#Paws for Applause

[voiceoffenrisulfr]

Build-a-Bucky Bingo Masterlist

December: 'Sex Toys' In the Dark of the Night. James Buchannan 'Bucky' Barnes x Clint Barton. E. From the world of Multitudes (can mostly be read as a standalone smutfest though). Clint and Buck can’t remember the last time they had some time alone, so decide to go camping for a night and get away from the pressures of parenthood. The usual sexytimes ensue. CW: Basically PWP.

January: 'Dom Big Dick Bucky Barnes', 'Teasing', and 'Wet & Messy' Wet & (Emotionally) Messy. Bucky Barnes x Tony Stark. After a tough mission, James finds Tony's vulnerable side. E. CW: Mentions of death of a peripheral character, mentions of violent altercation, smut. Mostly just smut. Anal fingering & anal intercourse, M/M oral, dom/sub dynamic, bratty submissive.

February: 'Bad Reputation' The Real Winter Soldier. Bucky Barnes x Original Male Character. Bucky's reputation proceeds as he heads out one night to relieve some stress - but perhaps people know him less than they think when he decides to eliminate an enduring problem, with climactic results. E. CW: Smut. March: 'Bad Coping Mechanisms', 'Mutual Pining' and 'Wall Sex' Slam. James 'Bucky' Barnes x Steven 'Steve' Rogers. Following an injury in the field, Bucky goes to check on Steve in the infirmary and confesses his feelings and his fears. E. CW: Minor injury, smut, first time. Don’t forget to use lube, folks – unless you’re a super soldier. April: 'AU: Wild West', 'Pet Names' and 'Sleepy Sex' Bind. James "Bucky" Barnes/Original Male Character (Yes, Greg's back). Sheriff Barnes has heard about some unsavoury activity going down at a local saloon, and he goes to shut it down. But sometimes these things don't go quite to plan. Especially when smooth-talking boys get their way. E. CW: Prejudices of sex work, smut, punishment turns into sex, BDSM including restraint and impact play, loss of virginity, inexperienced sex with a very experienced lover. Kind of dub-con vibes? But not? The consent is very enthusiastic.

'Domestic', 'Gradually Moving In Together' and 'Role Play' Nightmare. James 'Bucky' Barnes x Steve Rogers. Steve supports Bucky through his nightmares Post-HYDRA, and Bucky realises that his apartment is slowly filling up with Steve's things. E. CW: Smut, some angst. May: All Twelve Prompts! Destiny Bond. Bucky Barnes x Original Nonbinary Character. The Government offers Bucky a clean slate if he marries a mutant of their choosing. Can a match motivated by survival ever work out? (Arranged Marriage AU) E. CW: Angst, arranged marriage reluctance, implied incentivised breeding, smut, praise kink, spanking. June: 'Himbo' and 'Bachelor Auction' You Don't Know Me. Bucky Barnes x Original Nonbinary Character. Nat’s charity auction doesn’t quite go off without a hitch – but luckily, Buck is on hand to help out, reluctant as he may be. Until he meets you, that is. T.

July: 'Anxiety'' Paws for Applause, Chapter One. Bucky Barnes x Original Nonbinary Character. After his time in Wakanda, James ‘Bucky’ Barnes is struggling to adapt back to life in the wider world, hiding out in the Pacific Northwest as he fights to regain some control over his life. Or: Bucky gets a dog, and meets a cute salesperson. T. CW: Panic attack, trauma references, medical prejudice and medication disdain, general PTSD things, anxiety, vulnerability, implied alcohol abuse.

'Deep Throating' On the Tide - Chapter Eleven. Bucky Barnes x Original Male Character. The boys live with the after-effects of the kidnapping, and how to move forward… Together. E. CW: Discussion of gunshot wounds and captivity, non-graphic medical care, smut, AAAALLLL the smut. Full smut warnings in prompts.

'Dry Humping' On the Tide - Chapter Eleven. Bucky Barnes x Original Male Character. The boys live with the after-effects of the kidnapping, and how to move forward… Together. E. CW: Discussion of gunshot wounds and captivity, non-graphic medical care, smut, AAAALLLL the smut. Full smut warnings in prompts.

September; 'First Meeting' Near Misses and Nearly Missed - Chapter One. Bucky Barnes x Original Nonbinary Character. E. The soulmate part was just the way the world worked. The car crash? That was a little more unexpected. Sometimes a 'crash-into hello' is a little more... Crash-y. CW: Smut, Car crash (mild), distress

@buckybarnesevents

[guyspleasehesmyfriend]

lando the lynx

[imanip036]

Jellyfish was performing to Reggae/Jamaican dance. The Bad Guys and Diane was applause and amazed for Jellyfish's sexy reggae dance🐺🐍🦈🐟🕷️🪼🦊

[out-of-heaven-and-hell]

TAG REVAMP ; VILLA

[thatonegrimm]

🌙 Saja Boys – Drabbles # 3

🧿 Jinu “Wrong Familiar”

You were halfway through your sandwich in the park when Jinu looked down at his feet and went pale.

“That’s not Derpy.”

You blinked. “What?”

He pointed at the massive striped tiger sitting calmly beside him, licking its paw like it owned the bench.

“That’s. Not. Derpy,” he repeated.

In the distance, a zookeeper screamed. Children scattered.

The tiger purred and leaned against Jinu’s leg.

He looked at you in panic. “Say nothing. Walk slowly.”

You took his hand, trying very hard not to laugh. “You really just attract chaos, huh?”

💪 Abby “Cooking is Cardio”

When you walked into the kitchen, Abby was already mid-spin, apron flowing, spatula in hand.

“Welcome to Iron Chef: Boyfriend Edition,” he announced. “Today we’re cooking with passion. And cheese.”

He flexed one arm while cracking an egg with the other. The egg mostly landed in the pan.

You laughed. “Is that a smoke alarm or applause?”

Romance popped in briefly, phone raised. “Don’t stop him. This is performance art.”

You leaned against the counter, watching Abby shimmy while sprinkling cheese.

“Cooking is like cardio,” he said, placing a perfect omelet in front of you. “But this comes with kisses.”

📚 Mystery “Ceiling Thoughts”

You looked up and saw him lying flat on the ceiling.

Again.

“Mystery,” you said gently, “you know normal people sit on couches, right?”

He didn’t answer at first. Then: “The stars aren’t gone. They’re just... waiting.”

You smiled. “And what are you waiting for?”

He dropped from the ceiling like a cat, landing soundlessly. “Warmth.”

You handed him a pancake Abby left for you, still warm in your hands. Mystery took it with both palms like it was sacred.

He leaned against you on the couch, chewing silently.

You didn’t say it out loud, but you felt it too: he’d found it.

💋 Romance “Emergency Lip Gloss”

The demon burst through the alley wall like a wrecking ball.

The boys jumped into action—Abby flexing like a tank, Mystery fading into the shadows, Jinu shouting instructions.

Romance froze. “Wait. Where’s my gloss?”

You stared at him. “Now?!”

He rummaged in his jacket. “Not matte, not matte, not—YES!” He triumphantly pulled out a glittery tube of lip gloss.

You sighed. “You’re gonna die pretty, huh?”

He applied it mid-dodge, spun, and kicked the demon so hard it hit a dumpster.

Then he landed next to you, lips shimmering. “Aesthetic violence. You like?”

“…I hate how much I do.”

🔥 Baby “Daycare Drop Off”

You had just turned the corner when the teacher-demon reached out and patted Baby on the head.

“Aww,” she cooed. “You must be so lost—”

“I smell something rotting under your skin,” he said flatly.

The woman’s face melted into her true form. You sighed, reaching for your blade, but Baby was already swinging his backpack like a spiked weapon.

By the time the others arrived, the classroom was smoking and the demon was unconscious. Baby was calmly drinking a juice box, one leg crossed over the other.

“I handled it,” he said.

You ruffled his hair. “Yeah. You did.”

M-List

[barleyo]

Glittering Gold.

Stepford X F! Reader (smut)

A/N: nobody loves this golden twink like i do, i swear it. special thanks to @fuckinbanjos for nursing this kinky ass idea with me, love you for matching my freak, girl!

Tags: mommy kink, slight mdlb themes, dirty talk, praise, blowjobs, handjobs, no female orgasm (sadly)

Wordcount: 1.5k

Stepford was a trophy and as such, he did his best to keep his natural radiance alive and well. He shined himself nearly every day, slathering his "for decoration" muscles in oil. He kept himself fit and show ready, but age was catching up to him slowly. There was nothing he could do to stop it—he knew, because he had already tried everything. 

It started when his face started to lose its natural rouge. The apples of cheeks faded from their warm red to a humble, pinkish hue. He stared at himself for hours, wondering why this was happening to him, of all people. 

It crushed him, really, but he had to remain unfazed in the eyes of others. If his demeanor slipped, perhaps everyone else would notice his growing flaws. His appearance was everything, it was his whole purpose, his whole livelihood! If others were to see his imperfections, why would they keep him around? He already felt hated by most, so if his looks slipped away, would he lose those who bothered to stick around? 

More importantly, would he lose you?

The Breaker Box was holding a talent show. Stepford was invited to stand in as a prize for the winner, he agreed of course. There hadn't been many competitions in the house in a while. This would be an opportunity to impress, he thought. 

He worried about his little problem, but he rationalized it to just being nerves. Nerves were normal before any event, you told him that constantly. You were so good at soothing him in his most anxious, complex moods. Your voice and presence were enough to calm him, especially when you were cheering him on.

Unfortunately for him, you were out the night of the talent show, and things couldn't have gone any worse.

After a characteristically bad performance from Johnny and a poorly received G&G themed standup set from Chance, Jean Loo was pronounced the winner. His rhymes were profane at best and disgusting at worst, but out of the slew of performers, he was the cream of the crop.

Stepford had been standing behind the curtain on stage, peeking out periodically to see if you had slipped into the crowd. Painted nails pawed at the velvet drapes, his eyes darting around, laced with anxiety. He had told you about the talent show, he had even got you to pinky promise to show up. Where were you?

"Merci beaucoup," Jean said, taking over the stage, beaming under the scattered applause. "And my honors?"

Stepford felt someone nudge the small of his back, pushing him out into the spotlight of the stage next to Jean Loo.

He swallowed thickly, putting on his winning smile. It was less convincing than he hoped for, but it was all he had at the moment.

"Congratulations on your win."

With pursed lips, Jean shoved his hands in his pockets. His smug look gained a hint of judgement as he scanned over Stepford.

"I thought trophies were meant to shine, no?" he asked, only loud enough for Stepford to hear. "Seems you've gone dull, my friend."

By the time you got home, Stepford was curled up in your bed, sobbing into your pillows, and clawing at your sheets. The opinion of one French bastard had ruined his self image. He was already teetering on the edge for days now, but this? It broke his sweet, little heart.

"Step', what's wrong?"

You shifted out of your flats quickly, abandoning them at the door with haste. Hearing your pretty boy's broken cries rocked you. You only wanted him happy, and seeing this? You were beyond worried. 

Taking a seat on the edge of your bed, you slipped your hand over his back. He was warm, but his body still shivered and convulsed. You heard his voice mumble something into your pillow.

"Hm?"

When his head reeled up to look at you, you flinched. You had never seen him look so... distraught. 

His eyes were glazed and leaking, with tears that clung to his lashes—dew on blades of grass. The tears carved a clear path through his concealer, marking out where each drop of humiliation passed. 

His lips twitched before he spoke, and when he did, the words gushed out like water from a broken dam. 

"You weren't there to watch me." Stepford sat up as best he could, pulling himself onto his side with his forearms supporting his weight. "You promised."

Ah, shit.

"Oh, baby, something came up at work, I didn't mean��" as you explained, he shook his head, cutting you off.

"You promised," he continued, "and you weren't there. They made fun of me, said I lost my luster." 

He only got bratty like this when he had a reason. He needed you, really needed you, right now.

You sighed softly and patted your lap. 

"C'mere baby. Let mommy make it up to you, yeah?"

"S'okay to cry, Steppy," you cooed, humming as you felt his wet lashes flutter against your neck. You coaxed him into your arms long ago. Now, you were simply toying with him, making him tick. "I know, it feels so good, huh? Lift your hips for me."

You ran your thumb over his oozing slit for longer than he could stand. Each little movement felt like too much and not enough. He was needy, but tender. You were so good at striking a balance with him, but you still loved to keep him on his toes, especially with your words. 

Stepford did what you said, letting his hips raise to meet your palm. He shivered. Despite being a small stroke, the feeling of pushing his cock through your grip warmed his belly. 

"That's good, why don't you try again?"

He repeated the action, pulling his hips back before angling them up again. It was such a turn on to him, using your hand to jerk himself off. If he were in a better position, he'd rather be rutting into your pussy, but this? This was good too. More than good.

"F—fuck, mommy," he whined, moving away from the crook of your neck, not before getting another whiff of your perfume, of course. "Can I?" 

Stepford looked at your tits, wanting to get any contact with them he could. It was unfair, he thought, that you were still fully clothed while he was bare and sprawled out on your lap. He wanted a peak.

You nodded, huffing a soft laugh when he plucked at the buttons of your blouse with needy fingers. He pressed a hand to one, roughly palming it. He wanted to rip your bra off, but before he could move further, you gave the base of his cock a firm squeeze.

"No, baby, tonight is for you," you said, grabbing his wrist with your free hand. Your other was busy pumping his length. "Gotta let me apologize. You don't want to make me sad, do you?"

He let out a whiny, strangled sound. Relenting but bratty. 

You rolled him off of your lap, carefully adjusting his head onto your pillows. You slotted between his knees, one hand resting on his lower stomach and the other wrapped around his cock. 

"Spread, Steppy, make room for me." You nudged his toned thigh with your shoulder, eyes dipping up to look at him.

Your head sunk down far too quickly, taking all of him down your throat like a woman starved. 

Stepford gasped, eyes going wide and unfocused. He tried to push your head away, to wriggle out of your grasp. He was strong enough to pull you away if he really wanted to, but your mouth felt so warm and wet around him. He couldn't fight it. 

He accidentally bucked his hips. He didn't mean to, but the choking sound you made when he did made blood rush to his ears.

When you pulled off of him with a pop, spit slicked lips pulled into a smile, he groaned. "Sorry, mommy, didn't mean it."

Blinking at him slowly, you gave his dick soft kitten licks. Your tongue dragged from base to tip and back down, savoring each vein that crossed your path.

You pressed a soft kiss to his tip.

"Stepford."

"Ah?" He gripped the sheets under him. 

"You know how pretty you are, don't you?"

He melted under your words, feeling his face flush. Yes, he knew, but doubt had started to cloud his mind in the past weeks. He needed more than anything for you to remind him. 

