#nike boot kinds

[deathofpeaceofmiiind]

Bad decisions // Quinn Hughes

No god, no religion … just bad, bad decisions

Summary: Quinn gets dragged to his girlfriends favourite bands concert despite it not being his favourite genre, but all it took was one song to change his mind.

Warnings: drinking, swearing, light fluff, pda (18+)

── ∘◦ ⛤ ◦∘ ──

“I can’t believe you’re dragging me to this.”

“Hey, you knew what you were getting yourself into dating me.” I commented as I applied my lipstick, looking back at Quinn in my mirror.

I wasn’t wrong, but I also never expected him to pursue someone like me either. I wouldn’t really consider myself an “alternative” or “goth” girl though. I had black hair, tattoos and listened to heavier music but I preferred wearing aritzia sweat suits, doing Pilates and swapped wing liner out for clean girl make up. Still, I wasn’t the stereotypical girl that most hockey players go for. I remember the first time I met Quinn and how terrified I was to take my sweater off and expose my full sleeve. But much to my surprise, he couldn’t keep his hands off me. Actually, any time I went to get a new tattoo he came with me and held my hand the entire time. It was a kind of intimacy I never thought I would find.


“I know, I’ve just never been to a concert like this. What if I get stuck in the middle of a mosh pit? Also how loud is it gonna be?”

I chuckled, zipping my boots up, “we’ll stay along the side, and yes, bring earplugs.”

“Oh god.” He groaned, throwing his head back on the couch. “You are so lucky I love you.”

“Well…” I trailed off, standing between his legs, leaning over and gripping onto his thighs. “If you’re on your best behaviour, I’ll reward you for it.”

Quinns head popped up as I peaked his interest. “What kind of reward?”


“Whatever you want.” I replied, hovering over his face. His lips ever so slightly brushing against mine, “but you need to be a good boy.”

“I’m about to become the biggest Bad Omens fan you’ve ever seen.”

About an hour later we arrived at the venue, my stomach was filled with butterflies from excitement. I’ve been a huge Bad Omens fan since 2016 and this was my first time seeing them post-covid. Their new album had been out for over a year and I played it so much I think Quinn was getting sick of it, but I would catch him mouthing the lyrics when he thought I wasn’t looking. This man tried to convince me he only listened to rap and country, but I firmly believe he didn’t want to admit he likes my music. I think he was paranoid his brothers or his teammates would tease him for it.

“I think you’d look really hot in that shirt.” 

Quinn and I waited in line at the merch booth before the concert, which was incredibly long. I saw a hoodie on display that I really liked so I wanted to see if they had it in my size. Another shirt caught my attention and I fully envisioned Quinn wearing it with his black Levis, a backwards hat and his white nikes. Just the thought of it made my knees buckle. 

“You think so?” Quinn leaned his head down to take a better look at the shirt in question. His cheek brushed against me, making his cologne hit my nose. It was the perfect mix of sage and cedar. I gently kissed his cheek, a bashful smile appeared on his face before he pressed his lips to my temple.


“Absolutely. I mean, you make everything look good.” I breathed, still reeling from his lips, “but I’d love to see you in that.”


“If you say so.” He smirked as it was our turn. He bought my hoodie for me along with a signed vinyl, and the shirt I told him to get. He sent me the most devilish grin as he tapped his credit card, knowing he just made me incredibly happy.

We made our way towards the stage, it was already pretty packed so I suggested we stood at the back near the sound booth. That way we would be out of the way of any crowd surfers or mosh pits because no one was dumb enough to fuck around expensive sound equipment. The concert was everything I hoped it would’ve been and more. The openers, I see stars and Erra put on incredible sets. Quinn looked like he seen a ghost when Erra came out, considering they were a little heavier than I see stars were, which made him look so adorable. Towards the end of their set, he was more impressed than scared which was a relief. Small smirks kept showing up on his face that he desperately tried to bite back but he couldn’t.

“You surviving?”

“Yeah, thank you for bringing me.” Quinn replied taking a sip of his drink, “I’m actually having a lot of fun.”

“Good, I’m glad.” I mused, “we haven’t even got to the best part yet.”

Before he could say anything, the lights went dark again and Bad Omens slowly made their way to the stage. My heart was rapidly racing in my chest as the boys opened up with Artificial Suicide. I immediately started jumping up and down, screaming the lyrics, completely forgetting about the world around me. Every now and then I would look up at Quinn, who just had the biggest smile on his face watching me enjoy myself.

Halfway through the concert, the band slowed the pace down, which came at the perfect time. My drinks were starting to hit me, making my head feel lighter than normal. The melody for Bad Decisions started and I immediately fell back into Quinn, becoming enamoured with how his breath crept along my neck.

Her skin feels unholy, but I'm still drawn

The morals I'm holding, you know they're gone…

His arms wrapped around my stomach as he slowly swayed us back and forth to the beat, slow and reverberating. His skin felt warm to the touch as his chin rested gently on my shoulder. The low vibrations from the song along with the siren red lighting was stirring something up in me. My hips instinctively rolled into him, feeling overstimulated by every single sensation that took over my body. I knew Quinn wasn’t complaining, considering I felt him twitch through his jeans.

You can be all I got, what's the difference?

Hennessy and a lot of bad decisions

All I know is bad, bad decisions

Quinn brushed my hair away from my shoulder, slowly planting kisses on my exposed shoulder. Each kiss nonchalantly making their way up to my neck, then my jaw, causing goosebumps as his week old stubble grazed my skin. My eyes stayed shut, as his lips dragged all over me. An audible gasp left my mouth as he lightly nipped at my skin, gently sucking, leaving his mark on me.

“Turn around.”

I turned around, his arms found me again and bringing me closer to him. My hands found their home in his hair, enveloping his curls between my fingers. The soft aura of the red lights made his green eyes the perfect muse in this dark room. I was so lost in him that I forget where we were, the crowd completely melted away from us and it was almost as if we were the only ones here. He had that effect on me, he knew how to make me feel like I was his, and only his. His forehead pressed lightly against mine, lips hovering so close I could taste the whiskey on his breath. The gap was finally closed, his mouth enveloping mine as I turned into putty in his hands. Our tongues danced together as the song was getting close to the end, but Quinn didn’t seem to care. He pressed me harder against his body, wrapping his hand around the back of my neck and kissing me with such desperation. He never gave me any chances to come up for air, his lips stayed glued to mine as if my mouth gave him a new breath of life.

Bitter ends to the night, I'm along for the ride

Out of breath, out of time, everything has a price

We broke apart and the smallest smile curved at the side of his mouth as he trailed his thumb along my mouth. Neither of us realized the band started to play What do you want from me? shifting the energy in the venue. The music slowly filled my ears like I was underwater and coming up for air finally. I smiled back at him, I was in a complete state of euphoria.

“Okay you win.” Quinn said into my ear as I gripped onto his shirt to keep my composure. “I definitely just found my new favourite song.”

“You have no idea how happy that makes me.” I mused as I had a lightbulb moment, “we need to get you into the pit.”

“Babe, no -“

I grabbed his hand and drug him into the crowd. Everyone was moving around and having the best time. I had to admit this was one of their better songs and it’s physically impossible to stay still during it. Quinn stood there frozen before giving in and started to jump around with me, not daring to let me out of his grasp. He sung the lyrics he was embarrassed to admit he knew with me, caught a guitar pick for me and held me as I cried during Just Pretend.

“Holy fucking shit, this guy is an animal.” Quinn gasped as the lead singer, Noah let out the most primal, gluttonous screams during the encore of dethrone. He wasn’t wrong though, I could feel those screams in my bones.

The concert finally ended, tears prickling my eyes as black and red confetti stuck to us and covered the entire floor. I didn’t want to leave but we had to. That was the best concert I’ve never witnessed and it felt so bittersweet that it was over.

“So, have I been a good boyfriend or what?”

I just chuckled as we made our way outside. The cold air hit my face and it felt like heaven after being a sweaty mess for three hours. We got into the car and Quinn leaned over to help me with my seat belt. I never once questioned why he started doing it, but I wasn’t about to complain about my boyfriend being this close to me at any given moment. His eyes were a perfect shade of green, the kind of green you wanted your morning matcha to be. They peered so deeply into mine I didn’t realize he asked me a question.

“So what’s my prize?”

“You’ll find out when we get home.”

[wetpussyju1ce]

+18 content. mdni

jax teller x poc fem!reader

when her sweet voice hit jax's ear, "Come over, nobody's home." He thought he'd get some loving in the sheets. he was excited. had something to look forward to when he finished running errands (beating people up) for samcro. a reward. but when he showed up to her house, he somehow ended up in her bath, surrounded by the smell of exotic fruits he can't name and hair tied at the top of his head in a shiny scrunchy. cheeks pink and knees poking from the bathwater, surrounded by bubbles.

he really didn't expect this. when she opened the door she looked so damn pretty. dressed in warm oranges and pinks, in a thin strap dress, the kind that shows everything, the kind you're only meant to wear over a bikini on the beach. But there she was. the sun shining behind her, from the kitchen's window, a soft orange glow kissing her skin. she looked so perfect. like an angel.

Jax drank her in like water. her soft tan skin. her dark curls and bright smile. his eyes trailed down a little and when he saw the faint brown of her nipples under the thin fabric, he felt himself grow in his jeans. then he pounced. He kissed her, gathered her in his hands and closed the door with his boot all at the same time, almost falling over as her laugh rang in the house, sweet and refreshing, like a bird in the morning, lulling you back to the waking world in a melody known and etched into your very bones.

"Wait, Jax! I have to show-- hmmmm--" He kissed her hard, "I have to show you something!" She gasped and laughed when he ran his mouth straight to her neck and shoulders, hungry, starved. When she finally managed to escape his hold, he threw his Kutte on the sofa and started slipping his hoodie off, eyes watching her every movement, as if she'd take off and leave him hanging.

"It's in my room, okay?" She said, still grinning and panting. Then she took a step towards the stairs, up where her bedroom was and he stood in front of her, she erupted in a fit of giggles, "Jaaaax! Let me through!"

He kept watching her, now down to his t-shirt, jeans and white nike's, pinning her with his intense gaze. He smiled a little and stepped aside. She sighed a breath of relief and slowly walked to the bottom of the stairs, staring at him all the while, in case he decides to jump her. Jax's eyes sparkles in mischief as he watched her go up the stairs, one slow step at a time, then he smirked and her smile dropped, "Jax, no!"

As soon as he leaped she shrieked and scrambled up the stairs, Jax hot on her trail. They were loud, their combined running and her screaming, then her bedroom door getting slammed open and the two falling on her bed, well, Jax tackled her to the bed, as gently as he could manage while all she did was a combination of trying to crawl away, shrieking and laughing when he squeezed her waist and buried his nose between her shoulders blade, his beard and long hair tickling her.

Then he flipped her on her back, kissing her cheeks, nose, eyelids then her plump lips. And he went lower, over her sternum, her chest over the thin fabric, then down her stomach and stopped when she buried her fingers in his hair and pulled, "Jax?"

"Hm?"

"Take your clothes off?"

Thank you, Lord.

.

.

.

"I feel deceived," Jax mumbled, his girlfriend humming, her fingers rubbing his soapy scalp, washing his hair.

"What?" She said, twirling one of his blonde strands with her finger, making it stand straight, like an antenna, she smiled at the sight. Jax looked like a teletubbie. She giggled under her breath and Jax frowned, pouting a little, "What's so funny?"

"Nothing, you just look cute," She giggled, then bent down to place a kiss on his cheek. "What did you say earlier?" She asked, taking a break and resting her head on her arm, on the edge of the tub, looking at him.

"You've deceived me, baby." Jax said, "I came over because I wanted to be with you, not do this,"

"But you're with me right now, Jax." She frowned in confusion.

Jax's face suddenly looked pained, he felt bad because she was taking care of him, he doesn't remember the last time he even took a bath, too used to showers, methodical, come in and come out, not this. With fancy bath bombs, fancy oils and whatever expensive shit she bought just for him.

His girl loved him and all he could think of is emptying his balls.

"Nevermind," He quickly said, closing his eyes and leaning his head back on the folded towel she put there just for him.

"What? Jax, tell me!" He heard her move, and her voice was closer to his face, she smelled really nice.

"Hm, later." He lied. He'd rather sleep with blueballs than upset his girlfriend for being a horny pervert. He didn't want to ruin the moment.

"Jax, please! I promise I won't judge!" She begged and Jax felt his resolve immediately start to crumble. It's not him! It's the hot water making him weak! It's all the chemicals from the soaps getting to his head!

"I thought when you called--" He sighed, opening his eyes, "Baby, I thought you wanted me naked in your bed."

"Oh, you can fuck me later if you want." She said it so casually, shrugging and dipping her soapy hands in the water, trying to rinse them out, then giving up and getting to the sink instead. Jax thought he misheard her, but his dick did not.

"Darlin' I don't think I can wait for later, my dick hurts." Jax gulped, his hands gripping the side of the tub as if he'd fall. Or just so he won't furiously jerk himself off under the water.

"But I have to put your facemask on, it's good for you-"

"Baby, please, I just need your hand and you can finish your-- your--" Jax felt dumb. desperate.

She wiped her hands with the towel, turned around and smiled at Jax, "Okay, then facemask."

"Alright," He nodded, ears turning red and feeling himself getting harder and harder each passing second.

"Just keep your hands to yourself, you're not pulling me in the water with you, Jackson."

Jax nodded and she sat on the mat, by the tub, on her knees. She leaned forward, kissing him, pecking his lips over and over again, smiling at his shaky moan when she finally dipped her hand in the water. Then giggled when a gutted moan escaped his lips when she finally wrapped her fingers around him. His eyes rolled back and Jax was gone.

[hardwriterdeluxe]

Second Life

I’ve been were busy recently and haven’t had time to write and I’ve also had writers block, I wanna thank @chavdrone and @kaithescallylad for inspiring me to write this story! ________________________________________________

Oliver was walking home from a friend towards the bus stop when he noticed a new shop. He had been around this part of London many times and had never seen this store before. Its dusty storefront displayed many different styled mannequins in attempts to be trendy, but they just ended up cheesy. Oliver looked at the store and read the half-broken neon sign, “Second life”; it was a second-hand shop. Oliver had time to kill, so he took the opportunity to check the store. It was open, and he went in. He was met by a large arrangement of racks with clothes and shelves; he didn't know where to start. The store seemed to be empty of any customers, and the checkout was empty as well, so Oliver just went around browsing for potential items.

Oliver was your average guy. He studied at some college in London he had recently turnt 20 and described by his nerdy characteristics: brown overgrown hair, glasses, a lanky build, and an normal clothing style. It was out of character for Oliver to blink twice at the White Nike trainers he just passed. His body felt drawn towards the pair, and even though the pair were size 11s and his feet were size 9, he felt obliged to try them on. He grabbed them and went towards a dressing room, not finding any other mirror or place to sit; he went there. Oliver removed his boots and put on the White Nike Tns. At first, he felt amused seeing these large, comically-looking sneakers on his feet, but that soon changed. The sneakers quickly started feeling moist, wet, and they were smelling; he was confused. Becoming uncomfortable, he quickly tried to yank off the sneakers, but to no avail, they were simply stuck, and the size gap weirdly felt snug.

