#just string together some loose threads

[blue-rose-soul]

I'm sorry, the what now?

Yeah, that's what I thought you said.

Maybe I should go into the Helluva Boss tags more often because I completely missed this until I started thinking about rewatching HB and remembered this scene. Someone has to have come up with some theories about The Root of Evil - Roo - and this cannibalistic cult family, right?

I remember 5000+1 years ago reading something about 'the cult that killed Alastor's mother' but for the life of me I can't remember whether it was fanon, based off something Vivzie actually said, or I just imagined the whole thing. Either way I'm now thinking about Roo having cults scattered all across Earth in the Hellaverse, and with Vox being speculated to have been a cult leader when he was alive I'm also wondering if he could possibly have been involved in a Roo cult.

Or maybe the writers just thought it was an appropriate word choice for a cartoon-Satanist and I'm reading too much into it, lol. But it would be fun if that was a bit of foreshadowing.

[prnstarmartini111]

No strings attached ♣

Summary: Friends with benefits with Rafe but he can't decide if he wants more or not

Rafe rolled over, breath still uneven, the sheets rustling beneath him. The air between them was thick and warm, heavy with the echo of what just happened.

The room was dim, lit only by the pale blue of a streetlight outside the window and the faint glow of his alarm clock. Y/N layed still for a minute, eyes tracing the pattern of the ceiling, chest rising and falling in slow, deliberate breaths. Then, without a word, she reached over to the nightstand, groping around for her phone.

1:04 AM.

Her lips pressed into a thin line. She sat up slowly, holding the sheet against her chest out of habit, even though modesty felt kind of pointless at this stage. She gathered her clothes quietly, trying not to disturb the silence.

Rafe was sitting up now, back against the headboard, sheets tangled around his waist. He watched her without saying anything, fingers lightly drumming on his knee.

She stood in front of the mirror, sliding on her shirt, then smoothing it over her torso, tugging at the hem like she could erase the wrinkles. Her hair was a mess. She ran her fingers through it, twisted it up, let it fall again.

“You sure you want to leave now?” Rafe said, voice low and rough.

Y/N glanced at him through the mirror. “It’s late,” he added, like that explained everything.

She shrugged, not looking at him directly. “I’ve walked home later than this.”

He was quiet for a second, like he was waiting for her to say something else. Then: “I was thinking… you could stay.”

She turned to him, arms paused mid-motion. Her eyes found his.

“Rafe…”

“I know,” he cut in quickly, voice sharp. “No strings attached. I remember.”

She didn’t say anything. Just turned back to the mirror and started pulling on her shoes. The silence stretched again.

“I just meant,” he added, softer now, “it’s very late.”

She didn’t respond to that, not directly. Instead, she straightened up, brushing invisible lint from her sleeve.

“You’re the one who said no strings” she reminded him, her tone even. Not angry. Just factual.

His jaw flexed. “Fine. Whatever.”

That part wasn’t soft. That part was clipped and sharp and tinged with something else—something that sounded like frustration.

Y/N blinked, once, slowly. Then gave a small nod, almost to herself.

“Okay,” she said, voice flat now. “Goodnight, then.”

She grabbed her phone and her bag. Slid on her coat. The doorknob was cold in her hand. She hesitated for a fraction of a second—just long enough to maybe say something, but she didn’t.

The door clicked shut behind her.

Y/N and Rafe had been friends for years. The kind of close where people used to assume they were already together, but it was never like that. At least not for him. She liked him, probably more than she should’ve, but he never seemed to feel the same.

Still, despite the one-sided attraction, they ended up in bed one night after a party. Drunk. Messy. Since then, they’d been doing… whatever this is-Friends with benefits.

----------------------------------

They were both sitting in his bed, backs against the headboard, a half-finished movie playing on the TV across the room. The blankets were pulled up to their waists, still warm from everything that just happened.

Y/N kept fidgeting with the edge of the blanket, picking at a loose thread like it could give her something to focus on. Her mind was spinning.

She chewed the question for a while before finally saying it, her voice quiet.

“So… what are we now?”

Rafe didn’t look at her. Just reached toward the nightstand, pulled out a cigarette, and lit it with the cheap blue lighter he always carried. The smoke curled up toward the ceiling as he leaned back again.

“I don’t know,” he said, tone flat. “Why”

He wasn’t really asking. It sounded more like he wanted the question to disappear.

Y/N’s fingers tightened on the blanket. She swallowed.

“I mean… we do have some… sexual tension,” she said, trying to sound casual.

He chuckled, barely glancing over at her. “Yeah. That’s why we fucked.”

She didn’t respond. Her confidence, the same boldness that had pushed her to kiss him hours ago, was slipping fast. Now it just felt stupid. Like she’d misread the whole night. The whole… everything.

Rafe took another drag of his cigarette, then finally turned to look at her.

“You okay?”

She nodded, quickly. “Yeah.”

Silence fell again, broken only by the low murmur of the movie still playing. She looked down at her hands, then back at him. Her voice was smaller this time.

“I like you.”

He didn’t react at first. Then he exhaled slowly, like he’d been expecting this and hoped she wouldn’t say it.

“We’re friends, Y/N.” He looked at her, voice steady. “I like you as a friend.”

A friend.

She blinked a few times, but it didn’t stop her chest from sinking. Her throat felt tight, but she just nodded like she understood.

“So this meant nothing?” she asked.

He shook his head, almost annoyed. “Of course it did. We’re friends.”

Then, more casually, like it didn’t really matter: “I mean, I wouldn’t mind doing this again.”

She stared at him, confused. “So what… friends with benefits?”

She didn’t really mean it. It was supposed to be a comment. A half-sarcastic jab. But he nodded.

“Yeah,” he said “If you want.”

She was quiet for a beat. Of course she minded. But she just smiled, faint and fake, and said, “Sure.”

He put the cigarette out in the tray by the lamp.

“No strings attached,” he added, turning back toward the screen. “Just friends helping each other out.”

Y/N didn’t answer. Just leaned back against the headboard again and pulled the blanket a little tighter around herself.

---------------------------------

The late afternoon sun was starting to dip, casting golden shadows across the pool deck. Music played low from a speaker, and the air smelled like sunscreen and beer.

Y/N sat cross-legged on a lounger, nursing her drink, laughing when it was appropriate, but not really present.

Across from her, Rafe was stretched out on a pool chair, shirt off, hair damp, muscles tense in that effortless way that pissed her off more than it should.

He glanced over at her.

Their eyes met for half a second.

Kelce dove into the pool with a loud splash, then came up grinning, water dripping from his curls. He pushed his hair back and made his way out of the pool, barefoot and dripping. As he passed Y/N, he shook his head like a wet dog—on purpose—spraying water all over her legs and lap.

“Kelce!” she shrieked, jerking her drink out of the splash zone.

“What?” he said innocently. “You looked too dry.”

“You're dead,” she warned, swatting at him with a towel.

The others laughed. Y/N smirked as she dabbed her leg dry, tossing a glance at Rafe—just quick enough to catch the subtle clench of his jaw.

Later, when the sun had finally dipped below the trees and everyone was mellow from food and sun, Y/N slipped inside to the kitchen, barefoot and still a little damp from when she’d dipped her legs in the pool. She opened the fridge and grabbed a cold soda, cracking it open.

“You get home okay last night?” Rafe’s voice behind her was casual. Too casual.

Y/N didn’t turn around. “Yeah.”

“You left kind of fast.”

She finally looked over her shoulder, her expression unreadable. “Wasn’t sure if I was supposed to stay or not.”

He frowned. “What?”

She turned to face him fully now, arms crossed. Her tone was clipped. “You told me to stay. Then today, you’re back to acting like nothing happened. Just wanted to make sure I didn’t get confused.”

Rafe’s jaw tightened. “Jesus. Are we really doing this?”

“I don’t know,” she snapped. “Are we?”

He took a step closer, brows drawn. “I was being nice, Y/N. That’s all. You looked tired. Don’t twist it into something else.”

She let out a cold laugh. “Right. Because God forbid I think for one second that it might’ve meant something.”

“You always do that,” he shot back, voice rising just a notch. “You read into shit and then get all quiet and bitter when it doesn’t go the way you wanted.”

She froze, hurt flickering in her eyes.

He noticed, but he was already too far in. “You keep getting your hopes up like this is more than what we said it was. That’s not on me.”

She blinked, slowly. “Fuck you.”

She brushed past him, shoulder grazing his as she stormed out of the kitchen.