"You think so?" he goaded, playing coy to get more out of you. Sneaky wretch. "Y'think I'm pretty?"

"Yes, baby," you spat a glob onto your palm and continued to stroke him, stopping at his tip to abuse the sensitive spot, pumping it, "mommy loves how you look. Thinks she's got the prettiest boy ever."

"Fuck."

"With the sexiest body," you said, voice dripping with love, "and the most handsome face. What's not to like, huh?"

He turned his head to the side, eyes boring into the wall beside him as he felt his orgasm build. He bit one of his slender, manicured fingers, his porcelain teeth nipping the skin. 

"And now, mommy's pretty boy is gonna cum for her. Right?"

[rootbeerrex]

TEAR ME UP AND BURN ME UP RIP ME UP AND LEAVE YOUR HAND ON THE WALL AS YOU GO BLOOD'S POURING LIKE MARTINIS GRAFFITI SWEET BIKINIS IS THAT WHAT YOU THINK OF ME NOW NO NO NO NO ARE YOU GOD OR DEVIL GHOST DISHEVELED CHILDHOOD FRIEND OR DRUNKEN REVEL I CANNOT STOP IM BLEEDING OUT FOR YOU YOU ANGEL HEART YOU MONSTER OH SOME GODFORSAKEN PROSPERO YOUR FEATHERS AND YOUR PAWS YOUR HELL FOR LEATHER APPLAUSE YOU DANCE ON TABLES ENDLESS LABELS ARE YOU CAIN CAUSE IM NOT ABEL YOU BASTARD LASTING NIGHT BUS ASKING WHAT'S THE EVERLASTING FABLE I CANNOT FIND THE WORDS TO KEEP YOU I CANNOT FIND THE WORDS TO KEEP YOU but your blood does not bleed red no more it's brighter than the sun burns white with the hum from within this gaping wound of ours a new us has begun a new us has begun A NEW US HAS A NEW US HAS A NEW US HAS BEGUN CAN'T WE JUST TALK ABOUT THIS

TOMORROW?

[hunnysnoops]

˗ˋ𝕎𝕙𝕚𝕥𝕖 𝕋𝕖𝕖𝕥𝕙 𝕋𝕖𝕖𝕟𝕤ˊ˗

Chapter Fifteen- FINALE: Teenagers

Kyle Broflovski x Reader

I'm gonna go on living like I never met you; and it'll feel wrong at first, but I think I can forget you.

Also available on Ao3 and Wattpad!

Premise: You reach the end of a beginning.

Warnings: Crude language and humour / not spell checked

MASTERLIST

FINALE

.˙꩜°˖:*࿔ ☼ ࿔*:˖°꩜˙.

As the sun begins to set, you finally feel like you've woken from a dream. In the span of hours graduation had come and gone, the very thing you spent all these years looking forward to. It didn't feel the way that you thought it would. There were no tears, not in your eyes.

You remember applause somewhere in the audience and the sunlight blinding you beneath your grad cap, but you can't remember feeling anything other than fine. No overwhelming emotions took over your body to send you shaking with tears or laughing with joy. You couldn't speak, you could barely hum a tune.

The clapping had faded, life moved on, and the moment turned into a memory.

Now you sit on the steps of Clyde's back porch watching people who were no longer your peers jumping into pools and hugging drunken goodbyes. You were stuck in an odd limbo of being relieved that high school was over while simultaneously feeling like you had taken it all for granted.

Prom definitely didn't feel like it should've. A grade of students stuffed into a rented convention room with dim lighting, while your itchy dress poked and irritated your back. No one told you it would be like this, or maybe they did, and you never bothered to listen.

Inside was crammed with the life of the party. This one felt more bittersweet than all of the others.

Beside you, the wooden porch creaks and the weight of a body shifts to sit down beside you. To little surprise, it's your curly-headed boyfriend.

"Hey," He smiled, one hand gently resting on your thigh.

"How do you feel?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, how do you feel about everything that just happened?"

"Oh," He leans back, one hand running through his hair. "I feel pretty good, it's weird to process, but it's nice."

"Right... right..." You nod slowly, eyes squinting at Tolkien and Nichole playing chicken in the pool against Kenny and Butters. They must feel pretty good too.

"So-

"I had a dream last night," You interrupt without meaning to do so. You tug at the collar of your baggy, decrepit t-shirt.

"You remember it?"

You breathe out the dry, warm air coating your lungs. "I was in this dark forest, it was cold like mid-autumn, and the woods were so thick I could barely even see the starry sky between cracks of leaves and pine. I thought myself faster than usual, but when I looked down, I saw brown paws instead of feet."

"So you were a wolf?"

"A coyote," You corrected.

"Is this important?"

"Yes, very," You try to collect your thoughts before they all fall. "And um, I found this clearing after running, there was a soft, warm light peeking through the bushes. I stop and I see this little log cabin, it's beautifully crafted, and there's a cowboy on the porch. It's you, you're the cowboy. You're sipping a beer from a can."

"From a can?" He acts shocked, feigning surprise at this fact.

"Yes, not a bottle." You emphasize "I watched you, sitting in that chair, your flannel all messy, and that hat hiding your hair. You looked at me, too. I didn't scare you, or at least I don't think I did. You almost seemed like you were waiting on me." You take a breath, replaying the scene in your head like it was a memory: "I watched you put your beer down and I thought you might call me over, but you pick up a shotgun instead and shoot me between your eyes."

The real Kyle, grounded beside you, does seem truly shocked to hear this. He hadn't expected the story to "What?"

"You shot me." You repeat, "You didn't even bury me. You hung me out to bleed and went back to sipping your beer."

"I would never shoot you."

"You did."

"In a dream," He puts his hands up in defence, "I'm not taking responsibility for that."

"So what did you dream about?"

"You."

"Like you always do," It's teasing, but there isn't much humour in the truth.

"Yeah."

"Tell me," You press softly. Kyle takes the time to collect his thoughts, he looks almost lost as he does so like he's lost the sense of where he is. You grab his arm and shake him "Tell me!"

He chuckles softly "Okay, hang on," Kyle straightens himself out a bit "I was driving through a desert, there wasn't anything in sight. Maybe like a cactus or a tumble week here and there but it was mostly just road, mesas, and the sunset."

"Okay? Where am I?"

"You were walking along the side of the road with this massive backpack and a huge goofy sun hat with one of those straps on your chin. I slowed my car down and asked if you wanted a ride, you said 'sure' and got in my car."

"Mhm."

"What?"

"I'm active listening."

"Um, okay," "And then you just kept rambling and telling me all of this stuff. I asked where you were from and then you put your sunhat on my head, opened the car door, and jumped out while it was still moving."

"And then what?"

"I kept driving."

"Right," You nod, looking back to the pool in front of you. "Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why did you keep driving?"

"Oh." He pauses "I'm not sure, I just did."

The night is thick with the scent of honeysuckle and smoke, a whiff of alchohal soaked breath every other minute. Kyle sits close, his copper hair is a tousled mess, the soft wreck only summer can make and it takes you back.

A year ago there was some kind of comfort in the way that you had this unspoken crush with him, the chase of it, and the thrill that sent your heart pounding.

Your phone buzzes in your pocket with unread texts about dorm assignments and road trips and friendships thaat wouldn't withstand the 527 miles to college. Everything is ahead of you. But still here you are, on the steps of a house you'll probably never return to, beside a boy who knows the shape of your laugh and the sound of your silence, and neither of you has said what needs to be said.

Kyle glances at you, just once, his freckles shadowed in the soft porch light. His lips part like he might say something like he might ask if you're leaving him behind. But instead, he offers a half-smile, crooked and aching, and turns back to the sky.

You pretend not to notice the way the fireworks catch in his eyes. You pretend not to notice that the air between you feels too full to breathe in and too thin to hold on to. You pretend it's enough, just for now, to be close.

"You look like you want to tell me something," You say with a half-hearted smile. Your eyelids feel heavy.

"Weird," He smiles back, lips pressed tight together.

The silence stretches once again and you swear you can't hear a thing dispite drunken shout, excited squeals, and the clink of bottles. Your world is still and noiseless.

Kyle's eyes dig into you but you can't bare to look at him. You are sure he can sense the dreadful plan in your heart. His gaze is so soft and gentle it would break you entirely to meet his eyes. So you pretend that you don't notice it at all.

You know he's waiting for you to look back at him which makes you concentrate intensely on a branch that lays limp against the green grass lawn. That's all you focus on. It's you and that branch. There is no Kyle. There is no future. It is you and the branch in the present, that's all there is but no distraction can cover something so cruel.

You stare down at your hands, fingers tangled in the fabric of your shorts. Kyle shifts beside you. You can feel the moment coming before it arrives, feel it swelling in your throat like an infected wound.

"I love you," he says, voice soft and certain.

"I think we should break up," you say, at the exact same time.

The words crash together midair like a car hitting you. You feel it before you see it: the way he reels, like you've taken the breath out of him. His face goes slack, then tightens fast with pain he doesn't have time to swallow. His freckles blur at the corners of your vision, and you want to say you're sorry, that it's not because you don't love him back. You do. Maybe too much.

The moment is broken by a blinding flash and camera shutter. When you blink away the light you find Heidi on the other side of a digital camera. She has caught the moment right before hurt pushes tears from your eyes. "Aww, cute!" Heidi flips the camera around so the two of you can see this vial image.

You can feel the image being trapped forever; your face turned slightly at the ground, guilt sharp in your jaw, and Kyle looking straight at you, eyes wide, still drowning in the words you just threw at him.

"Come on! Group photos!" She beckons you away from the porch and you stand at an instant, leaving Kyle to watch you leave before he slowly trails behind.

The next ten minutes are a blur of arms around shoulders, people shouting names, and forced grins under porch lights. You feel hands on your back, smell someone's beer breath in your hair, hear laughter that sounds like it belongs to someone else.

You don't look at Kyle.

Not once.

But in every photo, he's looking at you. Straight through the crowd, past the smiles and the flash. Like he's still trying to find the version of you that sat beside him five minutes ago, before you broke whatever you had with your bare, shaking hands.

"Are we done yet?" Stan asks from somewhere in the middle.

Heidi flips through the pictures "Let's get a silly one!" Everyone contorts their face or puts up bunny ears behind their friends but you stare blankly ahead ignoring Kyle's aching stare. "Okay," She gives a thumbs up.

You break away from Tolkien's arm slung around your shoulder and make a B-line to the door. The sides of your shirt are damp from the wet bodies pressed against you for photos sake. It's just as busy inside though it seems to be slightly more mellow with people sitting in circles to play drinking games or simply chat.

"Hey," You hear from behind you "Hey!" It's there and you hear it so loud that it reverberates through the back of your mind. "What was that?"

"Kyle, I had to," You turn around. It's hard to get the words out and looking into his shattered hazel eyes, that demeanour like he was a puppy that had been kicked half to death. You might have to crawl outside of yourself to sing.

"Why?" His eyebrows furrowed like each thought running through his head a worry. That was probably true.

"I..." you start, but the words fail, slippery and hollow in your mouth. "Kyle, I just-"

"You had that planned didn't you? And you couldn't even wait till the end of the summer?"

You take a breath and steal yourself "Yeah, I did." You wrap your arms around yourself like that might keep your ribs from splintering. He's right, and he's wrong.

"I love you," he says again, quieter now. "You know that, right?"

"I know."

He waits for something more and you can see him lose a little bit of hope with each second. "You can't even say it back?"

There's nothing that you can stay. You stare at him in silence and wait for him to fill in the blanks. There was so much thought yet so little behind this decision.

"If you want to leave, I'll never make you stay." He sighs, closing his eyes for a moment to push back tears.

You took this as your invitation to leave and turned. It wasn't like you had anything else to say, all you would to is stand there and pick at your skin.

You drive with your hands clenched tight around the wheel, the lines of the road smeared and bending through the blur of your tears. The radio plays low and meaningless- some song about holding on, about summer, about love- and it only makes everything worse. You don't change it. You just let it echo.

The streetlights pass like ghosts. Your throat aches from holding in sobs too big for your chest, and every time you blink, another tear slips free, hot and pointless. You try to breathe steady. You try not to picture his face or how stunned he looked, how betrayed. But it's there, etched behind your eyes like it's been branded.

You had got what you wanted and it felt awful. When you finally pull into the driveway, the house stands dark and still, tucked into the night like nothing happened. The porch light hums above the door. The air smells like grass and warm pavement, just like lat summer and every summer before. You were sure the scent would come to make you sick with nostalgia.

Inside, it's quiet. You kick off your shoes like you always do and pad softly the stairs like you always do. From behind your brother's closed door, you hear the faint, rhythmic clatter of buttons and a low, excited curse- some boss fight or battle, another world entirely. You know he's on call with Ike and you can imagine the news when he finds out you've left his brother long behind.

You head for your own room. Your fingers brush the doorknob. You could go in. Collapse into your bed and bury your face in your pillow and let the weight of tonight crush you, quietly, alone.

But you don't.

Instead, your feet carry you down the hall, slow and barefoot, to the room at the end where the light is off but the door is slightly open. You push it gently, the hinge creaking just enough to announce you.

Your parents are asleep, or half-asleep, the soft hush of breathing filling the space. You slip in like a whisper. Your mom stirs as you lift the corner of the comforter.

"Hey," she murmurs, voice low and warm with sleep. "What's wrong?"

You don't answer. You can't. Your lip trembles and your eyes spill over again, and you crawl between them, curling into the soft, familiar warmth of your mother's arms, the safe shape of your father's back turned gently toward you.

"None of my friends have braces anymore," It's all you can manage to choke out.

"Well, I'm sorry you can't make fun of Kyle for-

"We broke up." You dig your face into her collarbone, her soft hair gracing your face as a wet face presses tear drops into her shirt.

"Oh, Jellybean," Shee sighs slightly. You know in the back of her head she's thinking 'I told you so' but she gives the grace of softly caressing your hair.

"Eveeryone's talking about graduation and college. Everyone has their license and everyone's got their braces off. These kids I went to elementary school with are throwing up in bushes from drinking too much and I'm no better. I wasted my childhood trying to be a teenager and I wasted my teenage years trying to be an adult. There's no time left to be a teenager." It's what's. been nagging at you for the past you that. "I was just trying to grow up as fast as I could and now it's happened and I just want to go back," Your voice breaks as you dig your face deeper into the thin fabric "I wasted all my time- and I wasted Kyle's time too."

"If it made you happy it wasn't a waste of time," Her voice is soft, delicate like sun poking through chiffon curtains in the early morning.

You let out a shaky breath and let the sobs consume you whole. You wish you felt better but you are still shaking in the arms of your mother.

