#i was also working hard to clean the apartment just in a different area

[romanceyourdemons]

walked up to my partner, who was working very hard to clean our apartment, and said “hey where did you put my godfather complete boxed set?” which in retrospect feels like a scene from a comedy movie about a failing marriage

[undreaming-fanfiction]

The Corroded Coffin used to think they'd be the new Metallica or Judas Priest. But where their passion and hard work never lacked, their big break just never came.

What did come, however, was an unexpected change of their career path.

It started innocently enough - they went through yet another failed meeting with recording studios, they'd travelled pretty far and it was for nothing. Instead of going back to Hawkins and risking another one of Eddie's road rages, they decided to break into an abandoned house and drink their sorrows away.

That is, until their empty bottles started collecting themselves, something invisible touched Gareth's shoulder and the dusty floor started showing written messages.

Jeff wanted to flee. Gareth to faint. But Eddie and Freak just shrugged. Eddie gestured towards the approximate ghost location and said "by the power of I don't give a shit anymore, I compel you to sit down and stop it, we'll clean the bottles when we leave tomorrow."

The rattling stopped. There was a moment of silence when the Corroded Coffin actually thought it had worked, but then the ghost overcame its shock and physically threw Eddie, his bandmates and their things out.

They sat on the wet grass for a while and contemplated their whole exitence. Eddie was pretty shaken about the whole thing because he'd just managed to royally piss off a ghost and lived to tell the tale. But apart from absolutely terrifying...it was also fun?

And his friends seemed to think the same. Jeff patted his shoulder and said: "not bad for a first touch with the unknown, huh?"

They stayed in the area and tried again. They decided to tape over their promotional video - not so great, they had to admit after rewatching it - and started documenting their ghostly encounters. And maybe it was just the timing, maybe it was their interactions and personalities, but it worked. They showed some of their tapes to a local TV station and they got a cautious yes, more than they ever had with their music.

They got assigned a small crew, Fred with a camera and Chrissy for sound, wrote their own episodes and did plenty of research. And they got to try quite a lot of different approaches with their ghostly friends. Eddie was amazing at taunting the ghosts, making them appear if there were any present. Gareth had a wonderfully calming presence, managing to save the CC's ass several times. Jeff was the brains, he made sure they'd always know the history of the house and the probable identity of the ghost. And Freak decided to dabble in the occult sciences with a terrifying precision. There could never be enough salt in Eddie's van for all the circles he made.

It all went well until they learned of the Creel House in Hawkins. They went there, did their research and before entering the house, they ordered some pizza for dinner. They assumed it would be over by midnight, thinking it was just another sad story of an unresolved murder, but the ghost of Henry Creel was out for blood.

Oh, and he also controlled the spiders of the house. That was new.

To set the scene: The crew had fled the house about an hour ago. Eddie was crouching behind an old table, blocking Henry's barrage of kitchen knives, shouting "IS THIS THE BEST YOU'VE GOT?!". Gareth was behind the table with Eddie, but he went more into the wailing territory with "I DON'T THINK THIS WILL HELP YOU MOVE ON, HENRY!". Jeff had blocked himself in the pantry and kept trying to identify the triggering moment - "I think he's re-enacting the murder of his mother, guys! Does that help?!" (it doesn't). And Freak gave up on salt circles and was now tossing handfuls of salt around the house with a questionable technique but unwavering determination.

Suddenly, a car horn.

Then, a bitchy male voice: "Are you coming to get your pizza or what? I have other customers to get to!"

Eddie gritted his teeth as Henry added heavy pans to the mix and hit his shoulder. "We're a little busy surviving here! Ask Chrissy to pay you!"

There was a muffled and annoyed "ugh" from behind the door and then: "Is it Henry again?"

Eddie just blinked. Gareth was more ready to answer: "Sure is! He's not a fan of our exorcism!"

And the pizza guy didn't leave. He just huffed and said something that sounded suspiciously like "amateurs".

Eddie wanted to punch him.

But before he could do that, the front door opened. Gareth held his breath, half expecting a sound of knives hitting their target.

Instead, they heard a few more steps and then: "What the fuck, Henry?!"

A faint whispering reached their ears, but they couldn't decipher it. But the pizza guy could.

"I don't care they didn't get your permission, Henry. Yeah, it's annoying, but what are you going to do? If more people die in this house, it's going to get demolished. You know that. Yeah, I know the house is old, but it's great for your spiders, right? They'd be homeless. Do you want to make your spiders homeless, Henry?"

They dared to peek from behind the table, and Eddie had to pinch himself. Because in the middle of the dusty dining room stood one of the prettiest young men Eddie had ever seen, hands on hips and arguing with something invisible.

The man completely ignored them.

"That's what I thought. Now, apologize. No, they can't hear you, so get creative."

All four CC members stared as words formed in the spilled salt: "SORRY".

The pizza guy seemed to be pleased. "Good job, Henry. Now, let me get them out of here and I promise I'll get the Party to bring you some new spiders when they capture them outside, yeah? Three knocks, slide them in a glass behind the door. Got it. Take care, Henry."

Only then did he look at Eddie and the others and frowned. "That's your cue to leave. Get your stuff and go, now." And as they were quickly collecting their scattered notes and recording equipment, he added: "and say goodbye when leaving. Don't be rude."

Four rushed "Bye, Henry!" and "Sorry, Henry"s later, the Corroded Coffin was standing on the grass outside, feeling the setting sun on their skin and smelling fresh pizza. Gareth promptly paid for the delivery, and everyone proceeded to thank their mysterious savior.

"I'm Steve," he said after they'd all expressed their thanks, "and you're stupid. Do you really do this without anyone who sees and hears them? Do you just stumble blindly into haunted houses for a fun and stabby time?"

Eddie had to swallow down a very bitchy response of his own. "Sorry to stroke your ego even more, pretty boy, but a man of your talents is hard to come by."

And Steve, to Eddie's massive shock, just cocked his head and fluffed his hair, probably out of habit, but damn. "Well, consider yourself lucky because I'm open to job offers," he said with a wink that brought Eddie back into his teenage fantasies. "You need someone like me, and I assume you pay better than pizza delivery. Do you?"

Turns out, their producer was willing to get one more person on board, especially when they finished processing the leftover footage from the Creel house.

Steve was an amazing addition. He was snarky, self-confident, easy to look at and most of all, he was fun and compassionate. Watching him communicate with ghosts of kids and help them move on made Eddie's icy heart melt.

But one day they were on a site of an unfortunate teenage death, Steve was chatting with the ghost of a 17 year old girl like they'd known each other for ages, he was laughing, cracking jokes, and then:

"No, he hasn't kissed me yet."

Eddie turned around on his heel and stared at Steve, snickering to himself and talking to a misty figure next to him. And worst of all, they were both staring right at Eddie.

"Hasn't even asked me out, no. You'd think he'd be interested, but I guess I'm doing something wrong."

And Eddie's head short-circuited, and all the repressed fantasies from nights next to Steve in their trailer came back with vengeance. He howled and threw himself at Steve, kissing him right on that bitchy mouth. "Doing something wrong?! Steven Harrington, those shorts of yours are doing everything right, but how about you say something, huh?!"

Steve returned the kiss to the cheering of the CC guys, Chrissy's clapping and Fred's disgusted noise, and shrugged when they broke apart. "I knew you'd get it, eventually. Oh, and Heather?" he turned to the ghost. "You're the best wingwoman ever, in this life and after."

Four good things came from this ghostly encounter:

After the kiss, Gareth finally gathered enough courage to ask Chrissy out. She said yes.

The episode with Heather became the most watched episode of the CC's show.

Steve and Eddie remained in an equally blissful and teasing relationship for the rest of their lives.

And finally...

The TV station decided to design official merch for the CC's show: incredibly short shorts that said on the backside: "DOING EVERYTHING RIGHT".

[l0vema]

Full House Fuck

A/n: not proofread

You were rocking your hips, head thrown back in ecstasy. Vernon was trembling beneath you, so close to climax as he gripped your thighs for dear life. You moan breathily as that perfect spot is hit deep inside you. "Yes yes yesss" you affirm to the man under you.

So close to the finish line you anchor yourself by pulling on Vernon's hair. He bucks into you at the light sting of it. "Mmmmm," he exclaims before setting his eyes on your tit's. He licks and sucks onto your nipple while pinching you other one. Your stomach flutters at the pleasure you feel. He always knew how to get you hot and panting so quickly.

It was not less than a few strokes later that you felt yourself floating, muscles spasming and breath catching. "Yesss baby, fuuuckkk," you manage out as you feel a wetness where you and vernon were attached. The overstimulation washed over you as vernon didn't stop his movements, holding your hips up and fucking into you to get himself over the edge. You dig your nails into him and balance tears from how good it felt but also from how overwhelming it all was. He pushed your hips down, bottoming out with a guttural moan that had your pussy literally throbbing.

" you're so rough babe" vernon voiced with his eyes closed and head thrown back onto the leather couch. You flushed at the observation wondering whether to apologise for the red streaks and the hair pulling. "I didn't expect to like it as much as I did..." he continued, helping you stop with your doubting.

"I didn't expect to be the type to do it," you responded smiling lightly. You lightly run your fingers over the red on his muscly shoulders. Vernon twitched inside you in reaction making you clench around him and whimper at the sensitivity you still felt. There was a light tremor still going through your legs. "Shouldn't we clean up before the boys get back?" You make a move to get off him despite your body yelling in opposition. "Mmmmm, not yet babe lemme just-" he rocked inside you and whimpered at the feeling. "I might just speedrun getting out of the dorms for this, sick of the boys always being around," he said unto your neck as you tried to control the throbbing down there, logically you guys don't have enough time before the boys get here. What did jeonghan say? They'll be back by 6:15. You glance at the time praying for 30 more minutes or so to get your way with vernon once more.

"5:55pm"

You could make it work.

You start to move again. Vernon moaning into your hair now, lightly nipping at your neck. You speed up trying your best to keep within time as vernon falls apart underneath you. You love this feeling, vernon at your mercy. It wasn't necessarily a need to be dominant but just tye effect you have on him. The pleasure he gets from what you do.

Once he is fully hard and flushed out vernon grabs you and stands up. Suddenly, your on all fours face pushed into the couch. "Ughhhmmmm," you moan out. What's hotter than vernon at your mercy is vernon manhandling you. It's so different from his usual demeanor, calm and casual. You clench around him earning yourself a relatively rough jerk that had your eyes rolling back. His grip on your love handles gave him leverage to drill into you. No sooner than you flipped you felt the climax bubbling in your lower abdomen.

Your breath was knocked out of you. You turn to see vernon looking at your ass. He spanked you. You feel the tears drip onto the soft brown leather beneath you.

You feel Vernon's big hands grab onto your elbows and pull you up. Still fucking you hard from behind, he attached you to his front making him hit a whole new area inside you. Your legs begun trembling from the pleasure and from keeping yourself up.

Vernon spanked your other ass cheek. You arched your back, vernon letting you fall back onto the couch. You love this side of your boyfriend. "Don't stop please, please, ughhhmm," you weren't sure when exactly begging came into the equation of what your sex life looked but he was hitting you so hard and deep. "I'm close do not stop," you said. A stark difference from your begging right before. "Yes, yes, yess," whispers into the leather, accompanied by tears ruining your mascara. You couldn't care less when you haven't felt so good the 3 months vernon had been on tour.

The coil broke. Your voice cut short. You back arched. Vernon bottomed out in you. Your climax hit you like a hurricane with no warning.

Your legs almost gave out beneath you. Vernon sensing the weakness of your body wrapped his arm around your waist and held you up. Resting your head on his shoulder you babble on nonsense. Your boyfriend humming and slowly fucking you down from your high.

Slowly opening your eyes you notice the entire 95z line watching you (scoups, joshua, jeonghan). One leanig in the dining table, one arms crossed, one hands pocketed. You gasp lightly scared vernon hadn't noticed them walking in. "Omg," you voice out the shock. You almost immediately then notice the tented pants they all harboured. Oh. You thought. "Mmmmm," vernon moaned out. "Why are you just watching us?" Your boyfriend- still moving inside you- questioned them. The look in scoups' eyes made you involuntarily clench around your boyfriend.

"You like them watching us?"

You didn't know how to answer.

"It's kinda hot if you do."

You shudder out a breath.

Your nipples pebbled up.

"It'd help me out if you did."

He continued.

"Doesn't seem like you need much help, vernon," joshua voiced out. Breaking the suffocating- albeit hot- silence.

"The mascara streaked face is enough evidence," scoups added.

You still weren't too sure what to do with yourself. Whether to walk up to them or cover up and get you and your boyfriend out of the public room.

"Seems like she needs more than just me with how she's holding onto my dick for dear life," vernon said from behind you.

"What are you to telling us vernon?" Joshua finally said something. Tone laced with heavy intent. "What do you want me to tell them ____?" Vernon switched the question onto you.

You turn almost fully towards the man still inside you and try to decipher his thoughts. He wanted you to ask them to join in. You jaw dropped ( metaphorically).

Turning back to the three older men you let your arousal be seen through dark half lidded eyes. Scoups was the first to take a step closer to you

"Who are we to say no to you beautiful?" He asked. Vernon finally got out from inside you earning the men a whimper. You took that as a sign to walk around the couch and get onto your knees for the three men. "Don't make me regret letting you in between me and my boyfriend now,", you tease.

Jeonghan perks up from right behind scoups. When did he get there?

Running his hand through your hair before gripping it rough he said, "never," before leaning down to kiss you.

You got a nervous excitement building up underneath your skin as joshua came closer and caressed your cheek lightly, staring with a heavy look. He bent down by his knees to be at eye level with you, "be a good girl and take care of them with that pretty mouth yours hm?" He asked making you physically shake. You were quick to make a task of scoups' belt to give head that has your boyfriend (was suddenly right behind you holding your hair in a ponytail) literally confessing his love for you in tears.

L0ve, M.A

[safetycar-restart]

KINKTOBER DAY 27: CUNNILINGUS [CARLOS SAINZ X READER]

NOTE: This is an NSFW fic with sub!Carlos and dom!reader. If you are under 18 or uninterested, scroll past. Alternatively, if you like what you see here then consider checking out my blog :))

This work forms part of a kinktober series where I discuss a different kinky concept with a different motorsports athlete every day. We also discuss the concepts in more detail on my blog so if you have any thoughts, feel free to stop by!

(this takes place in au we have where reader is a successful businesswoman and Carlos is her subby househusband, if you'd like to see more you can check out the 'house husband Carlos' tag on my blog)

Carlos ADORES eating you out, and it's something that you must let him do at least 5 times a week or else you'll have a very pouty and unhappy house husband. He must taste you regularly! You cannot deprive him of this!

Sometimes you'll decide to challenge him and not let him cum for a few days, edge him until he's so hard it hurts and then wait for his erection to go down before tucking him in a cage for a few days. But you can't do that with eating you out.

You can't decide he isnt allowed a taste for a few days, that would be cruel and unusual punishment and poor Carlos would not be able to take it.

Carlos has two favourite places he likes to eat you out (though he'll happily do it literally anywhere).

Firstly, when you work from home.

Well he just adores when you work from home full stop, because then he can bring you snacks and show you how well he cleans and make you lunch and kneel for you while you eat and pop his head into your office for kisses. Amazing.

But the absolute BEST part about you working from home is when you call him and let him knee under your desk and eat you out while you work. It's amazing.

He'll happily kneel under your desk, eating you out like a starved man, getting as many orgasms out of you as he can. He only stops when you push your chair back and pull him away by his hair. He will not stop on his own accord, absolutely not.

The other time he loves it the most, is lazy Sunday afternoons spent by the pool. Carlos keeps the backyard in perfect condition of course, the pool is always sparkling and the grass perfectly cut and the furniture always clean.

You have a little bar and barbecue area next to the pool, which Carlos keeps stocked with all the ingredients needed for your favourite cocktails.

You always go for a swim together when you have Sunday afternoons free, with Carlos usually choosing to swim a few extra laps than you.

You'll settle down on one of the loungers next to the pool, enjoying the sun and then Carlos will come and join you. Rather than laying on the lounger next to yours, he moves your legs apart by your ankles and then settles between your legs. He lays down there, his head against your belly and lets the sun dry his back.

Pretty soon he's shuffling down and staring hungrily at your bikini bottoms, a silent request to have a taste. You always let him of course, and he quickly pulls your bikini bottoms aside, not even bothering to take them off.

That's how he spends the rest of the afternoon, eating you out in the sun. Sometimes you'll pull him off for a breather, and then he just lays on your stomach and enjoys the sun. Other times you'll tell him to go make you a cocktail, and he'll go happily, an absolutely obscene bulge in his swim trunks.

He makes your cocktail and then settles right back down between your legs and goes back at it.

[msnanu]

Life Twist 01 | JJK

⏤banner by the talented and sweet: @archivedkookie ❣

⏤summary ❧ After an enormous loss in your life and breaking a long relationship with your now ex boyfriend, you decided you needed a life twist. So you move into a new country to try restart your life and seek for your happiness. What you weren't expecting was someone like Jungkook entering into your life as soon as you got to Seoul.

