#like you can't convince me it's a ratings thing either

[momotonescreaming]

Earrings

Rating: G | WC: 2.1k | Steve Harrington & Robin Buckley

Fluff, Friendship, Robin has a crush on Vickie

[Read on AO3]

"Do you think I should?" Robin asks, voice straining at the edges. The slight rasp of it pitching up. She's got her hands braced on her knees, brows furrowed as she half-crouches in front of the stall selling hand made jewellery.

Steve just smiles, raising an eyebrow slightly. "I told you before, yes. Vickie would love it if you bought her a pair of earrings."

The lady manning the stall had been very patiently waiting for Robin to make a decision. To either buy a pair for Vickie, or give up and move on. Steve can't quite tell if she's smiling at them because she wants the sale, she wants them to stop hovering in front of her stall, or she feels bad for Robin's nerves and indecision. It's probably all three.

The earrings were nice, and very up Vickie's alley. Homemade and quirky, very kitsch. Little imperfections and touches that showed they weren't made in some factory. Instead they were crocheted and weaved, or made with resin. There was a large selection made from recycled materials that Robin kept going back to.

Running her fingers over them, feeling the material of them through calloused fingers. As if she was trying to read them like braille. Trying to parse out through feel what Vickie would think of them. Of Robin.

She'd love it. Obviously. Steve could tell because he had these things called eyes.

Vickie likes boobies. Likes Robin. And she'll feel so flattered that Robin saw these funky earrings and thought of her. she'll go all pink and blushy and cute and start to ramble. And then Robin will start to ramble back. And they'll be perfect for each other. Steve's done the mental math. He's good at people, he knows how to read them in a way he knows Robin can't.

Which is why he knows that Vickie will love the earrings. And why he's been trying to convince Robin to buy the earrings for the past ten minutes, It feels like longer. Much longer. But if his watch is correct — and it is — then not much time has passed at all.

"But what if she hates them?" Robin asks, voice still strained. She stands up from her half-crouch, turning to Steve with anxious eyes. Gleaming in the sun, shining down on the Saturday craft and farmer's market they're currently wandering through. If it weren't for the pained look on her face, Robin would look really pretty like this. Skin warm, eyes shining, and hair sun-bleached. Vickie would love her.

Steve has a feeling that Vickie would love them even more when she finds out exactly how long Robin's been umming and ahhing in front of the stall. Not even including the time that Robin spent in the car on the drive up talking about getting something for Vickie.

"Now you're just making stuff up," Steve replies, raising an eyebrow as he locks eyes with Robin. Puts a hand on his hip and adjusts his weight, shifts it from foot to foot. His clean white sneakers adjusting with the movement.

"In what world is Vickie, notorious fun earring wearer, going to say no to a fun pair of hand crafted earrings?"

"But it's not even her birthday or Christmas or anything!" Robin argues, gesturing with her hands. Silver bracelets gently clinking together.

" I'd argue that makes it even better," Steve retorts, eyes quickly flickering to the lady running the stall before dropping his voice down low. Quiet enough that only Robin can hear him. "Show that you're thinking of her."

"I don't know!" Robin whines, dragging out the word, the sound of it warbling at the end. She claps her hands to the side of her face, before dragging them down. Stretching her skin and pulling a face.

"Making a new friend is always hard," the lady running the stall interrupts with an empathetic look on her face. "But jewellery never hurts. I'd work on me."

"See!" Steve exclaims, gesturing thankfully at the lady with a splayed out hand. Grateful that the lady took Robin's freak out as only a girl anxious to make a new friend, and not something more Robin wants them to be. "Thank you."

"Okay, okay!" Robin exclaims, taking her hands off her face and sort of fluttering them as she throws them up on the air. "I can see when I'm being ganged up on."

"Can you also see that I'm right?" Steve sort of jokes. "Admitting that you're wrong and admitting that you're being ganged up on are two different things."

"Do you need me to say it?"

"Yes, actually," Steve smiles, trying hard not to feel too smug about it. Given the look on Robin's face, he thinks he fails. But to her credit, Robin turns to him, takes a deep breath and admits that he was right.

"You were right," she starts, not actually sounding all that put out about it. "I'm buying the earrings, I'll regret it if I don't."

"Thank you," he replies, not even bothering to hide how smug he's feeling.

"Yeah, yeah, now help me pick."

The lady running the stall looks endlessly amused by their antics now, as they turn back to the jewellery stand to have a proper look at her wares. She smiles, shakes her head, and then turns to look at some other customers approaching. Greets them with a smile, and it feels like less of the pressure is on Robin now. Not being stared at while she tries to pick a pair of earrings for her crush.

Now that she's conceded that she is in fact buying a gift for Vickie, Robin is taking the decision making part of the processes very seriously. Looking at all of the options — at the look, the colour, the material they're made of. The feel and the way they catch the light. It needs to be perfect.

She looked at the recycled ones, earrings and necklaces and rings and bracelets shaped out of old metal pieces and canvas and carboard. Reinforced and strengthened in ways Steve didn't quite know and strung up for people to wear. Painted and dyed pretty colours. Hearts and flowers and abstract triangles. If you looked close enough you could see remnants and snippets of writing from the material the lady had salvaged.

Steve likes the resin ones. Small flowers and leaves encased in the clear, shimmering resin. Specs of glitter that catches the light. The flowers dried and pressed into flat circles, or triangles, or other shapes so they could be hung from the ear. There were a couple of more alive looking flowers in cubes, the earring hook anchored from one of the corners.

"What about these?" Steve says, holding up a pair of the resin flower earrings for Robin to see. "Very Molly Ringwald."

"It would look cute with her straw hat," Robin considers, running her calloused fingers over the smooth surface of them. "Ooh, and that chunky cardigan with the daisies."

He watches something flicker over Robin, quick as a flash before she's pulling a face. Brow furrowing and nose wrinkling up, as if she's distressed by her own thought.

"But maybe that means that I should get one of the crocheted earrings," Robin whines. "That would go better with her cardigans — but is that too boring?"

"What, too matchy-matchy?" Steve asks with a raised eyebrow. "Like, you're pigeon-holing her or something?

"Yes! Exactly!" Robin exclaims as Steve puts the earrings back down on the table. "Like, 'oh, you wear a lot of crocheted stuff, so I bought you more crochet,' like, that's too surface level!"

"If you've got enough you could get two pairs," Steve suggests with a shrug. "Cover your bases."

"Okay but would that be too much?" Robin asks, wringing, her fluttery, anxious hands. Wondering if she would be too much. If she would be coming on too strong.

"I really don't know why you're asking me that," Steve says simply, thinking of boquets of roses, and simple jewelery bought because 'it made me think of you'. Of picking his girlfriends up and swinging them around, of buying their ticket and their favourite candy before they could even think about asking for it. He gives Robin a knowing look, and she returns it looking understanding, but also a little bit sad. He tries not to think about it too hard.

He wears his heart on his sleeve when he romances, when he cares, when he puts his everything into wooing his partner. There's no such thing as too much if you care about them. If you're thinking if them, you let them know.

You buy them things because you know it'll make them smile. You buy them two pairs of earrings at a market because you know they'll like them.

"Steve," Robin says quietly, all too forlorn for someone so worked up mere moments before. She knows how heartbroken he was after he put himself out there for Nancy. Was too much. He gives her a look in return — soft, thankful — before he lets it fall away.

"Which is why I say to buy two pairs," Steve says simply. Because they both know that if he was in her position, he would. Not only is he confident and unashamed, he's also a total romantic.

And maybe it's Robin's turn to be a romantic. To put it out there. Steve already knows that it's going to be reciprocated. She's going to get a happy ending, if he has anything to say about it. And he does. He's her best friend, of course he does.

"Okay, two pairs." Robin agrees, nodding, before taking a deep breath and redoubling her efforts in looking over the stall. "I got this."

"Steve took that as his queue to pull his attention away from the stall, and to the rest of the market around them. It was bustling, full of a million other people all trawling though the multitude of stalls.

This was no Hawkins craft fair.

Steve and Robin both agreed that they needed some time away from Hawkins, after everything. So they both managed to swing some simultaneous time off work and Steve drove them both to Indianapolis. Booked them in at some cheap and only sort-of sketchy hotel. It came with a double bed only, and the guy at the reception desk gave them both a weird knowing look — which they both resolutely ignored. The focus wasn't on where they were staying, it was what they were doing in the city. There was just so much, and only so much time to cram it all into.

The market was one of Robin's picks, but Steve wasn't complaining. There were a few stalls selling all sorts of antiques where he managed to get a few baseball cards for cheap. That, and there's a few food and drink stands further on that are really catching his eye.

Bur first — earrings for Vickie.

While he was distracted, trying to get a look at the fresh smoothie place a couple of stalls down — Robin had pulled five or six earrings off of the displays and lined them up in front of her. Fingers dancing over them like she was playing the piano. Focusing on how they looked, how they felt, whether they caught the light and how well they matched Vickie's aesthetic.

All of them would — for the record.

"Those two," Steve says, pointing to two of the six Robin had gathered in front of her. One of the cool resin flowers he pointed out before, and a funky triangle design made of the recycled material that Robin was fond of.

Not that she was saying she was fond of it. She just kept coming back to them over and over again. Drawn to them with thoughts of Vickie.

Robin picks up the two pairs Steve pointed out, and holds them out in front of her. Screwing up her face in concentration. Quick eyes darting between them and the other choices on the table. Anxious eyes flicking to Steve and back to the earrings.

"I'm telling you." Steve says, putting a hand on one hip, giving Robin a look. "These two."

"I hate that you're right," Robin replies, voice jovial and mouth twitching up at the corners. Betraying all seriousness she tried to put into her words. She quickly puts the other earrings back in their places, on the display stands and artfully arranged on the table.

"No you don't," Steve replies, smiling as Robin takes his two picks up to the lady running the stall, one hand clutching the earrings, the other digging through her bag for her wallet.

He merely watches as she pays, quickly and safely stowing the earrings and her wallet back in her bag. Following along as Robin leaves the stall and continues through the market.

"Thank you Steve — oh you're so welcome Robin — I never could have done this without you," Steve immitates, pulling a face and pitching his voice up in a poor mockery of Robin.

She snorts. "Thank you Steve."

"Now you just need to actually give them to her."

"Oh God," Robin whines, as Steve tilts his head back and laughs.

[highlifeboat]

🫂🫂🫂

It's always good shows my dude I swear to God.

It's never shit like Family Guy that have been on for 23 years and run the same joke into the ground.

Or Big Mouth. Like I like Big Mouth, but goddamn 6 seasons is a lot for a show that's just about kids going through puberty. (I feel like giving it pity points because it's got very blatant representation which is nice. But it's a hit n miss show tbh)

I think the last actually decent "long running" cartoon I watched was Bojack. And even that got shortened.

Because Netflix and Disney just hate good shows I guess 🙃

[sv5hive]

too little, too late. | lh44

pairing: lewis hamilton x fem!reader

content warning(s): angst, swearing, lewis is a bit of a dick in this sorry, unhappy ending because i love being miserable 🫶🏻

word count: 1,763

note: thank you so much for all the likes and reblogs on my first work a few days ago!! i didn't expect all the love so it is very, very appreciated :) this is a bit long so get comfy! and i also listened to you're losing me by taylor swift while writing so... yeah.

(psst! part 2 is here!)

(masterlist!)

memories from the night you two met flashed through your mind as you stood alone in the dim kitchen. the hangover from the next morning meant most of the night was a blur of shots, flashing lights and sweaty bodies but those deep brown eyes and endearing smile remained sharply in focus.

you stared at the two cold plates of dinner abandoned on the table and a bottle of wine nearing the end.

where had it all gone wrong?

six years.

six years of supporting him through everything.

and you loved being with lewis no matter what. seeing him in his element while racing was just as exciting for you as it was for him. but when would it end? you couldn't keep your life on pause forever.

back in 2017 when you first started dating you discussed a life of peace. a life with a big family and a nice house in england where your children could grow up normally like the both of you did. and you weren't foolish. you would never truly have peace when you were in a relationship with lewis hamilton, the face of formula 1. but you were willing to give up any sense of normality if it meant you could be with the love of your life.

or so you thought.

years passed as you watched all your friends get engaged and married, settle down and start their own families. at every bachelorette party, wedding reception, baby shower, family event you would be asked the same questions.

"when is he going to pop the question? you two have to get married! i bet he's planning to do it soon."

and every time you would have the same response.

"oh we're just taking it slow. he's pretty busy with racing and we both agreed that it wouldn't be fair for him to be away so much."

and you really did believe that at first.

either you didn't notice the stares of pity or you ignored them to convince yourself that everything was ok. it was only when you brought up the idea of finally having kids that you started doubting yourself.

"hey, lew. i've been thinking."

"hmm, yeah? what about." he replied absentmindedly, still searching netflix for a good movie to watch.

you passed him the bowl of popcorn to hold while you got under the blanket.

"i was thinking that we're finally ready to start a family."

he stilled. that was the last thing he thought you would bring up.

"lewis?"

"i want a family too, you know that. but i can't retire without getting that eighth championship. we're almost there. besides, i don't wanna leave you at home with a kid and not be there for every step of the way."

both of you knew at the rate mercedes was going, lewis would need a miracle and a half to win another title against red bull and their rocket ship.

he avoided your eyes and clearly thought that was the end of the matter so you accepted that when he was ready he would tell you. right?

you tossed and turned that night, unable to get the way he brushed off the topic so coldly out of your head. did you imagine it? that flicker of hesitance on his face? a pit of uneasiness settled at the bottom of your stomach as you desperately tried to reason with yourself. no. everything is fine. you had already waited a few years. what was a couple more?

so you tucked away your dreams of a family into the back of your mind for the time being and just enjoyed your relationship with lewis. every date felt like the first and you never wanted your love to end.

"lewis...this is too much!" as you stared in awe at the lone table in the middle of a completely empty restaurant.

rose petals led you two all the way from the entrance to a table with a single rose stood in a vase in the centre as candles flickered softly.

"for you? never."

staring at him in the golden light, you couldn't help but blush at his romantic gesture. he was making up for being away during a triple header and you hated to admit it but you could get used to this.

racing. you smiled at the thought of seeing lewis race. it was like seeing an artist produce a masterpiece every time pencil hit paper. he truly was an incredible sight to see.

you were there for each of his championships since 2017. you witnessed the joy of 2020 and the heartbreak of 2021. you were there, celebrating each win with him and consoling him after each loss, every time. you had fallen in love with the sport you once had no knowledge of just as hard as you had fallen for lewis. you knew how much of a toll each season took on him and you were always going to be there to pick him back up. his world became yours as you met his team and soon enough you were a familiar sight in the mercedes garage.

wasn't seven world championships enough for him?

you would never ask him to give up his career for you. and he would never ask that of you. but after years of waiting for the next step you couldn't help but wonder whether he still wanted that with you.

he was more than an hour late now. both of your schedules had been almost completely full for the past few months and you thought it would be nice to catch up over homemade dinner.

apparently he didn't think the same.

you hadn't bothered calling or texting. he always turned his phone off while at work anyways. as you finished off the last mouthful of wine the jingle of keys and the door unlocking brought you back out of your thoughts.

heavy footsteps trudged through the hallway.

"hey baby, i didn't think you would be up- what's all this?"

"dinner. i've been waiting for two hours now." you turned away from the counter to face him.

"shit. i am so sorry. i just got so caught up at work. we've been trying to improve the car to-"

"-to beat red bull. i know. i know."

"i promise i'll make it up to you. what about dinner next week? at that chinese restaurant you really like?" he walked towards you and went to wrap his arms around you before you pushed him away.

"stop, lewis. just stop. i can't keep doing this." you couldn't look him in the eyes.

a pin drop could be heard as lewis' blood ran cold.

"what?"

the change in atmosphere almost made you wish you had never said anything. almost.

"i can't keep waiting on you, lewis. i'm sorry."

"i said i would make it up to you." the look of pure confusion on his face would be amusing if it weren't for the fact that you were on the verge of tears.

"it's not just about dinner, lewis."

"then what is it about?"

"everything. god, we've been together for eight years and we're not even engaged and nowhere near starting a family. we have nothing to show for it. i knew i would have to wait and i was fine with that but i just can't anymore. this isn't what i imagined for us."

"so what? you're just going to leave? you know how i feel about having kids."

"and i get that, i do. but are you even planning on retiring in the near future? we're not getting any younger and i've been ready for a while now. i just don't think our ideas of our future are the same anymore."

"am i just meant to drop everything for you then? give it all up?"

"fuck, of course not, lewis. i would never ask you to do that. never. but sometimes it feels like you choose your career over me. and i know what it takes to be in formula 1 to win, i know you need to give it your full focus. i just, i need you to choose me for once. choose us."

"no, you don't know what it takes because if you did, you wouldn't be doing this to me right now. in the middle of the season."

you blinked. once. twice. you couldn't believe what you were hearing.

"are you fucking kidding me, lewis? i'm ending our six year relationship and you're thinking of how it's going to effect your season?"

"yes! fuck, this is my whole life. it always has been and it always will be."

there it is. confirmation from the man himself. you stumbled on your words trying to convey your anger as your blood continuously boiled at his miserable attempt to fix his mess.

"have you ever even thought about how i've felt all these years? giving every excuse in the book to our families and friends about why we haven't taken the next step in our relationship and defending you when they said i was too good for you? you may get to avoid them by going to the races but i don't have that privilege."

your throat was dry at this point as you gasped for air and still, he was stood almost unbothered at the fact you were hopelessly clinging onto the last remaining threads of your relationship, willing him to fight back.

"so that's it? you're not going to stop me?"

tears pooled at your eyes as you realised this was really happening.

"well clearly you've thought this out pretty well."

you didn't know whether to laugh, cry or throw the empty bottle of wine at his head.

"you are fucking unbelievable, lewis. i thought this meant something to you but clearly not."

you stormed towards the door and opened it. you paused while silently hoping he would beg you to stay. hoping he would risk everything for you.

but it never came.

you wiped away your tears and tried to at least sound somewhat assertive despite your voice wavering.

