#calling in now Jean is the culprit

[ferret-does-stuff]

IT'S HAPPENING EVERYONE STAY FUCKING CALM

[nichuuu]

Beats Me - 6: Come As You Are

Word count: 8k+

Of course, there’s a chance to turn away from all of this—a chance to stop her hand as it reaches the base of your shaft, a chance to halt her in the midst of tiptoeing to place a peck on your neck; there’s a clear opportunity for you to end what’s happening right here and now—it’s all a matter of how willing you are to go through with this. While your brain screams at you to stop, your body says otherwise; you lift a hand to cup her cheek.

As you tell her, “Just for tonight,” a wisp of a smile appears on her face, and you wonder, What am I doing.

---------

A call from Kim Minju at this hour is never good news. 

To give context: It’s one in the morning on a Saturday. Office workers and the youth above the legal age for drinking are patronising drinking spots, throwing back a couple of beers and basking in the euphoria that alcohol brings them. Perhaps they're using alcohol to cope with the stress of their lives, or maybe they're trying to numb the pain of recent difficult experiences. In both cases, emotions are running high, alcohol is coursing through their systems, memories are resurfacing, and maybe, just maybe, tears are streaming down their cheeks—nothing too out of the ordinary. If you were to receive a call from anyone else at this hour, you would've thought it a request to be escorted back home, or a soused friend dialling in to say incomprehensible things before truncating the call.

But for more context: Kim Minju has been the bearer of bad news since highschool. If you are to combine this with the information above, you know that something has probably gone down, and you’re the only man she can trust to help them. She never calls you on a whim; every call from her is a desperate cry for help. 

As you stare at her caller ID on your phone that vibrates on the table like it’s possessed, you start steeling yourself for what is to come. You’re hesitant to answer, but basic human decency gets the better of you. You can hear the deafening roar of club music in the background when you pick up, and Minju’s yelling into the phone. Even in the quiet of your apartment, you can’t make heads or tails of what she’s trying to convey to you. Even as you holler I can’t hear you at the top of your lungs, she continues to blabber her intelligible words over the pulsing bass of that horrible song that’s playing in the background.

Then it suddenly gets quiet on the other end, and for a moment, you only hear the sound of your heartbeat crunching in your ears. When Minju speaks again, you can hear the wind blowing by in the background, your indication that she’s exited the club. Her voice rings loud and clear in your apartment. 

“Eunbi’s driving to your place, she’ll explain everything,” she’s telling you. “She’ll text when she arrives, get ready to be picked up.”

The urgency in her voice drives you to acquiescence, and you throw on a hoodie and some sweatpants. Couple of minutes later, you’re seated in the front seat of your singer’s car. She’s running you down on the events that have occurred tonight, and the multiple mentions of Chaewon makes your heart sink further and further. 

It was enough dealing with her in the band. That shrill frequency she could produce with that trumpet was often aptly used to deafen you whenever she could (she sat on your direct right so she could be a bitch with ease). The bowl she used to collect her saliva was often “accidentally” (the way she said that word with such bogus innocence really brought you to your boiling point sometimes) spilt on to the leg of your jeans when you walked by, her trumpet case “coincidentally” (again, bogus innocence with this one) be in the way of your shin as you tried to get to your kit. Her behaviour wasn’t the culprit behind your irritance towards her, rather the fact that her behaviour failed to reflect what she had requested for when the two of you schismed—a clean break.

“She’s thrown up twice now.” Eunbi’s tone is a mish-mash of frustration and commiseration, “She refuses to move, and she's been groped twice. We don’t mean to drag you into this, but you’re the last feasible option.”

There’s an odd feeling of nihility in your chest as the two of you come to a stop at a red light. In the band, you dealt with her on a physical level. But when Kim Chaewon and alcohol merge, you know that you’ll have to deal with her on an emotional level, and that somehow fails to engender any spite or frustration of the ilk. The silence that hangs in the car is unsettling in light of the confusing sensations you’re experiencing (and also due to the fact that usually chatty Eunbi is finding it hard to start a conversation in this atmosphere), yet you find that you’re poised. 

“I’m uh… I’m actually your highschool senior,” Eunbi decides to input, “I used to go to the same school as you, Chaewon and Minju…”

You remain reticent. Eunbi takes the cue and returns her eyes to the road. 

The bouncer almost didn’t let you in because of your shabby fit, but a quick wink and a, he’s with me, from Eunbi was enough to get him to let you through. You easily spot Minju amidst club-goers once you get in.  Those long, luscious jet black locks that flow just past her shoulders and those large round eyes that always seem to be doleful quickly catch your attention as you wade through the sea of people together with Eunbi. She looks the same as she did all those years ago. She stands when you approach; Kim Chaewon’s slumped over the table they’re at. 

“Thank god you’re here.” Her expression tells you that she’s been through quite the ordeal tonight. “I… I hope you understand that—”

She stops mid sentence when you hold up a hand. You understand that such a gesture is impertinent of you, but you can’t help it—there’s too much to process, too much to take in, and a club isn’t the best place to assimilate it all (or to find a lover, an ex lover in this case). Minju steps aside, and you take a moment to look at the sorry sight of your ex—face down on the table of the booth seat and an empty shot glass in hand. 

“What do you want me to do?” you ask them. The two girls look at each other, then Minju tells you to do whatever it takes to get her out of here. 

So there you are—contemplating on whether you should dump a bucket of ice on her or gently wake her up. Basic human decency gets the better of you, and you slide onto the couch next to Chaewon, gently tap the bare shoulder that’s exposed in her outfit. When she raises her head off the sticky, glossy table, you’re momentarily reminded of the countless times you’d woken her up in the same way when she fell asleep in the school library.

Then those eyes—half-lidded and swimming in tears—lock onto yours. The volume of her voice pales in comparison to the blaring House remix of the Barbie theme, yet when she calls your name, it’s the only thing you can hear. She shifts closer—close enough to rest her head on your shoulder, close enough for you to smell the vodka on her breath as she silently sobs against you; Don’t go, don’t leave, she slots in between those heart wrenching cries. Right now: emotions are running high, alcohol is coursing through her system, memories are resurfacing, and tears are definitely streaming down their cheeks. 

Eunbi and Minju look on in silence. Eunbi’s lips are pursed, Minju’s eyes are somehow more doleful. Their looks are doing nothing to assuage the turmoil that you’re feeling. You find yourself saying things that you were never prepared to say. 

“She can stay at my place for the night… I doubt she’d want to go anywhere else.”

They look apprehensive, but deep down—they know you’re right.

***

“Uh… Are you sure you want to present this?” 

Chaewon looks up from her presentation script to give a simple, “Hm?”. You were scratching your head as you read over the vivid description of Kurt Cobain's death that she’d included. It detailed the nature of his death, the brutal imagery of small, tiny shotgun pellets blowing a hole through the skull of Nirvana’s frontman on the night of his suicide described in an unnaturally calm tone, as if people shooting themselves through the head with a shotgun was an everday occurance. 

“I mean…” You were doing your best to not sound reprehensive, “I don’t think Miss Kim would appreciate the… Visceral imagery.”

Her look was one of innocence as she asked, why not, and proceeded to further justify her vivid depiction (her argument was that Lee Chaeyeon had presented on Aviccii’s death in equal vividness and your teacher enjoyed it). The theme of the presentations for the week was “the talented die young”, and she’d decided to talk about one of her favourite bands at the time. She was blasting their hit song Smells Like Teen Spirit through the speaker in her room, and you were finding it hard to focus over all that grunge (you didn’t tell her of course, cause that would’ve made her pouty for the rest of the day).

That was one of your fondest memories from dating her. It showed you her tenacity and her stubbornness in insisting that she was correct. It showed you just how determined and strong-willed she could be. You found that you could still recall every detail of that moment as vividly as she described Cobain's death while you watched her walk around your kitchen from the doorway to your room. Her hair is in disarray, the set of clothes that you’d passed her baggy on her slender frame. For the record: She knows how she got here, she knows where she is, she knows you’re awake, and she knows that you’re watching her. In spite of all this, her movements are calm, her hand taking its time to trail across your cabinets as her eyes slowly soak in her surroundings. 

“You know, for someone that said that they wanted a clean break—you’re making things messier than they should be,” you can’t help but tell her. Her hand stops on the handle of your cabinet, her index finger affixing itself there for a minute as she lowers her head. With a sigh, you stuff your hands into your pockets and tell her, “Get out once your hangover wears off.”

You retreat back into your room to get some work done. When you emerge around lunchtime, you find that she’s taken liberties in your kitchen, a piping hot bowl of noodles sitting opposite her at your dining table as she silently slurps on a bowl of her own. You stand there for a moment, then you accost the eating space and stop just before her. 

“Are you being for real?” You can’t help but let the revulsion seep into your words, “You’re telling me that your hangover has lasted this long?”

She’s unwontedly silent. Her pugnacious, bratty nature seems to have dissipated into thin air, replaced by one of taciturn and timidness as she stares blankly into her noodles. She doesn’t look up when you sigh and slide into the other seat, nor does she say anything when you start digging into the noodles that she’s prepared for you (you aren’t one to pass up on a free meal, even if it’s prepared by your ex). 

It’s when you're halfway through your bowl that she finally pipes up, “thank you for taking me in.”

You go still for a moment. 

Then you choose not to reply to her. 

After washing up, you communicate to her that she has till sundown to leave your abode before you head back to your room. You know that she’s going to stay like that stubborn patch of mould beneath the snare drum in the recording studio when you hear her playing Smells Like Teen Spirit on her phone through the door. Once again, that damn song is reminding you of how tenacious and stubborn she can be. Those two traits of hers were really double edged swords for that woman.

Night comes; she still hasn’t left. When you exit your room, you find that she’s asleep on the floor. It seems that she’s found it congenial to sleep on the carpeted surface, even though the futon that you provided her last night is literally an arms length away from her sleeping body. Seeing her that way, you’re momentarily reminded of the times she’d stay over at your place while you were dating, and she’d choose to nap on the floor while you worked—even though the bed was empty. The reasons as to why she chose to do so are still unknown to this day—one of the many unsolved mysteries in your relationship, second only to why she’s being the way she is despite what the two of you have previously agreed on.

To be absolutely clear: the two of you know why you broke up. It wasn’t a case of a one-sided sudden change of heart; there was a reason behind it that you both understood (even though you did need a lot of time to come to terms with it). Yes, it was painful. Yes, it was unexpected. Yes, you did miss her for quite some time. But there wasn’t much you could do about it. She’d set her mind on the breakup, and her stubbornness and tenacity had her on wits end when you tried to talk to her. 

Was there a possibility the two of you could’ve stayed together? Your answer—yes. Her’s—only God knows what goes through that confusing brain.

Once more, basic human decency drives you to do things you don’t want to, and you end up cooking a share of fried rice for her. You lay her bowl next to her on the floor along with a spoon before seating yourself at the dining table to eat. You’re about halfway through a video essay about some game you’ll never play when she stirs from her slumber. 

She spots the bowl, then her gaze wanders to you. Silently, she picks it up and rises to her feet. Now it’s her turn to accost the eating space, except she isn’t belligerent, nor can you sense any hostile intentions.

“Can I sit?” She’s oddly genteel as she points at the chair opposite you. You’ll just end up sitting even if I say no, is your reply. She allows a soft, short chuckle before she slides in. You think about turning off the video essay, but then you decide to not let basic human decency get the better of you this once. 

So with some random guy’s voice filling the air, you and Chaewon partake in your meals in silence. You try not to look at her, but you can’t help but throw a few glances her way as she eats. She decided to grow out her hair over the past few weeks, dye it auburn, and now it drapes elegantly past her shoulders like silky curtains. You can’t read her expression (though you never could to begin with), and you certainly can’t understand why she’s become so quiet. She’s trying to make you lower your guard, soften you up then launch some manipulation tactic is what you’re considering. You won’t put it past her to use a facade of milquetoast nature to try and break past your boundaries. 

“I’ll be out by tomorrow morning,” she suddenly tells you. That was the first time you tore your gaze away from your phone for more than five seconds. How would one normally reply to such a statement? Oh, okay, seems to be one of the better options, yet you choose to go with, “Good, cause I’m not planning to overstay your welcome.”

Chaewon plucks a rice grain off her top lip. “But you’d let Eunbi or Ryujin stay, right?”

There you were, hoping that she’d be as timid and quiet as she’d been for the rest of the day. The nap must have gotten rid of the rest of the hangover, cause you can hear the haughtiness in her voice. 

“Are we really going to have this conversation?” you ask her. The firm look she fixes you with tells you, I’m gonna run my mouth on you whether you like it or not. 

“And here I was thinking you’re being a decent human for once,” you can’t help but mutter. “You’re fucking confusing you know that?”

She bristles in her seat. “You watch your fucking mouth player.”

You’re not one to take offence from such comments. Normally, you’d understand that in the heat of the moment, people can say hurtful things that they don’t mean. It’s natural, completely natural—the adrenaline, the emotions, the tension… All of it can melt together in the form of nasty words that spew forth from a person’s mouth. 

But when it comes from Kim Chaewon’s mouth however… You can’t seem to find that sympathy in you. She knows that you’ve slept with your singer and bassist, she knows that they’ve had you more than once—it’s right for her to feel this type of anger (even though the two of you aren’t even together anymore), yet there’s no part of you—not even a single atom—that wants to take the time to try to understand where she’s coming from and why she feels this way.

“Player?” You don’t mean to sound as pissed as you do. “Player?” you echo again, just for good measure, “What gives you the right to call me that? I’m not the one who couldn’t wait for their partner!”

“It was two years!” Chaewon cries.

“Well you could’ve at least tried.” You’re not even bothering to filter your words now. “You’re a hypocrite for calling me a player when you couldn’t even wait for me.”

“Two fucking years! Do you really expect me to close my heart to love for two whole years just so I can wait for you to get out of the damn military!” The way her tone conveys how right she thinks she is pisses you off, “I’m a human! I need love! Do you really expect me to wait for it for that long?”

She’s on her feet now, hands on your table, breaths heavy. 

She screams, “It’s your fault for signing on so early! It’s your fault for ever thinking that I’d wait!” 

You shoot up from your seat and cry, “Well then damn me for ever trying to believe in you!”

Her face contorts into a snarl. She skirts the table, accosts you with her arm whizzing through the air; she slaps you across the face. As the sting lingers on your cheek, you find your fingers curling into fists. 

“You’re horrible!” She’s hollering at the top of her lungs, “I wish that I never met you!”

For a moment, there’s only the sound of her heavy breathing. Then those eyes—bulging in their sockets and swimming in tears—lock onto yours. She looks just as she did the night the two of you broke up: hair slightly messy, face twisted in a mix of woe and fury, right up in your face as her face starts to flush under the intense assault of emotions and thoughts. She’s close—close enough to grip you by your collar and pull you towards her, crush her lips against yours, kiss you like she did when you were teens. 

And she does just that.

A soft cry slips past her lips, travels into your mouth as she kisses you; It feels exactly the same as it did all those years ago—the meraki, the slight tension in her upper lip, the light quiver in your bottom lip—a familiar comfort you had no idea you missed. Her small waist is captured in your grasp, your face in her hands as she pulls you deeper, kisses you harder. It was like she never left, like she never walked away from you because you had decided to enlist in compulsory military service early so that you could get it over and done with, like she never said, seeing you on the weekends isn't enough for me, I’m sorry. This won’t work out the way you think it will. Let’s just end things off here, nice and clean.

And get this: the whole moment is sweet and all, but deep down, there’s still a small flame of anger alit within you. Even though you kissed her back with equal vigour, you were silently cursing her for making things messier than it had to be; while your hands run through her hair, you find yourself berating her in your head for making you vacillate between missing her and hating her. You aren’t one to be flippant, but Chaewon had the tendency to bring out sides of you that you’ve never seen for yourself. 

Her tongue dives into your mouth, her hand pressed flat against your chest. She’s tugging at the fabric of your shirt, and you’re not sure if she’s trying to pull you closer or signalling for you to take it off. You realise it’s the latter when she guides you hand beneath the fabric of the shirt you gave her, your fingertips grazing the soft skin beneath it. Your palm rests on the flesh of her waist. Her skin was warm to the touch. 

Your mouths part, and you’re quick to ask, What the hell are we doing. She takes a second to catch her breath, then she replies, “I have no clue, but I’m not stopping whatever’s coming next.”

Going with the flow—that was so her. 

You grasp onto the hem of her shirt and gently pull upwards. She’s quick to respond, raising her hands above her head for ease of removal. Then her hands are on your waist band, tugging down at your shorts while your hands skim across her bare skin. She pulls your underwear down together with your shorts, lets them fall and pool around your ankles; her hand is quick to grasp onto your throbbing shaft. 

“Chae.” You can’t help but whisper your pet name for her. She starts placing kisses on your clothed chest, her other hand resting on your shoulder while the hand on your cock begins to stroke it with consideration. She leans in and whispers, “Can we pretend like we never left each other? Just for tonight?”

A foolhardy request. She doesn’t know what she’s doing by asking this of you, nor does she care to consider the possibility that the fulfilment of this request can and will invoke unwelcome emotions in both of you. Of course, there’s a chance to turn away from all of this—a chance to stop her hand as it reaches the base of your shaft, a chance to halt her in the midst of tiptoeing to place a peck on your neck; there’s a clear opportunity for you to end what’s happening right here and now—it’s all a matter of how willing you are to go through with this. While your brain screams at you to stop, your body says otherwise; you lift a hand to cup her cheek.

As you tell her, “Just for tonight,” a wisp of a smile appears on her face, and you wonder, What am I doing.

Her hand on your dick leaves to join and assist the other in undoing her bra. She lets the intimate garment fall to the floor before her, her bare breasts on full display. She’s certainly grown more voluptuous as compared to her eighteen-year-old self, and with that change you find an increase in desire for this woman before you. Chaewon cups her tits with her hands, lifts them up, then lets go; she’s putting on a sordid show. 

“Christ.” Christians certainly wouldn’t approve your usage of the name of their saviour in this abhorrent, impure context. “You’ve… Grown.”

“Puberty works wonders, no?” She’s taken on a playful tone, one that she was always fond of using while the two of you were dating. “Feel them. I know you want to.”

