#it will collect dust for the first 2 years though

[shehungthemoon]

So... so.

For something stuck in production/editing/post/reshoot hell(🔥👺!!!) for 5 years, I definitely expected something, uhhh, tighter? And more cohesive? And more focused on the individual characters than a convoluted plot. Which is what made the first film so brilliant, even if they did it in a subtle way! TOG2 did have some pretty good scenes showcasing relationships between the characters, but a lot of them felt isolated from the rest of the movie and some also lacked the individual foundation that made them so strong.

My two biggest issues were:

1) Joe being the one reaching out to Booker, despite it going COMPLETELY against his character from the first film. One of his key traits is his passion, but his passion is based in loyalty, and he felt Booker's betrayal more than anyone. It would make sense for literally anyone BUT Yusuf to be sneaking around helping Booker. It was a really weird and out of place plot-line that solely served to add tension in the first third of the movie, and then just goes nowhere. Ugh. So stupid.

2) Tuah, a totally new immortal whose existence not only makes no sense given anything they've already established in the first film, but more importantly whose existence absolutely undermines EVERYTHING about Copley's character. Copley serves as the wake-up call that Andy (and to Booker, and a lesser extent Nicky and Joe) needed to "reset" their lives. His entire career is spent compiling all of these incredible connections throughout history that come together to make a story that gives the Old Guard purpose, and shows them something truly wonderful about themselves that they've never seen before, despite their hundreds of years of living. It's weighty and quite literally life-changing, not to mention that the entire concept is a really brilliant and unique role to give to your secondary antagonist.

...So the idea that all the same information was just sitting collecting dust with some other random immortal, and that Andy knew about it the whole time, just cheapens the entire previous journey of her character AND the entire purpose of Copley. And the worst part about it is that there's truly no need whatsoever for this character to exist. His sole role is to blanket-provide exposition. That's it. That's CRAZY. It's lazy and clunky. Him being an immortal I feel also throws a wrench into so many things, and it would've been so easy to get around that by just saying smth like, he's a mortal that comes from a long family line that has always been some sort of record keeper and ally to the immortals, for example. Or just just not having him at all and have Discord's existence be something that the Old Guard themselves stumbles across by looking through Copley's research and finding discrepancies or holes or something like that.  at the very least that would've given Joe and Nicky something more important to do for once. 

The direction also felt sloppier, less focused and with harder to follow action scenes. Also editing discontinuities that are crazy for something that was in post for so long.

I really liked Sebastian's end (despite how mad I am he didn't get even a single goodbye), and how the Nile-the-Destroyer plot (as convoluted as it was presented) lent itself to his decision in a really full-circle way. Andy and Quynh's end scenes together were also really good, and I absolutely ADORED everything abt how they shot that street scene with Andy in Rome. That felt like something magically lifted out of an alternate universe 2O2G that only exists in pieces on a cutting-room floor somewhere.

It was hardly the worst movie I've seen, but they set their bar so so high with the first one that it really makes no sense to have this drop in quality in all aspects with so many more resources at their disposal. I will admit I do feel much better abt the runtime and pacing now, knowing that it's intended to just be a Part 1, though I'm still on the fence about that decision in itself. I really really really hope that the third one gets green-lit for starters, and it actually wraps up this plot in a satisfying way while also delivering on a lot of the things that I think this film was missing.

I think I'll have more thoughts on this tomorrow, it's super late right now and I'm not at my top analyzing ability right now lol. I also hope that the more I mull on it the more I'll think of things that I really did like about it! Anyway, wow. The Old Guard 2. Can't believe it's actually real!

[wheneverfeasible]

Bullshit (part 2/3)

Continuation “fix it” of this ficlet where Steve changed himself to try to earn Eddie’s love.

Steve missed his polos.

He missed his light wash jeans, his music, watching his favorite movies, he even missed his stupid plaid walls.

Eddie had laughed at them the first time he’d been in Steve’s room, back before they’d even started dating. Technically they were still there, they were just covered up with posters of bands Steve only knew about because his boyfriend liked them. Eddie had teasingly gifted him a Black Sabbath one back when they had just been friends to give his room more “personality” instead of his mostly undecorated room, which…okay, fair, because Steve had admittedly not done much of it himself just because he couldn’t be bothered.

(And he did, actually, kind of like the poster because it was their own little inside joke. It made him smile when he saw it, even to this day, even if he thought he could still taste the damned demobat sometimes.)

It wasn’t like he really knew much of who he was to begin with. He still had the bowling pin he and Tommy had stolen from the bowling lane their sophomore year (Steve’s idea, though only to impress his friend), and the picture of the car he had bought on a whim because Tommy had said he wanted a car just like it. Any other knickknack had either been gifted or purchased for a similar intent.

Now, that car picture was collecting dust in his closet, replaced by the Black Sabbath poster that Eddie had pinned to the wall slightly askew for ‘aesthetics,’ though it being slightly off-center and at an angle made Steve a little itchy. Soon, however, other posters soon followed, some given to him by Eddie and some he purchased himself after learning what bands Eddie liked, with a large Dio one taking up space by his bed.

Flyers of Corroded Coffin shows or other band merch dotted around the room as well, which he didn’t really mind because he liked supporting his boyfriend, though the clutter and disorganization slightly bothered him. Eddie had grinned at the sight however and called him a ‘real boy now’ for looking like the room of a young man and not a ‘30-something corporate stooge,’ so that would have to be fine too.

But he still missed his room looking like his room, instead of a replica of Eddie’s. It made Eddie feel more comfortable however, so he tried not to think about how it wasn’t his aesthetic at all, because he could learn to like it. He could change for the better. He could be what Eddie wanted. He could be good enough.

Which was why he was confused, staring at the garment box on the kitchen table where he’d been circling car ads in the classifieds, trying to find something cooler than his bimmer. Eddie had come over with a wide grin, sliding a box he recognized from one of the department stores he used to shop at before dating Eddie.

Eddie had proffered it with a flourish, grinning expectantly, practically vibrating with anticipation as Steve had carefully lifted the lid and moved the tissue paper aside to reveal the piece of clothing inside. A polo shirt in a soft, buttery sort of yellow with thick vertical white stripes running vertical over it.

Steve looked up at Eddie with a furrowed brow. “I…you got me a polo?” he questioned, confused and also concerned, knowing the department store was definitely outside of Eddie’s usual price range.

“Yeah!” Eddie confirmed happily, moving to sit in the chair next to Steve, looking down at the soft material Steve had yet to pull from the box. “The check from the gig came through, and I remember you looking at this shirt a couple weeks ago. I’ve been waiting to be buy it ever since.”

Steve blinked at that. He hadn’t known Eddie had caught him admiring the shirt in the window while he and Eddie had been walking around downtown. He felt a flair of panic at the thought, annoyed at himself for slipping up, for reminding Eddie that he was a stupid preppy rich kid. Eddie didn’t look upset though, or at least…he hadn’t. Now his eyes were darting over Steve’s expression with growing worry, chewing on his lower lip.

“Is that…is that all right? Was it a different one you wanted? I-I still have the receipt, we can return it and get the one you wanted,” Eddie rushed to say.

“No,” Steve quickly said, his fingers of one hand tightening slightly on the box while his other reached out of their own accord to slightly touch the shirt within. “I…Eddie,” he breathed, not knowing what else to say, what this meant. Why would Eddie buy him something like this? “You shouldn’t waste your hard earned money on…something like this.” Shouldn’t waste your money on me, he wanted to say. “It’s your first paying gig.”

Eddie shook his head quickly, an almost embarrassed smile curling his lips with a slight blush. “I wanted to, Stevie. You always buy me things, I wanted to return the favor. You’ve been so supportive of me and I wanted to…I don’t know. Thank you.” He glanced down at the polo with a soft expression, though he did frown a little too afterwards. “I haven’t seen you wear your polos in a really long time,” he murmured quietly.

Steve tensed at Eddie’s words. Of course he hadn’t. Polos weren’t cool. Polos weren’t good enough for Eddie. It was why he was so confused at this gift. He didn’t understand why Eddie would buy him something that wasn’t metal. That wasn’t suitable for his boyfriend.

“I know that you’re experimenting with your style and all, and I won’t deny you’re hot as fuck in these,” Eddie grinned, moving to pinch the loose sleeve of Steve’s tee between his fingers. It was from some band he didn’t actually know before he’d bought the shirt, something called Leatherwolf, though he had bought their tape as well so that he could pretend to be a fan and know some of their songs. “But you look hot in your polos too. I miss them.”

Steve sat up straighter at that, his eyebrows flying up in surprise. Eddie…liked his polos? “Aren’t the polos…kind of lame?” he asked carefully.

Eddie snorted, smiling as he leaned in to press a kiss to Steve’s neck, causing a startled smile to erupt over Steve’s own lips as he squirmed at the slight tickle of Eddie’s lips and hair. “There’s nothing lame about you, sweetheart,” Eddie murmured, voice roughened with his tease. He pulled back though, a touch of his worry on his expression again. “Do you like it?”

Of course Steve liked it. He loved it. It was exactly the one he had been looking at before, even though he’d tried to hide it, which meant that Eddie really had noticed it and really had been waiting to buy it for him. With his first paycheck from Corroded Coffin’s first real paying gig.

There had been the fear that Eddie’s involvement with the band would limit their options, that no one would want to listen to a band that had a member who was suspected of grisly murders. Eddie had been prepared to step down, to let the others move on without him, had offered it even though Jeff and the others had vehemently opposed the idea. They’d said that Corroded Coffin wouldn’t exist without Eddie and if he wasn’t part of it then they didn’t want to do it anymore.

In a surprise twist that probably shouldn’t have been all that surprising, Eddie’s infamy had actually helped the band. The news of his believed guilt and then later innocence and injury from the actual killer that he had tried to stop had spread even beyond Hawkins, drawing a crowd for their nights performing at The Hideout who began to see more patrons than ever before.

Then they’d been invited to participate in a Battle of the Bands, which they hadn’t won but they’d placed second, and the random shows they’d throw themselves at the quarry or wherever else saw larger crowds than usual, even the one they threw to celebrate Gareth graduating, and they’d even been asked to play at the fair, though it was a free gig.

Then, most recently, someone had approached them after one of their shows and asked to hire them for an event in Indianapolis. A paying event in Indianapolis. With it was the promise of possible future paying gigs as their fanbase grew and spread. There was even talk of a possible scout being at the gig.

Dustin had joked that maybe ‘86 hadn’t been his year, but ‘88 could be, though Eddie had just grinned and denied it, saying that ‘86 had been his year after all. He hadn’t said why, but he gave Steve a secretive smile and reached out to tangle their fingers together.

Steve felt a flare of warmth beneath his skin as he stared down at the polo again, hesitating before giving a brief nod. Eddie’s previously nervous smile bloomed into a joyous one, and he leaned in quickly to plant a smacking kiss to Steve’s cheek. Steve rolled his eyes but couldn’t prevent his own smile from growing on his lips.

“Thank you, baby,” Steve murmured, sliding a hand over Eddie’s neck to draw him in for a slow kiss. He didn’t know what it meant still, Eddie buying him a polo of all things, but it made him more determined than ever to be good enough for his boyfriend.

When they pulled back, Eddie soft with happiness, Steve made the decision. He needed to go all in if he was to keep Eddie happy. He drew in a deep breath and moved to take Eddie’s hand, his finger lightly tracing one of the scars there.

“I was thinking of growing out my hair. Maybe even dying it. Or maybe shaving i—”

“Don’t you dare!” Eddie interrupted, expression and tone absolutely scandalized as he squeezed Steve’s hand. Steve jumped slightly at the sudden explosion, blinking wide eyes at Eddie, causing the other to flush slightly in embarrassment. “I mean. You can, obviously, if you really want to, it’s your hair after all, but…” Eddie let out a small whine of protest as his gaze moved up to take in Steve’s hair.

Steve self-consciously reached up with his free hand to pass his fingers through his hair, which wasn’t quite as voluminous as he used to style it, but was still the last real testament of his former style. His former personality. The bullshit one.

“I mean,” Steve hedged, glancing away with a small roll of a shoulder in an aborted shrug. “It’s not exactly metal is it?” He looked back at Eddie with a slightly strained smile, rolling his eyes as though in commiseration. “I don’t want to embarrass you by making people think you have a prep for a boyfriend,” he laughed.

Eddie’s expression changed immediately as he stilled almost unnaturally, falling into a blank neutrality, even his eyes shuttering as he slowly pulled his hand from Steve’s grip. The response caused Steve to start panicking, worrying he’d messed up in some way, that he reminded Eddie of all the ways that he was lacking.

Steve opened his mouth to start apologizing, ready to apologize for anything, but Eddie held up his hand palm out to stop him, causing Steve’s mouth to shut with a soft click of teeth.

Eddie’s gaze dropped from Steve as his brows slowly began to furrow, a calculating expression settling over him as his eyes fell to the soft yellow polo still in the box. His lips twisted into a frown. After several excruciating moments, his eyes moved towards Steve’s shirt, an even more pinched look settling over his expression.

“Who are you wearing?” Eddie asked, his voice low and slow.

Steve glanced down at his shirt, the panic in him spiking, before realizing that this was a test. He had to prove to Eddie that he could like metal too (he didn’t, not really, though he could appreciate some of it) and wouldn’t be an embarrassment. He could do this.

“Leatherwolf,” he answered, thankful that he had done his job well enough to answer this pop quiz. He straightened his spine and pulled up the information he memorized with a slightly relieved smile. He could do this. “They’re from California. They were founded in, um, 1981.”

“What’s your favorite song of theirs?” Eddie asked, and there was something slightly off in his tone, but Steve couldn’t place it, not when he was frantically trying to recall the titles of the songs he’d made himself remember.

“Um. Cry Out?” he hesitantly asked more than answered, which caused Eddie’s lips to press into a thin line. He felt his breath catch at the obvious displeasure on Eddie’s face, wondering if he’d answered wrong. Was that a bad song? “O-or no, um, not that one. Uh. I like…um. I like…Magic Eye?” Fuck no, that wasn’t right. “Magical Eyes, I mean,” he corrected himself hastily.

Eddie’s eyes slowly dragged over Steve, his lips compressing again into a thin line as he drew in his own deep breath through flared nostrils. “Fuck,” he muttered, obviously not meant for Steve but it caused Steve to panic anyways as Eddie looked away, his brow furrowing in thought as his gaze settled on the newspaper on the table and the circled ads there.

“I’m sorry,” he quickly apologized, though he wasn’t certain what he had done wrong this time. Maybe Eddie didn’t like that band?

“Steve…” Eddie heaved a heavy sigh, rubbing his hand over his face before he looked over at Steve again. “I had thought you were just…trying things out. Experimenting. Lord knows your folks never let you be your own person,” he muttered before waving a hand as though to swat that thought away. “I didn’t realize you were actually trying to change.”

Why did Eddie sound so appalled by that? Wasn’t that a good thing? He was willing to fundamentally change who he was just for Eddie, to become someone deserving of Eddie, who fit in Eddie’s life. Didn’t Eddie want Steve in his life?

“Why are you upset about me changing?” Steve huffed, his worry turning into annoyance in his tone. “I thought that was a good thing. Not being the douchebag I used to be.” He scowled, crossing his arms with a roll of his eyes to cover his unease.

Eddie just looked at him in that way that made it seem like he was seeing inside Steve, which normally Steve liked because no one ever actually saw him, but now it just made him uncomfortable. Like he had done something wrong. He was just trying to be a good boyfriend, however. Besides, it’s not like he had come up with the plan on his own.

Everyone always talked about how different he and Eddie were. Always pointed out how preppy he was, made fun of Eddie for falling for a jock, had even asked at the start when they first came out publicly to their friends who was blackmailing whom into the relationship. Steve knew he had to change. They were too fundamentally different. It was the only way to keep Eddie.

Except Eddie didn’t look like he was going to be kept. He had started slowly shaking his head, pulling back, his eyes skittering over Steve again but in a way that said he wasn’t liking what he was saying. Steve’s panic spiked again.

“Eddie. This is good. I’m willing to change for you, that’s how much I love you,” Steve breathed, reaching out to grab Eddie’s hand with desperation. “I listen to your music now, and I play Dungeons and Dragons, and I don’t even talk about basketball around you anymore. As long as you’re happy, I’m happy. Don’t you see? Isn’t that all that matters?”

Eddie’s lips turned down into a sharp frown. A shuddering breath left him before he all but yanked his hand from Steve’s, his dark eyes turning even darker as he pulled away from Steve and said those damning words:

“But I’m not happy, Steve.”

Steve felt all the air leave his lungs, felt all the blood first rush to his head and then drain out of him, felt his mouth and tongue and throat shrivel into dryness as his eyes widened in horror. Eddie was shaking his head, stumbling out of his chair and back, an unreadable expression on his face as he distanced himself from Steve and this revelation.

“This wasn’t what I wanted, Steve. This doesn’t make me happy.” Eddie’s took another step back when Steve stumbled from his own chair, putting the table between them. “I…I need to go. I need to think.”

Steve knew with certainty that if he let Eddie leave now, that this thing between them would never be the same. His heart clenched in his chest painfully, and he felt his eyes sting with encroaching tears. “Eddie, please…” he begged, his words cracking.

Eddie only shook his head, sending his hair arcing around him, before straightening his spine. “This isn’t you. I don’t want this to be you. I love you Steve, but this version of you? The one that I created—” This time it was Eddie’s voice that cracked.

Clearing his throat, Eddie backed away. “No. No, this isn’t what I wanted. I’m sorry, Steve, but I need to go. I need to think. I can’t be here right now. I’m sorry.”

And with that, Eddie spun on his heels and all but ran towards the door, escaping from Steve’s incompetence, his unworthiness, his undesirability while Steve could only stand there in frozen horror, the tears he couldn’t hold back any longer slowly dripping down his cheeks.

Because he knew. He knew this would happen. He knew that no matter what he did, he would never be good enough. He knew that Eddie would leave him one day. Knew that he would never be able to keep the one he loved.

Knew that he, like his love, would always be complete and utter bullshit.

-

Part 3

-

tag list: @derythcorvinus @katyawriteswhump

[erodasfishtacos]

Wedding Band Cuts

prompt: YN goes into a massage and things go haywire quickly

word count: 8k (oooops)

warnings: this is all filth, i couldn't get this concept out of my mind

author's note:

I upload a piece of writing every 1-2 days.

I recently started a second tier called The OG Tier where 2

one shots (1-4kish) are posted a week.

There are currently 350 + pieces available to read

Tier I - $3 USD where you get access to main stories, everything except the mini one shots.

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you can check it out here

first fifteen to click here can get a free $5 membership for a month<3

=================

YN may or may not have a slight crush on the owner of the health club that she belongs to.

An boujee, exclusive type of place that there was a waitlist for membership and the prices to join were insane.

The only reason she could attend was because she got a massive discount because of her work.

He wasn’t what someone would imagine the typical gym owner to look like. 

No, he wasn’t a meathead with bulging biceps, thick veins protruding from his forearms, and  a protein shake in hand at all times.

Harry was lean.

Built in a way that was quietly powerful, his strength evident but not flaunted. 

The kind of muscular that didn’t demand attention but commanded respect nonetheless. 

He was intimidating in a different way��not because he towered over people or grunted loudly when lifting weights, but because he moved with an effortless grace that made everything he did look easy. 

The men who spent their time flexing in the mirror and slamming weights to the ground were often left in the dust by him. He bypassed them without so much as a labored breath, but he was never condescending about it.

He didn’t rub it in their faces or attempt to show off.

That, somehow, made him even more attractive.

YN knows that she has never, in her whole life, found someone as attractive as Harry. 

It was almost embarrassing how her stomach flipped whenever she caught sight of him in those tiny workout shorts, the ones that made it impossible not to stare. 

She wanted to drool like a dog when he lifted weights shirtless, every muscle in his torso shifting in perfect harmony. 

But she wasn’t the only one who felt this way—every woman at the gym seemed to have the same not-so-subtle admiration.

The issue was with her (and the other women) she was married.

Despite being the owner, Harry was always around.

 Sometimes he was doing administrative tasks, other times he was covering for employees who had called in sick. 

Hiring college kids meant dealing with last-minute schedule changes, so he often found himself playing the role of front desk attendant, janitor, or—on rare occasions—masseuse.

It was a health club, after all. 

The gym offered more than just workout equipment; there was a spa with facials, manicures, and, of course, massages. While Harry wasn’t an esthetician and couldn’t fill in for those services, he was a certified masseuse.

However, he rarely stepped in for that role because his staff was dependable.

That didn’t stop the women from hoping.

It was common knowledge among the female members that if someone called out, there was a slight—very slight—chance that Harry might step in. 

None of them had been lucky enough for it to happen, though. 

And when news spread that Jerry, a seventy-one-year-old man, had received a massage from Harry when his assigned therapist had to leave due to a stomach bug, the collective jealousy among the women was almost comical.

Jerry, blissfully unaware of the silent resentment directed his way, had wobbled out of the building looking loose-limbed and content, oblivious to the scowls of women who had never before envied an elderly man quite so much.

Tiffany, one of the braver women, decided to test her luck. 

With a sickly sweet smile, she had approached the front desk where Harry was working, tilting her head just so as she asked if he might be able to squeeze her in for a massage.

Harry, ever professional, had simply glanced up from the computer screen, offered her a polite but firm smile, and informed her that since the therapist had left early, they unfortunately wouldn’t be able to accommodate her request. 

He didn’t offer to step in himself, and Tiffany had to swallow her disappointment as she rejoined her friends, shoulders slumping in defeat.

YN was excited for the massage because she kept such tension in her lower back, her thighs, her glutes.

And she definitely didn’t get them regularly enough because life was busy so the strain and stiffness built and built until her body ached enough to have her make an appointment.

It was last minute, they were able to squeeze her in at the last session available, eight in the evening.

The gym was closed at that point but the spa was open until nine.

When YN steps into the dimly lit lobby of the building, she immediately notices how quiet it is. 

The usual low hum of voices or the distant clinking of weights from the gym is missing.

 Instead, the only sound is the faint buzzing of the overhead light and the gentle click of the door settling back into place behind her. She makes her way toward the receptionist’s desk, her steps echoing slightly against the polished tile floor.

The desk is empty. 

No receptionist in sight, no signs of life beyond the unlocked door. 

If the entrance hadn’t been open, she would have assumed the place had already shut down for the night. 

It’s unsettling, the stillness of it all. 

There had been only one other car in the parking lot—a sleek black sedan parked near the entrance. 

She could only hope it belonged to her massage therapist because if she didn’t get the relief she was craving, she might actually scream. 

Her shoulders ached, tension coiled tightly along her spine, and she needed to feel like jelly by the time she walked out of here.

YN lingers at the front desk, her fingertips lightly tapping along the smooth oak surface as she chews on the inside of her lip. 

She glances over her shoulder toward the hallway leading to the massage rooms, her nerves prickling when she hears footsteps approaching. 

The rhythmic sound of sneakers hitting the linoleum floor grows louder with each step.

She fully expects to see Pedro—her regular massage therapist. Pedro, who always greeted her with a knowing smirk and a shake of his head, chastising her for letting herself get so tense.

But it’s not Pedro who steps around the corner.

No, it’s Harry.

Harry, the owner of the gym.

He’s always been effortlessly charming, the kind of man who draws attention without even trying. 

Women often mistook his friendliness for flirting, but that was just his nature—engaging, attentive, and naturally likable. He had one of those faces that made it hard to pinpoint his exact age. 

Deep-set dimples softened the sharpness of his jawline, giving him an almost boyish appeal, while the light scruff and the fine lines at the corners of his eyes betrayed his real age.

“Hello, I’m sorry about that,” he says as he moves behind the desk, leaning down to click around on the computer, hiis voice is smooth, deep, the kind that makes you want to lean in just a little closer, “You must be… YN, right? Here for your massage with Pedro?”

“It’s okay,” YN reassures him with an easy smile, a bit fluttery because he was cute, “Yes, that’s me,”

“Pedro had to leave earlier due to a family emergency,” Harry informs her as he clicks around a bit more before looking up at her, “I should have called to cancel but I got distracted with some paperwork. Are you comfortable with having one with me? Or I can reschedule and give you a free massage on the house for the inconvenience.”

YN hesitates. A free massage sounded tempting—nearly $200 worth of pampering for nothing. 

But then there was the other option: a paid session with Harry, the hot gym owner with broad shoulders and an easy smile. 

She hadn’t expected to find herself in this predicament, but now that she was here, her stomach gave a nervous little flip.

“I really need one. I’m really stiff,” YN’s eyes darted away nervously, something akin to the feeling when you’re about to drop down on a rollercoaster creeping into her stomach, “But I don’t want to inconvenience you at all.”

“It wouldn’t be an inconvenience to massage you,” Harry replies, his words slow and this morbid monotone that somehow works for him, his eyes narrow just the slightest, and even though nothing he said was inappropriate.

The way he says it sends a shiver down her spine. 

It’s not the words themselves—it’s how they linger in the air between them, heavy with something unspoken.

 YN presses her thighs together instinctively, pulse quickening as heat creeps up the back of her neck.

YN rolls her lip between her teeth, she doesn’t know when she got so brazen but she gives him a small, unsure smile, “Hopefully you’re as good as Pedro.”

Harry’s grin falters slightly, eyes narrowing at the challenge, “I’ve been told I’m good with my hands.”

“Pedro’s hands are amazing though, not just good, you know?” YN keeps her tone casually like she’s not trying to bait him but she’s pretty sure that she’s not misconstruing the sexual tension for him just being nice, he wasn’t like this all the time. 

“I'm sure you’ll be satisfied with my services. Are you hard to please?” Harry asks with a tilt of his head, a slight smirk she's never seen before.

YN lets out a breathy laugh, tapping her fingers against the desk, “Most people would say no. My husband, on the other hand? He might say something different.”

Harry’s eyes flicker down to her left hand, his expression tightening almost imperceptibly when he finds her ring finger bare. 

His jaw clenches just the slightest bit before his tone turns cool, more businesslike,  “I’ll show you to the room we’ll be using.”

YN wonders if she shouldn't have mentioned she had a husband, maybe she had led him on with the fact that she didn't have her wedding band on.

She knew she would have to take it off anyways, and didn't want to get the lotion rubbed into nooks and crannies that are difficult to clean.

He steps out from behind the desk.

YN’s eyes drop to do a full body scan, she often subtly checked him out when she was here but now with a bit of arousal pooling in her tummy - she had a whole other perspective on him.

How his legs were such a sweet juxtaposition of lean but thick at the same time, she could easily imagine herself sinking her nails into them.

The shorts he wore showed them off entirely too well, he absolutely knew what he was doing when he stepped into those short shorts that morning.

And when he turns to start walking down the hallway, YN can appreciate how broad his shoulders are, and they're accentuated by the way they lead down into narrow hips.

The definition of manly.

As they walk down the hallway, YN peeks into the other offices—empty, confirming that they are, indeed, alone.

 It shouldn’t matter. 

This was a professional massage.

 Nothing more.

“I didn't know you were certified in massages,” YN chimes in as they walk, just to break the silence that had fallen in between them.

YN deemed it awkward but she didn't know if he did.

He doesn't turn around but he does reply, “I got a certification when I got my doctorate in exercise science and kinesiology. It was an elective. I did them more when I started the business but now I have employees for that.”

“So you're rusty, is what you're telling me?” YN teases, she should stop baiting him because he seems easy to react and not always in a good way.

YN has seen Harry yell at grown men over poor form that could have seriously injured their backs or throwing them out for not respecting the gym rules.

He was intimidating to say the least.

“Did I say that?” Harry turns to look over his shoulder, “My wife requests them enough that I don't get to become rusty.”

“Oh,” YN replies lamely, eyes darting down to see that he did in fact have a gold wedding band on his ring finger, hard to miss, and proudly shining.

 It’s hard to miss.

And yet, for a moment, she had.

“Oh?” Harry questions, still glancing back, “Is there an issue?”

YN swallows harshly, his eyes were laxer focused and challenging her to say something that she shouldn't.

She shouldn't because he's married.

She shouldn’t because she’s married.

“N-no,” YN stammers at the sudden question, tightened uncertainty winding in her belly - mixing with the hot, subtle arousal.

“Good,” Harry nods before he's stopping one of the last doors on the left, his hand curls around the knob, “Undress to your comfort. Some people prefer keeping their bra and underwear on, others go nude. Whatever you feel best doing.”

YN hesitates, her fingers twitching at her sides.

 Normally, she’d strip off her bra but keep her underwear on—just enough coverage to maintain a sliver of modesty. 

But something inside her stirs, something unfamiliar yet enticing, daring her to step beyond her usual boundaries.

She bites her bottom lip, the decision swirling in her head as she looks at Harry.

 But his expression gives nothing away, his patience unwavering as he waits for her to step inside.

“I'll give you a few minutes to get settled. Please lay face-down under the sheet, pull it up to your lower back. Do you have any questions?” Harry asks as he flips on the light, the beautiful room already set up, and a twinkling zen music filters through the built-in speaker.

“No,” YN says again, quiet as she steps past him into the space, “Thank you.”

Harry dips his chin in a silent nod before stepping back, allowing her to move past him. 

The door clicks shut behind her, leaving her alone with her thoughts.

++

It takes longer than she expects for him to return.

At least ten minutes pass, maybe more. 

She can tell by the way the medley of soft instrumentals has shifted two or three times, a seamless transition of calming melodies. 

She breathes deeply, inhaling the mix of essential oils perfuming the air, but the stillness is beginning to make her twitch.

The way that she can feel her nipples against the sheet, the way that every part of her skin is touching it actually.

It’s warm in the room, enough that she can feel the perspiration start to prickle at her lower back, and she can’t decipher whether or not it’s from the temperature of the room or the flush of her body.

YN digs her fingernails into her palms momentarily, to ground herself, to get a hold of herself.

She’s not in some fucking fantasy novel.

Harry is a professional. 

He’s probably oblivious to the thoughts swirling in her head.

He’s married.

She told him that she is married.

The last thing he probably wants is a client sexualizing him in the middle of his job.

Before she can scold herself enough to feel guilt of her rather debach thoughts - the door opens and her heart squeezes with anticipation.

He cracks the door before stepping in, “Ready?”

“Yes,” YN swallows as she squeezes her eyes shut, the door clicks closed behind him.

YN had pulled the sheet up over her shoulders, every masseuse had different protocol, and as soons as he steps over - she realizes that she already hadn’t been great at following his very simple instructions.

She hears his measured footsteps approach before feeling his hands on the sheet—his fingers brushing against the warmth of her bare back as he carefully folds the fabric down.

 It settles just above the swell of her bum, exposing the curve of her lower back.

He stills for the briefest moment.

Then, a deep inhale.

It’s almost imperceptible. A barely-there intake of breath that might be nothing—or might be something.

YN convinces herself she’s imagining things.

