#Build Price Option

[buildpriceoption]

Just dropped a full write-up on the brand-new 2026 Cadillac Escalade IQL. If you're into full-size high-end SUVs or EVs with major performance, this thing is wild:

750 hp/ 785 lb-ft of torque

As much as 460 miles of range

0-60 in 4.7 seconds

42-speaker AKG audio (with the Executive plan)

Super Cruise standard.

Huge 55-inch pillar-to-pillar screen.

And yep, it still tows 7,500 pounds.

As somebody who's always had a soft spot for Cadillac, this might be the most excessive Escalade yet-- and I indicate that in an excellent way.

Check it out if you're curious: https://www.buildpriceoption.com/2026-cadillac-escalade-iql-revealed/

Delighted to address any concerns about the specs or functions too-- I went deep on this one.

[synchodai]

Controversial take incoming but posts comparing AO3 to parties or potlucks are so... objectively wrong. If you want a space that guarantees "fandom building" (which is not even what most of these posts want; they want comments on their fic which is *not* two people mutually geeking out over the source text, it's one person engaging specifically with THEIR text), there are forums, online writing groups, and social media spaces like tumblr and reddit which have long threads on metas and discussions.

AO3 isn't a potluck — it's a library. You can't insist AO3 isn't social media and say in the same breath that readers are morally obligated to socially interact or else risk being "fandom freeloaders." People who only check out books from a library and not participate in anything else are not "discouraging authors from donating books to the library."

[1dkreally-moved]

build a bear is crazy. ur telling me i can pick out a teddy, get it filled exactly the way i want, put in a SMELL and a HEARTBEAT and SOUNDS, and have it dress exactly the way i want it to??????

anyways this is francis hes a spring green frog i got him in glasgow he smells of strawberries he has a gingham heart and a heartbeat if i squish him in the right place hes my emotional support bear (gay) and i love him

[angryisokay]

"I want to quit using Amazon/Audible for books but..." Get a library card and start using Libby, Overdrive or Hoopla to borrow ebooks and audiobooks from your local library.

"I don't want to borrow ebooks, I want to buy actual books." Thriftbooks.com, cheap used books, free shipping on orders over $15, and a reading rewards program. You can build multiple wishlists too, if you're into that sort of thing. Bookshop.org, buy new books online through an organization that shares it's profits with independent book stores. [They're hinting at offering ebooks soon.] Half Price Books, used and new books, offered online or check out one of their actual stores [they have stores in 19 states].

"I like the Audible platform and I want to buy audiobooks." Libro.fm Subscription based program like Audible [monthly book credits, member discounts, sales, buy extra credits], but it's an employee owned corporation, shares profits with independent book stores, the credits don't expire, and the books are DRM free.

[alittleemo]

.

[daz4i]

found an apartment at a perfect spot. but. it's in an old building and has no apartment shelter. tragic......

[ipdindia]

Kolkata | Real Estate in Kolkata

                                                     

 Kolkata is known for its cultural heritage, vibrant festivals like Durga Puja, colonial architecture, and also for their rich and kolkata is a very beautiful city, and it gives very asthic vibes, and Kolkata real estate is buzzing with opportunities ranging from luxurious apartments and affordable options for first-time homebuyers. With a listing that caters to different budgets and preferences, buyers now have access to dynamic features both ready-to-move and under-construction properties. Whether you are looking to buy flat in Kolkata or scout for investment opportunities, the market provides a diverse range of options tailored to meet modern living standards.

The city's properties vary significantly in terms of size, configuration, and location. From expansive flats with over 2800 Sq.Ft of super built-up area in standalone buildings to compact 1 BHK residences, there is something to suit every taste and requirement. Key areas like Bangur, Ballygunge, Mukundapur, BT Road, and Tollygunge are witnessing heightened activity, which has been a magnet for both end-users and investors alike.

Featured Listings and Market Trends

Recent listings in Kolkata reflect a vibrant market with listings such as:

2800 Sq.Ft Flat for Resale in a Standalone Building, Bangur:Offered at ₹1.60 Cr, this 4+ BHK residential flat, which comes with 3 bathrooms and a ready-to-move-in status, highlights the premium end of the market.

4 Bhk Apartment in Ballygunge:With a super built-up area of 3448 Sq.Ft and priced at ₹5.70 Cr, this under-construction property underscores the trend of high-end development in one of Kolkata's most sought-after localities.

3 Bhk Apartment in Mukundapur:At an attractive price of ₹75.00 Lac for a 1265 Sq.Ft space, this ready-to-move-in property is an excellent choice for those seekingkolkata flat price 3bhkoptions in a competitive segment.

Various Listings Along BT Road and Other Prime Locations:From luxurious flats with premium finishes to economical options like 2 BHK flats with competitive pricing, the listings cater to a wide spectrum of buyers. For instance, properties under ₹50 lakhs, including some 3 bhk flats in kolkata within 50 lakhs, are increasingly becoming available, offering affordability without compromising on location and amenities.

Commercial and Office Spaces:The market is not limited to residential properties alone. Listings such as a 120 Sq.Ft. office space in Sodepur and various retail outlets signal a robust commercial real estate market that complements the residential segment.

This dynamic mix of property types and price ranges makes Kolkata an attractive destination for those who wish to invest in real estate. Buyers looking forkolkata property for sale are spoilt for choice as the market accommodates a range of preferences—from spacious family homes in suburban pockets to modern apartments in bustling urban centers.

Market Insights

Affordability Meets Quality:With competitive pricing in various segments, buyers can find attractive deals whether they are looking for luxury apartments or budget-friendly homes. The availability of 3 bhk flats in kolkata within 50 lakhs provides a great entry point for young professionals and small families.

Location is Key:The prominence of localities like Bangur, Ballygunge, and Mukundapur underscores the importance of location in real estate decisions. These areas are experiencing rapid development, improved infrastructure, and enhanced connectivity, which further boost property values.

Ready-to-Move vs. Under Construction:The market offers both ready-to-move properties and under-construction projects. Buyers have the flexibility to choose based on their immediate requirements and long-term plans. Ready-to-move options provide immediate occupancy, while under-construction properties might offer better customization options and potential for appreciation.

Conclusion

For investors and homebuyers alike, these trends underscore a promising future in Kolkata’s property market. Whether you are in search of a dream home to buy a flat in kolkata or scouting for lucrative investment opportunities in kolkata property for sale, the current listings provide a comprehensive snapshot of a market that is both resilient and evolving. FAQ

Q1: Are RERA approvals available for all the listed flats in Kolkata?Answer: No, not all flats listed come with RERA approval. While most under-construction properties like Orbit Tarang, Ambuja Utpalaa, and NPR Sanctuary are RERA-approved, some ready-to-move options, especially in Sodepur and Bangur, may not have RERA registration. It’s always best to verify before finalizing any deal.

Q2: What is the price range for residential flats in Kolkata?Answer: The price range varies widely depending on location, size, and project status. You can find 2 BHK flats starting from ₹19.00 Lac in Sodepur, going up to luxurious 4 BHK flats like the one in Ballygunge, priced at ₹5.70 Cr. Whether you're looking for budget homes or premium apartments, Kolkata offers options across all price points.

[srjsteel]

Comparing the Best TMT Bars for Different Construction Needs

The best TMT bar selection stands as perhaps the most crucial selection in current construction tasks, directly impacting structural integrity, safety parameters, and long-term sturdiness. These thermo-automatically dealt with metallic reinforcement bars form the spine of concrete structures globally, with unique versions engineered to fulfill unique creation-demanding situations. As infrastructure demands evolve and building codes grow to be more and more stringent, specialists should recognize the nuanced variations among the available options to make knowledgeable choices that balance overall performance necessities with budget constraints.

Understanding TMT Bar Classifications

Grade Differentiation and Strength Parameters

TMT bars are available in numerous grades, commonly categorized via yield energy measured in megapascals (MPa). Fe 415, Fe 500, Fe 550, and Fe 600 represent the most commonplace variations, with the numerical value indicating minimal yield energy. Higher-grade bars deliver advanced load-bearing capability but might also affect universal undertaking economics.

The manufacturing manner involves unique temperature-controlled quenching of hot-rolled coil , growing a completely unique metallurgical shape with a strong martensite outer layer and a ductile ferrite-pearlite middle. This combination produces reinforcement that grants each tensile electricity and versatility—properties essential for earthquake-resistant systems.

Corrosion Resistance and Durability Factors

Beyond power concerns, the best TMT bar options incorporate corrosion-resistant properties crucial for construction in aggressive environmental situations. Coastal tasks, chemical plants, and underground structures benefit from specialized versions with greater protection in opposition to chloride attack and carbonation.

Production starts with HR coil sheet processing through sophisticated rolling turbines in which temperature manipulation and cooling fees decide final microstructure characteristics. Premium manufacturers employ modern-day quenching technology that guarantees uniform homes all through the cross-segment, removing vulnerable factors that could compromise structural integrity.

Application-Specific Selection Criteria

Residential Construction Requirements

Residential projects normally rent Fe 500 grade TMT bars, balancing fee efficiency with overall performance necessities. The moderate seismic resistance and load-bearing capacity suffice for preferred housing structures while retaining affordable price range parameters.

Infrastructure and Heavy Civil Engineering

Large-scale infrastructure tasks call for superior performance traits found in Fe 550 and Fe 600 grade alternatives. These high-power versions decrease metal tonnage requirements even as they maintain load-bearing capability, resulting in capacity fee savings notwithstanding higher in keeping with ton pricing.

Manufacturing begins with cautiously decided-on HR coil sheet stock subjected to strict NICE manipulation measures during the production procedure. Engineers should keep in mind not simply instantaneous energy requirements but also long-time period conduct below dynamic loading situations.

Industrial Construction Considerations

Industrial structures present precise challenges requiring specialized reinforcement answers. Heavy equipment vibrations, capability chemical publicity, and strict deflection limits necessitate TMT bars with specific performance attributes.

Production centers using hot-rolled coil technology can supply custom-tailor-made reinforcement designed for uncommon loading patterns. When manufacturing facility flooring ought to support focused loads from production gadgets or storage systems, better-grade TMT bars allotted in step with finite element analysis consequences optimize fabric usage even while making sure structural protection.

Quality Assurance and Certification Standards

Genuine best assessment extends beyond simple energy checking out to complete metallurgical evaluation. The third-birthday celebration certification confirms adherence to applicable standards while presenting assurance that the HR coil sheet uncooked substances meet chemical composition necessities and completed products supply consistent overall performance.

Conclusion

Selecting suitable reinforcement materials calls for balancing immediate challenge requirements with long-term overall performance considerations. The choicest TMT bar choice relies upon unique software needs, environmental situations, and financial constraints. Construction decision-makers who recognize the subtle differences among available options can implement price-powerful answers without compromising structural integrity or safety margins.

Projects benefit most when substance selection integrates seamlessly with structural design philosophy, developing harmonious systems wherein every factor contributes accurately to usual overall performance targets.

[naturally-dazed]

how are games for a decade old console the same price as they are for the ps5

[probablyasocialecologist]

All the takes are correct and yet they also miss the point. Yes, it was insane for the Democrats to think they could win by running a soulless candidate, without a shred of progressive policy vision, pursuing endorsements from neocon war-hawks everybody hates, while arming and funding a genocide, and belittling and crushing those who have enough morality to protest it. It is enraging that the Democrats are so smug and blind to this. But these are all just symptoms. The deeper reality is that liberalism has failed, liberalism is dead, and people urgently need to wake up to this fact and respond accordingly. It is a defunct ideology that cannot offer any meaningful solutions to our social and ecological crises and it must be abandoned. Democrats have proven over and over again that they cannot accept even basic steps like public healthcare, affordable housing, and a public job guarantee - things that would dramatically improve the material, social and political conditions of the working classes. And they cannot accept a public finance strategy that would steer production away from fossil fuels and toward green transition to give us a shot at a liveable future. Why? Because these things run against the objectives of capital accumulation. And for liberals capital is sacrosanct. They will do whatever it takes to ensure elite accumulation, it is their only consistent commitment. At home, they suppress and demonize progressive and socialist tendencies. Abroad, they engage in endless wars and violence to suppress input prices in the global South and prevent any possibility of sovereign economic development. The Democrats have done all this purposefully and knowingly, for my whole life, not as some kind of "mistake" but in full consciousness that it is in the interests of capital. And because liberalism cannot address our crises, and because it crushes socialist alternatives, it inevitably paves the way for right-wing populism. They know this pattern, and yet they risk it every time - this election being only the most recent example. They did it in 2016, when they actively crushed the Sanders campaign and sent Trump to the White House. They do it because ultimately they (and I mean the liberal ruling class here) don't really mind if fascists take power, so long as the latter too ensure the conditions for capital accumulation. They 100% prefer this to the possibility of a socialist alternative. So, progressives have to face reality. The dream of "converting" the Democratic party is dead. This is now a fact and it must be accepted. The only option is to build a mass-based movement that can reclaim the working classes and mobilize a political vehicle that can integrate disparate progressive struggles into a unified and formidable political force and achieve substantive transformation. This will take real work, actual organizing, but it must be done and that process must begin now.

