#and they have reiterated that now with their resignation

[qsmprambling]

🎩;w;

[redflagshipwriter]

Mama Bat pt3 progress Post

Part 3 Progress

Batcount: Stephanie, Dick

“Danny Fenton, parents declared him dead and claimed they buried him,” Dick said, spinning around in the batcomputer batchair. Anxious, unhappy, too much energy because there's nothing to fight here. “He has an older sister, I think she knows he's in Gotham and she's covering for him. She'll be coming to Gotham University next semester, despite having accepted a better offer from Harvard last year.” 

Steph let out a low, long whistle. “Whatever's going on at home must be bad,” she commented. “No other contacts?”

Dick pulled up a grainy class photo. “He's part of a small friend group, but neither of them have made any unusual moves. If Sam Manson or Tucker Foley get a plane ticket we'll know, but for now?” He shrugged, eyes distant. “Seems like he ran off alone. But probably for really good reasons.” He switched tabs back to the unhinged Fenton works website. He all but vibrated: wanna go, want to run, look, see.

Steph squinted for a few moments, reading. “...We’re going to go see what crimes against nature they're committing, aren't we?” She sounded resigned to it.

Dick shrugged. “It's not ideal,” he said unhappily. “The town is too small for how we normally do our night work. But face out is a big risk.” 

“Maybe we should lean on a friend?” Stephanie suggested. “Someone who has a public role that wouldn't be a problem?” 

“We’ll have to ask Mama Bat.” 

They both turned to look at Cass, who was sitting on a desk. She arched an eyebrow at them. “We ask Danny,” she said pointedly. “He knows best.” 

Stephanie made a face that said she disagreed. 

Cass huffed. “He knows,” she reiterated. He had lived there. He knew the people. “We could make a mess.” She mimed sweeping the stack of Bruce papers off the desk surface and then an expression of exaggerated batdad horror.

Stephanie untensed enough to laugh. 

Cass considered that good enough. She jumped down and patted Dick as she passed. He let out an exaggerated sigh but he powered down the computer and followed her up. “I'm excited to get to meet the little guy,” he said. The lights turned off. All three of them hit the stairs and jogged up. Dick chattered away, tweet tweet tweet. “It's so sweet that Dami latched onto him like this. When I asked what Danny would like as a welcome home gift, he told me that I was a cretin and should not corrupt the baby.” He laughed, high and joyous. It was contagious. Cass found herself laughing with him.

Stephanie squinted at the back of Dick's head as the oldest brother bounded up the stairs. “Damian… likes him?” She confirmed. 

Cass beamed. Of course he did. Danny was a good baby. He and Damian were out now walking dogs at the animal shelter while Alfie did the big weekly shop. 

Dick shrugged. “He gets to be the mentor,” he pointed out. “He’s not the Babiest Bat anymore.” 

“Danny is older than Damian,” Stephanie protested. Cass glared at her. 

“He's baby,” she said firmly. End of conversation. 

[heich0e]

shouto has not stopped talking about his new nephew for an hour and fifty seven minutes.

you can't blame him, really, for not being able to stop rambling since he got home—you saw the photos he snapped on his phone, the sweet little boy is borderline cherubic. and it's his first nephew, after all, with touya being the first of the todoroki siblings to have any children. there's added novelty to this new arrival. the fact that the baby is so cute is just a serendipitous bonus.

"...and then he fell asleep right in my arms." shouto rinses his toothbrush under the stream of water flowing from the tap in your shared bathroom. half the story he'd just told had been lost to the froth of toothpaste in his mouth, talking around the toothbrush as he cleaned his teeth before bed, but he'd already told you this part of the story three times—so thankfully you didn't miss anything.

you smile as shouto wipes at the corner of his mouth with a towel hanging from the rail on one side of the bathroom, watching his reflection in the mirror. his eyes flicker up to meet yours in the surface of the glass, and he sees the mirthful twist at the corner of your mouth.

he turns to you in the narrow bathroom just off your bedroom and approaches you slowly, his arms winding around your waist as he tucks his face into the crook of your neck. he's in his pajamas now, ready for bed, and without lifting his head or stepping away from you, he begins shuffling the two of you out the door towards your waiting bed in the next room. you can't help but giggle as you go, reaching up and wrapping your arms around his neck for balance, allowing him to guide you wherever he sees fit.

shouto leans you back gently once the back of your knees hit the edge of your mattress, crawling overtop of you to get to his side of the bed and then pulling you into his chest once more as he tugs the blankets up around you both.

"sounds like you had a lot of fun today," you remark quietly as you settle into bed, your fingers tracing idle patterns into the flat plane of shouto's sternum.

"i didn't expect him to be so small," shouto replies. "or to smell so good."

you want to laugh at his sincere tone of surprise, but hold it back.

"i hope i get to meet him soon, too," you say.

"touya says you're welcome any time," shouto insists. "he said i'm only welcome some of the time, though."

that really does make you laugh, because you can practically hear the eldest todoroki son's voice saying the words.

it's quiet for a while as you and shouto lay in bed, tangled up together.

"he's gonna make me the godfather," shouto finally says after a while—so softly you almost miss it. the remark, and the tenderness in his voice, makes something in your chest squeeze tight.

"that's so nice, sho," you answer.

"that means if anything ever happens to touya, we get the baby."

'we' he says—not i—like he doesn't for a second picture any future (even one where his beloved older brother has met some untimely demise) without you in it.

"don't wish anything ill on him just because you want to steal his cute baby," you tease him, lifting your head up and resting your chin against his chest so you can watch his face. he looks pensive, like he's really mulling over your words, and it makes you want to laugh again.

"but it would be nice, i think," shouto finally speaks again after his careful contemplation. "having the baby here with us."

heat floods up fast to your cheeks, and you glance away unconsciously. you're sure shouto has no idea what he's just said—still a little giddy from how smitten he is with his new nephew. but it still makes your mind go to places it shouldn't.

"no baby stealing," you reiterate firmly. flopping down again to go to sleep—if for no other reason than you suddenly find it hard to meet his gaze.

shouto sighs a little, but the sound is resigned like he's reluctantly agreeing to your terms. he eases you over onto your side so he can curl up behind you underneath the cover of your quilt, his strong arm looping over your waist.

the heat of shouto's breath hits the shell of your ear as his face rests on the pillow behind you, and you can still smell the spearmint from his toothpaste. his warmth seeps into you as he presses into your back. you close your eyes and luxuriate in the familiarity of it.

"we could have our own, you know," shouto's voice is much nearer to you than you expect it to be when he speaks again, his lips brushing against the back of your ear softly as they shape his words. his hand slips up underneath the t-shirt you wore to bed—the tips of his fingers feel scorching as they ghost across your skin. "and i bet our baby would be even cuter than touya's—no stealing required."

[my-castles-crumbling]

OMG Clandestine is done!

I am so so so excited to say I just posted the epilogue to Clandestine! Featuring a beautiful commission from @itslotuseater!

Ships: Jegulus, background wolfstar, dorlene, pandalily, rosekiller Rating: M Length: 142k (FINISHED! COMPLETED! AHH!)

Summary:

He was crying. “You can do that?” He repeated, feeling like he was in some sort of dream. And then, Sirius seemed to realize. Because for a twelve-year-old, he was decently smart, and knew him better than anyone. “D’you…d’you want to do that, Reggie? I thought…I thought it was just a game?” But he could only shake his head. Because it wasn't a game. He was a boy. And he could tell from Sirius's nervously resigned expression that Sirius knew it, too. "It's...not a game." --- There's not enough Trans Regulus Black, so here's a fic to help fix the problem. Rated mature for lots of references to transphobia and Walburga Black being a piece of shit. COMPLETED (I'm not crying, you are)

Ahhh, my long-winded thank-you note:

First and foremost, thank you to Arson, my amazing Alpha Reader who brainrotted with me throughout almost the entire process. I literally could not have finished this without you, and I am so thankful to have you in my life. You've helped me through so many cases of horrible Writer's Block, encouraged me whenever I needed it, and you're an amazing friend. I hope you love your "Barty and Evan's Bitch" shirt :D

Second, to my wife, who literally dealt with me talking about this fic for TEN MONTHS. You're literally the most amazing and supportive person in my life, and I love you more than words. Thank you for being the James to my Regulus.

Third, to my Beta Reader, Kat, who is still wading through the trenches of this fic finding all my mistakes. I am so glad to have you and thank you for dealing with all of my errors and answering my messages at odd hours of the night.

Fourth, to all of the people who have encouraged me: Abby, Danielle, Kelz, everyone on the discord servers who has seen me struggle, you guys are amazing and I am so thankful to you.

Fifth, to the lovely people who created fanart for this fic. You all are amazing and you brought this to life. I bow down to you, truly, you are so incredibly talented.

Sixth, to the people who I interviewed about dysphoria and being on T, so I could have a more well-rounded understanding about Regulus's experience. Though I identify as trans, I am so thankful that other trans people were willing to give their experiences in areas I wanted to describe as accurately as possible.

And last, to all of you, who read and kudosed and inboxed and recommended and commented and kept me going. You all are amazing, and you've made this such a positive experience. This fic really was for me, to work through my own gender an discover about myself, and I am so thankful you have been here along this journey.

I want to reiterate that this is one trans person's journey, but I think it's so important to have representation in all forms of media. I'm hoping that my version of Reggie has helped with that a little bit! He's my baby, and he deserves all the good things.

Keep an eye out for the B-sides of this fic! I'll add a chapter to this work linking to it, so if you're subscribed to this, you'll get an e-mail. I'll also be editing this work to fix all the errors, and I'll be doing the B-sides as I go. It probably won't be for a couple of weeks, since I am now working, and I won't have any strict posting schedule, but I'm excited for those as well!

I love you all. Thanks for being a part of this journey.

[queenshelby]

The Accident (Part One)

Pairing: Reader & Cillian Murphy

Warning: Accident, Child Birth, Abuse, Religious Themes

Thank you @blondie-22 for this amazing idea!

The streets of Dublin buzzed with life. Cars were honking, pedestrians chatting, and the distant sound of laughter echoing against the stone buildings.

As you navigated through the chaos to attend one of your medical appointments that day, your thoughts were cloaked in a heavy fog of fear and regret.

With each bump of the road, you felt the weight of your current situation settling deeper into your chest, an anchor pulling you down.

“Is this all there is to my life?” you muttered under your breath, the question steeped in resignation as you were pregnant again and due to deliver your second child. You had dreamed of freedom, laughter, and love, dreams that now felt like whispers of someone else’s life.

The cityscape blurred as you maneuverer through the crowded streets, a painful reminder of all you had sacrificed.

“What if I run away from all this?” you thought to yourself, but just as quickly as this thought appeared in your mind, fear clutched at your heart. “Was it even possible and, if it was, where would you go?” you questioned yourself. You weren’t even meant to be here, in this country and you had no insurance, no visa, no rights.

Suddenly, a blaring horn sliced through your contemplation.

Bam! The jarring collision jolted you as your car jerked to a halt. "Fuck!" you cursed as you gripped the steering wheel, a wave of pain radiating from your abdomen. A moment of shock enveloped you. You glanced up to see the other driver, a sharp-dressed man with striking blue eyes, scrambling out of his car.

“What the hell were you thinking?” you shouted, pushing the door open and stepping onto the asphalt, your heart racing. Every nerve in your body was tingling with adrenaline and distress.

His voice was raised over the noise of traffic. “I’m sorry! I was—” He ran a hand through his gray-streaked hair, obviously flustered. “I was distracted!”

“Distracted? By what?” you retorted, biting back your anger as the stranger looked down at your swollen stomach, not bothering to answer your question.

“Are you okay?” the stranger asked as he took a step closer, his eyes widening. "We should probably get you to a hospital," he said, seeing how you were at least seven or eight months pregnant. "You need to get checked out," he told you but you shook your head.

"That's not necessary, just give me your insurance details," you snapped, feeling no worse than you did earlier that day.

He hesitated, clearly conflicted. “Look, I’m really sorry,” he said, his voice softer now, the concern in his eyes apparent. “I will give you my insurance details, but I think you really need to get checked out because you are pregnant," you could hear the tremor in his voice.

“I am fine, but I am also in a rush, so can you just give me your details," you reiterated as frustrations poured out like a dam bursting.

“Please, I—” he began, but you cut him off, the rising pain in your abdomen drawing your focus. A tightening sensation gripped you, radiating outwards like ripples in a pond.

“Shit!” The breath left your lungs as what felt like an actual contraction surged through you. You doubled over slightly, clutching your belly, eyes wide with panic.

The stranger’s demeanor changed instantly. “I will call an ambulance," he announced, but you grasped his wrist and shook your head.

“No!” You spat out, rising back to your full height, anger battling with the pain. “No ambulance," you insisted, your voice strained. “I can’t...fuck," you cursed as, suddenly, you felt a pop inside, a desperate prelude to the reality settling in. You were going into labor—now, and fast.

“What do you mean, you can’t?” His voice was insistent. You caught a glimpse of genuine concern twisting with urgency in those piercing blue eyes.

"I mean I can't!" you shouted, throwing your hands up in frustration. “You have to help me!”

“Help you? How? I’m not—” he stammered, fumbling with his phone, glancing back and forth between you and the device as if it could conjure a solution as he watched your water break, your breaths coming out in labored breaths.

“Just focus, will you?” you snapped, the urgency in your tone stopping him mid-thought. “You hit me! You deal with it!”

"I am calling a fucking ambulance, if you like it or not," he insisted, the panic pushing through as he stepped closer again and guided you towards your car. “You need to stay calm,” he said, trying to exude a confidence he didn't quite feel. “Just breathe with me, okay?”

You snatched your gaze up to meet his and for a brief moment, the emotional chaos unfurled like a ribbon between you; there was fear, pain, and something that echoed with unspoken possibility. You swallowed hard, trying to chase away the rising tide of panic.

“Don’t you dare leave me alone” you started, but another layer of pain sliced through you, cutting off your protest as you watched the stranger call the ambulance.

"Yes, she is defiantly in labor. Corner of O'Connell and Abbey Street. You need to hurry!" he spoke into the phone, his voice steadying with purpose. As he hung up and turned back to you, determination flashed in his eyes.

"It hurts so fucking much," you gasped, gripping the side of your car for support. Your knees felt weak, and the pavement beneath you was cold and unforgiving.

"I know it does." There was a calmness in his voice as he moved closely again, scanning the alley around you. "Can you walk? We should get out of the street."

You nodded slowly, though every step felt like trudging through molasses. The tightness in your abdomen ebbed and flowed, and before you could respond, another wave of pain surged through you.

“Breathe, just breathe. In and out,” he instructed softly, eyes locked onto yours. “I’m Cillian, by the way.”

“Great, now we’re on a first-name basis, huh?” you retorted, but there was a small semblance of humor piercing through the tension.

"I am Y/N," you gasped as he guided you towards a nearby alley, away from the cacophony of the street. The shadows cast by the old buildings felt oddly comforting, a temporary sanctuary from the chaos outside.

"Y/N, listen to me," Cillian said, his voice steady despite the circumstances. "You’re strong. You can do this."

You let out a weak laugh as another contraction rolled through you, shoving down the warmth rising from the connection you felt in those words. "I’ve never been strong," you gasped, clutching your belly. “I’m just… scared.” The truth slipped out, raw and unguarded amidst the chaos.

"Being scared isn't such a bad thing," Cillian replied, his brow furrowed in concentration. "It just means you're about to do something incredible. Let’s focus on what we can control. Can you tell me what you feel?"

Another wave hit, harder this time, sending a shudder down your spine. "It feels like…I can't explain it," you stuttered, struggling to keep your composure. “Like I need to push," you shook your head, tears threatening to spill over. "I can’t do this here. Not here! Please… I can’t."

He took a deep breath, grounding himself amidst the turmoil. “Y/N, look at me. We don’t have a lot of time. If you need to push, let’s get you in a position that helps.” His voice was calm, but it bore an urgency that broke through your fear.

“What do you know about childbirth?!” you practically yelled as another contraction washed over you, not even sure why you were so mad—perhaps it was instinct, or the result of the situation spiraling out of your control.

“Not much, but I've done this before, about sixteen years ago, when my wife went into labor unexpectedly," he replied, pretending to be confident even in the face of your escalating panic. He was a good actor, that's for sure, and he knew that what you needed the most right now was someone who alluded to calmness.

"Alright, fuck! Let's do this," you gasped as you reached beneath your dress to remove your undergarments and reposition yourself against the cool brick wall of the alley.

Cillian knelt beside you, his presence steady and reassuring. With a few quick breaths, he murmured "push when you need to okay?"

You nodded, and with each contraction, you could feel the reality of what was happening. The walls of the alley faded, and all that existed were the sounds of your heavy breaths and the warmth of Cillian’s encouragement beside you.

“Y/N, you’re doing great,” he said, a note of admiration creeping into his voice. “Just keep breathing. I’m here, okay?”

“Okay…” you gasped, trying to focus on his voice rather than the overwhelming pain. The sharp, twisting sensations rolled through your body, and instinct took over. You pushed.

“Good! Just like that!” Cillian encouraged, eyes fixed on you.

