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[thehmn]

I’m currently listening to Maren Uthaug’s book 11% about a world where most men have died. I should probably wait until I’ve finished the book but I’m so fascinated by the world building.

As of now it’s still unclear why the men died but when the story takes place there’s a mix of older women who fucking hates men and young women who have only met drugged up men at “breeding centers” and imagine “males” as violent boogeymen but otherwise don’t really care and just want to live in the new seemingly perfect society their grandmothers fought for. The only people who still fight for men’s rights are witches who believe masculine energies are as natural and Of Nature as feminine energies, but even they sound more like animal rights activists, standing outside breeding centers with signs every Friday. Their most provocative sign is a picture of a man with Human written on it.

Christianity has been completely transformed and is now run by priests (they don’t call themselves priestess) who can only hold ceremonies when they have their periods and snakes are their most sacred symbol because they gave knowledge to Eva and God is called The Mother.

Trans men exist but are referred to as Man Women and they all seem to be sex workers who have functional silicone penises, though I’m not far enough into the story to know if they have other jobs. They generally also still have breasts because working as a wet nurse is another source of income for them. Testosterone treatments is not an option because it would make them too masculine and dangerous to be allowed into society but they all have male names and everyone use male pronouns for them.

A really fascinating aspect of the world is how people want to get rid of the old “patriarchal architecture” of straight lines and boxes but refuse to tear it down with machines, instead insisting on letting Mother Nature reclaim it. Only Rat Girls are actively trying to destroy the old buildings by releasing hoards of rats into them and planting bamboo to break up the concrete. New buildings have round shapes and are build in ways that make them blend in with cultivated nature and inside they’re painting in beautiful colors with no hard edges. They sound a lot like colorful hobbit homes. Also, locks are considered uncivilized and of a time when violent men roamed the earth and made life unsafe so nothing, from front doors to bathrooms, have locks. For a while after most men died women would go for Night Walks to relish in the fact that they no longer had to be afraid, though they liked to visit the witches at night because it felt a little spooky, which the witches thought was good fun.

The story is naturally about a middle aged witch who is hiding a young boy illegally and gets milk from one of the trans men in the red district while also sleeping with a Christian priest who struggles with her sacred job because her periods are irregular.

I’ll come back with follow up thoughts once I’ve finished it. Unlike what you might think, Maren Uthau isn’t a scary man hater. I’ve listened to most of her other books and this isn’t a recurring trope so clearly she has something to say specifically with this story and it’s rated pretty highly by both male and female readers. I think I’m in for quite the ride.

[devonhinged]

[FFxivWrite2024] Steer

I tried. It's about Saga's relationship with magiteks and chocobos and there's a coherent point in it somewhere if you maybe squint hard enough

-

"You'd have experience riding an animal, no?" 

Saga nodded to his supervisor. An Elezen man of middling age. His walking cane claps alongside his wide heels, a particular pair of sound that had always given his arrival from malms away. He brought Saga into the large garage west of the landing where they test magitek mobiles. Big and small. Saga rarely gets to this side of the factory. In fact, he's rarely able to see any finished armour at all. 

"Well, then just imagine it's more or less the same." They briskly walked towards one newly assembled magitek reaper, shiny and smelling of fresh coating. An association pops up in his mind. His eyes traced its shape from its singular steel claws, to the strangely avian "beak" and legs. The bat-like wings on each side of its cockpit. What is this, a mockery of....

"A chocobo…?" 

The heels squeaked on the floor as the supervisor abruptly stopped. Saga shouldn't have said anything. 

"Ah, even better. Then you’ve gotten the feel of steering a two legged mobile." He said, cracking his red splotched knuckles two, three times. “Well then. At the end of this fiscal year at least, you'll get your qualification. Should be enough time for you to learn, right?”

"Yessir."

“Any, other questions.” He pushed his sleeves back to check his watch. 

“Nossir.”

He tapped Saga’s shoulder firmly and staggering him backwards. 

"Keep in mind, keep this a secret from your boss. She’d make it difficult if she found out I'm trying to steal her lackeys again.” Then, with a grimace, he nodded for emphasis, “Just pass all your tests." 

“... Yessir.”

“If you are to be a technician you have to understand the machines in its whole. What better way than to master the end product, no? That is the tests’ purpose.” He let go, finally. ”So go on and start giving one a ride.”

“This one, sir?” 

“Of course not.” He started walking away. “Talk to one of the young men over there and they'll give you the course. Don't take too long.”

The clapping of heels and cane slowly echoed away. Saga was tiny in that garage. 

-

Despite its cumbersome main body, he supposed the engineering of its two legs and joints made it possible to steer the reaper in a relatively agile manner. They maintain speed atop steep slopes and stairs, into sharp 90 degree angles, and even perform an explosive enough jump to go over concrete fences. It’s not even remotely close to steering a chocobo, not at all, not even the slightest. But perhaps his supervisor meant that it requires… the same mindset?

This one given to him doesn't smell of coating, only rubber and exhaust. Saga’s palm sweated around the controls stick. He had to wipe his hands on the side of his pants several times. He didn't know why. When he thought about it, he'd seen these reapers before. Perhaps when he still lived in Rabanastre. Perhaps in a picture. Hey, these leg joints honestly looked like a headache to maintain. Is a technician going to deal with that often? He didn't like thinking about it. 

He wished these were truly like chocobos. He's quite upset that his supervisor would lie about that. He missed those birds, and he missed the farm. Whenever he gets to come back, the chocobos are the first thing he's checking!

—

Cold breeze swept past the Shroud. It brought the smell of coins. It is usually very still here, so still he'd have a hard time traversing it unnoticed. Then again so does everything else, including these small groups of Garlean soldiers. 

Saga stepped over their dead bodies and kicked the model [insert random numbers] reaper. Normally he'd take a knife to it immediately and dislodge the ceruleum tank out of its belly—sell it for weeks worth of gil to some Ishgardian merchant—but he felt strangely morose about this one. He climbed and dragged the pilot out of its cockpit, careful not to get blood everywhere, and got in it himself. 

If he is seen driving this around the duskwights would have a field day with him, but how nice would it be to have a vehicle to move around here eh? Especially after the calamity. If it isn't disgustingly loud maybe he could use it for a supply trip. Too bad its fate is to be butchered into scraps. 

He noticed movements in the corner of his eye many yalms over. Likely a carnivore smelling blood. But, as he observed longer, it was clearly a bright red creature. What poor animal is given those hide amongst these foliages? 

Perhaps… its fate would also be under his knife, he thinks, licking his lip. Saga abandoned this stupid bout of sentimentality and jumped down, fishing out several arrows from his quiver into his hand. 

What came into view however, was a chocobo with feathers a deep shade of red. The yellow barding of the Adder’s Nest is a bigger contrast as a result. It must've escaped. Have they started shipping Dalmascan chocobos into Eorzea? Must be an expensive venture. Saga would be putting a bright red target on his head for doing this, but….

—

Welp I ran out of time. So he definitely stole that chocobo and got attached instead of selling it (or eating it.) Let's just leave it at that

[rainbowbobatea]

A night under the stars✨🥂

“I'm not opening my eyes."

"Shar—"

"No, nope. I won't. I refuse."

Shar grips the helicopter's seat, knuckles white, as the machine soars over the vast expanse of Sydney. The wind whips through her hair, and her heart pounds in her ears. She shoots a glance at Hugh, who's sitting with casual confidence.

"This is crazy!" she yells over the roar of the engine. "Are you trying to give me a heart attack?"

Hugh flashes a devilish smile, his hazel eyes sparkling with mischief. "You said you wanted the grand tour. So, I'm giving you the grand tour, mate."

The helicopter banks sharply, and Shar's stomach drops as they descend. "Oh, hell naw. Please tell me this thing isn't going to crash!"

"Relax, love. The pilot has everything under control." Hugh's voice is calm, but the thrill in his eyes matches Shar's panic.

The helicopter lowers, the city spreading out below them like a breathtaking panorama. "Check it out. There's the Opera House." He points to the iconic white sails glowing in the afternoon sun.

Shar's fear momentarily forgotten, she leans forward, transfixed by the view. "Woah…”

"Bloody beautiful, it is," Hugh finishes for her, his accent warm and familiar.

As they continue flying through the sky, the wind becomes a symphony, howling through the open door. The city's vibrant pulse beats below, a contrast to the quiet comfort of the helicopter's interior. Shar's fear ebbs, replaced by a heady mix of adrenaline and awe.

"Alright, enough of the touristy stuff." Hugh says. "Now I'll show you something really special."

He points towards the emerald expanse of the Royal National Park; the lush greens and blues stretch before them like a painter's palette, untouched by the concrete and steel of the city.

"This is my favorite place to escape the madness of Hollywood. It's like another world down there."

"It's incredible." Shar's breathes, awestruck. "It doesn't even look real."

Hugh chuckles, his eyes never leaving the horizon. "Wait till you see it from the ground. We can go hiking, just the two of us. It's secluded, and—" His words trail off as he glances at her, a mischievous smile playing on his lips.

Shar would've laughed if she wasn't so freaking terrified.

Seriously.

This helicopter ride with him is amazing, but the stomach-churning drops and gut-wrenching turns kept reminding her that this was very real…

"Look up, darling." Hugh's voice is warm and inviting as he interrupts her racing thoughts.

Shar's eyes follow his instruction, and she's greeted by a breathtaking sight. The night sky above is littered with stars, each twinkling like a diamond. It's like they've entered another galaxy, far away from the bustling city below.

"It's beautiful," she breathes, her voice a whisper of awe.

As if responding to her words, Hugh leans closer, his breath warm on her ear. "All the shine of a thousand spotlights," he sings softly, his deep voice wrapping around her like a velvet hug, "All the stars we steal from the night sky..."

Recognition hits Shar like a bolt of lightning. The Greatest Showman. She's heard this song a million times, but never like this.

"Will never be enough," he continues, his voice growing more passionate, "Never be enough, this endless sky..."

Shar's heart flutters as Hugh's voice trails off, the last notes of hanging in the air like stardust. She opens her mouth to speak, but Hugh's next words catch her off guard.

"We're back at the hotel, love," he says, his voice returning to its normal, conversational tone.

Shar blinks, disoriented. She glances out the window, and sure enough, the familiar shape of their hotel looms before them. The realization hits her like a ton of bricks – Hugh had been singing to distract her from the flight.

"You sneaky bastard," she says, nudging his shoulder with her own.

“Hey," he laughs, his accent thicker with amusement, "you were the one that wanted a helicopter ride."

Shar freezes, her witty comeback dying on her lips. He's right. She did ask for this. The memory comes flooding back – their conversation at the theatre, her offhand comment about never having been in a helicopter, Hugh's eyes lighting up with that mischievous gleam...

"I can't believe you remembered that," she says, lowering her hands.

Hugh shrugs, nudging her nose. "I like to spoil my girl."

"Even if it scares her?"

"Yup."

Shar's legs wobble as she steps onto the helipad, her heart still racing from the exhilarating flight. Hugh's steady hand on her lower back guides her, his touch both comforting and electrifying.

"Easy there, love," he murmurs, his voice low and warm against her ear. "You did brilliantly."

She shoots him a look that's half-grateful, half-exasperated. "You're lucky I didn't hurl all over your fancy chopper."

His laugh rumbles through her, rich and deep. "Ah, but you didn't. And it’s a good thing you didn’t, or else I wouldn’t be able to accompany you tonight.

Shar raises an eyebrow, her curiosity piqued despite her lingering nervousness. "Huh?"

Hugh's eyes twinkle with mischief. "Dinner, darling. Get ready to be wined and dined in true Aussie style."

They step into the elevator, and Shar lets out a breath she didn't know she was holding. The adrenaline from the helicopter ride is slowly fading, replaced by a giddy anticipation.

The elevator dings, and the doors slide open to reveal a luxurious suite. Shar's jaw drops as she takes in the opulent decor, the floor-to-ceiling windows offering a breathtaking view of Sydney's skyline.

"This is..." she trails off, at a loss for words.

"Your dressing room for the evening," Hugh finishes, gently nudging her forward. "Go on, then. Your team's waiting."

"My team?" Shar echoes, confused.

As if on cue, a group of women emerge from one of the adjoining rooms. They're all armed with makeup cases and hair tools.

"Miss Shar?" One of them steps forward, her smile warm and professional. "I'm Zoe. We're here to help you get ready for your evening with Mr. Jackman."

Shar blinks, overwhelmed. She turns to Hugh, but he's already backing towards the elevator, that infuriating smirk still on his face.

"Have fun, love," he calls out. "I'll see you in two hours."

And with that, he's gone, leaving Shar alone with her 'team'.

Before Shar can even say anything, she's whisked away into a whirlwind of activity. One woman guides her to a plush chair in front of a well-lit vanity, while another starts gently combing through her curly hair.

As the hairstylist gets to work, another woman approaches with a tray of nail polish. "For your nails, Miss. Any color preference?"

Shar glances at the array of colors, her eyes drawn to a deep, shimmering gold. "That one," she says, pointing.

As her nails are being painted, Zoe reappears, holding a garment bag. "Your dress for the evening, Miss Shar."

Shar's eyes widen as Zoe unzips the bag, revealing a stunning pink gown. The fabric shimmers in the light, looking both elegant and comfortable.

"It's beautiful," Shar breathes, reaching out to touch the silky material.

Zoe smiles. "Mr. Jackman picked it out himself. He said the color would bring out your eyes."

Slipping into the dress feels like stepping into a dream. The fabric hugs her curves in all the right places, the color a striking contrast against her dark skin. Shar turns to look in the full-length mirror and gasps.

The woman staring back at her is a vision. The dark pink dress shimmers with every movement, the cut accentuating her figure without being overly revealing. Her hair is a crown of intricate curls, and her makeup makes her look like she's glowing from within. Zoe gives a nod of approval.

"Wow, Miss Shar," Zoe says, in awe. "You look…you look-"

"Gorgeous."

It's Hugh. He's dressed in a sharp black suit that fits him perfectly, his slightly wavy brown hair styled in that effortlessly handsome way that seems uniquely his—but it's the look on his face when he sees her that takes Shar's breath away.

"Shar," he finally says, his voice soft with awe, "you look absolutely breathtaking."

For a moment, he seems at a loss for words, his gaze traveling from her face to her dress and back again. Shar feels a blush creeping up her cheeks, but she holds his gaze, drinking in the admiration in his eyes.

"You clean up pretty well yourself, Jackman," she says, aiming for casual but hearing the breathlessness in her own voice.

Hugh chuckles, the sound sending a shiver down her spine. He steps forward, offering his arm. "Shall we, my lady?"

Shar places her hand on his arm, feeling the solid warmth of him through his suit jacket.

"Lead the way, good sir," she says, matching his playful tone.

~~~~

As Hugh leads Shar through the dimly lit restaurant, she can't help but feel like she's floating. The dress swishes around her legs, and the warmth of Hugh's arm under her hand grounds her in the moment.

They're guided to a secluded booth in a dark corner, away from prying eyes.

"So," Hugh says, as he gently guides her into the booth, "favorite Mariah Carey album?"

Shar blinks, caught off guard by the sudden question. "Um, 'Butterfly,' obviously. It's a classic."

Hugh shakes his head, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "Nah, love. 'Daydream' is clearly superior."

"What?" Shar scoffs, turning to face him fully. "No way. 'Butterfly' has 'Honey' and 'My All.' It's iconic."

"But 'Daydream' has 'Fantasy' and 'Always Be My Baby,'" Hugh counters, leaning in closer. "You can't beat that."

Shar feels a surge of competitiveness. "Please. 'Butterfly' was her artistic breakthrough. It's when she really came into her own as a songwriter."

"But Daydream-"

"Okay, they're both amazing," Shar retorts, jabbing a finger at his chest.

Hugh chuckles. "Ah, can't argue with that."

Their playful argument is interrupted by the arrival of their waitress, a young woman with wide eyes and a starstruck expression.

"Good evening," she says, her voice slightly breathless. "Can I get you started with some drinks?" Her gaze is fixed solely on Hugh, a blush creeping up her cheeks. "...what would you like, Sexiest Man alive?"

Bitch. Shar feels a twinge of annoyance at the waitress's blatant flirting. She knows Hugh is used to this kind of attention, but it still stings to be so thoroughly ignored.

Hugh, seeming to sense Shar's discomfort, smoothly wraps an arm around her shoulders, pulling her closer. "Thank you," he says to the waitress, his tone polite but dismissive. "We'll have a bottle of your best soju, please."

The waitress's smile falters slightly as she finally notices Shar. "Of course. I'll be right back with that."

The waitress quickly returns with their soju and two small glasses. As she pours, Hugh leans in close to Shar, his breath tickling her ear.

"Order anything you want, love. Even the most expensive dishes. This is your night."

Shar glances at the menu, her eyes widening at the prices. "Are you sure? Some of these are pretty pricey."

"I'm sure. Get whatever your heart desires."

"Okay," she says, feeling a bit daring. "We'll start with the premium wagyu beef platter, the combo, and... oh, the black truffle bibimbap sounds amazing.” Shar hands the menu back to the waiter, who takes it and leaves. “Ugh, I’m starving.”

Hugh's eyes soften, crinkling at the corners in that way that makes her heart skip. "Ah, same."

"You're hungry too?"

"Yep, I'm hungry…" Hugh leans in, his wavy hair tickling her neck as he leaned in close. "Hungry…for you."

“Oh please.” Despite the corny line, a giggle escapes her throat. But when she feels his rough palm slide up her dress, caressing her bare skin, she stopped laughing.

Oh, he's serious now…

"Mmmm, watcha got down there, babygirl?" Hugh asks, playing with her lace panties underneath.

"Australia."

A pause. A soft chuckle rings into her ear, his warm breath against her neck. "Ah, is that so?"

Shar nods, squeezing her legs together. Her voice goes high. "Yeah…"

She sucks in a sharp breath, her gaze darting around the restaurant, but no one seems to notice what they’re doing underneath the table. The waitress walks by, but her attention is focused on her notepad, and she doesn't glance their way.

Shar's heart is pounding in her ears as she squeezes her legs together, trapping Hugh's hand between her thighs. His fingers tease the sensitive skin high on her inner thigh, his touch feather-light and deliberate.

"You're so cute when you squirm like this."

He gives her earlobe a gentle nibble. She tilts her head to give him better access, her breath coming in short gasps. "I-"

His fingers slip beneath the elastic of her lace panties, and he groans softly as he finds her wet and ready for him. "Fucking hell, you little minx," he growls, his voice husky with desire. "Feels like you're hungry for me too."

One of his fingers found her clit with such practiced ease, she yelped at how unexpected it was to be touched by someone that wasn’t her own unskilled, shaky fingers. Hugh didn’t slowly work her into a frenzy; he robbed her of her senses with aggressive strokes that were so quick she could barely make sense of the movements until she was dripping down her own thighs.

"Oh, some water please?"

Shar snaps her head up, brown eyes widening as she realizes that Hugh is ordering something while still touching her under the table. Bastard. She tightens around his girthy fingers, biting back a moan as she nods at the waiter too. Two can play at this game.

"And more Soju, please?" Shar innocently asks, squirming.

Hugh smiles, winking. "Yeah, two more of those too, please…"

The oblivious waiter leaves, coming back a few minutes later with a stray of yummy goodness—juicy galbi, its caramelized edges glistening; thick slices of samgyeopsal, fat rendering temptingly; bulgogi, the tender beef slices swimming in a pool of savory marinade.

Just in time.

Flushed face and pulled taunt, Shar had already grinded against his fingers into a flashing white orgasm, giving herself enough time to calm down before the meal. Hugh slips his fingers away, giving it a quick lick before nodding at the food. A cheeky grin paints his face.

"Let's dig in."

Shar nods, catching her breath. "Y-yeah."

Shar's heart was still racing as she watched Hugh expertly flip a piece of galbi on the tabletop grill. The sizzle and aroma of the marinated meat filled the air, making her mouth water.

"This smells amazing," she said, leaning in closer to inhale the savory scent.

Hugh grinned, his eyes twinkling mischievously. "Wait until you taste it, love." He picked up a perfectly grilled piece with his chopsticks and held it out to her. "Open wide."

Shar felt a flutter in her stomach as she parted her lips. Hugh gently placed the morsel in her mouth, his fingers brushing against her bottom lip. The meat was tender and bursting with flavor, the perfect balance of sweet and savory.

"Mmm," she hummed appreciatively, closing her eyes to savor the taste.

As they finished their meal, Hugh leaned back, patting his stomach contentedly. "That was delicious. What do you say we walk it off a bit?"

"Sounds good to me."

Hugh's eyes lit up. "Actually, I just remembered. There's a shopping center downstairs. We could explore a bit, maybe find you a new dress for the Australia premiere tomorrow."

Shar's eyes widened. "The premiere? I... I didn't realize I was going to that."

Hugh chuckled, reaching across the table to take her hand. "Of course you are, love. Can't have my date missing out on the red carpet, can I?"

“Oh-oh, right. Of course not.”

Hand in hand, they slowly made their way down to the shopping center, Hugh's hand resting comfortably on the small of Shar's back as they walked. The mall was bustling with activity, shops lining either side of the wide corridors.

As they strolled, something caught Shar's eye. In the center of the mall stood a beautiful carousel, its painted horses gleaming under the lights. Shar felt a childlike excitement bubble up inside her.

"Oh, Hugh, look!" she exclaimed, pointing at the carousel. "Can we ride it? Please?"

Hugh looked at her, amusement dancing in his eyes. "The carousel?“

Shar pouted playfully. "Can we go on it? Pretty please? Come on, it'll be fun!"

Hugh's expression softened, and he shook his head with a fond smile. "Anything for my babygirl," he said, his voice low and affectionate.

"And you have to ride too," she insisted, tugging on his hand.

Hugh's eyebrows shot up. "Me? On a carousel horse? Aren’t I too tall…?”

"Yes, you," Shar laughed. “C’mon!”

With a dramatic sigh that was belied by the twinkle in his eye, Hugh allowed himself to be led to the carousel. They paid for their tickets and waited for the current ride to finish.

As the carousel slowed to a stop, Shar bounded forward, choosing a white horse with a flowing mane. She looked expectantly at Hugh, who was eyeing the mechanical steeds with...fear?

"Your turn," she said, grinning.

With an exaggerated groan, Hugh swung his leg over a black horse next to Shar's. He looked comically large on the small horse, his long legs dangling awkwardly.

"I feel ridiculous," he muttered, but he was smiling.

The ride started with a jolt, and Shar laughed with delight as her horse began to move up and down. She turned to share her joy with Hugh, only to see him wobbling precariously on his mount.

"Hugh, are you okay?" she asked, trying to stifle a giggle.

"I'm fine, I'm fi-" His words were cut short as the horse dipped suddenly, and Hugh, caught off guard, slid sideways off the saddle.

Shar watched in disbelief as Hugh Jackman, the Wolverine himself, tumbled ungracefully onto the carousel platform.

For a moment, there was silence, and then Shar burst into laughter.

Hugh sat up, his hair mussed and a look of utter bewilderment on his face. This only made Shar laugh harder, tears streaming down her face.

"I hate carousels," Hugh declared, but there was no real heat in his words. He climbed to his feet, brushing off his pants with as much dignity as he could muster.

Shar was still giggling as the ride came to an end. She stumbled off her horse, weak-kneed from laughter, and Hugh caught her in his arms.

"Oh man," she gasped between giggles. "That was... that was..."

Hugh shook his head, chuckling. "Let's keep that between us, eh? I have a reputation to maintain."

Still giggling, Shar allowed Hugh to lead her towards the first clothing store they saw.

Shar steps into the boutique, her eyes widening as she takes in the sea of elegant dresses before her. The store is a kaleidoscope of colors and fabrics, each gown more stunning than the last. Sequins sparkle under the soft lighting, silks shimmer invitingly, and delicate lace patterns catch her eye at every turn.

"Wow," she breathes, running her hand along a rack of dresses as she passes. The fabrics feel luxurious under her fingertips, so different from the cheap polyester blends she's used to.

Hugh follows close behind, a gentle smile on his face as he watches her reaction. "See anything you like?"

Shar nods, a bit overwhelmed. "They're all so beautiful."

She moves deeper into the store, drawn to a display of flowing gowns in jewel tones. A sapphire blue dress catches her eye, and she reaches for the price tag, curious.

$1,400

Her heart sinks as she reads the number. That’s way too many zeroes for her. Swallowing hard, she lets the tag fall from her fingers.

"Everything okay?" Hugh asks, noticing her change in demeanor.

"Yeah, just..." Shar trails off, not wanting to admit how out of place she feels. "These are all so fancy."

Hugh's brow furrows slightly, but before he can respond, something else catches Shar's attention. Her eyes lock onto a dress hanging near the back of the store, and she feels her breath catch in her throat.

It's pink. Not just any pink, but the softest, most delicate shade of blush she's ever seen. The dress is a confection of tulle and chiffon, with a sweetheart neckline and a full, flowing skirt. Tiny crystals are scattered across the bodice, catching the light like morning dew.

Shar moves towards it as if in a trance, her fingers trembling slightly as she reaches out to touch the fabric. It's even softer than it looks, like a cloud given form.

"My babygirl would look so pretty in that."

Shar nods, already knowing who the voice is behind her. "Really? You think so?"

"I know so." Hugh's smile widened, creasing the corners of his eyes, as he reached out to pluck the pink dress from the rack, holding it up against her. "It is. In fact, I insist you get it." 

Shar's eyes widened, her breath catching at his words. "Ugh, I don't know, Hugh. It's kinda expensive, and I wasn't planning—" 

But before she could finish, he was already making his way to the counter, the dress draped casually over his arm. "Consider it my treat. I want you to have it, Shar."

She watched, a mixture of surprise and delight coursing through her, as he approached the sales assistant, his presence filling the small space. 

"Hello, how can I help you, sir?" The assistant's tone was a touch too warm, her heart eyes fixed on Hugh as she ignored Shar's presence entirely. 

Without missing a beat, Hugh laid the dress on the counter, his movements confident and assured. Shar felt a rush of anticipation, her heart fluttering as she watched him reach for his wallet. 

Producing a sleek, black credit card, he said, his voice deep and authoritative, "I'd like to purchase this dress, and anything else my girlfriend here wishes to choose. Expense is no object."

Shar's eyes widened at his words. She opened her mouth to protest, but Hugh was already turning to her with a boyish grin.

"Come on, love. Let's find you a whole new wardrobe."

Before she knew it, Shar was being whisked through the store, Hugh pulling dresses, skirts, and blouses off the racks with enthusiasm.

The sales assistant trailed behind them, her earlier warmth cooling as she watched Hugh shower Shar with attention.

"Oh, this would look lovely on you," Hugh said, holding up a sleek black cocktail dress.

Shar fingered the material, feeling overwhelmed. "Hugh, this is too much-"

"No," he interrupted, adding it to the growing pile in the assistant's arms. "You deserve it all."

As they moved through the store, Shar couldn't help but notice the assistant's increasingly annoyed expression. Every time Hugh complimented Shar or suggested another item, the woman's lips tightened a little more.

Good. Serves that bitch right.

After what felt like hours, Hugh finally declared they had enough options. He guided Shar towards the dressing rooms, the assistant struggling under the weight of their selections.

"Try this one on first," Hugh said, plucking a deep emerald green dress from the pile. He held it up against Shar, his eyes sparkling. "It'll look stunning. Trust me, I've worked in broadway—I know a thing or two about fashion."

Shar took the dress, her cheeks warming under his appreciative gaze. "Okay, I'll just be a minute."

She slipped into the dressing room, hanging the dress on the hook provided. As she began to undress, she heard Hugh's voice from the other side of the curtain.

"Can't wait to see how beautiful you look, love."

Shar She stepped into the dress, zipping it up with ease. When she finally looked in the mirror, her breath caught. The dress hugged her curves perfectly, the rich color making her skin glow.

She was about to step out to show Hugh when she heard the curtain rustle behind her. Before she could turn, she felt his presence, his warm breath on her neck.

"Hugh, what are you-"

Her words cut off in a gasp as Hugh dropped to his knees, his hands sliding up her legs under the dress. Shar's heart raced, a mix of excitement and panic flooding her system.

"Hugh, we can't-" she started, but her protest turned into a moan as his mouth found her center. His tongue teases her sensitive skin, lapping at her with soft, slow strokes. Her dress is pushed up, bunched around her waist, baring her to his hungry gaze and seeking mouth.

Well, let’s hope there isn’t any cameras in the dressing room…

"Mmm," he hums, his breath hot against her core. "You taste so sweet, babygirl." His tongue ventures deeper, delving into her folds, lapping at her essence. He sucks gently on her clit, his tongue flicking and circling it, the wet sounds of his mouth on her filling the changing room.

Her legs tremble, bracketing his shoulders as she grips his hair, urging him on without a word. His hands grip her thighs, pulling her closer, his tongue never ceasing its dance. He mouths her, drinking her in, the noises of his appetite spurring her on.

Her breath comes in shallow gasps, her back arching as the pleasure coils tighter within her.

"Oh," she pants, her voice thick with desire. "I–I–"

And then his mouth is gone, leaving her bereft and wanting.

"Sorry for wrinkling it, love," he said, his voice low and husky.

The sound of him brings her back, and she realizes she's standing before him, legs shaky and dress slightly askew. Shar swatted at him playfully, her cheeks flushed and her breath coming in short gasps.

"Die. Just die."

"Not until I give you one last surprise. Close your eyes for me, love."

Shar blinks, still a bit out of breath. "Alright, but you better not eat me out again…though, I wouldn’t mind.”

Confused but curious, Shar obeys. She feels Hugh move behind her, then something cool against her skin.

"Okay, open them."

Hugh stood behind Shar, his strong, warm presence filling the space as she admired her reflection in the mirror. The necklace—a delicate gold chain adorned with a cancer zodiac sign pendant—sparkled against her skin, a thoughtful gift from him. 

"It's perfect, Hugh. I love it." Shar's voice was filled with sincerity as she reached up to touch the necklace, the small gesture conveying her heartfelt gratitude.

But Hugh, always wanting more, always pushing the boundaries of their dynamic, inclined his head, his gaze holding hers captive. "Thank you...Daddy." 

The words slipped from her lips, thick with desire, and Shar bit her lip, a flush rising to her cheeks as she acknowledged his power over her. 

"That's my girl." His voice was a low growl as he pulled her close, his lips claiming hers in a kiss that was equal parts possession and passion.

Shar giggles, the cute laugh she always does, but then sobers up quickly. "Babe…I feel bad. Shouldn't I pay you back?"

A pause. Hugh laughs at first, but then seeing that she was serious, slowly reaches behind himself and produces a large wad of cash from his back pocket. He hands it to, chuckling at her surprised face.

"Every time you say some bullshit like that, I'm gonna give you $100 to spend, okay?”

"But Hugh—"

He hands her another stash, smirking.

"Don't spend it all on one place, love."