He’s probably adjusting his stance. 

Or stretching his fingers.

 Or something entirely mundane that has nothing to do with the fact that he just discovered she’s completely bare beneath the sheet.

“I'm going to begin. Please, let me know if anything is sensitive or sore during. Is there anywhere you would like me to focus in particular?” Harry inquired, he sounds formal, professional as he should.

“My glutes and calves,” YN responds after a moment of thought.

The calves part was true - they were tight and sore from her legs days at the gym.

Her glutes, however, did not need any work but she couldn't get the imagine of his hands massaging her there out of her mind.

“Noted,” Harry replies with a gruff, clipped agreement like he was gritting his teeth at her answer.

The beginning of the massage is as normal as anything, his fingers press deep into the knots lining her shoulders, working out the tension that she hadn’t realized she’d been carrying. 

The pressure is firm, methodical.

But the moment his palms cup around the nape of her neck, a shiver bolts through her spine.

She tries to squeeze her thighs together subtly, a feeble attempt at quelling the heat pulsing low in her belly. 

But it’s impossible, her legs already splayed relaxed on the table.

Harry notices the movement.

“Are you uncomfortable? Do you need to reposition?” Harry asks when he notices her fidgeting, concern in his voice that makes her feel even more guilt at her thoughts.

“No, I'm good,” YN’s reply isn't more than a strained squeak.

Harry doesn’t comment on it, but he does press his thumbs deeper into the base of her neck, a silent cue for her to relax.

“Try to relax then. You're tight,” Harry continues to move his fingers and all she can hear is that last sentence on repeat.

He's talking about back muscles, she has to remind herself.

You’re tight.

YN does finally listen, relaxing into the soft, heated cushion of the table, and purposefully clearing her mind.

“There you go, good girl,” Harry murmurs when he notices her shoulders start to loosen, neck letting her head hang more into the face cushion, and her thighs melting into the table too.

Good girl.

YN’s clear mind is now filled once again.

Her muscles should be turning to liquid under his touch, her mind blank with relaxation. 

But all she can focus on is the phantom sensation of his voice curling around those words.

By the time he finishes her back—nothing but completely professional work thus far, she’s half-certain that if she were to open her mouth, she’d be panting like an overheated dog.

“I’m going to start on your calves,” Harry informs her, shifting his stance beside her, “Then I’ll work my way up to your glutes. Since you requested them, I just want to confirm you’re comfortable with my hands there.”

YN knows he’s only being professional, ensuring her comfort.

If only he knew the absolute filth running through her head.

If only he knew just how much she wanted his hands there.

“Yes,” YN replies shallowly, she had been laying down for at least the last twenty minutes and she felt like she’d just ran a marathon, her throat parched and aching.

Harry’s tone sharpens, more assertive than she’s ever heard before. 

There’s a domineering edge to it that sends a shiver down her spine, “Yes, what? Yes, you are comfortable with that, or yes, you do want to change your mind?”

YN feels embarrassment flushing her at the miscommunication, it blends into the heat she already has seeping from her skin so there’s no difference.

“Yes, I am comfortable with your hands there,” YN manages to get out, she wonders if Harry thinks she’s an absolute basketcase or if he even has any awareness of the situation.

If he notices, he doesn’t show it.

 Instead, he resumes his work, his hands slick with the massage oil he had been using. The scent of sweet almond fills the space between them, subtle yet intoxicating.

 It’s her favorite scent—always has been.

 It reminds her of the raspberry almond cake she and her husband had shared on their wedding day, the same one they’d made a tradition of enjoying every anniversary since. 

Her train of thought was interrupted by an involuntary groan that she lets out when he presses on a tight spot right in the center of her calve.

The pain is sharp and sudden, and instinctively, she tries to yank her leg from his grip, but Harry’s grip is firm, steady.

 He doesn’t even struggle to keep her still. 

His hold is effortless, almost dismissive of her attempt to squirm away.

“You should stretch for longer than five minutes before you work out,” he chides, his tone laced with knowing disapproval,“Especially when you’re doing legs. You need to be warming up your hamstrings, groin, calves.”

He punctuates his point by pressing into the same tender spot again, and she lets out a similar sound—somewhere between a whimper and a gasp as the ache flares up once more.

“How do you know I’m not?” YN challenges, trying to regain some semblance of control over the situation. 

She hadn’t even realized Harry was paying attention to her.

 She hadn’t thought he noticed her at all, let alone enough to critique her habits.

Harry chuckles, the sound low and rough, curling at the edges with amusement, “That reaction, right there.”

YN is about to deflate because it wasn’t because of him noticing her until -

“I’ve seen you stretch. You sit on your mat and scroll on your phone for five minutes while barely trying to touch your toes,” Harry calls her out.

His assessment is shockingly accurate, and she doesn’t have much of a defense.

 Instead, she deflects.

“I’m plenty flexible without stretching,” YN quips, allowing a teasing edge to slip into her tone. 

The innuendo is obvious, intentional.

Harry doesn’t rise to it in the way she expects.

 He doesn’t laugh or smirk or falter.

 Instead, his response is delivered in the same flat, unimpressed drawl. 

“Are you?” His thumb digs into her calf again, pressing into another tight knot of tension, “You’re just as tight as you are flexible.”

Touché.

She doesn’t realize just how tightly she’s been clenching her thighs until Harry’s palms press flat against the backs of them. 

Firm but not forceful.

“Spread your legs for me.”

Fuck.

His voice is steady, authoritative, yet devoid of hesitation. 

There is no question in his command. 

She obeys without thinking, parting her legs easily, pliantly.

 But as soon as the sheet shifts—just slightly, the reality of her own arousal crashes over her in a suffocating wave. 

Embarrassment sinks its claws into her as she wonders—can he see?

 Can he tell? Is there enough of a telltale sheen on her inner thighs to give her away? 

A visible wet spot on the table?

“Why are you clenching—” Harry starts, but then he stops.

Silence.

A sharp inhale.

It’s as if something clicks into place, something he wasn’t expecting, and it cuts off his line of questioning entirely.

“Wha—” YN begins to ask, shifting slightly to glance behind her, but before she can move too far, a hand comes down to the base of her neck.

His palm cups it, firm yet controlled, pressing her back down into the face cradle. 

The pressure isn’t rough, but it’s purposeful.

 It’s the first real slip—something that isn’t professional, not even close.

The way he grips her isn’t the neutral, detached touch of a masseuse simply guiding their client. 

No. 

This is something else entirely.

“Don’t move.”

His voice is rougher now, deeper.

 There’s something strained in the way he speaks, his accent thickening as if he’s forcing himself to remain composed.

 It takes her an extra beat to process his words, to pick them apart through the weight of his tone.

“Jesus. S’ridiculous. Just trying to do my fucking job.”

The words aren’t meant for her, not really.

 He’s speaking to himself as much as he is to her.

And yet, they hit her like a slap.

Embarrassment rattles through her, her heart climbing up into her throat. 

He sounds frustrated. 

With her. 

The realization makes her shrink, makes her feel small—like a child being scolded.

“I’m s-sorry,” YN stammers, her mouth suddenly dry, her tongue thick and useless in her mouth. 

She doesn’t even know what she’s apologizing for—only that she feels like she should.

 Because whatever he saw, whatever he realized, it was enough to shift the entire dynamic between them in a matter of seconds.

To Harry’s credit, he doesn’t stop, he doesn’t pull away. 

His hands remain on her, though now they focus on her glutes, kneading into the muscle with a more methodical, calculated touch.

Subconsciously, she starts to clench her thighs again, as if trying to ground herself. 

As if trying to remind herself that this is just a massage. 

That she isn’t some… deviant, reacting to something as simple as his hands on her.

She isn’t.

But then…

His hand moves.

It grips the soft flesh of her ass, squeezing just hard enough that the tips of his fingers press deep into the skin, surely turning it white beneath his grasp.

The gasp that rips from her chest is instant, shocked, sharp.

Because this isn’t just crossing a line.

This isn’t just towing the boundary of professionalism.

This is tearing right through it, shattering it to pieces, leaving nothing behind.

“Stop apologizing and stay still,” Harry orders, his voice rough with unspoken tension.

His fingers remain where they are, digging in just enough to make a point, to drive something unspoken between them.

“Do you understand me?”

YN swallowed hard, her heart was trying to escape her chest at the moment.

Yes.

Yes, she understands.

The massage resumes, thumbs pressing into knots, trading the ache for a different kind.

Should she end the appointment? 

Apologize and never show her face in the gym again?

YN does better, she does, she lasts at least another five minutes as she tries to stay as stock still as possible.

His touches are back to professional and she’s starting to question herself, start to question whether or not he had even squeezed her ass like that.

But then her thoughts start to spiral again, horny and desperate in a way they’ve never been.

It must have been a wiggle of her hips, maybe even a subtle attempt to see if she could find any friction against the table, but whatever it was—Harry had noticed. 

He had noticed, and she knew it the moment the air in the room seemed to shift, thickening with the weight of his attention.

“What the fuck did I just say?” Harry scolded with no more softness in his voice, that upbeat bubbly man that everyone around the gym knew and loved - nowhere to be found and it was as intimidating, thrilling as it was frightening.

The smack comes fast, hard, landing squarely on her left ass cheek with a force that makes her gasp before she even realizes what’s happened. 

The sharp sting spreads out in waves across her skin, the heat sinking into her already sore  muscles. 

She jerks, instinctively trying to sit up, but she doesn’t get far before his palm is at the base of her neck, pressing her face back into the cushioned cut-out of the massage table.

The stinging sensation lingers, blooming like fire just beneath the surface of her skin

 It’s different, though—not just the typical burn of an open-handed slap. 

It’s sharper, pinpointed.

And then she realizes—

His wedding band.

It had cut her. 

Only slightly, just enough for her to feel the tiny scrape, but still, the knowledge of how it had happened made her stomach clench.

 Her cunt shouldn’t pulse around nothing at that thought, but it does.

 It totally does.

“You’re ruining my sheets,” Harry observes, full of judgement and disapproval, like she was inconvenience more than anything.

YN stays quiet because he had told her to stop apologizing and is she pouting about because she just got smacked? 

Maybe.

Harry leans forward, his body heat radiating against her back. 

The soft cotton of his t-shirt brushes against her skin, and she can feel the cool chain of his necklace ghosting over her shoulder.

 When he speaks next, his voice is quieter, deliberate, “You have four options.”

Her breath catches.

“You can either stay still and get your normal massage. You can keep moving and have an ass that aches for the next week. You can end the massage right now and walk out the door. Or…”

YN waits for him but she realizes that he’s teasing it, edging it, her voice is barely above a whisper,  “Or what?” 

“Or you can tell me exactly what you want me to do to you and I’ll do it,” Harry hums as he stands back up, his hands gripping the back of her thighs, and pushing them apart from where they started to drift together once again.

She could tell him. 

She could put it into words, could give voice to the heat curling low in her belly, but the thought alone makes her want to squirm in embarrassment. 

She’s already acted desperate enough—she refuses to push herself further into that category.

The tension in her stomach, the feeling of his wedding band leaving a mark on her ass.

“I’ll stay still,” YN replies with as much of a steady voice that she can manage.

Harry laughs, deep and mean, amusement tinged with something almost cruel. 

It makes the humiliation simmer hotter beneath the surface of her skin.

“Do you soak Pedro’s table?” he asks conversationally, like he’s discussing nothing more than the weather, “Because he’s never mentioned it. And I think I’d remember something that pathetic.”

She knows exactly what he’s doing. 

He’s trying to break her, to make her react. 

His hand twitches against her skin, like it’s itching to leave more marks. But she refuses to give him the satisfaction. 

She clenches her jaw, grits her teeth, forces herself to keep still even as his hands press into her muscles with increasing pressure.

YN doesn’t bite, has to squeeze her eyes shut but she doesn’t, teeth gritting as the pressure of the massage increases.

Then, he revisits the small cut, pressing his thumb against it, rubbing over it in a way that makes her tense involuntarily.

“Does your husband not fuck you?” His voice is scalding, lips brushing her cheek as he speaks, “You’re squirming like you’ve never been touched before.”

The impulse to shoot an insult at him is hard to not take but she’s staying still out of spite.

Harry’s hands start to dip further in between her inner thighs, his fingers swipe against the damp skin of her thighs, and he then rubs it on her asscheek, “Can’t tell when the massage oil ends and your slick starts.”

Her thighs part slightly wider, a silent offering, even though she knows better than to expect mercy. 

She should have anticipated it—the punishment that follows.

The next smack is harder, sharper.

 It radiates through her lower half, a forceful enough hit that her nipples brush against the sheet below her. 

She swallows back a moan, biting her bottom lip until she nearly draws blood.

“You should be thanking me, do you know how many women wish they were in your position right now?”

Even though it was true, he didn’t have to be a cocky prick about it.

YN stays silent, she didn’t know how he still managed to get up the massage at this point.

“I said thank me.”

Another slap. 

Same spot. 

This time, the band on his finger catches her skin just right—or just wrong. 

She feels the sting of it cutting into her, nothing deep, just enough to make her gasp softly. 

Her breath shudders as she exhales.

YN gnaws on her bottom lip to prevent herself from speaking.

Harry’s patience snaps.

His hand knots in her hair, jerking her head up so that her cheek is exposed to him.

 His lips hover on her cheek, just near the corner of her mouth, but he doesn’t close the distance, “Speak the fuck up,” he growls, “or I’m stopping.”

She can’t believe she’s in this situation.

With a married man.

As a married woman.

But when she speaks, her voice is even, measured.,“I would like my massage to continue.”.

Harry exhales sharply, nostrils flaring.

 He unwinds his fingers from her hair, pushing her head back down onto the table.

“Fair enough.”

He does exactly as she asked.

He massages her like nothing happened, his hands working over her shoulders, the backs of her arms, expertly kneading out tension.

 It’s frustrating. 

Infuriating.

Because he has more energy for edging, doing things out of spite than her.

And fifteen minutes later—she’s the one struggling not to move again.

Harry actually starts to hum, an annoying tune from an old game show, completely out of place in the dimly lit room. 

It breaks into the soft rhythms playing from the speakers.

YN squirms.

Harry smacks her again, sharp and precise, the sound echoing through the space, echoing in the thick air between them.

 It stings.

Of course it fucking does.

 It leaves heat blooming across her skin, a reminder of his control. 

But he does not speak.

 Instead, he returns to the slow, methodical touches that are driving her mad—too firm to be teasing, but nowhere near what she needs.

She breaks.

She fucking breaks.

"Touch me, please," YN throws her pride out the fucking window, off a bridge, down into the deepest black hole where she doesn’t have to face it again. 

Desperation drips from her words, heavy and undeniable.

Harry exhales a long-suffering sigh, unbothered by her distress, "I am touching you," he bleats, his voice laced with indifference. 

His fingers trace aimless patterns along her skin, not nearly enough, "We have about ten minutes left of the hour. Where would you like me to focus the rest of the massage?"

“I need something, please,” YN asks with a pathetic plead starting to work her way into her tone.

Harry, ever unyielding, remains unaffected, "You came in with the complaint of calves and glutes. Are you still not—"

YN wants to cut the shit.

“Please, fuck me. Please,” YN feels like she’s on the line of sobbing for relief at this point, she doesn’t know if she’s even been this worked up, and the inability to see him somehow makes it worse, makes her feel more vulnerable, more desperater, “Please.”

“You could have had it fifteen minutes ago,” Harry chastises but his hands - they slide down her body, teasing the sensitive skin, but they don’t go directly to where she needs them the most.

“Harry, I -”

A smack.

Unraveling her like that wedding band on her sensitive skin.

Then his hands are gone entirely. 

The loss is immediate, unbearable. 

The air crackles with unspoken tension before she realizes—he’s just looking at her.

"Knees," he commands, his voice sharp enough to slice through the thick fog of her arousal.

“I-” YN begins to asks but he’s not patient any longer.

“I said get on your fucking knees,” Harry repeats, louder and thankfully, no one else is here.

Before she can fully process, he takes it upon himself to move her, gripping her hips and lifting them effortlessly. 

Her knees slide inward, bringing them closer to her chest, forcing her body into a position that leaves her fully exposed, fully at his mercy.

He winds his fingers into her hair again, fisting the strands tight enough to pull her out of the cradle of the cushion. 

Her cheek is smushed sideways against the table now, breaths coming in shallow, uneven pants.

“Fuckin’ hell,” Harry has no manners, taking what he wants by spreading her cheeks to get a better look at her.

There is no manners left in him. 

No pretense of control.

YN realizes belatedly that there are fat tears rolling down her cheeks, that Harry must now be able to see, and in a break from the thick tension in the room.

He does something oddly sweet, it reminds her of her husband actually, he presses his lips to her cheek.

His voice is soft, more so like she hears around the gym or when he greets her in reception, “Okay?”

“Okay,” YN nods in agreement, her voice cracks, and she can see him smile before slipping back into a scowl.

She appreciated him checking in, warming  her up in a different way.

“Never seen a needier thing in my life. God, your husband must not do shit for you. You're clenching around nothing—both holes,” Harry murmurs thoughtfully, his tone a perfect blend of mockery and amusement. 

His words are crude, biting, but they set her nerve endings on fire.

YN barely has time to react before she feels it—his spit landing on her tighter hole, warm and slick, quickly chased by the rough pad of his thumb spreading it around.

Her skin prickles, her breath catches, and then he continues, his voice dripping with sinful amusement.

“Everyone around this gym thinks you're this sweet, kind person. I hear them talk,” He pauses, tilting his head as if considering something. “What would they think if I told them about this? A bored housewife coming into a massage and begging to be fucked decently.”

It's a monologue, she knows he isn't expecting an answer.

“Spread out on this table, showing me everything with no shame.”

Two fingers—his index and middle, drag lazily through her folds, teasing, pressing at her entrance but never quite pushing in.

YN is trembling, trying not to move but everything aches.

“I would have subbed in much soone for Pedro if I knew I'd get such a sweet cunt out of it. I should have known you'd have the prettiest one I've ever seen,” Harry accentuates it with tucking his fingers into her, the slight stretch of his two thick digits were welcome with how ready she already was, “Those little bike shorts you wear hide absolutely nothing.”

YN pushes back, pulling him in even deeper, and luckily, he doesn't scold her.

But he makes her work for it.

“Ride ‘em. My hands are tired from the massage,” Harry curls them forward against her spongy front wall, hitting her spot head on like he had it memorized on a map.

YN was sweating, hair matted to her skin, and visibly droplets of west gathering around her temples as she started to push back on him.

She couldn't believe what she was doing right now.

“You hear that?” Harry asks, thrusting his fingers a few times to make the sound even more obscene, slick and lewd in the quiet room, “Should record that and make it the spa soundtrack. S’that sound like a good idea, baby?”

Her head drops forward, a loud moan tearing from her throat when his thumb presses into her tighter hole, sending pleasure ricocheting through her body. 

She’s never been this full before—never felt this close to unraveling without even having her clit touched.

Harry’s laugh cuts through the haze of her pleasure.

“Fuck, you’re filthy,” he groans, watching her. “You like your ass played with too? This is my lucky day, huh? Is that how you’ll tip me? Let me choose?”

“Yes, yes—you can choose,” YN babbles, her voice high and desperate, her stomach tightening, her body coiling tighter and tighter. 

She’s grinding now, less controlled, more frantic, chasing something she’s not sure she could explain, “Please, I just need to come. I need it, please—”

But Harry pulls his fingers out.

The loss is devastating.

Tears sting at her eyes, spilling freely, mixing with sweat, with spit, with the sheer mess of her. 

Her hair is frizzy from where he’s pulled it, her cheeks damp, her mouth parted as she gasps through the absence of him.

Harry grips her hip harshly, not giving her choice as he helps flip her over until she's on her back.

And it's the first time in all of this that she's been able to really see him.

It was nice to see that he was affected too with huffing breaths, nostrils flaring, and sweat on his temple from the heat of the room.

And then he’s peeling his shirt off, tugging it over his head in a way that looks effortless.

His body is all sharp lines and defined muscle, the kind she sees every day in the gym but never gets to touch.

Her legs automatically close, a futile attempt to shield herself, to protect her most vulnerable spot.

 But Harry frowns at that, smacking her thigh sharply, silently telling her to open back up.

He tuts, shaking his head as he looks down at her, “Puppy, if you were this desperate for cock, you could have just asked me. You’re cute enough. I’d fuck you in front of everyone—bend you over a weight bench, let those little biker shorts trap your thigh and watch your squirms.”

YN can tell he’s about to put his mouth on her—but she can’t. 

She can’t take any more teasing.

Her hands shake as she reaches up, fingers pressing to the side of his neck, thumb pressing beneath his jaw. 

She’s sniffling, trying to speak through her sobs of frustration.

“I can’t—I need you to fuck me. Please, H, please.”

The hour of foreplay was more than enough.

Harry blinks, his gaze locking onto hers, searching. 

And then….

He moves up the table, his hand cradling her jaw as he kisses her, slow and deep, melting away her desperation for just a moment.

“You want me to fuck you?” he murmurs, the rasp was thick in his tone, “You’re ready?”

She nods frantically, clinging to him. “Yes. I’m sorry, I can’t—”

Harry kisses her quiet before pulling back just enough to push his shorts and briefs off. 

She doesn’t get a chance to look at him before he’s guiding himself to her core, pressing in, inch by thick inch, until their pubic bones meet.

He lets out this euphoric, beautiful low moan when he pushing in until their pubic bones meet, and he's big - really fucking big and she's so fucking full that it's insane.

Don’t need to wait,” she breathes, voice trembling with urgency, her fingers digging into the thick muscle of his shoulders. 

Her legs wind around his narrow hips instinctively, locking him in, heels pressing into the firm curve of his bum as if to keep him right where he belongs,“Please move.”

And Harry fucks like he weightlifts.

Hard. Determined. Precise.

Every powerful thrust sends electric pleasure sparking through her veins, his strokes deliberate and deep, like he’s got something to prove—like he won’t stop until he’s got her unraveling completely beneath him. 

His pace is relentless, the force of his movements pushing her up the table in tiny, helpless jolts before he’s tugging her back down onto his cock without missing a beat. 

The friction is dizzying, intoxicating, and YN feels herself slipping closer and closer to the edge with every merciless snap of his hips.

“I’m gonna—if you rub my-” she pants, but she doesn’t even need to finish.

Harry already knows.

With a low grunt, he shifts, his weight shifting back slightly as his hand snakes between them.

 His fingers find her clit with ease, with skill, and he presses down, rubbing tight, fast circles with a very specific intent in mind.

 His voice is rough and coaxing as he groans, “Yeah, fuck, yeah. C’mon, baby. I deserve it, don’t I? Soak me.”

And that’s all it takes.

A sharp, wrecked cry tears from her throat as her body gives in completely, pleasure overtaking her in a crashing, uncontrollable wave. 

YN’s limbs go boneless, loose like a marionette with its strings cut, as her orgasm seizes her, dragging her under with white-hot intensity. 

The overwhelming sensation floods her lower half, a gush of wetness spilling out between them, coating both of them in the aftermath. 

The slick, obscene sounds of him fucking her through it echo in the room, each thrust impossibly louder, wetter, filthier.

“Holy shit,” Harry growls, his voice thick with awe and arousal, “That’s the hottest fuckin’ thing I’ve ever seen.”

His breath hitches, his control slipping,“You just squirted on me—look at you, all swollen and puffy for me.”

His gaze is locked on where they’re connected, utterly mesmerized, before something shifts in his expression—something primal.

 He grips her hips tighter, holding her open as he starts pounding into her even harder, chasing his own release with ruthless determination.

The force of it knocks the breath from her lungs, and before she can even process the sheer intensity of it all, he’s surging forward, crushing his mouth against hers in a desperate, bruising kiss.

 It’s messy—more teeth and tongue than finesse—but it’s everything. 

A claiming, a surrender, a moment of pure, unfiltered need.

He pulses inside her with a deep, guttural groan, spilling into her with a final, shuddering thrust, his body going rigid before finally melting against her. 

He stays there, buried deep, chest rising and falling against hers as he slowly comes back down from his high.

For a long moment, the only sound in the room is their mingled, heavy breathing. 

Then, Harry huffs out a breathless chuckle, forehead pressed to hers, body warm and weighty on top of her.

“Told you,” he murmurs smugly, voice thick with satisfaction, “Told you you wouldn’t be patient enough for foreplay.”

YN scoffs, though there’s no real heat behind it.

 Her fingers find their way into his damp curls, scratching lightly at his scalp as her lips twitch into a lazy smile. 

“The whole massage was foreplay,” she argues, pressing a kiss to his temple, “I think I did okay.” 

A playful smirk tugs at her mouth as she adds, “I don’t have the patience you do.”

“You never have,” Harry murmurs, his thumb brushing her slick hair off her forehead with a tenderness that makes her stomach flip. 

He presses a slow, lingering kiss to the corner of her mouth, voice laced with affection as he murmurs against her lips, “You’re an impatient little thing for orgasms.”

His tone is teasing, but the warmth in his gaze, the soft adoration in his touch - it’s so much love and fondness interwoven between them.

“Don’t like this one bit,” Harry grumped after a moment, pulling her hand up and giving a pointed gaze towards her bare ring finger, “Made me almost break character.”

YN giggles as she allows Harry to pull her up to sit, he slips off the table, “I didn’t want to get massage oil on it. It makes the diamond all foggy and I have to take it to the jeweler to get it cleaned then.”

“Hey,” Harry grips her chin, buttoning their lips together for a long moment, “Happy anniversary. I love you and I hope this met your expectations of the scene you were fantasizing about. I’m just glad your fantasies are with me.”

“I’m in love with you, have been for ages and never plan not to be. It was absolutely perfect but now I’m worried I’ll get greedy for more,” YN laughs as she spreads her loegs once again, letting Harry start to wipe her off with a warm towel he takes from the towel warmer that’s conveniently in the room.

“You’re always greedy,” Harry argues gently, blinking up at her, “I don’t think I’ll ever be able to walk into this room again without getting a hard-on.”

YN shakes her head with another bout of laughter, “You’re going to be fucked. I have a lot of fantasys about fucking a gym owner.” “Mm,” Harry rumbles as he tosses the towel, his touches getting more full of intent once again, “Lucky you’re married to one, hm?”

+

whew. i hope you enjoyed!

now if you are confused about anything the synoposis - harry and yn are a married couple, they own a gym, and yn wants to roleplay masseuse/client for their anniversary. there is no cheating!

now i recommend going back and reading it and finding all the little hints that they were married couple the whole time.

i would super love to know your feedback on it

[trinketstar]

The Amazing Toybox Circus!

A storybook - Part 1

Once upon a time, there was a very old toy shop.

An unremarkable sort of place with very few visitors. The shelves were lined with antique curiosities which had collected dust over the years.

Among these, atop a colorful wooden toy chest, was a simple kaleidoscope. It was inscribed with a strange design of teeth and eyes, and a poem about a magical circus.

...

Now, one might imagine the type of person would walk into such a place. Perhaps someone who has worked far too hard. Someone who feels unsatisfied with the tedium of every day life, and who longs for an escape into the fantastical world of imagination that playthings can inspire. This sort of person might look through a kaleidoscope and dream, just for a moment, of a new life filled with bright color, of fun and adventure.

This was the sort of person who suddenly woke up on the floor, surrounded by darkness and extremely confused.

Feeling dizzy and thoughts hazy, she righted herself and began to wander. A soft jingling noise followed her with every step, though she paid it no mind. There were more pressing issues at the moment.

She strained her mind trying to remember how she could have possibly ended up here. She clearly remembered entering a toy shop, but her thoughts beyond this were blank besides a vivid image of swirling colors. Red and blue spirals. All she knew at the moment was that she felt terribly afraid, and very very small.

Timidly, she called out-

"HELLO, MY NEWEST SUPERSTAR!"

An enormous wooden ventriloquist dummy suddenly burst from the shadows. His painted eyes gleamed, one blue, one green. His wooden teeth chattered as he loomed overhead. He pulled a white balloon on a string, which sported an equally large toothy grin.

The sight was positively terrifying.

"Welcome to the amazing toybox circus!"

"The ... the toybox what?" She squeaked in response.

"Why, the toybox circus of course! You're sure to have a grand time, my dear! " She was suddenly lifted up to meet his unsettling wooden gaze.

"My name is Caine! I'm your ringmaster," he continued at an unnecessarily loud volume.

"My dear, you've entered a wonderful world of whimsy and adventure, where anything can happen! Soon you'll meet your new friends and we shall put on a show!"

He spun her around before setting her down on the floor again.

The girl was speechless. Be part of a circus? Led by a talking puppet? Surely this was all a strange dream!

"I'm sorry, sir," she eventually said, somehow managing to speak politely considering the circumstances. "But I really must be getting home! If you'd kindly show me the way-"

"Oh but you simply must stay for the performance, my dear! I've prepared all sorts of activities that are sure to delight! Oh the audience will love you! You shall be the star attraction!"

The puppet was very insistent. At a loss, the girl considered her options were either to continue wandering the darkness or to trust this "ringmaster". Now she was an intelligent young lady, but she was also a curious sort. After all, curiosity was what brought her here in the first place, and curiosity compelled her to see what would happen next...

So despite better judgement, she finally said -

Hesitant but hopeful. Perhaps this would be interesting? At the very least, she could play along until finding a way out of this strange place, out of the toyshop and back home. Or until she woke up, as this was likely a dream after all.

"At any rate, this may be fun," she hoped out loud.

Something cackled from atop a large shelf. The silhouette was that of a rabbit, but with a wide yellow grin.

"Heh HEH! You'll soon see, little clown," he said, before hopping out of sight.

What an odd place this was...

----part 2 coming soon!

[occamstfs]

Wine Drunk

Terry's favorite show's coming on and he forgot to get weed. Opting to try Stepford Valley Merlot instead, from the first sip he's hooked and in no time he begins to understand the world from his ex's refined point of view.

As requested, here's a slightly darker TF: stoner to an arrogant, dignified professional. Had fun mixing it up in topic and tone, hope you enjoy! -Occam

The livestream starts in just under an hour. Terry can’t believe he let himself run out of weed just before the finale of his favorite actual play’s DND campaign. Turning his bedroom upside down in search of some discarded nug or misplaced joint, he double checks that his dealer’s out of town before resigning to watching the actual play sober. 

Crossing his arms and whining to no one, Terry slaps himself and laughs as he remembers that being high is not the only option. He’ll just drink! Not quite remembering when he last bought his go-to beer or hard seltzers he rushes to the fridge and his eyes light up as he sees an open box lying in wait for this rainiest of days.

Wide grin plastered on his face he’s already self-congratulating when he bumps the cold cardboard end of the now obviously empty carton. 0 for 2. Groaning at his, decidedly not unusual, lack of preparedness Terry yanks the beerless box out and tosses it vaguely in the direction of his trash.