"let me know when you're not at home and i'll come get my things."

you slammed the door shut with a resounding bang and walked away from the place and person you had called home for so long.

he sighed and rubbed his face with his hand. as he moved to get a beer out of the fridge his gaze fell on the calendar stuck to the front. there was a red heart around today's date with "anniversary!" written in your handwriting.

fuck.

note: yikes. i hope you aren't too sad because of me. any feedback is appreciated!! let me know what else you wanna see :)

[caelivir]

surrender | rayne ames

synopsis. rayne ames can’t stop staring at you tonight, which is strange, considering the fact that he loathes your guts.

pairing. rayne ames x fem!reader, | wc. 4.1k | genres. haters to lovers, tension, jealousy, rayne's hot and obsessed and reader's in denial | warnings. reader wears lipstick but it's mentioned once at the end, they make out what's new (it's good for my the soul), a bit suggestive

notes. tbh this wasn't supposed to be as long as it is. what a yap fest. blame my hormones and the weeknd. this is ugly and i hate it but it will have to do while i continue working on other fics.

you can’t comprehend why he’s here. the rest of the student body can’t either because the moment he walked through those doors all eyes were on him.

you’re positive that rayne ames had to have some devil whispering in his ear. how else would he be convinced to attend a grand event such as this one? dancing? socializing? it’s not his style, especially when he knows that every guy and girl within a ten foot radius would be jumping at the chance to have his attention.

you’re point is proven right in the next three seconds. you can already spot girls batting their eyelashes at him. you can see them trying to coerce him into a dance. on any other day you’d scoff at their fawning over an asshole like rayne.

however, you can’t seem to bring yourself to say that tonight. rayne’s half blonde, half jet black hair is styled in a wet curtain cut with long loose strands falling in front of his forehead. he wears a black two piece suit with the coat sporting various decorations.

there are two sets of silver chains that are pinned just below each one of his shoulders. each set is comprised of five chains. one directly connects a line between two metallic circles. two chains of varying lengths begin at one button before swooping a short distance down the front of rayne’s coat before linking back to the second circle that hangs lower than its counterpart. the remaining three chains follow the same pattern except they droop down the side of his arm, nearing the peak of the dip at the middle of his upper arm and rising back up to the coat’s shoulder pads that have sleek silver suns on top of them.

under the jacket, the visionary dons a white dress shirt that is tucked into his pants. however, the piece is damn near transparent, and the top buttons remain undone, exposing some of the skin of his torso. to finish the look off, rayne wears one singular necklace with a sword pendant.

you hate it, and you hate whoever styled him because tonight he's a dangerously gorgeous devil that's making your heart pound at an embarrassingly alarming rate. your eyes are glued to him no matter how badly your mind screams at you to look away. yet just as you can't tear your gaze away from him, rayne is equally unable to focus on anyone else that isn't you.

he inhales a deep breath of air before carving a path to your position at the food table. the alarms in your head go off in panic. you can't exactly play off the fact that you were so blatantly ogling him so instead you own up to it, masking your flustered expression with a glare in his direction.

"well if it isn't the devil himself." you taunt when he nears, soaking in the half blonde's formal look one more time. "what made you decide to crawl out of hell tonight?"

"i could ask you the same thing." rayne answers bluntly, and you scowl because he knows that you hate when he turns your snarky comments back on you.

"why'd i even bother?" you roll your eyes with a scoff, directing your attention to bite-size appetizers in front of you.

"let me know when you find the answer to that." the visionary responds, causing a muscle in your cheek to twitch in irritation.

rayne doesn’t move from his spot. in fact, he’s standing so close to you that your arm brushes against the black fabric of his coat and the cold silver chains on the side of his arm.

"can you move?" you snap, annoyed because now your senses are being filled with his scent—an intoxicating mix of cinnamon and cardamom that makes your mind go fuzzy.

"i can't have food?" rayne cockily raises an eyebrow at you before randomly picking up a tomato basil puff off the plate. he chews it thoughtfully, and through the micro expressions of his face, you come to understand that he is pleased with its taste.

you bundle your fists tightly to release some of your nerves. a breath of air enters your lungs to steady yourself. you remind yourself to not get swept up in his games. rayne ames will not ruin your night. all of these affirmations lead you to the decision to leave him by the food table.

however before you can do that, the music slows to an end, and people take it as a sign to scramble for a partner before the next piece starts up again. as for you, you're immediately confronted by a tall blonde boy in your grade. he kindly extends a hand out to you that’s shaking very discreetly. "may i have this dance?"

you mentally grimace because you're still on edge due to rayne, but you don't have the heart to turn the guy down when he so obviously worked up the courage to come up to you. reluctantly, you accept his offer with a meager nod, and as he takes you by the hand, you involuntarily glance back at rayne, who has been staring the entire interaction down like a hawk.

the boy leads you to an open spot on the dance floor and doesn't hesitate to take the lead once a graceful waltz composition begins. you try to pay attention to the guy's little ramblings about duelo as you glide across the floor, but your mind wanders back to rayne.

what would it be like to have his hand on your back or your hand interlocked with his? would it light a blaze upon your skin? why do you even want to find out?

your eyes drift across the expanse of the enormous ballroom, scanning for that half blonde pain in your ass. after several moments of searching, you find rayne standing off to the side, back leaned against one of the pillars. he switched his food out for apple cider in a champagne glass. he stands with max land and other faces you aren't familiar with. whatever conversation they're having, rayne isn't following; his sole focus is on you and only you.

there's something dark lurking beneath his eyes. the intensity of his gaze generates shivers down the line of your spine. you think that the glass in his hands might shatter in his grip.

"are you alright?" your partner questions, and it brings your concentration back onto him. "are you cold?"

you present him a tight grin. "i'm good. you don't have to worry about me."

the boy in front of you accepts your answer without any suspicion and continues leading the dance until the song finally comes to an finishes. yet even when the waltz ends, and you thank your partner for the dance, he sticks by you. that's fine. he’s a nice guy who means no harm, but because you're severely distracted right now, he is the last thing on your mind.

he gently guides you through the room, keeping a hand on the small of your back protectively as you squeeze between the crowd. you force yourself to engage in conversation with the friends he introduces you to. you laugh at the appropriate times and give your two cents into a topic should it be deemed necessary, all in attempt to ignore the burning sensation of eyes drilling into the back of your neck. each time you catch him, rayne doesn't dare to avert his gaze. he’s shameless in that matter. he'll maintain this eye contact with you until you're the first one to tear away with your face a burning mess.

as the night progresses, you're losing the patience to withstand it. the guy in front of you. rayne. thoughts of rayne. your head is swirling in confusion, and you need new air and silence in order to calm yourself.

when you're sure rayne isn't watching, you dismiss yourself from your partner with a pathetic excuse that you need to quickly use the washroom that he buys instantaneously. and when the crowd hides you completely, you sneak off in the total opposite direction of the restroom.

you navigate your way through the venue until you find the exit that leads to gardens in the back. you pay no mind to party raging behind you, only straying yourself further and further from the noise until you're met with silence. it's only then that you're able to feel your heart slowing down it's pace.

you continue wandering until you find a gazebo hidden deep within the gardens. the structure is surrounded by flowers of varying colors and species. its posts are wrapped in vibrantly green vines. there are no seats built into it, but it will have to suffice as a place to rest and cool your head.

you lean back into one of the wooden posts, shutting your eyes as you inhale the scent of cold, wet, grassy air. when the brewing storm in your mind finally calms, all that remains is a certain divine visionary.

never in all of your years of knowing rayne ames would you have ever thought your emotions involving him would end up conflicting like this. you loathe him; you have since the day you met. so you can't seem to fathom what changed tonight. can it really be all because of a mere suit and new styling of his hair? how pathetic.

and his eyes… those damn yellow eyes that follow your every move. how can they ignite a fury of butterflies in your stomach?

and you don't even have the time to figure it out before your ears pick up on the sound of frantic footsteps and rattling chains that encroach closer and closer to you. your eyes fling wide open, and your body instantly freezes at the sight before you.

rayne ames stands in front of the garden gazebo, chest quickly rising and falling as he pants out breaths that turn visible in the cold winter air. his styled hair isn't as kept as it was before. it's lost its volume and his loose strands of hair cling to his skin, most likely due to the thin coat of sweat that you can barely see under the dim moonlight. yet, he still looks so incredibly breathtaking. the half blonde's eyebrows are brought together in a mix of relief and worry, and you don't know what to make of it.

you don't get it anymore. what is he doing? what is his goddamn game? why, just why, is he standing before you?

the reason behind rayne’s appearance at the winter ball is so incredibly petty that he’s ashamed to even admit it out loud. he had overheard a blonde on the duelo team claim that he was going to dance with you that night.

the irritation that arose in the pits of his stomach during that moment could not be described. did that fool really think he stood a chance with you? you were completely out of his league.

the thought of you dancing with another man haunted rayne for days. each time it crossed his mind, he’d get so annoyed that he’d snap the quill he was writing with into two pieces.

it was stupidly impulsive to come to this ridiculous school ball. rayne knew that, but a part of him was desperate to find out what would happen. could the blond fool pull it off, and what were you going to do if he did? he's well-aware that you aren't his lover or his friend, and yet that didn't seem to stop him from being concerned about matters involving you.

it’s truly a puzzle because rayne is so positive of the fact that he hates you, but the moment he walked through the entrance, all certainty of that fact became debatable again.

he stands before you, separated by the crowd of students who are just as shocked as you are. he can tell that you hadn’t expected for this. and with your eyes locked onto each other, you both enter a new dimension—one where everyone else fades away.

in a sea of blurred, barely present faces, you are the only one that was clear, a face so beyond the words of beautiful. rayne feels like he had the air knocked out of his lungs. is his heart speeding up, or is it stopping? he can’t tell anymore. he’s losing his senses. to combat that, he takes a deep breath of air.

rayne doesn’t even see the girls tugging at his arms or the guys trying to start up a conversation. it’s only you, and like an iron attracted to a magnet, his feet pull him to where you are before he has the chance to realize it.

you’re quick with your snarky comments that attempt to drag him, but even then, you're beautiful. it's baffling how hopeless of a fool he is for you. it’s a miracle that rayne has half the mind to retort your jabs, and he is definitely glad that the food table acted as a cover up.

however, the visionary’s mood sours when that damn blond duelo player comes up to you, asking for a dance a whole lot earlier than he anticipated. rayne can’t make out your expression, but he does notice the nod of your head and the way you extend your hand to slide onto his, but not without giving the half blond a glance back.

rayne's gripping the edge of the table so tightly his knuckles go white. as you leave, another girl walks up to rayne, and he flat out ignores her, picking off a champagne glass from a server that happens to walk by him.

trying to cool his head, rayne ames finds max land in a matter of seconds, and he opts to stick by him. he doesn’t engage in any form of conversation with max, despite the multiple times his best friend has been trying to get his attention.

he'll apologize for it later, but every drop of focus that rayne possesses is on you as you move along the floor. the blond is talking your ear off, and the visionary is aware that you aren't fully listening because your eyes keep drifting back to him.

the fact that rayne doesn’t ever tear his eyes off you has you looking away in nervousness. it’s so unlike you. you’re always so confident in your confrontations against him, but it appears to be different tonight. it seems like everything is.

the longer he stares the more rayne hates the hand that is gently wrapped around yours. he hates the smiles that the blond duelo pulls from you simple because he is simply not worthy of them. he hates that even after the stupid waltz is over you're dragged to meet his friends.

the visionary has no right to be feeling like this, especially after all the verbal arguments and harsh words. but each time you look at him tonight with those star-filled eyes, rayne swears that he'll make it up to you for the rest of your lives.

"rayne, the suit is amazing. where'd you get it from? i haven't seen anything like it." one of max's friends asks, which finally drags the half blond's attention away from you.

"ryoh grantz." he replies dryly.

"you got this from the light cane?!"

"that's what i said, didn't i?" the visionary glares, visibly annoyed.

"oh. y-yeah." the guy chuckles awkwardly, rubbing the nape of his neck. it's then when he realizes that any attempt of conversation with rayne ames is futile so he switches the topic.

when the half blond drags his eyes back to you, he nearly loses grip on the champagne glass that he's been holding for a while. "she's gone." rayne mutters to himself, yet somehow over all the noise, max hears him.

max land peers over the crowd, finding the spot where you last stood. the blondie you were with is huddled with his friends, but you are no longer in sight. the brown haired boy hums. "i think your staring scared her off."

rayne narrows his eyes at his friend who only raises his hands in defense. the divine visionary scans the entire room, expecting you to be gathered with a different group of people, but you're not. you're not in here at all. "damn it." he curses with a hiss, ditching max to search for you.

if his best friend protests or calls for rayne, he doesn't hear it. max is the least of his concerns right now.

he leaves the empty glass onto the nearest table and begins a distraught search. he does a lap around the entire room, thinking that it'll make you appear again, but his efforts bear no fruit. he wanders up and down the halls, giving everyone he passes a quick glance, only to find that they're not you.

rayne finds an entrance that leads to the back gardens, and he's praying that you're somewhere there. he doesn't know how long he spends running around. his dress shirt is sticking to his skin, and his hair is falling out of place. the venue for the ball is so far behind him to the point that he can't even hear the music or noisy chatter anymore.

despite the burn in his calves, he pushes deeper into the gardens, jogging until a gazebo catches his eye. it's hard to see in the moonlight, but rayne swears that he sees the shadow of a figure. it's his last hope; he's praying that it's you.

the half blond jogs up to the steps. the chains of his suit rattle as he does so. he realizes then that it is you. relief, worry, and anger hit him all at once, but in your eyes, he can't say the same. there is no malice, only confliction, and rayne decides right then and there.

he's going to open his heart to you.

"what are you doing here, rayne?" you ask, practically defeated.

"what about you?" he snaps back harsher than he ever has before. he takes angry steps up the stairs. "it's fucking freezing, and you decide to come out here alone. do you even realize how far the venue is right now? do you know how much i was-" rayne stops himself mid-sentence, curling his fists by his side.

"no, tell me." you demand, walking closer to him. "what is it? you are always so blunt. what's stopping you now, huh? spit it out."

"i was worried about you." he answers quietly.

your heart swells when you hear it, but you choose to suppress it instead because that can't possibly be right. "worried?! why on earth would you ever be worried about me? you hate me, rayne ames, and i hate you. all we ever do is torment each other. it's exactly why you kept staring at me tonight. i couldn't focus on anything but you. that's what you wanted, right? you wanted me off my guard? well, congratulations asshole. you won. now leave me alone."

"no." the boy in front of you sternly denies.

"no? god, you have some fucking nerve-" you fume.

"i'm not leaving you alone." rayne clenches his jaw, staring deep into your eyes. you force yourself to swallow. "i haven't left you alone since the day we met, and i'm not leaving you alone now."

you scoff, trying to push past rayne, but he blocks your path. "move, rayne."

he ignores you altogether. "you want to know why i'm so worried about you, hm? here's your answer." rayne's voice is low, almost dangerous as he speaks. he steps closer to you, nearly pressing your bodies together. the heat that radiates off him is electrifying.

"you've been stuck in my head for the last week, and it's all because of that blond buffoon on the duelo team." rayne scowls. "i heard him. i knew that he wanted to dance with you, and it pissed me off. i couldn't imagine his hand on your back or his hand on yours without feeling my blood boil, and i hated every second that you were with him tonight. it was torture."

"jealousy?" you breathe out, trying to belittle him as you do so, but you fail miserably when your eyes dart to rayne's lips. "you might as well be obsessed with me."

"maybe i am." rayne's hand reaches up to trail the pearls of your necklace. his hand then moves further up your neck, fingers gently tickling your skin as they pass before resting on the side of your throat. "i might've been obsessed with you the moment your pretty little mouth started talking back to me. hell, i might even be in love with you."

in that moment, you feel your breath hitch. your eyes open wider in disbelief, and that doesn't deter the divine visionary in front of you at all. you try reading him, trying to find any sort of sign that this whole thing is a joke, but deep down you know. you said it yourself moments earlier. rayne's honest and blunt to a fault. he wouldn't say something he doesn't mean.

"the sight of you is enough to bring a man to his knees. you have me wrapped around your finger, (y/n). just say the word, and i'll be yours."

you don't know when rayne's face had gotten so close, but you can feel his breath fanning along yours. you can indulge in that cardamum and cinnamon scent that brings your brain to a high.

"rayne..." you whisper, brushing the loose strands of hair away from his forehead even though they return to the same place they were once before.

and as he admires you with those eyes, eyes that look at you as if you created the world and spun it on its axis, you surrender. you close the gap between the two of you because you're tired.

you're tired of acting like the thought that you want him has never crossed your mind. you're tired of acting like he's isn't stupidly hot whenever he puts you in your place, you're tired of pretending that you've never wanted to slam your lips against his just to shut him up.

rayne said he might've been obsessed with you from the moment you started arguing with him. well, you might've been obsessed with him when you realized that he wasn't going to tolerate any of your attitude. it's probably why you constantly picked fights with him. all the tension and unspoken words and lust came as a result. it was bound to boil over eventually.

you told yourself to not get swept up in him, and yet here you are, completely drowning. you chase each other like you're both starved. the kiss so desperate and powerful that rayne backs you up into one of the gazebo posts. the contact makes you gasp, and rayne uses it as an opportunity to slip his tongue into your mouth. you'll have to press him about this later. for a guy who avoids women like the plague, he sure knows how to kiss you to euphoria.

your senses are so overloaded that you grip onto the open fabric of rayne's white dress shirt to keep you up. it effectively pulls him closer, making him groan. you lightly trail your nails down the exposed skin of his chest. you feel the visionary shiver before you, and you know that he's putty in your hands. you continue that path down, feeling the faint outline of his abs through his shirt.

rayne pulls away only to continue burning hot kisses down your neck and onto your collarbone. he nips and sucks on your skin, and you know that it's sure to leave marks, but in the moment, you can't help but whine his name. you let him have his fun until the feeling of missing his lips on yours is overbearing.

you force rayne up by his chin, and he almost looks disappointed. you smirk once you notice the smearing of lipstick on his face and the uneven rhythm of his breathing.