You gritted your teeth, squeezing your eyes shut as you bore down, feeling the fire behind the pain intensifying. “Shit! This hurts!” you cried out, the sound echoing off the brick walls.

“I know, I know! Just a bit more, Y/N,” Cillian urged, his hands steadying you as you leaned against the wall, the coolness against your skin somewhat soothing. “This is it! You’re doing it! Keep pushing, you’re almost there!”

The tension in your body coiled tighter as the next wave came crashing in, and with a primal instinct, you pushed again, feeling a surge of energy mingled with agony. A strangled scream tore from your lips.

“Come on! Just a bit more!” Cillian’s voice broke through the chaos, a beacon of hope.

With each push, you could feel the world narrowing down to just you and this moment, this life you were about to bring into the world. Finally, with one last, gut-wrenching effort, the pressure exploded outward.

"I can feel the head I think," Cillian encouraged, his voice barely a whisper as he leaned closer, intense focus etched across his features. “You’re almost there, Y/N!”

You gasped, struggles ebbing into a wild, raw energy that pushed through the exhaustion. “I can’t… I can’t,” you cried out, tears pooling as the sense of impending life overwhelmed you.

“Yes, you can,” he coaxed, unwavering.

With a determined breath, you clutched at the cold brick wall, grounding yourself as the pain peaked again. You pushed. A shout echoed down the alley, raw and primal, fueled by an instinct far deeper than the immediate ache.

Cillian’s hands were there, ready, steady. “That’s it! One more strong push, Y/N!”

This was the moment you had been waiting for, the glimpse of a brighter future despite the past's shadows looming over you.

“Push!” His voice rose with urgency, pushing you along with him.

And then, with a final forceful cry, you pushed once more, feeling the world blur around you. Darkness crept in at the edges of your vision, but you could hear Cillian’s voice, vibrant and reinforcing amid the chaos.

“Breathe, Y/N! Breathe!” he urged, and somehow, that single command kept you anchored.

Suddenly, you felt it: the unmistakable release as your baby slipped into the world. A rush of warmth enveloped you, and for a moment, the pain faded into the background, replaced by a wave of power and wonder.

With a final surge of energy, you felt your daughter’s small body leave yours entirely. A loud wail pierced the alley, sharp and full of life, echoing off the walls like a celebratory shout. You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, your heart racing not just with pain but with overwhelming relief.

"You’ve done it!” Cillian exclaimed, his voice breaking as he gently cradled the newborn in his hands. “It’s a girl!”

Your heart swelled as you glanced at the tiny being. Tears streamed down your face, a mix of exhaustion and joy flooding through you.

Without words Cillian took off his jumper and wrapped her up in it, having instantly recognized the importance of warmth. “She’s beautiful,” he said, his voice brimming with awe. You marveled at Cillian in this moment, so focused and competent, a stark contrast to the chaos and fear you knew from the life you were trying to escape.

You then broke out in tears , the full weight of everything crashing over you. “I…I can’t believe I just did that,” you whispered, struggling to catch your breath.

Cillian knelt beside you, cradling the swaddled newborn in his arms. “You did," he said softly, his eyes bright with admiration. “And she seems pretty perfect.”

As you gently touched your daughter’s cheek, a warmth spread through you, a flicker of hope igniting in your heart. “What do I…what do I do now?” you asked, your voice trembling with uncertainty.

“First, let’s get you both some medical attention. I am sure the ambulance is on it's way and they will take you to the hospital." Cillian said but that was not what you were thinking about.

“No hospital,” you said firmly, your heart racing at the thought. It was an instinctive refusal, a protective urge that coursed through your veins.

“Y/N, you need to be checked out,” Cillian replied, his voice a mix of concern and insistence. “You just delivered a baby in an alley. You’re going to need care. For you and her.”

“No hospital,” you repeated but the wail of sirens echoed through the streets already, drawing closer. Relief washed over you despite the circumstances. You turned your gaze back to the baby cradled in Cillian’s arms, her little face turned towards you, tiny fists waving in the air.

“She’s so perfect,” you murmured, awe weaving through your voice.

“She is,” Cillian confirmed, his eyes sparkling with pride. “What are you going to call her?" he asked and you quickly responded.

“Mika.” The name slipped out of your mouth before you fully realized it was the one you had secretly cherished. “Mika… it means ‘new moon ,’” you whispered, hoping that with your second daughter having been born, you would find a way to new beginnings.

Cillian's gaze softened, understanding the significance. “A beautiful name for a beautiful girl,” he said gently just as the ambulance screeched to a halt at the mouth of the alley, its lights flashing an urgent dance of red and blue.

“See? Help is here,” Cillian said, glancing up as the paramedics jumped from the vehicle, faces serious but efficient.

You held your breath, part of you hesitant to let go of this moment—the intimacy of the alley, the fragile life cradled between you, and the bond you had formed with this stranger less than an hour ago. But reality swirled around you, heavy and looming.

“Okay,” you conceded, your voice barely a whisper. You took a shaky breath, rejuvenated by a flicker of spirit. “I’ll go with them to get checked out," you told Cillian who seemed instantly please.

“Good,” Cillian said, a small smile breaking through the worry etched on his face.

The paramedics approached, two women with kind but focused expressions, as you shifted from Cillian to their care. One of them knelt beside you, her tone warm and reassuring. “Hi there! You did such an amazing job. Let’s see that little one,” she said, her hands expertly taking Mika into her arms before turning to you, “and let’s make sure you’re feeling alright too.”

Cillian stepped back slightly, allowing the paramedics to assist. “It was nice meeting you Y/N,” he said, the pride and relief in his eyes shining through before he asked the paramedics which hospital they were taking you to.

You glanced up at him, the weight of everything beating hard in your chest. “Thank you, Cillian,” you said softly, ache filling your voice as you realized how much more than just a stranger he had been to you in the chaos. "I couldn't have done it without you," you said and Cillian held your gaze, his blue eyes flickering with an intensity you couldn’t quite understand.

“You did everything, Y/N. I just happened to be there,” he replied, his tone earnest and protective. "I will visit you and Mika at the hospital later if that's okay," he then added, his words filled with genuine concern.

"Really?" you asked, a mix of surprise and gratitude washing over you. It felt strange to have someone who cared, especially after everything you had endured.

"Of course. I want to make sure you both are okay," he nodded, his expression serious.

The paramedic gently placed Mika into your arms, a fresh wave of overwhelming emotion coursing through you as you cradled her. She was so small, so fragile, and full of life. “You’ll be okay, little one,” you whispered, tears brimming again as you gazed down at her while the stranger quietly disappeared from the scene, attending some matters relating the accident as police too arrived and began to take statements from those involved and you wondered whether you would ever see him again.

"It's not every day an Oscar winner delivers your child now, is it?" one of the paramedics said teasingly after Cillian had disappeared and you did not know what she was talking about.

"What do you mean?" you asked she was already helping you into the ambulance with Mika swaddled close to your chest.

“Cillian Murphy? The guy who just helped you deliver your daughter," the paramedic explained, her voice tinged with excitement. “He’s a big deal around here. You're lucky!"

You blinked, momentarily stunned but didn't really care. You haven't watched a movie in years, and you most certainly did not feel lucky about the situation you were in.

Your life was a mess. It was awful and complicated, but as you sat in the ambulance, the warmth of Mika against you felt like the first tender thread pulling you from the darkness.

Tags:

@sunbeamseas @saint-ackerman @oatmealisweird @naxxsstuff @amanda08319 @r-m-cidnah @elysiannook @cillshot @infireddabdab @tastycakee @harrysbestiee @lilybabe22 @adalynlowell @henrywintersdearestgirl @ietss @thatgirlthatreadswattpad @ryiamarie @axionn

@nela-cutie @futurecorps3 @delishen @nosebleeds-247 @thirteenis-myluckynumber @gills-lounge @hjmalmed @lost-fantasy @tiredkitten @sidechrisporn @smallsoulunknown @charqing-qing @hopefulinlove @aporiasposts @shycrybaby @me-and-your-husband @hjmalmed @lacontroller1991 @galxydefender @aporiasposts

@galxydefender @hunnibearrr @saint-ackerman @lunyyx @gentlemonsterjennie1 @ihavealotoffandomssorry @nadloves @lost-fantasy @nolucesn@mcavoy-girl @hjmalmed @bloodybagels @obeyme4life @richiesgroupie @blushykiss @tatumrileyslover @teawithsatanx @orijanko @rhaenyra4ever @xcinnamonmalfoyx @budugu @nadloves @kmc1989 @bloodybagels @obeyme4life @richiesgroupie @forgottenpeakywriter @smailaway @sophiaaguirred @blondie-22

[bird-inacage]

Love Sea Episode 10 | The Fight (Micro-expressions + Mini Meta)

Peat and Fort did brilliantly in this scene. I wanted to pick out some of their micro-expressions to analyse in more detail.

1 - Just after Mut tells Rak he loves him, he's visibly taken aback, he looks crushed and frantic and helpless - 'Why did you have to get your feelings into the open? Why couldn't we have continued to play house without me having to confront my feelings? Why?' Rak is confused and crestfallen as to why Mut has chosen to shatter the bubble they've been existing in. Why is this necessary?

2 - Mut can't help his frustration. He's decided to put all his cards out on the table, and still Rak is choosing avoidance, to deny, to hide, to escape. Mut's played along until now, but he's so sick and tired of it. His attempts to be fully transparent, always lead to a rebuttal, Rak's unwillingness to concede, to compromise. Mut's anger comes from a place of 'you leave me no choice'.

3 - You can hear the gears grinding in Rak's brain when Mut reiterates that he was never after the money. His mind is going into overdrive. He's questioning. He's thinking 'but this isn't possible'. Despite being aware of Mut feelings, he can't face them because it forces him to recognise his own. And he just can't, he's scared shitless and he just doesn't know how.

4 - Just after Mut says 'let me love you', you can see the intensity of compassion and concern flit across his face. He softens. His eyes are searching, wanting. He so badly needs Rak to open up to him fully. There's hope and vulnerability - 'please accept my love, please. I'm trying so hard, I'm trying. Give me something, anything.'

5 - Rak is fighting with himself. He's conflicted, guilty, torn that he's been put on the spot against his will. He's dealing with the realisation that he will hurt Mut, and he doesn't have the stomach for it. You can see the second he decides to muster up the courage, decides to do the cruel but necessary thing. In this moment, Rak's fight or flight response is telling him to choose himself, which means he has to hurt Mut instead. It's the only way. 'You forced my hand'.

6 - Mut doesn't often exhibit outbursts of hurt but he does here. He's incensed. Rak's callousness is insult to injury. 'Perhaps you were never capable of loving me, but don't throw my love for you back in my face'. I think Mut is also making a last ditch effort to emphasise that he's not going to change his mind. Once his feelings are out there, that's it. Regardless of whether Rak loves him back or not, it doesn't change how he feels. This is the power of his conviction.

7 - This is super subtle, but you see the light diminish from Rak's eyes. He almost goes lifeless from the inside out. He deflates. Any active turmoil that was there is now replaced by resignation, by acceptance. It's sinking in what he's done and the realisation there's no going back and he has to make peace with it.

8 - Mut's final retort is painfully self-deprecating, that little chin tilt of 'How foolish I was to think I could have nice things. You've just proved to me once again how asking for things only indicates how wildly undeserving I am. I know my place, and that's where I'll return to'.

[awarmcupofmilk]

Gojo x reader "The Thing About Love"

summary: gojo broke up with you. what now?

content warnings: breakup/sad, angst, deviations from gojo’s past arc

word count: 736

note: hi lovelies, a short one for y'all today! Let me know if you want a part 2

© 2024 awarmcupofmilk

please don’t repost, edit, translate, use, or copy my works on any platforms (if you’d really like to please reach out – reblogs are welcome)

When it ended, it didn’t really. 

How could it have ended, when you were still texting paragraphs begging him to stay?

How could it have ended, when he was still replying to every single one? Your golden first love. Everything you ever wanted. 

What do you do when the thing you want the most doesn’t want you back? What do you do when he does and still won’t do a thing to keep you?

✧✧✧

When Gojo broke up with you, you weren’t surprised. It only takes so many fights for love to break. 

Except you still couldn’t breathe when you looked at him. 

You stayed calm when you asked jokingly, “You’re not breaking up with me, are you?” and he didn’t respond. 

You stilled yourself when he sat you down and started his spiel. “I just want you to know that none of this was your fault. And it wasn’t because of this trip (wasn’t it though? You had fought the entire week). I just don’t feel we’re right for each other.”

You forced yourself to smile. Sadly, because that was appropriate, but smile all the same. “Okay,” you said. Because what else could you have said? 

There was the one thing. 

“It’s just, I love you,” you said, softly. You were resigned.

Until he made a face you’d never seen before. It was the most in pain you’d ever seen him. Oh, how much he still loved you. 

“I love you, too,” he said, eyes watering, face contorted. 

And then you had to hug him, wrap around him the way you did, fit him as perfectly as it had been the first time. You hoped he could feel the way your bodies were meant for one another, and the physical evidence would be enough to keep him. He sobbed into the crook of your neck and kissed every inch of your shoulder. You thought you convinced him. 

But then he pulled away and looked at you, and you knew you’d convinced him of nothing. 

✧✧✧

Everything you could have done flooded you that night. Panic overwhelmed you as the end set in. You fought for your love. You had to. You always did and he always came back.  You clung to him in the hotel bed, and you thought the fact that he didn’t force you out was proof that he didn’t really want this. He still loved you. You knew that. You just had to convince him that was enough. 

“I love you,” you said, over and over. “I love you.” And he said it back, every single time. So the two of you passed the entire night this way, sobbing and professing your love, holding each other so tightly your breaths caught in synchroneity. 

In the morning he got up before you. You clutched at the sheets and something in you emptied when all you seized was fabric. You knew he hadn’t left, not yet, because you had a flight to catch together back to Tokyo. But the fact that he wasn’t there to kiss you good morning cemented in your mind that he was already gone. 

Still you had to try. 

Insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and hoping for a different result. But you were in love. 

“I love you,” you sobbed. “Can’t we just try again?”

“Not this time.” His words should have snuffed all hope in you, but his voice cracked from the octave he chose, and you knew he was getting weak from your tears. 

“Please? Please.” You reiterated it over and over, crying so hard you felt you were drowning. 

“I’ll do better,” you said. A misstep. It gave him an excuse. 

“It’s not about you, though,” he went firm.  “We can do better, then,” you sobbed. You couldn’t breathe. Hiccups overcame you and it made you want to laugh as much as the frustration made you weep harder. 

“No,” he shook his head. So full of mourning. How could you let him go like this? How could he do this when he was so obviously in love with you?

“Please.”

“I’m sorry.”

You hated when he apologized. You hated that he meant it, and you hated how it changed nothing. 

“I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

So you were at an impasse, it seemed. You loved him, and that was enough. He loved you, and that wasn’t. 

What could you do now?

✧ Masterlist ✧

[blindmagdalena]

Resignation

Summary: 18+ 1.5k homelander x reader, established relationship, dirty talk, thigh riding, grinding.

After you have a particularly rough day at work, Homelander offers you some sound career advice, and a little stress relief.

spiritual successor to Customer Service, but stands alone. this is for everyone who's sick of this capitalist hellscape, and the crummy jobs we're forced to work to survive. not proofread, we die like men. 🖤

Another day, another dollar, another near meltdown.

You spend most of your commute home trying to pull yourself together. After the day you’ve had at work, the last thing you need to do is burst into tears before you even made it home. It’s taking everything in you to keep it at bay.

There’s just something about you that apparently screams Hey! Abuse me! in the workplace.

At least you’ve got something to look forward to when you get home.

Or rather, someone.

“I’m home,” you announce tiredly, stepping inside. You kick your shoes off, and despite your mood, you smile at the pair of tall red boots that sit next to them. It took some convincing to get him to take them off consistently, but ever since he’s started spending more and more time hiding out at your place, you’ve insisted on some ground rules

“Living room,” Homelander calls back.

Walking in, you find him crouched in the living room, staring at your cat with a level of intensity you’re not sure what to make of. “Uh, something going on here?”

“Yep,” he answers evenly. “Asserting dominance.”

You watch your cat blink slowly before lazily rising, stretching into a wide yawn, and hopping down to greet you. Homelander stands, scoffing triumphantly. “I won.”

“Uh-huh,” you give back distractedly, bending down to scritch your cat's ears.

“Hey, what’s up?” He asks, frowning as he approaches. “Your eyes are all red.”

“Hard day,” you tell him, readily accepting his encroaching embrace. You sink easily into his arms, noting that his gloves are off today. That’s new. You slip your arms around his neck, your body tired and heavy as you trust him with the full weight of it. He holds you up effortlessly.

He exhales a huff of hot air right by your ear that gives you goosebumps. “Quit,” he says, his voice set low.

“That’s what you always say.” “Because I mean it,” he shoots back fiercely, pulling away to meet your gaze. “Quit. Fuck those assholes already. You don’t need them. You have me,” he says, reiterating a conversation the two of you have had at least a dozen times now.

Money is nothing to him. He could buy you out for three times your salary for the rest of your life with his pocket change.