Unbeknownst to Oliver, Second Life wasn't just an ordinary second-hand shop; no, it was a store offering a new life. Each item dropped off by the last owner transferred their essence into the new owner, ultimately forming a second life for the customer. Oliver's body started to change, and his height increased; his body frame started filling out, his lanky arms becoming toned, and his stomach gaining the outlines of some abs. His body gained a lean look, and his body started to emit the same smell his sneakers had; ultimately, exuding masculinity mixed with a new fragrance coming from his body, some cheap Axe deodorant and cologne. Oliver's face started changing; Oliver originally had slim and feminine features, a round nose and jaw, and a kind-looking face. That dramatically changed as his jaw started to square up, some stubble growing in, and his mouth gaining a stupid expression, a stupid grin. His nose swelled up and got crooked from all the fights he "supposedly" had gone through, and his eyes squinted up as well as his brow ridge squared up, his eyebrows becoming full and dark, and his ears becoming pierced. Oliver's hairstyle went from his long hair to a short-styled fade.

Oliver's clothes disintegrated all but his underwear that changed into some blue Nike boxers, as well as his bulge growing to accommodate his new length and foot size. Oliver's body started getting new clothes as a black football tracksuit materialized on him, the pants tucked into his socks, and he ultimately got a chain around his neck, finalizing his new look.

The last step was his mental state; Oliver's mind adjusted to his new persona and changed him into Ozzy, a 20-year-old British chav. Ozzy didn't go to college like those fancy shits; instead, he spent his days hanging with his brothers and working for some money. Gone was Oliver, and the world around him had erased Oliver for good. The store owner watched the whole change back in the storage, checking out another happy customer.

[clarkeyhill]

Crawling Back To You | George Clarke Part Two

Fluff. Smut. Angst

"George" Katie replied

"Okay, any description?" You reply

"No, he said you'd know who he is immediately" she chuckled

"Right okay" you laugh

-

The next day came, you were preparing for the night ahead. Organising your outfits together, unsure of what vibe it would be. You went casual. A light pink cropped tee & ripped flared mom jeans; some Nike dunks to pair. It wasn't a night out, so the need for all the glitz and glam didn't seem necessary. Although, Katie made the effort to be over the top as usual, to keep Chris' eyes on her.

"You ready?" Katie calls from the hallway

"Yeah, just tying my laces" you beckon

You emerge from the bedroom, your hair slightly waving as it cascade over your shoulders. You added a touch of silver jewellery to sort of spice up your look.

"You look great" you say to Katie

"Thanks, it's not too much is it?" She replies

"Never!" You giggle

-

You arrive after a short walk, Katie was nervous as was I, don't get me wrong Chris seemed nice, but she'd only met him a day before. So I was skeptical.

"I'm not sure about this, it seems a little rushed?" I add

“You know him already,” she said as we walked to the bar. Her boots clicked on the pavement while I stuffed my hands into my coat pockets against the cold. “And he’s bringing his friend George for you.

“I don't see why though” I said, half-laughing.

“Because Chris swears you two will get on like a house on fire,” Katie said, grinning. “Something about your ‘energies’ matching.”

I rolled my eyes. Chris—he was nice, laid-back, and honestly, great for Katie—but his matchmaking instincts were about to be put to the test.

We arrived just as Chris waved us over. He looked genuinely pleased to see Katie, his easy smile lighting up his face. Beside him stood George, a tall guy with an unruly mop of hair and an equally easy smile.

“Hey, good to see you again!” Chris said, giving me a quick hug before motioning to his friend. “This is George.”

“Hi,” I said, offering a polite smile.

George extended his hand. “Hey you must be y/n, Chris has mentioned a lot about you" he says with a warm smile, a slight chuckle leaving his mouth

“Oh, has he?” I said, raising an eyebrow at Chris.

“All good things!” Chris assured me, laughing.

The four of us settled into a booth near the bar, and before long, the conversation started flowing. Katie and Chris were clearly in their own world, leaving George and me to talk.

“So,” I said, sipping the cocktail Chris had recommended—a zingy blend of gin and elderflower, “what do you do?”

“I’m in social media,” George said. “content creation, that kind of thing. It’s a weird job, but I love it.”

“Social media, huh? What’s the weirdest project you’ve worked on?” I replied

George laughed, his eyes crinkling in a way that caught me off guard. “Oh, that’s easy. A campaign to make adult diapers trendy on YouTube after a tuk tuk race in Sri Lanka" he rolled his eyes as he laughed

I couldn’t help but giggle. From there, the conversation took on a life of its own. We swapped stories about work, shared opinions on movies, and debated the best cocktails on the menu.

“You have to try this one,” George said at one point, sliding a drink across the table toward me.

“What is it?”

“No idea,” he admitted. “But the bartender said it’s a ‘surprise.’”

I took a cautious sip, then winced. “That’s…strong.”

He grinned. “You’re welcome.”

The more we talked, the more I found myself surprised by how easy it was to be around him. George had this unassuming charm, a way of making everything feel fun without trying too hard.

“You know,” he said as the night wore on, “Chris wasn’t wrong. Our energies do match.”

“Guess I’ll have to give him credit for that,” I said with a smile.

By the time the bar started to wind down, George and I were still chatting while Katie and Chris had moved on to discussing their favorite hiking spots.

As we got up to leave, George turned to me, his expression soft but hopeful. “This was fun. Would you want to do it again sometime? Just us?”

I hesitated for only a second before nodding. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

On the walk home, Katie couldn’t stop grinning. “Told you,” she teased.

“Alright, fine,” I said, laughing. “Chris has better instincts than I gave him credit for.”

What had started as a night to support my friend turned into something I hadn’t expected—but something I was glad I hadn’t missed.

-

🫶🏻

Let me know if you want to be tagged in the parts! ���

[guesswhojusttt]

peace, peace, my love (Aizawa/reader)

Summary:

aizawa is not a good person, but he can try to be. you are not a person at all, but you can pretend to be.

(to those who wish they were a little easier to love)

Read on AO3

In which Aizawa adopts a cat. (You are that cat.)

It's never a bad time to bring a grown man to his knees.

Your nose twitches, smelling the petrichor before it happens. Big fat drops splash onto dry, grey pavement, spreading like stains on a shirt, like ink in a pond, and wet cat fur takes forever to dry, so you dart to the nearest shelter (the word shelter doing a whole lot of heavylifting here).

You huddle beneath a coarse bush, make a home of its sharp brambles and drooping boxwood leaves, the edges eaten away by crawling caterpillars or tiny ants or Japanese beetles. Your claws pick idly at the loose dirt, with its dead leaves and snapped twigs, its sharp rocks and wriggling worms that have made this damp earth their home. It would be so much easier, wouldn't it, to be a worm? You do not have to scavenge and hunt and fight for food- you can simply nibble at the nearest shred of vegetation. If it is cold, you need not seek shelter, merely crawl into the nearest pile of filth. What luxury it would be, wet mud your bed, soft grass your blanket, and all manner of greenery as your feast. No one to adopt you, coax you into a false sense of security, only to replace you and toss you out once they find someone better, someone who gives them everything you never could no matter how had you tried, no matter how you forced yourself to mold and change into anything, anything they desired, but it was not enough, because you were not enough, even when you had warped yourself into a form you did not recognize, metamorphosing yourself at their beck and call-

But, though you feel like one, though you may certainly be treated as one, you are not a worm. So you gather your limbs beneath you and tuck your head below the bush, chin resting on a patch of pillowy leaves, and watch the shoes of the people as they pass. An expensive pair of Nike's or Jordan's or whatever type of shoes high school boys obsessed over these days, pencil-thin, hot pink stilettos all tall and elegant and just a step closer to permanently disfiguring the woman's poor heels, chafed black boots that are well-worn (well-loved, your favorite type of shoes- and thus the type of people who wear them- are those that have clearly seen better days, were once shiny and polished and brand new, but have since been broken in, lost color and shine but are still worn year after year- loyalty, you think, to keep them around instead of replace them. Or maybe this man's just poor and can't afford a new pair, but… you like to think, well. Wouldn't it be nice to be a pair of shoes, kept around year after year, regardless of how you lose whatever was first appealing about you- never tossed out, never abandoned or replaced?)

What kind of life is it, if you spend your days dreaming of a worm's life, fantasizing about being a torn pair of old shoes?

You gaze out from your comfortable perch- this bush is yours, if nothing else is- and you may be parched, you may be starving, you may feel fur and fibers clinging to your ribcage till it caves in, concave chest and nothing else between your skin and bones except the thinnest most breakable layer of tissue- but at least here, you're safe from the oncoming rain. A cute pair of cats all snowy-white and speckled and spackled in cheerful orange dart past, and a little girl tugs on her mama's skirt and eagerly points at them, bouncing on her feet in her dusty-pink ballerina slippers until the mom sighs fondly, reaches into her purse, pours out a water bottle the cats eagerly lap up, nuzzling into the little girl's legs as she giggles and squeals in delight.

Well, of course (you think bitterly), everyone loves a cute kitten. You sigh and burrow your face deeper into your arms, tail flicking irritably. Why are they out so late anyway? Shouldn't the kid be asleep by now? Way past her bedtime.

The familiar pair of scuffed snow boots walks past your bush- this pair of shoes is always home well after most people are, must work a late shift, poor guy- but with your tail still agitating, it rustles the marcescent, withering leaves just a bit, just a touch, almost imperceptibility- you're never one to make much noise, why draw attention to yourself, why incite what'll only hurt you- yet the boots stop short, because of course they do. Of course he has superhuman, doglike hearing, because you truthfully weren't making much noise at all.

(You never do, anymore.

[You know better, now])

The tall figure stoops down, and if he has any regard for how dumb and silly and frankly pathetic he looks, grown-ass man bent in half, hair nearly brushing the dirt as he tries to get on your level- well. This sort of man seems to have no regard for anything, if that lackadaisical, languid, lethargic demeanor is anything to go by. He blinks at you- slowly, slowly now- and you blink lazily back.

He leaves.

Can't say you're surprised. He'd probably thought there was a cute fluffy kitten cloistered in the bushes, had wanted to take sympathy on it and feed it and maybe even pet it a little, but the moment he took a good look at you- matted fur and missing ear and mucusy eyes- he'd regretted having stooped down to inspect the bush to begin with. Well, of course he did. Wouldn't want to risk rabies or ticks or whatever else might be hitchhiking in your hair. You almost can't blame him.

Almost. For such a little thing, you really are full of more hatred than your small body knows what to do with.

You idly bat at a sprouting crabgrass weed, displacing a black ant that had been edging up its stem, when the thick, peeling boots come back, and with them, the foreign, exotic, salivating mouth-watering gourmet heavenly scent of-

Tuna.

No, not the stubby little can with cold watery shreds, but ahi tuna steak. Easily a fat inch thick, juicy and tender and comes-apart-in-your-mouth meat.

Oh. He must've seen the cute twin cats earlier and his old little heart must've softened and he must've wanted to why is he crouching down at your bush again? Are they behind you? No, would've heard. Your one ear hears better than two, really. But, no, neither your eyes nor your ear lie to you- he really is offering you this blue-ribbon tuna steak.

He digs his long index finger into it, peels off a morsel, and plops it down on the cracked curb before you. You're no idiot and make no move to take it. He backs up- five feet, ten feet- and only when he is no longer within grabbing distance do you pounce on it, snatching it up in your jaw and scurrying back to hide in the bush before he can blink.

You down it so quickly you choke. Not even a second to savor the rare, precious, once-in-a-lifetime flavor. You'd squandered your chance to delight in its taste and you'll never again-

He's offering another scrap. backing away- one arm's length, two arm's lengths-

You seize it and dash back into hiding and gobble it up and-

You continue this little song and dance till you've eaten the steak whole.

The next day, you do not perk up when he comes by, nor do you spend your full day awaiting his return. Because you are better than that, and you know better than that, and you know it was a fluke. A one-off encounter, because either he'd been drunk (though your sharp nose had not detected any traces of alcohol) or sentimental (his no nonsense manner does not strike you as the sentimental sort), and you weren't gullible enough, naive enough, foolish enough to really think he'd come by for you again.

And your shoulders do not relax when he sits at the park bench, stretching his long legs out, sighing off the weight of his day. The mini-playground, consisting solely of a small, faded red slide and an airplane spring rider, sits in wood chips which conveniently double as a big old litter box. A grey tabby- one you'd benignly dubbed Thief- scuttles over to the man's boots, its tail winding round his leg affectionately. He droops his large hand down, lets Thief sniff it, scent it, lick it.

You tamp down your envy. You expected this, and you can't be mad about things you knew would happen, right? That's like being mad at the weather for raining after you'd already checked the forecast and chose not to bring an umbrella.

Thief paws up the man's leg to settle on his lap, reveling in the scritches behind his ear and under his chin, leaning into the man's large, warm body.

You shiver under your bush, suppress an aggressive hiss (the time for fighting is long since over, for you. As far as you were concerned, Thief could have him, goodbye and good riddance), and curl your limbs closer, ever closer, around yourself.

It's going to be a long night.

Best you go to sleep now.

Night after night, when the moon is high in the sky or when the sun is just beginning to crawl up from the horizon, he comes back. Night after night, you are still on the waitlist for every homeless shelter within a 50-mile vicinity, and go back and forth between cat and person as if it makes a difference at all.

It would be nice to believe he was looking for you, but really he is just here to play with whatever stray cat is out. So you hide while he feeds fat, big, strong Garfield, and you bristle, because he snatches up any scrap you find before you can even smell it, batting at you and hissing at you or even scratching at you even if you were in the middle of eating something- if he spots food, it's his, doesn't matter whose mouth its currently in- he can and will and does snatch food right from between your jaws, still spit-slick and half-gnawed.

Even the big black cat- almost-panther-like, in size and appearance, but not as strong, or if he was as strong before, he's had it long since beaten out of him. He lopes over with a fluid agility that promise once I was something great, but now, with gunky black stains trickling from the corners of his great big eyes in permanent tear tracks, flinching, just like you, at the slightest sound, jumping, just like you, at the first sign of a motion just a hair too fast, conceding, just like you, to any cat half his size or strength the moment it wanted to steal his food right out from under him.

Yeah. Weak and a little pathetic, just like you. You get him. He's your favorite. You look out for each other, the both of you. All that really boils down to is that he doesn't steal your food and you don't steal his, and if he seeks shelter under your bush, you let him, and if you trail after him, he lets you.

It is the closest thing you have tasted to love. To friendship.

(It is not enough.)