"And I'll tell you this right now. You never stop being a teenager the way you never stop being a kid. Bits and pieces of you from every stage of your life come together to make you this beautiful person. You know how your dad lights up whenever someone talks about lacrosse? He played it all through highschool and college, he doesn't play it now but it's still a part of him. Your uncle knows too much about werewolves, he had a phase in middle school. Those weird emo bands you love? Even if you decide you hate them one day, you'll remember all of the fun you had listening to them, and showing them to your friends, or the comfort it brought you."

You sniffle, using the back of your hand to wipe away dribbles pf tears down your cheeks "It just hit me that I have to grow up."

"You've been growing up," Your mom tucks a strand of hair behind your ear "So has Kyle, Weston, and Ike. Me and your dad are growing up."

"But I don't want to keep changing."

"We have to change, it's just uncomfortable because you've never been there before." It's dark and you can barely make out her sillouhette but you still know the tenderness in her eyes. Your dad is loudly snoring and though it should make you laugh, it's comforting. It reminds you of movie nights where you would all fall asleep on the couch and awake to snorting from your father. "Your still a girl who lives with her parents. You can put your worries on hold for a minute."

"How am I supposed to do that?"

"Eat a bowl of cereal and watch a movie. You're just a kid."

.˙꩜°˖:*࿔ ☼ ࿔*:˖°꩜˙.

Your car is packed with the most essential items, that to you was a minimum of five fuzzy throw blankets. The August heat clings to your skin, slick and insistent, and you swipe the back of your hand across your brow. Weston and Ike are hunched beside the car, catching their breath like they've just run laps. Boys, both of them, lanky and dramatic.

"Don't die on me now," you snap, hands on hips. "It's two boxes. You'll live."

Weston groans exaggeratedly. "I think my spine is broken."

"You don't have a spine," you shoot back. "You're a worm with a celsius addiction."

"Yeah, fuck you," He mutters under his breath so your parents won't hear. This is the last time in awhile you would get to degrade someone with no consequence. The way Weston always looks to you for approval even when he's red faced from yelling at you, you think you might miss it, but you don't know for sure yet.

Your mom pulls you in first, arms tight and familiar, her fingers running through your hair one last time. She smells like lavender and laundry detergent and safety. Your dad's hug is shorter but just as fierce. His voice is a murmur by your ear: "Call when you get there. And if anything's wrong. Anything at all." You nod against his shoulder and force a smile you don't really feel.

"Anything," Your dad reiterates though he's already a sobbing mess trying to pull himself together. His face is scrunched up in an uncomfortable way that makes you want to squirm, a level of emotion you weren't too used to seeing from him.

Gerald and Sheila hug you for a brief moment. Gerald was the once who taaught you how to parralel park in their driveway. It's comfortable and familiar, this is a moment you are sure you'll think back to often.

Kyle hung back. He wasn't sure what he was supposed to to. Give you a hug or a wave. He didn't want to get a swift punch to the throat. You take the steps toward him and though it startles, he remains cool.

He hasn't cut his hair since graduation and it curls slightly over his ears now, messier than you remember. Or maybe exactly how you remember, but from years ago, a version of him who didn't quite know you yet.

You hug him.

His arms fit around you like muscle memory. His arms circle your waist and yours go around his shoulders and you don't breathe for a second. His shirt smells like sun and old cologne and a hundred nights in your driveway, whispering about the future like it was something you'd both step into together.

You press your lips to the side of his neck, just under his jaw. A soft kiss. Barely anything. But it feels like everything. He tenses, then exhales. You swallow the lump in your throat and let go before the tears push through.

You pull back "I'll see you next summer?"

"I'll see you next summer." He confirms.

And then you open the door, slide into the driver's seat, and wave through the window. The engine rumbles to life beneath your hands.

You're doing it. You're leaving.

But God, it hurts.

.˙꩜°˖:*࿔ ☼ ࿔*:˖°꩜˙.

The sun is brutal overhead, baking the turf into molton lava. Your shirt is already clinging to your back, your thighs aching in that good way, it's sharp and earned. The whistle blasts, and you launch into the next drill, a one-touch pass to sprint and shoot.

The ball rebounds off a teammate's cleat. You sprint forward, aim without thinking, and let it fly.

It connects. Just not with the net.

With Alex's head.

He was a guy in your statistics class. You had known him but barely, all you knew was he had a wicked tan and a movie star smile.

The thwack is loud. Echoes across the field like a gunshot. He drops instantly, sprawling onto the grass, hands clutching his forehead.

For half a second, you snort. It's instinctive. The sound escapes your mouth before you can stop it- this little wheeze of disbelief. You half-turn to make a joke to the others but they're staring at you. No one's laughing. They aren't like your friends back home. One girl's even mid-step like she's about to sprint to him. Your smile dies on your face.

"Shit, sorry," you gasp, already running over. "Dude, are you-"

He's still on the ground, blinking up at the sky, squinting against the sun. Then he grins.

"That was the most violent header I've ever taken."

You exhale, somewhere between a laugh and a groan, dropping into a crouch beside him. "Well how many have you taken?"

"Maybe like a dozen?" His tone is playful but the squinting of his eyes tells you that you've really taken one out of him.

"Then this one won't make a difference."

"Right, I didn't think about that."

"Do you think at all?" It was meant o be a joke but came off far more harsh than intended "Sorry. Do you remember your name?"

"Alex, and... unfortunately, you're right."

You shake your head, half-relieved, half-scolding. He grins wider.

"You've got a hell of a kick," he says, still lying flat on the field.

You nudge his shoulder, light but apologetic. "You've got a hell of a face. Sorry I tried to break it."

He laughs again. Your teammates are starting to relax, their attention drifting back to the coach. You're still kneeling beside him when he finally pushes himself up with a groan.

You smile again.

.˙꩜°˖:*࿔ ☼ ࿔*:˖°꩜˙.

The night was sticky with heat and laughter, the kind that clung to skin and hair and wove its way into the threads of your clothes like smoke. The woods were alive with bodies- shoulders brushing, drinks passed from hand to hand, some half-empty, some spilled at your feet. This was the kind of scene you had been seeking out, the thing you expected from the college experience.

You followed your roommate into the clearing, the kind carved out by years of teenagers dragging logs into circles and forgetting their wrappers and cans behind. Music bled through someone's cheap speaker, too loud in some pockets of the trees, a whisper in others. It was all movement- firelight flickering off sweaty foreheads, boys tossing rocks into the dark just to hear them land.

Your roommate chattedd at rrandom while you clutche the drink in hand, the condesation bbiting at you fingers tips. All of these acne scared people seemed so beautiful bathed in the light of a bonfire. Everything was more beautiful in the light of a bonfire.

You saw Alex then. His profile lit up every time he turned toward the fire, golden light painting across his cheekbones and catching in his lashes. He was leaned back on his hands, some red Solo cup swaying dangerously between his knees. He looked relaxed, but not in the way most boys did here—not slouched with disinterest or soaked in beer, but in that easy, solid way that makes you want to sit near someone without knowing why.

You thought he hadn't seen you. You were wrong. Your roommate gives you a wink before waddling elsewhere.

"Hey!" he called, his smile unmistakable even from across the clearing. You blinked, startled, then waved stiffly. Your throat dried. His friends barely noticed when he stood and walked toward you, kicking up bits of dirt and ash with his shoes. His shirt was dark and wrinkled, probably slept in, the collar stretched a little like someone had tugged on it. Your heart shuddered strangely at the thought that it might've been a girl.

"Hi," You sounded shy. It was so unlike you.

"Taking a break from nailing people in the head?"

"For now, I got a big day ahead of me tomorrow."

He huffs a laugh and it feels like a victory "I guess I'm not special if you're doing it to everyone."

"Only deserving people."

"I'm deserving?"

"Yeah, I guess you are."

There was a pause. A breath. The music trembled in the trees. You watched him watching you, his eyes skimming your face, but not the way others did. Not like they were trying to peel something off of you. More like he was gently brushing dust away from a painting someone had forgotten in an attic.

"So, still adjusting?" He asks.

"Yeah. Sometimes I wake up and I forget I'm not home." Those moment would send you into a little bit of a panic "You?"

"It's so weird not being covered in dog hair all of the time," He smiles.

"Well, I'm sure I could find some for you."

"I would so appreciate that."

"I'll get to work then."

A burst of laughter exploded behind you. Some drunk guy tripping into the firepit's edge. You didn't flinch. Alex did. "Or we could walk?" he asked, gesturing with his chin toward the darker path where the trees swallowed sound. "It's loud."

"Sure," you said.

He walked beside you, his hand brushing yours once, twice, but never quite taking it. The path curved around the edge of the party, where the glow of the fire dimmed into shadows, and the night began to whisper again.

"I've been meaning to ask," he said, slow, as if the words were stones he was arranging into a careful line. "Do you have a boyfriend back home?"

.˙꩜°˖:*࿔ ☼ ࿔*:˖°꩜˙.

The restaurant is warm in that overcompensating, too-much-heater kind of way that makes your cheeks red and the tips of your fingers sting when you first walk in. Outside, the snow's coming down in that quiet, theatrical way, the kind that turns parking lots and strip malls into something tender and picturesque, like they're part of a dream you only half-remember.

You hadn't meant to stay for the break. You told yourself it wasn't a big deal; too much to do, too far to travel, and besides, your professors assigned a stack of readings like they forgot students had places to go. But the truth was quieter than that, more pathetic. You didn't want to walk into a home that had rearranged itself without you. So you didn't go. You stayed.

Alex didn't say much when you told him. Just nodded once and offered to take you out. Somewhere nice. Somewhere not your desk or the library or your dorm room with its buzzing heater and the roommates you barely saw anymore.

The table between you is scattered with plates; half-eaten pasta, a salad you forgot you ordered, a small cup of olives he keeps pushing toward you like he's determined you'll learn to like them. You're mid-forkful when it slips out. Just a flicker of sarcasm, nothing cruel. At least, you didn't think it was.

He's telling a story about something dumb his roommate did. You lean back, swirling the last of your drink. "Wow," you say, smirking. "Birds of a feather, huh?"

You say it like a tease. Like you've said worse. Like you've both dished it out in late-night walks back from campus or tucked under a shared blanket on his dorm bed while the snow tapped the windows like a song you almost knew the words to.

But he stills.

It's subtle. His hand pauses on his glass. He doesn't look up right away. When he does, the humor is gone from his face, scraped clean like a plate you weren't finished with.

The air shifts. You feel it in your shoulders first. In the part of your chest that always knows when something has gone wrong even before your head does.

You blink. "What?"

He shrugs, but it's too controlled. Too stiff. He looks down at his plate, pushes a piece of chicken around with his fork. "Nothing."

"No, seriously," You press.

"It's just-" He takes a moment to compose his thoughts "Birds of a feather?"

"It's a joke."

"All of your jokes just come out so mean," He pokes around his dish "It gets to a point. Like, is this what you really think?"

Your smile falters. The haze of warmth and familiarity you'd been soaking in like bathwater goes thin and cold. You open your mouth, then close it again. Because it was a little shitty. Not on purpose, but maybe that doesn't matter.

"I'm sorry," You could feel the shame creeping in "I didn't mean it, I've just always been like that. It's what I'm used to."

"Right."

You don't say anything after that. Not for a while.

You press your fork into the remains of your pasta, carving little lines through the creamy sauce without lifting a bite. Across from you, Alex drinks his water too quickly. You hear the faint clink of the ice shifting in his glass and it's the loudest sound between you.

The silence isn't comfortable; not like the quiet you've shared with him before. Not like walking back from his place in the cold with your hands buried deep in your coat pockets and your breath clouding the air between you. This one is heavy, like the weight of something you didn't mean to drop but shattered anyway.

You'd meant it as a joke. Something light. A stupid comment tossed out with a smile and a flick of your eyes, the way you used to with Kyle, with your brother, with people who lived inside your rhythm.

But Alex doesn't banter. Not like that. He's earnest in a way that leaves you feeling exposed. Like trying to be clever in a room that's too quiet. Like speaking in a language no one else knows.

You glance up. He's staring down at his plate like it might rescue him. You watch his jaw shift slightly, like he's chewing something over in his head; maybe your words, maybe something else. Maybe the space you've left him hanging in.

And you feel it, then. That slow-curling heat of embarrassment crawling up your neck and behind your ears. Your tongue feels too big in your mouth. Your throat too tight to say anything that wouldn't come out wrong.

So you don't speak either.

The waiter comes by, refills the water, asks if you're still working on things. Alex says, "Yeah," though neither of you has taken a bite in minutes. You smile up at him politely, and it feels like a lie. You can feel your face doing the right thing, but it doesn't belong to you.

The silence settles. Long and flat. You want to reach across it, say something easy to stitch over the rip. It was a joke. You don't get me. I don't know how to say things nicely when I'm nervous. I like you and I don't know what to do with it.

But all of that feels too sharp. Too real. Too much.

So you just sit there. Watching the candle between you flicker. Watching the winter night press up against the windows.

And for the first time since that ball slammed into his head and he laughed with his whole chest, you feel like you're sitting across from a stranger.

He sets his napkin down too carefully. It's folded like he wants it to look casual, like this is just dinner and he's just stepping away for a moment, but there's something about the way he won't quite meet your eyes that makes your stomach knot before you even understand why.

"I'm just gonna run to the bathroom," he says.

You nod, too quickly, too relieved for something to interrupt the silence. "Okay."

And then he's gone.

You check your phone. A couple of notifications from your roommate, a joke from Weston that you don't understand, and an email you won't read. You scroll through them all anyway. You reread the menu for no reason. You finish your water.

The candle between you has melted lower.

Ten minutes pass. Then fifteen.

You glance toward the hallway by the bar, where the bathrooms are tucked behind a chipped wooden door and a framed poster of wine pairings. Nothing.

You crane your neck, then straighten your back. Try not to look desperate, but the silence is thick again and you feel stupid in it. The waiter comes by, this time quieter, as if he can tell something's shifted. You ask if he's seen your date. He hasn't. You force a little laugh. "Probably just plugged up."

The waiter squirms at this comment and laughs awkwardly before shuffling away.

ou turn in your seat, flag a man near the entrance, someone on his way to the restroom. You give him a nervous smile, try to pretend you're not asking the question you're asking.

"Sorry-uh, weird favor. Can you check if there's a guy in there? Tall, black sweater, brown hair?"

He gives you a look -more curious than cruel- and nods. Slips inside.

You sit still, nails biting into the linen of the tablecloth, the warmth of the restaurant suddenly unbearable against your skin.

When he returns, the man shrugs. "No one in there."

You blink at him. "Are you sure?"

He nods. "Empty."

Your mouth goes dry.

You reach for your phone. Open your texts to Alex.

You: Everything okay?