⏤𝘱𝘢𝘪𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 ❧ jungkook x female reader

⏤𝘨𝘦𝘯𝘳𝘦 ❧ fluff, angst, smut, slow burn, 4 years age gap (reader is JK's noona)

⏤𝘸𝘢��𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴 ❧ mature language

⏤𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘥 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘵 ❧ 5k+

⏤ author's note❧ I just wanted to state that this is the first time I write a fic - so bear with me, please 😌 - also just as an FYI, I don't have an specific schedule to update since you know.. adult life hahaha but I'm already working on next chapter. I love this story and I hope you get to love it as much as I do 💜

You were finishing unpacking your clothes when your phone started to ring, you smiled seeing that your screen was flashing with Chris’s name on it. Christian – aka Chris – has been your best friend since you were 15, you met him during your high school years through acquaintances and you clicked immediately.

You both feel like you’re each other’s soulmate but of course only in a platonic way, although a lot of people tend to misinterpret and think that there’s more to your friendship. It’s hard for people to understand that a woman and a man can be just friends without any sexual desires but to be honest at this point of your life you don’t care about what others might think of your relationship with your best friend.

‘Hey y/n, finished unpacking yet?’ asks your best friend with his chirpy tone as soon as you pick up the call

‘Hey Chris, ughhhhh no... still working on it, but I promise I’m making progress, I finished with almost every room of the apartment, I’m cleaning up in my bedroom right now. I think by tomorrow I might have everything in order’ you say while biting your lip and looking at your clothes scattered all over the new assembled bed, I mean... at least it doesn’t look any more like a tornado came through your window

‘I told you I could’ve helped you; you can be so stubborn sometimes’ you hear your friend sigh and although you can’t see him you know he’s shaking his head at you

‘No no…You’ve already helped me enough, if it wasn’t for you, I would never had the balls to move to another country – so take a rest of me, bestie’ And that is totally true, he had helped you with all the immigration bureaucracy, he also basically got your new apartment. While you were still at your native country, he went on apartment hunting and showed you the different options you had through videocalls, gave you tons of tips so you wouldn't miss anything while moving to another country since he had experience in that area. After all, he had moved to Seoul 2 years prior to you.

‘You would’ve done the same for me, we both know that!’ you smile while hearing your friend because you know that’s also true, you both would do anything for each other without hesitating.

He doesn’t give you the chance to respond anything and keeps going: ‘Anyways, I was actually calling you to invite you to a birthday party tonight – it’s Jackson’s birthday, remember I told you about him? He’s that friend that works at my gym. We were talking today, and I might have slipped that you moved to Seoul recently and he told me to invite you, he really wants to meet you’

‘Me? Why would he want to meet me?’ you respond with a surprised tone

‘According to Jackson’s words and I quote: he is really curious to get to know the only girl I’ve retained in my life without sleeping with her’ he says with amusing tone

He cackles when he hears you snorting ‘Wow, now that’s a good way to convince me to go to a birthday party of someone that I don’t even know’

‘It might not be the best invitation but at least is a chance to meet new people and make some friends’ he says that since he knows you struggle when it comes to meeting new people

‘Um..I have friends, I have you’ you respond almost immediately

‘You’re a sweetheart but I’m talking about other people than me, although you know how I love all your attention on me, babe’he says while chuckling because he’s already imagining how you’re rolling your eyes at him after you heard that pet name

‘Oh my god you’re so full of yourself – ughh, okay you’re right, I should get to know new people. New country, new life… new friends I guess’, you say a little insure knowing you’re not the most sociable person in the world but it would be kind of nice to have people to hang out other than Chris

‘And maybe you can get some action too, it’s been what? A year without any proper activity?’ he talks without any filter like he usually does

‘Wha- Okay, I’m hanging up on you. I’m not in the mood to talk about my sex life right now’ you respond acting offended though you both know that you're just teasing each other

‘Or the lack of –’ When Chris hears your gasp he chuckles and says immediately ‘Sorry sorry, just kidding bestie, I’ll pick you up around 9PM, don’t make me wait pleaseeee, byeeeee byeeeeee see ya. I love you’

You can’t even get mad at him for calling you out on your sadly lack of sex, it’s not like he’s wrong. So, you just laugh it off and respond by saying ‘Fuck off - You’re unbelievable. K, don’t worry I’ll be ready when you get here. See u later, love you too” 

Once you end your call with Chris, you grab some of the last items left in the moving boxes. You come upon a frame, it's a picture of you and your dad when you were 4 years old on your summer vacations at a swimming pool where he was teaching you how to swim. One of the many things that your dad taught you in life. Your eyes start to feel watery at the sight of your dad's sweet smile and with a deep sigh you give a kiss to the picture. You place the frame on your nightstand and while cleaning a few tears that dropped on your cheeks you can only whisper - "I really hope I'm making you proud dad, I'm finally looking for my happiness ".

°•○•°●♤♡◇♧•°○•°□▪︎☆♤

You look at yourself in the mirror, thinking you did a decent work with your make up and cleaned yourself up pretty good after a long day of putting everything in order at your new apartment. You weren't so sure on what to wear for Jackson's birthday party, so you just went for an all-black outfit: leather jacket, mini leather skirt, a Ramones shirt that you love and combat boots.

After looking at your reflection in the mirror one last time, you took a selfie and sent it over to Chris to ask him if you were dressed properly for the occasion, which he replied with: 'You look gorgeous babe, almost too perfect for the occasion! I'll pick you up in about half an hour ;)' – you can’t help but smile at his compliment. You know he's nothing but honest with you, whenever he had to tell you that you looked like shit, he would do it. And of course, it goes both ways.

Your best friend is punctual as always, 9PM sharp he was at your building entry texting you that he was outside your home. Jackson’s place wasn’t that far away from yours, only about 10 minutes on a car drive. While Chris was driving, you chit chatted about your exhausting day, and he told you that this girl – Hani was her name you wanna say? - that he’s been hooking up for the past month asked him the golden question ‘What are we? Where is our relationship going?’ and that’s where Chris decided to put an end to the hooking up. He just doesn’t want anything serious right now and is totally understandable.

From what your friend has told you, Hani got really upset at his response, although to be fare... he did warn her when they started hooking up that he wasn't looking for anything serious, he’s not an asshole that goes around giving false hopes to any girl.

It’s been like this with Chris for a while now, he did had a girlfriend a few years ago and they dated for about 3 years until he found out that she was cheating him with her boss – pretty shitty move if you ask me – she broke his heart and after that he hasn’t been in a serious relationship with anyone, just hook ups until the girl finally gets tired of being just ‘friends with benefits’, that’s how it usually goes.

When you finally arrive at Jackson’s you start to feel slightly nervous, it’s been a while since you got to meet new people and it’s in a total new environment, new country... totally different cultures, a lot to take in. Chris knowing you, holds your hand tightly for a moment and before entering to his friend’s house tells you ‘Don’t worry, he and his friends are all pretty cool people, they’ll love you - now come on, let’s go and start socializing!’. You chuckle at his enthusiasm and as soon as you enter, you’re greeted by Jackson holding a red cup with beer on it.

Jackson smiles at you and your friend and says ‘You’re y/n, right? Wow, you’re even hotter that what I imagined – sorry I don’t mean to be unrespectful, but you know how weird is to see that this guy over here has a female friend and didn’t sleep with her yet? Anyways, it’s so nice to meet you finally, I’m Jackson’ and he immediately gives you a hug which it honestly startled you.

You chuckle and once he’s finished with the hug, you respond ‘I know, it’s always amusing to see how people get surprised that we’re really just best friends. Um, it’s nice to meet you too and happy birthday! Thanks for inviting me over’ you say shily

He keeps smiling at you while he also hugs your best friend (apparently, he’s a hugger) and says ‘Chris’s friends are also my friends, so please make yourself at home – I haven’t invited a lot of people because I actually have a small group of friends, come with me and I’ll introduced them’ and you both follow him to the living room going through a large hall – which by the way, is so freaking beautiful, you can’t stop staring the marble floors and beautiful art works hanging on the walls and you think to yourself how amazing this apartment looks – your thoughts are interrupted by the group of people who’s now in front of you having a discussion about who was the largest hands in the group - though you're not sure you heard right -

And then Jackson speaks getting everyone’s attention ‘Guys, this is y/n, Chris’s best friend – yes, she’s really his friend and she is a woman, I know!! How crazy it sounds, huh? She just moved to Seoul from basically the other side of the world so be nice to her’

One of the guys with a boxy smile says to Jackson ‘Hey! –  we are always nothing but nice, she’ll think poorly of us if you say it like that!’ and Jackson just laughs it off and starts to introduce each and one of them. There’s 10 people right in from of you – which to you, it sounds like a lot of friends, you never had more than 3 o 4 friends (one of them always being Chris of course) so 10 sounds like a lot of people – you learn that the guy with the boxy smile is called Taehyung, then there’s Namjoon, Seokjin – though he told you to call him Jin -, Jimin, Yoongi, Hoseok – or Hobi how he introduced himself - , Aria – which you learn is Hobi’s girlfriend -, Joey, Emma – Joey’s girlfriend – , and last but not least Jungkook who smiled you shily and waved his hand to greet you from afar – you almost gasp at how this last guy seemed like he was built by the God’s themselves, you felt like you wanted to look up to the sky and say ‘WOW, well done!’ – to be honest, they were all insanely attractive but there was something that caught your attention straight to Jungkook and you couldn’t quite wrap on your finger what was it.

The night went smoothly, they all seem to be really friendly and made you feel comfortable as if you were one of them already. You spent most of the time hearing their stories about the last trip they went to last year – Hobi’s parents own a lake house in Chuncheon, which you learn is about an hour away from Seoul – and they’re planning to go again in the next month or so – and you’ve been invited to go with them by Hobi himself which you gladly accepted and thanked him for including you even when you just exchanged a few words with him throughout the night.

Your red cup was empty for the third time by now, so you got up and approached to the table were all the drinks were placed and poured yourself some Soju, while you were at it you feel someone approaching you and then a sweet voice sounds saying ‘Are you having a good time so far?’, you look up and realize that is Jungkook who’s now besides you also pouring himself a drink while he smiles at you.

You also smile at him and respond ‘Yes, I really am. Honestly you guys made me feel really comfortable, I tend to be a lot shier when I meet new people, but I don’t feel that way at all with you’

‘I’m glad you feel that way, sometimes these guys can get loud, me myself included, and people look at us like we’re weirdos’ he chuckles and sees you just nodding while you giggle at him and then he continues ‘Mmh, mind if I ask you what made you move in all across the other side of the world? I don’t wanna intrude, I’m just curious’  

Although you feel comfortable talking to him, you don’t want to get into much detail... at least not yet, telling your whole story about how after your dad’s passing last year you felt like you needed to work in your happiness because you knew that’s all your dad wanted, for you to be happy. You don’t dwell on how you realized that you needed to break up your 9-year-old relationship with your boyfriend – now ex-boyfriend – because you really didn’t share anything in common anymore, you grew out towards different paths, and neither of you wanted to accept it.

So you go with a simple response while Jungkook watches you attentively with those beautiful doe eyes where you feel like you can get lost so easily : ‘You’re not intruding at all’ –  you give him a comforting smile and continue – ‘I always wanted to live somewhere abroad, to have that experience at least once in a lifetime, plus Chris had moved here and he used to say to me how much he loved Seoul and how the people here always treated him so nicely. To be honest, he was a great influence on me moving in here. He’s pretty much like a brother to me so it was easier to decide on moving to another country knowing that he was going to be by my side and I was really missing him back home – though please don’t tell him that I said that, because it will just inflate his ego more’ you both snicker once you’ve finished explaining him part of the reasons why you decided to move to Seoul. Is not like you’re lying but you’re leaving a few big details out of the conversation, maybe some other day you’ll have the opportunity to tell him.

‘Well, I hope you really enjoy being in Seoul, I’m sure I’m enjoying you being here’ he admits shily to you. Your cheeks start to feel like burning and you can’t help but to feel hypnotized by him, God did he have to be this fucking gorgeous?

Before you can respond anything back, Taehyung’s loud voice interrupts the moment that you two were having - ‘Hey you two, what’s with the chit chatting? You better not be talking behind our backs’ while the others laugh because they know he just loves gossiping and wants to be included in any of it.

So, you both just laugh it off while you share a look and go back to the others

About 4AM, the night ended for all of you. Chris was insanely wasted, and you were cursing under your breath because you two got here on Chris’s car and you also had drunk a fairly amount of alcohol and weren’t in the best state to drive yourselves home.

Jackson takes a few steps towards you and your best friend - who almost couldn’t stand on his own feet without swaying – it was quite obvious that Chris wasn’t okay to drive so he offered ‘Do you want me to call an Uber for you? I would drive you myself but I’m a little bit tipsy honestly’ and just when you were about to accept on his offer, another voice interrupts ‘I could drive you both home if you want to, I don’t mind at all and I’m okay to drive’, it was Jungkook that was watching the whole scene of drunk Chris holding himself to you from afar

You felt bad for dragging him along with you and Chris’s drunk ass so you said to him ‘I don’t wanna impose you, we could just call an Uber really’, whilst he came closer to you and helped you lifting Chris from yourself as if he weighted nothing and responded sweetly ‘I’m not taking a no for an answer, and you’re not imposing, I offered myself, come on let’s go’. So, you said your goodbyes from a far to all the other guys that were also getting ready to leave and thanked Jackson for inviting you one more time before finally following Jungkook and Chris over to JK’s car.

After the impossible task of getting Chris’s drunk ass in Jungkook’s car, you went into the passenger seat while you heard your best friend from the back mumbling nonsenses that only he could understand. Jungkook asked where to go and you told him your address, you couldn’t leave your best friend alone in that state so that’s where you headed to.

As soon as he started to drive, Jungkook asked ‘How long have you two met?’ hinting on the drunk man that was now singing - or at least he thought that he was doing that - Jason Derulo ‘Swalla’ while lying in the backseat.

‘Too long if you ask me’ you both start laughing and you continue ‘Mmh, it’s been like...15 years since we met. We went to the same high school but didn’t shared classes together because we were on different programs. One day when we were both at recess, there was this guy who was a senior that kept insisting on me dating him and I would always say no. Until that day it got up to the point that he pushed me against a locker’ - Jungkook’s eyes widened while he was letting you continue your story –‘And afterwards the idiot tried to kiss me even when I was pretty clear saying that I didn’t want anything to do with him. That’s when out of nowhere, Chris grabbed the guy and punched him right on the face and told him to fuck off and leave me alone’, you can’t help but smile remembering how your best friend stud up for you even when he didn’t even know you.

‘Wow, well done Chris! From the very first day you were already protecting y/n’ Jungkook said smiling while checking on your best friend through the rearview mirror

‘Yesssssss, I saved noona from that asshole’ you hear from the backseat

‘Noona?’ Jungkook widened eyes look over to you, ‘Wait, are you older than Chris, y/n?’

‘Yes… well only 3 months older than him, my birthday is in May and Chris’s birthday is in August’ - Now that you think of, he only calls you noona when he’s insanely drunk -

You start remembering how one morning you got up seeing that you had 10 voice messages from your best friend, you got so freaking scared for a moment thinking that something bad had happened.

That was until you started playing all the audios and it was clear that he was wasted while he was sending those audios, some of them you couldn’t even understand what language he was speaking, there was another one where he was singing ‘You’re my best friend! No, I didn't stutter till the day end. Through heaven and high water oooooohhhhhhh, it kills me not to tell you, you're my best friend’ and finally the one where he screamed ‘Noona I love you, you’re my bff’ and that was it.

Seeing JK’s still surprised look, you ask ‘What? You thought I was younger? I don’t know why people tend to think that Chris is older than me but no, we’re both 93 liners’

‘I actually did think you were younger; you certainly look like you’re. I didn’t think that you were my noona too’

That’s when your eyes almost pop out of you head and you say ‘Wait, are you telling me you’re younger than me too? I thought all of you in Jackson’s home were about the same age as us’

‘Yes, noona’ says Jungkook while wiggling his eyebrows to you. ‘I’m a 97 liner’, he laughs at your wide eyes

‘Oh my god you’re a baby’ – you can’t help to think that you were almost salivating because of this Adonis that you’re talking to and now that you learn he’s 4 years younger than you, it somehow feels weird.

You've never felt attraction for a guy younger than you, maybe is the prejudice... You used to notice how guys - not all of them but the majority, at least in your experience - would take more time to mature than girls, so you never dated anyone younger than you, not even someone of your same age. You always aimed for guys older than you.

Although, to be fair, last time you were single you were 19 years old so anyone at that point would be immature probably.

Maybe now that you’re almost 30 it wouldn’t be a bad thing to be open to date younger guys, you could find someone that's younger than you and still have a good time, right?

