#knitting across the pond

[growthhyp]

Hello sir, you wouldn't happen to have a tie for sale would you? I just found out I need one for my upcoming job interview. I'll take any color or design of tie you have at this point, I'm desperate.

The Black Tie

It's a crisp morning, the kind that makes the air feel alive with possibility, and you're feeling pretty good about yourself. You've scored a decent black tie from a garage sale, which you're now wearing proudly as you step into the gleaming lobby of a high-rise building. The company you're interviewing with is one of those big, corporate giants, the kind that makes you feel like a tiny fish in a very large pond. But you're not just any tiny fish; you're one with a brain that's been honed to a sharp point by years of study, and a degree that proves it. You've got this interview in the bag, or so you think.

You wipe the beads of sweat from your forehead, feeling your heart race as you make your way to the correct floor. The walls seem to be closing in, a reminder of the pressure you've been under to land this job. You've always been the smart kid, the one who'd rather hit the books than the gym, and here you are, surrounded by men who look like they've stepped out of a fitness magazine. But you shrug it off, reminding yourself that brains got you this far. You went back to the elevator and pressed the correct floor.

As the elevator doors glide open, you step into a sea of corporate sameness. Suits and ties as far as the eye can see, you stand tall, the tie around your neck a symbol of your determination. The interviewer, a stern-faced woman with a clipboard, motions you to the waiting room. It's a small space filled with equally nervous candidates, all of them flipping through their resumes like they're reading a map to hidden treasure.

You sit down in the chair, feeling the cool leather against your skin, and that's when it hits you. A warmth, starting in your chest and spreading like wildfire. The kind of warmth that could either be nerves or something more. You wipe the sweat from your brow, noticing the damp stain spreading across the fabric of your shirt. The heat pools in your stomach, a warm, sticky reminder of the extra pounds you've been carrying around. But as you look down, you realize something's not quite right. Your shirt, which was snug around your midsection just moments ago, is now baggy. You tentatively poke at the fabric and feel the firmness of a flat stomach beneath.

Panic sets in, but it's quickly overridden by something else. A strange, exhilarating sensation as your chest starts to rise, pushing against the fabric of your shirt. You grunt, the sound echoing a little too loudly in the quiet room. You glance around, but the other interviewees are too busy with their own nerves to pay you any mind. Your hand moves to your chest, feeling the firmness of muscles you've never had before. It's like someone's pumped you full of air, and your shirt is straining to contain the new you. Your shoulders follow suit, pushing through the sleeves of your now too-small coat. You can't help but stare, watching in a mix of shock and fascination as your body transforms before your very eyes.

The feeling spreads like a wildfire, igniting every muscle fiber in your arms. Your biceps balloon, your triceps pop, and your forearms thicken into ropes of power. Your back muscles start to stretch and bulge, pushing at the seams of your shirt. You can feel the fabric tearing, giving way to the new, more powerful version of you that's emerging.

The pain in your stomach is intense, but it's quickly replaced by a sense of awe as you feel your abs forming. The soft, squishy flesh of your belly is now a tight, chiseled landscape of definition. You can feel the ridges of each muscle, the way they knit together like a finely woven tapestry. Your obliques, those elusive lines that you've only seen on the most dedicated of gym-goers, are suddenly prominent, creating a V-shape that leads down to your waist.

Your mind races with excitement as you flex your arms again, this time harder, watching the muscles dance beneath your skin. The sleeves of your once baggy coat now hug your biceps like a lover, showcasing every bulge and curve. Your forearms, now thick and ropey, the veins pulsing with the beat of your heart. Your lats spread like wings, pulling the tails of your shirt taut across your broad back. The feeling is exhilarating, and you can't help but let out a soft growl of approval.

You catch a glimpse of your reflection in the polished glass of the conference room door. The sight of your new physique is like a punch to the gut, but instead of pain, you feel an overwhelming sense of pride. Gone is the shy, overweight man who used to dread taking his shirt off at the pool. In his place stands a muscular Adonis, a creature of power and beauty that you never knew existed. You can't help but strike a pose, one hand on your hip, the other flexed in front of you. You look like a Greek god who's been teleported into a corporate jungle, and it feels absolutely amazing.

The seams of your pants are screaming for mercy as your legs and calves swell to match your newfound upper body strength. Each flex of your quads sends a shockwave through the fabric, threatening to rip it apart at any moment. Your feet, now larger and more defined, feel like they're straining the confines of your shoes. You can't resist the urge to stand and stretch, feeling the material of your pants strain with each movement.

You smirk, feeling the confidence suddenly growing on you. You can't help but revel in the power surging through your veins. The room seems to shrink as your presence grows, your muscles casting shadows on the walls.

But then it was not yet done. You felt something stirring in your pants, something that didn't quite fit the pattern of your transformation so far. Your cock began to elongate, stretching out like a firehose slowly being pulled from the base of your skin. The sensation was overwhelming, a mix of pleasure and pain that made you moan and groan. It grew longer and thicker, pushing against the fabric of your boxer shorts, straining the elastic band to its limits.

As your newfound member reached its full potential, your mind was flooded with memories that didn't quite feel like your own. They were memories of your workouts at the gym, pushing weights until your muscles screamed, and early mornings spent measuring your meals down to the last gram. The numbers and formulas of accounting that once filled your thoughts were replaced by workout sets and protein shakes. The thrill of the grind, the desire to sculpt your body into something worthy of admiration, it was all there, as vivid as if you'd lived it yourself.

You couldn't help but let out a deep, guttural groan as your body finished its transformation shredding the remains of your clothes, leaving only black tie in your bulging neck and your black boxers with a bulging anaconda desperately containing it. The room was silent, all eyes on you as your muscles bulged through the shredded remnants of your once baggy shirt and pants. Your cock, now a monstrous extension of your newfound masculinity, stood tall and proud, the head poking out from the top of your boxers like a beacon. Your voice, once high-pitched and uncertain, was now a deep, commanding rumble, a testament to the power coursing through your veins.

The interviewer's jaw dropped as he took in the scene before him. He'd seen a lot of things in his line of work, but nothing quite like this. His eyes darted to the clock, then back to you, and a look of realization dawned on his face. "Oh, sir," he stammered, his eyes wide with shock, "you're in the wrong place. The modeling agency's interviews are on the floor below."

With a flex of your massive bicep, you grinned and said, "My bad, Ms.!" The room was silent, every eye in the place was on you, taking in the spectacle that was your transformed body. The other applicants, all so neatly packaged in their suits, looked positively puny in comparison. You could see the envy in their eyes, the way their gazes lingered on your chiseled abs and the thick, powerful muscles that now rippled with every movement.

You turned and strutted away from the room, each step a deliberate show of the new confidence that filled you to the brim. The stairs were just a few feet away, and you could feel the eyes of the other hopefuls boring into your back. The idea of being late for a modeling interview was almost laughable. You had the body of a god now, and you knew it.

[sapphic-coded]

I Swear That I Don't Have A Gun

You grew up in Ohio with your father, brother, and sister. Your family was small and strange. Because of that, you were picked on relentlessly at school. Until another weird kid showed up. Her family moved in across the street from you. It wasn't long until the two of you became friends. Your friendship became the light in your life. Until it ended suddenly. Rumors followed your friend's disappearance. Russian spies. You didn't see her again until you crossed paths at work.

Series Masterlist

Natasha Romanoff x fem Reader

Warnings: Violence. Some gore. Reader is a messed up assassin and loves helping her friend. More fun weapons. Opera music. Childhood trauma hanging out in the background. Minors DNI.

Word Count: 3.4k

Author's Note: This chapter is finally ready! I hope you all enjoy. I apologize for the long wait. I also apologize for the wait for the next chapter. Your love for this fic is why it's longer than one chapter.

Taglist: @natsxwife @iliketozoneout @newawakening9 @natasha-1million @ilovemcuff @taliiiaasteria @alowint @yerisdumbass @natashasilverfox @fxckmiup @escapereality4music @gbab09

Chapter Nine: You Can Fool Any Friend Who Ever Knew You

Mount Vernon, Ohio – 1993 

The sound of crunching snow caused your head to lift. Your friend knelt down in front of you. The wind swept the stray strands of her blue hair that escaped the confines of her gray knitted hat across her face. As her gloved hand reached up to push her hair away from her face, you tried desperately to understand what you were seeing. The look in your friend’s eyes was not one you were accustomed to. It was too strange. Like something out of a television show or in one of your sister’s books. It was fear and slight traces of panic. But not for herself. She looked scared about…you. 

“What are you doing out here?” she asked. 

Your head turned to look in the direction you had come from. In the direction of the frozen pond. Where the cold, dead hare sunk deep into the pitch black water. You had done it. You had done what was asked of you. So why did it feel like your father was standing right next to you? Scolding. Yelling. 

A soft gloved hand pressed gently against your cheek and slowly turned your head back towards Nat. 

“Y/N?” she asked. 

“I got lost,” your voice shook. You felt so cold. The sting of the wind against your cheeks was gone. The chill of the snow was quickly becoming a memory. Every inch of you was just cold. You were pretty sure your bones were turning into icicles. Which meant if you fell, you would shatter. 

Nat’s gloved hand dropped away from your face and came to rest on your arm. “Is your brother and sister also out there?” 

You shook your head. 

“Your father?” 

“He is at the convention,” your answer was automatic. It was what you were instructed to say if anyone asked about your father. It was an easy instruction to remember. It was true. Your father was attending his favorite convention. Also, no one ever bothered to ask. Nat was the first. 

“C’mon,” Nat said as she helped you to your feet. “We can’t stay out here.” 

Your body felt stiff as you stood. You couldn’t really feel your legs as you went to take your first step, but then Nat reached out to take hold of your hand. Despite the layers of the gloves that separated your hand from hers, you felt a sudden warmth. It was as if you had decided to reach out and grab the radiator in your family room. You instinctively tried to pull your arm back, but Nat’s hold on your hand didn’t let go. Instead, she led you back up the path you had been trying to find. 

Slowly, the stiffness in your body vanished as Nat led you out of the woods and into your backyard. The windows along the backside of your house were dark. As Nat neared your house’s back door, you stopped walking. She stopped and looked back at you. 

“You can’t go in there,” you said. Only your father was allowed to bring visitors over to the house. But even if that rule didn’t exist, you still wouldn’t bring Nat into your home. She was your friend. You couldn’t do that to her. Not when her house was so much better. 

“Okay,” she said. Her grip on your hand never wavered. “My house then.” 

You followed Nat around your house and across the street. The warmth of her home was almost overwhelming when she led you inside. The whole world was suddenly cast in a soft, yellow light as Nat helped you remove your boots. You shivered when you removed your coat and felt your damp clothes sticking to your skin. Nat led you upstairs and left you standing in the bathroom while she fetched spare clothes from her room. 

As you waited in the bathroom, you examined the small room. It was very similar to the one you and your siblings shared. The sink, toilet, and bathtub were all in the same spots. The floor was made of the same small, white, square tiles that covered the floor of your bathroom. But the walls were painted a warm beige. Your bathroom walls weren’t painted at all. Or if your father had painted them, they were just white. But one thing in particular grabbed your attention. 

Sitting on the edge of the bathtub was a bright yellow rubber duck. You walked over and picked it up. These were real?

The door to the bathroom opened, and Nat returned with dry, fresh clothes in her arms. “These should fit you.”  

You set the rubber duck down and took the fresh clothes. “Thanks. Where did you get the duck?” 

Nat looked first at the rubber duck and then back at you. “My mom. Why?”

You shrugged. “I didn’t know they were real. I only ever saw them on TV.” You felt stupid for not connecting the two things earlier. You didn’t have a mother so it only made sense that you also didn’t have a rubber duck. 

You changed into fresh clothes after Nat left. You felt more yourself when you left the bathroom and returned to your friend’s bedroom. She was busy setting up a game of Clue which was one of your favorite games. You settled down on the floor across from her as she finished setting up the board. 

“What were you doing out there?” she asked. 

You picked up the tiny revolver game piece. “Chores.” 

Richmond, Virginia – 2012

She looks stunning. The black dress compliments every inch of her body from her toned arms that spill from its short sleeves, to the graceful curve of her hips, and the commanding presence of her strong legs that peak out from the slit of her dress. Her short red hair looks softer, and the way her earrings catch the light makes you smile. Your focus is drawn to the red lipstick that coats her lips.  

“I know what it’s like to be used by other people.” 

Your smile falters, and you already start to feel the urge to move and do something. Preferably kill someone. But you’ll take standard violence if that’s the only option. The noise and thrill of it all always buries the thoughts and memories that try to climb to the surface. But you can’t do any of that. Climbing into the vent had been hard enough. You had just barely fit. You are also in position. Leaving now would jeopardize your friend’s mission. Which would jeopardize your alone time with her. 

So your only option is to continue to lay in the vent you crawled into. The picture you have of Nat in her dress remains up on your interior visor screen and you choose to imagine yourself in your finest suit. You miss the clothes you used to have. Instead of wearing one stupid suit, you were anyone you wanted to be. You could have easily been her date. Your smile returns. 

Your photo of Nat shrinks slightly as new data appears on the left side of your screen. It’s a message from the phone number you had memorized minutes after receiving it. 

Target approaching. You in position? 

You have just enough wiggle room in the vent to pull your cherished phone from one of your pockets. Your gloved fingers type out your reply. 

Tight fit. Ready. 

As you tuck your phone back into your pocket, you hear the crackling noise of your friend’s comms going live. The hum of voices mixed with the occasional clink of glassware echoes within your helmet. You can imagine the scene clearly. You and Nat surrounded by the wealthy and elite. Your friend on your arm as you make small talk with all the important people who you know so well. Because they hire you to kill their rivals. You enjoy watching the life fade from your targets’ eyes and all the important good wealthy people love staying in power. It’s a mutually beneficial arrangement. And the cherry on top is your friend–

“You look stunning Miss. Rushman.”

The stranger’s voice drowns out all the background noise. You stare up at the dull, metal panel that hangs two inches from your helmet. 

“Well, it’s not every day a girl gets invited to watch Tristan und Isolde,” Nat’s voice fills up all the space in your helmet. 

“I prefer to treat my business contacts well,” the stranger’s voice replies. “I find that these outings foster stronger connections. Come. Our seats are this way.” 

Your message log with Nat vanishes from your visor screen, and your picture of Nat shrinks as a boring map fills up the majority of your screen. You are familiar with this map. It’s a map of the entire building, and you’ve been studying it for the past forty-eight hours. You’re here to help your friend with her mission and nothing could go wrong. There was no way you were going to risk your time with Nat. So you are going to complete the objective per her orders. You smile at that thought as you review your route to your target. 

“Does that mean you are moving forward with my offer?” Nat’s voice asks. 

The map on your screen vanishes as you press your feet down on one of the vent panels. You feel it drop open and you shift around until you slide out of the vent and land in a hallway. To your left is a stairwell that only goes up. To your right is just a plain concrete wall. You pull your gun from your holster and attach a silencer over the muzzle as you start walking down the hallway. 

“Your offer is the most appealing,” the stranger’s voice replies. 

“It’s the highest bid you’ll get for it,” Nat’s voice says. 

You hear the stranger’s chuckle. “Your offer did take me by surprise, Miss. Rushman. At first, I thought I had appraised it incorrectly. But after reviewing its history, I found that I made no mistake. Every other bid falls in line with what I expected. Except for yours. I’m curious about your story.” 

As you near the end of the hallway, it splits off to the right and left. You turn to your right and raise your gun. Roughly five feet away is a guard dressed in a clean black suit. He stands with his back to you, and you take a moment to line up your shot. 

“My story is rather boring. I’m a collector, and I choose not to insult other colleagues with bad offers,” Nat’s voice says. Her lie makes you smile. You don’t know what the target is exactly. Your friend did not share those details with you. You didn’t push because it was her mission. Whatever all this was about was probably some secretive SHIELD stuff. Most likely real SHIELD since Nat had only invited you to help her. In the end, you didn’t care. But her lie sparked a small bit of curiosity about this target. 

The sound of the orchestra spills through your commlink as you pull the trigger. The guard crumples forward as blood splatters against the walls. Someone grabs you from behind. You jam your elbow into soft flesh and slip free from your assailant’s hold. You turn and bury a bullet in the middle of another guard’s face. The guard’s head jerks back as a large, red hole eats away at the center of his face. No more nose. Most of the upper lip gone. You hear bits of his brain hit the ground less than a second before his body does. 

You step over the fallen guards and are careful not to step into the growing puddles of blood. You continue down the hallway and kill two more guards who came rushing at you. You empty out the rest of your clip on one of the down guards who was still moaning. The guard is still and quiet as you reload your gun. 

“Oh I simply love this part,” the stranger’s voice says as you near the door that leads into the room containing your target. 

You open the door. The room within is large and square. Crates and boxes line the walls of the room. A brief glance into one of the open boxes reveals a random assortment of props. A storage room. You bet that if you could take off your helmet you could probably smell the musty scent that you know is clinging onto every inch of this space. It reminds you of your father’s storage room in your basement. The way the musty scent sucked up all the air. 

But unlike your father’s old storage closet, this storage room had clearly been prepared for visitors. All the lights were on and the space in the middle of the room cleared except for a single square card table. Sitting in the middle of the card table is a brown briefcase. Not one of those fancy briefcases. Well, maybe it had been fancy and eye-catching a long time ago. Now it bears the weather beaten stains of many years of use. You can see the scratches in the once perfect, smooth leather. The golden metal that accents the rectangular handles carries smudges. 

As you reach the card table, your free hand moves towards the pocket that carries your phone. 

Your visor alerts you to the other person’s approach a second after something loud and painful slams into your chest. All the info on your interior visor screen goes blank and the stream of orchestra music filtering into your helmet from your commlink with Nat abruptly stops as the force of whatever hit you lifts you off your feet. You are flying backwards as if yanked back on the end of a line. The crash of breaking crates swallows up your pained shout as your body collapses to the ground. Your suit feels so heavy. As if it was trapped beneath the weight of hundreds of crates. But you’re not trapped. You are lying amongst broken boxes and scattered props. But you can’t move. A flash of pain seizes hold of your limbs, and all you can do is lay there and stare at the dark visor screen while your limbs spasms.

“You certainly take your time.” 

It’s a voice you don’t recognize. That seemed to be the theme of the night. Nat gets her stranger, and you get yours. Your hands continue to twitch as you hear approaching footsteps. It takes only seconds for the stranger to reach you. Even with the black mask covering most of the stranger’s face, you don’t recognize him. His brown eyes examine your spasming body. You want to say something. You want to tell this man that his yellow hoodie looks like the color of piss and that his brown vest only cements the image of a foul toilet in your mind. But you can’t get a single word out. Just pained gasps. 

“This is what they gave you?” he asks as he gestures to your suit. 

Your eyes lock onto the bright bluish-white light that glows out the end of the man’s large metal gauntlets. 

“The way they talk about you, I thought they’d give you the better toy,” he says. 

You can start to feel your legs again as the man shakes his head and then moves his arm to aim one of the gauntlets at your head. You sweep your legs into the back of the stranger’s. The man falls and the blast meant for your head hits the crates behind you as you roll onto your knees. You quickly find your gun laying near the card table where you dropped it. You get to your feet and run towards it, but quickly change directions when you hear a loud whine. Another blast sends both your gun, the card table, and the briefcase flying. 

You turn towards the stranger. Your interior visor screen is still blank. Commlink gone. It’s almost like your old jobs. Minus the stupid suit and whatever kind of weapon this piss and shit themed man was using. You pull one of the black knives strapped to your torso free and rush towards him. The whine of the stranger’s gauntlets grows louder as the squares of bluish-white light where hands should normally be become brighter. You jump out of the way as another blast cuts across the storage room. You close the distance and bring your arm back to drive your knife into any part of him. The stranger raises one of the large gauntlets to block your strike. You drop your knife and catch it in your other hand and go to dig your knife into the man’s chest, but his other arm blocks that as well. 

You go to bring your knee up when a much smaller, but still painful, blast sends you flying back again. Your limbs don’t spasm like before as you crash again into more crates. Your knife is gone. Your gun is somewhere in this mess. Your heavy breaths begin to fog up your visor as you roll onto your side to get back up. You see the briefcase laying within arms reach to your right. You can hear the stranger’s rushed, advancing footsteps. 

You grab the handle of the briefcase and turn, swinging it out towards the man. The edge of the briefcase slams into the side of the man’s head. He stumbles away and you wish he wasn’t wearing that ski mask so you could see what kind of damage you had done. When he shakes his head and lets out a yell, you look down at your new weapon and frown. Apparently the briefcase is so old that the locks don’t work well. The briefcase is hanging open and the contents within landed at your feet. It’s–

Three gunshots silence the man’s yelling. You look up and watch as the stranger drops with a graceless thud. Three blotches of bright red stains his shit colored vest. His brown eyes are still open but very much dead. You missed your favorite part of any kill, but your thoughts are a jumbled mess. You want to look back down at what is laying at your feet, but instead you look over at the shooter. 

Your friend looks as stunning as her picture. Even better with the gun in her hand. You bet the barrel would still be warm if you could get close enough. If you could take off your helmet and just say anything. Anything to erase the last thing you said to her. You watch as she moves towards you. You spot the familiar traces of fear in the way her eyes examine every inch of you. Searching for anything broken. 