No sane man would ever turn down such an invitation. You can feel her erect peaks poking against your palms as your fingers close around the mounds; your breath hitches when you realise how firm they’ve become. Her hands join yours on her breasts, aiding you and squeezing and kneading while she lets a sigh leave her lips. Then in a whisper, she tells you how much she’s missed this feeling—your hands caressing her just the way she likes, your breath in her ears as you silently play with her like you used to.

Then she asks you, “Do you ever think about me when you fuck those other girls?”

You consider your words carefully. If you’re to be perfectly honest, there were a few times where the sight of Ryujin’s rippling ass cheeks made you think about her; sometimes the way Eunbi moaned reminded you of her. 

But if you’re supposed to pretend like you never left her, some teasing would have to come into play. 

“Depends.” You’re not even trying to hide how smug you are, “In what way are we talking?”

She gives you a look, one that says, you cheeky little fucker, but she plays along of course, offering a soft, Hm, as she pretends to go pensive.

Let’s see—she speaks as she (much to your chagrin) practically rips your hands off her body, all so that she can start circling you—Do their moans sound as cute as mine? Are their bodies as tight as mine? 

She leans in to pop the final question: Do their pussies feel as good as mine?

For the record: No to the first one, a fifty-fifty between yes and no on the second one (they all had amazing bodies). As for the last question, you couldn’t say (not because you didn’t have an answer, but more because ranking them in terms of how good they feel would be doing all of them an injustice).

Dunno, is the answer you offer her, then you follow up with, “Why don’t we find out?”

She smirks and rolls her eyes. “Segueing—impressive.” 

“I’m a laconic man,” you tell her, and, Oh shut the hell up, is her reply as she takes you by the hand and drags you to your room. 

It’s crazy to think that just mere minutes ago, she was on her feet, yelling at you and telling you how odious she finds you; now, she’s on her back, her head propped up against a pillow, still yelling, but she’s telling how good you’re making her feel—Fuck, and, Oh shit is all that’s really leaving her mouth, but the message is implicit—as your tongue applies painfully slow strokes to her soaking pink folds. The hand that slapped you is now scrunching up in your hair, the palm that made your cheek sting pushing your head against her crotch while her toes curl into your mattress. You’re wondering if she’s intentionally pitching up her voice as she moans, or if she’s purposely dragging out her sighs, but it doesn’t take away from the utter sublimity of the act. 

Chaewon’s slick is sweet; it’s tangier than Eunbi’s and tickles your taste buds better than Ryujin’s—you won’t tell her this of course, but it’s not like you’ll have time to communicate all of this while your head being shoved into her pussy. Believe it or not—this is one of the calmer moments of pussy-eating that you’ve experienced, one of the rare occasions where you actually have time to savour the taste of your partner, assimilate the intimacy of it, a far cry from when you were with Eunbi or Ryujin, where the goal was always to make them cum as fast as possible because that’s what they’re craving for. But believe it or not—even though her needy actions make it seem as if she’s desperately chasing her high, Chaewon’s really just trying to make the most of each and every swipe of your tongue, enjoying the way it skirts her clit and laps up her juices that leak out from her pretty, pink folds; all while she’s squeezing her thighs around your ears and begging you, Oh god, put your fingers in me. 

You start with your index finger, using the pad of it to trace the outline of her pussy. Then—just to make sure that she knows that it’s going in too—you let your middle finger join the fray. Your digits graze the skin around her flushed lips, taking their time to cover ground while Chaewon’s reduced to a moaning, mewling mess. What you’re really trying to do here is test the limits of her patience, see how much teasing that small, tight body can really take before her will breaks. It’s a sadistic game you’re playing, but you know that she’s enjoying it as much as you are, even though she is practically screaming at you to stick your digits inside her already.

If there’s anything that this world has taught you, it’s that patience is often rewarding. In this case: Chaewon’s patience was rewarded with the fulfilment of her request. The moan that leaves her half-parted lips is one of satisfaction as you dig your digits into her waiting depths, and they soak in her juices for a minute or two before they start to explore. Her nails dig into your scalp when your fingers dig into the soft flesh on the roof of her pussy. Your name flies out from her lips in a tone of surprise, like she’s taken aback by the fact you remember the exact spot inside her that makes her tick. The smugness on your face says it all, really, and you start to stimulate that spot of sensitive flesh. 

“Oh… Oh my… Oh…” She’s barely able to form the simplest of words. The pleasure you’re providing is racing through her body, filling her from head to toe with perverse need and taking over her bodily functions. You’re not doing anything fancy down there; your fingers are just wiggling against the same spot—a simple action that makes her body react in all sorts of complicated ways: twisting, trembling, twitching… It’s working wonders really. You’re amazed that she’s still as sensitive as ever. 

“Look at you Chae,” you can’t help but deride. “You’re getting so fucking turned by fingers. I don’t remember you being this needy.”

Even if she’s hellbent on retorting, there’s no space for words to leave her mouth—the moans are filling the space in her throat, bottlenecking and filtering out of her mouth in the form of strained cries. From the limited view between her thighs, you make out the image of her biting down on the nail of her index finger. Meanwhile, the nails in your head dig deeper into your scalp, hardly caring for the fact that they may be drawing blood as their owner manages to beg, Keep going. 

Your mouth—now rested enough to continue—rejoins the busy scene; the drawn-out guttural gasp that slides out of her mouth tells you all you need to know—Oh my god. You’re driving me crazy—and you can’t help but smile at the sight of her pleasure stricken face. Chaewon’s barely keeping it together at this point, the dignity that tightly wraps her body is slowly loosening—unravelling at the mercy of your mouth and fingers. The haughtiness, the sheer brattiness—crumbling under the sensations that overwhelm every fibre of her body; now that these perverse thoughts have entered your mind, you find that a dark part of you longs to own her, right here, right now. But of course, patience is rewarding. 

You’re willing to wait.

To say that you’re taking your time to eat her out would be inaccurate. If you’re to be honest, it’s difficult to describe the pace you’re using. Inside of her, your index and middle finger move frenetically, as if you are using them to press the same key on a piano repeatedly to produce the same note—her moans. Outside her, your tongue’s movements are almost sluggish, the broad base of it dragging up her flushed lips before the tip flicks the swollen nub at the top. You’re fully invested, scrupulously ensuring the uniformity of your movements to drive Chaewon to perdition. The movements are neither simple nor complex, rather a middle ground between the two (but you do feel that it leans more towards the former), but it’s enough to drive her crazy. Even if she’s a complicated mess to deal with, deep down—she still enjoys some form of simplicity. 

“Baby.” The way Chaewon’s calling you sends a shiver down your spine, stirring the emotions in your chest and letting some nostalgia bubble up from the depths of it, “I-I’m… I’m…”

Cumming, you complete just as her head violently whips back into the pillow. Then, in arguably the hottest ways possible, Kim Chaewon orgasms. Her thighs clamp around your head, becoming earmuffs as an onslaught of juices assail your mouth. You can hear her mewling past the flesh that surrounds your ears, and the muffled sound is enough to deluge your heart with depraved satisfaction while her body twitches, convulses and strains violently. The last vestiges of dignity that once enveloped her have fallen away, carried off by the sighs and cries escaping from her trembling lips, and as you lift your mouth of her soaking slit and withdraw your juice-slicked fingers, you know that she’s reached a point of no return. 

Patience is truly so rewarding.

“Jesus…” she pants. Once again, believers probably wouldn’t approve of the usage of his name in this context, but something has to cleanse the filth from her body, “When did you get so good at this?”

“Always have been,” you grin. You can tell she wants to roll her eyes, but she hardly has the strength to do so. For a tender moment, you gaze into each other’s eyes and appreciate this moment of inexplicable intimacy, re-living the emotions that were once so present between the two of you. It’s just for tonight. After this, we’ll go back to fighting, you’re telling yourself, and it makes you want to stay like this for a little longer.

But when Chaewon flips herself over onto her belly, the warmth in your chest is shut out and replaced by warped desire. With the tender cheeks of her ass on full display, Chaewon wiggles her behind, inviting you to take your liberties with her body. You take a moment to admire how full they’ve become. 

“Been working on it?” you ask her as you squeeze a handful of flesh. 

“To the best of my ability,” is her reply, followed by, “you like it?”

Your reply is to deliver a soft spank to the right ass-cheek. She barely even yelps upon contact, a small grin on her face as she watches you spread the flesh apart to reveal her entrances. Then she urges you, “Come on now… Pick a hole, fuck it till you fill it with your cum.”

“What if I want both?” You can’t help but be a little cheeky. Chaewon’s bottom lip furls behind her front teeth. 

“I’m not stopping you,” she whispers, “just promise me to cum in me.”

Not a trace of dignity in her words. 

Alright, is what you tell her before your head slips inside of her pussy. You can pinpoint the exact moment where her body almost becomes the only thing to exist in your mind—it’s when those walls clamp down around your shaft, pulsing ever so slightly and still twitching from her orgasm, and it’s enough to make you clench all your muscles while you hilt yourself in her. The sigh you let out hardly synchronises with Chaewon’s gasp. Yet, you find that your thoughts are perfectly in sync as your hands grip onto her small waist, and she props herself up on her elbows and knees. Her hair falls off her back, cascading down her shoulders as she turns her head, catches your gaze to tell you—Own this pussy.

No more words need be said. Eagerly, you begin to pump yourself in and out of Chaewon’s slick, tight pussy, her body tightening around your cock with every thrust in and out, lathering your length with juices that glisten in the low light of your room. The sound of her sighs and gasps quickly rise in volume, a beautiful backdrop to the sounds of your wet shaft penetrating her slick pussy again and again. 

You’ve already lost yourself in her from the moment you stuck your member into her, but you find your grasp on reality somehow slipping further and further with each thrust you make into that amazingly tight body. It’s the nostalgia—that feeling of being able to hold her again, the feeling of being able to fuck her like you did on those nights after you graduated high school, those nights where her parents weren’t home and she wanted you in ever way possible—that’s making you sink deeper and deeper into this new reality that is Kim Chaewon’s body. 

Then her moans start once more; you give in to the carnal emotions that you’ve been doing a really bad job at suppressing, and almost at once, Chaewon becomes the only thing that matters. Her flesh suddenly feels softer than before, her moans and sighs and cries sounding closer and closer to a melody than a haphazard arrangement of notes, and when she rasps for you to fuck her harder, you’re quick to oblige. 

Screw patience, you’re going to take what’s yours right here and now.

Your hands drift up from her waist, grip her shoulders and pull her till her body is almost upright. Your left hand slides down, wraps around her flat tummy; your right follows suit—you’re practically hugging her. Chaewon’s arms reach behind her, lock themselves around your neck and pull her face closer to yours. She doesn’t turn to kiss you—that’d take too much energy, energy that she would rather put into moaning—so you settle on capturing her earlobe between your lips, sucking on it softly while she starts to moan your name. Then, her confessions start. 

I’ve missed this, I’ve missed you… Oh god, I fucking missed the way your cock stretched me out. So good… So fucking good… This pussy was made for your cock.

Those were just some of the many things you managed to make out. The words were hastily assembled, phonics loosely strung together, and then expelled from those beautiful pink lips in a precipitate manner. There were other things like: I love you, I fucking love you and Oh God I love you as well, but your tried not to make to much of it. Even though you’re lost in paradise, lost in her body, your subconscious is still actively fighting to keep her influence out of your head. Things are already messy—both figuratively and literally—as they are, and the last thing you need is to fall in love with memories of Chaewon while you’re fucking her in such a callous, unrelenting manner. Sex and alexithymia towards an ex is never a good combination—yet here you are, rearranging the insides of Kim Chaewon after agreeing to whatever it was you agreed to before you started (it’s not because you chose to forget, but because you truly can’t remember anything past the point where you stepped through the doorway to your bedroom). 

You push away the thoughts (for now), letting them exit your body together with the growl that you release into her ear—Chaewon, why are you so fucking wet?—as your shaft continues to plunge itself between her slick, wet folds. The cheeks of her ass ripple deliciously with each strike of your crotch against hers, eliciting a raunchy exclamation from her body each time she hilts you to the base of your cock. You’re not going particularly fast—Chaewon suddenly has the capacity to reply, I’m always wet for you, baby—but you’re so utterly deep inside her that it’s driving the both of you to perverted elation. The position compromises your speed, but you know for a fact that Chaewon is more than happy to make the trade off, savouring the feel of every inch of you filling her insides at a considerate yet fervent pace. 

“Baby.” Her pet name for you is really doing dangerous things to your feelings, “Harder. Let me feel all of you, just like last time.”

She turns her head to meet your gaze, and it’s only then that you see the tears streaming down her cheeks. Your best guess: just like how nostalgia has its effect on you, it's impacting her too. Her emotions are being dallied with, just as yours are. She’s feeling things that she can’t describe, and she doesn’t know if it’s the rock-hard meat drilling in and out of her that’s making her feel this way, or if it's the fact that she may very well be falling for you again. You may never fully comprehend the intricate workings of human emotions, but as you lean in and gently draw her lips to yours, you hope to help her make sense of her feelings.

Why does she always make things messier than they have to be, your asking yourself, all while her hand finds your left cheek, gripping it tightly as your lips part and she whispers, “Fucking own me. Make this pussy yours, just like you used to.”

Just like last time, just like you used to—two statements that unwittingly conveyed that she’s dabbling in the past in a foolhardy manner. Damn it Chae… Why are you doing this? You’re thinking, even as you’re riotously making her bouncing breasts you handlebars, pinching her stiff peaks with between the gap of your middle and forefinger as you double down on her. You’re wondering, Why do you have to make this so damn complicated, as she leans back into you, and you mark the skin of her neck with your lips. Why couldn’t you just wait for me? Things wouldn’t have to be this way if you just had some damn patience, you’re pondering, all while she starts to throw herself back onto your cock. It’s hard to tell if she truly understands the emotional state she’s put herself in, you tell yourself. The irony of this statement is not lost on you, and you’re inwardly chortling at yourself as you pull yourself out of your own head.

You return to reality, and you find that Chaewon’s cumming once more. Did she announce its arrival? You don’t know. All you know is that her pussy is tightening rapidly around you, her body is shivering and shuddering against you, and her knees start giving out on her. You steady her against your chest, slowing yourself to a halt as you realise how dangerously close to the edge you are. 

When she taps you on the knee, you take it as a sign to gently lay her back down on the bed. With her belly flat against the mattress, Kim Chaewon reaches behind her and spreads her asscheeks with her fingers. She gives you the slightest of nods; you pull out of her freshly fucked pussy, point the head of your cock at the opening of her ass, and begin to press forward.

Chaewon gasps as your head presses against her tight opening, her body refusing to let you in at first—but you press forward with your hips, slowly parting her entrance. Chaewon squirms and quivers as her opening slowly parts, and soon you are finally inside her. Her hands tighten into fists, scrunching up your bed sheets; a grimace of pain overtakes her partially turned head as you penetrate her ass for the first time. She lets a long hiss escape her lips, and you lean down to kiss the back of her head in an attempt to comfort her, bringing your left hand to match hers on the bed, covering her small hand with your own.

Soon you are halfway inside her ass, and you go no further, letting her get used to the new penetration. When you stop moving, Chaewon lets out a long breath that she didn’t know she was holding.

“You okay?” You’re checking on her out of genuine concern. It’s basic human decency, you’re trying to tell yourself, but you have a sinking feeling that she’s unknowingly broken past your defences. 

“Fuck,” she spits, “fuck you’re so big inside me.”

“Do you want to—”

“Fuck no,” she snaps, “fuck, please don’t stop. I want this. I want you. I want you in my ass.”

The soft sigh you let out makes the hair atop her head flail a little as she wipes the tears from her cheeks. She isn’t crying anymore, but she certainly seems a little embarrassed that she let her emotions get the better of her. 

“Keep going.” She can’t seem to raise her head as she speaks, “Fill me, please…”

Basic human decency drives you to compliance, and so you press forward—all the while, your eyes are affixed to the back of her head, your left hand still grasping hers while she shifts around slightly, adjusting herself to take you in better. The small yelps she occasionally lets slip tells you that she’s in discomfort, but not enough to make you stop entering her asshole. It’s too late to turn back now anyway.

It felt like years, but soon you're fully inside her, buried to the hilt inside Chaewon’s ass.

You slowly draw your shaft outside of Chaewon’s tightly gripping ass for the first time, and once it is halfway out, you slowly push back inside her. She's a quivering and squirming mess, and soon you are slowly pumping in and out of her body, your pace relaxed as you enjoy the tight, hot flesh of Chaewon’s body wrapped around your cock. You’re glad that the sheer sublimity of the sensation is removing your ability to think, allowing you to steep yourself in the moment with a turmoil free mind.

Chaewon’s tightness is overwhelming to say the least. Her pussy was tight, but her ass on another level altogether. Not as wet, of course, but almost overwhelmingly tight and hot, grasping you tightly with each entrance and exit like a glove. This would be the first time you’re entering her like this, and you aren’t sure if you’re doing it right, but soon she’s taking you in and out of her ass smoothly, the pain and discomfort of your initial penetration quickly lessening and giving way to the novel, new sensation of pleasure from having her ass filled.

Chaewon lets a short, sharp gasp escape her lips when you fill her to the hilt—one that takes her by surprise given the slight look of shock that you make out on her features. You reach down with your right hand, gingerly grip her chin and tilt her face up so you can get a better look at her face. Her eyes are glazed over now with pleasure, locking to yours as you start pumping in and out of her asshole. After a while her gasps lessen and then end completely as she becomes used to the hard length pumping in and out of her butt. She reaches up with her right hand to hold yours, and she pulls it down her chin until it’s at her throat. You didn’t know she was into choking, and she had never made you do it before. Then again, you’ve never had her ass before either—there’s a first for everything.

You feel her warm neck pulsing beneath your palm. She squeezes the outside of your hand slightly, causing you to clamp a little bit around her slim neck. The slightly reduced airflow at her throat causes her ass to clench even tighter around you: succulent pleasure to your mind that makes you think you are going insane. The novelty of fucking Chaewon’s ass, your hand around her throat, the carnality, the surprising tenderness of the moment–it’s all so damn overwhelming.

“C-Chae,” you call out to her. Her gaze flickers from the wall to your eyes, and you whisper, “Do you… Do you really want me to—”

“Just fucking do it!” Chaewon gasps, barely attempting to filter the want out of her voice, “Choke me! Cum in me!”

With her permission, you were more than willing to let yourself fall over the edge at this point.