Jason Hickel

[sv3t1ana]

SYNOPSIS ᯓ Gojo doesn't usually fuck his clients. This was supposed to be a normal massage. But with hands like that and a cock to match... "professional" was never on the table.

PAIRING ᯓ Masseur!Gojo x Fem!Reader

WARNINGS ᯓ smut MDNI, happy ending massage!, oral (f receiving), size kink?, PIV, spanking, biting/marking, dirty talk, possessiveness if you squint!

WORD COUNT ᯓ 5.3k

You’d driven past the place at least a hundred times.

It’s a stupidly sleek little building tucked perfectly between a Pilates studio and one of those overpriced juice bars. Like the kind with an obnoxiously chic and overly sensual neon sign that says TOUCH. White letters on smoked glass, all minimalist and judgy and expensive.

Every time you passed it you’d scoff.

“They probably charge three hundred fucking dollars just to rub your back and judge your pores.”

You’d even spat out an insult once like the building itself would crumble under the weight of your words, hitting the gas on your way home from work. Said it with the kind of righteous confidence that only comes from truly believing you’d never be that kind of girl. The kind who just… lets someone touch them like that. Oil-slicked and half-naked, moaning on some fake leather table while a stranger pretends it’s “therapeutic.”

Weird, isn’t it?

Definitely not for you.

And yet, here you are.

Saturday morning. Pillow hair, soul cracked like a boiled egg, lying in bed with your phone half on your face as you text your best friend in a fugue state,

you ever feel like your spine is just floating? help

You expected a “same.”

get a massage. i’m serious.

You snort. Riiight, a massage, huh?

You stare at the screen, eyes locked to the message like if you stared long enough it’d dial itself.

No amount of sarcasm or dignity can fix the way your shoulders feel like cement. Or the way you haven’t slept properly in weeks. Or the way your boss sent a “quick favor” email at precisely 11:48 PM last night, which you answered because your spine is already jelly and your will to live has already been transferred to a spreadsheet.

So… yeah.

Maybe you are that girl.

The bell attached to the door jingled as you step into the spa, and this is where you immediately felt out of place. The air smelled like eucalyptus and tears of the rich. The lighting was soft, flutey music passing through one ear and out the other, the woman at reception desk with the kind of smooth and poreless skin someone had when they bathed in rosewater.

You step up, feigning confidence like you hadn’t just Googled “what happens at a massage” just an hour ago.

“Hi, uh… I’d like to get a massage?”

She looked up from her computer with a smile too serene to be trusted. “Of course, what kind were you thinking? We offer Swedish, Thai, deep tissue, shiatsu, hot stone, aromatherapy-”

You nod slowly, brain buffering like YouTube trying to stream Paul vs. Tyson. Swedish? Do you get buttered up and rolled around like an IKEA meatball? You can’t ask that. You’d already committed the biggest crime by pretending you belonged here.

“Deep tissue,” you said, like you knew what the hell that meant.

She gave you a polite nod, tapping away on her keyboard. “Great choice. One of our more intense options. How long would you like the session? Sixty or ninety minutes?”

“Um… sixty’s good,” which is actually code for: I have no idea what I’m doing and I’m more scared of farting if you press too hard on my spine.

“Perfect,” she chirped. “The massage therapist will discuss pricing with you. You can take a seat, they’ll call you back shortly.”

You stepped aside, sitting on the impossibly soft couch in a sack of second-guessing. Of course there was a candle named something you can’t pronounce. And of course there’s a small framed sign on the coffee table reading: Relaxation is a journey, not a destination.

Just as you begin contemplating how to fake an emergency bolt, an intrusive thought crossing your mind to stand up and scream that you had a fucking bomb, a calm voice called your name.

You stood up, maybe way too quickly, meeting the eyes of a woman smiling at you with a clipboard in hand.

Thank god. A woman. The anxiety deflated from your shoulders. You didn’t really consider the possibility of a male masseuse until now, but the idea of some beefcake oiled up and kneading your thigh was not something you emotionally prepared for.

“This way,” she gestured for you to follow her down a hallway lined with softly glowing wall sconces and the sound of babbling water. You’d never felt so simultaneously underdressed and overscheduled.

She opened a door and motioned you inside. “You can undress to your comfort level and lie down under the towel, face down. I’ll let your massage therapist know you’re ready.”

“Towel?” you echo, glancing around. On the table sat a singular, small, pathetic white towel. It looked like something you’d pat a cat dry with, and you didn’t know if you expected a beach towel or a blanket.

Still, you nodded like a champ.

There you stood, alone after she exited and shut the door behind her. Unsure of how much was too much as you undressed. Were you supposed to keep your underwear on? Take it off? Would that be weird? Shit, what was the social etiquette here? It felt wrong to Google it, like the masseuse would walk in on you hunched over your phone naked like a caveman discovering the world wide web for the first time.

Eventually, you compromised by only keeping your underwear on and sliding under the towel, if you can even call it that. It barely covered your ass, and if you breathed wrong a cheek was gonna peek.

You lie face down, pressing your face into the weird little donut hole in the massage table. Every attempt at relaxation was a fail, your body as stiff as a mannequin.

The door creaked open, a voice drifted through the air all too low and smooth, way too sexy for this situation.

“Good evening,” he said.

Wait.

Waitwaitwaitwaitwaitwait.

You lift your head just a fraction, seeing a tall man stepping into the dimly lit room. White uniform shirt rolled to the elbows. Forearms like Greek sculpture. Messy white hair. A face so hot you swore you could hear angels filing HR complaints. His eyes were icy, meeting yours and curved with a smile.

“I’ll be your masseur tonight,” he said. “Name’s Satoru. Just let me know if anything feels uncomfortable.”

“Oh. Okay. Cool,” you say, voice cracking.

He chuckled softly, washing his hands in the corner, the sound of running water far too sensual. You press your face back into the donut, trying not to internally implode.

You asked for this, your brain whispered.

You chose deep tissue, whatever that meant.

You hear the flick of a small bottle opening. Something shifts behind you, the scent of cedarwood and vanilla blooming through the room like a secret. A soft, wet sound followed, and then-

Drip.

Oil hit the small of your back first. Warm, silky. You twitched without meaning to.

“Sorry,” his voice came playful and low, like he wasn’t sorry at all. “Didn’t mean to surprise you.”

You didn’t trust yourself to speak, only letting out a small squeak of laughter.

Then came his hands.

Large, warm, firm. Gentle as they pressed into your shoulders, thumbs digging slow, practiced circles into the knots near your spine. You can’t help the exhale escaping your lips, something between a sigh and a sound you’d only make in bed.

“This your first massage?” he asks, and damn him. Even his voice sounded like a smirk.

You coughed. “That obvious?”

“Just a bit,” he teased, hands now kneading into the ridge between your neck and shoulder. “You’re stiff. Tense.”

You laugh nervously. “It’s just work stuff. Desk job.”

“Hm,” he hummed like he already knew. Like he could read it in your body the moment his hands touched you. “I’ll start at your shoulders and work my way down. We’ll see if we can get you loosened up.”

You made another strangled sound of agreement in response, biting your lip.

Every stroke of his palm dragged warm oil over your skin, spreading heat along your back, down your spine. The pads of his thumbs pressed into the muscles beside your shoulder blades, firm but slow. It wasn’t just good, but shamefully so. Soothing, deep. Every time his thumbs pressed in, you felt your breath catch in your throat.

Focus, you told yourself. This is a professional, he does this all the time. And you’re not special, just some towel-clad client on a table meant for meat tenderizing.

But gods, his hands.

They were confident, skilled, moving in ways like they had the heaven’s permission to touch you. Maybe they did, each stroke leaving your skin burning in its wake. Your hips shifted slightly. Not on purpose. Well, maybe it was on purpose. You hated yourself for it.

He hadn’t said anything for a while, the room quiet aside from the ambient spa music and your stupid heartbeat echoing in your ears, your heart trying to crawl its way out from your ribcage. You focused on the feeling, the press of his digits into your shoulder. On the long drag of his hands gliding down, down, oil-slick and hot against your spine.

Shit, your brain was melting.

You felt his hands move again, slower now, gliding at your middle back. You couldn’t help but wonder if the towel slipped, didn’t dare look. You just stayed still, very still, praying for dignity while also very much wishing he’d go lower. His thumbs pushed into the small of your back, just on either side of your spine, and you exhaled, loudly.

You immediately regretted it. But he didn’t say anything. Just chuckled softly, barely a sound, and pressed deeper.

Gojo had given thousands of massages before. Hell, he’d worked on celebrities, models, athletes, all kinds of bodies sculpted and polished and worshiped. But this one? You? You weren’t some glammed-up goddess or an over-confident regular. You were shy, uncertain, nervous in the sweetest way, biting your lip like it’d save your soul.

And when he asked what was hurting, where it ached, you’d mentioned work like it explained everything.

He knew exactly what you needed.

His thumbs dragged slow over the curve of your back. You shifted slightly under him, just the tiniest movement, but not from pain. From heat. From something much, much lower. Gojo felt it, the tremor running through your muscles like a secret. The towel was still clinging to your hips, just barely, and he let his hands dip lower, enough to brush the top curve of your ass to see if you’d flinch.

And you didn’t.

Fuck.

He was breaking rules. His own rules. He didn’t do this. Never had. Not once. Not even with the flirty clients or the ones that offered more.

But then again, none of them were you.

Your skin was warm beneath his palms, your breath hitched in a rhythm that wasn’t just relaxation. He could hear it, feel it. And when his fingers barely slipped under the hem of that towel, just to knead the tight muscle at the base of your spine, he felt you tense.

Not with fear, but want.

He pressed deeper, just enough to test. And he almost groaned aloud when your hips lifted. As if it was an accident. But he knew better.

He loved the way you were sensitive for him, dragging his thumbs along the edge of the towel, fingertips brushing your perceptive skin that made his cock twitch.

He was throbbing against the zipper of his pants. He needed to stop.

But he wasn’t going to stop.

“First session’s free, by the way,” he murmured, just above your ear, his salacious tone a blessing to your ears. “House special.”

You made another soft sound and Gojo had to bite his cheek just to stop a deep groan threatening its way out from his lungs.

You thought you were in the clear when his hands left your back. For a moment, you considered breathing again. But then-

“Gonna move to your legs now,” he said, voice smooth and casual. “Starting from your feet.”

You couldn’t find it in you to protest. Your feet. The one part of your body that rejected human contact like a toddler would broccoli.

You tensed as he lifted your foot gentle, resting your ankle against a bolster. You took this opportunity to look. And he looked way too comfortable, crouched near your calves, rolling his sleeves up even more, his forearms, fuck, the veins, and warming more oil in his hands.

The first touch was light, gliding his fingers over your heel, your arch-

You flinched.

“Oh?” he laughed, glancing up. “Ticklish?”

You wanted to crawl inside the nearest candle holder and die.

“Maybe a little,” you mumbled, voice muffled.

“Noted,” he chuckled. “I’ll be gentle.”

And if Gojo Satoru wasn’t a liar before, he was now.

Because his thumbs rolled firm circles into your arches, sliding up the curve of your foot, down each toe like he fucking knew. You twitched again when he hit that spot near the ball of your foot.

He didn’t even pretend not to notice.

“Aw, you’re trying not to laugh.” His voice was warm. “Cute.”

You exhaled like a balloon deflating, face hot. “You’re evil.”

“Mmm,” he hummed, slowly dragging his palm up your sole to your ankle. “That’s one way to thank me.”

He didn’t linger much longer there, probably for your dignity which was already on life support, before he moved up, kneading your calf in strong, slow strokes. His hands wrapped around the muscle with confident pressure, and oh, it felt good.

All thoughts of embarrassment evaporating the moment his thumbs began sliding up your calf, massaging deep into the tissue. His touch slowed as he moved higher, now smoothing hot oil into the back of your knee.

Then he moved to your other leg. Same path. Foot, ankle, calf. All familiar but different. Like he was trying to memorize you. And this time his hands went slower, savoring the goosebumps prickling your skin as his hands moved higher, thumbs digging deeper. And when he reached the back of your thigh, right where the towel barely covered, you felt it.

The hesitation. The pause. The line of professionalism being toed.