“Are you okay?” she asks. 

She’s so close. Just a couple inches and a stupid suit separates the two of you. It had been so long since she last saw you. Two years had passed. She had become a hero and you thought all connections to your time with her in the woods, in the middle of nowhere, had been severed. You thought she had moved on. You thought playing this stupid game with HYDRA and SHIELD was all you would ever get to spend time with your friend. But you were wrong. 

Her hand comes to grip the back of your helmet. “I need you to answer me.”

You nod. 

She lets go of the back of your helmet at your answer. You follow her gaze as she looks first at the briefcase you hold hanging open. Her gaze drops lower to the object at your feet. A black 9mm Beretta handgun. Your gun. The one you lost. The only one that ever felt right in your hand. 

She’s still playing your game. She’s still trying to find you. 

Nat picks up your gun, and your lips part as if to say something. There’s a million things you want to say, but you can’t. One word echoes amongst your jumbling thoughts, and it steals your voice. So instead, all you do is offer your friend the briefcase. 

“No,” Nat shakes her head. She steps closer to you to slide her gun into the empty holster at your hip. You see the corner of her lip rise into a smirk. “Don’t lose that.” Then, she slides your gun into the holster strapped to one of her long legs beneath the curtain of her dress. 

The briefcase falls from your grip, and Nat takes hold of your hand. You follow her to the exit, and as your thoughts continue to crash into each other and scream, you wonder: does she know it’s you? 

[smystermy]

𝐨𝐫𝐩𝐡𝐢𝐜

tags: geto suguru x you; set before the star plasma vessel incident; senpai x kouhai; Crushes with a capital C and Feelings with a capital F; pre-relationship; you've been childhood friends with gojo.

warnings: none.

word count: 1708.

oneshot, loosely related to 'peel your heart like a pomegranate'.

It’s finally the weekend, and you’ve slept in—way later than you meant to.

The heavy warmth of your blankets had refused to let you go, and you hadn’t had the willpower to fight back. Now, though, your stomach is protesting loudly, a sharp reminder of how long it’s been since your last meal.

With a groggy sigh, you drag yourself out of bed, your feet hitting the cool floor as you shuffle toward the small sink in your dorm. The haze of sleep still clings to you as you rinse your face and reach for your toothbrush, the minty taste waking you up little by little. You yawn as you rinse, finally feeling human enough to take on the task of finding food.

The quiet halls of the dormitory are still heavy with the haze of late morning as you make your way toward the common kitchen, your mind preoccupied with the hope of finding leftovers or something remotely edible in the fridge. Your stomach growls again, urging you to pick up your pace, but as you pass by the classrooms, something catches your eye—a faint sliver of movement through the slightly ajar door of one of them.

Curiosity tugs at you, pulling your attention away from thoughts of breakfast. You slow your steps, leaning just enough to peek inside—

It’s Geto Suguru.

He’s seated at a desk, a notebook spread open before him, his pen moving furiously across the page. His dark brows are drawn together in intense concentration, the frown carved so deeply into his expression that it pulls at something in you. There’s a quiet intensity about him, the kind that makes the air around him feel heavier, thicker somehow.

You don’t really know him—not beyond the occasional mission or the scattered mentions from Satoru or Utahime. But even from a distance, there’s always been something about him.

A quiet gravity, maybe, or the way his presence seems to fill a room even when he’s not trying to. You can’t quite explain it, but it’s there, like an invisible thread that pulls at your attention without permission.

And now, as you stand there silently watching him, you feel it again.

The way he’s hunched slightly over the desk, the loose strands of his dark hair falling into his eyes as he works—it makes him seem more human, more tangible than the figure you’re used to glimpsing from afar. For a moment, you forget about your empty stomach, too caught up in the picture of him to move.

Then, as if sensing your gaze, his eyes lift to meet yours.

Your heart stutters, caught in the snare of his sharp gaze as it lands on you. For a moment, his scowl lingers, but it falters quickly, giving way to something softer—surprise, maybe. His brows knit slightly, and then, almost imperceptibly, his expression relaxes. To your utter disbelief, he offers a small smile, lifting a hand to gesture for you to come in.

Oh no. He caught you staring.

A cold jolt of panic runs through you, your stomach flipping uncomfortably. You freeze for a second, wanting to bolt but feeling rooted by his steady gaze. There’s no escape now.

After what feels like an eternity, you gather the courage to push the door open just enough to slip inside, praying your face doesn’t betray how mortified you feel. Each step toward the desk feels heavier, your shoulders tight with tension as you sit beside him.

“Hi,” he says simply, his voice low and smooth, like a calm ripple in a pond.

“Hello, Senpai,” you reply, though it barely escapes your throat. Your usual confidence has completely abandoned you, leaving you with a voice far smaller than you’d like.

He’s still smiling at you—a soft, unassuming smile that somehow makes everything worse. His relaxed expression contrasts sharply with your own flustered state, and the gap between the two of you feels insurmountable. He opens his mouth to say something, but before he can get a word out, the tension snaps like a rubber band, and the words tumble out of you in a breathless rush.

“I’m sorry!”

Geto blinks, his surprise evident.

“Sorry? For what?”

“For staring at you!” you blurt, leaning forward as if that might somehow make you more convincing. “I didn’t mean to—well, I did—but not in a creepy way or anything! I swear I don’t have any ill intentions toward you!”

He stares at you for a beat, his dark eyes wide. Then, to your astonishment, he bursts out laughing. It’s not the mocking kind of laugh you might’ve feared, though—it’s warm and genuine, filling the room like sunlight cutting through shadows.

“Ill intentions?” he echoes, his voice laced with amusement.

“Yes!” you say, nodding so earnestly that it makes his laughter deepen. “But don’t worry—I have none. None at all.”

His chuckles ease into soft, lingering laughter, and something about it makes the air between you feel lighter. His smile widens, losing its earlier restraint, and there’s an ease in his posture now as he rests his arms on the desk.

“You don’t have to be this anxious,” he says gently, his tone teasing but kind. “I know you’re not planning anything sinister. Honestly, I didn’t call you over to scold you. I just thought we could talk.”

“Oh.” The knot of tension in your chest loosens slightly. “Okay. Fine.”

The room settles into a curious silence after that, one that isn’t exactly awkward but doesn’t feel entirely natural either. You’re acutely aware of his presence beside you, the way he’s blinking at you, just as you’re blinking at him. After a few moments, though, the quiet stretches on too long, and before you know it, you both burst into giggles at the absurdity of it all.

“Sorry,” you murmur, brushing your hair back in a poor attempt to ground yourself. “I’m not great at small talk.”

“Yeah,” he replies with a grin that’s entirely too charming. “I figured.”

The smile makes it hard to keep your mind on track, a warmth creeping up your neck and burning your cheeks. You quickly force yourself to look away, focusing on something else—anything else—when your eyes land on the notebook he’d been furiously scribbling in earlier.

You gesture toward it, tilting your head in question. “So… what were you working on that made you look so, uh… frowny?

He sighs, his shoulders slumping as he pushes the notebook toward you. “Physics,” he says flatly, the word carrying the weight of his frustration.

Curious, you glance down at the page, your eyes immediately catching the familiar diagrams and equations. You can’t stop the excitement from bubbling up as you exclaim, “Electromagnetism! This is my favorite!”

Geto’s head tilts, his brows lifting in disbelief. “Favorite? And—how do you even know this stuff? You’re a year younger than me.”

You shrug, flashing a grin like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “I go through Satoru’s books when I’m bored,” you say, tapping the notebook’s edge. “Figured I’d get a head start on this kind of stuff.” You pause then, your gaze flickering back to his face, searching for a reaction. “Do you want me to teach you?”

His skepticism is immediate, written all over his face as he narrows his eyes slightly. “Teach me?”

“Yeah!” you say with more confidence than you probably should. “I’m actually pretty good at explaining stuff. I promise I won’t make it confusing.”

He doesn’t respond right away, studying you as if weighing his options. You hold his gaze, adding your best eager-puppy look for good measure. Finally, he sighs again, the faintest trace of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Fine. Go ahead,” he says, leaning back in his chair.

Victory sparks in your chest as you dive right in, eagerly breaking down the concepts step by step.

At first, his expression remains a mix of confusion and mild annoyance, but as you guide him through the problems with a patience you didn’t even know you had, you notice the tension in his face start to ease. His questions come more naturally, and you can tell the dots are beginning to connect.

By the time he’s solved the last problem, the two of you are leaning back in your chairs, both a little worn out but undeniably triumphant.

“Thanks,” he says, his voice softer now, but there’s real sincerity behind it. His dark eyes meet yours, and for a moment, the gratitude in them feels heavier than the words themselves. “That really helped. Is there anything I can do to repay you?”

You wave him off with a casual smile, shaking your head. “Nah, don’t worry about it. I don’t want things between us to feel like… you know, some kind of quid pro quo.”

He blinks at you, and for a moment, something flickers in his expression—quick and unreadable, like a shadow crossing his face. You freeze, unsure what to make of it.

Did you say something wrong? Is he regretting asking if he could repay you? The thought makes your stomach twist, and before you can stop yourself, you blurt out, “But… if you wanted to join me for breakfast, I guess I wouldn’t mind.”

The words come out a little rushed, a bit clumsy, but you hope they’re enough to smooth over any lingering tension. His gaze drops to his watch, his brows pulling together for a moment in what seems like concern, though the expression softens just as quickly.

“Let’s get you some breakfast, then,” he says, his voice steady and low as he stands, his easy, disarming smile returning as if it had never left.

It takes you a moment to fully process his response, but when you do, a quiet warmth blooms in your chest, soft and unexpected. You push yourself to your feet, the nervous energy in your limbs giving way to a lightness that makes everything feel easier.

As you follow him out of the room, you catch yourself smiling—without even meaning to—and in that moment, you know: this definitely won’t be the last time you’re pulled into Geto Suguru’s orbit.

The thought doesn’t scare you, though—

If anything, it makes your heart beat just a little faster.

general masterlist || geto suguru masterlist

[exquisink]

Make That Double, Ch8 - Yan!SatoSugu x Fem!Reader [AO3]

Word Count: ~7K

Warnings: non-con, exhibitionism, double penetration (in one hole and in both), mommy kink (geto calls you mamma), sex toys like dildos and nipple clamps mentioned

For more reasons you can’t wrap your head around, Geto has become far, far kinder to you.

And you know what that means.

You can’t fuck this up again.

Yes, while men can be easy to manipulate… Geto seems to be smarter than you give him credit for, as well. That’s YOUR mistake. You realize that, and now you have to conjure a new way out but that doesn’t mean you can’t poke and prod at what seems to be a shaky foundation between Gojo and Geto. You can still play it up to your advantage. It’s gotten you out of some high-time embarrassing scenarios, like the other night when Gojo wanted to test out a pair of nipple clamps he’s found while online shopping. One glance at your horrified expression and Geto refuses to entertain the possibility, even after Gojo profusely begged him to let him try it out.

“We can try it on you, Satoru,” Geto offers with a hum. Geto settles the argument with that when Gojo seems more than pleased by the idea. Tweedledum glances at you with that irritating smirk on his face as he waves the package of nipple clamps over your face.

“Just let Princess take the wheel from here, Suguru~! But then you have to let me put them on her!”

That may have been the first time the two of them allow you agency.

Well, not the only time.

When it’s just you and Geto, he doesn’t initiate all that much. Instead, he seems to allow you a bit more room to breathe after any sessions with Tweedledum there. You can’t call sweet, because that’s one word you can’t use to describe either of those two men, but it’s…considerate enough.

It’s still not enough to sway you into a certain direction, though. Because for as much as Geto insists he doesn’t expect you to return his affections, he’s let down each time you don’t acknowledge his own perceived ‘selfless’ acts.

Again, many definitions seem to have changed over the years. Apparently ‘principled’ means not killing off people without a reason (and by people, he really means young sorcerers, non-sorcerers are ‘free for alls’). ‘Selflessness’ means not forcing himself upon you when you decline his advances, and you have made a point to decline each and every one of them if he gives you the ‘illusion of choice.’

Which, again, isn’t an illusion this time around. He really does keep his hands to himself now.

More than Gojo does, at least, which is…good enough.

On your way back to the bedroom for another agonizing evening to spend with your ‘new beau,’ you stumble across a note with a bouquet of freshly picked roses resting on the foot of the bed. Your brows knit together as you pick up the note, reading its contents.

‘Meet me out in the back. We’ll have a picnic. Just us.

-Geto, S.’

You have half a mind to rip it to shreds, but you remind yourself you can’t screw this shit up again. You have to play along.

Groaning to yourself, you slip back on your robe and step back out of the room, meeting Geto in the extravagant, botanical gardens his servants maintain to perfection. If not for the circumstances, you may have taken the time to admire the beauty and the effort put into keeping up the temple’s pristine appearances.

But this temple isn’t a paradise for you. It’s your chamber of sheer torment.

You find him near the smaller, stone koi pond and fountain, where he’s rested his picnic blanket and basket. Upon sensing your presence, he glances up and smiles at you, patting the vacant spot next to him.

You don’t say a word as you accept his invitation. This is better than everything else he’s forced you into, and you keep reminding yourself not to fuck this up like a mantra.

“I figured you wanted to get some fresh air after some time,” Geto states as he sets the utensils and plates onto the blanket. You glance over at the contents of the basket—you catch some sweets from a bakery the twins like to go to nearby. Some finger sandwiches and other interesting food items you haven’t tried before. He’s even picked up some of your usual orders, perhaps for good measure.

This can’t be good news.

“That’s nice of you, Suguru,” you reply, attempting a smile as he hands you a plate.

“Did you have a good time with the twins?” he asks, tilting his head as a fond smile plays on his lips. You’re taken aback, stumbling over your answer as he places some food items onto your plate before helping himself.

“We had a great time,” you answer, “Mimiko and Nanako can’t seem to agree on a theme for their Animal Crossing home, ,though. They kept trying to get me to gang up on the other. It’s kind of adorable.”

Geto rolls his eyes at the mention of Animal Crossing.

“They probably should have gotten their own copy instead of one,” Geto murmurs, “that would have settled some issues, but I thought it was a waste of money. I can’t remember how much money Satoru wasted on Digimon games, and I don’t want them to become ungrateful for how much money I spend on them for such a dull hobby.”

“It’s not that dull,” you laugh like it’s a nervous tick for you, at this point. “Video games are a great way for a family to bond. That’s how my family and I did.”

Why are you even trying to have small talk with him?

It feels so…weird. Like there’s this barrier. You feel like you’re trying to reach some untouchable deity when you speak to him. And in some ways that’s not all that far off. Your worlds are so different from each other.

“You never talk about them,” he remarks, “Your family.”

“Oh. Well, it’s just me now. My parents died when I was a teenager and I was an only child. I don’t really know about any other family,” you shrug, nibbling mindlessly on the finger sandwich. “But I do miss them all the time. My dad was the biggest Mario nerd, so we played all of those classic games together.”

“What was your mother like?” he asks, eyes twinkling in curiosity as he inches closer to you.

“She was like any other mom I guess,” you say, “She was a lot softer though. Like, not as strict as some of my friend’s moms…”

“I see,” he hums, “I never had a close relationship with my parents. As you can imagine, I was born into a family who didn’t have sorcerers. They didn’t try to understand what was happening to me.”

That’s kind of sad…

“You’re making quite an effort for the twins to have a normal family.”

Yeah. Yet another definition which has changed…

“My girls deserve everything I never had,” Geto replies, smiling. “I can’t change my or their past, but we have a future to look forward to together.”

Maybe in another world, you may have found this truly admirable.

But this isn’t that world.

“How’s the food?” he asks quickly to change the subject, and perhaps to alleviate the tension growing between you both.

You glance at the crumbs in your hand.

“Good,” you murmur, “Fantastic. Like gourmet.”

Geto’s smile widens.

“I had the chefs prepare it special,” he explains, “But while I was out with the girls I picked up some of your orders. So help yourself.”

He gestures to all of the items laid out on the blanket.

“Of course,” you reply finally, ignoring the twist in your gut. “Thank you.”

Awkward, you muse to yourself, your lips forming a thine line.

“I really want you to be happy here,” Geto speaks up again.

Your head snaps up at that, eyes widening.

“Huh?”

A calloused hand rests on your cheek.

“It’s true,” he goes on, the hand sliding to your shoulder. He squeezes gently. Reassuringly. “While it’s best you don’t disobey me, I don’t want you to be afraid of me, either. You’re part of the family.”

What a joke. He should petition for the greatest comedian of the year if he actually expects this…

“That will take time,” you manage to bite out, your words sharper than intended but does he expect anything different? Does he honestly believe that you, after everything he has done to you, may accept this with open arms without a single complaint?

He must be out of his mind.

He pouts at that, retracting his hand (smart move, you were tempted to bite it off).

“I understand,” he sighs in defeat. For now. “It’s like I told you, I don’t need you to return my affections.” Liar. “Your cooperation is more necessary than that.”

“I know.”

He leans in to press a chaste kiss on your lips. Every time he does he tastes of fire and brimstone. Of toxins seeping deep into your skin, contaminating your body. You aren’t in love with him, and you never will be; that much you are certain. You have been dragged into this nonsense by some rotten stroke of luck, and yes, you can’t change the past, but you can see to the future.

And you don’t want a future with him.

“My little dove,” he purrs as he pulls slightly away, eyes half-mast as he takes in your features. “I wish you could let me in your world.”

There’s no chance for that.

“But I suppose I have to settle with this for now,” he continues, hovering his lips to the crook of your neck.

You flush, furtive eyes darting to either side. Out here in the open?

Why are you even surprised?

“Suguru,” you start, resting a hand on the back of his head. “Not now.”

“But no one will see,” he mutters into your skin, inhaling your scent. He smiles upon recognizing something—notes of caramel and marshmallow and amber. “You used one of the perfumes I bought you.”

Well, yeah! Of course you do. No one likes to stink. And you don’t have many options here.

“Suguru please,” you try again, and Geto makes a sound, before retracting himself from you. He still hovers close while reaching for a pastry to present to you.

“Very well,” he concedes, cutting a piece of a strawberry crepe and bringing it to your lips. “We can settle on this.”

You open your mouth and let him feed you. The rush of strawberry filling overwhelms your taste buds, but you like this better than his lips on yours. But you speak too soon, his lips finding yours again as soon as you gulp down that bite. His tongue chases remnants of that lingering taste and he hums, pulling away with a little playful nip with his canines.

“You make these sweets tolerable,” he chuckles, darting his tongue between his lips to catch any remnants of your taste.

Nasty, you think, your face falling at he sight. Ugh. Maybe it helps a little that he’s objectively gorgeous, but since he’s the kind of man he is, you can’t give him the satisfaction of even entertaining the idea that he’s objectively attractive. You try to ignore the way your heart kind of flutters whenever he glances at you with those little jewels of amethyst for eyes or whenever he draws near you to steal a kiss. It’s only because objectively, yeah, he’s attractive. That makes this a bit more bearable. Nothing more than that, right?

This is kind of pissing you off a little… what the HELL is going on in your head now? What kind of bullshit is it trying to spew at you!? Have you lost your goddamn mind?

“I need more, Mamma,” he drawls, as he sets aside the plate, digging his fingers into either side of your waist.

“Suguru…” you whimper, as his face draws close to yours and you try to crawl away. That’s asking for a death penalty here but you can’t help it. “Not out here.”

“I’ve been patient with you, Mamma. Let me touch. Satoru’s been getting all the fun, and you know how I feel about that. We came to an understanding about that, did we not?” he trails kisses down your neck and across your collarbone, and your fists clench tightly, resting on your knees.

“Ah-hem, Geto,” Suda’s voice interrupts and saves you from certain torture. She approaches the both of you, clipboard in her arms as she focuses more on the text on the page rather than what’s transpiring in front of her. Perhaps she’s witnessed more than she wanted to. “I hate to disrupt your private time, but your presence is needed. We have acquired the scammer who tried to keep money from you.”

“Ah, I’m sorry, my dear,” he sighs as he pulls away, rising to his feet. “Duty calls, but we can continue this later.” He turns to his secretary. “Suda, you can remain with her until I return.”

“Yes, Geto,” she replies, straightening her posture as he brushes past her with a displeased look on his face. Nothing grinds his gears more than conman, speaking as if he isn’t a conman himself.

He’s such a fucking hypocrite; you’ve definitely noticed.

When it looks like Geto is gone, you glance up at Suda with curiosity twinkling in your eyes—and a touch of wariness as you feel with the rest of Geto’s goons. Her wavy pink hair cascades around her heart-shaped face and her dark green eyes stun you, resembling little jewels. She stands tall and proud like a runway model, and can probably give one a run for their entire career and salary if she ever decides to go that route. You can’t help but admire another woman’s beauty—even if she probably wants nothing to do with you like everyone else around here seems to. They seem to share similar ideas when it comes to non-sorcerers: they’re scum and are better off eradicated.

She huffs, scrunching her nose in distaste as she finally addresses the likes of you. “I don’t understand what Geto’s doing with you, but as much as I don’t like it, I’m here to help a sister.”