~~~~

Limos. A red carpet. Tons of celebrities and hundreds, upon hundreds of paparazzi lined the event, all the flashes of lights blinding. It's the Australia movie premiere, and she finds herself inadvertently stepping into a whirlwind of attention.

"Who's this beauty?" a reporter calls out, breaking the small talk and champagne-sipping rhythm of the red carpet event. 

The sudden shift of attention toward Shar makes her heart pound in her ears.

Unaccustomed to being the center of attraction, she feels a rush of heat to her cheeks. The question, she realizes, is aimed at Hugh, who stands confidently at her side, oozing charm.

His arm is snug around her waist, possessive yet protective, and he gives the reporter a charming smile. "This is Shar, a…friend I recently had the pleasure of meeting."

The introduction is smooth, and Shar feels a warm buzz from the compliment. Being described as a "friend" makes her insides flutter, and she's keenly aware of the intensity of his gaze.

"And where's Deb?" The reporter follows up, her tone implying that Shar is a mere stand-in. "Is she gonna join your side soon, Jackman?"

Shar's eyes narrow playfully, her sass coming to the forefront. Without missing a beat, she replies, "Probably off giving some director a blowjob so she can get cast. Again."

As soon as the words leave her mouth, she realizes her mistake. Her eyes widen, and she bites her lip, tasting the tang of lipstick as her brain catches up with her unfiltered mouth. 

Hugh's eyes widen, before letting out a loud laugh.

Well—who can blame her? This was the fourth time (no joke) someone had asked about Deb's absence, and it was starting to feel like a broken record. Seriously. But she can’t blame him—no one really knows about his secret separation from that elderly leech. And…no one really knows about her and Hugh’s secret relationship as well. So, of course, there’s gonna be questions.

Tons of them.

"My friend is, um... a comedian," Hugh said smoothly, addressing the stunned reporter. "Don't mind her words."

Sensing the need to make a hasty exit, Hugh guided Shar towards the entrance of the big dome venue. As they passed through the crowd, Shar caught sight of Deb who was walking along the carpet as well; the blond bombshell fixed her with a venomous glare.

Shar rolled her eyes in response. She hopes Deb’s blond wig falls off during the red carpet.

Once inside the dark comfort of the theatre, she let out a breath she didn't realize she'd been holding. "That was... intense," she muttered, more to herself than to Hugh.

Hugh chuckled softly. "You certainly know how to make an impression, love."

“Yeah…sorry about that.”

“No need to apologize. You weren’t wrong, anyways.”

They found their seats just as the lights began to dim. As the movie started, Shar tried to focus on the screen, but she could feel the lingering tension between them. She wondered if Hugh was upset about her outburst, or if he was just trying to maintain a professional facade.

Her worries were momentarily forgotten when an, um…very hot abs scene came on screen. Shar felt her cheeks flush as she watched Hugh's character, shirtless and glistening, wash himself with water….She shifted in her seat, suddenly very aware of the real Hugh sitting next to her. The one leaning in close breath tickling her ear.

"You can pour water on my abs anytime during a shower."

A jolt of surprise hits her. Then, Shar turned to him, her dark brown eyes sparkling with mischief. "And you can wash my tits anytime in the shower, too" she shot back, smirking in the way Hugh's eyebrows shot up in surprise. His mouth formed a perfect "o."

Ha. Got that freaky Australian back.

For a long time during the movie, they kept glancing at each other, the air between them crackling with tension. Then, as if drawn by an invisible force, they leaned in simultaneously.

Their lips met in a passionate kiss, just as the audience erupted into applause at the movie's conclusion.

[amilliontinywraiths]

three stories for a tuesday

ONE

The man first felt the tingling on the train. It began in his toes and slowly moved up towards his skull, each vertebra activated. He burst from the station and realized his fingers looked paler, almost translucent. He walked on. By the third block his hands had all but disappeared. As he passed the school he didn’t notice his head had disintegrated and his shoulders were quickly fading. His torso felt warm, a scarf flew from his body, his hat was long gone. When he reached his destination nobody noticed, as the man was just two shoelaces scuttling in the wind.  

TWO

Though they, like most machines, have on/off switches, and are operated by a trained individual, many people do not know that buses have minds of their own. That they breathe with their own life and we simply comply with their whims by refilling the diesel. It is easier to tell the public that the bus drivers are driving the vehicles when in reality it is much more like a walker guiding a dog. There is some control over the bus’s movement and direction, but like a canine companion they can choose when to slow down, speed up, take an unexpected turn, or simply stop. Buses have heartbeats and, many too, attitudes.

Anyone who rides buses often would be unsurprised by this truth. It, however, upsets the idea that man has power over machinery, so many, when they learn this news, discredit it as rubbish. The next time you are on the bus, pause, and take in the signs of mechanical life. Notice how the bus reacts with aggression when a car is double parked in its stop, how territorial the vehicle becomes. Notice how each movement is taken with aches, grunts, and lurches, much like how your grandfather moves. Notice how in the morning, full of elderly riders, the bus moves with caution, and in the afternoon, filled with teenagers, it lurches with annoyance.

We bus drivers never spoke this truth aloud. I had begun to wonder about five years into driving, when my bus began acting up. She wouldn’t turn when the route had temporarily changed, if a difficult repeat rider came aboard she’d grunt, money from some would be spit back out and for others she would demand a second payment. I looked foolish, of course, unable to drive, and I was embarrassed. But the mechanics cleared the bus and I began to understand there was a partnership here, that I wasn’t in control how I’d thought I was. Some of us believed the rumors and others thought them foolish, but we made comments about it constantly. When a bus would break down we’d knowingly say, She’s got a mind of her own, and those of us who believed would shake our heads. Accidents and anomalies didn’t surprise us. City buses, unlike their school or charter counterparts, were known to be stubborn.

My usual route was the morning. I shuttled people to their jobs, children to school. It was peaceful to manage a rush hour together, machine and man, linked through years of understanding. One evening I picked up a shift from a colleague down with the flu and I was driving through the night. Finishing my shift I locked the bus and began my walk through the depot. It had rained all through the day but the evening had opened up to a clear night sky, light from the crescent moon rained down on the lot, an endless concrete expanse with  potholes and divots. My head was heavy with exhaustion but as I looked up I caught sight of a bus moving across the lot to begin its early morning route, the bus driver at the helm fast asleep, the bus turning gracefully out of the depot on its way to begin the next day. 

THREE

The first apartment was in the city center. It was housed in a sprawling brick building that from the inside seemed to go on endlessly and from the outside was barely noticeable. It took up less than a city block, nestled between single family buildings and other apartments, and having been built several hundred years ago, the trees, planted inaugurally, had sprouted into giant elms that gave the building a constant shadow. It was built of a brick rapidly degrading and was decorated with fire escapes doubled as porches. Families that had passed down the modest square footage of 1-3 bedroom apartments generation to generation lived alongside new tenants: the man recently divorced in 4c, the four twenty-somethings crammed into the two bedroom in 2F, the devoted dog-walker on the first floor. It had been her first home in the city and she lived there for only one year. Browsing open apartment listings had taken her nowhere. Eventually, she found herself pacing streets, writing down phone numbers from For Rent signs, calling every landlord in a ten-block radius. It had been a time of housing instability in the area, even more than now. This landlord had just been the first to call her back. 

Her apartment was on the third floor, a studio facing east. Every morning, sunlight flooded through the sheer curtains she had hung up, and by late afternoon the apartment was dark and sleepy. The room was modest: a small kitchenette sat on one end of the long space and her bed on the other side. A radiator was tucked into the bathroom and clamored violently all winter long. She littered the floor with small lamps but left everything else rather bare. In the evening when she got home from work, her ritual began with a tall entryway lamp on which she also hung her keys. Removing her shoes she flipped this light on and then tiptoed around her space, tugging each cord, pressing each plastic dial, until the room was aglow with soft yellow light. When she first moved in, the super had explained that this building wasn’t only a great place to live, it was unique in its height. When the building was constructed, he’d said, the city had mandates for taller ceilings. But the people were shorter back then, can you imagine! He’d laughed and walked out of the empty apartment, setting the keys on a lone counter. A week later the lightbulb burnt out. Calling the super was more conversation than she’d like, and thus the lamp routine was born.

Tonight, in a different era, she found herself only a block away from her old building. Leaving a colleague’s party she walked west, tracing her old route from the train station home. The cafe was still in business but its hours had changed—no longer a late-night workplace. The market that sold meats at considerable markups seemed to have changed ownership, a flashy neon sign in place of the familiar hand-painted one. where the laundromat had been was an empty lot, the grass barely peeking through the pavement. Dumped trash spilled into the sidewalk. 

She turned onto her old block and noticed the trees first, how beautiful they looked in early spring, how they seemed both larger than before and yet somehow exactly the same. She counted the ten rings they must have grown in her absence. The old building startled her; she didn't remember it imposing such a presence on this block, how wide it really was. The ivy that crawled up the entryway, the stoop her neighbors would gossip on, the communal mailboxes that never seemed to all close. It rented such a presence in her memory,but here in front of her, she thought it was completely ordinary, almost surprisingly boring. Scanning the windows she moved through her former neighbors: the family on the first floor that moved away before her, whose infant daughter she would play with in the lobby. The man she flirted with on the top floor, name never acquired, was he still around? Moving back and forth she squinted in the night searching for any evidence of change. Even a new crack would do! And then, she saw it. Where it had always been, nine years since and ninety years prior sat her old window. A rush of warmth filled her body, the reassuring feeling of familiarity. But something was off and she couldn’t put her finger on it; the space emitted a soft uncanniness she didn’t remember from all of her late nights home many years back, when she would look up at her dark window and feel the relief of arrival.The windowsill was falling apart; chunks of stone held on barely and nobody had figured to replace the flower pot she had once maintained, if poorly. The window was slightly open and a thick curtain danced in the chilly breeze. And then to her horror, she noticed: the lights. Ten thousand watts of unforgiving blue overhead LED blared down, penetrating the fabric and opening out onto the street below. The woman decided she would return tomorrow. 

…

The city found itself in a streak of gloom. The sun had not shown itself in days and it was evident in the way its people held themselves: heads were hung low, small talk was kept to a minimum. She stood in front of the building again. Nothing changes that much, she thought, gazing at the fire escapes lined with downtrodden plants. In ten years it will look the same and I will know it even less. She rummaged in her bag for a set of keys she had unearthed from the depths of the past. Arriving home the night prior she was giddy with alcohol buzz and potential, and subsequently turned her present apartment upside down searching for two small ordinary keys from many years ago. Her cat had followed her around the apartment, witnessing the one-woman show of madness. The floor held: boxes pulled out from under the bed, suitcases brought down from the closet shelves, shoe boxes usually filled with printed 4x6 pictures strewn across the floor. The woman was grateful only a nonhuman creature was witness to the mess. If anything, cats understand territory. 

To her delight, this time the lights were off in unit 3B, making gazing up at her old home much easier than the night prior. That light, she scolded to herself, horrible. Though it was late morning, the cold weather meant the elderly women who usually guarded this building were off duty, their hunched backs and grumbled Hi dear’s held off for another day. Her fingertips grazed each buzzer code, stopping on her old unit for a moment, then continuing onwards. Looking up, facing the building right at its center, she felt an incredible sense of loss. Like a dollhouse she saw the bisected view of the communal hallways, the wood-paneled lobby, the similar layout of units going upwards and sideways. She could see her people cooking in their apartments, nine years ago, today, and she could feel this emanating from the structure in front of her. The loss was that nobody else could see what she could see, all radiating from this decaying brick structure.

When neither of the keys fit into the front door, she was unsurprised but disappointed. She jimmied the key in the lock but it was useless. Her forehead resting on the window she looked as far as she could into the dark vestibule, a child looking longingly in a shop window at something they cannot afford. With a thrust she pulled the key from the lock and confronted the reality that it had been changed sometime in the past nine years and nobody thought to inform her. She was getting irritated. A squirrel ran across the path leading to the door, stopping in a frenzied state behind her. Its beady eyes met hers. The creature, though emanating anxiety, grasped firmly to a held seed. It was a joke among residents that squirrels in this part of the city were well-fed. They were huge, she had conceded, and in their bulk they guarded their territory more fiercely than other common gray squirrels. She was intimidated by the creature, felt it was kicking her out of its space and she had better comply. But in a blink the squirrel was running away, across the front yard and up the tree. She watched it climb higher, jumping from branch to branch, legs spreading like a frog, its tail choreographed in a frantic dance. The sound of a door buzzer shocked her back to life. She turned the handle and walked inside. 

The elevator doesn’t work, the maintenance man had explained to her when she initially toured. Never has, never will. This had only been annoying when she moved out, as by that time she owned several pieces of furniture and many small lamps, all which needed to be carried down five flights of stairs. He kept his word, she thought, though she tried the elevator call button to no response. Some actions were meant to be repeated even if they were useless, and most of these actions—pressing the broken elevator button, checking the empty mailbox—are fueled by the often dubious hope that this time will be the one. This wasn’t the one, so the woman ascended the stairs.

At her door she sat in silence for a moment, looking it over and noting any changes. The scratches from a previous tenant’s dog were still in the bottom left corner but a new coat of paint had been applied. The new tenant had seasonal decorations on the door and a matching doormat, which she found both tacky and endearing. The woman looked up and down the empty hallway, a long corridor of uncovered bricks and doors every ten feet or so. It was silent except for the occasional violent clang of a radiator pipe, which nobody batted an eye at once they’d lived here a couple of days. The constant bangs were a melody that brought communal griping; it was their song. She pressed her ear to the door and heard nothing, just the sound of her own short breaths. She knocked on the door lightly, and then harder, and counted to thirty in her head. Nothing. She did it again, louder–knock, count, hold breath. Silence. She rummaged in her coat pocket and picked out the keys: a large (now useless) communal key, and the smaller, meant for a single door. Into the keyhole she placed it, jiggled it to the left and then to the right, a muscle memory reactivated. She opened the door and stepped inside. 

…

The smallness of the space allowed her a safe entry, to scan for signs of life, witnesses to her breaking and entering. She locked the door behind her without looking back, a maneuver seeped into her body akin to breathing, eating, something done thoughtlessly. The room was quiet, unoccupied, and decorated to the nines. The room breathed a life her apartment never had: furniture, linens, trinkets, books, shelving, desks, the whole of human sentiment was  crammed into the single room. The walls were lined with framed photographs of a happy couple, candid shots of them and their friends. The voyeurism excited her, to reimagine a space in the hands of someone else, and to admit they may have been a better match for it. But her sense of ownership prevailed, quieting any potential guilt she could feel. 

The woman quickly began her work. From the kitchenette she borrowed a barstool, from the sofa several decorative but firm pillows she thought were lucky to finally have a use. From the bookshelf she found the sturdiest books and from the coffee table she plucked dusty artist monographs. She shook free a milk crate filled with knitting yarn, promising each thread it would be returned to their rightful place soon. With the barstool positioned in the center of the room, she began to stack: monographs first, milk crate next, then the thick literary collections affectionately dubbed door stoppers, and finally/lastly the pillows, then the woman. She wobbled the way acrobats do as they ascend a pole and beckon their partner to jump upon their hands. The rocking motion of her creation frightened her with an excitement she’d not felt in years. She knew the old apartment held emotions long suppressed and each passing minute in it unraveling the layers of change. The acrobat sways and the whole room gasps. From her position at the top of the room she could see out the window to the tenement building across the street, her bird’s eye view shot straight into the apartments of work-from-homers and families going about their weekday morning, totally unaffected by the crime being committed right across the way! She saw the room in its present state and she saw the room the day she moved in, its empty floors and white paint still drying and her measly belongings stacked in a corner near the mattress. From above she saw her friends who had come to visit and left her life since, the lovers who had done the same, the belongings that accumulated and left and the lamps she still held with her. It made her sick with nostalgia. Nauseated she reached upwards, a last Herculean effort, and unscrewed the lightbulb. 

…

She returned to her home, now, in the present day, to an apartment so similar in its outward appearance but when bisected, looking in as if a dollhouse, it exhibited an entirely different world. It held relationships and love and sentiment and laughs and cries she couldn’t imagine, the walls separating each tenant neatly. The woman had tossed the lightbulb in a city trash can, wavered, and then threw the small keys in as well. She returned to her living room and turned on each lamp with the dance of ritual. Something had settled into her body, a curiosity, an itch she couldn’t help but scratch, and its entrance that day had left her exhausted. Later in the evening, as she prepared to sleep, she pulled from a recently organized kitchen drawer a set of several keys, long unused and dusty. On her nightstand she set her second apartment keys and slept soundly until morning. 