Throwing his head back to sulk as the refuse plods to the floor, only then does Terry notice the sole remaining mind altering substance available to him. Pointedly out of sight is a bottle of wine that has been collecting dust since his ex Ev broke up with him. Or no, he only went by Everett then since pet names are apparently too childish. It was a gift from his then boyfriend as he was dumping Terry. 

It takes a couple attempts hopping up for Terry to reach the bottle he was saving to never actually drink. Confronted with the label he grimaces as he sees a small scene of two suited men at a table, glasses raised. Stepford Valley Merlot. The name is not lost on the stoner. Seeing too much of the man Ev became in that artsy logo, Terry can’t help but take an expedited trip down memory lane.

For the first year they were dating they had made perfect sense as a couple, Everett had always been the more put together of the two of them but even then he was always happy to cut loose. To, you know, be a human being. Then his dad offered him some paralegal job and it was like he became a completely different man. 

First he quit lighting up, which was fine. More for me Terry joked at the time. Ev didn’t laugh. Then he quit hanging out with Terry and their friends, started going by Everett, introducing himself as Mr. Dubois even. Near the end he stopped coming over at all. After about a month of Terry doing the heavy lifting that fucker sent him an EMAIL to meet at a cafe. 

He hardly looked up from his work as he explained. Terry’s boyfriend was almost unrecognizable, wearing thick rimmed glasses and a suit, more gel than keratin in his hair. Wearing a suit that he would have been drowning in weeks earlier. It was like a meeting with a manager, like a performance review. Terry got the feeling if he made a scene that Everett wouldn’t even acknowledge it. That he’d just close his laptop and move onto the next appointment. 

God. Just thinking about it makes Terry want to smoke. Looking at his reflection in the dark bottle, he has to fight the urge to toss the drink doled out to him like severance from a man who was at one point the love of his life. Stepford Valley, it seems like a joke. But he wonders if that glassy eyed man even still had a sense of humor. 

Something in the back of Terry’s mind wonders if he should even drink the swill. He hates wine, and more importantly, he’s never been able to fight the suspicion that something unnatural happened to Ev. What if drinking this stuff is what did him in? Fuckkk though, if he didn’t need a drink for his show he certainly needs one now after reflecting on that humiliating break up. His truly pathetic attempts to remind Ev- Everett that he loved him.

Each second spent in recollection only makes him crave mind-numbing release. Clenching his fists, Terry tells himself he’s not going to let his ex get him down, with little pomp Terry begins tearing through drawers in search of a corkscrew. He’s going to down this stupid bottle and be done with Ev, done with Mr. Everett Dubois, for good.

Unfortunately for the habitual stoner, given his disdain for fine booze, he absolutely does not have the necessary tool to open the bottle. Checking the internet for other options he goes for the lighter always in his pocket and sets to pop the cork with a smoker’s touch. Spinning the bottle to evenly heat the neck, he smirks as he imagines what the rich asshole his ex became would be saying upon seeing his surely expensive goods being handled like this.

After about a minute of slightly burning his fingertips to see if the glass was heating up, the cork begins to poke out enough for him to try and pull it out. Careful to not singe his fingertips anymore than he already has, Terry messily pulls it out and spills the first drops of his wine on the palm of his hand. 

Giving the cork a sniff his nose twitches from how intensely it stings his sinuses. Nevertheless, he goes to lap at the few droplets in his palm. His eyes dilate as soon as the dark wine graces his tongue. Ambrosia would be too repugnant a label for the taste now firing off every pleasure receptor in his mouth. 

Lapping quickly turns to sucking at his palm to ensure he enjoys every haphazard stain of the wine on his hand. “Man, shitttt-” Terry can’t believe he’s always written the stuff off as expensive piss. It’s otherworldly. The small amount he’s enjoyed so far coats his mouth like a film. He can scarcely think for the desperate, all-encompassing need to have more.

Turning back to the bottle on the counter, he tries to remember the last time he gave merlot a go. He swore he hated it, or he thought he did? His eye twitches as he reaches for the bottle. Inching slower than it ought. There’s suddenly a thick haze over his thoughts and he tries to dispute the idea that he’s not already drunk before he’s shunted into a memory. 

He sees his boyfriend, dressed “casually,” the sweater tied around his neck is more than enough to signal that this is not Ev. Although, as Terry tries to muster rage, some show of force against this recalled, no- dreamed form of his ex, he cannot still the crashing waves of admiration from this man. So dashing, respectable. Something within him almost speaks out, to denigrate not his behavior, but his tennis shoes of all things.

As if reading his mind, Everett acknowledges this, “There dress sneakers.” Spoken as immutable truth, no humor behind his words, the Dubois scion waves a hand and Everett feels himself thrown into the chair opposite himself. He then raises a glass to Terry, “To our rekindled partnership-” Would that he had the ability to spit on this asshole.

Unfortunately, Terry’s body only has the ability to obey. Terry throws everything within himself to halt his hand slowly raising a cup to his mouth, scowling at the aloof face of his ex. Resistance wanes however as he feels something shift on his arm and sneaks a peak. As he uncontrollably mimics the man raising a toast, he sees creeping up his arm is a suit he couldn’t dream to afford. Nor would he want to.

Fighting against a rigid neck that demands he continue staring at Everett, Terry forces himself to look down and inspect his outfit. Before he’s able to feel the stark white button-up or perfectly fitted pants, he hears his once suitor speak up, “Oh Terrance, you’ll have all the time in the world to worry about your new style. For now simply allow me to congratulate you on your new position. I always knew you too would find your way under father’s wing.”

Terry feels a smile creep across his own face as his eyes strain watching Everett speak in that cold, professional tone. He tries to wipe it off his own face as he realizes he is mimicking the too-wide bleached smile that currently rests on Everett’s face. Sweat dripping down his brow as he tries to enact any kind of will upon the world, he can only watch as Everett Dubois raises his glass to his face, exposing his bleached smile, canines only slightly too large. “Bottom’s up Terrance.”

And then he’s back. Rubbing his face and feeling the scratch of stubble against his sweaty palms, his head pounds with a headache. He hasn’t needed to smoke this bad in months. He can’t quite remember whatever dream or memory he just suffered through, but it has certainly left him, in lieu of a joint, desperately wanting a drink. Moving less than consciously, Terry opens a cabinet to find row after row of pristine wine glasses.

He didn’t even have a corkscrew! Absolutely shocked to find the visibly expensive dishware, Terry yanks one to inspect closer which sends a small note flitting to the floor. He purses his lips as he sees it addressed to himself and decorated with a wax seal he knows instinctively is Everett Dubois’. Changing plans, he carefully sets down his wine glass and stoops to pick up the note. 

Obviously he’s not going to read it, the thought didn’t even cross his mind. No, as soon as it’s in his hands he goes to tear it. Or at least, he tries to. His forearms strain from effort but his fingers fail to even shift the expensive parchment, totally unwavering. He doesn’t even crack the wax seal in the process.

Frustrated at whatever psychological block is preventing him from tearing his ex’s note to shreds, he almost forgets how strange it is that there are suddenly crystal wine glasses filling his cabinet. Steaming with irritation he has half a mind to toss the whole set in the bin. Before reaching towards the bottom shelf to do so, he’s hit with a strong whiff of the wine resting on the counter. 

Mouth drier than the merlot, Terry looks up to find his glass has been filled to the widest point of the glass. His eyes narrow as he wonders to himself, “d- did I do that?” No, he would’ve surely filled the glass more. And so he does, slightly shaky hands reach to the expensive bottle and fill the glass almost to the brim. Mystery wine glasses and some stogy note from an asshole suddenly matter much less.

Overfilled glass of wine in front of him, what is he to do but drink? 

The world aside from the glass now rising to his mouth fades into nothing. His vision is washed away by a tidal wave of dark violet as he begins to guzzle the whole cup. His mind is buzzing from ecstasy as he swallows gulp after gulp of the wine. Not even taking pause to breath, the merlot trickles from his gaping mouth and begins to stain his messy stubble.

Finishing his chug with a few seconds of heavy breathing, he wipes his face with his arm and his whole form suddenly prickles with goosebumps. Almost shivering from sudden discomfort he grimaces as he takes in purple stain across his arm. And then, even worse, he sees a blotchy stain on his shirt, obviously spilled during his sloppy go at that overfilled glass.

So distracted by the slight blotch now decorating an already slightly stained shirt, he doesn’t even notice that with each gulp of the wine his outfit had entirely changed. Long gone are the shabby clothes he woke up in this morning. With each heavy slurp of that exquisite wine the stained sleeves of his tee shirt extend towards his hairy wrists, capturing his forearms in stogy linen.

As the wine settles his boxers tighten into briefs to perfectly contain his hair-trigger package while cheap, holey pajama pants stiffen into decidedly casual khaki pants. No show socks that the man has worn for days on end darken beyond their slightly yellowed pallor before spreading upward and tightening, encasing his undefined calves like a vice. Terry’s hands reflexively go to tighten the tie and hide his pathetic stain. Thank god I wasn’t in the office today.

Before he can even realize the strange thought that flowed through his mind, his shoulders burn with tension as he sees that small wine stain begin to spread. Not acknowledging he now wears a shirt more expensive than whole drawers of his dresser, he is possessed with discomfort at being caught in this visibly stained shirt.

Sweat dewing on his brow from the stress, that strange voice rises once more from some unknown corner of his mind comes a voice, harsh and clinical, criticizing him. I should not have filled the glass to such an exorbitant degree. Nor should I have indulged in drinking it in such a manner. It was unbecoming. Foolish. 

Stumbling to the bathroom, Terry tries to find where these strange thoughts are coming from. Sure he’s self-critical, who isn’t, but he’s home alone? He’d never be so pressed about how he looks, fuck he doesn’t even care about appearence when he goes out? This introspection comes to a halt as he arrives in front of a mirror, hands already tearing the stained top off his upper body. Faced with his bare chest and well, his face, Terry finds those intrusive thoughts only taking up more dominance in his mind.

Leaning in close his wine-stained lips squirm into a frown as he thoroughly inspects his patchy stubble. Eugh- did he go out looking like this!? Terry scowls as he pulls his face back, seeing his jaw ever so slightly more defined as the barely a beard on his face fills him with further irritation. No. No that simply will not do. 

Eyes shift upward and Terry makes eye contact with his own reflection. They’re sharper than they should be given the lightweight’s already one drink deep. Like he’s staring into someone else’s piercing gaze. Uncomfortable with this he allows his eyes fall to inspect the small blotchy stain left on his chest. 

Terry nearly falls to the floor as, beyond the stain being totally absent, so too is the chest he knows to be his. In place of his thin, void of strength chest has burst two pecs. Nothing obscene of course, just dignified fit muscle. What is expected of a Dubois man. Despite the thought coming in his own voice now, he knows it is not his own. He feels his hair pulling back into a coif more respectable as the heavy wine sits heavy in his stomach. His eyes fly back to his face where he sees his own face smiling back at him.

And then he’s in another place.

Startled, sees his fear-filled face reflected in a place that can only hope is in his own mind. Unlike the last memory, dream, whatever, Terry finds he has the ability to move. Theoretically that is. When he sets off to flee, he hears the cry of a man crouched beneath him, “Good Sir! How am I supposed to measure your fine calves if you give me the runabout!?”

Hands shaking as his face tinges a deep redd, Terry takes in his surroundings as well as he can without receiving another reprimand from the man he now recognizes as a tailor. As Everett’s tailor. Carefully learning everything he can from his vantage point, Terry gulps at expensive fabrics hanging around him and meticulous pins in the handmade suit that now rests upon his form. No, not his form . Looking down he knows he’s too tall, his hands too large, his feet thinner and longer. He fights against labelling these changes as improvements.  

Then his shaky pupils find the man who must be tormenting him. Reposed, reading a newspaper with a glass of wine resting on the table next to him is Everett Dubois. An arrogant smirk crosses his face as soon as notices him, “Looking swell Terrance.” he says without looking up, his tone nothing but transactional.

Gritting his teeth, Terry is not going to allow himself to be a plaything of that fucking smug asshole. Flexing his new found willpower he voices his displeasure, or rather he tries to. Discovered only after he begins his verbal assault, when he speaks a new voice spills from his mouth, deeper, smoother, and cordial. “Mr. Browne, I trust it wouldn’t bother you if for a moment Mr. Dubois and I were to have the room?” 

The tailor wipes his brow with a handkerchief and nods with a forced smile, looking at Terry as if he had precisely the same status as the rich jerk in the chair opposite him. Bowing out he grabs his notes and shuts the door to his workroom behind him. Terry hears Everett folding his paper before he turns to see him.

In a stark departure from the blithe smile or clinical passivity, now there is a clear look of irritation on Everett’s face as he turns to Terry and waves a hand, “You have the floor Mr. Albrecht.” Terry flinches as he says the name, that’s not his name. At least Terrance is his name, as much as he loathes when Everett uses it, but Albrecht- that’s not- He’s not?

Everett pauses to check his watch before returning to stare at, stare through Terry. “Any moment now Terrance. Not that money is an issue but you do know we pay Browne by the hour.” No his last name is Alb- No that’s not it, it’s not him! He stomps his foot petulantly before it freezes in place as he can feel his volition being stripped away under Everett Dubois’ gaze.

With some degree of effort he pulls his hands up and stares at those unfamiliar digits. Too long, too smooth. He turns his palms up to look for a long-standing scar that should be there, from a joke gone wrong with a lighter. He remembers Everett laughing, helping him with the burn, babying him. Nothing like the cold man before him.

“Terrance Albrecht. I worry that you are not taking this opportunity as seriously as you should. You know father only employs the best.” Everett stands, something real glimmering behind his stoic face as he reaches for Terry’s hands. He pulls the man down from the alteration platform by his tie, forcing Terry to confront the fact that he’s now as tall as the man who always stood a head taller. “You need to do this for me Terrance, for us.”

Terry tries to shake his head, this isn’t him, this will never be him. But with each passing moment the outfit begins to feel more right against him. It shifts to fit, the sound of fabric adjusts in real time. Cufflinks glimmer on his wrists as polished leather shines on his perfectly sized oxfords. Pants perfectly sit on his lithe waist, masking his respectable package and only hinting at his toned ass.

His three piece tightens to highlight his new, masculine but refined figure. Everett leans in even closer, almost forehead to forehead as he simply breaths. Mouth ajar he fills Terrance’s lungs with his own breath. Terry has no recourse but to breathe and enjoy it, clean with the undercurrent of Stepford wine clear as day. Terrance tries to fight back as each fresh breath of Everett’s essence leaves him less able to resist. 

He feels his messy haircut that has long been retracting sheer itself into something presentable, hugging his head with a helmet of gel just like he so hated on Everett. His eye twitches as that thought is removed, of course he didn't. How could he hate Everett’s look? After all, he styled himself to look as upstanding as Mr. Dubois, his love- No. No. Everett dumped him. Everett dumped him for being a-

Terrance shakes his head at the incongruence, the ability to move fully returning as he finds himself back in his bathroom. His mind pounds with pressure as it holds the memories of two lives at once. With each shake though, Terrance discards that life that is no longer of use, that life that is no longer his. 

He pauses to smile at just how sharp he looks, how clean. Rubbing fingers across his smooth jaw he makes a note to thank Everett for the razor and shaving cream recommendations. His brow automatically furrows at the idea. Is that so, Everett? Didn’t Everett? Adjusting his shirt he closes his eyes and tries to focus on that strange deja vu of his old self fading away. 

Sighing Terrance washes his hands before leaving the bathroom, using a bar of soap that had never been there before. Carefully drying his hands on a monogrammed hand towel, he can’t put his finger on the discomfort still filling his chest. Ah how foolish of him, of course, how could he forget he just needs to smoke. 

Rushing to his bedroom where a rolling tray should be, he takes care not to let his posture slacken. Heavy footsteps echo as he bounds down a hallway longer than his apartment should be able to hold.  Finally he arrives at the master bedroom, alien and familiar at once. Only upon seeing the perfectly made bed and neat-beyond-neat desk does he realize just how laughable his actions were.

Rolling tray? Smoke!? What is this, undergrad!? Even that seems laughable that he’d stoop to such a drug even at his lowest. He places his hand upon his honed torso and laughs. Shoulders heaving as for some reason tears begin to leak from his eyes. It echoes boisterous and hollow to his ears as he takes the handkerchief from his pocket to dab at his eyes.

The young Albrecht must have been thinking of a cigar, though he has little desire to raid his humidor. No he should stick with his wine. Catching his reflection in a mirror stationed like a sentry in his bedroom, he shivers at the idea of going on without a jacket. A Dubois man must always be prepared or perhaps more importantly, look immaculate. Making the brisk walk back to his den he sees that opened bottle of Stepford wine and smiles devilishly. 

Checking his phone he pats his thigh at the fortune, he’s precisely on time for the start of his show. With little consideration he reaches for two new glasses from his cabinet. At last, with a heavy sigh of contentment, Terrance turns to see the television as it flashes on. 

Terrance’s smile wavers as he sees his show flicker on screen. Tight lips twitch as he slowly shakes his head. Surely he wouldn’t be watching this drivel? Some decidedly juvenile fok sitting around a table laughing? Playing with dice? Their laughter is enough to invoke  a migraine. He can’t help but groan at the idea he’d waste time with such- hysterics. No this simply will not do. 

Hearing a knock at the door he quickly switches the program off, if ‘program’ is not too generous of an appellate, lest his mystery guest see such a thing on his television. He hears his door open as said visitor let himself in. Knowing only Everett would be so bold as to intrude in such a manner, Terrance begins to pour two glasses of wine.

Hearing the clink of Mr. Dubois' shoes against the polished hardwood, Terrance turns to offer the gentleman at precisely the opportune moment. “Why Mr. Albrecht, you shouldn’t have!” Grabbing Terrance by the tie with his freehand, he pulls his lesser into a kiss before taking a respectable sip, “You look as splendid as ever my good sir.”

After kissing the man, Everett reaches down to offer a firm handshake. Something buried within Terrance tries to object, demand acknowledgement of how strange that is, how impossibly bizarre all of this is, but the flicker doesn’t even register as Terrance struggles to remember what exactly the pair were to do. Hoping that Everett doesn’t accidentally discover whatever pedestrian tripe was on his television. 

Luckily, his partner pulls out a laptop from his briefcase and taps the chair beside him. “Come now Albrecht. The sooner we finish father’s task the sooner we can begin, well- you know.” Terrance makes his way over as his mind is filled with memories of his work under Mr. Dubois Sr. 

Of course, he and Everett have been tasked with picking the new partner. His eyes haze as he remembers himself getting the call up not too long ago, and at such a prodigious age! Why, he knew his familiarity with his dear Everett, would pay dividends but-

“Terrance? Are you ready to get to work,” Terrance promptly ceases his waxing and wryly shoots back, “Of course Everett, only I’m not the one with the mouse am I now.” Both men laugh more than they should at what is barely a joke, before getting down to business. Time to pick the soul that will be launched into the lofty heights they now enjoy.

In spite of himself, Terrance feels something unbecoming begin to rise within himself. Nerves perhaps, his eyes shifting between the small text of resumes on the screen and the half-scowl on his partner’s taciturn face. Under his few layers he begins to sweat, thankfully at this point the man’s odor is more akin to cologne than musk. An eye twitches as he feels the siren song of need.

Taking another sip of wine, Terrance imagines smoking a cigar with Everett on the balcony once they find the perfect candidate. He bites his tongue before releasing an unseemly complaint that this is unnecessary, any selection will be thoroughly remade into an actually perfect man for Dubois Sr. anyway. In this brief pause neurons fire as he almost remembers what happened to him, who he was, the barest hint of some loud skunky scent almost breaking through the veil.

Questioning the boss would certainly not be proper. No, he was simply thinking of cigars. He can almost feel one in his mouth right now, another spent on the daydream he imagines another similar object he plans to have in his mouth as soon as they choose whatever lucky man is to join their glorious organization. Everett hones in on a mousy paralegal before turning to get his partner’s approval. Mouth full of Stepford Valley wine, Terrance simply nods, certainly not betraying his distraction. Frivolity is unbecoming. One must remain dignified after all.

[sweetbans29]

Back to You (2) - CC Series

Pairing: Caitlin Clark x Reader

Summary: Who knew Indianapolis would feel so small...

Warnings: little pains

Word Count: 2.1k

Previous - Next

Back to You Masterlist & Sweetbans Masterlist

2.5 YEARS LATER

Moving to Indiana was not your first choice. It also wasn't your second or third for that matter but here you are.

You stand in your new apartment, looking around at all the empty space you are going to have to fill. You hate filling space.

"Yo, where are you going to want this?" Kate comes walking in holding a lamp.

"Well considering there is no furniture here yet, I'd say the middle of the living room floor should do," you say sarcastically.

"Ha ha ha, very funny," she says as she places it on the kitchen counter. Claire comes through the door with a small box and places it next to the lamp.

"Okay, once the movers get here with the hauler I will have them working from the bedroom out. We will need to go to Target and a few other stores to get all the smaller stuff," Claire says. You are beyond glad that she is here to help, also that she has an eye for filling space.

"I think that is my queue to go grab food," Kate says as she picks up her keys and shuffles her way to the door.

You shoot Kate a glare but know that you can't go without food for much longer.

Over the next few hours your apartment slowly starts to look inhabitable. The following few hours are spent shopping for things that you know are just going to collect dust but don't say a word about because Claire seems to be really enjoying herself.

After you drove away from Caitlin, you did everything you could to make it seem like nothing had changed. To everyone around you, nothing had changed - they had no idea your world had just been torn apart and run over. The only thing that has changed is you stopped going to basketball games. You came up with every excuse in the books to get yourself out of sitting in a stadium where everyone was cheering on your girl - who used to be your girl.

It took Kate halfway through the season to figure out what had happened and when she did - she ran straight to you. It all started to make sense in her mind, why you weren't at games and never really around anymore. She never suspected anything because Caitlin seemed so normal.

When Kate confronted you about Caitlin - you broke down in front of someone for the first time over the girl you loved. She sat there and listened to every word you said and she was infuriated but she never left your side. She had every intention of confronting Caitlin but you begged her not to. It was already hard enough to pretend like you haven't been struggling to survive.

Ever since then, you made Kate swear that she wouldn't let what Caitlin did to you get in the way of her relationship with her teammate. And Kate kept her promise - even if it took her a while to look at Caitlin the same again. Kate did an above and beyond job at maintaining both of your friendships and it is because of that ability that you consider her your only real friend.

After getting back from all the shopping and taking orders from Claire on where to put everything you got all around your apartment, the three of you collapsed on your couch.

"I don't know how I could ever thank you both for helping me with all of this," you say.

"It was my genuine pleasure," Claire says with the biggest smile. You smile back and hear Kate groan.

"I am never doing that again," Kate says, causing Claire to hit her shoulder.

The three of you laugh all sharing in the fact that Kate did the least amount of work. You all fall into a comfortable silence and it begins to hit you. You are now living in the Caitlin Clark center of the world.

Over the next few weeks you settle into the new city, doing everything you can to avoid Gainbridge Fieldhouse even though you know you will be there sooner or later considering that is now your new place of work. If you had a choice, you would be working for any other WNBA team building out there - hell, you even looked into every NBA building option. But you didn't have much say when your executive director said they wanted you in Indiana, that is where you were forced to go.

Aside from it being home to the one person you try your best to avoid, the job you are stepping into is one of your dreams. You worked day and night to get to where you are and you are super proud of how far you have come in the short time after college. Becoming the Director of Player Relations for Gainbridge Fieldhouse, you knew you would only be able to dodge Clark for so long.

You have settled into your office and have made your rounds to introduce yourself to your new team. You have even started connecting with the Fever players which has been quite eventful. You first met Aliyah Boston and connected immediately. You tried not too but ended up fan-girling over her TikTok's. She tried to get you to join one but you refused, not wanting to be the cause of her losing followers due to your horrible dancing.

You then got some time with Natasha Howard and Kelsey Mitchell. Both of whom loved your intentionality and vision for how management can support the players.

You have met the rest of the team, minus a certain someone, in passing making sure to figure out a time to connect. At this point, you assumed that Caitlin knew you were in the building but haven't seen her yet to confirm.

Today's the day that all changes. At least that is what you are telling yourself since it is the first game of the season.

After getting to Gainbridge, you planned to take some time in your office before heading down to the floor but the second you walk in the door you are swept to do 20 different things. Before you know it, you are on the floor as the team runs out for final warm-ups.

Walkie in hand, you do everything in your power to stay busy the second you have a moment to breathe. As much as you want to breathe, you don't want to see that girl plastered all over this arena. You keep your head down and find your shoes uncharacteristically interesting.

A hand graces your shoulder and you peek up to see your assistant looking at you with soft eyes and in that moment you feel like you are back in college - broken and hiding.

"Hey Ben, what's up?" You ask, trying to shake the pit in your stomach.

"One would think after a few seasons this would feel normal," Ben says as he looks around at the crowds.

"This will never be normal, it will always be special. Trust me," you say. It comes out just above a whisper. Ben smiles at you and you smile back, shifting your eyes from Ben to the court for the first time. With the amount of people in this place you are certain you will blend into the background.

Big mistake.

As your eyes hit the court, they are met with all too familiar brown ones. Your smile fades as your eyes lock on hers. Both of you froze in time. It feels like your eyes are locked for hours but in the 5 seconds of gripping despair your breath is taken from you and you feel the air sucked from your lungs. You turn away and take a hold of Ben's arm.

"I left something in my office, I have to grab it" you say as you begin to walk towards the back.

"I can go get it, you should be here when they announce the players - it's thrilling," Ben says with a smile.

"No, no, I got it," you insist and continue walking. You feel like you are suffocating.

When you get to your office you close the door and turn the lights off. Back against the door, you sink to the floor and bring your head to your knees.

Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.

You sit there for who knows how long. When you feel your heart calm and your breath steady - you stand. Even after 2+ years of not seeing her, she still controls your heart. You grab your walkie and head back out.

You have no idea how much of the game has passed. As you are walking back out the tunnel an arm grabs you and pulls you into a small room.

"What the-", you begin but shut up immediately when you are met face to face with Caitlin.

She is looking down at you, hand still on your arm. Her fingertips brush the exposed skin on your forearm - a gesture you both were all too familiar with.

Neither of you say anything, not knowing what to say. You have imagined this moment every day since getting to Indy and now that you are here and alone for that matter, nothing comes out.

Caitlin hesitates but unlike your last meeting she brings her free hand up to brush her fingers against your cheek and her thumb against your bottom lip. You want to pull away but you lean in ever so slightly - she is too familiar.

Your eyes close as you feel your heart break all over again.

Caitlin can't take her eyes off of you. This feels like a dream, she has thought time and time again of how different things would have been if she cared more about you and less about the world. Cait continues to rub her thumb against your bottom lip until she feels a wet sensation meet her fingers. Her eyebrows furrow then ease when she realizes it's a tear.

She opens her mouth to say something, not that you had any reason to listen but she had to try. Before she can, the door opens and Steve pokes his head in.

"The second half is starting," Steve says and leaves right after.

Before Caitlin can do anymore damage, you step away from her. You don't look her in the eye - you can't. You see Caitlins hands grip the bottom of her jersey, just like they did the last time the two of you talked.

The last thing that Caitlin wants to do is walk away from you right now but she knows she doesn't have a choice. You watch as she makes her way to the door, stopping right before it and leaning her head against it.

You don't know why but before you stop yourself you find yourself reaching out and brushing one of her fly away hairs. It is now her turn to close her eyes. You pull her headband down and smooth some of her fly aways back before sliding it back onto her head. You bring your hands to her shoulders, giving them two squeezes like you would before every game to regulate her thoughts.

There is a soft knock at the door and you know Caitlin really needs to go but she doesn't move. She finally opens her eyes and you know she is doing everything she can to keep herself together.

She doesn't deserve your comfort. Both of you know it.

"Go," you say. It comes out softer than you intend - not that it was intended to be harsh.

She nods and reaches to open the door. Before letting herself out, she speaks.

"I would do anything to go back to that night," she says.

"Cait stop," you say, not wanting to do this right now. Not when she has to go out and finish a game.

"No," she says and turns to face you again. "That was the biggest mistake of my life and things are different now-"

The door opens and Caitlin is cut off.

"Clark, get your ass back out on that floor," one of the coaches comes in, grabbing her and dragging her out. You go unnoticed as you watch Caitlin be pulled out mid conversation.

Different? What could possibly be different now?

You have blocked her out of your life so much that you have no idea what is going on in hers. You shake your head - nothing has changed. This moment changed nothing. She is still the Caitlin that blindsided you and you did not spend the last two and a half years rebuilding your life to be broken again.

You grab your walkie and head back out, lighter than you have felt in a while.

The Fever lost that night and you can only hope that you had nothing to do with it.

AN: Part 2 in the books. Let me know what you think! And as always, thank you for your love and support 🤍

Next

[b3ach-bunn7]

SUPER SHY (2/?)

You’re in desperate need of a bassist, and the only person available in the rumoured arsonist at your school.

Highschool!au, no quirks, bassist touya (angst this chapter)

—————————————————————————-

Touya is so distracting.

He’s laying on your bed, bass forgotten and collecting dust on the floor. A game of solitaire is open on his phone (again) and the sound of the cards shuffling are the only thing interrupting the silence that has enveloped the room. He’s not actually talking or saying anything, but just his presence in your room is enough to keep you distracted. The curve of his bicep as he rests his arm behind his head, the white curls of hairs falling into his eyes. You hate with everything in you how attractive he is.

The show is tomorrow night. You and Touya have perfected every song, and all that’s left now is to practise with the band. You figured you’d get in a last minute run-through before the two of you went over, which is why he’s at your house in the first place. That, and you also need to prepare him before he meets the rest of the band.

There’s only three others. Aizawa, Nana, and Ren. You’d all been friends for years, and met at the school's theatre production when you were freshman. You were all bushy-tailed and bright eyed, excited to be involved, also the youngest ones who had tried out for the band. Of course, you all had very minor parts being as young as you were, but it led to a friendship group you’d stuck out with all these years later. You all had similar interest and an undying love for music, and so a band just seemed like the viable next step. You’re sure they’ll all get along well with Touya. 

Ren might be your only issue. 

He’s protective over you. You’re ninety percent sure it’s because he has a little thing for you, if Nana’s constant teasing has any truth to it. That, and you think he and Shigaraki, one of Touya's closest friends, had some sort of trouble last year. But it should be fine. It’ll be fun.

Touya must notice your staring, because his eyes trail over to yours, impossibly blue under impossibly long eyelashes.

“You alright there?”

You roll your eyes at him. “We’re supposed to be practising. The show is tomorrow, you know.”

Touya scoffs. He doesn't move from his position on your bed, eyes still glued to his phone. You grab a pen from your desk and throw it at him.

He grunts. “Stop.”

“You stop playing solitaire and practise.” Your tone is scolding, but your resolve is weak, already breaking.