The message doesn't send.

You try again.

You: What's up?

Nothing.

You: Okay fuck you too

You: {Message Deleted}

You stare at the screen. A red exclamation point. You press his name at the top of the chat, heart racing and your thumb freezes.

Blocked.

Just like that.

No noise. No goodbye. No excuse or explanation.

Just vanished.

The waiter comes by again. You can't look at him. You murmur, "Yeah, I'll take the bill," and pull your wallet out with fingers that tremble. You do the math without really seeing the numbers. You leave more tip than you need to because you're humiliated and too tired to split hairs.

Outside, the cold greets you like a slap. You'd worn the wrong coat—cuter than it is warm—and the snow has only gotten heavier. It crunches beneath your shoes, seeps through the seams.

He was your ride.

Of course he was your ride.

You walk. Not because you want to. Not because you're strong or brave or anything else someone might write about later but because you have no other option. Taxi wasn't in the broke student budget after the resturant bill and all of the Pink Whitney you had bought.

It's cold as anticipated but nowhere near as cold as it was back in South Park. God you were wishing you went back for break.

The walk back to campus feels longer than it should. Snow has piled up into drifts along the sidewalks, clinging to your jeans and biting through the thin fabric at your ankles. Your ears burn from the cold, your fingers are stiff, and your legs ache in that slow, deep way that has more to do with your heart than your muscles.

Every step is heavy. Your coat's soaked through at the shoulders. You haven't felt your nose in half an hour.

By the time the dorm building comes into view, just a dim orange rectangle blinking like a dying star, you're too numb to be relieved. You push through the front door, leave tracks of slush across the tile, ignore the security desk and the vending machines glowing like a carnival in a graveyard. You take the stairs because the elevator is always broken and you don't trust the flickering light inside.

When you round the corner to your floor, you hear it. A low thud. A muffled noise—almost rhythmic.

And then, there it is.

A sock. On the doorknob.

It was only fair. You coulddn't break in and cut them off, not when you promised your roommate the dorm to herself for the night.

You don't knock. Don't try to guilt her out of it.

You just sink down.

Right there in the hallway, you slide your back against the wall until you're sitting on the scratchy carpet. You hug your knees to your chest, shivering, and let your breath come slow and uneven. Your jeans stick to your skin. Your fingers burn as they thaw.

You pull out your phone. The screen glows bright and cold. It's almost comforting.

You open Instagram.

The first thing that pops up is a group picture from back home- Weston grinning like a fool at some bonfire, cheeks flushed, sparks flying in the background. He's wearing the hoodie you left behind.

Tolkien with a scenic picture of his stunning backyard view. Kenny's awful photos of the most boring items he found so intresting. Red's monthly photo dump with a picture of herself included. Another photo-Kyle with his arm around some girl you don't recognize. Her smile is blinding. His hand is on her waist, loose and familiar.

Your thumb pauses over the image, but you don't click it.

Story after story, post after post. Laughter. Parties. Hot chocolate in stupid mugs and matching pajamas and ugly Christmas sweaters. The world you used to be part of, now flickering in curated, cropped corners.

You scroll, not sure if you're hoping to find something that hurts or something that doesn't.

A notification flashes.

It's nothing. Just a discount code.

You let your head fall back against the wall and close your eyes.

Inside your room, the bed creaks. Someone laughs breathlessly. The sock holds firm on the doorknob.

And you sit there-wet, cold, humiliated-with the sound of someone else's night tangled up in the silence of your own.

.˙꩜°˖:*࿔ ☼ ࿔*:˖°꩜˙.

The summer air feels different back home. Thick with cut grass and warm pavement and the sound of sprinklers ticking lazily in every second yard. You forgot how it smells—how it feels—to wake up to birds instead of traffic, to walk barefoot through a yard without worrying what's underfoot. It almost doesn't feel real, like slipping into an old sweatshirt that doesn't fit the same but still smells like you.

You're in your familiar and friendly backyard, the two of you folded into lawn chairs that have seen better days, sipping lukewarm iced coffee and swatting at bugs with the slow, unbothered movements of people who grew up in places like this. The sun is setting in strips of gold through the trees, and someone down the street is playing a playlist full of songs you used to love and now pretend to hate.

Bebe's telling you about her last minute hookup with Clyde, always on again. You laugh, lean back, let your head loll to the side as you take her in. Her perfectly manicured nails. The way each curl framed her face. Her voice is something steady in a world that keeps tilting.

You're happy. Or something close enough to pass for it.

Then Ike comes around the side of the house, still all knees and elbows, like he hasn't quite caught up with his growth spurts. He's holding a can of root beer, shirtless, and yelling something about Weston cheating in a game you weren't invited to.

You grin at him, lazy. "Put a shirt on, you freak."

He flips you off without looking, then flops onto the grass beside Bebe, cracking open his drink.

It takes you a second. You tap your foot against the leg of your chair. Say nothing. Then something tight in your chest pushes the words up before you can second guess them.

"So," you say, eyes locked on a dragonfly hovering near the fence. "How's Kyle?"

The question lands heavy. Too casual. Too late. It's the first time you've asked since getting back, and everyone knows it.

Ike doesn't answer right away. He picks at the label on his can.

"He's up at Matt's cabin," he finally says. "Left like... end of June, I think?"

You nod, pretending that doesn't sting. "Cool. Just for the week?"

"Nah," Ike says. "All summer. He's working out there. Helping build a dock or a garage or something. He's not coming back until, like, mid-August."

You blink. That's when you leave. So he had lied last August when he said he would see you next summer. Surely he wasn't thinking about it the same way you were. No. He was occupied with Matt and that stupid girl he had his arm around during winter break.

"Oh," you say. Quiet. You try to keep your face still. "Cool. That's so cool."

"Yeah."

"I wish I had a friend with a cabin, then I wouldn't have to see your horrifying face." You smile like you always had while poking and prodding at the young boy but it feels so forced now.

"Uh, yeah," He makes a tightlipped face resembling a frog before scattering off to join your brother.

"Jesus," Bebe looks almost disgusted "We need to find you someone to move on with."

You had already tried that and now you had to move on from him too. Still just to put this to rest before it even wakes, you answer "Yeah, you're right."

.˙꩜°˖:*࿔ ☼ ࿔*:˖°꩜˙.

The score's tied. The crowd is thunder. Rain has soaked the field into a pit of slick earth and shredded grass, but you don't feel the cold anymore. You don't feel anything but the fire in your legs and the sound of your own breath roaring in your ears.

The ball is at your feet.

One defender between you and the shot.

You fake left. She bites. You cut right, mud spraying up in a fan behind your cleats. The ball skitters, catches under your toe, and for one shining second you see the opening; just you and the net and the keeper lunging too far to the left.

You pull back your leg.

Then your footing gives out.

Your cleat doesn't catch- just sinks, slips, slides.

Your knee goes first, skimming the slick grass. Then your hip. Then your shoulder.

The ball spins ahead of you, lost.

You're falling.

Your body slides with a graceless momentum straight through the box, your hands outstretched, trying to catch the earth itself-and then-

Crack.

Your head collides with the goalpost.

Bright light. Then nothing.

For a moment, it's just the sound of your heartbeat echoing in the hollow of your skull.

You're on your side, cheek in the mud. It smells like sweat and torn grass and metal. Your vision pulses-blurry edges and flashes of white. The sky above is just a smear of grey.

Somewhere, a whistle is blowing. Feet pounding. A voice yelling your name, but distant, like it's coming through water.

You try to sit up. The world tilts like a boat in a storm. A sharp pain cuts through your temple. You sink back down.

There's a hand on your back now. Someone saying, "Don't move-hey, don't move."

You blink, trying to focus. The lights around the field are too bright. The faces are shapes. The rain has soaked through your uniform, and you can feel it now-cold and sticky, like the earth itself is trying to swallow you whole.

You don't know if the ball went in.

You don't even know if you made the shot.

You only know the game has stopped- and so has everything else.

.˙꩜°˖:*࿔ ☼ ࿔*:˖°꩜˙.

The room still spins sometimes.

Not constantly;just when you turn your head too fast, or when the light from your desk lamp hits the wrong angle. You've been told not to look at screens for too long, not to overdo it, not to think too hard. As if you could stop your brain from folding in on itself when everything is so loud all the time, even the quiet.

Your backpack sits half-zipped by the door, full of clothes you barely bothered to fold. You're leaving tomorrow;heading home for winter break, concussion in tow.

It's dark outside already. Has been since four. The radiator clicks in tired, metal groans, and your body aches in places you didn't even hit when you fell. You're on your bed, wrapped in a blanket that smells faintly like detergent and stress.

Since you cracked your head you had spent your time out of the classroom laying in the dark. The strain of the light made your head spiral. It was almost like you were a little bit buzzed all of the time, overly emotional, moodswings like you had never seen before.

"This trip is gonna suck so bad. Can't smoke weed, can't have caffeine," you mutter, staring into the ceiling like it owes you answers. "Doctor said it messes with your head when you're concussed."

Your roommate, perched cross-legged on her bed across the room, lifts an eyebrow. "You're drinking a root beer."

You blink. Then glance at the can in your hand, already sweating through your fingers. "Yeah?"

She pauses. "Root beer has caffeine."

You look at her. Then back to the can. You squint at it like the label might argue on your behalf. "I just don't believe you."

You take a long, loud sip. "This one's the good kind."

"You are seriously gonna make your revocery time way longer."

"God forbid I want a little treat," You shake your head and then stop immediately at the ache that came with it.

"And stop going on your phone, it's not good for you right now."

"So I'm just supposed to lay here and do nothing?"

"Yes," Your roomate stands, checking the time on her phone "I gotta go but I want you fast asleep when I come back. It'll be good for you."

"Right."

The door clicks shut behind your roommate like the last note of a song you didn't want to end. It echoes in the dark longer than it should.

Then it's just you.

And the hum of the radiator.

And the low spin of your ceiling fan slicing shadows across the room.

You lie flat on your back, blankets twisted around your legs, arms limp at your sides. Your head is heavy—like it's full of water, or rocks, or thoughts that never stop tumbling over each other in uneven waves.

It's too quiet.

Not silent. Not peaceful. Just quiet in that thick way that makes every breath sound too loud. Every blink like thunder inside your skull. And behind your eyes, the lights haven't gone out. They still flicker—soft white bursts and smudges of movement, little ghosts skimming the edges of your vision.

The ceiling is just there. Blank. Blank and watching.

You tell yourself not to think. That your brain needs rest. That every thought is one step further from healing.

But it doesn't listen. It never does.

The dorm room sits in a hush so heavy it feels like a second blanket over your chest. Darkness swallowed the corners first, but now it's drifted inward, settling in the dip beneath your collarbones, collecting like dust in your lungs. It is still. A graveyard kind of still. The kind where nothing moves because nothing dares.

You lie there-eyes open, wide, unblinking-and the memory comes not like a flood, but a slow trickle through a crack in the dam. Unwelcome and steady. You didn't invite it. But it finds you.

It was summer, though the air had gone thick and sour with the end of things. A barbecue, all the grown-ups humming about with their folding chairs and paper plates, the scent of overcooked hot dogs and charred corn clinging to your clothes. Laughter buzzed like flies around you, meaningless, erratic. You'd been tracing Kyle's back with your eyes from across the yard, watching the way he leaned in to talk to his brother, how the sun caught on the soft, pale curve of his neck.

And then she came, Sheila, like a gust of wind that slammed a door shut behind you.

She smiled, though her eyes didn't smile with her. They were tight and dry and a little too alert, like she was looking through you, searching for something deeper, something dangerous.

"Walk with me a moment?" she asked, but it wasn't really a question. It was a decision already made.

The two of you moved along the edge of the fence line where the grass was brittle and sun-split. She didn't speak for a while, just let the silence stretch until it felt like something fraying apart. Until you couldn't bear to breathe too loud.

"You two are going off to school soon," she began eventually, tone even, like a math teacher running through a familiar equation. "Different campuses. New people. New priorities."

You nodded. A breath caught somewhere between agreement and confusion.

"You're young. It's natural to think you've found someone special, but I want you to ask yourself something- and I want you to really think." She stopped walking and turned to you then. "Do you plan to marry him?"

You blinked. You were eighteen.

"I- what?"

"If you don't see a future, a real one, then this needs to stop now. Kyle has goals, and school is going to be a lot. I'd hate for him to miss his shot at something good because he's tangled up in something that doesn't go anywhere."

You remember the way her words landed. Not sharp. Not cruel. Just solid. Heavy like stone, built to last.

You tried to say we're serious, but the words got stuck, half-formed and soggy in your mouth. She didn't leave you room to explain. She didn't need you to. You weren't part of the plan.

"I'm know you're a very sweet girl," she said, a phrase so clinical it might as well have been a diagnosis. "But what he needs is someone who knows where she's going. Who's ready. You'll both meet people. That's how life works. I just want you to think, if it doesn't end with marriage then it's gonna put a rift in our families anyway."

And that was it.

No scene. No yelling. Just the slow, dull crush of inevitability under her calm voice. It obviously wasn't marriage or studies that was the issue here; it was you, your sharp tongue, bruised knees, loud demeanour. The issue was you not being able to fit with their family.

She left you standing alone by the rose bushes. A bee landed on your ankle and you let it. Didn't flinch. You couldn't remember what you'd even said when Kyle came over later. Probably nothing. Maybe we should talk. Maybe this is for the best. Something hollow. Something adult.

You never told him she was the one who started the end. That she looked at your love and saw a detour, not a destination.

Back in the dorm, your head pounds like something inside you is trying to get out. You squeeze your eyes shut, but all you see is the way he smiled at you across the lawn that day, half a hot dog in his hand, unaware that it was already over.

The room is too dark. The silence is too loud.

And you still can't decide if Sheila was wrong-

or if you've just been proving her right ever since.

⋆꙳•❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊⋆

The room smells like old dust and shampoo from a brand you haven't used in years. Your old bedroom is somehow smaller now, shrunken down by time or memory or both. The posters on the wall, the chipped paint on the dresser, the way the sun filters in through the crooked blinds like it always did- it all feels a little too preserved, like walking into a wax replica of someone who used to be you.

You're sitting cross-legged on the floor, wrapped in a blanket that's too thin for the weather, chewing on the inside of your cheek while your mom's handwriting stares at you from the folded slip of paper in your palm. It wasn't 'Secret Santa' it was 'Secret Gift Giver' which was your parents idea of being politically correct to all religions that were attending their holiday party.

Secret Gift Giver: Kyle.

You reread it, like the name might change if you squint hard enough. It doesn't. It's still him. Of course it is.