And then crossed.

His hands never stopped moving, but his thumbs dragged slower, brushing up the back of your thigh and letting his touch linger along the soft skin there. His touch was light, too light to be considered a deep tissue massage.

“Still doing okay?” he asked, voice low.

You could only nod.

“Good,” he murmured. “You’re very responsive.”

Was this normal massage talk?

No, it couldn’t be. But you didn’t dare respond, didn’t want to stop him, even as your breath hitched and thighs threatened to instinctively press together.

Gojo’s hands stayed high on your thighs. One thumb circled the outside of your thigh.

“You’ve got tension here too,” he remarked, and this time, it wasn’t professional at all.

Your hips jolted.

“Sensitive?” he asked, almost a whisper.

You wanted to say something, maybe yes, maybe God, please don’t stop, but all that came out was a hum, shaky as his fingers gripped your thigh tighter.

“Don’t worry,” his voice silk-soft and soaked in pure heat. “I’ll take care of it.”

You didn’t even know he shifted until his voice came too close to your ear, just a low murmur.

“I’m gonna remove the towel now. That okay?”

You’re too far gone, just nodding.

“Need you to say it for me,” his voice is gentle.

“Yes,” you swallow, voice barely above a whisper.

He grips the towel, slow as sin, dragging it off your spine and letting it peel off you like he’s unwrapping something expensive. His fingers graze, not enough to claim but just enough to tease. You’re face-down, so you don’t see it. But he’s squinting, biting back a groan, cock already stirring and probably dripping.

He oils up again, slick and warm, spreading his palms across your ass with expert precision.

“Just breathe. This’ll help with tension in your glutes.”

Glutes, he says it like a medical term. You almost believe he’s just being good at his job, except his hands are kneading deeper, practically stroking the plushy fat of your ass.

His hips subtly press against the table, trying to relieve the throb without making a sound. His jaw is slack, eyes hooded, and he’s already sweating. He’s circling your ass with the heel of his palm, eyed glued to were your thighs part ever-so-slightly, revealing the slightest sliver of wet lace. His mouth waters.

His thumbs brush the hem of your panties, it’s innocent at first. But then he does it again, lingering.

You can almost feel the air shift.

Something about the way he touches you makes your skin buzz. He hasn’t said anything… too off yet, but the drag of his fingers along your thighs, the brush against the edge of your panties, you’re beginning to think it’s not exactly on the menu at most spas.

“Gonna take these off too. Helps me reach deeper tissue,” his finger hooks just teasingly into the hem at your hips.

You know it’s a lie. It has to be. But you nod.

And again, he waits.

“Say it, sweetheart.”

“Yes,” you exhale, heartbeat in your ears.

Then he hooks only his thumbs into your panties, slow, like it’s a favor. You lift your hips slightly so he can pull them down, and he takes his time. His thumbs caress you as he drags them down to your knees, ankles, then off completely.

And now you’re bare. Naked. Exposed under his hands and eyes, no doubt dripping from tension and need alone.

The only sound in the room is the soft roll of incense smoke, faint music, and the slick shhhhhkkk of oil between his palms to start again, skin to skin.

He shifts, thumbs dipping lower and palms kneading the tops of your thighs. It’s almost too much, you want to move, clench your legs shut, but you don’t. You stay soft, pliant, open.

And he watches. Every flutter of your muscles. Every twitch. The faintest glisten where your thighs part.

This was no longer routine.

So wet already. You poor thing probably didn’t even mean to be.

He watches your hips shift when he gets close, the way your toes twitch as his thumbs drag sinfully along your inner thighs. It’s like you’re desperate and embarrassed all at once. And yet, you obeyed him. And he loved every second of it.

You’re so pure, so sweet, so filthy for him. Not a single complaint. No hesitation.

Glutes soft and flushed from the heat of his palms. Inner thighs slicked with oil. Breathing shallow and shaky. And his favorite part, your slit tucked between trembling legs, glistening with more than just oil.

He shifts again, subtly dragging his cock against the edge of the massage table. Hard, throbbing, and unforgiving.

“You’re responding really well,” he murmurs, the heel of his palms pushing into your inner thighs enough to part you only so he can see more.

And you’re going insane.

His hands on your thighs, voice in your ear. Every pass of his palms leaving your nerves sparking, and it’s taking everything in you not to freely moan when his knuckles drag just too close.

When your legs twitch again, of course he notices. “Don’t worry. You’re doing great. Just let me take care of you.”

But then his sinful thumbs sweep higher. Still outside, not touching where you need him most. But close. So, so close. And you can’t help the gasp escaping you.

And that’s when he finally brushes his fingers along your folds, light, feather-soft, as if he’s checking something.

Your whole body jerks. His voice lowers a few octaves.

“You’re soaked.”

A beat of silence.

“Want me to keep going?”

Again, you nod.

“Words, sweetheart.

You swallow, face burning and contorting where it’s nestled in the headrest. “Yes… please.”

“Good girl,” his chuckle is low and so smug.

You’re so responsive for him, every time his fingers tease your slick little slit, your thighs tremble like they’re fighting not to squeeze shut.

You don’t even realize the slightest rock of your hips, silently begging for more like you’re chasing his fingers.

He palms your ass again, spreading you open as he traces a single digit up and down. Folds puffy and hot, dripping onto the table, clit twitching like it knows what’s coming.

“You said this was your first massage, right?” he says, dragging a single finger deeper between your folds. “But you’re begging for attention.”

Then his thumb gently presses against your clit, unmoving but giving you the pressure you oh so desperately needed.

“Think you might’ve been made for this.”

You can’t breathe, can’t think. All you know is his hands. The way they press into you, spreading your arousal and oil around as if it’s a divine ritual. The way his thumb circles your clit painstakingly slow, so patient.

You mewl, too far gone to be ashamed.

“Want the full package?” his question come velvet-smooth.

You blink, dazed. “…The what?”

His thumb pressed in just a little harder, your body tensing. “Y’know, the extra. Let me take care of everything.”

“Y-yeah…” your voice is barely audible, but it’s all he needs.

He smiles, the thick curl of anticipation mixing with the burning incense in the air, winding your spine as he murmurs your new nickname again:

“Good girl.”

It’s like this was always going to happen. Like he’s done this a hundred times before and you were just next in line, all dripping wet and none the wiser.

Then he’s palming you again, hands oiled with a fresh squirt as both hands slide over your skin. It’d be professional if it wasn’t for the way his thumbs spread you once again.

It’d be professional didn’t brush directly over your soaked folds, a low growl he lets out, low and restrained when he sees your cunt pulse for him.

“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath, dragging two fingers through your slick.

Then he dips two fingers inside you, slow and filthy as he immediately curls them right into that soft spot between your ridges that has you gasping into the table padding.

“God, you’re tight. Gonna have to open you up first, yeah?”

It’s as if it’s still part of the massage.

He fucks you slow with his fingers, his free hand moving to move ‘round and ‘round against your clit with his thumb. And fuck, he’s too skilled. Every filthy, wet stroke of his fingers has you whimpering, any semblance of professionalism lost by the sound of your whispers.

“So responsive,” he mutters almost to himself. “You’ll do anything I ask, won’t you?”

Then-

Smack.

Your body jolts, a sharp sting across your ass, the crack echoing through the room.

“Mm,” he hums, smoothing the reddened spot of his handprint like he’s checking the quality of his own work. “Pretty thing makes such pretty sounds.”

Another smack. You gasp.

“Flip over for me.”

His tone is easy, casual like he’s asking you to flip a page in a magazine. Your legs move before you, body fully glistening with oil and anticipation.

His face looks almost desperate. Sweat at his temples, white lashes fluttering over hooded eyes at burn. His lips are parted, flushed, bitten like he's been holding back from devouring you whole.

He's no longer the calm masseur from before, but a man on the edge of losing it.

Every inch of him thrumming with want, you can see it in the way his jaw flexes, the slight tremble in his fingers at his sides. His gaze drops between your legs, staying there like he's starving.

He wants this, wants you just as badly. Maybe worse.

And he sees you. Laid out like an offering, tits soft and heaving, thighs glistening, cunt spread and twitching, begging for his attention.

He lets out a low, heavy breath. “Fuck. Look at you.”

Then his hands are tracing down your thighs, hooking under your knees just to bring them to your chest.

And he goes in, no teasing or warning, just his hands spreading you wide, full mouth-to-pussy action.

His tongue slides over your clit like he’s starving. Moaning into you like you’re the sweetest thing he’s ever tasted. It’s filthy, loud, wet, feral.

He laps at you like he wants to crawl into your skin and live there. His lips lock around your clit, tongue flicking fast and relentless, fingers digging into you.

Your hips buck instinctively. Your hands fly to his hair, fingers clutching his silvery strands as your legs twitch, toes curl.

He loves it. The desperate little grind of your hips, the wrecked moan slipping from your throat, the way you push his face impossibly deeper.

So he doubles down, dragging his tongue lower and fucking it into your hole with lewd precision, then pulls back just to suck at your clit like it’ll grant him immortality.

“You taste like heaven,” he groans, lost in a daze himself. “Sweet little thing, gonna cum all over my mouth, huh? So fucking wet. Bet you’ve been thinking about this.”

He flattens his tongue, grinding it against your clit, and you cry out, entire body jerking, thighs clenching around his head. But he doesn’t stop, if anything only groans, grinding his hips into the table like he’s getting off just on your taste.

You’re soaked. Senseless. A carnal desire to soak his face in your arousal.

And when you gasp his name, fingers tugging at his locks, body trembling-

“That’s it,” he purrs. “Cum for me, baby.”

You shatter. Completely. Fully. Back arching from the table, breath punched from your lungs, cunt clenching so hard around nothing it’s fucking cruel. He just stays there, tongue flicking, dragging out every last pulse of your orgasm until your legs go numb.

Your thighs are trembling around him, your cunt a swollen, slick mess, still twitching with aftershocks. You’re still moaning, fucked-out and blissed as he presses kisses to your inner thigh.

Fuck. He thinks you look perfect like this. Made to be ruined for him.

And he’s done being patient.

So he stands, unzipping his pants. His cock springs free, red, leaking, painfully hard. And shit, he’s big. A slight upward curve, a thick vein running along his thick, long length.

“Up,” he says, voice coaxing like he’s asking you to breathe.

Your legs wobble as you push yourself off the table, only for his hands to grip your waist and bend you right back over it. Your bare chest pressed to the cushiony surface, cheek against the towel.

“There you go,” he drags the thick head of his throbbing cock through your folds, smearing your slick across your lower lips and on his tip until it could drip off. “Gotta get all that tension out, yeah? Let me work those knots a little deeper.”

You walked in here all shy and tense, even spending twenty minutes willing yourself to open your car door. New client, first massage, all stiff shoulders and tight posture. Said your job had you aching. Said you needed relief.

And the first time he saw you, big eyes, nervous smile, a little stutter from your lips when he first touched your shoulders.

He knew exactly what you needed.

“First massage,” he breathes, lining his tip to your entrance.

Then he pushed in. Deep.

You choke on a moan. He’s so thick, splitting you open inch by inch, your walls struggling and stretching to take him. His hands dig into your waist, still warm with oil, just holding you savoring the moment he finally sinks all the way in.

“Fuck,” he groans, head tipping back. “That’s it- just like that- you were made for this.”

He pulls back, only until just the tip lay past your entrance, before slamming back in. And you jerk, fingers scrambling for purchase on the table.

Each stroke rocks through your spine. Your tits drag against the table, mouth hanging open, drool smearing the table. Your mind’s a blur, just the sound of skin slapping, Gojo’s breathy moans, and the obscene, wet noise of him slamming into you over and over and over.

“Say thank you,” he almost growls, snapping his hips up so deep your toes curl. “Say it.”

“T-thank you,” you gasp, eyes rolling to the back of your skull.

Then, smack. A sharp slap to your ass, and you whine.

“For what?”

“F-fucking me- oh my god- for fucking me-”

“No,” he pants, rutting into you harder now, cock hitting that sweet spot so perfect it could make you squeal. “Say it right. Thank you for relieving my stress.”

“Thank you-” you cry out, broken and shaking. “Thank you for- mmh- relieving my stress.”

He leans over you, his hardened chest against your back, cock still pistoning in your soaked cunt. His mouth finds your neck, tongue dragging across your bare skin before he bites. Sucks. Marks you.

Another hickey. Then another.

You’re completely gone, every thrust having your eyes fluttering, your moans shameless, drool coating your lower face. Your walls flutter around him, squeezing his thick length more than you already were, clenching with every thrust, every filthy word.

His hips stutter, balls tightening as he pounds you into the table.