---

thank you to meghana and mrittika for invaluable editing help and friendship <3 

[wisconsinscrubandsweep1]

Efficient Solutions for Pristine Surfaces: A Guide to Concrete Floor Cleaning Machines

Maintaining clean and polished concrete floors is essential for various facilities, from industrial warehouses to commercial spaces. Concrete floor cleaning machines offer an efficient solution to ensure your floors remain spotless and presentable. This article explores the different types of these machines and their benefits, providing valuable insights for anyone looking to invest in effective floor maintenance tools.

 

Types of Concrete Floor Cleaning Machines

Scrubbers

Floor scrubbers are versatile machines designed to deep clean and polish concrete surfaces. These machines come in walk-behind and ride-on models, catering to different space sizes and cleaning needs. They use brushes or pads to scrub away dirt, grime, and stains, leaving floors gleaming. The built-in water and detergent dispensing system ensures thorough cleaning, making them ideal for high-traffic areas.

Sweepers

Concrete floor sweepers are perfect for removing loose debris, dust, and small particles from the surface. They are particularly useful in large industrial settings where sweeping by hand would be impractical and time-consuming. Sweepers come in manual, battery-operated, and propane-powered variants, offering flexibility based on the specific requirements of the cleaning task.

Burnishers

Burnishers are high-speed machines used to polish concrete floors to a high shine. They are often used after scrubbing to achieve a glossy finish that enhances the floor's appearance. These machines work at a higher speed compared to scrubbers and are excellent for maintaining polished concrete floors in showrooms, lobbies, and other high-visibility areas.

Benefits of Using Concrete Floor Cleaning Machines

Time Efficiency

Using concrete floor cleaning machines significantly reduces the time and effort required to clean large surfaces. Automated machines can cover vast areas quickly, ensuring that cleaning tasks are completed efficiently without compromising quality.

Improved Cleanliness

These machines are designed to provide a deeper clean than manual methods. The combination of brushes, pads, and cleaning solutions effectively removes stubborn dirt and stains, resulting in cleaner and more hygienic floors.

Cost-Effective Maintenance

Investing in concrete floor cleaning machines can be more cost-effective in the long run. They reduce the need for frequent professional cleaning services and minimize labor costs associated with manual cleaning. Additionally, well-maintained floors have a longer lifespan, reducing the need for costly repairs or replacements.

Choosing the Right Machine for Your Needs

When selecting a concrete floor cleaning machine, consider the size of the area to be cleaned, the type of dirt or debris present, and the desired finish. For large warehouses with significant dust accumulation, a sweeper might be the best choice. For facilities requiring a polished look, a combination of a scrubber and a burnisher would be ideal.

 

Concrete floor cleaning machines are indispensable tools for maintaining pristine and polished concrete surfaces. Whether you need a scrubber, sweeper, or burnisher, these machines offer efficient and cost-effective solutions for various cleaning needs. 

For further info, visit our site.

floor sweeper machines rental for sale

warehouse rental floor cleaner

[aceconstructionmachinery]

46inx2 Ride-on Concrete Power Trowel ART-96H(Hydraulic Type) Featuring a generous working diameter of 2475mm, this power trowel ensures comprehensive coverage for large surface areas. Equipped with lighting equipment, it facilitates nighttime operations, enhancing versatility on the job site. The included sprinkler system effectively slows down concrete drying, allowing for improved finishing results. Built with a mechanism-type steering system, the ART-96H offers rapid response and effortless control, ensuring ease of maneuverability. Its low barycenter design enhances stability during operation, minimizing the risk of accidents. #road machine #power trowel

[dec-master-cleaning]

8 Secrets You Didn’t Know About Floor Cleaning Services In Massachusetts

No matter how often you scrub, if your floors still look lifeless and drab, it’s time to discover the hidden brilliance of expert floor cleaning in Massachusetts. Dec Master Cleaning offers floors so clean you’ll think they’re brand new, even after we go above and beyond standard mopping and scouring.

For over many years, Dec Master Cleaning has leveraged cutting-edge technology, specialized expertise, and customized techniques to deliver unrivaled floor cleaning that keeps clients coming back. Read on to discover eight insider secrets we employ to transform any flooring surface.

State-of-the-Art Equipment for a Flawless Finish 

As pioneers in the Massachusetts floor cleaning industry, we continuously invest in the latest cleaning technology for unbeatable results. Our arsenal of commercial-grade equipment includes:

Powerful Floor Scrubbers: These advanced ride-on units combo brush scrubbing and vacuum suctioning to dislodge deep dirt. Ideal for warehouses, schools, retail spaces.  

High-Speed Burnishers: These electric machines buff floors post-cleaning using ultra-high RPM pad disks to create an impeccable, streak-free shine.

Steam Cleaners: By generating powerful dry vapor steam, these green clean machines eliminate up to 99.99% of germs and bacteria locked in flooring fibers. 

HEPA-Filter Vacuums: Our commercial vacuums trap microscopic dust and allergens as small as 0.3 microns with double the suction power of conventional models.

With cutting-edge cleaning tools most clients lack access to, we revive tired floors and other DIY methods fail to improve.

Customized Methods for Every Floor Type  

We never take a one-size-fits-all approach. Our floor care experts assess each client’s unique flooring materials from natural stone to finished concrete to commercial carpet. We then engineer a personalized cleaning method using appropriate solutions and techniques to meet the floor’s specific needs and surpass expectations. 

For example, our hardwood floor specialists understand that a gentle touch is required to clean wood surfaces without damaging the finish. We use microfiber mops and pH-neutral cleaners, changing wash water often. Then we buff lightly with felt parquet brushes to reveal the natural wood grain shimmer. 

Tile and grout cleaning requires a different approach involving sealing agents to prevent staining and powerful extraction tools to clear grime from porous grout lines. Laminate and vinyl floors call for static-free mops and residue-free cleaners to prevent scuffs and shine loss. As you can see, the method makes all the difference!

Eco-Friendly Products for Squeaky Clean Floors

At Dec Master Cleaning, we believe in responsible environmental practices across all our services. We exclusively use non-toxic, plant-based cleaners certified green by leading agencies. These solutions effectively eliminate soil, stains, and sticky residues without harsh detergents or unhealthy fumes.  

We also operate our fleet with green efficiency in mind. Our commercial-grade equipment meets emission standards, uses filtered water for steam cleaning, and maximizes usable battery time minimizing discharge. With growing eco-awareness across Massachusetts, green floor cleaning gives us a competitive edge while also benefiting the planet.

Save Yourself the Back-Breaking Labor 

Let’s face it – floor cleaning is hard work! It requires getting on your hands and knees to scrub tile grout, pushing heavy equipment around for an hour nonstop, and having the stamina for repetitive motions. With our professional manpower, specialty gear designed to reduce fatigue, and seasoned techniques, we make it look easy. 

The average homeowner can spend 4+ grueling hours on an intensive surface cleaning. Why invest your personal time and energy when our crews can complete the same job in a fraction of that? We encourage clients to reclaim their weekends and evenings knowing we’ve got their floors covered.

Protect Your Flooring Investment with Expert Care

From marble entryways to basement cement, your flooring likely represents a significant upfront investment that adds value to any home or business. With improper DIY cleaning methods, it’s easy to inadvertently damage flooring and degrade its appearance faster. Our pro cleaning services in Massachusetts not only restore floors to their former glory, but also maintain their integrity for durability.

We only use solutions pH-balanced specifically for each flooring material to prevent etching or hazing of the surface. Proper techniques like dust mopping before wet cleaning prevent grinding debris into the flooring fibers. Thorough extraction prevents destabilizing moisture and promotion of mold growth. Simply put, our expertise keeps your floors looking pristine while extending their usable lifespan at the same time.  

Source URL: https://decmastercleaning.com/8-secrets-you-didnt-know-about-floor-cleaning/

[streetbmxbikes]

All You Have To Know About The Street BMX Bikes

In the realm of two-wheeled wonders, freestyle bikes emerge as the charismatic rebels of the cycling world. These nimble machines aren't restricted by their surroundings bikes; they're the epitomization of freedom, a canvas for riders to splash their distinctive styles on. Imagine: racing bikes soaring like comets, speed bikes tearing through the wind, and then, there's the distinct character of park and freestyle bikes. These aren't just bikes; they are the tools of expression, they are the brushes to create an urban art form with two wheels. When you delve into the universe of the freestyle bike, you're taking a step into a realm where conformity takes a back seat. They're not only about getting from point A to B; they are focused on doing so with flair with panache and some swagger. If you are seeking for additional details on street bmx bikes, take a look at earlier mentioned site.

Imagine yourself riding a freestyle bike, cruising along the roads with breeze blowing through your hair. It's not just a ride but an dance that involves choreography, twists, turns and stunts that defy gravity. Racing bikes might be chasing the clock, but freestyle bikes chase an tempo, a beat that only the rider is able to sense. The world of speed bikes is one where the destination matters. But on a freestyle bike, it's the journey that steals the spotlight. Parks are transformed into playgrounds, and urban landscapes are transformed into paintings. Every leap, every turn is a stroke of individuality and it's a statement that speaks louder than words. Freestyle bikes aren't just machines; they are a reflection of the persona of the rider. It's not about going fast but rather, it's about doing things your way. When you engage in the dance of wheels, the rider is a silent poet, etching stories on the pavement with each twist of the handlebar. Freestyle and park bikes are the virtuosos of the cycling orchestra.

They are not confined by regulations; they are a anthem of the rebellious, a celebration of the unorthodox. Imagine an urban Park as the stage, and the freestyle bike as the lead dancer, leaping and pirouetting with grace that surpasses gravity. They're not just a means of transportation; they are a lifestyle. They are the horses of the urban knights, navigating the concrete jungle with grace and confidence. Racing bikes may be focused on finishing the race, but freestyle bikes are all about the journey, the exploration of one's own boundaries and the limitless possibilities that the open road offers. In an age where conformity prevails Freestyle bikes stand as a testament to the beauty that comes from breaking the rules. These bikes are poets in motion, the painters of asphalt and the rebels of the cycling realm. Every wheel spin is a defiance of the normal, a declaration to the world that personality can be an most important goal. Therefore, the next time you encounter a freestyle bicycle take note that it's more than just a bike; it's a canvas awaiting it's next creation, an expression of the individual's passion as a symbol of the unexplored territories where creativity and the open road meet.

[vootclean]

Amazing Uses for a Ride-On Scrubber

In the world of industrial cleaning, efficiency and effectiveness are paramount. Whether you manage a large warehouse, an expansive shopping mall, or a sprawling manufacturing facility, maintaining a pristine environment is not only essential for safety but also for the overall aesthetics of the space. One remarkable tool that has revolutionized commercial cleaning is the "ride-on scrubbing machine." In this blog post, we will explore the amazing uses and benefits of ride-on scrubbers in various industries.

Efficient Floor Cleaning:

Ride-on scrubbing machines are engineered for efficiency. They are equipped with powerful brushes and high-capacity water tanks, making them ideal for cleaning large areas quickly and thoroughly. Whether you're dealing with a warehouse floor, a parking garage, or an airport terminal, these machines can effortlessly cover vast spaces, ensuring a spotless finish in no time.

Versatility in Cleaning Surfaces:

One of the most significant advantages of ride-on scrubbers is their versatility in handling different types of surfaces. From concrete to tile to even delicate hardwood floors, these machines can be adjusted to provide the right level of scrubbing power without causing damage. This adaptability makes them indispensable in a wide range of industries, including manufacturing, healthcare, and retail.

Water Efficiency:

Ride-on scrubbing machines are designed to minimize water wastage. Their advanced water recovery systems collect and filter the used water, allowing for eco-friendly cleaning practices. This not only reduces water consumption but also helps maintain compliance with environmental regulations.

Increased Productivity:

By automating the cleaning process, ride-on scrubbers significantly boost productivity. Operators can cover more ground in less time, reducing labour costs and increasing the efficiency of your cleaning crew. Moreover, these machines are easy to manoeuvre, ensuring that your team can clean even hard-to-reach areas effortlessly.

Enhanced Safety:

Safety is paramount in any workspace. Ride-on scrubbers are built with operator safety in mind. They often come with features such as adjustable seating, clear sightlines, and intuitive controls, reducing the risk of accidents while improving the operator's comfort and efficiency.

Cost Savings:

While the initial investment in a ride-on scrubbing machine may seem substantial, the long-term cost savings are remarkable. Reduced labour costs, lower water usage, and improved cleaning efficiency add up to significant savings over time, making these machines a wise financial decision.

Conclusion:

Ride-on scrubbing machines have transformed the way commercial and industrial spaces are cleaned. Their amazing uses, from efficient floor cleaning to versatility across surfaces, have made them indispensable tools in various industries. Moreover, they contribute to water conservation, enhance safety, and provide long-term cost savings, making them an attractive option for any facility manager looking to elevate their cleaning processes. Consider investing in a ride-on scrubber to experience the incredible benefits first hand and keep your space sparkling clean effortlessly.

What is a ride-on scrubber?

A ride-on scrubber is a commercial cleaning machine designed for efficient and thorough floor cleaning. Operators can ride on these machines while they automatically scrub and clean various surfaces, making them ideal for large spaces.

Where is ride-on scrubbers commonly used?

Ride-on scrubbing machines find applications in a wide range of industries, including manufacturing facilities, warehouses, shopping malls, airports, hospitals, and more. Essentially, any space with extensive floor surfaces to clean can benefit from these machines.

What surfaces can ride-on scrubbers clean? A3: Ride-on scrubbers are versatile and can clean a variety of surfaces, including concrete, tile, vinyl, and even delicate hardwood floors. They can be adjusted to provide the right level of scrubbing power without causing damage.

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[robertogreco]

This was posted by me to a watch forum in March 2022. As with many of the posts that I made there, I have begun adding them to this Tumblr as a record of that time for me and of my wristwatch-related meanderings.

When a story is about something else, but a watch plays a very important role

In a very recent article in Wired, “Trapped in Silicon Valley’s Hidden Caste System,” an HMT (Hindustan Machine Tools) watch – a photo from the story is above – is described right out the gate and is referred to throughout. Here is the opening:

“SIDDHANT WAS 14 when he learned of the watch. His father, a low-wage worker on the Indian railway, was trying to save up for it, tucking away a few rupees when he could. Made of steel, the watch had in its dial a sketch of a portly man, his face framed by round glasses and his broad shoulders clad in a wide-lapelled jacket. It was his father’s hero, Bhimrao Ramji Ambedkar, the man most responsible for weakening the caste system’s grip on Indian society. After school, Siddhant liked to ride his bike down the crowded streets of Nagpur, India, past groups of kids playing cricket, to a squat concrete building where his father rented a modest office with his friends, all anti-caste activists. Inside, he’d find the men sitting in plastic chairs, swapping tales of their exploits with Ambedkar, surrounded by posters of the man and newspapers spilling off bookshelves. As he sat listening, Siddhant couldn’t help but notice as one friend and then another and a third appeared at the office with the watch strapped to their wrists. One day, Siddhant showed up on his bike and, to his immense surprise, saw on his father a different version of the watch. A gift from a big-shot friend, this one was comparatively luxe. Instead of the metal strap it had a leather band, and it was quartz, battery-powered rather than a windup. Siddhant couldn’t help but blurt out: “I want that watch!” Siddhant, like his father, is a Dalit, a member of the most oppressed caste in South Asia’s birth-based hierarchy. Even among Dalits, their family was especially poor. Siddhant sometimes spent his evenings crouched near the firepit where his family cooked their food, repairing his torn rubber sandals with a hot iron rod that melted the straps back onto the sole. Seeing his father’s watch, something clicked: This was a symbol of everything he was after—to be an elite, educated Dalit, just like Ambedkar. Siddhant’s father made him a deal. If Siddhant finished high school with first honors, he could have the watch. A year later, Siddhant came home brandishing his report card from the Maharashtra board of education: He’d done it. While his father, beaming, scanned the results, Siddhant grabbed the watch off a shelf and adjusted the strap to his wrist. Siddhant has worn the watch nearly every day since—while riding his bike 12 miles to college, while earning his first paycheck as an engineer, while getting married. When he flew across the Atlantic to start a tech career in the San Francisco Bay Area, he wore it. It was on his wrist when he interviewed for, and landed, the job that convinced him he might finally escape the orbital pull of India and his family’s multigenerational poverty: as a software engineer at Facebook, with an offer package that totaled almost $450,000.

[writingsbychlo]

sun in the shadows (03)

word count; 12,706

summary; trying to make some headway on the study leads to an interesting revelation, and progress in your friendship with noah.

notes; if this part is a little sucky, I apologise. it was a last minute addition that I created because I realised I wanted to include some extras.

warnings; brief mentions of panic attacks/anxiety, but it’s very mild.

The weather was improving, the drizzle of the winter and the grey skies overhead were getting lighter, the showers of rain were getting less frequent and the winter was moving on. Spring was making itself known, bulbs of daffodils were finally taking root in the soil, and green was sprouting from the earth that had been frozen over and dead only a couple of weeks ago. The watery floors were drying up, limited ice was fading away, and graduation was sitting right on the horizon for you all.

Your fingers flexed around the strap of your bag, rooting through the contents to find a place to slip your file inside, all your notes for the class you’d be having were inside, and there was a blank page for your next session waiting to be filled out. Once it had its place, albeit getting a little bit crumbled against the other content, you removed your wallet, a few coins jingling in the bottom, and you hoped it was enough for two coffees.

There was a coffee stand not too far away, and you were hoping an extra shot of coffee before you went in might get your brain working a little faster. Only a couple of feet ahead of you was a face you recognised, a dark jumper to match dark denim jeans, a pair of boots for motorbike riding that were beginning to scuff along the edges and the toes. He was hanging over his money, a brown bag holding a pretzel and a tall cup, the tell-tale tag of a teabag hanging over the edge, and he walked away.

Joining the back of the line, you watched him go, sitting not far across the quarter with his headphones on, settling on one of the recently repainted memorial benches. He pulled the tab on eh coffee back, opening it up and a cloud of steam left the drink, curling up into the air that still held a slight chill, drifting away to disappear as he blew against the surface of the drink. In his other hand was his phone, scrolling aimlessly on it as a way to keep himself disconnected from everyone else around him and prompt nobody else to join him. His bag was out on the bench too, pushed a short distance from his body in an attempt to take up the rest of the space to deter company.

Ordering a simple set of black coffees, and finding you had just enough change for a muffin too, you waited patiently for your order, an assortment of condiments and the double-chocolate treat you’d paid for being handed to you first. There was a grinding, the slight screech of the machine as it crushed the beans to create two black coffees for you, plastic lids sealed on and two cardboard jackets fastened around them.

Balancing the load between them all, you headed over to him, using your knee to nudge the bag up the bench until it bumped his leg, and he jerked slightly, looking up to see you. Offering him a beam, his narrowed eyes lightened a little, and he sighed. Putting down his phone and moving his bag to the floor, he lifted the headphones away from his ears, and let them hang around his neck. Sitting yourself down, he slumped back into the wood, and you scooted up to sit closer to him, placing the spare coffee you’d bought for Stiles on the floor away from your feet.

“Hey, Noah!” He gave a short nod, still a little uncomfortable, and he turned to face you more. “So, what’s your schedule looking like this afternoon?”

“How did you know I was here?”

You shrugged, opening up the bag of extras and searching through for a couple of sweetener packets, and a wooden stirrer. “I didn’t. I was just gonna’ grab a coffee before class and head to my hall early, because, y’know, studying at home is distracting.” Your hand waved off the statement, finding the packets you wanted, and clutching your cup between your knees for stability. “So, anyway I was going to text you when I got there, but then I saw you, so I figured I’d come and say ‘hey’!”

“Right.”

“So, hey!” You waved a little before taking the top from your coffee, and leaving it on the bench beside yourself. “I ask once again, what’s your schedule looking like this afternoon?”

“Well, since I am the most popular guy at this college, I’m pretty busy.” He smiled a little at his own joke, particularly when you gave him a laugh, and your brow raised.

“Oh, he’s got jokes today, huh? I like it, I can roll with that.” Tipping the sugar into the cup, you added a couple of packets, before stirring it slowly. “I take it you’re free, then. I was hoping we could squeeze in some study stuff this afternoon. I have a class in a couple of minutes, but I wanted to see if you were free?”

“Well, I’m free all day. I had a six AM class.” His face screwed up at the idea, and you could feel his pain, having spent the entirety of your sophomore year with a teacher who held lectures at six AM so she could avoid her morning sickness before class, and rush home for it afterwards. Professor Anderson going off on her maternity leave was the best thing that had happened to your education that year.

“Great, I’ll sort it with Stiles, and we’ll text you the details.”

“Sounds like a thrill. I can hardly wait.” He smiles, the sarcasm just like his brothers as it came through, and you repaid him for the joke with a chuckle. While the two of you had made progress, you could tell he was still a little unsure around you. You were polar opposites and he didn’t take well to that, the atmosphere that you brought with you could be a little too much for him to handle sometimes, you couldn’t stop the guilt that was eating at you a little. “What’s wrong? You’ve got a look on your face like you want to talk about things. Just warning you, I’m not good at that heart-to-heart stuff.”

“Yeah, I’ve witnessed that.”

“Shut it.” He teased, sticking his tongue out at you childishly, and you grinned cheesily in reply to him. “You can tell me, though. Can’t promise I’ll help, but..”

“It’s nothing weighing me down. I just wanted to apologise. I clearly interrupted your free time. You got yourself a little pretzel to eat in silence, and everything.” He offers you a blank look at your slight dig, and you only winked, waving the muffin in a bag that you’d bought, and taking a sip of your coffee once the lid was sealed back on. “People usually like it when I stop by to see them, I wasn’t thinking.”

“It’s okay, really.” His words were strained, the response bringing you no relief as he forced them out, and your frown remained. “I’m serious, okay? It’s alright.”

You were trying your best but learning the lines with Noah was different to you. Upon starting college you’d been thrown in at the deep end of socialisation and a whole world you’d never quite had access to before. Coming from a smaller town that had always limited your expectations was tough, and you’d taken it differently from the way Noah had. You’d had so many experiences, becoming legal to drink and venturing beyond your comfort zone, truly leaving home and facing the idea of having your life laid out before you, the first time truly having your heartbroken, and being too far to simply collapse into the arms of your mom or dad for support when things got messed up.

“When does your class start?” You jumped, lost in your thoughts as you slumped back into the bench, and you sat up straight again, turning to find that Noah was already looking at you, eyes scanning over you slowly. It was a good reminder, time had been slipping away from you and in the ease of his peaceful and quiet company, you could have sat there for hours.

Checking your watch, you sighed, lifting your bag strap back up onto your shoulder more securely, and packing everything you had with you inside, leaving you to hold a coffee cup in each hand. “In about ten minutes.”

“How about I walk you?” He picked up his bag, swinging it over his shoulder, and you nodded, a warmer feeling at his offer blooming where cold guilt had been. Standing up and making sure not to spill any of the scalding coffee onto your hand. Peering around the busy campus quarters that was more filled now than it had been for months, the lighter weather tempting groups to come out of their dormitories and the cafés to gather outside instead.

He fell into step beside you, toes scuffing occasionally on the slightly uneven stonework of the quad, before it fell away into smooth concrete pathways on the way to your lecture. The grass alongside each path was growing greener, dull colour fading away into something brighter. Paper crinkled beside you, the cup of tea in his hands being finished and the cardboard cup was crushed between string fingers, knuckles even paler than usual as he crumpled it up, and as you approach the closest bin, it was disposed of.

Your fingers flexed around your coffee cup, almost having forgotten that it was there as the heat from the two began to fade away a little. Taking a sip, the refreshing burst of sweetened caffeine was like a spark to your system, and you revelled in it. “How do you take your coffee?”

You lower the cup from your lips, swallowing your mouthful, and you couldn't stop the rise of your brows once you turned to look at him. “Creamer, usually. I like a caramel flavoured one. But, since I’m not big on creamer in packets or from street vendors, this one just has sweeteners.”