Touya grins at you behind his phone, lazy and teasing, clearly sensing how easily you’ll be swayed.

“Aw, come on. You know you wanna ditch it too.”

You hum under your breath. You mumble something about a bad influence, but it only takes a few more words for you to get off your desk and clamber onto your bed, sitting beside him. You lean a little closer and watch him as he picks up his phone and resumes the game.

“You can move the five there.” 

He makes a noise in thanks. This close, the smell of his cologne, something woodsy and fresh, infiltrates your nose. He’s wearing only a black vest, a wifebeater as he loves to call it. He always runs hot, you’ve discovered, his blood always burning beneath his veins. Even though it’s only the start of spring, the sun peeking behind the clouds is enough heat for him to walk around half nude. Not that you necessarily mind. 

He’s also comfortable enough to expose his skin to you, scars and all, a fact that leaves a warmth in your chest you can’t explain.

The comfortable atmosphere is broken when you feel him reach into his pocket for a pack of cigarettes. You sit up almost immediately and he tenses in preparation.

“No, no, Touya, you are not smoking in my room again!” You snatch them out his hand and he groans.

“Give me my cigarettes back, woman.” You smack his shoulder with them. 

“Don’t call me that. And no, last time you smoked in here, my room stank and my mum thought it was me.” You frown, remembering the argument that had followed.

“It’s fine, I’ll tell her it was me. Your mum loves me.”

Your mum actually does love him. And your dad, surprisingly. You figured it was about time you told them about the boy you’d been hanging out with so much, which led to a very impromptu dinner at yours. He survived it though, through your dads interrogations and your siblings' attempts to piss him off. It helped that he’d come with a fancy bottle of wine he’d taken from his dads place, and a bright smile you rarely seemed to pull out of him.

“Someone has to.”

He sticks his tongue out at you and his piercing glints in the light of your room. 

“Hey, the swellings gone down loads.” 

You’d gone with him to get it done, about a week ago. The place had smelt like disinfectant and the man who’d done the piercing had tattoos all up and down his arms. You’d felt a little nauseous watching the needle go down through his tongue, but he managed it all with only a bored look on his face. 

Touya sticks his tongue out further and you nod. 

“It looks cool.”

“I know. That's why I did it.” He taps the stud against his teeth.

You glance around his face. “You have so many piercings. How do you go through the metal detector at the airport?”

“Bold of you to assume they let me fly.” 

One on his eyebrow, one on his nose. You lose count.

You lean back on the bed and look up at him. “So how many do you have?”

He thinks for a second, before his eyes flit back to you. He fiddles with his eyebrow piercing and you wince as he pulls on it.

“Eight.”

“Okay. Eyebrow. Tongue.”

Your arm reaches up, pausing by his ear. He nods his approval and you brush his hair away from his ears.

“Two on each ear. Nose.”  You pause. “That’s seven. Where’s the last one?”

Touya’s eyes dart down towards his sweatpants. Your eyes follow, confused. He grins, and realisation hits you and your face burns red.

“What- Ew, Touya what the fuck!” You yell, pushing away from him.

His laugh rings out into the room, boisterous and loud. 

“God- I’m just fucking with you, look.” He starts pulling up his shirt and you screech.

“No, don’t get it out, you weirdo!” You cover your eyes but warm hands grip them and pull them down.

“Look, you idiot.” 

You look down quickly. And he has a belly button piercing.

“Oh. Okay. That’s. That’s unexpected, actually.”

He’s still holding your hands and his palms are soft against your wrists.

“Looks cool, though.” You clear your throat, sliding your arms back in your lap.

“I always look cool.” He pulls his shirt back down and you slightly mourn the free glimpse of his defined stomach.

“You’re so cringe. Who calls themself cool?” 

You lay back down and pluck his phone out his hand. You return to his game of solitaire, and he watches from your side, silently. A breeze flows in from your open window and Touya nudges your arm. 

“You should get a piercing.”

You make a noncommittal noise, eyes focused on the screen. You’re close to winning, if you could only get a red four.

“Mom would kill me.”

“You’d look hot, though.”

That is enough to get your attention. You click his phone shut and sit up, crossing your legs.

“You think so?”

He hums under his breath. He’s half upright against your pillows, and you have to actively look away before your mind wanders. 

“Yeah. Maybe, like.” He reached forward, and his thumb brushed against your top lip. “Here.”

The air in the room shifts as suddenly as he moves. You feel your face heat, and you nod slightly. 

“You think so?”

Your voice sounds a bit breathless and you’re embarrassed. He’s barely even touched you and you’re already acting up. 

“I do think so.” His voice has dropped an octave, and you know what he’s doing.

You’ve been hanging out with Touya almost everyday for the last two weeks, and the more you see him the more the little crush you’ve been developing grows. Can you be blamed? He’s attractive, he’s smart. He’s good with kids, too. You’ve seen Touya with his siblings, and despite how much he acts like he hates being an older brother, he loves spending time with them. And the way he takes care of his mother? You’re only human. 

“Well. Maybe.” You grab your phone out of your pocket and flip the camera on. Your finger trails over where his just did, and you try to envision yourself with a hoop around your lip. 

Touya sits up and scoots over to you slightly until he’s cross legged as well. Even sitting down he looms over you. He scratches his cheek absentmindedly, still staring at your face, eyes flitting between your features. You laugh, only a little nervous.

“It’s rude to stare, you know.”

Touya’s lip twitches into a smile. “I’m observing. What would suit you.” 

“Everything would suit me, I’m beautiful.” You joke.

Touya hums. “You are.”

You eye him suspiciously. “You’re being awfully nice today.”

“Sorry. You’re really fucking ugly.”

You snort a laugh. “Okay, okay. Enough about my beauty. We need to mentally prepare.”

“To meet your friends?”

You nod seriously. He fixes you with a quizzical look.

“It’s really not that serious.”

“It is.” You frown. “I want my friends to like you.”

Touya smiles a little. His hands are fiddling with the edge of the long joggers you have on. “And why’s that?”

“Because. They’re important to me, and I like you, so-“

“You like me?” He teases and you brush him off, ignoring the flutter in your chest.

“Not like that, you narcissist.”

“Right.”

You quickly take your phone out, pulling up Instagram. You open Nana’s page first. She is not shy to post, her page full of selfies and photo dumps, stacked up with highlights and a thousand followers. You find a picture of her and show Touya.

“This is Nana. She plays keys, and she’s also my best friend.” You say.

He nods, swiping through the post you pulled up. “She’s cute.”

You’re making a face before you know it, and you quickly try to fix it before he notices. He does, of course. He never misses anything.

“She is. Yes.” You take the phone back, finding another page.

“This is Ren.”

Ren’s page is much like Nana’s, if a little more refined. His page is all shirtless selfies and pictures of his car. His following count is also quite high, full of practically every girl at your school.

“This is Ren. He plays drums.”

Touya sighs. “Him.”

“You know Ren?”

Touya bites his bottom lip, thinking. “Well. Kind of. Shiggy and him got into some shit last year, so we all don’t like him.”

You feel a little panicked at that. “But- But you’re all supposed to be friends. You can’t not like him. And he-“

“Chill out, Y/N.” He says softly. “It’ll be fine. As long as he doesn’t piss me off.”

You decide to ignore that to save yourself the stress. You don’t bother to try to find Aizawa’s page, because it’s barren. He has about fifteen followers, and no profile picture and no posts. You think the only reason he has an account is so that he can look at videos of cats.

You have pictures of him in your camera roll, though. It takes a few seconds, but you find a cute one of the two of you, and show Touya.

“Oh, that’s Aizawa, right?” 

“Yeah. You have problems with him, too?”

Touya snorts. “No. He’s in my Biology class. Quiet guy.”

“Mhm. He’s really good at guitar.” You add, clicking your phone off. 

Touya holds up a thumbs up. “I think I’m ready.”

You check the time, and wince a little. You should probably get going if you want to make it to Aizawa’s in time. You get up, walking to your closet to dig for some clothes to wear.

“We have to leave soon if we want to get there in time.” 

You pull out the first shirt and pair of jeans your hands touch. You signal for Touya to turn around so you can get changed and he dutifully does. He digs in his pocket and pulls out a pack of mentos.

He pops one in his mouth.“Excited for tomorrow?” 

You hum under your breath, fingers fumbling with the button of your jeans. You pull your hair out from inside your shirt. “Yeah. Nervous, too.”

The sun is starting to set outside, and it casts pink and orange light into your room. The pretty view outside only reminds you how late you’re going to be, and you start fixing your hair with more fevour. Touya takes all the cluttering around your desk as a sign you're done, and turns back around.

“Hey.”

You jump a little, startled, and the hair tie in your hair falls to the floor. You huff, shooting Touya a look. “What?”

“That’s my shirt, you thief.” He exclaims.

Upon inspection, it actually is Touya’s shirt. He’d left it here after he’d spilt something on it and you promised to wash and return it. The washing part happened, but the returning not as much

You smile sheepishly. “Sorry, sorry! I just grabbed the first thing I saw.”

It’s a nice top, to be fair. One of the faded band shirts he seems to have a never ending supply of. It’s oversized on his tall frame, so it fits you perfectly. Touya narrows his eyes at you, but there’s no anger behind it.

“Since I’m so generous and kind I’ll let you wear it.”

“I would’ve anyway.”

The car drive is short, even including the argument over who would have control of the aux. Your guitar is hanging heavy on your back and Touya’s bass in his. You knock four times on the garage door, stepping back so that it can creak open slowly. 

Aizawa’s garage had been a tenth grade summer project for all of you. You’d needed a place to rehearse for the new band you were all starting, and Aizawa’s relatively empty garage seemed to be the perfect place to do so. You’d painted and spackled the holes in the walls, watched as his dad put in new carpet for you guys. Ren had figured out how to soundproof the walls so his parents wouldn’t be too bugged, and four chairs and a thrift store table later, it was ready. It became more than just a rehearsal spot, though. It’s where you guys hang out whenever you have the time, for Halloween pumpkin carving or Christmas movie marathons. 

“Hello, guys, sorry we’re late.” You apologise, walking in.

You drop your guitar, immediately tackling Nana, who’s sipping on brightly coloured bubble tea, in a hug. With your arms around her, you turn both of you to point at Touya

“This is Touya, our emergency bassist and saviour.” You say. 

Nana unhooks you off her, making an irritated noise as you grab her drink and take a sip. “Nice to meet you, saviour Touya.” 

“Likewise.”

Aizawa only nods in greeting. He’s wearing big headphones he’s got plugged into his guitar, and his hair is tied up and in a bun behind his head. He looks focused, and everyone has the right mind to leave him be. He gets like this usually, laser focused on practising a riff or learning the hook of a song.

Ren doesn’t look too happy. He’s lounging back on one of the old chairs, manspreading if you’re being specific, eyes trained on his phone. He’s trying hard to look unbothered, but you’ve known him long enough to know he is very aware of Touya’s presence.

“Hey.” That’s all he can manage to say. 

Touya smiles sweetly, and it’s a sight that makes you a little uneasy. 

“Nice to see you too, Kimura.”

“Fuck off, Todoroki.”

You feel the tension rise the second Touya’s surname leaves his lips. Nana raises an eyebrow and you quickly rise to your feet, desperate to diffuse the tension until it starts.

“Okay, okay. Let’s put our dicks away, boys.” You laugh nervously. You turn to Touya. “You want something to drink?”

Touya sits on one of the chairs next to Nana, nodding at you. There’s a weird display of masculinity going on right now. You think it’s best to just ignore it. You kneel in front of the mini fridge, and grab a can of coke. You don’t need to ask him what he wants because you already know.

“Thanks.” He says, and the annoyance on his face melts a little as his eyes dart to yours.

“No problem. We'll start rehearsing once Aizawa’s out of the zone.”

Touya nods, slipping on his own headphones. The second he’s got his music loud enough for you to hear it seeping out, Nana stands to sit besides you on the floor.

“Oh my god. Is he hot or what?” She whispers and you snort a laugh.

“He’s my friend.”

“Yeah, right. I need that, girl.” She grins, clutching your arm.

You know Touya isn’t her type. She’s just trying to rile you up, and unfortunately, it’s sort of working. You brush her off, but you can feel the heat creeping onto your face. She making some questionable noises at you and you frown at her.

“He’s literally like, two feet away from us, shut up.” You hiss, elbow digging into her side. 

Nana rolls her eyes, taking her drink back from you. “Girl, I can hear his music playing from all the way here. I don’t think he can hear us.” 

“True.”

Nana grins. “So. Have you guys fucked yet?”

“Nana!”

Her peals of laughter don’t go unheard, and neither do her words. You catch Ren’s eye, and then the way they flicker to Touya for a split second, before back to you. 

“Alright, I’m ready.” Aizawa suddenly speaks up, pushing the headphones off his head.

Everyone rises to their feet, slowly but surely. You’re about to start when you realise you’ve forgotten something pretty important.

“Oh, shit. We left the amps in the car.” You mumble.

Touya fishes the car keys out his pocket. “Come, let’s get them.”

You ignore Nana’s pinch to your side and follow him out. You wait until you're both out of earshot, the back door of the car covering you from sight, before you build up the courage to speak. Touya’s trying to untangle the wires from beneath the old blankets you keep in the trunk, and you tug his sleeve.

“Look, I know Ren is- He’s sort of, you know, stirring the pot.” You explain. “He’s just-“

“He’s got a thing for you, right?” Touya interrupts, finally tugging the wire out.

You stammer. “A thing?”

“A crush, a thing, whatever you want to call it.”

“You think?”

Touya hands you an amp, plucking the keys out of your hand so that he can lock the car. 

“Oh, yeah. And he thinks we’re hooking up.” 

You blink, a little caught off guard. His hand gently pushes you out the way so he can shut the door. 

“I- He does?”

Touya just nods. “Look, I know from his shit with Shiggy and just him as a person that he’s fucking annoying.” 

This is the last thing you need. This was your first proper show, unless you counted the times you’d played at proms at school. But those were free gigs and about an hour long. This was at a proper venue, and you were actually getting real money for it. And this weird little thing between Ren and Touya is not about to ruin it for you.

He must notice the dejected look on your face, because he coos. “Aw, don’t pout, doll. I promise I’ll be nice.”

You think your brain short-circuits a little at the nickname, swallowing roughly as he starts walking back, oblivious to the effect his words have on you. You follow behind him, a little lost, and Nana notices the slight blush on your face, narrowing her eyes at you.

“The fuck did you two get up to out there?” She whispers and you shove her shoulder to shut her up.

You all busy yourselves with plugging in your instruments, tuning them. You clear your throat, humming to warm up your voice. 

“Okay, what song shall we do first?” You ask.

“Should we do that Paramore one? I keep fucking up the guitar on it.” Aizawa frowns, plucking at his guitar.

For someone who hasn’t practised with the others, Touya does well. Really well, actually, easily playing alongside you all like he’s been doing it his whole life. All the songs run smoothly, and by the end, your nerves over this whole ordeal have diminished. You guys sound great, and if you can pull this off at the show tomorrow you’re set. You clap your hands together.

“Oh my god, we sound great!” You grin, and Nana nods.

“We actually do. You did really well for your first time playing with us, Touya.” She says, and Aizawa hums in agreement.

Touya only shrugs. “Had a pretty good teacher.”

Ren scoffs behind you, and you turn around to see him standing up and shoving his drumsticks in his pockets.

“He plays like, the same three notes per song. You can call stop sucking his dick.” He mutters, sauntering over to the fridge.

Touya’s brows crease, but he just chooses to ignore him. He turns to Aizawa, holding up a pack of cigarettes you thought you’d successfully hidden in your room.

“Can I smoke in here?”

“If you give me one, yeah.” 

Touya snorts a laugh and you scowl at the two of them. They go sit by the open door of the garage, and the wind blows the smoke up and out. The sky is cloudy with the threat of rain, but it’s still warm, warm enough that you can all survive with the door wide open.

“You guys are gross.” You say, and Aizawa waves you off.

“Yeah, literally.” Nana says weakly, already digging in her pocket for her vape. 

You push her away from you, narrowly avoiding the puff of strawberry scented smoke that envelops the two of you. “Ew, blow it away from me!”

“But it smells good! Strawberry ice, girl.” She wiggles it in your face.

You get up, mumbling about lung cancer and early death. Ren takes your seat next to her, grabbing the vape out her hand. You sit as far as possible from all the carcinogens, allowing your disapproval for it all to sit clearly on your face. 

“Come on, Ren, be a real man and smoke a cigarette.” Aizawa drawls, waving it in a way you think is supposed to be enticing.

Touya smirks, blue eyes glinting in the dim lighting of the garage. Ren catches the smirk and sends him a thunderous look, almost throwing the vape back at Nana.

“Fuck off. At least vaping is healthier.”

“They’re both unhealthy!” You exclaim, and Ren sends you a cheeky grin.

“Aw, don’t worry about me, babe. I’ll be okay.”

You smile faintly, a little bugged by being called babe, but you think it’s better for everyone if you just let that slide. 

“I’m worried about all of you.” You huff.

Nana’s hand clutches her heart. “You’re so sweet. Don’t worry, I’m cutting back. One a week.”

Aizawa points the cigarette at her. “Good. And I only have a couple of these a week myself.”

Touya doesn’t say anything and you narrow your eyes at him. “Yeah, he is not cutting back. He smokes like, a pack a day.”

Touya smiles brightly at you and you can’t help but let your own slip onto your face. “My lungs are indestructible, babe.”

Everyone in the room catches the little dig at Ren. 

“So. How’s everyone getting there tomorrow?” Nana speaks up in an attempt to change the subject.

Aizawa is driving himself and Nana, and Ren is coming in his own car.

“Im picking up Y/N.” Touya adds. Aizawa hands him an ashtray to throw the end of his cigarette in. 

“Okay, perfect. They said we need to be there at six forty five, so they can get us set up.” 

Nana bites at her bottom lip, quickly reading the email the venue had sent you guys. You were one of three bands playing, and since you were on first, you felt that much more pressure to do well. You set the mood for the night, after all, and the band the place liked the most would definitely be favoured for gigs in the future.

Nana was your impromptu manager, dealing with the schematics and informational part of everything. She nods her head, shutting off her phone and tossing it on the table in front of her.

“Don’t think there’s anything else we need to know. Just have to do better than everyone else performing.” She winks.

Ren is scrolling on tik tok beside her. Aizawa gets up and throws himself on a beanbag you’d bought him on his birthday, and Touya comes to sit beside you. The chairs are small and far too close, and so his thigh brushes against yours. 

He perks up beside you. “Oh yeah, I was going to ask. Is it like a ticket thing? Or can anyone come?”

“Tickets. It’s at a bar, but the concert part is money.” Nana explains. “I think they’re like, five dollars?”

“Cool.”

He starts texting and you peer over his shoulder. “I’m being nosy, by the way.”

“Yeah, nothing new there.” 

You nudge his shoulder and he laughs a little. “I’m texting Toga. She said she and the others wanna come watch.”

“Aw, really? I miss them.”

Touya makes a face. “Gross. Maybe I won’t invite them, then.”

“Invite who?” 

It’s Ren asking, funnily enough. His phone plays the same video on loop, but his eyes are trained on you and Touya. 

“My friends.”

“What friends?”

Touya furrows his brows. “That any of your business?”

“It is when all your friends are crackheads and criminals.”

Nana’s mouth drops open, and Touya sits up a little. His jaw clenches and it’s as angry as you’ve ever seen him. The careful way he’s looking at Ren is foreign to you, and it makes you a little nervous.

“What did you just say?” His voice is low, dangerous, and you feel a desperate urge to diffuse this situation before it gets worse.

“Okay, guys, let’s-“

“I said I don’t want any of the drugged up freaks you call friends at the gig tomorrow.” Ren snarls.

“The fuck is your problem?” 

“My problem is-“

“Okay!” You yell.

This is pissing you off, if you’re being honest. Ren is pissing you off. You’re adults, for god sake, can’t he just act like one for once? All this over some stupid drama from years ago. You fix him with a stare. 

“Can I talk to you, please?” Your polite words are paired with a tone so annoyed that he doesn’t try to argue, stomping off into the house.

You follow after him quickly. You all know your way around Aizawa’s place like it’s your own, so Ren has no trouble finding the fridge and yanking it open with a little more aggression than necessary. He grabs a can of coke, cracking it open. You watch it fizz over his fingers as he takes a long sip of it. You cross your arms. You feel sort of like a teacher right now, scolding a student who won’t stop misbehaving.

“Ren, what is going on with you today?” 

“Me?” He laughs sarcastically, can clinking against the table. “What’s going on with you?”

He must sense the confusion radiating off you, because he shakes his head, exasperated.

“First of all, you didn’t even ask me if you could invite him to the band.”

“I didn’t know I had to run shit by you.” You snap, but Ren rambles on.

“And he was just supposed to play bass for us! You’re not supposed to be friends with him!”

He looks so frustrated, running a hand through his black hair, that it only begins to make irritation trickle beneath your veins.

“And who the fuck are you to tell me who I’m supposed to be friends with?”

“I’m not-“

“But you are. You didn’t even give him a chance, Ren, you just started being a dick from the jump!”

Ren stammers. “I- I just don’t think he’s the best person to hang out with.”

“Why the hell not?”

“He’s bad news, Y/n!” He says. “I mean, you’ve heard the rumours, I know you have. He’s got a criminal record, too, and he fucking burnt down his own house!”

Those are all rumours. You’re sure of it. Touya wouldn’t do something like that. 

“You don’t know that. You don’t know anything about him!”

“Y/N-”

“No.” You cut him off and his mouth snaps shut. “You can’t hate him before you give him a chance. Even if you got into shit with his friend, because funnily enough, they’re two different people!”

Ren falters a little. He rubs his eyes, shrugging. “I- I’m sorry, i just. I’m just worried about you.”

You sigh. “Touya is not some super villain. I- I don’t need you to worry for me. I'm not stupid.”

“I know. But you’re my best friend.” 

You know he’s just trying to make you forgive him by being all nice. You hate that it’s actually sort of working. If not for his sweet talk, you can see the words sinking in, see the guilt etched on his features. 

Ren is a hothead, but he isn’t an idiot. One of the things you like about him is that he’s never too ashamed to admit when he’s in the wrong, despite how angry and in the right he seems to act like he is. 

He pulls off the tab of his coke can, fiddling with it idly. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have been such a dick to him.”

“Yeah, you shouldn’t have.”

He frowns a little. “I’m trying to apologise, you know.”

“You should be apologising to Touya.”

“I will, I will.”

He holds out the tab to you. It’s a stupid tradition, one that has been going on for years. You give him your bottle caps and he gives you his soda tabs. It’s not tradition now, but a peace offering. You smile despite yourself, grabbing it from his hand.

Ren grins. “I knew you couldn’t stay mad at me.”

“Don’t push it.”

Ren does in fact apologise. Its stilted words and a weird dap up you think means Ren is forgiven. You don’t really understand men. You and Touya decide to take your leave soon after that. He waits patiently as you hug everyone goodbye, before you both get in the car and start driving home.

If you’re being honest with yourself, you can’t stop thinking about what Ren had said.

It’s not that you don’t trust Touya, or that you’re scared of him. You just wonder if there’s any truth to all of it. The criminal record, the whole house rumour. You’ve heard it before of course. It was all anyone could talk about when Touya had arrived at school with burn scars all over his body, face even more thunderous than usual. You hadn’t cared though, because you hadn’t know him. But now? You’re friends, maybe something more, and you do care. 

You don’t know how you’d feel if it’s true. Would it change how you saw him? How you felt about him?

Touya senses your silence besides him. No music plays on the radio, just the low hum of the car driving down the silent roads. You pull up to his house, but when you turn off the ignition, he doesn’t move, and neither do you.

“So. What did he say to you?” Touya speaks.

He’s tense. He’s not looking at you, but instead out his window, his leg jogging up and down.

“Nothing, he just. You know.” You mumble.

“Y/N.” Touya speaks so sternly. Your fingers fiddle with the hem of your shirt.

“He said that he was worried about our friendship. Because you have a criminal record, and. You burnt down your house. Apparently.” You say softly.

The words feel stupid as you speak them, and you can feel the atmosphere in the car get heavier. You steal a look at him and he’s nodding slowly, avoiding your gaze completely.

“Right.”

It’s evening now, the sun set, late enough that even the street lamps aren’t on. You’re both sitting in the dark, only the sounds of your breathing cutting through the silence. It’s quiet for about thirty more seconds before Touya speaks up.

“My dad used to hit us.”

He speaks quickly, like he needs to get the words out before he loses the courage. You don’t know what to say, so you say nothing, ignoring the sinking feeling in your chest.

“Not the others. Mainly just me and mom. But fuck, if he didn’t used to beat the shit out of me.” He laughs, but there is no mirth in it, just a bitterness that makes you shiver.

Touya turns to you. He lifts up his shirt, and by his ribs, there's a long jagged scar, stretching a few inches over his stomach. “He knocked me into a glass table. Twenty stitches.”

He still won’t look at you, eyes darting to your hand tight on the steering wheel, his lap. He licks at his lips.

“I was an angry kid. I was just so fucking angry all the time.” He swallows. “So yeah, I drank and I smoked. I stole and did illegal shit and I do have a criminal record. I did shit I’m not proud of and shit I wouldn't do now.”

He runs a hand through his hair. It’s not the first time and it stands on end, messy and tangled. 

“Your dad always seemed like kind of a prick.” You mumble. 

Touya huffs a laugh. “Yeah. You have a good eye.”  He leans his head back on the chair.

“The house wasn’t me.”

You feel yourself let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. You knew he’d never do something like that, but it was a relief to hear it from him nonetheless.

“It was a faulty gas line. I’d- I’d never put the others in danger. Never. The reason my skin is as fucked as it is is because I went back in, not because I started it..”

You look at him, confused. “You went back in?”

“Shoto. He was- He was in there. Parents weren’t home, and it was just us kids. The rest of us got out but. Fucking- Couldn’t reach the door handle. The firefighters weren’t there yet, so-“

“You went back in.” You almost whisper the words, scared he’ll catch the emotion cracking your voice.

Touya was fourteen when it happened. And you can’t even imagine having to run into a burning building now, as an adult. You picture a rosy cheeked Touya, coughing through smoke, fighting through the heat and the flames licking his skin all to save his baby brother.

“Oh, Touya.” 

He finally does look at you then, and his face twists at the emotion clouding yours. He smiles weakly, the corners of his lips only just tugging up. Touya reaches forward and grabs your hand in his.

“Don’t look so sad.”

“You- Oh, god. I’m going to kill Ren.”

He just shrugs. “He’s not the first to think like that. And he won’t be the last.”

You feel like shit. For him, and for the shitty circumstances he’d been dealt. The fact that, even four years later, he was still suffering consequences for something that wasn’t even his fault. And he’s not wrong. You’d thought those things of him, what felt like a million years ago. But that doesn’t make it okay. You tell him as much, and he softens a little.

“Don’t worry about it, doll. I’m a big boy, I can handle it.” He teases.

His hands are calloused. You run your fingers over the scarred tissue on his palm, the wrinkles on his fingertips. “This doll business is new.”

He’s watching you closely, watching your fingers trails over him delicately. “You don’t like it?”

“I never said that.”

You sigh. “I’m sorry about Ren. He- He means well. Just struggle with his delivery, that's all.”

“Yeah, trust me, I did not feel threatened by him.”

You giggle, despite yourself. “Alright, not too much. He’s my friend.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

You wait a beat. “Thank you for telling me.” 

He only nods. “S’fine. Don’t get all sappy on me now.”

Your mouth drops open. “Well, excuse me for trying to be heartfelt.”

“It’s fucking cringey.”

“Get out my car.”

—————————————————————————-

hey... im back with a pt 2.. yes guys there is angst and NO im not sorry for it

i love touya and i love highschool version.... plz enjoy my lovelies

[kirlicues]

Mini Modern Home Collection | Sims 2 Residential Lot Downloads

Modern homes aren't typically my build style, but I put these together several years back and they are currently residing in my desert town of Modern Mesa because coming up with creative town names isn't my strong point err....collecting dust.

These 5 lots are on the smaller size, 3x1, 2x2 and 3x2, so they work great for those small nooks and crannies that need to be filled in in a neighborhood.

Each of these homes only has 1 or 2 pieces of CC that can easily be omitted. I can't live without upper cabinets in my kitchens, but maybe you can! 🤣🤣A list of CC is included below each home. Most of it is either Maxis "lost and found" items, or pre-order bonuses.

All EPs and SPs are required for these lots.

If you want to grab all the lot files in one download you can do so here, or here on SFS.

Here's the first home. This one has 2 bedrooms, 1.5 bathrooms and is built on a 2x2 lot. You will need the MANDAL dresser from the Ikea Stuff Pre-order bonus items, and the usual upper kitchen cabinets.

Floor plan layout:

Mini Modern Home #1: MF | SFS

CC List (Included): -Maxis Match Wall Cabinets by CTNutmegger at ModtheSims CC List (Not Included): -MANDAL dresser from the Ikea Stuff Pre-order Bonus -Maxis Match Chimney Recolors by Kimsie at ModtheSims

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Moving on to home #2. This one has 1 bedroom, 1 bathroom and is built on a 2x2 lot:

Floor plan layout: If you need an more space, the upstairs living room can be walled off and turned into extra bedroom.

Mini Modern Home #2: MF | SFS

CC List (Included): -Maxis Match Wall Cabinets by CTNutmegger at ModtheSims

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And now for home #3! This one has 3 bedrooms, 3 bathrooms and is built on a 3x2 lot. Tap the pictures to see a larger version:

Floor plan layout: The 3rd bedroom is being used as a home gym right now, but you're welcome to toss the treadmill (and other things) and plop a bed in there instead.

Mini Modern Home #3: MF | SFS

CC List (Included): -Maxis Match Wall Cabinets by CTNutmegger at ModtheSims

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Now for home #4. This one has 2 bedrooms, 2 bathrooms and is built on a 3x2 lot. If the round window doesn't show up as a window just remove the Genuine Railway Tie fencing from the 2x1 space directly in front of it. I'm using @fwaysims Object Freedom mod which gives me a little more, uhh, freedom in object placement. 🤭 Tap the pictures to see a larger version:

Floor plan layout:

Mini Modern Home #4: MF | SFS

CC List (Included): -Maxis Match Wall Cabinets by CTNutmegger at ModtheSims CC List (Not included): -Maxis Lost and Found BASKIS ceiling light

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And now for home #5. This one has 2 bedrooms, 2 bathrooms and is built on a 3x1 lot. The car is not included in the packaged lot download. It's just there to look fancy and add a pop of color. Don't worry though, it comes with the game. You can find it in the buy catalog under misc> cars.

Floor plan layout: Feel free to turn the open space on the second floor into another bedroom if you need more room.