Your ears perk up at that. That’s something you don’t expect, but it’s a welcome surprise, indeed.

“Men abusing their power over us is nothing new,” Suda remarks in a rather snide tone, but you expect nothing less when it comes to such subject matter. And of course Geto is involved. “I’d have liked to believe Geto was different in at least that regard.”

It’s a sad, but cold, hard, truth: men may swing their swords around and pound their chest like gigantic gorillas, but in reality, they’re as frail, weak, and vulnerable as chimps out in the wild. Geto isn’t removed from this fact; neither is Gojo. Neither is any other sorcerer who happens to have male anatomy.

In the end, it’s their most fatal flaw.

At least Suda understands that as well as you do.

“Why work for him, then?” you ask, your curiosity piqued.

She shrugs, staring off into the distance. “Good living, I guess. Better than the dump I came from where guys would harass me all the time. He doesn’t come near me. Not like that. Just expects me to organize this circus of his.”

She gestures to the general area of the temple. Well, she’s not entirely wrong in that department—it’s decent living. Never mind the fact that her boss is a raging lunatic which apparently she’s more than aware of herself.

You tilt your head, processing the newfound information like it’s a software update. Interesting.

So even Geto’s goons know he’s not all that, either? Then what the hell are people doing here, other than for the good pay? Just for the shits and giggles? Maybe there’s got to be some other things they might benefit from in aiding a maniac like him…

“And I guess some things, I owe to Geto,” she finishes while adjusting flyaways in her hair after a gush of wind rushes by. Ah. There it is—a sense of obligation then. “But this can be between us. Even if you’re not like me, you’re still a woman.”

She doesn’t need to finish that statement. You fill in the blanks yourself. Women protect other women, and that’s that.

Even if Suda is ultimately loyal to Geto and whatever this vision of his is—it still doesn’t really add up to you, but then again, as Geto and Gojo love to preach to you, these are matters far above your scope of understanding.

“Thank you,” you murmur as a little smile plays on your lips. This is the most hopeful you’ve been since this whole thing went down, and knowing someone has your back is good enough for you for that very moment.

“Besides,” she adds, resting her clenched fists on her hips. “You being here just isn’t right, anyway. Whatever Geto wants with you, it’s for his personal gain, ultimately. I probably shouldn’t question him, but he does make a lot of questionable choices.”

Your mind flashes to when Miguel tells you something similar.

You flash her another smile. She manages a small one herself before her mask comes back full force. She strolls over to one of the benches and takes a seat, crossing one leg over the other as you both wait for Geto to return. This time, the silence is a little comforting. You fiddle with some of the remaining food on your plate, finally feeling some semblance of relief wash over you because maybe, maybe, you have fnially found your ticket out of there.

Geto finally returns, moments later, that displeased look still etched on his face as he tuts at the current situation to Suda.

“Rich men can be so foul,” he scoffs, shaking his head. “Not including certain people, of course.”

You know who he means.

“What did you do with him, Master Geto?” Suda dares to ask as she rises to her feet, hugging her clipboard to her chest as she maintains an air of a professional secretary. She can flip that on and off; it reminds you much of yourself when you were still working at that bakery that had since gone out of business for obvious reasons. All workers and customers mysteriously dead, you going missing as a result. You are also presumed dead or missing to the public. That can’t look good for someone’s business if they want it to skyrocket.

“I let his curse do away with him,” he answers smoothly with a dismissive wave of his hand over his head. “If that’s all, Suda, I’d like to be alone with her now.”

Suda gives a curt nod before twisting on her heel and sauntering off. Thus far, Geto has no suspicions with you or her, but you stay on your guard nevertheless. Geto always has something up his sleeve.

Once you’re left alone with him, Geto glances down at you with a mysterious smile. You ignore the fear pricking at your insides like toxic barbs. Your hand rests on your stomach as you will yourself to relax. You have backup. You have an ally. That should have you rejoicing and dancing in glee but instead you’re still coiling every time Geto so much as glances at you?

Yet you can’t find yourself faulting yourself for that either. The man is goddamn terrifying in his own right, and he has full control over you.

But not for much longer. You just need to hold on, for just a little longer. You have already settled on having to play the long game here. Don’t get discouraged.

“Now with that interruption out of the way…” He returns to his spot next to you. “Where were we?”

“Watching the sunset,” you reply as he tries to inch himself closer to you.

Fight back. Any way you can. You remind yourself. You force down any and all emotions combating against each other in your head. They quiet down the moment you try. You try to imagine something more peaceful and serene than something like this—anything else sounds good right then. A nice trip to Paris, far away from a country where Geto and Gojo resides, enjoying a baguette and hot chocolate while someone serenades you with a violin performance.

Anything is better than this. Anything. You can’t believe how your life has gotten to this point.

Frowning, Geto glances up at the sky. The sun has just begun to set, just a blinding, shining gold glob amid a pink and blue sky.

“It is a lovely sight,” he muses, before his gaze flits back to you. “But nothing beats the sight I have right here, beside me. You truly are a work of art, my dear.”

Ah. More pretty lies. That seems to come as natural as breathing to him.

You know better than to fall for anything he says or does. They never align.

The picnic continues in a tense silence. You do appreciate the pastries he picked up for you, helping yourself to that brookie you’ve been eying for a while. Geto just watches you, content just being next to you. He doesn’t try to touch you again, which you thank the stars above for, but that’s going to be short-lived the moment you go back to the bedroom with him. He can’t control himself for all that long.

After the sun fully sets beyond the horizon, Geto gathers the items and retires with you back to bed. Instead of his servants attending to you in the restroom, he decided to take their place, preparing the shower while attending to his own business. He ties his hair long, flowy hair up in a bun as he changes into a pair of silk indigo pajamas.

You slip out of the shower, wrapping a towel around your frame and he approaches you with a bottle of lotion.

“May I?” he requests with that same, dangerous smile that you know it best not to anger.

You’re not allowed to refuse.

You settle onto the edge of the tub connecting to the shower, removing your towel and allowing it to slip to the marble tiled floor. Geto starts massaging the lotion into your shoulders, slowly and softly moving down your back.

“Soft,” he praises in a little whisper, pinching a little area. You wince.

“Am I doing a good job, Mamma?” he purrs into your ear as he moves to your arms and to your breasts and stomach.

“Yes, darling, you’re doing so good, taking care of me.”

Such lies feel like toxic barbs piercing your skin.

“Does that mean I get a reward?” he asks, swirling his tongue around a nipple. Your breath hitches.

“No,” you bite your lip, grimacing at what you’re about to say next: “Good boys are supposed to do what they’re told.”

“Then what else must I do, Mamma?”

He flicks the tip of his tongue around the stiff bud, making your throat tighten. Your hands grip the edge of the tub. His hands snake up your meaty inner thighs as they stretch apart, his palms resting just before your intimates. Slender, calloused fingers brush against your skin, inching closer and closer to your nethers where he has already lubed up. Two fingers tease your outer lips, pressing them together and from the corner of your eye you see his toothy, pleased smirk as he pries your lower lips apart. The cold air hits your sensitive skin and you hiss, tightening your grip on the edge of the tub until your knuckled whiten. Your legs begin to tremble, and he gasps in delight, falling to his knees on the ground and marveling at the sight of your flushed pussy glistening in a light coat of your arousal.

He licks his lips, leaving his tongue sticking out at the corner of his mouth as a finger easily slides into your entrance. A shaky gasp leaves your parted lips.

His finger sucks itself inside your pussy up to its knuckle. He coos as you wriggle a bit in your place.

“Shall we take this somewhere else more comfortable, Mamma?” he grunts, dipping another finger inside with a purr. “Let me get you to come once and then we can take it back to the bedroom.”

He steadies you, using his free arm snaking around your waist as he picks up a faster pace. Gentle pumps but his speed picks up each time. He groans at the feeling of your walls closing around his fingers, desperate to suck him in further, and you clench your teeth, failing to conceal your desperate whines and gasps as you can feel something inside rising, rising, rising…

“Come for me, Mamma,” he grunts, “Aren’t I being so good for you? I can always be this good. I want my Mamma to be happy with me.”

Your orgasm comes like a tight thunder clap, seeing setars behind your eyes, and you gasp out, panting as your body comes down from that high. He lets out a satisfied, arrogant little huff at his handiwork before scooping up your naked form into his arms, carrying you back to the bedroom and resting you on the plush mattress.

“Good,” he praises with a low, sultry purr as he gazes at you with that smoldering look in his eyes. His violet eyes glint with mischief and ulterior motives as he pries your legs apart, keeping them spread for him as his fingers toy with your soaked, flushed folds. “So good for me, Mamma. I just want to make you feel good.”

You shut your eyes, wishing this would end but it doesn’t seem like the torment ever does for you anymore. The minute you feel his lips kiss up either of your thighs and it’s over. He takes and takes and takes; it doesn’t matter.

You just need to hold on. Just for a little longer.

Just hold on for a little longer.

In the following few days, Geto tries to be a little more considerate of your needs. You know it’s not going to last long like all of the other times he let his desires take over, but you still are going to take advantage of the time he allows you to breathe. You’re found in the common room with the twins as they engage in a handful of classic board games. It’s a rainy day and they find they’ve grown tired of video games and want to give themselves a little detox from electronics (apart from some special condition for Nanako, which you’re a little confused about). Geto is more than happy to entertain this and watches with fondness in his eyes as Nanako bests Mimiko in another Chess match.

You are seated on the couch next to him, observing the sight yourself. You don’t have much to do in these situations—you have tired the magazines stacked under the low coffee table, and you haven’t the attention span to try out one of Geto’s long-spanning epic fantasy series. You’re running out of things that might stimulate your mind for the better, and you don’t like the sound of it. There’s only so much you can do in a situation where much of your agency has been taken away from you.

You have come to realize the longer you’re here the more time no longer matters. All that matters is just trying to find that opening, which you already have some semblance of when Suda dropped that bomb on you the other day. You just have to find another opening.

Geto calls your name and you’re ripped out of your thoughts. Somewhere you’d rather be than in the present moment.

“Mimiko was asking if you wanted to play a round of Chess with her,” he tells you, “You look a little bored.”

Yeah. Painfully, you think to yourself. It does kind of get old being your sex doll when it’s just us and then some weird nanny for your girls.

“I can’t guarantee I’ll be a challenging opponent, but sure,” you reply as you take a seat by Nanako, who peers at you with a gleeful smile on her face.

“I can always sneak ya a few hints,” she giggles, “Mimiko kind of sucks at Chess anyway…”

“Nanako, that’s rude,” Mimiko chides, her face etching an expression of irritation that oddly mirrors Geto’s. Guess they do pick up a bit after their adoptive father…

“Sorryyyyy but you know I’m right!” Nanako quips while clapping excitedly. Mimiko rolls her eyes as she resets the Chess board for a new game. You can’t help the little smile on your lips while watching the interaction.

Oh, they’re definitely sisters.

Geto has no problem watching over the three of you as you entertain them with a few rounds of Chess. The first time you play against Mimiko, you lose, more on purpose because you realize you remember how to play the game better than you thought. Then you alternate, going up against Nanako, who beats you fair and square. She is a natural at this game, for sure. Rinse, lather, repeat. You win some rounds (mostly against Mimiko). You lose a lot of rounds.

Getting back into classic board games does help alleviate the boredom a little. Afterward, Nanako and Mimiko switch to Jenga, a game you haven’t touched since your own childhood. It brings so many memories flooding back to you and suddenly you wonder why all of your dreams have been taken from you. As much as these girls deserve a functioning family, you want a functioning family of your own, not manufactured like this. Not when you have been taken away against your will. You try to silence these thoughts threatening to bubble forth, focusing on building the tower and not letting it topple over.

You shouldn’t let yourself topple over with your own raging thoughts, either.

“Mom?” Mimiko addresses you with a concerned look on her face.

You freeze. She…she really calls you that now, doesn’t she? How long has it been since you have been here now? You have lost track of time. After all, time here doesn’t matter for you. Not when you have gone through the same routine again and again and again. It’s madness.

“Yes, love?” you ask, trying to sound as motherly as you can because you can feel Geto’s cold stare searing into the back of your skull. You don’t want to anger him, and you don’t want to make them feel like they’re wrong in addressing you that way. It does feel wrong, to you, but that doesn’t matter. They don’t deserve to be in the middle of this.

“Are you happy with us?”

Your jaw drops for a moment but you close it immediately.

“What has you thinking about that?”

“We’re just wondering,” Nanako pipes in while nudging your shoulder. “You’ve been with us for over a year now! Crazy, right? So… does this mean you’re really going to stay with us? That you like Mr. Geto?”

“Do you like being here with us?” Mimiko adds onto the myriad of questions Nanako is bombarding you with and you don’t know how else to respond.

“I’m the happiest I’ve ever been,” you lie with a smile. “I’m so happy to call you girls my daughters.”

“We love you, Mom,” Nanako says, pulling you in for a hug. Mimiko follows after.

“We love you,” Mimiko parrots.

“I love you both too.”

It’s another lie.

But one that won’t get you killed in the end.

The next time Satoru visits, they don’t go all that easy on you. As if they ever do regardless of what promises they spew out of their assholes for mouths.

Satoru’s handsy as usual, roughing up your breasts and biting everywhere on the sensitive skin and laughing every time you yelp or shriek from the sharpness of each bite. Geto wastes no time entering your pussy while Gojo explores every inch of your body, licking and kissing every area of exposed skin. Geto makes you come three timed before pulling himself out and disposing of that last condom while Gojo adjusts you, leading you to sit on his lap. You don’t even bother to try to wriggle or squirm because you’re no match for two grown men. Two grown men who possess abilities beyond your own comprehension. If you dare try, they may not hesitate to be meaner. Crueler.

“Ooooh, Princess, my pretty baby,” Tweedledum purrs into your ear. “You’re being so good today.”

Tweedledee behind you just hums as he approaches the two of you, vibrator in hand. “She knows we only want to take care of her, Satoru. She understands.”

This time, they still don’t insert both their dicks at once like they have entertained before, even teased and terrified you with before, but Satoru manages to squeeze a dildo alongside his cock while taking you in the ass and Geto rests a vibrator on your pussy at a moderate setting. It’s all to get you stretched out and perfect and ready to take them both in that damn hole or even in your pussy. Someday sometime soon but likely not today. They can’t stop thinking about it.

Even if Geto recognized your hesitation at first, he eventually caves to his own desires like he always does.

You cling onto Gojo’s shoulders, biting down hard on your lip because the stretch feels so wide with that mild burn yet it somehow doesn’t compare to the stretch you feel from Geto’s size by itself.

“Satoru,” you squawk like a bird and he just laughs, hand coming down to smack your ass before fondling one of those fatty cheeks of yours and making you whine again.

Geto pumps the dildo inside of you and Gojo pumps his cock in tandem. The vibrator on your pussy grinds against your clit and folds and you’re not sure you can take much more.

“Fuck, Suguru, she’s so tight,” he growls, low and guttural as he kisses into your neck, increasing his erratic pace and waiting for you to come so hard on his cock that your pussy splatters everywhere. His eyes roll back as he reclines his head onto the back of the couch; his grip around you tightens. Geto hasn’t stopped with his dextrous hands working both your dripping cunt and ass. Your juices splatter onto the ground and leave behind a large puddle beneath you. Geto slides the vibrator close to your entrance and you shout, your ass walls clenching around Gojo’s cock and the large pink dildo pumping inside you. It hurts, fuck it hurts, your head is spinning.

It’s too much. It’s too much. It’s too much. And they don’t care!

“You’re being so good for us, little dove,” Suguru purrs in approval. “Not making a fuss, letting us take care of you, because you know we’re only doing this so you can handle us, hm?”

“Y-yes,” you wheeze out, “I-I want to be good for you, Suguru…”

“Good,” he says as he switches off the vibrator. You’re relieved at first until he lines the tip of his protected cock to your entrance. He presses a kiss to the crown of your head. “Then you’re ready for us both now.”

He chuckles darkly as he slips the head into your entrance, and you hide your face into Satoru’s chest, panting heavily. Geto has enough of a conscience to remove the dildo moving alongside Gojo’s still fully rigid, stiff cock as he fucks into your ass again.

Geto kisses into your shoulder and moans.

“You’re taking me better and better each time,” he drawls, taking his thumb to draw circles around your stiff clit as he keeps a gentler pace than Satoru does when entering you. While he still doesn’t shy away from taking what he wants, he still finds it in him to be a little kinder. Just a little. If you can call any of this kind.

“Satoru,” he calls, bringing the dildo that was just in your ass to Satoru’s lips. He opens up willingly, allowing Geto to fuck it into his mouth and get remnants of your taste off of that piece of silicone. Your heart twists in disgust from the act. You shouldn’t even be surprised anymore but they do everything to get each other off with you.

Gojo slobbers over that dildo like he probably does over Geto’s cock whenever it’s just them. Some of it even splatters onto your shoulder and Geto is ‘considerate’ enough to swipe it off with his thumb. When it’s the three of you, it seems more like a competitive game between them—see who can make you come more times, see who can make you come faster, see who can make you beg or scream or cry for mercy, etc. They’re not as interested in getting all over each other (though they still do, doting on each other to the point it makes your whole body shudder, riling each other up in any way they can).

The two come practically in unison but they don’t stop until you find yourself coming two, three more times.

But apparently, the torture is not ending there today after they slip their spent cocks out of you.

“Those nipple clamps last time sure were fun,” Gojo suggests while smacking his lips at the thought. “Your nipples were so hard. So perky and perfect. Just like the rest of you.”

As if to rub salt in the wound, Gojo traces his finger around one of your nipples before pinching it, making your breath hitch. You’re too tired to try to fight them off; it’s not like you ever win anyway.

“Satoru, what did I say about picking on her?” Geto scolds but his tone sounds more amused than ever angry. But you know later those fits of jealousy or rage come out at the most random of moments, and though you have known better than to try to initiate anything with Gojo again, Geto can easily twist any situation in his favor if it means he can justify his punishments. However he chooses to exact them on you.

But he never really hurts you. Not really, no.

Geto always just finds a way to repurpose his cruelty.

Gojo huddles you close to him, flashing yhou that irritating grin of his you wish you could rip straight off his face but you can’t fight two grown men. You’re helpless in these settings. And you’re so tired of being helpless.

But that doesn’t mean you still can’t find other ways to bend and shape this all to your advantage, however small.

“Suguru,” you say, batting your eyelashes at him. “Need you.”

Satoru quirks an eyebrow at that. “What’s the matter, Princess? You tired of me?”

He can’t help but snuggle you closer into his bare chest and you drag out an impressed sigh. This is your chance; this is the only way you can get under their skin at all because you just have to remember their one fatal flaw.

“Satoru,” you murmur, “I thought you were nice. Suguru can be so much nicer than you.”

Satoru’s eyes flash at that and he almost looks pained by your rejection. “What? But baby…”

“You heard her, Satoru, so respect her wishes,” Suguru interjects with an icy stare as he scoops you up into his arms instead, casting a genuine smile at you, like he’s pleased with your submission. “She knows who best takes care of her. Don’t you think?”

You wish you could smirk yourself. No way are you ever going to truly submit to either of these pieces of shit.

Gojo scowls at his lover, before flashing a worried look at you. For some reason, he’s not buying this sudden shift, the sudden shift in preferences, but if he had half a working brain cell he’d understand that you favored neither.

“You can’t honestly expect me to believe Suguru’s actually been treating you better than I have, Princess,” he pouts while crossing his arms over his chest. “Don’t we have something special, too?”

“Of course you both do,” Suguru interrupts again, then coos at you while you tuck your head into his shoulder with a faux look of love in your eyes. “But you remember the initial arrangement. She belongs to me, first and foremost, Satoru. All you are is part of the package.”

Gojo huffs at that. “Ugh, fine, you’re right about that, but come on, Princess, don’t you like me more?”

“I like you both just fine,” you mumble, “But right now Suguru’s being nice. You have been kind of mean lately Satoru.”

Suguru’s smile widens at that, nuzzling his face into yours before his lips smack against your cheek, and it’s an unsettling sight, indeed. You almost wonder if what you might encounter following this might be worse than if he decides to punish you for appearing to favor Satoru over him. The tension between the three of you builds with each passing second and you wonder if you should attempt to diffuse the situation but you have already dug your hole. You might as well keep digging until you find what you’re looking for.

Gojo lets out another petulant sound like the manchild he’s proven himself to be, far more so than Geto.

“I’m sorry about that, Princess. I’ll…I’ll work on it,” he replies, his lips still curled into that pathetic little pout as if he thinks that might do something for you.

However, it seems to for Geto, and that’s enough for you. Geto reaches over to Satoru and sympathetically pats him on the cheek.

“You promise to be a good boy next time you come back, Satoru, and she’ll warm up to you again,” he chucklse as he adjusts you in his arms. “You should probably head back now. Don’t you have to be in the countryside for your next mission?”

“Yeah, yeah,” he grumbles, standing up and grabbing his clothes. He presses a kiss to the corner of Geto’s mouth. “Stop fucking hogging her.”

“I’m doing absolutely no such thing,” Geto counters with his lips quirking into a smirk.

Gojo only shakes his head as he disappears to clean himself up before leaving for that day. Geto mentions something in pasing about that mission likely lasting longer than usual, but you don’t really listen, shutting your eyes as Geto escorts you back to the main area of the temple.