Chaewon’s hand—the one that stops your hand at her throat—tightens, as though willing you to increase your grip on her windpipe. You are still afraid of hurting her—you already feel guilty for causing her pain and discomfort (physically and emotionally). But her hand on top of yours, clasped around her throat, dismissed any worry you may have had about taking things too far. Your orgasm beckons, and the hand around Chaewon’s pale throat tightens involuntarily with each thrust in her hot, tight hole.

Do it… own me—her voice is straining—Make yours again. Choke me while you fuck my ass… Use me! Fill me… Fill my ass with your cum!

With a few final, short, hard thrusts into Chaewon’s ass, you bury yourself as deep inside her as you can before finally letting go. Thick, hot cum spurts from your shaft into Chaewon’s willing depths, her hot, tight ass squeezing and pulsing around your cock as if milking every last drop from you. As you cum, your hand around her throat involuntarily tightens, and the moan that escapes Chaewon’s throat turns into a gasp—the dark part of you takes obscene pleasure in that fact.

Both of your bodies quiver and shake as the intense pleasure of your orgasm overwhelms your senses. It seems to last forever—longer than any other orgasm you’ve had. Nothing else exists for those long seconds, aside from Chaewon’s shaking body beneath you and the hot mess you’ve made inside her.

Your cock pulses a few final times as your orgasm slowly subsides and releases the last spurts of cum into Chaewon’s body and you regretfully come down from your high. After a few more seconds of treasuring the feel of the hot, creamy mess you’ve left inside her, you slowly draw your half-soft cock out of her body. Within seconds, white, pearly semen begins to leak out of her and onto the reddened, sore cheeks of her ass. Your eyes remain glued to Chaewon’s still-quivering form as she tries and mostly fails to collect herself. Slowly, she turns on her side, her whole body heaving like she’s completed a marathon. Her inner thighs glisten, your juices and hers flow down her naked skin. It's now that you remember what you agreed to before you started: Just for tonight…

“Hey…” Her voice has a lilt as she beckons you to her side. “Cuddle with me… Just for tonight.”

There she goes again.

Yeah, right... you sigh inwardly. The way she's looking at you tells you that the feelings brought forth tonight will persist as long as she permits. Maybe, just maybe, you should have turned her down, made her come as she was, and kept her at a distance; but she’s already snuggled up in your arms by the time you finish this train of thought. She kisses you on your jaw, then on your neck, then utters a soft good night baby before nuzzling herself into the crook of your neck.

Physically and emotionally, you've made a mess of her. And, in turn, she's made a mess of you too—physically and emotionally.

But you choose to forget that, just for tonight.

***

She slips out of your apartment at God knows what time, leaving like a thief in the night and leaving a note in her wake: I took one of your shirts. Will return it if I feel like it. 

Then below the message: P.S. Forget that last night happened. Go continue being a player. 

“I… Can’t believe this bitch.” You’re leaning against the door—the place where she’d stuck on the note—as you finish reading it. You decide to crumple it and toss it away—it’s the easiest thing to forget about her anyway. 

To be clear: You had no clue what your opinion on Chaewon was anymore, nor did you know what your status with her was (though the note suggests that she’s going to return to her usual bratty behaviour). Sometimes, you wish that there could be a bright digital sign perpetually hanging above her head, providing interpretations to her erratic behaviour. 

Yea… That would be great.

Just as you throw out her bowl of fried rice, there comes a knock on your door. You’re surprised to find Hwang Yeji standing there by herself. 

“O-Oh… Yeji,” you mutter. 

“That has to be the most asinine statement I’ve ever heard,” she derides. You purse your lips and scratch the back of your head, then you ask, “Do you uh… Need to borrow something?”

Yeji sighs and shakes her head. She’s quick to get to the point, “Are you free this afternoon?”

You nod, then she tells you, “I need you to follow me somewhere today. Meet me in the lobby at 3pm.”

She’s about to leave you with that vague request, but you’re quick to ask what this is about. It’s unwonted of her to suddenly request to meet you, and you’re painfully aware (or at least you thought you were) that she knows that this is unprecedented of her. Laconic and biting as ever, she turns back to you and tells you: I need you to help me talk to someone.

“W-Who?” You’re quick to ask. She turns her back to you as she answers.

“My junior. She wants to be our saxophonist.”

_________________________

What is popping gang. I did not get a chance to look through this thoroughly, nor was I able to get anyone to beta read for me :p. Hope you didn't have your bars raised to high for this.

~Nichuuu

[srgntjamesbuckybarnes]

No More Hiding

Summary: When accused of stealing chickens from Mr. Sherman’s farm, Steve brings Bucky to investigate but ends up learning more about his friend’s private life. 

Rating: Everyone

Pairing: Alpha Bucky Barnes x Omega Reader

Warnings: None

Word Count: 900+

A/N: Not Beta'd. Some fluff to counter the angst I posted earlier.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

“Rogers, get out here now!”

Steve stalked to the front door, jerking the handle with a huff. This wasn’t the first time someone complained about his pack. Most of the humans were against a pack of wolves living so close to their homes. While the humans bared their guns, Steve opted for peace.

“Mr. Sherman,” Steve greeted. “What can I do for you?”

The old man scowled. “A couple of my chickens are missing. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that now, would you?”

Steve frowned, crossing his arms across his chest. Mr. Sherman was an old farmer who lived a few miles down the road. A few chickens went missing here and there over the last month and each time Mr. Sherman paid Steve a visit.

“You should invest in a better chicken coop. I already told you; my pack has nothing to do with your chickens going missing.”

The old man took a large step in Steve’s direction, his finger crooked. “Don’t lie to me. I have proof. There’s prints the size of a wolf’s paw all over the coop.”

Steve was stunned. The first time Mr. Sherman complained, Steve called a pack meeting to settle the tension between the pack and farmer. Each of them swore up and down that they hadn’t stepped a foot onto Mr. Sherman’s property. Steve believed them. He had no reason not to. They had everything they needed.

“Don’t look so surprised. I’ll show you and that brute who’s always stealing my game. If you don’t punish the thief, then I’ll have to take matters into my own hands.”

Steve nodded. “I didn’t find anything last time I checked. I’ll bring Bucky by the coop. He’s got the best nose in the pack. If anyone can find the culprit, it’s Bucky.”

Mr. Sherman didn’t spare a word as he turned his back on Steve. His footsteps echoed along the rickety porch steps.

It wasn't much later that Steve confirmed Mr. Sherman was right. The prints in the mud belonged to a wolf. The pack leader examined the paw prints as Bucky looked inside of the chicken coop. Every once in a while, Bucky’s nose would twitch but he never said anything. 

“Well?” Mr. Sherman snapped with his hand on his hips.

Steve pondered if a neighboring pack crossed into their territory. That would cause bigger issues.

Bucky brushed past Steve and the farmer on his way out of the chicken coop. “You’re wrong. Must have been a dog. Do any of your neighbors have one?” Bucky casually asked, his hands tucked into the pockets in his jeans.

Steve raised an eyebrow in Bucky’s direction.

Before Mr. Sherman could answer, Bucky headed into the woods separating the farmer’s land from the pack’s home. Steve apologized to Mr. Sherman, then chased after his friend. 

“You know who it is, don’t you, Buck.” Steve didn’t need a verbal confirmation. The way Bucky’s eyes focused like they did when he hunted, and his nostrils flared told Steve they were tracking someone. Keeping up with Bucky’s large steps, Steve questioned, “Is it one of ours?”

Bucky grunted, occasionally stopping to sniff a leaf or a branch. “Omega.”

Steve furrowed his eyebrows. “How do you know?”

He made a sharp right, plowing branches in his path. “Smaller prints and sweeter scent.”

The prints made sense to Steve, but he hadn’t smelled anything. Steve hung back and observed the way Bucky stormed the woods like a mad man. That's when realization hit him. It was the only explanation for his best friend's behavior. Bucky Barnes found his omega.

When Steve finally caught up to Bucky, he tread carefully. It didn’t matter. Bucky’s scent alone was strong enough to draw the omega’s attention to the pair.

“Alpha?” The omega pushed herself into a sitting position on the porch. The cabin in the woods wasn’t the most luxurious house, but it was theirs.

Bucky dropped to his knees on the steps below his omega to be eye level with her, to be equal. “It’s me ‘mega.” Bucky muttered, his palm enveloping her cheek. Y/N’s eyes fluttered shut as she leaned into his touch. The moment was short lived when Steve cleared his throat. Y/N’s startled eyes locked on Bucky’s. She knew about Bucky’s pack, but he never brought them around. He never brought her to them either. The couple basked in the idea of it being just the two of them for a while.

Bucky asked, “Someone’s been terrorizing poor Mr. Sherman. Stealing his chickens. Do you know anything about that?”

Y/N knew she’d been caught. She also knew which buttons to press to get her way with her alpha. She tucked her chin into her chest and stared back at Bucky with doe eyes. “Of course not, Bucky.” She batted her lashes. 

Containing his laughter, Bucky plucked a feather from Y/N’s hair. Pinching the feather between his fingers, he tossed it over his shoulder toward Steve. Bucky cupped Y/N’s cheeks planting a soft kiss to her lips.

Steve frowned, “She can’t keep stealing Mr. Sherman's chickens. You know if he finds out he’ll have the whole town after us.”

Bucky stood, holding his hand out to help Y/N to her feet. Turning his head to Steve he replied, “I’ll take responsibility for her. She’s my omega. I’ll take care of her.” Turning back to Y/N, he squeezed both of her hands. “Come on ‘mega, no more hiding. Time to take you home.”

[ohquail]

School Bus Graveyard but make it Percy Jackson & the Olympians

Cabins:

Aiden: Cabin 11- Hermes Ashlyn: Cabin 6- Athena Ben: Cabin 7- Apollo Logan: Cabin 6- Athena Taylor: Cabin 10- Aphrodite Tyler: Cabin 10- Aphrodite

Abilities/Roles:

Aiden: Pickpocketing Master Ashlyn: Leader Ben: Musician Logan: Battle Strategist Taylor: Charmspeak Tyler: "Curse" (cursing two people to fall in love no matter what)

Ashlyn and Logan walked through the woods, they were playing Capture the Flag with the rest of the camp. Although they weren’t really paying all that much attention to the activity.

“Hey, you guys,” A voice called behind them. It was Aiden, one of the Hermes’ cabin boys. A boy who really liked to hang around Ashlyn for some reason, Ashlyn had yet to figure it out yet.

“What do you want Aiden?” Ashlyn asked, hiding Logan slightly behind her so he could run if need be.

“Nothing. I’m just bored,” Aiden smirked his usual smirk. He was wearing his armor incorrectly over his orange camp tee-shirt and jeans. His knife hung down on his side and his badly bleached hair fell down into his eyes.

“Well, go play the game then,” Ashlyn told him, stepping back. Her hand drifted to her sheathed sword.

“Hold on, I’m not going to hurt you,” Aiden laughed putting his hands up defensively.

“Aiden!” A hispanic pair of twins walked up, “You can’t just run off.” The male one said, as his sister panted from running. Ashlyn recognized them as Tyler and Taylor, two of Aphrodite's kids.

"Why are you chatting with the enemy?"

“He’s not!” Ashlyn assured them, both her and Logan started to slowly back away.

“We were having a great conversation,” Aiden's smirk widened at her reaction. Ashlyn felt Logan tug at her shirt, nodding his head towards where their flag was.

Ashlyn turned, keeping her gaze locked on Aiden and his companions until she was certain they wouldn't follow. Then, she quickly shifted her attention to Logan, their silent communication fine-tuned from years of friendship.

“Hey! Why are you running off?” Aiden laughed, smiling rather weirdly.

“Follow them you idiot! They know where their flag is!” The male twin called.

Ashlyn swore under her breath before she and Logan picked up speed. “I didn’t think they actually had brains,” She told Logan causing him to laugh.

The pair darted through the forest, maneuvering around trees and leaping over rocks with ease. Ashlyn’s long red hair whipped behind her. She could hear Aiden and his companions threading their way clumsily through the underbrush in pursuit, their laughter and banter echoing through the trees.

Looking at Logan, she raised her brows in a silent question. He nodded back, understanding her unspoken query. As they neared a river that bisected the camp, Logan jumped over the bank, followed closely by Ashlyn.

But before she could fully get across a hand grabbed her hair, pulling her back over. “Ow!” She exclaimed, before whipping around and slamming her foot into the side of Aiden, the culprit.

Aiden gasped, doubling over from the impact. His grip on her hair loosened, allowing Ashlyn to yank herself free. “What is your problem?” Ashlyn asked him, her hand on the hilt of her sword.

Aiden staggered back, wincing in pain and holding his side. He looked up at Ashlyn, his red eyes narrowed and his smile a forced shadow of its usual cockiness. The twins ran up behind him.

“Why would you pull on her hair? That’s not very nice, Aiden. Now stand up and get over here,” Taylor said, Ashlyn could tell she was using her charmspeak on the blonde.

Hearing Taylor's command, Aiden stood slowly, grimacing but maintaining his challenging grin. "Well, it's not very nice to kick people either," he retorted, trying to deflect the blame. But the scowl on Tyler's face made it clear that he wasn't buying Aiden's excuse. He grabbed his teammate’s arm and started pulling him away.

"You idiot!" Tyler growled. "Can't you just play the game like a normal person?" Aiden shrugged him off irritably, but didn't resist as they moved back towards their side of the woods.

Aiden struggled to keep himself up as Tyler dragged him away, a sheepish grin plastered on his face. "You guys are no fun," he complained, rubbing his side where Ashlyn had kicked him. His affected bravado was marred by the wince that twisted his features.

Ashlyn watched them retreat, her green eyes flashing with indignation. Beside her, Logan was checking their surroundings, his gaze alert and searching. His light brown hair appeared reddish under the rays of the setting sun filtering through the trees. When he saw that they were alone again, he turned to Ashlyn, offering a comforting smile.

"Are you okay?" he asked, concern etched in his soft blue eyes.

"I'm fine," she replied curtly. She brushed off a few leaves that had stuck onto her orange camp shirt and adjusted her armor. Logan could tell she was shaken up by Aiden’s ambush, but he decided against pressing the matter further.

Instead, he pointed towards the western part of the forest, where their flag lay hidden amidst the foliage. "We'd better get moving. Taylor and Tyler might come back with reinforcements."

[leclsrc]

hi auds bear how about a “singing off-key in their parked car and suddenly a person outside starts laughing” blurb with charles (-: feel like that is so him

take a chance on me – cl16

Damn ABBA and their catchy songs.

auds here... moping over my 3h meeting that effectively bars me frm watching the gp i hate uni! :( love u guys i love this req kskkskd

Charles hasn't gotten that godforsaken ABBA song out of his head.

It’s gotten to the point where earworm infects even his physical movements and he starts holding up an invisible mic like some demented Meryl Streep wannabe. It’s embedded itself into his pre- and post-race routines now, but he’s smart enough to do it alone in his room, because if any member of the team saw this embarrassing schtick, he’d be good as dead.

His car ends up being a constant concert venue. He usually drives in the dark, when meetings are over, or in early mornings, when nobody’s around to sneak a peek (not that they should, but fans are pesky) and he’s free to pretend he’s embodying a sickened heartbroken woman’s voice.

It’s chillier today than last week, which to him warrants a car concert warm-up. He cues the song on his speaker system and starts preparing. He’s on drums today, because his last two performances he was on piano, but he’s always on vocals, whistling and yelling the high parts. If you change your mind... he sings, nodding his head to the beat.

This is all Lorenzo’s fault, seriously—the prick couldn’t stop playing it at lunch two weeks prior and now Charles is paying the price. But he isn’t exactly complaining (If you put me to the test, if you let me try!) In the midst of his performance he tries to remember what the meeting is about. New hires, if he recalls, for the marketing team or something. They want to run some things by him and Carlos, or someth—

In the middle of his high note the song stops; he thinks maybe someone might be calling. His voice cracks in the silence. Oh, and somebody is watching in confusion a few feet away.

He realizes it’s a pretty girl, clad in a jeans and a knit jumper, squinting and cocking her head to the side a bit.

You’d hurried around to try and find the source of the ABBA music you’d heard when getting out of your own car. The culprit, it seems, is not a tinny forgotten speaker but an adult man in his car. You blink. The adult man is also, apparently, the race driver you’re supposed to be in a meeting with in five minutes.

You smile. And then you just burst out in a quiet laugh, unable to hide your pure amusement. He swallows. And then he blanches, unable to hide his pure embarrassment. In less than a second he’s turned off his car and disembarked, scrambling to explain himself. 

“This is so embarrassing,” he says profusely. “You see, I am—”

—

“—just practicing singing, you see, for a play,” you recount to your friends, laughing so hard your cheeks and stomach hurt. You could never tire of this story, told and retold during parties and dinners alike. Who wouldn’t love this story? It’s a silly one of how you met the love of your life.

Lando had said once the unorthodox meeting was probably the mark of your true love. Some others said it was the fact that you’d been together so long. Others, your compatible careers. Others even said it was the music taste.

You smile as you finish, and Charles braves the teasing just to see you content and happy.

Maybe that’s the best marker of true love there is—not that all the prior ideas are invalid, it’s just. Maybe this is the realest one. It’s also, Charles realizes as he seeks your eyes, the hardest marker to describe. It’s an emotion and a verb all at once, in the very quiet and very intimate unexplainable way.

He thinks—no, he knows—that true love feels like an inside joke. It feels like the click, inaudible and fuzzy, that reverberates through his body when finally your eyes seem to take the hint and meet his. It feels like the laugh, the gigle only two of you share. It feels like a quaint smile. It feels like the story you two have told before and will tell again, with peals of laughter and hands held tight together.

The whole true love thing is a confusing prompt with so many answers, and he could consult anyone to help him out—his mum, his brothers, his best friends, maybe even squeeze his eyes shut and try to send a message of question to Jules or his dad—but none of them would come close to describing this feeling.

He knows love happens to people who’ve known each other their whole lives. He knows it happens to friends, to enemies. Naturally, it happens to strangers—tied together by some invisible string that shortens and overlaps and knots in itself and finally is struck by the fates to bring two people together. Call him biased, but he thinks he’s lucky he falls into the last category. Okay, call him cheesy, but he’ll admit he’d do anything to have you any way in any other life.

If in another universe you were a childhood friend with some corny nickname, or a rival whose eyes would soften when an argument tapered into a confession. Even then he’d love you. He might love you differently, but he could never love you more. 