---------------------------------------

The wine made a soft sound as Y/N filled her glass, her other hand braced on the edge of the counter. She was barefoot, hair still damp from a shower, wearing the tiniest pair of black shorts and an oversized tank top with one strap slipping down her shoulder. The house was quiet—her parents were away for the weekend—and she was halfway through a moody indie film upstairs, not really watching it, letting it play in the background of her thoughts.

The doorbell rang. She froze.

It was past eleven. She padded to the front door, peeking through the peephole.

Rafe.

She stared for a second, lips parting slightly.

What the hell?

She opened the door slowly, eyebrows raised. “Are you serious?”

He was leaning casually against the frame, hands in the pockets of his hoodie. “Hey.”

“That’s all you’ve got?” she said, not moving. “Hey?”

He gave a lazy shrug, eyes drifting over her briefly—just long enough to make her feel the weight of it. “What, I’m not allowed to visit my friend?”

“You mean the one you were a dick to a few hours ago?”

Rafe smirked, ignoring the jab. “What’re you up to?”

She rolled her eyes and stepped aside before her brain caught up. “Watching a movie. Drinking.”

He chuckled as he walked in. “Sounds like a solid Friday night.”

She handed him the glass she’d poured for herself. He took it without question, like this was all normal.

She poured herself another drink and started heading toward the stairs. Behind her, she heard the subtle clink of glass as he grabbed the wine bottle and followed.

In her room, the movie still played on low volume. She curled up on the bed, not saying anything, and Rafe sat beside her, legs stretched out, passing her the refilled glass. They sat like that—too close, too silent—sharing wine and pretending this was casual.

The silence was heavier than the room.

Y/N kept her eyes on the screen but she wasn’t watching. She was too aware of him. Of his warmth. Of his thigh brushing hers. Of the way he kept sneaking glances at her.

And she hated that this felt familiar. She knew why he was here.

She took another sip of wine, swallowing down the words in her throat.

He shifted beside her. His hand brushed her bare thigh. Not by accident.

She didn’t move away.

“Still mad at me?” he asked, voice low, testing.

She finally looked at him. “Do you care?”

He met her eyes, but didn’t answer.

The silence cracked.

His hand slid higher, slow and deliberate. She didn’t stop him.

Her breath hitched as he leaned in, lips ghosting over her shoulder where the strap had slipped. She closed her eyes for a second, hating how her body responded.

“I shouldn’t let you do this” she murmured, almost to herself.

Rafe’s voice was quiet, a breath against her skin. “Then stop me.”

She didn’t.

[redicillin]

I need me some Robert chase smut 😣✋✋ FWB reader and chase realising they like each other more than just the FWB situation they have going on??

𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 — (𝐫.𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐬𝐞)

when does a friends with benefits agreement stop being just that?

gn!reader ☆ 1.2k ☆ masterlist. ☆ 18+ for nsfw mentions

The first time it happens, you don’t notice.

You’re too lost in the feeling of Chase moving against you, his hands gripping your hips, his mouth trailing fire over your skin.

His breaths are ragged, each one punctuated by soft groans that send warmth pooling low in your stomach.

It’s always like this—urgent, desperate, pleasure tangled in the casualness of your arrangement. You both agreed to this. No strings, no expectations, just the kind of release that only two people who understand each other’s needs can give.

And yet… something feels different.

You only catch it in brief moments—his fingers threading through yours and holding on longer than usual, the way his lips linger against your skin as if memorizing the taste, the way his gaze locks onto yours and doesn’t waver even when he’s losing himself completely.

You chalk it up to the heat of the moment, a trick of the dim light and the rush of sensation, and let yourself fall over the edge with him.

What you don’t know is that, in that moment, Chase is realizing something that should terrify him.

He wants more than just this.

He doesn’t say anything. Of course, he doesn’t.

Chase isn’t the type to throw himself into feelings without overanalysing them, and he’s certainly not going to risk ruining what you have with a clumsy confession.

So, he carries on as if nothing’s changed.

Except… everything has.

It starts with little things.

The morning after, instead of rushing to clean up and send you on your way like usual, he lingers in bed. He watches as you stretch lazily, the sheets tangled around your legs, your body warm and pliant beside him. You make some joke about how he’s usually up and moving before you’ve even opened your eyes, and he just shrugs.

“Didn’t feel like rushing today.”

Then there’s the coffee.

You’re used to slipping out in the morning and grabbing something from the café near your place, but one morning, you find Chase in the kitchen, already making a second cup.

“For you,” he says simply, handing it over like it’s nothing.

It’s not nothing.

Neither is the way he stops grumbling when your toiletries start taking over his bathroom. At first, he teased you about it, playfully complaining about your products filling up his counter.

But now? He doesn’t say a word when you leave your moisturizer next to his razor, when your shampoo joins his in the shower, when a spare toothbrush just mysteriously appears next to his own.

And then there are the nights when he invites you over—not for sex, but just to be there.

“We could watch a movie or something,” he suggests one evening, his voice casual, but there’s something tentative in the way he asks.

You blink at him, caught off guard. That’s never been part of whatever this is between you. But you don’t question it, just shrug and agree.

So, you start spending time together in ways that have nothing to do with tangled sheets and heated touches. You sit side by side on his couch, his arm draped loosely over your shoulders.

You cook dinner together, laugh when he burns something, roll your eyes when he insists it’s still edible. You fall asleep next to him without the expectation of sex, just comfortable in the warmth of his presence.

And yet, neither of you says a word about it.

Weeks pass.

Nothing changes, and yet everything has.

You should question it, should demand some kind of clarification, but you don’t. Maybe you don’t want to break whatever spell this is.

Then one night, after another round of slow, lazy sex that feels more like making love than just satisfying a physical need, you find yourself lying in Chase’s bed once again.

You’re on your back, the sheets loosely covering your body, your breath still slowing from the high of it all. Chase is beside you, propped up on one elbow, watching you.

You don’t notice at first, too focused on the way the cool air feels against your heated skin. But when you turn your head, you catch him staring.

It’s not lust.

It’s not simple attraction or the sleepy daze of post-sex contentment.

It’s something deeper.

Something warm, something soft.

Something terrifying.

“What?” you ask, your voice quieter than you expect.

Chase doesn’t look away. If anything, his expression softens even more, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Nothing,”

You narrow your eyes. “You’re looking at me like you—” You stop yourself before you can say something dangerous.

Like you love me.

The thought sends your heart racing in a way that has nothing to do with physical pleasure.

But Chase doesn’t look away, and suddenly, it’s too much.

You sit up, pulling the sheets with you, and turn to face him fully. There’s something pressing against your ribs, a truth you’ve been too afraid to examine.

So, you just say it.

“Are we dating?”

The words hang in the air, thick with meaning.

Chase blinks. His lips part slightly, like he hadn’t expected you to be the one to say it first. He hesitates, but only for a second.

Then he exhales a soft laugh, shaking his head. “I don’t know,” he admits. “Are we?”

It’s not a no.

And that’s all the answer you need.

You stare at each other for a long moment before Chase reaches out, fingers brushing over your cheek, his touch feather-light but deliberate. He tilts his head, considering, before finally speaking again.

“I think… I think I want to be.”

Your breath catches. You weren’t expecting that kind of honesty—not from him, not from yourself. But there it is. The truth of it.

Something inside you unravels, something you didn’t realize you’d been holding onto.

You nod slowly, a small smile pulling at your lips. “Yeah,” you murmur. “Me too,”

Chase’s fingers slide down to your jaw, his thumb grazing your skin. He leans in, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to your lips, and for the first time, it feels different.

It’s not about lust.

It’s not about convenience.

It’s something more.

Something real.

Something that scares you both—but neither of you are running from it.

[angelseraphines]

ೃ⁀➷ dark but just a game ˗ˏˋ꒰ 🦢 ꒱

╰┈➤ guard!cho sang-woo x player!reader imagine

a/n: i would like to give a special thank you to @lumillsie for the layout of this post and for the filter used on the header!

˚ ༘♡ you had never intended to find yourself entangled in a brutal series of death games, but with debt mounting to over fifty million won and loan sharks breathing down your neck, you had no choice. every option you had once clung to had crumbled beneath you, leaving you hollowed out and desperate. the loans you’d taken weren’t unreasonable, not in your mind, they had been necessary to pay for medical expenses for your family living outside of south korea. your own job instability, a relentless and bitter cycle, had only worsened the situation. bankruptcy wasn’t an option. not anymore. so when the mysterious offer to join the squid game appeared, luring you in with the promise of a fortune beyond imagination, you made a choice, and now you were paying the price for it.