[thesleepyskipper]

WIP Wednesday

Okay, we're back in business! I wrote today and it feels good to get back into the groove!

Grateful for today's tags from @jmagnabo92, @kiwiana-writes, @caterpills, @getmehighonmagic, @cha-melodius

@onthewaytosomewhere, @theprinceandagcd, @three-drink-amy @run-for-chamo-miles and the open tag from @lilythesilly

Also sending my love and appreciation for all the tags for all the games while I was out of town! Every notification made me smile and I apologize for not having the spoons to check them all out!

I've got a new WIP (uncreatively titled the beach one) which is for @thebrownstone's summer switcheroo event and will be posting in a couple weeks. I decided to take my prompt down a little childhood friends-to-lovers path and so here's some of the backstory for that!

Henry considered himself lucky to have such a tight knit group of friends. When his parents had moved to Austin for work at the age of ten, he was terrified of starting over and needing to make a new set of friends. Traditionally, he hadn’t been particularly good at that. Pez, his best mate, had stuck to him like glue back in London and everyone else in his classes had seemed uninterested in getting to know him, since his nose was always stuck in a book. When Pez and his parents showed up on their doorstep a couple of months later, Henry was overjoyed - Pez’s mom had been recommended for a managerial position at Arthur’s company and was quickly offered the job, so the Okonjos had soon followed the Fox-Mountchristen family across the pond.

A wide open tag for anyone else wanting to share a WIP - please tag me today, I'm ready to read those snippets!!!

Tags under the cut too, please share if you wish and tag me!

@welcometololaland, @cricketnationrise, @myheartalivewrites, @tailsbeth-writes, @orchidscript

@rmd-writes, @celeritas2997, @noahreids, @blueeyedgrlwrites, @wordsofhoneydew

@stereopticons, @smblmn, @miss-minnelli, @sophie1973, @leaves-of-laurelin

@nontoxic-writes, @indestructibleheart, @maxbegone, @clockwrkpendrxgon, @piratefalls

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@hgejfmw-hgejhsf, @dragonflylady77, @agame-writes, @nocoastposts, @lightningboltreader

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@lizzie-bennetdarcy, @dreamtigress, @duchessdepolignaca03, @alasse9, @suseagull04

@priincebutt, @stellarmeadow, @softboynick, @fullsunsets, @na-dineee

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@zwiazdziarka, @mikibwrites, @swearphil, @flowerfan2, @rarelyrad

[hunnysnoops]

˗ˋ𝕎𝕙𝕚𝕥𝕖 𝕋𝕖𝕖𝕥𝕙 𝕋𝕖𝕖𝕟𝕤ˊ˗

Chapter Nine: Take Me Out

Kyle Broflovski x fem reader

So if you’re lonely, you know I’m here waiting for you and if you leave here, you’ll leave me broken. Shattered I lie.

Also available on Ao3 and Wattpad!

Premise: Over the course of days and eventually weeks you grow closer with Kyle as feelings begin to shift.

Warnings: crude language and humour

MASTERLIST

.˙꩜°˖:*࿔ ☼ ࿔*:˖°꩜˙.

June 29

You and Kyle rush through the park, the world around you blurring as your feet pound against the pavement. The sun filters through the canopy of leaves overhead, casting dappled shadows that dance along the path. You feel the wind in your hair and the exhilaration of the run in your chest, your breaths coming fast but steady.

Recently, you had been looking forward to your runs with Kyle. You had always hated doing it with others, either too slow, stopping too often, or talking too much but there was a sweet spot with Kyle that you didn't mind in the slightest. 

There are several children playing soccer to your left, and you can hear their enthusiastic yells as they play. A couple walks their corgi to your right, the dog is so obscenely fat that his stomach almost scrapes the ground though he seems happy. 

You match his stride by the pond, where the water reflects the clear blue sky and the swarms of ducks gliding across its surface. Kyle slows down, and you equal his pace, both of you breathing heavily but smiling wide. "You're getting faster."

You laugh, the sound light and relaxed. "Maybe you're getting slower," you tease back. He rolls his eyes, but there's a twinkle in them that shows he enjoys the banter.

"Can you ever just take a compliment?"

"Uh, nope," You grin turning for the exit of the park. Your lungs burned in the perfect kind of way. 

The energy shifts instantly as you break away from the still park and enter town, the quiet rustle of leaves replaced by the hum of human life. Cars honk, people chat as they pass by, and the air is filled with the scent of food from nearby cafes and food trucks. Hanging in the air is the strong smell of liquor from a smashed bottle of tequila that crunches beneath your sneakers. 

Kyle is still ahead, his pace unwavering as he navigates through the crowd. You follow close behind, weaving through pedestrians and occasionally bumping shoulders. The buildings loom tall around you, their glass facades reflecting the afternoon sun.

As you turn a corner, something catches your eye. You come to an abrupt stop, causing Kyle to glance back, curious. There, plastered on a wall among a collage of posters and flyers, is an advertisement for an upcoming concert. The bold, colourful design grabs your attention, but it's the picture of the band that really makes you pause. The heading reads 'Suburban Wasteland' one of the hidden gems you listened to almost on a regular. They sang to your edgy little middle school self who went through an emo phase and claimed you would be that way forever. 

The lead singer stands front and center, his eyes smouldering and his messy hair perfectly tousled. He's cute, undeniably so, and you find yourself staring at the poster, your heart beating a little faster for reasons other than the run. "Oh my god," You mutter.

Kyle halts to a stop and walks to your side, staring at the poster. His eyebrows knit together as he takes in what he's seeing "What?"

You hadn't heard him, expression softening as you focused in on the tour dates. "Look!" You point at one of the dates, eyes lighting up "They're coming to South Park!" 

"You actually listen to these guys?" He looks at the four men on the poster 

"Yes!" You grab his arm and shake it, swaying his body in doing so. You were almost screaming the pure excitement that was running through you like lightning causing passersby to cast you judgmental glares. You weren't sure you had been so thrilled about something since you started high school. "They're here in July, we should go!" 

"Is he wearing eyeliner?" Kyle narrowed his eyes at the poster. At first glance, they looked like some corny screamo boyband from the early 2000s, brought to life by ripped skinny jeans and deep side parts. 

"He's so hot," You mutter, hands still gripped onto Kyle's arm without even noticing how tightly you were holding him. 

 "That's the kinda guy you're into?" He abruptly swerves his head to look at you. His eyes widen for a brief moment before they narrow in at you, his lips downturned in a slight frown. 

Your hands drip from where they rest on his arms "Yeah, I guess." Your near shaking with elation at the thought of the band you played on loop daily coming to your little bumpkin town. "Do you wanna go with me?"

He rubs the back of his neck "Don't you want to go with Red or something?"

"Red's going to Alaska at the end of July."

"Why is Red going to Alaska in July?"

"Doesn't matter," You answer "They're really cool, I think you'll actually like their songs-

"I'm sure they're fine. But I'm not really into that type of stuff?"

“What do you mean that type of stuff?"

"Like angry thrashers pushing each other around and breaking necks in a mosh pit," He says, sweat still glistening on his brow, only accentuated by the blaring sun overhead. 

"None of my friends like this thing, please?" Your eyes go wide, silently pleading with him.

He bites the inside of his cheek for a second, staring you down, his thoughts bouncing back and forth like a game of ping pong "I don't really like it either."

“I know you don’t really listen to that genre but-

“I’m not going,” He says, firm.

You give up, rolling your eyes. Your shoulders slump a little, disappointment washing over you. Taking one last longing look at the poster before resuming your pace, you resume your run, pushing aside the lingering let down "You're boring," You call back to Kyle "And slow."

.˙꩜°˖:*࿔ ☼ ࿔*:˖°꩜˙.

July 4

As you sit at the back of the dimly lit restaurant, the clatter of plates and the murmur of the last few lingering customers fade into the background. The cold, metallic touch of cutlery presses against your fingers as you roll knife after fork into napkins, your movements mechanical and practiced. 

You were nearing the end of your shift though there were still bins of cutlery left for you to roll into little place sets before you could go home. This wasn't exactly how you wanted to spend your fourth of July, especially when all your friends were out and about, living it up while you developed blisters on your feet from countless hours jetting around a restaurant.

The fourth of July seemed like a good cash grab to make good tips but you were proved wrong by the amount of rowdy tourists who talked a big game but tipped you very little if anything at all. You had ended the night with less than you came in with, the tips were so poor you had to use your own pocket money to tip out the house, bartender, and kitchen.

There was the same awful 80s playlist reverberating through the speakers. It was the same 60 songs over and over again, you knew them so well you could recite every lyric and the more you heard them, the more you hated them. You were almost tempted to take two steak knives and shove them into your ears.

Some shifts were so bad that you just needed to sit in silence, this was one of them. The fourth of July was one of your favourite holidays and your evil manager had coerced you into missing it. The worst part for you was the fact that you didn't get to see any of the fireworks, you just heard them faintly outside along with the sounds of people actually enjoying their night.

You wore your little black dress in the hopes of racking up more tips but instead, you had another server knock their customer's drinks onto you, drenching you in the smell of red wine and ceasers. There were little bits of the ceaser spice still visible on your dress while you continued rolling cutlery and biting the inside of your cheek to avoid screaming.

Outside, the sky is dark, with only a faint glow from distant fireworks that you can't quite see. You missed them again this year, the bursts of colour and the laughter of friends and family. The fourth of July has come and gone while you served tables, refilled water jugs, and plastered on a tired smile. 

You think of the sparklers you loved as a child, the barbecue smells, and the warmth of being surrounded by your family. Tonight, the warmth comes only from the overhead lights the persistent hum of the kitchen appliances and the cursing coming from the remaining staff. It didn't help this overwhelming feeling that your dad dropped you off on your way to work, meaning you didn't have your car or a ride home.

Checking your phone only made you feel worse. No new messages. The majority of your friends were at Clyde's party while you hummed along to old rock n' roll songs you've grown accustomed to hate. His party was long over, you had seen through Snapchat stories that the cops showed up. It was nearing twelve am, it was almost the fifth and you had wasted your day.

You weren't sure you could hold your tears back for another minute until your co-worker poked her head into the backroom "Your boyfriends here," Brooke says, walking in and grabbing her phone off the table that had cutlery sprawled out over top. 

"I don't have a boyfriend," You say, furrowing your eyebrows.

"I don't care," She says while tapping around on her phone "Someone's here for you."

Quickly, you tie off your last napkin roll and poke your head out of the staff room door to see Kyle awkwardly standing by the host stand. You bite back a smile, diving for your locker and snatching your bag from it. You hurriedly throw your hoodie on over your dress and spritz some body spray in an attempt to mask the smell of liquor soaked into your dress. 

"Wait, you didn't clock out," Brooke looks up from her phone, watching you as you walk out of the staff room.

"You know what really hasn't clocked out?" You ask and continue without waiting for an answer "Racism, bullying, soap brows, maybe you should get on that first."

You walk down the corridor towards the front door, tugging your skirt down and pushing hair away from your face as you approach Kyle. He looks up from his phone and spots you.

"What are you doing here?" you ask, a smile tugging at your lips despite your tiredness.

"Your dad told me he dropped you off today, I'm taking you home."

"Oh," You keep a smile on your face despite the urge to let it drop. 

As the two of you leave the restaurant and step into the dry heat, he shoves his hands into his pockets "How was work?"

"Fucking shitty," You answer, feeling no urge to sugarcoat "Just a bunch of asshole tourists who smell like cavities."

"What does a cavity smell like?"

"Like plaque build-up and sour breath," You answer, wrinkling your nose at the thought alone. "Uh, how was Clydes?"

Kyle shrugs "Fine, I guess, nothing special."

"You didn't drink?"

"Nah," He opens the door to his car, flicking the light on and waiting for you to climb into the passenger seat. "I left early, actually."

"What? Why?" You shut the door as you get in, dropping your bag to the floor of the car "I wanted to go so bad."

"Just felt like I could've been doing something better with my night," As you and Kyle settle into the car, the familiar scent of his aftershave mingles with the cool night air. The engine hums to life, and the car glides out of the parking lot, leaving behind the warm glow and the remnants of another awful shift. 

You worried if he could smell the liquor on you or the steak sauce but he gave no indication, eyes focused on the road as he drove. "Were the fireworks cool at least?"

"Yeah, they were."

The streets are mostly quiet now, a subtle contrast to the earlier hustle and bustle of Fourth of July celebrations and drunk partygoers, roaming the streets decked out in patriotic accessories from the dollar tree. Streetlights cast elongated shadows, flickering as you pass beneath them. The rhythmic click of the turn signal is a comforting sound, a steady beat that matches your slowly calming heartbeat as your eyelids begin to grow heavy.

You notice the little details as you drive: the way the trees sway gently in the wind, their leaves rustling like a whisper; the soft glow of porch lights in the distance, each one a silent witness to the night's festivities, air running through them like whispers. You pass a park where sparklers flicker in the hands of teenagers, their laughter carries through the now-hushing night.

Kyle glances at you, a smile playing on his lips as he sees you taking it all in. He doesn't rush, allowing you to soak up every moment. The radio plays softly, a nostalgic tune that seems to fit the sleepy mood perfectly. You hum along absentmindedly, despite the disappointment you were coming to terms with it all.

"Where are you going?" You ask as Kyle turns onto a narrow, gravel path leading up a small hill. The car bumps along the uneven road, and your eyebrows furrow at the sound of animals rustling mingling with the crunch of gravel under the tires. "Please don't kidnap me, I'm too tired to fist fight but I do have a corkscrew in my bag," You say, waiting a beat and then filling the silence "Fine, you got me, I stole the corkscrew from my manager." That was true. You were so angry and fed up that you went into her purse and stole the corkscrew her husband gave her for her anniversary, it even had her initials carved into it. You figured she drank enough and you were doing her a favour.

"I'm not kidnapping you, Jesus," His eyes are steady on the beaten road "Just wait." He looks at you for a second "And give that corkscrew back."

"I dunno, sounds like something a kidnapper would say," You tap your fingers on the dashboard. “And the really Kyle would never tell me to give something stolen back.”

“Yes, he would.” He pulls up to a small hill overlooking the town, yanking the keys out of the ignition. Wordlessly, Kyle gets out of the car and gestures for you to follow him. You decide against the idea of him kidnapping you and trail him to a grassy spot that overlooks the town.

Kyle looks down at his watch before looking back up at the sky. He stands beside you, close enough that you can feel his warmth. The inky black sky is punctuated by the sudden, brilliant explosions of light. Like a gigantic chrysanthemum, a flash of red blooms, each flower trailing shimmering flames as it dies. Then there's a silvery waterfall that shimmers as if it's trapped in midair. With each fireworks being more spectacular than the last, you watch, transfixed, as the colours change and intensify.

The air smells faintly of smoke and summer, it takes you right back to the last Fourth of July you spent at Bebe's house, watching the show from the roof of her house and downing Dr. Pepper. The fireworks paint the sky with vibrant hues- fiery oranges, deep blues, radiant greens- each of which leaves a brief afterimage against the night sky.

You glance at Kyle, his face illuminated by the bursts of light. His eyes are wide with wonder, and there's a content smile on his lips. The reflection of the fireworks dances in his eyes like a mirror. 

The grand finale begins, and the sky erupts in a riot of colour and sound. Rapid-fire bursts fill the air, overlapping in a dazzling display that takes your breath away. The booms are louder, the lights brighter, and for a few moments, the sky is swallowed whole with chaos and beauty.

As the last firework fades, leaving trails of smoke that slowly dissipate into the night, a peaceful silence settles over the hilltop. The minute passes over and so does the holiday, the last fireworks of the night and you had a front-row seat. The stars, previously outshone, now reclaim their place in the sky, twinkling softly. Kyle turns to face you "Worth it?"

"Could've been better," You tease, sarcasm hanging from your tone. You know for sure this is one memory you will be forever clinging to. 

.˙꩜°˖:*࿔ ☼ ࿔*:˖°꩜˙.

July 9

Both yours and Kyle's family gathered in your living room for game night, which felt long overdue. The teams were you and Kyle, Weston and Ike, Your mother and Sheila, your father and Gerald. There was hardly even competition between the four groups, you and Kyle were sweeping them. 

"Whose turn is it?" Your mom asks looking around the room. 

"Weston and Ike," You answer, pushing your brother off the couch and taking his spot, pulling your knees to your chest and yanking a throw blanket overtop.

Ike sits on the floor and leans against the armchair his brothers sitting on, watching as Weston digs around into the popcorn bowl filled with prompts. He pulls a slip of paper out and groans when he reads it "Bruh," He draws out "I don't even know this one."

"Just pick another one," Your dad tells him, he's nursing a glass of wine and standing behind the couch like a vulture.

"Dude," Weston crumples up the slip of paper and chooses a new one "I dunno this one either."

"Just try your best," Sheila tells him.

Weston holds his arms out and begins to enthusiastically flail them. "Shake?" Ike asks, face utterly perplexed as your brother lets out another groan and then begins to convulse his body. "Earthquake?" At Ike's second guess, your brother pauses, runs his hands down his face then begins to violently shake again.

"Seizure?" Your dad asks, eyebrows drawing in at the sight of his son "What is this?"

Your brother clenches his fist, taking a deep breath in then he mimes juggling, but his hands flail wildly, and it's hard to tell if he's juggling invisible balls or trying to swat away imaginary flies. His exaggerated movements have everyone squinting and guessing wildly. "Stroke?" Ike asks, mouth slightly agape while he tries to decode your brother's rapid movements. 

Weston shakes his head vigorously and switches tactics. He starts hopping in place, then drops to all fours, pretending to be an animal of some sort, but it's not clear which one. He growls, then stands up and begins doing it deep lunges back and forth, switching legs.

“Furry?" Ike asks "Gym? Exercise?" 

"Bruh, no," He then stands still and makes a grand sweeping gesture with his arms, as if presenting something spectacular.

"Circus?" Ike guesses again to which Weston shakes his head. 

Weston balls his hand up into a fist and cracks it through the air like he's whipping something. Everyone in the room awkwardly glances at one another, waiting for it to end.

"Cat woman? Batman?" Just for a moment, Ike thinks he is close and then Weston shakes his head once again. Weston starts jumping in place and moving his hands in tight circles like he's skipping rope. Your eyes shift to Kyle, both of you too confused to laugh "I give up!" Ike throws his hands up in defeat "You're awful at this."

"It's the Great Gatsby, bruh," Weston exasperated like it was obvious what he was trying to portray. 

"What was great about that?" Your mom asks, only half joking. 

"I'm gonna lie," You say "That was really good." The second the parents look away your brother sticks up his middle finger for the briefest moment before wedging himself between you and your mom on the couch. You stand up walk to the spot in front of the TV and pull out the slip.

You hold up three fingers on each hand, looking at Kyle "Six words?” He asks and you nod. You hold out one finger to symbolize the first word, Kyle's deep in focus as he watches you. You begin to draw out an infinity symbol in the air with your finger. "Infinity? Forever? Always?" His eyebrows draw in deep and you can see the gears turning in his mind "Eternal!"

Holding up a quick thumbs up, you move on to the fifth word, pretending that you're spraying the air with cleaner and wiping it off.

"Clean? Maid? Tidy? Spray? Wash? Scrub?" 

You shake your head, continuing to do the motion. After thirty more seconds of him not getting it, you move on to the sixth word and start pointing at your head, tapping it and eventually patting it with the palm of your hand.

"Brain? Head?" He stares at you trying to piece together the other clues and muttering to himself "Mind?" He asks and you nod enthusiastically. He slaps his knee, shooting to stand up "Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind!"

"Yes!" You exclaim, immediately rushing over to give him a high five. "Eat it shrimps!" You shout at both of your brothers "Being illiterate isn't so funny now, is it?"

"I miss when they were screaming at each other," Weston mutters to Ike.

.˙꩜°˖:*࿔ ☼ ࿔*:˖°꩜˙.

July 13

You and Kyle hurried into the dimly lit theatre, the screen already glowing with the opening credits as you scanned for empty seats. The hushed murmurs of the audience and the faint sound of dialogue filled the air, punctuated by the occasional burst of chatter from those already settled in.

"Over there," Kyle whispered, pointing to a row near the middle of the theatre. You nodded and followed him, trying to tread lightly as you squeezed past knees and feet in the dim light. Each step felt like an intrusion into the quiet atmosphere of the theatre.

As you reached your row, you realized it was already almost full. A couple gave you a disapproving look as you attempted to slide past them, their eyes narrowing in annoyance. Kyle muttered a quick apology, but you could feel the tension in the air as you squeezed into your seats.

Trying to settle in quietly, you fumbled with your jacket and bag, the soft rustling seeming to echo loudly in the stillness. You exchanged a sheepish glance with Kyle, both of you acutely aware of the eyes on you from nearby patrons who were less than pleased with your tardy arrival.

You didn't expect to find yourself so caught up in the movie, it was an incredibly corny action film and kept finding yourself making faces at the cheesy bots which was almost the entire thing.  Kyle kept stifling sniggers whenever you would mock the movie.

"He's right behind me, isn't he?" The lead protagonist turns around to see his enemy behind him. He pulls a large rifle from his trenchcoat and the two enact in an overly acted fight scene.