Now is the best, he thinks. Now you’re the funny girl in the pretty dress with a bottle of beer and laughter escaping your sunkissed face. Now it’s 1,095 days later and he still loves you, just as much as he did three chilly Octobers ago, when you smiled amusedly at him in the parking lot of Maranello. Maybe this time it’ll be a different ABBA song you both sing. 

[therealslimshakespeare]

Dear John | Apologies II

Summary: Julie Jean responds to Major Egan’s letter of apology, summer 1943

Previous Lettter 💌

18+ for adult language, suggestive content

Almost entirely authored by my talented baby @stylespresleyhearted

Dear John,

It pains me that your letter reads both as an apology and like a goodbye. I sit here writing to you trying to figure out where in my response to you I went wrong. Perhaps the alcohol wore off and you woke up to find you had written to many other actresses and I wasn’t anything special. Maybe I was the only Hollywood starlet desperate enough to reply because your letter sparked a light in me, switched on something in my heart and in between my legs but to you it was just drunken ramblings because no girl at the bars snook off with you. It was a lonely night for you and I was a girl chosen and the night is over now and you’ve got a picture of me that I have entrusted to you and now you’re ready to move on.

“No one wants an eager girl, Julie Jean” that’s what my mother always says and I think the lesson has finally been learned. Do not feel you must apologize and regret any of your words, Major, I chose to snap and send the photo and I chose to respond to your letter. Like I said, it was different than the others and I thought (and hoped) you were different from the men Mother warned me against. And in many ways you are, I suppose, always will be to me. You’re honest to the point of no shame and I’ve told you how you make me feel fizzy all over from your words alone. But you’re also not so different from those other men because now you have a piece of me you are leaving me.

You told me you fought for our country but that you also fought to keep me safe. Did you mean that, Major Egan? I had never felt safer.

If it was the photo that has caused you to alter how you are with me then I am the one who must apologize. You spoke of giving me babies and of thinking of me in your bunk and taking my straw on missions with you because my lips had been on it and it seems I let all that get to my head and I got ahead of myself. As I signed my last letter Major, I am a vain little thing and so I have questions if my photo is the culprit: Did they not live up to your expectations? Were they perhaps not as perky as you hoped they would be without the artifice of support? Did you find my nipples too large? I have to know what it was Johnny, it’s cruel to keep me wondering like this. I stood in front of the mirror this morning and looked at them, trying to pinpoint where they let you down.

In a single letter your opinion came to be of the upmost importance to me.

In this line of business, everyone wants one thing or another and it was nice to speak to someone who wanted and requested nothing and found me beautiful for when I was the most myself. I had a blast on the war bond tour John, I kissed so many boys my lips bruised and my mother was livid and the studios said it was ruining my image but I was so happy. And then to come in contact with you, it felt like everything from that lovely tour had whittled down to you. Just all of it for you.

Only for us to come to this. It is my fault for placing any expectation on you, you placed none on me. If that first letter was you, truly you, then I needed nothing different.

But I wanted you. And maybe I needed the man who wrote to me the first night. There I got again. Need. Expectations. All the trust I put in your words from one letter. You must think me a looney and so desperate.

If this is to be goodbye, Major, I wish you only the best of things and for you to continue returning safely until you are able to come home. The girl who will receive your letters and your calls and gets to have you in her arms upon your return is one I envy but I wish nothing less than love and happiness and safety for you. And I must thank you for everything you helped me to feel with your letter. It was a first for me, and I don’t think I’d be wrong to assume I’ll never feel it again. Not in this life.

Sincerely,

Lana Tierney

p.s if the photograph has disappointed you so, feel free to return it.

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[denimbex1986]

'"Oppenheimer" is the summer blockbuster of the year. The visually and sonically compelling film does a lot of things right from examining the existential dread associated with our feeble humanity and analyzing the moral qualms with human ingenuity and its devastating outcomes that showcase we are the culprits of our own destruction.

But it also does some things wrong too. It has a woman problem.

Christopher Nolan's three-hour-long biopic tells the story of the brilliant quantum physicist, J. Robert Oppenheimer (Cillian Murphy) based on the biography "American Prometheus." The Oppenheimer we uncover in Nolan's film stresses that he is a charmer – he's a womanizer. Nolan wants the audience to know that not only is Oppenheimer one of the most important historical figures in the 20th century, but he also can pull a Communist female Stanford grad student.

One of the most polarizing aspects of the film is Oppenheimer's on again, off again relationship with said grad student, Jean Tatlock (Florence Pugh). Some would say the way Nolan portrays the relationship and Jean, and her inevitable death by suicide is indicative of a larger issue with the depiction of women in his films.

In their first encounter, they quickly find themselves in bed together. In a controversial scene, Jean and Oppenheimer are having sex while he reads Bhagavad Gita, a sacred text in Hinduism. He reads the line, "Now I am become death, the destroyer of worlds," during the act itself. Hindu right-wing nationalists called the scene an "attack on Hinduism."

But that isn't the only sex scene between the two in the film. Further into the behemoth of a film, in McCarthy-era America, a room full of government officials question Oppenheimer's former communist ties. He reveals to the board his previous relationship with Jean and how it evolved into an affair. He's now married to Kitty Oppenheimer (Emily Blunt), who is there in the room as he admits to his extramarital affair.

Nolan portrays this confession in the most blatant way possible. Without warning or explanation, a naked Jean is seen straddling and having sex with Oppenheimer as he sits in the chair being interrogated. Is it his imagination? Is it Nolan's one-the-nose way of showing the impact of the confession? Regardless, the audience sees this as the couple going at it while Oppenheimer is staring at the board of men questioning him. It's creepy. The imaginary Jean even glances directly at his wife – his wife who just found out Oppenheimer had been cheating on her for years. Is this storytelling device attention-grabbing? Absolutely, but not in a good way.

It's vital to point out the flaws in a filmmaker's perspective when it's used to only service a man's story and nothing else. As an audience member, the context of the scene and what it does for the larger narrative matters; it is a part of the moviegoer's entire film experience. And as I was watching the second sex scene with Oppenheimer and Jean, I gasped at how disjointed it felt from the larger story Nolan was attempting to illustrate. Sex scenes aren't inherently controversial, nor do they have to be, especially if they are filmed with appropriate boundaries and respect toward the actors and characters. But in "Oppenheimer" something about the audience watching the sex scene in the same way the characters in the interrogation room watched it – feels icky and voyeuristic. And also puzzling.

"Oppenheimer" is an engrossing film. Its riveting acting and nonlinear storytelling infused with cinematic shots of the galaxy and stars hold the audience in a trance. Well, that is until you watch that ill-advised foray into filmmaking voyeurism. It completely snatches you out of the film and puts you back into your body.

Moreso, the scene wouldn't be so jarring if there wasn't such little Jean in the film. Pugh's talents are wasted as she attempts to embody an emotionally embattled intellectual. Jean is a seemingly dark, unconventional type of woman from the 1940s. She is studying to be a psychiatrist but also struggles with depression, and it was speculated that she was queer. But we don't really receive any of this information from the film. We can tell that she's stubborn, volatile and complicated but we are more or less told that through Oppenheimer's perspective of her as his love interest.

This also counts for his wife, Kitty – another female character with unbridled, untapped potential. But of course, she only exists in the roles of love interest, mother and Oppenheimer's conscience. The film only slightly touches on Kitty's tragic past, potential mental health issues and rejection of motherhood. Thankfully, Blunt's acting makes the role feel fuller than it is written to be.

If we address Nolan's track record with female characters, he is known for two tropes: Dead Wife and Woman in A Refrigerator. Across the filmmaker's extensive work, he has a proclivity for fridging, that is killing off a female love interest – in films like "Memento," "The Prestige," "Inception" and "The Dark Knight" – as an alluring and tragic backstory for his male protagonists just like he did with Jean. Of course, she is based on a real person, but Nolan's treatment of her and her tragic death is the same as if she were fictional. The audience is left with very little understanding of Jean, not even with her tragic death. Instead, her most indelible scenes are as Oppenheimer's sex object or in death, a way to humanize the physicist. (And when Nolan doesn't get around to killing off his female characters, he sidelines them like Kitty or Elizabeth Delicki's character in "Tenet.")

Sure, you can argue the film being named "Oppenheimer" means it's entirely about him, and all the supporting characters should only act to elevate his story. The script was even written in first person to convey that every character is just a piece in Oppenheimer's narrative.

However, just because the story is titled "Oppenheimer" doesn't mean one has to adhere to such tunnel vision in storytelling. Case in point is another film named for a singular person – that came out on the same day as " Oppenheimer" in fact – and proves that argument flimsy at best.

"Barbie" does what "Oppenheimer" fails to do.

"Barbie" follows the journey of the human-sized doll (embodied by Margot Robbie) through her existential awakening, crisis and eventual empowerment. But it also spends a significant chunk of its runtime to give her counterpart Ken (Ryan Gosling) space to explore his "neediness, loneliness and identity crisis." Gary Kramer writes for Salon that Ken "hijack[s] the plot for long stretches and force[s] Barbie to help him, not the reverse."

Ken is Barbie's accessory boyfriend but he isn't treated as just her accessory boyfriend. In the writing, Greta Gerwig and Noah ​​Baumbach allow Ken ample room for self-discovery. Ken is allowed to explore the human world without the need to be attached to Barbie's hip. He searches for his purpose and identity. He's even given a whole musical dance number to dive into his interiority. "Barbie" does what "Oppenheimer" fails to do. It gives purpose and depth to a supporting character's arc – depth that is entirely crucial to the emotional center, vulnerability and gravitas of a character like Barbie.

Ultimately, Nolan barely scratches the surface with his female ensemble and doesn't do their larger-than-life experiences justice. It just feels like a tired attempt to show us Nolan knows women exist but the catch is they do not exist outside of their relationships to men. (Sorry, Bechdel.) Their pain and suffering are a way to transform a man into the protagonist of his story, not hers.'

[illumins]

𝘾𝙝𝙖𝙥𝙩𝙚𝙧 𝙊𝙣𝙚: 𝘽𝙧𝙖𝙫𝙚𝙧𝙮 𝙄𝙨𝙣'𝙩 𝙁𝙤𝙧 𝙀𝙫𝙚𝙧𝙮𝙤𝙣𝙚

The morning sun bathes the towering facade of Daylight Academy in a warm, golden glow, casting long shadows that crawl across the intricate masonry like tendrils of a climbing vine. It's a building that speaks of prestige, its ivy-draped limestone walls and soaring Gothic arches more befitting a castle than a school. I push open the heavy, oak front door, the old hinges complaining with a familiar creak that reminds me I’m home—well, as much as a school can feel like one.

As I step into the grand entrance hall, my footsteps echo off the polished marble floors and the vaulted ceiling high above. Banners of deep blue and silver, the school colors, hang from the walls, fluttering slightly as the breeze from the open doors breathes life into them. It's quieter than I remember; the usual buzz of excited conversations is muted, probably the nervous energy of the first day pressing down on everyone’s shoulders like the thick, humid air.

I’m Liya Faulkner, a senior now, though it feels like I just walked these halls for the first time yesterday. I'm not what you might expect for someone at an academy like this. Short, more comfortable in sneakers than heels, my brunette hair pulled back in a practical ponytail that sways gently as I move. My grey eyes might catch the light for a moment, hinting at thoughts that whirl faster than they probably should. Today, I'm dressed simply—jeans and a soft cotton shirt that falls just right, not too tight, not too loose, with a backpack slung over one shoulder.

Lucky—that's the word everyone uses. Lucky Liya, they'd say, to be accepted into Daylight Academy, the kind of place that promises a future brighter than the morning sun streaming through these high windows. Dad says it's a miracle, his lens always focused on capturing the underdog story for the city's news. Mom would have said it was fate. She dreamed of this for me, her hopes stitched into the very fabric of my being, and even though she's gone now, I carry that dream. It's a heavy mantle, one made of memory and desire—her memory, my desire.

Dragging a hand along the cool stone wall, I let my fingers trail over the rough texture, each bump and groove a testament to the history contained within these walls. Around me, the murmur of other students grows, a crescendo of anticipation for the year to come. I should feel excited, maybe even a bit scared, but there’s a calm in me, a steady beat of resilience that drowns out the usual flutter of first-day nerves.

"Heads up, Liya!" a voice calls out from behind me.

Instinctively, I duck as a football zips over my head, narrowly missing the ancient oil painting of the academy's founder. It crashes against the locker with a loud bang, the sound ricocheting off the walls.

"Sorry about that!" The culprit, a tall boy with a sheepish grin, jogs over, retrieving the ball. His apology is genuine, but his smirk tells me he’s gotten away with worse.

"No harm done," I reply, my voice even, betraying none of the annoyance flickering beneath my calm exterior. I'm not one to hold grudges, especially on such a sunny, promising morning. "Just try not to knock out the new kid, okay?"

"Deal," he laughs, then dashes off toward the gym.

The encounter leaves a small smile tugging at my lips as I head to my first class. Today marks the beginning, not just of the school year, but of the final chapter of what started all those years ago when Mom first whispered to me about Daylight Academy, her voice soft and full of certainty.

This is it—the culmination of years of dreaming, of striving, and of holding onto hope even when it felt like there was none left. I can almost hear her in the quiet between each bell, her laughter mingling with the echoes of my footsteps.

This is for her. This is for us.

I pull out the crisp sheet of paper from my front pocket—the schedule that seals my fate for the year. Chemistry, first period. Mrs. Henderson. Room 213B. The numbers and letters blur for a second, my fingers tightening around the edges of the paper as if holding it harder might make me feel more prepared. I tuck it back into my pocket and head towards the science wing, my sneakers squeaking softly against the freshly waxed floors.

As I turn the corner, the noise level increases—a cacophony of laughter, chatter, and the occasional loud greeting. The door to Room 213B is propped open, inviting yet intimidating. Taking a deep breath, I step inside, the scent of wax and whiteboard markers immediately filling my nostrils. The room buzzes with the energy of students reconnecting after the summer break, their voices echoing off the tiled floors and high ceilings.

The classroom is almost full, bodies clustered in groups, some leaning against desks, others standing in the aisles. I scan quickly for an empty seat, my gaze flitting over heads and backpacks, searching for any sliver of space. Most spots are already claimed, belongings sprawled out as territory markers—notebooks, pens, and colorful folders.

Then, amidst the hum of teenage dynamics, a laugh cuts through the noise, clear and familiar. My heart skips, just once, very slightly—as if nudging me. Mark Lee. There, leaning against a lab table near the window, his brunette hair catching the sunlight, making it look like threads of gold are woven through it. His eyes, warm and inviting as a summer’s dusk, crinkle at the corners as he laughs again. Those high cheekbones, more pronounced now, frame a smile that’s disarmingly genuine.

He’s definitely gotten cuter over the summer, not that he needed any enhancement. Mark, with his effortless charm and easy laughter, surrounded by classmates but somehow still standing apart. As usual, he’s beside Haechan, his best friend, who’s animatedly gesturing with his hands, telling some story that clearly amuses them both.

I hesitate at the door for a heartbeat longer, unnoticed. The warmth of the room seems to grow, or maybe it’s just me, feeling suddenly too aware of my own heartbeat, the slight tremor of my hands. I take a quiet breath, tasting the lingering sharpness of cleaning products mixed with the subtle fragrance of someone’s floral perfume.

Pushing past my initial reluctance, I step further into the room, my eyes locked on a small open spot near the back, away from Mark. I can’t sit near him; not if I want to keep my composure, not if I want to focus on anything other than the way his laughter seems to make the whole room brighter.

As I weave through the desks, I feel the cool metal and smooth plastic under my fingers, the occasional bump against my hip or elbow—a physical reminder of the space I occupy in this teeming sea of adolescence. Reaching the empty chair, I slide into it, unpacking my notebook and pen with deliberate slowness, arranging them just so.

From here, I can see him, watch him without being obvious. Mark, who looks even sweeter when he’s listening, his gaze fixed on Haechan as if every word matters deeply. There’s a calmness about him, a steadiness that draws people in, that makes you want to stay in his orbit just a little longer.

I settle in, forcing my attention to the front of the class where the teacher’s desk sits empty, waiting for Mrs. Henderson. My hands fold over my notebook, fingers tapping a silent rhythm, as I steal one last glance at Mark, letting the sight of him anchor and unsettle me all at once. This is how the year starts—with chemistry, both the academic and the unresolved kind.

The classroom door swings open with a decisive motion, heralding the arrival of Mrs. Henderson. She steps in, her presence filling the room like a brisk autumn breeze sweeping through stagnant air. With sharp, efficient movements, she places her leather briefcase on the desk—a thud that demands attention, pulling eyes away from mid-conversation smiles and whispers.

"Good morning, class! Let’s find our seats, please," she announces, her voice a smooth alto that rolls over the chatter, tapering it down to a murmur. I watch as students shuffle to comply, the scrape of chairs and soft thumping of backpacks setting a new rhythm for the room.

Mrs. Henderson is a woman of commanding presence, her gray-streaked hair pulled back into a tight bun that seems to pull her eyebrows perpetually upward, lending her a look of constant scrutiny. She sweeps a gaze over the class, her eyes lingering momentarily on me before moving on. I feel a tiny jolt, as if that brief eye contact was a test I hadn’t studied for.

She begins the class by introducing the syllabus, her hands moving with precise gestures as she points to the projected slides. “Chemistry is not just about reactions and equations; it’s about understanding the essence of materials, predicting outcomes, and—most importantly—applying this knowledge. Expect to be challenged, expect to learn, and expect to be surprised by what you can achieve.”

As she speaks, I try to focus on her words, but my attention is like a poorly tied knot, slipping away repeatedly. My gaze drifts to the front of the room, landing on the back of Mark’s head, his hair catching the light every time he moves. He’s three rows ahead, far enough that every detail shouldn’t be clear, but somehow, each shift and nod are distinct.

The chair beside me scrapes against the tile floor, and a girl with a cascade of curly hair and a nervous smile plops down next to me. “Hi,” she whispers, her voice threaded with the eagerness of making a new acquaintance.

“Hey,” I reply, my smile automatic, a well-practiced curve of lips that doesn’t quite reach my eyes. I turn back to Mrs. Henderson, trying to anchor myself to the lecture about atomic structure and periodic trends.