˚ ༘♡ despite the aftermath of the horrifying massacre that was the first game, the sickening realization that the smiling, painted doll mask and vast game arena disguised an execution ground, you had returned. others might’ve run, and you had been tempted. but what waited for you back outside was worse in its own way, hunger, homelessness, death at the hands of men who didn’t wear pink jumpsuits but carried just as much coldness in their eyes. at least here, you had a slim chance at survival. slim was better than none.

˚ ༘♡ the choice to return wasn’t as straightforward as you pretended. you had barely slept the night after red light, green light. your hands still trembled at the memory of gunshots ringing out akin to firecrackers, and every time you closed your eyes, you saw bodies falling, twisted on the cracked concrete. you’d thrown up twice in the morning after staggering back to your apartment. your reflection in the bathroom mirror had been ghostly, pale, clammy, with a thin sheen of sweat clinging to your skin. you weren’t ready to die, but you weren’t sure if you could endure staying, either.

˚ ༘♡ somewhere, in the midst of that daze, you had done something foolish. you had pulled out your phone, hands shaking, and opened the contact you swore you’d deleted months ago, your ex-boyfriend, cho sang-woo.

˚ ༘♡ you hadn’t spoken to him in almost a year, not since he left you. still, your fingers hovered over the screen, your chest tight, as if the past could crawl back out of the ashes and offer you some small sense of solace. it hadn’t. he hadn’t answered, hadn’t even seen your message. just like all the others.

˚ ༘♡ now, standing on your balcony with the humid night air pressing down on you, you scrolled through the string of unanswered texts, each one a painful remnant of how pathetic you’d felt in those first few months.

˚ ༘♡ a text from three months ago, “please call me. i just want to talk.”

˚ ༘♡ another text from two months ago, “did i do something wrong? why won’t you answer me?”

˚ ༘♡ the most recent text you sent one month ago, “sang-woo, please.“

˚ ༘♡ the messages had only gotten shorter as the silence stretched. eventually, you stopped texting altogether, though you hadn’t deleted the thread. not yet.

˚ ༘♡ you tipped the bottle of beer to your lips and let the stale, bitter taste burn its way down your throat. the linen pajamas you wore, loose and slightly frayed at the hems, felt too light in the breeze. you had bought them during one of your better months, before everything collapsed. ivory-white. it felt ironic now, standing there in something that once made you feel clean and new, as if you hadn’t spent the past six months clawing at the edge of a financial abyss.

˚ ༘♡ he hadn’t even broken up with you properly. just a voice message, sent in the early hours of the morning, after what you thought had been a perfectly normal week together.

˚ ༘♡ “it’s over. i’m seeing someone else.” that was all he said. no explanation. no apology. it was the last time you’d heard his voice.

˚ ༘♡ you clenched the beer bottle in your hand, your jaw tightening as the memory resurfaced. maybe it shouldn’t have mattered anymore. maybe it didn’t, not really. you had bigger problems than a broken heart.

˚ ༘♡ that night, when you had tried to call him after the game, it wasn’t solely love that had driven you, it was fear. bone-deep, marrow-crushing fear that curled into your stomach and refused to leave. you had been entrenched in loneliness, suffocated by the silence of your empty apartment, unable to shake the memory of bodies dropping all around you. the crack of gunfire still rang in your ears like a phantom sound. you had seen the raw, naked terror on the faces of people who, just moments before, had been laughing and chatting like ordinary men and women trying to make ends meet. you had run for your life, muscles screaming, breath ragged in your throat. yet here you were, alive, if that word even meant anything anymore.

˚ ༘♡ you had wanted to hear a familiar voice, something that grounded you. and in your desperation, you had reached for him. you should have known better.

˚ ༘♡ your hands twitched, numb and shaky as you stared at the endless void of unanswered messages, your name likely long since blocked or ignored. the strain of everything pressed into your chest, and before you could stop yourself, your grip on the beer bottle loosened. the glass slipped from your fingers, tumbling to the ground. it shattered against the concrete floor of your balcony, sharp fragments scattering around your bare feet. jagged edges slashed at your ankles, but you hardly noticed. warm blood trickled in thin, crimson ribbons down your skin, but it felt distant, like it was happening to someone else. all you could think about was him. you missed him so ardently.

˚ ༘♡ despite everything, despite the way he had discarded you so easily, like a brief financial setback in his long list of losses, you still longed for him. you hated yourself for it. it made no sense. he had left you. he hadn’t cared, not when you called, not when you cried, not when you begged him for an explanation. and yet, in the deep recesses of your mind, you remembered the way he had once held you, his fingers threading through your hair as you dozed off in his lap while a movie played in the background. you remembered how he would press a warm palm to your cheek when you were upset, his thumb smoothing over your skin in quiet reassurance. he had been gentle then, loving in the smallest ways.

˚ ༘♡ you had convinced yourself, naively, foolishly, that he had loved you as much as you loved him. yet it had all been a sham.

˚ ༘♡ your friends had been right. they had warned you, time and time again, but you hadn’t listened. you had defended him, telling them he wasn’t like other men, that he wasn’t just another sleazy businessman hopping from woman to woman for a night’s pleasure. he was different. he was yours. except he wasn’t. not anymore. maybe he never had been.

˚ ༘♡ you forced yourself to move, blinking back the sting in your eyes as you took a step forward, only for a sharp, burning pain to shoot through your foot. you hissed, looking down to find a shard of glass embedded in the arch of your foot, fresh blood dripping onto the tile. before you could clean it up, the doorbell rang.

˚ ༘♡ for a minute, you stood frozen, your pulse spiking. no one visited you. no one ever did. who the hell would be here at this hour?

˚ ༘♡ you limped to the door, ignoring the sting in your foot as you pulled it open, only to be greeted by an empty hallway. your breath caught, eyes darting left and right. no one. not even the sound of retreating footsteps. but there, lying on the ground, was a small, rectangular card.

˚ ༘♡ your chest tightened as you reached down, fingers trembling slightly as they closed around the thin cardstock. you didn’t need to flip it over to know what it was. you had seen this exact card before, pressed between the fingers of a well-dressed salesman who had lured you into this nightmare with a simple game of ddakji.

˚ ༘♡ it was an invitation. an invitation to return. you knew what it meant. you had seen the consequences with your own eyes. returning would put your life in grave danger. it was more than just a game, it was a death sentence for all but one. but what choice did you have?

˚ ༘♡ there was nothing for you out here. the loan sharks would find you eventually. if not them, then starvation, or illness, or some other cruel twist of fate waiting just around the corner. at least in the game, you had a sliver of control over your life. a chance at a different life.

˚ ༘♡ your fingers tightened around the card. you called the number on the back. the voice on the other end was eerily calm. the instructions were the same. “meet at the designated location. don’t be late.”

˚ ༘♡ that night, the same sleek black limousine pulled up to the curb outside your apartment. the tinted windows gave away nothing, its surface reflecting the dim glow of the streetlights. you hesitated only for a second before stepping inside. the door shut behind you with a soft click. before you could process anything, before you could even think to resist, the faint hiss of gas filled the cabin. your eyelids grew heavy, your vision blurred at the edges, the world tilting sideways. your body slumped against the seat, consciousness slipping through your fingers.

˚ ༘♡ when you awoke, you were back in the dormitory. the harsh, sterile lights buzzed overhead. the cold metal bunk beds stretched on endlessly in neat rows. the air smelled faintly of sweat, anxiety, and something metallic beneath it all. you sat up, the familiar weight of the forest-green uniform settling around your shoulders. player 017. that was the number stitched into the fabric over your chest. as you looked around, bleary and disoriented, you saw the same faces as before. most of the players had returned, just like you. you swallowed, rubbing your eyes before exhaling shakily. you had made your choice. there was no turning back now.

˚ ༘♡ dinner that night consisted of a bento box filled with plain white rice, a folded egg omelet, and pickled vegetables. the portions were small, meager, as if designed to keep you just on the edge of starvation without tipping over. the smell of vinegar from the pickled radish stung your nose, mingling with the faint metallic scent of blood still clinging to your memories from the day before. but you had no appetite.

˚ ༘♡ around you, other players dug into their meals with fervor, shoveling food into their mouths like they hadn’t seen a proper meal in weeks. some ate in silence, their eyes darting around as if expecting someone to snatch their rations away. others whispered among themselves, cautious yet eager, already beginning the inevitable process of forming alliances. you made no move to approach anyone, instead sitting on the edge of your cot, your arms draped over your knees, watching them in silence. you knew how this worked. alliances were necessary, but they were fragile things, born out of convenience rather than loyalty. at some point, when push came to shove, they would fall apart.

˚ ༘♡ “excuse me, miss.”