"Jeez, he's dressed like someone's imaginary friend," You utter under your breath.

"Sh!" You hear from behind you. You turn to see a large man, his greasy hair tied into a ponytail and a stringy beard that made its way down his neck. You mouth a sorry and look back at the screen. 

The movie got worse the longer you watched, they had managed to pull out every single cliche and implement it into a plot with stiff dialogue and flat characters. Your boredom only grew, the only thing entertaining was a little whisper passed between you and Kyle. 

However, every time you leaned over to share a quick remark with Kyle, you felt a sharp "Shh!" from the man seated directly behind you. His voice was low but firm, cutting through the air like a disapproving whisper.

Startled, you glanced back, catching a glimpse of his stern expression and raised finger before turning back to the screen, cheeks tinged with embarrassment. Kyle stifled a chuckle beside you, clearly amused by the unexpected scolding.

During another action scene, Kyle ducks his head into his elbow and sneezes "You know, if you're sick, just stay home," The man from behind you speaks again, his jaw clenched tight in irritation. 

"You know, if you reek of body order, just stay home," You retort. 

"Excuse me?" He says.

"Yeah, excuse you."

"Calm down," Kyle puts one hand on your shoulder to steady you then looks at the man "We're sorry."

"Oh, of course. The boyfriend steps in to play peacemaker," he sneered. "Put a damn muzzle on your girlfriend," The man says to Kyle. He turns his attention back to the movie but you've already turned around, knees on the seat while you hang over the back and glare at the man. 

"Put a muzzle on yourself, that way you might not look like you ate the ham burglar." You whisper-shout. 

"Don't talk to her like that, man," Kyle adds, also turning around to face him. 

The man's face grows red "You better watch-

"Sh!" You say, watching the man look stunned. Silence stretches between the three of you and when the man opens his mouth to speak you do it again "Sh!"

"Okay-

"Shhhh," You draw out putting a finger over your mouth. "How many pubes did you have to steal from motel shower drains until you had enough to glue on your chin?" You point at his scruffy neck-beard, staring him dead in the eyes. 

"Are you done?" The man asks, huffing.

"Yeah, sure," You snap, turning back around, sinking into the chair and trying to focus on the movie despite the grimace-shaped man behind you.

"Stupid bitch," He mumbled. 

Kyle's entire demeanour changed in an instant. He turned around, his face red with anger. "What did you just say?" His body tense, muscles visibly tightened.

"Leave them alone," Another man from the row above says "They're just kids."

"Y'know what man? I'd be pissed off if I looked like that too," You seethe, eyes narrowing at the guy behind you. 

"Whore," He said in a mocking tone, a proud smile on his face as he did so.

Before Kyle could react, you reached forward to grab the drink sitting in his cupholder and hurled it at the man. The liquid splashed all over him, drenching his face and clothes. The theatre erupted in gasps and murmurs as the man sat there, stunned and dripping. Not one person was still paying attention to the movie.

"What the hell?" the man yelled, wiping his face with his sleeve. His shock quickly turned to rage, and he lunged forward, raising his hand to hit you.

Kyle was quick to grab his wrist, holding his arm midair before it could land on you. Other moviegoers scrambled out of their seats, some trying to pull the man away while others called for security. You could see the fear consume the man's face as Kyle held tightly.

Within moments, the usher returned with a security guard, their faces stern and ready to intervene. You hadn't seen them come in when you bent over the back of the chair, one hand pointed at the man accusatorily while you screamed at him. "Yeah, try to hit me, biggie!" 

The security rushed over to you, trying to put space between you and the man. When you refused to cease, he grabbed the back of your shirt to pull you away, his free hand was held out in front of Kyle, he balanced on one foot while his other was in the air in front of the man. 

"Stop," He said, trying not to lose his balance "Out, now, all of you, out!" 

A manager rushes into the scene, a blue button down and a name tag that reads Hailey. The large man lands a solid slap across your face and you retaliate by throwing a right hook. "No, no!" Hailey shouts, frantically trying to keep you all apart while the man grips your hair and pulls it with what little force he can muster, you grab hold of his wispy neck beard, pulling it until hair rips out. "Stop!" 

Tensions only continue to escalate rapidly. After the man tries to wrap his hands around your neck Kyle hits him, this time everyone freezes as the sound of Kyle's fist connecting with the man's cheekbone sounds through the theatre.

The security guard comes up behind you, grabbing you by your waist and pulling you off the chair. He continues to drag you out while you yell "You smell like a yeast infection, wash your damn rolls!" 

Kyle looks at the man and then at you, following you out of the theatre and into the lobby. The manager comes out with the man walking behind her, shamefully, he drips Diet Coke onto the floor. "Stand against the wall," Hailey says and you oblige like you're getting your mug shot taken.

She snaps a picture of each one of your faces "Banned," She says "For life!" 

"For life?" The man asks, his voice rising.

"Yes!" Hailey says, gesturing to the wall behind the concession where there were several pictures of people taped up for everyone to see, above each of their profiles was a piece of printer paper, the words 'banned 4 eva' written in red Sharpie "Or do you want me to call the police?"

"No, I'm cool with being banned," You answer first "Not sure I can speak with Jabba the Hutt though." 

Kyle's eyes never left the man's as he reluctantly stepped back, his chest still heaving with anger. "Let's go," he said, turning to you and grabbing your hand.

As Kyle trudges to the exit and you follow behind, hand in hand, you stick a middle finger up behind you as you push through the doors and into the daylight. "What a fucking asshole," His jaw was tightly clenched, the muscles visibly twitching with the effort to contain his anger.

.˙꩜°˖:*࿔ ☼ ࿔*:˖°꩜˙.

July 19

Tolkien sets up his phone on a nearby table, adjusting angles and checking lighting, while Kyle starts brainstorming ideas. You and Red find yourselves sitting by the sparkling blue waters of Tolkien's pool, feet dangling in while you watch the pair.

"What about this one?" Kyle asks, playing an audio. 

Tolkien bites his lip for a moment, deep in thought before he shakes his head "Nah, trends over."

You and Red exchange amused glances, she huffs on a blue raspberry ice vape, occasionally giving you a hit. Her hair is tied up into a ponytail, an old Mötley Crüe shirt thrown over her blue bikini. 

"Let's do this one," Kyle huddles next to Tolkien showing him a video on his phone. The audio replays several times before the two of them begin to practice, going through the motions in little segments to remember until they have it down. 

Tolkien takes the lead, attempting to mimic the choreography he just watched, his movements almost too precise. He kicks off with a series of dramatic arm waves and hip sways, trying to sync his steps with the beat of the short song. 

You lean onto Red, burying your head into her collarbone while you laugh. "That's it, boys, you've made it to the big leagues," She calls out between giggles.  

"Can we get less input from the fog machine over there?"  Tolkien turns around before walking back to his phone and restarting the video. You lift yourself off Red to watch Tolkien start from the beginning; he moves almost exactly the way he did before like it was a formula.

Tolkien dances his part and then Kyle comes into the frame and they begin a synchronized dance routine, exaggerated and goofy, their attempts at coordination often ending in laughter and playful nudges.

It was nice being friends with Kyle even though it was difficult for you to admit. You liked being able to hang out in a group with him and not trying to murder each other even though the thought still passed through your head on occasion. Both of you promised that you wouldn't tell a soul about the movie theatre fiasco and would swear up and down that your pictures weren't posted up next to crackheads. 

When Kyle starts doing his bit of the dance you can't hold back your cackling, clutching your stomach while you brace yourself on Red who herself is shaking from laughter. The boys ignore you but you keep laughing to the point you need to stand up and walk over to the side of Tolkien's house to brace yourself against the wall. 

Tolkien finally manages to nail a sequence, and Kyle lets out a triumphant cheer, their joy infectious despite the cringe you and Red felt watching them film TikTok's, they seemed unbothered. "You won't be laughing when I get famous," Tolkien says to you, Kyle's standing next to him watching the video they just finished filming.

"I'm sure it'll be super unfunny then," You say in a mocking tone.

"Yeah, whatever, nice lungs," He says, briefly looking up from his phone.

"Woah, woah, woah," you put a hand out "Where did all of this hostility come from?"

"Where do you think?"

"Okay, okay, I'm sorry," You get the last of your giggles out, straightening up. "Tolkien, show me how to do one of those dances," you suggested with a playful grin.

"Seriously?" Both Kyle and Tolkien say in unison. 

"Yeah," You walk over, biting your lip to stop yourself from laughing "Show me."

"Uh, okay," Tolkien says, his expression softening "Which one do you want to do?" 

"I dunno," You answer, leaning over his shoulder while he scrolls through his saved folder. 

 He began to break down the steps of a popular dance trend, his movements fluid and precise. His enthusiasm was infectious, and soon you found yourself mimicking his steps, albeit with a hint of hesitation. "Okay, so it's like this," Tolkien explained patiently, demonstrating the footwork and hand gestures slowly. "And then you add a little spin here..."

Kyle leaned casually against the poolside, a faint smile playing on his lips as he watched you. The way you focused intently on learning the steps but couldn't move without laughing- it all captivated his attention. He admired your willingness to throw yourself into the dance, your laughter mingling with Tolkien's as you both enjoyed the moment.

"You look so ridiculous right now," Red said, holding her phone up to film you and Tolkien while you danced 

"It's kinda fun!" You admit, eyes on Tolkien while you mirror his motions. 

"I told you!" Tolkien says, a bright smile on his face. You followed along, stumbling at first but gradually finding your rhythm. Tolkien's encouragement spurred you on, his gentle corrections and cheerful demeanour made the learning process enjoyable.

You were beginning to think you might've been too critical over Kyle's constant filming of TikToks, while you didn't understand how someone could make a career off it you could confess that you were enjoying yourself despite feeling more than stupid. 

"We should film one and I'll post it," He props his phone up on a lawn chair, setting up the timer.

"What?" You ask but the timers already nearing it's end and Tolkien is in his place. The music started, and you launched into the routine. He was by far more comfortable than you but you still tried your best. 

Your arms swung out to the side in unison, followed by a sharp clap above your head. The song itself was sped up and incredibly annoying, you had a feeling it would be stuck in your head in the following days and you would regret playing it on a loop while you did the choreography. You glanced over at Kyle, catching his eye with a smile.

 Just as the music reached a crescendo, Tolkien swept you off your feet, spinning you around in a dramatic flourish. Your laughter echoed across the poolside, an elated sound that filled the air as Tolkien's unexpected move took you by surprise.

The spin was exhilarating, and your laughter bubbled up uncontrollably, your legs kicking playfully in the air as you struggled to regain your balance. Tolkien caught up in the moment and the infectious joy of the scene, couldn't contain his laughter either. As he tried to set you down gently, the combination of laughter and the slick poolside caused both of you to lose footing.

While Tolkien sprawled out on the ground, you tumbled backwards into the deep end of the pool. Red was laughing even harder, the camera still trained on you, she wasn't sure if your cartoonishly dramatic fall was funnier or Tolkien's face plant.

"Are you okay?" Kyle asked, unable to bite back the smile on his face as you resurfaced. You pushed your hair away from your face and wiped chlorine water from your eyes. 

"Yeah," You laugh wading over to the edge of the pool where Kyle was standing. "Help me up," You held your hand out.

"You're gonna pull me in," he says, inching backwards just the slightest. 

 "No, I won't," You said like his accusation was incredulous "I swear," You outstretch your hand even further. 

"I don't trust you."

"Why not?" You smiled, feeling a flutter of warmth in your chest at his attention. "Just be cool," you replied, reaching out to grasp his hand.

At last, he gave in and as his fingers wrapped around yours, a jolt of electricity seemed to pass between you. The warmth of his hand was a stark contrast to the cool water, grounding you in the moment. Kyle's grip was firm and steady as he carefully pulled you up, his strength evident as he helped you find your footing.

The air grew thick with unspoken tension. Water droplets glistened on your skin, catching the last rays of sunlight, and Kyle's gaze softened as he took in the sight of you. The playful banter from earlier seemed to fade, replaced by a deeper, more intense awareness of each other.

As you stepped out of the pool, you stumbled slightly, your wet feet slipping on the smooth surface. Kyle reacted instantly, his arm wrapping around your waist to steady you. The closeness sent a shiver through you, your heart racing as you looked up into his eyes, which were now only inches away.

"Are you good?" Kyle asked, his voice low and filled with a mix of concern and something more, something that made your pulse quicken.

You nodded, unable to find your voice for a moment. The way he held you, his touch gentle, made it hard to focus on anything else. "Yup, fine," you pry yourself away from him. 

Neither of you moved immediately, the moment stretching out as the world around you seemed to blur. Kyle's eyes flickered to your lips for a brief second before meeting your gaze again, his expression hesitant.

The moment was broken by the distant sound of Tolkien and Red's laughter as they rewatched the video, reminding you both of where you were. Kyle takes a step back "I can't believe you actually didn't pull me in."

"Yeah, I would never do something like that," You say, casually walking past Kyle and shoving him into the pool as you do so. 

.˙꩜°˖:*࿔ ☼ ࿔*:˖°꩜˙.

July 25

The sun had long set, leaving the kitchen bathed in the warm, soft glow of overhead lights. Your family and Kyle's had come together for a shared meal, full of far too much wine consumption and brain-rotten jokes made by your little brothers. 

As the adults moved to the living room for more conversation and the younger kids dashed outside to play, you and Kyle volunteered to handle the dishes. You both stepped into the kitchen, where the soft light illuminated the scene of culinary aftermath: plates smeared with the last bits of sauce, glasses smudged with fingerprints and lipstick, and serving dishes still holding crumbs of the evening's feast. Even a disgusting concoction your brother had made, water mixed with white wine, rootbeer, ketchup, and relish. He had dared Ike to drink it and then drank it himself when Ike chickened out.

Kyle rolled up his sleeves with a mock-serious expression. "Good god," He mutters at the sheer amount of dishes. 

"Get to work, ginger." 

The sound of running water and the clinking of dishes filled the space, creating a rhythm as you and Kyle fell into an easy routine. He washed, you dried, and the banter flowed as naturally as the water from the faucet.

"So, how does this thing work again?" Kyle asked, holding up a sponge as if it were a foreign object.

"Just like that," you replied, mimicking his exaggerated movements with the dishtowel. "It's a highly specialized technique, you see."

Kyle chuckled, passing you a clean plate to dry. "Ah, I see. Years of training."

As you dried the dishes, you couldn't help but notice the way his muscles flexed beneath his rolled-up sleeves, his hands moving efficiently through the soapy water. There was something undeniably attractive about the way he approached even a mundane task like washing dishes.

You thought back to those massive sleepovers where all of your friends would pile into one bedroom and talk about everyone and everything. How they gushed about how cute Kyle was and you always went quiet, wrinkling your nose like the name alone was poison. 

"Achoo," Kyle feigned a sneeze, taking water from his hands and flicking it onto you. He kept his eyes down on the sink like he hadn't done anything. You retaliated by whipping the wet dish towel at Kyle a little harder than intended, there was an audible snap when you hit him and your eyes widened. "Jeez, are you trying to take me out?"

"Obviously," You deadpan "That's been the plan for the last seventeen years."

The dishes didn't seem to let up, pan after pan, utensils piling higher than mountains. While your brothers played video games and your parents laughed obnoxiously in the living room, you were still stuck on dishes until your fingers wrinkled to prunes. 

The entire time Kyle kept skittishly glancing at you and then glancing away while you pretended not to notice. He didn't know when was the right time to ask you or if you'd even want to hear him out. 

Kyle leaned casually against the counter, a hint of nervousness in his eyes. He cleared his throat, drawing your attention from the last few utensils you were drying. "Hey, I've got something for you," he said, his voice holding a note of anticipation.

You raised an eyebrow, curiosity piqued. "Oh? What is it?" You wiped your hands on a cloth to dry them before settling them on your hips. 

Kyle reaches into the back pocket of his jeans and pulls out an envelope, holding it out towards you. You took it, your fingers brushing against his, sending a small thrill through you. Carefully, you opened the envelope, revealing two concert tickets inside. Your heart skipped a beat as you read 'Suburban Wasteland' printed at the top above the seating and date information "I don't know if you still want to go with me. I was kinda a dick about it so you can give the other ticket to Bebe or something and I won't-

Without thinking, you let out a joyful scream and began jumping up and down, the sheer exhilaration bubbling over. Face lighting up as you looked down at the tickets, re-reading them over and over again. "Oh my fucking god!" 

He wasn't sure he had ever seen you so happy, not even when your soccer team placed first in regionals or when your parents took you on vacation. Despite his own indifference towards the band, seeing you so elated made it all worth it for him."You like it?"

"Yes!" You jumped around in a little circle, hands holding the tickets shaking as you looked back up at him "I thought you didn't want to go?"

"I listened to their stuff and I changed my mind," He said nonchalantly. That was only half true. He felt bad watching you go through the month, trying to find someone who would go with you and being turned down every single time. 

"Eeeek!" You shout again, jaw almost sore from the uncontrollable smile. Kyle thought that in seconds you would be bouncing off the walls. In a very impulsive moment for you, you throw your arms around him in a spontaneous hug. It's the first time you've ever hugged Kyle, and the warmth of your body against yours sends a shiver down his spine. 

His frame is taller and more solid than you expected, and you find yourself nestled against his collarbone, feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest against you.

For a split second, neither of you move. His arms hesitate before tentatively wrapping around your back, his hands lightly resting on your waist. You can sense his surprise, his body slightly tensed with uncertainty, yet there's a warmth in the way he holds you. Your own hands, holding the tickets, press against his shoulders, and you feel the firmness of his muscles beneath his shirt. 

"Stop fighting!" Your mom rushes into the kitchen at the sound of your shrieking, panic across her face which quickly turns into confusion as she sees you clinging to Kyle. 

You break away from him, clearing your throat awkwardly as you stare at your mom, trying to still yourself. You quickly gather yourself, smoothing down your clothes and clutching the concert tickets a little tighter. "Can I pay you to pretend that never happened?"

A/N: So excited for the next chapter 😽

[chrisevansonly]

Chris’s Little Family 🤍

pairing: chris evans x momma evans (little duck au)

summary: chris can’t help but take every little moment to admire his perfect little family

warnings: tooth rotting fluff

a/n: i know i’ve been slacking on little duck and writing, this is short and things are just really tough for me right now and i haven’t been in a writing mood :/

 The sun was out in Boston, the air warm for the spring which meant you were already outside just after breakfast, Arlie adamant on riding her bike and jumping on the trampoline. She’d always loved the outdoors and being active, so after a laugh you followed her outside with Wesley strapped to your chest, he was fast asleep after nursing, so you expected a quiet few hours from him. You sat on the outdoor swing on the edge of your patio a soft knitted blanket across your lap, a perfect few of the small barn and pond further down the yard, arguably your favourite view to admire each day. Chris eventually came out after cleaning up after the waffle making that took place in the kitchen that same morning. Chris’s favourite view by far was the one he saw right now, his little girl giggling away as her blonde hair flew around as she jumped on the trampoline. Then his eyes moved to you, cuddled up with his boy, your eyes lighting up in excitement anytime Arlie said something to you, your hands rubbing Wes’s back to keep him sleeping. Of course, he loved the view his home provided, but his family was his favourite, and they were something special that he would always cherish and hold close to his heart

“Daddy see me jumping!!”

You turned to smile at Chris after Arlie yelled to him

“I see you princess, getting higher and higher every time!” 

He chuckled making his way over to sit next to you, his heart warming as you lifted the blanket so he could get under it 

“Thank you for cleaning up after breakfast my love” 

His lips pressed a kiss to your cheek before letting you lean on his shoulder a content hum escaping your lips 

“I should be thanking you for wrangling these two monsters every morning, they have the best mother in the world”

“Are you trying to make me cry Christopher?”

He laughed rubbing your arm gently 

“No, no, I just want you to know how much I appreciate you, and this life we get to have together, our little family is-it just makes me so happy, and I know I say this to you a lot, but I couldn’t imagine experiencing this with anyone else”

Each time he expressed his feelings, even if he said it to you one hundred times, it was enough to get you teary eyed and emotional, so pressing your lips to his to convey just how much it meant to you, was all you could muster in this moment 

“I love you, and I am just and thankful for our family-”

“Momma, Daddy!! Been callin’ you for ages!” 

Chris was the first to laugh at his daughter’s sass, she definitely got all of that from you

“Oh you were huh?”

“Mhm.”

She stood in front of him, hands on her hips as if she was getting ready to scold him, you were trying hard not to smile at her antics, especially when she huffed dramatically and climbed up to sit with Chris, her head leaning on his chest 

“What were you saying baby, I’m listening now” 

“Was gonna ask for help with my bike, but I comfy now, don’t wanna move” 

Chris tucked her under the blanket, letting out another quiet laugh as he held her to his chest 

“Well, if you’re comfy then you stay right there duck, we can go bike later” 

If Chris wasn’t listening closely enough, he would have missed the soft “thank you daddy” that fell from her lips. This was Chris’s favourite view in the whole world, he had his family all bundled under a blanket on the porch swing that already had many memories for you and Chris. He wouldn’t trade this in for anything in the world, he’d be crazy if he said he didn’t want maybe one more little one running around, but there was time for that, he was more than happy with his little family right now and so were you, that was all he could ever ask for. 