"what a mess you are." you tease, toying with rayne's bottom lip with your thumb.

"do you really have to do this right now?" rayne complains lightheartedly, all while placing kisses onto the inside of your palm, making you giggle.

"always." you wink, and your hands wander back down to his chest. "kiss me?"

rayne cups one half of your face, stroking your cheek with his thumb. "always." he replies, diving into the addiction that is you once more.

@kyoghurts @seneon hey...

[syrma-sensei]

→ Honourable Lies.

gif credit.

Pairing: Kyōraku Shunsui x Wife!reader.

Rating: Mature.

Warnings: Angst, couple fighting...

Word Count: 850.

Summary: You find about the very thing Shunsui doesn't want you to know about.

“How dare you!”

You catch your husband in the grand library of the First Squad quarters. His back is hunched forward, head bending over the book he's reading.

While you're simmering with anger, he lets out an elongated sigh that's weighed with burden. You can see that as Shunsui glances over at you from his spot. You almost feel bad for him. Well, you do. But after you heard from a reliable source what's been on the table with Central 46 and him, rage soused in your body. You didn't want to believe, but here he is, not saying a single word to deny it.

“So you have heard…” Shunsui says, raising his head up from the book, casting his away for a moment, “Words do travel fast from Central 46. Beats me.”

“Is it true?” Your voice weakens in implorement. Just say no, please, you think. But when he doesn't answer you push it, “Shun, please, tell me it's not true.”

He sighs again, he spent the past hours contemplating over how he should deliver you the news. Although he saw this coming, he couldn't conceal the waver in his tone, “I’m sorry, sweetheart. It is true.”

The sight of tears well up in your eyes stabs him in his chest. With a blink of an eye, you feel his warmth enshrouds you, his large arms encircle you into his hold, and you lean into his chest out of habit.

“He killed my father, Shun…” You sniffle softly, “How could you do that?”

A painful twang sears through his heart. You've never been mad at him until now. He'll have this as a stigma for the rest of his life. He kisses the crown of your head to console you.

“I know, baby, I know…” He tries to comfort you, patting your back with his gentle hand, “I’m sorry I have to put you through this. But we need Aizen Sōsuke to win.”

You wince at the mention of your father's killer. You're a daughter of a member of the former Central 46 before Aizen massacred them all.

You shake your head relentlessly, “We don't!”

“My love, please, try to understand—”

“We don't need that rogue kinslayer.” You say stubbornly.

He sighs again. There's no way convincing you with reason, is there? Reluctantly, Shunsui wears the new Head Captain of The Gotei Thirteen's mask.

“It’s my job to ensure our victory, my love,” He grimaces at his own tone, he never spoke to you as such, “I’m terribly sorry, but the Central 46 has already given me their blessing to embark on unsealing him.”

You push him away, your body already yearns to his warmth around it again. Shunsui has always been your rock, your home. It goes against your nature to push him away like that. But he left you with no choice; the fact your father's killer will be breathing the same air as you thanks to your husband's efforts sends to the edge. Rage, frustration, and disappointment overwhelm you, and you cry harder. You wish you were a shinigami like your husband, maybe in that case he wouldn't be needing that bastard's help.

You glance up at him, your hand is flat on his bare chest. You can feel it, there's a change in his reiatsu. Something alien in his chest. Your eyes widen in realisation. 

Your voice is wary. “Kyōraku Shunsui—”

His hands swipe up on your shoulders, “I need your blessing, wife.” He smiles ruefully, “I can't go against the enemy knowing my beautiful wife is angry with me.”

Your lips crack into a small smile through your tears. “Shunsui you can't fool me with words. I'm your wife.”

He smiles sadly, “I can't, can I?”

You flick your thumb to his chest and ease away the glamour that hides the X mark on his chest. Your heart wrings. 

“What did you do?” You sniffle again, stroking the mark softly with your hands, “Why are you so gluttonous for punishment?”

“I’m not eager to see him either, believe me,” Shunsui chuckles humourlessly, “One must always be on their full guard when it involves Aizen Sōsuke.”

“What if… what if…” He kills you too, you wanted to say, but instead, “What if he harms you?” You reason, “You’re the Head Captain now, the Gotei Thirteen can't afford to lose another one.”

“It must be me, my love.” He sighs, “It was my idea…” Please, do not hate me.

Your tears pour down your cheeks, “Shunsui… I lost my lord father. I don't want to lose my lord husband too.”

“You won't. I promise.” He says, patting your head.

You both hear a knock on the library's door.

“Pardon me, Head Captain,” A member of the onmitsukidō is bowing at the entrance, “But it is time.”

You hug your husband, burying your face in his chest, “Please, don't leave me…” Your cries are muffled by his skin.

He leans in and kisses the top of your head, “I’ll be back in no time, I promise.”

Then, along with that soldier, he disappears from the library. Leaving you with a broken promise, and an honourable lie.

• Main Masterlist.

• Bleach Masterlist.

• AO3.

[epicness1000]

17 REASONS WHY SAMPO KOSKI IS SUS

I'm not sure if I've come across a fictional character more horrendously sus than Sampo Koski.

Since I'm kind of hyperfixated on him (and Dr Ratio too), I will make a post on why our beloved blue scammer is very, very sus.

He is the only character to leave no trace when he walks. No splashes in water, no footprints in the snow. Literally no other character in the game does this.

All of his eidolons, save for one, are made up of two words and are very light hearted: "Rising love", "Infectious enthusiasm", "Big money!", "Huuuuuuuuge money!" and "Increased Spending", all of which reference either his love for money, or his warmth. The one exception is "The Deeper the Love, the Stronger the Hate". What? What do you mean hate? We've never seen Sampo be anything but 'haha funny scam boi'. What a strangely ominous thing to say...

Not to mention the art paired with that eidolon. In every piece of art we have of him, you can see the light in his eyes– not here. The light's completely absent.

His defeat pose. Every character is either kneeling, or sitting down. Sampo is the ONLY one who is still on his feet. This must surely be intentional.

The fact that he's among the few characters with an invalid rating from the rating pistol (Alongside Acheron, Jing Yuan, Feixiao, March 7 and Luocha, all of whom are either extremely powerful, or have a completely unknown past as is the case of March 7).

He is the only character to directly acknowledge the player in-game (Sparkle did this in a trailer, but... it was a trailer, so it doesn't count until it's something in-game). Self-aware character? (This is my own headcanon >:)

He very clearly is not a Belobogian native, this is all but confirmed by the fact that everyone states he just showed up one day a few years back (something along those lines). So... where is he really from? His splash art doesn't seem to be Belobog either...

The fact that the trailblazer turned away from him for ONE SECOND, and he disappeared without a sound??? Like he was never there at all.

The entirety of Funny Bone, which shows a very violent side to Sampo. You CANNOT convince me it doesn't hold some element of truth to who he truly is, because if Hoyo truly intended for him to be harmless comic relief with little more to him, why would they play this song live in an official Honkai: Star Rail orchestra accompanied with the visuals? Would they really approve something showing him in such a dangerous, unhinged and dark light when we've never seen him like that in-game?

The fact that he's a Masked Fool. A Masked Fool who apparently has some moral standards, but a Masked Fool nonetheless. Personally, I suspect he wasn't always so mellow.

THAT WHOLE SCENE OF FIREFLY DESCRIBING HIM, HAVING KNOWN NOTHING ABOUT WHO HE WAS, AND MAKING HIM SOUND LIKE SOME SORT OF SKILLED ASSASSIN?? (I know it was a shapeshifted Sparkle but I think the point still stands. Also, this might just be me, but before I realised it was Sampo following us around, the way FF was talking about our stalker unsettled me and genuinely left the impression that she was talking about an assassin of some kind... wouldn't surprise me if this guy's hands have been stained red in the past).

The fact that his backstory snippets are all of him just goofing around disguised as Madame Poisson? When there's CLEARLY more to him than meets the eye?

THE FACT THAT HE'S ONE OF THE FEW CHARACTERS WHO IS NOT ABLE TO BOARD THE ASTRAL EXPRESS YET????? Even Sparkle can board, so it doesn't have to do with the fact that he's a masked fool. And I think everyone else from Belobog can board, so... hmm... sus....

We find him in the Belobog outskirts. I'm pretty sure it's noted that normal humans can't go out there unprepared without freezing to death, or something? I might be misremembering.

HIS LIGHT CONE! HOW COULD I FORGET HIS LIGHT CONE! Firstly, notice it's not just one sniper targetting him, but there is also a man in the corner pointing a gun at him. The art is called "The Eyes of the Prey", yet when you read its description, Sampo is unsettlingly calm, spotting the sniper from a distance with no warning (makes him sound like he has borderline supernatural awareness, which I think fits with the idea of him being 'self-aware'), and is noted to have more money than the hitman makes from multiple contracts. I think the title is also a subversion– with how in control Sampo is of the situation, surviving TWO simultaneous hitmen, it's quite clear that he is not the prey– rather, it's those who target him.

He knows things he ABSOLUTELY SHOULD NOT KNOW. The fact that he implies that Dan Heng is a dragon? Or his 'knowledge' voice line, which clearly expresses his awareness that we arrived by train (when he should not have this information?).

His eidolon activation phrase is "Everyone has a colourful past, wouldn't you say?" We know literally NOTHING about his past.

So, I'm not sure EXACTLY what this all means, but it's clearly pointing to something. Don't let me down, Mihoyo! You usually do, you filthy gacha bastards, but... try to do Sampo justice please.

[kaitsawamura]

-> somebody come get her (she's dancing like a stripper)

-> SUMMARY

You have bills to pay. That's the only thing on your mind when you go in for your shift at the strip club. The only thing on your mind until you see Daichi.

Daichi doesn't expect to find you, the girl of his dreams, at the strip club. In fact, he's 99% certain he shouldn't be here. But now he can't stop thinking of all the things he'd let you do to him.

Will your mutual attraction pay off for the both of you?

-> STATS

Pairing: Daichi Sawamura x Stripper!Reader (get that bread!)

Rating: M for Mature, MDNI

Warnings: My take on a corruption kink except Daichi's the one getting corrupted

Tags: Corruption, strangers to lovers, smut I tell you, filthy filthy smut with my husband, strip club au, oral (m receiving), p in v, creampie, a bit of choking (like a tiny bit), hair pulling, nasty nasty f*cking with my husband, sex in public (sorta, it's in a public restroom), a little dominant confident Reader (if I missed anything y'all can let me know in the DM's)

Word Count: 6.3K

Author's Note: I knew the moment I saw Mint's post . : HERE : . that I had to write something about it. They obligingly gave me the go ahead to be inspired so off I went a-writing. Obviously, this might be considered mild corruption by some but to me? This was like I went into a blackout and woke up not knowing what year it was. So, here you go, enjoy some nasty filthy smut with my love!

-> LINKS

Main Masterlist

HQ Masterlist

Playlist

Moodboard

“Rent’s due on Monday,” your roommate reminds you, concern masked with sympathy clear on her face. She’s not trying to be mean or overbearing but damn it, the stress of the situation makes you want to snark back. But you don’t.

“Do you have your half?” She nods. You nod back decisively. “I’m working tonight. Fridays are good days to work. It’s my first one without shadowing anyone. I’ll have the rest of my half in tips, don’t worry.” Her face brightens as she pours herself a glass of orange juice, sunlight streaming in the kitchen window of the tiny two-bedroom apartment you share with her.

“Thank god. The landlord’s being an ass again. We’ve been late one time. I have half a mind to give him a list of all the things wrong in this shithole instead of the check.” You roll your eyes conspiratorially but in reality, you don’t know if you’ll make your half in tips or not. Maybe your boss will give you an advance. You’ll talk to him tonight. He was surprisingly reasonable so the odds were at least in your favor.

Either way, you’ll get the money. You just hope you’ll be able to put the nervous energy thrumming through your veins to good use.

Daichi Sawamura should not have come here tonight. The guys in the office had convinced him, said there was a new pretty girl who was exactly his type. But this place was not the sort he was used to coming to. It wasn’t that this establishment was a bad one or that he had any problem with it; people had to make money how they could. Empowerment and autonomy and all that. It was more that he felt a little inadequate if he was being completely honest with himself. He wouldn’t know what to do with someone from here. He was used to good girls, the ones who had a routine and didn’t like anything too kinky. Which was also fine. But there were things he wanted to try, had a suspicion he would like that he just couldn’t ask of anyone he’d been with. He scrubbed a hand over his face, realizing the conversation he was having completely in his head was stressing him out.

“Dai, bro, just relax. She’s pretty. You better tip her good but you don’t have to talk to anyone but me and the bartender if you don’t want to. Just enjoy the show.” Kuroo smirks at his friend; it has been a long week. It’s not like he doesn’t deserve to wind down. Part of him just wishes he was doing it in the comfort of his home, with his favorite ramen from around the corner and a good movie. But who knows, maybe he’s getting complacent.

So he sits in the seat Kuroo has pulled out for him, a front-row spot directly in the middle of the runway. Right in front of the center pole. The seats are comfortable and he’s got a whiskey neat in his hands. He can feel a little of the stress release from the muscles in his traps, can feel his jaw unclench just in the slightest as the first warm sip of whiskey flows down his throat.

This is fine, he reassures himself, pushing work from his brain. Kuroo takes a sip from his own drink, a fruity one that he insists is the most delicious ever but is just a little too sweet for Daichi. The place is in a lull right now, preparing for the next act. But soon there’s a growing murmur from the back. Someone whistles, and a few others catcall. Daichi bristles just a bit, but he can’t even see anything until you hit the steps and it’s then that Kuroo elbows him.

“That’s her,” he says, raising his voice so Daichi can hear over the now thrumming bass. He feels it in his toes, in his chest, in his head. But your steps, the bounce of your tits in a skimpy bright blue bikini top, he feels in his dick. It barely covers anything, just like the matching bottoms. Cute little bows keep them on your hips and your heels are a deep black. As you get closer, your walk slow and sensuous, he can see the peep toe and your fresh French manicure poking through. He tries to adjust his navy suit pants with little success. He’s in so much fucking trouble.

You strut up the steps, the blinking LED strips embedded into the floor blinking in rhythm with the bass and the rhythm of your hips. You put a little bit of extra attitude into the sway tonight, praying to any higher power that will listen that tonight will be a good one for tips, even though it’s your first show without any supporting performers. Part of you gets it; you’re new. The owner has to make sure you know how to use those doe eyes and amazing tits properly. The other part of you, the one that knows you’re hot and knows exactly what you’re doing, wanted to smirk a little when your boss had said you wouldn’t get a Friday on your own until you’d completed two weeks of bartending and shadowing.

Your hard work has paid off though, and when you take your place at the center of the runway, you know you have your audience hooked even before dancing. There’s one guy in particular, right below you. He got arguably the best seat in the house along with his friend. You’ve seen the friend before, all confidence, slicked-back black hair, and a steamy attractive smile. Your coworkers say he’s pretty regular and always tips well. Thank god. The one next to him though, you don’t know anything about him except for the fact that the five stages of something flow across his face as you make eye contact with him. The low lighting does nothing to hide the blush flushing from the open neck of his crisp white button up to his cheeks and over the bridge of his nose. He’s got a wad of cash already set casually on the bar top in front of him.

You smile, bright and unguarded, knowing. You’ll have the rest of Monday’s rent if he’s an indication of the rest of the customers that will be coming in tonight. He turns away, uncomfortable. Aw, how sweet. So unlike some of the slimy patrons you’re used to. Something you don’t like trips low in your belly. The biggest rule was no sex with any of the customers. It was in place for a reason and a majority of the time was a good one. You remind yourself of it as the song for your first dance starts playing over the speakers.

Buss it, buss it, buss it, buss it

Is you fuckin’? Two shots, fuck it

You take a deep breath, hands on the shiny silver pole, and wrap one leg around it. The metal is cold to the touch but something else has goosebumps crawling up your bare skin. When you spin, turning in the new guy’s direction, your suspicions are confirmed that the feeling is not the rest of the eyes on you but his. And his are suddenly, somehow, the only eyes you want to perform for. So you do.

Daichi can feel Kuroo snap to attention next to him; he can’t blame him. You’re stunning and you know it. You look like maybe you shouldn’t know how to do this so well, but none of that matters as all coherent thoughts leave Daichi’s head when you spin and drop, rolling your hips so your ass faces him. You turn and look at him as you rise slowly, a deliciously naughty smile still all over that pretty little mouth. He rushes to take a sip of his drink, drums his fingers on the bartop, runs them through his hair, anything to occupy his hands. Because he knows the only place they really should be is all over you. Oh, the things he would let you do to him. He’d do anything for you. He takes another gulp of whiskey, disappointed when he drains the heavy glass.

Oh, shit. Oh, shit. He knew you were making eye contact with him but when you get on all fours and crawl to him like some lethal jungle cat, the end of the song nearing, he knows he’s in for it. And he’s okay with that. Any doubts he had, about being here at least, have vanished completely. He doesn’t know what’s gotten into him but he leans forward to meet you where you are at the edge of the stage. The crowd is roaring around him, the cheers only growing louder at the chemistry shooting like electricity through the air between the two of you. They’re jealous cheers he thinks, although he’s sure as hell not looking away long enough to check anyone’s expressions to confirm.

“Got anything good for me, pretty boy?” Your voice is pitched low as you blink big eyes at him, a smirk playing on your lips. Because, goddammit, he is pretty. Prettier than any other patrons you’d ever catered to. You would not mind if he came to be one of your regulars, regardless of any funds that might be exchanged. You would not mind if he came regularly—in your cunt, on your ass, on your tongue… A girl could take her pick with a man like him. Thick dark hair, glittering brown eyes, full lips. A barrel chest and wide shoulders to boot. No sex with the customers, no sex with the customers, no sex with the customers…

You watch, heat pooling low in your belly, as he unbinds the cash you had noticed earlier. You can’t quite figure him out. Because he’s making eye contact with you as he spreads the folded bills, licks his thumb, and pulls out two crisp Benjamins but there is a nervous tremor in his large hands as he passes the bills to you. Your eyes widen, the act dropping momentarily before you catch yourself and push out your bottom lip in a pout.