˚ ༘♡ the voice was unfamiliar yet kind, breaking through your detached observation. you glanced up and found yourself looking at a middle-aged man standing before you, his expression open and friendly. the number 456 was sewn onto his uniform.

˚ ༘♡ “if you’d like to, you can join our team,” he offered, his smile pleasant despite the lines of exhaustion on his face. “we’ll work together and protect one another in the next games. it’s better to have people to rely on.”

˚ ༘♡ behind him stood two other players. one was a man of south asian descent, curly-haired with a gentle face, player 199. the other was frail and elderly, with thin white hair and a slightly dazed look, player 001. the sight of them together was oddly endearing, as if they were an unlikely little family.

�� ༘♡ “i remember you from the first game,” 456 continued. “you were really agile and quick! you didn’t hesitate at all.”

˚ ༘♡ his words caught you off guard. you hadn’t thought anyone had been paying attention to you specifically, not with the sheer carnage unfolding all around. you tilted your head slightly, considering the offer. alliances were fickle things, but so was survival.

˚ ༘♡ “if you don’t mind having a woman on your team,” you said, your voice neutral.

˚ ༘♡ “of course not!” player 456 responded immediately, his grin widening. his enthusiasm was almost infectious.

˚ ༘♡ you exhaled quietly and gave a small nod. “all right, then.”

˚ ༘♡ he beamed, and behind him, player 199 gave you a friendly nod, while the old man chuckled softly to himself as if he found something amusing. you weren’t sure what to make of them yet, but for now, they were better than nothing.

˚ ༘♡ that night, despite having people to watch your back, you struggled to sleep. the dormitory was eerily quiet, yet the tension in the air was suffocating. the rhythmic breathing of the other players did little to ease your unease. above you, a gleaming light flickered every so often, casting brief, disorienting shadows across the ceiling. you stared at it blankly, thoughts tumbling through your mind akin to loose stones down a cliff.

˚ ༘♡ cho sang-woo. your fingernails dug into the skin of your palms, your heart aching at the thought of him. had he so much as read your pathetic text messages? did he know that you had disappeared from your home in the midst of night? was he out there, living his life as if nothing had changed, as if you had never existed? it was foolish to think about him. pointless. yet, despite your exhaustion, sleep refused to come.

˚ ༘♡ morning arrived with the dull clang of metal gates and the sound of approaching footsteps. breakfast was as simple as the dinner before it, nothing more than a bottle of milk and a single piece of bread.

˚ ༘♡ you had eaten nothing the previous night, your stomach empty, gnawing at itself in protest. forcing yourself up, you dragged your weary limbs toward the serving station. most players had already collected their rations, eager to eat before whatever horrors the next game had in store for them. you were the last one in line, and as you approached the station, you noticed something unusual.

˚ ༘♡ only one guard was left behind. he stood behind the makeshift counter, taller and broader than the others. the standard pink jumpsuit concealed most of his features, but there was something about the way he held himself, rigid, disciplined. you took a step forward, reaching for the meal, and as he handed you the bottle of milk and bread, something caught your attention.

˚ ༘♡ the scent of tobacco. it was faint, barely perceptible beneath the sterile, controlled air of the dormitory, but it was there. familiar. clinging to the fabric of his uniform, lingering in the space between you.

˚ ༘♡ for a short while, the world around you faded. your mind snapped back to another time, another place. late nights curled up on the couch, the bright gleam of city lights through the window. the burning scent of cigarette smoke woven into his clean-cut suit, clinging to his skin. you used to scold him about it, nag him to quit. “it’s bad for you, sang-woo. you’ll regret it one day.” he’d always laugh, a soft, wry chuckle, and tell you he’d quit the following week. but he never did.

˚ ༘♡ your fingers brushed against the guard’s gloved hand as you took the food. it was an accident, merely a momentary slip, but he didn’t pull away.

˚ ༘♡ the intimacy lasted only a second, maybe two, but it felt longer. you could feel the intensity of his gaze behind the mask, the pressure of something unsaid in the space between your hands. then, just as quickly as it happened, you snapped out of it. your fingers recoiled, your hand withdrawing, clutching the bottle of milk tightly. you cast him a strange look, but the mask gave nothing away.

˚ ༘♡ without another word, you whipped your head around and walked back to where your newfound team sat, your pulse quickening for reasons you didn’t fully understand. the milk was lukewarm, the bread dense and dry, but hunger gnawed at your insides, leaving you no choice but to force it down. across from you, player 456 introduced himself as seong gi-hun, speaking through mouthfuls of bread. he had a boisterous, comforting presence, someone who had probably been the most talkative in any room he’d ever walked into. beside him, player 199 offered a polite nod and a warm smile. “ali abdul,” he said, his tone peaceful despite the hardened exhaustion in his eyes. player 001 sat at gi-hun’s side, an amused glint in his gaze, though when it came time to say his own name, he faltered. his brow furrowed in confusion, his lips parting, but no answer came.

˚ ༘♡ “i… i can’t seem to remember,” he murmured after a moment, shaking his head as if trying to clear it.

˚ ༘♡ gi-hun patted the old man on the shoulder with an easy familiarity, as if this weren’t a place where people were going to die. “don’t worry about it, sir. happens to the best of us.”

˚ ༘♡ you said your own name last, voice steady and neutral. you weren’t sure why you bothered, given the likelihood that most of you wouldn’t make it out of here alive. but names were powerful things, even in a place like this.

˚ ༘♡ gi-hun’s eyes widened. “what a coincidence!” he said, chewing the last bite of his bread with enthusiasm. “a childhood friend of mine has a girlfriend by that name. cho sang-woo. really smart guy. graduated from seoul national university, the pride of our neighborhood, actually.” he grinned, nostalgia coloring his voice. “he was always a little serious and distant, but a good man. saw him not too long ago, actually. talked about her with a lot of affection.”

˚ ༘♡ you considered staying silent, letting his words pass, but your sentiments got the better of you. “you’re mistaken,” you said, your voice carefully measured. “you must mean ex-girlfriend.”

˚ ༘♡ gi-hun blinked, confused. “no… i saw him just the other week. he said he was still together with her.” then something seemed to click in his mind. he sat up straighter, his expression shifting from curiosity to outright surprise. “wait a minute… you’re her, aren’t you? you’re sang-woo’s girlfriend?”

˚ ༘♡ you stiffened. ali glanced between you and gi-hun, his expression cordial. the old man merely hummed to himself, watching the exchange with a clouded haze in his eyes.

˚ ༘♡ “what are you doing in a place like this?” gi-hun continued, baffled. “if you were in financial trouble, why didn’t you ask sang-woo for help? he would’ve been happy to give you money if you needed it, i would think.”

˚ ༘♡ his words sent a sharp, bitter pang through your chest. you fought to keep your expression neutral, though you could feel the beginnings of a frown tugging at the corners of your lips. “i was under the impression he didn’t want anything to do with me,” you said carefully. “he broke up with me months ago and told me he was seeing another woman.”

˚ ༘♡ gi-hun’s brows furrowed. he shook his head. “that doesn’t sound like sang-woo at all,” he said, his voice firm, almost disbelieving. “you’re the only woman i’ve ever heard him talk about.” he paused, scratching the back of his head. “ah, you know, he was always so focused on school, then work… i don’t think he’s ever had a serious relationship before. at least, not that i ever heard of.”

˚ ༘♡ your hands bent into fists beneath the table. you weren’t sure what to make of that. was sang-woo lying to gi-hun? or had he lied to you?

˚ ༘♡ you bit your lip, pushing the thought aside. “i think our time is better spent discussing what the next game could be and what our strategy will be,” you said, keeping your tone level.

˚ ༘♡ gi-hun nodded. “you’re right. no point dwelling on things we can’t change.”

˚ ༘♡ you all turned your focus toward the upcoming game. gi-hun tossed out a few ideas, tapping his fingers against the table as he spoke. “gonggi, maybe?” he suggested. “or elastics?”

˚ ༘♡ “hide and seek,” ali offered. “or maybe rock-paper-scissors? it must be a simple children’s games, the first game was one.”

˚ ༘♡ you frowned, thinking back to red light, green light. the first game had been straightforward, but brutal. if this was a pattern, then the next challenge would be similar, easy in theory, but deadly in execution.

˚ ༘♡ “whatever the next game is,” you murmured, your voice low, “our lives will be in danger.” no one disagreed.

˚ ༘♡ before anyone could say more, the blaring sound of the intercom echoed through the vast dormitory, its robotic tone devoid of humanity. “all players, please prepare for the second game.”