“So fucking tight,” he groans. “Gonna cum- fuck- gonna cum all over this pretty back.”

And he does. One last brutal thrust and he pulls out, cock twitching before spilling across your lower back in hot, thick ropes, painting your skin in streaks of white.

He watches it drip down your spine, chest heaving, cock still half-hard and still twitching from how hard you just milked him for all he’s worth.

“Goddamn,” he whispers, leaning down to admire his work. “You really were stressed, huh?”

Then he drags a hand up your spine, wiping his fingers through the mess he made, rubbing it into your skin like a filthy seal.

The air is thick with heat, sex, and you. His hand rubs sensual circles into your back.

“You good, sweetheart?” he brushes the hair from your face, tucking it behind your ear.

You nod, dazed, wrecked, legs still trembling. He leans in and presses a kiss to your lips. It’s soft, slow, tender in a way that almost startles you.

“First kiss,” he whispers against your lips.

Then he straightens, grabbing a warm towel from the side table. His hands are gentle as they wipe you down, cleaning you with a reverence that borders on obscene. He helps you stand straight, pressing another kiss to your temple, his big hands careful and supportive.

“So…” he starts, tapping his lip. “Same time next week?”

You can only stare, flushed and panting.

“No charge, obviously,” he adds, giving you a wink. “I’m invested in your health now.”

Of course you’re coming back. With a dick like that? With a mouth like that? You’d be stupid not to.

You shake your head, trying not to smile.

“Take your time, I’ll be outside.”

The door closes behind him with a soft click.

You sigh, dragging yourself over to the side table on shaky legs, slowly redressing like your soul wasn’t just rearranged. You grab your clothes, pulling your bra back on, then your shirt, then-

Your panties.

Your panties?

You check under the table. Beside it. In the towel pile.

Your brows shoot up, a slow, disbelieving laugh escapes your lips.

That smug thieving bastard.

He took them, slipping them into his pocket. You shake your head as you pull on your pants, cheeks still flushed, heart returning to a normal rate.

Oh yeah, you’re definitely coming back.

[divinedomainn]

Stream and Scream | reader x multiple men

PROLOGUE ▷ || play next song? summary : You started an OnlyFans to pay rent. Then came Fuck-a-Fan Fridays, one lucky subscriber, one masked hookup, all caught on camera. It’s anonymous. It’s hot. It’s getting you more subscribers. All good right? 'Till it turns out the ones watching you are your classmates and professors.

contains : camgirl!reader x a whole ass roster, rotating cast, university AU, smut, porn with kinda a crack plot, casual sex, anonymous sex, exhibitionism, recording, oral sex, piv sex, rough kinky sex, everyone wants to fuck reader, reader is kinda... willfully ignorant

A/N : hii this is my first time writing something like this but im SUPER excited. let me know your thoughts who do you think should come first :))

Being broke wasn’t a personality trait, but sweet neptune, it was starting to feel like your entire identity. Third-year cursed techniques major at Jujutsu University? Check. Half-assing your degree with the enthusiasm of a soggy napkin? Also check. Part-time job that paid in existential dread and maybe $11 an hour? Triple check. You were one bounced rent payment away from selling a kidney, and honestly, that kidney was looking pretty damn optional.

So yeah, when the idea of starting an OnlyFans first crossed your brain—mid-scroll on TikTok, wine drunk on a shared bottle of cooking wine with your equally poor friends, and flopped on your shitty single bed—you didn’t laugh it off. You snorted, scoffed, and muttered something bitter, "Bet her rent’s paid," while watching some girl with lip fillers and a Gucci hoodie flaunt her brand-new car, courtesy of her tit pics. You sighed and stared at the water stain on your ceiling like it held the answers.

Then rent day came. Your bank account proudly displayed a majestic $7.24. Your landlord's emails had shifted from "gentle reminder :)" to "we will pursue legal action," and you had a full-blown spiral that ended with you Googling “how to fake your own death” before switching to “how to start an OnlyFans without your mom finding out.”

And somehow—somehow—you were fucking good at it.

Not just good. Thriving.

Turns out all you needed was a ten-dollar ring light, some bargain-bin lingerie that only looked expensive if you angled your body like a Tumblr-era contortionist, and perhaps the illusion that the people that were viewing your content weren't real. You didn’t even show your face. Just your body - though sometimes doing private videos for the right price, some sultry poses, a well-placed pout you’d perfected in the mirror while pretending to be some sort of pornstar bombshell, and boom—you were in business. Real business. Like, able to pay your rent in full and order takeout everyday no sweat.

It escalated fast. One day you’re nervously posting some artsy nudes, the next you’re getting tipped fifty bucks just for answering questions like, “What’s your favorite color (and can you say it while biting your lip)?” You were sitting in your crusty dorm room still, surrounded by your influx of takeout boxes and cursed technique textbooks you hadn’t opened in weeks, realizing you were somehow becoming a one-woman empire.

So naturally, the next step was chaos: livestreaming. You had heard that could bring in thousands in one night - and honestly? You were starting to build up at least a few hundred subscribers.

“Fuck it,” you said, setting up your laptop, adjusting your ring light, and channeling your inner seductress while fighting back a nervous breakdown, ensuring your mask covered your face fully and that your wig covered all your real hair. Your first camgirl stream was a whirlwind. You were shaking, sweating, probably looking one glitch away from buffering into another dimension with your cracked setup - but the chat?

Tips flying. Comments rolling. People calling you a goddess. Practically throwing money at you to get you to do stuff you had (ashamedly) done for free for other men. Another said they’d sell their soul for a moan.

That was the moment you knew.

You’d made it. Well, all things considered atleast.

Rent? Paid. Groceries? Not a single ramen pack in sight anymore, just takeout bags. Your mental health? Still dicey, but at least now you could afford therapy.

What you didn’t know, though, what no part of your clout filled brain could have prepared for - was that some of the top tippers in your chat? The ones dropping money and borderline-feral compliments like... SixEyesOnly: stretch like that and make that noise again and i think i miiiight just send you an extra 100. OfficeAfterHours: Tipped 50. Please buy yourself some food. And wear socks. It's cold out. (For some reason you followed what he said.) EmoWithaBoner: squeeze the toy harder. pretend its my fuckin neck. Yeah. You saw them every damn day. In class. At the cafeteria. In the fucking jujutsu training hall at college. In all honesty you perhaps weren't the sharpest tool in the shed when it came to connecting the dots. Really.

But that disaster? That story comes later. For now, you were just a broke, horny, slightly unhinged college student who had accidentally stumbled into a side hustle that was by all means paying more than anything you could possibly do with a degree.

And baby, business was booming.

[becquerel]

DONT BUY A SWITCH 2. STOP TRYING TO JUSTIFY BUYING A SWITCH 2 AT RELEASE IN MY NOTES. THERE IS AN OPTION BETWEEN BUYING A SWITCH 2 AND PIRATING AND ITS JUST NOT PLAYING? YOU CAN JUST NOT PLAY. FOMO IS NEVER WORTH IT. FOMO IS BAD. STOP BUYING INTO IT.

I DO NOTTTTT CARE HOW MUCH YOU THINK THE PRICE FOR THE SWITCH 2 IS JUSTIFIED OR THAT YOULL BE BUYING IT ANYWAY. YOU ARE DEEPLY ANNOYING AND I HOPE YOU SHUT THE FUCK UP. LEARN TO NOT NEED ITEMS INSTANTLY. WORK ON THAT. ITS A YOU PROBLEM.

(on a post about the switch 2 being $450)

im going to be honest i think people vastly underestimate how much it takes to emulate things for good quality and how intensive piracy & emulation are. by all means im for it but you realize building a pc that can run emulators well and safely skirt viruses with torrenting is like a pretty hefty investment both timewise and moneywise. i Get that most of this website is inclined toward doing that investment because this is a website and audience bias means more technology based people will be making opinions on this. that being said: $450 is like nowhere near enough for a good quality self built pc. what the fuck are you talking about. unless youre just incredible at refurb and finding parts for a deal.

[dismalflo]

summer is for lovers

Remus Lupin x fem!reader ✩ 10k words

summary: on your hunt for a new flatmate you come across Remus. Lovely, handsome Remus. Over the summer months you slowly grow closer to each other.

cw; vague smut (not detailed) but still 18+, strangers to friends to lovers, fluff, tiny bit of angst, miscommunication, both reader and remus are a little emotionally constipated.

✩ May ✩

The harsh glow of your laptop screen, paired with the dwindling list of options, is giving you a headache. The pain pulses behind tired eyes, you’re exhausted. Landlords are pricks. The notice came a few weeks ago: your tiny flat, with its damp-stained walls (despite your investment in a fancy dehumidifier), a temperamental oven, and heating that barely registers in winter, is about to cost far more than you can afford. It’s barely worth what you pay now.

It turns out that most places in your price range are even worse than this, you must've seen upwards of twenty flats. So you’ve resigned yourself to looking for someone, anyone in need of a flatmate. Something entirely out of your comfort zone. A quiet, lonely girl by nature the idea of living with a stranger is alien and uncomfortable. But what other choices do you have?

There's a listing that seems like a good fit. Close to your work in a nice area, walking distance from a Tesco and it’s seemingly a good size. The only thing that puts you off is the fact it's a man, similar in age to you, advertising for a flatmate.

You don’t love the idea. But you’re running out of time. So you grab your phone and hover over the keypad, your mind racing while your fingers tremble as they type in the number.

Each ring after you press call makes your skin crawl with second thoughts. Still, you don’t hang up. And just when you’re about to, he answers. His voice makes you jump.

“Hello?” It’s low and calm.

“Hi,” you manage, your voice thinner than you’d like. At least he sounds nice, you think. “I, um… I saw your ad for a flatmate and I was wondering if you're still looking?”

“Yes–yeah,” he replies, sounding almost relieved. “You’re welcome to come by, have a look around? See how it feels?”

“That would be great, actually,” you say, breathing out slowly. “Would this afternoon work? Or whenever suits you.”

“This afternoon is perfect.”

You confirm the address and end the call, only then realising that you don’t know his name and he doesn’t know yours. Still, something about the tone of his voice settles the panic in your chest. It’s probably foolish, but for now, it’s enough.

-

The tube ride over is a blur. You're tucked into a corner seat, fingers clenched tight around the handle of your bag, knees bouncing in spite of your best efforts to seem composed. The whole journey, you’re rehearsing what you might say. Hi, I’m here about the flat. Too stiff. Nice to meet you, thanks for having me. Weirdly formal. Please let me live here, I’m very quiet and I won’t use your milk. Pathetic.

The closer you get, the more you regret not backing out. Your stomach’s knotted, heart thudding. It doesn’t help that the sky’s overcast, a flat grey pressing down like it might rain at any moment. You find the building easily – it’s a narrow brick townhouse with peeling paint around the windows but an otherwise respectable facade. Not too posh, not too grotty.

You buzz the number he gave you. A beat, and then the door unlocks with a clunk.

You’re greeted at the top of a narrow stairwell. The man from the listing is already waiting at the threshold of the flat, leaning lightly on the doorframe.

You freeze.

He’s beautiful.

Not in a clean, shiny way like the men in ads. No, he’s something quieter, warm brown eyes, framed by tired lashes and shadows that suggest long nights. His jumper hangs loose on a tall frame, sleeves pushed up to his forearms. There’s a scar that cuts across the bridge of his nose – thin, pale, old – but it fits his face. You’re staring.

He shifts, and you realise you're just standing there like a lemon.

“Hi,” you manage. “I’m Y/N, by the way.”

He smiles. “I’m Remus.”

You nod like that’s normal, like his voice isn’t curling around you in a way that makes your breath catch. Remus. You tuck the name away for safekeeping.

He steps aside to let you in. “Come on, I’ll show you around. It’s not Buckingham Palace or anything, but it’s solid.”

The flat is surprisingly nice. Wooden floors, worn but clean, a big window in the living room that lets in more light than you’d expected. There are bookshelves and a threadbare sofa that looks deeply comfortable. The kitchen is small but tidy, and he opens a cupboard to show you what would be “your half”.

“And the bathroom’s through here–no mould, promise,” he says, glancing at you over his shoulder with a grin that’s too charming to be fair. “And I don’t take forever in the mornings.”

You follow, nodding, your voice still lodged somewhere near your collarbone. “You, um... seem very prepared.”

He chuckles, rubbing at the back of his neck. “I try my best.”

You breathe in through your nose, trying to summon enough courage to sound like a normal person. “Well,” you say, your voice higher than usual, “as long as you don’t kill me in my sleep, I think we should be fine.”

The words are barely out before you regret them. Why would you say that? You flush, gaze snapping to the floor. But then—

Remus laughs.