‘Don’t call me a baby, please’ you notice how Jungkook’s tone changed to a serious one

‘Sorry, I promise I won’t call you like that again’- you can't help snickering seeing how serious he got just because you called him a baby - ‘It’s just that you surprised me, maybe it’s because you’re all muscle and give such a masculine vibe that I thought that you were pretty much the same age as me’

– Oh for fucks sake, that freaking Soju made your tongue start to loosen up, you start panicking once you have finished the last sentence because you realize that you said everything you were thinking out loud, you shouldn’t drink when there’s a guy this hot near you –

You feel Jungkook’s burning gaze and as soon as you look at him you see him smirking at you. Then he opens that beautiful mouth he has and says ‘So…you think I’m pretty masculine, noona?’

‘Isn’t that what I just said?’ you mumble, not even knowing how to divert the conversation because you’re about to pee yourself, he’s so gorgeous you feel like you’ll start stuttering any time soon if he keeps looking at you with those doe eyes

Before he could open again his mouth and make you blush again, you see your building entry and you almost scream interrupting him ‘We’re here!!’

Fuck, why am I getting this nervous around him? I feel like a teenager. Jeez, you must keep it together y/n! - you think to yourself -  

He then stops the car, and you open the door getting out not even waiting a second because you were starting to panic in there. You feel like the Soju has taken all your filters down and you could say almost anything to Jungkook. You just met the guy, you can't start telling him how hot he looks with those cargo pants or how insanely good that sleeve of tatts looks on him…God, maybe it’s just that it’s been so long since you had sex, yes... yes, it must be that!! That explains why you’re just a horny mess.

Jungkook gets out of the car quickly after you and waves you off when he sees you trying to get Chris out of the car, who by the way, is totally passed out by now and once again Jungkook lifts him up like a bag of potatoes and lets you guide him towards your apartment.

The wait for the elevator almost felt eternal but once it arrived you pushed the 7th floor button while you feel JK’s burning gaze on you but neither of you said anything. Once you got to your floor, you quickly open your apartment door because poor JK has been putting up with Chris’s weight for a while.

You guide him through your living room and tell him to drop Chris on the sofa while you place a bucket right next to him in case he wants to throw up at any point. You feel relieved that you finished cleaning up your apartment earlier since you see JK already analyzing everything around the apartment while he says ‘Nice place’ then his doe eyes set on one special picture on your desk next to your laptop while you’re putting a pillow under Chris’s head ‘Who’s this in the picture? Your dad? You look so much like him’

You freeze for a second and respond shortly ‘Yes, that’s my dad’ while you come close to where he is standing watching the photograph, he says ‘You have a tight relationship with him, huh?’

‘Yeah, I did’ you say almost whispering with an unexpected sad tone. JK's eyes widen and realizes that you used the past to refer to your dad and starts cursing himself in his mind for his big mouth ‘I’m so so sorry y/n, I’m such an idiot If I kne- ‘

‘Hey’ - you interrupt and put a hand on his shoulder to make him understand that he didn’t do anything wrong, and you’re not upset at him at all - ‘There’s nothing to be sorry for, how would you know? Besides, it’s not like I can’t talk about it, it’s a sensitive topic for me… yes but it is what it is’ – he looks at you with a look that you got used to see on other people every time they found out that your dad passed away, it’s maybe pity? – ‘He passed away from bones cancer last year, such a fucking painful disease... you see how your loved ones are shutting down little by little while you can’t do anything to help them. We were really close to each other and we used to talk every single day. Even though I miss him like crazy, I know he’s not suffering anymore, and I held his hand until his very last breath. He was a great person but even more a greater dad and I’m proud to be able to say that I’m his daughter’ once you finish saying that you look down and take a deep breath because you know you’re about to cry – well, so long to not sharing your sad stories on the first day of meeting him

And then JK turns you to him and hugs you tightly while saying ‘The ones we love are always in our hearts’ then he grabs you by your cheeks and makes you look at him straight in his eyes while he cleans some of the tears in your face ‘I’m sure your dad is by your side all the time’

You nod at him, and you start to feel like an idiot crying in front of someone you met today, that’s not you – even Chris who was met you for 15 years only saw you crying two times, so you say ‘I’m sorry I’m such a cry baby, I always get really sensitive talking about my dad’

‘Now who’s the one apologizing for no reason noona, huh?’

You both share a look and start laughing while he’s still cupping your face. That’s when you both realize that you’re standing insanely close to each other’s faces, you clear your throat and JK’s hands leave your face. You swear you saw him blushing, but you don’t comment on that. In fact, you don’t say anything at all because you’re spacing out thinking how close you were from each other just moments ago.

You got back to earth once you listen to him saying ‘Um, so… do you need help with anything else? If not, I think I’ll head home, it’s been a long night’

‘It’s been a long night indeed’ you said smiling at him ‘but no, you already helped a lot, this moron is already sleeping so I’m just gonna have a nice long shower and head to bed’

You walk him to your door and meanwhile you’re debating in your mind whether you should ask him his cellphone or not. You feel like you’ll look desperate but since when do you care what people thinks about you? Ughhhhhh your mind is driving you crazy right now

So before saying your goodbyes, you settle on saying ‘Thanks for driving us here and for dragging Chris to the sofa, that was very sweet of you’

He smiles with that pair of lips that could knock someone over in a second and says ‘No worries, I’m glad that I helped. I had a great night being by your side. Sweet dreams, noona’ and he waves goodbye to you while heading to the elevator.

You feel like you’re about to melt thinking how sweet his voice sounds and before closing the door you hear him calling your name once again

‘Yeah?’ you manage to mumble

‘I was wondering if you could give me your cellphone number?’

‘Sure’ – and you can’t help feeling like a thousand butterflies were freed on your belly

Previous | Next

[the-hinky-panda]

War of the Roses: Part IV

Warning: Mention of miscarriages

It’s three in the afternoon when Bill’s phone rings with a number he doesn’t recognize. He’s in the middle of cleaning the pistols he recently shot, an effort to get you out of his system. He had taken care of himself in the shower last night, kicking himself for stopping you from unbuckling his belt in the barn. He let his imagination run wild later that night, picturing your legs wrapped around his hips, his cock slowly sinking into your tight, wet heat. It took less than fifteen seconds before he came. 

The morning was just as bad, waking up with a raging hard on and the vestiges of a dream where you were in the bed beside him. It took him thirty seconds to relieve himself that time. So he did the only thing that he could and that was throwing himself into farm work. He unloaded a truck bed full of hay bales, picked up the feed store order and stacked it in the feed room. And when his muscles started getting sore, he chopped wood for two hours. By midafternoon, his energy was beginning to flag and he started cleaning guns to keep his mind and hands busy. But when the phone rang, he took a shot and answered it anyway. 

“Yeah.” 

There is silence on the other end and he reaches for the end button. But before his finger lands on it, a voice comes through. 

“Bill?” 

He doesn’t recognize your voice at first. You’ve always been soft spoken, but this is different. You’ve been crying and something twists in his chest. “Yeah, I’m here.” 

“He kicked me out,” you tell him with no warble in your voice. But the next statement is more difficult for you to get out. “The horses…I don’t know…” 

“What did he do to the fucking horses?” 

“Nothing, yet.” 

That “yet” makes him just as concerned as you are right now. You getting tossed out is bad enough to make him see red but to put animals into the mix of a human dispute, that’s just unconscionable. “Where are you right now? You safe?” 

“Yeah, I’m fine. But I only have three days to find someone to take the horses. Bill, he’s going to send them to the knacker.” 

“Fucking hell.” He sits back in his chair. “How many do you have? Four, right?” 

You sniff and clear your throat. “Yeah, there’s four of them. There’s a stable in Tulsa that can take two of them because they’re therapy horses but they don’t have space for the other two.” 

“Don’t you worry about splitting them up. I’ll have a rig down there first thing in the morning to pick up all four of them. Now,” he stands up and starts putting away the cleaning kit, “what hotel are you staying in?” 

You tell him where you are and thank him in between sobs. He immediately calls his barn manager and tells him to drive the rig down to Thresher’s first thing tomorrow morning. He also tells them to throw a couple shovels and burlap bags in the back too. If he has to dig the rose bushes out himself, he will. He knows this may end the business relationship he has with Cal, but in all honesty, he doesn’t give one flying fuck. He has other weed farms; he doesn’t need one in Oklahoma. Thresher is already rich off oil and doesn’t need it either. And it’s better to end this before it even begins. 

He packs an overnight bag, locks up the house and climbs into his car. It’s a four hour drive back down to Tulsa, to the hotel name that you gave him. He spends those four hours asking himself why he’s doing this. He’s had plenty of business partners before and never paid their wives any mind. A couple of them tried to get into his bed but he never cared for the mess that it creates being involved with a married woman. But there’s something about you, something that draws him to you. 

The hotel he pulls up to is actually a motel right off the interstate. It’s in a dangerous area and the building is falling apart. This is absolutely not going to happen and he’s glad he made the trip down here tonight. The thought of you spending the night in this hellhole makes him just as angry as the horses going to the knacker. He leaves his bag in the car because he is not going to stay here tonight and neither are you. When he knocks on the door, you open it almost immediately. 

You’re still crying, eyes puffy and red. You’re in jeans and sweatshirt, no make up, and your hair is pulled back in a messy bun. You’re still the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen. You immediately embrace him, pressing your face against his chest and holding on to him in a tight grip. 

“I can’t believe you’re here.” 

“I am.” He kisses your temple. “I’ll always come when you need me.” 

It’s then that he realizes, standing in the doorway of a cheap motel off the interstate in Tulsa, that he can live without seeing Cal Thresher again but he can’t live without you.

***

You’re numb. That’s the only way you can describe the feeling of walking into a suite at the Mayo with Bill. You spent the day going through the suitcases that Cal packed for you and found he had included all your clothes, the jewelry that you arrived with from your parents, and fifteen thousand dollars cash. Those were all your belongings in the world. Your credit cards and checkbook were taken. Your phone lost cell service about an hour ago. All the vehicles you drove the last six years had been part of Cal’s fleet. 

The world seems so big because you realize just how small you are. 

“Here.” Bill takes your bag out of your hand and replaces it with a glass. “Drink that.” 

You stare down into the amber liquid. Whiskey, of course. You drink it like a shot, throwing it down your throat and relishing in the burning sensation it leaves. It’s good to feel something right now. You look around the hotel room and realize it’s a suite, complete with a kitchenette, living room area, and what you assume is the bedroom further back in the space. It’s definitely a step up from where you had landed at the Oil City Motel. 

“Thank you.” You know you should expand on that simple statement. Bill needs to know the depth of the gratitude you feel for him right now. He saved your horses. He picked you up from a dangerous part of town and brought you here. You remember that moment in his car on the drive over here, when he took hold of your hand and gave it a squeeze. 

“We’re getting the rose bushes too. You, the horses, the roses, all of you are coming to KC until we figure out what to do next.” 

You play those words back in your head and the big, intimidating world gets a little smaller, a little more comforting. 

Bill brings a half-empty whiskey bottle over to you and adds more to the glass. “I told you to call me if you ever needed anything. You promised me would and you did. You kept your promise and I kept mine.” He takes a shot of whiskey straight from the bottle. “You go get a shower, watch Golden Girls or 90 Day Fiance, and get some sleep. I’ll pick you up after we get the horses.” 

Now you understand why he left his bag by the door. “You’re not staying here?” 

He gives you a slightly regretful look. “Not tonight. I’m staying down the hall.” 

“What if I want you to stay?” 

He cups your face, his thumb tracing over your cheekbone, and kisses you gently on the lips. “I would love nothing more than that, but I’m not going to have our first night together be under these circumstances.” 

The circumstance is you thinking you owe him something and you realize, he’s not exactly wrong. “Cal knows we fucked in the barn.” 

“Cal doesn’t know shit.” Bill gives you the most sinful smile. “Besides, that wasn’t fucking.” 

You give him a slightly surprised look. “It wasn’t?” 

He laughs. “No. That was just a warm-up.” He kisses you again, this time with more pressure, more want. Once again you can taste the whiskey he just drank, the smokey notes. He steps back and releases a shaky breath. “The fact you don’t know what a proper fucking feels like with a goddamn crime. One I’m going to fix. But not tonight, sweetheart.” 

You watch him leave, the door closing very quietly behind him. Your face is still warm from the whiskey and the kiss but you find yourself smiling for the first time today. How ironic it took a divorce to provide you with an example of what genuine love looks like. 

[ahundredtimesover]

Belong (4.5: Rewind) | MYG

Pairing: Yoongi x (f.) Reader

Genre/Tags: exes-to-lovers-to-exes-to-lovers; actress!OC x basketball coach!Yoongi; summer romance; “long” distance relationship; parallel timelines; angst, fluff, smut

Chapter (Series) Warnings: foul/explicit language; alcohol consumption & passing out, family drama, sport injury; dreams & moving away; allusion to depression; basketball and acting talk; 2014 and 2022 Yoongi; shy and nonchalant cocky whipped Yoongi; almost drowning, sexual content (18+)

Chapter Word count: 6k

Series Masterlist

Status: Complete

Series summary: Being an actor has always been your dream. Pursuing it meant many things - leaving the town where you grew up, distancing yourself from your family that had fallen apart, and saying goodbye to the man who made you feel what home was like. When you decide to finally return after being away for so long, you meet Min Yoongi again, and you’re reminded of the summer romance from 8 years ago with the college basketball superstar whose broken dream pushed you away. As you find yourself spending time with him, you’re left to wonder if love changes, if it gives second chances, or if it’s just another illusion that will hurt the both of you the second time around.

Listen to: Nervous by Gavin James || Playlist 🎶

3 years ago 

Yoongi’s childhood home is a one-floor house with a spacious kitchen and a nice lawn. His dad had built it for their mother as a way to keep her happy. It has a lot of the things she likes, like a big common space for everyone to gather around during meals, a vertical garden outside, and some planter boxes hanging by the windows. Half of the furniture is from the antique shop, which his dad had refurbished to fit the style of the place.

Yoongi was too young when they first moved in, but he remembers many things about it, like evenings watching talk shows and the news while they all ate and cleaned up as a family, mornings of his parents talking about different topics that got Yoongi interested in watching documentaries, and afternoons with his brother shooting hoops in their small backyard. 

He also remembers the weekends you’d stayed over when he was injured, the first time you saw him break down, and the last time you walked out the door. There are memories of him ignoring his dad, arguing with his brother, and that evening when he took down the basketball ring and threw it in the trash.

He spent a whole year living here after the injury. Yoongi saw how his old man remained positive despite the pain over seeing his son struggle, how he worked hard to pay the medical bills, how he tried to make the house feel like the home he lost, even if Yoongi wasn’t sure that was possible, only because you were no longer in it, and there’s really no one to blame but him.

Things got relatively better though. After he fully recovered physically and got to save enough by helping the stores in the area digitize and selling some of his prized NBA jerseys, he moved out and rented a tiny studio apartment. He continued to help his dad at the shop, expanding its services for more income stream while also doing freelance work online. It was mentally tiring, but it helped his mind be preoccupied with things. Perhaps that’s what got him talking to his friends again; it’s what got him to go out and find other ways of moving on from all the pain that he chose to carry by himself.

It’s a Friday when Yoongi visits his old house with some groceries he bought. He got a huge payout in one of the projects he worked on and he’s been slowly paying off his dad by buying the essentials and medication, as his old man insists that there’s no debt to be paid; it’s his job to look out for his son, after all. 

“Hey, dad,” Yoongi greets as he walks into the kitchen.

“Hey, son,” his dad replies, scooping them bowls of stew for dinner, a routine they’ve both developed after Yoongi moved out. 

They proceed to eat, with him staring blankly down the hallway like he sometimes still does. It hasn’t been a good couple of weeks and he’s just been waiting for the next big project that would help him keep his mind off things again.

“So an old friend was in town this week and we went to this local bar,” his dad says. “It’s nice. They have live music every Thursday. A-reum was the one playing last night.”

At the mention of her name, Yoongi stills for a bit, only to hum in response.

“I asked her how she’s doing and why she hasn’t passed by the shop in a while. Imagine my surprise when she said that you two have broken up. Two months ago. And I was the clueless father who didn’t know that his son was going through another heartbreak,” his dad continues. “What happened, son? You both seemed happy. You looked happy.”

“Shit happens,” Yoongi shrugs, not keen to talk about how much of a jerk he really is. It’s enough that he knows exactly what caused him to fall out of his feelings for her; he doesn’t really want to share that with anyone else.

His dad looks at him with a hardened gaze. It isn’t that he didn’t know about the breakup; it’s more about his son’s reaction to it, how he’s looking indifferent to it as if it’s not possibly hurting him right now. It’s choosing again to go through all this by himself. Even more, it’s the fact that A-reum seemed good for him. Yoongi was smiling again, laughing again; it wasn’t the same as before but it was better than the closed-off, broken version of him. 

“What happens?” The older man presses. “A fight that you didn’t want to fix? Remembering something from your old life and then shutting her out? Or was it because she wanted to chase her dreams and you let her leave you?”

If this was 2 years ago, Yoongi would’ve answered back. He would’ve argued that it wasn’t his old man’s place to accuse him like that, even if he has all the reasons to, given Yoongi’s track record. But instead, he just looks down, eyes sullen as he thinks of the night he told her that he no longer felt the same, and that it was better if they continued with their lives separately.