Mini Modern Home #5: MF | SFS

CC List (Included): -Maxis Match Wall Cabinets by CTNutmegger at ModtheSims CC List (Not Included): -Maxis Lost and Found Diagonal Bohemian Molding

All EPs and SPs are required for these lots.

I’ve run these home through the Lot Compressor so any random references to sims that aren’t there should be removed. I have also run them through the Lot Cleaner to remove any bits of buggy code. These lots come with a shiny custom thumbnail so they have even more curb appeal in your Lots and Houses bin! 😄

I ALWAYS recommend using the Sims 2 Pack Clean installer to install lot files.

Want to improve the look of your game, or grab some "Lost & Found" Maxis objects? Check out this post.

[darkmuffinstudios]

headcanons 2 electric boogaloo part 103 because i'm still not normal

(The first post cut me off in character limit, so here's the continuation :3)

(These can be general headcanons, found family, queer platonic, or poly if you want to interpret them in any way ^^)

There's couch that can fit then entire gang on it that everyone likes to sit at. Dust dislikes anyone taking his spot, Killer constantly keeps changing spots, Cross always picks his spot last, Horror sits on the floor, and Nightmare sits in a arm chair off to the side.

Killer forces all of the gang to watch movies every so often, typically when things become stale around the castle. The rest all act like they hate it, but Horror still makes popcorn, Dust collects all the blankets, and Cross helps set up the TV.

During the winter, the gang all huddle up in Nightmare's room for a large sleepover. The castle can be big and chilly.

Nightmare used to keep a moderate distance between his subordinates and himself. However, the first time Killer ended up in the infirmary changed that. It was only the two of them, and Nightmare realized the fragility of mortals that day.

Nightmare is a worrier for several reasons.

Nightmare mixes and matches his team in groups of 2, rarely sending any one of his men on solo missions (unless absolutely necessary). Safety in numbers.

Horror's love language is giving gifts and acts of service. He feels conflicted receiving it back, preferring touch instead.

Same with the last point, Horror is a cuddle bug- to Killer's delight.

Dust can't sleep in one, continuous stretch. This results with him taking 2-3 hour power naps at varying times throughout the day.

Horror snores in his sleep. Not loudly, but kind of like a soft rumble with each breath.

Dust likes Horror's snoring. It's therapeutic.

Killer sleeps like a corpse. Still and silent- which is strange when juxtaposed by his usual, lively demeanor.

Cross is an early riser and late sleeper. His circadian rhythm is exact, and runs like clockwork.

We're not going to talk about Killer's sleep schedule. He knows its bad. No one can fix it.

When Cross first joined, he felt extremely guilty for his chocolate cravings. After a while and some encouragement from the others, he finds himself indulging himself (at least in this one regard).

Cross loves sweets, not just chocolate. Chocolate just happens to be one of his favorite things/flavors though.

Cross keeps a mini snack stash in his pocket at all times. On missions, out and about, in his room, training, etc. You can look over at him and see him pop a chocolate kiss in his mouth. His one guilty pleasure.

Nightmare and Dust enjoy their fair share of alcoholic drinks. Nightmare has quite the collection- ranging from various years of quality, make, and base. Of course, they are all expensive.

Horror and Cross are indifferent to alcohol. They may indulge in it when there is a special occasion, but otherwise they don't go out of their way.

Killer is the only one that does not enjoy alcohol. If you see him drinking, leave him be. Bro is probably going through it.

Dust sometimes wears glasses to read. Depends on if he cares to put them on or not.

Out of the group, Cross is the designated driver. Nightmare not only doesn't know how to, but also doesn't have full peripheral vision. Horror and Dust would get stressed out/overstimulated on the road.

Killer is the backup driver, but there is a 80% chance of the car crashing at the end. Despite this, he's one hell of a getaway driver.

Horror likes to spend time out in the garden.

Killer is the only one which has explored every room/inch in the castle. He sometimes uses secret passages to scare the others, or cut his walking time in half.

Cross has a nervous habit of fidgeting with his heart locket.

Dust has claustrophobia. Small spaces, large crowds, feeling trapped? He'll come out swinging.

Everyone knows this and always is careful to make sure Dust has an easy out whenever they nap together.

Nightmare is always the one to attend to any of their wounds when they get hurt on missions. He fusses and lectures and rants the whole time he's bandaging them up, mending broken bones, treating illnesses. Everyone knows its because he cares.

Dust get sick the easiest. Because his own magic is trying to boil him alive from the inside out sometimes.

Killer is the least likely to get sick.

Nightmare can't get sick.

Okay, well, Nightmare can, but it would have to be like. the plague to end all plagues.

Nightmare doesn't let any of the boys buy apples.

The only times Horror wears his hood over his head is if its raining/snowing. His head gets itchy if he wears it up for too long.

Killer has a knife on him at all times. You can pat this man down, take off a couple of knives, and he can still shank you afterwards.

All of them, to some extent, have trust issues. They learn to trust each other over time, though.

Nightmare hangs up pictures of his boys up in his office. He even frames them.

Nightmare has a secret picture tucked in a drawer in his desk. It's a drawing that Dream had made for him (a crude drawing of the both of them in a field of flowers), one he had safely folded and tucked into his favorite book as a child.

After the whole apple fiasco, the book barely survived (the picture along with it) and Nightmare rereads it whenever he's feeling sentimental.

Killer is extremely nosy. If he can't get what he wants by asking/prodding, he'll snoop. Curiosity killed the cat, but satisfaction brought it back and all.

I don't remember if I mentioned this in the other post, but Nightmare's bed is HUGE. Like King Deluxe plus plus. It also has those fancy canopy, curtain things that can close around the bed.

Killer's bed doesn't have a bedframe, just a mattress.

Dust's bed is circular and decently big. It also has that drape canopy that can cover it, as well as a shit ton of pillows.

Horror gets cold easily.

Nightmare makes sure Horror gets enough blankets during particular cold nights. Maybe a heater too.

Killer has a bad habit of sleeping in other people's rooms. He just barges in and makes himself at home. Over time, the others have let him get away with it.

Lots of mirrors in the castle were taken down after Dust shattered the first few.

That doesn't stop Killer from having a full body one in his room though.

Cross has a favorite training dummy.

Horror names his weapons and kitchen tools. He tends to keep that to himself.

Killer, weirdly enough, knows how to repair clothes. Hole in your jacket? He can stitch it back fairly neatly.

Dust has ripped quite a few sets of clothes in his days. He's gotten used to shrugging them off and dumping them on Killer.

Killer always returns Dust's stuff with a little chocolate inside the pocket/with it (probably stolen from Cross's stash).

When Horror gets anxious, he starts to pick at the crack in his head. To stop this habit, he just sits on his hands.

Nightmare thinks its a little amusing that Horror sits on his hands. Hey, if it works for Horror, then that's all the king needs.

Whenever Nightmare needs to run errands, he always brings Cross with him and lets Killer hold down the fort in his absence.

Cross works hard with Nightmare every year to ensure that their realm can't be found by anyone else. Encrypting code, manipulating magic, etc. While this is an annual thing that they do, Cross checks up on the state of it every month diligently.

Nightmare and Killer like the ocean. They visit it sometimes.

Horror makes sure to create meals that are balanced, healthy, and to preference. Also likes to keep the fridge stocked up.

Cross and Dust sometimes play chess with each other.

The whole gang (minus Nightmare) love playing cards.

Uno cards are banned from the castle after Nightmare repaired the three large holes in his castle wall.

Horror puts all of his food scraps in a compost bin and recycles it into his garden.

Aaaaand that's the limit again.

Very silly to think about, but I might make a separate one concerning ships/bsp because my mind started to wander LMAOOOOO

Hope you enjoy these!

[do-androids-dream-ao3acc]

Stuck In My Ways

BuckTommyWhumpWeek, Day 2: Abandonment Issues (AO3 version)

The suitcase sat in the hallway, next to the coat hook and the shoe rack.

At first, Buck hadn't noticed it, or maybe he’d thought it was some kind of decoration. Tommy had an astonishing amount of decorative clutter in his house –  a plethora of fairy lights, modern paintings, flower pots. Eddie's house had always looked like it had been imported straight from a furniture store: every piece of knick-knack was faceless, every picture meaningless except for Chris's drawings on the refrigerator, standing out from all the uniformity like little points of light. With Tommy, it was different. The man—a 40-year-old with Star Wars collectibles and curtains that matched his furniture—placed a lot of importance on making his house a home. 

It seemed all the more surprising to Buck that he had decided to share it with him. Eddie hadn't actually given him an ultimatum when he announced he was returning to L.A., breaking camp in Texas and becoming a firefighter again, to provide stability for Chris. No, he’d said Buck could stay, at least until he found something new. But somehow it was clear that Eddie's idea of stability didn't include Buck, so he left. You can store anything, except feelings.

Tommy hadn't hesitated, hadn't asked any questions. Tommy had said, “I’ve a guest room,” only to add that he used it as a storage room but could certainly squeeze a bed in there. Buck could have stayed with Maddie, maybe even with Hen and Karen. But all those options were pretty much off the table. Tommy, on the other hand, was single and lived alone. And Buck told himself that maybe this was a way of testing the waters. A check for interest, so to speak. Maybe there was still something in the air, the possibility of more than just a cot in the guest room. Above all, though, and initially, a little more proximity. A long overdue conversation.

But there was this suitcase.

It wasn't Buck's; he had moved in with a duffle bag full of odds and ends. So it was Tommy’s, a sturdy carry-on trolley, right next to the door. 

“You going on a trip?” Buck had asked, unsure if the offer had been mere politeness after all. Or, and that, somehow, seemed even worse, whether Tommy only wanted him for house-sitting because he was going away. Buck wasn't sure he could handle that again. Of course, it would have been different this time than with Eddie, but then again, it wouldn't: in the end, this new beginning might have been nothing but smoke and mirrors. A place, but not a home; a space with no one in it who meant anything to him.

Tommy wasn’t going on a trip, but he also didn't mention the suitcase again. It still remained in the hallway, like a forgotten piece of a former lover. But who forgot a suitcase? 

Buck couldn't get it out of his head. He tried to be a good guest, a friend who took up little space and never got in the way: tiptoeing into the bathroom, no cluttering, just politeness and quiet coexistence. Sometimes, when he found the time, he’d cook dinner and leave a portion in the fridge for Tommy. One night, they sat on Tommy's extremely spacious and comfortable couch and watched a movie together, their fingertips so close that Buck couldn't think of anything else but how it would only take a small motion. But it didn't happen.

Buck wondered if he should make the first move. Not to repeat the one night at Eddie's house that had felt real and right, no. Rather to ask the many questions that were floating around in his head like dust particles settling on the floor. 

One of them concerned the suitcase. A seemingly innocent object, but why was it there, and what did it mean? For a while, Buck believed there could only be two possibilities. A subtle hint that he was just a guest in Tommy's house. Maybe, he thought, the suitcase wasn't always there, but now it was a kind of warning and reminder that he shouldn't overstay his welcome. The thought was ridiculous and not at all like Tommy. The other possibility... well, the idea gnawed at Buck's brain. What if it was Tommy's escape suitcase? His getaway luggage, waiting by the door so he could always leave without looking back. That thought also seemed absurd at first, because this was Tommy's house; if Buck got on his nerves, he could just kick him out. But would he? And did Buck's presence ever annoy him? 

Eddie's words kept creeping into his head, “You make everything about you!” Of course, his first impulse had been to say that wasn't true. That it was never really about him: Howie's guilt should have been Buck's, Eddie's fear of failure was reflected in him, and Hen's doubts about whether she was right for the captain's job felt familiar. And yet he had put all that aside because it was more important to take away their guilt, their fear, and everyone’s doubts.

Because if he didn't, Buck was convinced he would betray Bobby's memory and lose the people who were important to him. But the cracks were already there, spreading like fissures in an old house that would sooner or later lose its footing. Everyone who had ever been important to him had left Buck. Leaving didn't always mean walking away, like Eddie, who seemed to find it so easy to cut him out of his life. Some people distanced themselves in different ways, walking away inwardly, like his parents. 

Tommy had left with a bang, just when Buck thought he’d learned how to open up. How to let someone into his life even though he was afraid of being abandoned. But Tommy had returned. What if that suitcase in the hallway meant that Tommy was afraid, too? Not just of having his heart broken, but of the void left behind by everyone who left. 

One evening, after a long time, Buck baked again.

The house was filled with the tempting aroma of fresh pastry when Tommy returned from his shift. Entering the kitchen, he leaned against the doorframe, watching Buck for a long time before the latter even noticed. There was something in Tommy's gaze, something deep and calm that Buck had missed without realizing it.

“This smells good,” Tommy said. “What are you doing?”

“Sorry, I'll clean up in a minute–” 

“We can clean up together. Are you baking a cake?”

Buck's cheeks were flushed from the heat of the oven; he opened its door holding a kitchen towel, peered inside, and nodded. “Lemon bar cheesecake.”

“Really? Ain’t that incredibly complicated?”

Buck shrugged. “It takes two days, the lemon curd needs to cool, the dough has to rest...”

“Big ups,” Tommy said, appreciatively. “Didn't know you were such a great baker.”

“Because I never told you I started doing it so I wouldn't have to call you.”

Tommy hopped onto one of the bar stools in front of the kitchen island, resting his hands on the sides of the flour-dusted countertop.

“You... did what?”

“I baked,” Buck dryly returned. “That's why, without wanting to brag, I'm pretty good at it now. But yeah, this is still an ambitious project.”

“Why?”

The question hung in the room like the smell of lemons, and it was just as ambiguous, sweet and sour at the same time. Buck stood behind the counter and stared at Tommy's hands clutching the countertop as if he were literally looking for something to hold on to. He thought about the suitcase in the hallway. Was there an answer that wouldn't scare Tommy away?

“The cake was supposed to be a surprise,” he explained. Embarrassed, he ran his fingers through his hair, leaving a fine trail of flour behind. “I thought when you get home from your shift tomorrow, we could have it together.”

“No ketosis?” Tommy quipped, and Buck rolled his eyes. “Sorry. Sure, we can have cake tomorrow, Evan. I'd love to. I'm sure it's great, like everything you prepare. You shouldn't have gone to all that trouble, though. I mean, two days for a cake? Wow.”

“It's kind of symbolic,” Buck said. “Because some things just take time.”

“I have a feeling it's not just about the cake.”

Buck took a deep breath. “No,” he replied. “It's about the suitcase.”

Tommy blinked, clearly confused. 

“The suitcase.”

The kitchen counter seemed like a wall to Buck, standing between them literally and figuratively. He circled it and dropped onto the stool next to Tommy. Those blue eyes were distracting; they always had been. But now he needed to get it out, all of it.

“Did your parents ever lose you in a mall? You know, when they make those announcements. Well, mine might not even have noticed if Maddie hadn't been looking after me most of the time anyway. You spend your whole life longing to be noticed by them, but if they don't even see you when you're standing right next to them, how are they supposed to notice you're gone?”

He took a deep breath. There was nothing but compassion in Tommy's gaze, but perhaps also more. Perhaps there was a deeper understanding, the knowledge of someone who could relate to that feeling. Someone who saw beyond the story and knew what Buck really meant. It wasn't about the mall; as far as he was concerned, that was just the tip of the iceberg his parents had been living on.

“As a child, you come to terms with things,” he continued. “You think you're better off without them, that you'll be fine. And for a while, that's true.”

“But eventually, you fall in love. Then...” Tommy interjected. He looked as if he would rather have bitten his tongue than actually say it; his forehead wrinkled, he looked downright worried. 

“Then,” Buck said, nodding, “it gets difficult. I always gave everything I had, just to be liked. I've done everything to avoid being abandoned, either physically or emotionally. And it's never been enough, Tommy. You need a hundred hours of therapy to understand that it's not your fault, but it still happens over and over again. And you understand that leaving is easier than staying, because staying means work and commitment.“

”Evan..."

“There was a bottle of champagne in the fridge at Eddie's house,” Buck cut him off. “You put it there that morning. You wanted a fresh start.”

“And then I screwed it up.” Tommy's fingers were now tracing patterns in the flour on the kitchen island. 

They were just circles, doodles, but they could have been hearts. This was the man who said Love, Actually was his favorite movie, and this was a situation that could have come straight out of a rom-com. All the ingredients were there: misunderstandings, trials and tribulations, and above all, feelings. Those had always been there.

“You didn't,” Buck said, unaware of how wistful he sounded. “Sure, your talk about Eddie was nonsense. But at least you’d already told me that you can be pretty jealous. And then it clicked.” He snapped his fingers, emphasizing his words.  “I never thought anyone would be jealous about me. That anyone would ever want me that much.”

“Well, I guess we’ve something in common,” Tommy returned with a crooked smile.

“Hmm,” Buck went. “A man with abandonment issues meets a guy who, out of fear of being abandoned, would rather leave first. It could work, if they would just talk.”

“Evan.” Hearing his name out of his mouth was still a revelation. Buck had been Buck for so long that he hadn't even noticed that the shortened version made him seem smaller than he was. “What are you trying to say?”

Buck looked him straight in the eye. “The suitcase,” he said.

Tommy exhaled sharply. “I'm not following. What about the suitcase?”

“W-what does it mean? Why is it there? I can't get it out of my head, Tommy. I don't want to lose you again. I don't want to do anything wrong, but I can't guarantee it. Things probably won't go smoothly. But I don't want to be afraid that you'll leave, you understand?”

Tommy blinked. He opened his mouth and gasped for air like a fish out of water. 

“You think the suitcase is there so I can get out of here as fast as possible? Ouch, Evan.”

Then he laughed. It was the liberating laugh of a man who had a weight lifted from his heart. Buck's smile was uncertain as he cocked his head, asking, “No?”

“No.”

Tommy placed his hands over Buck's, ten warm fingers squeezing his, confidently. 

“What did you say? The guy who's so afraid of being abandoned that he'd rather leave first? Well, that's probably true. Maybe you should recommend your therapist to me. Or we could just work on it together, what do you think? I don't want to leave. Am I still afraid? Probably. I think you feel the same way. You have to be afraid, don't you? It ensures survival. Believe it or not, but when I get in the cockpit, my stomach drops, every single time. And then I'm up there, and I remember why I do it.”

“You have to overcome your fear.”

“Exactly,“ said Tommy. “You and me, together. If you want to.”

Buck's shoulders eased; he hadn't even noticed that he had tensed them. His whole body, actually. “You bet. I—”

A shrill noise interrupted him. There was a small robot on the counter next to the stove, a kitchen timer in the shape of R2D2. Indeed, Tommy loved his gadgets. 

“Uh–I have to get the cake out of the oven,” Buck said. “Then it has to cool, and I have to prepare the sugared lemon slices, and–”

“Evan. The suitcase?”

“The suitcase,” Buck repeated, his gaze fixed on Tommy's lips. It was an evening full of possibilities. 

Tommy sighed. “I stopped telling that story at some point, or rather parts of it,” he said. “It doesn't pay to make yourself vulnerable. Especially not in the kind of environment I used to work in.”

He took another deep breath, looking up. But it wasn't the ceiling he was looking at; his gaze was clearly fixed on the past. Buck thought there were so many stories left to tell, and so many things they had in common, and he wanted to hear them all. Even if it hurt. 

“In the late '90s, when I was in the Army, I was in Australia for Pitch Black, an international air force maneuver. The snakes and spiders in that country, boy, they'll freak you out. But the nature... makes you think that it's fighting to drive people away, and maybe it's right. Anyway, one night, there was an earthquake. It was bad, really, even the base shook like a washing machine on spin cycle. The Italians lost one of their planes; it just slipped into a crevice, and no mechanic in the world could save the engine. But the people living in the area... they lost everything. Days later, you could still see them walking around in the ruins of their houses, clutching photographs as if they were more important than anything else in the rubble."

“That sounds terrible,” Buck said softly.

“It was. I couldn't sleep for nights on end. I kept imagining myself standing there left with nothing, practically just the clothes on my back, completely alone. But I just couldn't understand why it disturbed me so much, because I’d done everything I could to avoid getting attached to anyone. Superficial friendships, meaningless sex. No one I’d have to mourn if something bad happened.“

“But no one who’d have mourned you either.”

It was a terribly sad thought. Buck had always been afraid that no one would miss him, and Tommy had been afraid that they would. Because both hurt. Both broke your heart in different ways. He thought that maybe they were completely screwed up, but that maybe they were also the only ones who understood that. And if that was the case, it was possible to work on it. Together. 

“I thought it was selfish to want someone to mourn you,” Tommy added. “And that if you prepare yourself enough, you can always be ready to start over. Then, maybe, you'd never have to look back and wonder what you left behind.”

“That's why the suitcase.”

“That's why the suitcase,” Tommy said, nodding. “Crazy, huh?”

Buck said nothing. He leaned forward, pressed his lips to Tommy's, and put his answer there.

[miyaren]

What I Like | Osamu Miya

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✪ Osamu smut 18+ minors PLEASE dni

CW: manipulation a teensy bit , thigh riding (ゝз╹), one friendly clit slap (we're so back), unspoken pining , its kind of tender ok

When your fwb cancels on you, your best friend Osamu kindly offers to help you out with your problem. And in a crazy turn events, you agree.

an: I promised this fic a year ago 💔. That's not to say it took a year to write but that it's just been collecting dust in my docs. I love this one, it's my favorite flavor of friends to lovers and I might have to do a part 2! If you enjoy it, I would love to hear what you think xoxo

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“I’ll do it.” Osamu offered to you nonchalantly. 

You nearly spit out your drink. This was Osamu, your best friend since you both started college, the one who had introduced you to his brother in the first place.

 Atsumu was the guy you hooked up with semi regularly, who ruffled your hair and called you pipsqueak and acted like he hadn’t just rearranged your guts only minutes before. It was unserious in every sense of the word. 

Your friendship with Osamu? Serious. And important to you. Maybe you had stroked out. Maybe he had.

“What are you saying ‘Samu?”

He shrugged like the two of you were discussing the weather, “You seem upset Atsumu flaked and I'm offering to help you take care of it.” 

“Stop saying it like we’re talking about my dog. You’re talking about fucking me!”

Osamu’s calm expression broke into a cheshire grin, “It's a generous offer, you know. You should be grateful.”

“How are you so blase about this?”

“Y/n, you have been telling me how horny you are for the last twenty minutes, you can’t tell me this is phasing you.”

“But still-”

His laugh cut through your strangled words, “Such a big baby.”

Your ears heated up as he said it. He always called you that starting back to your freshman year when he found out you were an only child. He had mumbled that it made a lot of sense, and you had promptly swatted his arm. Just like then, it riled you up now. He knew it would. 

You pushed out of your seat to stand, “Alright. We’re going to my room.”

Osamu’s expression flashed with surprise, but it was gone as soon as it came. Wordlessly, he followed you into your room and closed the door.

The two of you stared at each other for a good minute. 

He tsked, “Y/n, don’t make this awkward.”

“I’m not. Just take off your clothes.” You directed as you pulled your shirt over your head. He moved to do the same.

“You’re making this clinical.” As he pulled his shirt off you saw the wry smile playing at his lips. 

You started unbuttoning your pants, “I’m not. Order is good, rules are good.”

“Any more rules before we start?” His hands were making quick work of his belt. 

Did you really need rules with Osamu? Obviously he’d never do anything to hurt you. But still. There was another potential issue. “No kissing. It's too intimate.”

He looked like he wanted to argue the point but he held his tongue. That lasted for only a second though. “I’m literally going to be inside you.”

“Potatoe potato.”

“The big baby that you are.”

You couldn’t waver on this, “Them’s the rules.”

He nodded with understanding and moved to take his boxers off. At the same time, you stepped out of your panties and unclasped your bra, letting it fall to the floor. 

When you looked up, of course Osamu was staring at you. And of course you couldn’t take your eyes off of him. He was perfectly sculpted all the way down to his V line. And he was big. It was a little weird to compare him to Atsumu, a little weird that you were going to have had sex with both twins in general. But he seemed bigger than what you were used to.

“You’re gorgeous.” Osamu’s eyes were unabashedly trailing up and down your body. You wanted to brush him off, and tell him he was being stupid. But your cheeks were flushed and you found yourself at a loss for words. 

He has said to not make this awkward. But how could you not? He was your best friend, so attractive that you had to pretend he wasn’t to function normally. And he was looking at you like that. 

Your mouth was open and you willed words to come out. He beat you to it.

“You have condoms? And lube?” Of course you did.

He took a seat on the edge of your bed as you dug through your drawers and fished the bottle of lube out. A condom following shortly after. 

“Here.” You handed him both. You wanted to finally touch him. Your palm landed on his chest and trailed down to hold him there. 

Osamu caught your wrist and mumbled, “Not yet. C’mere.” He beckoned you to climb into his lap and ushered you on top of him-hovering above his thighs-, the heat of his hands searing on your hips. Opening up the bottle, he poured a little out onto his thigh.

Your brows pinched, “What are you-”

“Ride my thigh.” His eyes bored right into yours.

“‘Samu, please I just want you to-”

One of his hands ran up the inside of your thigh before carding his fingers through your folds. You almost jolted at the feel of his cold fingertips. With featherlight pressure, he teased your clit, “Can you please just let me take care of you?”

He started to draw circles and you nodded dumbly as you sank down further, pussy bare against his thigh. Sliding his palms down to your ass, he guided you forward and then back and then forward again. When his mouth found your neck, an uncontrolled sound left your lips. 

You could hear him laugh but you didn’t seem to care as you rutted against him. The slick of the lube had you gliding along his thigh, the friction just right against your clit. 

All the while Osamu was littering your neck with red purple marks, one hand abandoning your hip in favor of rolling your nipples between his thumb and index. He pinched and watched you suck in a breath. Really, he wanted to hear you. He pinched again. 

You whined as you rode him, “‘Samu, please.” 

Smirking he pulled your nipple into his mouth, sucking and circling with his tongue. Osamu’s mouth paired with the delicious friction between your legs had you soaking his thigh. 

“You’re so pretty like this.” He whispered at your ear.

Your hips stuttered at the praise. As good as you were feeling, you felt you could never get close enough to his thigh, even as you ground against it. Your hands found purchase on his shoulders and you moved faster, harder. Not enough. “Osamu, please. I need more.”

He nipped at your neck before pulling back to watch you, “What do you want, Y/n?”

“Touch me, please. Like before.”

With a nod, he brought his fingers against you, “How does this feel, baby?”

Like he commanded it, your heart thundered and your clit pulsed at what he said. You swallowed hard, “So good, ‘Samu.”

He gave your clit a pinch and impishly smiled when you yelped, before kissing your neck in apology and circling one finger gently to soothe the sting, “Do you like it like this? Or like this?”

Instead of gentle, now he deepened the pressure on your clit and sped up with precision. In his lap you jolted, the tension in your body stacking. 

“Tell me, baby.”

You took a breath, “The second one.” He continued and licked up the column of your neck and you knew you were a goner. “I’m gonna cum, I-”

All at once, his fingers were gone from your throbbing core. Oh this was sick.

“Osamu what the hell?”

Both of his hands slid up your stomach to grope your tits, his thumbs rolling your nipples simultaneously, making you shiver, “I’ll let you come but. . .”

“But what?” 

Skimming his hand back down your body, his eyes flickered to your puffy cunt before he moved and cupped it gently. His hand was unmoving, but you could feel yourself throbbing in his palm. 

When he looked up his eyes met yours and though he had called you a big baby your entire friendship, he’d never seen you this needy in your life. Osamu’s face leaned closer to yours, “You have to kiss me.”

100% he had expected you to hesitate, definitely you were going to argue the point. Nothing could have prepared him for the way your small hands grabbed his face and you pulled him closer still, the way you kissed him like you might die. 

He moved his fingers back to where you needed most and he touched you the exact way you liked. As he sped up, you moaned into his mouth and Osamu’s tongue brushed against your bottom lip before you greeted it with your own. 

The dam inside you was so close to spilling over. Osamu’s fingers were unrelenting on your clit, tight little circles that never stopped. Hungrily, his tongue stroked against yours and you felt your body seize up, stars bursting behind your eyes. You were lost to the high of your release and you had to break apart from your kiss to writhe against his shoulder. He didn’t stop, rubbing you all the way through your orgasm with consistent pressure, not stopping even as your pelvis jumped against hand.

All through your cries he continued, finally stopping when you bit down into the crook of his neck. 

You stayed silent in his arms, your body rising and falling against him like you had just run a marathon.

Subtly you lifted your chin to peer up at him and found him watching you. You rolled your eyes, “I think you broke a rule just then.”

He smiled before stealing a chaste kiss from you, “And I think you liked it.”

You couldn’t argue the point, your lips were still tingling. Really the whole thing would have your mind spinning for quite a while. If you thought about it-

“Aghh.” Your back arched when Osamu gave your cunt a light slap. He was grinning down at you.

“I said don’t make it awkward.”

“I’m not.” You frowned against your will.

Osamu huffed out a laugh as his hand trailed down the love bites he left on your neck, “Such a big baby.”

Against your will, you shivered against him, remembering the way he had spoke to you just minutes before. Of course he noticed, he noticed everything about you. He leaned down so his mouth was at the shell of your ear and his thumb was stroking back and forth as he cupped your cheek, almost like he was holding you there so you couldn’t escape. 

“You like it when I call you baby, huh?” He whispered to you.

Undoubtedly you did. More than you should. 

But you needed to keep things normal. The two of you were best friends and you had to stay that way.

Don’t make it awkward. 

You could do that. 

You smacked his hand away from your face, “You gonna fuck me or are you gonna keep talking?”

The corner of his mouth pulled up into a smirk, “There she is.”

Before you could blink, he was tackling you down to the bed.

[kquil]

DIVORCING ORION BLACK | CHAPTER THREE

03 : SHOPPING (2/2)

CHPT. SUM. : so many stores are left on the list, the boys finally eat delicious food outside, detours are a natural endeavour and you meet a collection of interesting shopkeepers. what a day~ 

LENGTH : 10k

TAGS : fluff ; fun day out ; sirius and regulus being precious ; they're just kids ; reader is mother of the year ; reverse comfort ; OC ; visions ; original walburga makes an appearance ; she doesn't stay long though ; money isn't a problem ;) ; domestic fluff ; sibling fluff between sirius and regulus ; marauders fix-it-fic

← PREV. | 02 : SHOPPING (1/2) | SERIES M.LIST

“Two what?” Sirius asks, your attention snapping towards him and breaking contact with the grey-haired man standing before you.  

“Do you need a new wand too, Mother?” Regulus speaks up from your other side, swiftly following after his older brother. It was clear from the differences in their elocution that they differed greatly. One was much louder, with a sharp tongue and an audacious attitude to boot; the other was of a more gentle demeanour, equipped with a clever mind and observant eyes.  

Mr Ollivander leans back with an amused smile waiting to see how you’d react and whose question you’d answer first. 