[palushiemalis-fr]

dergtober -- day 8 -- Portal

very proud of this one as I had a hard time figuring out anatomy and reflection. The bg was very fun to draw. Not technically a portal but I did my best.

Features Pryderi, my illusionist.

"Aye, yes, that would be splendid." He begun to whirl his claws about, causing illusory garlands of moons, stars and comets across the shelves, "I have one last question, is that mirror my first assignment?" Abzu was about to slink out the door when she turned back and frowned. "As far as I'm aware, Mr. Pryderi, we haven't made any arrangements for you to assist us with anything so far..." She daintily walked over to the grand oval mirror, "This mirror was a gift from our previous lodger, it shows scenes conjured from the mind's eye. We thought it appropriate for your office." "The illusion cast upon its surface is admirable, but I was referring to the mimic luring beneath it." "There is no such thing," Abzu snorted, "And the suggestion is simply outrageous!" Pryderi hummed and took to his perch next to the mirror. He began to flicker his claws over the reflection, it showed a pleasant twilit waterfall with kitsune drinking from a pond. His paws soon were unravelling the deeply knitted illusion which twisted the picture into night and rippled with a ghoulish face that beared it tusks. The mimic was clearly deeply unhappy to be discovered and snapped at him. Abzu was aghast as she watched him dismiss the spirit from the mirror. The inky, shadowy creature leapt from the looking glass to the window like a toad. Pryderi opened it for it to escape and it hopped out with disgust.

dergtober has been a lot of fun so far, been making friends and learning a lot. really glad I have given it a go.

[devoraqs]

Duet (Concerto Re Maggiore)

Pairing: Ilyacha (Julian/Alexander)

Word count: 2.1k

Summary: Alexander by his own admission is more magician than musician, but a chance meeting with a handsome vielle-wielding sailor in Venterre leads to quite a special performance indeed.

—

Over the hubbub of a crowded marketplace floated the glassy, sweet timbre of harp strings, glittering and filtering through the noise like the sunbeams that streamed through the trellises and awnings of the surrounding shops. Alexander was decidedly a bit out of practice when it came to playing in public, musical showmanship was not something that had ever come particularly easily to him, but he was stuck in this city (Sableblanc-sur-Mer, he reminded himself, a port on the eastern coast of Venterre) overnight while waiting for the next ship across the Golden Gulf and back to Zadith. Stuck here, with only a satchel full of books and his old knee harp. The books had long since been read, and reread, cover to cover, and so he had turned instead to the instrument.

He had found himself a shaded little alcove a ways off from a cluster of cafés and wine shops, propping himself against the wall with the harp a surprisingly comforting weight across his lap. Slowly, methodically, he picked at the strings. His fingers were stilted, the rhythm of scales and arpeggios retained through muscle memory disjointed and staccato from lack of attention. His brows knit at a wrong note here, his lower lip set at a pout at a clumsy run there. Halfway through a passage he noticed a few people watching, he completely slipped his fingering and an accidental sounded with a calamitous twang.

Glowering, he quickly stoppered the strings before the duff note could travel too far, and refrained from doing anything until the onlookers had lost interest and melted back into the masses.

How annoying it was, knowing that he could only get better through practice and any natural talent within him had run its course. Practice would make perfect, he knew that much from years of perfecting magic work, experiments, but it was this practice that he never really found time for, admittedly.

Not that that had stopped him ever enjoying the actual act of music making, it was something different from spellwork and science and swordplay, something to get lost in. He flexed his hands, righted his position, and strummed a few glissandi from the thicker, rumbling lower strings to the thin twinkling high register. He tried an arpeggio, a run of a short melody from a half remembered song.

Neglect of practice aside, a decade and some of musicianship had set a certain dexterity in him, in his hands, that bit by bit began to flow with each pluck of string. It was not wholly unlike the weaving of a spell, learned precision slowly becoming familiar til in a breath it is second nature.

Alexander wove this spell, became blissfully lost at last, and played.

The notes dropped through the air like beads of crystalline water into a pond. He still hit a few wrong notes, forgot to change a lever, misplaced his fingering, but it didn’t matter. He found he could ignore the crowded square, ignore any eyes and ears that had turned his way. He went on whatever whim swayed him, flitting from the Nalban and Cumbran folksongs he’d grown up with, to new Vesuvian concerti, to snatches of street songs he’d heard over in Zadith and here in Venterre, and all the way back round again.

Halfway through the energetic last movement of a concerto, his reverie was broken.

“Is that Albiviozza’s violin concerto?”

Alexander jumped, his hands twitched and fumbled, and clumsily tangled in the strings with a discordant clatter.

Gods strike it all.

“It was,” he muttered indignantly, his frown cutting a deep, displeased line into his forehead.

He looked up to where the accosting voice had come from. There was a man standing there, a little older perhaps than Alexander himself, clad in well worn travelling garb that Alexander could just about place as being mostly from the salt flats near the southern sea, but with an eclectic mix of other clothes and accessories from around the world piled on top of the patterned cloth, all coated with a layer dust and sea-fresh salt. His curly auburn hair flowed loose and long, perhaps a touch longer than Alexander’s own unruly mane scraped into a ponytail, and across his broad shoulders was slung a slightly battered-looking case of some sort.

“So sorry, my good fellow,” the man continued brightly, “didn’t mean to disturb you,”

“I’m sure.”

“But it’s a magnificent concerto, and it’s good to hear it played with such gusto.”

Alexander glanced him up and down quizzically; he seemed to be genuine. There was something just so about the man’s easy smile, the twinkle in his grey eyes, the warm joviality in his tone that made Alexander’s ire, and the cleft between his brows, dissipate.

“Thank you,” he said, “it’s a favourite of mine, especially that last movement, with the call and response passage towards the end. I can’t quite do it justice on my own, I’ll admit, I’m not a proper musician and it’s not meant to be for harp at all, let alone a little knee harp like this-” he cut himself off before his tongue could run away with him into a tirade of nervous babble, “uh. Um. Anyway, yes. Thank you. Again.”

The man tilted his head,

“You know, I know the movement well too. Back of my hand, from memory. I wonder,” he shrugged the case off his back, “may I play with you?”

Alexander eyed the case, eyed the man, eyed his own fidgeting fingers that were itching to play more. The stranger’s enthusiasm was infectious,

“Alright then.”

His grin was radiant as the midday sun.

He made quick work of setting the case down and flipping the latches open. Inside was a large, old-looking, yet clearly lovingly well maintained string instrument. There was a pattern in the wood, carved delicately into the body and the five pegs that adorned the headscroll. It was a vielle. With a flourish, the man lifted the instrument under his chin and produced a sleek, arcing bow from the case. Alexander watched as, with practised ease, he briskly tuned each string. Even with those simple open strings, Alexander couldn’t help but marvel at the rich sound. It suited the man, he thought, it matched the vibrancy and timbre of his voice. The deep russet wood complemented his hair, too, as did the bold curves of the body of the instrument to the wide set of the man’s shoulders, the strong, flowing lines of his arms and Alexander was suddenly, painfully aware that he was staring, so dropped his eyes quickly back to his own strings to reset the levers.

“Re maggiore, yes?” the man asked. Alexander nodded.

A moment of eye contact, an unspoken connection. A shared breath in, a preparation. Fingers poised over strings, twitching around the heel of a bow. Exhale.

Then, in perfect tandem, the downbeat.

The last movement of Leonato Albiviozza’s Concerto in Re Maggiore per Violino e Orchestra was vivace, lively. It pulsed with energy from the first quaver, a furious yet triumphant arpeggiated run with an energetic basso continuo line that drove the action forward. The true, full orchestration here would have featured a cembalo and theorbo filling out the depths of that bass, and the rest of the string family assembled to provide strength and texture with a solo violin soaring over the top. Alexander had heard it performed once in some concert hall in Vesuvia, it had been thrilling.

Notably, there was no provision for a Cumbran knee harp and a vielle, and yet the arrangement of this impromptu performance worked. The glistening thrum of harpstring and the rich voice of the vielle blended seamlessly as Alexander took on the continuo and accompaniment while the stranger flew through the solo line.

Alexander had not played in ensemble for a good long while, let alone experienced the trust and nigh intimacy needed for a duet, but he didn’t feel any apprehension, any hesitation. He’d never met this man before, he didn’t even know his name, yet they had found an instant synergy through this music. It was as though there was a thread formed of silvergold starlight and heartstring linking them from hearts and lungs and minds, like it was their souls in wordless conversation alongside their instruments. When one of them coloured a phrase, the other was able to pick up on it in an instant, their articulation was synchronised, reciprocal push-pull, give and take. Each little cue, each little detail.

It was truly playing together, rather than merely two people playing the same piece at the same time. With a deal of hindsight Alexander might have chastised himself as being too fanciful, overly invested in random streetside busking with a complete stranger. But in the moment he gave little regard to the logic of that reasoning, there was no room for it amidst the music.

The man’s thick brows were arched in concentration, similarly to how Alexander’s own must be, yet his face was the picture of determination and of the joy of sheer relishing the sound, the connection, the all-encompassing feeling of shared musicality. Wordlessly, Alexander shared in that joy too, the ostinato of his pounding heartbeat a further addition to Albiviozzi’s score, one that could only be felt rather than heard; he didn’t know it but the stranger’s racing pulse was a perfect match, feeling each striking drumbeat reverberate through his own veins.

They had attracted a small audience of passersby and cafe patrons, intrigued by the sound. Street performers were commonplace in big port cities like this, there was usually a handful littered around a street corner, but the gusto with which the two ad hoc buskers were playing and the sparkling, wordless rapport that was flying between them seemed to reel people in. As loath as Alexander usually was to have an audience, he found he rather didn’t mind this time, any doubt or self-consciousness had long been eclipsed by concentration on the music. The music, and the man he was playing it with.

They had by now reached the section that Alexander had mentioned previously, where the soloist and accompanist played antiphonally. But here, with two people, it had become less of a ‘call and response’ and more a conversation. A declaration. Two voices speaking to each other through melody. It wasn’t especially technically tricky, but what got lost when trying to play solo was the intent, the colour, the nuance. The stranger played the call phrase, a vigorous major ascending scale that sprung into an arpeggio,

We’re nearly at the end now, what a triumph,

And Alexander the response, an answering run of arpeggios tumbling down his strings and back up again,

We play well together,

Then the two phrases joined together in polyphony, circling each other like partners on a dancefloor, whirling joyously until they hit the final phrase. Alexander felt his actual partner’s rallentando like it were his own breath, his own thought, and in deliberate tandem, they hit the final, perfect cadence.

A flicker of silence. A pause, a spell.

Then, a burst of applause. Alexander breathed out a heavy, satisfied sigh. He caught the man’s eye and smiled. The man’s face had gone a touch red from exertion, but he returned Alexander’s grin roguishly, before throwing his head back and laughing,

“Now, it’s not every day you get to do that.”

“Definitely not.”

The crowd began to disperse, a handful congratulated them on a job well done for which Alexander, now once again very self aware, sheepishly thanked them. His partner basked in the praise,

“And would you believe it, I’ve known this fellow all of twenty minutes!”

Alexander’s cheeks flushed hot, and he dipped his head to try and hide it. Then, they were left alone, cloaked by the hustle and bustle of the city around them.

“Well then,” the man said exuberantly, stretching his shoulders out, “I have to say, my friend, we make quite the team.”

Alexander quirked his lips,

“I’d have to agree. And… well, thank you for asking me to play.”

“Thank you for obliging. Though I did think at first, from the look on your face, you were going to tell me to piss off.”

“Well… I did consider it. But when else will a stranger be so brazen as to ask me to play a violin concerto in broad daylight with a fiddle and a harp?”

“When indeed,” he said, cocking an eyebrow and holding out his hand, “Julian.”

Alexander shook it, warm and calloused and still brimming with energy,

“Alexander. You know… in all seriousness, I haven’t played like that in a while. It was good. We play well together.”

The man smiled again, different now, taking in the details of Alexander’s face and lingering on his eyes, his mouth,

“We do.”

A few people had flipped some gold pieces into the open vielle case; Julian eyed them, then flicked his gaze back up to Alexander’s, eyes lidded and shapely lips teased upward into a knowing smile,

“Perhaps, Alexander, I might buy you a drink with our spoils?”

[thedarkivist]

Trick or treat!!🧡🖤✨

@knitted-pigeons, let's do a fairy tale AU one from the vault, shall we?

When Ferdinand bursts into their bedroom, he lets the door swing closed and lingers only long enough to give the handle a light pat before he crosses the room, shaking down the snowflakes glittering in his hair and melting on his cloak.

"You are not going to believe what-" Belatedly, he notices Hubert's expression and deflates somewhat. "You seem rather… displeased with me," he ventures carefully.

"Do I?" The dancer makes a show of crossing his arms over his chest. "What an astute observation."

Ferdinand shuffles his feet and offers him a shaky, sheepish smile. "I may have… lost the track of time out there." Then he adds quickly: "In a perfectly regular way."

Hubert doesn't answer and turns his face towards the window, his lips drawn into a tight line. Their suite in the castle is bathed in warm, indulgent candlelight, and fire crackles away in the fireplace. Within - safety. Without - only darkness, undisturbed by the snow that blankets the land, swallowing down footsteps of reckless travellers with every fresh layer.

Shame prickles at the back of his neck and it takes everything he has in him not to squirm. Hubert's point, even if wordless, is clear. He should've waited for someone else to wake up and at least tell them where he was headed. Only, once the first ray of anaemic winter sun stirred him awake, all he could think of was the road winding around the castle and all the paths branching off from it no matter which direction he'd choose.

Still, he tries: "The snow let up for the first time in days, I had to take advantage-"

"Sometimes I wonder if you have a death wish," Hubert says. He walks away from the window, and sits down on the edge of the bed, twisting the fabric of his uniform between his fingers. There's no trace of irony in his voice, and Ferdinand's stomach sinks when he realises he's telling the truth.

He drops to the floor at Hubert’s feet, and rests his chin on his knee, looking up through his eyelashes. “On my honour, I do not.” Hubert doesn’t take the cue to stroke his hair as he normally might, but he stops fidgeting at least.

“I have something to show you,” Ferdinand continues, already reaching into the folds of his cloak, “before it melts.”

What he produces is a piece of ice. Hubert reminds himself of that, not quite ready to abandon the argument. It’s a piece of ice, such as could be obtained by reaching out of the window. A piece of ice, only remarkable because of its shape.

Ferdinand takes his hand and sets the piece of ice into the palm of his lover’s hand. “Strange and beautiful, is it not?” A little smile appears on his face, a tender, hopeful thing. Then he whispers: “Like you.”

By some quirk of magic, the piece of ice is shaped like a rose, down to the finest curve of every individual petal.

For a split second, Hubert’s expression softens with wonder. He raises the flower up, marvelling at the light fragmented in its geometry. Already, the edges are damp, and a single icy drop rolls down his forearm, making him shudder.

Ferdinand gets up, takes the flower from him, opens the window, and carefully sets the rose in the snow that piled up on the windowsill.

He closes the window again, turns around, and offers Hubert a smile. “Now you can be cross with me, if it pleases you.”

A huff in response. “It’s not about whether or not it pleases me, it’s about how you throw yourself into unnecessary danger without even telling m- anyone first.”

Ferdinand returns to his spot at Hubert’s feet, and rests his head on his lap, the curve of his neck on display. “I did not want to wake you when you slept so peacefully. And I was not far, only as far as that pond we came across in autumn. Do you remember?”

Bright pink spots appear on Hubert’s face and neck. He does remember. “How am I to know that though? I don’t mind if you wake me for this. An hour later, and we would’ve sent a search party for you.” “I will keep it in mind,” Ferdinand promises, so earnest Hubert doesn’t quite know how to react.

He averts his face and, finally, runs his fingers through Ferdinand’s hair.

[dindjarindiaries]

Security - Chapter 62: The Droid Problem

summary: Din, the princess, and Bo-Katan seek out other Mandalorians and end up stumbling across a new mission instead.

warnings: references to trauma, angst, fluff

rating: T

word count: 4.770k

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chapter 62: the droid problem

Din stands from his chair in the Gauntlet’s cockpit and walks over to you. You look up at him from where you’ve been feeding Zora her share of a ration pack. Your brow knits together as he lifts his gloved hand to your chin and tilts it up, inspecting the fading cuts on your face. Your brow relaxes and a smile overtakes your lips.

“I’m feeling much better,” you assure him. You tap the right side of your cuirass. “Even here.”

Din tilts his helmet at you. “Promise?”

You offer him a firm nod. “Promise.” You take his gloved hand from your chin and press a kiss into his gloved palm. “Thank you for checking up on me.”

Din keeps his hand pressed against your cheek and runs his thumb over it. He’s about to respond when Bo-Katan speaks up from her place in the pilot’s chair. “There they are.”

You and Din both look over at Bo and the viewport. The planet you’re flying through is lush, with green fields and ponds that spread into an endless horizon. There are a few scattered glass domes in the distance and amongst them rests the Mandalorian fleet you’re looking for. Grogu coos with wonder at the console, where he stands alongside Bo’s controls. Din steps away from you to return to his seat for landing. “That’s quite a fleet,” he comments.

“It took me a long time to assemble it,” Bo responds. “Most of it was captured from the Empire.”

“Rightfully so,” you scoff.

“I knew they looked familiar,” Din says, his visor looking towards Bo. “Could come in real handy taking back Mandalore.”

Bo’s voice lowers. “Axe Woves is their leader now.” You pause, and Din steals a look at you. You’re returning his gaze with a cautious raise of your brow. “It’s going to take some convincing to get them to join us.”

Din returns his attention to his own console. “I wonder what they’re here for.”

“This planet isn’t on the New Republic Registry,” Bo explains. “So I’d guess it’s an independent world that hired them for protection.”

Din gives his helmet a quick tilt. “Can’t imagine Woves will be happy to see you.”

“Or any of us,” you add in a bitter murmur. Din turns his helmet to look at you, but you’ve since faced back towards your console.

“Yeah.” Bo-Katan sighs and waits a beat before continuing. “I’ll land outside the fleet’s perimeter. It’s probably best if we go in on foot.”

Din jumps in his seat when a fanfare tune suddenly plays over the intercom, his helmet snapping towards Bo’s console as a voice starts to speak to you. “Welcome to Plazir-15, the Outer Rim’s only remaining direct democracy.”

Bo looks back at you and Din, and his visor meets her bewildered gaze for a quick moment. When he catches your expression, he’s surprised to see a hint of recognition in the way you furrow your brow and continue to listen.

“You’ve been assigned a docking slip,” the voice continues. “You will be guided on the assigned path.” Din raises an eyebrow at that. “Engaging automated guidance.”

Everyone’s jolted as the Gauntlet’s torn away from its current flight path and instead heads towards the large glass dome. Din watches Bo mess with the controls on her console. “What happened?”

Bo sits back in shock. “They’ve taken control of the ship.” She turns her head to look at Grogu. “I guess we’re going for a ride.”

Grogu coos and tilts his head at her. Din turns his attention to his wife, who’s since taken a concerned Zora into her arms. “This planet’s name is familiar,” you share. “I’m not sure what diplomatic relations we might’ve had with them, but…” you nod at both Bo and Din, “maybe I can use it to our advantage.”

Din’s visor doesn’t leave you for a long moment. You’ve had enough late-night conversations for him to know how difficult it is for you to dig back into your past. That doesn’t even include the danger of revealing your true identity, even if you’re more than capable of holding your own. He forces himself to swallow back his worries as the ship lands and the group begins to rise from their seats. Din helps you to set both Zora and Grogu back in the pod before you follow Bo-Katan off the ship.

The Gauntlet’s been guided to a state-of-the-art landing zone, with two droids ready to greet you. Din tenses and glances over at you and Bo. “This is interesting,” he states.

You return his gaze and move yourself even closer to his side, a silent reassurance. Din will take whatever he can get. Your journeys as of late have been more tumultuous than either one of you could have ever anticipated, and the last thing Din wants is to add another to the list, especially with you still healing from your most recent one.

The group approaches the two droids, a protocol droid and an astromech. “Welcome to Plazir-15,” the protocol droid greets you. “Please proceed to your hyperloop pod.”

Your group never stops your stride, though the two droids still step aside to let you through. Din tightens his hands into fists and hopes his wife doesn’t notice. “Why do they have Imperial droids on an independent world?” he asks, unable to keep the question to himself. Despite his efforts, the burn of your concerned gaze is evident even through his beskar.

“It’s the Outer Rim,” Bo offers an answer. She lets out an amused huff and raises her brow at him. “Your guess is as good as mine.”

“Use what you’ve got, I suppose,” you add. Din doesn’t miss the way you look at him as you go on. “At least they’re harmless.”

Din sets his hand over your back to guide you into the hyperloop pod before he follows you and Bo inside. “Don’t speak too soon,” he mutters, though his words don’t go unnoticed. Once Din sits beside you, you set your gloved hand over his, keeping it on his cuisse even as the doors close and Bo-Katan begins to speak.

“Bring us to the bay closest to the Mandalorian fleet,” Bo commands.