“That’s kind of out of line,” he replies, respectfully. 

His dad sighs, suddenly feeling guilty about making assumptions, especially when he knows how hard his son struggled, and how he worked just as hard to be better. 

“I’m sorry, son, I just—”

“It’s okay, dad. They’re not baseless accusations,” Yoongi interjects. They’re what happened with you, after all.

“I just… don’t want you to keep pushing away people who love you, who want to be there for you,” his old man says. “It’s an exhausting thing to do at such a young age. You’ve got so much life to live. You can’t be scared forever.”

“I know. It was my fault. There’s still a lot I still can’t let go of,” Yoongi explains, even if there are more reasons behind it. “But I don’t really want to talk about it. It’s hard, sure, but I can manage. You don’t have to worry. I promised I’d reach out if it gets too much.”

“Okay, then,” his dad concedes. It’s progress from before, if he’s being honest, and this is always better than having his son crying on his own and completely shutting everyone out. “How was your day then?”

Dinner continues without the tension from earlier. Both men even get a laugh in. Perhaps Yoongi’s just much better at compartmentalizing now, or maybe he’s picked up a few acting tips from you. But either way, it keeps his dad from asking more. Breaking up with his girlfriend because she reminds him so much of you isn’t exactly in the list of Yoongi’s proudest moments; he’d carry this thought in his grave if he has to.

His old man heads to the couch while Yoongi insists on cleaning up. He washes the dishes, throws out the trash, and organizes all the groceries he’s bought. By the time he joins his dad, he could already hear the snores from next to him. Yoongi lets him be, knowing it’s been a tiring week, and proceeds to watch the show that’s on TV.

It takes a while for him to register that it’s you on the talk show, along with your co-stars from a recently-concluded series where you starred in a supporting role. His dad watched the show religiously; he was probably waiting for this segment before he fell asleep. 

The cast consists of mostly veteran actors and you’re the youngest of them all, and so most of the questions addressed to you are about your feelings acting alongside people you look up to and if you felt any fear going into this project.

“Any time I star on a show is terrifying, only because I’m afraid to fail,” you answer. “It means so much to me to be given this chance and I have to tell myself that I can’t waste this opportunity. I only will if I let the fear take over, and that’s like betraying all my hard work, you know? I have to remind myself that I’m meant to take up this space. My agency, my friends, my colleagues - they all helped me get here. Giving in to the fear feels like I’m letting them down, too, and they don’t deserve that.”

The host seems in awe with your answers, so do your co-stars who pat you on the back and remark that you’ve always been very mature, that you’re a hard worker as much as you’re talented, and that they didn’t feel like you were new to the industry with how bold you were. 

You cover your face in amusement while they all look fondly at you. You have that smile on, the one where you’re a little embarrassed over being praised, but Yoongi can sense that you’re also a little emotional over hearing what your colleagues think of you. 

It’s the first time he’s watching you get interviewed and he’s a little emotional as well, seeing you get flustered but look proud. He listened to you talk about all these things - what shows you want to act in, which actors you want to work with, the attitude you want to bring into every project. You once told him that you admired him for being brave for dreaming, but he never got to tell you the same. He thinks you’re much braver than he ever would be. You loved him fiercely and certainly, after all, and he’d been the scared one who couldn’t do the same. 

He stands by his decision that letting you go meant he loved you too much to keep you suffering with him, but sometimes he can’t help but think that maybe he’d been greedy, that his love had been selfish, that his selflessness made him decide for the both of you, and that ultimately pulled you both apart. Seeing you in the same room with people you admire eases that thought a little bit, but it’s your words that hit him harder. 

What’s hard work if he doesn’t get to reap the benefits? Perhaps it’s one reason why the injury hurts more than just physically; it’s hard to explain how something so devastating can rip one’s soul, especially when he’d spent years molding his life around basketball only for him to lose his space in its world. 

It continues to pain him; he aches for the death of his dream. But it’s the people around him who suffered greatly because he’d given in to the fear of living life without the sport he’d loved greatly. You hurt the most because of it; his family and friends continue to see him without the light in his eyes anymore. He’d hate to think that everyone who’d supported him from when he was able, to when he was broken would think that they haven’t been enough. He’d only wanted to shield them all from how dark it was in his mind so only he gets to shoulder it; perhaps selflessness can actually be selfish, too. 

His thoughts are disrupted when your name is called again. The host asks what advice you could give to young aspirants who are just starting or have yet to put one foot on the door of this industry. 

“I’m just like them,” you chuckle, a little shy. “I’m still finding my way.”

“But you’ve at least done something,” the host says. “Hearing it from someone close to their age or someone they can relate with may resonate more with them than from the veterans who’ve been doing this for years.”

Your co-stars agree and encourage you to talk, so you take the mic and address the viewers.

“To the young ones in school training to become an actor, or doing this for fun, or exploring the possibility of doing this for a living, I’m telling you now, it’s not always gonna be easy nor glamorous,” you start. “It’s gonna hurt sometimes, you’ll face rejection; you might even feel like it may not be worth it. Remember that it’s all part of the ride. It’s pretty amazing most of the time, especially when you love and respect your craft. Just keep working hard and turn to the people who’ll dream your dream with you.”

Yoongi notices the way your smile fades a little, even more when you say the next words, as if they’re hurting you and giving you peace at the same time.

“But if it gets too much, remember that it’s okay to give up, too. That doesn’t make you weak nor a failure nor a coward,” you continue. “Giving something up decisively takes courage. And you worked hard. The people who love you will love you no matter what.”

A lone tear falls down Yoongi’s cheek. If he was being delusional, he’d think you meant to say the words to him. Maybe the guys still talk to you; perhaps they told you about how he’d stopped playing basketball altogether, how he doesn’t like watching or talking about it anymore, and how he’d given up any bit of dream related to it. And maybe that hurt you, too, and that’s why you’re saying this, perhaps hoping in some way, it will get to him.

He turns off the TV and walks to his room. It hits him when he looks around, the love he once displayed for the sport no longer there. The empty walls that used to be full of posters, the rusty shelf that used to house his trophies, the closet that was once filled with jerseys that he’d sold. He didn’t give it up decisively. He gave it up fearfully and helplessly, because as he looks at this place that’s devoid of what once was his dream, all he feels is pain and guilt. 

He misses the sport terribly, and being without it has hurt him more than anything.

Yoongi gets the posters he’d kept under his bed. Some of them have tears in them, most are crumpled. But he meticulously tapes and flattens them before posting them on his walls again, feeling his room come alive once more. He retrieves all his trophies from the big trash bag in the corner, taking each one out and placing them on the shelves. 

From inside his closet, he unfolds the 2 remaining jerseys he didn’t have the heart to sell - the MJ one that his mother left for him, and the Allen Iverson one that you got him for your anniversary. He hangs them inside, his fingers tracing the Sixers logo of the one from you, and he allows himself to remember how playing made him feel so happy and free. But more than anything, he lets himself remember the excitement he’d get whenever he watched the sport, whenever he’d talk about or analyze it, whenever he’d think about it, and then a smile graces his face. 

Not playing professionally may be an unrealized dream now. He’s in his late 20s with only a college career to be proud of. He’s accepted some time ago that his knee won’t be the same anymore, but he doesn’t need that to enjoy the sport. He still loves it whether he shoots the ball or watches someone else do it. 

As he looks around his room, he feels that bit of excitement once again, and all it took was an interview he didn’t intend to watch of the woman whose love he’ll always hold onto for him to realize that he doesn’t want to give all this up. It’ll always pull him back in. If he can’t let it go decisively, then he won’t do it at all, not when it’s what could get him back on his feet again, even if it’s what tore him apart in the first place. 

He pulls out his phone and texts his brother.

[To: Geumjae] Are you free in the morning? Can you go to the park with me to shoot around?

[To: Geumjae] I miss it. I think I’m ready

[From: Geumjae] Of course. I’ll drive out and see you tomorrow. 

[From: Geumjae] I’m happy for you. Love you.

Being back in his university’s basketball court makes Yoongi feel nostalgic. He spent 4 amazing years making this place his home. He’d had most of his best moments here, like the 3 championships he won with his team. It feels a little weird to be in here all those years later, no longer in the maroon and white jersey that he used to sport but in business casual clothes, as the team’s coach officially welcomes him to the team.

Right after he snapped out of a 3-year long pity party, he played for the first time with his brother. He definitely missed the feel of the ball in his hand and the sound of the net swooshing when he shoots. He still got it, his brother had said, and it felt good to hear it. He wouldn’t deny that he can still shoot pretty well, but he was also practical enough to know that he couldn’t sustain it. His knee still feels stiff at times - a normal occurrence as the doctor had told him - and he’d get tired more easily, but the joy came back. The fear didn’t. 

After that, Yoongi went back to watching basketball again, from the NBA to the national and university leagues. He discovered the online space for sports analyses, and he got sucked into its world. He’d comment on articles constantly and make his own, and he’s glad he did because it’s what ultimately landed him this job. One of his former coaches saw what he’d been saying and was impressed; Yoongi’s basketball IQ and unique way of looking at the game haven’t changed, the older man said. 

That was 5 months ago and so much has changed since then but he’s proud of how he got back on his feet. There’s a different type of drive now, as he watches the team scrimmage as part of their training. Seeing their passion and hunger for success is inspiring, and the thought of bringing home another crown for the school with them excites him. It’s a new aspiration, and he’ll work hard to make them experience what he experienced as a young player with all his hopes and his dreams. Maybe they could achieve what he couldn’t because if it wasn’t him, then it could at least be someone he helped mold.

One other change has been you, insofar as Yoongi finally watching your concluded series for the first time. His dad insisted, saying he’d watch again with his son since it’s a really good show, and not just because he adores you greatly. But Yoongi wanted his peace and chose to watch it on his own. 

He felt proud seeing you on screen. You’re made for it. Your charm and energy shine through and you express emotions so genuinely. He’d ignored his brother’s teasing that he might fall for you again, with Yoongi not wanting to acknowledge the possible truth to that. 

But you’re an actual celebrity now and he’s just him. He doesn’t know how your love life has been other than the rumors of you dating some actor or model, which your agency always denied. You’d said once that most of those are just PR stunts anyway and shouldn’t be believed, so Yoongi didn’t bother spending so much time thinking if you were with someone. If any, he just hoped it’s someone who trusts and respects you, and he’d be content with knowing that you’re happy, even if in the deepest cracks of his heart, he wished it was still him.

You haven’t really left his mind, if he’s being honest. His relationship with A-reum was proof of that, so is the fact that it was your interview that got him out of his self-destructive hole to restart. 

But it’s tonight out of all nights, when he pulls out the lone decent-looking jacket he has that he plans to wear to the meeting with the university faculty and sports director - which also happens to be something you got him years ago - that he thinks that maybe there’s a reason why he can’t completely move on from you. He tried and he honestly continues to, but it’s not easy when much of the happiness he remembers has you in it. You show up in his dreams sometimes, too, as if the universe is reminding him that he’s okay now, that he’s at least close to the man he once was and not just a shell of it anymore, and that maybe, you’d want to grab some coffee and see where things go.

It’s what prompts him to look up the details for your upcoming movie premiere so he could go. You worked on it the same time you were filming your series, and even if your name is one of the smallest ones on the poster as a supporting character, he already knows this is incredibly important to you. It’s your first movie, it seems, and he wants to be there to wish you luck and let you know he’s proud of you, and that if this is where your shared heartbreak led you, then he knows there’s no way he’d regret letting you go those years ago.

The woman staring back at you is someone you almost don’t recognize. Other than the glamorous champagne-colored dress that you’re wearing, there’s a smile that you haven’t seen in a long while, too. In over 3 years, to be exact. A heartbreak does that, you suppose. Your biggest supporting role in a series that wrapped up a few months ago felt too surreal for you, and you’d gone through the promotions for that feeling anxious; you barely had time nor energy to appreciate yourself nor the experience. 

You do now. After the praises for your performance then and the ones from your colleagues for this, you feel that you at least deserve to smile, that you can truly claim for yourself that you’re on the way to big things, even if you know you’re far from it. You’re the most junior out of the entire cast, after all, and you’re more like a supporting role to the supporting role. You’re in the credits, at least, and you got to act alongside some of the people you look up to once more.

It’s premiere night and that calls for a big event. Jimin, your newly-hired personal assistant slash stylist, knocks on your door to say that the car is ready. You exit your room and drive from your humble apartment to the venue, feeling giddy and nervous. 

“Looks like there are lots of fans tonight,” Jimin says from the passenger seat, getting news from his phone. “There’s a long line inside and outside. I heard it’s a packed cinema, too.”

“Well, it’s Song Hye-kyo. What do you expect?” You giggle. “When she’s your lead, there’s bound to be a score of fans. But that’s good for me, right? They’re there for her. I’ll just be fading into the background and no one will even notice.”

“Why would you want that?” Jimin looks at you curiously.

“You know why.”

Your unsure smile informs him of the reason and he understands. It’s gonna be tricky but you decided to not hide anymore starting tonight. You want that freedom, and you want it soon.

“But also, I’m still not used to it,” you continue. “It’s my first movie and I’m just a small part of it but it’s all still new to me. I don’t want people’s attention if it’s me looking overwhelmed, you know?”

“You’re gonna be fine, ___,” Jimin assures you. “You at least still look pretty when you look like that.”

“Hmm, that’s oddly encouraging,” you chuckle, seeing the scores of fans in the lobby before your driver heads straight to the VIP parking. 

Jimin opens the door for you and leads you through the entrance. “Blow them away with your beauty, okay? I’ll see you shortly.”

You’re led towards a waiting room for the lesser-known actors, which you don’t mind. The big-name ones have their own and you’ll probably only speak with them during the afterparty later.  Right now, you’re talking with your co-stars while getting a retouch of your makeup, and it helps ease your worries a bit. All you need to do is walk out to the red carpet with them and hope that the people at least cheer for you. You can worry about how you fared in the movie later on.

It’s an hour later when it starts. You walk towards the doors that exit to where the hosts and crowd are, already hearing their cheers as you wait. There’s 6 of you and cheers erupt when your names are called. You all walk out and wave at them, definitely overwhelmed by the camera flashes and shrieks of the people but you remain calm and professional, smiling the entire time and  greeting them calmly. It’s more than you expected and you’re just happy to be experiencing this for the first time. It’s a moment you definitely won’t forget, and you’re glad you can at least share this with someone right after.

Your group is briefly interviewed before you’re led out to the other side to go back to the waiting room; you’ll all go to the cinema in an hour after all the actors have been introduced and interviewed. You take a detour, though, knowing you can’t really wait any longer. All the fans are inside the hall, waiting for the big stars to come out so the hallway leading to one of the building exits is empty. It’s accessible to the public but you already know that no person in their right mind would be here, so it’s the perfect spot. 

You enter and wait only a few minutes before you hear your name being called. Turning around, you see him, and you feel even more excited. 

“You looked gorgeous out there,” Min-kyu greets as he hugs you right away. 

Wrapping your arms around his neck, you giggle in his ears. “Thank you. Did I stutter?”

“Nope, you sounded great, too,” he chuckles, taking your hand. “I’m really proud of you. I’m happy I get to be here, and that we could decide on this together. I can’t have people linking you with someone else again when I’m right here.”

“You mean when I’m right here,” you tease, seeing as he’s the one always being rumored to be with some model. You place his hands on your waist as you continue. “It won’t be so hard anymore after tonight.”

“Okay. Well then, I don’t want to keep you,” he responds. “Someone might see us. But I’ll sneak in next to you in the cinema, alright?”

“Got it,” you smile giddily. “I’ll see you in a bit.” 

You kiss him goodbye and assure him that you’ll see him shortly. 

It’s the sound of a door closing that alarms you, breaking you out of your little bubble with the man you’ve been cozying up with for the past 7 months. It’s perhaps your longest relationship, if you could even categorize the previous ones as such. Andrew was a 3-month long fling, Ki-yong was a half-year on-off whatever, and Min-kyu has been the only one so far that you haven’t had any issues with. You’re unsure for how long it’s gonna last, but one reason why you don’t want to keep hiding anymore is because he gets linked to any woman he so much as says hi to. If whoever walked in your little PDA just now decides to do something about it before you do, then the timing wouldn’t be too far apart. 

“Do you think someone saw us just now?” You ask.

“If anyone did, we’re too far for them to take any photos,” he reasons. “If they saw anything, there wouldn’t be any proof. But that won’t matter much after tonight, yeah?”

“I guess so,” you smile. “But they’re gone, so let’s go.”

You head out separately after fixing yourself, the giddy feeling from his kiss evaporating once you’re back in your world, knowing you’ll reunite with him again later. It’s a good distraction more than anything, as your mind wanders for a millisecond how it would be like if someone else were here with you, celebrating your first movie together. But that’s not your life anymore. This is. You’d like to think it’s a hundred times better than the one you left behind.

Yoongi stares at the door he’d just walked out of after seeing you in another man’s arms, something he didn’t intend to witness.