Not just a polite huff, either. A real, warm laugh that starts low in his chest and melts into something softer.

You blink, stunned.

“Fair enough,” he says, still smiling. “I promise not to kill you. I make a mean cup of tea, though. That help balance it out?”

You nod, trying to hide the way your mouth twitches. “Yeah. That might do it.”

-

Living with Remus is fine, better than you expected actually. You’ve found him to be a perfectly amenable flatmate and his claims were true, he doesn't take forever in the mornings and he does make lovely cups of tea. 

Still, you find yourself hiding away in your bedroom most of the time, listening for when he vacates the living room and kitchen before making some quick food to eat and retreating back. He spends a lot of his time sitting at the dining table working on his manuscript and you'd hate to disturb him.

It's no fault of his that you hide away, you dont think you’ve met a nicer, more gentle boy in your life. It’s more like, you're so worried about imposing on his space and routine, being an annoyance that you avoid him.

So, when you hear the sound of his bedroom door shutting you make a break for the kitchen, stomach rumbling.  

You rummage through the fridge, the cold light humming against your skin, illuminating a disappointingly bare shelf. Half a tub of hummus, a sad-looking cucumber, and a block of cheddar that’s luckily mould free. You sigh and close the door with your hip, already drafting a mental shopping list.

Tomorrow, definitely. You’ll go tomorrow.

For now, you settle on a sandwich – cheese and cucumber. The bread’s from the freezer, so you wedge two slices apart and drop them into the toaster, rubbing sleep from your eyes with the back of your hand while you wait. The flat is quiet, save for the low tick of the kitchen clock and the mechanical whirr of the toaster heating up. It’s peaceful like this, when it’s just you and the hum of appliances. You suppose it's always peaceful really though, Remus isn’t very loud.

You’re halfway through slicing the cucumber when you hear it: the soft creak of a door down the hall. Footsteps. Then Remus appears, yawning into the sleeve of his jumper, his hair mussed like he’d been lying down.

“Oh–I’m sorry,” you blurt, stepping back from the counter instinctively, knife still in hand. “I didn’t mean to take over the kitchen.”

He blinks, confused for a half-second before smiling. “You’re fine,” he says gently. “Just need to get in there–” he nods at the cupboard above your head.

You quickly sidestep, hugging the counter as he reaches past you. As he opens the cupboard, his fingers brush your shoulder in passing, a light, friendly touch. You flinch, just barely, but he either doesn’t notice or chooses not to mention it.

From the shelf, he pulls down a small box full of blister packets of painkillers, the label worn from use. He moves to the sink, filling a glass with water as you return to your sandwich-making, quieter now. More self-conscious.

“I, um–didn’t mean to interrupt your rest,” you offer, hoping it doesn’t sound too awkward.

Remus looks over his shoulder at you, then downs the tablets with a quick gulp. “You live here too,” he says easily, setting the glass in the sink. “You don’t have to apologise for being in the kitchen.”

You look at him, a little surprised by the softness in his voice.

“Still,” you murmur, pressing the sandwich together, “you’ve got your routines. I didn’t want to get in the way.”

“You’re not,” he says, and smiles. It's a little crooked, a little tired. “Seriously. Come in here whenever you want. Cook something that stinks. Use the last teabag. The whole kitchen is yours too.”

Your eyes lift to meet his, and there’s something about the way he says it, like he means it, that makes your throat go tight.

“Oh,” you say softly. “Okay.”

Remus excuses himself with a quiet smile and a muttered, “Back in a bit,” before padding back down the hallway.

You catch it just as he turns: a slight shift in his gait. Barely noticeable, the way his weight tips unevenly between steps, like one side of his body isn’t quite cooperating with the other. It slows him, just slightly. Enough that your brows draw together before you even realise you're staring.

You stand in the kitchen for a long moment, sandwich forgotten in your hand. It’s not like you to pry. You hate when people ask about things you haven’t offered up willingly – hate the sharp, intrusive edge of what’s wrong with you? 

You take your sandwich to the little dining table where his laptop still sits closed, charger curled beside it. The seat across from you remains warm from where he’d been earlier. You chew in silence, mind gnawing at the image of him walking away with that faint limp. He hadn’t mentioned anything. No sign of injury.

Your chest prickles with quiet unease. Maybe it’s not your place. Maybe he doesn’t want questions.

The sandwich is half-finished when he reappears, this time in fresh pyjama bottoms and a different jumper, a little looser in the sleeves. He walks slower than usual, and now that you’re looking for it, the limp is unmistakable. It’s subtle but deliberate, a kind of favouring of one leg over the other. You feel that pinch again, behind your ribs.

Remus notices your eyes on him, and he offers you a faint smile, tired but open.

“Sorry,” he says, lowering himself gently into the chair opposite you with the kind of care that makes your heart ache. “Was hoping the tablets would kick in faster.”

Your voice is quiet when you speak. “Are you okay?”

He glances up at you, blinking like he hadn’t expected the question. For a moment you think he might brush it off, toss out some polite, yeah, all good lie. But then his expression softens. Honest.

“I will be,” he says. Then he hesitates, eyes flicking down to the grain of the wooden table, fingers brushing over a faint coffee ring like it might help ground him. “It’s just a flare-up. Happens sometimes.”

You nod slowly, waiting. Letting him lead.

“My joints,” he says eventually, voice low but calm. “They’ve been wrecked for years. Doesn’t usually act up like this, but sometimes–weather, overdoing it, not sleeping right–it just hits harder.” He gestures vaguely toward his leg, then his shoulder. “Today’s one of those days.”

You don’t say anything at first. Not because you don’t know what to say, but because your first instinct, that sounds awful, I’m sorry, feels both too much and not enough. You don’t think he’d want the sympathy of it anyway.

Instead, you offer him your full attention. “Is there anything you need? I mean, anything I can do?”

Remus looks at you, properly this time, and something unreadable passes behind his eyes. Gratitude, maybe. Surprise.

“No,” he says gently. “Thanks, though. Just rest, really. Try not to be on my feet more than I have to.”

You nod. Then, quieter, “I didn’t realise you were in pain.”

“I hide it well,” he says, the corners of his mouth lifting in something that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Comes with practice.”

“I could make tea?”

He smiles, just barely. “Only if you make it as good as I do.”

✩ June ✩

Downpours in June always catch you off guard. In your mind, the month should be full of sun and warmth even though it never is. Shockingly, the rain does little to dampen your mood on the walk home, too excited with the knowledge that when you get into the flat, Remus will be there, probably writing, ready to talk to you and listen to your day. 

You found quite quickly, after you got more comfortable, that you and Remus have a lot in common. You like the same shows and takeaways, both reading copious amounts of books and both of you are quiet and calm a lot of the time. You think he might be your only real friend and maybe that's a bit pathetic but you can’t bring yourself to care. 

Your trainers squelch faintly as you step into the building, hair sticking to your forehead and the back of your neck. Still, there’s a smile tugging at your lips. You’re soaked and half-frozen, but the thought of the flat and Remus keeps your spirits high.

You shake the worst of the water from your coat before unlocking the flat door. It swings open, the familiar creak greeting you–

–and then a sound you weren’t expecting.

Laughter. Loud, overlapping voices. And not just Remus’.

Your eyes flick up as you step into the living room and stop short.

There are people in your flat.

Three strangers are sprawled across the sofas, legs thrown over armrests, half-drunk mugs of tea and empty crisp packets scattered across the coffee table.

The girl with striking red hair and green eyes is curled into the far corner of the loveseat, gesturing with a half-eaten biscuit and grinning. Next to her, a tall, dark-haired boy is half-lounging, half-sliding off the cushions, knees spread like he owns the place. His shirt is rumpled, his hair even more so, but it works on him. On the floor, sitting cross-legged and sipping from a mug, is another man, long dark hair, an open leather jacket.

And in the middle of it all, Remus.

He’s leaned forward in his usual seat, elbow braced on his knee, a lazy sort of smile tugging at his mouth. He looks comfortable. At home. The sleeves of his jumper are pushed up, and there’s a small ink smudge on his knuckle. He lifts his head at the sound of the door and lights up when he sees you.

“Oh–hey!” he says, already standing. “You’re back.”

All at once, the three others look up. At you.

You freeze in the doorway, suddenly aware of your rain-slick hair, damp jeans, the drip of water off your coat. Your bag sags heavily at your side.

“Hi,” you manage, blinking.

Remus crosses to take your bag, entirely casual. “Didn’t think you’d be back this early. I’d have warned you.”

You shrug, trying for a smile. “The rain chased me home.”

“Let me get you a towel in a sec–uh, this is Lily, Sirius, and James.” He gestures over his shoulder, and they all wave.

Lily smiles kindly. James does a salute from the couch. Sirius raises his mug.

You nod, stepping a little further into the room, wringing your hands slightly.

Of course Remus would have friends like this, you think. People who look like they stepped out of a film set or an advert or maybe an indie band that never quite went mainstream. If you didn’t know any better, you’d assume they were all built in the same beautiful factory.

Sirius leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, eyes glinting with mischief. “So you’re the one living with Moony. Brave soul.”

James chimes in, grinning. “Yeah, seriously. Does he still snore like a bear, or has he grown out of it?”

You blink, then giggle – actually giggle – which surprises even you.

“I haven’t noticed,” you say, glancing at Remus as he hands you a towel, whose ears have gone slightly pink. “He’s actually… really great to live with.”

You miss the way he straightens slightly at that, how his expression softens. You’re too busy trying to unstick a strand of wet hair from your cheek.

“I’m just gonna–” you gesture vaguely down the hall, “–shower. Before I mildew. I’ll be back.”

You duck into the hallway with a grateful glance toward Remus, clutching the towel he pressed into your hands like a lifeline. You’re still soaked through, jeans sticking to your legs, and your skin feels clammy beneath your shirt. In the bathroom, you peel out of your wet clothes, your cheeks still warm from the shock of unexpected company.

The shower helps. Hot water pounding against your back, steam curling around your face, loosening the tension in your shoulders. You scrub quickly, methodically, trying not to think too hard. You don’t know why their presence made your chest tighten like that – maybe it was the surprise, maybe it was how pretty they all were. Maybe it was the way they all seemed to belong here.

It’s not jealousy, exactly. Just a small ache, like being on the outside of a joke you’d love to be part of.

-

Back in the living room, as the sound of the bathroom door clicks shut, a shift happens.

Sirius, who had been half-sprawled on the floor with his mug, shoots a look at Remus – slow and smug. “Mate.”

Remus doesn’t look up from where he’s fidgeting with the hem of his sleeve. “Don’t.”

“Oh, I will.” Sirius grins, wolfish.

Lily lets out a snort, raising her brows at James. “Did you see the way he lit up when she walked in?”

James nudges Remus’s knee with his own. “It was sweet, actually. Like a dog seeing its favourite person.”

Remus groans, dragging a hand over his face. “You’re all insufferable.”

“Not denying it, though,” Lily singsongs.

“There’s nothing to deny,” Remus mutters, flushing down to his collarbones. “She’s just my flatmate.”

James grins. “Flatmate. Right.”

Lily’s voice softens just slightly, teasing but kind. “It’s okay, Remus. We like her. She seems sweet.. And clearly into you, even if she doesn’t know it yet.”

Remus shifts in his seat, pulling his sleeve back down like it might shield him. “She’s not. And even if she were, she deserves... more.”

Sirius tilts his head, tone quieter now. “More than what?”

Remus doesn’t answer.

The conversation lapses just in time for the soft pad of footsteps down the hallway.

-

You return with damp hair falling to your shoulders, the sleeves of your jumper pulled over your hands. The soft scent of your shampoo trails after you. You hover at the edge of the living room, unsure if you’re intruding again.

Remus looks up first, his face softening instantly. “Feel better?”

You nod, giving him a small smile. “Much.”

There’s a pause – comfortable, this time – before he gestures to the seat beside him. “Come sit?”

You do.

The sofa is warm from where he’d been sitting earlier. Close, but not too close.

“Are you hungry?” he asks, turning slightly toward you. “We’ve got crisps, biscuits. Sirius tried to eat all the digestives but I fought him off–”

“I let him win,” Sirius adds from the floor.

“–or there's your leftovers in the fridge.” He continues, ignoring his friend's input.

You shake your head. “I’m okay, thank you.”

Lily leans forward, her smile easy. “So, how’s it been living with this one?” She jerks her thumb toward Remus.

You glance at him, then back to her. “Honestly? Pretty great. He’s... very considerate.”

“She’s being polite,” Remus mumbles, rubbing the back of his neck.

“She’s being nice,” Lily corrects, then turns back to you. “It’s very commendable of you, I’m sure there's something about him that annoys you.”