˚ ༘♡ a deep, mechanical hum followed as the immense steel doors at the far end of the room slid open with a hiss. the air inside the dormitory seemed to shift, thickening with tension. guards stood at attention beyond the threshold, faceless and motionless, their pink uniforms stark against the sterile white walls. there was something ominous in their stillness, as if they were waiting for something, anticipating the inevitable.

˚ ༘♡ a dense lump formed in your throat as you swallowed back unease. around you, players hesitated before pushing themselves to their feet, each movement sluggish with dread. one by one, you all fell into line, shuffling forward like cattle to the slaughter.

˚ ༘♡ the pastel stairways loomed ahead, their paths painted in bright, childlike colors. the contrast was sickening. bubblegum pink railings, sunflower-yellow steps, sky-blue walls. it should have been whimsical, playful even, but instead, it felt like a nightmarish illusion, something meant to disarm you, to lull you into a false sense of security before tightening its noose.

˚ ༘♡ gi-hun walked beside you, his expression bewildered. ali stayed close as well, his usually warm features stiff with apprehension. even player 001, the elderly man who had, up until now, seemed oddly cheerful despite the circumstances, was quiet.

˚ ༘♡ as you descended the final set of stairs, the doors before you parted with an ominous heaving. you stepped inside, the room was a playground. your breath became erratic as you took in the scene before you.

˚ ༘♡ the walls and ceiling were painted a brilliant cerulean blue, dotted with illustrations of fluffy white clouds. slides, jungle gyms, and brightly colored structures filled the space, mimicking the innocent joy of a schoolyard. but the momentary illusion of normalcy was just that, an illusion. you knew better than to trust the childish aesthetic.

˚ ༘♡ above, speakers crackled to life. “welcome to your second game.”the same feminine voice from before. at the far end of the room, four doors stood side by side. each bore a simple, distinct symbol, a triangle, a circle, a star, and an umbrella. “please choose one of the four shapes and stand in front of the corresponding door.” that was it. no explanation of what game awaited you. no hints, no clues. merely a demand.

˚ ༘♡ your pulse quickened, your gaze flickering toward gi-hun, who looked just as lost as you were. “what should we do?” you asked, your voice hushed.

˚ ༘♡ gi-hun exhaled. “i don’t know if we should split up or pick one door as a team.”

˚ ༘♡ you turned your head slightly, scanning the other players. some had already made their decisions, rushing toward their chosen symbols with varying degrees of certainty. others lingered, hesitating, unsure.

˚ ༘♡ then, movement caught your eye. near the door marked with a red triangle, a guard stood unnaturally still. taller than the others. broader shoulders. something about him felt… different. the way he stood, the way his masked head was aimed ever so slightly in your direction.

˚ ༘♡ a shiver ran down your spine, you turned away abruptly, refusing to acknowledge whatever that was. whoever that was.

˚ ༘♡ “i think we should go with our gut instinct,” you said, keeping your tone neutral. “but we should choose different doors. it increases our chances.”

˚ ༘♡ ali gave a firm nod. “i’ll go with circle.”

˚ ༘♡ “i choose triangle,” player 001 said, his voice lighthearted despite everything.

˚ ༘♡ gi-hun turned to you, offering you a choice. “you can pick either star or umbrella.”

˚ ༘♡ your lips parted slightly, eyes flickering between the two remaining doors. neither gave you any indication of what was to come. but as you stared at the star, something tugged at the back of your mind, a memory. late nights with sang-woo. the two of you walking through quiet city streets, your hand in his, the sky stretched out above you, endless and dark, speckled with distant stars. you remembered how you used to tilt your head up, watching them twinkle, feeling so small but safe at his side.

˚ ༘♡ “… i’ll pick star,” you said softly.

˚ ༘♡ gi-hun grinned. “then i’ll do umbrella.”

˚ ༘♡ you weren’t sure why, but something about that made you uneasy. when your group dispersed toward their respective doors, the locks clicked open. beyond the doors, a small station awaited, with a single guard seated at a table. thin, round metal tins were stacked neatly in front of them.

˚ ༘♡ slowly, you lifted the lid. inside, nestled within the tin, was a sweet dalgona sugar candy. etched into its surface was a perfectly traced star. your stomach dropped as realization sank in, the intercom crackled again. “the second game is dalgona.” your fingers clenched around the metal case. “each player must extract their shape cleanly within ten minutes to pass. failure to do so will result in elimination.”a timer appeared on the screen above. “let the game begin.”

˚ ༘♡ when the words left the intercom, the countdown started. your hands shook slightly as you picked up the thin needle provided, moving toward the slide where you could sit and steady yourself.

˚ ༘♡ a sudden, sharp noise split the air.

˚ ༘♡ you flinched, your body tensing instinctively, then a piercing bang. a gunshot.

˚ ༘♡ your head snapped up just in time to see a woman’s body hit the ground, her shattered dalgona candy slipping from her limp fingers. blood pooled beneath her corpse. a guard loomed over her lifeless form, lowering their pistol. around you, murmurs of horror rose. some players froze entirely, paralyzed by fear. others broke out into a cold sweat, their needles trembling against the brittle candy in their hands.

˚ ༘♡ your own grip on the tin tightened, your heart hammering violently against your ribs. if your candy cracked, you would die.

˚ ༘♡ you exhaled shakily and turned your focus back to your own dalgona. the star shape was intricate too many edges, too many delicate points. one wrong move, and the candy would snap in half. your hands were damp with sweat, your fingers slick against the cool metal of the needle. you swallowed hard, then, carefully, you began.

˚ ༘♡ as you sat in the vast playground, carefully working your way around one delicate point of the star in your honeycomb candy, that feeling intensified.

˚ ༘♡ a guard loomed inches behind you, his masculine presence impossible to ignore. he was taller than most of the others, broader in the shoulders, his stance unnervingly rigid. though his mask revealed nothing, you were certain, absolutely certain, that it was the same guard from before. the one who had lingered too long when handing you your breakfast, the one who smelled of cigarettes, the one whose gloved hand had ghosted over yours just long enough to send a shiver up your spine, the one who stared at you relentlessly before the second round began.

˚ ༘♡ but now was not the time to fixate on him. your entire existence balanced on the fragile line of sugar and patience. you kept your breath steady, hands trembling as you scraped your needle along the delicate shape. all around you, screams of anguish rang out, followed swiftly by the deafening crack of gunfire. players sobbed, begged, collapsed in pools of their own blood, but you forced yourself to ignore them. you had to.

˚ ༘♡ your world was reduced to this tiny, brittle shape in your hands. until it wasn’t.

˚ ༘♡ the sound of a faint, practically imperceptible crack reached your ears. your breath caught in your throat. slowly, fearfully, you looked down. a single, jagged fracture ran through the middle of your candy. broken. the game was over for you.

˚ ༘♡ your stomach dropped. your hands went numb, a cold dread washing over you like ice water. you had lost. and you knew what came next.

˚ ༘♡ slowly, as if in a trance, you turned. the guard behind you stepped forward, raising his pistol.

˚ ༘♡ you had seen this happen to others already. a merciless execution. one bullet to the head, and your body would crumple to the floor, just another nameless corpse in this twisted game.

˚ ༘♡ your legs trembled. “please…” the word left your lips before you could stop it, barely above a whisper, pathetic in its desperation. but it was in vain. no one had been spared before. no one ever would be.

˚ ༘♡ the guard leaned in closer, the cool metal of the gun pressing against your chest. and then, a voice. so low you almost thought you imagined it. “play dead.”

˚ ༘♡ that voice. it couldn’t be.

˚ ༘♡ regardless of every rational thought in your mind screaming at you that it was impossible, you knew exactly whose voice it was. cho sang-woo.

˚ ༘♡ your body went rigid, shock paralyzing you as the burden of confusion surged through you. but there was no time to think.

˚ ༘♡ the gun lowered slightly, shifting away from your head and down toward your chest. you barely had a second to comprehend what was occurring before a red-hot explosion of pain tore through your side, a bullet sinking just below your ribs, missing anything vital but still slicing through flesh and muscle with terrifying ease. the force of the impact sent you stumbling backward, your vision blurring as agony shot through every nerve in your body. you wanted to scream. you wanted to sob. but you didn’t. you couldn’t.

˚ ༘♡ you let yourself go limp. your body collapsed to the ground, your limbs falling still, your breath shallow. you forced your eyes shut, ignoring the unbearable pain radiating through your chest, ignoring the warm trickle of blood pooling beneath you.

˚ ༘♡ you willed yourself to become nothing. just another body. the potent scent of blood filled your nose as you felt hands, his hands, grab onto your arms.