He’d seen you walk down the red carpet then proceed to the left, and he’d been too far out to catch up to you. It’s a Song Hye-kyo movie so he knows that everyone’s gonna be waiting for her, and it’s probably why the path towards one of the hallways is empty. He doesn’t know what he was thinking following you, and looking back now, he’s unsure why he thought coming to your movie premiere without you knowing was even a good idea. But after feeling stupidly hopeful that something could come out of him showing up after letting you go, he decided to come, to drive from Daegu, dress up nicely, and be swift enough to go after you before security takes him away. 

He does see you. With your arms around a man who makes you laugh and clearly makes you happy. He looks like that actor who’s being rumored with a bunch of different women, but it seems like he’s locked on you. Yoongi could only hope he isn’t cheating on you or anything; that would be worse than what he’s feeling right now, and he’s feeling pretty terrible. And stupid. 

Even more as he looks at the bouquet of daisies he’s holding, something that he planned to give to you to celebrate your first movie premiere. It’s probably the plainest flower out there and there are definitely more that would suit you, like dahlias and marigolds and roses - all breathtakingly beautiful and deserving of being at the center of everything just like you are. 

But he’d noticed those years ago how your eyes always turned to daisies whenever you entered a flower shop. Anyone would miss it, but Yoongi’s attention is on you a lot of the time, and he’s seen your gaze linger on it, especially as they’re placed as supporting decor to a grand arrangement. He thinks it’s perhaps your way of wishing for a simple life behind all this glamor, and that somewhere in your heart, you desire someone who could give you something just as simple, perhaps someone like him. 

It’s why he decided to pass by the fanciest flower shop he could find earlier and get this, so he could tell you that you could achieve whatever it is you dream of, no matter how big or small, how grand or simple. And that no matter how high you go, he’ll always be rooting for you in every way he can. 

It doesn’t seem right to still be giving this to you, he thinks, but then again, it’s not like he expected to get back together just because he decided to show up unannounced on what is a big day for you. He won’t deny that he didn’t think about it, though, but he really just wanted to catch up, maybe tell you that you helped him get back on his feet. And that he’s incredibly proud of you, and that he believes you’ll just get better and bigger from here. 

But as the scene of you looking happy with another man who could probably give you much more than he ever could replays in his mind, Yoongi is reminded that it’s not his place anymore, that he does not have a place in your life anymore. He made that call when he broke things off, and he doesn’t have the right to ask you for anything else after that. Even if it’s just your time. 

So he walks out of the hall and into his car where he stays for a good half hour, trying to figure out what to do. He eventually decides to still give it, without the burden on you knowing it’s from him. 

And that’s what he does, as he waits at your agency building lobby the next morning for the reception to clear the flowers. He’d spent the night at a hostel and was close to just throwing it and forgetting this whole thing even happened, but he braved through it until he’s unable to back out now.

“No card?” The man asks.

Yoongi looks at the piece of cardboard that he took out right before he gave the bouquet.

I’m so proud of you, ___. So much time has passed and I’m doing better. I can see that you are, too. I was in the city and thought, for old time’s sake - would you like to grab some coffee?

He slips it in his pocket and answers, “no card. But could you write ___’s name on the envelope?”

The man hums in agreement. “And who do I say this is from?”

“I’d like to remain anonymous.”

The man looks at him warily before he nods and writes your name as the only indicator that it’s for you. No other message and no trace of the sender. 

“Okay, all good.”

“Thank you,” Yoongi says, walking out the building to head to his car and drive back to Daegu. 

He decides to eat at a nearby convenience store, and that’s when he sees the news that confirms everything he saw last night. 

Rumors no more: Actors Kim Min-kyu and ___/___ confirm 7-month relationship.

Yoongi reads the headlines over and over again, the scene from last night haunting him once more. He doesn’t know why he thought that still giving you the flowers, even anonymously, was a good idea, even more now that you’ve been dating this man for longer than he imagined. 

You’ve been that happy for 7 months now. It doesn’t seem right to still insert himself like that. 

He rushes towards the agency again to try to retrieve the bouquet and take it all back. He’s at the end of the street, a sprint away from the building but then he stops at the sight of you exiting. With the flowers in your arms. 

There’s that crinkled smile of yours that he’s missed so much. You’re looking at the daisies with such softness, like you’re truly appreciating it, and Yoongi’s heart melts at the sight. You may not know it’s from him and perhaps that’s the best part, but it’s the thought that you seem to really like it, especially when a blond-haired man stands next to you and hands you a bouquet of roses, which you smell and smile at before returning it to him. You cradle the daisies, shrugging when you try to retrieve a card that isn’t there, and Yoongi’s relieved that of all the stupid things he’s done the past 12 hours, leaving the card out was the smartest thing he did.

A car arrives and you enter, leaving Yoongi still at the end of the street to watch you drive away, perhaps out of his life for good, at least until your next premiere where he’ll probably give you the flowers again. 

He hopes that with them, you get to feel the care he has for you that never withered, that on your lowest days, you think of the admirer who believes that your love for daisies is something that matters.

Your car disappears from his sight. He resigns to this next new life without you - the one where you’re happy where you are and he’s trying to be. He’ll admire you from afar until he gets to move on from you completely. 

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[philliam-writes]

you are in the earth of me [02]

Pairing: Anthony Lockwood x fem!Reader

Content: canon-typical violene, patching up Reader, author pining for Lockwood

Summary: Your eyes pop open. Lockwood is standing at the bottom of the stairs, leaning against the banister with his arms crossed, an amused look on his face. All tousled dark hair and brown eyes as sharp as glass, he is as tall as Kipps, perhaps taller, and lankier. But their demeanours are quite different. Where Kipps is calm and steady like stone, reliable like the earth that is always solid under your feet, Lockwood seems striking like a flash of bright lightning—quick-witted and assured in the path he carves as though the mere thought of something standing in his way is so far-off that he just barrels ahead with no regard of what he sets ablaze.

Notes: [01] | [03]

Words: 7.3k

A/N: Nothing could have prepared me for the overwhelming positive feedback I got for chapter 01!! Thank you so much for everyone who's joined the ride. I hope you guys will enjoy this as much as I!! (I'm on my 4th rewarch of Lockwood & Co. and I still delight in noticing all the small details they put into the show. Also. Lockwood's voice! Makes! Me! Weak!

02: for whom the bell tolls

each man’s death diminishes me, for i am involved in mankind. therefore, send not to know for whom the bell tolls, it tolls for thee

      — John Donne

The Rotwell dormitory you live in, nicknamed the Lions Den, is a stocky brick house taking up a good chunk of Dovehouse Street. There used to be a hotel there, way before the Problem, and then an apartment complex for the rich elderly until Rotwell bought the whole building and its private gardens just to prove they can. Echoing the classical Georgian townhouses of Chelsea built out of pale toast and earthy red shades of brick, every residence features timber-panelled walls, triple-glazed windows, and smoked oak floors throughout.

The front entrance has glass doors sliding open for anyone entering. Somehow, the foyer always smells like pine needle polisher. To the right side is a row of mail boxes with each tenant’s name, on the left side is the guard’s office, separated from the foyer by sleek glass panels. Someone decided to put a whole rainforest inside, monstera, rubber trees, philodendrons. They nearly swallow tonight’s agent covering the shift: a bulky, young girl with dark curls to her chin looking like a malformed porcelain doll—delicate features on top, sinewy muscle stretching the seams of her wine red agent jacket going down. She stares at you for a moment, blinking with her long black eyelashes.

You wave.

She doesn’t wave back, and returns to painting her nails a vibrant yellow you could pick out from space.

Inside your mail box, you find ads and unpaid bills, reminders to pay said bills, and a very unflattering drawing of you working out in the dormitory’s underground gym area. You crumble the note and throw it back inside, slamming the window shut.

Your two-room apartment lies at the end of a long corridor, facing the backside and gardens. It is a copy paste of all other living complexes inside this building: a small entrance leading into a spacious living area with a cream-coloured two-seater couch at its centre, a solid cherrywood desk next to the curtained window and a heavy antique armoire twice your size pushed against the wall. Behind an ornate cedar door is the small bedroom, king-sized bed and heavy bureau and all that makes it look more like a hotel room advert than a place where you could wind down after a hard day.

As always, you stand in the hallway for a moment before turning the lights on. It is quiet, the room smells of polished wood and washed laundry. As always, it feels as though the walls are closing in.

You flick the light on and stash your rapier inside the umbrella rack by the front door, ignoring the two trash bags waiting to be thrown out. The laundry has been hanging for three days, but there was just no time to clean it away because you’re barely here—every minute spend within these walls is taken up by sleeping, eating or occasionally staring bleary-eyed at the ceiling and counting the heavy thuds from above whenever the agent living in the upper apartment decides it is time to practice tango in high heels at three in the morning.

You cross the room and open the window, letting in the cool night breeze. The smell of dawn hangs in the air, crispy and cold like the crackling of dry leaves. It will take only a few more hours for the sun to rise and draw London’s people from their homes to go about their daily lives. Jobs, grocery runs, late afternoon dates, strolls through the parks. When the world wakes up, you turn in to sleep, bloody, beaten and bruised, but alive.

You wonder if every day will be like this. Fight against the Problem and only chip away at the immeasurable scale of its extent. This night, you have secured two Sources, stopped two hauntings. But how does this affect the grand scheme of things?

Your head hurts. Best to leave the existential crisis for another day; right now all you need is your soft pillow and the familiar smell of your lavender-detergent. The Problem will still be there once you wake up; it will not ruin those precious hours asleep where you don’t have to worry about anything.

Every apartment has a tiny kitchen and bath adjacent to the living area. A cup of tea before you turn in, and maybe one or two of those chocolate chip biscuit a client gave you last week in appreciation for driving off the Lurker in her basement.

The kitchen looks just like you left it: as though a salt bomb has gone off. There was no time to put away the dishes or give the pan a quick scrub before you left for your shift, and now the leftover burnt bits stick to the dark surface. The half-full cup of coffee has grown cold since the morning, left forgotten. You’re too tired to clean up. It’ll have to wait until you wake up, or maybe even after the next shift.

You consider throwing your head back and screaming for a second when all of a sudden an intense hate for this apartment geysers up and threatens to swallow you. It is tiny, suffocating. There is nothing personal about this—you could disappear from the world and it would just become someone else’s responsibility and property. Nothing would indicate that you left a mark in this place.

Putting the kettle on the stove, you pick out your favourite mug with a broken handle—Kipps’s fault when he knocked it off the table a couple months back—and return to the living room. Your coat smells of burnt fabric from ectoplasm. The agency is very strict when it comes to appearance and representing Rotwell's splendid work ethic, so replacing it will put another dent in your account, but that is still better than going through the same trouble as last month when you appeared with a chocolate smudge on your jacket and every supervisor spotting you gave you hell for it.

Half-shrugged out of your coat, you walk back, past the closed window.

And stop.

Slowly, you turn. Only your own reflection stares back at you—wide-eyed and dishevelled from today. There’s a dark patch on your shoulder where ectoplasm has eaten like acid through the fabric of your coat. The lock is latched firmly on the inside, the metal clip winking at you under the Tiffany lamp’s reflection. Suddenly, everything depends on how still you are against the moving world.

Where did you leave your rapier? Ah, inside the umbrella rack back in the hallway. What’s the closest bludgeon weapon you can get your hands on? Only an empty Pringles can, yesterday’s dinner.

In the window’s reflection, the dark patch on your shoulder rises, distorts. Grows a head. Even with the room plunged into silence, your heart beats rabbit-fast and you hold your breath to keep from making a sound. Just this once, you’re thankful you were running late this morning and didn’t have time to clean up the leftover breakfast on your office desk that stands against the wall. Not even five steps separate you from the blunt silver knife glinting under the lamp with specks of dried jam on its blade.

The shadow behind you grows bulky shoulders and broad arms. When it steps onto the small area just a little to the right from the entrance, the wood creaks.

The world jerks back into motion.

You lunge for the knife on the table when a hard body slams into yours. You crash against the wardrobe, your head hitting the hard wood with a loud crack. The room spins as all air is knocked out of your lungs. You notice a blurry shadow rising in front of you, and your body moves on autopilot—rolls to the right and falls to the ground just in time to dodge a fist punching a hole into the wardrobe.

Nauseating headache throbs like lightning flashes in the back of your head as you scramble back to your feet, wheezing from the pain spreading through your body from the impact. Your rapier. You need your rapier.

Wood splinters when your attacker draws his hand back. He is almost two heads taller than you, completely clad in black. Even his face hides behind a ski mask. All you see are two pinpricks of unfathomably dark eyes as though this man has gazed into an abyss and the abyss has gazed right back at him.

He doesn’t move for a second, stands as though frozen on the spot. Only his hand flexes, relaxes. Clenches. Silver glints off his gloved knuckles. He is here with one intention only: to hurt you.

You don’t have time to ask why. His legs are longer; he closes the distance between you with two long steps, swings his arm towards your face. You spin and fling yourself over the backrest of the sofa, bounce off its cushions and jump to your feet on the other side. With furniture between you and the intruder, you finally force yourself to take in deep breaths. Think.

The smell coming off of him. You recognise it. Grainy, woody with a fruity note. The sweetness you picked up earlier this night must have been caramel. Alcohol.

“Look, if this is about me bumping into your table earlier at the Green Goose, you could just ask for a proper apology,” you press out between gritted teeth. Your whole body feels like a giant bruise, sore and laden from exhaustion.

Every step he takes around the couch, you mirror until it becomes a dance of bodies and mind to see who gives in first; who slows down and loses focus.

At first you believe the noise to be your frantic breathing—or his rattling wheeze, but then you pick it up. A rough, scratchy voice.

“Dickey … need … dickey …”

Your muscles are so taut you fear they might snap any second. Another circle around your couch you go. “What? I don’t—I don’t know what that is.”

“The … the key,” he repeats, louder this time. “I need the key.”

“Key? What key?” You feel the gnawing urge to squeeze your eyes shut against the vertigo of this situation. “I don’t have a key—”

The memory flies back so fast it nearly knocks you out like an incoming brick. Bronze, small, resting within the cushions of a small seal. Disappearing into the deep pockets of a black coat. The echo of death and violence still sticking to your fingers even through the fabric of your gloves.

You round the couch again and stop, the desk at your back. The knife is just in reach. “I don’t have that key.”

“I saw it. He gave it to you. You have no idea how important it is to us.” His voice rises to a snarl, the quality rougher than satin scratching over bark.

“He never gave—” Another memory hurtles your way—it is a wonder you don’t pass out from a concussion. The candy. It is still inside your pocket, suddenly heavier than a stone.

Everything makes sense now.

You take a step back towards the table. “You’ve got it all wrong,” you say, your words tumbling over themselves in their haste to get out, “I don’t have the key, and I don’t know where it is. I’ve got nothing to do with it.”

“LIES!” he hollers, and punches the backrest of your couch. The loud thud is like a gunshut, and you move, whirl around and grab for the knife—and completely misjudge where it is. Instead, your hand slaps on the dirty plate.

It could be worse.

Heavy steps thump behind you. You grab the plate, turn and hurl it at the man. It slams into him, shattering into thousand pieces.

You fly past him, towards the hallway and umbrella rack where your rapier is waiting. Stretching your hand out, your fingers brush against the silver handle—

A hard grip catches the end of your trenchcoat, yanking you back. The blow comes out of nowhere, slamming into your face so hard you see stars. Your back teeth clang together. Black dots dance before your eyes and blur your vision as pain radiates from your cheek. Something sharp and hard slides across your knees, slicing the fabric of your jeans clean in half.

Fingers curling, tightening their hold around the familiar hilt, you turn and draw back your arm, and let it snap forward like a snake lashing out and sinking its venomous teeth into its prey.

The silver-tipped edge of your rapier drives into the man’s shoulder and he cries out in pain, staggers back—and takes your rapier with him. He curls his gloved fingers around the thin blade and yanks the tip out of his shoulder, throwing your weapon to the ground where it lies useless and completely out of reach.

He reaches into a side pocket and draws a jagged, razor-sharp knife.

On second thought, maybe you should just run.

You bolt for the hallway once more, this time aiming straight for the door. The sound of a fast-moving object sailing towards you—something moving quickly and swiftly and with enough force to slice the air in half—makes you throw yourself forward, just in time to dodge the glinting edge nipping your hair.

You yank at the handle, letting white light spill into the apartment from the outside hallway.

Two thinks happen at once.

You wrench the door open and squeeze through the narrow gab. The man behind you slams bodily into the door and you hear a pained groan. At the same time, something sharp cuts through your trenchcoat and jacket. Searing-hot pain explodes in your left side.

You manage to push through and shut the door with a loud slam. A second bang shakes the door; he must have run into it again trying to chase after you.

Hot pain radiates from your side. You grit your teeth hard enough your jaw hurts and follow along the hallway all the way back to the foyer.

When you reach the night guard’s office, there is nobody inside. As if this night couldn’t turn even worse. A small glass bottle lies disturbed on the table, spreading yellow nail polish like spilt blood on its surface. The girl must have knocked it over, now gone to fetch a cleaner.

Great.

You throw yourself under the table and disappear from sight; somewhere on the first floor a door slams shut.