“The two of us need wands today, Sirius,” you hum, hoping your nerves don’t show through in your voice as you switch between the two. It was adorable how similar their curious looks appeared when staring up at you.  

“Why is that?” your eldest asks curiously, the question reflecting similarly in your youngest’s eyes. 

“My wand appears to be having some problems lately and, well,” you raise your gaze to meet eyes with the wand artisan behind the counter, “I was hoping Mr Ollivander could help the two of us today,” the light streaming in from the windows above reflects off Ollivander’s grey hair to create a glowing outline encircling him. His peculiar portrait reminds you of how idiosyncratic he is, like a living ghost who’s able to touch superior levels of magic and wonder. It's mysteriously intriguing but just as harrowing too. He was able to deduce so much after so short of an interaction, after all. You stare at him silently, a gentle prompt to help you and your eldest son with your homogenous need for a new wand. 

“I like to focus on one client at a time,” the look he gives you offers up the decision of who should go first to be made by your small family. 

Before you can say anything, Sirius speaks up with a light dusting of pink on his cheeks, “Ladies first, Mother,” he announces politely and your heart melts at his consideration. You coo and awe at his gesture while dropping down to his height where you press a loving kiss to his forehead. 

“Thank you, my darling. You’re such a gentleman,” Sirius beams at your praise as Regulus meets his eyes to the right of you and grins widely. The two easily share in the small joys they’ve been able to experience around you. They don’t want to seem rude so the two of them secretly cheer at the headache you suffered to be able to change this drastically, “However," you comb your fingers through his hair lovingly, "you’re the star of the show today. Why don’t you go first, my dear?”

Sirius doesn’t refute, too distracted and pink-cheeked by your affection to do anything but nod. He then turns to Ollivander, who smiles down at him kindly. The oddness surrounding the wand artisan, however, cannot be missed and Sirius is cautious to proceed forward. 

“Your name, young man?”

“Sirius Black,”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Sirius. Please step behind the counter and we can get started on finding you the perfect wand, shall we?” Sirius glances one more time over his shoulder and observes the encouraging nod you give him; his heart calming from the reassuring pat you give atop his head. Another moment passes before he is led behind the counter by Ollivander. The elderly wizard proceeds to give him a short once-over before disappearing between two ceiling-tall shelves, stacked full of stored wands. 

“Do you want to watch your brother find his wand, Regulus?” you ask, kneeling to level with your youngest.

“Yes please, Mother,” he nods with a shy smile, “but I don’t know if I’m allowed past the counter,” 

“Don’t worry,” with a smile, you carry him up in your arms, “I can seat you on the counter instead,” for the brief moment you rise, he stays in your embrace. However, when you go to place him on the counter, you find that Regulus doesn’t want to be let go.

In a whisper, you ask if he’s alright, “Can you just hold me like this?...please?”  His answering whisper melts your heart and you can't find it in yourself to say no. Even if your arms begin to ache, you aren’t going to set him down until he wants to be set down – you’re determined! 

“You mean you don’t know which wand is for me?” Sirius’ words ring with curiosity more than judgment as he looks up at Ollivander. 

“I’m afraid not, my boy,”

“Aren’t you supposed to know?”

Smiling fondly, Ollivander begins to explain the process, happy to answer the questions of a curious child, “Ultimately, it is the wand that chooses the wizard, Mr Black,”

Sirius contemplates Ollivander’s words for a moment as Regulus gasps in astonishment beside your ear. The awe and interest are evident in the youngest’s silently twinkling grey eyes, matching that of his elder brother. Their wonderment is clear and both are equally skilful in concealing it.

“How will I know that a wand has chosen me?

“You’ll know,” Ollivander nods. There’s something in his pale eyes that makes Sirius keep from asking anything further. Something that says ‘trust me’.

Together, you and Regulus watch over the counter as Sirius tests out a variety of wands. 

At one point Sirius makes several misplaced papers catch fire, which makes you giggle quietly. Regulus stiffened in your arms momentarily at the sight of the sudden flames and only seemed to relax as soon as he heard your soft laughter. It isn't until he presses his face into the junction of your neck and shoulder that he finally draws your attention. It didn’t seem like an issue to press further about so you gave his small back a few reassuring rubs and continued to watch over Sirius – perhaps Regulus was feeling a little exhausted already. Despite the disastrous flames, Ollivander had the situation handled and simply magicked away the fire before rummaging around for a different wand, muttering softly to himself as he did so. It wasn’t until Ollivander came back with a jet-black wand with familiar-looking markings carved along its body that you smiled to yourself. This was the one. 

“Try this...” Ollivander offers up the wand but after the previous incident, Sirius is much more hesitant to proceed. He was only able to resume the testing when Ollivander flashed him a kind, reassuring smile - though he remained hesitant and stiff. Sirius was too scared to turn and see your reaction to the commotion he had just caused. But it was an accident! Surely you’d understand– “Give it a wave, then, young man,” Ollivander's chuckle was able to ease some of the stiffness from his limbs as the markings beneath his fingers urged him for a sturdier grip before giving the black wand a small flick. 

Appearing from the tip of his wand, a small circulating breeze moves through the room, not caring for the mess it makes of any unfiled papers nor the rattling it causes amongst the stacked boxes of wands. The breeze eventually returns to circle Sirius, ruffling his hair and clothes before eventually dying down to leave him looking bedraggled.

The result was quite confusing to the ordinary eye, which worried you, but not for the elderly wand artisan. Ollivander slaps his knee and throws his head back with a laugh. “Now that’s a match if I’ve ever seen one!” His words make Sirius stare up at him with wide eyes of disbelief. 

“Really?”

Ollivander kneels beside him with a twinkle in his eye, “That’s quite a choosy wand, my boy. Wands made out of jet black Ebony are happiest when in the hands of those who are not afraid of being themselves, sticking to their beliefs no matter what external pressures there may be,” the elderly wizard’s words washed over Sirius and flooded him with a feeling of vindication. He felt light and there was a flutter in his chest. In his short life so far, it’s been so hard to adhere to his convictions, and he has never before felt so validated, “you, young man, have a very courageous heart,”  Ollivander’s words make you smile widely. 

You set Regulus down as Sirius makes his way back to you. The two brothers share a hug but Sirius is still unable to meet your eyes. It isn't until his younger brother pulls away from the embrace that Sirius finally wills himself to look up at you. Regulus can see the slight fear in his older brother’s eyes and he knows the exact cause; Regulus was scared too. Regardless, you haven’t done or said anything to further his fears so the younger brother tries his best to be optimistic and flashes his older brother a small smile as if to say ‘it’s going to be okay’. 

Biting his lip, Sirius finally turns to find that you’ve come down to his height. Rather than a scowl on your face for his earlier misbehaviour with the discordant wands, he finds you smiling brightly at him instead. Before he could comprehend what was happening, you pulled him into your arms. One hand presses against the back of his head and encourages him to bury his face into your shoulder as the other splays across his small back to give him supportive pats. 

Beside his ear, you whisper, “I’m so proud of you, Sirius,” pulling away your eyes find that his own have significantly watered, holding back tears. Tears of joy, you assess and deliver a small kiss on his forehead. 

“You’re not mad at me? For setting fire to the papers earlier?”

“Of course not!” you protest and pull him into your tight embrace once more, “I’d be surprised if I don’t set something on fire when trying to find a new wand too,” he giggles against your shoulder and it's the most beautiful sound you've ever heard, “I’m so so proud of you Sirius, you have your wand now, and you’re going to be attending Hogwarts soon,” you sigh into his dark curls and mutter against his temple, “Far too soon…”

Relieved by your reaction, Sirius can finally digest your words and the sincere tone behind them. He’s never heard his mother praise him or voice how she’s proud of him but here you were, whispering rare words for him to hear only. He doesn’t know if he could ever feel happiness like this ever again. It’s hard for him to even describe - he’s just so so happy. 

It’s your turn to get a new wand now and the process is entirely the same. Ollivander goes through a selection of wands for you to test the feel of, giving each one a chance to see if they want to become your companion or not. After going through the first handful, you manage to light a stack of papers on fire yourself and when Ollivander swiftly distinguishes it, your group shares a laugh. 

“See? I told you it would happen to me too,” you smile over your shoulder at Sirius who giggles with his little brother. 

A few more inharmonious wands go by before Ollivander hands you one that's made of a light-coloured wood. The design of its body was very elegant and emulated a pattern that was reminiscent of vintage stone pillars. Widely spaced vertical ridges run along the main body and lead towards ornate, uniform designs that either look like curling leaves or crashing waves. It’s beautiful but what matters is whether or not the wand chooses you.

Flicking the wand, a spark of light escapes from the tip and you prepare yourself for another pile of papers to be set on fire. However, you’re pleasantly surprised when the light floats through the room as if it were swimming through water. It reaches Sirius and Regulus, where it proceeds to circle each of them before departing and leaving a warm touch that lingers on their cheek. The light eventually returns to you again, where it orbits your figure several times, enveloping your silhouette in an ethereal glow before disappearing. In its wake, it leaves a path of warmth that loiters in the air, suspended like the many particles of dust dancing in the light filtering in through the high windows.  

Smiling in success, you hold the wand to your chest and turn to your boys who had begun to cheer for you. You could have easily lost yourself in the moment if it weren’t for your keen ears picking up on Ollivander’s mutterings. His words were all in a whisper and not meant for anyone else’s ears.  

“How fascinating…” the elderly wizard smiles whimsically to himself again, “the singular wand whose properties are the precise opposite of the original became your destined companion,” you meet the pale, almost translucent eyes of the wand artisan, who smiles at you as soon as he finishes muttering to himself, “it’s truly an honour to be able to witness the pairing of an Applewood wand,”

“Why is that?” Regulus asks before you can even react. With a smile, Ollivander moves to the front of the counter and bows at the knees to his height. Their eyes lock like that of a patient but talented teacher and his diligent student. 

“There are many properties of a wand that can be attributed to the reasons why it chose its ultimate owner, one of which is its wood. Your brother,” Ollivander gestures to Sirius, “has himself a wand that is made of Ebony wood, while your mother has herself one that’s made of Applewood. Applewood wands are very powerful indeed, I can assure you of that,” you find yourself leaning closer, eager to learn more, just as much as your two sons were to learn of their mother and the nature of wands, “their owners are typically ones who harbour ambitious goals and even higher principles. As a result, there stands a positive correlation between possessors of Applewood wands and the life they tend to live,” your breath remains trapped in your throat, held there by anxiety as you tensely anticipate Ollivander’s successive words, “they live a life that is long and where they are well-loved,” the relief was great and one that you were desperate to maintain. You know what you're setting out to do is going to prove a difficult challenge but it is going to be worth it, as long as your two boys are happy and by your side.    

Together, both wands cost 14 galleons. And, despite the excitement you first held for meeting such a distinguished Harry Potter character, you were eager to leave, slightly scared of the amount of knowledge he potentially held. At the very least, you were able to depart on a good note

Naturally, the next order of business was to get all of Sirius’ robes and uniform at Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions shop. That would be on the north side of Diagon Alley and, considering you were on the south side for Ollivander’s wand shop, you needed to direct your boys back up to the North. You admit, it was quite inefficient to go from Gringotts, which was North, to Ollivander’s (South), only to go back North when all the shops you had left to visit were up there. There were many shop names that you recognised on the way down, however, it was best to get the only singular South-side shop from your list out of the way so you could spend the rest of the afternoon easily hopping from shop to shop in the North-side. 

“What’s wrong, darling?” you ask, noticing that Sirius has been staring off in one direction for some time, completely motionless and glued into place. 

“Nothing… let’s go,” he grabs a fistful of your dress’ skirt but you already noticed what had captured his attention. 

“A joke shop…” a small grin tugs on the corners of your lips. You remember the child-like wonder that washed over you whenever you watched the scenes featuring Fred and George Weasley’s joke shop. This joke shop isn't theirs but you wonder if it’s just as remarkable. 

Sirius had no hope of ever convincing you to take a look, especially when most of today would be packed full of shopping at other shops for his supplies as a first year. In his insecurity, Sirius was only able to muster a quiet, “...yeah…” 

“What a good idea,” you smile brightly and take both their hands into yours, heading in the direction of the shop happily named, ‘Gambol and Japes Wizarding Joke Shop’, “Let’s have a little look shall we? A small detour like this can’t do much harm,” Sirius was smiling from ear to ear as soon as he overcame the shock your agreement brought, “Although, I'm afraid I won’t consider buying anything,” a treat like that is meant for another time...

“That’s okay!” Sirius cheers and hurries along, making it to the door before you could and holding it open for you. 

You’re beginning to realise a recurring discrepancy between the size of a shop’s exterior compared to its interior space; the joke shop is considerably larger on the inside compared to its outside appearance. It added to the joke factor of the store itself - how funny that it appeared so deviously small on the outside. 

The entrance was lined with shelves filled with an assortment of joke items, all were vibrant and eye-catching. It was hard to enforce any form of restraint when your eyes couldn’t stay in one place too long, nor could your feet. There were several other children with their parents roaming the galleries of jokester paraphernalia too. Only then were you finally able to focus your gaze on your two, fascinated boys, not wanting to lose them.

“How undignified!” your eyes roll at the scratchy, annoying voice that invades your head once more, “No child of mine should ever be seen in a Joke Shop!”

“Oh Shut up, let my kids be kids,” you retaliate, folding your arms loosely as you observe Sirius dragging around his younger brother by the hand. Regulus happily heeds, not needing to be dragged to be able to shadow his older brother. Nevertheless, their small hands remain connected. The scene made you smile warmly, they’re the cutest boys you’ve ever – you want to prolong their happiness and give them as many opportunities as possible to experience the same delights over and over again. 

“THEY’RE NOT YOUR KIDS!”

“YES. THEY. ARE!” shaking away Walburga’s shrill screams, you try to focus on the ground beneath you. It’s best to end this argument quickly, you don’t want to faint in the middle of a joke shop and ruin the day for your two boys; it's barely started. 

You didn’t prolong your stay but enough time was spent there for you to witness Sirius’ certain appeal towards a particular item: a purple box of stink pellets. Smiling to yourself, you make a mental note of the fact before leading your two boys out and back to the north side of Diagon Alley. 

It’s a relief that most shops offer delivery services, you don’t believe you would be able to carry all of your purchased items home. 

At Madam Malkin’s, you bought all the necessary uniforms and robes for Sirius to have. Being an established house and family, you were attended to right away despite your insistence on no special treatment. Sirius was then measured and the appropriate sizes for his robes and other items were brought back to be tried on. He looked somewhat embarrassed from the attention but you couldn’t help yourself. There are many joys of being a mother and one of them was the ability to brag about how beautiful and exemplary your child was. To anyone within earshot and to those who, both, cared and didn’t care to listen, you openly talked their ear off about Sirius. Said son grew redder and redder with each expression of praise that left your lips without an ounce of hesitation. 

Was he hearing right? You're just joking with him...but you sound so sincere. Surely those other people don't care, why are you such talk on them?!  

“He looks all grown up, I’m so so proud of him,” Sirius’ ear tinted a faint red. 

“I worry that he’ll attract too many girls’ attention and grow a bad reputation over breaking too many hearts. But, then again, look at his handsome face, of course, they would fall for my son,” Sirius looks to the side, trying to find interest in the cracks of the shop’s walls -- a weak attempt at distracting himself from the flames in his cheeks. 

“I can already tell! He’s going to achieve so many great things, I just know it!” Sirius looks over and narrows his eyes at his giggling younger brother. Wait until he has to go through the same thing when he starts his first year! 

“Yes yes, I know your son looks wonderful in his robes too but look at my son! His robes look like they were made for him!” try as he might, Sirius can’t help the smile that pulls at his lips. His heart swells up in his chest and threatens to burst from the amount of happiness your endless praise fosters in him. 

Just as the checklist states, you made sure to get three sets of plain work robes in black, a pointed hat, a protective pair of dragon hide gloves, a black winter coat with silver fastenings and, lastly, name tags to attach to all items. The total amounted to 28 galleons and 44 sickles. Madam Malkins offered a service that stitched on the name tags for you but you kindly refused. It’s a tedious task but you wanted to stitch the name tags on yourself; you had the time and you wanted to do your due diligence as a mother. This is your job and you aren’t going to hand it over to anyone else. You were told to expect the owl delivery within a week. 

“How about a break?” you suggest upon seeing a sudden fall in your boys’ energy. Their once slumped shoulders suddenly tense and the two peer up at you with cautious eyes. Despite the amount of progress you’ve made in cultivating a mutual rapport with them, it appears that some phrases put them on high alert regardless of the harmonic atmosphere. 

“It’s okay mother,” Regulus hurriedly assures, his smile now much smaller and wrinkled at the edges from superficially conjectural nerves. 

“Yeah, we’re not tired, we can continue shopping just fine,” Sirius continues, reaching out to hold hands with his brother as they stand before you with identical ambivalent expressions. It breaks your heart. Their words are simple but their actions are heavily veneered by a thin veil of coy nonchalance. 

“Aren’t you two hungry?” you ask, crouching down to meet at their level, where you’ve gotten into the habit of being able to converse deeply with them. Keeping their gaze, holding each other’s attention and listening closely has led to so much understanding and that’s all you want with them. 

They look at each other from your question. Sirius can see the obvious hesitation in his younger brother’s eyes and he gives his hand a small squeeze. Usually, Sirius was the more outspoken one, never letting his fears show while allowing his tongue to run and verbalise all the thoughts and opinions in his head. It was his small bit of freedom in a house that was so set on censoring him and his many opposing views, despite his young age. Oftentimes, his parents would guilt him into thinking that he was being a bad influence on Regulus, simply by voicing his views, which are usually opposite to those of his parents. Regulus had a much softer disposition, however. While Sirius carried about smug confidence and had a deficiency for self-preservation, Regulus reigned in studiousness and quiet wit. Sirius knows that his younger brother is gifted but his bright mind shouldn’t be cultivated under such oppressive practices and methods. If that happened, Sirus feared that his darling, little brother's gift would be reduced to nothing. There's no way that Sirius would let that happen to his baby brother, which is why he’s so vocal! But… what's changed? 

Now he was hesitating, his throat clogged up, his palms were sweaty…he was scared. Scared to have you look at him with disapproval or disappointment. Sirius doesn’t know what happened to you, his mother, but you’re different now, he wants to love you and be loved in return. You’ve shown him that you can give the tenderness he desires, you’ve proven that he’s loveable and that he’s worth your time and attention. 

He’s scared because if he makes a single misstep now… he’s going to lose that. It’s much harder losing something you’ve known, felt, and experienced than losing something that never existed in the first place…

“My dears?” you whisper with concern, leaning forward ever so slightly with furrowed brows of worry, “what’s wrong?”

“We’ll have to go home to eat…” Regulus confesses softly. He avoids your eyes as he fiddles with the hem of his long-sleeved shirt and completely misses the confused look on your face. 

“It is not proper to conclude important errands prematurely,” Sirius explains as if reciting from a rulebook,  “...and we don’t want to go home yet either…”

“We’re not stopping entirely,” you reassure, petting their soft hair affectionately and rewarding them with a kind smile as soon as they raise their hopeful faces to you, “we’re just having a lunch break, my loves,” 

“You mean…” Sirius begins. 

“We’re eating outside?” Regulus continues. Both look astonished at the notion. 

“Of course, it’s better than eating back at home,” it then occurs to you a simple explanation for their odd behaviour, “Do you two not want to eat outside?”

“No!” Sirius jumps over-excited before a flash of realisation flourishes in his grey eyes and he quickly drops back, “No, it’s not that, m-mother,” 

“W-we’ve just never eaten outside before,” Regulus explains shyly, “you have us on a strict dietary regime as a proper gentleman wizard of the Black family should be,”

“I’m putting a stop to that ridiculous ‘diet’ as soon as we get back,” they perk up at you but are quickly ushered forward to the nearby pub; unable to press you further on the matter.

Stepping into the Leaky Cauldron, you're greeted by the comforting aroma of hearty meals, mingling with the faint scent of crackling firewood and a faint fog of cigarette smoke. The space is a cosy retreat from the chaotic cobblestone streets outside. From the ceiling hangs several candle-lit chandeliers made of blackened iron, its flickering lights casting a warm glow upon the worn wooden tables and mismatched chairs positioned about the room. The walls are lined with shelves displaying an eclectic assortment of magical curiosities - from peculiar potion ingredients preserved in jars to enchanted artefacts that seem to hum with hidden power. An array of portraits decorate two parallel walls above brick archways. The portraits contain inky sketches that move about freely, some interacting with other portraits as a few characters walk between the varying displays. You guess they might be disappointed to realise that their selection of landscapes are largely the same - plain - but having the freedom seemed sufficient for them to stay jovial enough. At the heart of the room stands a grand fireplace, its flames dancing merrily within its brick frame. Its ochre light casts playful shadows across the room, socialising with the silhouettes of fellow bar guests.

Lighting within the pub relied heavily on candles so the atmosphere was quite dim but the tall candle illuminating the centre of your table gave the time spent there a very idyllic ambience. The two were unfamiliar with the menu items so, with their permission and trust, you ordered in their place.

Since Sirius didn’t mind what he got, you ordered for him Hunter’s Chicken. Regulus said he had a liking for fish so you got him a classic plate of Fish and Chips. For yourself, you got the cottage pie. For drinks, they got apple juice while you had a hot tea. Thinking back on the bland meals served at the Black family household, you’re certain that they were in for a treat today. 

It doesn’t take long for the meals to be given out after your beverages; thankfully all of your entrees were delivered together. In front of Sirius were two succulent chicken breasts wrapped in smoky bacon and smothered in a rich and tangy barbecue sauce, baked to golden-brown perfection. 

He takes his first bite and moans in amazement at the taste. The tender chicken yields effortlessly to reveal layers of savoury goodness - the sweet and smoky notes of the bacon harmonising with the bold tanginess of the barbecue sauce. Every mouthful he takes thereafter struggles between going slow or fast, the symphony of textures and tastes, leaves him craving more of the hearty dish. He doesn’t think he’s ever tasted something so appetising. Why couldn’t the food at home taste like this?

Regulus had before him a plate displaying a golden fillet of flaky fish. It’s encased in a light and crispy batter, served alongside a generous helping of thick-cut, crispy-on-the-outside-fluffy-on-the-inside chips, garden peas and a small ceramic of tartar sauce. Having not seen this appearance of a fish dish before, Regulus looks up at you with a curious look as if to say ‘What is this?’. You greet his curiosity with a sympathetic but patient gaze. 

Gently, you urge him to squeeze the lemon slice over the battered fish and nod when he timidly follows your instruction, “Now give it a try, my darling, I promise you’ll like it,” 

…and like it, he did!  

With each bite, Regulus is met with satisfying crunch after satisfying crush. The exterior is perfectly fried, giving way to the tender fish within. The delicate cod melts in his mouth, introducing the delicate flavour of the fish, complemented by a sprinkle of salt and the squeeze of fresh lemon. Together they create a harmonious balance of savoury and tangy notes that dance happily over his palate. 

“It’s delicious Mother!” Regulus grins with partially stuffed cheeks and crumbs of the batter decorating his lips. Sirius nods enthusiastically beside him, unable to speak from stuffing his mouth full of his chicken dish. 

“Big brother, you have to try some!” you watch with a heart swelling up from adoration and pride as Regulus offers a big chunk of his fish and places it onto his brother’s plate. 

“You too Reggie!” Sirius does the same with his chicken, generously offering up a portion from his plate. Once the two try a bite of each other’s meal, an explosion of ardour lights up their grey eyes, creating a galaxy of endless constellations in their wake. They are so precious. 

Giggling at their antics, you turn to your dish and begin to eat. In all honesty, seeing them enjoying their food for the first time had your stomach already halfway full. So you happily offered a portion of your cottage pie as well. They wanted to say no but you were much too convincing and when they offered a bite of their dishes, you explained that you were already getting full. 

They were named after stars but at this moment, their eyes held a galaxy of their own, just from tasting a delicious meal. You want to see them like this all the time…maybe you should begin cooking in the kitchen again? It was a hobby of yours that you enjoyed, baking too but found limited time to partake in it when your business had exponential growth.

Throughout the meal, you often forgot your unfinished plate to be able to tend to your boys. They’re not usually this messy but they were enjoying their food so well that they couldn’t help themselves. They haven’t tasted food this good before! 

“You two are so messy,” you joke, giggling to yourself as you reach over with a napkin to wipe at the edges of their mouths while they chew their food. A look of shame crosses their adorable, sweet faces and they slow their mastication, avoiding your gaze. 

“Sorry mother,” Regulus apologises meekly as Sirius mutters a similar apology beside him. 

“Whatever for?” you pout at them, “I love seeing you enjoying your meals so much,” their expressions relax slightly when they turn to gaze up to witness your kind smile, “maybe I should get a cookbook and begin cooking up some delicious meals at home for you two, hmm?” a wide grin overcomes them, their astonishment quickly washing away from their elation at the prospect.  

“Really mother?!” hopefulness makes Regulus’ voice raise an octave higher as Sirius bashfully stares up at you. 

“You’d do that?... For us?” Sirius’ voice comes out unusually shy. 

“Of course,” you shrug nonchalantly, trying to temper your exuberant grin, “I was getting tired of the dull, tasteless meals anyway,”

The main topic for the next visit was Eeylops Owl Emporium. 

In your head, you remember the dark feathered owl Sirius owned in the films who had a horrible habit of biting people. Surely it wouldn’t affect the timeline drastically if you bought a different owl for him. It’s been on your mind how you would like to write letters to Sirius regularly, especially during his first year. You might even convince Regulus to join you so you could send your letters together; you didn’t want your son getting bit every time you wrote a letter to him so you’ll be getting him a different bird for all prospective deliveries. 

Upon entering the shop, you encourage your boys to explore and keep a lookout for an owl that would be suitable for Sirius to have for school. In the meantime, you tried to pinpoint the owl with the terrible biting habit so that you may be able to steer Sirius away from ever encountering the bird. You don’t understand why Sirius would have ever decided to get a bird like that in the first place so if he manages to find it before you and decides he wants it, you don’t know how you’ll be able to convince him otherwise— 

“That insolent thing bit me!” as the original Walburga’s voice enters your head, an image of the familiar black-feathered owl flashes behind your eyelids. 

˖  ݁𖥔.☁︎.𖥔 ݁ ˖

‘The amber-eyed owl, quick as lightning, launches its head forward with a vicious snapping of its beak. Successful in its attack, you reel your arm back – except it’s notyourarm – with a shriek of fright and pain. Upon looking down, you observe the torn fabric of your sleeve as well as the lacerated skin of your arm – still not your arm – which begins to bleed a crimson red. Anger and embarrassment flood your veins as you prepare to curse at the insolent thing but stop when your eyes lock onto the hidden smirk of your eldest son. 

“I want that one,” he says, a devious twinkle in his eyes. Before you could protest, his negligent and, often, preoccupied father, steps towards the shop clerk to request the owl for purchase. Orion hadn’t seen the vicious beast attacking you; too eager to return to his work and rushing through the list of school supplies needed for Sirius' first year. The man you call your husband only has himself to blame for waiting so late, only a week was left before Sirius had to depart for Hogwarts but, thankfully, most delivery services didn’t require that long to complete shipment.

“Let's hurry along then,” Orion clicks his tongue in displeasure over the sudden slowing of everyone’s pace, “we must be done by noon, I have better things to be doing!”

˖  ݁𖥔.☁︎.𖥔 ݁ ˖

“Wh-what the–?” blinking rapidly, your vision of the present slowly returns as you reach out to grasp onto something just to steady yourself. Unlike all other squabbles, the original Walburga doesn’t return to elaborate in her screeching voice; she is unusually silent but you’re too dazed to point it out. 

You don’t realise what’s happened until you’re flinging your arm back with a sharp cry, cradling your arm to your chest. 

“Mother!” Regulus runs up to you with furrowed brows marked by distress, “Are you okay?” he reaches for your arm and you bashfully show him your injury, inflicted onto you by a black-feathered owl. The cheeky thing tilts its head at you as if it’s done nothing wrong and merely proceeds to preen its feathers, unbothered by the whole ordeal – so rude.

“Not that one,” Sirius glares at the malevolent bird, narrow eyes filled with malice before turning to you with a softened look of concern. 

“It’s alright my darlings,” you smile reassuringly at them both, “it’s just a scratch, let’s look for a different owl, alright?” 

It took a while to calm the boys enough to distract them from the mishap and finally return to the task at hand. You're injured but you, thankfully, didn’t have to do much to convince Sirius about choosing another owl. Only… The fact that your injury looks identical to the one that appeared on the arm of (what you assume) is the original Walburga’s vision, was disconcerting. 

You make mental notes of everything that happened in the short period, not wanting to ponder on the sinister details just yet, not when you were having such a fun day with your two boys. 

In the end, Sirius settles on a majestic barn owl with beautiful gold and white feathers. The shopkeeper informed you that the owl was a female as he prepared all the additional items you wanted to have with the owl; treats, a small care guide, its cage, water bowl, food bowl, and all of its necessities. You don’t want to acknowledge the shopkeeper’s suspicious gaze as it periodically falls on you. It was beginning to make you feel self-conscious and you’re eager to distract your racing mind. This was probably all original Walburga’s doing. You know how much of a bitch she is but her reputation is proving to be incredibly troublesome when it comes to interacting with other people. 

“What will you name her, Sirius?” you ask, hoping your voice doesn’t give away your discomfort. Thankfully, your question is a good distraction for everyone, including the shopkeeper. 

“I don’t know…” Sirius ponders to himself, “Maybe… hmmm… Owletta,” he grins cheekily, proud of himself for the creative name. You can already see the marauder in him and it makes you grin as well. 

“That sounds very fitting,” you wink at him as Regulus giggles to himself, enjoying the given name as well, “great choice,”

“What happened to the last owl you purchased?” the shopkeeper asks suddenly, finally finished with preparing all the items and eying you warily. You feel Sirius and Regulus’ eyes on you from his question as well and hurry to make an excuse. This situation has grown very uncomfortable.  

“Last owl?”

“Yes, the screech owl, from last week,”

“It was for a gift…to a friend,” you smile innocently despite your awkward wording, grateful that the shopkeeper doesn’t ask any further questions although he does appear reluctant to hand over Owletta. But with an impatient flap of her large wings, he hands her over inside her cage. She probably felt the taut tension of indecision in the air far worse than you.  

“10 galleons…” you gladly hand over payment and usher your boys out. 

This has the original Walburga's name written all over it. 

Continuing with the shopping, your next stop was Flourish and Blotts for Sirius’ books. The list of publications needing to be purchased was long, amounting to eight volumes of knowledge ranging from magical creatures to history and magic theory. You were tempted to read through the books yourself and learn a thing or two but didn’t want to appear lacking. As unfortunate as it is, you’re supposed to be the Walburga Black, a very proud, ‘high-class’ witch within the wizarding world, meaning that you had to be proficient in, at least, 1st year of wizarding knowledge.  