˚ ༘♡ then, the sensation of being dragged. your body scraped against the cold, hard floor, pain flaring with every inch you moved, but you kept still, fighting against every instinct screaming at you to cry, to breathe harder, to react. you couldn’t. you had to stay dead.

˚ ༘♡ footsteps moved around you. guards passing by, other bodies being disposed of. slowly, the sounds of the execution grounds faded. the doors shut behind you. you were being taken somewhere. your heart pulsated in your ears, your blood running hot and thick down your side, staining your uniform. and through the dizzying haze of pain and terror, one thought remained, echoing over and over in your mind. only of cho sang-woo.

a/n: let me know if you have any thoughts or wish to see another part to this story!!

[suku-enthusiasts]

Were Just Friends || s. ryomen - (one shots)

❛ ❜ Ryomen Sukuna x f!reader (one shot series) - Officials

❝you asked your best friend to take your v-card. As friends. No feelings, no strings- Spoiler: it completely ruined your friendship. Now you're dodging each other, pretending nothing happened, while secretly nursing a years-long crush. From meme-filled silence to tearful confessions, jealous fights, and awkward flirting — somehow, you stumble your way into love, marriage, and a house full of sarcastic chaos. Turns out, “just friends” was never really the plan.❞

word count ; 950

cw ; mdni • 18+ only. contains explicit sexual themes and content. use of alcohol. smut . anxiety. major fluff

main masterlist | series masterlist

Six months.

Six months of secret smiles and quiet touches, of stolen glances across crowded rooms, of slipping out of parties separately only to meet in the dark hush of your apartment, safe and unseen. Six months of building something slow and real, something just for the two of you. You liked it that way. No announcements, no declarations. No prying eyes or nosy questions. It was a kind of peace neither of you had ever really known — a love that didn’t need to be shouted to feel true.

Still, your friends weren’t stupid.

Shoko, Geto, Utahime, Toji, Choso — they knew. They saw it in the way you and Sukuna moved around each other, the invisible thread that tugged you closer even when you pretended otherwise. They saw it in the soft smiles you didn’t bother to hide, in the way Sukuna’s rough edges dulled slightly whenever you were near. But they didn’t press. Maybe because they understood. Maybe because they knew that some things were too precious to drag out into the harsh light of the world.

Tonight, the two of you were curled up in the soft cocoon of your apartment — a place that smelled faintly of vanilla candles and Sukuna’s cologne, a place cluttered with the quiet chaos of two lives woven together: his jacket tossed over the back of a chair, your book left open on the coffee table, an empty mug with the ghost of his lipstick-stained smile drying at the rim. You were sprawled on the couch, legs tangled, the TV droning on low in the background — some random cooking show neither of you was really watching. Sukuna sat behind you, one arm slung lazily around your waist, his fingers tracing absent circles into the skin under your shirt, his other hand scrolling mindlessly through his phone. It was late. The world outside was a hush of city lights and distant traffic, but inside, everything was warm and slow, the kind of quiet that only came from deep comfort.

“Hey,” Sukuna murmured, voice low and rough from disuse. “Hmm?” You tilted your head back slightly to look at him. He gave a lazy smirk. “We ever gonna tell people? Or are we just gonna keep pretending you’re not stupid in love with me?” You laughed, soft and breathless, and turned fully in his arms so you could look at him properly. His hair was a mess, falling into his eyes, and there was that usual cocky tilt to his mouth — but the way he was looking at you was softer than anyone else ever got to see. “Maybe,” you said, teasing, trailing a finger along his jaw. “What’s your rush, Itadori? Afraid people are gonna think you’re actually capable of being nice?”

He snorted, catching your hand and pressing a kiss to your knuckles. “Please. Let ‘em talk. I’ve got nothing to prove.” You bit your lip, smiling. “You want to?”

He shrugged, loose and easy. “Yeah. Think I’m ready for the world to be jealous.” You laughed again, heart full and light, and leaned forward to nuzzle your nose against his. He caught your chin between his thumb and forefinger, tilting your face up, studying you.

“Come here,” he murmured, reaching for his phone. You scooted closer, tucking yourself into his side as he opened the camera app. He held it up, angling it slightly so it caught both of you — his bare chest where his hoodie hung open, your soft, sleepy smile, the faint glint of your matching rings. “Smile pretty for me,” he teased. You did, bright and real, leaning your head against his shoulder as he snapped the picture. He glanced at it, snorted in approval. “Your turn,” you said, reaching for your own phone.

He watched with lazy amusement as you angled the camera, but just before you hit the button, you turned and pressed a kiss to his cheek — soft and lingering, just enough to make him huff a laugh. You glanced at the photo — Sukuna with his usual cocky grin, head slightly tilted toward you, and you kissing his cheek, eyes closed, smile curving against his skin.

Perfect.

You posted first, fingers hovering over the caption for a moment before typing:

You @coffee_enthusiast: my favorite peace.

Simple. Honest. No fanfare. You hit post before you could second-guess it. Sukuna watched you, then took his phone, selecting the picture you’d taken — the one of you kissing his cheek. His caption came faster, no hesitation, just pure Sukuna:

sukuna_itadori: sorry, she’s not taking applications.

He posted it, then tossed his phone onto the couch and pulled you back against him, pressing a kiss to the side of your neck that made you squirm and laugh. Within minutes, your phones were buzzing — likes, comments, messages from your friends.

Shoko: lmao finally Geto: knew it Utahime: about time, honestly Choso: she’s out of your league but congrats bro Toji: 👍🏻

You snorted at the flood of notifications, feeling Sukuna’s chest rumble with laughter against your back. “They’re gonna give us so much shit,” you murmured, scrolling through the reactions. “Let ‘em,” Sukuna said, pressing another kiss to your temple. “I got nothing to hide.”

You twisted to look at him, heart swelling so painfully full you thought it might burst. “Me neither,” you said softly, and kissed him — slow, sure, unhurried — like there was all the time in the world.

Because there was.

Because you had built this together — quiet, slow, real.

And now the world knew.

But the most important thing?

It was still yours.

[disneyprincemuke]

fly on the wall * fem!driver

she crashes in her third race of her f1 career, but she's more concerned about its repercussions than the concussion

pairings: sebastian vettel x fem!driver, lewis hamilton x fem!reader

warnings: crashing the car

notes: ooooh my god i had to rewrite this 5 times because it wasn't up to my liking initially, and then tumblr was having some issues saving my shit so i lost it?? it's very sad fr

(series masterlist) | (📂 the rookie season)

"are you alright?" sebastian's voice comes onto the radio.

his eyes are trained on the big screen, cameras focused on the car parked into the wall out of a turn. he couldn't get an answer out of his driver so he had to resort to the third party.

if his assumptions are correct, she would have hit her head on her seat hard at impact. but things like that can lead to so many bigger things that he might not even be prepared for. 

her vision slowly returns, blacking out for a mere second as the car went into the barriers of the baku track.

she had issues with her brakes for a few laps. sebastian had suggested retiring the car if she didn't feel safe, but she pressed on. the issue didn't seem so serious and it seemed manageable.

at first. 

it's a driver error - missing the early braking point to accommodate her already tweaking brakes. she missed it by a millisecond, clipped the wall and got sent straight into the wall.

she sighs, pressing the button on her steering wheel. "i'm okay," she answers shakily, tears now filling her eyes.

"okay, that's the important part. don't think about anything else. i'll see you in the medical centre." sebastian is quick to shut her thoughts down, clearly prioritising her wellbeing and not the car.

"i'm sorry," she sighs, voice shaking and lips quivering. “i’m so sorry, seb.”

this is only her third race in f1, how could she have already crashed out? on a race where she was so close to that podium. it would have been such a monumental moment — a woman on the podium. 

with 20 laps left in the race and her in 5th place, it wasn’t all that far out of reach at the time. yet, here she is causing a yellow flag as she starts to notice the smoke surrounding her. 

"like i said. don't think about anything else."

she sighs to herself as a marshal appears above her halo, greeting her with a soft smile. she nods, letting herself get helped out of her car.

but only one thought eats away at her: she crashed on her third race. what's everyone going to say about her now?

“let me talk,” sebastian sighs, hands up in the air as he tries to calm the girl sitting on the examination bed. he’s barely able to get a word in.

she’s slouched against the wall, purple balaclava in her hands as she traces the thread that holds it together at the hem. the minute he walked in, she looked up immediately with tears in her eyes and a string of apologies.

it hasn’t stopped since he poked his head through the door, cutting him off before he could even ask if she’s okay. 