A feminine voice responds on the intercom. “As per Article Nine of the Coruscant Accords,” she begins, “permission must be granted from High Senate for access to self-defense forces in the peacekeeping zone.” Bo looks between Din and his wife, who offer a tilt of his helmet and a raise of your brow. She rolls her eyes as the voice continues. “Do you grant permission to scan your chain code?”

Bo-Katan leans forward and lifts her vambrace, casting her chain code in orange light for scanning. A trilling sound confirms the scan, and Din takes the initiative of reaching out before you to scan his. You follow suit and look surprised to see your chain code embedded within your vambrace.

“Din and Astra Djarin and Bo-Katan Kryze,” the voice confirms. Din shares a look with his wife and smiles at the way you beam when you’re introduced together. “Your presence has been requested by the leadership of the planetary democracy—.”

“I’m afraid we have more pressing matters,” Bo interrupts. She keeps her gaze lifted towards the intercom. “Perhaps at a later time.”

“Please do not attempt to leave the vehicle.” Your hand tightens over Din’s as Bo furrows her brow at you. “This is not a request.”

The pod takes off without warning, forcing Bo back against her seat and you almost straight out of your own. Din presses his hand upon your cuirass for stability until you’ve recovered from the sudden movement. You thank him quietly and keep his gloved hand in your grasp. Din’s more than happy to have your constant touch grounding him to the galaxy. The uncertainty of your surroundings has started to cloud his mind, especially given the trials of your most recent adventures.

As the pod continues to steer you towards the heart of the city, the three of you observe your surroundings through the transparisteel. Bo-Katan becomes the one to speak up after a long silence. “I’ve never been here before,” she informs you. Her gaze looks between you and Din. “Have you?”

“Not that I can remember,” you answer.

“I haven’t even heard of it,” Din states. He gives your hand a gentle squeeze even as he faces Bo, his worries getting the best of him. “Do you think we’re gonna have to blast our way out of here?”

Bo’s lips pull tight as she tilts her head. “We’ll find out.”

“I’m sure it won’t come to that,” you add. The statement seems just as much for your own reassurance as it is for theirs. Din’s grateful for the optimism. One outing without having to use your blasters would be the sweetest luxury.

But you’re instead rewarded with a different kind of sweet gift. “Mama,” comes a soft call of your name from the children’s pod.

Din lets go of your hand only to let you tend to your daughter, who stares up at her mother with her brown eyes pleading for something. You pick up Zora and hold her on your lap, pulling her close enough for a kiss on her curly head. “What is it, Zo?”

Zora points at Din and then taps her chin. “Papa,” she insists. Din leans closer to the two of you as soon as Zora utters his name, his elbows resting upon his cuisses. His heart does a somersault in his chest at the way her small voice calls for him. “See Papa.”

Din stiffens at his daughter’s words, his heart now shattering into a million sharp fragments. Your gaze is quick to meet his visor and Din wonders if you hear the breath get caught in his throat. “Papa can’t right now,” you inform Zora in a soft whisper.

Zora’s lip starts to wobble as she points at Din again. “Papa?”

Din’s visor falls to his gloved hands that have since started to wring together. He can hear you steady yourself with a quick breath as you continue to speak for him. “I know you want to see him.” Din’s surprised when you free a hand from Zora to take a hold of the opposite side of his helmet. “But we love his helmet, too. It keeps him safe.” You use your hand to pull Din’s beskar cheek towards you, planting a soft kiss upon the metal. Din stares at his wife in awe as you face Zora again with a wide smile. “See?”

Zora’s furrowed brow loosens as her expression starts to mirror her mother’s. “Helm!” Zora cheers. She reaches two hands out towards Din’s helmet. His heart begins to piece itself back together when you lift Zora to help her to reach his beskar. Din lets her grab his helmet between her tiny hands as she kisses the vertical part of his visor. “Muah!”

Din, still too stunned for words, lifts a gloved hand to Zora’s cheek and rubs it with his thumb even as she gives his visor another “Muah!”

After Bo-Katan’s long silence, Din hears her chime in with a lighthearted tone to her voice. “This is the Way.”

Din lifts his visor from Zora to meet your adoring gaze as you repeat Bo’s words. “This is the Way.”

Before Din can say the same, the hyperloop pod comes to an abrupt stop. The doors open, a silent invitation to proceed to wherever this planet’s guiding you. Bo shares a cautious look with Din while you put Zora back in the pod alongside Grogu.

“No, Mama!” Zora protests with a soft cry, a sound that threatens to break Din’s fragile heart once again. “Papa helm!” She continues to babble with despair, likely cursing you out the best she can in her baby language.

“Once we know it’s safe, Zora,” you insist in a soft yet stern tone.

Zora quiets down and accepts her fate. Din stands and gives Zora’s head an affectionate pat. “Cuy verd’ika,” he reminds her. Zora smiles at his praise, as does Grogu once Din repeats the same gesture he’d used on his daughter.

Your group makes your way from the hyperloop pod through the doors that open for you. The building you’re being led through is one of grandeur, with colors of white and accents of silver along with lush flora. Din gives his armored shoulders a careful roll. He’s not used to being in such highly statused places, and he starts to fear he’s being watched from every direction.

The second set of doors opens up to a large banquet hall, set with tall glass windows much like those within Bo-Katan’s old palace. At the center of the room is a long dining table full of guests that look upon the approaching group with curious eyes. A man at the far end of the table stands from his place and opens his hands to you.

“Join us!” the man insists with a kind voice. “Come! It’s a party.”

You, Din, and Bo-Katan stop where you are, each of you looking upon the sight with skepticism. Din’s especially aware of the guards who surround the table, each of them donning armor that resembles that of stormtroopers’ too much for his liking.

“Come!” the man repeats himself. He turns his attention to those already seated at the table. “Everyone, special guests.” The man waves his hand towards you again. “Mandalorians.”

Din shares a look with Bo before he does the same with you. The setting seems pretty harmless from his humble assessment, but he’s not fond of being invited to a gathering that’s already been set in motion. It’s much like a laid trap waiting for its prey to be drawn in.

“I hope you like secretions.” The man has since sat down, though he still pleads for your presence. “Take a little sip-sip. Come, please.”

Bo-Katan steps forward first, causing you and Din to follow. As you make your way to the seats already set out for you, Din murmurs to his wife, who he keeps close at his side. “Are banquets like these always this…” he hesitates, recalling the man’s vocabulary, “odd?”

“No,” you respond with a quiet chuckle. You set a gloved hand on his back. “Usually, they’re boring. This one looks quite exciting.”

“That’s a nice way to put it,” Din huffs. He pulls your chair out for you before he takes his place beside you, your children’s pod floating between you. Din braces his gloved hands upon his cuisses and directs his attention to your hosts, who gush over each other as if they’re not surrounded by an array of observant guests.

“Honey,” the man asks his wife, his voice changing to a sing-song tone, “do you love me?”

“Oh my goodness,” his wife responds with a glowing smile, her tone now matching his own, “yes, I do.”

Din swings his helmet towards Bo-Katan and gestures between himself and you. “If we’re ever like that…”

You grab his wrist and lower his hand underneath the table once again, your lips stretched in an amused smile. Din fights hard to hold back a chuckle as your host begins to speak once again. “Let’s address the bantha in the room.” The man folds his hands over his lap and faces the Mandalorians that sit alongside him. “I was once a facilities planning officer during the war.”

Din gives you a nervous look. You tilt your head at him, a silent plea for him to hear the man out.

“And thanks to the New Republic Amnesty Program,” the man goes on, taking a hold of his wife’s hand, “I was able to help rebuild Plazir-15 as a Captain.”

Din can’t hold his tongue any longer. “You were Imperial?”

The Captain grimaces while his wife sets her hand on his shoulder. “He was,” she answers for him. “Plazir suffered greatly under Imperial rule. My husband came here as part of his rehabilitation.” She exchanges a sweet glance with him. “He oversaw the rebuilding of this planet on which my family served as nobility since it was originally settled, and… we fell in love.”

“We fell in love,” the Captain repeats her words. “We did fall in love.”

The woman gestures between you and Din. “It must be a similar story to your own.”

Din’s helmet snaps over at you, whose brow remains lifted in confusion. “No,” you respond on your behalf. You face the couple once again. “Not really.”

“Oh, our apologies if we’ve been mistaken,” the Captain says this time. “We knew we were in the presence of a fellow duchess and princess,” he gestures to Bo-Katan, “and we thought another princess was present as well.”

Din sets his gloved hand on your cuisse even before your chest rises and falls in a calculated breath. “No longer,” you inform them. “Arilia was destroyed long ago, and so my title with it.” You meet Din’s gaze, which hasn’t left you since the moment his wife’s former title was first mentioned. “I’m a Mandalorian now.”

The Duchess squeals with utter delight. “Oh, now that’s a story I can’t wait to hear more about!” Din’s helmet starts to feel hot with embarrassment when the Duchess turns to her husband. “How cute are they?”

The Captain hums with thought and lifts the Duchess’ hand towards his lips. “Almost as cute as us.” He kisses her knuckles and Din somehow manages to fight his sigh back.

The Duchess giggles and faces you and Din again. “Well, before we get any more stories started,” she pauses and gestures to Grogu, who coos in interest at the whole scene, “could I perhaps hold the baby? Please?”

Din answers before you can even take a breath. “He doesn’t take kindly to strangers.”

The Duchess holds up a piece of food from her plate for Grogu to see and pucks her lips as if she’s mimicking the aquatic dish. Grogu leaps up and flips into the Duchess’ arms, earning a gasp of surprise that turns into a laugh from her. “You are so fast!” the Duchess exclaims. “Yes.”

Din sighs, a loud and frustrated sound. You look at him with an amused raise of your brow. “These two are harmless,” you whisper to him.

Din’s visor surveys the area, once again catching sight of the guards in pieces of stormtrooper armor. He squeezes your cuisse. “I’m not worried about them,” he insists in a gruff whisper of his own.

“You see, it was time for our planet to move into a new age,” the Duchess explains while she feeds Grogu. Din narrows his eyes at his son as if the little guy can somehow see him. Traitor. “We held direct democratic elections for the first time in our history.”

“We are both royals and elected leaders,” her husband adds on.

Yet again, Din can’t stop himself from speaking his mind. “And the Mandalorian privateer warships docked in your fields?”

“Oh,” the Duchess offers a light scoff, “we hire them for protection. Our charter forbids us from having a military because of my husband’s Imperial past.”

The Captain smacks his lips in embarrassment. “But because of this,” he assures you, “all of our resources go to growth and the people.”

“I’d like to speak to these ‘privateers,’” Bo-Katan steps in.

The Captain looks over at the Duchess. “That can be arranged.” His tone of voice changes in a way that makes Din’s skin crawl with uneasiness. “There is just one condition.”

Din’s hand is covered by one of yours as he watches Bo-Katan barely contain a roll of her eyes. “What?”

The Captain considers his words before he speaks them. “You really must see the view.” He gestures behind himself with his head. “Right this way.” The Captain stands and waves a dismissive hand at the guests who’ve started to follow suit. “We’ll just be a moment. Enjoy your meal, don’t get up.” He steps around his chair and nods at the three of you. “Let’s show our guests the view.”

You, Din, and Bo-Katan all rise from your seats and start to follow the Duchess and her husband. Din checks up on Zora in the pod and notices she’s since fallen asleep, making him smile to himself as he closes the pod to maintain her peace. You bring yourself closer to his side. “What do you think this ‘condition’ is?” you ask him in a hushed voice.

“I’m not sure,” Din responds. “But I don’t have a good feeling about it.”

Once the group gets far enough away from the table, the Duchess begins to speak. “We have a problem,” she informs you.

“Yes?” Bo-Katan inquires.

“A droid problem,” the Captain adds.

Every muscle within Din’s body tenses as he snaps his helmet towards them. “What kind of ‘droid problem?’” he demands. You take another step closer to him.

“Malfunction,” the Duchess answers.

“A coordinated malfunction,” the Captain specifies.

“We think,” says the Duchess.

Din remains tense, his mind buzzing at the possibilities of what this problem could entail. “What makes you think that?”

“The planet’s Imperial droids were reprogrammed for peace,” the Duchess explains.

“I personally oversaw the program,” her husband insists. “I can assure you they were completely rehabilitated for peaceful purposes. Exclusively.”

“We thought,” the Duchess reminds him.

“They were, my love. I personally oversaw the program.”

Din’s gloved hands tighten into fists at his sides. “What kind of malfunction?” He’s aware of your arm brushing against his own, now.

“I mean, nothing too serious at first,” the Captain begins. “Unexpected power cycles, deleted task stacks…”

“Then it got worse,” the Duchess interjects. They turn around as they approach a balcony that overlooks the entirety of the planet’s core city, letting you, Din, and Bo-Katan look upon them. “Traffic accidents. Heavy equipment failures leading to injury. Assault.”

Din goes completely rigid. “‘Assault?’” he repeats.

The Duchess offers only a nod in response. Din can sense your gaze burning through him as a plea to acknowledge you somehow for comfort, but he can’t bring himself to do anything other than focus on this “droid problem.” It’s either that or evacuate the planet as quickly as possible. Din’s not leaving the fate of his family to dangerous droids again.

“Respectfully,” Bo-Katan says, “what does this have to do with us?”

The Duchess and the Captain share a look before she speaks up. “Our constables are ill-equipped to confront battle droids.”

Din’s breath goes sour in his lungs. “‘Battle droids?’”

“Riduur…” you attempt to gain his attention.

“Uh-uh-uh-uh,” the captain tuts. “Former battle droids. They’ve been rehabilitated for civic duty.”

“We thought,” the Duchess mumbles.

“They were,” the Captain assures her.

“Obviously not.”

Din’s armored chest has started to rise and fall in quick breaths. His visor’s set on the view of the city as if he’ll somehow see a battle droid committing an act as heinous as the last ones he’d seen. Din only pulls his eyes from the view when your hand touches his armored shoulder and a shrill cry comes from the closed pod. You offer the sweetest gaze you can before you tend to an upset Zora, something Din’s no doubt at fault for. He forces himself to take a deep breath and calm down for her sake while you hold her and rock her.

“The Mandalorian garrison outside your city walls can make quick work of your battle droids,” Bo-Katan insists while his family regathers themselves.

“That’s just it,” the Duchess says.

“What?”

“Our charter forbids any standing army from entering our city. Our constables aren’t even allowed to carry blasters.”

Din sets a hand on his belt to steady himself. “But you allowed us to be armed.”

The Captain lifts a finger and points it at Din. “Exactly.” The Duchess hums in agreement. “The people have voted that we are a pluralistic society. You are Mandalorians. Weaponry and armor are intrinsic to your culture, are they not?”

Din gives the couple a careful tilt of his helmet. “They are.”

The Captain lifts an eyebrow. “You see where we’re going here?”

“You want us to eliminate your droid problem,” Bo-Katan confirms, her arms crossed over her armored chest.

“Exactly,” the Captain says with a wink.

“I knew you would help us,” the Duchess adds.

“Hold on there, Your Majesty,” Bo protests with a raise of her gloved hand. “We didn’t agree to help you.”

“Please, Princess Kryze, Your Grace,” the Captain insists. “This is not intended to be a work of charity.”

“Unlike my brethren outside your city walls, I am not a mercenary,” Bo states.

“Neither are we,” you add. Din looks over at you, the picture of strength—especially with your daughter clutching the fabric around your neck.

“Apologies if that is the impression I gave,” the Captain says with a hand of his own raised. “What I intended to convey is that I would hope that this ‘excursion’ would be viewed as an act of diplomacy between our two planets.”

Din watches Bo-Katan’s brow lift in interest at that. He also glances at you once again, who gives him a reassuring nod. He’s more than happy to leave the politics to the two of you.

“In fact,” the Captain continues, “Plazir-15 would formally recognize Mandalore as a sovereign system and petition the New Republic to recognize it as such.”

Bo-Katan looks over at you and Din. He tilts his helmet, leaving the decision to her. He’s certain that you’ve given her a nod as well.

“The mercenary captain, Axe Woves, indicated that he split from you because you had designs on ruling Mandalore once again,” the Duchess claims.

“Those plans have been abandoned,” Bo says, her voice low.

You and Din share a look of confusion. Before you can speak to Bo-Katan about it, the Captain goes on. “The offer stands nonetheless.”

Bo-Katan ponders his words and turns to Din. He returns the glance and lets her speak first. “What do you think?” she asks, her gaze also drifting over to you.

Din’s decision was made many minutes ago. “You had me at ‘battle droids,’” he assures her.

“Both of us,” you add.

Din’s helmet turns to you without hesitation. “Rid’ika…” he tries.

“Din,” you murmur, raising your brow in warning, “this isn’t up for debate.”

Din hesitates at your audience and gives them a brief look. He sets his hand over your back and guides you to a more private corner on the balcony. Din’s voice is low as he speaks to you. “You’re still not fully healed from our last battle.”

“I’m fine. I already told you that.” You lift a hand from Zora and set it upon his cuirass. “I’m not letting you face those battle droids on your own.”

Din’s visor can’t meet your determined gaze as he shrugs. “I wouldn’t be alone. I’d have Bo-Katan.”

“And does Bo-Katan know why you’re so eager to rough up battle droids?” Din’s shoulders start to deflate at your truthful words. Your gaze is full of genuine care and concern when Din finally meets it. “You nearly gave yourself a panic attack just thinking about them.” Din leans into you, his acceptance of defeat. Your hand rises to his beskar cheek. “The kids can stay here, but I’m going to be right by your side for this.”

Din’s hand wraps around your wrist, securing your touch in place. “What if they hurt you? I couldn’t…” Din’s throat closes up at the thought of it. There are too many memories trapped there, and should he unlatch them now, he won’t be able to contain them again.

“That’s what the armor’s for.” You give yourself a quick once-over. Din chuckles, the sound bringing a light to your eyes. “So, what do you say? Can we rough up these battle droids together?”

Din takes a deep breath and nods. “It’d be an honor.” He entwines his fingers with yours and gives your hand a tight squeeze.

All these years later, his fears still try to get the best of him, but his better half diminishes them day by day. There’s no doubt you’ll do it again, no matter how clouded Din’s mind becomes at the mere thought of seeing the love of his life near the one thing he both hates and fears most in this galaxy.

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[bluepenguinstories]

Another Mundane Valentine

Late winter, clad in her plaid blazer jacket. No hood, but the sleeves were enough to justify the outfit. She shivered as she walked, though she always said she preferred the cold. Typically a recluse, but when she did go out, it was usually for her to visit her local coffee shop, or to get a bite to eat nearby. This time, however, she was going to her girlfriend’s house.

Her girlfriend lived uphill, near one of the forested parks. Among the lined trees between the sea of tall, near-mansion houses, lived a small, pink house. Unassuming as it was adorable.

Much like the house, she didn’t try to draw attention to herself. She also couldn’t be sure that there weren’t always eyes upon her. Somewhere, just around the corner. Or behind her. From the window of people’s homes. There were the regulars, of course, who saw her: people behind the counter at the restaurants or cafes she’d frequent. People she’d interact with, make small talk, or simple transactions.

Of course, there were always the worries. What people really thought when she was interacting with them. Whether it be the simple transactions or small talk, or spending time with the ones she loved. Thoughts ranging from, “they probably don’t like that I come by so often. I don’t leave enough of a tip, do I? And they probably think I eat too many cinnamon rolls” to “does she really care? I’m sure she does, but does she as much as I care about her? Do I really care about her after all or do I just feel like I do because I want her to care about me? I must be selfish.”

Such were the ways of Null Void.

As she walked, she couldn’t help being a little giddy. Doing a little skip and hop on her way up the hill. Her worries could wait for later. For now, she made the trek, unknowing of how she may have come across to passerby with her odd motions in freezing weather.

Despite not exactly being “in shape”, it didn’t take long to reach the home of Minnow Pond, Null’s girlfriend.

It was still a new experience for her, one which she was in constant disbelief over. Not just that anyone would like her at all, but that someone as beautiful as Minnow would like her.

Null walked up to Minnow’s doorstep and knocked three times.

She waited. And waited.

At last, Minnow opened the door, leaning in with a wide smile.

“Silly Null! You don’t have to knock! You can come in any time!” Minnow giggled.

“But...isn’t it rude? What if you’re not home, or at work? Also, I don’t have a key. Don’t you ever lock your door?”

Minnow’s smile lowered and she blinked a few times.

“Oh. You’re right. It wouldn’t do to have you break in, would it? I’ll just have to give you a key!”

Null stood at the open doorway.

“Did I make a mistake?” She wondered. “Did I make her upset? Was I supposed to walk right in? Oh dear. What if she wants to break up now?”

“Hey, hey! Come in, come in!” Called Minnow’s heart-melting voice and for a moment, Null’s worries subsided and were replaced with the single thought of, “it’s so cute how she’ll repeat words sometimes.”

Then again, to Null, anything Minnow did was cute. Until it was something that Null could perceive as a fault of her own. But then it was a just punishment that she had to reflect upon for the rest of her days. Even that was cute sometimes.

The two sat on the floor in the living room, next to the life-sized statue of an ancient pharaoh (Minnow claimed she saw it at an antique shop once and absolutely HAD to have it). They did some knitting together; Null pricked her finger many times and each time, Minnow would kiss away the cut.