Fortunately, there was an owl delivery option for the books, which saves you from carrying the heavy load but you’re beginning to feel sad for the poor owls subjected to delivering such a package. Not only that but you worried for your poor Sirius’ little shoulders and arms having to carry around those heavy books at Hogwarts. You hope to god there’s a magic bag that could carry many things without transferring the weight onto you. From the books and the delivery fee, everything costs 14 galleons in total. 

It wasn’t listed on the official school supplies list but you had the foresight to go to Scribbulus Writing Instruments to buy an assortment of inks, quills and parchment. Sirius and Regulus were fascinated by the colour-changing inks available, some transitioning between two to three colours and some cycling through much more. At first, you found it odd that they hadn’t encountered such a simple and commonplace magical item before until you remembered their parents and all the unfortunate implications that came with that realisation. It made your fists clench in anger and had you impulsively buying a small pot of each colour-changing ink to the surprise and subsequent delight of your two boys. 

“Y-you didn’t have to do that Mother,” Regulus comments shyly with a soft pink glow dusting his cheeks as he cradles a small pot of colour-changing ink in his little hands. That particular one was his favourite, if you remember correctly, it transitioned through an array of blue hues. He looks so adorable; you don’t know how you were able to resist reaching down to pinch at his pudgy cheeks. 

“Of course, I had to,” you huff with a playful sternness before leaning down and bringing them in close to whisper for their ears only, it was as if you were telling a century-old secret. Intrigued by your actions, they lean in with rounded eyes of wonder, “But promise not to tell your father, he doesn’t deserve to know about our secret ink stash,” Sirius grins mischievously as Regulus' cheeks dimple. Nodding firmly at each other, your agreement was sealed and the three of you continued with your shopping spree. 

The next stop was Potage’s Cauldron Shop, where you purchased a small cauldron before getting potioneer equipment and a telescope from Wisearce’s Wizardry Equipment. Again, like all the shops before, it was incredibly touching to be able to see your son's eyes sparkle in fascination and wonderment. You can practically hear their thoughts. Even though Regulus has to wait another year before he can attend Hogwarts, they’re both glowing with enthusiasm and alacrity to learn and experience something new. It just makes your heart ache a little over how you’re going to be mostly absent from that venture, seeing as Hogwarts is a boarding school. In the meantime, you’ll savour having them with you now and spending the little time you have with Sirius worthwhile and carry that on with Regulus while his older brother is at school creating chaos with the rest of the marauders.   

Sirius’ assortment of school equipment was quickly piling up and so was his excitement. It was an excitement that proved to be very contagious as Regulus stood to his right, absorbing the delight that flowed from him in wave after beautiful wave. Seeing such precious smiles on their faces, it was hard to believe that the first day or so was filled with them fixing you with permanent scowls or passive expressions that were too mature and ill-suited to their youthful faces. These gorgeous smiles suited them a lot more… and you want to keep it that way. 

Stepping back out onto the cobblestone streets, you look around with your mental list of shops that still need visiting but find your gaze stopping on the sign of a quaint, unassuming shop dubbed ‘Belby’s Potions and Ingredients’. You don’t remember ever hearing of a shop like this being in Diagon Alley but that’s to be expected, the world building wasn’t very expansive in the Harry Potter movies or books when it came to Diagon Alley, and this is without considering that you were in a different era of the Harry Potter Universe. You’ve already come across some shops that you’ve never heard of before but sit comfortably, right at home, amongst the other recognisable shops in the district; this one in particular shouldn't strike you as so intriguing.

“Is that where we’re going next, mother?” Sirius speaks up, snapping you out of your dazed state. 

Smiling shyly, you make a small confession, “It’s not part of the list, I’m just hoping for a little detour to get you familiar with potion ingredients before school," you skillfully fib, "is that okay with you boys?” asking for their opinion and giving them a choice to agree or disagree always seemed to make them happy. It’s a freedom and a luxury, that they were rarely given when under the real Walburga’s ‘care’ so they were more than happy to oblige. 

“Of course that’s alright,” Regulus looks past the skirt of your black dress to meet eyes with his brother, “right, Sirius?”

“Yeah!” grinning happily, they hold your hands in their much smaller ones and start pulling you along to the shop, their enthusiasm making appear like normal, happy kids, “let’s go, mother!”

Looking up at the sign once more, you allow your curiosity to spring forward. Indeed, you can’t recognise this shop before your transfer into the Harry Potter, Marauders era universe but the name ‘Belby’ definitely piqued your interest. It’s on the tip of your tongue but you couldn’t quite place where you recognise the name. 

Entering the shop, you were presently enticed by the entirely separate atmosphere it presented. Unlike most of the other shops that were, either, barely lit or bursting with colour, the atmosphere of this shop was remarkably serene. It was pleasant. A good change of pace. Switching from two extremes of decoration, it was relieving to finally find one that danced in the middle, leaning towards an aesthetic that was homey and unsophisticated. 

Your two boys were quick to begin surveying the shelves of products themselves - a library of carefully crafted potions and their ingredients. It was clear that they too, were welcomed and put at ease by the cottage-core aesthetic of the dwelling. There were dried bunches of flora hanging from the walls and ceiling, some with cute blossoms, frozen in their prime, whilst other herbage sported brittle stems and frail, veiny leaves. The colours of the ingredients and tightly packed potions meticulously measured into phials were somewhat muted but in a very pretty sense. It was like opening a beloved, ageing book and diving into its wondrous, antiquated tales, freckled with wise passages that transcend all time and languages. The shop was very small but also very charming and well-loved; you felt right at home.

As your two boys weave through the isles of merchandise, a genial voice calls out to you, “Welcome to Belby’s Potions and Ingredients, I’m Damocles Belby, how can I help you today?” at the front counter, you observe a man in his mid-thirties with a full beard and moustache framing a no-eye smile. Slowly easing himself out of his merry greeting, his eyelids unfurl to reveal a beautiful pair of honey-amber eyes. He looks kind; his affable demeanour is just as welcoming as his cosy shop. 

“Hello sir,” you hope your smile conveys, at least, half of the warmth of his own, “I’m just taking a look around, thank you,” he gives a soft ‘ahh’ of acknowledgement before nodding, “My two boys are also around here somewhere. My eldest son will be starting his first year at Hogwarts next month so I wanted him to get a little familiar with the potion ingredients he’ll be encountering at school,”

“That’s a brilliant idea,” Damocles grins in approval, chuckling to himself at your chest swelling with pride for your son, “what is your son’s name?”    

“Sirius Black,” you announce fondly, the friendly atmosphere coming to a screeching halt when realisation washes over Damocles’ features. The once cordial air has plunged to freezing temperatures within seconds, prickling your skin with goosebumps. 

“M-madam Black,” he greets formally with a bow of his head. It’s clear that Walburga’s reputation is notoriously menacing but you’re not her and you kindly ask that he refrain from such discretionary (in your eyes) behaviour. 

“I’m simply a mother to my sons and a wife to my husband,” a disgusting, pile of shit that’s a complete waste of oxygen, who doesn’t deserve the title of father or husband, “that is all,” your answer doesn’t soothe him as you’d hoped it would but your attentions are soon required elsewhere when you’re both drawn to an even cosier corner of the store. 

Led there by the whisperings of your two sons, both accompanied by a tired yet melodious voice, you are greeted with the most charming sight — your boys sitting at the foot of a rocking chair, where a frail but equally kind-looking woman slumps into, her pale blue eyes shining with fondness at them as she embroiders a shimmering pink thread into a plain square of cloth in her lap. She’s dressed modestly, with her top hiding her arms in long lantern sleeves as her collar stretches up her neck. The long skirt of her dress looks layered, puffing up at the sides of her seat and what little skin you would have seen at her ankles are covered in thick socks. You wonder if she’s cold at all. Or maybe she’s just a very unobtrusive person with a likeness for coquettish and demure fashions.      

“How do you know how to make the flowers if you don’t draw them first?” Regulus asks, peering over her lap in an attempt to catch sight of her work between her elegantly working hands. 

Sirius nods and adds to the conversation with his question, “Yeah, and why aren’t you using magic like everyone else?” 

“It comes with a lot of practice,” she answers your baby first before turning to your slightly older baby, “and I do it because I enjoy embroidering; besides…” she turns her work over to them, allowing you a glimpse of her masterpiece as well, “it always looks prettier when I embroider it myself,” your two boys ‘ooo~’ and ‘aaah~’ at her work. The interaction draws a soft giggle from you while the shopkeeper beside you sighs quietly – he sounds relieved. 

“Are you feeling better, my dear?” Damocles steps up to his wife, placing one hand on the head of the cane that’s kept beside her rocking chair. His other hand reaches up to curl his fingers into a shy ringlet of her blonde hair. They are a loving couple, a 'one true pair'. 

“Mr Belby, you need to stop being such a worrier,” his wife chides playfully at him, abandoning her embroidery to smile lovingly at her husband, “and besides, there’s nothing for you to fret about when I’m around such good company,” her comment makes you smile widely, proud that your two boys were growing a reputation of their own, ones separate from the infamous Black family. You can handle the stares and uncomfortable accommodations for your prominence but you wouldn't stand for them to experience it too. 

“Right, of course,” Damocles nods with a short but airy chuckle and nods at the boys thankfully when they shuffle their way back to you. Sirius and Regulus had never seen such an affectionate couple before; their parents weren’t like that. And, although they wish they could grow up under such a soft and healthy model of love, they know that it wouldn’t be possible; to them, mothers and fathers don’t normally show affection for each other and that was how it was going to stay between their parents. There was no use in hoping. 

“You must be these two young men’s mother,” Damocles’ wife meets your gaze and smiles, her beauty unable to be masked by her pronounced ailment, “My name is Ruth Belby, I see you’ve already met my worry-wart of a husband,” the two of you share a laugh before you’re able to introduce yourself as well. Unlike her spouse, Ruth's first reaction was not fear but rather surprise, an astonishment that quickly melted into a soft smile. 

“You two have a very lovely shop,” Sirius and Regulus nod eagerly by your sides, agreeing with your comment, “it’s so much cosier than all the other shops around here,”

Damocles’ expression softens, his eyes mirroring sweet honey before he presses a kiss to his wife’s temple, “It’s all because of my wife’s keen eye, I catered this place solely for her palates’ enjoyment,” 

“I’m very lucky in that sense,” Ruth’s twinkling laugh rings out as quickly as it gives way to a coughing fit. It sounds as though she’s trying to hack up a serrated knife, the sound of it making all witnesses' hearts shake with panic except for Damocles', who rushes about to quell her discomfort. He hides his worries well. His expression is completely neutral as he offers her a crisp glass of water, however, his other hand reveals his true sentiments – his true fretfulness. As soon as she's had her fill of the glass, Damocles offers up a phial of magenta liquid that you’re all too familiar with, “darling, there’s no need for that,” Ruth’s nose scrunches up at the appearance of the healing potion. 

“It’s for your own good, please Ruth. I only want for you to feel better, my dear,” she grumbles and whines but eventually gulps down the healing potion, taking a moment to get over the ghastly taste before changing the topic. Your eyes fall onto her with sympathy. That potion is truly disgusting. 

“That’s enough about me, I hear that this young man is going to be attending Hogwarts,” Ruth gestures to Sirius as you fondly bring up a hand to comb your fingers through his perfectly permed hair. 

“Yes, he’s growing up far too quickly…” you hum, melancholic despite only being with your newly acquired sons for a little over a week. Sirius’ ears tint a soft pink and he shyly peeks up at you with pouting lips. 

“Growing up is normal…” he utters like a grump. 

“I know,” you sigh in gentle acceptance, “but I quite like you as you are right now,” Sirius’ eyes widen in disbelief and his cheeks burn as pink as his ears. It’s an expression that makes you smile warmly, you like the appearance of it on him, he needs to express it more often, “I want you to stay like this with me just a little bit longer, is that too much to ask?” 

“...not really,” you didn’t expect him to answer but it was in a whisper so you had to lean down ever so slightly to hear him clearer, “I’ll try to stay like this a little longer for you…if you want,” his comment, heard by you and Ruth, have you both cooing at him as Regulus grins hard enough for his dimples to show again; his older brother’s rose-red face is so funny to look at! 

When it comes time for you, Regulus and Sirius to leave, you thought it would just be a regular goodbye but not for your two boys. They've made good friends with the couple, especially Ruth so a memorable adieu was in order. 

Regulus bows to Ruth like a true gentleman while Sirius places a small kiss on her knuckles, whereby he then turns to his younger brother and says verbatim: that’s how a true gentleman bids farewell to a beautiful lady. The gesture of your eldest made Damocles’ eyes bulge out as Ruth laughed aloud, her shoulders shaking as her eyes lit up in glee. It's a relief that she didn't have a coughing fit this time. You, yourself, don’t know why you were so surprised. It appears as though Sirius’ philanderer ways didn’t start in Hogwarts; he already had the potential even before attending the boarding school. 

With another wave of your hand and a glance over your shoulder, you leave the couple whilst leading your two boys to the door in front of you. 

It was then that you saw it… 

In Ruth, you saw your past self. It was like looking into a mirror, a mirror into the past where you couldn’t have children no matter how desperately you wanted to have ones of your own. Like you, she probably had a list of names picked out in her head already. Like you, she probably pictured their innocent, beautiful faces in the appearance of other children. Like you, she envied the mothers who were able to conceive and desperately wished for a miracle to happen only for that miracle to never materialise. It was a mix of hopeless yearning and doleful forbearance. From your peripheral, you discern a similar impression on Damocles as he stands beside his ill-stricken wife. 

Damocles Belby… why does that name sound so familiar to you?  

The boys did so well today. It was long and arduous and you could see the sun beginning to set, however, it’s never too late for–

“Ice cream?” Regulus asks with glittering grey eyes. 

“We can have two scoops each,” you announce, eager to reward yourself as well, “we deserve something delicious for our hard work today,” Regulus was bouncing on the soles of his feet, something both you and Sirius noticed.  

“You can go first Reggie,” Sirius smiles at his little brother, who turns to you with pleading eyes.

“Can I choose my flavours myself?” he asks to which you smile and nod. Eagerly, he looks through the collection of available ice cream and decides to go for, “one scoop of strawberry and peanut butter, and one scoop of apple crumble please,” he seems proud of his order and is soon savouring it with the happiest expression on his face. It’s unexpected but he, undoubtedly, has a sweet tooth. A studious, quiet boy with a secret love for sweet things - how charming and precious. 

“Can I have one scoop of the clotted cream, and one scoop of the sticky toffee pudding please,” just like Regulus, Sirius was soon delving into his ice cream too, both teetering on the edge of wanting to devour the rare, cold treat whilst also trying to make it last as long as possible. You giggle at their antics briefly before ordering your own two scoops from the same vendor who smiles at you kindly. In his gaze and wrinkled but dexterous fingers, familiar and elegant with their motions, express a love for his craft and a love for those who show their appreciation of it – the simple act of enjoying their ice cream was payment enough to him. 

“Thank you kindly, sir,”

“Not at all mam, enjoy yer ice creams,” the man offers a slight tip of his head upon accepting payment. 

On a nearby bench, Sirius, Regulus and you sit quietly together and finish your doubly topped cones, taking the time to observe passing wizards and witches while enjoying the little time you have left of your day out shopping. You don’t think the day could have gone any better, and Sirius and Regulus don’t think anything would be able to transcend the fun they’ve had. 

Meeting each other’s eyes, Sirius and Regulus silently agree that today has been the best day they’ve ever had, not knowing that you have plenty of great days lined up for them. 

NEXT. | 04 : BEGINNINGS → | SERIES M.LIST

A/N : it's finally here, my promised, final update before i go on my hiatus. i'm sorry it took me so long to get out to you darlings. after my indefinite hiatus announcement, i got really busy. however, i'm sure you darlings would be happy to know that my situation has gotten better. it's not to the point that i feel like i can comfortably write but i'm definitely getting there so i can confidently say that I can see myself returning from my hiatus later on this year. in the mean time, i hope you darlings enjoy this chapter and please take care! i love you all so much and i'll see you soon x 

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[tkomptgoedluv]

a burning hill.

icantbelieveiletyougetaway pt.2

pt.1 here | pt.2 | pt.3 here | pt.4 here

joost klein x f! reader

tags: f! reader, non-famous! reader, reader still really needs to see a therapist, established friendship, joost has always been down bad and no one is surprised, quite angsty, lots of comfort, all characters are dutch and speak in dutch but dialogue is written in english for obvious reasons.

word count: 2,495.

warnings: references to SA, detailed mentions of non-specific mental illness, rpf.

notes: pt. 2 is finally here! i’m sorry it’s taken so long and thank you all for waiting <3 — i really can’t tell if i hate this part or not. it feels both dragged out and rushed, but i wanted to add more backstory to their relationship and leave a half-open ending incase anyone wants a pt.3. i apologise if it’s awful. enjoy! 💋

── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ──

you hated hospitals.

you weren’t quite sure why, it wasn’t like you’d ever spent enough time in one to actually form your own opinion until now.

but you did. you really, really did. they were too cold and the lights were too harsh, you couldn’t stand all the bare white walls, and seeing so many sick people all together made you feel nauseous. especially the older ones — if it wasn’t for the steady beats of their heart monitors, you would’ve assumed that they were already dead.

you weren’t like them; you weren’t sick. if it wasn’t for joost and his promise of buying you a pack of your favourite cigs, you never would’ve come here. you were the type to take a few ibuprofens and carry on as if nothing was wrong, as if simply taking a couple steps around your living room wasn’t enough to make you cry.

as it turns out though, that actually would’ve made things a whole lot worse for you.

apparently you needed a lot of different stitches in a lot of different places from how badly he had torn you up. the doctor even praised you for coming in when you did, saying that you could’ve died from several different infections had you left it all untreated. you tried not to let yourself think about that for too long.

the good news however, was that it was all an easy fix somehow. the stitching, whilst absolutely horrible, didn’t take longer than an hour or so and you were given just enough painkillers to last until all the bruising goes away. really, not a lot of time had passed before you were being discharged with a stack of leaflets all advertising local therapists. you chucked them into the very first bin that you saw.

you fucking hated hospitals.

it was snowing again by the time you made it out of the main doors, small specks of white collecting in your hair and wetting your eyelashes. you loved the cold and especially the snow, but it was something that you really could’ve gone without right now. the cold that consumed you only worsened each ache and pain that you felt, from the tops of your shoulders all the way down to your knees.

you were already shivering by the time you reached joost. he had perched himself on a nearby bench, a cigarette in one hand and what looked like a paper bag of pastries in the other. it brought a toothless smile to your face, the kind that could actually reach your eyes, when you realised that he still remembered.

it had been three years ago that you had first met joost and the rest of the group; two and half since that day. you hadn’t seen it coming, not when you had been doing so much better than you ever had before. you were going out more and socialising, eating better, and staying on top of the little things like the dishes and laundry. for once you actually felt human and not like just some basket case.

you weren’t ready to wake up that one morning, a fine layer of frost dusted across your bedroom window, and feel like you couldn’t move. you laid there and watched the sun fight to be seen until it dipped below the skyline, leaving you to wallow in the dark, alone. you’d ignored every buzz of your phone until they eventually stopped, and still cried when they did. you cried until your eyes grew heavy, having worn yourself out beyond the point of staying awake.

when a quick knock at the door had woken you up from your sleep, you ignored it like everything else. you curled up further in on yourself and prayed that whoever it was would just give up and leave you be, that they would walk away and let you rot in the sanctity of your own bed. it was there that you listened to their knocks slowly turn desperate until they stopped, only to be followed by the sound of your spare key turning in the lock.

as light flooded in from the hallway, the open door engulfing your small studio in shades of orange and yellow, you heard your own name break the silence.

“psst, hey it’s me, it’s joost. are you home?”

you cried again, right then and there at the sound of his voice.

with your whole entire heart you adored all of your friends but with joost it was just…different. it was on the very first day of that music festival you’d bumped into him, oblivious to who he was and how he was one of the names on the lineup. he still wishes that you could’ve seen the look on your face when he took you backstage, letting you watch his show from the wings. after that, the two of you had more or less been glued at the hip.

for seventy-two hours straight, you had spent every minute with him and the rest of his friends. they all welcomed you in with open arms, and for whatever reason seemed to love you almost as much as he did. stuntje was already referring to you as his ‘little sister’ by the third day, and nathan was set on making you a permanent fixture in the group.

but you were still you, though. the more everyone pushed to get to know you, the more of an effort you made to keep them all at an arm’s length — for both your sake and theirs. except you never really could with joost, and now he was there, fumbling around in your living room as he tried to make a beeline for you in the dark.

no one had heard from you in two days.

what had felt like mere hours, a single afternoon at most, had been two days. that was why he was there with you, sat on the edge of your bed with a hand rubbing your back, begging for you to talk to him. when you wouldn’t, he offered you the compromise of at least joining him for breakfast and revealed a small bag of pastries before you could say no.

“i had a feeling you’d be hungry; call it a mother’s intuition.”

through all of the tears and snot, he’d made you laugh. it was weak and hoarse, and made the very back of your throat burn, but it was still a laugh. joost had taken it as a yes and helped you sit up, fully committing to the bit and ‘mothering’ you in every way that he knew how, like slipping his own hoodie over your head the very second he saw you shiver.

it was like that you had sat and ate each and every single one of the pastries with him, and later forgave him for all of the crumbs you were still finding in your bed a week later.

and now here he was, almost three years later, clutching yet another bag of those pastries in his hand. you became thankful for the snow when your eyes began to turn red and water, your bottom lip starting to tremble ever so slightly. you could blame it on the cold then, blame it on something rational like a snowflake getting in your eye instead of admitting that you were crying over croissants.

“hey! how was -” joost almost slipped on a patch of ice when you near-enough tackled him, burying your face in his chest as you wrapped your arms around his middle. the sheer force of it knocked the cigarette from his other hand; he seemed not to notice. “hey…you good?”

a cold hand cradled the back of your head, his fingers gently scratching the back of your scalp.

“you remembered the pastries.”

even as the words were still coming out, they felt silly; you felt silly. nobody with their head screwed on straight would be getting all teary-eyed and weepy over their friend picking up some breakfast. besides, there was still the chance that for joost, that was all it was — a sweet but small thing that he could do for you on a day guaranteed to be awful.

but joost just wasn’t one to do things small. there was always intent and meaning in everything that he did. you knew there had to be something else behind it, something worthy of all these tears in your eyes.

“well yeah, i’ve got that motherly instinct, remember?”

you laughed as you pulled away from him, wiping your sore eyes with the palms of your hands. there was no point in trying to blame it on the cold or the snow anymore, you knew that just from the big doe-eyed look that joost gave you. he’d caught a glimpse of your wet cheeks and the penny had finally dropped.

it almost hurt him knowing that for even a moment, you had honestly thought he wouldn’t have remembered the pastries.

that day — two years, six months, and thirteen days ago, was burned into his memory whether he wanted it to be or not. he hadn’t known much about you back then, but knew enough to know that you hadn’t gone M-I-A for two days simply because you were caught up with work or family. he also knew that showing up to your place unannounced and uninvited was a bold move on his part; you hadn’t known a great deal about him, either.

joost wasn’t very good at losing people. when you meant something to him, you were like family, and joost couldn’t quite cope with losing family.

honestly, he already really liked you and liked having you around, and that only made it worse for him when all of a sudden you weren’t anymore. you’d been at every one of his shows, every group-meet at whatever bar was deemed most convenient for the night, and every video shoot that was in desperate need of another extra. in his defence, he had tried calling first. infact, he’d called you around six times before turning up on your doorstep that morning.

joost pulled you back into him, resting his chin on the top of your head. it wasn’t your doubt in him that stung like the cold that nipped at his fingertips, but how you could never find it in yourself to believe that someone would want to do something for you. especially him, because surely you knew by now that he would do absolutely anything for you, right?

the words were on the very tip of his tongue. with you in his hold, the both of you together in the snow, he really wanted to say it. wanted to promise that he’d buy you those pastries every day for the rest of his life if you asked him to. wanted to squeeze you and shake you and tell you that of course he would, because you could ask him to jump and he’d only say ‘how high?’

instead, joost simply smiled when he finally let you go. he had to trust that it said everything he wanted to say for him, because you wouldn’t ever let him actually say it, would you? but now also wasn’t the right time, either, because the snow was falling harder and he could feel the tremor in your hands as he held them.

“cmon, you’re coming back to mine.”

you didn’t argue, nor did you resist when he started to lead you in the direction of his house. it made the most sense; it was a lot closer and despite all of the pain medication you were on, you still didn’t feel like walking. plus, you really liked joost’s place. it was bigger than yours, and nicer, and felt a lot more like home than your own flat did sometimes.

he was still holding onto your hand as the pair of you headed back down the highstreet, slipping past the few others that were brave enough to face the weather. with your head kept down low, you never saw how joost keep looking back at you every couple of steps, searching for any signs of hurt or pain.

“you know, you still haven’t told me how it went in there. everything okay?”

“yeah, everything’s fine.” you hesitated saying anything further and only continued once you felt a small squeeze of your hand, a quiet way of coaxing you to keep going. “they had to stitch me up a bit — said i have to take it easy and that i’m going to be on these pain meds for a while, but yeah. i’m gonna be okay.”

“i should’ve broken a lot more than his nose.”

immediately you shook your head, a few strands of hair falling in front of your eyes as you did so.

“no, you shouldn’t have. you shouldn’t have even done that.” it was hard to miss the scoff that immediately followed, as well as the few swear words that joost then muttered underneath his breath. “i should’ve broken his legs, actually.”

you pulled on his arm hard enough to get him to stop, and to turn and face you. there was nothing left of that sweet smile he once had, only a hardened jaw and a look that seemed to worsen the bruising around his eye.

“you and i both know that you’re not that guy, joost. you don’t do things like that.”

“i would for you.”

the way he said it, so obviously as though he shouldn’t have even had to say it at all, took you back. joost was a lot of things, a lot of kind, wonderful, stubborn things, but he wasn’t violent. last night was the first time you’d ever seen him behave like that; it had scared you then, and to hear him say that he’d do worse if he could, scared you now.

he wasn’t like you, he actually had something to lose. if those videos from last night got out, the ones of him throwing punches against three different guys, that could cost him everything. festivals could drop him from their line ups, brands could double back on their partnerships, other artists could pull out on their collabs. you couldn’t make sense of why none of that seemed to matter to him, why his whole career seemed to be an afterthought compared to you.

you couldn’t be worth all that trouble.

“why? why for me?”

joost really did have the worst luck, didn’t he?

had it been any other day, any other place, joost would’ve been screaming from the rooftops by now. he’d let not just you but the whole of amsterdam know just how much he was stupidly head over fucking heels for you. here you were, asking him to speak those very same words that he’s been swallowing down, because finally you were ready to hear them.

how bittersweet it was, that it just wasn’t the right time.

“i’ll tell you later, schatje. promise.”

[betterinvienna]

the torture of small talk with someone you used to love

geto suguru x gen!reader

masterlist ao3

synopsis:

No, you two weren’t going to work. 

It was a sick combination, really. He’s too busy, and you’re too good to him. Too busy to reply to your messages—too ungrateful and too young to cherish what he has. He didn’t deserve you, he thought, so he let you go. 

Geto’s voice slurs with regret and unbridled sorrow sticks to the back of his throat as he takes the front stage for the first time in his music career.

“I’m sorry,” he breathes into the mic, “every single song is about you.” 

[ 4.5k words — fluff, angst, second chance, rockstar au — warnings: i am fighting back against the geto nonchalant hc epidemic ]

author's note:

quick note: i know nothing about fallout boy, but i just wanted to use the little quote pete wentz said as inspo and the basis of this fic :-) the song i dedicate to this one is lover, you should have come over by jeff buckley. please listen while reading (if you really want to be in the story, 2:10 of lover, you should’ve come over roughly correlates with after geto says the lines). i hope you enjoy! i really liked writing this one

“How long has it been?” Your friend, Shoko, asks as you poke your strawberry scone around. The menu offered a vanilla and peanut butter one, but you found yourself suspicious of the combination and turned it down.

That’s a good question. 

Your room is bare now—posters you just can’t seem to get rid of fill your closet in messy, loose rolls, rare CDs collect dust in a far corner (should you ever be in a financial bind, you’ll sell those on Depop), and faded, five-sizes-too-big band t-shirts are hung up with the nicer, store stolen fabric hangers in the darker spot of your closet. 

He’s someone you’d rather not remember.

There is one thing, though. The guitar that he lent you—the one he taught you how to play on. Marks lace the middle bout of the guitar, courtesy of years of contact. The fork goes clean through your scone as you think of him with a greater lucidity now; his hands on yours as they guide you through the most fundamental songs, the vibration of his chuckle against your back when you try to play on your own, his string calloused fingertips running across your nape to pull your hair out of the way so he can scrutinize your choppy F sharp work in all of its negligible glory.

It doesn’t matter now. It never did. That worn guitar lays under your bed, never to be touched again. Never to be played again for any ear.

Suguru Geto isn’t yours anymore.

“I dunno,” you mumble, obviously out of it. Your eyes are unfocused, so you keep them low to hide their comfortable asymmetry. “Six—five months?”

Shoko sips her matcha and looks at you from over the cup. “Right. And you don’t miss him one bit?” 

You shrug, pushing your plate to the side and taking a heavy gulp of your latte—hopefully long enough to signal to Shoko this conversation isn’t one you feel like having. Now or ever. Your tongue starts to feel numb in your mouth, and you can’t tell if it’s because of the drink’s scalding temperature or your sudden lack of verbosity.

Shoko doesn’t get the hint though, because she just stares at you until your theatrics are over. “Yes you do,” she teases with a haughty laugh and then leans back. She begins to grab a cigarette out of her pocket, but the café worker bussing the table next to yours gives her a glare. She promptly returns the box to its righteous place.

“I don’t.” You lick your dry lips and look up, mildly annoyed. The conversation was beginning to sound like one of an elementary schooler: “You so like Geto!” met with the exhausted rebuttal of “Not true!” 

But it was true. In some deep part of you, one you have long since buried, you missed him. You missed the way he held you close even in front of whipped fans, one after another begging him to sign their boobs or bare chests—his androgyny made him a particularly strong item—you missed the way he lent you all of his T-shirts to sleep in. You missed the way he ran his fingers through your hair, still listening when you were going on about nothing in particular. That’s the thing about Geto. It’s hard not to miss him, but you figured you were doing a pretty good job at it.

Shoko pinches your cheek and begins to rise from her seat, laying down a couple of bills. “I’ll pay. Your heart’s already hurting. I don’t feel like doing the same to your bank account.” You mumble a “thanks” to the lame joke and grab your bag, stepping outside of the stuffy café.

Here, she is finally free to smoke, so she lights one and sighs after puffing it. “You know,” she coughs, “Choso said Geto’s pretty torn up about you.”