“I can’t just not work,” you say, pulling your hands down from his neck to lay flush on his chest. “I need my job.”

“The only thing you need is me,” he stresses again, kissing you. He always feels like he’s restraining himself when he touches you, holding himself back from moving too hard, too fast, from devouring. It’s thrilling to lose yourself in. “Why do you insist on tormenting yourself?

Stomach fluttering, you can’t help but laugh at the slight petulance that slips into his voice. “Because if I give up and let you take care of me, you might get bored, and then I’ll have nothing,” you say, and though you mean to make a joke of it, to fill your voice with playful whimsy, the confession lands harder than you expected it to. You’re tired, you’re stretched thin, and as your own words sink in, you realize just how bad it’s gotten.

Homelander withdraws, leveling you with a look that confirms it: that wasn’t a joke, and neither of you are amused.

You blink several times, suddenly speechless. “I…” You realize your eyes are burning again, and with every blink, your vision gets more bleary. “I just meant…”

“Do you really believe that?” He asks, his brows pinched.

“No,” you answer reflexively, voice too sharp even to your ears. “No, not that… I don’t know, I was trying to make a joke, but maybe… I don’t know. I get scared sometimes,” you say carefully, trying desperately not to spill the tears gathering in your eyes. “That someday I’m not going to be enough because y–”

His lips meet yours before you can continue, muffling the rest of your sentence. His hands are impossibly warm as they sweep up your back, eventually cupping either side of your neck. He kisses you like he’s starving, like he needs the taste of you to breathe, like he would die without you. He kisses you until your brain feels foggy and there’s a dull throb between your legs.

“You’re ridiculous,” he all but growls against your lips, thumbs stroking your cheeks. “I’m not going to get bored. Good fucking luck getting out of this one,” he says, slipping a hand to the back of your neck and squeezing for emphasis. You shiver, your tears lost in the wake of the slow rolling heat moving through your body. “Besides, you know damn well you’re the one who’ll be taking care of me.”

You can feel his smirk against your lips, and you laugh unexpectedly, the sound of it bordering on the sob you had very nearly fallen to. “You need a babysitter now?”

“Why, are we roleplaying? That’s pretty naughty,” he purrs.

“Stop it,” you laugh, pushing his face away, but he doesn’t relent. 

“What? Sexy babysitter could be fun,” he says, kissing a trail up your neck.

“Pervert,” you accuse, turning your face to kiss him. He accepts greedily, tongue slipping between your lips. You sigh a soft moan into his mouth, which only encourages his hands to wander even more, eventually settling on your ass. Without warning, he grabs tight and hauls you up, hitching your legs around his waist, swallowing up the startled gasp you give.

He settles down onto the couch, and maneuvers you until you’re straddling his thigh. You can feel the magnitude of his strength thrumming between your legs, pressed up tight against that same throbbing heat he ignited in you with those fervent kisses.

Cupping your face, he pulls you down for more of the same.

“Go ahead,” he says against your lips, his own curved into a gloating smile. “Grind. I can smell how bad you want it.” His voice is low, as coarse and sweet as raw sugar. His words hit you like a punch to the gut, worsening the pulse of your need.

Immediately, you start to rock your hips, grinding down against him. He rewards you with a hand on your thigh, squeezing as it slides slowly higher, his thumb skirting along your inner thigh. “No more stress,” he murmurs, the words warm on your lips. “No more tears. Just you… with me… mine.”

The way he rumbles that word against your ear sends a shiver trilling up and down your spine, the heat at the center of you spiraling up, up, up, blossoming throughout your entire body. He flexes his thigh and gives you one sharp little bounce on it, wringing a moan out of you. You roll your hips faster, tightly clenching your thighs on either side of his. You push both hands up into his hair and hold on tight, panting into the crook of his neck.

Homelander slips both hands back to your ass, gives a generous squeeze while he helps your body move, rolling it in time with the way he flexes and occasionally bucks his thigh against you. “Say it. Say you’ll quit, and you’ll be all mine,” he demands softly, grip flexing on you. There’s a neediness at the edges of his voice. “Give me that. Give me you.”

You screw your eyes shut, keening breathlessly. The grind of fabric against sensitive skin is almost too much, too dry, but it’s fucking good, too. You’re getting wetter and wetter, losing yourself to the relentless pace he sets for you, and the hungry way he kisses at your throat. 

“C’mon. Give it up. Give me everything. M’never letting you go,” he pants, at which point you realize he’s also grinding against your leg. The arousal–the sheer animalistic need–in his voice makes your stomach flip, and with one last shuddering noise, you’re coming against his leg, moaning loud in his ear as the wave of pleasure slowly wrings out every last bit of tension that you had been holding onto.

You collapse against him, your arms hanging limply around his neck. He nuzzles at your jaw, kissing a trail to your lips. You reciprocate lazily, your eyes closed as you luxuriate in the aftershocks of the unexpected release.

“Quit,” he whispers persistently, lips pressed to the corner of your mouth. “We’ll take care of each other.”

“This is playing dirty,” you slur, feeling stupefied in your post-orgasm haze.

“Oh, I’m just getting started,” he says, taking your hand from around his neck, and slipping it between his legs. You bite your tongue. Christ, he runs fucking hot. Even through the fabric of his suit, you can feel the throb of his cock. “You’re gonna be writing your resignation letter in my cum by the end of the night.”

You make a sound somewhere between a laugh and an unsteady moan, clenching against his thigh. “Okay,” you say, lifting your head to kiss him. “Prove it.”

Much to Homelander’s delight, you submit your notice of resignation the very next day.

[diazsdimples]

Buck/Eddie - “Why haven’t you kissed me yet?”

You got it boss 🫡

"Why haven't you kissed me yet?" Eddie does his best not to whine as he pokes Buck in the side, but it's getting increasingly more difficult. He's been awake for 5 whole minutes, on his birthday, and Buck still has not kissed him! "Eds," Buck groans, his voice muffled as he lies face first in his pillow. "It's the middle of the damn night." "But it's my birthday," Eddie says as he shakes Buck's arm, trying to rouse his unacceptably sleepy boyfriend. "And it's not the middle of the night, it's 7am." "Exactly, the middle of the night," Buck reiterates as he pushes himself onto his elbows. His hair is rumpled and sticking up at odd ends, making him look a little like he's just stuck his finger in an electric socket, and his cheeks are pink and rosy from sleep. Eddie can wholeheartedly say Buck has never been cuter than he is right now. "What kind of weirdo wakes up at 7am on their birthday anyway. You're meant to sleep in." Eddie huffs and flops back against his pillows, resigning himself to the horrible fate of not receiving birthday kisses. "Maybe I woke up because I was excited to have a fun day." "We will have a fun day," Buck yawns. He rolls onto his side, facing Eddie, and stretches out his arm to draw small circles onto Eddie's ribs. Eddie used to be extremely ticklish before he met Buck, and it had taken a lot of training before Buck could even touch his sides without Eddie bursting out into giggles and batting his hands away. Now, it just feels... nice. Comforting, even. Buck touching him will always make him feel safe. "Just let me sleep for a little longer and I promise I'll give you all the kisses in the world." Eddie shifts so he's on his side too. "You promise?" he asks, taking Buck's hand and lacing their fingers together. Buck squeezes gently as he rubs his thumb over Eddie's knuckles. "I promise," he confirms. "Just give me another hour." Eddie's lucky it's only an hour, on their days off Buck usually won't surface until 10am and it takes an extra hour on top of that - assuming he gets his coffee on time - to be up for human interaction. "Okay," Eddie agrees. "One more hour." Buck smiles, soft and gentle, just like the morning sun, and rolls back onto his stomach, bunching up his pillow once again. "Thanks, Eds." An hour isn't too long. Eddie can wait an hour. If he closes his eyes and employs one of the relaxation techniques he learnt in therapy, he might even manage to get back to sleep. Although... "Hey Buck?" Buck stirs and opens one eye, looking at Eddie blearily through his eyelashes. Fuck, he really is the cutest thing alive. "Yeah baby?" "You still haven't kissed me yet."

Send me a ship and a sentence and I'll finish it!

Also tagging @theotherbuckley cause she wanted to be tagged sdkfjskdf

[nolita-fairytale]

don't want to walk alone | carmen 'carmy' berzatto x fem!reader | chapter five: the honeymoon pt. 2

summary: you and carmy enjoy the last few days of your mini-moon.

warnings: light smut, husband!carmy who comes with a warning label of his own, swearing, lots of tooth rotting fluff, marriage, no use of y/n, second person pov, she/her pronouns

wc: 3.2k

listen to: the official don't want to walk alone playlist (mentioned song - lizzy mcalpine's 'dancing queen' cover)

a/n: hi cuties. here is part two of the honeymoon in chicago. i will be writing an epilogue to finish out this series, then my focus will be back on the world of 'burn your life down.' please enjoy all of this fluffy, lovey dovey content because these two deserve.

part four | masterlist | epilogue

This feels right, you think to yourself, stretching out in the abnormally large bath tub that overlooks the Chicago River. This being the bath, your honeymoon, the non-stop sex between you and your insatiable husband. 

You’re up to your shoulders in bubbles, the temperature of the water just the right amount of hot, and you’ve got to admit that you need a recovery bath from the last night or so. 

“You gonna join me in here or what?” you ask Carmy, a flirtatious smile on your face as you steal a glance his way. 

He sits facing you, a few inches away on the floor of the bathroom, the sketchbook that you got him as a wedding gift laying in his lap as he continues to make furious strokes with one of the wildly-expensive-yet-worth-it pens that you purchased in addition to the sketchbook. 

“Nah,” Carmy exhales, the corners of his lips curving up into a smile as he looks at you like you might disappear. “I just wanna look at you a little longer.”

“I know it’s kind of our thing now. But maybe tomorrow night?” he offers up, half apologetically. You shake your head, as if to let him know it’s no problem, and Carmy returns his attention over to what he’s sketching. 

“Watcha workin’ on over there?” you ask, curiously, in reference to the broad strokes of pen on paper that you can hear. 

“It’s a surprise,” he answers almost too quickly, his focus unbroken as he keeps his head down, buried in whatever it is he’s drawing. 

You inhale deeply, letting out your breath on an even deeper exhale and it feels as if you’re melting into the warm bubbles that surround you. 

“I’m just glad you’re drawing again. You always seem to light up when you do it,” you sigh, settling into the comfort of your bath, even though you now have to accept that Carmy won’t be joining you tonight. 

You close your eyes, listening to the sound of your bubble bath playlist that plays over the speakers of your phone – the easily recognizable voice of Leon Bridges filling your ears as your shoulders relax. 

“Why don’t you draw something? For our next tattoo,” you suggest, your eyes beginning to close. 

“God, I love you so much,” is Carmy’s reply, without missing a beat. 

Opening one eye, you sit up slightly to get a good look at Carmy, shooting a quizzical look his way. 

“Well, yeah. But are you referencing anything in particular this time?” you giggle, peering over the edge of the tub in hopes of getting a look at what he’s sketching. Carmy tuts, clutching the sketchbook close to his chest so that he’s sure you can’t see. 

The two of you exchange a look, then a laugh, before you resign yourself, sinking back into the tub. Carmy can’t take his eyes off of you, watching you close yours. He looks down at his sketchbook, the image of you in the bathtub, your hair tied up in a messy bun on top of your head beginning to take shape on the page. With deep blue eyes full of love, he finally answers your previous question with:

“You encourage me to dream, baby.” 

A beat. 

“It’s one of the many reasons I love you.”

You inhale again, peeking one eye open just for a moment as you grin.

“I love you too, Bear. So, so much.” 

You take another breath, and a beat, before reiterating, “And I meant what I said. You should draw something for our next tattoo.”

“You really want my scribbles on your body forever?” he asks, skeptically, completely discrediting the talent that you know he knows he has. 

“I married you, didn’t I?” you shoot back with a shrug. 

He snorts out a laugh, shaking his head incredulously. 

“Don’t know if that’s the same.”

“Seriously, Bear. I know we talked about maybe adding some ink to mark this chapter of our relationship… but I really want you to draw it. You don’t have to make up your mind now but, just think about it, okay?” you continue, this time opening both of your eyes to look at him – just so he knows that you mean it. 

“Sure,” he nods hesitantly. “Uh… yeah. I’ll think about it.”

You hum along to your playlist as the song changes, and Carmy returns his attention to his sketchbook, stealing glances your way as he continues to work on his drawing of you. You swear you’ve slipped into the kind of relaxed state that yogis traveling to an ashram for the first time can only dream of, as both you and Carmy settle into a comfortable and quiet rhythm. 

Carmy hasn’t felt this inspired in a long time – noting that he hasn’t felt this relaxed in a long time either – and he’s more than willing to admit that it’s all the love (and all the sex, because it’s certainly not hurting) that’s sparked this creative kick. He was nervous before, before checking into the hotel earlier today, that maybe he wouldn’t be able to relax – the idea of going to the spa with you tomorrow is still absolutely terrifying – but it’s moments like these that remind him that he may not be so bad at this whole relaxing thing after all. 

It could be minutes, hours, days when you decide to get out of the tub – having lost track of time entirely since you checked in at the Langham hotel. Without saying anything, you pull the plug on the bathtub, allowing it to drain as you stand up, grabbing for the fluffy, plush white hotel towel. 

And you know that you could put on a robe, just like Carmy, but you have a better idea. 

You’ve been saving the little white slip dress that Natalie bought you for just the right moment, and you think this might be it. You can feel Carmy’s eyes on you as you disappear from the bathroom, leaving him where he sits on the floor, and back into the bedroom in search of where you hung the slip dress earlier this evening. 

You wonder how long it will take – if he’ll follow you back into the bedroom – but he doesn’t, so you take your time drying off. The white slip dress slides off of its hanger easily. You pull it over your head, allowing it to settle gently over your frame, noticing just how softly it drapes over your figure. 

Nat really nailed it with this one, you think to yourself, the pads of your feet hitting the ground as you head back into the bathroom to hang up your robe. 

Carmy’s gotten up off the floor, having carefully set his sketchbook down on the long counter, confident in the way he stands, waiting for you. He watches you like a hawk as you begin hanging your robe on the back of the door, a smirk beginning to form on his face. 

“What?” you ask, because you know exactly what he’s thinking without even having to look at him. 

“Nothin,” he answers, cheekily.

As you turn around, Carmy’s taking a step towards you. You busy yourself with taking your hair back down, watching your reflection in the mirror as Carmy approaches, coming up behind you. You can feel his hands slide along your hips, pulling you towards him as he begins to leave soft kisses on the tops of your shoulders. 

“Jus’ wanted to let you know how beautiful you are,” he mumbles in between kisses, pressing his hips against your ass. “That’s all.” 

“That’s all? You’re insatiable, Carm. You know that?” you ask him with a giggle, watching him in the mirror this time. 

“Oh come on,” he counters you. “You knew exactly what you were doing.” You moan as soon as you feel one of his hands bunching up the material of your dress, his lips curving into a smile against your skin as he hears you. “Putting this on for me.” 

“Baby,” you sigh happily, beginning to understand just how fun a honeymoon is supposed to be. 

“This feels familiar, doesn’t it?” he begins to tease you, moving your hair to one side of your neck.

“Remember when we snuck into a dressing room…” he continues you, his piercing blue eyes bearing into your soul through the mirror image – just like that night. “... during the James Beard Awards…” 

“How could I forget?” you gasp, his teeth nipping at the soft skin of your neck. “It was Syd’s first win and neither of us could wait till we got home.”

You remember it well, especially now, as Carmy begins to grind his hips into your ass, his eyes pleading with you in the reflection, begging you to let him fuck you. 

“Friday night and the lights are low…”

You smile, as soon as you recognize the lyrics to one of your favorite songs. Only this time, it’s nothing like the version you and your best friends sang at karaoke night, this version done as an intimate, acoustic singer-songwriter cover. Carmy’s hands are patient, slowly exploring your body as you turn around to face him, surprising him as you wrap your arms around his neck. 

He sends you a questioning look and you smile back as you lean in, placing your mouth over his in a messy kiss. 

“I love this song,” you whisper against his lips, pulling him in for another kiss as you press your body closer to his. “Dance with me, Carm.”

“Yeah?” he asks, with a single, amused raised eyebrow. 

“Yeah,” you answer with a smirk. “I’ll make it worth your while.” 

Instead of answering (or protesting, considering he had his sights set on fucking you up against the bathroom counter), he just embraces you, holding you close to him as the two of you sway back and forth to the song, exchanging heated kisses. It’s here, in the midst of a push and pull of desire, dressed in a fluffy white bathrobe and the slip dress his sister bought you, that you and Carmy have your first dance as man and wife. 

It’s exchanged kisses, teasing remarks, and eager hands till the very end of the song, both of your feet coming to a halt, too consumed with the passionate makeout that Carmy’s engaged you in this time. Your hands travel to where his robe is tied closed, beginning to open it as your breathing picks up. 

“Think we can count that as a first dance?” Carmy asks, in between kisses, his lips moving at a feverish, more desperate pace this time. 

“Definitely,” you reply, the softness in his eyes matched so well with the softness of the music. It’s then that you kiss him again, your mouth beginning to trial south every time you return to him. 