“Cool.” He nodded, and your lips pressed together tightly to try and contain the smile you wanted to let free, silence forming between you both for a moment, a further gathering of steps as the two of you went on, your building coming into sight again. “Did you watch the news last night?”

“Is this small talk?”

“It’s an attempt at small talk.” He winced, and you chuckled, a small smile on his features as the fear of judgement or humiliation washed away, and he gave a sigh.

“Okay, let's try this.” Your mind spun, searching for a track of something to talk about, and a thought clicked into space. “If you could watch one genre of movies for the rest of your life, what would it be?”

“Comedy. Like, comedy-action. You know, ones like ‘Jumanji’ or something?” He was quick with it, certain about his answer, and you nodded.

“Yeah? That was quick. How come you’re so sure?”

“I don’t know.” He shrugged, one hand coming up to hold his bag strap, swinging it to the side to be able to get inside, and fish out the paper bag with a pretzel inside. “I guess I just think they’re good for you. Good for the soul. They have action and it keeps you a little on the edge of your seat, but it’s funny. It's easy-going, when you’ve got anxiety, or you’re having a bad day, or you just want background noise, they’re perfect.”

“Alright. Fair enough. Okay, tricky one.” his eyes narrowed a little, but an amused look passed over his features while he waited. “If you had to choose specifically between comedy and action, which is it?”

“It’s got to be action. Because comedy usually means Adam Sandler or Seth Rogen, and some of their comedies are good, but some are jus-” He paused, jaw dropping a little, and his hand came out, pausing in front of your to bring you to a halt too. A smile curled on your lips, and he looked shocked. “Holy shit, you’re good!”

“Ask a basic question that people are passionate about, it always leads to more options, and everyone always wants to talk about something fun.” His head shook slowly, as though he was in disbelief, and you took a dramatic bow, trying not to spill the coffees in your hands as you giggled. “Give it a go, I bet you can do it.”

The paper in his hands crinkled, your footsteps taking up again, and the two of you were making your way towards the building once again. Taking a bite from his pretzel, a piece torn away with his teeth, he thought it over. “Does your family have any secret or ‘famous’ recipes?”

“Oh, that’s a good one. Kudos to you, Noah.”

“Thank you. I thought about it for, like, eight whole seconds.” He grinned, the joke moving away from you both as you left it behind, and you thought about his question.

“Maybe it’s not my family recipe, just a personal one, but I’m great at making lasagne.” He scoffed, and you nudged him with your elbow. “I’m serious! I make a great lasagne!”

“You don’t seem like a cook to me, is all! You seem like the sort of person who’d manage to burn a pit of water.”

“You can’t burn water, an.. oh, I just got it. You jerk.” It was a joke, your nose screwing up as you stuck your tongue out at him, thanking him a second later as he held the door open for him. The bright lights of the outside changed to artificial lights in the halls, not as much coming through the windows as trees outside managed to cast shade into the building. “Well, I can cook. I love to cook, and I’m good at it. Especially lasagne. My family are generally the only ones who have ever had it, and thanks to that insult, you’ll never have it.”

“Oh, woah, no! You have to let me try it now. Prove me wrong, or I’ll be forced to believe you’re bluffing.”

“You’re sneaky.” You scoffed, students filling the hall and filtering in from different sides of the building, lectures in different halls all waiting to take place, and you stepped to the side of the corridor once your doorway was within reach. “If you’re lucky.”

“I’m betting on that.”

Glancing back, Stiles was already inside, as expected. Stiles Stilinski had never once been on time, he was either twenty minutes early or twenty minutes late, and since he’d spent the night with Derek, who was an early bird, you’d figured which one today would be. His head was slumped on his hm half-asleep and on the verge of drooling as he sat there, and you chuckled, turning to Noah. “Thanks for walking me. Also, thanks for small-talking with me.”

“Thanks for the advice on small talk.”

“I’m gonna’ head inside, but, I’ll see you later, okay?” He nodded, confirming the times with you, and lingering a moment longer. It was quiet, but not so tense, and he rolled on the balls of his fete, the half-eaten pretzel in his hands was seemingly abandoned as one hand tucked into his jeans pockets, the other hanging limply while holding the delicacy by his side.

“Thanks for sitting with me. This wasn’t so bad. It was almost fun.”

“You know, one day, you’re gonna’ tell me you had fun with me. I look forward to that day.” He smirked, your head tipping to the side at the expression.

“If you’re lucky.” He was repeating your own words back to you, and you beamed at the chance. Backing away from him slightly, you fixed him with the cheekiest glance you could as you walked through the doorway.

“I’m betting on it.”

You could hear his laugh once you were gone, into the classroom and beginning to take the steps up to a seat beside Stiles that he’d reserved for you, his bag sitting on it. He’d already gotten his equipment out, notepads and pencil laid out in a somewhat organised mess on top of the desk.

Placing the two coffees down, you moved Stiles bag to the floor, tucking it behind his chair and a soft snore made itself known from him, the boy not doing well with early mornings but he never had, not once in your years of knowing him had he handled it very well, so it was no surprise.

“Opening up your bag, you dropped your notebook down onto the surface with a loud ‘slapping’ sound, and he jerked upwards, flailing as he did, and almost knocking the coffees over. Blinking quickly and shaking sleep away, he looked around, eyes wide as he finally focused on you.

“Jesus Christ, don’t do that.” He chastised you, leaning back in his seat and holding a hand over his heart. “I was dreaming about high school, I thought you were my lacrosse Coach waking me up for falling asleep in class again.”

“Maybe I am.” You winked, slamming a hand down on the counter. “Drop and give me twenty, Stilinski! Right now!”

“Don’t do that, it’s eerily accurate.” He cringed, shuddering a little, before a wide smile replaced the horrified expression that had morphed, and you pushed a coffee over to him. “You brought me a coffee?”

“Yes, I did. It’s bribery.”

“Oh? What am I being bribed for?” He was curious, rooting through the bag of condiments for it and taking the plastic lid from the cup, steam curling out into the air. Taking an ungodly and certainly unhealthy amount of sweetener and sugar packets to load into his coffee.

“Your free time this afternoon. I’m thinking about getting some of my study done, I can get all the work for the next couple of sessions sorted now, but how do you feel about being asked some later?” He tipped them in, a drop of coffee flying up over the edge and landing on the desk as he stirred his drink with vigour, that same hyper excitement that he always had.

“Can’t I just fill them out now?”

“It’d be better if I could get your responses with Noah.” He sighed, rolling his eyes and making a scene of it, but there was a smile that told you he already agreed.

“You should have brought me two coffees, but fine.”

You let out a victorious ‘aha!’, and shook the little brown paper bag that was still sitting on your half of the desk at him. “I also brought you half of a muffin!”

“Only half of a muffin?”

“Well, it was none, but since I didn’t eat it yet and I’d feel bad eating it in front of you, I decided to share it.” You tore it in half, pushing half across the scratched and vandalised wooden surface to him. Crumbs were left along the surface, and Stiles pressed the pad of his finger along them to gather them all up.

“Oh, right. Well, in that case, what I meant was; wow, a full half of a muffin!” He cheered, much more enthusiasm, and you nodded.

“Much better.” At the front of the classroom, your tutor entered, door slamming behind him as he kicked the wedge out from underneath, and his case was placed down on the desk. The room began a hushed quiet, save for the loud slurping of Stiles with his coffee beside you.

“You know,” Your best friend didn’t understand the concept of a whisper, everything he did was more like a dramatic stage whisper on a Broadway show, and a few dirty looks were sent his way. The professor was used to this, a year of experience and advice from previous tutors guiding him to ignore Stiles’ fidgeting and chatter. “You’re going to have to convince Noah to do this.”

Slumping down in your seat a little more, you turned your head to him, nibbling on your half of the muffin. “I already did.”

“What?” This time he was hushed, the man standing at the front near his desk, trying his best to give extra advice to everyone and answer any common questions that he’d been emailed. You’d have to catch the after-class notes in your emails. “When d’you do that?”

“This morning before class. I saw him while getting coffee for you and we walked over.”

Stiles huffed, his brows being pulled together slightly. “Okay. Damn, he was my last free shot at getting the afternoon off.” You grinned, pinching at your friend’s cheek, and he smacked your hand away. “Quit it, I’ve told you not to do that before.”

“In case I pinch your moles off?”

“That's where my power is. My funny is in my moles.” He hissed, only making you laugh more, and you covered your mouth with your hand over his silly superstitions.

“Whatever, freak.”

“Hoe.” He snarked back, and you grinned, punching at his shoulder as best you could from this angle, and he reached up a hand to rub at it. “So, if we’re doing this, I at least want to do it at my place. I’m going out this evening, I gotta’ be ready. Derek’s sisters are coming up to visit.”

“It won’t take long, don’t worry.” He hummed, pulling out his phone and keeping it ducked from view. He was texting his brother, letting him know to be ready, and at what time your class would be ending, giving him a little time to prepare. Opening your book up and flicking to the page you had marked, it was a journal written about the study of the ways that twins raised in different households could grow up similarly, and you were hoping to adopt some of the content for your study.

“So, what’ve you got done so far?”

Stile sighed, flicking open his notebook, and you were shocked by the fact that he was already at the end of it. There were pieces of paper stuck in, a list of book references on one of the tabs down the side of a page, and only a few blank pages left at the back.

“Oh, wow, okay.” You stared at your notebook, barely reaching a quarter of the way through with the notes you’d been making, and it looked like Stiles was ready to start making progress towards a conclusion for his hypothesis. “So, you’ve got a whole lot done, then.”

“Yeah, well, I want to spend as little time in a prison as I possibly can.” He rubbed a hand over his forehead, the pages crammed full of information as he flicked through to find a blank one. “Plus, I didn’t want to go and interview inmates on my own, so I wait until Derek has free time to go with me, and I get as much done in those sessions as I can.”

“You’re gonna’ be done weeks before I am.” You pouted, your pen twirling at the top corner of a page, drawing a collation of pretty flowers to form a border, and he chuckled.

“I have easier test subjects than you do. They’re already guilty and behind bars, they’re more than happy to open up. You’ve gotta’ deal with Noah.”

“That’s true.” You grinned, thinking back on the conversation you’d had with the other twin that morning. When he was alone, it wasn’t so bad, he talked more and he wasn’t so worried about judgements, but as soon as there was someone else who might hear, he completely closed down.

“Hey, seriously, we have ages left. You’re gonna’ be just fine.”

“I’m just freaking out a little bit, because this is the last hurdle, y’know?” He nodded, and you could see whatever it was he was thinking practically swirling in his eyes, because Stiles’ emotions were open to read like a book.

“It’s terrifying. It’s, like, what the hell are we supposed to do when we finish?”

“I don’t know.” Your head dropped to your hands, fingers soothingly rubbing at your temples. A large hand landed on your back, rubbing in comforting circles. “What I do know, though, is that if I don’t get on with coming up with some more content, I’m never gonna’ finish this study in time.”

“Well, put your headphones on and come up with some questions.”

You did as told, plugging your earbuds in and choosing some classical music that would make it easier to concentrate. Opening one of your survey works back up to the page you’d left off at, your eyes began to flicker over the pages, picking out the useful information. Once you had a list built, you had a foundation to work from, questions to create and organise into groups, different sessions being able to come together.

Beside you, Stiles’ hand never seemed to stop rising, a constant dialogue with your tutor as he checked his work and ironed out any kinks in his study. He was also full of chatter and laughter, getting along with everyone around him and asking about their works, making you turn your music up several times just to be able to concentrate. But, by the end of the session, when Stiles was tugging your earbud out and telling you your class was over, you had a solid three pages worth of questions that had been split up into sessions, and ready to be worked through.

“Pack up and get ready to go. I have plans to get ready for.”

Stiles already had his bag in his arms, notebook tucked inside and pens and pencils put away, two empty coffee cups and a muffin wrapper sitting out, which he quickly gathered up, once his bag was on his shoulder. He was gone, walking past you and down to the waste bin at the front of the hall to dispose of them, his fingers tapping idly on his thigh once he was done.

You gathered your belongings, packing them away and curling the wire of your headphones back up neatly, making sure everything had its correct place in your bag, before following him down and out of the steps.

The halls were filled once again, the two of you navigating through crowds to the outside of the building, and you followed him in his diversion across the pathway, all the way to his car. Some students had already left, spaces beginning to empty out as a bottleneck effect took place at the only entrance and exit to this carpark.

“Where’s your car?” The dirty blue jeep was one of the only ones left in the parking lot, Stiles looking around for your vehicle, and you sighed.

“Don’t get me started on that hunk of junk.” You growled, stomping a foot on the floor as Stiles laughed. Opening the driver’s side door, he hopped up inside of it, legs dangling from the chair. “I’m trying not to use it as much. It splutters when it starts up and I have to try it a whole bunch of times, so the less I use it, the closer to graduation we can get before it eventually taps out.”

“You ever think about just getting it fixed?”

“Oh, big words from the man whose engine is held together with duct tape.” Your hand rubbed over the hood of the car, a slightly dusty layer that made you cringe, and you wiped your hand off on your jacket to stop it.

“Touché.” Stiles only smirked. “C’mon, I’ll give you a ride to my place. I’ll be waiting for hours if you walk.”

He slammed his car door once his legs were inside, leaning over the centre console to pop open the passenger side door as you rounded the car, and he was sparking up the car before you were even fully inside. Slamming it shut, he was reversing from his spot as you clipped in your safety belt, swinging his car around, and you gripped onto the edge of the door. “Easy there, fast and furious.”

“Oh, relax. Nobody is around.”

“Except for me, and I’d like to live until graduation.” His eyes rolled, hitting the brakes and flicking on the indicators as he was leaving the parking lot, moving out onto the main roads. There weren’t so many other cars, the mid-afternoon meaning the other students were mostly in class, in bed, or eating their lunch. College was a weird time, and while you’d loved it, you couldn't wait to regain some kind of normality. “Can we swing by my place? I need to swap out my books. I don’t want to carry all these around.”

“Okay, but be quick! I have to be ready by six and out the door by six-thirty. Derek will kill me if I’m late for this.” His fingers were tapping on the steering wheel as he changed direction to head to your place instead of his own. The space between you both was filled with the radio, the simple tunes of classic 70s anthems, the songs Stiles had grown up with, his dad’s favourite records and he played them constantly. He knew all the words, mouthing along and banging his head, pausing occasionally to check the mirrors and the roads between dancing in his seat.

Rolling the window down as he slowed in his approach to the building, afresh air swept into the carbon of the car, the slightly musty smell of the older car was something you’d miss when it was gone. The shade of the concrete cover overhead was chillier than the sunny roads, and he swung himself haphazardly into a parking space.

“I’ll turn the car around and wait here, cool?”

“I won’t take long, promise!” Hopping from the car and closing the door, you leant on the open door frame, and Stiles slouched in his seat, as he usually did. “Lydia and Ally should both be out, so there’s nobody for me to even talk to.”

“Good, because you’re chatty.” He teased, and you flipped him off, a quick walk as you headed away from him to the stairs. Once you were there, you were taking a quick jog up the sets of stairs, headed for your floor, and balancing your books in your arms carefully. Rooting through your bag to find your keys, they were at the bottom, jingling tantalisingly for you to find.

Leaving your books on the countertop of the kitchen, you shifted through them, taking the notebook you needed and leaving the rest, piling them back up and taking them to your bedroom Abandoned on the desk, you rushed to change, throwing on a bigger and warmer jumper to get through the rest of the day, phone in your pocket and a bag on your arm. Passing back through the kitchen, you were ready to grab the notebook and bag you’d left there, keys hanging in the back of the door, and you eyed the freezer.

You’d made a bet, a point to prove, and you were certain that buried somewhere deep in the bottom, you had a frozen lasagne from the last time you’d made it for Allison and Lydia. You had a few spare moments, and so you moved over to the freezer, opening the door and crouching to scan over all the shelves.

Running your fingers over frozen plastic, you searched for the right one. Tinfoil crinkling in the back, behind a bag of dinosaur chicken nuggets and a tray of alcoholic ice cubes, was a tray of lasagne. Pulling it out, the cold chilled your arm, even through the layers of your hoodie, and you used your foot to close the freezer while wrapping the tray in the nearest tea towel for an extra layer.

Placing your notebook over it and holding it in both arms for security, you clicked the latch onto the door, keys in your pocket and bag on your shoulder to let it swing closed behind you.

Stiles saw you coming, his head snapping over to the metal door between the stairwell and the parking lot when it fell open, backing through it and his brows raised. Opening up the passenger side door, he took the lasagne from you when you handed it over, climbing back into the vehicle.

“This is cold. What is it?”

“Lasagne.” You settled it onto your lap once your safety belt was on, folding the towel underneath to keep your lap from getting chilled and painful, and he nodded. The engine was still running, and taking off the brakes, he was pulling out of the space again.

“So, not that I don’t love a home-cooked meal, but I’m going out for dinner. Why the traybake?”

“I have a point to prove to Noah.” You were looking out of the window, but you could feel his gaze on you, making you a little uncomfortable, and you turned to face him. His eyes were flicking between you and the road, brows furrowed, a stare like he was trying to figure you out, before he let it go. “He told me I looked like I couldn't cook, and it’s a battle I’m going to win.”

“Well, alright then. Save me leftovers?”

“We’ll see.” You winked, and he grinned, eyes flicking to the tray in your lap, before back to the road.

It was only a short journey, the distance between your place and Stiles’ building was short for a walk and even shorter in a car, on the edges of campus and conveniently placed, and it had been one of the building blocks of your friendship with him An easily accessible study partner, somewhere to hang out with, someone to walk home with you after a night out, someone to share a cab with, or simply knowing there was a friend so close to you.

“It’s going to be weird not living around the corner from you in just a few months.”

“Oh, I don’t know.” He sighed, pulling into his one building sparking area and it didn’t have the luxury of being covered or underground, it was exposed each flat having allocated parking spaces, and Noah’s bike was parked underneath the shelter, you could see it from here, with a clamp around the wheel and covered from the impending and risky weather of the early months. “I have a feeling that you’ll end up living next door to me someday.”

“You do?”

He parked the car, arm behind your head as he reversed into it, ready to make a quick getaway on the next morning, or this evening, when he would invariably be late. In true Stiles Stilinski style. “Yeah. Especially after I rock whatever gown you want me to wear for being your maid of honour, someday.”

“Lydia is going to fight you for that role.”

“I will fistfight her for it.” He challenged, and you grinned, clambering down from the car as Stiles had parked a little too close to someone else on your side. With your bag on your shoulder and lasagne in one hand, you tried to squeeze around the door without scratching someone else’s paintwork.

Stiles’ arm was slung over your shoulder as you set off toward the building, the elevator being fully functional, and it was a refreshing change not need to take the stairs up to your place, or risk your life in a rickety elevator.

Throwing his keys down on the kitchen counter, they slid all the way across and to the other side, hitting the floor, and he grimaced when you turned to stare at him. “I’ll pick those up later.”

“Uh-huh.” The sounds of video games and music were coming from behind Noah’s door, though it wasn’t fully closed, only pushed halfway, and you hoped that was a sign that he was still in a good mood. Leaving your bag on the edge of the couch that was facing away from you, your hands rubbed together, glancing around at the environment you were still getting used to. “You should put this lasagne in now, so that it’s ready for after the study. Medium heat, leave the full-on tight.”

“Where are you going?”

“To say ‘hey’ to your brother.” Stiles’ face scrunched up, a mumble of ‘good luck’ as he picked up the tray, lifting it over his head to look in at it from underneath. Wandering toward the sounds coming from the hall, you knocked on the edge of the door, pushing it open a second later when you heard the game pause, and the music following it. Leaning on the doorframe, Noah turned to face you, brows raising slightly, and he shifted in his chair. “Hey.”

“Hi. It’s, uh, time for the study stuff, then?”

“Yeah. You okay?” He shrugged, turning back to his game and closing it off, leaning forwards from where he was sat on his bed enough to turn the console off.

“I didn’t realise we’d be doing it here. It feels more personal, somehow.” He had a large hoodie on, comfortable in his own clothes as he wore a baggy and warm outfit, the same way you often had when everything started to feel overwhelming.

“Well, this study is going to get pretty personal.”

“I know that. It’s just that right now, it feels a bit like I’m naked, y’know?” You chuckled, a momentary smile on his face flashing past, and you were glad to see it. “I just feel exposed.”

“This study is gonna’ do that, but I promise that I’ll try and make it as easy as I can. I’ll break it up, I’ll make it comfortable for you, and we’ll stop whenever you’re getting overwhelmed.”

“That’d be great, actually.” His hands rubbed together, sleeves hanging slightly down over his palms, and he looked a whole lot less terrifying right now than he did with the armour of a bike and a leather jacket. “Okay, I’m ready.”

“Good, because I need you in high spirits. I brought a lasagne and I have a point to prove.”

You backed out of the room as he advanced toward you, the door closing and leaving you both standing in the hall, and he smirked down at you a little, a disbelieving expression. “You really brought that?”

“You bet I did. It’ll be ready by the time we finish.”

“Then I guess we’d better get started, huh?” He hopped over the back of the couch, settling in beside his brother, who scowled at him as his drink spilt down his shirt from the impact. Taking a seat on the other side of them both, your legs folded underneath yourself in the armchair, finding a glass of water laid out for yourself on the table, courtesy of Stiles.

They looked so different and yet so similar in this moment. You could understand how people may have confused the two of them before their styles became so radically different. In the beginning, before Noah turned to leather and a sleeve tattoo, when they both wore hoodies and band tees and had clean pale skin. With the sleeve of tattoos covered, and the pair both wearing hoodies, one with an etching across the front and the other with a faded logo from being washed one too many times,

Laying out your books, it was more of a note you’d keep to yourself, and following from that was your recorder, coated in the front pocket of your bag so as not to get crushed. Switching it on at the side, the red light flashed on to green blinking once to let you know it was active. “Can you guys do your confirmations for me while I get set up?”

“Surely can.” Stiles sat forwards, leaning down a little with his forearms braced across his knees, as opposed to Noah, who slumped back into the cushion. “Stiles Stilinski, happy to be recorded.”

“Noah Stilinski, aware of being recorded.” Stiles rolled his eyes at his brother’s dead tone, clearly not having as much fun as Stiles was, but you didn’t blame him.

“Okay, so, why don’t you guys tell me what it’s like to live together at college.” There was a beat of silence, and then a set of matching laughs from both of them, the two starting at one another. There was a look between them, one you didn’t quite understand, and it seemed like some kind of twin-telepathy communication.

“It’s, like, exactly the same as when we were in high school.”

“Uh, what?” Stiles interjected, and Noah turned to look at him. “It’s nothing like high school!”

“Yes, it is!” Noah insisted, and you smirked, picking up your water and taking a sip as the two stared in shock at one another. “We lived together in high school, we played video games, I did all the cooking and you did all the cleaning while dad was at work. The only thing that is different is that we can’t cheat from one another’s homework anymore.”

“We don’t drive to school together anymore, we’re on opposite sides of campus!”

“That so doesn’t count.” Noah scoffed, and Stiles twisted on the couch, his hand gestures much more emphasised than that of his brother’s and you watched the debate go down. “You can’t name any more than that.”

“I take that as a challenge.” Stiles’ head rolled side to side. “Our schedules don’t match up anymore, and we haven’t had our usual movie nights in almost six months now. I can’t bring Derek over because your room is right across from mine-”

“My room was across the hall from you at home. You just didn’t date in high school or have anyone to bring home.”

“Low-blow. Unlike some people, I didn’t want to traumatise my brother in high school by bringing someone home, for that.” Stiles reached out mid-sentence, swatting at his brother’s shoulder, before continuing; “Uh, let's see. Oh! We don’t talk anymore, you didn’t ride your motorbike so much at home, you used to ride in the jeep with me. It’s like a totally different world now.”