“Hm, a girl should get a little more than that for such a good performance, don’t you think?” You are completely used to this, the schpeel. You’ve done it thousands of times at the last place you worked and hundreds more at this club. It’s part of the persona within these walls. Mystery man is apparently not used to acting this way. You can see the war within him as you take the bills and he leans back, trying to be casual but every line of him is taught like a rubber band about to break.

“You here all night?” Don’t give anyone your schedule. If they like you enough, they’ll figure it out on their own by being a regular paying customer. You nod, liking this new game. Toeing around something you would normally consider dangerous, if only for all the variables far out of your control. But that makes it all the more fun, especially when he clicks his tongue behind his teeth and replies “Good, then so am I. I have more where that came from. Do you?”

Kuroo is watching the interaction with a gaping mouth. Daichi doesn’t have a clue where this new side of him is coming from. Except. Except he does. And it feels damn good. Despite being sure it is glaringly obvious that he is leaping so far out of his comfort zone, you seem to be very receptive. He shouldn’t be entertaining the idea of staying all night. He could use some sleep. But he could also use that mouth around his cock. You probably have rules, rules that should be followed, for your safety. Daichi knows he’s safe, but you don’t. He most definitely should not ask for your number or give you his or ask what time you’re off. You shouldn’t answer him.

But you do, nodding earnestly when he asks if you’ll be here all night. He has no choice. There’s something about you that he can’t shake off. The extra cash is of no consequence to him, and maybe, just maybe… No, he won’t let that thought go further. He won’t imagine how you’d look on your knees, or bouncing on his cock. He won’t imagine you writhing beneath him or securing him to his headboard with those cuffs he’d bought but never gotten to use. He won’t imagine you breathily calling him pretty boy again even though, fuck, he wishes you would so, so bad.

“What’s your name,” you ask before you can stop yourself, before you rise to your feet. The rules here are good ones, meant to keep both the patrons and performers safe.  You’d worked at other establishments before that didn’t care so much about safety so much as they cared about money.  Your radar has never been off in the past and maybe that shouldn’t be enough for you but everything about Mystery Man makes you want to break every rule ever set before you.  There’s something about him that makes you want to risk it all.  You want to hear him whimper and you’d place bets that you could get him to do it in record time.  Even now, his breathing is shallow and he seems unable to answer you.  His friend leans over, elbowing him into action.

“His name’s Daichi.  And mine’s Kuroo.  Ya know, in case you wanted to know.”  His smile is genuine, not creepy at all.  You return the grin as you stand before turning back to Daichi.  He straightens a little, snapped back to reality by his friend.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” you say to Kuroo.  He is attractive, just not who you have your eyes set on.  But it’s good information to pass along to your coworkers.  Judging by his tailored suit that fits just as good as Daichi’s, you’d wager his job pays like his friend’s.  The music swells again, the DJ cueing to your next song.  “Kuroo, make sure your friend doesn’t go anywhere.  Tonight’s for him.”  Kuroo scoffs in friendly disbelief at Daichi’s luck.

“I’m hauling you to the club more often,” he says to Daichi, who flashes a quick small smile.  Oh god, that smile could bring anyone you know to their knees.  It could certainly do it to you.  That smile alone could get you to do anything Daichi would ask.  You point at Kuroo as you take your place at the center pole again.

“I’m holding you to that, Kuroo.”  You brace your hands one over the other on the pole, and shake your ass for all it’s worth.

Body crazy, curvy, wavy, big titties, little waist.

Daichi’s going to have a stroke, he just knows it.  He can feel the veins in his forehead and neck bulging.  The blood has flowed elsewhere too.  His cock is so hard it feels painful.  There are several different ways he could get relief, most of which he should not be considering seeking in a public area.  But it’s unbearable and there’s no way he’s going to let himself come in front of all these other people.  He waits for the end of your current number and then he’s standing so fast his chair screeches out behind him; a couple of people look his way but for the most part, you’ve got everyone’s attention.  Kuroo glances sideways at his friend; he doesn’t say anything, just smirks as Daichi tosses another hundred on the bar top, telling Kuroo to give it to you before rushing to the bathroom.

He makes his way down the hall and notices there are several doors marked RESTROOM in bold capital letters.  Thank god there are single-person stalls.  He stumbles into one, shutting the door and locking it with shaking hands.  The music is still audible, even here; it seems to have dropped to a low steady hum.  Intermission.  Perfect.  Daichi turns to the sink and splashes cold water on his face, one last attempt to snap himself out of this fucking trance.  Because that’s what this has to be.  He’s getting all hot and bothered over someone who he doesn’t even know.  And god, he wants to think that you like him but he knows he’s tipping good and he’s not one of those creeps that can’t recognize it’s your fucking job.

The image in the mirror is one that almost shocks him; his eyes are glazed, and his hair’s a mess.  Just once, he just needs to come once and then he can stay here until the end of the night like he said he would.  He’ll tip you like a good customer would.  Then he’ll leave and he’ll never come back.  Because this?  This is Daichi out of control and he’s not sure that’s a good thing.  Maybe he should go back to making love to nice girls in his king-sized bed.  Yes, that’s what he’ll do.  He’ll leave here and he won’t come back and he’ll never think of you again.

Daichi unbuckles his belt, the metal of the buckle clanking as he yanks his zipper down.  He lets out a pained breath, his cock straining against his underwear.  He slips his hand into the elastic band, taking it into his hand and bringing it out into the air.  He backs up to the wall, the cool air offering little comfort for the engorged head, and closes his fist around himself.  A breath comes fast and heavy out of his mouth as he starts jacking himself off slowly, trying to make the moment last.

You watch as Daichi stands abruptly, so quickly and sharply that he almost topples his chair over.  You watch as he tosses another bill on the bar top, leaning in to say something to Kuroo.  You watch as he throws one last glance your way before beelining to the bathrooms.  Idiot.  Absolute idiot is what you are because you’re making your way off the runway, ignoring the audience as a low boo goes through the crowd.  Your boss catches your eye from the end of the bar and waves you over.

“What the hell is going on?”  It’s not said unkindly but more with an air of annoyance.  This is your first Friday night on your own and you might be blowing it.  But you don’t care.  You put on a fake wince and point at your head, trying to look as contrite and imploring as possible.

“I’m so sorry, I know it’s my first Friday and I’m so grateful.  But I’ve really gotta pee and I’ve got this horrible headache starting.  Can I take ten?  Just ten minutes, enough time for an ibuprofen to set in while I go to the bathroom, and then I’ll be back out.  Please.”  You put those big eyes back to use, blinking slow and tilting your head slightly like you’re trying to relieve the pain of your fake headache.  Your boss squints his eyes but doesn’t protest as he pulls a bottle of Advil from behind the bar.  He hands you a couple with a glass of water.

“Ten minutes.  Go to the bathroom.  Take a breather.  Then get your ass back out there.  I’ve seen the business you’re encouraging after two sets.  You’ll be back up there as one of my main performers if you keep up the good work.”  You smile as you throw the pills back with the water and hurry in the direction of the restroom, pulling on one of the extra robes from the bar.  Now to find Daichi.

A couple is making out in the hallway; you brush past them and knock quietly on the first door.  A voice answers quickly that the stall is occupied but it’s not Daichi’s voice.  You knock on two more doors before getting to the last one.  You suppose he could have gone into the multi-stall restroom but you’d seen the look on his face when he’d stood and you’d bet all the cash he’d given you so far that he wasn’t coming back here to take a piss.  You rap your knuckles on the last single-person stall.  You’re rewarded with his voice coming from the other side.

“There’s someone-ha-there’s someone in here!”  He can barely get the words out; you know what’s going on in that stall and you want to help.  You rub your thighs together, realizing you’re already getting wet.

“Daichi, it’s me.”  This is stupid.  Maybe he doesn’t even like you that much.  Maybe you’re just some stripper at a strip club.  There’s a heavy silence now, almost solid enough that you could cut it with a knife.  Another pause and you’re getting ready to leave, cursing your confidence for all that it’s getting you, but then you hear the click of the door unlocking.  He opens it but only just so.  Still, it’s an invitation and one you are eager to accept.  You open the door just wide enough to slip through to shield yourself from any potential wandering eyes in the hall.  The scene inside the stall nearly wrecks you.

Daichi has backed up against the wall, as far away from you as humanly possible.  It’s so obvious that he’s been jacking himself off. His hair is messy, his eyes wild like he was already on the brink. He’s desperately trying to cover his cock with his hands and even though they’re large, they can’t cover it completely. You meet his gaze, which he tries to avoid, his eyes fluttering left then right with shame, before finally settling on you. Something trips across your skin.

“Babe, let me help you with that,” you whisper as you direct your line of sight to his cock. It twitches as you move closer, slowly, as if you’re approaching a cornered animal. Daichi groans a little when you reach him, one hand steadying on his shoulder and the other reaching up to touch his face.

“This is—this is not what it looks like, I swear. I promise I’m not some creep, I just—” You put a single finger softly to his lips, making sure he’s got his eyes on you. They widen just a bit. In the brighter light of the bathroom, you can see how rich the color of his irises are, golden brown like sunlight streaming through an autumn wood, or espresso, or something corny like that. Fuck the rules.

“Daichi, can I kiss you?” The question is out of your mouth before you can stop yourself. His mouth drops open but his eyes rove from yours down to your lips, then your covered chest, and back up. Finally, he nods so you guide his face down to yours and kiss him. His lips are soft and warm and pliable. He makes a little sound in the back of his throat, so unlike the image he’d put out walking in this place with his fine, tailored suit and stack of cash. Your hand slips from his shoulder and moves down the ridge of his pectoral, then lower still to the hard planes of his stomach. You trail your fingers over the now wrinkled fabric, close to his undone belt and open pants. His cock jumps against your abdomen past his hands and he gasps. “Is this okay?” You ask the question, certain that Daichi just needs the chance to give in. He nods again so you smooth your hand lower until it wraps around his cock.

Daichi’s head thunks against the wall of the bathroom as another sharp breath explodes from his open mouth. “Oh, fuck,” he growls quietly. You move your hand experimentally, softly, swiping your thumb across the head, gathering the bit of precome at the tip and smearing it about. You can’t decide what you want to look at more: the red bleeding over Daichi’s skin from the neck up, his heaving chest, or how his cock looks in your hands. He’s so… responsive. Each turn of your wrist has him shuddering beneath you. More. You need more. You want to see him beg. And part of you also realizes that he needs this too. You drop to your knees and his eyes snap back open as he watches you. “What’re you doing?”

“Only what you want me to do, Daichi. Unless you don’t want me to?” You don’t even finish your sentence before he’s shaking his head. He wraps his hand around yours, enveloping it, and moves it once, twice, over himself. A thought occurs to you, one you’re denying even as you ask him “Daichi, have you ever come down anyone’s throat?” The answer is obvious but you still feel incredulous as he tells you no. The veins in his hands are bulging and he’s still, like the calm before the storm. You lean in, maintaining eye contact, as you blow a breath over his cock. “Do you want to?”

It’s like you flipped a switch. Daichi, slowly now so you have time to pull away if you want to, curls his fingers in your hair, stroking them along your scalp. “Yes, please.” He whispers it, certain this is a dream. This has to be a fucking dream. He’s had a blow job before but never has he ever asked to come in someone’s mouth. He’s a clean guy but he’s not clueless; he just assumed most people thought it was gross and never had a problem with the fact that no one wanted to do that. At least not anyone he had been with. But, oh, he’d thought about it, lots of times. Most of those times in one night.

His pupils are blown wide as you lick your lips and take just the tip, swirling your tongue over the head. His skin is smooth, molten hot. The way your eyes never leave his is something else entirely and when you hollow out your cheeks and relax your throat to take all of him, he thinks he might die. He’s trying to maintain some semblance of control but it is already dwindling to nothing. There’s a coil building in his abdomen. Not yet he thinks viciously. Not yet. You take a few more pulls before releasing him with a pop. Frantic, he feels frantic. Maybe you decided you didn’t want to do this and he’d have to be okay with that, he couldn’t blame you but god damn—

“Daichi, eyes on me.” The man’s Adam’s apple bobs as he locks in on you again. “Let go, babe. Show me how you want it. Pull my hair. Set the pace. And when you’re gonna come, you come down my throat. Nowhere else, you got it? I’ve got five more minutes. Think we can get you there, pretty boy?” He nearly blacks out when you say those words he needed to hear again. Oh, yes, yes he’s sure you can. His eyes search yours once more before fisting his hand in your hair, tightening experimentally. You smile around his cock, deep-throating him once more, but waiting expectantly. He’s not going to come back from this. You’ve ruined anyone else for him. And he’s accepted his fate.

The moment he lets go, the moment he breaks down whatever wall is holding him in place, you can sense it. You place your hands on his thighs as he pulls you nearly all the way off before shoving you back down. Your eyes water just a bit but you feel the slick gather between your thighs. Yes, the girl inside of you that wants to see him to the end hisses. He sets the pace, a strong and quick one, but somehow still gentle. If you said you needed to stop now, you somehow know he’d do so immediately. He twists a little more, angling your head just how he wants it. You set your teeth down ever so lightly just to see….

Daichi whimpers and gasps, the sound nearly a sob on his lips. You swirl your tongue again and suck. “Ha—shit. Just. Just like that,” he grits out as he grips tighter. It hurts a little, your hair and your knees, but the pain swirls with the pleasure in a delicious slide of skin against skin. Your nails dig into his thighs again before he takes one of your hands and closes it around the base of his cock. You grip, working your wrist along with your mouth. He bucks against you, a jerky movement. “I’m close, fuckfuckfuck I’m close. I’m gonna come.” His voice lies somewhere between a bark and a whine. He can’t decide if he wants you closer, or farther, to stop or keep going. His brain is short-circuiting. He tries to pull back just a little bit, but you won’t let him in the best way possible.

You quirk your wrist and tilt your head in just a certain way… Daichi cries out, long and broken, as he curls in over you, his orgasm washing over him in waves so intense his vision goes black. His entire body shudders with his release, his form towering over you as he spurts ropes of come all the way down your throat. You milk him for all he’s worth. Not a single drop is getting away from you, no way in hell. Next time, you want him to come in your pussy. Next time? God, you want there to be a next time. He’s still leaning over you when his breathing slows and steadies; his hands are bracing themselves on your back rubbing soothing circles there with his thumbs. He helps you to your legs and steadies you for a moment.

The silence stretches on as you look at each other, both a little shocked at what just conspired. Daichi slowly puts himself back into his pants and you help him buckle his belt. You’re both on the verge of saying something either extremely brave or extremely stupid with each moment that passes. You’re about to make the first move again when he reaches up and takes your jaw in his hand, running a thumb along the corner of your mouth to gently push the last of his spend into your mouth. You lean into the touch and welcome his finger, sucking it clean just like his dick. He thinks he might be in love with you.

A breathless giggle comes out of you as you back away just a fraction, trying to give yourself space from the startling sensation fluttering in your stomach like butterflies. Your boss is gonna kick your ass if you don’t get back out on the floor. “I would invite you to my place to continue this after I’m off but it’s a little crowded and the walls are thin,” you say, hoping against hope that he wants more just as much as you do. There’s no room for doubt when he leans in and kisses you, deep and slow, tasting himself in your mouth.

“That’s no problem, princess. If you’re still feeling this when you’re off, I’ve got a penthouse all to myself.” Oh, there it is—the swagger you expected him to have. Your eyes glitter as you smooth out your hair, knowing it still looks good enough to perform. If anything, the smell of sex and the appearance of your swollen lips will get you better money, as long as your boss doesn’t catch on. You don’t think he will. “I’ll find you at the end of the night.” You nod, suddenly the bashful one.

Somehow, everything that just transpired did so all in your ten-minute break. In fact, you have one minute to spare as you strut back to the runway, giving your boss a wink and blowing a kiss to the stupefied audience.

“Harder, Daichi, harder.” You can barely get the words out as he thrusts inside of your aching cunt. Your face is pushed into the pillows on Daichi’s king-sized bed, your ass in the air. The sound of skin slapping on skin in the quiet of his room is pornographic but you can’t waste any thoughts on being even remotely embarrassed. Tears stream down your face as he continually hits that spot inside of you that you’ve only been able to hit with a dildo and even then it never came close to this. Daichi’s a machine, the way he keeps going. After you sucked him off and he came so quickly earlier in the night, he was determined to make this one last longer. One of his hands is gripping tightly into the plush of where your hip meets your ass cheek, the other is splayed over your back, even now caressing the skin, alighting it with goosebumps. “Oh, fuuuuuck,” you whine as that same hand snakes around to your neck to pull you up.

His fingers and palm ghost over the skin as he thrusts up into you and it’s all you can do to hold to his thighs for dear life, your nails digging in so hard you’ll know they’ll leave a mark. “Are you close, princess?” He whispers it labored into your ear, his breath hot, his mouth even hotter as he leans in to nip at your pulse point from behind. You nod frantically, almost unable to answer. “Can I come inside, baby? Will you let me? Will you let me be a good boy for you?” His hand moves from your throat to your clit, stroking one slow circle over the oversensitive nub. Thank god for birth control.

“Yes, Daichi, yes, come in my pussy. Oh, god, yes be a good boy for me.” You squeal as he thrusts hard, once, twice, swiping his fingers over your clit again in a more concentrated pattern and you feel your first orgasm of the night sweep over you as Daichi finds his own release with a mangled, animalistic groan.  You think he’s done, especially when he pulls out leaving you feeling way too empty.  But you’re wrong, so, so wrong.  He proceeds to flip you over and push back in, a ring of white forming around where he’s begun thrusting inside of you again.  

“I thought about this all fucking night.”  He surges up over you, grabbing your wrists and pulling them above you.  “I thought about that pretty little cunt around my cock.  I thought about how pretty you’d look laying in my bed.”  One thrust, slow and teasing.  You roll your hips up to meet him, even though your thighs are weak and shaking.  “I’ve never–I’ve never fucked anyone like this before, it’s,” he leans in to suck on your pulse again, runs his tongue over the salty skin there, “magical.”  You whimper beneath him when you feel the familiar coil tightening once more in your belly.  