“Charming, Lils.” Remus says with a fond eye roll.

Lily is wrong, you think, at this point in time you can't think of anything about remus that annoys you. He’s not a perfect person, obviously, but any little annoyances you have with him are forgotten quickly after they happen.

The conversation rolls on from there. They ask about your job, your favourite books, where you went to school. You end up laughing more than you have in weeks, tucked into the corner of the sofa beside Remus, your shoulder just barely brushing his arm.

By the time the clock on the wall nudges past ten, the living room has slipped into a comfortable sprawl of conversation and low laughter. Mugs have been refilled more than once, empty wrappers tucked under cushions, and Sirius has taken to stacking biscuit crumbs on James’s shoulder like a game of Jenga.

Eventually, one of them – Lily, predictably – checks the time and groans. “Alright, we’re off,” she says, pushing herself up with a dramatic sigh. “Some of us have to be adults in the morning.”

“Tragic,” Sirius mutters, already reaching for his jacket.

There’s a flurry of movement – shoes tugged on, bags slung over shoulders, mugs gathered into a clumsy stack for the kitchen. You stand too, a little uncertain, hanging back near the hallway door as the group bunches near the entrance.

Then, unexpectedly, Lily turns to you

“You coming to the pub quiz next week?” she asks, suddenly warm and familiar, like you’ve known each other longer than just a few hours. Her voice is bright but her eyes are kind, like she really means it.

You blink. “Oh. Um—”

“It’s good fun,” she says quickly. “Low-stakes. Mostly an excuse to drink.”

Your lips twitch despite yourself. “That sounds nice.”

“Perfect,” Lily beams. Then, before you can overthink it, she wraps you into a hug.

You freeze for a second. Her arms are confident and soft around you, her hair brushing your cheek. But after the initial surprise fades, you lean into it.

“See you there,” she murmurs as she pulls back, with a wink

The others say their goodbyes in overlapping waves. Sirius claps Remus on the shoulder with a dramatic flourish, James promises to text him about the weekend, and Lily gives Remus a kiss on the cheek.

Then they’re gone – the flat door swinging closed behind them with a satisfying click, their chatter already fading down the stairs.

You’re still standing in the living room when Remus comes back a few minutes later, having seen them out to the street. He exhales deeply as he toes off his shoes, running a hand through his hair.

You’re already moving, collecting empty mugs from the coffee table and straightening a blanket draped halfway to the floor.

“You don’t have to do that,” he says, voice gentle as he returns to the room. “It’s not your mess, love.”

You glance up at him. The endearment settles warm and light in your chest. He says it so naturally you’re not sure he even notices.

“It’ll be faster if we do it together,” you reply simply, heading into the kitchen with a stack of cups.

Remus follows, quiet but not resisting. The two of you move easily in tandem – like you’ve done this before, like you’ve lived together for years instead of just a month. He wipes down the coffee table while you rinse out mugs. You clear the sofa of stray crisp bags while he tucks the blanket back into shape.

It’s domestic, almost absurdly so. The kind of soft, mundane routine you used to dream about without realising it.

When the last mug is tucked into the drying rack and the cushions on the sofa are more or less back in their proper places, you find yourself standing in the middle of the living room, blinking in the stillness. It’s quiet again, but a good kind of quiet.

Remus glances over from where he’s just finished folding the throw blanket across the back of the sofa. “Right,” he says, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “Mission accomplished.”

You nod, suddenly aware of the ache settling into your limbs – the kind of tired that follows a long day and warm company.

“C’mere,” Remus says, and without really thinking, you follow as he flops down onto the sofa, sprawling into the corner he always claims. He gestures for you to join him, and you do, curling up on the opposite end. Your knees tuck beneath you, your elbow sinking into the cushion. The warmth of the evening clings to your skin, a pleasant, weighty tiredness settling in.

You let out a breath, soft. “Your friends are really nice.”

He hums in agreement, tipping his head back against the cushion to look at the ceiling. “They are.”

Then, quieter, you add, “Sorry if I was... imposing. I didn’t mean to crash your night.”

His head tilts, gaze sliding over to meet yours, brows gently pulled together. “You’d never be imposing.”

You blink at him, something tender sparking behind your ribs.

“They liked you,” he says, like it’s the simplest, most obvious thing in the world.

You smile, small and uncertain. “That’s a relief. I’d have to start hiding away again if they didn’t.”

He huffs a soft laugh, turning more toward you, one leg tucked up beneath the other. “I don’t see how anyone wouldn’t like you.”

The room goes still for a beat.

It’s not even the words that hit you so hard, it’s the way he says them. Quietly, plainly. Like it’s not even a question. Like he believes it.

You swallow. Your fingers twist in the hem of your jumper.

“You’d be surprised,” you murmur.

Remus watches you carefully, eyes soft and steady. “No, I wouldn’t.”

You look away first, heart thudding too loud in your chest. It’s not flirtation, what he’s doing – it’s too sincere for that. It feels heavier somehow, more honest.

He shifts again, this time stretching his legs out, one foot brushing yours beneath the throw blanket. He doesn’t move it away.

You try for something lighter. “You didn’t tell me you had friends that were basically a rock band.”

He chuckles, running a hand over his jaw. “Yeah, they’re a bit much, aren’t they?”

“They’re... great,” you say, and you mean it. “I don’t think I’ve ever met people that easy to talk to.”

His smile is quiet. “They’ll love that. Especially Sirius. He lives for being charming.”

“I could tell.”

Remus’s laugh is low, and it lingers. “I’m glad you stayed. You looked like you were going to bolt.”

You flush, ducking your head. “I was.”

There’s a pause.

“I get it,” he says eventually, voice softer now. “Crowds. Strangers. It’s a lot sometimes.”

You nod. “It’s not that I didn’t want to be there. I just… didn’t think I’d belong.”

Remus’s gaze sharpens slightly, something almost fierce behind his tired eyes. “You do. You absolutely do.”

The words land between you, sure and solid. You feel them take root within you.

You glance over, meeting his eyes. “Thanks.”

He doesn’t look away. “Anytime.”

Your foot is still touching his under the blanket. You don’t move it.

The telly is dark, the flat dim except for the soft glow of the kitchen light and the little lamp in the corner. Everything feels slow. Settled. The way conversations stretch late into the evening when neither person wants to be the one to end it.

Eventually, you yawn. An embarrassingly large one that catches you off guard.

Remus smiles. “Go to bed.”

“Shouldn’t I be saying that to you?” you ask, though your limbs are already heavy.

“I’m older,” he says, mock-stern. “I get to decide.”

“You’re not that much older,” you mumble, rising reluctantly.

As you pass him, he catches your wrist gently. Not to stop you – just a brush of fingers, warm and grounding. You pause, and he looks up at you from where he’s still curled on the sofa.

“Hey,” he says, low. “I meant it, you know. About people liking you.”

You nod, throat tight again. “I know.”

He lets go. You head to bed. And long after the door closes behind you, the warmth of his touch lingers.

✩ July ✩

“Please tell me you didn’t actually do that!” you exclaim, laughing at Sirius’ expense.

“I did,” he responds, having the decency to look ashamed, “I didn’t expect him to cry though.”

“He must’ve been a sensitive soul.” 

“You’d know all about that, wouldn’t you, doll?” Sirius shoots back, grinning as he nudges you with his foot under the table.

You move to swat him, but he’s already leaning back, laughing like this is his favourite game. And maybe it is, because you’ve learned Sirius loves nothing more than winding people up, especially the ones he likes.

You can’t be sure when it happened but somewhere between meeting Remus’ friends and now, they became your friends too. The pub quiz is a weekly ritual for you all now. You have silly in jokes with them and you're almost at a point now where you speak with them as freely as you do Remus. 

You’re just about to fire back a quip when a familiar hand places a drink in front of you.

“Here,” Remus says softly.

Your eyes lift to find him standing beside you, the warm pub lighting casting a soft glow over his features. He sets down his own glass as well, then, without really thinking, slides into the booth beside you.

As he sits, his hand drifts up and settles between your shoulder blades, thumb brushing idly in a slow arc. It’s not the first time he’s touched you lately – little things, small and familiar. A hand on your lower back when guiding you through a crowd. Fingers brushing your knuckles when you pass him a cup of tea. But this, it still catches your breath a little.

“What have you done to get her attacking you already?” Remus asks, shooting Sirius a look that’s half amused, half exhausted.

Sirius throws his hands up. “I didn’t do anything. She’s just violent–where’s my drink?”

“You didn’t ask for anything,” Remus says with a small shrug, taking a sip of his own pint.

“I didn’t know I had to ask,” Sirius complains, scandalised. “I thought we had a system.”

“You thought wrong.”

You shake your head, trying to hide your smile as you pick up your glass. “Thank you,” you murmur to Remus, your voice quieter than before.

He turns his head toward you just slightly, expression softening, “Anytime.”

You take a sip. 

Sirius groans dramatically, flopping back in his seat. “This is blatant favouritism.”

“You’re just mad because she doesn’t threaten to hit me,” Remus replies, entirely deadpan.

“I’ll start,” you offer, raising your eyebrows at Remus in mock challenge.

He grins, a slow, crooked smile. “I’d like to see you try.”

Before you can respond, the door to the pub swings open and a gust of summer air follows James and Lily in. James is grinning, his hand causally linked with Lily’s as she glances around, eyes landing on your table.

James and Lily slide into the booth with the easy comfort of long familiarity – James immediately reaching to swipe a chip from Sirius’ plate, Lily pressing a quick kiss to your cheek as she squeezes in beside you.

“We’re not late, are we?” she asks, already pulling a notepad and pen from her bag.

“Perfect timing,” Remus says, glancing towards the bar where the pub quiz host is fiddling with a mic.

“Brilliant,” James says, cracking his knuckles. “Because I’ve been revising.”

“Revising?” Sirius snorts. “Is this the A-Levels again?”

“Better,” Lily says, shooting a grin across the table. “He made me quiz him on obscure geography facts while I was straightening my hair.”

James winks. “Multitasking, babe.”

You laugh into your drink, heart buoyant with the energy around the table. You’re hemmed in by Lily on one side and Remus on the other, the heat of his thigh brushing yours beneath the table. He’s not moving away, and neither are you.

The quiz kicks off not long after – a crackly voice through the speakers announcing the rules as the pub dims the lights slightly and the host launches into the first round.

It starts out strong. Lily knows every answer in the literature round. Sirius, unsurprisingly, nails the music one, especially anything classic rock or 80s synth. James and Lily dominate the sports and politics sections, passing the pen back and forth like it's a baton in a relay.

You’re good at the random ones. The weird general knowledge stuff no one expects anyone to know. But every time you offer a hesitant guess, Remus is the first to jot it down without hesitation.

“She’s right,” he murmurs after you mutter something about which planet has the longest day. “It’s Venus.”

You glance at him. “Are you sure?”

He taps his pen, smirking. “Positive.”

And he’s right.

Remus is the dark horse of the whole night. Quietly scribbling answers during the history and science rounds, barely even hesitating. Everyone starts deferring to him, especially when it gets harder.

At one point, James throws down his pen and mutters, “Where do you keep all this stuff? Is there a little librarian in your brain with a filing cabinet or something?”

Remus shrugs, barely biting back a smile. “Just... remember things. I read a lot.”

You lean over and murmur, “You know so much weird information. It must be all the books.”

He turns to look at you, eyes crinkling. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“No,” you say, grinning. “It’s kind of impressive. Annoying. But impressive.”

Remus nudges your knee with his. “Thanks, I think.”

But when the final scores are tallied, and the host calls out your team’s name as the winners, the entire table erupts.

You blink in disbelief, then burst out laughing as Sirius howls, leaping to his feet and banging on the table like a victory drum.

“We won! We actually won! We’re legends! Immortalised in pub quiz history!”

Lily rolls her eyes fondly and raises her glass. “To Remus, our walking encyclopaedia.”

They present the prize – a bottle of cheap prosecco and a £25 bar tab – and you all decide to split one more round with it. The drinks are sweeter, the laughter looser. There’s music playing now, and you find yourself talking to Lily about your favourite poetry collections while Sirius tries to convince Remus to dance.

Eventually, the evening wanes. The pub thins out, chairs scraping, the air thick with the scent of beer and summer sweat. You and Remus walk home together under a sky lit dimly by street lights and stars.

It’s warm enough now that your jacket’s slung over your arm. Your trainers scuff the pavement in easy rhythm beside his.

The walk home is slow, lazy with the warmth of the evening and the quiet hum of contentment between you. The street is dappled with soft pools of golden light. You and Remus fall into step like always, shoulder to shoulder, the occasional brush of arms sending quiet ripples through the comfortable silence.