“Baby,” he moans, as he watches you kiss lower and lower, anticipating what comes next. 

“Said I’d make it worth your while. And right now, I want to go down on my husband,” you rasp, your voice low and sultry as you drop to your knees. 

Carmy moans as soon as he feels your mouth on him, your tongue coming out just to taste the tip of him. His right hand tangles in your hair, beginning to grasp at the back of your head as he lets out a:

“Fuck.”

———————————

Your vintage lace slip dress, plucked from the ground where it was carelessly thrown the night before, and Carmy’s denim jacket draped over your shoulders. 

That’s what he wakes up to, Carmy, your husband, as you climb back onto the bed, having left your brown paper bag filled with all kinds of goodies on the nightstand next to him. 

It may seem silly, bringing his denim jacket considering you barely planned on leaving the room, but he brought it for moments like this, when he knew you’d inevitably want to wear something of his while heading down to explore the rest of the hotel. 

“Think you’ll even need that?” you’d asked as you watched him pack his bag for this weekend. 

“Gotta be prepared, babe. You’ve been stealing my clothes since day one,” he had pointed out, making it clear that he was only packing options at this point. You’d giggled, making a comment about how considerate your then-husband-to-be was and a declaration that you were nothing if not consistent. 

“Good morning, my love,” you say as you climb onto the bed, settling at the foot. 

Carmy just smiles dreamily, his curls a wild, beautiful mess, as he sits up, reaching for your hands so that he can pull you over him. You smile, leaving a quick good morning kiss on his lips as you mutter something about morning breath. 

“Fuck off. You love me,” he teases in response, laying back down. 

“Fuck off. I do,” you parrot him, nodding happily, as you settle over him, straddling his hips. 

With your hands still in his, Carmy brings your conjoined hands up to his lips, leaving a kiss to each knuckle, his eyes fixed to yours, his focus unbroken. He smirks, seeing you in his denim jacket, just like he predicted. It looks damn good on you and there’s something so primal about the way he feels when you wear his clothes – the fact that you’d showcase to the world that you’re his stirs something inside of him that feels intoxicating.

“I went downstairs to the hotel cafe. Got a few pastries and coffee for us,” you say, as you run your hands up and down his chest. 

“Thanks, baby. But I’m not hungry yet,” Carmy replies, something in his voice that tells you he’s got something else in mind. You quirk an eyebrow in his direction, letting out a loud laugh as he flips you over, rolling you onto your back. 

“Think we should work up an appetite first.” 

“Again?” you giggle, heat pooling between your legs as you think of how he fucked you up against the bathroom counter last night – after you went down on him. 

Instead of answering, he captures your mouth with his, groaning into the kiss as he lays his body over yours. You could care less about the morning breath as Carmy winds you up with the way he kisses you, the way he touches you, and you’re sighing out in pleasure as his hand slips between your legs. 

“Jesus fucking Christ, baby,” he spits through gritted teeth, as soon as he realizes that you’re not wearing any underwear. 

“You go down to the cafe like this?”

You smirk, letting out a devious chuckle at his discovery. 

Before you can properly answer, Carmy’s fingers are dancing over your wet heat, earning well deserved gasps from you as you buck your hips into his hand, a sudden possessiveness taking over. 

“Fuck, Carm,” you groan, knowing exactly how to wind him up. “Yeah. Might have to punish me for it.”

“Think so, sweet girl,” Carmy mutters, before his mouth is on yours again. 

———————————

It’s your last night at the Langham hotel and you and Carmy have barely left your room – save for the trip to the pool downstairs. You find yourself curled up with your husband, your head buried in the book you're halfway through in a cozy silk PJ set as Carmy works on something else, a few pages deep into his new sketchbook. 

“How’s your book?” he asks, his focus still on the page before him. 

“Good,” you answer quietly, looking for a good place to pause. You look over at him, smiling as you notice the very cute face he makes when he’s concentrating. 

“Watcha workin’ on?” 

A light blush runs across Carmy’s cheeks as he prepares to show you. 

“Uh… just been sketchin’ up some ideas… you know. Ever since you asked about, you know… the tattoo,” Carmy answers, suddenly feeling shy about showing you his work. 

“Yeah?” you ask, only to be met with a nod as Carmy hands you the sketchbook. 

You take it, your eyes eagerly scanning the page, considering it’s the first time since you gave him the gift that he’s let you see anything he’s been working on. You smile, a look of awe in your eyes as you take in all of the little food-related tattoos that he’s drawn up. 

“I like this one,” you say, pointing to the nest of spaghetti he’s drawn, clearly meant to be a single portion of carbonara. “I mean, I like all of them… but I like this one.” 

“Yeah?” he asks, only a little surprised that you like any of them really. 

“Yeah,” you nod in response. You look down at his work, then back up to Carmy before gesturing towards the page. “May I?”

“Uh… sure,” he answers anxiously, the sound of the page turning only magnifying his nerves. 

He’s so incredibly talented that it hurts, and it’s not till you get back to the very first page, the one where he's drawn you in the bathtub that your heart stops. 

“Carmy,” you gasp, looking down at the sketch. 

“You hate it,” he’s quick to say, offering up a way out, almost too eager to beat you to the punch if that is how you feel. 

“Baby, of course I don’t hate it. I-,” you shake your head, marveling at the drawings below as you trace your fingers over the broader strokes of the pen. “It’s just… no one’s ever drawn me before so. I’m kind of… in awe right now.”

Carmy inhales, then lets out the breath on a deep exhale, because he’s drawn you before – considering he’s barely made time for his art in the last five years anyways – and that they just aren’t things he’s shown you yet. 

“What do you think?” is all he asks, his eyes searching your face for a reaction. 

“I think,” you say, returning his gaze with yours. You can tell that he’s nervous, that this feels extremely vulnerable, and you know exactly how to pivot. “... that you’re incredibly talented… and it’s really, really not fair.” 

He laughs. 

“I wouldn’t go that far,” he replies, brushing off the compliment. 

“No, I mean it, Bear,” you harp, making sure he hears you. 

“Okay,” he nods, and you know it’s the best you’re going to get when it comes to him accepting your compliment on the spot. 

You take a beat, before handing him his sketchbook back, returning your attention to your book as the two of you settle into a quiet rhythm of spending time with each other. This is exactly how you pictured this weekend going – spending time together, doing absolutely nothing, and fucking all day long. You’re not quite ready to go back to real life yet, but you also miss Aioli, and you know you and Carmy have another shot at this when you go on your real honeymoon in a few months. 

“Maybe I should bring this with me… you know… on our honeymoon part two,” Carmy says, gesturing towards his sketchbook. It warms your heart to see him so excited, so inspired and relaxed. 

“Definitely,” you reply with a smile. “Let’s do it all over again in a few months. When we go to Japan.”

“You wanna take a bath?” you ask, an implied, ‘you said you would join me’ in your voice as you ask the question. 

Carmy licks his lips, a small smile threatening the corners of his mouth as he answers, 

“Deal.”

[f3mme-f4tale]

☾ bound by bloodshed ☾

part two

⇠ part one - part three ⇢ word count: 2.6k potential warnings: explicit language, mentions of blood pairing: seattle!ellie x female reader ☾ mood board authors note: shorter chapter this time around, next one is gonna be at least 5k and will include smut, so buckle up :3

important information regarding palestine

It's three days later when Maria begrudgingly finally gives the go ahead for you and Ellie to track down the group. It’s dawn when Ellie re-enters Joel’s house, feeling the tension crackling in the air between them, a silent storm brewing beneath the surface.

Joel looks up as Ellie approaches, his gaze meeting hers with a mixture of concern and frustration. "You sure about this, Ellie?" he asks, his voice gruff with worry. "Heading out on some wild goose chase into enemy territory?" Ellie bristles at his words, her frustration boiling over as she meets his gaze head-on.

"Yeah, I'm sure," she retorts, her tone sharp with defiance. "I'm not gonna sit around and wait for trouble to come knocking on our door. We need to take the fight to them." Joel shakes his head, his expression pained as he reaches out to grasp Ellie's arm, his touch gentle yet firm.

"You're being reckless, Ellie," he insists, his voice low and urgent. "You don't know what you're up against out there. You could get yourself killed." Ellie jerks her arm away, her anger flashing in her eyes as she squares her shoulders, refusing to back down.

"I can handle myself, Joel," she snaps, her voice trembling with frustration. "I'm not some helpless kid anymore. I know what I'm doing. You don’t get to make this decision, not after what happened with the fireflies." Joel's jaw tightens, his own frustration evident as he stands up from the table, his hands clenched into fists at his sides as Ellie hits a nerve.

"You think this is about you proving something?" he demands, his voice rising with emotion. "This isn't a game, Ellie. People's lives are at stake here, including yours." Ellie meets Joel's gaze, her eyes blazing with defiance even as her resolve wavers.

"I know that," she replies, her voice softer now, tinged with uncertainty. "But I can't just sit back and do nothing. I have to try." Joel's expression softens, his frustration giving way to concern as he reaches out to cup Ellie's cheek, his touch gentle and reassuring.

"I know, kiddo," he murmurs, his voice filled with a fatherly tenderness that catches her off guard. Ellie hesitates, torn between her desire for independence and her need for Joel's guidance and support. She knows he's only trying to protect her, but the thought of backing down now fills her with a sense of defeat she can't bear.

"I can't just walk away from this, Joel," she whispers, her voice breaking with emotion. "I have to try." Joel sighs heavily, his shoulders slumping in resignation as he pulls Ellie into a tight embrace, his arms wrapping around her with a strength that belies his vulnerability.

"I know, kiddo," he reiterates against her hair, his voice thick with emotion. "I know."

As the silence stretches on, Ellie finds herself lost in her own thoughts, the weight of Joel's trust heavy on her shoulders. She wants to shake off the feeling of resentment that had bubbled up inside her, but it lingers, gnawing at her conscience. Finally, unable to bear the tension any longer, Ellie breaks from the hug.

"I'm gonna go check on my gear," she mumbles, her voice strained as she avoids Joel's gaze. He nods silently in response, his expression unreadable as he watches her retreat from the room.

Alone in the hallway, Ellie leans against the wall, her heart pounding in her chest as she tries to shake off the lingering frustration. She knows Joel means well, knows he's only looking out for her, but sometimes it feels like he's holding her back, like he doesn't trust her to make her own decisions.

With a frustrated sigh, Ellie pushes herself off the wall and exits through the back door, determined to focus on the task at hand. She rifles through her belongings, double-checking her supplies and ensuring everything is in order for the journey ahead.

But no matter how hard she tries to push the feeling aside, the tension between her and Joel still hangs in the air, a silent reminder of the rift that seems to grow wider with each passing day. It's not just about finding supplies or confronting their enemies—it's about proving to herself that she's capable, that she can handle whatever challenges come her way.

⭒⭒⭒⭒

As Ellie adjusts the bridle on Shimmer’s face, you double check the supplies in your bag. A stablehand passes Ellie a bag to attach to the saddle that holds supplements and extra supplies. As you count the number of bullets and canned food in your possession, you watch as Ellie skillfully tacks Shimmer. You knew how to ride, but you had to admit that Ellie was far better. 

Despite feeling a twinge of envy at Ellie's expertise, you remind yourself that everyone has their strengths, and yours lies in other areas. "Ready to go?" Ellie asks, flashing you a grin as she swings her bag over her shoulder. You nod, following suit as Ellie leads the horse out of the barn. Joel is waiting at the gate with Tommy, the older man sighing as Ellie refuses to look him in the eyes.

“Y’all be careful out there, yeah?” Tommy lectures, putting a reassuring hand on your shoulder. You offer him a small smile and nod again. 

“No Jesse or Dina?” Joel questions, eyebrows furrowing. You glance over at Ellie and see her bite down on her tongue to keep from lashing out at the man.

“No,” you reply, sighing. “They’re needed on patrols, since we’ll be gone and Eugene retired.” Joel doesn’t seem pleased with the answer, but doesn’t add anything and moves aside to let you both through. 

“Be safe out there kiddo,” he says, his face searching for any source of response from Ellie. She hands you Shimmer, turning around to give Joel a bone-crushing hug. He melts into it, placing his head on top of hers. She doesn’t say anything as she pulls away, moving to mount the horse. She offers you a hand as you hop up behind her, arms instinctively wrapping around her waist, to which Ellie can feel a blush creeping in. 

With a gentle nudge of your heels, Shimmer begins to move forward, her hooves crunching on the gravel pathway leading out of Jackson. You steal a glance at Ellie, noticing the stress in her brow as she guides the horse forward.

The weight of Joel's unspoken concern lingers in your mind, and you can't help but wonder what's really going on between him and Ellie. But now isn't the time for probing questions or confrontations. You're on a mission, and your focus needs to be on the task at hand. 

The rhythm of Shimmer's gait beneath you soothes your nerves, and you find yourself falling into an uncomfortable silence, each lost in your own thoughts. The landscape around you gradually shifts from the familiar surroundings of Jackson into the rugged terrain beyond its borders. Tall trees loom overhead, casting dappled shadows across the forest floor as you navigate the winding paths.

But just as you start to relax into the journey, a distant sound breaks the quiet tranquility of the morning—a low, guttural growl that sends a shiver down your spine. Ellie tenses beside you, her grip on the reins tightening as she scans the surrounding woods with a wary gaze.

"Infected," she murmurs, her voice barely above a whisper as she urges Shimmer to move faster. Your heart pounds in your chest as you peer into the dense underbrush, straining to catch any movement amidst the trees.

And then, they emerge—a horde of infected, their twisted forms lurching forward with a frenzied hunger in their eyes. Panic surges through you as you realize you're completely outnumbered, with nowhere to run and nowhere to hide.

Ellie's jaw sets in determination as she steers Shimmer off the main path, veering into the thick undergrowth in a desperate bid to escape the oncoming horde. Branches scrape against your arms as you duck low to avoid detection, the thudding footsteps of the infected echoing ominously behind you.

As the horde draws closer, Ellie's quick thinking guides Shimmer through a narrow gap between the trees, narrowly avoiding the grasp of the infected reaching out for you. The foliage tears at your clothes as you push through, adrenaline surging through your veins. With each passing moment, the sounds of pursuit grow fainter, indicating that you might have outpaced the infected, at least for now. Ellie slows Shimmer to a halt, dismounting and allowing both of you to catch your breath and assess the situation.

"That was too close," you mutter, wiping your clammy palms against your jeans as you scan the surroundings for any signs of danger. Ellie nods in agreement, her expression grim as she surveys the area.

"We need to keep moving," she says, her voice firm with resolve. "We can't risk getting caught out here again."

"Well, I guess you could say that was an unexpected twist," you remark, a playful glint in your eye as you steal a glance at Ellie.

She grins, her smile infectious as she meets your gaze. "Just another thrilling adventure with you," she replies, her tone teasing.

You chuckle, feeling a warmth spreading through you at the sight of her smile. "Hey, what can I say? I aim to keep things interesting," you quip, nudging her gently with your elbow.

Ellie laughs, the sound like music to your ears as she leans in closer. "Well, you certainly succeeded," she says, her voice soft but playful.

You find yourself drawn to her energy, unable to resist the urge to flirt back. "Glad to hear it. I wouldn't want you getting bored on our little escapades," you tease, a smirk playing on your lips.

Ellie's eyes sparkle with amusement as she leans in even closer, her breath warm against your ear. "Trust me, with you around, I don't think boredom will ever be an issue," she whispers, a hint of mischief in her voice.

You feel a rush of warmth at her words, the air between you charged with a newfound energy. "Well then, I guess we'll just have to keep each other entertained," you reply, unable to hide the smile tugging at your lips. And with an arm outstretched, you help her up into the saddle.

Silence falls between you again, this time a welcome presence. You have to physically resist the urge to rest your forehead against her shoulder – because friends don’t do that. Instead, you opt to analyze the fern inked on her forearm, the way her fingers hold the leather reins. Her skin is pale, covered in dainty freckles that dance across her surprisingly toned arms. You pull your lips between your teeth, shaking away words that threaten to spill out of your mouth.

Ellie slows Shimmer down to a walk upon reaching a small, seemingly torn apart town. As her hooves echo against the weed-infested pavement, you take in your surroundings. The sight of a tree growing out of the roof of a building catches your attention, its branches reaching skyward as if in defiance of the decay surrounding it. The windows of the buildings along the street are boarded up or covered in newspapers. A police car is resting upside down, becoming a home for a band of squirrels. 

Despite the desolation of the town, you can't shake the feeling of being watched, as if unseen eyes are tracking your every move from the shadows. You’re sure that if you go looking, there’s bound to be infected looming somewhere. So when Ellie suggests stopping for supplies, you hesitantly agree. 

Ellie pulls Shimmer to a halt, her gaze fixed on a nearby storefront. "There," she says, her voice barely above a whisper as she points to a dusty sign hanging above the entrance. "Looks like a general store. Might have something useful inside."

You falter slightly, your instincts screaming at you to turn and run, to leave this forsaken place behind and never look back. But you know that's not an option. With a heavy sigh, you dismount, your steps cautious as you approach the storefront. The door creaks open with a protest, revealing a dim interior filled with dilapidated shelves.