“Do you think I can make you come again, Daichi?  Can you come for me one more time?”  He groans, sealing his lips over yours as he releases your hands so that can pull him closer into you.  You scrape your nails from the nape of his neck into his hair, and grip, breathless, as his rhythm becomes choppy again.  God, you don’t know how he’s still going.  The two of you are so frenzied, the blood in your veins hotter than a blue flame.  “Look at me when you come, baby, look at me,” you whisper, bringing your hands to his cheeks.  His eyes are glazed, his face strained but still beautiful.  “I’m going to touch myself now, okay?”  His mouth pops open again as he nods, before watching as you wrap one arm around his shoulder and bring your other hand to your clit.  You swipe around his cock, collecting some of the mess you’ve both made there.  You know how to pleasure yourself and with Daichi’s expert stroke, it doesn’t take long before it snaps over you, the walls of your pussy squeezing around him forcing spend from him one more time.  It’s not as explosive as the first time but still enough that you can feel the wet leaking out onto his sheets.  “So good for me, Daichi, look how good you are for me,” you chant as you wring the last of the pleasure from each other.

When it’s over, he stills, pulling out of you and collapsing onto the bed beside you.  There’s a sheen of sweat covering you both.  The cool early morning air coming in Daichi’s open window creates the perfect juxtaposition of sensations.  He reaches over to trace patterns into your palm.  “Can I hold you?”  The question is so sweet, it makes you huff out a laugh.  The man just blew your back out and he asks if he can hold you.  But you are more than willing to oblige him so you roll into his open arm and lay your head on his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heart.  You wait a moment before looking up at him, relishing the feeling of his fingers now tracing patterns into your arm and shoulder.

“Didn’t you mention something about handcuffs earlier?”  He looks down at you jerkily, a sheepish grin on his face.  You smile mischievously.  You’re going to ruin him.  He’s going to let you.  And he’s going to love it.

“Let me make you breakfast first, yeah?”  You nod and breathe in the smell of him, all sex and musk and expensive cologne.  Neither one of you knows where this is going to go but right now, it doesn’t matter.  You yawn and snuggle closer.

“Just so you know,” you intone sleepily, “I like French toast.”  He laughs softly, his own body relaxing into a lazy slumber.

“Hm, French toast?  I pinned you as a pancake kinda girl.  Good thing I also like French toast and always keep the supplies in to make it.”  His breathing is slow and shallow, matching the rhythm of yours.  The sun peeks over the cityscape around you as the two of you go under, cradled in each other’s arms.

This work and its digital elements (photo credit to photographer) are © Kait of @kaitsawamura 2024. Please do not alter or copy this work. Please do not repost this work to other platforms without my express permission.

[pedge-stuff]

I just had the worst and saddest possible day ever and all I wished was someone here, just to hug me under my cold covers. Can you please make something up with pedro and reader please?

I'm so sorry you are going through this?? I hope things have improved since you submitted this. Sending love your way.

—————————————————————————

okay (pedro pascal x gn/m!reader)

a/n: same vague universe as “marked,“ per usual.

a little, plotless shorty for your troubles.

thanks, as always, for everything.

TW: a very brief mention of disordered eating

summary: sometimes, you just need to be held.

—————————————————————————

"I'm okay," you whisper. "It's okay, really. I just need a little bit."

Less than convincing.

There is a dip in the mattress behind you. Even with your eyes closed, covers pulled over your head, turned away from him entirely, you can tell he is settling against the headboard, atop the duvet.

Pedro doesn't speak. Doesn't touch you, either, but you're not really sure if you're grateful for that; sometimes, being touched when you're like this feels so intolerable, it takes your breath away. Other times, a soft touch feels like the only thing that can hold you together. Trial and error, involving a lot of shitty and unfair antagonisms, has taught Pedro to give you space before he gives you love.

This is why you suck, your brain supplies. Nothing more— your mind is too fucking tired to even dissect your insecurities properly. You just feel bad.

Not without reason; at least, not today. Three missed calls from your mother, with whom you are barely speaking to, anyways. (It turns out being engaged to Oberyn Martell is about the only thing that could cure her passive aggressive homophobia. A bit too late to be water under the bridge, at any rate.)

Three missed calls, and some really shit news.

So, you're in bed. Under the covers, hiding, as if 8:30 is a totally normal bedtime.

And things are decidedly not good.

The tears come, silent and steady.

A warm press of lips to the back of your neck startles you; hot puffs of breath where his nose is buries into the hair curled at your nape, just a moment, before pulling back. It does not feel as bad as you'd feared.

"Sorry," you croak, blindly reaching behind you; squeeze what feels like his knee, in what you hope is a marginally reassuring gesture. "I'm fine, baby, you don't have to sit here with me." Pedro is early to bed— neither of you are really night owls— but not this early.

He makes no effort to move. "Can I..." A tentative hand, between your shoulder blades.

You can't help the thin whine that accompanies your shaky exhale. Fucking pathetic. But you turn, slowly, rolling over to face him. You'd assumed he was up against the headboard, but he's shifted down now, head on the pillow beside you.

Smiling, though it doesn't quite reach his eyes.

Wordlessly, he tucks an arm over your waist. He's always been strong, biceps as thick and sturdy as tree limbs, but the Gladiator training has added a layer of muscle just about everywhere. (Including his stomach. Abs are slowly stealing the small belly there, and while you're proud of the work he's putting in, you secretly miss the softness.)

"I don't know what you're thinking," Pedro whispers, mouth brushing against the top of your head. "But I'm so sorry, honey." He rubs the length of your spine, brow furrowing at the feeling of unfamiliar protrusions. Stress and an irregular schedule has sent good eating habits by the wayside; your body is shrinking, while his grows.

It's been the shittiest fucking month. He's been gone, you've been busy, and neither of you have gotten enough of the other. Back in New York three days now, but this is the first night you've been able to stay in together— and, of course, you've ruined it.

"Just happy to be with you," Pedro says, as if reading your mind. "Maybe this strike'll last forever, and I'll never need to go back to Morocco. Sorry, Paul Mescal."

You laugh, despite yourself, thick with tears. "I'm gonna miss the fan selfies, I think. What're they calling you? Pee-paw?"

Pedro groans, punishing you by pulling you tighter against him. Your face is squashed against his chest. Not a hardship. He smells clean, spiced. Familiar. Comfortably, and safe.

"You're engaged to the oldest man on the internet," he laments. "In Twitter years, I'm dead."

The squished hug is short-lived, breaking as he rolls back, gently, to get a better look at you. Cups your face, puffy and wet and gross; brushes twin thumbs over your cheeks, with a fond smile.

"There you are," Pedro whispers.

"I'm okay." Another sniff, but the threat of tears seems to have subsided. Today was shit, but it's over now; you're here, together, with nothing but time and sleep ahead of you.

"It's okay that you're not, sweetheart."

But you are. You're with him.

[buddierecs]

omegaverse buddie fics

all explicit rating - 18+ only!!!! make sure to kudos/comment on these amazing works :)

think i could get used to this by: likeshipsonthesea "buck goes into heat, eddie volunteers to help without any idea of what he's getting himself into, and these dumbasses get their shit together and also a fuckload of orgasms" word count: 6.3k important tags: plot what plot, alpha!buck, omega!eddie, mating cycles, getting together, love confessions, pining multiple orgasms, rimming, blowjobs, knotting, praise kink i hunt for you with bloodied feet (across the hallowed ground) by: mediwitch3 “i’m fully capable of controlling myself, maddie,” buck says, “your lack of faith is astounding.” “listen, any other time, you would have my complete faith,” she tells him seriously, “but this thing with eddie is different, you’ve never had someone like that around during your ruts before.” buck gives her a flat look. “he won’t be there for my rut.” she rolls her eyes. “you know what I mean. your instincts are all crazy right now and your control is tenuous at best so just...” “just what, maddie?” buck passes a tired hand over his face again. “just be careful, that’s all I’m saying,” she sighs." word count: 10k important tags: werewolves au, didn't know they were dating, alpha!eddie, omega!buck, oblivious!buddie, blow jobs, anal sex, scenting, mating, knotting always, all ways by: ashavahishta "buck’s the only omega in the 118. he’s got secrets, and walls a mile high. eddie’s the alpha determined to knock them down." word count: 85k important tags: slow burn, friends to lovers, alpha!eddie, omega!buck, team as family, mutual pining, panic attacks, explicit sexual content, knotting, self-lubrication i choose you, pikachu (or the ways two idiots finally say you're mine) by: snarkymuch "buck gets hurt at a scene, sparking a reaction in eddie that is usually reserved for mates, which is especially odd since they aren’t nor have ever been dating, let alone bonded as a pair....." word count: 8.3k important tags: alpha!buck, alpha!eddie, idiots in love, getting together, possessive!eddie diaz, top!eddie diaz, mating bites, knotting standing in the way of control by: snailboat64 "buck hates alpha men. eddie isn't attracted to omegas. neither things matter because buck and eddie belong together, even if it takes a near death experience to work it all out." word count: 13k important tags: alpha!eddie, omega!buck, hurt/comfort, friends to lovers, knotting all these twisted feelings (all i want is you) by: prettyboybuckley "buck and eddie are pining after each other, but things are complicated - they are both alphas, after all. buck's rut changes things." word count: 12k important tags: alpha!buck, alpha!eddie, getting together, friends to lovers, scent kink, breeding kink, anal sex, knotting tastes goods (when i choose it for myself) by: bigfootsmom "buck and eddie have always done things non-traditionally. why would spending buck’s rut together be done any other way?" word count: 7.1k important tags: established relationship, intersex omegas, alpha!buck, omega!eddie, knotting dildo, dom/sub, praise kink, degradation kink you want to want me but you can't let it go by: livesincerely "eddie gets dosed with heat inducers while on shift. buck, of course, makes everything better. now, it’s just a matter of convincing him to stay." word count: 7k important tags: alpha!buck, omega!eddie, idiots in love, mutual pining, possessive behaviour, praise kink, topping from the bottom you should be mine by: ikharys "eddie never identified himself as the territorial or jealous type, mainly because he didn't have an alpha he could call his own, and he had no interest in having one either. the problem started because buck was seeing tommy." word count: 16k important tags: omega!eddie, alpha!buck, hurt/comfort, angst, jealous!eddie diaz, miscommunication, praise kink, knotting, rimming

[just-my-latest-hyperfixation]

Hi again! Can't pass the opportunity of suggesting a prompt either ^w^ Thanks so much!

V. "I'm a little disappointed. I expected a bit more of a struggle." for the Vampire / Werewolf AU

Thank you so much! I always love your comments, so I hope this is to your taste as well! ❤️

Leader of the pack

Rated: T

Words: 996

Tags: Vampire & Werewolf AU; Vampire Eddie; Kas!Eddie; Werewolf Steve; Eddie Munson Whump; Jason Carver being an asshole; Blood and violence; Nudity; Eddie is having a bad day

“You know,” the hunter says, and his companions snicker. “I'm a little disappointed. I expected a bit more of a struggle.” 

“Well, what can I say?” Kas retorts. “You have very convincing arguments.” 

He tries to struggle free, but his skin burns at each contact with the net. It’s woven of delicate silver thread. It might as well be made of steel. His grin turns into a pained snarl, lips peeling back to reveal his fangs. 

“You flash those all you want,” the hunter drawls. “You won't be able to for long.” 

“What?” Kas sneers at him. “You gonna kill me? I'm terrified.” 

The hunter smiles sharply.

“Oh, no. I won't kill you yet. I know there's more of you wretched bloodsuckers lurking in the mountains, and you …” One of his hands grabs Kas by the jaw. “You are going to tell me where to find them.” 

Kas snaps at him. The man laughs.

“Patrick,” he says to one of his companions. “Give me the pliers. Let's see how he likes biting once we pull out his-”

He doesn't get any further. 

Something rustles and before he has a chance to fully turn, a giant, snarling shadow flies out of the darkness and latches on to his throat. 

Kas hits the ground. His skull connects with a rock, and the world descends into a blur of teeth and fur and terrified shouts as more shadows lunge from the forest.

When the fog lifts, the hunters are gone. Their cries mingle with the sounds of howls and snarls in the darkness. 

In front of him, staring at him with eyes like liquid gold, is a giant, furry beast. 

Kas groans, head thunking back against the ground. 

“Fucking mutts.”

The wolf huffs something that might be a laugh. Then, it hunches in on itself and the sound turns into a whine. Kas screws his eyes shut to block out the sight of the shift while the wolf’s pained noises mingle with the crunch and slide of muscles and bones rearranging themselves. 

“The polite thing to say would’ve been thank you. I thought your kind was known for their good manners.” 

When Kas blinks his eyes back open, the wolf is gone. In its place is a young man. His eyes are more hazel than gold, but still sparkling with smug amusement. His hair is the same caramel color as the fur of his other form. 

He’s also bumfuck naked. 

“Yeah, well,” Kas says, “I thought yours was known for keeping your noses out of the affairs of other races.” 

The stranger huffs again. He stands and stretches - a long, graceful ripple of lean muscle - before he twists around to unsling the leather bag strapped to his back. 

“We do, usually,” he says, sitting back on his haunches and rifling through its contents. “However, we tend to take it personal when strangers wander into our territory and hunt down our prey. Animals don't grow on trees, y’know?” 

Kas stares at him, because … what? Surely this is a joke, because who'd say something like that with a straight face? The answer to that question, evidently, is naked wolf boy right here, because he refuses to even crack a grin. 

“Wha-?” is what he finally says. “What animals? I haven't touched any of your precious prey.” 

Wolf boy measures him with a long, doubtful look, like he's trying to figure out whether or not to believe him. Finally, he sighs and pulls his hand from the bag. Glinting between his fingers is a long, jagged knife.

Kas hisses. 

Wolf boy rolls his eyes. “Are you always that dramatic? I was only gonna cut you loose.” 

The knife slices through the thin thread with ridiculous ease, but it still takes a while to free him. Wolf boy needs to be careful to not touch the silver himself, after all - not the easiest of tasks without even a shred of fabric on his body. 

“What’s your name?” 

This must be the most bizarre conversation of his long, tedious un-life, he thinks. Exchanging smalltalk and platitudes with a naked werewolf while being cut out of a hunter’s net. 

“Kas.” 

“Bless you,” wolf boy says. Kas can’t see his face, having turned his back to give him better access to the net there, but he doesn’t need to. He can practically see the dorky grin. “What’s it with you vampires and your stupid, made-up fantasy names, huh?” 

“It’s a question of style, alright?” he grumbles. “Not like I’d expect you to get it. What’s your pack leader called again? Otis?” 

Wolf boy’s hands freeze, but only for a second. Then, the knife gives one final, brisk tug, and Kas can feel the last of the net fall away from his blistered skin. He can’t quite help the relieved sigh that escapes him. 

“Anyhow, it was nice meeting you,” he mumbles, rolling his neck and reveling in the feeling of his powers slowly seeping back in. “Have a nice rest of your life, I guess.” 

“Huh?” Wolf boy asks. “Oh no, you got that wrong. You’re coming with us.” 

Before he even has a chance to ask what that means, something closes around his wrists. This time, the silver is encased in a thick layer of leather, so it doesn’t make his skin blister and burn. It still draws all of his strength right back out, leaving him weak and harmless like a kitten. 

“What the actual fuck?” he snarls as wolf boy hoists him to his feet. “Who the hell do you think you are?” 

“Funny that you should mention grandpa Otis,” wolf boy says merrily. “He’s been dead for ten years. My name’s Steve, by the way. Sorry if it’s not fancy enough for your taste. Come on now, I hate making my pack wait.”

Kas is powerless to resist as he grabs him by the elbow and walks him towards the myriad of glowing eyes staring at them from the treeline. 

More celebration ficlets

Steve said "I'm the alpha" 😅

Part 2

[lucy90712]

Thunderstorms- Gavi

The loudest clap of thunder I think I've ever heard woke me very suddenly from what was a great dream from what I remember. Shortly after the thunder the room was lit up with multiple bolts of lightening. That's when I knew I'd be awake until the storm passed I've always been scared of storms so unless I sleep through them I spend the entire time awake usually shaking slightly. It's such an irrational fear but I can't help but be scared although I have never told anyone that I'm so scared of storms because I don't want to deal with the teasing. My parents know that I used to be scared of storms but I imagine they think I've grown out of it which I wish I had but outside of that I haven't told anyone even my boyfriend. 

Another clap of thunder made me jump while Pablo slept soundly beside me. That man can sleep through anything I swear, he's slept through fireworks literally next door, thunderstorms and everything else that would wake a normal human being. I know he won't wake up on his own but I'm definitely not going to wake him as I don't want him to laugh at me at least not right now. Instead I just tried my best to get close to him as he slept in hopes that would help me sleep as cuddling with him usually helps me sleep. I shut my eyes and tried to relax but the constant noise and light was always on my mind so I couldn't let myself relax. My hands were still shaking and I could feel my heart rate jump every time there was more thunder. I know breathing techniques are supposed to help calm you down but even those weren't settling my nerves. All I wanted to do was shut myself in a dark room where I couldn't see or hear anything but that's not possible I have to stay here and try and sleep.

Cuddling into Pablo's side didn't help me one bit so I gave up and just kept tossing and turning which made Pablo start to stir. I stopped moving in hopes that he'd just go back to sleep but he kept stirring until his eyes opened. Some more thunder came and I tried so hard not to move or make a noise but the longer it went on and the louder it got I couldn't stop myself making a small noise out of fear. That definitely gave away that I wasn't sleeping as I felt Pablo turn over in bed and his arm touched my waist. 