Mrs. Henderson’s enthusiasm for the subject is palpable; she talks about the elements as if they are old friends she can’t wait for us to meet. “You’ll get to know them, work with them, and yes, occasionally, they’ll surprise you—much like people,” she says, a twinkle of amusement in her eye.

I jot down notes, the scratching of my pen a steady sound that helps me focus—or at least pretend to. Beside me, the curly-haired girl is also taking notes, her handwriting a flurry of loops and whirls. Our elbows brush occasionally, a reminder of the proximity grounding me back to the present.

My pen pauses over a diagram of an atom, the nucleus and electrons laid out in neat orbits. I glance up again, my eyes seeking Mark despite my intentions. He’s leaning back slightly in his chair, his profile etched against the bright light from the window, every line and angle of his face a familiar map that I’ve traced in my thoughts more times than I care to admit.

Mrs. Henderson’s voice pulls me back, her words about chemical bonds suddenly mirroring my own thoughts on connections—how some are strong and enduring, while others are too weak to withstand much at all. I look down at my notebook, the ink from my pen bleeding slightly into the paper, indelible and stark.

As I force my attention back to the front, focusing on the molecular structures dancing across the screen, I can’t help but feel the tug of an invisible bond, one that connects me to the boy three rows ahead, made of curiosity and yearning—a compound as complex and unstable as any we might study this year.

My mind can be a peculiar place. Here I am, sitting in my first class of the senior year at Daylight Academy, and all I can think about is how the intricate dance of electrons around a nucleus somehow parallels my orbit around Mark Lee. It's almost laughable, this cosmic tug between a girl and the boy she's been quietly crushing on for years. How was his summer? Did he travel? Explore? Or maybe just lazed around like any normal teenager would?

I often found myself wandering past his neighborhood on my way to the grocery store, a detour that was slightly longer but infinitely more interesting. This summer, though, the streets that held his house seemed unusually quiet, his familiar silhouette conspicuously absent. I'd catch myself lingering a bit longer at the corner, hoping for a glimpse. Nothing. It was odd, his absence, but then, chastising myself for the stalker-ish tendency, I'd laugh it off and move on. My infatuation could be overwhelmingly silly at times.

As I'm tugged back to the present by the sudden cessation of Mrs. Henderson's lecture, I realize the girl next to me is leaning slightly towards me, her voice a careful whisper designed not to travel far in the hushed classroom atmosphere. "I'm Jenna, by the way."

I turn to face her, pulling my focus from the front of the classroom and giving her my full attention. Jenna's curly hair frames her face in a wild halo, strands escaping here and there, giving her a look of someone constantly in motion. Her eyes, bright and curious beneath thick lashes, hold a spark of friendliness that's instantly warming.

"Oh, hi, Jenna," I reply, my voice equally subdued. It dawns on me then—she’s the yearbook girl. I'd seen her darting around school events with a camera, her presence ubiquitous yet unobtrusive, capturing moments most of us would miss in the blur of our high school days.

She gives me a quick, conspiratorial smile, as if we're sharing a secret in just introducing ourselves. "I think I’ve seen you around, with the art club, right? You guys did that mural last spring?"

"Yeah, that was us," I say, surprised she remembered. My involvement in the art club was more behind-the-scenes, a detail not many would notice.

Jenna nods, her interest genuine, and I find myself appreciating the connection, brief as it is. Her presence is like a grounding wire, redirecting my scattered thoughts from their usual path marked by an all-too-familiar infatuation.

The bell rings, shrill and abrupt, like it's slicing through the thick tension of the room—a tension that's only really palpable to me. Around me, students shove notebooks and pens into their bags with a hurried, indifferent clatter. Jenna, with her smile waning into a frown, leans in slightly. "So, do we have the next class together?" Her voice carries a hopeful undertone that feels like a warm breeze.

I zip up my own bag, feeling the weight of her expectation. "Biology," I reply, my voice more of a whisper than I intend. The way her face falls, just a slight downturn of her lips, makes my chest tighten. "I'll see you around then," she says, trying to mask her disappointment with a brisk nod.

"Yeah, see you," I murmur, slinging my backpack over one shoulder. As I step out of the classroom, I watch Mark stride out ahead of me. He doesn’t look back. I take a deep breath, my heart pounding against my ribs like it's trying to escape. Get yourself together, Liya, I scold myself silently, stepping into the bustling hallway.

The corridor feels more alive now than it did this morning, pulsing with the chaotic energy of teenagers released from the confines of their first period. I navigate through the crowd, my steps hesitant but determined. The sounds of laughter and disjointed conversations create a symphony of normalcy that I crave yet feel detached from.

I catch the eye of a tall girl with paint-stained jeans—Mia from art club. Our eyes meet, and I offer a small, tentative smile, which she returns with a quick, bright flash of recognition. We don't stop to talk; our friendship, if it can be called that, consists of shared nods and occasional brushes of conversation about mediums and murals. It’s comfortable yet distant.

As I move past her, I nod to a couple of other faces from art club. There’s Jonah, who’s always sketching in the margins of his notebooks, and Elise, who’s more into sculptures than sketches. They know me, or at least, the version of me that holds a brush or a palette knife. But outside those art club walls, our interactions dwindle to these brief acknowledgements in crowded hallways.

It’s always been like this—me, drifting on the edge of circles, touching the surface of friendships without ever really diving in. People know me. I know people. But the connections end just as they begin to deepen, leaving me floating in this liminal space of near-but-far, together-but-alone.

As the hum of the corridor dwindles behind me, I pull out my crumpled schedule from the front pocket of my bag. My fingers trace the printed lines, double-checking. Biology, Room 210, Mrs. Hawthorne. I exhale, a puff of relief that feels almost tangible in the stagnant air of the hallway.

Stepping into Room 210, the atmosphere shifts palpably. Unlike the rigid order of Chemistry, this classroom thrums with a relaxed buzz. Students are scattered across the room, draped over desks and chairs like casual confetti, their voices weaving a tapestry of soft laughter and fragmented stories. Mrs. Hawthorne, a wiry woman with streaks of silver in her hair, sorts through a stack of papers on her desk, her glasses perched precariously at the tip of her nose.

I slide into an empty seat near the back, my backpack feeling lighter as I set it down. Relief seeps through me—not just at escaping the fraught energy of Chemistry, but at the absence of Mark in this classroom. Maybe I can actually pass this one, I think, allowing a small, hopeful smile to curve my lips.

As I settle in, scanning the room, my eyes snag on two familiar figures—Renjun and Jisung, part of Mark’s usual entourage. They sat diagonally from me, their heads bowed together in quiet conspiracy. Their presence pricks at my tranquility, a reminder of the orbit I circle but never enter. Still, they seem absorbed in their own world, a barrier invisible and yet palpable, separating them from the rest.

Mrs. Hawthorne clears her throat, the sound sharp enough to slice through the chatter. “Alright, everyone, let’s bring it in,” she calls out, her voice firm yet not unkind. The class gradually falls silent, attention turning towards her as she begins to outline the syllabus. Her words, crisp and precise, paint the semester ahead in broad, promising strokes.

As the bell rings, a symphony of relief and chatter floods the room. The class had rushed by, a whirlwind of historical dates that blend together in a blur—just the way it always does. Our teacher, Ms. Hawthorne, with her perennially furrowed brow, had walked us through the Civil War in less than an hour. Everyone is still buzzing about how, under her stern gaze, even the Battle of Gettysburg seemed to last only a minute. I pack my books, the edges frayed and covers battered from use, into my backpack with a practiced haste.

As I zip my backpack shut, anticipation pulses through me. Lunchtime means a momentary reprieve from the relentless pace of classes. I sling my bag over one shoulder, feeling the familiar tug at my muscles, and push my chair back. It scrapes against the linoleum, a harsh sound that seems too loud in the suddenly quiet classroom.

Stepping into the hallway is like diving into a river at its peak flow. Students flood the corridors, their voices a cacophony of plans for the afternoon, complaints about the homework, and the latest gossip which I tune out. I weave through groups of chatting students, my steps quick and light. Being small has its advantages; I slip through gaps between bodies and backpacks with an agility that keeps me from being swept away in the tide of teenagers.

Finally, I reach my locker, tucked away in a less chaotic corner of the hall. The combination lock clicks under my fingers, a sequence so familiar I could do it in my sleep. As the metal door swings open with a creak, I quickly stow away my History book. My stomach rumbles, thoughts of the cafeteria's offerings today—hopefully pizza, but more likely the soggy tacos—distracting me for a moment.

That’s when I hear it: a loud call, piercing through the buzz of the crowd. “Mark!” The voice is unmistakable—Jaemin. I freeze, a book half-shoved onto the shelf. My heart thumps painfully against my ribcage, a bird frantic to escape its cage. I turn slowly towards the sound, my movements stiff.

Jaemin and Jeno stand a few lockers down, their heads together, eyes scanning the crowd. Their gaze locks onto something, or someone, beyond my line of sight. Curiosity prickles at me, urging me to follow their stare. I lean slightly, peering around a cluster of students, and there he is—Mark, surrounded by Jisung, Renjun, Haechan, and Chenle. They're all animated, a dynamic cluster of energy and laughter, so different from my quiet observation.

As the voices crescendo, Mark and the others, caught in their own orbit of jokes and jabs, move like a comet trailing through the crowded hallway. They pass by me, close enough that I catch snippets of their laughter and the tail-end of a joke about Renjun's latest art project, which apparently includes more glitter than is strictly necessary. The air shifts around them, the way the atmosphere bends light around the sun, drawing eyes like moths to a flame.

I lean back against the cold, dented metal of my locker, pretending to search for something in my backpack while I watch. There's a palpable energy that buzzes from them, an invisible shield that seems to part the waves of students automatically. Some of the other girls stand a little straighter as the group approaches, their laughter ringing clear, like the peal of church bells on a quiet morning. One girl, with hair the color of autumn leaves, watches them with such open admiration that I wonder if she realizes her books are about to slip from her grasp.

"Do you think they ever notice?" The words slip out, soft and more to myself than anyone else.

"Notice what?" The voice comes from Jamie, who’s appeared beside me, her eyes bright with curiosity. Another friend I’ve met through the art club.

I jump slightly, not having noticed her approach. "The way everyone watches them. Like they're characters in a movie or something."

Jamie chuckles, a low, knowing sound. "I think they just enjoy their bubble too much to care." Her gaze lingers on the group, thoughtful. "Must be nice, living in your own little world where everything's a joke or a game."

I nod, the words hitting closer to home than I expect. The boys' laughter fades as they turn the corner, and suddenly the hallway doesn't seem as bright or as animated. The chatter around us fills in the void they’ve left behind, the ordinary concerns of high school life knitting back together like fabric after a pulled thread is reworked into place.

Time skates by as I sit alone in the back of the cafeteria, my lunch tray an island in a sea of noisy school life. The table, round and perpetually sticky, usually hosts only me and occasionally others who drift in with nowhere else to sit. Today, though, it's just me and my thoughts, with the distant clatter of forks and knives playing background music. I pick at the cafeteria's attempt at lasagna, more a mushy puzzle of pasta and sauce than anything else, and lose myself watching the swirl of students around me.

The lunch period ends too quickly, a rushed affair of eating and observing, and I'm the last to leave. I remember today is the first day back from summer and the dread of facing algebra with Mrs. Jensen after a carefree break nudges me forward. My steps quicken as I dart out of the cafeteria, swinging my bag over my shoulder. I make a quick detour to the bathroom, checking my reflection in the mirror not for vanity but to reassure myself I can face the rest of the day.

By the time I exit, the halls are ominously quiet, the absence of the usual hustle a clear sign that I'm late. My heart races as I approach the closed door of the algebra classroom. I stand there for a moment, hand poised above the handle, the metal cool and slightly grimy under my touch. I shake my hand, trying to dispel the nerves that buzz through my fingers like static electricity, and then, summoning every ounce of courage, I turn the knob as gently as possible.

The door gives a soft click, but it might as well have been a gunshot for how quickly the room falls silent. Heads turn, swiveling towards me as if connected by strings, and there in the sea of faces, I see a mix of curiosity and annoyance. Mrs. Jensen, mid-sentence, halts and fixes me with a look that's more weary than angry.

"Liya Faulkner, glad you could join us," she says, her voice dripping with a politeness that everyone knows isn't genuine.

I stumble into the room, my words tripping over each other as they come out. "Sorry, I—I got lost for a second there." My cheeks burn with the knowledge of how lame the excuse sounds, my classmates' eyes boring into me like tiny drills. Internally, I kick myself for not thinking of something more believable.

Mrs. Jensen nods, her expression softening a fraction as she gestures to an empty seat. "Just try to be on time, please. We were just going over the syllabus."

As I make my way to the seat, my backpack feels heavier than ever, loaded with more than just books—every step weighted down by their silent judgments and my own echoing embarrassment.

As I hastily sink into the only empty seat left in the room, the chill from the metal chair seeps through my jeans, a cold reminder of my tardiness. My hands fumble for the zipper of my backpack, movements jerky with nerves as I pull out my mathematics textbook, its edges worn from use. The syllabus, a looming specter of upcoming challenges, is notably absent from my desk. I try to steady my breathing, to dispel the flush of embarrassment still burning my cheeks like a slap.

That's when a sheet of white paper slides across my desk, drifting like a lost feather until it comes to rest beneath my startled gaze. I reach for it, fingers brushing the smooth surface, and glance up to thank the provider. The words die on my lips when I see it's Mark, the same Mark who was the nucleus of laughter just minutes ago in the hallway.

He gives me a smile, soft and unexpectedly reassuring, like the first warm breeze of spring after a harsh winter. "You're really okay," he murmurs, his voice a whisper meant only for my ears, "you haven’t missed anything." The simple kindness in his tone, in such stark contrast to the cacophony of the algebra class, makes my heart sink further into an ocean of foolishness.

For a moment, I'm rendered speechless, struck dumb by his casual grace. Words scramble like startled birds in my mind, but none take flight. His presence, the ease of his smile, narrows the world to just this small interaction, erasing the rows of curious eyes still glancing our way.

I manage a nod, a small, tentative smile stretching my lips as I clutch the syllabus a little tighter. It’s an anchor, a tangible reminder that this moment, however fluttering my heart feels, is just a fleeting connection in the mundane rhythm of school life. The room gradually fills back with the hum of teenage voices and the scratching of pens on paper, but the echo of his words lingers, a soft chord in the clamor.

The rest of the algebra class passes in a blur of numbers and letters, each equation Mrs. Jensen scribbles on the board another missed opportunity for my concentration to latch onto. I make a silent vow, keeping my eyes rooted to the white gleam of my own paper, steering clear of even the faintest temptation to glance sideways at Mark. But the resolve of the mind and the will of the heart are often at odds; the latter sneaks peeks when it can, betraying the former with each stolen glance.

From my peripheral vision, framed by the scuffed edges of my textbook, Mark seems absorbed in the lesson, but occasionally, his attention wanders. It drifts forward, like a leaf caught in a gentle stream, landing invariably on Amy-Jane. She's perched right in the middle of the front row, flanked by friends like stars around a moon, her laughter quiet but resonant, her notes meticulous as if each letter were crafted for display.

During one such moment, when my courage gathers enough to let my gaze linger a second longer, I catch Jaemin's elbow nudging Mark. Jaemin's whisper is lost in the space between them, but his grin speaks volumes, teasingly obvious. Mark's response is a sheepish smile, a subtle shrug that doesn't quite reach his eyes before he redirects his attention back to his notebook, his pen moving in bursts of renewed focus.

That interaction, simple and fleeting, stings sharper than I expect. A twinge of something akin to envy, but more complex, twists in my chest—a knotted thread pulling tight. It’s not just the pang of an unspoken crush noticed by others; it's the silent acknowledgment of my place on the periphery of this social cosmos, orbiting distant stars, invisible in their bright presence.

I press the tip of my pencil against the paper, the lead soft and slightly giving, as I force myself back to the problems laid out before me. The numbers blur, smudging into mathematical probabilities that don't account for the human heart's odd calculations. Each theorem feels like a cold reminder of the logical world, one where emotions are outliers, not data points.

The library unfolds in rows of tall, dark wooden shelves, laden with books that range from timeworn classics to modern paperbacks with spines barely creased. Above, the ceiling stretches high, dotted with small, round lights that cast a soft, golden glow, mimicking the stars that might soon blink awake in the evening sky. Between the shelves, large windows offer views of the schoolyard where autumn leaves flirt with the wind, their dance a quiet chaos against the orderly backdrop of the library.

The bell, like a final exhale after a long-held breath, releases us. I linger in my seat, thumbing through the colorful tabs of my planner until the numbers and periods align to tell me what I already hope for: a free period, a pocket of peace before the day ebbs away. I feign a deep dive into the cavern of my bag, rummaging through its contents—a tangle of pens, a frayed notebook, a half-eaten granola bar—anything to look occupied, to avoid unwanted conversations, especially with Mark still nearby.

My fingers brush the cool, smooth surface of a calculator, the textured spine of a textbook, while my ears tune in to the dwindling sounds of classmates dispersing. The shuffle of feet, the zip of backpacks, the low murmur of parting chatter fills the room. I don't lift my gaze until the sounds thin out, signaling that Mark, with his effortless smile and easy laughter, has left.

I choose a secluded corner table, nestled between sections of history and literature. It's an intimate nook where the sun, in its last act of defiance against the coming night, throws slanted beams across the wooden surface, turning dust motes into swirling galaxies. Here, in this carved-out space, I finally unclasp the tight ponytail, letting my hair cascade down in a relieved sigh, shadows playing in the light brown waves. As I settle, the chair creaking slightly under my weight, the library's calm wraps around me, a soft embrace promising solitude and stillness.

The library's quiet wraps around me like a blanket as I dig through my backpack and pull out my sketchbook. It's got a few creases and worn edges from being toted around so much, but I kind of like that it looks used—it's got character. Flipping through it, I can't help but smile a bit at the sketches filling the pages. It's neat to see how much better I've gotten over the past few months. The lines are smoother, the shading more precise, making the random faces and places I've drawn look almost real.

I grab my trusty pencil from its usual spot in my bag—it's short from all the sharpening but still perfect for drawing. Leaning back against my chair, I can't stop the memory of Mark's smile from earlier today from popping up in my mind. That smile had somehow made the whole awkward moment in algebra feel less intense.