Ellie wastes no time in searching the aisles, her movements quick and efficient as she gathers the sparse supplies into her pack. You follow suit, your eyes scanning the shadows for any sign of movement as you work to collect what you can.

But just as you start to relax into the task, a low cry echoes through the silence, freezing you in place. The noise is coming from the back room, sending you into a crouch. It has to be a runner, otherwise the door opening would have alerted the creature. 

This is a routine kill, you think to yourself. No use in alerting or worrying Ellie. With a steady hand, you open the door to the office. And there, huddled in the corner, you see it; a lone infected, its twisted form writhing in pain as it claws at its own flesh. It’s mumbling incoherent words, a cruel sob racking its body. 

A piece of shattered glass finds its way to your dominant hand as you slowly approach the infected. In one swift movement, your hand is brought to its neck and drags the glass across its jugular. The runner lets out a sharp, shrieking cry as the glass slices into its skin, blood oozing onto your hands. The silence that follows is deafening, broken only by the sound of your own ragged breathing.

After a moment, you’re brought back to reality and quickly scavenge the few stray bullets on the floor and a roll of duct tape on the desk. “Ellie?” You shout, after hearing something loud drop in the store a few aisles away. The silence and stillness of the building fills you with dread, and you search for her with mounting anxiety. Suddenly, you hear the sound of a body hitting the ground in the distance, followed by a soft gasp of breath. 

And then, you see her—a flash of red hair amidst the chaos, her form hunched over as she fends off another runner with a ferocity that takes your breath away. Where did it come from? But before you can reach her, you hear a cry of pain, and your heart stops. 

"Ellie!" you shout again, rushing to her side as she collapses to the ground, clutching her arm in agony. Blood seeps through her fingers, staining the fabric of her shirt as she grits her teeth against the pain. You kneel beside her, your hands trembling as you assess the wound. It's deep—a nasty gash along her forearm, pink supple skin exposed to the elements. 

“Have you always had such pretty eyes?” She whispers, staring up at you despite the blood flowing down her arm. You’re taken aback by the statement, eyeing her carefully and raising your eyebrows.

“You’re a loser,” you quip back, rolling your eyes. 

“Worth a try,” she sarcastically responds, hastily wrapping a bandage around her wound, using her teeth to tie it in place. The entire time her eyes are on you, crimson staining her jaw and teeth. Something animalistic awakens in you at the sight, to which you tear your eyes away and struggle to stand back up, heat flooding your face. 

Taglist: @seraphicsentences @onlinelesbo @yumimak (comment if u want to be added!)

[be-my-ally]

Snowballs and Kisses

Hello darlings!! Merry Christmas! I hope everyone celebrating has a wonderful day, and everyone for whom it is a usual monday has a better than usual start to the week!! 

I have been MIA the last few weeks on here, but never fear I have been busy behind the scenes and hopefully more things and fics will be finished very soon!! I cannot wait for my little new year break, and *finally* catching up on all the stuff I've missed!! In the meantime as a ittle teeny tiny Christmas gift please enjoy this timeskip for my Splashing Around ‘verse to Christmas Eve 1960 and my shameless OC self insert of what I’d like to gift Elvis. 

a/n not totally accurate weather references: it didn’t actually snow in memphis in the latter half of 1959 but, this is fanfiction after all and it *was* very cold november 18th 1959. (I also cut a whole 4k of angst that will come out at some point as a separate chapter, Anita getting a poodle, and the colonel dressed as santa because honestly i just wanted to write and read fluff, but here's a warning that there may end up being more festive fics posted…a little late). 

warnings: 18+, smut lite; gentle fingering and references to cumming in pants. UNEDITED

Graceland - December 1960 

The excitement of having Elvis back at home for the festive season was only slightly tempered by the knowledge that it was his first Christmas at home without his mother. He’d not really tried to celebrate properly in Germany; sure they’d done the best they could, and he raved about the gift of a fully dressed tree for weeks,  but it hadn’t been the same as it would have been at home. 

This year though, Elvis seemed determined to restore the festive spirit. Perhaps even further than just restoration - an attempt to make it as bright and jolly as possible in response to both his mother’s passing, and missing the last two. He’d bragged to anyone who would listen about how excited he was to give out presents, his plans for even more lights than ever before; signs and lawn decorations.

While Louise was excited, it had left her in an almost constant state of anxiety, Christmas wasn’t just about the gift-giving… but it was a large enough part of it that it’s where her mind immediately went. From the moment he suggested they hang at Graceland that first year, from the first time they’d all pored over the letter to Frances, and his promises to “have a ball next Christmas”, giggling and whispering about what fun they were going to have the following year. From all of those times Louise had been preoccupied with what to get him and whether her secret plan was good enough for Elvis of all people. 

That first year he had reiterated to them all and was absolutely adamant no-one needed to gift him anything and wouldn’t hear of anything being sent over to him. But his frequent calls and mentions of the upcoming holiday belied his actual feelings and besides, Louise wanted him to feel special. Wanted him to know they’d been thinking of him as much as he must have missed being home. It wasn’t until the 27th of November and the slightest of snowfalls had occurred, tiny little snowflakes, delicately falling down when the temperature had dropped just enough for the rain to crystallise when a flash of inspiration hit her. She couldn’t send it, so instead she’d waited patiently, adding to her bundle throughout the months. Now that it was almost time to give it though she was second-guessing that two year decision. Was it too juvenile? It’s just so tricky to buy for the man who literally has anything he could ever wish for. As the festive period hurtles on she resigns herself to having to hunt for a back-up gift…maybe a nice sweater. Maybe that will do.  Or maybe it’s best to have options. 

Elvis’ melancholia about the holiday doesn’t seem to stretch into Christmas Eve, and he encourages them with all the enthusiasm he’s ever had. The party starts from mid-afternoon and stretches long into the evening and night with all the makings of an excellent time from the music to the food until eventually they all find themselves around the extravagant tree to exchange presents. It’s a little chaotic, so many people about and frequently someone’s having to dive from room to room to fetch people or hidden gifts. Louise finds it almost dizzying when she finally manages to take a seat on the long sofa, catching her breath from being sent to find someone. She was already finding herself struggling to think whenever she glanced over at Elvis - he looked outrageously good in a white shirt, black trousers - well, he looked outrageously good all the time at the moment - but there was something about the feeling in the air of the day that made it all the harder to act natural around him. Elvis had been quiet for a moment, but now he was sat on his armchair across the room, looking for all the world like a king on a throne ready to bestow his generosity on the peasants. Except, that’s not the feeling in the room at all; it’s jolly and wonderful, picture perfect - all of them slightly tipsy on champagne and vodka cocktails and finding the evening all the more entertaining for it. He announces he wants to give the presents that he’s bought everyone before he opens his own, and Louise dips her eyes when he hands her a little bow-tied box. No-one else’s comes with a ribbon and she strokes it, feeling a glow emanating from her stomach and chest as she imagines his nimble fingers tying it on, totally ignoring the fact that she knows someone else probably wrapped it for him. Still, she tugs it off to hide from the others - not wanting to be teased about how such a little gesture has made her blush so strongly - and tucks it into her palm, fully intending on slipping it into her shoe or around her wrist in a moment, knowing she’ll keep it forever - wear it in her hair like a declaration.

When she looks back up everyone has a similar box and she opens it quickly in case they’re all the same - she doesn’t want to ruin her surprise. There, nestled in a little velvet box is a ring, a huge, gaudy red stone in the centre, almost too big for her finger.  Louise is transfixed, staring at it, barely a thought in her head as she tries to wrap her head around the way it sparkles in the light. Despite the size of the gem, the band was more than a little small when she tries to slip it on, and she quietly puts it back into the box, not wanting to draw attention to her apparently larger than expected fingers. She glances around, suddenly coming out of her shocked obliviousness. Her face falling when she realises that everyone around her is unboxing similarly precious jewellery. She’s resigning herself to having to sneak it off to get it resized and hating herself a little for it, wondering if there are exercises she could do or maybe a special diet to shrink her fingers to size, when she suddenly realises all the other girls are turning each-other around, kissing Elvis on the cheek in thanks, or asking him to clasp their new necklaces. Louise looks back down at her box and the others. What does a ring mean? It’s been gifted with such casualness that it can’t possibly mean anything can it? When she looks back up Elvis is staring right at her, and she makes eye contact with him - her wide eyes meeting his laughing ones. He winks, and turns back to Red. She tries her best to distract herself from it, ooh and aahing over everyone else’s and keeping quiet about the little box clutched tight in her hand. 

Half hour later Elvis is admiring his own little haul, when he catches her eye again, 

“You forget about me Lou?” Louise cringes at being called out so publicly, 

“Of course not!” She looks around the room, at the large group gathered there, “No, uh, why don’t you, well I’ve gotten you something else….It’s a sweater. It’s not great really, but I… your real gift I’ve made you, but,” She swallows building her courage, unsure why she’s so nervous suddenly when she’d been so excited for so long; the whole idea just seemed juvenile and silly now. “… you’ve gotta follow me for it.” He stares into her eyes for a second, before nodding and standing up, gesturing at her as if to say ‘lead the way’. 

He grins at the boys when they walk out, making a salacious movement as if to suggest her gift may not be all too family-friendly to accompanying guffaws of laughter. She ignores it, even as her tummy churns; should she be offering that? Is that what he wants these days?

“Don’t laugh.” She asks nervously as they walk into the little pantry. Elvis looks bemused to find himself there, leaning against the wall of the tiny space 

“I won’t” Louise nods, shutting the door, only to hear Elvis giggle, “You tryin’ to get me alone, doll?” 

“You said you wouldn’t laugh!”

“One hell of a christmas present! to be locked in a cupboard with a pretty little gal.” 

She rolls her eyes, wiggling past him to get to the freezer, 

“Close your eyes.” He obediently does so, and she reaches into an old box of ice-cream to pull out a Tupperware, “Hold your hands out.” And she puts it in his cupped fingers, “Ok…open.” He blinks down at the Tupperware.

“Um. Well, thanks, I’m uh, sure this will be useful.” Louise rolls her eyes, impatiently tugging off the lid herself, “Oh.” Elvis goes silent, staring at the three perfect, teeny snowballs balanced in the tub. Each resting upon a little piece of paper with Louise’s very best cursive handwriting spelling out the date; December 12th 1958, 18th November 1959, and 20th December 1960.  

The silence stretches as Elvis stares at the box, and Louise starts to ramble nervously,  “I was starting to panic this year, but at least I’d thought to pick some up back in January — it snowed so heavy on the 5th.  I think it was, or maybe the 15th? I’ll have to check my diary… so I mean it isn’t entirely accurate that it’s all from the 20th - but I mean, I had to have something and well I know how much you loved it when, when your mother… and I wanted you to know I’ve been thinkin’ of you non-stop while you were away. So, here, the first snow from the garden from every year you missed.” Elvis is still staring at the box, one finger poking each little round ball. 

“This really snow from two years ago?” 

“Uh-huh… I mean I don’t know what you’re gonna do with it now, but it really is… been in that box in the freezer this whole time…I hid it from everyone. Every time someone said they wanted some ice cream I panicked.”  

“Lou.” 

“‘M sorry this is really stupid, god - what are you gonna do with some snowballs, I should’ve gone in with the other girls, got you something really good… I just - well, I thought you’d like it and I know you misse-”

“Baby, I don’t, I don’t know what to say. I… I didn’t think anyone would think of me like this, like mama did, ever again. I - well, thank you, Lou darling, this is, well, its the best damn gift I’ve ever gotten.” He grabs her arm, tugging her to him - pressing a hard kiss to her forehead, the force of it surprising her.  “I’m gonna show everyone - c’mon - quick before they melt.” He runs out of the kitchen, leaving Louise to follow meekly behind. 

He shows them off like he’s a new father, proudly holding them up in the box, delicately picking one of them up and sighing at it, holding it up at the light for everyone to marvel at. It’s a little ridiculous in some ways - everyone in the room had been gifted something hugely lavish, and yet the thing  everyone was talking and gossiping at was a snowball. 

Hours later the party finally winds down enough that Louise realises she’s one of the last few stragglers of a night so late it’s turned into Christmas morning. How she’d ended up in this position she’ll never know, and she questions it herself as she stands quietly in the doorway, watching Elvis fumble on the piano. Just his fiddling is beautiful, little snippets of remembered carols, before he hammers onto the keys, singing along to Santa Claus is Back in Town. Louise can’t help the breathy gasp that escapes her and he looks up at her, smiling almost teasingly, perfect glint in his eye as he pauses for a second to run a hand through his hair before he continues for another verse and a half. He stops almost abruptly, standing up to stretch before turning to her. She’s trying to find the words to explain how beautiful it was, how perfect he sounds - how she can feel it throughout her whole being, but before she can express those sentiments he’s in front of her and grasping her hand. 

“C’mon,” He tugs her over to the armchair he’d been sat in earlier in the evening, “Over here hon, that’s it - you’re the last.” Elvis throws himself onto the chair, holding onto her, pulling her stumbling body against his. “You’re the last of my girls left…” He sighs melodramatically and Louise giggles uncontrollably back at him. She’d had an illicit two glasses and a half of champagne earlier in the evening; Elvis had playfully wagged his finger at her as she’d accepted it from Red although she’d seen him have more than a few drinks himself. She can feel the bubbles still settling into her tummy and head, fuzzing her thoughts a little and making her giggly and affectionate. Still, she wasn’t so tipsy she couldn’t call out his overdramatic behaviour. 

“They’ve just gone home for the night. They’ll be back tomorrow I’m sure.”  She shakes her head. He ignores her, crying out, 

“I’m all alone!” He tugs her by her elbow, catching her as she stumbles into his lap, pulling her onto him, flattening her wide skirt. It wasn’t really the fashion anymore but while she’d been momentarily hesitant about her holiday dress she wasn’t self-conscious, and she liked how it made her shape look. Some might suggest the bow and petticoats were juvenile, but it made her feel more adult than the tighter styles that were starting to become popular with her peers, more herself than playing dress-up. 

She snuggles under his arm, head pillowed on his chest, cheeks pressed against the little buttons of his shirt. He pretends to choke at her hair brushing his nose, using his free hand to flatten it under his chin and she grins, shivering against him as his breath tickles her skin. They stay cuddled for a few moments, sinking into the kind of happy exhaustion that seems to only occur on holidays. It feels different than before, although Elvis is more similarly carefree than she’d seen him in a long time. He’d grown up a lot over the years she hadn’t seen him, or so it felt, and his adultness didn’t match the image of him playing and fooling around that she had in her head. It’s an awful feeling, she thinks, that even with him right there, surrounding her, she still longs for a little more of the playfulness of the past.

Suddenly though Elvis shifts, interrupting her thoughts and murmuring against the top of her head, 

“Y’hear that?” Louise stops breathing, and all she can hear is the solid thump-thump of his heart against her ear, he waits a second but she can’t work out what he’s referring to and doesn’t respond, he gasps “There it is again! Do you hear it?” 

Louise shakes her head against him, frowning a little, “No?” She tries really hard to listen out, but other than the faintest hint of the music from the boys in the other room she can’t hear a thing. “The music?”  

“No! No, listen.” He puts his finger to his lips, shushing her,

“I really don’t hear anything Elvis.” He wraps his arm around her waist a little tighter, tugging her up so she was sat more upright on his knee, her face close to his. He whispers into her ear, 

“I think I hear hooves…” Louise frowns, 

“Hooves!?” God, it would be just her luck that he’d gone and bought her a horse or something, and she’d have to act grateful even though she was terrified of them.  

“Mmhmm, that’s right.” His hand rises up to brush across her back gently, fingertips dancing around her side, “Hooves. Hooves and bells.” He pauses for dramatic effect, jabbing his finger into her side in a tickling poke. His voice dips lower, as his arm squeezes around her, “Someone must have been a good girl this year.” 

Louise grins when she realises what he’s implying and couldn’t bring herself not to play along. 

“…You think it’s Santa Claus?!” 

“Hmm, definitely…who else would it be, on the roof with hooves and bells on Christmas eve?” She giggles, both in response to his kind-natured teasing and his fingers poking her side with an exaggerated motion.

“Oh, I wonder what he’ll leave in my stocking…” Elvis hums against her hair, 

“Mmm. Coal.” 

“Nooo!” She giggles back to him, “You just said I’ve been a good girl!”

“You’ve been a very good little girl.” His voice has hit that low pitch that immediately sends a jolt down her spine, right into the pit of her stomach and she swallows, trying to keep up with the joke. 

“Well, I’m, uh, I’m sure I’ll like whatever it is.” 

“Mmhmm….” His hand brushes up her leg, “Bet ya I’ll like what’s in your stockings more…” 

“Elvis!” She shrieks, playfully batting his hand away, he pulls it off of her, smoothing down her skirt, and resting it onto her lap for a moment. Louise feels her breath catching as he presses a kiss to the side of her head, brushing her hair out of the way and shifting her on his thigh so that she’s facing him. It’s almost a struggle for her to meet his eyes, she felt so desperate for his attention - but there was nowhere else to look that made her feel any less heated. His hair, god even his eyebrows were Elvis-enough to make her squirm. It’s only a second of him kissing her jaw, before she’s gasping for him, and before she knows what she’s doing she’s grabbing his hand and shoving it back on her thigh. 