"It's ok I've got you" he whispered in my ear as he pulled me into his chest 

"I'm fine" I said trying to convince myself more than him 

"You don't have to pretend baby I know you're scared but I'm right here to keep you safe" he said 

"How did you know?" I asked

"I see the way you always tense up when there's a storm and I could see you shaking" he said 

"But you've never made fun of me it's such a stupid fear if you knew why did you never tease me about it" I questioned 

"Why would I make fun of you it's not a stupid fear and even if it was there's no way I'd make fun of you I just want to make you feel better you could be scared of apples and I'd still do everything I can to protect you so thats what I'm going to do so remember if you are scared just tell me I'll be there for you like you are for me" he said 

"Thank you but apples really" I laughed 

"That's just the first thing that came to mind but you get the point" he smiled 

He decided to keep listing random things I could be scared off that he wouldn't make fun of me for while stroking my hair and back to relax me. This list got more and more ridiculous until he said that if I was scared of footballs we would have a problem but he'd still find a way to love me which made me laugh. I think his aim was to distract me and it was working as just listening to him talk as he rubbed my back was making me feel tired again. 

Just as I was starting to fall sleep some more thunder made me jump so Pablo came up with a new idea every time there was thunder or lightning he pressed a soft kiss to either my hair or my forehead. He kept talking and giving me kisses until I was struggling to keep my eyes open and I gave in and let sleep consume me. Being able to fall asleep during a storm is a big thing for me but it's only because Pablo is by my side. Him knowing about my fear is actually a huge weight off my shoulders especially knowing he won't tease me for it being able to turn to turn to him when I'm scared will really help me. 

[codfanficedits]

Stay with me, please.

If you're looking for a sign to stay alive, this is it.

Pairing: John Price x fem!Reader

Summary: After the attempt.

Wordcount: 1606| Rating: E (18+ only!)

Warnings: mentioning SUICIDE, mentioning of self-harm,

A/N: I've been struggling with depression for more than a decade now, and I've had a rough patch, writing helps me cope, so I turned to conversation I had with my partner years ago in to a little fic.

To me, because my suffering isn't beautiful, but my survival is.

He had found you, laying in your room, empty bottles of pills around you, vomit all over the carpet, vomit all over you, your desperate pleas while you tried to make yourself throw up. Your voice breaking when you tried to undo the damage. It wasn’t a pretty sight.

He sat by your bed that night. He couldn't sleep. Every-time he closed his eyes, all he could see was panic in your eyes. Self-hatred, it flowed through your veins like the blood that had dripped out of your wrists on all those nights full of hurt.

You hated yourself, absolutely hated yourself for attempting and failing. You hated that John had found her in the room. You hated that things would never be the same, you hated that you had just exposed your biggest secret, your depression. You hated it.

You know he is there, but you refused to acknowledge it. After all, it is easier to pretend to sleep. You couldn't hear John speak or breathe. He never blinked, never shifted his head. He just sat, still, holding his own self-hatred. He couldn't understand why you would hurt yourself, when he has been your sole supporter all these years.

Your self-hatred, it spread through him like the blood that had dripped over your wrists.

He hated you. He hated you for making him witness your fall, for making him see you in the room. He hated you for failing, and he hated that it was his fault. You could sense it. The hate he had for you. The hate he had for himself. And it was your fault.

You hated yourself even more. Your thumb caressed the scars on your wrist and you finally opened your eyes. Your gaze meeting his, and you could see the hate in his eyes. You wanted to say something, but you couldn't. Your scars, they were the only thing he could look at. He didn't understand why you would do this to yourself, and he wouldn't forgive you.

The scars were his fault now, it was his fault for letting you fall. But he still loved you. And the tears in his eyes came to the surface. His heart broke in two. His anger was replaced by remorse. John couldn't speak either, he hated the love he had for you, hated the tears that would never go away. You started to shake your head. It wasn't his fault. It would never be his fault. It was yours. It would always be yours.

But it caused you to break down, hot, big tears rolling down your face. Your hand reached out to John, desperate for his touch. He looked at your hand, the one that once caused him hatred. He reached out his hand to take yours.

John didn't want it to be your fault. It wasn't. If he could turn back time, he would have caught you before you fell. He hated it that he could not heal you, he hated that he could not fix you.

It wasn't your fault.

You deserve to be loved.

His touch felt like an anchor to the storm you were in. The whirlpool of emotions you couldn't keep in anymore.

"I can't, John." You sobbed. "I.. I.. I just can't stay alive. I don't want to." You franticly wiped away the tears, trying to stay strong. "It hurts so much to be alive."

He pulled you into a close hug, trying to protect you from the storm. He wanted to say some words to convince you it wasn't true, but his throat felt tight. His words had no effect, no power to prevent you from feeling weak.

"Don't," he whispered, his voice heavy with tears. "It hurts me now to see you in pain."

"You're not a burden," he said. "Stay with me, please." "But I can’t." You croaked. "Look what I am doing to you." Your tears fell on his shirt as you couldn't hold back your crying.

"I feel like a horrible person." You admitted. "I rot away in bed, while I pretend to function just fine. What is the point of living then?"

"If you left," John said, the tears in his eyes falling on your hair. "What do you think would happen to me?"

"Your depression isn't your fault. You are not a horrible person." John said forcefully. "You deserve to be happy, do you understand me? You deserve to be happy." John felt his heart break even more, hearing you speak that way about yourself. His own self-hatred was becoming unbearable.

"You'll live without me." You answered. "You'll be able to move on." You heard his words, but it felt like he was speaking a foreign language. It didn't feel like he was speaking to you, if those words would be for you. "No, I won't." John said firmly, holding your arms tightly in his grasp so you would look up to him. "I won't be able to move on, you know why? Because I love you."

“I can move the sun and the moon for you, just give me time. I'll make you happy, I promise. Just don't give up on me."

"It’s no use." You murmured. "I would have to make myself happy too, John. I can't rely forever on you."

"I just don’t know how to be happy. I don't feel the sun on my skin whenever I'm outside. I don't enjoy my favourite meals anymore. I can't be bothered to shower." You admit shamefully, which type of adult struggles with these type of problems? You had a house to live in, a loving partner, nothing to complain about, and yet life felt so, so, so incredibly empty.

"Maybe you need to start small," John suggested. "Eat a candy bar, and you'll feel the sugar in your veins. Have a long hot shower, and feel yourself being at peace."

"If you don't feel anything, then we'll try something new. You're in my hands now, okay? You deserve to feel something in your life. You deserve to feel the sun on your skin, to enjoy life." You wanted to protest. You were so tired after all, too tired to live, too tired to function. Too tired to protest.

"But what if I can just sit in the shower and not wash myself?" You whisper. "What if I can just eat plain spaghetti instead of cooking a full meal? What if I never turn into a functioning adult again."

His words made sense. No matter how much your mind tried to fight it. It couldn't.

It did make sense. More than you knew.

"But what if I never get better?" You retort. "What if this is my life?" The thought alone send shivers down your spine, life like this wasn’t worth living, at least not to you. "I understand," he said softly, pulling you closer to him, his chest rising and falling with each breath. "I won't lie to you, and I don't know if it'll get better, but I'll be here for you, and I'll fight with you."

"I won't give up on you, no matter how many years we'll spend fighting, even if we'll never get to the end of it. I love you too much to let you go." John added. "We can make it happen. But you need to accept the help, you need to believe in a world where you can be happy, okay? No matter if it takes 1 year, 2 years or 10 years. We'll make it there." John said reassuringly.

"All you need to focus on is getting through today. I'll focus on the rest of your life."

“But it worries me, John.” You answer, and it is not like you really try to talk him out of it, your mind was just flooded with worry. "But I don't want to feel like last night ever again."

"I promise that you're not going to feel that way again," John assured you.

"We are going to make sure of it."

"It's okay to be scared, but I'll always be there next to you, okay? I promise that you're not going to fall Take my hand," he said, gently offering it. "Let's take that first small step forward." "When we get through this, we'll make sure everyone understands your illness and how strong you are for fighting it. But you must promise me that if you ever feel weak again, you'll come to me." John said. "I promise I won't be mad, I'll just be glad that you trust me." He added

"Please, don't ever be afraid of asking me for help, never be afraid. You can always reach out to me. Now come here and hold me.” John muttered in your hair.

Life can be weird, you reckon, because nearly 8 years later you’re sitting in your garden, the sun on your skin, and you bask in the warmth, it feels good to feel the sun on your skin. And it turned out that John was right. It was okay to just sit on the floor in the shower. It was fine to just eat plain spaghetti, everything turned out to be okay, even when you ran the dishwasher twice. Those silly rules of society don’t apply when you’re trying to survive.

Of course your survival didn’t come without a fight, but you didn’t have to fight alone.

You look up as a plate of dinner is put in front of you, a soft kiss on your lips before you can say anything.

“Do you feel the sun, love?” That familiar voice of John rasps.

“I’m still feeling it.”

[theclaravoyant]

Juice ~ Rated E (Polyfire, 8x06 inspired)

"Anyway, I guess it got me thinking about juice. Other juice. Other things I- I want." A newly inspired Eddie interrupts date night. Buck and Tommy miss their movie.

AN ~ Is it a fix it fic if we cut the ep before there's something to fix? Eddie Diaz loving hours, ft his very loving not remotely broken up boys, because my heart is full of rainbows and I'm feeling a lot of things. enjoy! <3

Read on AO3 (~2400wd)

Juice

“Hey, guys. You like juice, right?”

“Hey, Eddie,” Tommy greets, and lets him in through Buck's door. “Um. What?”

Eddie bundles himself into the loft before either of them can get a word in edgewise. They watch – bemused, concerned - as he tries to convince his tongue to speak aloud what he's doing here and it's... well it's kind of exactly as difficult as he'd imagined it. Do something frivolous, Father Bryan had said, but this doesn't feel frivolous now that he's set the ball in motion. It feels like he's potentially about to blow up two of his greatest friendships, and it won't happen, not with these two, but what if it does -

Eddie clenches his fist. His mouth is dry and his heart is pounding, but this is what he wants, and he's going to ask for it if it kills him.

“Juice,” Eddie repeats. “It's a long story, but earlier today I saw my priest-”

“You have a priest?” Buck wonders.

“Sort of. I ran into him at a juice bar.”

“Right, of course.” Tommy nods.

“- Only I wasn't buying juice, I was buying water,” Eddie explains, “even though I actually wanted the juice. And Father Bryan, he said I put the juice back because I don't think I deserve it."

“You don't deserve... juice?” Buck tilts his head.

“That's what I said,” Eddie agrees, “but he said it's not about the juice. It's about joy. It's about how I can't let myself do something just because I want to do it, and I don't even realise I'm denying myself half the time, I'm just so messed up I can't help it. Anyway, I guess it, uh – it got me thinking about juice. Other juice. Other things I- I want.”

Curls. Eddie swallows. Has Buck always looked like that? He's come around the kitchen bench now; he's not far behind Tommy, and both of them are watching Eddie intently, hanging on his every word as though he's the one glowing in the unflattering city lights. It should make him feel worse, Eddie thinks, like they're picking him apart. He should be begging right now for the Lord to strike him down and open up the earth to get him out of this nightmare, or at the very least, for one of them to clap him on the shoulder, get him some damn cloudy apple already and put on a movie.

They don't, and he isn't.

Instead, Tommy asks softly -

“What do you want, Eddie?”

And his voice is deep and gravelly and wonderful, and it sends a shiver down Eddie's spine and oh, he wants. He can't make his lips form the words but he wants, and wants, and wants, so much the air around him must be shaking with it.

Tommy takes a step forward. His gaze is gentle and steady; a silent promise that this won't haunt Eddie if he backs out now but he doesn't. He can't. Because maybe Father Bryan is right and maybe he's been wanting this a lot longer than tonight. Maybe he's been settling for slugging balls and beating chests and half-naked men grappling each other this whole time when he could have been having -

This.

Juice.

Tommy's strong jaw, slotted against his. Rough stubble, soft lips. Tommy doesn't grab at his collar or his hips or anything; he just crooks two fingers ever so lightly under his chin; just to tilt him, to hold him right, and for a moment it's all Eddie can feel. His legs turn to jelly. The whole room has stopped existing except for him and Tommy and those two fingers and his pounding heart.

And Buck, who's apparently forgotten how to breathe, and fuck does Eddie get it. Is this what it was like for him? Kissed into a whole new understanding of himself? Maybe not, he muses, because it's not that new at all. Not for him. It's more like he's been wandering the desert, knowing water is what he needs but never allowing himself to drink. He doesn't need to take a beat for his world to come right side up again – no, what he needs is to dive in.

So Eddie launches himself at Tommy before Tommy's lips even leave his. He can't imagine letting Tommy leave after this; can't imagine his lips ever being bare again. Tommy just adjusts and hums into his mouth as Eddie wrestles him backward and tugs his shirt from his pants and lets his hands explore. Underneath, Tommy is lean and sinewy and strong, and Eddie has seen it, felt it all before but not like this. Not in a way that makes him wonder what's below the line of his belt. How it feels, how it tastes... Hunger crashes over him, and he almost drops to his knees right there except that Buck swoops in to cradle him from behind.

“God, Eddie,” Buck murmurs softly, kissing and nuzzling into his neck like this might just be a dream come true.“I never knew.”

Buck's teeth scrape over the sparkling skin by the collar of his shirt, as if merely his breath wouldn't be enough to make them both wonder why they hadn't consumed each other mind body and soul years ago. Neither did I, Eddie wants to say, but he's come about as far as words will take him. He can only revel in the way Buck's fingers dig into his hips and how certain he is that if he says the word they'll drop like a hot iron. He can only writhe into the the touch, playing in the feeling; playing in the joy as Buck leans around him, flushed and beaming. It's only then that Tommy pulls himself away, just enough to inhale as Buck begs -

“Pinch me,” and Tommy laughs and Buck laughs and they kiss breathlessly, and Eddie melts. The anxiety zipping through his bloodstream evaporates, and he sinks into what they're offering him with open arms. It's joy, and love, and a safe place to want, and never in his wildest dreams could Eddie be so lucky - yet somehow, he trusts it. He trusts them. He maybe even trusts himself, and Christ, he hasn't done that in a long time.

Eddie tugs again at Tommy's belt buckle, with more intention behind it this time, and he can hardly believe the man's lips are that red from kissing him. Pupils blown that wide and dark for him. For them. But still. He's never been so single mindedly conscious of the bulge in another man's pants and how much he wants it in his mouth until right now. It's like the cover's blown off of the manhole, a geyser of desire is pouring out of him and– and he really needs to find a tamer metaphor, before all this is over too quickly.

“Easy, cowboy,” Tommy teases, and Eddie's face must be something because Tommy gives him that look he gives Buck when he gets all pouty, and it only makes Eddie want him more. “Upstairs?”

“Upstairs,” Buck agrees, and wraps his long arms all the way around Eddie's hips as Tommy bounds up the stairs two at a time ahead of them to prepare. Buck kisses Eddie's throat as a pathetic little whine escapes it, taking the momentary breather to reassure him - “I promise, concrete floors are a bitch on the knees. Come on upstairs, and we'll take you apart like you deserve, hm?”

Eddie shudders, all but collapsing in on himself with need even though that little voice is back, telling him that no, he doesn't deserve it. This reverence, this kindness. This pity. He shouldn't be doing any of this, he should be ashamed of himself for even thinking-

“Hey,” Buck interrupts, pulling Eddie around to face him and pressing their foreheads together. “Juice, remember? Let yourself have this, Eddie. We've got you.”

Eddie nods, and a smile touches his lips. It's been said before that he and Buck read each other's minds. They don't, obviously, but there is something to be said for the way they read each other anyway. Lock step, day in and day out; they know each other so well they can tell what the other is going to do before they do it. Even on the way up these death steps, intertwined like they've never been before, they're in sync, and when Buck finally puts his lips on Eddie's, it feels right in a way Eddie forgot that he could feel. Like he's no longer Eddie: a physical entity but Eddie: a boundless sensation, an experience, a soul, riding the wave they're sending him on.

We've got you, we've got you, echoes in his head. And up here Tommy's got condoms and lube and water and it's so – God, Eddie could just about cry. Yeah, that's probably going to happen. They're going to look after him, and he's going to let them, and the fact that this wouldn't even have occurred to him this morning is surreal. Tommy's waiting, his hair all mussed and his pants already on their way off as he leads Eddie to the bed like a dance partner. In a way that's what they are; Eddie following Tommy's lead, Tommy shaping his next steps on Eddie's, mapping out the choreography together. Eddie touches Tommy's stomach, kisses his thighs, and each move elicits a moan, a gasp; encouragement as he experiments with the ways he can bring pleasure to- to another man, to his best friend, except maybe Buck who is currently sucking a bruise onto the back of his neck with his hard cock grinding against Eddie's ass, and whispering in his ear -

“Look at him, look at what you do to him – listen, can you hear how much he wants you-”

There's no juice in the world that compares to this. He might never drink the stuff again, Eddie decides as he kisses his way all over Tommy til there's not much left but his bulging tighty whiteys. He hooks a finger over the elastic and pulls it aside and Tommy – 'Little Tommy', maybe, but it's far from little – springs up to meet him in a way he is sure was basically invented for pornography. Christ, the ruined orgasms he's tortured himself with over pornography. Father Bryan is so ridiculously right.

“Eddie. You good?” Tommy checks.

“I just don't really know what to do,” Eddie confesses, and for the first time in a long time, that doesn't feel like a bad thing. All it means is show me, and they do; Tommy's hand in his hair, Buck's voice in his ear, guiding him with as much passion and kindness as if they're fucking each other. No. More, because they're not fucking each other they're fucking him, and Eddie has never felt so absolutely fucking glorious in all his life. It's as if Eddie - oh, God, Eddie, just like that – deserves to be, no simply has to be part of the way Tommy's lips part and he pants with need, throwing his head back and writhing, knotting one hand in the blankets to stop himself shoving Eddie's face down to take his dick deeper. Eddie – Evan, Eddie, so good, please - has to be part of Buck thrusting forward, breathing so heavily Eddie can taste him. Eddie is here, and he deserves to be, and they want him so much it hurts. He's strangled and leaking in his pants, and his body sings with it.

“Buck?”

“Yeah, baby.”

Baby. Please. “I need you to fuck me.”

“Not tonight, Eddie, that takes time.”

“Please.”