You drop the paper on your nightstand and lean back against your bed frame, pressing your fists to your eyes. You're not mad-not at your mom, not even at him really-but your head is still tender from the concussion, your spine still prickles when you lie down too fast, and the idea of getting the right gift for the boy you once thought you'd marry makes your stomach turn.

It's not that you haven't seen him. You have. From a distance, through the windows of Ike's car, across the grocery store parking lot. But you haven't spoken. And now you're meant to give him something personal.

You roll over and glare at the wall. You consider making something dumb. A joke gift. A stupid T-shirt. A glitter-glued card with a fake coupon for "One Free Apology for Literally Everything." But none of it sits right. You want to give him something honest.

You nearly give up. Nearly shove the slip of paper into the back of your journal and pretend to forget. But then you remember the box.

It's in your closet. You have to lie flat on your stomach and stretch until your shoulder pops, fingers catching on the plastic edge, tugging it free from years of dust bunnies and forgotten notebooks. You wipe it off on your sleeve and open it slowly.

It's still there. Every bit of it. Trinkets and tokens from a part of you you don't miss, not really. The part that used to lift things from people's pockets just to feel something. A phase, they called it. A compulsion, your then boyfriend had said.

⋆꙳•❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊⋆

"Who did you get for Secret Santa?" You ask Weston, you two of you are in tacky Christmas sweaters, lounging on the couch in the cool basement and watching a corny action packed movie like the good old days. You chose to ignore the party in full swing above you.

"Secret Gift Giver," He corrects, snakily. He looks so grown now. The year and then some since you left had really taken a toll on him.

"Secret eat a dick, you little fucker," You mutter but he whips his head to look at you, already offended.

"I'm gonna make that concussion worse," He threatens.

"I'm gonna make your social life worse." You rebuttlem "Who did you get?"

"Shannon," He answers. Your mothers friend who had so much work done that she looked like a melted Barbie doll. "Who did you get?"

"Kyle."

He looks at you blankly for just a slpit second, you think there might be some empathy inhis gaze but no, he burst out laughing. Pointing at you even, you were being ridiculed by a little boy in your eyes.

"Oh my God," he cackles. "That is so cursed. You're cursed. Mom cursed you."

You punch him in the leg. Lightly. Playfully. Just enough to make a point.

He keeps laughing, snorting now. "What'd you get him, a framed restraining order?"

"I don't even have feelings for him. I'm a grown adult now, we can be mature."

"You wanna kiss him so bad," he says, sitting up dramatically and poking you right in the center of your forehead like it's a button.

You swat his hand away, half-laughing despite yourself, but it happens fast—your elbow slips off the edge of the cushion, and you jolt sideways into the wooden arm of the couch. The impact isn't sharp, just sudden. Just enough to thud. Your vision lurches like a boat tipping on a wave.

You blink hard.

The lights are suddenly too bright. The laughter too loud. Your skull hums, like the echo of a church bell after it's rung. You bring a hand to your head, press your palm flat, try not to flinch.

Weston sobers instantly. "Wait-are you okay?"

You don't answer right away. You feel the nausea creeping in first, then the hollow ringing behind your eyes. It's like a film reel unspooling in reverse-mud, goalpost, winter dorm lights, root beer fizzing in your throat. You'd forgotten how quiet the world could get when your brain was spinning.

"Yeah," you say finally, soft and slurred. "Just... give me a sec."

Weston leans forward, eyes wide, all traces of smug little brother gone. "Shit. I'm sorry, I didn't mean-do you need to lie down? Should I get Mom?"

You wave him off, eyes closed now. "No, just just your fucking mouth for a second. I'm fine."

He does. Miraculously. Sits beside you, still and silent, like maybe if he breathes too loud you'll shatter.

You sit there in the noise of the party, cradling your head like a raw egg, and think about how stupid it is to get injured on your parents' couch during a sibling spat over your ex-boyfriend, of all people. But more than that, you think about the box upstairs- still under the tree, still taped up in pizza wrapping paper. A gift-shaped ghost waiting to be unwrapped.

You sit through the movie like a ghost with your face painted on. The lights are low, the Christmas tree blinks gently in the corner, and someone's passed around popcorn in a bowl shaped like Santa's head. You don't know what movie it is. You couldn't name a single character if asked. You can feel the images dancing on your retinas, but nothing lands. It's noise and color and ache, a quiet throb building between your temples like someone slowly tightening a vice.

You try to drink water. You try to blink slowly, stretch your legs, lean your head against the back of the couch. But your skull feels too heavy for your neck. And when the credits finally roll and the family starts shifting, murmuring, rustling with plates and blankets and empty mugs, you quietly slip out.

The kitchen is dark except for the warm hum of the overhead stove light. You move slowly, fingers trailing the countertop for balance, shoulders hunched like you're trying to protect your head from the air itself. The cabinet above the microwave is where your mom keeps the pills—still the same as it was before you left. You open it too fast, and a bottle of turmeric falls out and hits the stove with a hollow clatter.

"Hey, Jellybean," your dad's voice calls from the den before you can recover. "You okay?"

You've already got the Advil bottle open, shaking one into your hand with trembling fingers. "Yeah. Just a headache."

You hear footsteps. Then your mom appears around the corner, one of her friends trailing behind like a polite, interested ghost. "Are you sleeping enough at school?" she asks, already reaching for a glass to fill you water like she's caught you breaking something.

Her friend- Diane or Doreen or some other nice woman with a scarf and hot cocoa breath—chimes in cheerfully. "I bet it's all those late nights! My daughter was up writing essays at 3AM like it was her job." She was likely up getting sloshed.

You mumble something noncommittal. You can't even remember the last essay you wrote. Or if you finished it.

Another person joins- your dad this time, with a half-full wine glass and that concerned father expression he only puts on when he's around other adults. "How's the team doing? You starting still?"

You nod. Then shake your head. Then just sip the water.

"She got a concussion," your mom says, answering for you. "In her last game."

"Oh no!" Diane or Doreen or whoever clasps her hands together like you've just said torn ACL. "You poor thing! You have to be careful with those, they can linger."

"She knows," your dad says, still watching you like you're going to drop your cup.

Another one of their friends peeks in. "Didn't Kyle have a concussion once too? During that tournament in Grade ten?"

You flinch at the name. The pill still hasn't dulled the ache in your skull and now it feels like someone is rubbing it raw. You nod, more out of muscle memory than response.

You press your shoulder to the wall, letting it hold you up as the noise of the party hums around you-warm, chaotic, too much. Your eyes flick over half-finished drinks, someone's half-eaten cookie on a plate, crumpled napkins and laughter that feels far away, like it's coming from another room, another house, another version of yourself that's still capable of joining in.

You keep your gaze low, safe. That's when you notice someone brought their dog. The tiny dachshund with its too-long body and stumpy legs, standing determinedly in front of the couch. Its tail wags, like it believes the next leap will be the one that gets it up there. It crouches, gears up, springs—

Thump.

It hits the cushion and slides back down.

Tries again.

Thump.

No one notices. Or if they do, they're too distracted to care. There's a charcuterie board, a conversation about snow tires, someone trying to connect their phone to the Bluetooth speaker.

Thump.

The dog huffs, tiny and breathless. It doesn't whine. It just plants its little paws, eyes the couch again, determined.

And it undoes you.

You feel the first tear slide down before you even realize you're crying. Then another. Then another. Silent, steady. Your chest pulls tight and the room feels like it's shrinking around you. The music, the flickering lights, the too-warm air—everything presses in, and you can't stop watching this dog that just wants a place on the couch.

"Jellybean?"

You blink and your mother is there, wine glass set aside on the mantel, one hand reaching gently for your shoulder. Her brow furrows when she sees your face, her touch soft and cool as it rests on your back.

"You okay?"

You try to nod, but it jerks partway through. The tears are coming too fast now, slipping down your face in fat drops that catch on your chin.

"I don't know why I'm crying," you say. It's a lie, and she knows it. But she doesn't push. "I just feeling like a weiner dog trying to jump on the couch when no one's helping it but I'm not helping it either."

She rubs your back, slow circles like she did when you were little. "Why don't you go lie down, Bean," she murmurs, voice low so no one else can hear. "Just for a little while. You've had a long day."

You don't argue. You just let her guide you toward the hallway, her hand never leaving your back. She leaves you to walk the rest of the way to your bedroom.

You dig through the top drawer of your old desk, the one with the broken knob you never got around to fixing, and your fingers close around the familiar box. The cardboard is soft around the edges, corners fraying, the once-vibrant logo faded from years of being tucked away beneath mismatched socks and forgotten notebooks. A relic of another version of yourself. You flip it open—three left. You shake one loose.

It smells faintly like your old hoodie and old choices. Stale but still potent, like it remembers what it was made for. You hesitate for a moment, holding it between your fingers. Your hands are shaking a little, or maybe you're just cold.

You dig out the lighter—still works. That feels like a betrayal, somehow.

The house is too loud behind you. Warm and full and bursting with life. You slip through the side door unnoticed, like a ghost in your own home, old parka zipped to your chin, sleeves covering your hands. The world outside bites. Winter presses its sharp teeth to your skin, and for a second, the cold feels good. At least it's something real.

You perch on the hood of your car, legs tucked up, feet planted. The metal groans faintly beneath you. The first drag is bitter, dry, the paper flaking between your fingers. It doesn't burn smooth-it scratches down your throat like sandpaper. But you don't cough. You just exhale and watch the smoke curl up into the blackness above you, where the stars blink like they're shivering too.

It's been years. Since eleventh grade, you think. Since parking lots and borrowed lighters and dumb bravado meant to impress someone. You hated the taste then. You hate it now. But this? This moment? It fits.

It's almost poetic. Coming home, tripping into old habits like potholes on familiar streets. You feel ashamed, but it's a distant sort of shame. The kind you can set beside you like an old friend you don't talk to anymore.

You take another drag. Let it sit in your lungs.

Inside, the party drones on. Through the frosted window, you can see someone gesturing with a cup, a blur of laughter, the dim flicker of Christmas lights. You don't want to go back in yet.

You pull the parka tighter, ash flicking off the end of your cigarette and disappearing into the snow. The wind carries the smoke away from you, and with it, maybe a little bit of whatever you're holding onto so tightly.

You don't hear the door open over the wind. Just the crunch of boots against frostbitten gravel, soft and careful. You tense at first, instinctually withdrawing the cigarette to your side, as if maybe the shadows would hide it. But when you turn your head, the motion sluggish and slow, he's already looking at you.

Kyle.

He's wearing that old black windbreaker, the one his mom bought at a thrift store when you were fifteen and he never stopped wearing. His cheeks are pink from the cold, breath fogging out in front of him. He looks older than you remember and exactly the same. You can't tell if it makes your stomach hurt or settle.

He lifts a hand in a small wave and says, "Hey."

You nod. Blow smoke to the side, away from him. You can't look directly at his face for long. It feels like staring into a flashlight.

He doesn't ask about the cigarette. Just shifts from foot to foot for a moment, then holds something out to you. A small rectangular box, wrapped clumsily in newspaper comics and sealed with a crooked line of tape.

"I, uh... liked the gift you gave me," he says, voice lower than the air between you. "Didn't think you'd still have any of that stuff."

Your laugh is a breath through your nose, too thin to be real. "Yeah. I was a little crook back then."

He smiles, but it's sad around the edges. "I didn't mind. I liked that you wanted things."

You blink. Look at him now, really look. The slope of his jaw, the tiredness in his eyes. It hits you that maybe you're both too young to be this haunted.

You gesture at the box. "What's that?"

He shrugs and holds it closer. "I wanted to get you something too. Thought about just getting you a coffee gift card or something dumb but..." He looks away, then back. "This felt better."

Your fingers shake slightly as you take it from him. The paper is cold in your hands. You don't open it yet.

"Thanks," you say, and your voice is raw. "For coming out here."

He glances at the smoke in your hand again. "What happened to last cigarette ever"

You force a grin. "I've had a couple last cigarettes ever."

He huffs a soft laugh. "Yeah. You always said this time of year made you feel like a stretched-out rubber band."

You flick ash to the side and whisper, "Still does."

"I heard you ate it pretty hard in your last game." He leans against the hood, facing the streetlamps the same way as you.

"Yup, and I've got the brain cognition to prove it."

This makes him smile. He had that perfect smile. No his teeth weren't tissue white in a uniform order but it was always perfect to you. So organic and nostalgic.

"I'm sorry, Kyle."

He knows what you mean "It's okay-"

"It's really not. Nothing I did then was okay and I really feel sorry for you," You pause "Not you now but you back then."

"I get it."

"I don't think you do-

"Trust me," He cuts you off "I do."

The moment sits between you. You don't feel like a teenager anymore, you have new friends and don't even fit your shorts from ninth grade. You feel mature maybe for the first time ever. He gets it.

"That's nice." You smile politely, letting the bud drifft and die on the snowy ground. Kyle's jacket is almost too small on him, you remember when he was drowning in it. You slowly peel the tape from the box until it bare in front of you. You look back up at Kyle and his black jacket "And I thought it was too late for windbreakers."

"it's never too late."

When you lift the lid there lies a green powerade bottle. You remember it well, ot was that first white flag of surrender he had waved. The first token of peace you had accepted andd you would surely accept it once more.

You look up at him. His ecpression is soft as he watches the thoughts process in your brain "Want to sit?"

[gangsteri-aine]

The Thrill of the Hunt

“Oh, I can't wait to watch your life fade from your beady little eyeballs,” Foolish says, the word wait sounds more like snap with the way Foolish's teeth clash together. His eyes flick around Bad’s face before returning to his eyes. “And I can’t wait to gaze into your beautiful gumdrop eyes while your giant muscular arms are ripping me apart,” Bad says as he takes half a step forward as he speaks and leans in closer. His tail swipes up from behind him and reaches to touch Foolish’s bicep. or; Bad is ready to hunted down

ao3

Bad has experienced several executions during his lifetime; as a witness, as an executioner and as the executionee. But he doesn’t think he has ever been as excited as he is for this one.

And he's not the only one. 

There is a crowd gathered below the castle stairs, anxiously waiting to see Bad die. Or “pay for his crimes” as they would say. 

It’s not the biggest crowd that has watched Bad be executed but it’s decent. A lot of people showed up.

And all of them don’t even want him dead! That’s slightly surprising. 

Pili is standing in the front crowd, his eyes keep jumping between Bad and the axe on Bad’s neck. He’s holding his own axe tightly in his paws, and Bad knows his inventory is filled with potions. He would fight for Bad which is nice. He didn’t seem to understand Bad’s eagerness for the execution.

Pili didn’t understand that the point wasn’t dying. It was what came before that.