“I didn’t know you felt like that.” There was a palpable kind of feeling in the air, something between them that was sizzling with electricity, before Stiles sighed.

“It’s no big deal. The difference is just that we’re both so busy now.”

“That was really good, actually. Thanks.” The two seemed to have forgotten you were there, both flinching and turning to face you again, matching sets of honey-coloured eyes in varying shades were fixing on you again. “Speaking of what you said, though, does it ever make it hard for you guys when your class times are so different?”

“Hard to do what?” Stiles squinted at you, face set in a frown that his twin normally wore.

“Hard to hang out, talk, have that whole brotherly bond going on.” Your clarification did little for Stiles, his brows still pulled tight and frown never moving, but Noah’s face smoothed out.

“Oh.. well, I g-”

“Totally.” Noah pressed, and once again, Stiles’ head whipped around to look at his brother. “Don’t look at me like that. You basically said it, anyway. We don’t talk so much anymore. We barely know each other. You don’t even tell me about your podcast, anymore.”

“You never listened!”

“You used to tell me your problems, not broadcast them to the world with jokes and humour! I missed two episodes, and you just stopped keeping me updated on it.” The moodier twin crossed his arms over his chest, and you swallowed thickly at the environment you had unwittingly created. “I don’t know. Just feels like we used to talk a lot more.”

They both went silent, and Noah shot you a pleading look, but there was something darker behind it. It almost felt venomous, angry or defensive, as though to say ‘I told you so’ about it being more personal now that they were home. Stiles was occupying himself with pulling a loose thread on their couch cushion out and making it that much worse, distracting himself from it all. “Well, how about something a little bit lighter. Just some questions about hobbies. Stiles, what inspired you to first start a podcast?”

“Well, as you know, I never stop talking.” He smirked, Noah laughing beside him, and just like that, the awkward air between them both was completely evaporated. “I had a lot to say, I had a lot to get off of my mind. At first, it was just to get my thoughts out there. It was kind of like a recorded journey for myself, and to share with my friends from back home. But, then other people started listening. I thought it was going to be the end of my college social life, a social life that I was developing for the first time ever, and they liked it. I was just talking into a mic and getting things off of my chest, making no sense while telling stories and bitching about my homework and suddenly I had friends. It got a whole lot of followers and I made new friends,”

He paused, offering you a wink for the comment, and you beamed.

“-and I was going to parties, I met my boyfriend at a pep rally, and everything just kinda.. blossomed. The more I got out of it, the more inspired I was to keep going. I ended up making multiple videos a week, all differently themed. Sometimes movie reviews, sometimes songs, sometimes just talking. That’s how ‘Mischief Mic’ was born.”

“Alright. That was awesome.” Stiles bowed as best he could from sitting on the couch, and reached over to take a sip of his drink. “Okay, Noah, have you got any hobbies that you didn’t have in high school that you found when you came to college.”

“Not really.”

“Not even one?” You pushed, and the arms folded over his chest tightened, his gaze going to the floor, socked toes pushing into the twist cable rug. He took his glass, swigging all of it, the water draining from the glass in nervousness, and you could hear the crickets inside your mind chirping to fill the silence that had formed.

“No. Not really. I’m going to get more water, feel free to continue.”

“Uh, okay.” You pressed your pen down into your paper, drawing a line through the question on your paper as you realised you’d have no answer to that question when you listened back on the tape at a later time. “Stiles, back to you, then.”

Your next question came, and went, and Stiles was more than happy to answer them. Occasionally, Noah would answer a question, you’d be able to pin him down long enough to get a straight answer out of him, but there seemed to always be something that he needed to mess with, or fix. Almost half of your questions for him had a line drawn through, and you would have to ask them another time, and get a whole extra session in without Stiles, dragging the study out.

It was going to take you twice as long to get through it all if every time you had to ask them separately, and had to spend your time trying to force him to sit and answer. You were missing half of the information that you needed to be able to compare to Stiles’ answers, you couldn’t answer without them.

The clock ticked by, leaving you with all of your questions for Stiles answered. On a blank page, while Noah had once again been tinkering with something in the kitchen, you’d rewritten up all over the crossed out questions that would still need answers. You had doodled on the corner again, waiting for him to come and sit back down, a collection of hearts and flowers, the occasional bee or ladybug, even a couple of misshaped stars, forming a banner across the top of the page.

When he finally came to sit back down, he huffed, eyes moving to the clock as though he was waiting for this to end just as much as Stiles was, and you gave up.

“Okay, how about we just finish this up?” You had reached the end of your tether, not even bothering with the rest of the questions that were written down for him. “We got almost two hours in, that’s perfect.”

Noah sighed, something like an apology in his look as your eyes met his and he shrugged lightly. Stiles only nodded, eyes flicking up to the clock on the wall, and he was grinning when he came back. Tearing a page out of your notebook for each of them, you passed it over, blank paper sitting before them, and you searched for a pen or pencil in the bottom of your bag for each of them. Placing your pen down before Stiles and a pencil in front of Noah, they both leaned forwards, picking them up. Switching off your recorder and packing it away, you were left with the two staring at you expectantly.

“Okay, Stiles, come fill yours out in the kitchen. You can’t discuss these ones.”

“Oh, some mystery. I like that.” He picked up his paper and pencil, heading over to the kitchen counter, folding the sheet in half as he did, and you nodded. Standing from your place behind the coffee table, your bag slumped a little more from where it had been propped against your leg.

“Okay, I want you both to try self-diagnosing yourself.” Stiles gasped, a little excitement lacing it, and his pencil was already moving over the paper. Noah, however, looked a little lost, looking to you for guidance. “Don’t worry, you don’t need to use professional terms, just, describe what you think, I’ll be able to figure it out, and if I can’t, I’ll ask you about it at some point.”

He nodded, pausing, not quite as eager to get into the activity as Stiles was, before the pencil finally met the paper, and the slow scratching of graphite over paper filled the silence.

Moving away to the kitchen, you searched for plates, and a dish, laying them out on the counter before moving to the oven. A wave of hot air into your face once you pulled the door open, and when it cleared, you search for the kitchen towel you’d brought with you. Wrapping it carefully around the edges of the tray inside, you pulled it out, resting it atop the oven and closing the door back up.

Flicking off the handles, the light inside went dead, and Stiles loomed up behind you. “Smells good!” He presented a piece of paper to you, your eyes flicking over what he’d written once you’d taken it from him, and everything that he’d written about himself seemed completely accurate. It wasn’t a surprising self-evaluation, Stiles had spent almost four years studying this, just like you had, and so it was bound to be accurate and professional. Even if his handwriting looked a little bit like chicken-scratch.

Noah was still working on his, and Stiles was picking at the edges of the tinfoil, trying not to touch the glass of the casserole dish and burn himself, and as soon as he had some foil pinched between his fingers, he was pulling it back. “Wait, Stiles, watch out for the-”

“Fucking steam! Oh, my God, that’s so fucking hot!”

His hand snapped back, half unpeeled as all the steam from inside clouded in the air, and his hand was clutched to his chest. He was glaring at the pot, before moving away and running his hands underneath the cold tap at the sink, his thumb rubbing over wet skin to soothe it.

A second later, Noah was appearing, placing his paper face down on top of Stiles, which now lay on the kitchen counter. “Well, now that I’ve been scalded by pasta, I’m going to go shower and get ready.”

“M’kay.” He backed away, and Noah leaned on the counter beside you.

“Looks good, but does it taste any good, is the question.” The twin you were left with was teasing you, your eyes finding him, and you raised a brow.

“Yeah, yeah. Just get me something to serve it up with, alright?”

He smirked, pulling open the drawer behind him and searching for a serving spoon. Slicing it into pieces, you dished it up for him, a large slab on a plate, still steaming with cheese that had only just stopped bubbling. He grabbed a fork, and one for you too, waiting patiently as you served yourself, and put whatever was left into a dish for Stiles, covering it back up and leaving it to cool.

“Okay, prepare for the best lasagne of your life.”

Picking up the papers and your plate, the two of you moved back to the couch, sitting opposite one another, and you waited with excitement. Taking a piece off of his plate with the edge of his fork, he raised it, blowing cold air over it for a few moments, before taking the bite. There was a tense few moments, while he chewed, face unreadable, before he was swallowing the mouthful.

“Well?”

You couldn’t take the anticipation any longer, a smile on his face at the desperation you showed for his answer, and he gave in. “Alright, alright. This may actually be the best lasagne I have ever had.”

“Yes!” Your hands went up in the air, cheering excitedly and he laughed at your reaction, holding his hand up when you forced him to, palms slamming together in a high-five. He was tucking in again, and you reached for your plate, excited for the meal you had made, Taking a large piece on the tip of your fork, you tucked in.

The sound of Stiles’ shower was running in the background, and he was singing loudly, a song that you were certain was a TV show intro but you’d never seen the show, and there was a chance it was something from Disney Channel. Picking up the pieces of paper again, you turned Noah’s around to face you.

You’d had an expectation, you knew what you thought he was going to write down, and yet you were somehow surprised and entirely not surprised at the same time. It was what you expected but with a twist. He had confidence in what he’d written about himself he was sure of it, and while there were definitely elements that you’d disagree with, there was a lot of truth to it, and you frowned, reading it again.

Noah was watching you do so, the scrape of forks over plates as the lull in chatter came back, and you place the two pieces of paper into the front of your notebook, making sure that it was all sealed tightly away. “Is it alright?”

“It’s just not what I expected from you. But, it’s perfect.”

“That feels like a backhanded compliment.” He smiled softly, but he looked nervous, and you shook your head.

“Not at all, it just means that you have a better grasp on this whole thing than I thought you did.” It was the truth, and while you didn’t want to reveal so much to him about it all without compromising your work, but it made sense. “It just feels like with the way today went, like you weren’t really so interested in it, so I didn’t expect such an accurate self-diagnosis from you.”

“I know, I’m sorry.” He sighed, pushing what was left of his food around the plate, and you copied him, appetite dwindling. “It’s just that when you’re here, in my apartment, and you’re asking questions about what changed and making me confront everything, it feels like real therapy. You said it was going to be casual, and this didn’t feel casual.”

“I get it. I really do, and it’s okay. I can just email you the questions you didn’t answer, and you can get around to them whenever you feel up to it, alright?” He nodded, shaking off the evening’s stress. He continued to eat, polishing off the meal that was laid out before him and settling his hands over his stomach once he was finished. There was a satisfied smile on his face, and your empty plate was soon stacking on top of his own. Leaning forwards a little, you caught Noah’s eye, and one of his brows arched up. “I can try to make it more informal, in the future.”

“That would be great, actually.”

You smiled, the consolidation made between the two of you, and your ears picked up on another sound. “Hold on, is Stiles blow-drying his hair?”

“Oh, yeah.” He laughed, head turning to the closed bathroom door where his brother resided. “He thinks it makes his hair fluffy.”

“He gels his hair, though! Why does it matter if it’s fluffy?”

“He’s insane. Don’t you know this, yet?” Noah scoffed, and your giggles carried you back into the rest of the chair as you settled back into it. The evening was still waiting to come in fully. Comfortable quiet fell between you both again, and Noah moved away to take the plates to the kitchen. He left them in the sink, water running to wash them up, before storing Stiles’ lasagne in the fridge.

The aforementioned boy moved from the bathroom to his bedroom, skidding on the floors a little and clutching the towel to his waist as he hurried, making himself late with the extra-long shower and the blowdrying of his hair. Noah was washing up the plates, leaving them to dry on the draining rack, and you took that as your cue. The night was over, that much was clear, and you’d be willing to bet that he was more than eager to get back to his alone time.

Taking your bag and double-checking that you had everything, you swung it up onto your shoulder, and made your way toward the door. Hearing the shuffling of your feet, Noah turned, drying his hands on the towel beside him. “Are you going?”

“Feels like I should. Stiles will be going soon, anyway. I’m sure you have things to do, too.”

“I don’t have anything to do, if I’m being honest.” He cringed at his own words, pulling down the rolled-up sleeves of his hoodie and making his way over to you. Undoing the catch on the door, he pulled it open, leaning against it and you linseed in the doorway.

“Since you’re not doing anything, do you wanna’ get a coffee with me?”

His eyes narrowed, just for a second, and his fingers tapped anxiously on the wood of the door. “As a study subject, or..?”

“As friends.” You confirmed, his lips a thin line for only a second, before pulling up at the sides in a smile.

“Then, yeah. I’d like that.” He looked down, sweatpants and mismatching socks on his lower half, and there was a tint on his cheeks when he looked up. “Just give me two seconds to go change, alright?”

He darted away before you had a chance to reply leaving you there with the words frozen in your throat. Stiles was clattering around behind his own door, and Noah’s door slammed shut, leaving you alone in the doorway. Your hands tapped against your thighs as you waited, bag swinging on your shoulder, and only a second later, one of the doors was opening.

To your surprise, it was Stiles, flapping the flannel on his body to shake out any creases, and he stood before you. Doing a little twirl from where he stood, he began to button it up down his front, looking somewhat smart. It was a nice black and white one, no rips or tears or stains like most of his other ones, and the black stood out prominently against the white, thick patterns with flecks of grey within it.

“How do I look, then?”

“You look great, Sti. I’ve never seen you wear anything so plain before. There’s no colour.”

“Yeah, well, this is a new flannel. It’s my best one, and the skinny jeans are Noah’s. All my skinny jeans are blue or red, it was this or khakis.” He was nervous, resisting the urge to mess with his freshly-styled hair. “The place we’re going to is kinda fancy, but I don’t feel fancy enough for it. I’m gonna’ do something stupid like drop my glass and smash it or make a joke about something dumb.”

“Haven’t you met his family before?” You teased, and he huffed, searching for his keys, and finding them under the counter where he’d never bothered to pick them up from.

“No, not really. I’ve met his mom because she comes to visit a lot, and of course, his little sister, because she’s a sophomore here. But, he has a lot of family. His extended family are coming to graduation, but this is his older sister and his dad, and his uncle, and I’ve never met them before.” His keys were tucked into his back pocket, and his phone followed, your gaze moving over him.

“You got a blazer, Stiles?”

“Uh, yeah. One that my dad made me promise to bring, I wore it to my senior prom.” He shrugged, hands smoothing over his front. “You think I should wear it?”

“Go get it, show me.” He nodded, moving back to his bedroom, and you were waiting for something with orange and blue stripes to come back out, which wouldn’t surprise you. In fact, you’d always imagined Stiles going to his senior prom in a Beetlejuice suit. Noah emerged from the other side of the hall, hangers scraping over their post in a wardrobe as Stiles searched for them. “Did Stiles go to prom in a Beetlejuice suit?”

Noah paused, rolling the edges of his hoodie up, charcoal grey skinny jeans that were only a  few shades lighter than the ones Stiles had stolen from him on his legs, and a pair of his usual scuffled boots. “What?”

He was laughing, loudly, shaking his head to hide his grin. “It’s a legitimate question! I have this mental image of it!”

“Unfortunately, he did not. My dad made us both go in three-piece formal suits. He saved up to have them custom made. Said that every man should have a smart suit.” He shrugged, crouching to start tying the laces on his shoes and Stiles reappeared. Over his shoulders was a dark black suit, crisp collar and pressed edges, and it was a beautiful piece of tailoring.

“You look good, Sti. Very smart, but casual. Like a polished version of your usual self.”

“Yeah? Good enough to meet Derek’s family?” His voice shook, and you wished you could ease him more.

“Totally. You look great.” He thanked you both, and Noah grabbed his wallet from the side, and his house keys, letting them both hang in the front pocket of an oversized hoodie.

“You ready to go?” He offered, hand on the top of the door, and Stiles’ head snapped up again from where he’d been checking his phone, presumably looking for texts from Derek.

“Where are you two going?”

“We’re getting coffee!” You beamed, and Noah nodded, stepping a little further out of the door with you.

“Oh, well, have fun. I’ll text you updates about how it goes. I might need bathroom-break pep-talk during the night.” You waved to him as you went, wishing him ‘good luck’, before the two of you were wandering down the halls. Thumbing the button for the elevator, the doors popped open, and you were stepping inside along with Noah.

“So, you wanna’ show off those new small talk skills to me, then?”

“Okay, okay. Let me think of something.” He hummed under his breath, glancing up to the top of the elevator and looking around at the posters on the walls for inspiration, and he seemed to find one. Turning his attention quickly back to you, you prepared for what he’d found. “Have you listened to any of the student bands? There’s been a lot of them growing, lately.”

“I’ve noticed that, actually.” There were several posters up around the inside of the elevator, different coloured flyers, some on shiny paper and some on smooth matte, varying fonts and designs, it was dizzying. “I haven’t, I’ve never been to see a student band. I should do that before I graduate, though. Have you?”

“I’ve been to a couple.” The door clicked open, the two of you stepping through it. Out into the setting chill of the evening that was threatening to break its way in. He chose the direction you’d be going in, heading toward the coffee shop on the side of campus that had been the first the two of you had met at when beginning the study. “Some of them are good, some of them are kinda’ average. They usually play at the bars on the edges of campus or in the places in the city, the less well-known, kinda’ alternative places. They can be fun.”

“You going out optionally to a night on the town? I’m shocked.”

“Uh, no!” He protested, grinning at you. “I’ve never been for a ‘night on the town’, and I never will. However, going to one of the few small bars around here that aren’t practically a nightclub, to listen to covers of good songs and get a pint without worrying about anyone bothering me or mistaking me for my brother, that’s nice.”

“Okay, well, maybe I’ll go to one sometime.”

“You should, I think you’d have fun.” The two of you weaved between other students, the small talk keeping up between you both as he did his best, and while it was sometimes a little stuttered and stalled, it wasn’t nearly as bad as you had expected. It wasn’t until the two of you had entered the coffee shop that he fell into tight silence again. The crowds, the rush of chatter from other groups gathered around the tables, and the friendly greetings of baristas whose chit-chat diverted to him due to his allegiance with you.

“What are you drinking? My treat.”

“Uh, just a black coffee.” He choked out, eyes flicking over all the boards, so many options up there, and you chuckled.

“Really, just a black coffee?”

“I’ve never really experimented. I just ordered whatever was the quickest and the easiest.” He confessed, already glancing back over his shoulder at the queue that was forming behind you both. “What would you recommend?”

“Hm, well, do you have a sweet tooth?” He only nodded, scratching around his cuticles on one hand and staring down at the flesh growing red, and you took his hand. Lowering it back down to his side, the hand formed a fist, flexed nervously, and you let it go, squeezing comfortingly first. Turning to the barista, she was still waiting patiently, and your eyes moved over the boards overhead. “Two mint and dark chocolate hot cocoas.”

“That sounds really good, actually.” He leaned down, mumbling the words into your ear to make sure you heard the quiet tone over the talk in the small coffee house.

“And, two croissants, too.” She rang it up on the machine, and you leaned in a little closer to her. “Do you have any of the warm and fresh ones straight from the oven?”

“We made a fresh batch about twenty minutes ago, they’re cooling. I’ll get them from the back for you.” She finished it with a wink, passing the card machine over to you once you’d produced your card from your wallet. Swiping it across the reader, you moved to the end of the line, and she moved away to begin preparing your order as someone else took over at the counter.

She was working, creating two beautifully constructed hot chocolates for you both. Placing them down on the counter before you, once they were garnished with chocolate sauce and whipped cream, she disappeared into the back room. Taking one of the ceramic plates with her, you were happy to see her bypass the glass cabinet with the older ones in, and only a moment later, she was coming back. Two fresh croissants on a plate, still warm and soft to the touch, and she handed those over as well.

Noah had been scouting for a place to sit, choosing which was the best one, and he carried both of the drinks while you carried the pastries, guiding you to the seat he’d chosen. It was tucked away in the back, a small loveseat sofa with a low sitting coffee table in front of it, and as soon as the paper cups were down on the surface of the table, he was dropping down into the seat.

“It feels like rush hour on the highway, but with coffee.” He mumbled, and you settled onto the couch beside him passing him his drink over, and he stared at it curiously. “What about the whipped cream. Do I eat that first? Scrape it off? Mix it in?”

“Any of the above.” You grinned, taking a wooden stirrer from the condiments tray in the middle and beginning to stir the cream into your hot chocolate. He placed it down, copying your actions, stirring slowly and trying not to spill any over the edges, but it was an impossible feat to achieve. Sticky droplets left over the edges of your cups and his, creating rings on the table that you had to mop up with tissues. “Okay, try it. This is one of my favourite orders here. It’s bitter because of the dark chocolate, but also sweet. Reminds me of you.”

“Now, that one is a backhanded compliment.” He muttered, taking a sip of the drink, and your lips rubbed together.

“Not everything is a backhanded statement, you know. I didn’t intend for it to be mean, it’s just the truth. You’re all dark and moody, but I can already tell you’re sweet on the inside.” You sipped your drink to finish your statement, and he filled the time where he didn’t know what else to say by pulling a chunk off of his croissant. Chewing on it idly, he settled back into the cushions, and you lifted your legs up to fold underneath yourself as you turned to face him. “Can I ask you a question?”

“You’ve already asked me a lot of questions today.”

“You didn’t answer many, though. You kinda’ have to give me this one.” He scowled falsely, but nodded, licking a flake of pastry from his lower lip. “Not that I think you need it, because personally, I think you’re just fine, but why are you so scared about therapy? The idea of it, anything to do with it, it makes you so closed off. Even more than usual.”

His eyes moved over the room, nervously, before scanning both you and the table, and you put your drink down, holding open palms up to him.

“No recorder, no study. I’m just curious.”

“Okay.” He sighed shakily, and slumped back. “Well, after my mom died, my dad made me and Stiles have therapy when we started acting out. We had a therapist who came to the house, and she was great, don’t get me wrong, but I hated it. I didn’t want her to tell me how to grieve or mourn, and I didn’t want her to tell me how to move on. Stiles needed all the advice he could get, but I didn’t want it. I wanted to do it my own way. Now, the idea of therapy, brings back all those feelings of sadness and pressure and stress.”

“I’m sorry, Noah.” You reached out, rubbing a hand over his shoulder, and his gaze fell to the contact. “Genuine sympathy and sorrow, not just that thing girls do that you hate.”

“Stop hanging things I’ve said over me, I don’t remember half of them. I blackout in social situations.” He grinned, moving past the moment, and you withdrew your touch.

“You know, if it makes you feel any better, I understand the nervousness of being in a study.”

“Yeah?” He picked up the rest of his croissant, a large chunk of it being eaten, as he waited for you.

“Yeah. When I moved here, I was so nervous. I was beginning to take my course and I didn’t really have any friends, and there was a senior who needed freshmen for her study.” Noah grinned, settling in for the story and sipping his drink. “She was doing a study about the difference between kids who travelled far from home for college alone as opposed to those who were still close to home, and whether it impacted social clubs, grades, all that. To be fair, it was an awesome study.”

“It sounds like it.”

You smiled, swirling the cup in your hands to gather any loose powder that may have begun to separate and gather at the bottom. “Well, I got drawn into it. She was a senior, and she was nice. I had no friends yet, I was in a flat-share with Allison and Lydia and three other girls who were all too busy getting adjusted to college themselves. So, this senior, she invited me to a party, and then another one, and suddenly people started wanting to be my friend because I was the freshman who hung out with seniors. I figured it would all drop away when her study ended and she didn’t need me anymore, but by then the whole social hierarchy had done its thing, and there I was.”

You shrugged, and Noah was hiding a shit-eating grin behind his mug. “So, you were just a little freshman lab rat, then?”

You scoffed, your laughter mixing with his, and the two of you were left in subtle amusement. His laughter was cut short, though, brought a rapid halt when a set of legs bumped against your table on the other side, followed by two more behind them.

“Hey, girl!” One of the girls on the cheer team, a lacrosse player behind her and a girl who you recognised from your psychology class texting on her phone. “Saw you over here, wanted to know what your plans for the evening were. We’re going to do some karaoke and get some food, you wanna’ come?”