Eddie needs Tommy's cock like he needs air at this point, so he can't bear the conversation to go on, but Buck doesn't need to be asked a third time. He kisses his way between Eddie's shoulder blades and down his spine through the sweat-drenched pink Eddie's Letting Loose shirt. He's up to something and it's about to be so incredibly good, but he doesn't give Eddie long to bask in the anticipation before he reaches around and tugs open Eddie's belt, and with the combined prowess of a professional firefighter and expert lover, works off Eddie's pants and underwear. Eddie's grinding thrusts start to shudder without Buck to keep him in rhythm, but it might be because Tommy's starting to shudder underneath him too. Buck's fingers dance across his bare ass, teasing and circling him, massaging with a gentleness that belays the filthy words he's whispering and it only encourages Eddie to take Tommy even deeper and faster and harder til he almost gags with it.

“Eddie, I- I'm close,” Tommy promises. “If you don't want me to come down your throat-”

“How's this?” Buck asks, and he slips a finger into Eddie's ass and curls it just so and Eddie gasps and Buck can't help it, he bites down on the bruise he's been kissing. Tommy curses and there's an explosion of sensation as one, then another and another orgasm washes over them.

Eddie's not ready, because how could he have ever been for this? He chokes and splutters and all of a sudden it's everywhere; under him, inside him, and it doesn't matter because he's seeing stars like he hasn't in years. His eyes smart with the shock of it and every muscle burns with the workout of a lifetime. He collapses, shaking and boneless, onto Tommy's chest. Down for the count.

“Mm, I think we're gonna miss the movie, babe,” Tommy muses, panting, as Buck crawls up the bed just far enough to drop himself down next to them both and steal one more sloppy kiss.

“I don't know,” he teases. “I think we had a pretty special screening of our own right here.”

Buck's eyes drink in Eddie with equal parts devotion and amusement - he must be positively fucking debauched, and sweet Mary, Mother of God he could not be happier.

“Sorry about the mess,” Eddie breathes, and for once he can barely find it in himself to mean it. It's hard, it's so hard to feel sorry when the world feels like this. Sheer, unadulterated satisfaction. Clouds, and trust, and soft landings the likes of which he's never known. Tommy gently scolds him nonetheless, and kisses his temple like he doesn't even mind that it's all sweaty and speckled with cum.

Buck grins, and cracks a bottle of water open for him.

“Don't even worry about it,” he says. “This bed's seen worse. And for what it's worth, Eddie – I think joy looks good on you.”

[recurring-polynya]

Bleach Returns 2024 - Day 7 - Aftermath

This was the first thing I started for Bleach Returns 2024, and the last thing I finished. For theme weeks like this, it's always nice to have ideas that can fit under more than one of the prompts, in case you have to switch it around. This one could just as well have ended up under "Unlikely Pairs" -- they day I turned out to have skipped, but I needed the extra time, and I think it fits better as an "Aftermath" story anyway.

In any case, I have held the belief in my heart for ages that a truly underrated part of the Blood War was the fact that out of everyone in the Gotei, the only two people that got to see Komamura's wolf-man form were Iba and Hinamori, and I wanted to know if they ever talked about it later. I accidentally wrote it in the present tense, so it came out about a thousand times more melancholy than I intended it to be, but I'm actually pretty happy with how it came out. Consider this my Komamura Tribute Fic: you were a real one, sir, and for, like, 30 seconds you were a total smokeshow. Somehow I doubt you truly gave up your heart for good.

Rated T for one mild curse and endorsing lying to your boss | read on ao3 |

---

"Why are you asking me?" Rukia frowns. "Renji is a perfectly adequate liar." And your friend, she doesn't add.

Hinamori has an answer for this. She would have preferred to ask Renji, too. "He's too nice," she explains. "I know that I'm really bad at this, and he'll tell me I'm fine when I'm not. This is important. I need to do it right."

Rukia screws up her face and for a moment, Hinamori worries that she feels insulted, either on her own or on Renji's behalf. It's usually pretty rude to come up to a person and ask for their help in crafting a convincing fib. Hinamori knows Renji well enough-- she knows Rukia well enough now-- to expect that it would be taken as a compliment. But maybe not.

Rukia huffs. "You're right," she grumbles. "He's always been like that." She sighs expansively. "But if he were capable of running a team grift on his own, we never would have met, so I suppose I can't complain." And without any further preamble, she launces into a dissertation on the theory and practice of lying.

Hinamori blinks as she tries to take it in. There are fundamental precepts. There are classic techniques. There is ontology. There are hand-movements and eyebrow wagging. Hinamori should have brought a notebook, not that she could manage to get it all down. A lot of what Rukia says sounds like something Renji would say, but with far more conviction. He always used to say that he learned most of his chicanery from Rukia, and for the first time, Hinamori starts to believe it.

Rukia stops abruptly in the middle of an illustrative anecdote that has something to do with Kurosaki Ichigo's gym teacher. "What, exactly is the falsehood you need to fabricate?"

Hinamori tells her.

Rukia squirms for a moment. Momo realizes that she doesn't know if Rukia was asked to testify at any inquiries regarding her own captain. She wonders if she should have asked Renji after all.

"Look," says Rukia, in a way that is somehow simultaneously gruff and delicate, "Hinamori." She clears her throat. "I know it's extra weird because he's the Captain-Commander now, but you can just lie to Captain Kyouraku. It doesn't have to be convincing. He will ask you the question and you can say what you need to say and he'll write it in the official report. Whether or not he believes you is unimportant. He wants you to lie."

"I know," says Hinamori. "But I don't want it to just be a nod and a wink. Captain Komamura wouldn't have liked that. He was a good captain and a kind soul. Iba told me that he often tried to help people save face. I want to do a good job on my lie, for him. For Iba, too."

Rukia's brows furrow. She sets her jaw. "Your heart is very big, Hinamori," she says. "There are special techniques for lying with your entire heart. I will teach them to you."

"Thank you, Kuchiki-san," says Hinamori.

---

"Shortly after I became his lieutenant," Iba says, facing forward, standing at his fullest height, "my captain informed me that, in the case of his death, he had arranged a special exemption from the standard funeral rites for Gotei captains. He said that, if it was within my power, I should make sure his body was returned to his people."

"That is correct," the Head-Captain agrees. "Werewolves have a different path through the resurrection cycle than we do."

It takes Iba a moment before he is able to continue, but when he does, his voice is steady. He speaks in the cadence of a Lieutenant Delivering a Report. They can all do it. They all do do it. Momo does not remember anyone ever teaching her how. It just comes with the job. Iba's voice is naturally a little froggy, which Momo has noticed before, but it's even more evident when he is forgoing his usual tough guy turns of phrase.

Iba describes the damage sustained by his captain's bankai during the battle with Sternritter E. He makes a remark for the record about the unique relationship between Captain Komamura and his bankai. In this case, Iba says, the damage was more than Komamura could heal, would ever be able to heal. Iba states that by dismissing his bankai, Captain Komamura was able to eke out a few more hours of his life, but that his end was inevitable. This is why Iba and his captain did not regroup with everyone else, and why they declined medical assistance. Iba fought Soldat with his captain until the bitter, bloody end. At that time, zombies had begun to appear on the battlefield, and Iba felt it vital to deliver the body of his captain to the werewolf clan as soon as possible, so that it did not fall into enemy hands. That is why there is no corpse. "But my captain died honorably, in battle," Iba concludes. "I was there when he fell."

It takes some time for Head-Captain Kyouraku to finish up his note-taking. Lieutenant Ise is faster at transcription, Momo thinks, but she is not here. There is so much to do these days. She must be busy with something else.

Kyouraku's eyes scan quickly over his notes. "Thank you, Lieutenant Iba," he says. "Very complete. I don't think I have any further questions."

"If you think of anything later, please don't hesitate to ask, sir," Iba replies.

Kyouraku turns his gaze to Momo. "I understand you are able to corroborate portions of this, Lieutenant Hinamori?"

Momo straightens her spine and clears her throat.

You are telling a story, Rukia reminds her. Parts of that story are true and parts of it are not. Start with the parts that are true.

Hinamori tells the story of fighting her way through the Soldat-flooded city, trying to rejoin her captain. It is their practice to maintain distance when he is using his zanpakutou, but she likes to be within shouting distance. In case he needs her. She talks about seeing the columns of light and feeling the burst of strange, acidic reiatsu as the Quincy unleashed their Voll Stern Dich. She does not mention the way her feet were already moving even before she felt her captain's reiatsu plummet.

One of the things that makes you a bad storyteller, Hinamori, is that you always needs to add in extra detail, even when it doesn't add to the story, even when it makes you not look great. Especially when it makes you not look great. It's like you're always afraid of people thinking you are lying, so you want to lay everything out there up front.

This is still the part that is true, and Rukia said it was important to build up some momentum, so Himamori allows herself the indulgence of being a bad storyteller. If I tell the true parts poorly, she reasons, the lies will be less obvious.

"When Captain Hirako was injured, I made a poor decision. I wanted to save my captain. I thought I could get the drop on Sternritter E. I thought I could fight her fire with mine." Hinamori swallows. "Captain Komamura saved me. I know he wanted to go on and fight Yhwach, but he stayed back to protect me and my captain. I know it's not really relevant to this inquiry, but I would like it added to record anyway, if possible."

"Captain Komamura was always looking out for others on the battlefield," Head-Captain Kyouraku murmurs as his brush makes soft swishing noises over the paper. "I've made a note. Please continue, Lieutenant."

It's not a lie to not say something. It's just editing. Hinamori had wanted to tell Kuchiki the thing, the thing she had to edit out, but Kuchiki didn't want to hear it. Kuchiki had, in fact, put her hands over her ears and sang "LA LA LA LAAAA" until Hinamori gave up. It had been a little bit rude, in Hinamori's opinion. You want to tell me because it feels like a secret, Kuchiki had scolded. It's not a secret. It's extraneous information. Throw it in the trash. Burn it to a crisp. Forget about it forever.

It sure feels like a secret, the thing she had seen. She tries not to think about it, afraid that if she does, it will leave a hole in her story the size of a werewolf and the shape of a man. Instead, Hinamori continues. "Captain Komamura ordered me to take Captain Hirako and leave. I wanted to stay. I wanted to help. But I had seen her explosions, and I knew he needed the space. He went to bankai as I left."

"You didn't actually see them fight, then," Head-Captain Kyouraku surmises.

"Captain Komamura's bankai is--was--very large," Hinamori states the obvious. "As I left, I could see it taking explosion after explosion. I could hear and feel the bombs. They were deafening. I shouldn't have, but when they stopped, I… I looked back. I saw Captain Komamura's bankai crumble to pieces. It did not seem like a thing that would be possible to survive."

"Indeed," agrees the Head-Captain. "A great loss for the Gotei."

"Agreed, sir."

Iba draws in a long breath, but says nothing.

"Anything else, Lieutenant Hinamori?"

"No, sir. That is all."

"Captain Hirako has declined to give testimony. He said he didn't think he had anything to add."

"Probably not, sir. He was unconscious for most of it."

Kyouraku nods as he finishes writing. He puts his brush in the holder, and folds his hands. "Thank you both. I'm sorry we had to go through all this procedure for something so simple as a death in battle, but he was a captain, after all. Usually, the Central 46 would hold a hearing, but I think this--" he pats his stack of paper-- "should suffice."

She has done it. It's over. Kuchiki was right. It was barely a lie. It was a careful arrangement of true things. Hinamori feels like she has run a thousand miles and bench-pressed the Soukyoku. She wants to throw up. She wants to go to sleep for a million years.

"It was an honor to serve under him," Iba says.

Hinamori has no regrets.

---

Okay, it turns out that Hinamori does have regrets. Not about the statement. She receives a short note from the Captain Commander several days later informing her that the ruling of "Killed in Action" has been accepted, and thanking her again.

She wishes she had said more to Iba.

Hinamori is very busy these days. There have been three wartime actions in the last two years, and for once, Hinamori has come through relatively unscathed. She wants to make the most of this by helping everyone she can. She and Captain Hirako take on paperwork from the Tenth while its leadership needs extra treatment to purge out the last after-effects of the zombification. It's only fair. Hitsugaya has done enough of the Fifth's paperwork. She goes to PT with her Third Seat, who ended the war with a pair of prosthetic legs. She volunteers once a week at the Pop-Up Mess Hall the Ninth has been running to help out the squads whose facilities were destroyed, or who simply can't spare the manpower (also, the Ninth has a lot of talented cooks, and it's as good an opportunity to socialize as you can get these days). She tries to make time for all her friends, but especially the ones who are injured or grieving or overworked.

Hinamori is friendly with Iba, but she's not sure they are friends. He's not quite part of the close-knit core of the lieutenants that she hangs out with. He has his own friends, she's sure. He's pals with Abarai (who isn't?) and Madarame, who finally showed up to a lieutenant's meeting this week, even if he did so with a facial expression like he'd just drank a glass of slugs. Hinamori just isn't sure…well, it's not that those guys aren't sensitive to each other's feelings--scratch that, Madarame is definitely not sensitive to people's feelings--but Hinamori can't help but wondering if anyone has extended Iba any sympathy that didn't come the form of a moment of manly, stoic shared silence or possibly a punch on the shoulder.

Hinamori intends to swing by the Seventh shortly before the end of the work day. She isn't sure how this is going to go, and she wants to leave her options open. Her plans are derailed slightly when, on her way out of the door, she runs into Ise with a pile of new forms and feeling chatty to boot. By the time Hinamori walks into the Seventh's administrative building, it is half an hour past quitting time. The hallways are already pretty empty, and even as she knocks on Iba's door, Hinamori resigns herself to trying again tomorrow. "Lieutenant Iba?" she calls tentatively. "It's Lieutenant Hinamori. Are you in?"

"Ah, yes! Come in!" Iba's gravelly voice calls back.

Hinamori slides the door open and steps through. Iba is hunched over some paperwork. "Sorry!" he says. "Just a moment! I'm trying to finish up--there!" He looks up. "What can I do for you, Lieutenant Hinamori?"

For a long, long moment, Hinamori stares at him.

Iba has brown eyes. He blinks them once, then suddenly scrabbles around on his desk, shoves over a pile of forms that looks suspiciously like the one Ise just foisted on her, grabs his sunglasses, and crams them on his face. "Sorry!" he croaks. "Sorry!"

"No, no!" Hinamori waves a hand frantically. "It was my fault! I didn't-- I didn't see anything!" Her stomach clenches. Why is she always seeing things she isn't supposed to see? She looks away, frantically, and her eyes land on the floor next to Iba's desk. There is a pillow there, and on the pillow, a handsome dog regards her judgmentally. "Oh!" she says. "Hello, Goro!"

Iba clears his throat. "He's, uh. I don't keep him in here all day. He just had his dinner, and I'm going to take him for his walk as soon as I…" He looks at his stack of papers and then looks at Hinamori. "I'm sorry, what did you need? Are those more new forms?"

Goro puts his chin on his paws and sighs.

Hinamori looks down at the pile of paper nestled in the crook of her arm. "This?" she says, trying to get her thoughts together. "Oh! Right! No, no new forms! I got some flyers printed up for my weekly meditation circle! Do you remember, I mentioned it at the last lieutenants' meeting?"

"Oh…oh, yeah," Iba manages. "Yeah, that's not really my…"

"For your squad," Hinamori emphasizes. "I was hoping you might be able to post them in a common area. Or you could hand them out to anyone in particular you thought might benefit. Everyone's working so hard and dealing with so much right now. It can be, well, sort of a subtle way to suggest that someone takes a little break. I got a little stipend from the Fourth, so we have snacks afterward, now!"

Iba nods. He obviously does not need even one more thing to think about. "Ah, okay! Yeah, great idea! Thanks, Lieutenant Hinamori."

Hinamori slides the stack of flyers onto an extra table that Iba has pulled up next to his desk, apparently for increasing its paperwork-holding capacity. "You can have someone deal with these tomorrow," she says gently. She kneels down to scratch Goro's head. "Are you doing all right, Iba-san?"

Iba misinterprets her and immediately begins to bluster. "All of this looks much worse than it is! I'm getting the important stuff done! Ask anyone in Squad Seven--who have been champs, by the way! You see how empty this place is? It's because I make everyone go home on time, that's why! They'd be working night and day if I didn't make them take a rest. Maybe I'll send the whole lot over to your meditation whatsit!"

"That's not what I meant," Hinamori cuts him off. Unlike the Head-Captain's office, this is a place where she doesn't need to be parsimonious with the truth, so she goes on to say, "I only brought those flyers over as an excuse to come see how you were doing. You must miss him so much, and you can't even talk to anyone about the way it really happened."

Iba's mouth opens as he starts to say something, but then he closes it again. "I do," he says finally. He jerks his head towards an extra chair sitting along one wall. "You wanna pull up a seat?"

Hinamori does so. "Have you…heard anything?" She knows that Captain Komamura is still alive because Iba told her when he came to ask her to testify at the hearing. When he came to ask her if she would help him tell the story the way Captain Komamura would prefer it to be told. All the same, she is wants to let Iba be the one to say it out loud first.

"Ah, one of his relatives is a regular at the weekly market outside the eastern gate. There was a letter." Iba is silent for a moment. "He's healed up from his war wounds. He says there are some faces he's glad to see again." Iba reaches down to scratch Goro around the ears. "The cousin, he sells mushrooms, actually, really good mushrooms, I guess they sniff them out of the woods or something. Anyway, he says that, ah, well… they're happy to have him home."

Hinamori feels sadness settle on her chest like a stone. She barely knew Captain Komamura at all, but she knows he must have overcome so much in order to join the Gotei, in order to live in the city. She loves Junrinan, and yet she remembers feeling the cold terror that she might be sent back there after…when it seemed unclear whether she could still be a shinigami. "I'm sure it will be an adjustment," she says slowly. She wishes she could think of something else to say.

Iba regards her for a long time. "You get it," he says. "I can tell." He groans and leans back in his chair. "Aaah, Hinamori, you're right! It's been agonizing not bein' about to say anything! Everyone thinks I'm sad 'cause he's dead, and I gotta pretend that's true, but I'm actually sad 'cause all I can think about is his wolf-mom given' him a bunch of grief about wastin' his time on shinigami shit!"