I start sketching, letting my pencil lightly trace the outline of a face with that same easy smile. Trying to get his expressions right is kind of tough, but it’s a good challenge. I focus on the way his eyes had crinkled up when he smiled, trying to capture that. It feels a bit weird, drawing him like this, but it's also cool to see it come together on paper.

As I draw, everything else fades away—the sound of other students whispering, the rustle of pages turning. It's just me, my sketchbook, and the memory of that brief, bright smile. My heart does this little fluttery thing, kind of silly, but it makes me push on, adding more details to the sketch.

As I'm getting the smile just right on my sketch of Mark, a shrill, piercing sound cuts through the quiet of the library—the fire alarm. Everyone's heads jerk up, eyes wide. The librarian, Mrs. Finch, is suddenly all business, her voice firm as she herds us towards the exit. "Books down, everyone, let’s move quickly and calmly," she instructs.

I shove my sketchbook and pencil back into my bag, my movements hurried and a little clumsy. The alarm is insanely loud, making it hard to think. I zip up my backpack and sling it over one shoulder, glancing around to see if anyone else looks as frazzled as I feel. Everyone's just shoving their stuff into their bags, not talking much, their faces tense.

As we file out of the library, I can see teachers in the hallways, directing streams of students toward the exits. They look serious but controlled, like they’ve done this drill a hundred times. We all know the drill, but the suddenness still sends a ripple of anxiety through the crowd. I keep my head down, following the crowd, but I’m super aware of everything around me—the shuffle of feet, the occasional cough, and the loud buzz of the alarm echoing off the walls.

Passing by one of the senior literature classrooms, I spot Jaemin and Mark coming out, looking more alert than everyone else. Their eyes scan the crowd—sharp, focused. It strikes me as odd, their intensity. As they find the rest of their group—Jisung, Renjun, Haechan, Jeno, and Chenle—they weave through the crowd with a purpose that seems out of place in the chaos.

I can’t help but watch them, curiosity piqued. They’re trying to act normal, but it's like they’re on some secret mission, looking around cautiously. And then, right by the auditorium, it happens: Chenle bumps into Mark, not gently either. They both go down in a tangle of limbs, and the other guys quickly huddle around them.

The teachers and some annoyed kids just pass by, accepting the clumsy fall at face value, but I can’t shake the feeling that something else is going on. Amidst the fuss, I catch a glimpse of Mark slipping into the auditorium, quick as a shadow disappearing at dusk. The others stand up, brushing themselves off, and keep moving like nothing happened.

Once we're outside, everyone's clustered into little groups on the front lawn of the school. The teachers shuffle around, keeping a keen eye on us to make sure nobody drifts toward the busy street nearby. It's chaotic but organized, like some bizarre outdoor class assembly. I spot Mark's friends, still together, looking unusually alert and tense. They're whispering among themselves, glancing back toward the school building every now and then. What the hell? I think, my brow creasing with worry. There could be a real fire or something dangerous going on inside, and they just let Mark stay in there?

As I watch them, I find myself drifting closer to their group without even realizing it. My feet have a mind of their own, pulled by a mix of concern and curiosity. But as I get closer, reality snaps back. What am I doing? Panic flutters in my chest like a trapped bird. I'm about to turn around, to just walk away and maybe text someone to check if Mark's okay, but then it's too late.

Chenle’s eyes lock onto mine, his expression morphing from focused to confused in a split second. He nudges the guy next to him and subtly points at me. My heart hammers against my ribs, loud in my ears over the buzz of the crowd. Great, just great. Now what? There's no backing out now without looking totally weird.

Feeling a mix of irritation at myself and a stubborn set to my jaw, I keep walking toward them, trying to look like I meant to come over all along. The closer I get, the more I wish I could just melt into the grass and disappear, but I’m too far gone now. Chenle’s watching me approach, and I can almost hear the unasked question in his look: What does she want? I just hope I can think of something to say that sounds halfway reasonable.

As I get closer to the group, every step feels like wading through mud, thick and pulling at my ankles. I'm rehearsing lines in my head, trying to figure out how to casually drop into a conversation that, hey, I saw your friend sneak back into a potentially burning building. I mean, I'm not being nosy, right? I'm just concerned. But rationalizing it in my mind and actually saying it out loud are two different universes.

When I finally reach them, they're all looking at me with a mixture of curiosity and mild suspicion. Their faces are like an unread book, the kind where you're not sure if it's going to be a horror story or just a really awkward comedy. I don't blame them for the wary looks; we've never spoken before. To them, I'm just that girl who sometimes sits alone at lunch, maybe not even a blip on their radar.

Jaemin breaks the silence first. He leans against the school's brick wall, one hand casually tucked into his jeans pocket, his eyebrow arched. "Hi?" he says, making the word sound like a question, as if he's puzzled by my sudden appearance in their orbit.

"Hi," I reply, my voice squeaking a bit more than I'd like. Great, just great. I clear my throat, trying again. "Hi, I... um, saw what happened earlier, with Mark. In the hall, I mean." The words tumble out in a rush, and I mentally kick myself for sounding so chaotic.

They all exchange looks, their expressions shifting from curious to alert. I shuffle my feet, feeling the weight of their gazes like a spotlight that’s a bit too bright.

"Mark?" Chenle asks, his tone guarded, eyes narrowing slightly.

"Yeah, when the alarm went off," I continue, pushing past the awkwardness clamping down on my chest. "I saw him... uh, he went into the auditorium. It looked like he did it on purpose, you know? And I just thought... well, it's kind of dangerous, isn't it? With the alarm and all."

There's a pause, heavy and thick, where I can almost hear their thoughts clicking into place. My heart thumps loudly, the sound a drumbeat in my ears as I wait for them to either dismiss me or—hopefully—take me seriously.

Jaemin straightens up, his casual demeanor tightening. "Thanks for letting us know," he says, his voice smooth but his eyes sharp, analyzing. "We’ll... um, handle it."

I nod, not sure what else to add, feeling like I've stepped into a stream that's flowing much faster than I anticipated. "Okay, just, you know, wanted to make sure someone knew," I mumble, already backing away, ready to escape the intensity of the interaction.

I'm halfway turned, ready to escape the heavy air between us, when it hits me—like a cold splash of reality. They're acting clueless, but I saw them, saw how they helped Mark sneak into the auditorium. I can't just walk away, not now. I stop, my heart drumming a frantic beat, and I spin back around, my resolve hardening.

Taking a deep breath, I march back towards them, my steps more determined. As I face them again, I can feel the flush on my cheeks, but it’s not just from embarrassment now—it’s from frustration, too. "You know what, no," I say, my voice firmer than I feel. "You helped him get in there for whatever stupid reason, and what if he gets hurt? What if there's actually a fire?" I throw the words at them like they're stones meant to wake them up.

The boys exchange looks—some amused, some just plain annoyed. Jeno steps forward, his expression darkening. He's taller up close, his presence imposing. He pokes a finger towards my shoulder, not touching me but close enough to make his point. "You saw nothing," he says, his voice low and threatening, yet there's a sharp edge to it, like he’s not just advising me but warning me. "Mark can take care of himself. But I'll let him know you were worried," he adds, his tone softening just a fraction, as if that's supposed to comfort me.

Just as I open my mouth to fire back another retort at Jeno, a loud boom erupts from inside the school. The ground trembles beneath our feet, a jolt that travels up through the soles of my shoes, making my heart skip. Instantly, the scene transforms into chaos. Nearby, cars screech to a halt, their drivers craning necks out of windows, while others honk incessantly, adding to the cacophony. The blare of police sirens grows louder as officers start spilling onto the scene, shouting commands and herding students further from the school building.

As I stand there, frozen, the reality of the situation hits me hard—the possibility of Mark, alone in the auditorium, maybe in danger, causes my stomach to clench. Behind me, some students are half-joking, half-serious, wondering aloud if this is the kind of scenario where Spiderman would show up. I roll my eyes at that. Spiderman? Really? I think as frustration is bubbling up. I'm not about to stand here waiting for some hero to swoop in.

Driven by a mix of fear and determination, I mutter to myself, "Fine, I'll do it myself." The words are barely a whisper, a breath lost in the wind, but they seal my decision. I drop my bag with a thud on the grass and start sprinting towards the school entrance. Calls of "Stop!" chase after me—some from the boys, some from other students, and sharply from the police trying to maintain order. But I don't look back. My legs pump harder, each step fueled by the urgent need to make sure Mark is safe, to not just be a bystander.

I can hear my name being yelled, a distant echo that I push from my mind as I focus on the school doors ahead, the heavy double doors that might just lead me to Mark—or into something way over my head. But right now, none of that matters. Only one thought propels me forward: I have to find him.

[kingkatsuki]

I also wanna ruin Sakura but wholesomely? You get it. 😂

I can't help but imagine that when you do kiss him, not even make out yet, he instantly cums in his sweats. He's nervous as hell and embarrassed until you reassure him, "Oh, sweet Haru. It's okay! Let me help you, scoot to the end of the bed...mhm, just like that. Can't let any of this go to waste. By the way, you can cum as many times as you want, I don't mind." 😵‍💫

Ahhh but it’s not his fault! It’s all that stress and tension that’s built up inside him in anticipation of this moment—

His friends have been the biggest culprits for making him feel worse. Sounding more excited for him and his first date than he is, and it only gets worse when he secures his second and then a third.

Constantly asking questions about where you’re going, what you’re doing, if you’ve kissed yet. It puts this unbelievable stress on his shoulders because it has him thinking— did you want him to kiss you? Neither of you had tried on your previous dates, and you’d made no indication it was something that you’d wanted to do, and yet his friends seemed certain that by the third date he should’ve received at least a peck on the cheek.

It had him anxious for your fourth date. Tense and nervous as he sat opposite you in the quaint pastry cafe that you’d picked out as he tried to maintain his focus on the pain au chocolat that sat in front of him, but his tummy felt far too queasy for sweets.

And it’s only made worse by the fact that you notice his tension, and you take it as thinking that he doesn’t want to be here— you’ve been so patient and kind with him on the previous dates until now. Understanding why his cheeks were flushed crimson and his hands were sweaty when he handed you a drink, rubbing his palms furiously on his jeans to try and dry them as he begged his beating heart to cease.

But he doesn’t expect to enjoy the kiss as much as he does— and it’s barely a peck. His body responding as his hips stutter and he soaks his boxers with warm spunk, the shame and embarrassment floods through him as he wonders what the fuck he’s going to tell his friends when you call this whole thing off. Except, you don’t— telling him that it’s okay, and that you like that he responded in that way because it shows how much he cares, and now it leaves him wondering how good a make out session would feel—

[ashecampos]

Riding it out

Aj Campos x sick reader

Reader x Chantal (twins)

Warnings : migraines, nausea, anxiety, basic illness stuff, fluff, my terrible spelling

Summary : reader is sick and her girlfriend aj comes to comfort her, little does aj know reader hasn’t been looking after herself, even going as far as dragging herself into school.

—————

You hated being sick, the word hate would be a massive understatement for how much being sick made you feel. Your parents are out of town attending to the company they own. Leaving you and your twin sister Chantal to fend for yourself.

Another fit of coughs racks your body, your lungs burn with this being the fifth coughing fit already with it only being 8 am, you had another half an hour before school started and you where dreading it. Throwing on one of your girlfriends hoodies and a pair of grey sweatpants you cough again, grabbing some water and your sneakers. Before you knew it you were at school, slowly walking to your home room class.

—

I put my head down on the desk, praying no one notices how bad I’ve gotten in the past 24 hours, the last thing I need is to be sent home and miss out on work, or even worse track. The teacher starts taking the attendance and I notice there is a few people off, probably experiencing the same symptoms I have right now. I am startled out of my thoughts when my phone vibrates in my pocket, lifting my head up I grab the phone to see who was texting me, seeing it’s the group chat,, I ignore it, not ready to face my friends at this moment in time. I know exactly how they will all react once they see the state im in.

——

Fast and curious

(Thursday 8:50am)

*missed call from Stacey Clark*

Timotee🪽: girl why are you calling us right now, why aren’t you in school?

Dillpickle🥴: wait my wife is off today??

Staceye😇: YES im off because SOMEONE gave me the flu…any guesses @y/n/n ???

Dillpickle🥴: oh baby why didn’t you tell me, I’ll ditch and come over in an hour

Gabrii🌺: guys im in home room with y/n now, she doesn’t look too good, what do I do?

Paige🎨: wait why is she in if she’s ill? Also get well soon Stacey 💕

Talía(Chantal): shes ‘riding it out’ her words not mine

Ayjay (aj): wait y/N’s sick? Since when? And why is this the first im hearing of it?

Talía : shit, she told us to not tell you, sorry aj

——-

You are hit with a wave of nausea as you slowly bring your head up off of the desk to look at the teacher who is calling your name, you look over at him and you don’t hear any of the words coming out of his mouth. His normally angered face turns into a one of pity. He shrugs the question off and points to Gabi, signalling for what I assume is for her to take me out of the classroom for some air. Not even a second later a hand is on my lower back, guiding me to the door of the classroom. I look up to see Gabi on the phone to someone while we walk at an incredibly slow pace to a water fountain. She points to the floor and tells me to sit. I slide down the wall, my legs failing on me, making me fall faster. The loud ringing of the break bell hits my ears and the halls are flooded with students. The noise deathening. I close my eyes a little tighter and hold my hands over my ears before they are swiftly took away, I look at the culprit, it obviously being gabi but this time I look at her she has both of our bags in her arms as she holds out a hand for me to take. “Cmon ángel let’s go find ur girl” she says nodding her head towards the door. I take her hand and we start to walk towards our groups hangout spot on the field. I immediately look for AJ, seeing the girl in one of my hoodies and a pair of black jeans with her signature white converse. Her head shoots up as soon as the doors of the school shut behind me and Gabi. She gives me a look of sympathy as I walk to the group. Chantal is the first to greet me “hey sis, feeling any better?” She asks with a worried tone, I simply nod not to draw too much attention to myself “we got sent out of homeroom..so no she is not okay” Gabi says for me, making Aj give me a disapproving look. “Baby cmon im taking you home” the shorter girl says while taking my bag off of me, I groan while looking at her, tears forming in my eyes. “Just one more class and if I don’t feel any better we can go okay?” I plead hoping I’ll feel a little better in an hour or so. “No ángel, we are going now, our next class is gym and im not going to let you be sent to hospital because your too stubborn to admit your too sick” she scolds me, I look over at Gabi and Chantal as if they would help, they are trying to help but im being too stubborn to see they are only doing this in hopes that it’ll make me feel a little better. I hear the doors of the school open again and turn to see Dillon and Tim walking towards us. This is around the same time my body is graced with yet another coughing fit, followed by nausea. I run to the nearest trash can and throw up the contents of my stomach into the can. Someone is thankfully there and is already holding my hair back as I do this. A hand runs down my back, I look back and see a ‘told you so’ look from my girlfriend who now has her car keys in her hand. “dale vamos ángel” (‘let’s go angel’) a very concerned Dillon says as he brushes my hair out of my face while helping me stand up and get back to the group of my concerned friends.

Aj grabs my backpack off of the floor where Gabi placed it, then she walks over and grabs my hand, pulling me along with her to the carpark, the rest of the group saying their goodbyes to me in a mixture of “get well soon” and “we will come round later with soup” between the lot of them.

Once in her car Aj turns to me, giving me a stern look before holding out her hand “give me your vape” she states without a beat. I stare at her blankly before looking at my bag. She shrugs and reaches over, her hand swiftly disappearing into my hoodies pocket and pulling out my vape, she then waves it in front of my face “none of this while your sick” she mocks before putting the small pen into her own hoodie pocket.

We end up driving for around ten minutes before I realise we aren’t going in the direction of my house anymore “uh aj?” I say quietly,, voice breaking due to a lack of energy “don’t worry we are going to make a little pitstop then we are going home” she says with that goddam little smirk she always sports, her little dimples gracing her tanned face. We end up stopping at a gas station where she runs inside to pay the cashier for the gas but she ends up coming out with tons of snacks and a crate of Gatorade. I laugh a little as she dumps it all into my lap before she continues to drive back to my neighbourhood. Once at my house she helps me carry all the snacks into the house and getting us settled in my room. Once she has me in my bed and covered in a few blankets, she quickly runs around the room setting everything up, turning my LED lights on, closing my curtains and turning on my tv before jumping into the bed with me. I laugh at how much she knows about my room which in turn brings me to another coughing fit. She rubs my back and hands me a bottle of Gatorade she managed to open in the midst of my fit. I take it from her and take a few sips of the drink, i thank her which earns a shake of her head. “How about we watch a movie huh?”

[losfacedevil]

Crazy Train // JTK

a/n ~ Just a silly little idea that’s been making me giggle for days.

Your eyes scanned the crowd looking for Jake. He had told you he’d meet you inside and with a soft peck to your cheek he had taken off in the opposite direction. The costumes you had gone with were obscure - one that wouldn’t make sense without the other but you rolled with his punches anyway.

Sam screwed up his face as he read a text that had popped up on his phone screen, shaking his head gently as he proceeded to change the music that was playing. The party goers screwed up their faces as the unmistakable yell of Ozzy Osbourne filled the air and the front door swung open, crashing against the wall as Jake stepped into the house.

You couldn’t help the giggles that escaped you as he yelled along with the track, the crazy ‘ay, ay, ay’ escaping him as he made his way over to you. Sam watched as his older brother made his way across the party, singing right along to Crazy Train as he did so.

“SHARON! Who’s gone and taken my beer? Was it you?!” He called, pushing his sunglasses father up the bridge of his nose as he took the bottle of beer you held and took a long swig. You raised your eyebrows at him - the perfect twinge to his voice causing a silly shiver to dance down your spine.

“I don’t think so, darling? Who could possibly do that? Hmmm? Who’s the beer thief? YOU!” You giggled, quoting the scene that had sparked his idea.

Laughter erupted around the room as everyone’s eyes landed on you. Reaching up you straightened the reddish purple pixie cut wig that had gone askew in your giggle fit. Jakes expression had gone flat, and he reached up, removing his sunglasses as his eyebrows pushed upwards.

“Who’s gone into my room and taken my beer from my room?!” He swayed gently on his feet, his arms held straight down at his sides. A small crowd formed around the two of you, those that had figured out what was going on.

“I told you darling, the beer thief is you. You’ve got one in your hand.” He shifted his gaze from your face to that of one of his friends, lifting the hand that held the beer and pointed it in your direction.