But maybe that is because you are greedy, all-consuming, always wanting more than the little slivers and scraps they toss you. One day someone will extend an itsy bitsy droplet of kindness and you will think this solitary drop is enough to sate years and years of parched mouth and dry tongue, others you go from night to day without a single interaction and back again, and the starvation is back, like it never left, like its only compounded exponentially, worse and worse every day you go without a single moment of affection and-

And the last and only time you've been touched in a way meant not to harm is-

Is-

Is years ago, in that shelter's end of the year catch-and-release program. They grabbed you, vaccinated you against ringworms and parasites, and subsequently released you back into the wild as if you could survive out here.

Well, you're fine. You're all good out here. Just peachy.

The sky breaks open. It's happening less and less, and this worries you. Rain used to be common. Snow used to be common. Now, you're lucky to see even a smattering of snow, it's an unmitigated miracle if there's baker's sugar powdering the streets. Gone are the days of snowballs and snow forts and snowmen, lamenting long-gone snow days where children get to stay home from school and snow so high it drowned the park benches in its crests and dips. The rain is good, yes, in the sense that there'll be plentiful water to lap up when it douses the clefts of the cement, the fissures of the sidewalks, but immediately it only means that this bush isn't enough, the dappled leaves a contented for the water to seep through and soak the dirt at your feet. you scurry to the tall trash cans only to find a family of cats has already made it their home, using the plush, overflowing trash bags- thin and black and shimmery as drips slip down and coat them- as bedding, as shelter from the storm. The pitter-patter of the rain gushes into a torrent, and you dash to the overhang above the doors to the apartment buildings but of course, of course, both Thief and Garfield are already there, albeit on opposite ends since both are too competitive to really get along. Your precious bush is colonized by a drove of rabbits that in any other time or situation would know better than to come here, of all places, where bigger cats like Sushi and Fushi would eat them alive. Stupid, ugly, disease-ridden, tapeworm-carrying, flea-infested furbags, they thump their hind legs and lunge and you really, really don't have the energy to deal with them.

You can weather bad weather. You certainly have before- you are capable of it, more than capable. On one hand, you could probably slip through a train station and take it as your bed for the night, on the other, the last time you did that, someone reported you, so. Cat form it is.

Sure, the life expectancy for stray cats is about a fourth of house cats, but you've adjusted better than most. You're not weak, like the rest of them.

Even if… even if you weren't born into being a stray like some of them are. Even if, once, you'd actually been gullible enough to believe…

But there was no use worshiping that family in your mind. They never appreciated it once anyway.

The man comes back (late, as always), his eyes alighting on you as if he'd been searching for you. As if worried about you. as if. He takes a step towards you. You take three back. He crouches low, makes himself smaller, less intimidating.

He is not any less intimidating than a lion that rears back before it strikes.

You do not want his help. Not because you do not need it- you are not arrogant, nor are you so foolish so as to believe you, or anyone else, is entirely self-sufficient- not even because you do not want it (who would not welcome a warm, dry shelter from the thrashing storm lashing the trees themselves in all their height and grandeur?)- but rather, because you cannot have it.

Not permanently.

Last time you'd actually fallen for it-

So no. You have no interest in letting him warm you and dry you and take care of you only to abandon you the moment the rain stops. What is the point of love if not everlasting? What is the point of letting him give you just a sliver, just a finite taste, of what warmth could be like only to toss you back out like garbage?

No. You will huddle under this tree even as the rain slips through the leaves and douses you. He's getting soaked, too, but those heroic types are always willing to sacrifice small comforts for the greater good. You leap to the lowest hanging branch when he makes to approach you, dig your claws into rough bark, buried in the little crevices and cracks along the wood, skittering and scrambling up the tree to get away from him like a cat possessed. Take the hint, you want to growl, I don't want you. I'm not fine on my own but I'm still better off than I would be with anyone else.

He misinterprets your distaste for fear (it isn't, but of course he is the arrogant sort), and carefully lopes over to the base of the tree, craning his neck up to look at you, blinking the rain out of his bloodshot eyes. He raises one long arm to shield his stubbly face from the onslaught of rain, other hand weaving two long fingers into his stretchy grey scarf- grey, like the overcast sky, grey, like the sheets of rain separating you and him as a thick and much-welcome curtain. He takes another step closer, jaw set as if intending to scale the tree and rescue you, so you arch your back and hiss and do everything a cat does to say go away and leave me alone, but all he does is cock his head in sympathy, making a cooing noise that is so condescending and infantalizing that you'd all but gouge his eyes out were you not set on keeping him as far away as possible, scrabbling up to the next branch, ever higher, the torrent of icy water stabbing through your fur coat and right into your skin, again and again, cold sharp needles battering away at you- the leaves do not protect you at all, the tree swaying in the wind and bending and bowing to the harsh winds. When he realizes that no amount of pspsspsssting is going to bribe you to abandon your safe harbor, he squares his shoulders and straightens his slouch and tightens his grip on his loose grey scarf, tugging at it, winding it-

Then shakes his head, as if thinking better of it.

Instead, he offers his hand. Palm up. Crooks one long finger in a come hither motion.

You snort. Does he really think this would work?

He digs around in his trouser's pocket. Pulls out his phone. Your heat jackrabbits- is he trying to send you to a shelter? Not again not again- you're ready to leap off the tree and take your chances to outrace him, but-

Cats. Yowling. He's pulled up a Play this to attract your cat and make it meow back (works instantly!) video, and … he looks up at you so hopefully, so expectantly, that you almost feel a little bad for the sopping wet cat of a man before you. Almost want to throw him a bone. Rain ricochets off his moisture-wicking raincoat, douses his mop of black hair, stringy strands falling into his face (weathered, less so with age than with weariness). He fishes in his oversized pockets again, replacing his phone with a…

Carton?

CATMILK: TREAT FOR CATS & KITTENS, a cartoon of a bright orange cat heartily licking a milk mustache off its upper lip.

Does he… carry around a carton of milk for cats? Just in case? [1]

Does this man not have hobbies outside of following stray cats like some sort of stalker? [2]

He makes those soft kissy sounds that you know he thinks attract cats but really just make him look like a silly old man.

He's certainly tall enough, long-limbed enough, that if he really wanted to, he could just scale the tree and seize you himself, so it's beyond you why he's going to such bizarre, near-comedic lengths to lure you down. His pants are plastered to his legs by now, the rain sticking his clothes to his skin and isn't he cold, even in those thick boots and even with the turtleneck peeking out beneath his coat- it is the sort of wetness where it not possible to get any wetter, a drowned rat in a gutter. (You've seen and eaten enough of them to know.)

Put this poor idiot out of his misery, you huff, give him what he wants and then he'll leave you alone. As you always are. As you always should be.

You rear back on your haunches, slowly, slowly, and his eyes widen so earnestly that he must be a child seeing Santa is real, spreading his arms wide to catch you.

Well, fine.

Placate him and he'll go away soon enough.

You leap off the tree, claws out, head first, the branch left trembling from your jump off it, and he does not startle, does not react- you think dully, this must be a man who is used to catching people, to adjusting to unpredicted weights, permanently prepared. He draws his inky rain coat open, letting his sweater get rain-splattered in the process, tucking you into his jacket and bundling you close and tight before speed-walking to his home, kicking up sprays of water and splashing up perfectly good puddles in his haste to get home.

No.

To get you home.

He treks up the stairs, water-sodden boots squelching with every step, strong arm keeping you tucked closer than you think is strictly necessary, and you hold your breath and remind yourself the other shoe will have to drop.

He will release you back into the wild. It's what they always do. He's accomplished his heroic endeavor of getting you out of the cold wet rain, and as soon as the storm ceases, he'll be done with his task and done with you and honestly, honestly, you pray it stops raining right this second so you can leave. Before you learn his name or his mannerisms or what his phone-

His phone, blaring the generic, cheerfully chirping ringtone he apparently never bothered to change- he's pulling it out and you avert your gaze, not wanting to know his lockscreen, his phone case, how new and shiny and expensive it is or isn't. You tuck your small head further into his thick, dense jacket, an action he mistakes for affectionate nuzzling when really it's to cotton your ears with the fabric so you don't hear his conversation- or so that it's at least muffled. Don't want to know the low cadence of his voice, don't want to learn the slow, steady way he speaks as he sighs, "I'm not- no, Hizashi you are always pulling some- you can survive one night without me. Yes you can. Yes you can. Well if you die that's a you problem. To say I would laugh at your funeral is to imply I'd bother showing up to begin with. Mm-hm. I'm just busy right now. Yes it's more important than you, but that's not a very high bar. It's not really canceling plans because I never wanted to go anyway. No I don't. No I don't. You and Nemuri need adult supervision? Can't argue with that. I'm tired. I want to sleep. We'll go out for drinks- sooner if you have a say in it, later if I can avoid it. I said I want to sleep. Good night. I'm hanging up now. Yes I am. Yes I-"

And he really does hang up. Huh.

What a shame, too. The more time he spends talking to his friend the less time he'll spend bothering you, so it would've been in your best interest if he'd kept the conversation going just a little longer.

It's better when that sonorous, canorous timber isn't directed at you. When you can't feel it resonating from his chest into yours, can't feel his lungs steadily expanding into all of you, all of you, consumed by all of him. His rain-slicked coat may have been all rubbery and wet on the outside, but on the inside, where he had stowed you away? A fuzzy, dense fleece lining blanketed you on one side, his cable-knit wool sweater blanketing you on the other. All droopy and roomy, the shapeless collar sagged so low that your little head nestled right against his cool, smooth collarbone. The more your soggy fur presses into his sweater, the more he stinks of wet wool and wet cat and wet mud, but he only chuckles fondly.

"You stopped thrashing when i was on the phone. Does my talking help calm you down?"

No, no, no, no you do not need to hear more of that all-encompassing, steady-as-a-mountain voice. You squirm and convulse in a bid to pry yourself out of the cotton cocoon he has entrapped you in, but all that does is confirm his theory that he needs to soothe you.

Like some child.

Like some pet.

But you are not his pet. You are just a stray, that he happened to stumble across once or twice, and he had nothing better to do (he canceled plans with his best friends to stay here with you), and the moment he's done he'll toss you out and it'll be better, be safer, not to get attached to something you'll lose before you even have it.

It's not worth it, the way a cut takes only a second to stab into you but takes weeks, takes months, takes years, takes forever takes eternity takes infinity to heal and even then, even then, it leaves a scar behind to mar you; you can't risk that, not again, not again, not again-

He grunts, one large hand still cupping your head as the other fishes for his keys, jingle-jangling against each other as he unlocks the apartment door, kicking off his waterlogged boots, elbowing the door shut and flicking the light switch on. Warm, orange light bathes his apartment in a dreamy glow- the sleek wood paneling leading to a shaggy carpet, the overcrowded desk shoved to one corner, the stuffed-full bookshelf against the white wall- all so toasty and cozy and promising, awash the hazy orange glow.

Keeping a firm arm around his chest to cradle you close, as if scared you'll slip away the second he loses hold of you, he hushes and soothes you through every action he takes: his keys clink when he plucks them down onto his kitchen counter, shedding his rain coat, shaking off the water the way a cat shakes water off its fur and hanging it on the hook at the door. For just a moment, he pauses, back slumped against the wall as if his legs can no longer carry the weight of him- sighing, running a hand over his face, the quiet, irregular drip-drip-drips of his hair and clothes puddling at his feet- composing himself. Catching his breath. His heartbeat thrums slowly into yours- steady, steady, steady.

The man hooks a thumb through his thick grey socks, peeling them off, toes over to a long, pillowy, yellow sleeping bag, and eases you in.

A sleeping bag…?

Oh, shoot. You'd been taken in by a poor man. He'll shake stale Cheerios from a tattered box for you and call it dinner.

Well.

It would still be a kindness, and you would be grateful for it just the same.

You shuffle, kneading into the plush, well-used, well-loved fabric-

No, no, no. See, this is exactly what you were hoping to avoid. Now you know things about him. Things like- he has kept this sleeping bag around for a while, he has not replaced it, he has tossed it into the washer hundreds of times and it has lost its color and whatever deluxe softness it once held, whatever sleek shiny shades it had on the outside, and yet he has kept it, he has not thrown it out in the same way he has not replaced that scuffed pair of boots, he has used them both till it's molded to the contours of his body, and look, his phone's not new either, not at all, he does not throw things out on a whim, doesn't just abandon- he keeps, he keeps, long after the object is outdated and expired and obsolete, and there is no good in knowing any of this at all, because all this does is inflate a bubble of false hope, that you too could be a constant, something to keep around like a worn-out pair of well-trodden shoes-

You close your eyes. It is the only way to stop observing things.

Again, the man does not understand you. He doesn't- he doesn't get it. Doesn't get you. Delighted, babbling like a fool in love, "aw, you gettin' comfy, kitty? All cozied up? Good, make yourself at home. Oh, I know, you were just so cold and scared outside, huh? Brave girl. Such a brave girl. Trust me, you don't have to be scared, anymore. Wanna get a little warmer? Yeah? Of course I'll turn on the heat, just for you. Such a sweet little kitten."

Oh, for fuck's sake.

The dull rumble of the gas kicks on, heat seeping into the apartment like a nice hot shower after a snowy day, cradling you in its warmth till staying awake and sober is an active effort. The ambiance does not flood, but trickles into, your ears: feet shuffling along cool floor, fridge pops open, rustling, fridge snaps shut, tap water gushes, tap water off, glass clinks on the counter, cabinet opens, soft rattling, cabinet closes- the quiet, cyclic sounds of his pitter-pattering about the kitchen could've damn near soothed you to sleep, a homespun, home-baked, homemade lullaby of just- of just- someone going about their day. Someone going about the meniality of life, the same humdrum of a routine smoothed and honed and rounded the way a river sands down a stone till it's a comforting weight in your palms… when was the last time you had a place to sleep with no shouting, no crying no clanging no yelling no slamming-?

Okay, fine.

Just for tonight. You'll sleep here, just for tonight, just to weather the storm, just to dry off, and in the morning when he opens the door to go to work, you'll slip out when he does, and part ways as unlikely friends. [3]

Which unfortunately means, no matter how hungry you are, you can't take his proffered gifts. Normally you have no problem accepting help- you need food, and would never pass up a free chance to eat without neither cats nor people competing and drawing blood for each and every bite- but to eat now is- well-

It's the basic Greek laws of xenia, yeah? Same for the Islamic hospitality rules. If you have a guest, you feed them; if you are a guest, you eat and be merry and thank your gracious host. To do otherwise is to say I am not your guest; I am merely a traveler, passing through; I will not sit at your table, I will not drink your wine: I will not sleep under your roof and bid you a good night, and you will not wish me safe travels and thank me for brightening your day.

We are strangers. Let us remain so.

So when you hear the sharp snap of a metal can, when the salty tang of sardines permeates the air, when he places it reverently at your feet like a worshipper, you do not grant it so much as a cursory sniff.