"Does he have a wolf-mom?" HInamori asks, suddenly curious.

"Hell if I know! He never talked about werewolf stuff, so I've just been coming up with stuff in my head. I'm sure it's all wrong."

"I feel like if he has a wolf-mother, he would love her very much," Hinamori said. "He seemed like that type."

"You're right, Lieutenant Hinamori," Iba said, wagging a finger at her. "You're absolutely right." He cleared his throat. "While you're here. Listenin'. Well--there's something I been wanting to say so bad I feel like I'm gonna explode sometimes. You, ah, don't mind, do you?

"Of course not," Hinamori agrees. "Go ahead."

Iba leans forward, crumpling some of his paperwork. One side of his mouth curls up into a boyish grin. Goro looks up, curious. "He was awesome, there at the end, wasn't he?"

"Oh," says Hinamori, "oh, my, yes."

"For the length of that fight, he was immortal. Untouchable."

"I will never forget how I felt when I saw his bankai," Hinamori blurts out. "It gave me shivers."

"I know! It was absolutely incredible. I've--I've been working on my own bankai and I just…it's never going to be that."

Hinamori tilts her head to one side. "It might be," she says.

Iba frowns thoughtfully. "He gave me something to shoot for, for sure. What a captain he was!"

"Mm," Hinamori nods, thinking about captains she has loved.

Iba looks away for a moment, then looks back. "Hinamori, I gotta ask. You saw my captain. In his human form."

Hinamori is momentarily shocked to hear the secret thing, said out loud and in such a casual way. "Yes," she says eagerly.

"He was…he was, like, better than average on the looks scale, right? I'm not…I'm into ladies, you know, I'm not much of a judge of that kind stuff. But, like. Wow."

"Oh, yes," Hinamori, who is generally very circumspect when offering opinions on other people's look. "He was--well, that's not really my type either but--" She clears her throat primly. "Whew!"

"Whew!" Iba agrees.

Goro whines and puts his paws over his nose. Iba laughs, the kind of big hearty one that comes from getting something off your chest. "I know I've already taken up too much of your time, Hinamori, but, uh…I don't spose you'd like to help me take this guy on his walk?"

Hinamori smiles. "I'd love that."

[shepherds-of-haven]

Unsolicited Writing Advice

Completely random reminder to back up your work, especially if you're a writer, IF or game developer, coder, or creator of any kind. People sometimes ask me what my advice for other writers is, and I always forget to include this one, but it's one of the most important things, especially if your career, livelihood, or long-form projects hinge on writing in any way! Take it from someone who just had two backup methods fail unexpectedly and only the third backup prevented me from losing a solid month of work, you need to back up your work in as many ways as you possibly can. It may seem like a pain in the ass at the time, but I've seen a lot of games or stories stall or fail completely due to a catastrophic loss of data that utterly kills any drive to keep going with the project because of the need to start over. I'M BEGGING YOU, BACK UP YOUR DATA.

I recommend having at least 2, ideally 3 methods of backup:

Automatic cloud storage. I personally prefer working with Dropbox, where every change I save is automatically synced and backed up to a cloud server as well as natively saved on my own device. It also has robust version history, so if you figure out you've done something horrific and unknowingly saved over something important or rewritten a section you weren't supposed to, you can rewind everything in a folder down to a specific minute (over the last 30 days): a feature that has saved my hide just a few too many times for comfort. A free Dropbox account gives you 2 GB of storage to work with. Working within Google Drive works just as well, and the free version gives you 15 GB of storage (though that's shared between your email account and other Google apps, as well)! However, I don't believe it provides automatic syncing and backup the same way Dropbox does: you either have to work directly within a Google doc for your work to be automatically saved to the server, or you have to manually upload the files to your Google Drive to back them up each time.

Physical storage. Every few weeks or months, I also take the time to back up my important files to an external hard drive or thumb drive. Again, it's kind of a hassle, but if the day ever comes that you lose your passwords or find that they've been changed, a company's servers go down or they go bankrupt, they decide to start charging you to access your data, or whatever crazy circumstance you can think of, it's always good to have a physical backup somewhere. A basic 1 TB thumb drive is somewhere around 20$ USD (though it can be slower at that price point if you're transferring a large amount of data each time), and it's even less if you don't need that much storage. A 1 TB external hard drive (which has a much quicker transfer rate) is around 40-50$.

If all else fails, email. If you can't get access to physical storage devices and cloud storage services don't work for you, consider setting up a free Gmail or what-have-you account specifically for backup purposes, then email a copy of your most important files to it every time you make a significant change to them. This may seem sort of primitive and simplistic, but it works, and you can even use it as a little journal or diary of your progress!

Again, you may think this is overkill, but I am convinced that writers are especially prone to proving Murphy's Law and have seen way too many projects, friends, and colleagues fall prey to this oft-overlooked issue. I can count at least half a dozen times where -> my primary device like my laptop broke, failed, became corrupted, had water spilled on it, etc. -> I then turned to my secondary device (hard drive or thumb drive) only to find something was wrong with THAT (broken, outdated, incompatible with currently-owned tech, corrupted, not up-to-date backups) OR I turned to my cloud storage and found something wrong with THAT (unknowingly saved over data and didn't realize it until 3 months later, meaning not even version history could save me) -> and it was only the THIRD method of backing up that saved my ass.

Anyway, this is just your friendly neighborhood writer reminding you to back your work up! It's a necessary part of the job! Thanks for coming to my TEDtalk!

[anamelessfool]

A Naming (part 2 of 5)

Rated Teen, Papa Emeritus II’s Son and Family

Tags: Halloween Hijinks, Eldest Kid Anxiety, Suburban Dad Secondo, Disabled Secondo, Post-Retirement Life, Magic Rituals, My AU with Seocondo being Papa from 2001-2008

CW: Underage Drinking

Paul is at the party. He gets a little too over his head. And he can't completely blame the punch.

Dedicated to @kissingghouls thanks for cheering me on you’re my little Hell Pumpkin🎃 I’m on AO3 with all my other fics but Tumblr gets mad at me when I post links check out #anamelessfool halloween tag for the prev chapter

The first thing Paul noticed when he approached the house party was that he was the only person not in costume. Even the most leather-necked of linebackers attempted something with a Ghostface mask perched on their heads. Everyone around him looked big, capable. He distracted his nerves by typing in his phone.

Paul L: I'm here

Dana: 🙂

Music thudded softly from within as he climbed the stairs. If he didn’t look to either his left or right he could pretend that he was confident about his choice of no costume. Yes, it was some sort of defiant, anti-establishment sort of thing. But they had just witnessed him exit a car driven by his father and piled high with little kids and their sugar-fueled screams, so perhaps the rebel act wasn’t very convincing.

Dana waved from the front door, ushering him in. He darted in like he was escaping some oncoming storm, and she the only chance at rescue. Inside the fairly large house was packed with most of the upperclassmen shouting over some punk rock cover of Monster Mash. “Hey, so happy you’re here.”

“Thanks for inviting me,” he replied, and at once he slowly removed his hands from his hoodie pockets.

“A freshman… You invited a fucking freshman?” Right. Dana wasn’t the only person here. A sour looking boy tossed the hair from his head, his mouth a thin line.

“Relax, he's cool,” said Dana with a small smile. Paul felt a warmth flood his entire body. “He’s most of the orchestra pit.” Dana was the lead role for the fall play. And midway through Act II he could get a clear view of her singing at the front of the stage. She was just as beautiful now, all dolled up in some kind of half-hearted witch getup that gave her the excuse to have glittering goth makeup.

“Yeah well what do you play then?” Asked the older boy.

The better question was what Paul didn't play. His father was a prodigy on piano but dabbled elsewhere. Paul took after his grandfather Nihil, who somehow despite his foggy brain took to every instrument like a duck to water. “Guitar, bass guitar, piano,” Paul listed and his confidence started to crawl back. “All percussion. Some violin. Trumpet. I'm learning saxophone because Mr. Baxter needs one for the Spring show. And…that's it. So far.”

“Wow, no wonder you’re a shut in,” quipped the boy before melting back into the crowd.

“Asshole!” Dana jokingly swatted at him as he left, then turned back to Paul with a wince. “Sorry. Hey. Make yourself at home. Go get some punch, okay?”

“No, he’s right I’m…not really out there…”

“First time for everything, right?” Dana held out her hand and he took it, deciding he’d be okay with dying right then and there. He floated along beside her as she led him to the punch bowl and ladled him a glass. “Just have fun, Paul.”

Yes. He was going to have fun. He didn’t dare want to let her down, and that fifteen foot walk from the foyer to the dining room was one of the greatest things that had ever happened to him. Partygoers wandered in and out around him but their voices were muffled from the pounding in his ears. The music felt miles away, at the bottom of a lake. At last he recognized someone coming towards him, an older kid named Brian who he spent most of his time with in the orchestra pit.

“Yo! You came!” Brian grinned. “No costume?”

“No time.”

“That’s cool. Hey… you want a little…excitement…” Brian whipped out a flask from his jacket, leering.

“I mean um…” Maybe it would do something with his nerves. And he didn't want to spend the rest of his life known as the fucking freshman invited out of pity. He was cool. Talented. Able to hold his liquor. He was supposed to have fun: Dana’s orders. “Um, sure.”

He tipped the punch down his throat, perhaps a little too fast. There was very little burn at all to scold him. As Brian kept talking to him, his mind kept floating away. He squeezed his eyes shut, leaned against the wall but nodded all the same like nothing was the matter. A stupid smile began to creep across his face as Ben talked and kept introducing him to the girls that wandered by. How may Poison Ivy costumes were there? At least five. Or was he meeting the same girl over and over? The red cup creaked in his hand as he held it like some sort of safety rope.

“Since dawn of time the fate of man is that of lice…” His father's voice unmistakably seethed out from the playlist. Paul looked desperately for the exit but the windows and doors swam unsteadily in front of him.

“What, you scared?” asked another girl dressed as Poison Ivy. Yes, he had seen at least three others in the past hour. “It's Ghost, you ever heard of them? You like metal?”

“HELL SATAN! ARCHANGELOOOO!”

“Yeah a little bit,” Paul said. “I don't think they're real metal.”

“His name’s Secondo, actually,” explained the kid who had attached the aux to his phone. “Yeah, he's out. His brother is in. They say now he's a…hey man what’s up with you?”

“Yeah, I know him,” Paul slurred with a slight giggle. “That's my uncle. Haven't seen him much, though.”

The kid peered suspiciously into Paul. “You…know them?”

Paul flashed a fuzzy smile and moments after speaking he wished everything was a dream. “Yeah. The guy singing. He's my dad.”

“What?” yelled the kid, and more party guests wandered over. “What, he's your dad?!”

“He uh…got sick. Retired.”

“He will ascend to the heavens! Above the stars of God! Hell Satan!”

A few phones whipped out from pockets and Paul watched in growing horror how every one of these upperclassmen started typing into search engines. A boy held out his phone and Papa Emeritus II glared out at them all. “This? This…is your dad?”

Paul smiled painfully. He decided never to drink ever again. “Yeah.”

“Yeah, I've seen him around! Holy shit!” A girl laughed and flashed another photo for them all to see: A photo of his father in shades, flanked by two women dressed as sexy nuns. “Is one of these girls your mom?”

“And he like, chops up dead bodies now,” said another kid. “You got dead grandmas in your freezer yeah?”

“Well, uh, my dad doesn't chop up the bodies, that's my mom’s job—” This was going nowhere, but the spiked punch made Paul plod on. “Yeah there's um a big difference between mortician and funeral director ya know my dad sorta just handles the documents….for the state….” He ended his statement with a careful sip.

“Holy shit this kid is a fucking riot.”

More partiers began surrounding him, and through his dizziness he was completely certain they were there to laugh at him. Voices swam in and out.

“Who’s that? Oh yeah, the gravedigger kid…”

“Wait, have you seen the music video? And your Dad was in that? Dude there were naked chicks in that video dude!”

“Yeah, uh…I guess…yeah…” Paul was ready to die. He waited for some holy lightning bolt to come down from on high, but if anyone noticed that his own mother was also featured in that video he would do the job himself.

The Aux kid was fully grinning. “That’s amazing dude, amazing, he’s literally Satan, dude—“

“He’s sorta boring, actually,” Paul threw in. His solo cup was thoroughly demolished. The sugar mixing with the alcohol was making his stomach turn. Perhaps vomiting would deflect all of this attention to the more ordinary embarrassment of destroying someone’s living room carpet.

“That means he knows spells.” Dana emerged from the shadows, flanked by some equally attractive friends. Her black lips pursed as her heavily-shadowed eyes gleamed. “If he's the devil he knows spells, right?”

“It's not real,” stammered Paul. Her gaze made him weak. “Well…it's…sorta real…”

“Real? It's all fucking real, no way! Have you seen him do spells?!”

Every morning, an odd musical chant. Every evening, another droning mantra. The man would not shut up about the weather and piles of his journals were scattered around the house. No flicks of wands or fairy dust or leaping demons. No fireballs or bursts of healing light. Just the sound of his father droning syllables and a disgusting collection of animal skulls and jars filled with rusted nails and weird smells. “Yeah, I guess…” And of course, Paul would not shut up. He could not, with how everyone was paying attention to him. He had to get out of this. And the only way out was through. “I can do them too, you know.”

***

Sandra was snuggled up on the couch with the on-call phone when Paul returned.

“How was it? So happy you went.” On the television two men chained in a filthy bathroom argued and came to the realization that yes, one of them would have to amputate.

“It was alright. Any…calls?”

“No, just little ol’ me alone,” Sandra replied, sitting up. “And Ed checking in to tell me the guys brought all the kid cousins out for a late dinner.” She rubbed her eyes, refocusing on the men screaming on the television. “The sequels didn’t compare to this one. Gratuitous. Real fear is all just head games, ya know? It’s all just…in the mind.”

“Yeah well, good night then.” Paul hugged her then walked down the hallway, glancing quickly back as he passed the door to his room and silently slipped into the office.

Secondo always kept a lamp softly illuminated in the corner. Paul moved soundlessly across the beige carpet to arrive at the TV hutch. His fingers trembled as he gently untangled the red ribbon across the knobs. Secondo was miles away surrounded by screaming children in a busy pizza place but still Paul was certain he’d hear the smallest disturbance. Maybe not his flesh and blood father but the Eye would.

The hutch opened and light shone across the crystal skull in its nest of dead flowers. The strong scent of frankincense and charcoal wafted across him, fleeing into the air like a freed spirit. In Paul’s heightened mind everything inside seemed much more foreign and terrifying than usual. Some sort of large, milk-white snake floated in a jar in the far back. There were stacks of rocks, rose petals in a stone urn before bundles of feathers arranged in a bouquet. A few mummified hawk claws hung on a string. Daggers were arranged like surgical instruments on top of a rabbit skin. A series of small journals were crammed where a VCR should go. And buried deep within, the golden goat head of Baphomet peered from behind a collection of railroad spikes, their arm raised as if scolding him for daring to do all this.

The topic of the admonishment was not necessarily betraying his father’s trust. The deepest shame the statue bestowed on Paul as he rummaged around it was the fact that all of this trespassing was done in the name of impressing some mortals the boy decided was worth the cost.

Paul knew his father barely worked with every material in his collection, but he had to make a good impression. His new friends wanted to see some magic, so a decent show of arcane wisdom was essential. He chose a thin deer’s tibia as his wand. An oddly shaped chunk of rainbow obsidian would make a decent centerpiece. He collected some chalk into his hoodie pockets along with a few dried rose petals and a black candle.

Now for the book. Paul was so distracted with worrying about his plan that he hadn’t really sat down and considered exactly what kind of magic he’d actually want to do. There were too many books on the shelves for him to skim through in the small scrap of time he had before his mother checked on him. He struggled to unwedge one of his father’s journals from the VCR shelf, and at last he had a sample of what he actually could do.

The front of the journal was dated: Oct 1999- March 2000. Inside was a mishmash of charts, sketches and the impeccable script handwriting of Secondo himself. Beautiful, but incomprehensible. Long strings of text were arranged in lattices, grids, and atop each other in a flurry of swirling ink. Some pages were perfectly mirrored, others held odd anagram symbols and ciphers.

All In all beautiful, but worthless.

There was not a whole lot of time. Dave was waiting down the street with everyone in the car and he had to think fast. Paul knew that luck and destiny were huge components to magic rituals so perhaps the book he picked out was the one that he needed to use. He’ll figure out which page later. He tucked the journal into his back jeans pocket and closed the hutch, carefully retying the red ribbon to the best of his memory. He turned to go and his father’s framed diploma fell off its nail and onto the floor.

Paul sucked in a breath. Nothing in here was an accident. Everything had magical Significance. He picked up the frame, staring past the large crack on the glass: …conferred upon MICHAEL LEIDER The degree of MORTUARY SCIENCE AND FUNERAL SERVICES. Paul returned it to its nail, apologizing to the piece of paper before sneaking out the room once more.

After climbing out his bedroom window Paul met up with the car of kids waiting for him. They squeezed him in the back between the door and an athletic junior boy, who leered at him as Paul attempted to get on his seatbelt. It was Dana’s warm smile from the passenger’s front seat that finally calmed his nerves.

“I thought you lived at the funeral home,” A boy stuffed in the opposite corner of the backseat called across the car.

The car lurched forward and Paul gave up on finding the seatbelt buckle. “Nobody lives there, my mom’s family owns the place.”

“So like, you ever see a ghost there?” The boy beside him had eager bright eyes but his breath absolutely stank.

“Well, everyone there is dead so like their soul’s moved on somewhere else so there really wouldn’t be any… y’know, ghosts—“

“Come on,” chided a kid from the hatchback trunk. He reached out and grabbed Paul by the shoulders, the other boy beside him hooting.

“Fine, yeah, I did see a ghost.” Paul’s voice was terse as he stared hard at the road. He had been mostly sober for an hour now, psychically punching himself for ever getting involved in a caper this stupid. Too late now. “It was…some old woman. By the freezers. She had old time clothes on.”

The reverent awe that descended on the kids in the car would have made a past version of himself swell with pride. But now he just felt sick.

A little too sick.

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