“You hear that? She’s stolen my beer!” The other boy chuckled, cocking his head to the side as he reached out and flicked the neck of the beer bottle in Jakes hand.

“Your beers right here, Oz. I don’t think Sharon’s the culprit.” A smile spread across Jakes face, completely breaking character as he reached up and clapped his free hand down against his friends shoulder.

“Are… are you sure she hasn’t stolen it, mate?” Jake said, the chuckles laced into his speech making it hard to keep in character. He friend nodded, turning at the waist to snatch a brand new bottle out of the tub of ice to their right.

“Look, here. I’ll even crack you a new one! No one’s stolen your beer but you, Oz. Maybe savor this one.” Jakes laughter filled the room as he handed the new beer to you, leaning forward to press a soft kiss to your forehead.

The crowd around you quickly dispersed as Jakes act ceased. You couldn’t help the way your eyes danced down his body, the black button up secured with just the bottom two buttons, laying open over his chest with his favorite pirate coin necklaces on display, the skinniest skinny jeans he could find hugging his legs and his signature sunglasses now perched back against the bridge of his nose.

“I can’t believe he got the bit.” Jake said, nodding in his friends direction. The other boy still chuckling as he took in Jakes outfit, one they wouldn’t have given a second thought to without your clear get up.

“Of course he got the bit, I told you someone would.” You giggled, leaning up on your toes to press a soft kiss to his lips.

TAGLIST: @vanfleeter @writingcold @ohgodthefeeling-gvf @sinsofstardust @klarxtr @stardustvanfleet @runwayblues @tommie-gvf

[imightgetbetter]

bets are off

hiiiiiiii. i'm trying to write more and this was a fun one to write. it's a mix of dad!matty, the anon request about matty and the missus having a bet, and the absolute whore that he was at lollapalooza. i hope you enjoy it! send me feedback and like and reblog and do all the things. love you lots!

Matty, from the moment you gave him the news, couldn’t take his eyes off of you. Matty would be following Attie around the venue, calling her over to hold his hand in fear of her running off and getting lost amongst all the touring personnel and crew, his eyes staying on you somehow, someway. Having Attie backstage didn’t worry you all that much, not that anyone could mistake who she is, Attie is a spitting image of Matty himself, a trait that you’ve found yourself loving more in the times when you’re apart – a piece of him is always with you, now even more so. His hand reaches out for yours as soon as Attie is in his grasp, his arms scooping her onto his waist before she could try to persuade him otherwise. His eyes travel from your own to the way your shirt hangs loosely over your torso. He knows you won’t show for a while, most likely how you were with Attie, but that doesn’t mean he can’t imagine what you’ll look like this time around, how you’ll look with Attie on your hip and a round belly. The thought alone is enough to drive him to insanity.

“Matty, let me have a minute with my goddaughter, hm?” Adam smiles, reaching for Attie and pressing a kiss to your cheek with a quiet ‘hello’. Matty reluctantly hands Attie to him, smiling as she reaches for his hands immediately and hugs him tight. “Uncle George is over there waiting to let you bash on the drums, Attie.”

“Can we go?” Attie squeaks excitedly, waving at you and Matty and nearly wiggling out of Adam’s arms to make it to George and Ross on the other end of the stage. “Uncle George!”

“Attie has missed you all very much,” you say, turning to Matty and circling your arms around his neck, your head perched back slightly to take in his appearance. He looks the happiest you’ve seen him in weeks (mainly because he’s never very happy when you’re seeing him through a screen) and you know there’s layers of excitement waiting to burst through. “I missed you very much.”

“You have no idea,” Matty says softly, leaning down and brushing your nose against his, his lips hovering over yours, the heat of his breath on your lips wrapping your nerves in desire. “I have waited too long to kiss my darling wife, love of my life, mother of my babies.” Matty smirks when you lean onto your toes and kiss him, silencing his sputtered words and encasing your lips in his. He holds you tightly, reminding you of where you are, his hands inching ever so slightly to the waistband of your jeans. “Our bet still stands you know.”

“You’re the one that has your hands nearly in my jeans,” you counter, your hands cupping his jaw and rubbing your thumb along the stubble lining his jaw. “Do you really want to stay to this bet now that you know, you know?”

“As much as I would love to take you into the dressing room, right this very second, and rip this shirt off of you,” Matty smirks against your lips, his hand splaying across your lower back and pulling you closer, “I’m never one to give in so easily. You know this quite well about me, now don’t you, my love?”

“I can’t believe it worked,” you say under your breath, unsure of who’s listening and who’s around to spill the secret. One thing you’ve learned over the years with knowing the guys, none of them can keep a secret from each other very long, and Matty is the biggest culprit of that. “Must’ve been pretty quick after I stopped my birth control.”

“Once I knew you were coming off it, I couldn’t really help myself, baby.”

“That’s not an excuse,” you say, quirking your eyebrows suggestively. “You can barely control yourself, anyways. You just get a million times worse when there’s the idea of putting a baby in me in your head,” you say, pausing for just a moment to add in, “and now you’ve done it twice.”

“You make a very hot mum, darling. What can I say?” Matty’s hands slip lower, covering your backside and giving you a squeeze, his lips reaching your ear and whispering, “You’re making this bet painful on purpose.”

“Give in then,” you say enticingly, your lips pressing to the corner where his jaw meets his neck, the spot on his skin that you know brings goosebumps along his spine and tickle his senses. “Just say that I was right, that I’m always right, that you can’t resist me the minute you see me, and you can take me to your dressing room, right this second, and have me whatever way you’d like.”

“You’re going to be the death of me,” Matty groans against your mouth, turning his head to capture your lips in a kiss. “You win.”

“Ah ah, that’s not enough, and you know it. I want to hear you say it.”

“You’re right, darling. You’re always right. I can’t resist you the minute I see you.”

“That wasn’t so hard,” you smirk, your words mumbled against his mouth.

“Shut up, YN,” Matty grunts with a half smile, grabbing your hand and pulling you towards the curtain backstage, his eyes making a point to find Attie with George and Ross, and ice cream cone in hand, a sigh of relief leaving his lips as he tugs you towards the dressing room you’d only left a bit ago. “I’m going to embarrass myself with how badly I need you, right now.”

“You can’t embarrass yourself in front of your wife, Matty.”

“Believe me, darling, I can.”

Matty opens the dressing room door and shuts it quickly, locking it behind you and immediately pulling you into him, his mouth attaching to yours without a second thought. His hands are heavy on your skin, pulling and pressing into you, his hands working around your waist and quickly making work to bring your shirt off your torso and your jeans down your thighs. Matty doesn’t waste time, not in the slightest, waiting only a moment for you to kick off your jeans before reaching his hands around your thighs and lifting you onto the vanity, his hands making quick work of his own trousers and shoving the material down his thighs as you grab his cheeks and bring him in for a kiss.

“I’ve been counting down the days until I could do this,” you say softly, your eyes squeezing shut as Matty’s mouth works quickly against your neck, kissing every inch of skin he can possibly touch. “I knew you’d react this way. I knew you’d be insatiable as soon as I told you I was pregnant.”

“Do you know why?”

“Why what, baby?”

“Why I act this way.”

“Why do you act this way, Matty?”

“‘Cause time and time again,” Matty says taking a moment away from kissing your skin to look you in the eyes, “I can’t believe you picked me to live this life together, and I can never take it for granted. Ever.”

Matty’s eyes soften as you grab his cheeks, “I would and will pick you every single time, you know that. I am very fond of you, you know.”

He smirks, “I know. You’re my Sally.”

Matty leans forward, capturing your lips in his, his hands moving from your thighs to your backside and pulling you towards the edge of the vanity, his hands spreading your thighs just enough to slot between. His hand leaves your thigh momentarily to grab his cock, a strangled moan leaving his lips as he drags his tip along your core, the arousal wetting him as he slowly sinks into you. Matty grabs your hips, pulling you as close to his body as physically possible, his hands warm and heavy on your skin. His lips are connected to yours, breathing you in, kissing you and saying every missed word and ‘I love you’ that you’ve missed in person. His thrusts are heavy against you, your arms clutching around his shoulders, your teeth biting into the pad of your thumb to mask the whimpers and whines that are escaping you.

Grunts echoing inside the dressing room as you near closer and closer to your high, the feeling of his cock inside of you making your entire nervous system light on fire. He knows how to work you, how to get you going, and the feeling of him inside of you never compares to anything else. Matty presses into you, holding you to him, kissing your neck and you swear your eyes couldn’t have rolled further into your head, lights shining behind closed eyelids. His whispering is muttered into your ear and you swear you can feel yourself clenching around him, coming undone with every word he says.

“Come on, darling. Cum for me.” Matty holds you tightly as you come undone around him, his high hitting him with two hard thrusts and a tense groan into your neck. He kisses your neck, reaching for the tissues next to you and carefully cleaning you up, kissing your shaking thighs and gently massaging your skin. “I love you so much. Holy fuck. I’ve missed you so badly.”

“I missed you, too,” you hum contently, leaning your head back against the mirror. “Attie is going to come looking for us if we don’t go find her soon. All she’s been talking about since we got on the plane was seeing you and getting her new headphones.”

Matty presses a kiss to your cheek and pats your thighs, reaching for his trousers and beginning to pull them up his thighs, buttoning them securely and walking around the room until he finds what he’s looking for. “Have them, right here. Engraved and everything.”

“What do they say?” you ask curiously, sliding off the vanity counter and reaching for your underwear and jeans, pulling each material up slowly as you take him in. Matty hands you your shirt, puckering his lips for a kiss before handing it to you. “She’s going to be so excited, baby.”

“Her initials on one side,” Matty smiles proudly, pulling the headphones out of the case and opening the dressing room door, looking side to side to see if he can spot her before turning the side over and showing you what it says inside the headband.

“Future Rockstar,” you smile, your hand falling to your nonexistent bump as you say, “Daddy is trying to get you two into the industry already. Not on my watch.”

“Our kids are born for stardom, darling. Get over it.” Matty hooks his arm around your shoulder, pulling you into his side and sticking the headphones under his arm, his mouth pressing against your head as he says, “Just so you know, I’m not nearly finished with you. I don’t care if I lost the stupid bet.”

[naomi8645]

Now that we got the official release date for chapter 1 of P:EG, what are your killer and victim predictions?

I have a crack theory that Kai is the first victim, purely based off of this official art.

I call it the cookie theory.

In the tray Desmond is holding, the Kai cookie seems to have two random dots that aren't present in his design. They might be intended to resemble wounds.

Desmond might be the culprit or otherwise play an important role in the case, though I'm more convinced of Kai's status as the first victim.

Another thing I noticed is the characters we see represented in the cookie tray. From what we've seen of the demo, Wolfgang and Jean seem to be stepping up as the group leaders and Damon is being antagonized. Kai, however, has had no indication of an upcoming arc. It might be foreshadowing that these four characters will be central to chapter 1's plot.

[dabideserveslove]

Feral cat gets lured in by food forgotten by the person and decided to keep coming back to the bafflement of the other person? Only later does the person realize the cat boy hasn't left in a while

We're going EraserDust with this one because I haven't written a lot for them yet. If you want another ship with a similar prompt lemme know and I'll see what I can do lol. Anyway, the ficlet is under the cut! I hope you like it!

It had started out as an accident when Shota fell asleep while waiting for his food to get delivered only to wake up and find nothing on his front steps despite the text he had that said it was delivered. Whatever. It would've been cold by then anyway and Shota kind of figured the food would be missing.

Except, the morning after that, Shota caught a glimpse of red eyes and twitching, ragged white ears sticking out from the shadows of the alley across from his house. 

Huh.

Maybe that was the culprit of his missing meal. Shota would be lying if he said he wasn’t a little intrigued by the apparent stray that was hanging around but he filed those thoughts away for later as he left to go to work. 

A couple days passed without incident and Shota all but forgot about the stray. 

Until one night as he was taking out his trash and heard some movement over by the cluster of trees and foliage a few yards behind his house. Shota hesitated, tilting his head in the direction of the noise and seeing the tip of a white tail quickly disappearing behind one of the trees. He considered approaching or maybe just calling out to the stray but decided against it for now and just finished up the chore he was doing. 

The next couple of weeks went by and Shota saw several more hints of that particular stray despite the fact that he hadn’t left any more food around for it to swipe. Which was… peculiar. Shota would have thought that the stray would move on to a different spot by then but he kept seeing little glimpses of it every few days.

Unable to keep his curiosity at bay any longer, Shota picked up some sushi on his way home one day and casually sat on the back steps as he opened one of the to-go boxes. The cat person would be able to smell it easily and Shota figured that sushi would be his best bet to lure it out of hiding. 

He sat quietly for several minutes, listening and watching for movement. A rustle in the foliage caught his attention and he barely caught sight of those red eyes and white ears before the stray ducked down again. 

A small smile tugged at Shota’s lips as he leaned down to set the box of sushi on the ground. “If you want some of this sushi you’re going to have to come eat with me,” Shota drawled just loud enough to be sure the stray would hear him.

Nothing happened for a couple of seconds and Shota just waited patiently until the stray crawled out from its hiding place and stalked over to him, crouching a couple feet away and just staring silently at Shota. 

It was the first time Shota could get a good look at the cat person and his appearance made Shota’s heart ache. 

The catboy was incredibly thin, one ear looking like something had taken a bite out of it and tail missing a couple patches of fur. His white hair was dirty and tangled, pooling around his shoulders that were covered in a ratty, torn black T-shirt, the jeans he had on in the same condition. Not to mention the scars and fresh scratches littering the exposed pieces of skin, his neck particularly scratched up. 

“Go on, I won’t bite,” Shota encouraged, gesturing to the sushi. 

“...Why?” The stray’s voice came out scratchy and hoarse which really wasn’t much of a surprise considering the state the rest of him was in.

Shota raised an eyebrow at him before sighing heavily. “You’ve been lingering around here for a while,” he started, “And I want to help you.”

The stray’s eyes narrowed at Shota, ears twitching and tail flicking as he slowly reached a hand out and gingerly picked up a piece of tuna sushi from the box. He never took his eyes off of Shota as he popped it into his mouth, still clearly distrustful of him.

A small smile came to Shota’s lips, “Go ahead and eat your fill, there’s plenty.”

Those red eyes widened a bit in surprise at the offer before he reached out to grab another piece. Silence fell over them and Shota just calmly sat on the steps as the stray slowly began to relax while eating. He came closer, muscles relaxing a little as he knelt on the ground, no longer looking like he might pounce. 

“I’m Shota, by the way,” Shota stated as the catboy finished off the last piece of sushi in that box. “What’s your name?” he asked casually, grabbing the second to-go container from the bag and offering it to the stray, wanting to see if he’d take it from his hand. 

“Tomura,” the catboy replied quietly, shuffling a little closer and accepting the offered food. 

“It’s nice to meet you, Tomura,” Shota said, slowly moving to kneel on the ground a bit closer to Tomura. The catboy tensed for a moment, staring warily at him, before relaxing again when Shota didn’t make any other movements. “I’m going to put some bottles of water and blankets on the porch for you. You can sleep there if you’d like or take them somewhere else,” Shota told him, slowly reaching a hand out and carefully watching for any big signs of discomfort as he gently brushed a couple of messy strands of hair away from Tomura’s face. 

The catboy was tense but didn’t move away or swat at him so Shota counted it as a win as he retracted his hand. He stood when Tomura didn’t say anything else, quietly going back into his house to gather the blankets and water he had promised and bringing them out to the porch. He was pleased to see that Tomura was still there as Shota set down the items. 

“Goodnight, Tomura,” Shota said, hoping that over time he’d be able to win over the catboy’s trust and get him off of the streets. 

[chaithetics]

For a fluffy request: Stewy taking care of a sick reader

Couchside Comfort

Pairing: Stewy Hosseini x f (Roy) Reader/ Stewy Hosseini x reader (can be read as either the usual Roy reader or Roy-less reader as there's only one small reference to Shiv Roy at the end)

Word count: 2.5K

Author's note: Thank you so much for this request Nonnie! I absolutely adore this type of fluff! I know you probably meant sick like a cold or something minor but this felt like the perfect opportunity to do a chronically ill reader, I then had a lovely ask regarding endo from @emeraldsandelderberries and I was convinced to finish off the idea about a reader having their period and making this ask endo related. I hope you don't mind Nonnie, if you had another illness in mind or wanted something more generic, please do let me know and I can do that! I think having chronically ill readers and fics is so important and endo is so important, so this is dedicated to those two and anyone reading who has endo, a chronic illness, gynae pain etc. You all deserve a Stewy who will take care of you and I hope you all enjoy this! I'm very tempted to write more chronically ill fics! As usual, reblogs and comments are more than welcome and appreciated! PS has not been proofread (shocker!)

Content/chapter warning: established relationship, mentions of endometriosis, chronic illness,pain, periods, fluffy fluff. There is no physical description of the reader but they are AFAB/have endo.

*********************

It had been an absolutely miserable day, you’d woken up feeling a bit bloated and with an ache in your lower back. It wasn’t a great feeling but having dealt with a chronic illness for a significant amount of your life that flared up randomly and consistently through your cycle, you had sadly become used to waking up with discomfort and bloating. At least with your career and home life, you didn’t need to worry about the oxymoron of wearing jeans with an endo belly. 

But the morning had very quickly progressed from mild (for you) discomfort to a full-blown flareup with the culprit being your period. You ended up staying home and having a sick day then going to work, you didn’t text or call Stewy as there wasn’t much he could do. Endometriosis wasn’t something that had an easy guide to fix and cure, it was unpredictable it fluctuated and maybe if you just rested you might feel better by the time Stewy came home. Which you knew was unlikely anyway. 

You’d taken anti-inflammatories, had an obscenely long magnesium bath, you’d tried napping but you couldn’t get into a position anywhere that was comfortable enough and didn’t hurt. Hours had painfully, slowly gone by and you were now curled up on the sofa watching one of your favourite comfort films Dead Poets Society, even though it always made you cry. 

Stewy was home a bit earlier than usual, he wasn’t expecting you to be home already but he knew you were as he could hear the sound of the television playing something. You hear the door open and the sound of him coming in and the usual routine of shoes off and so forth. You hadn’t called or texted so he just assumes that you finished work early and you’re unwinding on the couch. 

“What are we watching?” He calls out as he follows the noise of the television to you. 

“Dead Poet’s Society.” You tiredly and quietly call out as you feel a new shooting pain travel through your abdomen. 

