches are descended from the Mother herself. If Hybern and the threat their King poses is on the horizon, then how can Cassian deny giving the Pack the best fighting chance? He swore to always put them first, to always protect them.

Even if that means putting his own feelings aside.

Even if that means letting a witch into the ranks.

“Well, then… I guess I’m getting married.”

—

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[thejessc0de]

Do you have any tips for someone who is trying a more realistic aproach for their art style? your painting and lighting are so good that I had to ask 🤠

Thank you!

So this question is actually pretty hard to answer, mostly because I still consider myself a beginner/hobbyist, and I'm pretty sure a lot of my technique comes from the ~5 years of classical art training I received in middle school and high school, and that's so fuzzy I can't tell what's intuition or muscle memory! I can go over some of my workflow/thoughts though and hopefully some of it is useful!

The first thing is that for realism, You. Need. References. It is impossible to replicate the level of detail in a realistic painting without a reference. I usually pick a reference, try to draw that reference exactly, and once I have the proportions correct, I'll change it to match the character/scene I'm drawing (move an arm, tilt the head, add a hand, make the eyes bigger, add anime hair etc. haha). Over time you'll get more comfortable moving away from a specific reference and piecing together a bunch of references into something more unique.

Here is an example of a recent post that was fairly simple. I take the reference image (link to reference here) and try to match it, and then I change it to match the character details, in this case, Kashimo.

As for the lighting, when I first started, my colors were a mess! I already know basic color theory which helps, but it didn't help enough haha. What I think helped me learn the quickest was color picking - in krita you can select a color directly from an imported reference figure. So I'd find a reference that I really liked the lighting on, and color picked from it while paying attention to the actual color I was grabbing (how warm it was, gray it was, what the typical skin tones were, etc).

Later on as I started to learn what types of color palettes I really liked working with, I'd open the reference photo in Krita and tweak the image's contrast and sometimes completely change the lighting and colors. However, at some point I started using it as a crutch and my skills stagnated, so you need to be careful! However, now I've progressed to the point of doing a painting in black and white and adding the colors later (with no color picking!), sometimes even without a reference for the color. This was a slow and painful process, so don't expect things to make sense overnight!

Also, don't forget that you don't have to make the colors perfect in one shot. Usually I'll color things using a color layer with minimal detail and basic color tone (Itadori's hair is soft pink, his hoodie is bright red, etc), and then create shadows and lighting with multiply and overlay layers (blues and purples for night, etc.). Eventually I'll build up the color and merge all the layers together, and then add details in full color. I can color pick from other parts of the painting to maintain consistency. Then to finish things off, I almost always tweak the colors and contrast using filter layers.

Here is an example from that same Kashimo painting, going from black and white to full colors using color, multiply, and overlay layers, and then ending with full color details.

As a side note, starting out in black and white can make things so much easier. When you're only worried about values, you can really focus on shadow depth and the shapes of things. It's so much easier to explore rendering when you're not trying to do color on top of everything! Don't try to do everything at once.

The rendering style I use is based heavily on trying to replicate the feeling of actual oil painting. I use the (free!) art program Krita, and my favorite, most used brush is from a free pack I downloaded from deviant art (here). I use the brush called R T Masked4 (shown below) for basically 90% of any painting I do. I use about 4 brushes total on a typical painting (R T Masked4, that same brush but tweaked to be narrower for hair details, a smudge brush that I discovered maybe 10 days ago that I'm now obsessed with, and sometimes a scratchy brush for additional texture).

One last thing - don't be afraid to use tracing! Block in a reference photo to get the head and shoulders in the right place!! Trace a few hands to see how it feels!!! Obviously don't trace somebody's art and present it as your own, and it should only be rough approximations of shapes so you learn how to break down the body into parts. Otherwise, it won't be helpful at all. I only use photographs for tracing, including pictures I've taken of myself. One of the more helpful things I'll do is free hand my drawing and try to make it match the reference as closely as possible. Then, on a separate layer, I'll trace the reference photo (again, no details, just general positioning/shapes), and compare it to my original drawing. I can immediately see the issues, and I'll use the liquify tool to get things in the right place. I've learned that my horizontal spacing is usually pretty good, but I struggle with vertical spacing, especially on faces. So now I triple check my work for those specific things!

This kinda turned into a book, I'm sorry! I hope some of this is helpful and doesn't sound like the 10:30pm ramblings of someone who didn't get enough sleep haha.