"Some cats don't like seafood, right? Or is it that you don't like wet food?" He scuffles off only to come back with a bowl full of cat kibble and oh God this is not a cat bowl this is a human bowl. The man is using his own dishes to feed you. Come to think of it, that was just a normal can of packed sardines, not a can of cat food. Is he just feeding you whatever he has in his own pantry? No, the dry food for sure smells like bonafide cat food. Still. His own bowl. His own food.

Oh, well, now the reason you're eating isn't just to reject hospitality and show him you're not one to keep around, it's because he's this poor broke sorry man who's sacrificing his own meals to feed you. Poor thing, going hungry for a sorry stray. To accept his kindness would be a cruelty. It's okay, you would tell him, if you didn't have the basic social decorum that says if you turn back into a human now he'll freak out because no Quirk justifies tricking someone into providing you with food and shelter and warmth.

Because no matter how much you had fought tooth and nail to keep him from bringing you in, no matter how much he'd been the one to insist, it still felt like you'd… manipulated him. Coerced him, somehow. But there was no room for guilt: you become a cat specifically because… well. People are… kinder, to cats. Still cruel, still overlook them, still do not save them or take care of them or adopt them or love them, but no one is going to call the cops on a famished, bedraggled, ugly cat the way they would on a famished, bedraggled, ugly woman. A homeless person is a threat. A homeless animal is a tragedy.

So you give thanks for your Quirk because at least, as a cat, your stomach is smaller, your needs lesser, and no one's going to think you're some scary, smelly drug addict who needs to be reported for disturbing the peace (sleeping on a park bench).

You nudge the can back to him and hope it conveys, I'll just scavenge for mice and birds outside, so don't you worry about me! You'd leave out the part that normally the moment you get your grubby little paws on a scrap, every other cat within a 50-mile radius can somehow smell it and pounces so viciously that you're left without even the bite you'd held between your teeth. Still, go mix it with mayo, shred some lettuce, wrap it up in some tortilla, you skrunkly old man. Judging by the broken red capillaries all over the whites of your weary eyes, you need this boost more than I do.

But he does not understand you, just as you do not understand him, not even a little bit, not even at all (why is this penniless old man giving up the last of his food to feed a bony old cat, you wonder, and do not know that he is neither penniless nor that old and has a whole stockpile of catfood and cans and bags and pouches specifically on the luck occasion that he comes across a cat, you do not know that being an underground hero and a teacher at the most prestigious school in the county means his pockets are lined with far more than lint and cobwebs, you do not know, you do not know-)

Just as he does not know you. He clicks his tongue, "picky girl, huh? Princess wants to be spoiled? Want a Fancy Feast Classic Pate ™? Want a Churu Puree Lickable Treat™? Come here," and he does that fake-groan thing humans do where it's not a grunt of actual effort but they exaggerate it like it is, scooping you back up into his arms- doesn't he care that wet cat is getting all over his perfectly good nice sweater?- and you squirm viciously, struggle and writhe, but all he does is bring you to the open pantry, holding you up to eyelevel with a dizzying, colorful array of options.

Oh, bless his heart. This man's a cat mom with no cat.

Well, this explains everything.

Big brand names and wand toys and bags- not just of kibble but of litter, a scoop, a cat bed- why does this man stockpile like it's going to be a damn apocalypse. An apocalypse where specifically cats are in danger, because you know damn well he doesn't have this much in the fridge.

You dig your claws into his arm and use the split second of distraction to leap out his arms, bound over to the fridge, because you've gotta know. you can just tell he's the sort to come home at midnight, open the fridge to nothing but leftover take out (from a restaurant he didn't even want to go to but was dragged along), sniff the sticky rice, decide it's maybe decent and probably won't give him food poisoning, and eat without bothering to heat it up in the microwave.

"Refined taste? Sorry, sweet little kitty, I don't have much to offer you in the ways of human food." He pops the sleek black fridge door open, and-

And-

Oh, you were so right it sort of hurt a little.

One- because you are so set on not knowing this man, (the more you know the more you get attached is how it works you see), but damn if he isn't easier to read than a picture book with big bold neat letters.

Two- because this sorry excuse of a man was just much in need of help as you. If anything, having you around might encourage him to buy himself some food, as it had already pushed him to turn on the heat (would he had just let the apartment stay cold if it wasn't for you being here?), to go to bed at a reasonable time and to come home earlier to take care of you.

You could do him some good, you think, but that is an arrogant thought, and a condescending one to boot, so you squash it down along with the worse, rotten, traitorous he could do me some good. You give a disdainful sniff to the low fridge shelf, carrying the impressive feat of no less than half a bottle of soy sauce and a yellowing onion and a dented, open can of sparkling water that you just know had gone stale and should've been tossed out weeks ago and-

You've been here too long. Getting too comfortable with each other. What are you doing, sniffing up his fridge? Fuck's sake!

Piss him off.

You scale the pantry with its veritable cornucopia of feline delights, and it is not hard to send everything toppling over like a collapsing tower, to wreak havoc and destruction upon his frankly creepy shrine, because otherwise- and you can hear it so clearly, an impartial, detached observer spectating the actors as they take their stances upon a stage when you've already memorized the script right to the bitter, yet crudely obvious end:

"I'd love to adopt you, but I'm so busy with work; I just wouldn't have the time to give you the attention you deserve: I'm barely home as it is." And it would be true, because you always see those scuffed boots trudge home when the moon is bright, or even when the dawn has first begun to break. It wouldn't be a half-baked lie or a flimsy excuse.

(It wouldn't make it hurt any less.)

"You have a very special place in my heart, and you always will, but I'm just not in a place in my life where I can adopt a pet."

"Why is she in a room by herself? She got behavioral problems or somethin'? I'm not interested in an aggressive animal."

"It's just that I already have all the cats I need and besides what if you don't get along with them?"

"I'll still visit you. Of course I will."

(She did not).

"I wish I could, but my mom's allergic-"

"She won't let me pick her up."

"What's wrong with her face?"

"My dorm doesn't allow-"

"Not very friendly, is she?"

"I'm looking for a lapcat, but this one's been cowering and hiding in the corner like I'll kill her-"

"Can you introduce me to a better-?"

"Way too shy-"

"I'm sure she'll find her forever home, but I'd prefer a-"

"No, really, what's with her face?"

"She bit me!"

"We'll find you your person eventually," the shelter worker would promise (lie), every time, "I'd even adopt you myself, but-"

Whatever. People don't owe loyalty to strays; only to the housepets waiting for them at home, the ones they keep around for years and years till one of them dies and then they grieve carry a piece of their pet with them forever because they love them, they love them, and people can certainly be nice to strays like you, and feel sorry for you, and wish they could find a home for you, and then walk right past. They do not love them (you), they are no more loyal to them than to a trampled weed. Yes, they might see it once upon an idle stroll, might peer at it closely on their way home, but that is the start and end of the relationship.

It would… save you both a great deal of time and trouble to just nip it in the bud.

Yet even as the metal cans clatter to the ground and your claws rip into a paper bag of kibble, waterfalling onto the yellowed kitchen tiles you realize, as you exert every manner to make him turn you out sooner rather than later- so you can only feel a smug, I-knew-it-all-along satisfaction, rather than a hollow I thought this time was different pang- that the stockpile of food is assorted in the sense that- that- with a marked difference in expiration dates and brands and states of being, old and new alike, that he must've-

You can see it now. Every time he goes grocery shopping, indulging his curiosity, making a harmless little impulse purchase, flitting into the pet food aisle, perusing the shelves and grabbing one or two things just in case, for the somedays and what ifs and hopefullys, and repeating this ritual every single time he ever goes to a store until they build up into whatever the hell it is he's got going on here. You had sat in your bush a thousand times over, had watched him follow strays in his free time (so you know what he is doing is not out of kindness nor the goodness of his heart, he just has nothing better to do with his life. Probably works a miserable job with shitty hours and shittier pay and this is the only part of his day that gives his life any real meaning, makes him feel like he's useful), watched from the safety of your foliage as he extends an arm out to offer up packets of pate and cans of carp, sprawled on the park bench, rubbing the heel of his palms into his bloodshot eyes and sighing, long and heavy and aching, days- nights- when your nose tingled with the tang of blood, and what kind of job is this, that leaves him bloodied and scratched up and dented like an old beaten-up car?

So you understand that taking care of strays is just his passion project, and yes, yes, you can understand that. Respect it, even. Appreciate it the way a parishioner appreciates a bite of sacrament.

Just…

You need so much more than one bite.

(I know love does not come easy.)

You don't want to be someone's charity case, yeah? It's a little embarrassing. At the same time-

You do not have that sense of pride everyone else seems to, the sort that makes them say we're not taking free food and I'd rather work three jobs than accept handouts and I want not your pity but your respect. Can't relate. You would love to pitied. If someone felt sorry for you, that means they acknowledge bad things have happened to you. If they smother you with sickly sympathy, at least it means they know you've had a pitiable life. And your desire for dignity is so much lesser than your desire for someone to just- to just get it.

But no one fucking gets it.

(Oh, there must be someone who hears me.)

Because no one else is in your position. Oh, everyone else has a partner, if no partner, then a friend group, if not a friend group, then a best friend, if not a best friend, then a loving family, if not a loving family, then someone, somewhere, who understands them a little, who loves them a little-

But you do not have anyone to couch surf with, to 'can I crash at your place till I get back on my feet?', a special sting of misery when shelter workers, when every intake worker asks if you have any family or loved ones you can stay with, because they have limited beds and every homeless shelter is underfunded because don't you know money should go to bombs, because war keeps our country safe so you can starve in peace; a special stab of humiliation, that there is a not single person you can put down as your emergency contact, it is just a big blank line staring back at you, the dash of N/A where you're to put a phone number taunts you like a playground bully and- and it's-

At least a cat can be cute.

This man, kind as he may try to be- he doesn't get it either, can't get it, because he has friends that were waiting for him. Who want to met up for drinks with him. He does not need you, because already he has people who love him, and people he is protective of, and he is in the business of taking care of strays, not taking in strays.

And what is more violent than being taken care of but not being taken in? If he keeps you safe tonight, but is rid of you in the morning, then…

What could be worse?

Painfully patient long fingers pluck up every item that clattered to the floor and ease it back into the shelf. Get a broom too short for his tall form, sweeping up the kitty kibble like it was no bother at all,

He closes the cabinet. He sighs, and there it is, he is disappointed in you he hates you you've upset him he'll finally toss you out and you won't have to spend another excruciating minute choking down his vile, suffocating, poisonous kindness-

"So!" He claps his hands together. "Your palate is simply too sophisticated that neither my own food nor the cat food satiates it, but I can't just not feed you. Let me check again, m'sure I can throw something together."

He pries the white Styrofoam takeout container from his fridge, muttering "guess I should thank Hizashi for forcing me to try that conbini stand."

Mackerel. You do not even like seafood unless it is salmon or tuna. (You have learned that the food at a cat shelter is generally safer than food at a homeless shelter). But this poor man is trying so hard to help you, to take care of you, and even if it is to stroke his own fragile ego, it would just be cruel to reject him, at this point.

So you bend your head and you eat it and you try not to look at him when he smiles as if you are a kindly fairy who has granted him everything he didn't know to wish for.

He just… sits there. Crouching, hunching, staring. Well. Perhaps staring is the wrong word- staring (glaring gawking leering glowering) is what they do to you when you're sleeping on the train and you stink of sweat and vomit and piss and your prone form is taking up three seats, staring (watching waiting waiting waiting) is what you do when you've found a particularly good dumpster and you can't decide if it's safer to approach it as a cat (and risk bigger cats fighting you for every scrap of food) or as a human (and we all know what happens to a woman walking alone at night), staring (studying observing poring over) is what you do when you get your greedy little hands on a book, soak it up word by word and page by page and throw yourself into it, headfirst, submerged in the feel of ink and paper and thoroughly immersed that everything else just disappears-

Yes. That's the type of staring he's doing now: poring over you. Like everything else doesn't matter because finally, finally, he's fed you. Doesn't touch you. Doesn't even try. Just goes to the bathroom, door clicking shut, water running, brush-brush-brushing his teeth and just… leaves you to eat. In peace. Gives you your space.

You can almost hear him say: if my heart was a house, you're right at home.

Home.

It's enough to make you want to vomit all over his carpeting just to make him kick you out, but-

You're not about to give up the only food in your stomach for spite.

That, and…

You can't stay in your cat form forever. It's like laying down too long or sitting too long, your body can't just- can't just stay in this 'mode'. It's a mode to turn on and off, not keep running forever, like a laptop never shutting down till it overheats. And you will. Overheat. But he could come back out any minute, and- he'll think you're a burglar and he'll call the cops on you or worse he'll just kill you himself and no one would ever know, it's not just that they wouldn't care or wouldn't miss you there just genuinely wouldn't be anyone who would even know-

His footsteps, when he comes back, are enough for your shoulders to jump. Footsteps and knocking are about the scariest sounds out there. But he just flicks off the lights. Peels back his blanket- soft, well-worn, why is it that everything he has, he's owned for years, why is nothing here new, why are you the sole intrusion upon an ancient sanctum, does that means he really is the loyal type like you judged when you first saw those stupid boots?- he eases himself into it with a soft groan, pats a spot next to him to tuck you in for the night. You blink at him, attempting to convey as much disdain and dislike and distaste as physically possible-

But again, he does not understand you. He slow-blinks back, and he must think he is reciprocating love, as a cat's languid blink would normally mean a sign of affection.

He keeps misinterpreting you- giving you the benefit of the doubt, assuming your every rude, insensitive, petulant action is so much better than it is, that you're so much better than you actually are.

Nor do you pretend to understand him, either, and while he tries to see the best in you, you force yourself to seek out only the worst in him-

Yet despite every miscommunication and misconstrusion-

He finds a way to make it work. So he keeps the corner of the blanket peeled back, waiting just for you, even as you slink away to the window, hopping up on the sill, stretching your back and marveling how, for once, you did not have to be careful of your movements. You would not startle anyone around you, nor would anyone startle you, either. You do not have to be careful of how your jaw stretches as you yawn- no one will interpret at as a threat, because this man does not see you as anything more than a pathetic little charity case. (You suppose he's not wrong). You can outstretch your arms all along his cool windowsill, and he will not be mad at you for making too much noise and can you keep it down some of us are trying to sleep here. For once you are on the other side of the windowpane, the rain battering the glass practically a world away— though you can hear the pellets pound the pane, though you can feel the icy chill of the water seep into the glass, it does not seep into you, because the heat he turned on has settled quite comfortably into your boenes- for once, no one is hurting you, for once, just for now, you are safe.

You are safe.

Oh, yes, you know, you know- he'll let you go soon enough. Just as soon as those storm clouds wither up and dry.

Outwardly, you'd hissed and squirmed and clawed every step of the way.