Up on top of the stairs, Bad is standing with his back straight and tail calmy swishing back and forth. Every once in a while, it hits Sneeg’s ankle. The first time Bad’s tail touched him, Sneeg got startled enough to jump a little but every time after that he just scowled at Bad and tightened his hold on his battleaxe. That’s boring, Bad thought his jumpiness was funny. 

On the other hand it’s probably good that Sneeg isn’t that jumpy. It would be a shame if Bad got executed before it was the right time. You see, Sneeg’s axe had been steadily placed against Bad’s neck ever since they climbed up the castle stairs. 

Owen is standing on the other side of Sneeg. His axe is not pointed towards Bad at the moment; he's too focused on following Foolish’s movements as he readies himself for his speech.

Speaking of the only reason Bad hasn’t started running yet; Foolish looks magnificent in his hunting outfit. It perfectly matches his emerald eyes and highlights his strong arms. In Bad’s opinion, it’s one of the best outfits Foolish has ever worn in one of Bad’s executions. 

He is standing a bit further away on Bad’s other side, against Ros’ wishes. She would have wanted Sneeg to stand between them for Foolish's safety but Foolish had waved off the idea. According to him he wanted to show his beloved subjects that he wasn't afraid of Bad, that he was in control of the situation. But Bad knows that Foolish wanted him to stand there for other reasons. The same reasons why Bad would have chosen to stand there himself.

He wanted to be close to Bad. 

But this wasn’t close enough, there were still several feet between them. Much too much space. 

“Hello my dear friends!” Foolish yells. The king's speech has officially started. Bad can’t wait for it to end. Everyone below them in the crowd quiets down and nervously moves their attention to their king. "Welcome, everyone, to our first official execution Monday!" 

Foolish pauses as if to wait for applause and cheering to stop. In reality, only Ros and Tango let out a delighted whoops and cheers. Most of the other people clap their hands unenthusiastically; they seem confused. Maybe this is their first execution, they will understand the thrill and excitement later.

Foolish doesn’t let the awkwardness of the crowd bother him. Instead, he turns his body slightly towards Bad as if to address him but he’s still speaking to everyone around them. His attention is still mostly on his subjects and Bad doesn’t like that. He doesn’t like sharing Foolish. That attention is supposed to be on him. 

"Bad, you have mercilessly murdered-"

"Not murdered. They were all accidents," Bad helpfully points out tilts his head towards Foolish. 

Foolish pauses his speech and narrows his eyes. Bad can’t help but to smile at his annoyance. Excellent, Bad has his attention now. 

"Fine. You have accidently but mercilessly slaughtered numerous people and have been sentenced by court to death via a royal hunt." Foolish rolls his ‘r’ on the word royal and waves his arms upwards as if he’s imagining a title screen for Bad’s death. 

The crowd below them lets out a surprised gasp. Bad doesn’t know how many of them actually knew what kind of execution they came here to watch. 

Also, there is no court. At least not one that ruled this death sentence; Foolish came up with the idea a week ago and proposed it Bad. He was almost more excited about it than Foolish was. He even gave Foolish a couple of ideas on how to make the execution into a real spectacle. 

“You now have a chance to say your last words,” Foolish drops his 'speaking to the public' voice and steps closer to Bad. “Maybe start by apologizing for murdering your king. Maybe that will help you to get closer to Heaven.”

Bad almost laughs, Foolish would never even entertain the idea of Bad getting back to Heaven. To him, Bad has always been a demon.

“I,” Bad starts before turning to look deep into Foolish's shining emerald eyes. He can feel the anticipation emanating from the crowd, and Sneeg's axe follows his movement, “have done nothing wrong.”

Foolish tilts his head upwards and lets out an exasperated noise of frustration. And he's not the only one, many of the people watching, waiting for him to be hunted down, let out annoyed yelps. Next to him, Sneeg rolls his eyes and lets out a huff.

With Sneeg’s focus broken, Bad doesn’t miss a beat to side step his battleaxe and take a long stride towards Foolish. 

There is panicked shuffling around them. Sneeg, no doubt, rushing after him and other members of the kingdom pulling out their weapons. 

But no one manages to do anything to stop him before he's face to face with Foolish. That’s what you get by not training your guards properly. Kingdom full of fools, truly.

Foolish doesn’t move. He doesn’t even flinch. 

There is only a foot between them now. Bad still wants to be closer. 

He locks eyes with Foolish and sees the same hatred he feels. The same wanting. The same... something else. Even after all these years they have never managed to name that feeling.

Foolish waves his hand and all movement around them stops. Bad can feel everyone watching them but he doesn’t care. Foolish’s eyes are on him. That’s all that matters. 

“I didn’t do anything wrong,” Bad repeats, his voice lowered this time. 

“Just admit you fucked up, you scumbag!” Foolish spats out and leans a little closer. His eyes are flashing in a way that tells Bad that he has also forgotten everyone else around them; that he’s ready for the hunt to start.

The hidden excitement in Foolish’s eyes almost makes Bad smile but he forces his face to morph into an expression that can only be described as a pout. He can’t let Foolish see that easily how happy Bad is about this. That’s not how this works. “Language.”

Foolish rolls his eyes but they quickly return to Bad's face. Like he physically can’t look away for longer than he has to. 

“Oh, I can't wait to watch your life fade from your beady little eyeballs,” Foolish says, the word wait sounds more like snap with the way Foolish's teeth clash together. His eyes flick around Bad’s face before returning to his eyes.

“And I can’t wait to gaze into your beautiful gumdrop eyes while your giant muscular arms are ripping me apart,” Bad says as he takes half a step forward as he speaks and leans in closer. His tail swipes up from behind him and reaches to touch Foolish’s bicep.

Surprisingly, Foolish doesn’t slap his tail away. Instead, he lets it rest on his arm. 

Bad can't tell whether everyone around them has gone deadly quiet or if his ears have just decided that nothing apart from Foolish matters. Which is true. Nothing else matters right now. 

“You,” Foolish starts as he in turn leans in closer to Bad. Bad knows Foolish is not doing it deliberately; he never really thinks when they are like this. And neither does Bad, he just does what feels right in the moment. Their noses are almost touching now. “are a freak.”

Bad can’t stop the excited grin spreading on his face “Don’t act like you don’t want that too.”

Foolish doesn’t answer but there is a small smile tugging on his lips. 

“Never in a million years,” Foolish says and lets the smile take over his face. Bad feels his own grin widen. 

“I can’t wait for you to hunt me down,” Bad mumbles. They are close enough that Foolish definitely feels Bad’s breath on his face. 

“Then start running,” Foolish snarls, his sharp shark teeth shine in the setting sun.

Bad tilts his head a little to the side, bumping their noses together. He doesn’t need to look at Foolish to know his eyes flick down for a fraction of a second. Before Foolish can move or say anything else, Bad quickly whips around and lets his tail smack Foolish in the face. 

Foolish lets out a surprised yelp but Bad can’t stay to laugh at his expression. 

“You motherfucker! That was my royal nose!” Foolish yells after him as he sprints down the castle stairs. 

Everyone in the crowd below the stairs was staring up at them with shocked expressions. None of them recover from the sudden turn of the events fast enough to do anything to stop Bad. He’s able to run through the crowd without any issues as Foolish yells insults after him from the top of the stairs. 

After getting a safe distance away from the crowd, Bad turns to glance behind him. 

Foolish has stopped yelling and is now standing on top of the castle stairs with his bow in hand. He’s ready to mark Bad as his property, as his target to hunt. Ready officially start the hunt.

A smile spreads across Bad’s face; some would call it creepy, others full on insane. Bad doesn’t think it’s either. It’s simply the smile that represents the feeling he gets when he knows Foolish is going to be after him. Foolish is going to be after him and he’s not going to stop before one of them is dead. And neither is Bad. 

It's going to be a good hunt.

[nezuswritingdesk]

prettiest star (zayne x fem! reader)

tags: reader is not MC, established relationship, married couple, based on @deusfoundry 's actress!reader x zayne (thank you so much for expanding the ever growing au of popstar!reader x actor!sylus— thank you for also allowing me to help add fuel to this fiery and creative au) and the seven husbands of Evelyn Hugo , they have a baby and a cat, NOT BETA READ, fluff , zayne is very proud of his wife, baby is also proud of his mama

a/n: tumblr and wifi stop being a bitch challenge fr, this is my 3rd time drafting this thing up— let me post and sleep.

wc: ~744

Zayne rarely uses the TV.

He wasn't home most days because of his work at the hospital. When he returns home, static greets him. Besides, if he has missed an episode or two of a show you're part of, he can watch it on his phone before telling you about his thoughts .

But tonight was different.

He sat there, his eyes seemingly glued to the TV screen. Beside him was the family's pet, Catecholamine, or Cat for short. He sits down on his side of the couch and meows, alerting Zayne of his presence.

He keeps a plate of sweets beside him to snack on while he watches the awards show. Cat tries to get a bite or two, but Zayne immediately swats the cat's paw away from the sweets.

“No.” He says to the cat. “You can't have these, you’ll die.”

The cat meows in distress.

He continues to watch with Cat until a soft cry jolts him out of his seat and his feet bring him to the nursery. He approaches the crib, picking the crying bundle into his arms. He bounces him gently, leaving the nursery and returning back to the living room, the TV still on, Cat still sitting down on the couch. The snacks remained untouched. He sits down, holding his son close as he lowers the volume of the TV.

There were some parts he missed, yes, but he made sure to watch one particular category.

The award for Best Actress.

He bounces his son, humming a soft lullaby to him. The same lullaby he sang while you were pregnant last year. The baby quiets down, seemingly knowing the familiar tune his father hummed constantly to him, but he didn’t sleep. Identical hazel eyes stared back at him, making him smile.

“You should be sleeping,” He sighs at his son, “What will your mother say once she’s back from the award show?”

The baby gives a coo in response to his father’s words. Zayne sighs.

“Alright, but only for this night, okay?” He says, cracking a small smile as he adjusted himself, placing the baby on his thigh and making sure his head was resting against his stomach comfortably.

They continued to watch the award show, Zayne having seen this hundreds of times as he quietly supported you from otherside of the screen. Everytime the camera cuts to you sitting on the table with other actors, he smiles , catching a glimpse of your beauty.

A shame knowing that the cameras can only capture much.

The announcer clears their throat, making Zayne lean in closer.

“The award for best actress goes to…”

The silence envelopes the room with bated breath as they open the small envelope.

“Y/N.”

The TV erupts with applause as it cuts to you standing up from your seat, your beautiful blue and silver gown sparkling under the flashing lights as you approach the stage. Zayne couldn’t help but smile, proud of your success. He had seen this more than once, first as your boyfriend, then as your fiancé, husband, and now, as the father of your son. The baby seemed to notice his father’s excitement and proud face, giving a positive coo.

“Mamamama!” The little boy babbles, pointing at the TV screen.

Zayne smiles, nodding at his son as if they were exchanging conversations. “That's mama, sweetheart.” He whispers. “The prettiest woman in the world.”

He continues to repeat the same syllable as you stepped up on stage, clutching the award on your hands as you displayed it proudly. A symbol of the monumental effort that everyone, including you, put towards making this film.

You began your speech, thanking the various actors and actresses you've worked with, the directors and crew who helped set up the stage, the critics, the people who helped adversited the film, your friends, and family, listing them all one by one. Nearing the end, you paused for a moment before looking at the camera.

“Before I leave this stage,” You said, voice kind and soft as if nothing or no one existed in the room, “I want to thank my sweetest boys— my husband and our sweetest boys. Thank you for this award once again.”

Zayne smiles as well, seeing you leave the stage and return back to your seat. He gets up, heading back to the nursery, setting the baby down for tonight.

Maybe tomorrow morning, he'll be able to congratulate her once again.

[voiceoffenrisulfr]

July Break Bingo Masterlist (5x5)

Bingo! Filled card below cut.

'Fleshlight or Dildo' Near Misses and Nearly Missed - Chapter One. Bucky Barnes x Original Nonbinary Character. The soulmate part was just the way the world worked. The car crash? That was a little more unexpected. Sometimes a 'crash-into hello' is a little more... Crash-y. CW: Smut, Car crash (mild), distress

'Shared Trauma or Chaotic Mess' We Are More Than the Choices We Made - Chapter Two. Clint Barton & Natasha Romanoff. Rated E. A little nighttime bonding makes everything better. CW: Nightmares, implied sexual assault, restraint, risk of injury/death, trauma

'Bird Watching or Stargazing' When the Wolf Howls - Chapter Three. Bucky x ONBC (Bug). Steps are taken, and Asgard does what it does best. CW: Percieved risk to life, guilt, choking.

'Sweat' The Real Winter Soldier - Part Three. Winter x Greg (Bucky Barnes x Original Male Character). Winter finally gets his first date with his Lieutenant, and it goes... Predictably. CW: BDSM, utter depraved smut.

'Best Friends' We Are More Than the Choices We Made - Chapter Two. Clint Barton & Natasha Romanoff. Rated E. A little nighttime bonding makes everything better. CW: Nightmares, implied sexual assault, restraint, risk of injury/death, trauma

'Kink: Exhibitionism' On the Tide - Chapter Eleven. James 'Bucky' Barnes x Original Male Character. The boys live with the after-effects of the kidnapping, and how to move forward… Together. CW: Discussion of gunshot wounds and captivity, non-graphic medical care, smut, AAAALLLL the smut. Full smut warnings in prompts.

'Lace' Art sketch, general audiences!

'Forced to Beg or Forced to Stay Quiet' As the Wolf Howls - Chapter Two. Bucky x Bug (Bucky Barnes x Original Nonbinary Character). Buck goes hunting, and Bug is hunted. CW: Threat, uncertain fate.

'Pinned Down By a Person or An Object' When the Wolf Howls - Chapter Six. Bucky Barnes x Original Nonbinary Character. (M) The story is told from the other side, and important decisions have to be made. CW: Mentions of Abuse, Percieved Risk to Life, Storms.

'Temporary Blindness or Temporary Amnesia' We Are More Than the Choices We Made - Chapter Two. Clint Barton & Natasha Romanoff. Rated E. A little nighttime bonding makes everything better. CW: Nightmares, implied sexual assault, restraint, risk of injury/death, trauma

'Always Tired or Way Too Energised' (Both applicable) Paws for Applause - Chapter Two. Bucky Barnes x Original Nonbinary Character. Mars and Bucky go on a road trip, and Bucky makes a new friend. CW: Panic attacks, nightmares, PTSD.

'Earbuds in Public or Strangers in Checkout Line' Paws for Applause, Chapter One. Bucky Barnes x Original Nonbinary Character. After his time in Wakanda, James ‘Bucky’ Barnes is struggling to adapt back to life in the wider world, hiding out in the Pacific Northwest as he fights to regain some control over his life. Or: Bucky gets a dog, and meets a cute salesperson. CW: Panic attack, trauma references, medical prejudice and medication disdain, general PTSD things, anxiety, vulnerability, implied alcohol abuse.