There has to be a way out. A way to draw attention; a way to drive him away. As your eyes rake across the room to find something, anything, they land on a red button behind a small glass window. The ghost-alarm in case of hauntings inside the dorms.

You crawl out from under the desk and scurry across the room, heart beating in your throat. If you turn and he is behind you …

Slamming your fist into the small panel, the button gives away without any resistance.

Sirens blare in the building. More doors slam—opening this time as hundred agents emerge from their rooms. Voices echo from the hallways, drowned by the sprinklers going off and raining salt from the ceiling like little diamonds.

You back into a corner, wide eyes staring at the foyer and counting down the seconds until your attacker enters—any moment, any moment, any moment. Only agents begin to spill into the hall, pale faced, groggy from being rudely awakened after tiring shifts.

With the imminent threat gone, the adrenaline pumping through your body slowly ebbs away—leaving behind bone-deep exhaustion, and mind-numbing pain as though your whole body is one giant bruise.

Your clothes stick to your skin, something warm tickles down your side. You cross the room on wobbling feet, forcing yourself not to look; convincing yourself that it is just coffee, just like a few hours ago when you sat in the booth next to Kipps.

The phone receiver on a corner stand is heavier than you remember. Your fingers move as if possessed, finding the familiar numbers on the dial. It rings. Once, twice.

Tears prick in the back of your eyes as it keeps ringing, your call remaining unanswered. Maybe he hasn’t come home yet. Maybe he is still out. Your throat is dry. You feel like an animal trapped against a corner. Suddenly, everything goes blurry.

Click. Kipps’s tired groan is all you get for a hello.

“Quill,” you choke out. Because despite having to call DEPRAC or maybe an ambulance, Quill Kipps will always be the first you turn to in moments of crisis. “Quill, I might have been stabbed.”

Silence. On the other line, you hear fabric rustling, as though he is crawling out of bed.

“What,” Kipps says, his voice rough from sleep, “the fuck.”

You still don’t know what is so special about the address Kipps has sent you to compared to the hospital or Scotland Yard where you assume they are more qualified to handle your dilemma, but you hope that you arrive soon because the daggers the cab driver keeps throwing at you seem more lethal than the gashing wound in your side.

When he finally stops the car—abruptly enough to launch your body against the frontseat—you rummage through your pockets and empty them completely, leaving a generous tip for bleeding on his car seats.

You barely manage to close the door behind you when he speeds off, leaving a dust trail behind.

The sky is turning cotton pink on the horizon. Dawn spreads light and hope across the city, bright and clear, and very painful for your strained, exhausted eyes. You turn away, taking in your surroundings.

The cab has left you in a residential area at the centre of London where the Victorian semis look like they might belong on old postcards from better times, before the Problem. 35 Portland Row is an inconspicuous, four-level house at the very end of the street. Just like its neighbours, it would not suffer from a new repaint, or maybe just a good clean-up.

A lone shadow sits by the stairs leading into the building, rising when you approach. Kipps looks like you feel: his hair sticks out in all directions and there are half-moons of shadow under his eyes, as if they have been smudged there with coal. He rubs the back of his neck as though that would release all the tension from the last twenty-four hours. Worry is etched deep into his face—worry and guilt, and it is an expression you haven’t seen in a long time. It makes your heart clench, turning it into something small, hard, and cold.

He meets you halfway and catches you when you stumble into him, allowing yourself to be held at last. His hold on you is strong and hard, until you hiss when sharp pain from your wound makes it hard to walk. Kipps’s hold lightens.

“What the hell happened?” he demands, his long fingers gently nudging your head left and right by your chin. You’re pretty sure there is a nasty bruise blooming from the punch.

“Turns out someone out there really wants that bloody key,” you say, unable to put quite the heat into the words like you wanted.

The effect is pretty much the same.

It is like a door slamming shut; his expression closes off completely. He puts your arm around his shoulders and hauls you up the stairs. To your surprise, the door is already unlocked and swings open when he pushes against it with his other shoulder.

You enter into a narrow, dark hallway, only illuminated by light streaming into it from an adjacent room. The house smells of iron and salt, leather coats, and a curious dusty, musty tang. On both sides of the walls hang weird masks and odd curios on shelves. Everything about this entrance screams extravagance, but also something inexplicably homely. The complete opposite from your apartment. Voices sound from the first door to your right, silencing upon the front door clicking shut behind you. Now everything is dead silent.

Kipps leads you past an old, chipped plant pot that functions as an umbrella stand and rapier holder. They are old French models with specks of ectoplasm stuck to blades, and dents in the hilts. One long, black umbrella is bent in the middle as though someone had used it as a weapon and didn’t get around to throw it away.

You emerge into a small, cluttered living area containing a fireplace, an old sofa and a few sturdy armchairs grouped around a coffee table. Heavy dark curtains obscure half of the window where the first streaks of sunlight steal through the gap, showing dust dance in the light.

Three heads swivel your way, all in different states of confusion. You recognise one face.

Anthony Lockwood jumps out of his armchair. It has only been a few hours since you last saw him, and so far he has only taken off his black coat. His white shirt is wrinkled, his black tie thrown over his shoulder. There is something restless about him, like a moth fluttering from flame to flame.

Kipps slides you into the free seat on the sofa right next to a giant pile of crumpled ironing. Shirts, pants, and briefs tumble to the ground as you finally allow yourself to slump into the seat and let your guard down.

The room tilts for a moment. You close your eyes, trying to comprehend today’s events. Multiple voices bombard you from all directions and turn into a pounding headache at the back of your skull.

A metal lid clicks open. Careful hands remove your coat, then lift your shirt where the blood has seeped into the fabric, making it stick to your gashed skin. When your eyes flutter open, Kipps kneels before you on the rug, a deep worry crease slicing through his forehead as he inspects your wound.

“Well, good news. It’s not that deep,” he observes. With swift fingers, calloused from handling rapier and tools, he takes the antiseptic and a clean wipe from the first-aid case—expert hands that are used to medical attention; that know the dance of patching up wounds and tending to injuries. You doubt it is something any agent will forget, even when they have served their duty.

When he applies the disinfect after cleaning the blood, you hiss; your body tenses from the pain. “Cool. I’ll thank him next time I see him,” you say through gritted teeth.

Kipps gives you a curt, quick look—but there is still some relief; relief that even now you can be snippy.

“Did you see his face? What did he look like?” Loockwood asks. He’s leaning over the back of the couch, hand holding onto the backrest hard enough his knuckles turn white.

“I don’t know, I was busy trying not go get turned into a shish kebab.” You kick at Kipps when he dabs the gauze a little too hard into your wound.

“Stop moving,” he warns.

“That didn’t work out much,” a girl’s voice notices drily.

You open your eyes. Behind Lockwood’s shoulder, two agents stare at you, blinking their wide eyes like owls.

The boy’s nose twitches. “She bled on the new rug, Lockwood.”

You feel like an exhibit in a museum. Lucy Carlyle and George Karim. Names only familiar to you because you can’t remember a day where Kipps has not complained about them as much as about Lockwood.

“Yeah, why exactly—am I here?” You shift in the seat. Something is poking you in the back. When you pat the cushion, you find an old, dry biscuit.

Behind Lockwood, Lucy gives George a long, pointed look. Seems like this isn’t the first time they witness someone finding leftover snacks in the crevices of their couch.

“You said he was looking for the key?” Kipps is applying gauze to your clean wound which makes everything just a little better; you begin to feel like a human again. Now all you need is a good, healthy amount of sleep. Preferable for the next three days.

“He thought I had it on me. Said something about … how important it was to them.”

Lockwood perks up. “Who is them?”

“Well, he didn’t give me a list or anything.” You pull out some stray socks from under your bum and let them join their siblings on the ground. Slumping into your seat, you notice it is quite comfortable. You’re sinking into the cushions and there is something calming about the smell of old wood and the heavy curtain’s detergent. “But he was desperate. It seemed like … I don’t know. He’ll be in serious trouble without it.”

“Well, good thing it’s with DEPRAC now,” Kipps says, settling back on his heels after he finishes bandaging you up. The silence hanging in the room is stifling. Kipps looks over the backrest of the sofa at Lockwood. “You did bring it to DEPRAC like we agreed to. Right, Lockwood?”

Slowly, Lockwood leans away from the sofa as though that is the only appropriate measure to take in case Kipps decides to hurl himself over the sofa and strangle him. He has the good manners to look almost contrite. “I might have missed out on the chance to deliver it to Inspector Barnes,” he says slowly. His face is calm and betrays nothing, like the blank statue of a saint in a cathedral.

Kipps is on his feet in an instant. Red patches of rage have broken out over his face and throat. “You lying, conniving piece of—”

Lockwood claps his hands loudly. “This just proves that we cannot let anyone except professionals handle this case. Least of all DEPRAC. Someone’s after it because they know whatever that key unlocks is important.”

“Or he was the Visitor’s killer and he knows it could be evidence,” George points out. “Like Annabelle Ward and Fairfa—”

Lucy slaps her hand over her coworker’s mouth. Her wide eyes stare at him, then pin you down. George blinks, then nods slowly.

You raise your hand. “You know, being the one who got stabbed over this, I veto you let the adults handle it.”

Lockwood gives you a dazzling smile. “Overruled.”

“Let’s sleep on it first,” Lucy says, rubbing the exhaustion from her eyes with her sleeve. “We’ll decide what to do next when we wake up. And yes, leaving it with DEPRAC is still an option.” She looks over at Lockwood, her eyebrows raised. You can’t think of many who manages to make a proposition sound like a threat.

“First reasonable thing I hear any of you say today,” Kipps scoffs. There is still anger in his voice, but you don’t think it is directed at anyone specific this time. This anger smells of frustration. It stems from knowing days like these are in the fine print of becoming an agent. The danger from having to deal with the living from time to time, which can be so much more dangerous than the dead. He turns to you. “Let me drop you off at a hotel.”

“I—” You don’t want to be alone, not after tonight. But Kipps also lives in the Fittes dormitories and they are mercilessly strict when it comes to non-employed visitors, despite being a senior supervisor like Kipps who enjoys some privileges.

“We must assume whoever attacked you might be out there still tracking you,” Lockwood says, and leans forward to settle his elbows against the backrest. His white shit stretches taut over his shoulders and back, catches over his spine. He lowers his dark eyes to you, within which swims a quiet, but solid confidence as though he has never faced a situation he couldn’t handle. It makes you want to rely on him, a thought you quickly push away the moment it steps into your mind. “We have a spare couch in the library you can crash on until morning—” He glances over his shoulder towards the window where sunlight peaks through the heavy curtains. An almost coy smile captures his lips, showing the hint of a dimple. “Until we wake up.”

You raise both eyebrows. “I can?”

Both Lucy and George give Lockwood the sideye. “She can?”

Lockwood frowns. “Unless you have somewhere else to go?”

“A couch sounds perfect.” You are tired enough you wouldn’t mind sleeping on the floor. You throw Kipps a quick look. He doesn’t look happy, but even he realises this is better than leaving you all by yourself.

With nobody objecting, George heaves a defeated sigh. “Let me go and pick up the empty chips bags,” he says, and shuffles out of the room. You hear wood creak when he stalks down the hallway.

When you tear your eyes away from where he left through the door, you notice Lucy keeps staring at you with an odd look you can’t place. As though she doesn’t really know what to think of you and why you are suddenly here, only 'here' doesn't seem to apply to the living room of her home. It feels like she doesn't seem to know why you have suddenly stepped into her life. She manoeuvres around Lockwood, painstakingly making sure there’s furniture between you and her.

Kipps is by your side helping you up. He follows Lockwood's directions through the entrance hall. You pass the stairs to the end of the hallway where George is carrying an armful of empty bottles and plastic bags out of what you assume must be the library.

It is a small, oak-panelled room across the hall from the lounge. No light sneaks inside with the heavy curtains shrouding the windows. Up to the ceilings, hardback volumes are crammed into black, heavy shelves that line all four walls. It smells of books and ink and printed paper, making you immediately feel at ease under the dim, warm light of an old standard lamp tucked into a corner.

Kipps makes sure you’re comfortable on the leather couch, throwing a worn, chequered wool blanket over your legs. He looks at you for a long moment. Then he seems to crumple inside, like paper; he sinks down in the leather chair opposite you, and puts his face into his hands. “I should have just told Lockwood No when he asked for someone with Touch. I never wanted you to get involved like this.”

“It’s a little too late for that now, isn’t it?” you state, but there is no malice or accusation in your voice. You are too tired for that.

Still, Kipps makes a sound like a kicked puppy. When you look over at him, you see him pale and slumped down, like someone who’s taken so many blows that the doesn’t want to stand anymore.

Your grab for his hand and squeeze until he returns your gaze. His pale green eyes look haunted. “I don’t think this is anyone’s fault,” you say. “Least of all yours.”

Kipps purses his lips. You squeeze his hand tighter.

“Maybe,” he allows. He scrubs at his face, eyes flitting over the hardcover books surrounding him. You grow drowsy with every steady ticking of an ornate mantel clock above the fireplace. To your side is a small, mahogany Victorian pedestal table with a leftover cup next to a stack of London Society magazines. “Or maybe I should have been more careful,” he continues. “Be more careful. So this doesn’t happen again.”

The fog of sleep that almost takes you is cleanly cut by his words. You blink against the dizzy feeling that tries to pull you under; dragging you down like wet clothes when you swim. You let go of his hand and sit up. “You are not responsible for me,” you say, unable to keep the heat out of your voice now. It comes back full force, scathing and blazing. “I can look after myself perfectly fine, and I would not have you waste your life away because you think you are obliged to protect me.”

“You could barely fend off that attacker by yourself,” he shoots back—his voice strains to remain diplomatic, calm, but this is Quill Kipps, and he has never been capable of putting the lid on the smouldering fire when it comes to your safety. “I made a promise and I mean to keep it until you’re retired and old and stop getting into danger—”

The rage that always lives inside you rears when he says that ugly word—promise. It is an almost physical pain, like nails against flesh.

“You are not my brother,” you snap. “And I don’t want you to be!”

All colour drains from Kipps’s face, then comes back in a rush of angry red as he tries to keep his anger under control. You know a lot about rage. How hard it could be to rein it in without a lifetime of practice. How it could eat you up inside.

He stands, slowly, calmly—and that is so much worse than when he explodes. This is him in his upset mood that you call ‘scary-calm.’ It is a calm that makes you think of the deceptive hard sheen of ice before it cracks under your weight.

“Quill—” you begin, but he is already moving towards the door.

“If I were Matthew,” he says at the threshold, not looking at you, “I would actually be able to protect you.”

It is a blow not meant to be a blow, and yet it drives through your chest like a poison-tipped spear. It stirs up age-old dust from a past you try to bury so hard that now you choke on it.

Matthew. Mat. Mat is gone because of you. And now Quill leaves you too.

You jump to your feet, ignoring the piercing pain in your side and stumble after him. Kipps disappears down the hall, then you hear the front door open, and slam shut.

You close your eyes and bang your head silently against the doorframe. Beneath your gloves your palms are slick with sweat and your fingers shaking. All day you felt like walking on a tightrope, and now a single misplaced step sends you plunging. You have never felt this alone before.

“Do you do that because you enjoy it, or because it feels good when you stop?” says a drawling voice from the corridor outside.

Your eyes pop open. Lockwood is standing at the bottom of the stairs, leaning against the banister with his arms crossed, an amused look on his face. All tousled dark hair and brown eyes as sharp as glass, he is as tall as Kipps, perhaps taller, and lankier. But their presences are quite different. Where Kipps is calm and steady like stone, reliable like the earth that is always solid under your feet, Lockwood seems bright like a flash of lightning—quick-witted, assured in the path he carves as though the mere thought of something standing in his way is so far-off, he just barrels ahead with no regard of what he sets ablaze.

Any retort dies on your lips when he throws something your away, and you catch the first object mid-air, pulling a face when your wound protests. It is cold and heavy—a pack of ice cubes wrapped in a towel. The second thing hits you in the shoulder and clatters to the ground. A package of painkillers. If you would look up the word Oops in the dictionary, you’ll find a picture of Lockwood’s current expression.

You bring the ice pack up and press it against your cheek. “Thanks.”

Lockwood gives a crooked smile. “Plenty of time to figure everything out later. If you need anything, our rooms are just another floor up.”

Your mouth is dry. He isn’t nice because he wants to; he too does it out of an obligation. “OK. Thanks.”

He crams his hands into his pockets, eyes raking from your feet up to your face. It seems as though there is something else Lockwood wants to say, but he decides otherwise and ends up simply nodding before he ducks back towards the kitchen where you can hear the hushed, urgent voices of Lucy and George.

You retreat into the library and shut the door gently. Only the clock’s ticking fills the room now, so loud it is almost grating against your ears. You tug your gloves off gingerly and place them next to the magazines. The skin on your knuckles and the back of your hand is dry like sandpaper. Later this evening, you have to make sure to get your hand lotion.