You’re still buzzing from the night, from the win and the wine and the lingering warmth of everyone’s laughter. Every time you glance at Remus, he’s smiling, that soft, secret smile that curls at the corner of his mouth when he thinks no one’s looking.

“I still can’t believe you knew the name of the first cloned sheep,” you say, bumping your shoulder into his.

“Dolly,” he replies smugly.

“I know,” you groan. “I’m saying I can’t believe you knew that.”

Remus shrugs, casual. “It’s basic trivia.”

You huff a laugh. “It’s bizarre trivia.”

“It’s useful trivia,” he counters, giving you a sidelong glance that makes something flutter low in your belly. “Won us a bottle of cheap prosecco, didn’t it?”

You grin, and the quiet stretches between you again.

Your hands swing close again, knuckles brushing lightly. Neither of you pull away.

He shifts slightly, just enough that his fingers brush yours again, and this time, they stay. You glance down, heart in your throat, and feel his hand open, tentative but waiting.

You don’t think. You just slide your hand into his.

His fingers curl instantly around yours, warm and certain. You both keep walking, pretending it’s nothing, pretending your heart isn’t hammering so hard it hurts.

-

You step inside, the familiar hush of the flat wrapping around you both. Remus toes off his boots and hangs his jacket up, and you do the same, suddenly hyper aware of the proximity, the quiet.

He turns to you, lingering just a step closer than he needs to be. The air between you feels too full, your skin thrumming where he’s still holding your hand. His eyes flicker down to your mouth, just for a second. Barely a heartbeat.

Then he leans in.

It’s subtle at first, a shift in weight, his eyes still locked on yours. And then he’s close, close enough to kiss you.

And he almost does.

His breath ghosts over your lips, and you tilt your chin up instinctively, eyes fluttering shut—

But at the last second, he stops. Pulls back.

Just a fraction.

You blink up at him, startled and flushed and blinking hard, heart suddenly thudding in disappointment.

He opens his mouth like he wants to explain, but nothing comes out. You clear your throat, trying to save the moment, to make it feel less heavy.

“Right. Um–goodnight, then,” you murmur, stepping back and turning toward the hall.

You don’t get far.

“Wait–” he says, voice low and rough.

You freeze.

Then you feel it, his hand catching your wrist.

You turn, breath held tight in your lungs, and he’s right there again. Eyes stormy and wide, jaw tense.

“I can’t–” he starts, but the words twist out of him like they’re too slow for what he’s feeling. “I’ve wanted to–”

And then he kisses you.

It’s not gentle.

It’s urgent – a bruising, heated thing that steals the breath from your lungs and sends your hands into the fabric of his shirt, gripping tight. His mouth moves over yours like he’s been holding this back for too long, like he’s starving for it.

You gasp, just slightly, and he swallows the sound with a low groan, his hands sliding up your arms, into your hair, down your back. You’re pressed against the wall before you even realise he’s moved you, his body warm and solid against yours, his mouth insistent.

There’s no space between you anymore. Just warmth, friction, hands fumbling and mouths desperate.

You break for air only to pull back in with even more hunger, his lips on your jaw, your neck, then back to your mouth like he can’t decide what part of you he wants more.

“Remus,” you breathe against him, dizzy.

His hands settle on your waist, gripping tight like he’s anchoring himself. His forehead rests against yours for a breath, and then he murmurs, “Come with me.”

You nod.

He leads you to his room without another word, fingers still laced with yours, and when he closes the door behind you, the air changes again.

Slower, now.

More deliberate.

The urgency is still there, but it softens into something deeper, more consuming. He kisses you again, slower this time, reverent. His hands roam, mapping, remembering. Yours find the hem of his shirt, the warmth of his skin.

You don’t rush.

You undress each other like a secret being unfolded. You climb into his bed like you’ve always belonged there.

And when he finally sinks into you, it’s not rushed, not hurried.

He holds you like he’s afraid to let go. Like he’s wanted this for months and is still struggling to believe it’s real.

And when you come apart beneath him, it’s with his name on your lips and your hands in his hair, and the kind of breathless clarity that tells you nothing will be the same.

-

The first thing you feel is warmth.

From the slow rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek, the steady heartbeat you must have drifted off to somewhere between kisses and whispered breaths.

You’re tangled up in Remus Lupin.

The duvet is twisted around your legs, one of his arms is slung heavy and loose around your waist, and his bare chest is the perfect place to rest your cheek. His skin is warm, smooth in some places, scarred in others. You trace a lazy finger over one of the faded marks near his collarbone, remembering where your mouth had been hours earlier.

He’s still asleep, face tilted slightly toward you, lips parted just enough to show the edge of a tooth. His hair’s a mess – curling against his forehead in soft, unruly waves – and he looks younger like this. Softer. The tension that he sometimes carries, that quiet weight he doesn’t talk about, has slipped away entirely in sleep.

You smile without meaning to, letting your eyes wander across his face.

How is this real?

You stay like that for a while, not quite ready to break the spell, watching the soft flutter of his lashes, the faint rise of his chest. You feel safe, grounded, like the world could wait a little longer.

And then–

Your phone buzzes.

You blink, reach for it blindly, and when the screen lights up, your stomach drops.

“8:43 AM – New Message from Manager: Hey! Just checking you’re still coming in?”

You sit bolt upright.

“Shit–shit, shit, shit.”

Remus stirs beside you, brow furrowing slightly, but doesn’t wake. You scramble out of bed, moving towards your own bedroom trying to get ready as quickly as possible.

You do a rushed version of your morning routine in the tiny bathroom – brush teeth, splash water, a swipe of mascara and a spritz of dry shampoo that does absolutely nothing. When you return to his bedroom, Remus hasn’t moved. He’s sprawled diagonally across the bed now, hair mussed, arm half-reaching toward where you’d been.

And then you’re out the door, down the stairs, and into the rush of the day.

-

The hours drag.

Your body is at work, but your mind is still back in that bed. On the way Remus had looked at you. On the way he’d touched you. You spend the day replaying it in loops, trying not to let it show on your face.

It’s hopeless. You catch your reflection in a window around lunch and see it: the too-bright eyes, the almost-smile that keeps slipping onto your face for no reason.

-

By the time you get back to the flat, you’re not sure what to expect.

Remus is in the kitchen.

He looks normal.

Hair still messy. Wearing one of his old jumpers – the navy one with sleeves that swallow his hands – and stirring something in a pot on the stove. You hover in the doorway, your bag still slung over one shoulder.

He glances over, smiles. “Hey. How was work?”

It’s his usual voice. Easy, casual. Like it’s any other day.

You blink. “Uh... fine. Busy.”

He nods, turns back to the stove. “You want dinner? I made pasta.”

Your heart sinks a little, stupidly. “I’m not super hungry right now,” you murmur. “Thanks though.”

He doesn’t push. Just shrugs and says, “Alright,” like nothing’s strange.

But it is. You can feel it. 

The thing that bloomed between you last night, heavy and breathless and real, has been tucked neatly out of sight.

Maybe he regrets it.

Maybe it was a one-time thing.

Maybe he doesn’t want it to mean what it meant to you.

Eventually, you mumble, “I’m gonna go change,” and head down the hall before he can answer.

You close the door to your room with more force than necessary, leaning back against it with your eyes squeezed shut.

You feel foolish. You’d thought...

Well. 

You’d thought it might change things.

Instead, it feels like everything’s gone backwards.

So you do what you always do.

You hide.

You crawl under your duvet and pull your knees up to your chest, pretending you’re tired. Pretending you’re not waiting for a knock on your door that never comes.

✩ August ✩

You’ve fallen back into your routine from when you first moved in. Hiding away in your room, when Remus is in the living room. Retreating into yourself, an act of self-preservation, you think. 

You’ve escaped from your room today, Remus away at the doctors. Laying out on the sofa with a glass of cold water to combat against the heat that seeps into the flat, the hottest day of the year. You stare at the tv, staring unseeingly.

You’re halfway through the world’s most pointless reality show when the front door clicks open without warning.

You flinch slightly, half-rising off the sofa, until a familiar voice echoes from the hallway.

“Don’t get up on my account, sweetheart.”

A second later, Sirius is leaning over the back of the couch, sunglasses perched on his head and a takeaway iced coffee in each hand. He pokes you in the shoulder with one long finger, smirking.

You blink up at him, disoriented. “How did you get in?”

He raises an eyebrow. “Still have the spare. You lot never changed the locks after that one time I borrowed the toaster.”

“Stole,” you correct automatically.

He walks around the sofa and flops down beside you like he owns the place, long legs kicked out, one arm draped over the backrest behind your shoulders. He hands you one of the coffees. “Drink this. You look like you’re dying.”

“Thanks,” you mutter, finally slumping back into the sofa, gaze returning to the screen, where someone’s just burst into tears over a ruined meringue.

Sirius watches you for a beat. Then he leans in again, voice pitched low.

“So… what’s going on with you and Moony?”

You blink at him, your brain stuttering.

“What?” You shake your head. “Nothing. I mean, I have no idea. We don’t really… talk.”

Sirius clicks his tongue.

“Ah. Problem found.”

You glance over. “What?”

He gives you a look that’s both amused and just this side of exasperated. “He’s mopey. Has been for like, a couple weeks.”

You try not to let your expression betray you. “I don’t think that’s about me.”

“Yeah,” Sirius says dryly, “and I’m the Pope.”

Sirius watches you steadily, the smirk slipping off his face just a little as the silence stretches. You take a long sip of the iced coffee, letting the condensation chill your fingers, and avoid his gaze.

Finally, you exhale. It’s a slow, reluctant thing. “We slept together,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper. “It wasn’t… nothing. I mean, it didn’t feel like nothing.”

Sirius’s eyebrows shoot up, but to his credit, he doesn’t interrupt. Just takes a slow sip from his own drink and waits.

You run a hand through your hair, the heat of the day clinging to your skin like guilt. “It was after the quiz. We were walking home and then–god, it just happened. And it was… really good. But I had to go to work the next morning. And then when I came back–he didn’t bring it up.”

You swallow. The words are harder to say than you thought they’d be.

“I figured if he wasn’t talking about it… maybe it was just one of those things. A mistake, even. So I didn’t either.”

Sirius lets out a low whistle, tossing his head back against the cushions. “Bloody hell.”

You roll your eyes. “Yeah. That about sums it up.”

There’s a beat of silence. You focus on the way the ice is melting in your cup, the way your pulse hasn’t quite calmed down.

Sirius shifts beside you, his voice quieter now. “Look. Rem’s a smart bloke. But sometimes…” he trails off, shaking his head. “He forgets people can’t read his mind. Thinks if he doesn’t say it out loud, it’s safer. Like he can keep it from meaning too much.”

“And he’s got it in his head,” Sirius continues, nudging your knee with his own, “that you’re far too good and far too pretty for him.”

You snort. “What, so he thinks I pity fucked him? Are you serious?”

Sirius deadpans, “Unfortunately.”

“That’s–” You set your coffee down with a soft thud, sitting up straighter. “That’s the most idiotic thing I’ve ever heard. He’s gorgeous.”

Sirius flashes a grin, all teeth. “Preaching to the choir, babe.”

You blink at him. “Wait, you–?”

He waves a hand. “Not the point. The point is, he’s probably thinking he’s ruined everything and you’re here thinking you did. You’re both being daft.”

You sigh again, pressing your fingers to your temples.

“You think I should talk to him.”

“I think,” Sirius says, voice level now, “that you need to. Because he’s not going to. Not unless he’s sure you want him to.”

“Okay,” you say finally, softly. “Okay. I will.”

Sirius reaches over, squeezes your shoulder with surprising gentleness. “Good girl.”

You roll your eyes. “Don’t push it.”

He winks. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

-

You feel grosser and grosser as the day goes on, becoming more sweat than girl. Whether it’s because of the heat or nerves you’re not sure. An unhealthy mix of both, probably.

You’ve run through what you want to say a million times in your head.

Maybe more.

Every version sounds wrong. Too much. Too vulnerable. Not enough.

So you sit on the sofa, legs crossed, iced coffee long since gone watery, clutching a cushion to your chest like it’s armor. The fan is humming in the corner but it does nothing to move the heat pressed into the walls of the flat.

When the front door creaks open again, you sit up so fast your spine protests.

Remus walks in slowly, his posture heavy with the weight of the day. He pauses when he sees you sitting there, like he wasn’t expecting it. There’s a split second where his face flickers. He gives you a tight, polite smile. The kind you might offer a stranger you bumped into at the shops.

Then he turns wordlessly toward the hallway.

“Remus.”

You say it before you can talk yourself out of it. Your voice doesn’t shake, but it’s close.