Alternatives

'Love as Compassion' When the Wolf Howls - Chapter Five. Bucky x Bug (Bucky Barnes x Non-binary OC, pluralxplural). The small gang finally reach their destination. CW: Risk, adventuring into the Unknown (general adventure-type peril), animal cruelty (removal of, not engaging in)

'Love as Devotion' When the Wolf Howls - Chapter Five. Bucky x Bug (Bucky Barnes x Non-binary OC, pluralxplural). The small gang finally reach their destination. CW: Risk, adventuring into the Unknown (general adventure-type peril), animal cruelty (removal of, not engaging in)

@julybreakbingo

[rarepairdumpster]

Teacher Viktor AU Part 1

Pairing: Viktor/Silco (Arcane) Rating: T C/W: Child Jinx, Mob Boss Silco, Implied Bribery, Anti-Police, Silco has certified DILF status

Thinking about Bring Your Parents To School Day, and tiny Jinx dragging Silco to school, thinking he's going to expound on the coolness of being a mob boss.

But instead he talks about boring pharmaceutical production and health regulations.

While Teacher Viktor appreciates the eye candy, he's like that sounds almost real but I'm definitely googling that later.

Silco ends his shpiel with "Any questions?"

About 10 hands shoot up.

Silco points at one and the kid blurts "Your face is so messed up. What happened to it?" 

(All 9 other hands drop)

And Silco smiles, eyes glinting, and crouches in front of the kid and says, pointing at his face "This is what happens when your boss ignores safety regulations at a manufacturing plant."

And all the other parents in the room are supremely uncomfortable.

"Any other questions for Mr Silco?" Viktor quickly asks to clear the air. 

When it stays uncomfortably silent, Viktor just gives Silco a sympathetic smile with his cane hooked in his elbow. "Thank you for coming in today. Give Mr Silco a round of applause."

The kids half-heartedly clap and the one cop in the room is eyeing Silco like Timmy Turner's Dad whenever Dinkleberg gets mentioned

Viktor thinks Silco was the most interesting parent tbh. The cop makes his skin crawl. The fireman is OK. But listening to all the accountants, etc, is like watching paint dry.

Silco just lurks in the back of the room, playing with his lighter, and smirks while the cop waffles.

"Dont do drugs. Stay in school. Crime is bad. I get paid to beat people up"

Silco absolutely makes note of all the mini cops

He can tell by their paw patrol school supplies

He can't muffle his scathing snort when one kid asks "Have you ever fired a gun while jumping through the air?!"

Viktor clears his throat and makes eye contact with Silco but still gives a soft smile.

this is his classroom and his policy is everyone is respectful and he will enforce it even if he agreed

Silco tips his head towards Viktor, an enigmatic smile on his face, and Viktor distracts himself with a quick sip from his cup of tea.

Jinx is new to this school (she's been expelled from 3 in the last 6 months already) and Silco doesn't want to make things harder for her, so maintaining a good relationship with her teacher is important to him.

Jinx likes this school.

Likes Viktor.

He always listens and looks at her drawings for her projects.

Not like those other mean, boring, stupid ones.

Viktor actually understands neurodivergence and different learning styles because he had his own struggles. He can tell Jinx is very smart and knows she has a lot of potential, she just hasn't had the right teachers.

The school board guidelines dictate that he isn't meant to encourage advanced progression because it tends to lead to students starting to ask questions the schools don't want to answer...

But Viktor has always been a rebel at heart. He absolutely guides and encourages her.

Silco hangs back when the class is dismissed, leaning against the back wall after everyone has left. (He sent Jinx to get her bag and coat)

Viktor looks up after gathering some papers together on his desk. "Ah, Mr Silco?"

"I simply wanted to say," Silco started, sauntering towards Viktor through the small row of desks, "I appreciate how well you seem to work with Jinx. She speaks highly of you." He smiles. "Trust me when I say that is wildly uncommon."

Viktor smiles back and feels a surge of affection for the girl in question. But an edge of understanding tightens the skin around his eyes.

"I understand she's had a hard time with other teachers, and other schools, but I find Jinx a delight to teach. A bit rambunctious, but she makes me think. I appreciate the challenge."

"I know she can be a handful," Silco says, picking up a small trinket from Viktor's desk that had been gifted by a student. "If you ever require any additional compensation, please let me know."

Viktor arches a brow.

"Are you offering me a bribe? A little odd for a pharmaceutical rep."

Viktor's lips curl into a little smirk.

"Oh, I wouldn't dream of bribing you. Simply a little incentive if things seem too difficult."

Silco's face goes serious for a moment. "I know what teachers make and I don't want something as silly as money to be the reason you're unable to teach my daughter."

"Silly," Viktor repeats, perhaps a little wistful. And then he chuckles. "As social constructs go, it's a pretty critical one."

"And I'd rather you didn't worry about it so you can focus on teaching," Silco explained. "I can see you're a very talented and intuitive teacher. Most aren't like that. Mine certainly weren't."

"Nor mine." Viktor tucks a lock of hair behind his ear. "I was a lot like Jinx growing up. More advanced than the others, with a lot of different needs. I'm glad I can be the one to help her."

"Then allow me to help you," Silco offered. "I don't expect you to ask for anything now. Just if the need arises. Along with your salary, I also know the school's budget, and I'm sure your class isn't seeing much of it."

"You know the school's budget?" Viktor's brows shoot up and then he laughs. "You're a resourceful one, aren't you?"

"I know a lot about what goes on in this city," Silco smirks. "I assumed you already caught on to that"

Viktor's cheeks tinge with pink and he laughs again.

Before he can respond, Jinx comes racing out from the cloakroom, tripping over her coat and the strap of her bag, but somehow managing to remain upright.

With a flick of his wrist, Silco produces a card and sets it gently on Viktor's desk.

"I'm simply a phone call away," Silco reminds him before he herds Jinx out of the room and to their waiting car.

Part 2

Arch + Woods

[out-of-heaven-and-hell]

"I could soooo go for a pumpkin spice latte right now!"

[religious-extremist]

Arming Ourselves Against Temptations

Christians must arm themselves against the abominations of this world. They must be armed against every attack and against all temptations, so that every evil rebounds from them. Armor is not made in a day, nor in two days but is diligently and laboriously wielded by long-lasting exercise. Of what value is all our virtue if we succumb to the first abomination?

Speaking of this, Saint Gregory of Nyssa cites an example with a monkey in Alexandria. He says: "An animal trainer in Alexandria taught a monkey to skillfully impersonate a female dancer on stage. The spectators at the theatre praised the monkey who was dressed as a female dancer and danced to the beat of the music. But while the viewers were occupied observing such a novel spectacle, a comedian wanted to show everyone that a monkey is nothing more than a monkey. While they all shouted and applauded at the skill of the monkey, the comedian tossed sweets on the stage, sweets that monkeys particularly like. As soon as the monkey saw the sweets, he forgot the dance, the applause, the expensive clothing and jumped with his paws for the sweets but as his dress interfered, he began to tear it apart with his nails attempting to remove it. Instead of praise and amazement, laughter commenced among the viewers." For through the torn mask of the "dancer," a monkey was revealed.

from the Prologue of Ohrid by St. Nikolai Velimirovich

[user211201]

Totally Normal

--- Originally posted on 2023-12-08 by dumb-and-jocked. ---

“Welcome back to Totally Normal, the online show where we narrow down the one thing that makes us all meet that standard!”

The host then hit a button on his laptop, releasing an audio for an uproarious round of applause. With his entire audience streaming in live, he had to make due with tracks. He didn’t mind it though; he could always predict what his viewers were thinking. It was like they shared the same mind.

“My name’s DJ, and before you ask, yes I have a side gig in music.” A laugh track obnoxiously inserted itself. “I don’t dabble in the typical jazz; I remix these men back to the tunes they oughta be singing.”

Another fake round of applause. The host smirked before continuing forward with the rules.

“The point of the game is simple: Figure out that one thing that makes someone totally normal. Through a series of questions, I’m going to chisel away at our contestants until we get to the base. For every wrong answer, a vibration will be sent out to their device until they head back on the right track. We want to find out that one thing that solidifies them as an average joe, but we don't exactly know what that thing is."

The host then took a scripted pause. "Well, *I *know what that thing is.”

Another laugh track entered before the host silenced his imaginary audience. “So, let’s get down to it. We have our men here, but ARE THEY NORMAL?”

The last three words were all enunciated with the typical gameshow pazazz. The host even had an accompanying audio that made it seem like there was an audience chanting it with him.

On cue, the livestream booted up a panel of the three contestants. The first was a shy young man, who by his age looked to be in college but by his height possibly younger. The second was the typical corporate homosexual, the breed who was already happily married and wore tight, designer clothing. And last but not least, the third looked just a little older than the first with an office that displayed the inner workings of a minor start-up.

“Help me welcome our first contestant, coming from the cool waves of Cali, here comes Cody!”

Corey opened his mouth to kindly correct the host, but was immediately silenced by the massive track of applause. A small and nervous 20-year-old, Corey was an academically-fine student at a state school. He worked as an IT intern, helping others work through their issues in a manner where he didn’t have to fully engage. Yet he knew he would probably have to work through this introvert problem if he ever truly wanted to make a loyal boyfriend from the crop of surfers across the street.

“Up next is our cowboy-tootin’, bullet-firin’ family man, Norman!”

Nolan made a face of disgust, but he too didn’t stand a chance against the fake cheers. He’d settled down with his husband just about 10 years ago in the suburbs. Working for a Fortune 500 company, he had everything a man of his caliber could want. Great company, great style, great pets instead of real children. Nolan loved his little metropolitan life.

“And finally, the privileged heir to the corporate throne, it’s Asher!”

Aaron rolled his eyes as the artificial eruption burst through his speakers. He assumed that this narcissistic jock host had gotten all of the contestants names wrong. Aaron had built his own business up from the ground, an independent hard-worker with no one tying him down. It wasn’t that Aaron didn’t want a boyfriend, he just needed to focus on himself. That’s why he was keeping it casual, hooking up with boys a little younger and less responsible. He absentmindedly pawed at his crotch a little as the douchebag DJ started the game.

“Now,” the host cracked his knuckles dramatically. “Let’s start off with some easy questions, just to make sure those devices are working after all. Cody, you’re looking comfortable out on that beach!”

Corey looked around the library he was sitting in confusedly, neither comfortable nor on a beach.

“I think you’re mistaking me for the surfers across the street,” Corey tried to joke, but his feeble demeanor spoiled the comeback.

“Men…you all ought to be where all the other guys of your kind are at.”

All three of them put on bewildered faces.

“Cody, what’s holding you back from embracing that Cali life?” the host asked.

“I…I mean there’s the obvious fact that they aren’t keen on ga-”

BZZT

“Ah!” Corey ripped his hand away, the "vibration" more of a literal sting.

“Cody, what’s holding you back?” the host asked again.

“Dude,” Corey uncharacteristically responded. “I don’t know if they will accept me, man.”

“Bro, what’s there NOT to accept?” the host chuckled. “You fit right in!”

Corey looked over his short frame, his pale skin, his shrimpy figure. He appeared better fit for the library than the bea-

BZZT

“You’re right DJ! I'm a gnarly guy like them brahs! They’ll totally accept me!”

Corey looked over his tall frame, his tanned skin, his toned figure. He appeared better fit for the beach than the library–that’s why he was on the beach after all!

“Alright alright,” the host nodded with approval. “Now Norman, let’s talk about your life in the countryside.”

‪‘Country side’?” Nolan interjected. “Do you consider Houston-”

BZZT

Nolan flung his hand back, “HOWARDWICK the countryside? You bet! Population 402, the two being me and my husband.”

“And what massive land you got behind you, I’m assuming you and your male fling built that together.”

“My what?” Nolan peered behind him, noticing his garden he’d built with his hus-

BZZT

-the ranch he’d built with his hustle. Well, not technically–this land had been managed through the traditional good ole ways of his parents, grandparents, and great-grandparents. He’d just been fixing it up here and there.

Nolan stretched his thickening fingers, hoping to desensitize them from the pain. “W…What in tarnation is goin' on ‘ere?”

The host continued on, mocking the Southern accent he’d implanted onto the second contestant. “A place fittin' for a cowpoke like y’all’s self! Ain’t no city folk allowed; you don’t want nothin’ queer intrudin' your property, right?”

Queer?!” Nolan spat back. “Ain’t nothin’ wrong with bein’-“

BZZT

“Darn tootin’ straight! Ain’t nothin’ strange gonna be happenin’ on this ‘ere land.”

With the second contestant’s location rightfully reoriented, the host moved onto the third.

“And onto our Ivy League, let’s discuss ascension…I mean, ‘climbing the corporate ladder’.”

Aaron shot the host a dirty look through the screen. “You don’t think I worked hard to earn this position?”

“Well, you certainly didn’t do it all yourself.”

Aaron held his breath. He was a decently attractive man with his slim figure and responsible will, and even his anger made him appear wiser than his years. But Aaron's best feature was his independence, and he wasn’t going to let anyone taint his name over that.

“What, do you think my current boyfri-”

BZZT

“-my dating his-”

BZZT

“-my friends with benefits were involved?”

Aaron’s fingers tingled with energy. His body tingled with fury.

“Well,” the host snickered. “If by benefits, you mean…”

“What’s all this!” Aaron flipped. “This is simply…p…preposterous!”

“What are you talking about?” the host egged on. “It's simply normal for a man with your caliber to have such an ‘inheritance’.”

The other two contestants watched on with intrigue.

“I…I may have a b…benefactor,” Aaron suddenly revealed, as if something had just been placed upon his chest. But he was still independent, right? “But that has nothing to do with it!”

“Benefactor? Do you mean your DADDY?”

The fake audience suddenly burst into a chorus of shocked “Ooooohhhh”s. Aaron’s usual calm nature was flatlining, being replaced by a more quickly-agitated behavior.

“We may be really closely acquainted!” Aaron backpedaled. “But it’s nothing of that kind of sort!”

The other two contestants smirked as the growingly-pompous bastard was taken down a peg.

“Sounds pretty queer to me, man,” Corey interjected confidently, scratching at his defining abs.

“Yeah, Ah reckon that fellas a little less normal than us folks,” Nolan added, adjusting the large hat that had secured itself upon his head.

“SHUT UP SWINE!” Aaron spat, his face gaining back a little of his baby fat as he absorbed more child-like aggression. “I'm perfectly normal!”

The two men laughed alongside an obnoxious laughter track.