Your eyes moved to Noah, whose attention was fixed on the floor again, as though the splintering wood was of utmost interest. “Maybe another time. I think we’re good here for now.”

“Oh, you sure? I think it could be super fun, you should both come.” The invitation was now extended to you both, and you shook your head at her despite it.

“Seriously, you should go, if you want to,” Noah whispered, and when you turned back to him now, he’d dared to look up, chewing on a lower lip that would go raw, but he met your gaze.

“No, I’m sure. I’m having fun here.” You held his gaze for a second longer, before turning to her, and confirming your denial, and she smiled, promising to make plans with you soon, before she was walking away. Noah was fidgeting beside you, shuffling in his seat, and you could practically feel the nerves rolling off of him in waves. “I’m serious, Noah. I’m having fun, and I’m perfectly happy here with you, right now.”

He was trying not to grin, a smile that was being bitten back on the inside of his cheek. “Well, for the record, I’m having fun too.”

“What was that?” You cupped your ear, challenging him to repeat it, even though you had heard it perfectly, and by the look on his face, he knew the game you were playing.

“I said I’m having fun. I won’t deny it.”

“Two victories in one day, for this gal. I’m breaking down all your walls, Noah Stilinski.” You poked at his cheek, and he swatted your hand away, taking a bite from your croissant as punishment, and you tried to snatch it back from him.

“Two victories, one loss. You’re not getting this croissant back, now.”

[worldsover]

Fermata ft. Chuu

length ✦ 5651

genres ✧ Dal Segno sequel; dirty talk; oral; makeup fetish; more subby!Chuu

✦✧✦✧✦✧

You write to keep your concentration and disconnect you from your ever-changing concerns. For all your ideas, the true crux of putting a piece together is actually making something concrete. The self-control you require to be consistent, and consistently creative, is what makes music so hard to stay focused on. This album must be finished. This year. No written promises but you have to do right by her after all you've invested. You fucked Jiwoo in the mouth yesterday. Real right of you to do.

“Coming!” Jiwoo must be far from the front door with how her holler resounds the apartment. Where do you put your hands? Pockets are natural though they don't feel like it. Many but not enough footsteps grow in loudness but you expect a stampede anyway when the door opens. Instead, only Yerim and Sooyoung manifest in the opening hallway.

“Hello, oppa! Jiwoo unnie is just… Umm. Taking care of business.” Yerim playfully elbows you when she pulls you in but you stop her to take your shoes off. Sooyoung sends a brusque wave your way and not much else as she collects assorted effects and clothing around the living room. There isn’t nearly as much noise as you expect.

Look around in confusion. “Did I miss something? Is today a holiday?”

“Jiwoo isn’t the only one who’s got schedules, PD-nim,” Sooyoung says.

Yerim turns around. She also has some nicer pants on, and a loose-fitting red top. “Unnie, you’re just visiting your family.”

“And that’s a schedule.”

“Well oppa, I have a CF to film so, ha!” Yerim raises a hand, victorious she just won the conversation. High five. She’s satisfied but Sooyoung gives no regard, clearly looking for something.

“What about the other girls?” you ask.

“I’m not a manager. Just count yourself lucky the dorm is so empty.” Yerim says.

“Damn, we can even record some demos too. Good thing I brought the mic. Hold on, before you guys go, wanna listen to some of our songs?” you say.

“Finally!” Yerim says.

“Just play it out loud, I can hear it,” Sooyoung says. You offer your help with whatever she’s searching for though she brushes you off and insists she can do it herself.

Yerim brings out a bluetooth speaker from underneath the living room couch and coughs because of whatever dust she just procured.

Pull out your Macbook from your backpack and connect it to the speaker. You think about which track to play and pick the one that shows off Jiwoo’s voice the best so far, Jiwoo - Deeper.

Yerim immediately gets into the beat, bobbing her head and dancing. However, when the chorus hits, her ears perk up and she starts cheering at the notes that Jiwoo belts. Sooyoung also turns an ear towards the speaker in curiosity.

A vacuum interrupts the music. Jiwoo swoops in with the machine, scurrying her shapely legs with no heed to their bareness. She pushes up her fake circle glasses and says over the commotion, “I knew you needed this! Oppa, hello!”

“I’m trying to listen to the music here!” Yerim covers her ears.

Sooyoung looks down and pauses at the edge of the couch. “Oh hey, there’s my bracelet! Really nice music by the way!”

“Wow, you guys are so kind.” Jiwoo says, her voice piercing the screaming vacuum without effort. She turns it off realizing she's the only one can really do so. “You still like the music now?”

“No unnie, I mean it,” Yerim says.

“Why are you wearing just that big tracksuit sweater? Do you even have shorts on?” you interrupt the gushing. Jiwoo turns around and hugs herself as if she dropped a towel, even though her immodesty comes from her lower body. Good thing no one notices her sweater ride up for a moment to reveal white panties. Sooyoung looks at you confused while Yerim smirks to match yours. She wasn't even looking at Jiwoo but she could probably tell from your face. Damn, she’s too perceptive.

“Well, it looks like that’s my cue to go,” Yerim says.

“I’m so confused,” Sooyoung looks back and forth at you and the other two girls in the room. You shrug your shoulders, pretending to take solace in her ignorance of the situation.

“Come on unnie, we’ll go together. I’ll go out to get money and you go out to get your kisses from mommy and daddy.” Somehow that didn’t sound too offensive but Sooyoung punches Yerim anyway.

“Oppa, can you finish vacuuming for me?” You’re about to make a retort about labor laws but Jiwoo runs to the bathroom and immediately you hear Jiwoo practicing melodic runs. They’re definitely not the ones you taught her, unless moaning was part of the routine.

“So she has to get her vocal cords ready too huh? I’m suuure that’s all she’s doing in there.” Yerim keeps poking at your bicep with two fingers. You turn on the vacuum to try and hide her overt naughtiness but Yerim’s devilish look tells enough. For full measure, she winks at you as she drags Sooyoung out of the dorm. Mental note to deal with that can of worms for later.

Head to the big bedroom where Jiwoo’s still doing vocal exercises. Three bunk beds line the walls while pillows, blankets and bean bags litter the floor. As the centrepiece of the room sits a simple wooden table, short enough to rest on the polystyrene filled chairs while adequately comfortable to get work done. She stands proud on top of the table as she practices the actual runs you tell her to do.

“Oh, oh, ohhhhh, oh, ohhhhppa!” She jumps down from the table and nearly tackles you when she locks her legs around you in a hug. Take a second to balance yourself while holding her as tightly as possible.

“Jiwoo, you’re eager today.”

“Of course I am, oppa. I’m soooo excited to. Record. Of course.”

“Well if you are, please get off of me.”

“Oppa! You don’t like my hugs?” she says nearly falsetto. Her aegyo throws you off, so you throw her off. Onto a bean bag. “I guess that’s a no.”

“No, not no. I mean. We have to be focused, Jiwoo. Is there any rope or anything?”

“You just said we have to be focused, oppa.”

You wave your hands in denial. “What’d I say about acoustics?”

“Ohhh, like the foam at the studio?”

“Exactly. Especially with how big this room is, we’re going to have to need all the insulation we can get. Ahhh!” Your random shout rumbles throughout the room and startles the relaxing Jiwoo. 

She stands up. “I get it! Geez.”

“Oh yeah, I need a pop filter too.”

“A thin fabric right? For all the p-p-plosives.”

“Mhm.”

Inevitable. Jiwoo takes off her panties and you shake your head laughing in disapproval.

“Come on now, that’s just not sanitary,” you say.

“So you’re saying you don’t want them?”

“No, I’ll just confiscate them for your stupidity. Tsk. Find some pantyhose.“ She gets up. “Ahem. Not used.”

The panties have a tiny wet spot, and your nose takes a quick bask in its musk but Jiwoo immediately catches you.

“And I’m too horny,” Jiwoo says with characteristic sass. You put it in your pocket as she gets pantyhose from her drawer. After fashioning a stand for the pantyhose for her to sing into, you both get to work hanging up blankets from the bunk beds while clotheslines become pillow-lines. A makeshift room within a room, still centered by the table but now surrounding you with cushioning cloth instead of acoustically reflective drywall.

Barely enough space for jumping jacks but you start doing them anyway and it flummoxes Jiwoo for a moment. You don’t need to tell her to join in. Sit down to play an instrumental from the laptop and she pauses the exercise before you motion for her to continue. 

“I need you with the right energy for the beat.”

“Yeah, I figured. Synthwave is really popular now, huh?” Her bouncing to the rhythm rides her hoodie up again but now her cute slit and bare legs are plain to see. Your tongue dries your lips. She catches her breath before stretching one last time. Keep it together. “So are we recording?” 

You nod. Take out the microphone and two pairs of in ear monitors for listening, and connect all the devices to the computer. After setting everything up, Jiwoo gets up and you hold the microphone and filter for her.

Click. “Aaand, recording.”

Click. “One more.”

But that’s it. Two takes. You could not get a better sounding Jiwoo than that. Not a quick demo but the actual release vocal track, since even in such an imperfect recording environment, it sounds perfect to your ears. A little frustration since where was this Jiwoo in all the previous sessions? Maybe you’ll have to consider more visits for recording though you’re not sure if you could make another miracle happen to have everyone else out of the dorm at the same time.

“Jiwoo, that was a- Dammit, that was perfect,” you say.

“Of course, it was!” Not that there’s much room in the improvised recording studio but she ensures you feel even less of it when she gets closer. “Sooo. Wanna fuck my face?”

“That’s not the arrangement! You didn’t mess up.” 

“You definitely sound disappointed I did a good job,” Jiwoo says.

”Of course I’m not disappointed.” You sigh. Are we doing this again? A single flitter of her brows. “I’m not going to fuck your face this time, okay? You have to be able to take that dick all the way down yourself.”

No protests. She lowers her head once in gratitude. 

"Thank you for the meal!" Jiwoo says as she shows off her pearly whites in a big smile. She turns her head up to look at you lovingly as she cups your balls with her hands before she lowers her head again for a precursory smooch onto your cock. This time, she gives the same slow care to your shaft with her lips as she is to your balls with her hands. As if she wasn't going to ruin her makeup.

Restraining your panting and cries of ecstasy is arduous enough with Jiwoo engulfing you when-

“Kim Jiwoo!” Sooyoung’s voice reverberates from maybe the living room or the foyer.

Jiwoo side-eyes the study door. Her head does not stop its seesaw. Is this girl so entranced by your cock that she feels not an ounce of dread?

Sooyoung yells, “I forgot something! Just wanted to let you know I’ll be back later with dinner!”

“Okay! Thanks! We’re busy,” you choke on your words as Jiwoo does the same on your dick, “Uh, listening to the mix!”

Sooyoung, still shouting, but attempting to say lower, “Sorry! I’ll go now. Bye.”

Wait a few minutes before getting up, and of course Jiwoo’s lips are still wrapped around your cock as you walk towards the door. Dorm is empty. She must have performed magic taking off her shirt and underwear to play with herself because you can't remember if she's ever stopped sucking you off. The kinematics don't add up. More likely, you’re slightly faint from her perilous suction, making left and right difficult directions to parse from each other.

"Fuck you're already so good, Jiwoo." 

Pull her up and carry her to deposit onto the bottom bunk of the bed by the window.  She ends up belly diving onto the mattress’ surface and her buttcheeks recoil just the slightest bit.  Jiwoo notices and starts giggling when she plays around with her perky cheeks.

"You like my ass, oppa?" Nod.

“I said I wasn’t going to fuck your face today. Fuck. Maybe I’ll fuck you there instead,” you say in a low bass.

Her eyes turn into full moons at your suggestion. You laugh. 

”Naughty fucking girl. Next time, when you’re a good girl. Such a fun ass though.” Follow through with the compliment as you line up your cock to the prone girl’s mouth, arcing down to fondle her round buns. It's a miracle and also a bit embarrassing that your erection is soft after all that. Best guess is that it's had so much stimulation, but all of the masturbation after recalling your previous facefuck probably didn't help. Jiwoo takes her index and middle digits and raps them on your cock to a freeform beat.

“Aww oppa, your cock. I need to make it big and meaty again,” Jiwoo whines and her pout confesses that she's a little disheartened, however her eyes are more determined.

“Tell me all the ways you want me to use you." She raises her vivid eyebrows and lists her head a little forward. “Okay, miss ‘I won’t let go of this cock even when there’s others in the house’. Don’t worry, we have plenty of time. Just relax and go on.”

“Hmph. Fine. Well, your dick is right here, sooo after I lick it up,” which she begins doing by inspecting your shaft with intent, before finding a spot she deems scrumptious enough to lap up. “You fuck this dirty mouth pussy clean while I play myself on my tummy just like this.”

Jiwoo sounds ridiculous talking with her tongue out but at the same time, her cheeky lisp fortifies your cock. Her hands wander underneath herself and she reels back, titillated by her own words. You watch the small woman fondling herself with both hands while your erection at half-mast presses against her face in suspense.

“I could flip myself over and I’d never let go of oppa’s cock, I promise, then you could see your bulge in my fuck hole.”

How could this girl talk so filthy? Her face doesn’t even look like it should utter the word darn, yet here she is giving a study of her throat’s distension from your dick.

Jiwoo continues, one hand rubbing her clit fervently, “Then, maybe. Maybe oppa could get on top of me and pretty please eat my little pussy out while he shoves his cock into me?”

You couldn’t just stand idly by, though it wouldn’t be the worst with how her mouth vibrates your cock harder as her tone gets more gravelly and hungry. When you reach down, you see her wet slit preoccupied with two fingers from her other hand. It doesn’t stop you from slipping one in the increasingly creamy hole.

“Then oppa, if you still wanna at least?” her voice shrinks, but then returns in volume as she crescendos, “You keep your mouth on my slit as you lift up my legs and your silly slut is upside down and she’s choking on your cock and Jiwoo can’t breath and all the blood rushing to her head and you cum and Jiwoo doesn’t let any of spill out cuz Jiwoo is a good slut for oppa, and oppa, oppa, please!”

You join in stroking and rubbing her squishy soaking pussy lips and she looks up from her haze.

“Kim Jiwoo.” Your voice is stern and it seems more than any physical stimulation that your deep beckon is what sends her past the edge. Her pussy swallows whole your finger still inside her, wetness replacing all sensation that the digit once had. She accompanies her whole body’s spasms with loud visceral moans. It takes more than a mere moment to close her eyes and restore her breathing. The bedroom smells a little salty from all the fluids leaking her mouth and slit.

“How much porn have you been watching?” you say.

“As much as you oppa.”

Swallow down a bit of spit. “Huh?”

“Remember our very first recording session, you forgot your laptop and I returned it to you?”

“Fuck,” you say. Jiwoo stretches and lay spread-eagle on the bed, a gooey strand connecting between her two thighs. She licks her fingers.

“You're lucky I found it. Oppa, it’s all your fault I’m like this. Plus all those fancams of me in the same folder. I wanted to confess sooner but I needed more opportunities to be with you.” She sucks her hand more earnestly.

“I didn’t think sucking dick counted as confessing.”

“Hey, I did say I like you. Did you already forget? Tsk. Typical boy.”

“Look at this dick.” You didn’t have to say that because she’s already drilling holes into it with her eyes. “Remember how I said I was basically recording for free? Make your own inferences.” The round shape of her mouth in understanding is perfect.  "Now, open wide."

"Yes! Mm..."

 It’s hard to say which position is your favorite.

Fucking her face is straightforward but you pay closer attention. You’re certainly not down that deep, as you can still feel her uvula recoil on your tip and react with thick gagged out spit. Nothing like your cum but she sucks and spits the liquid in and out anyway. She definitely enjoys playing around with fluids in her mouth.

Jiwoo pulls away when she upturns herself, as she coughs with whatever throat muscles you hit. Her head hanging upside down off the mattress would be the perfect perspective to see your cock’s imprint on her neck but she still can’t manage the depth. The angle certainly makes your pistoning easier as your balls slap against your nose in more forceful pushes, playing vulgar slapping noises that mix with her gagging.

Afterwards, you lean over and move her head to get the mattress’s support instead of dangling. Hunch down to her wetness and the taste of her nectar more than makes up for the difficulty of thrusting while on top of her. Already having difficulty breathing with a cock in her airways, you don’t want to crush her under your weight. Still, you spend the most time between her thighs, taking in the muskiness of her pussy and all that it releases. It explains Jiwoo’s long drawn breath through her nose if you have a similarly alluring scent. There’s also the possibility your length steals too much air from her wet, gagging mouth but in this position, it’s her choice to hold your shaft in her throat for that much time.

Pick her up by the ass and cup the top of Jiwoo’s cheeks. Well, now they’re the bottom as she’s upside down in this piledriver sixty-nine position, both of you sucking and licking as closely as possible. She’s definitely enjoying the scents and tastes. You could drop her on her head and she'd thank you if you kept your cock in her mouth. Maybe you heard her mumble something like “yummy”, but anything resembling consonants are far past the point of physiology and linguistics. If anything, holding Jiwoo upside down makes her look more like a used sex doll than the cute girl that she is. 

A whole lot of mess to clean up later. Cans of Febreeze, maybe some rags and a mop. New sheets, soaked with nearly every bodily fluid mouthfucking can provide. However, all that work pales to the pure torture you’ve put upon yourself to not cum.  It helps with how often you pull out of her mouth as for all her prodigal gagging, she also looks thankful when you give her moments to rest her jaw and lips. Somehow you're in control the entire time yet you have not an ounce of it, avoiding your inevitable fate. Finally, you can rest. Now you’re thankful you jerked off many times before this to last as long as you have. 

Of course, resting did mean you were on an office chair and she was on her knees, but still. It’s a break from all the exercise.

“You know oppa,” she says with a smile on her face.

“I was waiting for you to ask,” mumbling as she often does on your erection.

“Jiwoo-ah! Wear lip gloss.” How she manages to get that out so adorably with a cock in her mouth, you will never know.

“But I figured,” bobbing down, “I was sucking you off so sloppily,” and up, “It’d be such a waste of makeup.”

The girl made a point though you say, “I’d still like to see it one time. Alright? I don’t wanna have to ask either.”

“Okayyyy.” She says as she purrs on your dick. The little devil knows how weak you are when she talks with a full mouth. You still aren’t going to succumb this time. Pulling out of her mouth is as difficult as last time but you snap your head back and you snap your head away. 

"Nooo." A familiar cry. What if she didn't even like the taste of cum? No time for questions as your body falls apart in the clashing brass and woodwinds. The obnoxious dissonance making you pulse and pulse. You aim below her neck to allow the cum to drip down her collarbones and petite tits. Rub her nipples, sticky with your load and she lets out a little squeal when you tweak them.

"Pwetty pwease oppa. Your cumdump Chuu-ah really wants your cum." She puts her pointer on her swollen cheek. God, she's too much for one man but that’s the situation you put yourself in. 

Plop. 

Plop.

"Jiwoo, please. It's so sensitive," you whimper as she keeps sucking the tip.

"You get to do whatever you want oppa."

"Fuck.” Pull Jiwoo off of you. “Maybe I will."

You collect your load from her tits as an impressive volume drips down.

"Ahh," Jiwoo says but you push her down one last time with your unstained hand and your other uses a finger to penetrate her little pussy, providing it with the semen that she desperately wants.

"I hope this is good enough for now." Her squeaks in time with each finger on your sticky hand exploring her insides confirm that it is indeed.

A step closer and your rehardening cock finds her labia, small but inviting. She gasps and shudders as you tease her pussy lips in a familiar way. It’s just as sensitive for her as it is for you with how much she sweats and writhes from the shaft The friction of the pussyjob is unbearable and instead of juices dripping from within her, a heavy volume of watery liquid squirts out. 

“I’m so, I’m so sorry oppa.”

“It’s okay, Jiwoo.” You put the tip in. “Doesn’t that feel so good.”

“Yes! Thank you. Awwww,” She says when you pop it out. In another world, that tip pushes past and you ravage her. But at this point, you have standards to uphold.

“Be a good girl for me and you can have more, okay?” Give her a rainbow dildo to practice with.

"Oh I already have one, oppa. This looks like it fits better though. Well I guess worse considering how much bigger it is. Just like. Yours. Fuck."

Despite all her orgasms, she looks ready to masturbate yet another time.

"We can't just cum all day Jiwoo," you say. She sighs and nods in understanding.

“Where am I gonna hide this? It really stands out.”

“Just keep it inside you.” Her eyes light up. “No wait.”

Jiwoo giggles. “C’mon oppa, they should be back any time soon.”

You finish up some final touches in your recording. There’s definitely more hitches when it comes to dealing with vocal recordings in such an improvised setting but it’s certainly not as much of a problem as looking at any of the other members in the eyes as you stay for dinner.

✦✧✦✧✦✧

tYou tend to get in a rush when you procrastinate as much as you do. It’s her first album, there’s no reason to rush her first album. Besides, the strength of any artist’s work is in their sophomore album, since they’ve had forever to work on that first one and now people are expecting the second. In either case, you really have time, but you don’t let yourself feel that. Instead, mixing and recording, once a job you enjoyed doing, has turned into a series of stressors in your life.

Jiwoo’s in a rush too. Why is she in such a rush?

“Hello. Oppa. I. Uh. Heard you got into a fender bender.” Every word sounds laborious as she opens the door to the studio. You step out into the hallway then look left and right. Nothing out of place.

“Yeah, just some scratches. You okay, Jiwoo?”

Her lips tuck in when she walks forward even a step. “Yep, doing juust fine. We gonna get to recording or what?”

“I mean if you say so.”

Each step towards the booth has her hitch her breath just a little, but she looks focused as ever so you waste no time and hit record. Should you text another member and ask if anything's off about Jiwoo today? Her singing is fine, maybe a little more vocal fry in her voice than usual, but it fits the sultry ballad.

You text Chaewon as Jiwoo keeps trying out different intonations for the pre-chorus.

Chaewon: "she was all flirty and weird today"

You: "lmao aight, tell something idk"

"yeah yeah, but this is different" 

"different how? she's always like that"

Jiwoo sees you typing and stops her singing to ask if anything's wrong. You shake your head and wave your free hand, gesturing for her to continue.

"i guess less wordy and more touchy today? good luck, lmk if you figure it out"

"i will. see ya later" 

Curious. You set your phone down and inspect Jiwoo's eyes and her crinkled nose. Hmm. 

A few hours later, you’re still recording. For how well the session at the dorm went, it feels like you’re back to square one with all of her mistakes today. She had such a good first takes too but her vocal quality is definitely receding, and in a different way than usual.

“I need to go to the restroom. I’ll be back,” you say into the microphone.

You go quickly to relieve yourself. A lot of water today. Needed it looking at Jiwoo in whatever weird state she's in. For some godforsaken reason you have an urge to take her mouth right now and completely ruin her. This album is never coming out.

Slowly creak the door to the studio open. No need for surprise anymore. Jiwoo pulls out a dildo from her sobbing vagina in the vocal booth and drags it up her body. Her eyes are closed, her focus clearly on the sensation of the dildo finally removed for her. She really went through with your suggestion. Must've been in there for a while considering Chaewon noticed something off earlier today. The dildo meets Jiwoo's lips, both wet from her desire and she shoves it in as deep as she can in the first try. 

Walk towards the Macbook and notice that it's recording. Shit, how much space did you have left on it? Hopefully, not going to have to clean it up later.

Finally, her eyes open and she smiles looking at you while she touches herself with one hand and deepthroats herself with the other using the toy you gave her.  She pauses her masturbation for a moment, tapping her ear. A new audio clip in Ableton, so put on your headphones.

“Come here oppa. I did a bad job today, didn’t I?”

The only words she needs for you to drop everything and walk into the booth. 

“You did,” you say as you unbuckle.