Ignoring the unpleasant feeling, you lie down and shimmy under the blanket. You tug your hands close to your chest where there is no danger to accidentally touching anything—you know there is no threat from objects belonging to the living, but after almost a decade of experiencing death echoes ranging from mild joy to severe depression, it is soothing to know that the gloves conjure a sense of separation, of safety. Without them, you feel naked and vulnerable.

Just a few hours of sleep. Then you’ll figure out what to do. Maybe you can pretend the whole day didn’t happen—run a few jobs, clean up your room after the attack. Return to normalcy. Return to your day-to-day life before you got roped into Lockwood & Co.’s business and their wayward modus operandi.

You close your eyes and pretend you don’t feel strangely safe listening to the muffled voices coming from the other room.

Something has taken a hold of your legs.

Your stomach roils with panic as you thrash against its grasp, smelling damp soil and rotten leaves—someone is trying to put you under the ground, bury you alive in unholy ground where all hope and virtue is lost, just like—

You jerk free—

—and fall.

The floor is hard and unyielding, slamming you awake on impact. The pain follows right after, radiating from your side to the rest of your body. Groaning, you try to turn to your other side, but with your legs still half-entangled in the blanket, you don’t make it far.

There was a dream. At least you think there was a dream. You can’t remember much, only the smell of rotten soil and copper.

From under the closed door, you see a slim sliver of late afternoon sun peak into the dark room. You lie very still for a moment, even though your back and neck hurt from being curled up on the small couch all night. It is not the foreign place that startles you, but the noises that belong to a lively home: cabinets open and close. Dishes clatter. Water boils. Voices drift through the walls, muffled but heartily warm and bright. It smells of heated butter, herbal tea, and something burnt.

A home. This is a home where people come to wind down after work, to be vulnerable, to pick up the broken pieces after a case.

For just a minute, you close your eyes and imagine this is your life. Your home. This is your room, smelling of books, ink, and candles. Somewhere downstairs a cup smashes into bits, but there is only laughter, bright and cheerful—someone shouts a jolly “Luce!”

You pop your eyes open; the pipe dream dissipates. Your body is a medley of bruises and aches as you get up. Kipps was right, the cut isn’t too deep, you didn’t even bleed through the gauze during the night. You look at the ornate clock hanging above the fireplace. It is past three o’clock. You have to be at Rotwell’s in an hour.

Blinking against the sting in the back of your eyes, you get up and grab your gloves from the small table and your torn, dirty Coat hanging from a chair’s armrest. The fabric stinks of blood and sweat, but there is no time to get back home and change into clean clothes. You can’t get late to work a second time this week.

Your initial plan to just march through the front door and leave doesn’t work out when you pass the open kitchen door. It is a small, cluttered room with a huge table in its centre like a pillar of strength. Several plates with food have been placed down, breakfast served for three people: boiled eggs in cute little eggcups, sandwiches, a fruit bowl, some hot, greasy sausages just out of the pan. There is flatbread and right beside it a plate with small bites like fruits, walnuts, sliced cucumber and radishes.

The agents of Lockwood & Co. coordinate around each other in a way that seems like a practised dance—Lucy swiftly dodges George carrying a plate with doughnuts while Lockwood steps out of her way striding towards the water kettle without even looking.

When she pauses and says something to him, he does that thing you find annoyingly attractive in men: since he’s much taller than Lucy, Lockwood leans down and tilts his head towards her to hear her better. He has a striking side profile, all sharp lines and elegant curves, a pointed jaw.

You see him smile, and grow increasingly annoyed at how effortlessly handsome he is.

George clears his throat, and then all three are staring at you standing in the doorway.

Lockwood’s mouth twitches into a smile. “Hiya.”

Lucy’s mouth twitches into something that hasn’t decided yet if it wants to be a smile or a scowl.

George notices you looking at the food on the table and promptly says, “We don’t own enough dishes for another person.” He calmly closes the cupboard behind him where you see another stack of plates and cups.

“Wasn’t interested. I’m not much into burnt toast,” you say like a liar. George huffs in offence. “I have to go anyway. Work and all that.”

Three heads nod at the same time, a conjoined Hydra.

Remembering you have something like manners, you quickly add, “And thanks for letting me stay.” That should be enough pleasantries. You hastily make your escape through the front door and manage two steps downstairs before you hear footsteps behind you.

“One more thing,” Lockwood says, propping himself against the doorfrome. You wonder if he owns any other piece of clothing other than his white shirts and ties. “Regardless however we proceed with our case, it would be to both our benefits to work out an association. There is no harm in having friends in established circles.” He puts on a smile, one you recognise from meeting him for the first time. Charming, but bashful, he plays coy to try and pull you around his little finger.

So this is how he wants to play it.

You slip into your jacket and smooth down the fabric to appear at least somewhat dignified. “We are not friends, Tony,” you say, and notice with some satisfaction the tick in his jaw whenever someone uses that nickname. “And frankly, if our paths don’t cross anytime soon, I wouldn’t mind. Now, if you excuse me—“ well aware of the ectoplasm stink and the tears in your jacket, you push your shoulder blades together— “we at Rotwell are quite busy with actually solving the Problem instead of playing detective games.”

With a confidence you don’t feel at all, you grant Lockwood one of your sly grins, your usual selling argument whenever you’re wearing your Rotwell armour. Lockwood’s face remains impassive. When you turn, heading out to the main street to get a cab, you feel his eyes burying like a dagger into your gut. In the distance, a church bell rings on the quarter hour, and you try and remember the poem about the bell tolling.

A/N: I cheated a little, the Rotwell dormitories are pretty much the Auriens Chelsea apartment complex. I'll upload a masterlist for this sometime this week to keep things a little more organised.

Taglist: @helpmelmao, @simrah1012, @chloejaniceeee, @fox-bee926, @frogserotonin, @obsessed-female, @avelinageorge, @quacksonhq, @wordsarelife, @bilesxbilinskixlahey, @che-che1, @breadbrobin, @anxiousbeech, @charmingpatronus, @starcrossedluvr, @yourunstablegf, @grccies, @sisyphusmymuse

(Just a heads up, if I can't tag you, it might be because of your settings)

[moralesmilesanhour]

boxes

summary: miles encounters some old memories while cleaning his room. wc: 553 genre: gen, angst-ish a/n: this was partially inspired by/in conversation with that one comic where miles helps out a kid who's being bullied for his fashion (amongst other things), but also by the fact that miles has seemingly pushed aside pursuing art to focus on physics in the film. what other interests could he have possibly left behind?

August marked yet another summer vacation that passed like it had somewhere to be, which meant that Rio Morales made her son clean out his closet again to prepare for the upcoming semester. She made sure to emphasize that she really meant it this time, leaving Miles to begrudgingly peel himself off of the living room couch and get his friend Ganke on the phone to help out. 

It was now evening–around six o’clock–and the sun’s afternoon rays finally began to weaken into soft golden light, filtering through the blinds in strips across the two boys’ faces.

“I have literally never seen you wear these,” Ganke remarked as he held up a pair of beat-up converses. “You keepin’ ‘em?”

Miles made a face at the sneakers, with their unconfident, messy lines and muddy neon colors. He recalled being laughed off of the playground during recess for the ugly zebra pattern that he had spray-painted along the backs of them with stencils. His father clapped him on the back afterwards, praising how “creative” and “ahead of his time”  Miles was. It didn’t comfort him much, but he grinned and thanked his dad so that he’d drop it before dinnertime.

“Nah, we could throw those out. They’re too small for me to wear, anyway.”

“What about this? Cool patterns.” 

Ganke coughed as dust flew off of an old cropped bomber jacket. The oversized sleeves boasted an array of patches and buttons, which Miles recalled shoving into his pocket whenever he snuck over to Uncle Aaron’s. He took the jacket from the other boy and ran a hand over the square pieces of fabric attached haphazardly to the front. Rio had given him the scraps from her sewing kit to mess with back when she still had a bit of free time on her hands to mend clothing. 

The zig-zag stitches were far from clean, with each seam a slightly different distance apart from the next. Miles had only been worried about the colorful fabric staying on for long enough for him to wear it to school.

This soon became a non-issue, seeing as he only did so once. Miles swallowed, not wanting to recall all of the new words he had learned that day. 

He never did get good at sewing.

“Miles. You alright, man?”

The boy’s head snapped up.

“Y-yeah, I’m good. We can toss this one too.”

Ganke noticed Miles averting his eyes and raised an eyebrow.

“You sure you don’t wanna like, give it away or something?”

Miles turned to him and scoffed, “To who?”

 “I dunno,” His friend shrugged. ”I’ve seen people who dress like this that might want it.”

“And do the 'people you’ve seen' in question reside in this area code?”

“...No.”

“Thought so,” Miles said with a teasing grin. 

He gave the jacket one last look, and noticed the tag in the back. It was signed with a bright yellow highlighter in a ten-year-old’s handwriting, before he’d perfected his signature. Did that kid, who had been unworried about whether his sneakers were creased so long as they were colorful, deserve to have all of his hard work thrown away? Just like that?

“Y’know what? I’ll…keep it in a box, or something. With the shoes.”

“Alright, cool.”

And that Miles did, in the same box as his old suit.

[supervillain-smut]

You should do a Ruben/Ruvik fanfic or headcanons about what dating him would be like, also about being intimate together >///.///< Like what his turn ons would be, favorite body part of his SO, and stuff along those lines 🙌🏻

I can't believe I haven't written Ruben headcanons yet... either that or my own tags lied to me. It's Tumblr, there's like a 50/50 chance. Anyways!

SFW Dating hcs:

Unfortunately the only way you're getting to date Ruben Victoriano is if you knew him at a specific point in time; once he's working at Beacon/for Mobius he has 0 interest in anyone around him no matter the... pleasurable qualities.

You'd have to know him from childhood. Maybe your parents knew each other and you had play dates before the accident?

Regardless, dating him comes with many downs and not a lot of ups; you'd have to really understand him, his emotions, his mental state; he'd be very obviously torn in his affections.

On the one hand, Laura. His world, his entire reason for living and creating STEM... on the other, there's you, staying by his side, understanding, helping any way you can, keeping secrets, not attempting to pull him away or discourage him from his work, dealing with the seizures, the outbursts, the accidental hurtful words, the violence and sadism...

You know you're sharing his love with someone that isn't even on this earth anymore. You can't deny it, try as hard as you'd like, he makes it painfully obvious, so find comfort in the fact he's choosing to share his love at all.

But in the lighter side of things, he's attentive. To things you like, say, feel. He's noticeably softer with you then he is with anyone else. He cuts out time for you, and does his best to ensure you don't feel neglected.

Soft touches, spending time curled up watching a movie under a hundred blankets; he knows he's difficult, and he praises you for all that you do when he gets the chance.

He doesn't miss a thing that you do for him. Not one, even if he doesn't bring it up immediately. You'll have cleaned the house early in the morning, and he'll pass by you occasionally as you do so without a word. You'll be having dinner that night and out of the silence... "The house looks amazing. It'd fall apart to ruins with just me living here. Thank you for that. I appreciate it greatly." He'd hold eye contact with you to make sure it all sank in and that he's saying it directly to you, not just staring down at his food and making a passing comment about it, his eyes soft with a small smile on his lips.

NSFW 18+ only beyond this point

Ruben despises how little mobility his burns give him, but god he just can't lie to himself that you don't look fucking incredible riding him like this.

Ruben isn't very vocal, but his hands wander frequently, grasping at you like you'd dissappear if he let go.

He likes to pleasure you, likes studying your reactions to stimulation in different areas; are your breasts more sensitive then your clit? When he finds that spot inside you and curls his fingers into it, how much louder do you get? Will you arch your back off of the bed? What if he adds his mouth? Do your hands clench the sheets impossibly tighter?

Similarly, he's curious about the things you manage to do to him; those eyes, it turns him on so badly when they're so obviously needy, dilated with lust only for him, he can never say no to those eyes. So he diverts them in an attempt to resist. But then your hands, your hands wander his torso, the affection always welcome, but when they're driven by your need, they feel so much warmer; they search.

Oh, and when you palm him through his pants, he can't help but buck into your touch. When your mouth kisses along his neck, he can't help but sigh. You're always so careful and conscious of his burns, so delicate. He gets hard sometimes just thinking about it.

His favorite thing is when you suck him off and you decide to focus your efforts on just his sensitive tip; he never can hold himself back for long, no matter how hard he tries. He loves how obedient you are to him, but those moments when you take control are everything to him; you're not afraid of him, you're just choosing to listen.

Your independence is the most attractive quality, he loves how he has to work to keep you, to satisfy you. So many people let him walk all over them, but not you. You push back, and he loves it. Likes to rile you up on purpose just to bring you back down. Or, even better, simply bend you over a table and get both of your aggression out that way.

[lilac-den]

I love when the mc is just a regular person lol. Like they're just out doing groceries and the strongest hero in their city fighting some bad guy shows up, madness ensues, bad guy grabs them and suddenly the hero falls in love at first sight. Then after mc gets rescued all the villains are now after them because hero has a weakness now and it's them, while mc is just please don't destroy my apartment again. It's funny to me when a normal person that just wants to live their life gets dragged into nonsense they can't escape lol

I wasn't sure if by new IF, the anon meant TSR or the janitor (cuz I doubt I'll be writing the janitor one given how I'm already writing Silverking, TSR and also did a liiiiittle writing for the dragon-parent one [One Small Scale]) but I'mma entertain this idea a little bit with my brain going overdrive ( •_•)>⌐■-■ | (⌐■_■)

SO

Imagine a tired asf MC, working for a janitorial company that cleans up the battles between the hero and villains (especially the #1 Hero and their team + one of the most nefarious villain and their crew). MC, unknowingly, helped the villain when they're in civilian mode by assisting them to get rid of a stain on their coat (I can picture the MC has a cleaning compulsion that they try to reign in to avoid annoying people into confrontation) and the villain is a little touched at MC helping them out.

Then one day, MC was cleaning the latest battle site between a different hero and bad guy when the same bad guy, who escaped from the attempted arrest, grabbed MC and held them at knifepoint or something similar. This, of course, does not sit well with the villain and he ends up leaving an injury on the bad guy and pulling MC to them...in their villain form. Then the hero comes to the site and not only do they end up intrigued by seeing MC being exasperated despite being in a life-or-death situation, but they're also shocked the villain saved MC from a bad guy. Nevertheless, as a hero, they have to save the hostage and stop the villain!

Just when the two were about to fight, MC, annoyed at how they just cleaned up the mess in the area, ends up blurting out "Can both of you fight on a different day? I have clean up to still do."

This leaves the villain and hero stumped, staring at MC and wondering why is a civilian not panicking or trying to get out of range. Annoyed at it all, MC just goes "Look, I get you two to have a grudge, vendetta or some mysterious back-to-back feud with each other, but gods above, take a damn break once in a while!"

"You...do realize you're in a life-or-death situation, right?"

"And? I'm going to be in a dead situation if I don't do my job and clean up the messes you two, and so many others, left behind. Now if you'll excuse me, I need to scrub off the slime and charred bits splattered on that wall over there."

Thankfully, the hero and villain didn't start a fight, just staring blankly at MC. Then MC probably got reamed out for stopping the villain and hero from fighting and preventing the company from getting another potential cleaning job for the number #1 hero and MC just comes home, exhausted from it all...when a knock comes to the door.

MC opens it up and finds the hero's civilian form/actual appearance and the hero, enamoured by MC's traits (bravery against dangers? Hard work? Casualness with all these hero/villain stuff?) and immediately ask MC if they would be interested in hanging out...then villain's civilian form came to MC's apartment and 'conveniently' found out MC lives here...which MC just ends up realizing who they really are and now MC has both the villain and hero be completely oblivious of each other while at the same time yeeting oil into MC's life to set it on fire.

And all MC is thinking "No shoes in the house!"

Ah, the hilarity of it all XD

[amberskyyking]

My house is a “safe house” in a red state in the USA.

I house vulnerable people, I advocate with them, I network with them, I’m often their emergency contact, and that’s as much as I think I can safely say outright. But the world just became a lot crueler for us. I’ve seen a lot of people feeling overwhelmed, drained, and helpless over it. I’m right there with you, I feel it too. Holy shit I feel it too.

There are a lot of posts about joining organizations, protesting, and donating money to good places. Which is excellent! We need it, donations and advocacy have kept us going, but there’s also been a lot of discouragement if that’s not something you can do. Thing is, that work is not for everyone, and it shouldn’t be. We all have different strengths, different resources, and different sets of knowledge. Not everyone needs to be on the front lines, but that doesn’t mean you can’t find a place in this fight if you’re willing.

Please, PLEASE look at what you have to offer, and get creative with it, because I promise you have something. Mundane things you don’t think are worth much might have given you valuable knowledge, struggles you’ve faced might have given you skills, resources you can share might be critical. Privilege, time, words and kindness are all important! You can use them! Those things genuinely help people survive.