She’d kept herself for him, even as it felt that she’d been playing before, doing it for someone who would never notice or care - ostensibly in general, but really if she was truthful - for him. She’d touched herself, hadn’t been able to resist the temptation, especially after his deep voice came through the phone - but the other boys, the boys in school, the ones with blue collar jobs and careers, had all lost their appeal whenever she imagined kissing them, and her imagination interposed the image and feeling of him, his slippery body in the pool, the feel of him in front of her on the bike. He was thinner now, even still, than he was before, puppy fat replaced with lean muscles. His face shape changed just the tiniest bit, perhaps unnoticeable to some, but so very obvious to her, cheekbones and chin more angular than before. But his lips feel the same as they did before he left, and since his return home - she’d expected they’d have lost their eager nature, but still she can feel the hint of desperation as he presses them against her jaw.

She gasps, rocking against him as he roves down her neck - a place no one else has ever touched, tiny points of pressure feeling like a heat was expanding across her neck and chest, matching the clench of her thighs. His hand gently strokes up her stockings before he hitches her up, capturing his mouth with hers and shoving her underlayers up to her waist in the abrupt movement. Louise moves with him, desperate to stay in contact with his lips and she moans in upset when he starts to pull away. 

“C’mon baby,” He whispers, “C’mon, Lou-Lou let me - let me say thank you,” He’s barely audible as he speaks against her lips between pressing bruising kisses onto them, “I just - wanna, wanna make you feel good, Lou doll.” She gasps out her agreement, eyes falling closed and her head falling into his shoulder as his fingers find their way to rub against the silk of her underwear. He shifts her again, balancing her so she can rock against his thigh and his hand, whilst also rubbing her leg against his covered crotch. Louise is almost surprised at the heat of him against her thigh, but her curiosity has no chance to be satisfied when he hooks a finger under the leg band of her panties, totally distracting her from anything but the feel of him under her and attempting to stay somewhat upright. His finger feels softer than she’d imagined, and yet, in comparison to her own the pads feel foreign, rougher and surer than hers ever were sliding into the wetness they find there.

“God, you’re so soft baby, so fucking soft in here, perfect for me, you been waiting on me, honey?” 

“Uh-huh, waited, waited so long for you Elvis - didn’t, I didn’t want anyone but you.” He groans in response, his fingers moving faster. Until he’s forced to stop, tangled in the fabric and he growls in frustration. Louise feels it go straight down her body, and her thighs clench, trapping his hand even more. He pauses for barely a second to manhandle her up, just enough to roughly tug her panties down enough that it’s now entirely her bare skin rubbing against his hand and clothed thigh, the fibres of his trousers almost giving her a friction burn with her rapid movements. He continues as he was a second earlier, but now with far easier access he’s able to swipe his fingers across her clit, taking her to the edge almost immediately. She has no idea if this was something he’s always done well, or if this is a trick he’d picked up while he was away, but whatever the reason she was grateful. She doesn’t even consider how they were still, essentially, in public, too distracted by his slender fingers to be concerned about her now partial nudity. The only noise to break up their combined breathy moans is the layers of of taffeta rustling between them, as she continues to rock against his thigh, but this all changes when he delves his thumb into her wetness, bringing it back up to stroke circles on her clit, gently but repeatedly running it over her. 

“Oh, Elvis?” She cries out,  

“What baby? You’re so - I can feel you’re close,” His own breathing is getting heavier, and he holds her steady with his other hand grasping her thigh while his thumb continues to stroke her, 

“I don’t - I don’t…” She doesn’t even know what she’s trying to say, and before she manages to turn it into a complete sentence she’s shaking on him as she rides out her orgasm. He sees her through it, continuing to stroke her with the same pressure before rapidly shoving his hand down his own pants, roughly rubbing himself off to quick completion. She watches him closely, unable to do anything but stare as his own eyes slide closed, head falling back against the couch and mouth opening as he gasps out a high-pitched moan. It was about enough to make her shudder again against his thigh, the look on his face, his mussed hair, open collar and the noises of sheer pleasure. Louise finds herself bouncing on his chest as he breathes rapidly from the effort, and he holds her tight for a few moments while they both regain use of their limbs. Louise feels almost a little shell-shocked and she only really comes to her senses when Elvis shifts, wiping his hand on his trousers with a grimace and patting her thigh, 

“Gosh that was, I, um, thank you El,” He grins at her, clearly pleased with his success, and he pats her leg again, 

“Thank you, honey, for just about the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me earlier baby, it was just - I’m gonna treasure them snowballs forever, you’ll see.” She grins back at him before an unstoppable yawn takes over her face, “C’mon lil girl, time for bed.” She gulps, thinking about all the people on the house - worrying what will happen next, 

“D’you…where am I gonna sleep?” Elvis frowns, little furrowed line marring his previously relaxed face, 

“With me?” 

“Oh,” Louise swallows, “Um, I think my parents will be expecting me - you know, Christmas morning’s all about -“ 

“Don’t worry honey, I’ll drop you home at the crack of dawn,” He winks, “-gotta make sure the house is all in order in any case anyway.” Elvis pauses, “Or, or you could invite your mama and pops over. They’d be more than welcome…nothing my mama liked more than a full house - especially at Christmas.” He’s looking at her with that earnest little boy expression again and it takes everything in her not to just suggest she should stay forever, it was so absurd that he’d want her to stay, instead of the other way around. 

“Well…maybe I could stay. And, well, I mean, I could come over in the evening? If you swear you’ll make sure I get home in time -“ He’s quick to interject, 

“Cross my heart darling,” She hums at him, and he motions the crossing of his heart across his chest, solemnly holding eye contact, “I swear.”

“Ok then, I’d love to stay.” 

Somehow, and (despite his promises) to Louise’s surprise, she’s dutifully shaken awake and dropped off home, albeit not by Elvis himself, only a few very short hours later. Coming up the driveway of her childhood home it feels almost inconceivable that she should have spent the day and night how she has, and she wonders for a brief moment if she hadn’t knocked her head or something and just hallucinated the whole affair. She’s so in her thoughts that she doesn’t yet notice, as she traipses past the lounge and kitchen where she can hear her mother singing to quickly change, a new set of boxes under the Christmas tree. Elvis’ script on the gift tags declaring “To Louise, a very good girl, from Santa.” 

taglist: (it's been so long that I've lost the list for this verse - lmk if you want to be added, or taken off!)

@lialocklear @ellie-24 @vintageshanny @thatbanditquee @lookingforrainbows @whositmcwhatsit @from-memphis-with-love @missmaywemeetagain @peskybedtime @powerofelvis @dkayfixates @shakerattlescroll

[indigosunsetao3]

Chapter 4

Yardwork and yearning.

AO3 (Full list of tags/warnings. Please check them.) Masterlist 5.6k Words

Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5

No rain and a day off. Those two things had not coincided for Celeste since she moved in a few months back. While most people would enjoy that thought, Celeste couldn’t help but glare out her kitchen window at the sunlight. Her yard needed tending to; the bushes were overgrown, the grass far too long, and the flowerbeds were just weeds. It would be the responsible thing to take care of all those items while the weather permitted it but she certainly did not want to. Yardwork had never been her thing, the most she ever did was an herb garden on the small patio of their flat. When they came to visit the cottage, her husband’s parents had always taken care of it, or he did. She had never been asked and had never volunteered.

But now, the cottage was her place and her sole responsibility.

“Ugh damn it,” she muttered as she checked her phone to see if there was a chance of rain, anything for an excuse to avoid the work. If it was going to rain in a few hours, there was no point in digging out all the gardening tools just to put them back again. But as she scrolled, she found there wasn’t a chance of rain all day; it was supposed to be a wonderful spring day.  

Resigning herself to doing chores, Celeste finished her coffee and headed upstairs to get changed. If she had been smart, she would have looked into hiring someone to do the yard work for her, but it was too late in the season. The few landscaping companies around would be fully booked out, and she couldn’t afford to call the bigger companies. There was also the option to call her father-in-law, former father-in-law, to help her, and he would do it without question. But she wasn’t ready to face that. To face his quiet pain and for him to realize she perhaps wasn’t coping as well as she had let on the last time they all spoke.

“Oh, are you going to help?” Celeste asked Samson as he trotted out the backdoor after her. “Of course not,” she muttered as he broke off and made a beeline for an old stone wall to lay out in the sun.

The door on the garage squealed terribly as she grabbed the handle in the middle and heaved it up. She hadn’t been inside the garage since she moved in. The smell of gasoline, oil, must, and stale air hit her in the face as she lifted the door above her head and held her hand there to make sure it stayed. As the sun hit the space inside, Celeste watched the dust dance for a second before looking around for what she would need.

The garage was a mess. There were boxes lined up all along the back walls with handwritten notes on them labeling what was inside of them. Holiday décor, old pictures, books, a few with old labels crossed out and new ones added, and plenty of blank boxes. A worn-out billiards table was crammed up against the side wall, the felt bald in places and chewed up by mice in others. The dart board on the wall above it still had a lone dart barely hanging onto it, and Celeste glanced at the chalkboard for the score. Her husband had won the last round ever played on it, however many years ago that was now.

“Shears,” she told herself to break her mind out of the thought spiral. The one that wondered how many things she had done for the last time without realizing it. How many things did her husband think he would get to do again, not knowing it was the final time? “Shears and trowel,” she reiterated to herself as she stepped deeper into the garage, turning her back to the dartboard.

After a bit of digging, Celeste produced a wheelbarrow and piled in random tools she thought she would need for the work. She wasn’t going for best garden on the street, but she needed to get the growth under control at least and maybe put a flower or two in the beds. She wasn’t doing it for the nagging neighbor but instead, her mother-in-law, who tended to the gardens like they were her children. Her husband used to help her pick flowers and heave the heavier items to build up the walls. She didn’t want all that work to go to waste.

It seemed Celeste wasn’t the only person who had the idea to get started on spring yard cleanup. She could hear a lawnmower start up in the distance, and there was a strimmer going across the street. As she pushed the wheelbarrow up to the road, Celeste glanced over at her new neighbors. There seemed to be a rotation of different cars, motorcycles, and now a truck every time she looked over. She hadn’t learned much else about them aside from John’s name. It seemed there were four of them living there. The great mystery at the café solved as to where the two burly men on the motorcycles had moved to. Celeste hadn’t bothered joining in on the speculations and questions that still cropped up a few days later about them. She didn’t want people gossiping about her; she wasn’t going to feed the horde with the information she had figured out.

Dragging her trash bins from the bush’s clutches, Celeste rolled them to the middle of her driveway before standing and staring at the massive overgrowth. She had no idea how to trim it properly to give it a shape, or if there was such thing as too much trimming and would kill it. Grabbing the long shears from the wheelbarrow, she slowly walked over to it, looking all around it before deciding to start from the back. If she messed up the back, only she would see it. The first snip took out a large chunk and she grabbed it and threw it behind her before she went back at it again.

Before long, she had trimmed the bush back so much the pile of brush behind her was taller than the plant itself. She had definitely cut off too much trying to even it out. As she glanced between the two items, she wiped her forehead with the back of her hand, contemplating the next step. What was she supposed to do with the brush? She couldn’t just throw it in the trash, could she? Turning on her heel to see if there was some sort of indicator of what other people were doing, she spotted one of the neighbors at the newly arrived truck.

They had started on the demolition of the back deck the day before, working through the light drizzle into the night, which agitated her peace and quiet. It seemed they had already bought the new supplies to build it back up, and the man was lifting the lumber out of the truck bed. He paused in his work when he caught her looking at him and gave her a friendly wave, which she returned before quickly adverting her eyes to her own mess. She really should have thought this through. Was there a landfill to take this to? And how exactly was she getting it there, in her car? With all the potential bugs in there?

“Later,” Celeste decided to herself as she slid her gaze to the rest of the work that needed to be done.

Slowly but surely, she worked her way around the house. She pulled overgrown vines off the stone walls, chopped down overgrown plants, pulled weeds out of the flower beds, and had even fixed a few blocks of the retaining wall of the garden by her back patio. All the while, Samson lounged without bothering to even his head until Celeste stopped for lunch.

“I don’t think you deserve this. You were no help at all,” she stated as she handed him a small bite of ham as she sat at the kitchen table. He was sitting at her feet, pawing at her leg for his bite and meowing every time she didn’t give him a piece. She had run out of bread a few days ago; peanut butter and jelly had been dinner most nights, so the ham was just rolled up right out of the deli bag. “I have to mow next,” Celeste muttered to herself as she stared out the kitchen window at the garage. She had no idea how it worked, if there was gas in it, or if it worked at all anymore. The hunk of rusted metal was at least ten years old and gave her husband issues every year.

“No, you stay inside this time; I don’t need you run over by the mower,” Celeste said as she scooped Samson up and set him back in the kitchen chair. He moved to run after her, and she darted out the door quickly, snapping it behind her. She knew he was going to make a mess of something out of spite; probably shred the roll of paper towels or knock things off the living room table.

The mower proved to be a vexing thing.

She couldn’t get it to start, no matter how hard she pulled the cord. It would act like it wanted to start but splutter to a halt. She had checked the oil and gas, all seemed well there. Had googled the mower itself to find instructions on it and what to do if it wouldn’t start and tried the suggestions. Nothing worked. She had even resorted to trying to tilt it back and look underneath it, but the ominous swish of the gasoline in the tank made her stop. She didn’t even want to mow, but now it was a matter of principle and the fact the grass was up past her ankles.

“I’m about to throw you in the lake,” Celeste hissed at the mower as she fiddled with the choke and grabbed the pull chord again. “I’ll buy a newer, nicer one,” she huffed and yanked the chord hard and fast. Nothing. “That’s electric,” she finished pointedly as she tried again. The blades didn’t even whir on that last one, and Celeste let out a frustrated grunt. She let go of the handle and stomped off, pushing her hair out of her face as she closed her eyes, willing herself not to lose her temper.

“It may need a fuse,” came an amused sounding voice. “Be a bit easier to do than throwing it in the lake.”

Celeste jumped and whirled around to see who was speaking to her, stumbling a step. It was one of the men from the cafe. He was dressed in cargo work pants and a T-shirt, both of which were dirty, sweaty, and covered in sawdust from working on the deck. He had his arms crossed over his chest as he surveyed Celeste then the mower behind her, which was still sitting very unhelpfully in the middle of the garage.

“I already have one nosey neighbor,” Celeste answered as she wiped her sweaty hands on her shorts. ”And I don’t need another one.”

“Not nosey. Bit hard not to hear you out here fighting with that for the last thirty minutes,” the man answered with a smirk. “I can take a look at it for you,” he offered, gesturing to the hunk of metal, “or you can keep giving it empty threats. I wouldn’t want to take away your afternoon plans.”

Celeste glared at him for a moment before making a quick decision, stepping to the side and nodding toward the mower. She wasn’t one to accept help usually, fiercely independent to a fault because she never liked feeling like she owed someone something. But if it was a fuse, he could probably have it fixed quickly. Then he could go back to what he was doing, and she could finish her chores. Faster to just let him look at it and go away than to argue with him.

Stepping back, she watched him bend down and begin looking over the mower. He casually flipped the blue ball cap he had on backward so he could see better before he began prying on a small box with his fingers. The clips were old and seemed to be rusted, but he managed to get one side loose before going to the other one.

“Do you have any tools?” He asked as he rocked back on his heels and looked up at Celeste, where she had leaned against the billiards table.

“I, ah,” Celeste started as she pushed up from her spot to look around. There were plenty of tools all over the back worktable, but she had no idea what was actually there. “What do you need?”

 “A flathead,” the man answered as he watched her sidestep him and head around a small shelving unit toward the back of the garage. “Or anything I can wedge under this lip, it’s stuck on there pretty good.”

Celeste paused in front of the work table and stared around at all the items on the peg wall behind it. Some she recognized, and others she had no idea what they did. A quick glance at them, she didn’t see a screwdriver, so she started pulling open drawers. The metal squealed loudly as she pulled, the sound grating on her nerves as she opened all of them. She mussed around, knocking broken pencils, tape measures, scraps of sandpaper, and old rope out of the way, but couldn’t find a flathead.

“Ah,” she paused, realizing she didn’t know his name to address him. “I can’t find any,” she stopped short as she rounded the corner again. He had found something in her few minutes of digging around and had wedged the box lid off with it. Celeste could feel the blood drain from her face at the sight, and her eyes instantly snapped up to make sure he hadn’t moved or ruined anything else.

“This worked,” the man answered as he wiggled the lone dart that had been in the dart board between his fingers. “Fuses are intact, but one of them was loose,” he explained as he tapped it back into its little slots with the tip of the dart before looking up. “You all right?”

“Fine,” Celeste answered quickly. She knew she couldn’t be sure that the dart had been one her husband had thrown but if it was, this man had just ruined it. The few things she had left of his that hadn’t been touched. The first days after his death, people had touched so many things. Moved his crumpled up couch blanket so they could sit, shifted his papers on his desk looking for documents, dug around in his closet for what to dress him in for the funeral. She inhaled sharply at that last thought to keep herself from losing it. She crossed the space between her and this man and snatched the dart away from him perhaps a bit too harshly.