In a single stroke, she swallows your cock, matching the reinsertion of the dildo into her pussy. Jiwoo makes a tight vacuum seal with her luscious lips and shows off how well she manages her breath. Air squeezes through in her nose as you rarely unfastened yourself from her suction, and as she rarely allowed you to. Her lips are a good cock ring, her mouth a fleshlight. At the very least, this gave you much patience with her recording, knowing you were allowed to use your frustrations to turn the talented young lady into an object to use.

It’s incredible how little she has to touch herself to achieve orgasm when your cock is in her mouth. To be fair, keeping the dildo as long as she has inside of her must be a feat of its own.

“Jiwoo. Did you have this in you all day? I bet you’d prefer it were the real thing, huh?”

“Mmmhm. Mmmm!" She convulses at once. The toy squeezes in and out of her while she moans and spills saliva all over your cock. “Fuck, I wanted to cum all day but I had to wait. It’s your turn now, right?”

Jiwoo pulls out the soaked dildo and with her little fingers teases the skin of your dick before maintaining a tight grip. Her hand’s perfect rhythm and all the sucking she’s done so far today gets you right there and over the edge as quickly as she did. You unload all over the colorful sex toy and Jiwoo doesn’t let you have time to think as she puts the cum-covered toy back inside her.

You suck in some air. ”Who said you could have that cum? Lie down on the couch.” No pretense. Is there love between you two? Pull down her spotted top before mounting her modest but perky tits. It’s been barely a minute yet you’re already ready and solid once again. She tries to lean her head forward to retrieve her oral punishment-

“Thank you!”

Reward. Now that you think about it, maybe this isn’t working. The supine girl beneath you flitters her lashes, curious as to why you haven’t yet thrust into her mouth.

“You know much I love to see you work for it. Go on.”

As your cock is standing upwards at attention, she struggles raising her head to match yours, gently poking her tongue out to lick the frenulum.

“Ahh. No fair! I can’t reach. Ppfh.” She spits on it in frustration. “Ppptt. Let me have it.”

Her tongue wiggles around fruitlessly. Spit on her face in retort and you both laugh looking at the mess you’ve made. Yet at last, after playing with her food for what feels like an eternity, Jiwoo manages to wrangle your head with her tongue, guiding it to her eager lips.

“Now I better not feel that barrier, okay? Track 1.” And slowly force your way into her throat. You feigned frustration with her inability to fully take you down, but this was heaven. Regardless, stopped by her cursed reflex, you say: 

“Not good enough.” You’d almost feel bad about this.

“Again.” If it didn’t feel so good.

“One more.” Another submersion into her sopping mouth, the friction of her soft lips and tongue opposes all the lubricating slop from her throat. 

Unsheathe. “Oppa, oppa wait. Let me get something. You’ll like it.” You concede, getting off of her, and she pulls from her purse bright red lip gloss. “Watch me stain your cock!”

In a rush, Jiwoo vandalizes her lips red. Her makeup artist would be embarrassed. Of course, that makeup artist would be outright scandalized if they could see the precious idol with her back hunched over the arm of the couch, her upside down face inviting you.

You walk up and give her a good view of your balls. Tickle her neck and she leans forward to plant a pure kiss. On your cock head. “You know we haven’t kissed once yet? You haven’t even said anything about how you feel about me!”

“Neither did you.” Move your hands from Jiwoo’s neck to her bare chest and play with her stiffening nipples.

“Well, let me show you.” She plants another smooch on your shaft. And another. Yet another, until it’s turned into a full-on makeout session with your penis. The upended Jiwoo has to twist herself to leave the entirety of your flesh marked with lipstick stains. However, her best work is her french kiss where takes your dick in and plays around with her tongue, as if the mindless beast could kiss back. She leans her head back out one more time to receive you.

A sharp push and her tiny tits respond with the subtlest jiggle. 

All but an inch of your shaft covered red. “I’m so close,” she pouts.

“Well, so am I.” You keep thrusting and feel your orgasm get closer. You’re on the edge.

“Mwah.” Her lips’ release leaves your blank head even emptier.  “Mwah mwah, mwah.” She fixes her top back and wipes around her lips.

She takes wet wipes then a mask from her purse while you stand dumbfounded. There are four walls in the room. Wires spill from your laptop. One, two, three, four. You are one beat away from orgasm.

Her voice snaps your focus back. “Oppa, that was a good recording session, but you know. Ha Rin unnie has to pick me up. Bye!” Jiwoo scampers away, wiping at her face.

You might actually explode next time, in more ways than one. Guess you deserve this one though.

✦✧✦✧✦✧

AFF, AO3

Just wanted to get one more thing done before the new year so I chose this since like I said, this was originally written as one part. In fact, this is actually the very first smut I wrote. However, I kept getting stuck and adding more, so a trilogy it is then. That’s right, one last one coming up!

[moregaythanyourealized]

The Mayor

Part 3

“We start this evenings broadcast with shocking news from town hall. This morning at roughly 8:30 our dear Mayor was killed by none other than Doc Ock. Luckily for us though he is behind bars thanks to the efforts of Y/n L/n, who is now being sworn into office.” The camera showed the procedure and Y/n in a new outfit. A blue dress that fir her quite well. Otto couldn’t stand it. He had only been in prison for a few hours and he already hated his life more than before. He was drugged up and his machine felt much heavier than it used to, he had next to no control of his body. His only way to see the world was through a small grainy TV that was posted in the corner of his cell.

His cell was incomprehensibly unfitting for a man such as himself. An old bed that left a crick in his neck. A toilet which he thankfully hadn’t needed to use yet. And a small table in the corner with the even smaller TV. The walls of his cell were unbreakable. Some material he didn’t know the name of surrounded the outside of it. He could chip at the concrete but the outside wouldn’t budge. Somehow he was sure you had funded the building of this cell. Just to spite him. The TV showed you suddenly and his attention was drawn back,

“It was terrifying to be in the clutches of such a lunatic. I did what anyone would do, if only I could’ve done more to save our dear Mr Thomas. May he rest in peace.” What a load of shit, he thought. You had fooled the people just like you had fooled him,

“What will happen to Doc Ock?” Y/n brushed her hair out of her face and looked directly into the camera,

“After I visit him tomorrow, he’ll be getting what he deserves. I demand justice for the death of Mayor Thomas.” People clapped in the background and Otto shut off the TV trying to get some sleep. He dreamed of you and this morning. He dreamed of how he wished it went.

The rain pouring down over the both of you as he held you close. You’d look up at him and pull him in close kissing him softly and thanking him for saving the city. For saving you. His hands would wrap around your waist and he’d carry you back to your apartment and you two would dry off and have a romantic dinner together. Sharing your plans for the future of New York....

He awoke with a start. Some guard yelling at him to get up. Groaning he lifted himself from the bed and walked sluggishly towards the door. A series of clicks and other strange noises come from the other side of the wall before the door swung open. Being handcuffed yet again he was led to a glass enclosure. This is miserable, he thought. They’re treating me like an animal. He was sealed inside the glass and felt cool air conditioning by his feet. A large vent blowing freezing air and making the space breathable. It woke him up a bit. The effects of whatever they injected slowly wearing off. One of his claws knocked on the glass, no damage. He couldn’t just break out either, there were guards all over the entire prison. When the door opened again he scowled. You looked tiny compared to the metal door and waltzed in as if you were an old friend. You wore a long pale pink coat and black gloves finished off with a black ascot. You looked unbearably cute but knew what you really were,

“What do you want L/n?”

“I listen to the people, and they demanded I see you to know you’re reasoning for killing a public figure.” Slamming his fist against the glass he stared you down,

“I did it because you told me to, you crazy bitch.” You nodded in agreement pulling off your gloves gingerly and setting them in your pocket,

“And I did it because you made it easy, if you had been smarter I might’ve avoided you and picked someone else to help me.” His appendages moved like protective snakes behind him.

“Did you come here just to mock me?” You got closer to the glass tilting your head to see his expression he looked distant. It made you a little sad,

“I don’t want you to rot here in prison. Because despite all that I’ve said...” You cleared your throat,

“The greatest thrill and joy I’ve had so far was the short time I worked alongside you.” He met your eyes and did nothing for awhile. Then he just sighed and turned away from you,

“I can’t deal with this right now.” You frowned and stepped back,

“Fine. I understand you don’t exactly like or trust me. But if there’s anything I can do...just let me know.” God! You really were confusing. One minutes you’re kissing, then you have him thrown in jail and now you’re asking about doing him favors? What are you trying to do to this poor mans head?

“Tell the guards to give me some time before they take me back to my cell.”

—————POV CHANGE—————

He hears the door close and looks around before using one of his metal arms to pry the top off the air vent. He wasn’t going to fit through it but he could tear up the floor around it to make him fit. And that’s exactly what he did. While you told the guards to give him time and to treat him better than other prisoners the doctor was wondering through the giant vents. His brain felt sharp and alert again. So did his tentacles, a flicker of red warned him to stop but he wouldn’t, not when he’s gotten this far. Finally he found a vent to a control room. He burst through the ceiling and killed both the guards. He sat at the computer and began typing. Y/n was going to regret this. With a few clicks and the push of a button all cell doors, outside doors, and gates were unlocked. He’ll had been released and so had New York’s greatest super villains. The city would be chaos and with the record for shortest office time ever, Y/n would be kicked out and replaced. Maybe the new shmuck in charge would know how to handle the city. Leaving the room he flew down the halls. His tentacles taking him to the personal belongings room. Searching the drawers he found what he was looking for. Grabbing his jacket and glasses he exited the building (cue epic music). Walking over crowds of anyone from petty thefts to fellow evil doers he stepped into the freshly fallen snow. It was around noon, by nightfall this place would be a wreck. He saw your car leave the parking lot. His tentacles took over, the flashing red now bright and constant. One grabbed the car while another ripped the door off. He heard your screaming from inside and did nothing to hide the joy spreading across his face. Your face paled when you saw who had wrecked your car and you pushed yourself as far away as you could. He got closer to the car and looked in the gaping hole on the side. You were shaking against the door on the opposite side. A limb reached in and wrapped around her neck. She closed her eyes expecting the worst. But the machine only untied her ascot from her neck and tied it around her mouth. She tried to scream again but it was muffled by the gag. Then ripping leather from the interior of the car it was tied tightly around her wrists and ankles. Pulling her into the cold air she shook her head,

“I think it’s time Brooklyn sees the type of leader you really are. Let’s have some fun.” His voice was different now. Dark and clever. The wreckage of downtown broke your heart. Historical buildings destroyed or burned down. Hundreds of not thousands of criminals on the streets. Between the speed you were going at and the ice in your eyes they all looked like blurs. The wind stopped whipping at your face, you couldn’t see what was behind you but you could tell where you were. The bank, of course. It was hard to process everything. Eventually you stopped trying and just laid across his shoulder. Setting you down he demanded the bank teller open all the safes,

“If you don’t, I’ll break every bone in her body. One by one. When I’m done she’ll be so deformed her own mother won’t recognize her.” The teller scrambled with the keys and began unlocking everything. He laughed and began bagging what looked the most valuable,

“I hope you know this is very much your fault.” He smiled at you. The sinking in your stomach only went deeper. When he finished he picked you up once more like a rag doll and exited the building. Crushing the ceiling on the way out,

“Where shall we go? The city is ours.” He said nothing but got a devious glint in his eyes before taking you back through downtown. He stopped in front of your apartment. How did he know where you lived? When you entered the building it was like a ghost town. No employees or lobby boys. Only the distant sounds of chaos and the ding of the elevator as you ride it up to the top floor. Thankfully he didn’t know which exact apartment belonged to you. He set you down and you pointed to a door near the end of the hall. He didn’t bother to pick you back up or untie your feet so you could walk. He just dragged you behind him along the carpet while he talked about the design of the building. He stopped in front of your door. His human hands found their way to your waist. You tried to wiggle away from him but he reached down. You sighed when you realized he was only getting the keycard from your pocket.

You apartment was cold. He set you on the couch and began trying to light a fire in your fireplace,

“You have a lovely place, sure know how to use the tax payers money huh?” He let his jacket fall to the floor, revealing his bare chest. He must’ve been cold outside without a shirt on. He was out of sight and into your kitchen. He came back with a bottle of wine and a large glass. He left your hands tied but undid the restraints around your ankles and mouth. Taking a deep breath in you went to yell at him. Before you could you were pulled into his lap. Switching the TV on he shushed you and ran a hand down your back making you shiver,

“Is it the end times? Citizens of New York are wondering what is happening? Mere hours after Mayor L/n is elected the city falls into destruction. On her trip to visit Doc Ock it’s believed he escaped and freed the other prisoners. Riots, fires, building destroyed and collapsed in what’s possibly New York’s worst day yet.” The camera switched to different people getting interviewed,

“It’s terrible! I’m afraid to leave my home!”

“I knew we shouldn’t have elected a woman.”

“I heard she was working with the Doctor the entire time!” Tears burned at the corners of your eyes. You couldn’t reach the remote, and if you tried to get up he’d just pull you right back down. Guilt was the main emotion, but you felt some resentment as well. These people knew nothing! You were tricked... kinda, not really. But you never intended for this mess to happen. Karma had finally caught up with you. The people on the news kept taking and talking. You couldn’t take it anymore,

“Turn it off! Please!” Otto shrugged and changed the channel to a hockey game,

“Is all the pressure getting to you, Mayor?” His hand was resting on your thigh while the other held his wine glass. You wanted desperately to shower and go to bed. To wake up in a different dimension where nothing ever happened. The room became unbearably hot. You weren’t sure wether it was the fireplace or the guilt (or maybe something else),

“Could you untie my hands please? I’d like to get out of my coat.” You got off his lap and stuck your hands out for him to untie,

“Last time I trusted you, you and me thrown in jail. I’m not making that mistake again.”

“I’m not asking you to trust me, I’m asking you to untie my hands.” He stood up and began slowly uniting them. He watched you intensely as you took your coat off. Turning away from his gaze you walked into your bathroom and looked at yourself in the mirror. You were a strong powerful leader who was going to get out of this mess....somehow.

[sabraeal]

Climb to the Rooftops

[Read on AO3]

Written for @another-miracle; a birthday fic that is COMING OUT ON TIME would you look at that (though I am definitely doing some fancy footwork to make it work out in both time zones 😂 Yixin asked for the Post-Rescue Tanbarun Tree Scene for WFB, and then I said, I could give you that, but what if I told you about a secret scene instead...

And then Yixin told me to write whichever one was Obi POV

He knows her.

That’s what keeps running through his head’s hamster wheel as he clomps up the student center steps. He knows her; he’s always known her. If he reached out on that park bench, if he’d grabbed her with both hands and just said, don’t leave me--

He would have been laid flat on his ass, courtesy of that mean right hook her dad taught her before he bounced. And there’d be another demerit on his record to boot, one more instance of anti-social behavior to make him even more unadoptable than he already was. Doc was always destined to go to a loving home, complete with cozy hideaways and towers of books, with warm firesides and even warmer grandparents, and he...

Well, he wasn’t meant for anything like that, no matter who he clung to. Sometimes shit just happens, and no wishing on stars thirteen years gone can change that.

It’s good to see her though. He’d always wondered what happened to his muppet girl, whether she’d gone off and had her happy ending just like she said she would. And now he knows she did.

He glances down at the peanut butter canister in his hand. Well, at least for a little while. That’s the thing about happy endings; they don’t really stick.

Obi hesitates, one foot poised over a step up, his hand wrapped around a ruddy safety rail. “Um, Doc.”

It takes her three steps to bounce to a stop, just enough to let her look down instead of up or across. He’s got double vision for a moment: Doc in the here and now looking at him with so much hope and anxiety that he’s half-afraid she’ll shake apart like a Hot Wheel in a blender; superimposed over the little girl in his memory, round face beaming up at him and her worries far behind her.

She’s got more freckles now, though most of them are hidden beneath her coat, fading without the direct application of summer sun. More inches too, though not as many as he’d given her in his head; for once he’d given more benefit of the doubt than nature could provide. And her hair-- well, that’s the same. Red. Fluffy. Muppety, too, if it’s the morning.

“Obi?”

He should really be paying attention to this conversation he fucking started, instead of just staring at her like a creep. “I just wanted to check in.”

“Oh.” She goes rosy under the freckles he can see, shifting the urn from her hands to her elbow. “I’m-- I’m fine. I’m glad that we could find--” one arm juts out, trying to encompass both them and the containers-- “everyone.”

“Yeah, I got you, but I meant...” He angles a pointed look over her shoulder. “Why are we going up?”

Doc’s jaw drops, and he sees it, the way panic crests right behind her eyes.

“Not that I’m suggesting we don’t.” He takes the next step slow, just enough to put them on equal standing. Except it doesn’t, it puts him a little above her; the beginning of really looking down. His heart flutters in the exact way it shouldn’t when he’s carrying human remains. “I’m just saying, if we’re going to carry geriatrics up a few flights, the elevator’s better for their hips.”

He expects her to laugh at that one, or maybe even roll her eyes, but instead Doc breaks out into a full-body Chihuahua tremble.

“Obi.” Her eyes are so big in her face they might swallow him whole. “We can’t take the elevator.”

“We...can’t?”

Her head jerks in the scarcest side-to-side. With one long, steeling breath, she informs him, “We’re going to do something a little illegal.”

His brows raise. “Illegal?”

The urn bobbles treacherously as her hands fly up between them. “Only a little!”

“You cashed in your favor with me,” he repeats slowly, savoring the thrill that zips through him with every syllable. “To do something illegal.”

Doc deflates with all the gravitas of a popped kiddie pool. “I’m sorry, I should have asked if that would be okay. Especially with, um...”

She’s far too polite to say, your presumed preexisting criminal record, Doc just hasn’t realized it yet. Not when she doesn’t know for sure whether it does exist or not. It’d be easy to help her along, but it’s kinda satisfying to watch her flounder, fishing for the pieces of him she does know.

“If it’s a problem,” she says finally, lifting her eyes to his. “You don’t have to--”

“The only problem is how hot that is, Doc.” He wraps a hand around the rail beside her, leaning in close enough that her eyes nearly cross watching him. “Are you gonna get into your old field hockey kit and punch a girl up there too?”

She blinks, heels clunking into the concrete rise. “I don’t think it would fit. The skirt would be too short, at least.”

Are you sure, he wants to say, stretching every last inch over her, but instead he rumbles, “Honey, you’re saying all the right things to me--”

“Hey.” A finger presses into his nose, hauling his words up short like a pileup. “No call list.”

“Ahh.” Her mouth twitches as he pulls back, rubbing at his nose. “Haah. You know I hate that.”

“Then stick to the list,” she informs him pleasantly. “Besides, are you really trying to flirt with a girl in front of her grandpa?”

“Well.” He holds up the tin, giving it an experimental shake. “You think they’d mind?”

There’s a quality to the silence in the stairwell that clues him in to the fact that he’s cocked up real good this time. First with the tomb joke, now asking if grandma might be watching from beyond the grave, objecting to his game. At least he knows he never had a chance; otherwise he’d have to go take his hopes out behind the woodshed--

“No,” she hums, confident. “They’d like you.”

It’s a good thing she doesn’t get it in her head to try the nose trick again; it’d push him right over. He can survive a lot, but four flights is pushing it. “Doc,” he huffs, scratching the bristle at the back of his head, “I don’t think--”

“Well...” She’s thoughtful when she puts her back to him, bouncing up the next couple of stairs. “Opa would. Oma would think you needed to be fattened up.”

He laughs, but even to his own ears it sounds busted up, wings broken. “Sounds like my kind of lady.”

“Ugh,” Doc sighs from one landing up. “She’d love that you said that.”

“That just makes her even more--”

“Don’t.”

RESTRICTED ACCESS, the doors says, bright red letters fading against the plastic sign. ALARM WILL SOUND.

Doc’s been bullish these last few flights, pushing a pace that makes him want to remind her he’s a hitter, not a runner, but now--

Now she shuffles on the stairs, daunted. “Do you think it will really...?”

Obi thinks this might be a private university, funded by mommy and daddy’s pockets to keep their babies safe, but alarms go off all the time. Unless this building has a rent-a-cop watching daytime TV down in the atrium right now, it could take hours for someone to answer the call, especially mid-afternoon on a Saturday.

“Who knows.” He’s not sure what she’s got up her sleeve that involves two dead people and a rooftop-- especially when even Doc is quick to admit it’s got at least a toe on the wrong side of legal-- but it probably won’t look good if they’re interrupted, even by the Diet Coke of the law enforcement vending machine. “Maybe you should plan to keep the fancy speeches to a minimum.”

“Eulogies.” Her thin fingers flex over ceramic, white where they press in. “You mean a eulogy.”

“Gesundheit.”

Doc turns her head, real slow, letting him soak in every drop of her disapproval. Well, that’s one pigtail successfully pulled.

With a breath so deep it makes her pea coat really earn the name, Doc nods. “Right. Okay. I think...”

Obi expects some dithering, some real soul-searching doubts being dragged out for airing right here in the stairwell. Doc likes that sort of thing, taking everything out of her head so she can fold it all up real nice again, but instead--

Instead she barrels across the landing, plowing right through the metal door, a whole stretch of gray winter sky stretching out before her. There’s one blink, two, and then-- well, the sign wasn’t kidding. The alarm does, in fact, sound.

He catches the door with a hand; it’s weighted, ready to swing right back into place and-- if he knows his doors-- lock right behind her. Not that it’d be a problem if he meant to stand around on the stairwell and act as look out; a role he’d be happy to play if that’s how Doc wanted this whole show to run. But right now she’s slumped at the ledge, every last ounce of her usual moxie wrung out.

Maybe she might tell him to stand back, that this is something she’s got to take on alone, but Obi knows every aching line of that pose by heart. A car can keep going for fifty miles once it hits empty, but that just means you’ll never know when the tank runs dry. That’s where she is right now, stalling out at her limit.

And that’s what he’s here for, to push her that last inch over the finish line. Besides, he can’t just stand back, not when he’s grandpa’s ride.

“So.” There’s a shim in a corner-- a naughty thing to have around an emergency door like this, but Obi’s not about to tattle. He’s perfectly happy to wedge someone else’s problem right where the paint’s flaked off the door. “What’s the problem?”

Doc blinks, one hand trembling on grandma’s lid. “W-what?”

He settles grandpa on the ledge, arms folded around him, taking in the sprawl of buildings below. Clarines isn’t as big as one of those state universities, but it makes Tanbarun look like a college playset instead of a campus. Both of them have those stuffy brick and marble buildings they like up here, the kind that say academic and too good for you loud and clear, but whereas Obi’s walked across Clarines for thirty minutes and still never hit the edge, it looks like he could lap this place in twenty. No wonder Doc was miserable here; the real mystery is how she managed an entire year in this fancy rat cage.

“There’s got to be one.” He knows better than to look at her; if he’s going to make her talking about feelings, the least he can do is give her the privacy to have them. “You were all gung-ho a minute ago, ready to do your thing even if you had to punch out a cop to do it--”

“--I didn’t say that,” she murmurs--

“--but now you’re just standing here.” He shrugs, chancing a glance from the corner of his eyes. “Looking lost.”

“I just...” She shifts, head twisting toward him, he doesn’t need to meet her gaze to know it’s wild, desperate. “It doesn’t feel right that they don’t go together.”

It’s his turn to stare now, lost. “O...kay.”

“What if...” Her teeth fold over her lip, worrying at places already worn. “What if I left them go, and they don’t find each other?”

“Ah...?” It seems like a bit of an oversight now, not asking what the plan is, but he ventures, “You mean...the ashes?”

Her mouth twists up, annoyance in every wrinkle. “It sounds weird when you say it like that.”

“No, no, I’m just...” He glances down at the tin between his arms. “I’m just putting things together. There’s nothing wrong about how you feel, Doc. Not like anyone’s really written a book about how this works.”