“do you not see the problem?” she shrieks, eyebrows furrowing at sebastian. “i just crashed out! imagine what the media has to say about my performance today? they’re just going to use this as a reason to justify that i shouldn’t be on the track!”

sebastian drops his hands to his side, deciding that he’d just let her get it all off her chest. it might make her feel better. 

though, it doesn’t make him feel good that she’s continually talking down on herself. he vouched for her for weeks for a reason, and it’s because he believes in her. more than she does in herself, it seems. 

“i didn’t work my ass off my whole life just to be undermined because i’m a woman!” she tosses the balaclava aside, now picking at the loose skin by her fingernails. “i didn’t get this far for everyone to count me out because of one crash! can you fucking believe that shit? it’s a fucking rookie mistake, seb! i’ve been racing for years!”

she drops her hands by her side and groans again, rolling her eyes. “i’ve earned my rightful spot to be where i am! they are not going to care about that!”

sebastian shrugs slightly, overlooked by the infuriated woman across him. he can barely get a breath in before she continues, shutting his mouth immediately as she continues her rampage. 

“imagine the headlines tomorrow! a driver is as good as their last race — i know that! don’t try to sugarcoat it. you know i’m right!” she rambles on, eyes darting all over the room. she’s pushed herself off the wall slightly, clearly flustered over the course of events. 

she avoids sebastian’s eyes, the fear of fully breaking down in front of him prominent. crying over a crash seemed like such a silly thing to do, but there’s no denying how demanding the sport truly is. 

in her short three races in the season and people’s neverending criticism of her abilities, it makes her lie awake at night rethinking her position on the grid. 

following her crash, sebastian hadn’t expected for her to ramble on for this long. he initially thought that the crash would have sent her into a shocking silence, so while her anger is warranted, it was definitely not on his list of things to be ready for. 

“imagine what they have to say about me!” she throws her hands in the air, scratching her head gently. “imagine what they’ll say about you! it’s not going to be good, trust me! i’m a woman in a fucking racing car in a male-dominated sport!”

“hey!” sebastian’s voice bounces in the room, making her lift her head with her eyes narrowed into a glare. 

the sudden movement reminds her of her restrictions, hands coming up to nurse the back of her neck. she feels a sharp pain shoot through her head all the way down to her shoulders. “what?” she hisses, quickly looking down to hide the pain. 

“you literally just crashed head-first into a wall at 250 kilometres per hour! you’re lucky all you got was a concussion and whiplash! it could’ve been worse!”

“if i was lucky, i’d have been able to recover and get on the podium as we discussed! i was already 5th!”

“and you didn’t! that’s okay! you learn from things like these!”

“no, it’s not! i’m already hated as it is!”

“it’s part of the sport! fernando alonso has crashed, lewis has, and so have max and charles! every other big name in formula 1 has had their fair share! you’ll be okay!”

she finally meets sebastian’s eyes, slouching even more as she audibly sighs. he watches her body deflate, leaning back dejectedly. “it’s still different.”

she’s still in her fireproofs. her race suit had to be taken off during her short time with the doctor, hanging on the back of the plastic chair in the small medical room. her helmet sits next to her, underneath the balaclava she’d thrown on top of it. 

her hair is in a loose ponytail with stray hairs poking out and resting on her face. the adrenaline has yet to leave her body, chest heaving as if it’d just been over and beads of sweat still scattered all over her.

“i know it’s different. but everyone else who says whatever isn’t the person behind the wheel, you have to remember that,” he says in a soothing tone, finally coming up to stand next to her. he sighs, putting a hand on top of her head. “and i know it sucks.”

she shakes her head. “no, you don’t. we’re different; our problems are different.”

“the way they used to hate me, and things they say about you are different, yes,” sebastian nods in a low voice, his thumb now tracing circles on her head. “but you still can prove them wrong. you just started driving in formula 1 — you’ll have way more chances to shut them all up.”

“i could’ve already. if i just controlled the car a little better.”

“it’s okay.” he slides himself onto the examination bed, sitting next to her. he intertwines his fingers and rests his hands on his thigh. “everybody crashes at one point in their career.

“let the media say what they want, but not all that criticise you have been in a race before. nobody on that grid thinks you’re lesser than you are just because of what happened today.”

“you don’t know that.”

sebastian just shakes his head, refusing to elaborate any further. he leans back into the wall as well. “oscar is on the way with some snacks for you.”

crashing out during a race is never easy. years before he decided to retire, tapping and crashing out of a race has always been demoralising. it always feels like the first time when he does.

“i don’t need snacks. i need to go back to 4 hours ago when i was still on track for a podium finish in the first half of my rookie season.”

“with your talent, i can assure you that this will not be your only opportunity in formula 1. i will make sure of it, of course. wherever i go, you go.”

the door creaks open, cutting her off before she can throw an answer back as sebastian. “i’ve got your favourite snacks. i also stole a couple of twix bars from your backpack, i hope you don’t mind.”

“well, why’d you take them and still tell me about it knowing i wouldn’t even have given it to you in the first place?” she reaches for the nearest object next to her, yanking it towards oscar by the door. 

“because it was calling my name,” he shrugs, pushing the door fully open to reveal who he’s strung along to the medical centre. 

“i took a packet of haribo,” logan shrugs as he steps in. he flinches when she clenches her fist, scrambling to pull something out of his paper bag. “but i got you a can of sprite to make up for it! don’t be mad!”

her gaze softens when she notices lewis hamilton standing behind her friends, a paper bag hanging on his fingers as he grins at her. 

“how are you, sweetie?” his voice is empathetic and low, giving her a look that she’d seen from everyone she’s passed on her way here. 

she sees lewis and sebastian exchange glances, almost making her roll her eyes again. 

she doesn’t talk to lewis that often, but he has addressed her before when she would trail behind sebastian on the track. she would often greet him softly as she hid behind her mentor, or simply excuse herself when she sees either oscar or logan passing by. 

he’s a role model and the last thing she ever wanted to do was be too overbearing. to see him come to her aid is only a dream come true. 

“i hope you don’t beat yourself up because of that. you drove a brilliant race today,” he smiles. “everybody crashes out. don’t even care what others have to say about you. you did well.”

lewis understands being cast out as a minority. he will never understand the struggles and pressure put on her, but he can at least relate to a certain extent. “don’t even sweat it. you’re now one of the world’s greatest in a fast race car. you’d smoke anybody who would dare challenge you.”

oscar tilts his head. “why would someone random just challenge her out on the street?”

“oscar, shut up,” logan shoves the australian slightly, landing a warning smack on his shoulder after. “let her have her moment.”

lewis laughs but does wave oscar off as he returns his attention to her. “what they say will string, but trust me, this is not the end of the world. i know it feels like it.”

she nods to herself. “okay, hand me the snacks so i can eat away all my pain. i deserve it.”

taglist: @wcnorris @treehouse-mouse @laura-naruto-fan1998 @mindless-rock

[saphig-iawn]

Stuffing and String

Something I ask of my subjects and dolls is to think of a little safe space in their mind for the spells I weave in them. I've heard so many different spaces from them, like a heart shaped box, a deck of cards, even a wind-up dancer on a music box.

My subject today had envisioned this safe space as a ragdoll of her, with every new spell a bow I would tie in her hair.

But this got her thinking. Thinking got her feeling. Feeling got her aroused. The idea of a plush ragdoll version of her sat amongst her plushies had her feeling overcome with excitement.

Today was her day to become that ragdoll.

She sank deeply into trance, landing softly in my lap.

It was there that I began to weave the spell in her, gentle threading the sensations of transforming into doll within every part of her.

It starts at her feet, like thick woolly socks are being put on her feet and rolled up. The feeling rolls higher and higher, and as it climbs, she feels the strength in her muscles just melt away as her muscles get spun into soft stuffing.

Up past her hips, her intimate area becoming nothing but a soft plushie bulge. Her stomach becomes full of warmth and giggles as her skin turns to string and her muscles into stuffing.

Then her fingers draw together, like big thick mittens are being put on. Much like with her feet, the feeling climbs, her arms become so limp and loose, barely able to move.

The feelings converge on her chest, her breasts padding out with a little extra stuffing, before climb up her neck.

All the words in her throat unspool until there's nothing left but gentle hums. Then her neck softs leaving her head to rest wherever it can.

It climbs up the back of her head, her hair uncoiling into colourful yarn.

Then finally it reaches her face.

Her lips become embroidered into a permanent smile.

Her eyes become pretty buttons.

In her mind, a brand new bow appeared in her dolly's hair.

After the trance and a little aftercare, I spoke the spell and she went limp instantly. Her giggles became soft hums as I talked to her. I can forgive her for the one-sided conversation.