Inwardly, you hope the rainy season stays forever.

[haartemis]

I love you, it's ruining my life | Epilogue

pairing: Kylian x black!fem!Reader

word count: 1.5k

A/N: here's an epilogue i couldn't help working on :)

part one, part two, part three, part four, part five

VI. Epilogue

It’s their third date they’ve gone on, in a Michelin star restaurant that Kylian had picked. They sat next to each other at a corner table, as close as possible without her ending up on his lap. They’d finished eating the amazing food, and were conversing about random things, him leaning back on his chair lazily as his thumb rubbed circles on her thigh.

The low lighting was making his doe eyes twinkle even more, and Y/N couldn’t help but shift her eyes back and forth from them to his pouty lips, which she really wanted on her at that moment. Her mind wandered as he spoke, thinking about what they’d hopefully get up to after they left the restaurant.

“I’ll get you the new ones before the Euros” He was saying.

“Hmm?” She refocused on him.

He took a sip of his drink, a small smile hiding behind the rim of his wine glass. “The new France jerseys”

“Why?”

He shrugged, seemingly nonchalant. “Because, that’s what girlfriends do, I guess. Wear their partner’s jerseys at games”

There was a vulnerability in the way he uttered his words, she could see right through him.

She smirked. “Am I your girlfriend then?”

“Yes” He met her eyes, nervousness evidently hiding behind his confident manner. “I mean, if you want to be. Because I want you to be. Very much”

She playfully pretended to be mulling it over, putting a finger to her chin and letting out a little “hmm”. Poor Kylian watched on while fidgeting in his seat.

“Yeah, I can live with that” She said finally.

He burst out laughing. “How generous of you”

She winked at him. “You know you love me”

The words slipped out before she could stop herself, and the moment hung between them. They hadn’t said the L word before. She'd known she loved him for years of course, had repeated the phrase countless times in her head. It was basically the thing she was most sure about in the world. But she didn't know how he felt.

Kylian’s expression, however, immediately softened.

“I do” He said with a low voice filled with so much intensity it made her chest tighten. He cleared his throat. “I love you”

He moved closer, their faces mere inches away from each other.

She reached up to cup his face, her thumb brushing lightly over his cheek. “I love you,too” She said quietly.

“Glad we’re on the same page, then” He said, before giving her a soft, lingering kiss. When they broke away, he had an infectious smile on his face.

They were sitting on his couch one evening, a couple days before he left for the Euros. Y/N was reading a book while Kylian unpacked PR boxes. A comfortable silence had fallen over them, each occupied with their own thing.

He let out a whistle as he held up a shiny new pair of boots that Nike had sent him. “Check these out, babe”

Y/N briefly shifted her eyes away from her book to glance at the boots. She smiled at Kylian before turning her eyes back to the engrossing novel she was reading. “They look nice, Ky. Congrats.”

She wasn’t really interested in this kind of stuff, because football as a whole didn’t interest her except for the times Kylian was on the pitch. Nonetheless, she liked seeing him excited.

“No, Look closer” He nudged her.

She looked up again, peering at the boots. “Uh… I like the blue?”

He still had an expectant look on his face. She gave him a pout. “They’re great, Ky. I don’t know–”

“Just look” He handed her one boot, a shy smile on his face.

She sighed, examining the boot. “ Again, I don’t know— Oh”

Her words caught in her throat. She could feel the flush rising up her neck and her cheeks.

“Do you like?” He asked softly.

She could only nod, hands tracing over the engravings on the boot.

There was the usual KEWFJ, which were the initials of him and his family members’ first names, and then there was the names of his niece and nephew. She spotted a new addition, however, directly below that: Her initial enclosed in a heart.

She stared, her heart melting.

“Because you’re my girl” He said tenderly, as if reading the question in her head. “And you’re very special to me”

She sprung on his lap, showering his neck and face with soft kisses. Her voice was thick with emotion as she muttered,“I love you”

He grinned mischievously, kissing her back softly. "Now you have to get a tramp stamp of my name"

He let out a loud yelp as she smacked his arm. "Kylian!" She scolded.

"I’m just kidding," he whispered with a soft smile, pressing his forehead to hers. "I already know you're mine."

They were at a restaurant again, this time in Madrid, after arguably the biggest day of Kylian’s career so far. His much awaited presentation had taken up the whole day. The whole thing was surreal, to say the least. The stadium was filled to the brim, full of thousands who’d been waiting for him, who’d loved him and wanted him for years. And now he was finally theirs. She supposed she could relate to the feeling.

The weight of the moment couldn’t have felt more clear when he stepped up on the stage to the cheer of the crowd, wearing the all white kit he’d coveted for so long, the smile on his face looking permanent. She couldn’t help but think about the skinny 13 year old who made it his business to tell anyone who’d listen that he’d one day find himself in this very stadium as a player. She’d felt tears prick her eyes whenever the image flashed before her eyes.

Now it was late evening, Kylian’s entourage occupying a long table at one of Madrid’s fanciest restaurants. Y/N was seated next to the man of the hour, their hands intertwined under the table. She sat silently, her eyes adoringly following Kylian as he talked and laughed.

He was relaxed, his suit jacket removed and his dress shirt slightly unbuttoned. It was like a huge weight was removed from his shoulders, the anxiety and tension that had followed him throughout the last couple of months having completely disappeared.

A lull in conversation and he turned and looked at her. “What’s on your mind?”

She smiled. “Nothing. I’m just really happy for you”

He brought their intertwined hands to his lips, kissing the back of her hand. “You’ve seen me through pretty much everything, today was as much as yours as it was mine”

Her stomach melted as she leaned and brushed her lips against his. She’d intended it to just be a peck, but he kissed her back firmly, passionately. She reluctantly broke away after a few moments, aware that they were in public and had company.

“Let’s go home” He whispered, voice intimate and slow.

Before she got the chance to reply, he turned and murmured an excuse to Tchaga, who was sitting next to him. The rest of the table paid them no mind as they stood, engrossed in their own bubbles of conversation.

They slinked away silently, Kylian leading the way with his hand clutching hers loosely.

Outside, he wrapped his arms around her as they waited for their car.

“You know, I think I’ve learned a lot about myself lately” He murmured against her hair.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah” He said. “Like, for example, I’ve always found couples who do excessive PDA really annoying. But now, with you”— he paused to kiss her forehead, as if to demonstrate his point—“it’s like I can’t help myself”

She giggled. “Yeah, I gathered that back there when you were perfectly fine with making out in front of your family.”

He shrugged in amusement. “Trust me, my younger self would’ve been disgusted at the thought. But I guess it’s different when you’re in love”

“I guess it is different” She mused. “What else have you discovered?”

The car pulled up just then, and they got inside, settling into the backseat comfortably.

“I learned that I really like having you around, like when you sleep over” he said, mischievous smile on his face clueing her in on what he was going to say next. “Maybe we can make that a permanent thing”

She pinched his chin playfully. “Nice try. I think we can hold off on that for a bit, actually”

“ But you’re always at my place. We’re headed there right now!” He protested.

“Yes, but you’ve just moved here, Ky. I think you need to settle in at the club and in the city first. See what it’s like to live alone in a different country for the first time” She explained gently. “Plus, I’ve just renewed the lease for my apartment, so..”

He nodded, understanding. “So, maybe when your lease is about to end, we can talk about it?”

“Yeah, we can talk about it” She confirmed.

He seemed content enough with that compromise.

“Just trying to lock you down quick” He joked. “Before you change your mind about all of this”

“Not gonna happen. You’re stuck with me now” She muttered, interlacing her fingers with his and nestling even closer to him.

It was true. Y/N knew this was it. There was no going back. She loved him with every part of her, and nothing—not his fame or the uncertainty, could ever change that. They were in this together, and she knew, without a doubt, she’d follow him to the ends of the earth.

tags: @kyliansonlygf @ynkfreeastheocean @scottishthistle @user6373738 @lucysantos6-blog @tuliptopiasstuff @kennasutopia @cinderellawithashoe @akiracim @kymb-10 @germanapples @ariesmai @edgyficuselastica

[iloveundertaesooomuch]

!!THIS IS NOT CALEB!!

This is my version of the FTF Grimwalker that got possessed by Belos and then was resurected on GrimIsles!

His name is Cheese! ...Bear with me here-

His grimwalker siblings let him to choose his own name, because they didn't want to force something so important onto him. Especially when this "newcomer" was lucky enough to not be named by Belos. So the freedom of choice felt pretty important to consider for his ability to built his own identity and carve his own destiny.

But.. Cheese was litteraly "born yesterday" and he didnt understand the language yet. At all. So, of course, when he started to learn some words, he chose to identify himself with something he really really likes. And.. this thing he related to happened to be a block of yellow dairy product with holes in it and a funny taste. He is too much of a cheese lover.

Later on he often "changed his name" from Cheese to Onion to Gerald to Boot to Nike... Uhhh..., it was difficult to say the least. But the name Cheese stuck with others, so now it is how he is called. Although many end up pronouncing it as "Chez", which is valid too.

As you can see on my art, Cheese doesn't have his legs rotting like the body in the s3 ep2. Thats because it was part of his "mortal wound". In otherwords, Chez wouldn't be able to live with parts damaged like that. Usually all that left after the person's "mortal wound" after the resurection in the temple is a small light scar. But, even if Cheese got his body fully in tact now, the bottom part of his body nonetheless seems to be paralised. Thats why he requires a wheelchair to move around the Isles. (I wont deny the possibility of him getting a jetpack or something like that so he could move thought the air on his "loyal carriage". Imagine that vine video but with Cheese. He would be very enthusiastic about creating and building shit like that.) Chez also happens to be mute due to his damaged throat and vocal chords also from Belos'es possession. Thats why he has that little oracle stone on his hair-clip that helps him speak his thoughts out loud! He wasn't always able to use it, so he was also taught how to use sign language. His siblings were glad to learn it along with Cheese so they could finally chat.

I was initially imagining Cheese to be enthusiastic about sports. Especially since the grimwalker body in FTF looked quite buff weirdly enough XD. But he slowly grows to be much more than "CHEESE IS SPEED". Perharps our discovery of him as a character reflects his own journey of getting to know himself. Chez came to be as a blank slate. I guess he is technocally the happiest grimwalker in this AU, since he never experience any kind of abuse and has a loving family that treats him with respect even if he doesn't understand everything yet.

It was my first time drawing a wheelchair I think. So I really heavily referenced just to get its structure right. Maybe when I draw Chez again I will decorate it to his liking. He would probably enjoy some stickers on it. Especially of space and ships. Or Cheese could have a Starwars (or however that franchise is called in TOH universe) merch on it! He likes spaces, because it is full of infinite possibilities.

Thank you, @crypticpara and @talisman975 for inspiration!

[swissboyhisch]

You Can't Be Serious

Pairing: Matthew Tkachuk x OC

Summary: A night out celebrating brings co-workers closer than what they thought possible. With the help of a little alcohol.

Word Count: 1346

Warnings: Probably crossing work boundaries. Alcohol. Kissing. Blurry consent.

A/N: This is for @offside-the-lines Birthday Bingo!! Happy birthday to one of my favourite Aussie girlies. I know it was a couple weeks ago but Birthday month is the best thing to celebrate!

My choice of four bingo boxes were:

Drunken Confessions

Dancing

Rivals (enemies) to Lovers

Mistaken Identity

Sorry it's so late but work became a little stressful and unpredictable. But I got it in just in time! I really hope you enjoy this as it definitely had me writing tropes I haven't before. Happy birthday Rox <3

Also shoutout to @mp0625 for being my beta. Always can count on you!

THE MASTERLIST JOIN THE TAGLIST HOCKEY DISCORD

Cora sighed happily as she finally stepped foot into her apartment, taking off her shoes and collapsing onto the couch. Even though it was a lost cause as she’d be leaving again to meet the boys at the bar, they had organized to celebrate the team clinching a playoff spot. Some country bar that the boys liked to go have a good time at when celebrating a win.

As one of the off-ice fitness trainers, she spent a lot of time with the players, creating great friendships. Cora was the only woman in the facility's fitness physio and trainers team and the youngest by far. She had done a traineeship last season, and when the head physio left, he suggested that she come onto the team as one of the other men would be taking his position. As the only woman, the boys had taken to her like family, and suddenly, she had 22 brothers. 

Notice the 22 and not 23? Well one of the team decided she was annoying and just looking for attention. Even when she was just doing her job. Matthew Tkachuk, ever since she started her traineeship, had taken a liking to pissing Cora off whenever he could. If she had to spot him while he did weights, he would do the opposite. She was younger than him and telling him what to do? Yeah right. 

But he had been injured for the last 4 weeks so the two had been spending more time than usual working together making the tension peak. Hopefully, with Matthew being back on the ice tonight, he will have simmered back down before he said something to make Cora strangle him. He was holding it against her that he wasn’t allowed to play yet. Like it was solely her fault for not clearing him to play.

Instead of wallowing and thinking about the dumbass that was Ratthew, Cora pulled herself off the couch and into her bathroom where she could shower and get ready. She was thankful that quite a few of the girlfriends, wives and family members were also coming so she wouldn’t be the only woman within the group.

Cora chose to wear a red lacy bodysuit and a black denim skirt with a leather jacket to finish off the look. A bold red lip and simple smokey look with curled hair made her look out of this world. Something the boys weren’t used to as they only ever saw the woman in athletic clothes and team gear. She traded in her worn pair of Nikes for a pair of trusty black heeled boots. She knew by the time she ordered her uber and got to the bar, some of the players and family would already be there so she grabbed her clutch that had her phone, portable charger and ID in it. The uber luckily wasn’t that long for a Friday night. 

“Cora!” Yana Tarasenko yelled as the young woman climbed out of the SUV.

“Yana,” She laughs, being brought into a hug. 

The pair intertwined their arms and made their way through the security with Vlad to where there was already a group gathering in the back corner around multiple booths and tables. Players, partners and family alike were all chatting away happily, nearly all with some kind of drink in their hand. Whether it be alcoholic or not. 

“I’m going to get a drink,” Cora yells over the music to Yana who nodded and waved her off. 

Yana found a seat with some of the other girls in a corner booth tucked behind the boys. Cora found herself at the bar, ordering her usual vodka cranberry along with two tequila shots. If she was to get through this social gathering, to be what she deemed as a normal, she needed a few drinks. Hence the shots. When she wasn’t paying attention, a body slid into the bar right beside her. 

“Your lips look lonely. Would they like to meet mine?” A familiar voice spoke up over the Carrie Underwood song that was blaring. 

Cora turned slowly, not wanting to believe what she had heard. There beside her, and apparently hitting on her, was an already tipsy Matthew Tkachuk. What the actual fuck? Those words did not just come out of his mouth.

“Tkachuk,” Cora muttered uninterested.

“So you’re a fan?”