“Thanks for looking at the fuses; I can take it from here.” She needed him to leave. Now. Before she screamed at him to get out. Just like she had done to all the people who had been in her flat trying to help her but were just touching everything. Touching and wiping away all the last things her husband had touched.

“You don’t look fine,” the man said as he straightened and glanced at the dart in her hand. “Look like you’ve seen a ghost…and I know Simon is busy keeping Kyle from trying to help.” He grinned a bit at the confusion that flitted Celeste’s face before starting to explain. “I’m Johnny; Simon was with me at the café the other day and...”

“I don’t,” Celeste stopped herself before she snapped out the word ‘care’. She didn’t mean for it to come across as cold or cruel, but she didn’t think she could hold it together for another second. “I appreciate all your help, but I do have it from here,” Celeste answered as she set the dart down gently on the billiard table. “I know you’re busy with your own project.”

“You sure you don’t need…” he started but at the look she gave him, Johnny stopped. He could see the panicked expression under the false, forced niceties. She was holding herself together, hands gripping hard into fists at her side that shook a bit, eyes darting around the room to keep in tears. What the hell had he done? His eyes snapped over to the dartboard before sliding over to the chalkboard next to it. There were two scribbled names there, and the final amount written in the winner’s column was right where he had taken the dart out of the board. He knew instantly. “Right, well, if you need any other help, just let us know. We’ll be outside.” Shit. He should have just sat on his heels and waited or gone to grab one of their own tools.

Celeste couldn’t muster up a goodbye as she watched him walk out, righting his cap on his head as he went. She stood still in her spot for as long as possible, trying to give him plenty of time to get out of earshot before she went back to the dart on the table.

She picked it up and ran the cool metal through her fingers, letting her thumb brush over the flight that had the Manchester United symbol on it. Her husband’s team. She knew it was his, knew he had thrown it. With shaking hands, she leaned over the table to pop the dart back to the place it had been before, glancing at the chalkboard for confirmation before leaning back again. It wasn’t him who had put it there; she knew that, but it felt slightly better that it was back in its place.

Celeste stared at the dartboard for a while, trying to recall the last time they had played a game out in the garage. It had been a few summers ago now. It was a warm night full of competitive taunts and casual wagers placed on games. There had been a large group of them drinking and playing well into the morning. When Celeste was pleasantly tipsy and tired, she had ventured down to the water for some quiet. It wasn’t long before her husband joined her in the other chair down on the dock, his chair.

“Fuck,” Celeste groaned as she pushed off the table that she had been gripping hard and turned back to the mower.

She snapped the cover back over the fuse box, and after a few more tugs on the rope, the ancient thing started up. The lawn was more work than she anticipated. While it was sunny, the grass was still wet, and having let it grow for so long, it kept jamming the blades. She had to stop and start multiple times, resorting to digging out chunks of grass with a stick and throwing them all over the yard as she went. She’d need to rake them up later. Maybe. She was too tired to bother with it and frankly no longer cared.

With an angry shove, Celeste put the mower away and yanked down the garage door before turning around to see the pile of brush still left to deal with. She had forgotten about it with all her work. And, of course, it was completely blocking her car, which she would need in the morning to get to work.

A break. She needed a quick break to sit down and breathe for a moment, get some water and reset her mind then she’d get back to it.

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

“Think she remembers she’s got to clean that up?” Kyle asked as he found John looking out the window above the now partial wrap-around porch. They still had to lay out the flooring and put in the railings, along with all the extra new touches, but it was a start.

Kyle had been relegated to glorified water boy, DJ, and the occasional tool fetcher. He hadn’t been allowed to help in any other manner. When Simon had caught him at the table saw and was about to cut a piece, he quickly unplugged it and glared at Kyle, who gave him a frustrated growl and stomped off.

“If she doesn’t, she’s going to have a rough morning,” John answered as he turned to look at Kyle. He was covered in sawdust despite not having touched a single piece of wood. That he was aware of anyway. Reaching out a hand, he brushed some off his shirt, fingers tracing up to knock away more that had caked on his hairline in the sweat that had since dried.

“Johnny stole my hat,” Kyle answered as his eyes flicked up to John’s hand before John quickly dropped it. “Said he needed to look a little presentable when he went over there.”

“Didn’t help much based on what he said,” John replied with a small smirk.

“He’s a bit like a kicked puppy, though. He’ll go back for more and charm her with his pitiful looks,” Kyle answered with a small laugh, stepping closer to John to peer at the mess of a yard Celeste had left behind.

“Tell me why you aren’t the one trying to get in her good graces then,” John asked as he glanced over, watching Kyle assess the area with keen eyes.

“I will,” Kyle answered, purposely not looking over at John, who he knew was watching him. “I’ll let Johnny make a fool of himself and figure out more about her. Then I sweep in, looking like the perfect savoir. It’s worked like that for years now. I’ve got it down to a science.” He grinned, twisting to look at John now, the other man’s face unreadable.

“Think she’s alright?” Kyle asked into the quiet as he leaned against the window sill, eyes narrowed on the dark windows across the way. There wasn’t a single light on. She had gone inside hours ago and hadn’t emerged again.

“Probably exhausted herself in her stubbornness,” John answered a bit stiffly.

He opened his mouth to say something else when Johnny’s voice called down the stairs that the shower was free. Simon had been the unfortunate one to figure out that the second shower had a rusted-out hot water pipe. He had been rinsing off when it finally exploded in the wall and plunged his shower into an ice bath. They still hadn’t had a chance to fix that one yet.  

“Go on,” John offered with a head nod at the stairs. “I’ll grab the mess, then clean up.”

“I can give you a hand,” Kyle offered. He had felt the atmosphere and mood change the moment he had joked about sweeping in to gain Celeste’s attention. He had been a jest, sort of, but John didn’t seem keen on it.

“I’ve got it; you’ve done too much as it is with that arm already. I caught you massaging it earlier,” he replied as he stepped toward the front door.

It was Kyle’s turn to open his mouth and then shut it again. It was rich of John to call someone stubborn when he behaved like this. With a shake of his head, Kyle headed up the stairs to shower, eyes darting down the hall as Johnny and Simon’s bedroom door snicked shut.

The sun was low in the sky, the pinks and oranges fading to dark blue. John only had a few minutes before it was solidly dark. He slipped his work gloves on and began grabbing at the branches in the driveway. It was relatively quick work, and he tossed the last few smaller branches into the truck bed before pushing the wheelbarrow to the garage. If his instincts were correct, Celeste was going to be grateful but mad as hell when she realized what he had done. He was also fairly certain his movements and truck pulling up had caught her attention. The curtains in the upstairs window had twitched twice, and it wasn’t the cat. The little orange tabby was watching him curiously from the downstairs window.

Kyle had showered quickly, well as quickly as he could, with his aching arm and the still not fully healed other wounds. The stitches had come out about a week ago because he couldn’t take the itching and pulling of his skin any longer. The doctors warned him against it since they weren’t fully ready yet, but it was either that or he accidentally popped them in his sleep scratching.

He skipped his clothes, not wanting to fight with them, and instead collapsed into his bed in just a towel and listened to the house around him. He was waiting for John to return, thinking perhaps they could figure out dinner since Johnny and Simon were solidly locked in their room for the evening.

When Kyle woke up a bit later, full night had fallen, and there was not a moon in sight. He shifted on the bed to get his bearings, hand reaching for his phone to get the time. Almost two in the morning. He must have been exhausted even after barely doing anything all day. But when he pushed to sit up, the sting of pain that jolted up his side told him he had definitely done too much that day.

“Fucking hell,” he muttered as he traced his fingers over the small lumps of his new scars to make sure none of them had popped loose. The shrapnel hit he had taken had shredded his arm to pieces and tore through his vest, peppering him all along the ribs and chest. That was after he had taken a shot to the shoulder trying to get civilians out of the way before the bomb exploded.

He shifted some more, his hand digging into his nightstand for the pain medication he tried to avoid when he heard it. It was soft and muffled, but there was no hiding in this cottage. He wasn’t sure which of them it was, but the stuttering gasp followed by a groan told Kyle enough. Pain medication or no, he wasn’t getting back to sleep now.

Kyle didn’t begrudge Simon and Johnny their time together. He was happy for them. Glad they had finally figured their shit out, but hearing them only made him realize more of his loneliness. It made the jealousy bubble up in his chest at the fact they had one another, and he was lying here alone in the dark, pining for someone who wouldn’t admit the truth to themselves.

Cursing his pain, he fumbled for a pair of pants and a shirt, not caring that they were his dirty work clothes from the day. He didn’t bother with doing either of them up, the denim hanging on his hips and flannel shirt laying open as he shuffled to the door. He dry swallowed his pain meds before closing his bedroom door as quietly as possible behind him. He’d go out for a smoke and wait it out for a bit before trying to venture inside again.

When he reached the hallway, the sounds were a bit louder, and he could see the soft light in Johnny and Simon’s bedroom leaking out from under the door. Instinctively, his eyes flitted to John’s bedroom door, and he found it slightly ajar but dark inside. He wondered if he was hearing this too. If he was lying in the dark listening, too polite to get up and snap the door shut. Or dead to the world, asleep and not aware.

As he hit the stairs, Kyle flinched when one step squeaked loud enough it may as well have been an alarm. The moaning silenced for a second, and Kyle held his spot, not wanting them to know he was out there. Not that it truly mattered. None of their sex lives were secret from one another, but there was a difference between willingly being invited and loitering. This was definitely a private moment.

Kyle continued to remain in his spot, flexing his fingers to stop the irritating tingling in them, when a soft hiss and low murmurs met his ears. He was in the clear. He was careful down the rest of the steps, and when he made it to the kitchen, he grabbed his discarded pack of smokes. Perhaps he’d smoke a few to be sure they were done and satiated before he went back to bed.

Hand on the backdoor, fingers moving to unflick the lock, Kyle found it already undone. That wasn’t like any of them. While all four of them could easily outdo and take out an unknowing intruder, they wouldn’t just leave the door unlocked. Hairs standing up just a bit, instantly on alert, he sidestepped to get a better look out the glass when he saw the flare of a lit cigar under the still mostly dead porchlight.  

“Couldn’t sleep?” John asked when Kyle opened the door. His eyes instantly darted to his half dressed form, taking in the undone button and zipper of his jeans and the open front of his shirt. He could see the cuts that littered the right side of his chest and ribs and the starburst scar by his shoulder where the bullet went in. Went in and then was dug out by John’s fingers as Kyle screamed, fighting against Simon’s hold before passing out from the pain.

“I was, woke up,” Kyle answered as he flicked his lighter and carefully stepped across the support boards to get over where John was. He took a seat within reach of him and bit back his groan as he used his good arm to brace himself to sit. “You been out here all night? It’s a bit cold for camping.”

“Most of it,” John answered. He was still in his work clothes, and Kyle eyed him as he lifted his tumbler to his lips and took a sip of whiskey. “Went up to shower and, well, I’m sure I know exactly what woke you up.”

“No, just my shit arm,” Kyle answered as he leaned his head back against the wood siding. “But I knew I wouldn’t get back to sleep after that. S’fine though, sort of what this place is for, right? Privacy to be together and get away from the rest of the bullshit?” He tried not to let the bitterness of the words leak out or laugh at them since John had said those words, and yet there he was. Less than an arm’s length away and still hiding from him.

Sounds of nature filled in the space between them as John didn’t reply to Kyle. He never did when it edged on anything close to this topic. It was fine really. John didn’t need to try to explain himself because Kyle knew none of his words would matter. He still burned for him, and any attempts John would make to let him down easily or explain his thoughts would hurt more. He’d rather sit in denial rather than let John hammer another nail into the wall he was putting up between them; hope was better than nothing.

“I’m going to head for a shower; if they aren’t done by now, they need to take a break at least,” John said, trying to make light of the situation as the silence continued to stretch uncomfortably between them. “Probably safe for you to go in, too; we can both make a bit of noise.”

“I’ll wait out here for a bit,” Kyle answered as he tilted his head back to look up at John as he rose. He was frozen, but he didn’t want to go in yet. He didn’t want to risk hearing what he wanted, needed, again. And he didn’t want to give into the temptation of knocking on that bedroom door and being invited in with a knowing look from Johnny.

“Take this then,” John said quietly as he shucked off his own jacket and draped it across Kyle’s chest. “Don’t stay out here too long.” And with one last lingering look, as if he were warring with himself, John disappeared inside. He had left behind his still half-full glass of whiskey, seemingly as a silent offer, though he had taken the bottle inside with him.  

Kyle downed it in one gulp, hissing through his teeth at the burn as it settled in his stomach and proceeded to warm him from the inside out. After a few more moments, giving John enough time to get out of earshot, Kyle finally let out an anguished sigh as he curled his face into the collar of the jacket. It smelled of John, of his sweat and soap, the heavy cherry scent of the cigar he had just smoked, and a vague whiff of his cologne he rarely donned.  

His eyes stung as he lit another cigarette to try and distract his thoughts. He told himself it was the lack of sleep, the pain in his arm, or the mix of medication and alcohol that had stirred up all these emotions. But deep down he knew the truth: he was mourning. Mourning what he needed to let go of, even though it was so close he could touch it; touch it but never truly have it. That realization hurt more than any of his physical injuries, and Kyle gasped into the silence as he fought to keep himself together.

[my-moo-moo]

conceit brings nothing good

“Pregnancy is a walk in the park,” he naively declared a mere three months into his pregnancy, receiving death glares from all his friends. “I don’t know what you guys were complaining about.”

He had gotten pregnant his first month off the pill, despite hearing stories from friends that conceiving is not as easy as it seems. That was the beginning of his ego being delusively fed. He experienced no sickness nor aches, the only sign of pregnancy was the glow under his skin and the cute little bump that emerged— which he flaunted on his social media, making the effort to dress up in curated daily outfits. 

With his first trimester flying by like a breeze, he already started planning the rest of his year. He booked tickets for two separate babymoons, one his partner and one with his friends. He ordered a bunch of pregnancy clothes that would last him for months. 

He already signed onto modeling work a mere month postpartum. Since he had barely gained a kilogram yet, it should be easy to continue managing his pregnancy weight. He may be pregnant but he wasn’t letting go of his habit of eating healthy and working out every single day.

“You’re going to regret all these plans a couple months from now,” one of his friends cautioned. “Just you wait.”

He all but scoffed off the concern. 

In the days leading up to his ultrasound, his belly had popped. It was undeniable to any stranger he was pregnant, but it was still very manageable. He didn’t suspect anything amiss until he showed up to his routine ultrasound appointment. His heart dropped when he heard that they had discovered not one but four fetuses in his womb. No one could understand how they missed it the first time. 

He started ballooning rapidly since then, passing the max weight he set for himself to gain throughout the entire pregnancy at a mere halfway point. He mourned his once pristine baby bump as a dark line now ran straight through the middle and stretch marks littered his skin. The developing babies, struggling to find room to grow, continue to push his belly to limits in all directions. Even his ribs and hips weren’t spared from being pried apart. Not even the clothing he bought especially for pregnancy fit anymore. He resigned that a portion of his belly will always be exposed to the air.

His flat chest started swelling as well, into full on breasts that would produce enough milk for four babies. They were so itchy and sensitive that it was painful to brush over them. Milk would sporadically leak from his nipples, staining his shirts, but he had long given up on presentability. 

Forget working out, he can barely get off the bed to go to the bathroom without breaking a sweat. It was a struggle to put one feet in front of the other with his gravid belly pulling at his back and hanging in front of his thighs. Not that he felt any relief sitting and lying down either. Even when lying still, there was never a peaceful moment during the day where one of his babies wasn't kicking up a storm inside his body. He was certain all his inner organs were littered with purple bruises.

When his friends would call him, he would still lie, saying that the pregnancy was going smoothly. “I can go past the goal gestation week of 32 weeks, no problem. Besides, I’m growing quadruple the amount of babies and I still haven’t complained as much as you guys.”

It was a relief that they have not seen in person the slobber he has reduced to, but they kept reiterating they were excited to see him again for the babymoon trip.

He was going to be 7 months pregnant, yet astonishingly the doctors had cleared him to go. His partner with the loud mouth, leaked that knowledge to his friends so he had no excuse and had too much pride to cancel the trip.

That’s how he found himself in his assigned airplane seat with his ass barely fitting, and his enormous belly almost reaching the seat in front of him, and pushed up against the armrests. As soon as the plane took off, the person in front reclined his seat, as far as it would go over his belly, and completely knocked out. He bit back his wince of pain, and any complaints, not wanting to cause a scene. And so he was forced to sit still for 8 back aching hours, the pressure on his belly and bladder almost exploding. 

With the arrival to his destination did not come any relief. Turns out his friends have organized a packed schedule from the moment they landed. When they would ask him if he wanted to stay back in the hotel to rest, he would shake his head stubbornly. He clutched his belly in his arms, waddling as best he could to keep up with their pace. They would walk for hours on end until his back, legs, and pelvis were on fire, yet his fake smile never faltered.