She looks up at him, so guileless. “Of course they have, Obi. There’s a whole section in the bookstore for it. It’s just that they’re all written by charlatans and quacks.”

Whatever the conversational version of whiplash is, Obi’s experiencing it now. For a minute all he can do is stare, taking in the abject disapproval rumpling her face, and then he-- he--

He laughs. Because this is what he’s into. The sort of person who pumps the breaks and spins the conversation 360 without even a courtesy ‘buckle up.’

“Listen, I’ve been thinking...” He taps the top of the tin, the metallic ting drowned out by the blare of the siren. “What if we just...mixed them? Then when you release them--”

“--They’re already together.” Doc blinks up at him, eye shining like he’s her savior, the center of her world, the answer to her cosmic question--

The way she really shouldn’t, when she already belongs to someone a hundred times better than he’ll ever be. Not when she’d never mean to get his hopes up.

“Thank you, Obi,” she breathes, a smile dawning on her lips. “That’s exactly what we need to do.”

Like all his good ideas, it’s easier said than done. On the ground, it’d been breezy, the sort of gentle push he’d come to expect from New England right before it got its first good snow, but up here--

“Here, take this.” Obi shrugs off his jacket, hurriedly pushing it into Doc’s boneless hands, but it’s too late-- they’ve already lost a bit of grandma. “Hold it up.”

She stares down at it, thumbs rubbing over the leather in a way that makes his shoulders itch. “Hold...?”

He swings out one arm-- the one not holding a geriatric-- yanking it wide. “Like a wind screen. I don’t want to lose Oma’s pinky toe or something.”

Doc blinks, stretching the coat between her hands. “Pinky toe?”

“Wouldn’t that make you cranky in the afterlife?” he asks, shaking more of Oma loose in a lull. “Losing a toe? Or a finger. Like just the last knuckle. A bit of your nose.”

The leather starts to ripple as the wind spins back up, and Doc stomps a foot down on the end of it to keep it from smacking up into his face. He appreciates the effort; it’s hard enough trying to pour from a large container to a small one without his zipper clocking him over the eyebrow. “Would that really matter?”

He shrugs. “To some people, probably. I got plenty of nose to spare.”

Doc mouth curves shyly, hunching down to hide behind his coat. “I think it’s fine just as it is.”

“Haah.” It’d be nice if she could give him a heads up when she plans to make his heart pound like that. “Think you might be the first to think that.”

“I don’t know,” she hums, eyes electric with some mischievous spark in their depths. “Maybe I’m the first to say so, but you certainly weren’t getting any complaints a few nights ago--”

He huffs. “Drunk college girls aren’t exactly arbiters of taste, Doc.”

She fixes him with that steady stare of hers, the one that’s so earnest it makes his heart make a bid for freedom through his throat. “I think,” she says, each word weighed before she lets it free, just like a good scientist, “that they did just fine.”

He smothers a whimper into a sigh. “Maybe your grandparents don’t mind me flirting,” he mutters, hunched over that stupid peanut butter tin, “but I’m sure they wouldn’t like you returning the favor.”

She blinks, head cocked. “Did you say something Obi?”

“No,” he says, just a little louder. “Just talking to myself.”

“You know--” he sets down the urn, wiping the sweat off his forehead-- “this would have been a lot easier going the other way.”

“We can’t.” Doc’s mouth twists up into that troublesome knot. “Opa always said he never wanted to be in one of those big fancy vases. And even if he would never know, I...”

Obi sighs, hanging his head. “Yeah, I know, I get it, just...complaining to complain. You know how it is.”

She stares down at him like he’s a fish on a dock telling her about the dangers of air. He shakes his head, stifling a laugh. Of course Doc wouldn’t get it; she could lose a limb and she’d still be thankful for the other three. Probably point out how much better things were now that she didn’t need to keep track of all of them. He might complain like it was as easy as breathing, but Doc-- Doc would take every last uncharitable thought to the grave.

Haah, give her some time. A few more months around him, and she’d discover some things to complain about. People always did.

“So,” he says, picking grandma back up. “Why here?”

Doc blinks. “Huh?”

“You know, on top of the roof of the campus center at one of the prestigious universities on the East Coast?” He raises a brow. “I know you used to go here, but most people just settle for leaving dog shit on the stoop when they want to send a ‘fuck you,’ you know.”

Doc unleashes a sound that can only be termed a squawk. “What? What do you mean most people--?” She shakes her head. “No, I don’t-- I mean, it’s not supposed to be a, um...”

“Fuck you?”

“Ah...yes. That.” She grimaces. “They met here. And when I tried to think of places they might want to be...”

Her words drift to a stop, but it’s gentle. They don’t abandon her, leaving her high and dry, but she just...stops saying them, letting the wind carry them away.

“I couldn’t think of any place else,” she admits, fingers tightening in the leather. “They always talked about Tanbarun so fondly, and I...I always thought it sounded like paradise.”

“But the roof?” Obi asks, incredulous. “Is it just easier to scatter the ashes, or...?”

“It’s where they met,” she repeats, like that makes any sense at all. “They used to have movie nights up here, played on one of those reel projectors,”

Her gaze swings out over the concrete like she could see it; all the hippy bean bags piled up, big screen pulled down and movie hardly able to be heard over the wind. Not a bad picture, he’ll admit. Wholesome, just like he’d expect out of the people who raised this Precious Moments doll of a person. Doesn’t really explain Mukaze, but well, shit happens. Half the people who raised him don’t deserve the person he’s become either. “Nice story.”

She’s hardly here with him, eyes hazy and distant, stuck in a past only she can see. “That’s what I always thought. I always wanted...” Her voice trails off again, but this time her smile falters, topping like china from a wobbling shelf. “I always wanted to have a story like that too. But it, um, didn’t really work out that way.”

He shouldn’t say anything. He’s not some neutral party, here to give her that impartial, unbiased pick-me-up she wants to hear, like telling her won’t rips a strip right off his back, so-- he should keep his big mouth shut.

But he’s never been good at any of that being smart shit. “It’s not like you didn’t have your own meet cute, it just wasn’t here. It was, er...”

Huh, now would you look at that. He’s never actually asked.

“At a record store,” she supplies slowly, like she has to think on it too. “Between the aisles after I missed my bus. No--” she laughs, more bitter than he’s ever heard her-- “after I chose to miss it.”

“See?” he hums, vibrating the knife deeper. “That’s already a good start.”

Her lips press thin. “I suppose...”

“No supposing about it.” He taps grandpa so the ashes sit flat before he starts another pour. “If I know anything about your Oma and your Opa-- and I don’t know nothing besides what you told me--” and what he saw a decade ago, sitting on that park bench-- “I don’t think they care whether you met your person at a rooftop movie or in a Walmart--”

“Record store.”

“They have CDs too,” he informs her, just as prim as Doc gets with him when she indulged the one pedantic bone in her body. “But the point is, they wouldn’t care where it happened, they just wanted you to find what they had.”

“I...” She deflates, the leather bowing over her legs. “I know. I think they used to worry that I wouldn’t, especially since I wasn’t really, ah...”

“Looking for it?” he offers.

She nods, relieved. “Yes, that. After my parents, I think they expected a much more, um, active interest in...anything. And I wasn’t.”

He doesn’t need to hear her say it to know that there’s more to it than that, that what she means to say is, and I don’t think they understood.

“Well, nothing for them to worry about anymore, is there?” She blinks up at him, alarmed, and he adds, “You and chief are kind of a done deal right?”

“Ah!” It’s hard to tell with the wind slapping both their cheeks red, but he could swear Doc’s blushing. “I don’t-- it’s not-- we haven’t really talked about--” she heaves a heavy, resigned sigh-- “I mean, I...I guess?”

“As done as it can be without getting PR involved.” He gives her the sort of eyebrow Kiki might. “I’m sure that if they’re out there floating on clouds or whatever, or, i don’t know, free energy in the universe, molecules just bumping around...they’re happy for you.”

“Right.” Her reply’s so faint he nearly misses it, but the wind that snatches it away carries it right by his ear. “Yeah.”

“All right, I think I’ve done as much as I can do.” Obi levers himself to his feet, brushing off his lap before handing her the tin. “You ready for this?”

Doc stares down at the canister, jaw set, the same way he’s sure it looked right before she threw herself out a window. Certainly looks the same way it did when she tried to bean Itoya with her purse.

“Yeah,” she breathes, fingers tightening around the metal. “I think I am.”

The wall’s not tall, but neither is Doc; she has to go up on tip-toe to throw an arm over it, the wind already pulling at the ashes laying loose at the top. Her brow furrows, mouth working for a good minute before she manages, “It’s time to say goodbye, I think.”

Obi stares. Sure, he’d said to keep it short and sweet, but if it’s taken this long for the rent-a-cop to hustle up, maybe she can spare the people who raised her more than--

“Thank you.” He’d thought it might be hard to hear her over both the alarm and the wind, but somehow all her words fly true, brightening the air. “For...everything. I don’t really know how you...”

Her breath catches, but her eyes are clear, no tears streaking down her face. “But that doesn’t matter, does it? You did everything and more. But I think...” She sniffs, taking a moment. “I think I can take it from here. I’ll miss you, Oma. And Opa...”

She takes a deep, shuddering breath. “I forgive you. For whatever still needs forgiving. Rest well.”

Her hand tips, just the barest degree, and the ashes scatter, wind whipping them past, twisting high over the quad.

“Hey.” Obi steps up beside her, shrugging his coat on over his shoulders. If it’s a little gritty-- well, good thing Doc thing thinks Oma would like him so much, because part of her might linger until the next wash. “I’m pretty sure it’s super illegal to scatter human remains like this.”

“Oh,” Doc hums, shoulder bushing his arm. “It absolutely is without a permit. I was not joking about the slightly illegal thing.”

Obi grins. “Well good thing that no one ever came to check on the--”

As if summoned by the mere mention of potentially having something approaching good luck, the door bar rattles, accompanied by some creative cursing.

“Who the fuck is leaving this open?” A gruff yet feminine voice demands, as if she might be able to shake down the universe and pick up the answers from what fell out of its pockets if she just rattled it hard enough. “Bill, is it you? God, what did I say about using the roof for your smoke breaks--?”

The door swings all the way open, and there she is, a security guard with shoulders that could have dropped straight from the Lowen family tree. Obi would take a picture if he wasn’t sure that would get him thrown in the campus drunk tank.

She takes one glance at them, then another angrier one. “Who the fuck are you?” 

“UM,” Doc shrills informatively.

“No, wait.” One broad hand waves in front of her. “I don’t care. What are you doing up here?”

Doc flounders in the face of authoritarian disappointment-- which is fine by Obi. This is his wheelhouse, after all. It’s nothing to reach out, cinching Doc’s waist against him, grin wide. “Sex, obviously.”

If it were possible for a body to choose the time and place of its expiration from this earthly dairy aisle, Doc’s mortified stare suggests she might curdle on the spot. “Obi.”

The guard’s glare is a study in skepticism, taking in the both of them, and then the concrete wasteland around them. “Here? With your clothes on?”

“It’s our kink.”

“Please,” Doc mutters against his shirt. “Don’t talk.”

The guard spares them one last weary look and sighs. “You know what? I don’t care. Just get out.”

Doc certainly doesn’t need to be told twice. Obi’s got his mouth open, what can’t you let us finish first about to spill right out, but her small hand clamps around his, and she drags him right off the roof.

“SORRY,” she yelps as they pass. “WON’T LET IT HAPPEN AGAIN.”

“Yeah,” Obi agrees with a grin. “Next time we’ll fuck on some other roo--”

Doc pauses for one moment, just long enough to raise a finger and inform him “DON’T.”

This time he lets her drag him off, grinning.

They’re halfway down the stairs when Doc finally slows, her cheeks reaching a shade of red that looks more lipstick than lobster dinner. Her hand wraps tight around the rail, and it’s not until he saunters down the last couple steps to stand beside her that he realizes-- her eyes are screw tight, breath coming in ragged bursts.

“Hey,” he murmurs, trying to ignore the spark of alarm zipping under his skin. “Did you just realize we could have used the elevator?”

Her fingers, already wrapped tight around his palm, squeeze. “Obi...”

The muscles in his arm lock, the way he’s sure lizard tails do, right before they drop them off and run. “Doc?”

Her head turns toward him, and when her eyes flutter open, they’re bright, clear. “Thanks. For being there.”

“No. No, no,” he murmurs, his fingers spasming against hers. “You’ve got it all wrong. I should be the one thank you for letting me. No one...”

No one has ever asked me to be there, he doesn’t say. No one but you.

It’s too much when she’s looking at him like this, like he’s not just a stand-in but her first choice. Like there’s more to how he feels than some one-sided over-investment. It brings him so close to feeling like someone, like the kind of guy who might be her person--

And maybe he could have been, if he hadn’t let some asshole rip her right out her arms in the middle of the night. If he had a record of being something other than a professional disappointment.

The grin doesn’t sit right on his face when he says, “No one’s ever asked me to get rid of a dead body before.”

Doc blinks, then rolls her eyes. “Come on,” she sighs, tugging his hand. “Let’s go.”

“Back to the hotel?”

“Well,” she wheedles. “That. And I dropped the tin when the guard surprised us...”

“Ah I see.” He slips his hand from hers, grin finally sitting the way it should. “So we’re adding evidence removal and obstruction of justice to our list of crimes.”

She tips a dubious look back at him. “Are you complaining?”

“Doc,” he breathes, pressing a hand to his chest. “I would never. I’m touched that you would even think that I could--”

“Come on, Obi,” she laughs, hopping down the steps in front of him. “I’d like to do this sometime today.”

His mouth curls as he watches her back. “Your wish is my command.”

[imaeraser]

Playing With Foxfire Kin’emon x Reader (Modern AU) Ch 1

TW: power imbalance, cheating, and age gap

(2.1k words)

Kin’emon x reader x slight Sanji

Summary: You have a summer internship at the Kozuki company, and have to stay at Kin’emon’s home. You try to limit your attraction to the married man, but the flame of passion burns bright. And playing with fire can only lead to one thing— getting burnt.

AN: I originally did this for myself and my sister as a joke— since there is little to no fan fiction for Kin’emon— but decided to post it. Hopefully you enjoy and cringe at some parts.

I fumbled my way through the airport. The musk of others smudged onto my shoulders while I bumped down the path as if I were in a pinball machine. The sound of the wheels of my suitcase grounding me on Earth before all of my thoughts flew away.

   I raised my hand to shade my eyes as I stepped out into the open, while my foot jutted back from the force of the wind. I squinted down the road, but there was not an awaiting person in sight.

   I sighed, and sat down on a sun-warmed bench near a smoking man. As I grabbed the side rest, the tacky feeling of day-old gum made my arm jump in revulsion.

   “Ew, that’s so nasty,” I shook my arm as if the action would make the gum magically disappear, and then reluctantly started to pull it off with two fingers.

   “Here let me help you,” another set of arms entered my vision. The stranger pulled out a handkerchief and scraped any residue off of my arm jacket.

   “Thank you so much, you’re a lifesaver,” I turned to him, and stopped mid-thought.

   His eye was staring at me intently, but I could only appear to focus on his swirly eyebrow— his singular swirly eyebrow.

   “I think being a life saver is a bit of an over-statement, but I’ll take it.” He paused and tilted his head, yet the hair that covered one of his eyes did not budge. “Is there something wrong?”

   I paused, “No, it’s nothing. I’m just a bit air-headed sometimes.” I flushed as I rubbed the back on my neck.

   “Well, I think air-heads are cute,” he held out his hand, “Sanji.”

   “Y/N,” I said as I replied with a handshake.

   Once we retracted our arms he leaned over to his side, and proceeded to fill the atmosphere with the rottenly-sweet scent of tobacco. After a large puff, he released a light cloud into the air. The smoke got thinner and lighter as it floated up and died in the sky.

   “What brings you here Y/N?” Sanji held out an unused cigarette and raised an eyebrow.

   “I have an internship this summer,” I said as I shook my head and pushed the offering away.

   “Let me guess...” he paused, “ Kozuki?”

   “Yep,” I nodded. I threw another glance at the street, and the emptiness made my foot begin to tap the floor. “I think there was a guy that was supposed to pick me up.” I looked down at my phone- 4:57- a few more hours and I would no longer feel safe walking the streets alone.

   “If you want, I can drive you. Just give me the address and we’ll be on our way,” Sanji offered a handsome smile.

   My eyes quickly darted to his figure. He was tall and slender, but most of his form was hidden under a finely made suit. He shifted in his seat awaiting my answer, and the movement drew my attention to his abnormally built leg muscles. His demeanor was goofy, but I had only known him for a span of a few minutes.

   As much as I wanted to say yes, there were far too many episodes of true-crime documentaries watched for me to allow this stranger to drive me home.

   “No, I should be okay. I think I’ll wait a bit longer, and if he doesn’t show up I’ll call an Uber or something,” I said as I watched him lean back onto his seat.

   “Well, I’ll wait until you’re out of here safely. I can’t leave a lovely lady like yourself all alone,” Sanji smirked as he crossed his ankles.

   “Are you implying that I am incapable of handling myself?” I raised an eyebrow in  playful contention. He raised his hands as if to calm my rage.

   “Of course not, but it’s better to be safe than sorry,” he said, as I leaned back into the bench.

   Time quickly passed, and before either of us knew it we were watching the sky’s rolling clouds pull back and reveal an assortment of summer-time colors. The falling sun lit up Sanji’s flaxseed hair—spinning each strand into a gold thread. Perhaps it was a mistake to decline his proposal.

   “Don’t you have somewhere to be?” I said, glancing back at my phone.

   “I’m meant to be wherever you are, mademoiselle,” he placed a hand on his chest.

   I picked at my nails, and rolled a strand of my hair between my fingers, “Stop joking, you could do way better than me.” He gently clasped my hands.

   “You’re selling yourself short. From the time I have spent with you I can tell that you really are gorgeous,” he looked me dead in the eye. The intensity and suddenness of his icy-blue gaze made me look away.

   “I’ll take the compliment,” I said, before turning my eyes to the side. To my surprise I saw a man holding a sign with my name on it. “It’s about time,” I shook my head as I looked back over to Sanji. “Thanks for keeping me company, but the dude finally showed up. I have to get going.” I stood up, my knees clicking from being immobile for too long.

   After waving goodbye, I dragged my suitcase across the concrete to greet the man. The closer I walked to him, the taller his looming figure became. As we both stopped our pace, my eyes widened in distaste as I looked at him.

   His top-knot bobbed as he tilted his head, which provided a stark contrast to his worn out graphic tee that was half-way tucked into a pair of cargo shorts. He took a step towards me as he outstretched his hand, and I heard a resounding wooden thunk. My eyes trailed down to reveal a set of wooden clogs and knee-high socks.

   “I am deeply sorry for being late, I was just a bit busy.” He rubbed his neck with his other hand, which revealed a raspberry colored hickey. I bit the inside of my cheek, as I looked to the side in disbelief— trying not to stare at anything in particular. “Oh, you must be looking at my car. It is an antique—”

   “Y/N,” I hurriedly shook his hand. “I believe I am to stay at your house during the entirety of my internship at Kozuki?”

   His heavily lined eyes blinked a few times before he opened his mouth, “You are correct. I am Kin’emon. My wife and I will be hosting you for the few months you are to be staying.” There was a glint of light that flashed as he moved his hand—which was seen with a golden band around his ring finger.

   “Thank you very much for generously allowing me to stay in your home,” we began to walk to his car. “Oh I forgot, the email asked the interns to check the id of the person who is picking us up.” I paused before placing my hand on the sleek metal of the door handle.

   “Yes, thank you for reminding me,” he slipped his black leather wallet out of his pocket and fished for his id. Once he retrieved the card, he placed his driver’s license into my hand.

   I pulled out my phone, to look at the email telling us about our host. After comparing the information, I handed Kin’emon his drivers license back. “Okay, let’s go.” I said as I slid onto the creme colored leather of the backseat.

   My fist supported my head as I watched the scenery meld together through the window. The sky quickly turned darker. My breath formed a little patch of condensation— due to the late hour and dropping temperatures.

   The car ride was quiet, with the exception of some traditional Japanese instrumentals. But before either of us would try and fill the silence with awkward questioning, we arrived at his house.

   I stepped out of the car, and heard the sound of the trunk opening as well as plastic wheels hitting the ground. While handing me my suitcase handle, his calloused hands brushed against mine. I whispered a quiet, thank you, before following him up to his home.

   He opened the frosted glass door, which revealed a quaint home who’s floor was covered in what I perceived as bamboo mats. We both entered the house, and the scent of fried bread crumbs as well as curry swirled around us. I caught myself nearly drooling down my chin.

   The sound of pots, pans, and utensils cluttering stopped as a woman in an apron stepped out of the kitchen. “Welcome home dear,” she said before turning to me. “You must be the intern. My name is O-tsuru, it is a pleasure to meet your acquaintance.” She dusted her flour covered hands on her jeans before offering me a handshake.

   I gave a soft smile as I shook her hand, “I’m Y/N, it’s lovely to meet you as well.” O-tsuru gently grabbed Kin’emon’s hand and led him to the kitchen.

   “Food is almost finished, we would be delighted if you decided to eat with us,” her voice echoed from the kitchen.

   I looked down at my half eaten sandwich from the airport Subway. The bread was chewy like a warm kneaded eraser, and the vegetables had an almost plastic sheen to them. “I would love to eat whatever smells that delicious,” I peeled off my shoes and set them near the door.

   O-tsuru’s head popped out from the kitchen, “Just sit for a bit, and we’ll be out with food in a second.” Following her instructions, I pushed the floor sitting chair out so I could sit on my knees.

   There were no legs to the chair, but seeing as the table was so close to the ground it did not present a problem. My eyes scanned the area of the house that was visible. There were sliding doors and paintings with Japanese characters drawn in sumi ink. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see something reflect the light of the overhead fan.

   I turned to my side and saw two katana’s on display, both identical in looks. Black lacquered wood, with the image of fire painted down the middle. It looked too gaudy for it to be used as a weapon. As I glanced over the other decorations in the house, I decided to place the swords in the same category.

   “Today we are going to be eating Tonkatsu Curry,” O-tusru said, as she clattered plates about to organize the table. I reached out to help her, but she swatted my hands away playfully. “You’re our guest, I can’t put you to work so soon,” she chuckled. I placed my hands back onto my lap, and waited.

   Soon enough Kin’emon brought out the food, and the scent of curry wafted over  from the pot. There was a plate set down that was full of pork chops covered in fried bread crumbs. O-tsuru set down a glass bowl full of lettuce— you could see droplets of water on the leaves.

   “So we have some Tonkatsu here, but if you can’t eat that we also have nato,” O-tsuru sat across from me.

   “What’s nato?” I looked at my bowl of rice, and sniffed it.  

   “It’s fermented beans,” Kin’emon took his seat next to his wife. “And if you’re allergic to anything here just let us know, I’m sure we can find something in the kitchen that suits your needs.”

   As we dug in, the flavors exploded in my mouth creating a lovely blend. The dinner was mostly quiet, with the exception of some basic questions to fill up the time.

   “I’ll let Kin’emon show you to your room. I have to wash some dishes,” O-tsuru grabbed a few plates as she stood up.

   While the sound of water and the clanging of dishes ensued, Kin’emon stood up, and walked over to my luggage. The slight crispy nosies of the mats under my feet amused me.

   “So...are the floor mats made out of bamboo?” I said.

   “They are made out of rice straw, they’re called Tatami mats,” he walked down the hallway, and placed his hand on the door, and cracked it open slightly. “This is where your room is, you can call either of us if you need anything.”

   I watched his silhouette as he turned around to meet back with his wife. Although he dressed like a patchwork dad and samurai, it looked as if he could still be a model for Calvin Klein. As he walked away, his muscles rippled under his skin. His arms were also well defined, but as my eye caught his ring I stopped