Cora laughed, “You can’t be serious…” The curly-haired boy looked confused for a moment. Which to Cora was comical. “Matthew, we literally–” 

“Cora!” Barkov shouted when he saw her at the bar. He brought her into a hug, but she didn’t miss the shocked look that crossed Matthew’s face.

“Cora?” He gasped.

Instead of wasting time, she disappeared onto the dance floor with some of her friends dancing and sipping her cocktail. A few of the girls were cheering her on when she shook out her hair that she had put into a clip for the trip to the bar. They were all having fun, enjoying themselves. When the first few notes of Kesha’s song Take It Off played, Cora let out an excited squeal. She had practiced the line dance a heap after seeing it on TikTok. 

“Go Cora!” The girls yell as she races to the middle of the circle with quite a few other bar patrons. 

As the chorus came up, Cora stripped off the jacket she was wearing and waved it around in the air above her head. She thrived on the attention of all the girls and their partners cheering her on. Matthew had stepped up beside them and watched the girl he had come to be so frustrated with. After the song came to an end the group pulled her into the circle, showering her with compliments on the side of her she’s never shown to the team.

“You make not liking you hard when you move your hips like that,” Matthew whispers, coming up behind the dancing girl as the attention turns elsewhere. 

She could faintly smell the beer on his breath but she was probably just as drunk. “Matt…”

Cora leant back against Matthew’s body as his arms came to wrap around her waist. His fingers tickled her skin through the lace bodysuit. Save a Horse Ride a Cowboy started to play as the two swayed together in time with the beat. 

“Wanna get out of here?” Matthew yelled over the music after another hour of drinking and dancing. 

Cora giggled, “Let’s go.”

Without saying goodbye to any of the team or partners, the two slipped out of the bar and into the back of an Uber that Matthew had ordered. The two laughed and whispered on the journey back to his apartment. Cora was helped out of the car by Matthew and led up to the 11th floor of the apartment complex. 

“You frustrate me to no end,” Matthew mumbles against Cora’s lips as he pushes her to the now-closed door. 

Cora frowns at the words, “What? Why?”

“You held me off the ice even when I was all good to play.”

That made Cora step away. Even though the two were definitely tipsy, probably drunk if you look at the true definition, it hurt to hear that. “I can promise you it was for the best.”

“But I was good to play…”

“We knew we’d make the playoffs, why risk you getting injured and missing the playoffs? Why risk our best player?” 

Those words coming out of Cora’s mouth made Matthew’s thoughts flip. He had only thought of himself that Matthew hadn’t considered the team and the future of the season of he had made his injury worse. 

The silence was worrying to Cora. What was running through his head? “Matthew?”

The curly-haired boy pulled her close again and pressed his lips to hers. It was addicting… For both parties. The two stripped off clothes, leaving a trail to his bedroom.

“I’m pretty sure I’m in love with you,” Cora slurs as they fall onto the bed together. 

Matt grins, “I know I’m in love with you.”

TAG LIST:

@findapenny @mp0625 @hischierhaze @11zegras @lvrzegras

@francesfarhadi @cixrosie @dasiysthings @dancerbailey3 @puckmaidens

@cole-mcward48 @sammiejane22 @rleigh-47 @devilsandpensfan @luca-fantilli

@books-hlmc @kajasagmo @poufsouffle21 @there-goes-thefighter @totallynotrobotic

[sgiandubh]

Welcome to the shitshow

We have:

A ✈ sighting. No pics.

The MPC live, scarce details. No rings. Spartan decor. Suntan and out of Bonnie Scotland. No further details on destination, which might or might not be the same as the flight. Mark me, I think it is - he is in Gran Canaria and for a very precise reason: keeping his part of the deal and his Onlies on tenterhooks.

C is seen in Marseille, hullaballoo ensues. We pinpoint some coincidental details. I was expecting the shite to hit the fan in 4, 3, 2, 1...

And it did. With both sopranos hinting at the same person, but only one brave (or rather foolish enough) to push a name out there. Disingenuous, to say the least - but oh, how convenient for any given agenda. Because it's too easy, when you give out a name to a thirsty crowd to say: 'well, of course it's because of the shippers! They did this or that (sky is the limit)! They are to blame!' (excuse me?) and 'well, of course they won't say a word, now' (how convenient if the thing does not stick, eventually).

That was, IMHO, a strategic mistake and the petticoat is showing across the pond.

Around the same time, I started to get a different kind of Anon, day after day after day. Very brutal. Foul-mouthed. And...with some intel. I answered the first, but then when things started to 'happen', the coin dropped very quickly that: a) I did hit a nerve and b) someone or some people wanted me to push this particular agenda - remember when...?

For reference:

And then today, just in time for the long, boring, chilly and even snowy (depending on your location) week-end, the bomb dropped and the cargo was juicy:

A name. A woman. A gym. Not one, but three suspicious videos: the one with the leg, the one with the clear voice (unmistakably S!) and the one with the dog (and more S voiceover). How nicely connected. How fucking perfect.

An Airbnb close to the gym. What would a single woman traveler do in a three-bedroom gargantuan villa all by herself, when you are in Winterbird Central with a bajillion other accommodation options, is beyond any logic. So easily and lazily - OMG, date!

Unless...

Unless you conveniently forget some details:

Not one, but three different promos/endorsements, with a discount code to boot - 10% off, how nice!

The one that has been discussed by just about everyone:

The one that provided the discount code for new subscribers: Gymshark, a fitness attire manufacturer (https://eu.gymshark.com/).

And the most important one, hiding behind a humble hashtag: #metcon. Now I don't know you, but I'd rather digress about tea parlors and bookstores, and so had no fucking idea Metcon was, in fact...

Yup. Nike. A very recent model - expensive and sure, in need of immediate product placement/promo:

And so, for tax reasons, she just had to (mandatorily) include the #ad (as in advertisement, lest we'd not have naive Anons again!) hashtag.

Also, this, posted along the short reel with S's voice (but who cared, all 👂were there and only there):

That woman was working. She has, after all, 450k Insta followers. If she and S met at a gym in a winter destination very sought after by Scots should be none of our business. If they met again or have a regular training schedule does not mean they fuck or that we're going to look out for Remarkable Week-end 2.0. If they met in Hyrox GLA - so what? What is this, I beg your pardon, Gilead? People just can't hang out, like ever, I mean men and women?

🙄

But.. but... the gargantuan villa...?

Och. Sure enough, the place is correctly identified. You can check chez Marple. I am not posting it, because I do not want to and by now, I trust just about everyone has seen those pics. But this time, I am not going there. The name of that villa, even, made me laugh like a drain. I mean how more in your face can they be?

Who footed the bill of this rather comfy PR shitshow, reminiscing of Ha-wa-wee, 🐰 and whatever else you could think of? SRH?

Perhaps. But what if Nike did, as a freebie to a very good promoter? They sure can spare the dime and, to be honest, as we speak, there is no sign S and her share anything else than a gym schedule. What tells us with absolute certainty, at least at this moment in time, she is not there with friends, family or even a group of fellow promoters, Avon-style?

Oh, and the world is definitely a handkerchief, especially in GLA, it would seem. Wanna know who also follows her on Insta?

Paul Donnelly. Nope, not the chef. This Paul Donnelly:

The one who literally owes S a shitload of cash. A post that earned me a report (I was just explaining, if I remember correctly, that S would have been wise to legally secure that hefty loan, nothing more).

And now you know what? That post is gone, vanished, poof and I have no idea why. I surely did not take it down, I never do this.

And surely enough, just before I started writing, Filthy Anon came back and warned me there was more (pics, 👅👄) about McFitness. Surely enough, the same info (albeit toned down) was picked up by *urv in her comments' thread, about twenty minutes after Anon dropped by.

Agenda, anyone? God forbid!

You draw your own conclusions. I can only very honestly say:

Welcome to the Shitshow - the Winter Edition!

This page is not going to follow blindly your script, whoever you are. This page simply hopes to cleverly hit a nerve every time it considers necessary. Other than that, big effing deal, really. Ship on.

Sorry for the length. I was never good at summing up.

[s10127470]

Meet the Spider Family

Hey there folks!

I'm back again with another post about Spider-Man!

But luckily, this one isn't gonna possibly give me a hernia.

I'm here today to introduce you to the main cast of my upcoming fanfic, Spider-Man: Family Values, which will be premiering next month during Thanksgiving week.

I don't really have much of a intro to this, so we're just gonna ahead and get in.

Spider-Man:

Real Name: Peter Parker

Age: 28

Height: 5'9

Weight: 162 lbs

Physical Appearance: Has a lean and muscular build, fair skin, brown hair in the form of a mullet with his trademark frontal bangs, and hazel eyes.

Relationship Status: Married

Causal Outfit: A red sweater with a white, long-sleeved collared shirt underneath, a open blue jacket, blue jeans with rolled up cuffs at the bottom, red and white sneakers, and round lenses glasses.

Hero Outfit:

-Still goofy and kinda silly, but also mature and very empathic.

-Is a HAPPILY MARRIED to Mary Jane and the proud father of Mayday Parker.

-An amazing and valuable mentor to Miles and many of the other younger superheroes.

-Works part-time as a substitute teacher at his old high school, Midtown High. He's essentially kind of a stay-at-home dad and house husband, which gives him more time to patrol the streets.

-Always visits his dear Aunt May.

-A true friend.

-Well-liked and respected by nearly all of the superhero community.

-Honorary member of The Fantastic Four and a part-time Avenger.

-Still the Friendly Neighbor Hero we all know in love.

Mayday Parker:

Age: 5

Height: 3'4

Weight: 49 lbs

Physical Appearance: Has a slim build, fair skin, long brown hair, and green eyes.

Relationship Status: Single

Casual Outfit:

-A little ball of hyperactive joy and wonder.

-Inherited her father's goofiness.

-Also inherited his spider powers. Luckily, Peter is helping her learn how to control her strength.

-Currently in kindergarten.

-Wants to follow in her father's footsteps and continue his legacy, which while touched by, makes Peter a little concerned.

Mary Jane Watson-Parker:

Age: 28

Height: 5'10

Weight: 130 lbs

Physical Appearance: Has an hourglass figure with a top heavy build, fair skin, long red hair with her trademark bangs, red lips, and green eyes.

Relationship Status: Married

Casual Outfit: A green navel-bearing sweater, blue jeans with a black belt and gold buckle, and black Mary Jane heels.

-Confident and free-spirited, but also loving and understanding.

-Got with Peter during their college years, and eventually got married shortly after graduation.

-Works as AN ACTRESS, MODEL, AND FASHION DESIGNER. She also pays the apartment's rent (thanks to how much she makes from her career), hence why Peter only has a part-time job.

-Has a stash of weapons just in case of a potential home invasion. Her favorite is the shotgun.

-Always thinking of new suit ideas for Peter.

Spider-Man:

Real Name: Miles Morales

Age: 18

Height: 5'9

Weight: 165 lbs

Physical Appearance: Has a lean and slightly muscular build, dark skin, brown hair in the same style from the Spider-Verse films, dark brown lips, and brown eyes.

Relationship Status: Dating

Casual Outfit: A red hoodie with a white X-Men symbol at the center, black shorts, black socks, and red and white Nikes.

Hero Outfit:

-Cool, friendly, artistic and street-smart.

-Has been a Spider person for about 4 years now.

-Peter and Mayday see Miles like a brother.

-Is a freshman at Empire State University, majoring in art.

-Currently dating Hailey Cooper.

-Works as a freelance artist.

Venom:

Real Name: Eddie Brock

Age: 38

Height: 6’5 (7’5 as Venom)

Weight: 270 lbs (470s as Venom)

Physical Appearance: Has a broad and muscular build, fair skin, scruffy blonde hair in something of a flattop style, a beard, and blue eyes.

Relationship Status: Divorced

Casual Outfit: A black T-shirt, blue jeans, and tan army boots.

Hero Outfit:

-Was once Peter's greatest enemy and hater, but eventually became his friend and one of his most trustworthy allies.

-Awkward, a little reversed, and pretty goofy (especially as Venom).

-Is not only Mayday's honorary uncle, but also her godfather.

-Still works at The Daily Bugle as a reporter.

-Was previously married to Anne Weying and they owned a dog named Woody together. But due to his previously slipping sanity and madness caused by Peter, she left him and took the dog with her. To this day, Eddie is still ashamed by this and wishes to patch things up with Anne and Woody, but doesn't know if he can.

Agent Anti-Venom:

Real Name: Flash Thompson

Age: 29

Height: 6’3 (5'3 while in wheelchair)

Weight: 170 lbs (470s as Venom)

Physical Appearance: Has a broad and muscular build, fair skin, long curly blonde hair with frontal bangs that cover his eyes, a stubble beard, and no legs.

Relationship Status: Single

Casual Outfit: A blue T-shirt and tan shorts.

Hero Outfit:

-Was once Peter's bully, but grew to become his closest friend.

-Still quite prideful and boastful, but far more humble than when he was a teenager.

-Is Mayday's other honorary uncle.

-Dropped out of the college to serve in the Army.

-Lost his legs during his service. Usually gets around in either a wheelchair or with a pair of prosthetic legs.

-Works as the gym teacher at his old high school, Midtown.

Silk:

Real Name: Cindy Moon

Age: 27

Height: 5'7

Weight: 130 lbs

Physical Appearance: Has an hourglass figure with a well-rounded and muscular build, light skin, long black hair, pink lips, and black eyes.

Relationship Status: Dating

Casual Outfit: A black bandeau, blue sweatpants jeans, and black sandals.

Hero Outfit:

-Was an old classmate of Peter's who mysteriously disappeared one day during high school. The reason why was because during the Midtown sophomore field trip to Oscorp, Cindy found herself bit by a radioactive Golden Silk Orb Weaver spider. Unfortunately, she caught the attention of the company and soon enough, found herself whisked away by them to an off-shore facility, where she was experimented on like a guinea pig for the next 10 years. Luckily, she was discovered by Peter and Felicia, who promptly broke her out.

-Suffers from a bit of social anxiety, so she tends to come off as quiet and quite reserved. But she's ultimately quite caring, friendly and imaginative.

-Isn one of Mayday's honorary aunts.

-Is currently dating Felicia.

-Shares an apartment with Flash.

-Works at The Daily Bugle as a journalist. Usually works close with Eddie.

Black Cat:

Real Name: Felicia Hardy

Age: 29

Height: 5'11

Weight: 125 lbs

Physical Appearance: Has an hourglass figure with a well-rounded build, light skin, long platinum blonde hair, black lips, and green eyes.

Relationship Status: Dating

Casual Outfit: A black crop-top, black leggings that bear the G-string of her thong, black heels, and golden neck rings (with similar sets on her arms).

Hero Outfit:

-Thanks to Peter, Felicia has given up her thieving ways. But she hasn't gotten rid of her skills though. She's now uses them as a private detective instead.

-She's the founder of Cat's Eye Investigations, which she runs with street-level heroes Tarantula and Humbug.