His friends kept saying he was small for carrying quadruplets. They guilted him in thinking he wasn't doing enough for his babies so they could order him extra plates of food. In his past life, he would never think of eating this amount of calories in a week let alone a single meal, but they kept piling on his plate. He just couldn’t refuse.

The babies seem to be having a growth spurt, his suspicions proven correct when it was time to board the flight home. His belly had stretched too far outward that he could no longer fit the plane seat. It was the most embarrassing moment in his life when he was escorted off the plane, but at least his friends stood by his side. They cheer him up and suggest driving him home, making a month-long road trip out of it… and he agrees.

(Once they strap him in the backseat, they won't be bringing him home until they witness him break.)

[vindicated-truth]

@diveintovortex has made another fascinating discovery about the music that plays during Joowon's arrest of Dongsik, and when Han Kihwan compares Joowon to his mother as he stands in the rain.

There's apparently a 3rd scene in which it plays:

When Dongsik told Jihwa that he can't let Joowon go to hell alone.

I reiterate my theory that this music can somewhat be referred to as "Joowon's Theme", because in all 3 scenes, Joowon is the central topic.

I have a twofold interpretation of what this music means for this specific scene, but before that, let me share a tangential but related theory:

If there really is no other scene that this specific music is played in earlier episodes, then this must mean it's been composed late, just for the final two episodes of the show (Episodes 15-16).

Take note that albums are prepared much earlier for release, so if this music was only composed towards the end of the production for the actual show, then it makes sense that the music did not make it to the official Beyond Evil OST album, for the simple reason that the schedule of the music's final composition didn't make it in time to be part of the album's official release and distribution.

That being said, given the trio of scenes centering around the theme of reaching out, these are my twofold interpretations:

Han Joowon

In my previous post I talked about how the music seems to evoke the central theme of loss, longing, reaching out, and letting go, particularly when it pertains to the twofold relationship Joowon has with his mother, and with Dongsik.

@diveintovortex took it a step further and juxtaposed this as well with Joowon's relationship with his father.

What's fascinating to juxtapose now is the way the music is used in succession in three specific scenes:

When Han Kihwan talks about Joowon as weak because he's incapable of accepting other people's offered hand when they reach out to him.

When Dongsik tells Jihwa that he can't let Joowon go down for his father's sins alone.

When Dongsik surrenders himself to Joowon in the end, fulfiling his promise that even in this, they will go down together.

What the music is meant to center on, therefore, is this beautiful, heartrending journey of Joowon finally having someone reach out to him, and Joowon finally, finally accepting that offered hand in return.

It's why everything about the story is written in a way that is meant to come back full circle, because with the arrest scene in the end, it's not only figurative, but literal: Dongsik truly does offer his hands for Joowon to take, for Joowon to latch handcuffs on—and forever lock their relationship together in a way that will always be inescapable.

Inseperable.

A willing surrender—to each other.

Oh Jihwa

And while I know this is meant to center Joowon's journey of finally letting someone in—that he's finally, finally not alone anymore—I can't help but relate this central theme of reaching out to Jihwa, too. That there's a reason this music played between her and Dongsik, too.

Because I realize that all this time—she must have been feeling left out, too. And this is her aching to reach out, especially to Dongsik, to let her in, too.

She's expressed this frustration several times over the course of the show, when she can't help but feel left out especially within the small circle of friendship she shares with both Dongsik and Jeongje—both of whom she grew up with, has been friends with for 31 years, and whom she regards as her dearest friends.

And yet many times, both Dongsik and Jeongje have shunned her: Dongsik in wanting to protect her, and Jeongje—in many ways, in wanting to protect himself.

Dongsik didn't want to let Jihwa in too close to the situation, not just so that she won't get hurt, as Dongsik knows Jihwa is more than capable of protecting herself, but more importantly—so that Jihwa doesn't have to compromise her values and her job in helping Dongsik out.

Dongsik has already resigned himself to being branded as a criminal; he can't let Jihwa become one, too.

With Jeongje—I think there's a part of him that has always been afraid that letting Jihwa in too close would eventually also make him face the truths about himself that he's been running away from, for 21 years. Unlike Dongsik, who leaves Jeongje well enough alone because Dongsik trusts him far too much, Jeongje knows that—with her intellect, tenaciousness, and unshakeable principles—Jihwa won't.

Jihwa has consistently been the one between the three of them who's stubborn and persistent in finding out the truth—and it's precisely why Jeongje can't let her get too close, either.

Jihwa, however, doesn't know either of these things about Dongsik and Jeongje. And you can clearly tell that she isn't just frustrated about it—she's also deeply hurt.

Kim Shinrok's brilliant acting comes beautifully, heartbreakingly into play when Jihwa finally bursts into angry tears in front of Dongsik.

Essentially, what she's saying to Dongsik is parallel to what Dongsik has been saying all along to Joowon, too:

"I'm your friend. Please, let me in.

Don't I deserve your trust, too?"

[ek-atherine]

Ink Manifestation (Satoru Gojo x Reader): Chapter Seven

"The special-grade cursed apparition, Rika Orimoto was fully manifested for 442 seconds," one of the directors lectured Satoru and me. I couldn't help but wonder if they couldn't use that time for something more productive. I rolled my eyes, trying to maintain focus during the lecture.

Satoru and I had been summoned to a meeting with the higher-ups, where we faced a barrage of criticisms and questions about our methods. For once, Satoru had his sunglasses over his blindfold; normally, he wore the blindfold over the glasses. I couldn't quite figure out the reason for the switch. We had both opted for casual attire instead of our usual uniforms.

"We entrusted you two with Yuta Okkotsu precisely to prevent this sort of thing," they explained sternly. "There’s no room for excuses."

"Well, that’s good, because we don’t have any excuses," Satoru retorted coolly.

"How can you joke about this?" one of the directors asked incredulously. "If Rika Orimoto had remained out of control, she could have wiped out an entire town."

"If she had, I would’ve risked my life to stop her," Satoru replied firmly.

"As would I," I affirmed, standing by his side. “Listen, now that we’ve seen it, there’s only one thing we can say about that curse, and that’s I don’t understand. Why did a little girl who wasn’t from any line of jujutsu sorcerers become such an immense and powerful curse? We can’t control something that we don’t understand. So, it’s just gonna take trial and error. Leave it alone for a while, and see how it works out.”

Satoru and I started to walk away from the meeting, ready to leave the tension-filled atmosphere behind. However, one of the directors interjected sternly, “Do not forget, Yuta Okkotsu’s execution has only been temporarily suspended.”

“And don’t you forget,” I retorted darkly, locking eyes with them, “that if it comes down to that decision, we will side with Yuta Okkotsu.” With that final statement, Satoru and I turned on our heels and left the room, heading back to the school to meet up with our students.

As we walked down the corridor, Satoru's discontent with the school directors was evident. His frustration carved lines across his face, and he muttered under his breath as he wrestled with his blindfold. The usual confident demeanor was replaced by a rare glimpse of vulnerability.

“Those school directors are such rude older geezers,” he grumbled, his hands fumbling with the blindfold's knot. “I don’t ever wanna become like them.”

I couldn't help but chuckle softly at his annoyance. “Do you want help?” I offered, already sensing his struggle.

Satoru sighed in resignation and squatted down, his disheveled hair falling around his face as he handed me the blindfold. As I took it, our fingers brushed briefly, his undercut catching my attention for a fleeting moment.

“I don’t ever wanna become like them,” Satoru reiterated, his voice tinged with irritation as I securely tied the blindfold around his head.

“You could never be like them,” I reassured him, finishing the knot with a gentle tug. "You're far too charming for that."

He smirked, his mood lightening slightly. “Flattery won't get you out of tying my blindfold, you know.”

“I wouldn't dream of it,” I replied with a grin, standing back up as Satoru adjusted to the blindfold, his usual composure returning.

“They just don’t get it. No one should be allowed to take youth away from young people,” Satoru continued to complain, his voice laced with frustration.

We reached the top of the steps and looked down at the training grounds. Below us, Panda was timing the other three first-years as they ran laps around the track. Their determination was evident even from this distance.

“No one will take their youth away,” I assured him with a smile, trying to lift his spirits.

Satoru glanced over at me, his expression softening. “Yeah, you’re right,” he admitted, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips. “We’ll make sure of that.”

We watched in silence for a moment, the students’ laughter and shouts echoing up to where we stood. The sight of them, so full of life and energy, served as a poignant reminder of why we did what we did.

Satoru nudged me gently with his elbow. “Wanna bet on who finishes first?”

I raised an eyebrow, grinning. “Oh, you’re on. Loser buys dinner.”

“Deal,” he agreed, his competitive spirit reignited.

Afterward, Satoru and I brought Yuta to the weapons shed near the track. In order to better control his curse, bit by bit, by embedding it into the weapon of his choice. Then I’ll have a new student to teach in weaponry! Satoru unlocks the door as I lightly rock back and forth with excitement.

“Ladies first,” Satoru says to me with a bow.

“Thank you, good sir,” I thank him jokingly with a curtsy.

I quickly go in with Yuta following after me as I gesture to the weapons scattered neatly across the wall and in different stands and such. Yuta gasps in awe at all the weapons.

“It’s nearly impossible to exorcize a curse as big as Rika Orimoto. But breaking the curse is a different story,” I explain to Yuta as I look through all the different weapons, trying to pick the best one for him.

“You have to identify thousands of knots of cursed energy and unravel them one by one,” Satoru continues. “It’s a method that can only be pursued by you, the person that she’s cursed.”

“What exactly am I supposed to do?” Yuta asks, looking overwhelmed.

I finally pick out a katana for him and toss it to him. “Here, use this,” I tell him. “Because I, sir, am going to be teaching you combat.”

“Whoa, a katana?” he asks in awe, catching it with both hands.

“Yes, a katana,” I confirm with a smile. “It’s a versatile weapon, perfect for channeling and controlling the cursed energy. Plus, it suits you.”

“You see, curses are most stable when they’re possessing an object. If you remember, back at that school, you used that ring to connect to Rika.” Satoru explains. “The pipeline’s already there. So now you need to borrow part of Rika’s curse, imbue it into the katana, and control it. Increase the amount as you repeat it, and eventually, you’ll have the whole curse under your control. Once you do that, you’re free. Both you and her.”

“Imbue the curse into the katana,” Yuta repeats, trying to absorb the information.

“But that’s not all, you’ll have to learn how to wield a blade,” I add with a grin, twirling my own katana, which is made entirely of ink. “You’ll have to learn how to wield a blade.” I look at him with excitement, but Yuta backs away nervously.

“So first things first is some training!” I announce, ready to begin.

We move to the training ground, and I take a stance with my ink katana. “Watch carefully, Yuta. This is how you handle a katana.” I demonstrate a series of basic slashes and thrusts, my movements fluid and precise.

Yuta watches intently, then mimics my stance, albeit awkwardly. “Like this?”

“Not bad for a start,” I say encouragingly. “Now, let’s see how you handle a sparring match. Don’t worry, I’ll go easy on you and we’ll take it slow.”

Satoru stands to the side, observing with a keen eye. “Remember, Yuta, focus on channeling Rika’s energy into the blade. It will strengthen your strikes.”

Yuta nods, his grip tightening on the katana. We begin to spar, my ink katana clashing against his blade. I move with agility, testing his reflexes and reactions.

“Good, Yuta! Keep your stance firm!” I instruct, dodging one of his strikes and countering with a swift, controlled slash. “Remember to channel Rika’s energy.”

Yuta focuses, and I can see a faint glow emanating from his katana. He swings with more confidence, his strikes becoming sharper and more precise.

“Excellent!” I praise him, blocking his attack and stepping back. “You’re getting the hang of it. Now, try to increase the amount of cursed energy.”

Yuta closes his eyes for a moment, concentrating. When he opens them, the glow intensifies. He lunges forward, his katana infused with more of Rika’s power. Our blades clash, and I can feel the increased strength behind his strikes.

“Impressive,” Satoru comments from the sidelines. “Keep it up, Yuta.”

Though I could feel his strikes becoming more powerful, it wasn’t anything I couldn’t handle. I’m a special grade for a reason, after all.

I smile, pushing back against his blade. “Good, Yuta. Keep focusing on that energy. Let it flow naturally into your strikes.”

Yuta nods, determination in his eyes. He swings again, and I parry, our katanas meeting with a sharp clang. I can sense the raw potential in him, the way he channels Rika’s energy. He’s learning quickly.

“Try to anticipate my moves,” I advise, feinting to the left before sweeping in from the right. Yuta reacts swiftly, blocking my attack and countering with a thrust that nearly catches me off guard.

“Nice reflexes,” I praise him. “But don’t just react. Take the initiative. Control the flow of the fight.”

Yuta takes a deep breath, his grip firm on the katana. He steps forward, pressing the attack. His movements are more confident, and his strikes more precise. I can see him growing into his potential, bit by bit.

“Great progress,” Satoru says, his tone approving. “But remember, Yuta, power isn’t everything. Strategy and control are just as important.”

I nod in agreement, deflecting a particularly strong strike from Yuta. “Exactly. Keep a clear head and stay focused. You’re doing really well.”

We continue sparring, the sound of our blades ringing through the air. Each clash is a test of Yuta’s growing skills, and he meets every challenge with determination. I push him hard, but not beyond his limits, always ready to step in if necessary.

Finally, after a series of intense exchanges, I step back, lowering my katana. “That’s enough for today. You’ve made excellent progress, Yuta. You and Maki can train together, she’s excellent when it comes to combat, I think you two will become great friends.”

Over the past couple of months, I watched Yuta grow stronger and more confident in himself. As I anticipated, he also grew closer to Maki. She seemed much happier having a sparring partner who could match her intensity. Satoru and I observed the two sparring together, their movements fluid and precise.

As we continued watching, their sparring session came to an end. Yuta and Maki exchanged a few words, both of them grinning despite their exhaustion.

“Looks like we’ve got a strong duo here,” Satoru remarked, turning to me. “But we’ve got to talk to Toge about his upcoming mission.”

I nodded, and together we made our way towards Toge, who was observing the training from a distance. As we approached, he looked up, his expression curious.

“Toge, you’ve been requested for a curse that you’re perfect for.” Satoru tells him. “Shouldn’t take you too long to exorcize it.”

Toge nods. “Salmon.”

“Requested?” Yuta asks, curious.  

“Toge is the only grade two sorcerer among us first years,” Panda explains. “He’s allowed to take on missions all on his own.”

“Wow that’s amazing,” Yuta says, clearly impressed. 

“Your grade is higher than his,” Maki mutters from behind. 

“Yuta, why don’t you go along, too?” Satoru suggests. “You’ll be Toge’s support.”

“Huh? You want me to support him?” Yuta asks. 

“Well, you’ll be more like an observer really.” I explain. “There’s a wide variety of jujutsu, so you can assume there are as many ways to exorcize a curse as there are sorcerers. Toge’s cursed speech is a good example of one way.  Make sure to learn from him.”

Yuta tilted his head in confusion. “Cursed speech?”

“As the term suggests, it’s imbuing speech with curses. It’ll make sense once you see him in action.” I assure him.

Satoru and I brought the kids to the meeting point where they would meet Ijichi, who would oversee their mission. We couldn’t stay this time as we had other matters to attend to.

“Yuta one more thing!” I called out to him. Yuta walked over to meet us. “Sorry, but we don’t have time to supervise this mission. But this is a job Toge can typically handle on his own. So no need to worry.”

“There’s only one thing you need to be careful of,” Satoru explained. “Don’t let Rika out. There’s no guarantee she’ll go back in like she did last time. Only use the portion of Rika’s power that you can imbue in your sword.”

Yuta gulped anxiously.

“Do you know what will happen if you let her out again?” Satoru asked him.

“No, what happens?” Yuta asked, eyes wide with concern.

Satoru then crossed his hand across his neck, indicating that Yuta would die. “You, me, and (Y/n), dead as a doornail. I’m counting on you!”

Yuta looked at us horrified, and I sighed at Satoru’s casualness. “Don’t scare him too much,” I said, giving Satoru a light smack on the arm. “You’ll do fine, Yuta. Trust yourself and remember what you’ve learned.”

The boys ran into some trouble with their mission. Both were fine, but they encountered a cursed spirit more challenging than expected. Akari was giving Satoru and me a rundown of the investigation of the area since the cursed spirit they ran into wasn’t initially what they saw here.

“After scouring every inch of the Hapina Shopping District, I found three different types of residuals,” Akari explained. “Mr. Ijichi doesn’t think it’s likely we're going to find anything more than that if we keep looking.”

“Okay, thanks, Akari, excellent report,” I said, appreciating her diligence.

Satoru and I walked into the shopping district, where an officer lifted the caution tape at the entrance, allowing us to duck underneath it and step inside. As we moved forward, Satoru suddenly stopped and sniffed the air, pausing with a bemused expression.

I chuckled in disbelief, knowing exactly what he was thinking. "You’re kidding," I said, still not believing it, even though I could smell it too.

"No, I’m not," Satoru replied seriously, and I sighed in response.

“I know, I smell it too,” I said, rubbing my temples in annoyance. “Fucking Suguru.”

Satoru’s eyes narrowed as he scanned the area. "It’s definitely his handiwork. That lingering cursed energy is unmistakable."