“He’s right folks, we men are on the right side of history.” The host knew he needed to move on, the show only had so much time of course, but he was having fun. “Surely that father-figure is just some kind of…relative?”

“Just a relative, brah?” Corey asked as his trim cut bloomed out into luscious blond waves.

“Seems closer than that, partner.” Nolan quipped as a graying stubble crawled upon his widening jaw.

“A….A relative?” Aaron stammered, a higher youthful pitch lightening his tenor as this benefactor became clearer in his head. “He’s…he’s someone who I f-“

BZZT

“Father! He’s my father: Asher Osvald the Third!” Aaron screamed, his blond locks gelling up into a refined style that didn’t match his own personality. “And you all better remember it when you see our company in the headlines!”

Both Corey and Nolan took their respectful back-offs, but the host could only smirk with pride. After a moment of self-congratulation, he noticed some slight hesitation from the first candidate.

“Dude…” Corey started. “Can’t you just see he’s messin’ with us, man? Don’t you guys feel kinda strange-“

“Aren’t you supposed to chill, dude?” The host immediately cut him off.

Corey’s mouth went flat, his chin taking the opportunity to curve out a little further. “How can I chill with-“

BZZT

“Without the support from my brosettes across the screen, duuuuude!”

The host watched on with glee as the female portion of the livestream burst into a flurry. Lots of hearts and kisses and even some eggplant emojis were flooding the chat. And the comments were getting suggestive too. One chick wanted to know why he was wearing a dorky button-up, and she was soon exposed to his lean bod and treasure trail. Another suggested he should flex for the camera, and Corey was happy to oblige, each of his muscles pumping larger as he did so.

“Now, Cody,” the host coyly asked. “I’m sure the fans would like to know what you do for work.”

“I uh…I work with coding.”

“You are studying IT?” the host replied, incredulous. “Sounds complicated man.”

Corey beamed at the compliment, an excited fever entering his voice. “Yeah, but I sort of have a gift for-“

BZZT

“IT...like as in ‘it’ man...not ‘eye-tee’ or whatever.”

“But it has something to do with a code, right?”

“Well…yeah man…” Corey’s lifeless vocal fry responded. “But it's not that nerdy crap…something more…uhhh…”

The host graciously provided the answer, “Manly?”

“Yeah man….’it’ is the uh…bro-code brah.” Corey fiddled with the cross necklace that had materialized around his neck, trying to structure his thoughts. Corey felt like his head was spinning in a light vertigo, but not out of stress. Rather, a pleasurable confusion. Cali dudes don’t think that much right? They just go with the flow, so why shouldn’t he man? Wasn’t that what was normal?

While Corey processed his internal dilemma, the host reconnected with the second contestant, noticing he too was becoming a little self-aware.

“Hey Norman, you’re really rocking that fit.”

Nolan was honestly surprised at the comment. He knew he looked good in his tight, patterned three-piece, but he didn’t think the ultra-straight host would notice that too.

“Those shoes must be great for the ranch.”

Nolan laughed. “These ole’ things? They’re Prada from last season-“

BZZT

“Uhh…Ah mean these boots are from that one brand-”

BZZT

“Ah’ve had these kickers for years, fella!”

The host observed quietly as the rest of the second contestant’s clothes altered. The suit jacket and vest disappeared completely. The pants grew out into a straight pair of jeans that had been worn continuously for many seasons. The shirt rolled it sleeves and loosened some buttons, darkening to a dusty black that was meant for hauling hay rather than implying gay. But as the outfit masculinized, there was one item that stubbornly fought back, unlike the man who wore it.

“And that belt, how long have you had that?”

Nolan evaluated the expensive snake leather. “Oh yeah, this ‘ere was a gift-“

BZZT

“What in TARNATION was that for?!” Nolan yelled, the vibration noticeably more painful than the previous blasts. The material of his belt quickly grew cheaper, a massive longhorn buckle blooming forth above his blooming pouch.

“S…Sorry y’all,” Nolan collected himself. “Ah don’t know what’s gotten ovah me, or why Ah’m speakin’ so-“

“Enough apologies,” the host gagged. “You are a man, are you not?”

“Yessiree, but that doesn’t mean we men ain’t got to be sens-”

BZZT

“Ah reckon yer right there, partner!” Nolan puffed out his chest, carrying his emerging muscle gut with him. “We men oughta be tough! The MAN of the household.”

The host snickered, his eyes meandering around the second contestant’s body as additional muscle and bulk was piled onto his frame. “And men like you ought to have a body like that, don’t they?”

The cowboy huffed, his torso heavy with Southern pride. Nolan had worked his muscular frame up over all these long years, from sunrise to sundown. At 6’4, his big hearty body was always devouring meat to stretch out everything from his big strong biceps to his huge Size 15 clompers!

With the first and second contestants almost there, it was time for the host to catch his third man up to speed. He had already advanced mighty far, his skin having cleared up a bit and a few arrogant gold trophies having appeared in the office background, but the host had some additional notches yet to secure before the final round.

“Now Asher, let’s get real here.” The host put on his classic douchebag smile for the audience. “Any ladies tickling that fancy lately?”

“What?” Aaron scoffed. “Are you dense? I'm into g-”

BZZT

“Girls…no…wait what?” Aaron felt strange. Why did the host ask if he liked…girls? And why was the thought of girls suddenly something he…liked?

“Listen ere’, partner,” Nolan suddenly interjected. “Yer talkin’ 'bout women like they’re nothin’!”

The host, displeased, fought back. “Aren’t you married to one, partner?”

Nolan couldn’t believe the disrespect. “Me? Married to a woman? Yeah right-”

BZZT

“-Ah am! Ah’ve been married to my lovely wife for darn straight twenty years! Ain’t nothing QUEER happenin' on this ‘ere normal ranch. I got youngins to raise after all!”

As Nolan became bombarded by memories of his new flock of children, the satisfied host switched back to his third contestant.

“Look, I think we should respect women.” Aaron tried his best to sound mature, now finding it extremely difficult to maintain. “In fact, I think we should respect all others appropriately-“

BZZT

“And by appropriately, I am referring to overlooking these swines of colleagues who cannot afford a top notch education adjacent to my own.”

The host queued up a laugh track for his next one-liner. “They weren’t kidding when they said someone with your prestige had everything handed down to you, including bad manners.”

Aaron felt his anger rising once again, it easily filling his shortening body as he squared out to an average 5’9.

“Well excuseeee me! I am my own person with-“

BZZT

“My father is a reputable man who would wish to-”

BZZT

“DADDY!”

Aaron stomped his foot, bewildered at this idiocracy. Why was he continuously interrupted? Why was he not given the required recognition? He was captain of the country club’s golf team, rowing team, youth league, and the youngest member on the executive board for Christ’s sake! He studied at an Ivy League! He was everything!

As Aaron tried to understand why none of these other men appreciated the absolute honors of his merit–which he refused to ever admit weren’t even his own–a small alarm went off from the host’s computer.

“Like what was that, mannnn?” Corey’s face furrowed into an all-too-natural look of dumbfoundment.

“Yeah,” Nolan reared. “What's y'all gonna do next?”

“I demand to know it this instant!” The host was surprised at the third contestant jumping in, but he assumed it was just his way of trying to maintain his (nonexisting) position on top. “Or else I’ll tell my father about this-!”

An insane uproar of artificial laughter echoed throughout their ears, startling and silencing them.

“Alright folks, you know what that sound means!” the host grinned. “It’s almost time to wrap up our show, and because our contestants still haven’t figured out what makes them 'Totally Normal', we’re going to have to speed things up!”

“But can’t there only be one winner?” Aaron whined.

“Technically, no,” the host responded honestly. “All of you can be winners if you find out what makes you totally normal.”

For the first time since the game had started, all three of the contestants fell silent.

“I mean, let’s look at our surfer stud Cody,” the host started. “You are almost there, but you gotta loosen that one thing that’s still pent-up, man.”

“Brah…” Corey complained. “What else is there?”

As if by some subconscious command from the host, Corey began dumbly palming himself, a light drool dripping from the edge of his lips. The constant cycle of tits and feminine bits in his mind bombarding all over thoughts.

“A totally gnarly surfer focuses on working out, banging chicks, and chillin’ dude.”

Corey guffawed with a stupid relaxed expression, casually groping as the host moved on.

“And Norman, you’ve worked hard for your position in life, haven’t you?”

The Texan father nodded in cold agreement.

“So what would pride a totally traditional cowboy more than his ranch, his woman, and his legacy?”

Nolan groaned as he instantly unbuckled the massive lock hiding his mighty steed. Huffing loudly, the Southern Baptist’s lil’ pony was wrangled into a full-fledged stallion, the kind that was built to produce offspring. And the kind that got worked up over anything that could threaten the generational uniformity his family, religion, and nation he swore to protect.

“And you, Asher,” the host swiped over to the final contestant. “What’s stopping you from becoming the total Harvard bastard?”

Asher’s face went red and his cock went hard.

“I’m talking complete corruption, pure privilege, Daddy’s little-”

The host was suddenly cut off by a loud holler, the exclaim like the crashing waves of the ocean. Immediately, the comment section blew up as the host, players, and audience watched the surfer jock release a blast of his sea salt spray.

But before the host could congratulate the first winner, the southern father turned around the corner. With one hand whipping his meat and the other held tightly onto his hat, it was only mere moments until the inevitable:

“YEEHAW!”

Once again, the audience burst into merriment over the propagating blast. It was then that Aaron’s anger truly took the best of him. He couldn’t be beaten by two no-names! He was the top of his class, an heir to a Fortune 500 company, and a totally normal man for Christ’s sake! Gripping his pecker and shining it furiously, Aaron accepted his heterosexual rage and vowed that he would win and please his…please his…!

“F…FAAAAATHERR!”

A loud, pretentious yell echoed out of the Harvard student, an endless splurge of funds dumping out of his mighty account. It was just one of the many things his heritage’s estate had granted him.

The host didn’t try to hide his devious sneer as the viewers erupted once more. He’d loved his job because everyone won every time. And now, seeing all the new stereotypical straights he’d created, the host couldn’t help but feel his own massive sausage chub. But he laughed the feeling off, knowing beating off over these other men wouldn’t have been “totally normal.”

“And it looks like with just a minute left on the clock, all three of our contestants will be going home as winners today!” The host then added his artificial rounds of applause. “So, did you three ever figure out what makes you ‘Totally Normal’?”

“Isn’t it obvious, brah?” Cody replied, the typical airhead more sure of himself now than when he had dropped out of high school. “It’s that we’re straight, mannnn…”

“He’s right, partner!” Norman added, his fatherly conviction always strong and steady. “Ain’t none of us are them faggots. If Ah do say so myself, we are all what the mighty Lord named men.”

“Well, if that is what common plebians such as yourself are called, then you shall address me as ‘I-V’,” Asher Osvald IV’s voice was doused in entitlement and a lack of understanding for anyone but himself. A pair of offscreen hands adjusted his tie just to prove his privilege. “After all, I do attend Harvard. I guess you could say I was destined for greatness since birth.”

“Yes, Asher, everyone here knows you are a prick.” The host immediately followed up his quip with a laugh track. “But that’s all we have for today’s show. Signing off, this is Host DJ!”

“Hang ten and surfs up, dudes!”

“The biggest rodeo’s the family and kids y’all!”

“I’m probably way richer than you vagrants, so don’t bother.”

“And don’t forget to ask yourself,” the host winked before adding in the final audio. “ARE YOU NORMAL?”

[morgan-va]

How would Rocky celebrate Valentine's Day with his s/o?

early valentines yayyy

Masterlist

A Valentine’s Day to Remember

The Little Daisy Café was lively for Valentine’s Day, buzzing with couples sharing quiet conversations over coffee and pastries. You sat at a table by the window, the afternoon sun casting a warm glow over the room. Despite the romantic ambiance, you found yourself nervously tapping your claws against your teacup. Rocky had promised you something “unforgettable” for the occasion, but with him, that could mean anything from a heartfelt serenade to a flaming disaster.

You didn’t have to wait long to find out.

The café doors burst open with dramatic flair, and there he was—Rocky Rickaby—your ever-chaotic beau, wearing his signature blue suit and hat, but with the addition of a crooked red bowtie and a bouquet of mismatched flowers clutched in his paw. He was beaming, his tail flicking behind him like a banner of triumph.

“Dearest love!” he declared, loud enough to draw the attention of everyone in the café. “Prepare yourself for the most spectacular Valentine’s Day of your life!”

You buried your face in your paws, already feeling the heat rise to your cheeks. “Rocky, please tell me you didn’t-”

Before you could finish, he had bounded to your table, presenting the bouquet with a flourish. It was a bizarre mix of orchids, roses, and what appeared to be wildflowers he had probably swiped from someone’s garden.

“For you, the fairest feline in all of St. Louis!” he said, grinning ear to ear.

“Thank you, Rocky,” you said, taking the bouquet and inhaling the sweet, albeit slightly chaotic, scent. “But you’re making a scene.”

He slid into the seat across from you, unbothered by the amused stares from the other patrons. “A scene? My darling, the world's a stage, and today we’re the stars!”

The next hour passed in a whirlwind of typical Rocky flair. He had arranged for the café to serve a special “Rickaby Valentine’s Feast,” which consisted of your favorite pastries, hot cocoa, and a pie he had absolutely not paid for.

“Don’t worry about the pie,” he said with a wink. “Let’s just call it a… creative transaction.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, shaking your head. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet, you adore me,” he quipped, leaning back in his chair with a smug grin.

As the meal wound down, Rocky produced his violin from behind the counter. He stood by your table, his blue eyes sparkling as he drew the bow across the strings. The melody was beautiful, a sharp contrast to his usual antics. The café grew quiet as everyone turned to watch, but Rocky’s focus remained solely on you.

“For the love of my life,” he said softly before launching into an improvised serenade, complete with lyrics about your eyes, your smile, and your ability to put up with him.

“Now, let us not forget your remarkable feat, Tolerating me—a task none can repeat! Through my chaos and clatter, my schemes and my quirks, You stand steadfast while the whole world smirks.

So here’s my ode, to my love, my muse, To your beauty, your kindness, your patience I’ll use As a lifeline in this raucous sea, A gift far grander than life gave to me.”

By the time he finished, the café erupted in applause, and you were smiling so hard your cheeks hurt. Rocky bowed dramatically, then sat back down, looking more pleased with himself than ever.

As the sun began to set, you both lingered at the table, sharing quiet conversation and stolen kisses. Despite the chaos, Rocky had managed to make the day special in his own unique way.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, love,” he said, taking your paw in his. “Here’s to many more adventures together.”

You smiled, your heart full. “Happy Valentine’s Day, Rocky. Here’s to you always keeping me on my toes.”

And with that, you knew this would be a day you’d never forget.