-Still flirtatious and sassy, but does have a lot of sincerity and heart.

-Is one of Mayday's honorary aunts.

-Despite her previous romantic feelings for Peter, she holds no ill will towards MJ. Essentially since she's moved on to someone else (Cindy).

Well that's all for now!

Let me know what you guys think about this little family idea of mine! Definitely planning on doing some more with other Marvel characters!

[sadhours]

Part two my queen my love my beautiful

Gotta do shower sex after basketball practice like… just need that tension and and Billy calling Steve a bitch idk need it badly

The longing… the vulnerability between the both of them…. Billy wondering how many of Steve’s buttons he can push because *surely* he’s not that easy???

Also

*slides 2 dollars over* *whispers* billy spitting on Steve’s face/mouth please….

I can’t say no to you 😩

part one

The next morning at school, Billy is kind of looking for Harrington. Not outright. He knows he’ll see him at practice but still, he finds himself craning his next over the crowds in the hallways in hopes that he’ll see some floppy brown hair. He’s actually in like, shock that it even happened last night. But Billy’s kind of obtained this skill, and maybe it’s not a morally good skill but he can pick up on vulnerabilities and use them to his advantage. He still thinks it was mostly fate that Wheeler decided to dump Steve at that exact moment. Because of Tommy, Billy was aware that they kind of had a rocky relationship anyways but he was anticipating playing the long run. Prod and poke at Harrington until he snapped. And then there he was, trying to rip that bottle of whiskey from Billy’s hands and his big, brown eyes just looked so sad. A kind of sad that lit a fire in Billy’s gut. It wasn’t news to him that he had a bit of kink for tears, he’d made girls cry before and he used to feel a bit of shame when it excited his dick. He hadn’t ever made a guy cry before. And he preferred them. So seeing those puppy dog eyes trying to convey dominance had him acting on impulse. It was really, so unreal that the events rolled out how they did.

As anticipated, he doesn’t see Harrington until he’s at practice. The lanky dude barrels through to his locker, which thanks to their last names, neighbors Billy’s. He pretty much expects Steve to avert his eyes, ignore him. Billy’s under the impression that Steve’s never even considered being with another guy. He’s not close enough to Tommy to ask if they’d done anything remotely gay in their deceased friendship. But those brown eyes look at him, look almost needy. His plush pink lips part and he’s about to say something, Billy’s leaning into it, so intrigued and desperate to know what he’s thinking but it’s interrupted. Hagan slaps the corner of their locker row and laughs, looking to Harrington who jumps and turns at the sound.

“Princess dump you, again?” Tommy preens, self satisfied grin spreading against his freckled cheeks, “it’s almost like, Carol and I were onto something!”

Steve’s body noticeably stiffens and his fingers move to the dial on his locker. Billy has to hold back his eye roll. Wants to tell Hagan to fuck off because god damnit, he really wanted to know what Harrington was about to say.

“She changed you, man,” Hagan prods on, shaking his head as he changes into his practice clothes. Billy and Steve busy themselves with filing through their lockers and if Billy isn’t mistaken, it’s like they’re waiting for Tommy to go away so they can shamelessly get an eyeful of the each other. Well, at least that’s what Billy’s waiting for.

Luckily, he gets what he’s hoping for. Tommy snorts, slams his locker shut and struts away. Billy sits on the bench and starts getting his boots off. He keeps his eyes on Steve’s legs as he does so, can see the bulge of his cock in his jeans and it brings back some vivid flashbacks of having said cock in his mouth last night. Harrington kicks his nikes off and his hands go to the waist of his jeans, he unbuttons them slowly and Billy glances up to meet those beautiful brown eyes he can’t stop thinking about. That neediness still shining in them. Okay, so Harrington wants him to watch. That’s a good sign. Billy sets his boots next to him and shrugs off his denim jacket, letting his eyes drag back down Steve’s body to his crotch. Harrington pushes the jeans down his thighs and then kicks them off his ankles. It takes quite a lot out of Billy to not shove his face against those white briefs. God, he wants to mouth at that outline of Harrington’s sizable yet flaccid cock.

Next Harrington is shedding off his polo, exposing a bit of chest hair that Billy isn’t expecting. His fingers itch to run through it. And he realizes if any of their teammates walk by, this is gonna look suspicious so he stands and starts undressing himself. And then they’re both standing there in their whitey tighties, eyes shamelessly raking over each others bodies.

“What were you gonna say?” Billy finds himself asking, voice barely above a whisper.

Steve’s face flushes and he curtly shakes his head, “Nothing. It’s… don’t worry about it.”

Like a switch, Steve’s quickly shucking his gym clothes on before shoving his feet in his Nikes. Closes his locker quietly and Billy watches as he trails away. Fuck. They were definitely just checking each other out. He’s not mistaken. What the hell was Steve gonna say?

First, they’ve got to run laps. It’s how every practice starts. Steve’s fast. He’s gained a lead on everyone with those long fucking legs of his. Running isn’t Billy’s strong suit. Actually, he absolutely hates cardio. Probably because he’s been smoking since he was twelve. But god damn, he’s determined to catch up to Harrington, even if it leaves his chest burning and his stomach churning. Once he does, Steve drops down to a jog and Billy does the same, turns so he’s jogging backwards and facing Harrington.

“I’m worried,” Billy informs him, frowning.

“About what?” Steve huffs, confusion clouding his puppy dog eyes.

“What you were gonna say.”

Steve smiles and goddamn those butterflies filling Billy’s gut have him extra worried. He was just trying to fuck the guy, not fall in love. Billy doesn’t do love. It’s not real. Sets you up for disappointment. People don’t stay so why the hell would you love them? But Jesus, that smile is pretty. Maybe even prettier than that pathetic sad look he had on his face last night.

“You really wanna know? It’s kinda stupid,” Steve is blushing. Whether it’s from Billy’s interest or the running, he can’t be sure.

“Yeah, well, you’re stupid,” Billy bites back, “But last night I…” he clears his throat, “What is it?”

Steve’s eyebrows bounce around and he purses his lip, chews on the insult thrown his way and tries to figure out how to feel about it. And god damnit he’s cute. Billy hates how cute this fucking dude is.

“It’s… I don’t know, man,” Steve sighs, “Just thanks, I guess.”

“Thanks?” Billy stops in his tracks, hands falling to his sides. “What?”

“Yeah! Thanks,” Steve pats his bicep and picks up his pace, sprinting around the corner of the track. It’s not often Billy’s surprised or left speechless. But here he is, dumbfounded as he watches his team catching up to them. Thanks? Thanks for what? Taking his ass virginity? Did… oh shit. Did Billy actually make Steve feel better? That’s a new feeling. He can’t decide how to process it. It’s alarming how badly he wants to kiss the asshole so it kind of forms into Billy wanting to punch the fuckers lights out and then transforms into him wanting to fuck Harrington again.

Once they make their way to the gym, the coach divides them up in teams. He gets picked first and subsequently Steve, to the other team. Which is gonna be fun. Gives Billy the excuse to crowd Steve on the court, get a bit of a feel without it being looked at sideways. Coach points to Billy’s team and announces, “Skins.”

Harrington’s eyes lock with his and he smirks, grabbing the hem of his grey Hawkins High gym shirt and pulls it over his head. He registers the way Harrington’s eyes fall to his chest as he chucks the shirt to the bench. God, it’s so obvious to him. And thanks? Steve wants more and Billy does too.

He wipes the court with the shirts, he’s competitive by nature and well, Steve’s his best competitor. He plays defense, crowds right against Steve’s back and the similarities of now and last night don’t fall short on him. Billy’s close to supporting a half chubbed cock right now. Especially the way Steve elbows him in the peck. Can’t help that his tits are sensitive. He grins, licks his lower lip and has to hold back from leaning forward and licking Steve’s cheek like he did the night before. He wants to consume Harrington in such an overwhelming way. But there’s unspoken rules to this shit.

They’d be lynched right here in this court if Billy did was he really wanted to do. His father would have a field day with the beating if he knew the thoughts he was thinking as he’s pressed against Steve. All he can do is steal the ball, dribble up the court and god damnit, try to impress Steve with this trick shot. He’s stunned himself he makes it and he turns, grinning wide as he looks to see Harrington bent over and panting, staring back at him.

“Steve?” Wheeler’s at the door of the gym and Billy’s blood boils at the way Harrington immediately follows her out.

What the hell does that Bitch want? Billy wishes he could follow the pair. Tell her what they’d done and that Steve didn’t need her anymore. But fuck, he’s got a game to play and who does he think he is? Steve’s boyfriend? Pathetic. Billy’s chasing after the ball before he can think to deeply about it.

Showers. Typically kind of a tough time for Billy because he digs looking at dicks, but he can’t. Still, he always feels eyes on his body in the showers and no one gets called out but he’s beyond worried he’ll get called out. And yeah, he’d heard the whispers about Harrington’s dick so it’s not a secret that the team is looking at each other. Harrington’s dick is kind of like an anomaly though. Like it’s okay to notice and talk about because of it’s size. But unlike the other dudes in this locker room, Billy’s had it in his mouth. Then again, he’s not sure anyone else here wants it in their mouth besides Tommy, though the guy won’t admit it. Billy can tell by the way he talks about him. Built Steve up like he was a literal King and not like the metaphorical one he is. Then, he saw Steve and well, he understood.

He watches Tommy’s eyes, they fall to his cock and then to Harrington’s. There’s a look on his face Billy can’t exactly place, perhaps jealously or something more… gay? He hasn’t quite fingered Tommy yet. They’ve just met. And honestly when he made the move on Steve, he was taking a huge risk that he ended with an even better payout. Tommy’s eyes fall to his own junk and well, he’s probably comparing. He did offer Carol up to Billy the second the three of them were alone but Billy shrugged it off like a joke.

“Good practice,” Billy lamely offers, snatching Steve’s soap from the shelf. There’s a hint of a smile from Steve when he does it. Which is a win, probably.

“Yeah, that trick shot was fucking killer,” Tommy praises, teeth shining. And yeah, Billy thinks he’s cute but his eyes are drawn back to Harrington.

“Thanks,” Billy offers, soaping his dick up before he puts the bar back. Steve snatches it quick and then soaps his own dick up. It’s an offering, of some kind. He’s eager to have their teammates vanish. Wants to be alone with Harrington and quick.

The two of them linger a little too long, hopeful they’re not being obvious. Coach left long ago, they shower quietly until the chatter in the locker room disappears. Fingertips and toes gone pruny. And then Billy makes his move, steps into the stream of Steve’s shower and their eyes meet.

“What did your girlfriend want?” Billy asks, ignoring the way his cocks filling out by the close proximity of Steve’s cock.

Steve swallow hard, averts his eyes but answers, “She wanted to know why I didn’t pick her up this morning.”

“Why didn’t you?” Billy wonders, blinking slowly at Steve.

“She dumped me,” he huffs with disdain.

“And the thanks? What was that for?”

“Last night… I… it helped me take my mind off her,” Steve mumbles, eyes dropping.

Billy grins, licks against his teeth as he hooks his fingers under Steve’s chin, pulls the boys face toward his own, “Told you I would make you feel better than she could.”

“But—“ Steve swallows, “You just left and I…”

“What? Wanted cuddles?” Billy laughs, “it was fun. And that’s what it will be. If we ya know, keep doing it. I’m not a chick and either are you, last time I checked.”

He looks down, seeing Harrington’s cock is also standing like his. “I don’t do feelings, Harrington. And maybe you shouldn’t either. Since you’re such a bitch for some average looking tail.”

“I love her,” Steve argues, eyebrows knitting in a way that has Billy jealous beyond belief.

Billy frown, full of condescension when he says, “And where the hell did that get you?”

Steve looks a little taken aback. Like Billy said something wise and not something basked in bitterness.

“We can make each other feel good. Why would we fuck it up with feelings?” Billy asks, looking up at Steve under thick lashes.

“Yeah,” Harrington breathes out and Billy’s reaching down to grab his cock. The brunette elicits the sweetest, softest yelp and Billy can’t help but break a rule he’s set for himself, crashing his lips into Harrington’s.

Because Billy loves kissing. Likes it filthy and sloppy. Makes his head swim when they lick against each other’s tongues between heady moans. Sex is sex. They’re here for a means, regardless of sexuality, they both just wanna get off. Because fuck, his heads going empty ‘cause he can feel Harrington’s cock twitch in his hand and there’s a shared desperation here when their eyes meet again. If Billy can offer a distraction from Wheeler, he’ll take it. Anything to get Steve Harrington making these sweet sounds and bucking into his fist.

“Be quiet,” Billy warns before he’s stepping closer to press his cock against Steve’s, adjusting his hand so he’s got them both in his grip, “You don’t wanna get caught, do you?”

Steve shakes his head, reaching his hands up to grab Billy’s shoulders. Billy catches Steve’s lower lip in his teeth while he jerks them off in his hand. It’s a desperate yet lazy kiss. Steve keeps whimpering into it and Billy’s a bit lovestruck. And Christ, he loves the way their cocks slide together easily, precum drooling from their tips. It’s all slippery and so good and Billy can’t stop licking every crevice of Steve’s mouth as they thrust into his fist. It’s so delicious, so filthy. It’s… slippery from the shower. His minds hazy enough to tell Harrington, “Holy shit, you’re so fucking hot.”

And he’s whiny when he says it, desperation dripping off his words because truly, he means it. Harrington looks like a god damn dream, glassy brown eyes and fuck, his lips parted and so pink. Looking at Billy likes he’s a veteran porn star, and he could be with the heat he’s packing and that look on his face. He’s begging for it, just with his eyes. And Billy wants nothing more than to give it to him.

Billy wants to die for Harrington. It’s a sick thought he can’t let himself dwell on. Daddy up and moved them for a reason. Another boy with floppy chestnut hair and sad eyes.

“Fucking hate you,” Billy mumbles, not sure if it’s meant towards Steve or the memory. He squeezes their cocks when he says it though. ‘Cause he does hate him and he does hate the way he aches for this. Hates the way his heads all wrong and hates how he needs to act on it.

Steve kisses him then, bruising like it’s punishment for telling Steve he hates him. Or a test? Billy can’t let the kiss go further, it’s too delicious and dangerous. So he pushes Steve back and spits on his parted lips. An assault, but he’s stunned when Steve’s tongue darts out to gather the saliva and bucks his hips up at Billy’s fist. The slide of their cocks is incredible and it’s so good that heat is pooling in his stomach rapidly, so he closes his eyes tight and bares his teeth because if he looks down at their cocks or up at Harrington’s face he’s gonna blow his load.

And then Harrington’s making this pathetic fucking sound and it’s even more wet and Billy has to open his eyes, has to look down and sees Harrington’s spilled and it’s all over his fist and the tip of his cock and Billy grunts, body heaving as he shoots his spunk next. He rests his head on Harrington’s shoulder for a beat. Then he rinses himself off and reaches for his towel. He wraps it around his waist and he’s about to walk off.