Since Trump won and took office, we’ve faced a lot, but some of the things I’ve been able to do or seen happen that made the biggest tangible difference to people in my network have been:

Two people tag-teaming to lend their cars to another who just got in an accident to make sure they can still get to work

Someone who has faced the monstrosity that is the American Healthcare system themselves helping another navigate it for the first time to get the care they need

A person spending an hour to help to clean an apartment of a friend who was having a very bad mental health week after the, you know, -gestures at everything-

Someone other than me and my partner, who owns a home, offering a spare bedroom to start housing vulnerable people too, since we are full but the need keeps growing

A banker friend, who we know is a safe person, using his professional expertise and taking his time to sit down, educate, and reassure one of my people on their financial options after they were cut off by family

Another friend in management, who we also know is safe, offering an interview to one of my people for a job that recently came available

A boss making every effort to jump through the hoops of USA company time off policies so someone can be there for a family member getting surgery without penalty

FOOD. Always food. Everybody gets hungry, no matter who you are. I can’t tell you how many tears I’ve seen over fucking groceries.

Someone who is already a part of a marginalized people group taking someone new to that community under their wing, meeting for coffee and recommending safe healthcare and resources in the area for them

A crafter gifting a handmade blanket to someone having a hard time, made in their favorite colors

Someone with a washing machine offering to let someone else without one wash their clothes at their home

A door dasher offering to go on the first few dashes with a new driver so they’ll be more comfortable learning how it works and can make some extra cash

A straight cis white male going with a minority friend to car shop to help make sure they don’t get taken advantage of

My partners parents, writing small letters of encouragement to each of the people I house to remind them they’re valued and loved

It’s not always a movement or a protest or a riot or a parade. It’s not always pretty, it’s not always public.

It’s everyday people taking what they have and looking for opportunities to do good with it, then doing it on purpose.

Please, be a part of it. Wherever you are, whatever your community. It’ll be stronger with you. 💜

(And if you don’t know… Maybe message me. I put together a book of encouraging words for scared people in the first four years of hell, so, maybe I’ll do that again too. There’s a million ways to help. Kind words go further than you think and we all have them in us.)

[iloveschiaparelli]

moments I should have known I was autistic

This one is a little different bc it indirectly resulted in my first time flagging autism as a thing I might have

Covid lock down in 2020 was really hard for several reasons, mainly not having any friends and not being able to leave the house. But once I finished the school year and made some friends online... I never before nor after have had a year that was better for my mental health and creativity. I organize my art chronologically in my computer and 2020 still remains as the single most productive year for my art ever, by file count. The majority of progress I've made in developing my fictional worlds and stories was made during lockdown, both in 2020 and 2021 throughout my senior year, which was a hybrid remote so I only had to go in 2 days a week.

I spent maybe 30 mins to an hour a day on Instagram looking at crossposts from tumblr. Seeing that I was relating to a very high concentration of queer and autism posts was what first caused me to begin questioning whether I might be autistic. I grew up in a straight, conservative household. I'm a cis female. And yet I observed and said at one point in 2020 "I relate more to the experiences of an autistic gay man than I do to the experiences of anyone in my demographic". I would joke that maybe I'm autistic, but didn't really do any research until the next couple years when I hit college. This was also when I started thinking I had ADHD, but it was 2 years until I got my diagnosis for that.

Looking back it makes so much sense. The reason why I couldn't relate to other straight neurotypical girls is because I'm NOT neurotypical, and I AM attracted to women. (I do not label myself as bisexual or date women for personal & religious reasons, but I do accept that as part of myself and I don't try to force myself to change.) I had spent 17 years trying to fit in with the normal kids and yeah, it was never going to work because I wasn't normal no matter how much I thought I was.

The reason why lockdown was so productive for me creatively and why I felt so healthy and at peace was because I didn't have to leave my house, which meant I didn't have to mask. Even on occasional trips to the grocery store, the building was so empty that it was quiet. I never had to suffer through sensory overload. My house was clean (never before nor after lockdown has my family's home ever been clean enough for me to function in) meaning I could cook in thr kitchen and hang out on the floor or in the livingroom with no sensory problems.

Even once I went to my senior year of high school, it was only 2 days a week in-person. I wore my mask and didn't talk to anyone unless I had to. The food was awful and working with clay in the ceramics class was difficult on a sensory level but as long as it was wet I was fine. They had remote work for us to do on the 3 days home, but I just did it on school days and did art and played minecraft on the off days.

My mental health was abysmal at the start of lockdown, so of course I suffered plenty mentally throughout. But I made SO MUCH progress.

Now that the world has gone back to normal, I'm back to struggling. It's hard to hold down a job because every job available to me isoverestimating. Going to the grocery store is overstimulating because there are crowds of people there. The roads are full of traffic, strangers try to talk to me or wear heavy fragrances/have body odor and stand less than 6 ft away. I can't take 5 days a week to rest, I have to work to pay my bills. If I don't work, I spend those 5 days wondering where my next source of income is going to come from. I sleep way too much, or at least at all the wrong times, because of how stressed I am at the end of every day keeps me awake late into the morning, and then I overslept because I'm exhausted. I used to live in a rural area but now I live in the city, at an apartment complex where it's never fully quiet. (My roommates and i are touring houses this week! Fingers crossed!!).

It seems like I really am disabled in the context of my environment.

I can function OK when I'm in school with no other responsibilities. I can function OK when I have a job and no other responsibilities.

I can barely function, or not at all, if I have school AND a job.

I function best when I have minimal responsibilitie's to fulfill outside of what I enjoy doing. Because I'm disabled. And the covid lockdown was an illustration of how I could function in an accommodating environment.

[balkanradfem]

Prepairing the soil for the indoor seedlings!

Yesterday, I put many seeds to germinate in a wet paper towel, and I've already used up all of the soil I had stored for spring plants, so, I had to go to the forest on a nice sunny day, and dig out some soil from under a dead stump. I only take soil from already dead and rotting trees, and only take a little, because that soil is now made out of tree-decomposing matter, which is very fertile, rich in nutrients, and basically compost quality. It's also very light and airy and that makes it possible to use in containers, all soil that is used in containers needs to be very light so that the baby plants can stretch their roots thru it.

Other than the forest, I'd been able to find such soil in the areas where the river has flooded and dumped massive amounts of tree leaves, which then decomposed for months, and again, have created compost.

I've planted my seedlings directly into the forest soil before, and they were growing just fine, then for a while I was mixing new forest soil, with already-used-up forest soil, and that was fine too! I also ran some experiments mixing soil with fine sand, and planting half of my seedling in soil+sand mixture, and half in only-soil, and they've both grown equally well, no difference was noticed.

This time, I'm going to mix my forest soil with already-used soil, which I have on my balcony, and I have a bag of fine sand from the riverbank. I'm making this mix because it will increase the amount of soil I can use, since I have a neck injury, it's complicated for me to bring home large amounts of soil home, and re-using soil is effective and easy, and perfectly fine if you add fertilized and nutritious soil in it.

You don't need to go thru this entire process just to grow plants, you can use store-bought soil, or try any kind of soil you have around until something works, I'm doing this just to increase the amount of soil I have and make sure it's easy to grow in!

So I have forest soil, already-used soil, sand, and a bucket to put it all in. Before it gets in the bucket, I want to be meticulous and clean it, because even the already-used soil will have some hard clumps or pieces of bark or something, that might bother the tiny seedlings when they grow. I want to make it the most airy and productive soil ever. This is how the already-used soil looks after it's been clean.

And once it's nice and clean I dump it into the bucket! Now it's time to clean the equal amount of the forest soil, and this one is way more messy. There are leaves, roots, pieces of bark, rocks, seeds, sometimes there's even tiny little bugs I accidentally woke from hibernation, but they are fine and good for the soil, and they generally just keep living in the soil and don't go running around the apartment, so I don't mind them at all.

This is how it looks before and after I cleaned it, I was just brushing my hands thru and taking out anything that felt clumpy and odd. If you had a big sieve you could do this within seconds, but I like having my hands in the soil, so I was having a good time spending 10 minutes picking stuff out.

Now, both of the soils are added into the bucket, and I'm also adding sand in. Sand isn't going to add any nutrition to it, but it is very airy, very light, and very easy for little plants to push seeds thru. It will make the soil lighter, and increase drainage, means the water will run down more easily and the soil will not keep water inside. I've tried to make it about 20% sand.

And I'm loving the result after mixing! The soil is a tad more grey in color, but extremely light and airy, I think the plants are going to love it. It's a bit less filled with nutrients than the pure compost would be, but I will add nutrition when the plants become big enough to require it (when they have more than 1 set of true leaves).

All of the clumps, leaves, pieces of bark and clusters of roots I took out, can be composted, but, I'm going to actually use them for filling the big pots on my balcony. I usually add all of the clumpy soil at the bottom, because it adds more drainage at the bottom, and by the time the plants grow their roots all the way down, they won't be bothered by the clumps, it's only the most fragile tiny roots of baby seeds that are sensitive and need airy and non-clumpy soil.

Since my experiment with mixing went so well, I repeated the process and added once more, a container of used soil, container of forest soil, and a bit of sand, to make a full bucket of soil. Now I have plenty of soil to work with! I'm going to keep this bucket inside of my room, because those baby seeds are used to warm temperatures, and will want to be planted in warm soil. I'm also closing the lid, so the soil remains damp and full of life.

If your soil dries out, then the bacteria and diversity inside of it starts dying off, and it can even become hydrophobic! In case it does get so dry it starts rejecting water, it can still be rehabilitated, by adding more organic soil in it and mixing it all together. I've also seen gardeners add soapy water, because bubbly water has less surface tension and is more easily absorbed by the dry soil. For this purpose, they'd add a few drops of dish detergent in the water.

Here's my bucket of soil! This can fill many containers and cups, and when I run out, I have enough ingredients to make more. In a few weeks, I'll probably have to go to the forest to get some more, but I'll be all set until then.

[dyke-quixote]

I want to know more about your Dulcinea/Sancho thoughts.

I personally like to think they're the "Wait, they're a thing?" couple in Limbus. Sancho just drops that Dulcinea and him were a thing or are a thing and whoever was listening (except Dad Quixote) wonders how that ever worked out.

I feel like they were close when Dulcinea was first changed. Sancho was always at Quixote's side and then I headcanon Quixote had to deal with some fallout from changing Dulcinea so Sancho was left in charge of making sure Dulcinea settled in.

They definitely had trouble understanding each other, both of them having the precise kind of issues with reading people and expression emotions (autism) that clashed rather than fit together. They are too similar in a lot of aspects.

At first this meant they were close, when Dulcinea was more willing and able to ignore and push past Sancho's cold demeanor.

Sancho was more willing to show Dulcinea what it meant to be a Bloodfiend than Quixote was, so learning about instincts, rules, how to hunt and the more (literally) bloody things fell to Sancho to help Dulcinea deal with. (Quixote, on the other hand, was warm where Sancho was cold, so things like history, Hardblood arts, and such was his area of teaching.)

While Dulcinea grew up spoiled, she was also very sheltered, to the point of only being allowed in a few rooms. She was treated as a doll, almost. This also meant she was illiterate so Quixote taught her reading and writing and more creative skills. Meanwhile Sancho picked up on showing her conventional wisdoms. Sancho taught her to cook and clean and other 'boring' tasks.

Sancho and Dulcinea had a very toxic relationship overall. They would fight and make up constantly and it was almost cycle of abuse from both sides. Lovebombing and gaslighting and trauma dumping and unhealthy coping mechanisms with very little communication. They did care very much about one another, but their inability to express these things in a healthy manner lead to a lot of problems. They made each other worse.

Their relationship was very... passionate and messy. They cared about one another but could not show it in a way that the other could understand. While they started out seemingly like a perfect couple, it quickly became obvious they were everything but. In the long lives of Bloodfiends, it's hard for either to know when they truly started to grow apart.

Dulcinea has a lot of trauma and she needed someone who would give her more than Sancho could. She needed attention due to her trauma in a way Sancho was not equipped to give. Sancho simply didn't understand it and it frustrated both of them. Sancho needs space and someone who will let her warm up in her own time, who won't push her because she will simply push back in the opposite direction. Even if it's not what she really wants.

Classic example of two different types of autism and trauma not working out together.

I think a big argument they had was over having Kindred. Dulcinea wanted children, in whatever way she could. Sancho didn't and didn't want to be involved. (She would be, though. Even in our mirror world she helped take care of them, although not as much). Sancho (rightfully) called Dulcinea out for just wanting to make Kindred for selfish reasons.

This was not the final straw, but it meant Dulcinea could place her affections elsewhere.

[snoozingredpanda]

new character????? hand them over!! 🤲🏼

Captain — Lockie Richards

Fem!Reader

Warnings: just headcannons lol (more like her whole life story but yk sometimes you can’t stop writing I word-vomited cause I love her so much she fighting Benni for top spot rn), mentions of wars, injury, guilt, depression, anxiety, physical disability, vomit

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• Lockie joined the US Air Force as soon as she turned 17. All her life she’d loved the sky, and everything to do with it, the stars and moon, the clouds, and of course, aircrafts. She liked all kinds, but planes were her favourite. From the age of 3 she was whizzing around the garden with her grandfather holding a luftwaffe, whom she was chasing with a spitfire, reenacting the battles of the wars. She’d always win, of course, since her grandfather made sure she held the plane whom’s side was victorious.

• Her grandfather had been in the Royal Air Force in Britain, after his parents escaped Eastern Europe with him in the early 1940’s. Having grown up watching the soldiers and pilots fight, he made it his dream to fight in the skies and protect his country. He passed this inspiration to small Lockie.

• Growing up, Lockie’s parents had tried to shield her from her grandfather. He was… a little too adult for her. They didn’t want her knowing about what happened in the wars, she was only small, not even in school yet. But hearing about all the courageous pilots made her just want to fight in the skies even more!

• Lockie was a bit different growing up. She was tiny until she was around 15, and then she shot up. Big time. By the time she was 17, enlisting in the air force, she was at a staggering 6’4, and had more muscle mass than most of her male peers, also shaving the sides of her head and keeping the top fairly short, just for that added oomph. This made her an excellent candidate, and due to her prior knowledge of flying, she was up in the skies by 18.

• She loved it. Waking up early, drills, cleaning, flying — all aspects of the army life made her so happy. All her colleagues loved her, she was so charming and smiley, and was the most loyal person you’d ever met.

• Lockie was often put on jobs that involved boldyguarding. Mostly due to her intimidating look, but also because her higher ups knew she’d take a bullet for a stranger. She didn’t mind these jobs, but would rather be in the skies.

• She was promoted to Captain in just three years of being there. She was just too good at her job. She was destined to be one of the greatest female flyers in history. If it weren’t for the mission on January 3rd.

• It never should have happened. Lockie was supposed to be in Washington, not flying across to Eastern Europe with her crew. It was cold and there were harsh winds, but the last crew had pulled out due to a wave of measles, and Lockie’s was next in line.

• They hadn’t even made it past France when the plane started to malfunction. Lockie and her five other pilots who’d accompanied her worked hard to try and figure out the problem, but they knew it was hopeless. Lockie knew she had to try and land, but the area was rocky and it would be practically impossible.

• The six huddled together for a moment, a final wish, a goodbye even, before Lockie tried her absolute hardest. But not even a pilot with 30 years experience could have saved them. The engine was spluttering and the body was shaking, and then they crashed into the hillsides of Germany.

• Lockie was the only one who survived, and she never forgave herself. She was so, so stupid, forgetting to check her plane over before the big flight. She could have prevented this but she didn’t.

• Lockie didn’t come out unscathed, either. She lost her right leg, to the mid-thigh, and was in a coma for a month afterwards. She lost her confidence, and her nerve. No longer was she Captain Lockie Richards, she was just Lockie. She became shy, quiet, troubled. Incredibly anxious.

• She could barely leave her apartment for months on end. People scared her, so much that she would freeze up and have terrible panic attacks when doing something as simple as taking the garbage out. Slowly, she managed to keep herself together to go out, but if people talk to her, she has an internal crisis and searches for any way out of the conversation.

• Her family and friends were worried. Having to learn to use a prosthetic while battling her mentality was clearly not working very well. Lockie was a shell of what she used to be, and since hid herself away from the world, ashamed, embarrassed and guilt-ridden.

• She became the mechanic of the air base, working alone, silently, never working on a machine that took to the skies. Just cars and artillery, even taking in some for the naval base nearby. She works with her headphones on, so that everyone knows not to bother her, not that anyone does unless it’s urgent. They know she’s struggling, and that talking to her just makes her want to throw up with nerves. And gosh… if anyone even mentions her flying… Way too many intrigued rookies have been dragged away by Lockie’s angry mates for making her hide in the storage cupboard, sobbing so hard she spews.

• She dreads flying now. Vows to never step foot on a plane or helicopter or anything of the kind. Has to look away whenever a plane takes off on the runway nearby.

• She visits her grandfathers grave and weeps, apologising for doing more harm than good.

• She needs someone to tell her to stfu she’s amazing and it wasn’t her fault.

• Will that be you? It better be cause I ain’t writing heartbreak for this girl-

• Oh yeah lol yandere. She’s the manipulative, clingy type. Doesn’t mean to but she can’t bare to see you leave. Won’t hurt anyone but will use her intimidated stature to scare people off. Probably wouldn’t kidnap you but maybe if you’re slipping from her grasp or have a dangerous job she needs to protect you from.

• :3