“Why are you watching a sad movie? This one always makes you cry.” Stewy asks as he can now see you and he knows the answer before he even finishes that question. 

You’re awkwardly curled up on the couch with a blanket around you, an electric heat pad tucked into your pants against your abdomen to provide some relief against the sharp, pelvic stabbing. There’s water and chocolate nearby. Your face is in a grimace and Stewy can see that there are some tears in your eyes, he’s been around long enough to know that they’re a product of both your physical pain and tears from this film. 

“Do you want to watch something else?” You softly ask rather than directly answering as you close your eyes, trying to sink further into the cushion on the sofa. It was quickly starting to feel like the migraine that had been haunting you for most of the day was coming back and sinking its cruel claws into you. 

“Literally anything else that isn’t so depressing.” He bluntly says as he watches you carefully. He doesn’t really complain but he’s never really understood the whole sad comfort movie phenomenon, he’s hoping something a little lighter might be a better distraction.  

“I have my period.” You say as you squeeze your eyes with another grimace, it’s a shoot wave and it feels like it’s poking your ovary. 

“Who directed that one?” He asks as he comes closer to you. 

He immediately knows the grimace and his heart pangs at that, he can tell you’re in pain but it seems like you’re in a state that you can put up with a bit of his humour. He’s hoping that it’ll at least make you smile a little or distract you just a small amount from the searing pain, even if it’s only for a brief minute. 

“I guess you since I’m not pregnant.” You say with a small smirk trying to focus on Stewy’s kind teasing as a distraction. 

“Huh, interesting, I don’t think I remember that one. Who was in it?” He questions, as he kneels down on the floor next to where your face is on the sofa. You chuckle a little, the smile feels nice but the small laugh does send another shooting pain up your side and you gasp at that before you’re able to respond. 

“Well, not you since, again, I’m not pregnant.” You try to tease back. 

“Noted.” Stewy chuckles with a small smile as he carefully smooths your hair, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead, he pulls your blanket up around you a bit more. “Do you want some peppermint tea baby?”

“Yes please.” You reach for his hand to hold it as he kneels next to you. His hand quickly envelops yours, it’s nice and warm, comforting. But Stewy is always comforting. You wonder for a moment if it would be a better heat pad than your current one or maybe if he could just be an additional one. 

“We’re out of berries.” You sadly whisper as your mind tries to focus on anything but the pain and a priority for you is of course that fruit, it’s one of the only things you feel like you could stomach right now, the chocolate had gotten too sweet far too quickly. 

“We’re not. I’ll make some tea for you and get some, okay baby?” Stewy says as you continue to hold his hand and he strokes your cheek with his thumb, you can’t help but melt into his kind, safe touch. 

“I don’t want to move, and I don’t want you to go.” You groan out as you curl inwards, trying to find some position that isn’t too uncomfortable while internally it feels like your organs and the endometriosis tissue are going off to another war against each other and you already know who has won. 

“I’m not going anywhere. They’re frozen, there’s always an emergency stash for you.” Stewy reassures you as he continues to stroke your face and presses a few more soft kisses onto your head as he becomes more worried at your pain, he often thinks it and he knows you do too but moments like this always surprise at how awful such a common illness can be and he wishes that there was a cure, some magical treatment to completely prevent the flare-ups, that it wasn’t all trial and error and ridiculous potential side effects. 

“Really?” You question, your eyes opening at that. That simple, thoughtful piece of knowledge is without a doubt, the highlight of your awful day. You’re so in love with him and grateful for him. You smile a little bit more at that. 

“Yes… But it’s that bad you don’t want to move?” Stewy asks visibly concerned. As any partner would, he hates seeing you go through this and it always concerns him, how awful it is and that not much can really be done. 

“If I move it eliminates the possibility of the couch swallowing me whole.” You nonchalantly answer. 

It had been a fantasy you’d had when today’s endo flared up, the internal uprising had begun and it was still a very appealing fantasy. You were certain that if the couch did swallow you whole it would be rather soothing and you wouldn’t feel any pain. 

“I guess I skimped out on this couch babe, it doesn’t have that feature. I’m sorry baby. But I did it because I know of your wanting to be couch-swallowed tendencies.” He teases as he continues to stroke your face and you giggle a little at his ridiculous joke. 

Stewy’s many things, ridiculously handsome, intelligent, savvy and witty but he’s also extremely gentle and even goofy. You’re so grateful for him and he’s always this way with you, he’s so loving and you don’t think there’s ever been someone who has seen this all and has continued to show up, to support you and make you feel so loved. You wished this migraine wasn’t here and you could take in his physical beauty and not just his emotional beauty. 

“I’m going to make you some tea and grab the berries, okay baby?” He asks softly in the sweetest voice he has, it’s a voice reserved only for you. It’s literal warm honey to your ears and soul. You nod, he kisses your hand and gets up to head to the kitchen. 

You close your eyes again and snuggle into the blanket more. The couch still hasn’t swallowed you whole, unfortunately, which is surprising considering how large it is. But you suppose that’s a good thing since Stewy’s here now. You listen to the soft patter of his feet that you can hear in the kitchen and him humming as he opens cupboards, and makes the cup of tea. 

After a couple of minutes, he comes back over, placing a bowl of the aforementioned berries onto the coffee table and has 2 mugs in his other hand. You move to try sitting up and he sits on the end of the sofa as he carefully hands you the mug of the warm peppermint tea. It’s so nice and warm in your hands, you take a few sips of it and then a large gulp, wanting the herbal medicinal effects to hurry up and kick in. You hold the warm mug in your hands for a few moments, basking in the heat as Stewy sits next to you with his hand running up and down your back, soothingly tracing gentle patterns across it. 

You lean over to place the mug carefully onto a coaster on the coffee table, you try to stretch a little as you know movement will help but it feels impossible. You then lean back and curl up into Stewy’s side but after a few moments you slink down until you’re lying on the couch again but with your head and part of your upper body curled up into his lap. You close your eyes as you feel the gentle movements of his stomach moving a little with each breath and the warmth of his cosy, signature turtleneck. 

“Do you have a migraine as well honey?” He asks softly and you nod. 

“It’s been on and off all day, like a goddamn ghost haunting me in a haunted house.” You exasperatedly sigh. 

His heart breaks at that and he quickly moves a hand to gently massage at your lower back, he knows it always gets tense and is frequently a source of pain during your flare-ups. But he moves his other hand so that he can gently press a bit of pressure to the pressure point near your temple to try and bring you a bit of relief from your migraine. 

“Is that okay?” He gently asks as he continues. 

You smile at the feeling, of having such gentleness, love and support. Despite the pain and how cheesy it sounds, just his presence is already helping and giving you a bit of comfort during this awful pain. You nod quickly, moving your hand up to give a gentle squeeze to the hand massaging your lower back. 

“Yes sweetie, thank you. I love you so much.” 

“I love you too baby.” He says as he continues with what he’s doing. The film eventually ends and he’s happy about that, he’s silently praying that your next choice might be something a bit lighter or that you’ll be open to a minor suggestion, although he totally respects that not being the case. Today is a day with you and your comfort being the focus. 

You’ve had some more meds and you’re still in pain but you’re feeling a little bit more comfortable with movement and having an extra blanket around you. You sit up for a moment to drink some more of the tea and eat some of the mostly thawed-out frozen berries. There’s something about the cold taste of them that helps during a flare you swear. You look at Stewy and the migraine is definitely currently feeling a little bit better. 

You’re in awe of his gentleness and the way that those deep brown doe eyes of his are looking at you with adoration, even with you looking and feeling absolutely miserable. He’s always been handsome but there’s something even more special about him in moments like this you think. 

“Thank you for-” You start to say before he can cut you off. 

“You don’t need to thank me for this baby.” “But-”

“No, I don’t even want you to try.” He says with a playful but kind smirk on his face as he looks at you. 

You laugh a little and nod. Then lean over to give him a kiss on the lips, it’s soft, gentle, warm and loving. You feel yourself melt into the gentle but brief kiss, and his hands gently rub at your back as he kisses you back softly. It’s a sweet kiss and when you pull away, you place your hand on the side of his cheek, feeling the perfectly trimmed dark stubble of his beard. 

“I really do love you, you know?” You say with a small smile. 

“I know, it kind of helps in these romantic situations.” He teases and you roll your eyes before moving back down to lay in his lap again. “But I love you too baby.” He has a hand stroking your face again and you can feel yourself starting to feel like maybe napping is finally an option. “Did you want a bath?” He asks after a moment of thought. 

“I had one a few hours before you came home.” You answer tiredly. 

“Did you want another one?” He asks in that ridiculously sweet voice that would absolutely melt you if you weren’t in so much pain. 

“Maybe later.” You pause for a moment thinking while in his lap and enjoying being surrounded by him and the warmth from his body, the heat pads, and the blankets. “Did you want to watch Little Women?” You ask a little bit more cheerily. You hear Stewy sigh a little at that.

“I thought you’d never ask.” He’s so glad it’s something a bit happier than Dead Poets Society. “I think I’m more handsome than Laurie.” He says it almost absentmindedly as the film starts. 

“You are.” You immediately agree, he is, without a doubt and always has been, no matter what adaptation you watch. Although the 2019 one is a favourite in this household. “But you are an Amy.”

“What?” He asks in shock. 

“You are!” You respond with a smirk.  

“If you weren’t in excruciating pain right now I’d consider biting you.” He says it mockingly and you giggle a little at that. 

“Are you saying you don’t want to play bitey?” You tease. Knowing that as you’d gotten older that was not a normal game in normal households.

“Well, I know for a fact that you don’t like bitey.” Stewy immediately says, it was a fact, Shiv was always known for taking the game too far. “But I just can’t believe you’d say that baby, that’s cruel. I’m so not an Amy.”

[banannabethchase]

7 mox / both bucks

Thick Thighs (Make a Buck Rise) - also on AO3

~

Mox finds his gear pants cut up with scissors and he's pretty sure he knows who may have done it. The question is which Buck.

~

It happened when he was in the fuckin' bathroom, Mox is sure of it, and he's pretty sure he has a clue of the culprit.

"Fuckin' EVP idiots," he grumbles, shoving his way through the hallway and to the locker room where his least favorite pretty boys live.

He shoves the door open without knocking to see Matt and Nick on the couch. Matt, inexplicably, is upside down.

"Can we help you?" Nick asks, barely looking up from his phone.

Mox looks between the two Bucks, trying to read guilt on one of their faces. Or both. It could easily be both. “Which one of you came up with this bullshit? It had to be one of you.”

Matt flutters his stupid, pretty eyelashes and Nick stares unblinkingly. "What do you mean?" Matt asks.

"We've got no clue what you're talking about." Nick looks like he believes it, too.

"This!" Mox holds up his gear pants, cut into booty shorts. "One of you shitheads cut up my gear pants, and now I'm gonna have to wear jeans to the ring." He huffs, trying to remember those breathing calming things Claudio's been trying to teach him. "This is a really stupid prank right before a show."

Matt bites his lip and Nick rolls his eyes. "Goddamnit, Matt," Nick mutters. He drops his head into his hands.

"What?!" Matt exclaims. "Look, maybe somebody mistook them for their own gear." He shrugs.

"I'm not defending your crap on this one." Nick stands and backs away, hands in the air. "This is all you."

Matt looks frantically between Mox and Nick. "Wait, no," he says, leaping to his feet. "Wait, you wouldn't leave your big brother to get pummeled by a big scary man, would you?"

Nick rolls his eyes, then turns away to walk out the door. "You like getting pummeled by big scary men," he calls over his shoulder.

Mox snorts and turns back to Matt, who is very clearly panicking. "So it was you," he says, folding his arms over his chest.

"You can't prove it!" Matt's almost shrieking.

Mox shuts the door behind him. "You got them big stupid boo-boo eyes going, Matt, come on." He walks into Matt's space until Matt's back bumps against the wall. "Don't lie to me."

Matt's eyes are wide as he searches Mox's face. "Okay," he breathes. "Okay, yes, I cut up your gear pants."

"Now why the fuck would you do that?" Mox asks. He doesn't know why, but he's compelled to rest a hand on Matt's waist, to touch, to squeeze just a little bit. Matt's eyes flutter shut for a second, then snap back open.

"I -" Matt exhales, shaky. "I - thighs."

Mox blinks. "Excuse me?"

"Your thighs," Matt says. "I - you wore trunks a few times, and they looked so good, and I was dying to see them again and just - I couldn't come up with a better way." He licks his lips, eyes flickering between Mox's mouth and eyes. "I cut up your pants because I was being weird."

Mox grins. "Weird how?" He's gonna make Matt say it.

Matt whines and stomps his feet a little. "Don't - you know."

"I wanna hear it." Mox leans in to speak into Matt's ear. "Come on. Tell me how much it gets you off."

Matt whimpers. "Okay, fine," he whispers. "You - you look so good in the trunks, Mox, and I got weird about it."

"You should'a just asked," Mox says, tugging at Matt's earlobe with his teeth. "Could'a shown you a whole lot more."

Matt moans, cut off, like he didn't mean it. "Don't make promises you can't keep," he mumbles.

Mox pulls back. "Who says I wasn't gonna keep my promise?"

"Huh?"

Mox slides his fingertips under Matt's shirt, dancing along the skin. "I'm a nice man," he murmurs. "I can give you what you want." He steps back and undoes his belt. He's pretty sure Matt's eyes roll back in his head a little.

"No, no," Mox says. "You look at me while I'm doing this for you."

Matt's eyes snap back to Mox's. He nods. "Yeah."

Mox makes a show of taking his belt all the way off, fighting a grin as Matt watches him with an open mouth and wide eyes. He goes for his button and stops. Matt makes a miserable little sound.

"Oh, you want me to keep going?" Mox asks.

Matt nods. "I wanna see."

Mox grins. "Alright then." He pushes the jeans down his legs, shuffling a little as they get caught on his boots. He glances up to see Matt straight up panting. "You like?"

Matt nods. "Your - those boxer briefs are really small."

"More thigh for you to enjoy, baby." Mox waits to see Matt's reaction to the nickname, and Matt looks...more than intrigued.

"Can - can I see..." Matt trails off and licks his lips.

"What do you want?" Mox asks. It's a little awkward to lean back toward Matt with his jeans around his feet, but he makes it work.

"I - I want - I want to -" Matt swallows and turns those giant brown eyes onto Mox's. "Do I have to see your thighs?"

"What?" Mox asks. "I guess, no?" He leans down to pull his jeans back up, but Matt catches him by both wrists.

"No," Matt says frantically. "I mean - I want you to - to -" He exhales shakily. "I want you to fuck me."

Mox's eyebrows flying almost as high up as his hairline, which is saying something. "Really."

Matt nods. "I think I like more than just your thighs. I - yeah." His face is fire engine red, eyes flickering all over Mox's face but his eyes.

"I think we can work with that." Mox leans in and kisses Matt, because he's a man of substance and if he's gonna do this he'll do it right, who sighs like a romance novel heroine. "Jesus, you sound pretty. Why can't you shut up and moan like that all the time?"

Matt's eyes are closed as he drops his head back against the wall and, for once, doesn't have a retort. All the better for Mox.

He gets his hands on Matt's hips and turns him, biting at the back of Matt's neck. Matt makes a delightful little noise, something in between a moan and a gasp, and Mox is worried he's about to get obsessed.

Mox is glad Matt seems to be a bit of a slut, because he mumbles, "Blue bag, front pocket," and Mox reaches over to pull out lube and a condom.

"You expecting this, Buck?" Mox asks, sliding a slick finger around Matt's rim. Matt wiggles his perfect little ass against it, sighing as Mox sinks in to the first knuckle.

"No," he mumbles. "That's Kenny's bag."

"So, to be clear, we're about to fuck with Kenny's supplies," Mox says, working his finger in a little further. "And that's not weird to you?"

"Mm - no," Matt says, pushing back, like he can't get enough. "He stole my underwear once, so now we're even."

"I don't even want to know."

Mox is impressed at how shamelessly Matt takes his fingers, how desperately he whines for more, and teases the third finger long enough to get Matt straight up pleading.

"I'm ready, please, just fuck me," he begs, hands flat against the wall. "God, Mox, please."

"Aren't you, like, embarrassed to be this desperate?" Mox asks. He slides his fingers out. "Not judging, just asking."

Matt turns his head, pressing a cheek against the wall. "What, like you're so chill fucking me out of nowhere?" He grins as Mox slides the head of his cock inside him. "I think you're just as desperate as me."

"Don't get bitchy now, Buck," Mox pushes all the way in, head in the clouds with the heat of Matt around him, "I was just starting to like you."

"Jesus, just fuck me already," Matt mumbles, pushing back onto Mox's dick.

"Was that a swear?" Mox asks, pounding into Matt. He's determined to get him to shut up, somehow. "I thought you Bucks don't do that."

"Only when I really think the moment deserves it," Matt says, words punched out of him as Mox fucks into him. "And - Christ - you being a brat seemed worth it."

"Me?!" Mox asks, reaching a hand around to grab Matt's cock. He gathers precome to add to the glide, grinning at Matt's moan. "You're the one cutting up my fuckin' clothes for attention."

"Not attention," Matt says, breathing ragged, "horniness. Needed to - oh my god - see your stupid sexy thighs."

Mox laughs and puts a little more work in. "Yeah, well, you're hot too, baby. Makes up for the fact that you're fuckin' annoying."

"Shut up," Matt grumbles. "Also, don't you dare stop. I'm close."

"I could walk away right now," Mox says. He grips Matt's hips and fucks harder, feeling it build in his spine. "I could leave you here without anything."

Matt laughs, cut off by a moan. "No, I don't think you could." He comes hard against the wall, pulsing into Mox's hand and moaning Mox's name so loudly he can barely stand it. One, two, three more and Mox is coming too, his brain turning into mush, and falls against Matt. He crushes him against the wall a little bit, but he thinks Matt deserves it.

"So," Matt mumbles. "That happened."

"Yeah."

"You're squishing me."

"You're a bitch."

Matt laughs and wiggles his hips. Mox's dick feels super weird as it's exposed to the air conditioning again. He wants nothing more than to sink into that warmth again. "Yeah? Takes one to know one.”

~

Mini Playlist:

Thick Thighs - Willam feat. Latrice Royale

Bad Things - Jace Everett

Strip Tease - Danity Kane

Hit it From the Back - Kim Petras