The softest words from Harrington have him turning around and asking, “Huh?”

Big, downturned brown eyes look to him and Steve says louder, “I fucking hate you, too.”

It warms Billy’s chest for some god awful reason, so he smiles, maybe even blushes a little, “Hate you more, King Steve.”

Wishes he could stick around longer, but Max has got to be out waiting by his Camaro by now. He doesn’t wanna risk coming home too late. And he’ll see Harrington tomorrow. Looks forward to it.

[hevexns-realm]

Boys Fashion headcanons in my ✨AU with no name✨

Sonic: Y2K inspired style, may not be exactly how it is back in the day, but it’s pretty damn close! Tank tops, baggy jeans, Air Forces, and sometimes brings a boom box with him. For the more feminine style, arm and leg warmers, multiple belts and jelly bracelets, and yes, a fur hat. However, it’s synthetic and the only one he owns. It’s actually a gift from amy!

Shadow: he’s usually going to be wearing some kind of biker-esque style. Leather boots, slightly baggy Jeans, fluffy leather coat, etc. However, that doesn’t mean he doesn’t wear other styles outside of missions. Particularly more gothic attire, and even a few good drag queen looks too! (Headcannon I saw on here and I’m running with it-)

Silver: hm.. I honestly say the soft boy aesthetic from 2020-2021 would suit him when he’s not on missions! Soft sweatshirts, a good pair of white slacks, and maybe some white sneakers too! Add a cute satchel and we’re good to go! ^^

Knuckles: same as sonic, but just the masculine parts. Baggy jeans, tank top or short sleeved shirts, and some of his tribe’s jewelry and other accessories to match with the outfit!

Tails: I’d say the steampunk look would suit him best, after all, he’s a mechanic and an engineer! It makes sense why he’d prefer something like steampunk! (Simplified or not is up to you!)

Mephiles: My personal favorite of these headcanons so far. Anything Princey and gothic? He will give it a try! However, goth academia and goth ouji seem to be his favorites! Lots of intricate and beautiful lace, black slacks, masculine corsets, and a cute black and purple parasol to match! (I’ve had this headcanon for a hot minute!)

Scourge: We all know that he has this punk-like style with the leather jacket and sunglasses, but I wanna add onto it! Baggy jeans with sewn on decals from his adventures, a few tattoos, and usually no shirt, to show off his scar. However, if the place does require a shirt, he just either zips up his jacket or wears a white T-shirt.. he probably won’t be happy about it though! ^^||

Nazo: hm.. this is actually a tough one, as I didn’t really think about his general wardrobe. However, I feel like he’d have something for just about every occasion. Something simple and year-round like button up shirts and slacks or dark jeans. Because you can do a lot of styling with those alone, like add on a waistcoat and a suit jacket over the shoulders, and some simple, yet classy gold jewelry!

Seelkadoom: Now, you think that it’d be easy to give seelkadoom a hybrid style between shadow and sonic! Well, you’re half right. While that’s his base style of leather jackets and boots mixed with some jeans, the man fluctuates his style like his customers do with alcohol at the casino he works at! Not to mention work dress codes as well!

King (my OC): he’s kind of the same as nazo, but instead of more quiet luxury, he’s wearing more brand names. Like gucci T-shirts, Louis Vuitton jackets with their LV logo on it, Nike sweatpants, etc. He also sometimes wear those cheap looking $200+ cosplays you see on the internet. He mainly does this to get girls’ attention, but yeah. He’s basically all about being on trends and finding things to turn into trends, whether the others like it or not.

Girls will be next, sound off your headcanoned styles in the comments/reblogs! 🖤

[manicplank]

What kind of shoes do the pt crew wear

Oh my god, shoes. (old reference, i know.)

Peppino: He probably wear non-slip clogs or dress shoes that are surprisingly comfortable for work. For casual, he wears cheap walmart sneakers.

Gustavo: He wears comfortable non-slip dress shoes for work. For everyday, he wears nice sneakers, probably Sketchers.

Mr. Stick: He's always wearing some sort of fancy dress shoes, whether it be for work or for everyday wear.

Pepperman: He definitely like his designer sneakers. Nike, Adidas, Puma, you name it. He has all brands of plain white sneakers. He also has some pairs of fancy shoes and (platform) boots that he never wears.

The Vigilante: He mostly wears his cowboy boots. Contrary to popular belief, good quality boots are expensive. He wears Ariat boots. (I'm loyal to their brand lol).

The Noise: He mostly wears skate shoes. Usually Converse or Vans. He has the black high top Vans as well as the checkers slide on canvas shoes. He just has a normal pair of high-top Converse. He also has quite a few pairs of nice, comfortable fancy dress shoes.

Noisette: She has all sorts of cute shoes, boots, heels, and slippers. She is a huge shoe girlie. Mary Janes, Converse, Nike, Adidas, etc. She has shoes to go with every outfit.

Fake Peppino: He doesn't typically wear shoes and doesn't really need to. His feet are pretty soft. However, Noisette has put a pair of heels on him for sillies.

Pizzahead: He definitely has fancy dress shoes in all colors. He also owns a pair of clown shoes that he thinks no one knows about.

Pillar John: Doesn't wear shoes. His feet are callused enough to withstand stepping on a lego.

Gerome: He typically wears some decent work boots. He doesn't get too caught up about the brand.

[dreaming-about-seireitei]

But what about shoes??

So last night I couldn't sleep because I kept asking myself about what kind of footwear would the Bleach characters wear, adapted to today's fashion. I came up with this hc for some of them and I just needed to post it. (Be aware, I know almost nothing about fashion or fashion brands, so if you feel like that's not right just know I did my best)

Renji

- I honestly think Renji would definitely be the kind of guy who would wear these Nikes, the W Dunk High, obviously in red.

- I also believe he would be secretely proud of them, and would clean them every time before going out of the house (even if they'd get dirty in a fight immediately).

-He would probably have at least one more pair that looks the same, maybe with just a little detail difference, in case these ones get broken in a fight.

- I think he buys them alone so people don't see how happy he gets when he finally has them in the bag

Ichigo

- Our main boy would probably wear these Pumas (that I can't remember the full name of)

- They kinda go with his bankai, but it's mostly just a coincidence

- He actually bought them because he needed a new pair, and it was the first pair that caught his eye

- I feel like fashion would not be his priority, he would prefer longevity over anything else and feeling comfy

Orihime

- I am 100% sure she would own at least two of these colorful Converse that she embroidered or decorated herself

- She is the cute and unique type that would wear these anywhere and with anything (even if they don't match)

-They are comfy, but also cute and that's mostly what counts for her, as she buys them for the main bold colors and decorates them however she feels like on the spot

Toshiro

- In my mind, I see him wearing these Reeboks he would look so good in them and he wouldn't even try oh god

- I feel like when buying them, he'd probably look at the sole of the footwear first to ensure it can hold his fighting as well as his shunpo before anything else

- They match his hair and eyes and add a plus to his otherwise kind of plain outfits (he doesn't see it, but he likes the look anyway)

- I see the brand itself mostly bought by adults who already have kids and are tired and take walks to free their mind; and we know he has the tastes of an elder person already and is tired from scolding Matsumoto all day and just wants something nice, nothing out of the ordinary

Rukia

- My girl would totally wear the combat boots idc

- She will feel her feet more secure with them on and would like the adherence of the boots

- She also bought them because when she tried them on, she felt like people took her a bit more serious because she looks badass in them

- The black, simple style is what she likes in term of fashion because she can wear them with her dresses, as well as with her fighting gear

Matsumoto

- If you think our fashionista will not wear some great platform sandals any time of the day, I regret to inform you, you are wrong.

- She would most definitely go through a pair every week because they're not very resistant, but that's fine because she has plenty of pairs.

- She buys them from specific stores that she likes in the World of the Living, at least two or three pairs at a time

- She mostly gets them in black, because it goes with everything, obviously, but she might also have a white and a brown pair for special occasions (like going shopping)

Uryu

- These President boots (I think that's what they're called) would be all that's in his closet, multiple pairs, leather, suede, in black and brown, but just this type of shoes

- He would not only buy them because of the very good quality, true materials, but also because they look very serious and grown

- He would be careful with them and always have his laces neatly tied

- Would get mad at Ichigo for accidentally stepping on them

This is mostly what I had in mind, let me know if you share the same opinion, if not, what would you change about it? Also, please someone let me know if this is a normal lenght for a post, I feel like it's too long.

Obviously I took all the photos from the internet and don't own any of them.

[hornyyeehaw]

19 and 31 from the ask game! :^)

19. If you could only wear one outfit for the rest of your life, what would it be?

My dark khaki work pants with my Gotham FC tshirt and my favorite sweater on top. Carabiner, and probably my comfy Nike AF1s. If I was wearing jeans, I'd wear my boots. My University of [redacted] ball cap on my head, per usual.

31. Share a photo with great memories (and share why it has great memories if you like)

This is probably cheating but today I was doing some chores and I just really liked the way my room looked. It felt very Me and as someone who was raised super strict, just getting to curate something that’s only meant to serve me and what I like felt incredibly liberating. It felt very full circle, “oh I’m still the kid I always was but I’m older now” kind of thing. (Certain place identifiers/faces/names blacked out, obviously)

[simtinee]

Pink Teen Loft Bedroom

This is my first build so please be kind. Gallery ID: @simtinee

CC List:

@symphonysim Symphony Hair Accesories V2 & V3

(Symphony) Pearly set - EARLY ACCESS | Patreon

Official Post from Symphony Sims

PATREON

Mel Bennett's Composition Book, Book Stack & Mel Bennett EyeShadow Palette (I have the whole kit, it's useful)

COLLEGE TIME COLLECTION | Mel Bennett on Patreon

Official Post from Mel Bennett

PATREON

TIME TO MAKEUP COLLECTION | Mel Bennett on Patreon

Official Post from Mel Bennett

PATREON

@mlsim Mellouwsim's Modern Clock

Shire Living Set

Shire Couch (10x Swatches) Modern Clock (5x Swatches) Samsung TV (1x Swatches) Samsung TV Decor (31x Swatches) Samsung Remote (1x Swatches)

MELLOUWSIM

Novvvas Kalehouse Bedding, Pillows & Magazines

Kalehouse Bedding Recolours Download HERE {ad-free SFS} Meshes by Novvvas not included! Get them HERE

Comes with 2 blankets and pillows, in my 21 colour swatches (plus 6 bonus patterns!) @novvvas xx Requested by @trish-ccfinds See Novvvas’s

DK-SIMS.TUMBLR.COM

NOVVVAS: LOFT LIFE SET

data:blog.metaDescription

NOVVVAS

@Platinumluxesims Desk Chair, Luxe Box (on the ground), Vanity Stool

CurseForge - the home for modding communities

CurseForge is one of the biggest mod repositories in the world, serving communities like Minecraft, WoW, The Sims 4, and more. With over 800

CURSEFORGE

CurseForge - the home for modding communities

CurseForge is one of the biggest mod repositories in the world, serving communities like Minecraft, WoW, The Sims 4, and more. With over 800

CURSEFORGE

CurseForge - the home for modding communities

CurseForge is one of the biggest mod repositories in the world, serving communities like Minecraft, WoW, The Sims 4, and more. With over 800

CURSEFORGE

@qicc Sleek Hallway Boots, Urban Bedroom Kit's Closet (feminine formal & empty-ish)

Sleek Hallway Set

15 brand-new items for a sleek and modern hallway. DOWNLOAD 15 items Ottoman with Storage - 7 swatches - §125 Shoe Cabinet - 12 swatches - §

QICC.TUMBLR.COM

Quirky Introvert CC

The beds are now updated for the latest patch, enjoy!

QICC.TUMBLR.COM

@severinka Constance Bedroom Chair, Laura Nursery Lamp

Severinka_'s Constance bedroom - living chair SW

Hanging living chair (SHORT WALLS) Found in TSR Category 'Sims 4 Living Chairs'

THE SIMS RESOURCE

Severinka_'s [Laura nursery] - floor lamp

Floor lamp Found in TSR Category 'Sims 4 Floor Lamps'

THE SIMS RESOURCE

Veranka's Shades of Orange (8th horizontal shade)

Veranka's TS4 Downloads

Shades of Orange Walls 60 plain walls. Can be found in paint for §1. DOWNLOAD

VERANKA-S4CC.TUMBLR.COM

Wondymoon's Barium Loveseat

wondymoon's Barium Loveseat

- Barium Outdoor Living - Loveseat Found in TSR Category 'Sims 4 Sofas & Recliners'

THE SIMS RESOURCE

Around the Sims 4 Maybelline Mascara

Around the Sims 3 | Custom Content Downloads| Objects | Decorative | Misc.| Bathroom Accessories

AROUNDTHESIMS3.COM

Charly Pancakes' Lavish Set

lavish - stuff pack: download | Charly Pancakes on Patreon

Official Post from Charly Pancakes

PATREON

@coatisims Fiji Water (I can't find the link)

@leosims4cc bb cream, blush, shoe boxes, decor shoes v1 (website link is not working for me to check)

Patreon

Patreon is empowering a new generation of creators. Support and engage with artists and creators as they live out their passions!

PATREON

MXIMS (Retired but can still find all of their creations)

Wall Decor 1, Wall Banner Flag, Triangle Red Alarm Clock, LG 84LM960 V Decor (TV), Sirius Side Table, Alex-Linnmon Desk, Apple Remote & Macbook Pro 13"

MXIMS

MXIMS

MXIMS CC • Sims 4 Downloads

SIMS 4 DOWNLOADS

Slox's living magazines, Aiza Yogamat Lying & Folded Clothes

Patreon

Patreon is empowering a new generation of creators. Support and engage with artists and creators as they live out their passions!

PATREON

Sims 4 Slox downloads » Sims 4 Updates

SIMS 4 UPDATES

@syboubou Aurore set windows, nike shoes, dry branches, Agnes high heels, Converse shoebox & Adrienne jewellery box.

Agnes Bedroom cc sims 4 – Syboulette Custom Content for The Sims 4

S4CC.SYBOULETTE.FR

Arnaud bedroom cc sims 4 – Syboulette Custom Content for The Sims 4

S4CC.SYBOULETTE.FR

Syboubou's Agnes - High heels shoes

Those are some high heels shoes with multiple color swatches. Found in TSR Category 'Sims 4 Miscellaneous Decor'

THE SIMS RESOURCE

This is tiring. I'm done.

Cheats i used:

bb.moveobjects on; bb.enablefreebuild

Shift + [ Shift + ] Ctrl + 9 Ctrl + 0 Alt (for free movement)

Non-CC Items from the Base Game:

Simple Single-Panel Door

The Super Subtle Scaucer Light

Intellectual Illusion Wall-Mounted Bookshelves

White Stairs

Simplicity Nightstand

Wooden Horizontal Fencing