Their goal was to make a long blanket with the color scheme of a long bacon. Why? To keep themselves warm whether sitting or laying down. It was something they could share together. Also, there was a kind of inside joke between them which had something to do with ‘sizzling’ and ‘long bacon’. Neither of them remembered what the origins of the inside joke were, only that it was pretty funny at the time.

They ate lunch meat sandwiches together with rye bread and emmental cheese and laughed while they watched a movie on TV about the end of the world and monsters taking over. They especially found it hilarious when the main character of the movie got a slime monster attached to the wound on her arm. Classic slapstick comedy.

Of course, the movie has to end at some point, and when the movie ended, the pain in Null’s chest returned. An unmistakable, undesirable pain.

“May I rest my head on your lap?” Null asked.

Minnow’s eyes fluttered.

“You don’t even need to ask.”

All these things that Minnow assured Null had full permission to do – at any time, no less. It was too much power for one person to hold. Both Minnow and Null had jobs. They lived at separate houses. There was a such thing as consent, as was the concept of “not the right time.”

Still, Null laid her head upon Minnow’s plush, bare thighs.

“Do you ever think about living together?” Null asked, the question poison on her tongue.

“We’re living together right now, aren’t we? We’re both alive, and we’re together,” answered Minnow.

“No, I mean, like sharing a home. Any size, just, I come home from work, and you’re there. Maybe in bed. Or maybe you’re not home but I know you will be. Maybe we’ll share a bed. Or maybe one night we’ll get into a fight and you’ll take up the whole bed and I’ll sleep on the couch. Maybe we don’t need a couch. Maybe I can get one of those dog beds to curl up in.”

“I hardly think that’s necessary.”

“What? The moving in part or the dog bed part?”

Null’s heart skipped a beat.

“The dog bed. Even if we fight, you should still be able to sleep comfortably.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Null laughed, though her laugh felt more like a cough, “I think dog beds are pretty comfortable.”

Minnow stroked Null’s hair and Null let out a pleasant sigh.

“And here I thought you were more of a cat person,” Minnow joked.

“I am, but cat beds are too small.”

Minnow decided that Null, being a cat person, deserved to have her ears scratched and chin rubbed. Again, Null sighed and purred. But even among the joy, she couldn’t shake the prior conversation; she wrapped her arms around Minnow’s legs and began to cry.

“I don’t know why I feel so intense sometimes. It’s all so overwhelming and I know nobody likes a worrier but you like me and I don’t know how that’s possible, either.”

“Who says nobody likes a worrier? And besides, I don’t like you.”

Null’s eyes widened, but everything around her was a blue haze.

“You don’t?”

“Of course not! I love you!”

“Oh. Oh dear. Oh no. I love you, too! Please don’t scare me like that!”

“Sorry!” Minnow laughed. “It’s hard not to tease you sometimes.”

“So true,” Null laughed between sobs.

Those sobs continued for a while.

Late into the evening, she cried out,

“Oh, Minnow! I wish you were real!”

She hugged her stuffed quokka plush, almost as tall as she was and sobbed into it.

Of course, Minnow was real, but a visit was just that; now Null was in her own home, in her own room, and hugging what she imagined to be Minnow.

“It hurts so much to be away from you. Even when I have work, it’s agony. Every moment away, I miss you all the harder.”

Eventually, Null cried herself into a headache, then to sleep.

[cxrelesswhispers]

in the early to mid-2000s, it's shows like the made in mayfair that paved the way for the popular wave of reality and...maybe not quite so real shows that took over tv across the pond. following the lives of a close knit group of well-to-do's and socialites for six seasons, audiences laughed with them, cried with them, crushed and loved with them, loved them and loved to hate them — and were shocked to learn at the end of the sixth season that at the height of it's popularity, the show had been cancelled. on this, the 15th anniversary of the show's first ever episode, the network that first brought you made in mayfair has announced the show is back and better than ever, bringing back its original cast in its entirety. after all, you can take the kids out of mayfair, but you can never take the posh mayfair out of the kid.

relaxed, appless, and discord-based, 𝒎𝒂𝒅𝒆 𝒊𝒏 𝒎𝒂𝒚𝒇𝒂𝒊𝒓 is a sandbox rp for the lifestyles of the fabulously rich and stupid famous. explore a grab bag of various slice-of-life plots, and characters brought back together by a scripted reality-style show (inspired by laguna beach, made in chelsea, the hills, the only way is essex, and the like).

fun, low-stakes events and muse development activities will encourage relationship building and social interactions (both in front and away from the camera!), collaboration with other writers that ultimately makes the rp juicier, more deliciously dramatic, and more fun for everyone involved:

19+ muns, 30+ muses

no post length requirements, no formal app, and no waiting period between characters!

pick from a list of muse labels, or choose your own!

now open for applications!

[egojock]

@signetied: ❛ if this shit is not fun for you, what is fun for you? ❜ ( accepting! )

nate gives farleigh a considering look, a contemplative expression on his face as his brows knit together. he'd kind of thrown him for a loop with that question, considering all the things that once brought nate joy once upon a time don't really do the trick anymore. being the star quarterback of east highland and crushing the opposition like bugs in the palm of his hand eventually felt like a cheap thrill, especially when more wicked games with higher stakes were being fought in his own home. "i dunno. the football and fitness is just to keep my nose clean, i blow off steam in all the other regular, teenage boy ways," he reasons, dark eyes honing in on farleigh's face with a wry little smirk. farleigh might be american originally, but he's glad to see that his foray across the pond with relatives hadn't made him lose his edge. nate can't really stand any of that counterfeit downton abbey shit, honestly. "i've gotta lot of vices, so that normally does the trick when it comes to blowing off steam. and then the typical california shit to balance it out, the green juice, the fuckin' avocado toast," nate explains, rolling his eyes. he leans against the hood of his car and lights up a cigarette, wrapping his lips around the filter as he watches farleigh's face. "what about you, huh? what's life like across the pond over at oxford? if i were you, i might've blown my brains out from boredom already," he taunts, inhaling as the cherry of his cigarette lights up as he regards farleigh with a watchful gaze.

[missmungoe]

I know you’re still recovering from Mnemosyne (BEAUTIFUL HEART WRENCHING AMAZING WONDERFUL WORTH-THE-WAIT CHAPTERS BTW SO GRATEFUL FOR YOUR EXISTENCE) so please don’t feel pressured b u t… if you have any snippets of the next Moon and Her Maiden chapter you feel comfortable sharing ..🥺👉👈 IM SORRY BUT THAT LAST ONE ENDED SO AMAZINGLY AND IM DYING TO KNOW WHAT HAPPENS NEXT

HI, please know how happy this made me, and of course I have a snippet! I'm actually very close to finishing this fic, so here's a little peek:

It comes with a price

He followed the road inland, the same path he’d walked the night she’d been taken, although this time he wasn’t searching blindly, following instead the trail of her presence, like a moonlit thread through his mind and the dark.

She’d followed the road out of the village, past the darkened windmills where they loomed, before she’d climbed one of the fences and crossed the field into the forest. If it hadn’t been for his haki, Shanks didn’t think he would have been able to follow her, with no obvious path or tracks to guide his way, and with the canopy blocking out the moon it was almost too dark for him to see.

He was starting to wonder if he should have brought a lantern when the canopy suddenly opened, allowing a shaft of moonlight to pierce it, right onto the still surface of a forest pond, and he paused in his tracks, seeing the small figure standing before it.

Her back was turned towards him, her clothes in a heap around her ankles and her slender frame outlined by the moon. It spilled over her skin, the silver spots across her shoulders apparent, and the still-pink scar where it cut like a sickle moon between her shoulder blades.

He knew she’d already sensed him coming, and saw her turn towards him where he’d emerged from the shadows of the trees into the clearing. She had her sealskin in her hands, the supple pelt shimmering like her skin.

She’d removed her kerchief, her short hair gently tousled where it brushed the tops of her cheekbones. The eyes beneath were bottomless, although for once, he couldn’t discern if the feeling in them was surprise or trepidation, finding him there. But then this wasn’t like waiting for her by the shore, his eyes shut in offering. He’d come into her realm now, eyes wide open, as brazen as the sailors from the songs, who stole the maidens of the moon for their wives.

“The old girl told me where you were,” Shanks said, and saw her brows knitting in surprise.

“Suzume-san did?”

He nodded, before he looked at the pond, and coming closer, “Going for a midnight swim?” he asked, hoping his smile might ease some of the tension that had crept between them.

Makino didn’t answer, and his heart sank, wondering if he’d overstepped when he’d kissed her in the storeroom earlier.

But looking up from the sealskin in her hands to him, it wasn’t fear he found in them, or at least not for him as Makino said, “I was going to try to change.”

Something about the way she said it struck him as odd, and frowning, he was trying to figure out what was off about it when realisation hit him, without kindness.

“You haven’t tried,” Shanks said.

She shook her head, and his heart constricted when she confessed, “I don’t know if I still can.”

The beat that followed was heavy, holding the weeks that had passed since her capture, a full moon cycle, and the nights he’d waited by the docks, hoping she’d show. He’d thought she’d been nervous about seeing him in her seal-shape, or that she wanted to wait until her stitches had healed. He hadn’t thought she’d been afraid she couldn’t do it anymore.

“Your stitches are perfect,” Makino said, dragging his eyes up from her sealskin, as though his silence had suggested that they might be the reason. “I don’t even have evidence that there’s anything wrong, I just…haven’t been able to bring myself to try.”

Her eyes lifted from her pelt to his, and the fear in them struck him as hard as it had, that moment outside her bar when the bandit had tried to slice it open. “What if I can’t?” she asked, the slight quaver in her voice making his hands clench. “I don’t know who I am without my pelt.”

His look softened.

Crooking a knuckle, Shanks tipped her chin. Her eyes were as dark as the pond, unearthly in their depth and beauty, and yet there was nothing but human feeling in them, open and vulnerable.

“You’re you,” he said. His eyes roamed her face, but for all that the fae were hailed as coy, cunning creatures, he’d never met anyone as guileless. “With or without your powers.” His thumb brushed her chin, beneath her bottom lip where it trembled. “But I understand why you’re scared. I don’t know how I’d feel if I lost something so deeply connected to who I am.”

Her eyes hadn’t let go of his, and he saw the tears brimming in them, even as she didn’t let them fall.

He watched as they lowered to the sealskin, held between them. He could see the place where the bullet had torn through it, the moonlight illuminating the scar, twin to the one on her back. He’d spent a whole day mending it, trying his best to make it as seamless as he could, but even then his stitches had left a mark.

“This is one of my favourite places,” Makino said then, looking up from her pelt to the still pond. Flowers grew thickly by the riverbank, blue forget-me-nots gleaming like stars against the mossy undergrowth, and a slender river cut through the clearing, gurgling quietly where it crawled between the stones to feed the pool where they were standing, the surface like a black mirror to the moon’s round face, although it wasn’t the one that held his eyes captive, her gentle features painted by the light.

“It’s beautiful,” Shanks said.

Her smile tilted, a little sad, and he didn’t understand why until Makino said, “I was going to bring you here.” Dark eyes met his, as gentle as her words. “To show you.”

His eyes widened, but of course―she’d mentioned a pool, that sunny day with Luffy on the docks when she’d asked him to go walking with her.

He didn’t know how he would have reacted, if the incident with the bandits had never happened, and the way she’d revealed herself to him had been here, on her own terms. And while she’d told him why she’d hidden it for so long, it said something about how much she’d trusted him even then, to want to bring him somewhere like this. Like the hidden cove, it was an offering; a part of herself shared with him that no one else had seen.

But while he couldn’t change what had happened, or make it so that her powers still worked, there was one thing he could control. Like the blindfold, he could even the balance between them; a barter, if only to put them on even ground.

“What are you doing?” Makino asked, as he shrugged off his cloak, before he reached to unbutton his shirt, until it joined it on the ground next to her clothes.

Toeing off his sandals, “Stripping,” he chirped, and her eyes sprung wide when he reached for the waistline of his pants, flashing her a rakish grin. “Fair is fair.”

Shucking them with characteristic panache, the fierce blush deepening her cheeks banished some of her otherworldliness, her beautiful features reshaping with an unmistakably human mortification as her eyes darted away from his naked body, and his cock, cheerfully erect where he’d propped his hands on his hips, but before she could object, he’d dived into the pond.

He cut the mirror surface smoothly, the freezing cold water hitting him like a thousand needles, before he resurfaced with a gasp, swearing, “Fffffucking hell, that’s cold! Oh my god, I think my balls just retreated back into my body.”

The startled laugh that blurted from her was muffled by the pelt, her cheeks fairly glowing where she’d pressed it to her face, but it couldn’t hide her grin where he found it in her eyes, as helpless as his own, seeing it.

Pushing his dripping hair back from his face, he swam towards the bank where she stood. The pool was deep enough that he was only able to stand towards the shallow edges, the middle like a black hole, sucking up the moonlight where it spilled through the branches.

Smiling, Shanks held out his hand. “Are you coming in, seal-maiden?”

He saw her eyes darting to it, indecision shaping her beautiful features, so wonderfully expressive, he still couldn’t believe she’d kept her identity a secret from him for so long, even with his eyes shut.

But they were open now, and he watched her shifting expressions hungrily, and saw when she decided, her soft mouth firming, before she drew her sealskin around her shoulders.

Then Makino placed her hand in his, and closing his fingers around it, Shanks drew her into the water.

It pulled her in, as though welcoming her, and he wondered, transfixed, how he hadn’t noticed it the time they’d gone swimming, how naturally she held herself in the water. Or rather, how unnaturally, an otherworldly grace that even a girl who’d been swimming her whole life couldn't have boasted.

Of course, there’d been other things distracting him that night, like how she’d looked in the rain, her soaked chemise clinging to her body, although looking at her now, the pale silk replaced with moonlight and her silver pelt, he was hard pressed to say which was more captivating, but then maybe it was just her.

He’d reached out before he could stop himself, his fingers brushing the pelt where it covered the top of her head, as soft as he remembered, but Makino didn’t withdraw, only let him touch it.

It dipped into her brow, and lifting it enough to bare her eyes, “You don’t have to try tonight,” Shanks said, observing her where she floated, too short for her feet to reach the bottom, but then she didn’t even need to tread water. “But if you want to, I'm the only one here.”

Makino watched him, the pelt pushed back enough to see her face, unchanged from how he knew it, but even then there was a feyness about her that left no mistake now about what she was, wrapped in water and moonlight.

He watched as her eyes slipped shut, and she seemed for a moment to retreat into herself, a calm overtaking her as she let her breath go. Shanks felt it in her presence, as still as the pond around them, not even a ripple to disturb the mirror surface.

Then her eyes opened, meeting his, and this time they were so dark they’d swallowed the white around them. And he’d seen her transform, that terrifying moment on the deck of his ship after she’d been shot, but it was something else to see her change now, not out of necessity but because she wanted it.

Her skin glowed, first silver, then a bright, brilliant white, as though she became for a moment moonlight in its purest form, illuminating the whole clearing, before she changed, her slender frame shrinking, reshaping into a figure he’d only glimpsed a few times before, in the cove and through the underwater shadows.

The brilliance dimmed, leaving her in her seal-form, the tiny, sleek creature that bore no resemblance to her human shape, even as Shanks still found her, in the dark, bottomless eyes and the way she floated in the water, and her presence, unchanged now that she wasn’t concealing herself.

He heard her voice within, the unbridled joy in it rippling through him like laughter.

It worked!

His grin widened, hearing her whooping delight within him, and his chuckle was softer than he was known for as she vanished under the surface, darting around him once, and with such breathtaking grace it left him unable to do anything but watch as she resurfaced further out, a sleek shadow, before she dived under again, and so silently she barely stirred the pond.

He felt her brush against his thigh as she circled him once, before darting between his legs, and so swiftly it took his haki just to keep track of her, and even then she was faster, as the little seal suddenly resurfaced right in front of him, the transformation releasing her, and so quickly it was only a split second before Makino was there, her voice aching with joy, “It worked!”

She threw her arms around his neck, and his eyes widened, caught so off guard he nearly forgot they were swimming.

Startled, his arms wrapped around her, the sudden and intimate contact jolting through him like he’d been shot.

His heart held, feeling her in his arms, her delicate figure flush against his and nothing but water between them, and knew she could feel his reaction, rock hard where it pressed against her, but she didn’t draw away.

Holding her, his hand shook where it spanned the sickle scar between her shoulder blades, covering it whole, and his chuckle was soft as he tucked his nose into her neck, hugging her close. She was so small, but then he knew her shape with his eyes shut, every delicate line and curve, had charted it with his hands, and found it now as he remembered, that first night on the docks, and in the cove, and his cabin.

He felt as the slender arms loosened from around his neck, and fought his instinct to pull her back, but she didn’t let go, as small hands cupped his cheeks. Water clung to his lashes, but he saw her clearly, the moonlight spilling down her body and his, and her eyes were as dark as the water, but this close, the tips of their noses brushing, Shanks found the gentler brown in them.

They slipped shut, and drawing his face down, as gently as the first time she’d done it, Makino kissed him.

Above, the moon watched them through the branches, her marble face as impassive as ever, but if she was upset with him for stealing one of her maidens, Shanks didn’t care.

And feeling the smile that shaped the soft lips under his, thought the maiden in question didn’t much mind the theft.

―

“Red-Hair?”

The deep bow made the collar around his neck fall forward, the heavy metal yielding a soft clank. “Our investigation proved fruitful, Your Excellency,” said his advisor. “We have eyewitnesses placing him in Goa that night, and he fits the description of your brother’s killer. A swordsman in a black cloak, wearing a straw hat. We did some digging, and he is apparently quite renowned. In fact…”

The rustle of paper drew his gaze, as a wanted poster was proffered, slid across the table towards him.

His eyes widened.

“One billion?”

His advisor bowed deeper. “In addition to his own deeds, he is a former crewmate of the Pirate King.”

His eyes lifted from the wanted poster, and the scarred face above the row of numbers. “Gold Roger?”

His advisor nodded. “His crew, too, is quite formidable. His first mate in particular.”

He considered Red-Hair’s wanted poster. “And he’s been here this whole time?”

Another nod. “It appears he has made a base of sorts. A port on the other side of the island. Fuschia is the name.”

“That backwater dump?” When his advisor nodded, “What does a pirate like Red-Hair want in a place like that?”

“Perhaps he is seeking to usurp the throne,” his advisor suggested. “He would not be the first pirate to attempt a coup.”

“I couldn't care less about Goa Kingdom or its so-called ruler,” said the Celestial Dragon. “But we cannot have it getting out that a pirate killed a Celestial Dragon. It would give the people ideas that just anyone can harm us, and that we can be usurped as mortal kings. We are not mortals; we are gods.”

Another deep bow, his brow nearly touching the floor. “Indeed, Your Excellency.”

Turning to the window, the dark sea looked back, and the full moon. To think that even the filthy commoners in this part of the world could see her splendour, and as clearly as they could from the Holy Land. Truly, a jest of the gods.

“Is Red-Hair still in port?” he asked, and heard him nodding when his collar shifted.

“His ship has not left, Your Excellency.”

“Good,” he said, his eyes on the full moon where she bathed on the horizon’s edge.

“See that it never does.”

[whirling-fangs]

As unsightly and animalistic as this boy was, he was not without talent, as it almost pained Doma to admit. The boar child was fast and unpredictable, as the second moon found out the hard way. Just how could he explain to the master that he'd allowed an animal to strike him?

But surely he couldn't be blamed, that rotten hide obscuring the boy's face was distracting after all.

It was almost enough to make Doma curious.

" Hahaha! Wow! You really are something else aren't you?" The demon's flesh seemed to knit itself back together, right where Inosuke's blade had cut into him. "And believe me, I've met a lot of people who aren't alright in the head...but never someone this messed up."

For all the mirth and light joy the demon displayed, his opponent was twice as enraged.

His joints had whitened across his knuckles, serrated blades clenched in an iron grip. To let go of his swords would be an immediate death sentence. he could feel it ripple across his skin, despite the cold that made his senses grow numb – this demon was stupidly, impossibly strong.

Even when he was holding back.

"That's right, you piece of trash. I'm not like the other Slayers you've faced up 'til now."

The insult rolled right off his sensitive epiderm. If anything, Inosuke took great pride in his difference – in his lack of adequacy to human standards. Had he been like the others, he would have never survived for so long.

He was a beast of the wild, after all.

Inosuke watched as the demon's skin closed up, erasing the damage he had inflicted at the risk of losing his life. Each attack was grueling, when the demon hardly seemed to break a sweat. Not that Inosuke was sweating either, when the temperatures had dropped below the coldest of mountain winter nights.

"You want something messed up? I'll give you just that! I'll show you the true extent of my strength! And you'll regret not bowing to the King of the Mountain when you had the chance!!"

He launched another move, running along the wooden floors with a low stance, waiting until the last second to spring and swing his blades in unison.

"And when I'm done with you... I'll find number One! And I'll give 'em a good taste of my blades too!!"

Bold words from a bold soul. Boisterous claims to keep the truth at bay. The imbalance in their strength... in their commitment to this fight.

One's fight to the death was another's walk around the lotus pond.