“I seriously doubt it.” You laugh bitterly, tightening your hold on your bag strap. Geto? Torn up about you? “I’m sure the millions of girl fans he adores would die for just a night with him. He has options. Probably why he ditched.”

“I just don’t think he would just give up on you two. I mean, he sai—”

“Can we go?”

Shoko senses she’s overstepped a boundary, so she nods and steps towards her car. It beeps and she opens the driver's door. She pauses for a minute before ducking her head down, though, surveying your face. Looking for something. 

You don’t give her any reaction. You simply enter the passenger seat, parking your purse upon your lap, and staring out of the window into the café. The anti-smoking barista is wiping your table down. He looks left, then right, and pops your untouched scone into his left front pocket. Good on him—food shouldn’t be wasted.

The rest of the ride is silent.

—

𝐑𝐎𝐂𝐂𝐂𝐊𝐄𝐑

PLAYING @ ATLANTIS SQUARE

ON 7/8 and 7/10 MIDNIGHT

𝗗𝗢𝗡’𝗧 𝗠𝗜𝗦𝗦 𝗜𝗧

TICKETS ON SALE NOW

You pause at the glossy poster once again, for the third time this week. Plastered conveniently on the everyday walk to your apartment, it annoys you. It has been since last week. On it, there are three men: Gojo, the white-haired one stands at the front in a captivating still shot. You’ve met him before, he’s the singer and token—self-proclaimed, but still—comedian. He stands tall in the picture, wearing a well-fitted ROCCCKER tee and raising his hands up. Choso, a member you’re relatively closer to, has his face obscured by the way he’s moving his head to the beat of the drums he’s playing. The last member, the guitarist, has his bottom lip tucked in as he focuses on playing the correct strings. In this captured moment, he’s looking directly into the camera. He’s looking directly at you. This picture is old though, because the tattoo of a name—your name—around his bicep isn’t there. 

You also know this because you took the picture. 

Two years ago.

You walk away from the poster, rolling your eyes. It’s childish, you think, to keep using your pictures, old ones at that, when you have no association with the group anymore—but then again, you figured, that you were paid for your work and that you shouldn’t have had such a close relation to the group either way. 

You dig in your purse for your apartment keys. When you finally enter your living room, you flop onto the couch and begin scrolling through your carefully curated, mildly fake Instagram. Beautiful, professional pictures of cherry blossoms and fairy light-decorated city alleyways decorate each corner of your page. 

Five months ago, they were rudely punctuated by the occasional dark-set photo of a long-haired guitarist on a stage, glistening in sweat under dark blue stage lights and flame machines. They threw off the balance of your page, you knew, but you and Geto simply laughed at the juxtaposition of the scenario, poking fun at your contrast. 

You purged your page of him—and all related photos, even if they were suggestions of him—when you were told by him, verbatim, that he “can’t do this anymore.” The only things you remember are his eyes widening as you slapped him, straying from their previously bored expression and your ears feeling hot as you turned on your heels and speed-walked out of there. You didn’t turn to check if he was following you, because you thought you didn’t care. In hindsight, you regret it. You wanted to see if he would chase after you. 

If he would miss you.

Now, your page is back to being an aesthetically pleasing wonderland of tulip fields and matcha that tastes terrible but looks cute. You’ll never disturb this kind of peace and social conformity for a man ever again.

Working as a freelance photographer is nice. It’s, well, as the name suggests, freeing. As your own boss, you get to choose which clients to pick up and which ones to not. What gigs to immortalize and whatnot. In light of recent events, you haven’t necessarily taken pictures in any concerts. You usually turn them down, even if they pay well. Jobs like weddings and birthdays are much easier.

You pick your CANON camera up out of its fabric case. The personalized keychains on the zippers jingle as you open them. It was expensive—a birthday gift, so you take good care of it. Wiping down the lens and adjusting the settings, you check the reminders on your phone. 

Wednesday, July 10th

Park Engagement Photos

Ruby Ten Park

3:00 P.M.

These clients of yours are one of your favorites. They’ve been a long-time customer. From first day of school photos to eccentric birthday shoots, they’ve called you each time. It’s nice to see that they’re getting engaged. Silently, you hope that they invite you to the wedding as a photographer.

Packing what you need into a dedicated tote bag, you exit your apartment again, your rest being short-lived. The park is only about a ten-minute walk from your complex, so you choose not to call an Uber. This is a choice you begin to regret as you feel your face begin to sweat three minutes in. On days like these, Geto would’ve offered to pick you up from your apartment and drop you off, no matter the distance.

You kill that thought immediately. Should’ve called that Uber.

You take your wool cardigan off, wiping beads of sweat from your hairline and adjusting your blouse. Your clients, a couple in their mid-twenties, aesthetically sit on a checkered picnic blanket. The scene is one from your Pinterest home feed. You’ve been ordered not to be spotted until the actual proposal, so you opt to sit against a tree facing a performing stage that is commonly used for indie gigs and mini-festivals. The park is nice—the trees and shrubs are well cut, the walkways are often clear of obstruction, and the benches are relatively new, save for the chewed gum under the end bars. A five-star recreational park, truly.

When your ex-boyfriend’s band begins to set up speakers on the stage you’re facing, the park shoots down three full stars on your mental Yelp site. Two stars. My annoying, ungrateful ex-boyfriend made a surprise appearance, never go here if you are looking for peace and quiet.

You stiffen, watching Choso gesture to where he wants the drums placed, presumably, and Gojo flailing his arms around for who-knows-what. 

Then, it’s him.

Geto. The man you love—loved—ducks under a branch and sets up a microphone. He doesn’t seem to spot you though, because he runs a hand through his hair and pats Gojo’s back, going back to the bus to, probably, bring more of their supplies.

You take this opportunity to escape, opting to move to another tree. Thankfully, you begin to hear the starting lines of every engagement repeated ad nauseam:

“I feel so happy with you…” You begin to adjust the settings on your camera to reduce the sun's glare. 

“I never want to part from you…” Positioning yourself comfortably far, but not too far, from the couple on the blanket, you scrunch your face as you bring the camera up into frame, ensuring you capture the beautiful scenery.

Your finger hovers over the shutter button, and you hold your breath. The couple rises to their feet and the fiancé-to-be (hopefully) drops to one knee, pulling out a beautiful navy blue suede box. And then…

“Hey.” You take the photo. It’s beautiful—wait. 

What? 

“Hey?” That’s not “Will you marry me?” You bring the camera down, scratching the left side of your face in confusion as you turn to your side, looking for the source of this unwelcome disruption. 

Geto is standing there, with a dumb look on his face and a stickered guitar on his back. Definitely unwelcome. Your clients are kissing each other now, and you think you should get that, but you’re frozen in your spot. Your hands grip your camera and you don’t respond to Geto. You just stare. 

It’s like your tongue is inflated in your mouth and your face is numb when you finally do respond. It’s flat, though. “Hello.”

“I didn’t know you were going to be here—if I did, I wouldn’t have interrupted your work—”

“Just—it’s nice seeing you. I’m sure you’re busy.”

Geto clicks his tongue. “Right.”

You raise the camera to your face again, taking a rapid amount of pictures to compensate for the ones you lost just standing there. 

“How have you been?” Geto presses on.

You lower your camera again, refusing to give him eye contact. “Good.” You don’t bother to ask him how he’s been either because you don’t want to give him any further talking incentive. You hear him inhale, though, obviously preparing for another round of useless chitchat, and you decide to cut him off. You whip around, giving him a mildly irritated look. “It’s nice seeing you.”

Geto presses his lips together. He clenches his fist—he looks like he wants to reach for you, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t say anything further. He just stares vacantly.

The twinge in your heart intensifies as you gather your things and approach your clients, showing them the clear pictures as they fervently nod in approval of each perfectly positioned picture. Their chatter passes through one ear and through the next as your stomach churns at the interaction with Geto.

Geto is left there, staring at you in your peripheral vision, until he turns around and roughs up his hair, either in frustration or resolve, getting back to what he was doing before you.

Can he even remember before you?

—

Suguru Geto isn’t yours anymore, but was he ever? 

The journal under your bed has laid empty and untouched since the day Geto left. You stand in the shower and think of things to write each day, but when you pick up the pen, you draw a blank and end up closing it. 

Today, you write one sentence but don’t get much farther than that.

Your phone vibrates annoyingly on the ceramic of the bathroom sink, and you’re forced to get up from your bed and trudge your way back to the washroom. The name Choso is splayed across the top part of your phone. Your hand hesitates—considering recent events, something repelled you from picking up Geto’s right-hand man’s call. 

Ultimately, you decide it’s unfair to ignore Choso on that basis considering your friendship, so you pick up the call anyway. It’s loud: Choso yells something over the discordancy of the environment, and you “Huh?” multiple times before you can decipher a “hold on.” 

The sound clears up, and Choso sighs in relief when you finally return his “Can you hear me?” prompts. 

Choso silently gears up on the other end of the phone. “Are you doing anything tonight?”

Your face morphs into a scowl at the realization of how this could’ve been a text. “No,” you laconically reply, “why?”

Static picks up on Choso’s end. “We’re performing at the venue thirty minutes from you tonight. Atlantis. It’d be nice if you could come—we’re going on tour after this. Just wanna hang out with you one more time.” 

You sigh. “And tickets are free?”

“No—well, yes, for you. Just come. Shoko’s going.”

The mention of Shoko stirs you slightly. They obviously knew getting her there would get you to go. “Sure. And it’s in two hours?”

“Yeah. How’d you know tha—”

You hang up before Choso questions you further.

—

It’s midnight and you’re getting into an Uber you really hope is going to kidnap you before you make it to this venue. The collar of your shirt lays lazily across your shoulders, dipping under one. You decided not to wear a ROCCCKER band tee for this concert. You support Gojo and Choso, but… whatever.

The Uber hits the curb on the turn to the entrance of Atlantis Square, and it knocks the sunglasses on your head onto your lap. Seeing that it’s midnight, the driver gives you an inquisitive look in the rearview mirror. It’s a fashion choice, you mouth to yourself. You reposition them, murmuring a disdainful “thank you” to the driver and exiting the awkward car. 

People are lined up at the first entrance, waiting for their turn to be either accepted or denied into the concert. The name of the venue is a grave misnomer—it resembles more of a club spot than an open park. You push your way past a particularly rowdy group of people when you spot Shoko tapping her foot impatiently at the second entrance. 

“I’m surprised you showed.”

You breathe heavily. “Me too.”

Shoko shows the security guard something on her phone and gestures to the two of you before entering the pit of the venue. It is full. People holding drinks end up just handing them off to someone on the side near a trash can, people are on each other's shoulders, and the opener of the concert is being unfortunately ignored. 

Shoko pushes her way to the VIP area, which you guys use to cut the pit to be able to get barrier spots. Some pretty girls holding signs that say, in crude scribble, “CHOSO BLOW A KISS” and “GETO I’M FREE 2NITE” grumble as you apologize your way into getting somewhat close to the stage. The opening act shouts her “thank you” and waves her way off of the stage. As soon as you settle in and are able to see the stage, the lights dim.

“New York, are you ready?” Gojo’s voice reverberates through the venue—fans begin to flood your space with anticipatory screams. 

A guitar strum sounds through the venue, and just as much as you hear it, you feel it in your feet. 

You begin to feel it in your heart when the lights finally turn on, revealing the three men. Revealing Geto. Gojo is saying something into the mic, but you can’t hear any of it. All you hear is your heart threatening to thump out of your ribcage, into your throat, and out of your mouth. 

Geto scans the crowd, looking for something. His head drops to his guitar when he doesn’t find it, and he doesn’t look up from that. Shoko waves her hand around frantically, getting Choso’s attention.

Choso’s face brightens as he does a corny fist pump and waves to both you and Shoko. He steps around his drum set and whispers something in Geto’s ear. 

It’s obvious what Choso told him because Geto immediately glances in your direction and the tips of his ears redden. By now, you feel as if you’re going to projectile vomit all over the hardcore friend group in front of you. He returns his gaze to the rest of the crowd. After his unheard speech, Gojo looks at Geto, as if to ask if he’s ready. Geto nods and Gojo returns to the mic.

“Everyone,” he annoyingly yells into the already too-loud mic, “this is a song off of our upcoming album.” His announcement is met with excited cheers from your section, and Shoko’s hollers in your ears nearly deafen you.

Choso begins to tap his sticks into the mic and Geto strums a low note. The song starts, and it is loud. The crowd doesn’t know the lyrics, so instead, they opt to shout incoherencies.

You can’t lie—it’s a good song. All of them are. They go through the album one by one, and the crowd further obstructs your already limited view with phones, recording videos that will definitely be on music leak pages at the end of the night. At the start of the eighth song, Geto pushes his guitar to his back. The fretboard peeks out over his shoulder and he begins to approach the mic with a slow stride.

No.

“I’m sorry,” he breathes into the mic.

No.

He looks at you—directly at you—with a mournful countenance.

“Every single song is about you.”

He’s crazy.

You’re leaving. You’re leaving, you say to yourself, but your stubborn feet won’t uproot themselves from their place. Shoko stills next to you, and you can see her glance towards you. Fans begin to pick up on where Geto’s looking, and by the time he tears his gaze from you to check if Choso and Gojo are ready to go, it is as if a faux spotlight is on you. Your body feels hot, and you’re angry he’s embarrassed you like this.

But you feel something else. Like someone has taken your heart and stomach and is jocularly throwing them around inside of you. Your breath remains held as Gojo begins to strum—you question how he’s playing the guitar so adeptly, but then you hear the loud backtrack—and Geto begins to sing. Your eyes dry, unblinking, as you stare at him. 

Sometimes a man gets carried away

When he feels like he should be having his fun

You mumble an unheard apology to Shoko, still staring at Geto. The way his jaw flexes in the light doesn’t go unnoticed. You track his every movement.

Much too blind to see the damage he’s done

He returns your gaze while singing, and you tear your eyes from his, glossy and focused, swiftly turning around and pushing musically enthralled fans out of the way.

Sometimes a man must awake to find that

Really he has no one

You hold your throat and wince. You can’t cry here—not now. 

So I’ll wait for you, love

And I’ll burn

Will I ever see your sweet return?

The knot in your throat tautens. He’s confessing to you via song. In front of everyone. He’s sick. You’re gasping for air now and pushing through the blurs of people. You don’t know if Shoko is chasing you; frankly, you don’t care.

Oh, will I ever learn?

Oh-oh, lover, you should’ve come over

You need to get out. Out of here. Tears break the wet film of your eyes and wet your cheeks. You’re sobbing, and now, people are offering you concerned glances.

‘Cause it’s not too late

The volume of the concert muffled your sobs, but as you finally break your way out of the pit and to the quieter, roomed bar area, Geto’s song turns muffled and your sobs fill the empty, probably restricted, room. 

You fumble with your phone. Shoko is calling you. It’s only then you notice the lack of Geto’s voice in his own song—the backing track sings the filler vocals, but he is evidently gone from the stage. You can hear muffled, curious murmurs from the crowd. 

Shoko is video calling you—obviously to catch a glimpse of where you are, but you deny her request. She texts—spams—you and you defiantly put your phone on silent, propping yourself up on a bar stool and sobbing into your hands.

Yes, you were angry.

Yes, you were upset.

Yes, you were torn.

But yes, God, yes, you missed him. And you hated that. With every fiber of your being but one, you hated the way Choso baited you here, the way Shoko probably knew what would happen, the way Geto knew how to get to you.

In more ways than one, because he pushes the door open, and sees you hunched back on the empty bar counter. 

He whispers your name as he quietly approaches you, and you hic in response. 

“Please,” Geto aimlessly pleads, “just listen.”

“I don’t want to,” you sob into your hands, picking up your phone and erratically scrolling through your apps in a teary haze, “leave.”

He breathes a sigh, cautiously seating himself on the table facing your seat. “I can’t.” 

You throw your bag at him, your somber turning to rage now. Keys hit his chest and clatter against the floor. He’s only able to grab hold of the handbag, so he holds the leather near his chest. It’s greedy, but now that he has you here, in one spot where you’ll listen, he takes advantage of the setting. 

“God, ‘missed you so much...” he blurts out, low. “I know. I know. Please just stay here. Just let me speak, okay?”

He takes a deep breath, surveying your reaction, and continues as he hears your sobs quiet. You refuse to turn to face him—to let him see your face, so instead, he entreats to your back.

“I thought I didn’t deserve you,” he says in a hushed tone, “you had your whole photography thing, based here—” he gestures with his arms, making a big motion to suggest your career was taking off “—and I was never around. I was always out and touring. You’d text me and I selfishly wouldn’t respond. Nothing about us mixed. I was young and high on success.” He curses under his breath, setting your bag aside and running a hand down his face. 

You begin to shake your head, rising from your seat. You should’ve known better. “I don’t even know what I expected from y—”

“But I can make it work.” He stands as if his presence will make you stay. “God, I’ll kill myself to make it work. To make us work. ‘Was stupid—I’ll admit. But being with you made me feel so dumb. I was whipped. I’m serious, baby, please. Every time I was with you, I—” he begins to scratch his head in an almost confused frenzy “—I don’t even know what I felt like. Felt like flyin’.” 

He inhales, preparing for another part of his ramble. You hush him before he continues. 

“You could’ve told me this,” you angrily refute his pleas, “instead, you’ve left me stranded for five months. Didn’t you?”

He nods obediently at the words almost immediately, and it's as if his head is empty as he continues his begging. “I did, baby, I did,” he admits, “N’ I’ve beaten myself up every day for it.” 

Something shifts in his face, and he drops to his knees. Your eyebrows furrow in confusion. “Please,” he blubbers, “just one more shot at you n’ me?”

His bangs stick to his sweaty forehead as he looks up at you, expectant. He bites his tongue in anticipation and his palms feel clammy.

You take his face in your hands, and his shoulders relax for what seems like the first time in forever. You think of what to say. But instead, you begin to cry again, and in response, he rises to his feet and begins to wipe away your tears with a tender thumb.

Wordlessly, he allows you to cry into him—your cheek fits perfectly in the divot of his chest and for once, for the first time in five months, he feels whole. You feel whole.

The other two band members have gone back to playing their known discography. Later, on social media, you’ll begin to see circulated videos of Suguru Geto frantically leaving the stage, hopping down into a parting crowd. Fans will speculate, critique, fawn, or praise. Maybe all of the above.

For now, Suguru Geto is yours. He’s still yours.

[vibatu]

"Just a sip" , a comic idea that I have filed away under the "I no longer know when or if I'll ever finish it" category (Doesn't feel right to say "discarded" lmao) (who knows, maybe one day I pick it back up!).

I really love the thumbnails I managed to sketch out (especially that last panel at the third page!!!!!!! I want and need to make more of that), its been I think almost a year since I've made them though, and it just doesn't feel right just let them keep collecting dust after so long especially when I don't even know if the inspiration to complete it strikes again, so, here it is! Read more for further rambling into the details~

This is another "what if" comic where wanted to explore mainly:

1. Ocudeus and The Seaspring. And what could happen within someone's mind once they drink (Lukas is our text subject! Yay!)

2. "Interesting" paneling, or at least visually engaging compositions in pages (I love making comics!) There's so many things I want to practice and try out to make bring the movies in my head come to life in this format.

On to the "plot".

We start out with Lukas drinking from The Spring. Hypothetical-Timeline wise this would be happening at the "ending" of the TS story in which not a single cure is found for MCs curse. Last resort type of situation. This happens on pages 1, 2, and page "3". In this post the 3 image would actually be page 4, I just never sketches the 3rd (I just drew what was clearest in my head first). Imagine 3rd page having a shot of Ais staring at the process from a safe distance with a cig while Lukas is writhing on the floor losing his marbles after drinking (lol).

Now the fun part. Ocudeus. I imagined the process of joining the groupmind not happening instantly. I thought about Ocudeus himself manifesting in their new host's mind and sometimes striking conversation (which happens in isolation with just the two of them) (brain is not part of the primordial soup. Yet)

We don't know what Ocudeus looks like either! So I went crazy. At first I was just gonna make them take Ais' shape. But that felt, not quite right for an eldritch being. So instead, Ocudeus takes the form of whoever is drinking :) thus manifesting themselves as Lukas inside Lukas' mind.

There's a huge jump in events from Image 3 and 4 of the post. After Img 3 there's a lot of talking going on. Asking if the curse can really be cured. Ocudeus being a sassy smug menace cryptic about it and reminding Lukas that there is no going back anyways and that is no longer something Lukas should be concerned about. He will no longer be himself, so why worry.

After this its just a "Descent into true madness", see Img 4 for reference, where the "world" just really starts to warp around and eventually ends with Lukas getting "consumed" by the darkness of the giant octopus, his lasts thoughts as "Lukas" being those of relief of finally getting rid of the curse, and grief over leaving his life behind. Fun stuff.

Comic was supposed to end with Lukas jolting awake (His head was resting on Ais lap now).

After sitting up abruptly and wiping his tears away, with hands that now look properly human. Lukas turns to Ais and asks, with a gaze now as red as the seaspring near them.

"Why am I crying?"

-

THATS A LONG ONE If you read this far, well, thanks! ;w; I hope you enjoyed the read, even if there is no full comic to pair. The Seaspring is so interesting to me.

Some other random things: I got inspired by the Honkai Star Rail promo video where Acheron and Black Swan dance together. The visuals and visualization of Black Swan's "being" being consumed by the endless void was SO good and when I realized this concept could work for the seaspring in a similar way I needed to get the idea out of my system.

Have an extra! Alternative version of my fav panel. Only difference is the eyes, this is the first version. Which I drew before Redspring revealed what Ais' eyes looked like when his cephalopod friend is driving the car.

Vibi out~ (⁠・⁠∀⁠・⁠)

[californ1asnow]

Call Me Up Again - pt. 2 Mike Schmidt x Reader

Part two of All Too Well Angst!!! So much angst everyone I've decided to turn this into a miniseries, this post being the second part. I'll continue to link chapters as I post them This is also being updated on ao3 (cough cough) No warnings this time 1.9k words

Snowflakes fall silently, coating everything around them in a white dust. The wind blows with a crisp chill, nipping at all the rose-pink noses. It sends shivers down the backs of those who dare be out in this weather. The pumpkins and fake graveyard decor that had once littered every home’s front yard has long since been swapped for tinsel garlands and pine wreaths. 

The Schmidt residence beams with colored string lights and holiday music. A tall, sturdy evergreen sits patiently by the window. Its branches are decorated with years worth of homemade ornaments, ranging in all size and age from both Mike and Abby. The red skirt beneath it falls relatively empty of presents, only donning the few small ones Mike could afford to buy this year. They’re wrapped pathetically in an old birthday paper, the only wrapping Mike could find to reuse. 

Usually, the tree is so full that he’s had to store things in his closet, but that was when you were still a part of their Christmas. Stockings hung happily above the fireplace and a love so innocent it wraps the house in a warm glow. However, it’s void of that feeling now, instead Mike is left to pick up the pieces that you once fit together. Abby doesn’t understand why you don’t come over anymore, or why Mike has been so quiet lately. All she knows is that something went wrong, and now everyone is upset. She’s stopped bringing up your name in conversation when talking to Mike, because it always ends with him withdrawn and retreating to the solidarity of his room. 

That didn’t stop her from drawing you, though. Sometimes she’d sit at her desk, tears collecting in the well of her eyes, and doodle old memories of the three of you. She remembers them being happy, but by the time the crayons were set aside and the picture was finished, it was a glum mess of dark blues and frowning faces. 

After a drawing is finished she’d slip past Mike’s room, quietly tiptoeing out the front door, and make a break for the house across the street. Your house. She’d work fast, her feet carrying her quickly to and fro. It was unclear from her perspective whether you paid attention to what she’d give you, but by the time she slipped a new piece of paper underneath your door, the old one she had gifted you was gone. 

Mike was unaware of it all. 

He had found a new job in town where he could bury all his thoughts. It was working construction for a local contractor, a job that certainly wasn’t ideal but it paid better than what he’d been used to. Unfortunately, it required longer hours and ate up all his free time, meaning Abby needed a new babysitter. A job that was once happily filled by your company, now replaced with an afterschool program suggested to him from a flyer he found at work. He hated the thought of her sitting in essentially another classroom, surrounded by strangers and snotty kids, but it was his only option left. 

With a third of his paycheck dedicated to it, Abby now spends her weekdays at the nearby YMCA. 

The first time he told her about the new program didn’t go over very well. He remembers it clearly.  

“Abby please,” his irritated voice interrupts her incessant protesting, “listen, it’s the only place that can watch you.” 

“No it’s not!” She yelled at him, her finger pointing to your house across the street, “I want her back!”  

A pang of guilt struck his chest at her words. The lack of your presence has clearly been taking a toll on the both of them, but it’s the first time Abby’s ever been so vocal about it. He crossed his arms with a sigh, watching his little sister stare up at him with solemn eyes. Her lip quivering ever so slightly, evident that she’s holding back tears. 

He crouches down to her level, just like he had done to you so many nights ago, “I’m sorry,” he pleaded with her, “but she’s not coming back right now.” 

Her head shook with disbelief, stubbornly stuck in her spot, “Then make her come back.” 

–

You’re not sure when the Mike shaped hole in your heart stopped aching, but it’s significantly less sore compared to a fresh wound. That’s not to say the constant reminder of him and Abby living across the street from you doesn’t sting. It’s hard enough to ignore all his calls, but trying to get to your car while avoiding his gaze is even worse. Eventually, he gave up on contacting you by the third month of radio silence. It hurt both of you, but you knew deep down neither of you could continue functioning like how you were. 

The back and forth pull of his affection took too big of a toll on your mental well being. You can remember every moment down to the exact detail of how much you craved for him to just do something, anything. 

All those times you held him in your soft embrace whispering sweet nothings in his ear, reassuring him everything will be okay, just for him to turn around the next day and never bring it up again. Or when you’d run your warm fingers through his hair to calm him down after a panic attack, and he’d let his head rest in your lap. Words of affection dripping off his lips like a rich honey, warming you up from the inside out. Then he’d disappear for a while, claiming he needed some space to figure stuff out, all the while you’d beg and plead for him to tell you what’s on his mind, only for him to give you nothing back.You stood by him regardless though, keeping a silent promise that you’d always be there for him when he needed it, a love that was never reciprocated back. 

A long sigh escapes from you, eying the new delivery that just appeared by your door. You shuffle towards it weakly, unsure if you really wanted to torture yourself by looking at it. It’s one of those things that curiosity will drive you to do, unable to ignore it like a pedestrian passing by a car crash. The paper crinkles under your touch, unfolding it reveals the familiar childlike style of Abby’s drawings. A man drawn in green crayon frowns up at you, holding hands with an equally sad looking child. Your gaze drifts over to the other side of the paper, highlighting a person relatively similar to you standing alone with their arms crossed, angry. Your heart hurts at the sight of it, knowing that Abby is implying that you’re angry at the two of them. You shake your head quickly, trying to evade any tears that threaten to spill. It’s not fair for Abby to be caught in the middle of whatever is going on between you and Mike, and you realize that. 

The sound of your phone ringing breaks your train of thought, and when you check the caller ID your breath hitches. Standing in the middle of your living room frozen with indecisiveness, you stare at the screen while chewing on the bottom of your lip. Without thinking, you accept the call.

“Hello?” 

There’s a sound on the other end of the line, somewhere in between a choke and a gasp, and then your name is mumbled out in disbelief. 

“I didn’t think you’d actually pick up…” Mike’s voice is still a little startled, mimicking the internal panic in your chest. 

You suck in a deep, steady breath before answering, “Yeah, I didn’t think so either.” There’s a slight pause from both of you, unsure how to continue the conversation. It’s felt like years since you last heard his voice. 

“Are you…doing okay?” 

“...Yeah.” Your answer is unconvincing, but Mike doesn’t have any ground to be able to question it. So it’s left like that, timidly dangling in the air between you both. 

You hear shuffling in the background, and a smaller voice asking a question before he dismisses it. Your heart lurches thinking about how Abby is there, trying to figure out who her older brother might be on the phone with. It almost makes your cool demeanor crack, urging you back into your savior complex. 

“Uh, sorry about that,” your phone crackles back to life, “anyways, I wanted to ask you something.” 

“Oh okay.” 

“Can you,” he stops, leaving you on edge, “meet me somewhere?” 

The lack of response from you causes him to start rambling, going on about how it would be better to talk in person, and how it would be easier if you could see each other’s expressions. Soon afterwards, a string of apologies ensue, and you pinch the bridge of your nose in frustration. 

“Okay Mike. Promise me this will be worth it.”

“I promise.”

–

A young waitress stares nervously at your booth. Orders continually piling up, hungry customers giving her rude looks whenever she ignores their impatient huffs. It’s been a good thirty minutes since you first showed, and she’s checked up on you at least a handful of times by now. Mike had suggested this little diner down the street from your house, and you agreed to meet here. 

However, it seems like you’re the only one who showed up. 

Your back is pressed against the uncomfortable foam board of your seat, a leg bobbing rapidly out of habit. You pick at the pills on your sweatshirt sleeve, trying to avert your gaze from the sympathetic waitress. Prior to your predicament, she had asked if you were dining alone, and you told her no. However, It’s starting to look like you just might be. With anger bubbling inside of you, a voice in the back of your head is saying you should have seen this coming. It’s so typical of Mike to make promises that he’s unwilling to keep. 

The air smells like grease, mostly from the old fryers sitting in the back of the kitchen. Oil bubbling and brooding in their tanks, waiting for someone to drop a morsel of food so it could shrivel in the scalding lard. Stomach stirring with disgust, a wave of nausea washes over you. It’s unclear exactly what’s causing it, you’d like to give credit to the sleazy restaurant, but something deep down points to the lack of a certain person’s company. 

You keep your attention trained on the dwindling heat of your coffee. Both corners of your mouth scrunch downwards at the smooth ceramic now held in your cold hands. When did watching a cup of coffee become so interesting? 

“Would you like some more?” The sweet but timid waitress asks you, now back at her spot beside your table.  

A joyless smile flashes across your face, a futile attempt at masking your dejection. Pushing the cup forward, silently accepting a fresh refill from her kettle. 

“He’s not worth it.” She adds, tipping off your mug. Her eyes refuse to meet yours as she does so, and you are thankful for that fact. 

“No,” you respond back, “he never is, I guess.” Your voice is shaky, as are the hands that are folded in your lap. 

Mike is not worth the years of being hurt and pushed away. Not worth the tears that fall after coming home from a night spent at his house, inconsolably sobbing because you know no matter what you do it leads back to the same thing. To give up all your time, love, and patience just to receive nothing in exchange. 

It’s not worth the unrequited love. 

“Can I have the check please?” You ask quietly, still avoiding the gaze of the girl next you. 

Her head shakes with pity, fingers wrapping around the arm of the kettle, “it’s on the house.”

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