He stops. Still facing away. One hand resting on the edge of the doorframe.

“…Yeah?”

You take a breath that doesn’t help at all. Then another.

“I did want to talk about it.”

His head tilts slightly, just enough that you see the edge of his profile. There’s a pause. Like maybe he’s hoping he misheard.

“About what?” he says finally. Neutral. Careful.

You press your palms against the cushion like it might anchor you.

“About us having sex,” you say plainly. Then, softer: “And the day after.”

He winces.

You see it even from across the room – pain flashing over his face before he schools it away again. But not fast enough. Not before it lands in your chest with a hollow thud.

“I just…” You trail off, shake your head, try again. “I don’t want to pretend it didn’t happen. Because it did. And it wasn’t nothing to me.”

He turns at that, just enough to look at you properly. His arms are crossed, but not in that closed-off way you sometimes see, more like he’s holding himself together. His brows draw in, mouth set like he’s bracing.

“I know it wasn’t nothing,” he says quietly.

You sit back a little, heart thudding so loudly you’re sure it’s rattling your ribs.

“Then why didn’t you say anything?” It comes out softer than you mean it to, more hurt than accusatory. Your voice dips at the end like you’re hoping he’ll have an answer that makes it all make sense. Something that takes the last few weeks and peels the ache from them.

Remus hesitates. Then he laughs – dry, self-deprecating. Not unkind. Just tired.

“Because you didn’t say anything either.”

Your mouth opens. Closes again. You hadn’t expected that.

He rubs a hand across the back of his neck, the gesture tight with nerves. “I thought I’d messed it up. I thought–I don’t know. That maybe I crossed a line. You left so quickly that morning, and then you just–disappeared. And I thought, alright, that’s fair, it was a heat-of-the-moment thing. And I didn’t want to make it harder by pushing.”

“But I didn’t disappear,” you whisper. “Or I didn't mean to, I had to go to work. You acted like nothing happened when I got home.”

He meets your eyes then. And for the first time since that night, he looks open. Vulnerable in a way that makes your stomach twist.

“Because I thought if I let myself believe it meant what I wanted it to mean,” he says, voice low, “and I was wrong… I wouldn’t be able to look you in the eye again.”

You blink. “What did you want it to mean?”

There’s a beat of silence between you. The fan hums on, useless. The world waits.

Remus’s eyes are soft, almost pleading. “Everything.”

Your breath catches in your throat.

He exhales like he’s been holding it for hours. Days. Weeks, maybe.

“I wanted it to mean we’re not just friends who got carried away,” he continues, stepping closer, careful. “I wanted it to mean I get to look at you in the mornings and kiss you before you leave for work. I wanted it to mean you wanted me, too. Not just that night. After.”

Your heart cracks wide open.

“I do want you,” you say, voice trembling now, but sure underneath. “I never stopped. I thought I’d imagined it–that you regretted it. That it was a mistake.”

“It wasn’t,” he says, quickly. Firm. “Not even close.”

You stare at him, all those weeks of doubt pooling like ink in your chest. Slowly, you set the cushion aside, like shedding a shield.

He watches you. Doesn’t move.

“I wanted to tell you,” you say, standing slowly. “I just didn’t know how.”

“You’re telling me now,” Remus says softly. “That’s enough.”

You cross the room in four steps, barefoot and shaky and brave, and then he’s in front of you, warm and real and still yours to choose.

“I missed you,” you whisper, hands coming up to rest against his chest.

His arms come around you immediately, pulling you in like he’s been waiting this whole time. His face presses into your hair, his breath warm against your ear.

“I missed you more than I know how to say.”

You lean back enough to see his face, your hands curling in the hem of his jumper.

“Then say it like this.”

And you kiss him.

This time, it’s not urgent. Not desperate. It’s steady and soft and full of all the things you didn’t say. His lips move slowly over yours, reverent. Familiar. Like a promise.

He smiles into it. And when you pull away just enough to look at him properly, you find his eyes lit up with something you’ve only seen once before.

Hope.

“You’re not getting rid of me now, you know,” you say, resting your forehead against his.

“Good,” he murmurs. “I was hoping you’d stay.”

✩ September ✩

The days stretch a little shorter now, but summer’s warmth still clings stubbornly to the air, trailing behind in the soft buzz of bees and the golden hush of late afternoons. The flat’s windows are thrown open, letting in the scent of sun-warmed pavement and the rustle of dry leaves skittering along the street below.

Remus is barefoot in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, humming something low under his breath as he chops herbs with practiced ease. The late light catches in his hair, softens his features into something dreamlike. There’s a faint breeze lifting the curtain near the sink, and the clink of glass as he pours two drinks, glancing toward the living room where you’re curled on the sofa, legs tangled with Sirius’ across the cushions.

Lily and James arrive a few minutes later, the door swinging open with a chorus of greetings and laughter. Lily’s holding a warm loaf of bread wrapped in a tea towel; James has a bottle of wine under his arm and a grin too big for his face.

“Boo! I hate you guys being happy and in love,” Sirius announces, flinging himself into a new position across the armchair.

“You love it,” you say without looking up, one hand reaching blindly for Remus’ as he passes you a glass. He presses a kiss to the top of your head before he settles beside you, his arm slung across the back of the sofa, fingers brushing your shoulder in a quiet rhythm.

He hasn’t stopped touching you since that night.

It’s not overwhelming, not loud. Just soft, consistent reminders that he’s here, that you’re his, that he’s yours. A hand at the small of your back, knuckles brushing your thigh under the table, lips against your temple as he passes. Like he’s still learning how to believe it, but he’s trying every day.

Dinner is chaotic and loud, wine-stained and full of clattering cutlery and overlapping stories. Someone burns the garlic bread, Sirius knocks over a candle, and Lily accidentally flings a piece of tomato into James’ lap.

Later, when the plates are stacked and the last of the wine has been poured, Sirius puts a record on — something old and scratchy and perfect — and Lily pulls James up to dance. They sway messily in the living room, laughing, bumping into the furniture.

You’re half-tucked under Remus’ arm when Sirius offers you his hand.

“Come on, one dance. For your favourite.”

You shake your head, smiling. “No way. You’ll trip me up.”

“Probably,” Sirius concedes cheerfully. “But what a way to go.”

Remus chuckles beside you, warm and low, and you turn your face toward him instinctively. His gaze catches yours, steady and soft. Like everything else has blurred out.

“Go on,” he murmurs. “I’ll be here.”

You kiss him once — quick and fond — before letting Sirius spin you clumsily around the room, both of you laughing like children.

When the night winds down, James and Lily head off with matching yawns and promises to host next time, and Sirius dramatically declares he’s staying the night, already halfway through making the sofa into a makeshift bed despite your offers for him to sleep in your room that goes largely unused.

You and Remus retreat to his room, quiet and content. You curl into bed with the windows still open, letting the night breeze ghost across your skin. He wraps an arm around your waist and kisses your shoulder, murmuring something half-asleep against your skin.

It’s nothing dramatic. Just a slow, steady settling. A feeling in your chest that hums: this is it.

masterlist <3

[opencommunion]

"The story of  'John Doe 1' of the Democratic Republic of the Congo is tucked in a lawsuit filed five years ago against several U.S. tech companies, including Tesla, the world’s largest electric vehicle producer. In a country where the earth hides its treasures beneath its surface, those who chip away at its bounty pay an unfair price. As a pre-teen, his family could no longer afford to pay his $6 monthly school fee, leaving him with one option: a life working underground in a tunnel, digging for cobalt rocks.  But soon after he began working for roughly two U.S. dollars per day, the child was buried alive under the rubble of a collapsed mine tunnel. His body was never recovered. 

The nation, fractured by war, disease, and famine, has seen more than 6 million people die since the mid-1990s, making the conflict the deadliest since World War II. But, in recent years, the death and destruction have been aided by the growing number of electric vehicles humming down American streets. In 2022, the U.S., the world’s third-largest importer of cobalt, spent nearly $525 million on the mineral, much of which came from the Congo.

As America’s dependence on the Congo has grown, Black-led labor and environmental organizers here in the U.S. have worked to build a transnational solidarity movement. Activists also say that the inequities faced in the Congo relate to those that Black Americans experience. And thanks in part to social media, the desire to better understand what’s happening in the Congo has grown in the past 10 years. In some ways, the Black Lives Matter movement first took root in the Congo after the uprising in Ferguson in 2014, advocates say. And since the murder of George Floyd and the outrage over the Gaza war, there has been an uptick in Congolese and Black American groups working on solidarity campaigns.

Throughout it all, the inequities faced by Congolese people and Black Americans show how the supply chain highlights similar patterns of exploitation and disenfranchisement. ... While the American South has picked up about two-thirds of the electric vehicle production jobs, Black workers there are more likely to work in non-unionized warehouses, receiving less pay and protections. The White House has also failed to share data that definitively proves whether Black workers are receiving these jobs, rather than them just being placed near Black communities. 'Automakers are moving their EV manufacturing and operations to the South in hopes of exploiting low labor costs and making higher profits,' explained Yterenickia Bell, an at-large council member in Clarkston, Georgia, last year. While Georgia has been targeted for investment by the Biden administration, workers are 'refusing to stand idly by and let them repeat a cycle that harms Black communities and working families.'

... Of the 255,000 Congolese mining for cobalt, 40,000 are children. They are not only exposed to physical threats but environmental ones. Cobalt mining pollutes critical water sources, plus the air and land. It is linked to respiratory illnesses, food insecurity, and violence. Still, in March, a U.S. court ruled on the case, finding that American companies could not be held liable for child labor in the Congo, even as they helped intensify the prevalence. ... Recently, the push for mining in the Congo has reached new heights because of a rift in China-U.S. relations regarding EV production. Earlier this month, the Biden administration issued a 100% tariff on Chinese-produced EVs to deter their purchase in the U.S. Currently, China owns about 80% of the legal mines in the Congo, but tens of thousands of Congolese work in 'artisanal' mines outside these facilities, where there are no rules or regulations, and where the U.S. gets much of its cobalt imports.  'Cobalt mining is the slave farm perfected,' wrote Siddharth Kara last year in the award-winning investigative book Cobalt Red: How The Blood of the Congo Powers Our Lives. 'It is a system of absolute exploitation for absolute profit.' While it is the world’s richest country in terms of wealth from natural resources, Congo is among the poorest in terms of life outcomes. Of the 201 countries recognized by the World Bank Group, it has the 191st lowest life expectancy."

[tojisun]

simon’s so possessive :(( so naturally he had to show some pictures you two took to his squad. just, y’know, to stake his claim.

(you two know he’s got the exhibitionist streak in him since the first time you two fucked in his car, in an empty parking lot, and he came within the first few minutes. it was so sudden, so intense, that simon had to resort to fingering you because he’s gotten so sensitive that a next round wasn’t even an option. you tease him about it constantly, only to end up on your knees as simon fucks the giggles out of you.)

the pictures start off ‘simple’—shots of your tits in one of his favourite set of lingerie, with his cum staining your chin while pools of it build up along your cleavage; or of simon’s hand loosely wrapped around your neck, your supple skin a beautiful contrast underneath his expanse of scars and tattoos.

the recent one is this: simon’s sitting in front of the mirror, his bulk covered by your body. you’re facing away from the camera, something johnny loudly complained about of course, but you’re bare. you’re stripped naked and stuffed with his cock, and the insinuation was enough to silence their grumbles.

his squad sees everything that simon allows them to see—the plane of your spine to the globes of your ass—and then, they break.

pitiful pleas spilling, filling up simon’s inbox. even price seemed to have trouble with hiding the tides of his own desire, and, well, is that not something?

(you and simon indulge them, of course. the pictures become more bold, more revealing, until simon’s got them adjusting themselves from underneath their slacks when he shows them a little slip of a video.

it’s not even that conspicuous; it’s just simon’s hand squeezing the pudge of your belly. but the pose, the angle—it’s what made their breaths run ragged. the way simon’s hand is tilted just enough to make it look like he’s fully covering your groin, leaving them nothing to salivate over but the stretch of your skin and the softness of your fat.

it’s not like that wasn’t enough, not when it even had price calling off their briefing and rescheduling it later in the afternoon instead because none of them could focus.

simon devours the sight they make, all reduced by you, unable to even deny how much pleasure he’s gaining from this. he licks the backs of his teeth and sends you a short message.

“want to make a film for them?”

not even a minute passed by before your reply came in.

“i thought you’ll never ask.”

simon can’t even stop the bark of laughter that tumbles from his throat, his eyes glinting with deep interest.

he knows just what to make you wear for that film.)

(it’s price’s boonie, one he snagged from their captain’s office.)