But being nothing but stuffing and string made her plush bulge ache with need, so I reversed the spell and gave her permission to play.

She was nearing that wonderful climax but suddenly found all the strength leave her body as the spell left my lips.

She hummed in sweet frustration at my denial.

So I reversed the spell and urged her to continue.

She just about to tumble over that edge into bliss and- oops! Nothing but stuffing and string again.

I asked if she wanted to climax, if she wanted to collapse into pleasure.

She hummed affirmatively.

"Well go on then", I sneered.

Her helpless hum was something I wish I could've bottled up because you could taste the frustration.

After her climax, after she was all spent and cared for, we ended our session with something a little special.

There was an extra element to her spell which was that she could be left to fall asleep as a ragdoll, and upon waking up would feel bright and fresh and returned to normal.

So our session ended with me reading to her some of my new pieces, while she could do nothing but lie on her bed, surrounded by her plushies, with nothing but a beaming smile embroidered on her face.

[izanacore]

“casual” | manjiro sano x reader

chapter twenty-three 𓂃⋆.˚

synopsis: a no-strings-attached arrangement between a party girl and a frat boy turns messy when mikey falls first. but when (y/n) runs from love, she loses him for good—until fate brings them back together, years too late.

characters: manjiro “mikey” sano, fem!reader, emma sano

warnings: angst, heartbreak, fwb dynamics, explicit content, crack, fluff, jealousy, insecurities, themes of regret, alcohol use, violence, bullying, depression

notes: don’t want casual to end, but i’m afraid this will be the last arc after the ending arc??? but we’ll still see since i haven’t actually written the next few chapters (only the ending—and will still make some changes to it). anyway, happy reading!

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

chapter twenty-three

days had passed since mikey’s birthday, and with their summer classes ending early this afternoon, he saw it as the perfect excuse to escape. technically, it was his idea—they barely stepped out of campus before he tugged y/n along, claiming he was rescuing her from emma’s clutches. if she saw y/n, she’d definitely drag her off somewhere to “celebrate” their freedom from university, and mikey wasn’t having it. he needed his sleep—and he wanted y/n beside him.

now they were home. or more specifically, in bed.

y/n was leaning against the headboard, lazily scrolling through her phone, wearing one of mikey’s shirts—soft and oversized on her. her hair was tied in a loose, messy bun, strands falling and framing her face in the warm light of the room. mikey had flopped onto the bed shirtless, curling up beside her without a word and wrapping his arms around her waist like it was second nature.

and maybe it was now.

because the moment he rested his head on her stomach, y/n’s hand found his hair without thinking—fingers threading gently, calming him with soft strokes. he melted into her touch, eyes fluttering closed like a cat being pampered. this was his favorite thing in the world. just her. like this.

eventually, sleep won him over.

hours passed quietly.

when he finally woke up, it was already dark, and the comforting smell of food guided him out of bed like instinct. he padded softly into the kitchen, still drowsy, only to see y/n standing there—still in his shirt, cooking their dinner.

he paused for a moment, just watching her. something about the way she moved, so effortlessly a part of his world—it made something ache in him, in a way he didn’t mind at all. he never wanted this to end.

sleep still heavy in his limbs, he walked up behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist and resting his chin on her shoulder. he sighed, breathing her in like she was the only thing that could make him feel grounded.

y/n smiled, heart quietly fluttering at his warmth.

when she reached to grab the plates, mikey finally let go, reluctantly, and followed her to the table. they sat down together.

mikey was quiet. unusually quiet.

normally, he was the one rambling about the most random things while y/n listened with half a smile and the occasional nod. but tonight? nothing. not even a sarcastic comment or one of his strange philosophical takes over dinner. just silence and him pushing food around his plate.

y/n noticed it instantly. the way he kept glancing at her, then away. like he was hiding something. plotting something.

she didn’t even look up from her plate when she said, “spill it.”

her voice was casual, but there was something in her tone that said she already knew something was up. mikey paused mid-bite, mouth opening like he was about to say something, then closing again.

“…uhm,” he mumbled.

y/n finally glanced up, raising an eyebrow—not in a threatening way, just curious. relaxed.

“what if…” he trailed off, clearly hesitating. like whatever he was about to say would change everything. and maybe it would. he didn’t want to ruin this—whatever this was. but if he didn’t say anything, he’d keep tiptoeing around it forever, and that wasn’t him. not with her.

y/n tilted her head. “manjiro.”

that was all it took.

he sighed, fast and breathless, like ripping off a band-aid. “can i move in with you?”

the words came out in a rush, barely coherent. his eyes darted to hers, unsure. the last time he made a bold move like this, it didn’t exactly go smoothly. but he was tired of pretending to be casual about something that clearly wasn’t.

y/n didn’t even flinch. didn’t blink. just nodded and said, “okay,” while chewing like mikey hadn’t just dropped something huge between them.

mikey froze. “…what?”

“i said it’s okay,” she repeated, looking at him like he was the strange one now. “if you wanna move here with me, go ahead. plus you’re basically paying rent for a place you never sleep in.”

she said it so naturally, like letting mikey live with her was the most logical thing in the world. not a confession. not a turning point. just… obvious.

mikey blinked once. then twice. and then, a slow, smug grin stretched across his face as he resumed eating.

“why are you being weird?” y/n asked, narrowing her eyes at him.

“i’m not.”

“you’re smiling like an idiot.”

“no, i’m not.” but he was. and he couldn’t stop.

“ugh! then stop doing that!”

“doing what?” he asked innocently, still grinning, still chewing.

y/n groaned, rolling her eyes. she turned back to her plate just in time to hear mikey mutter, almost to himself, “now i can finally fuck you anytime i want.”

her fork froze mid-air. she turned slowly, blinking at him.

mikey just winked.

y/n’s face burned. “you’re such a bastard.”

mikey laughed under his breath, smug and proud. “as if you don’t let me already.”

“shut up, sano.” y/n muttered, but her cheeks still hot.

he only chuckled, reaching over to steal food from her plate like he hadn’t just turned the entire night into something else entirely.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

the next morning.

mikey finally gathered the last of his things from his old apartment. well, technically just a few hoodies and socks, since 90% of his wardrobe had already migrated to y/n’s place over time. it was less of a move-in and more of a final surrender.

by afternoon, he was on his way back to their now shared apartment, happily munching on his favorite taiyaki from the corner shop. life was good. warm pastries, soft hoodies, and y/n waiting for him at home. he was practically glowing.

until he saw her.

his mortal enemy.

his greatest rival for y/n’s attention.

his sister.

emma sano stood at their front door, pressing the doorbell.

mikey’s whole mood dropped. not because he feared someone stealing y/n—no, no one dared after what happened with hanma at that party (rip to that guy’s confidence)—but because emma was the only person who could yank y/n’s attention away from him. always pulling the “no boys allowed” card whenever she wanted alone time with her best friend.

but not today. today was different.

“excuse me,” mikey said in a flat tone, stepping up behind her and unlocking the door, “you’re in the way.”

emma jumped at his voice. “i think it’s about time your freeloader ass moves out. your time here is officially expired.”

mikey rolled his eyes like he did this every day. and honestly? he kind of did—whenever emma’s around.

he pushed the door open and walking inside without sparing her a second glance.

emma followed. or tried to.

she got one foot over the threshold before mikey turned and blocked her path with a single arm.

“who said you could come in?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

“uh, me? this is MY best friend’s apartment?” emma shot back, fully ready to throw hands.

“correction,” mikey smirked, “our apartment. so i get a say now.”

the audacity. the confidence. the smug little tilt of his head. it was too much.

emma gasped dramatically. “our?!”

before she could launch into a full meltdown, she spotted y/n walking out of the bathroom in a towel, hair wet and skin glowing from the shower.

“sorry, emma! didn’t hear you—i was in the shower,” y/n said, walking into the chaos like it was nothing.

emma immediately sprinted toward her, grabbing her by the shoulders. “y/n. babe. don’t do this. don’t let him live here. it’s a trap. he’s unbearable. i don’t recommend it. proven and tested. i’ve been living with him since birth—i swear.”

y/n just laughed, completely unbothered.

another day. another sano siblings turf war.

she loved them both—one more than the other, guess who—but watching them bicker like this? it was oddly comforting.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

mikey was sprawled across the couch like he owned the place—because, well, he kinda did now—legs crossed, scrolling through his phone, casually munching on his taiyaki like the world didn’t just almost witness a sano sibling smackdown twenty minutes ago. y/n sat beside him, lazily leaning back, while emma stood in front of them, hands clasped together, eyes sparkling with mischief.

“soooo…” emma dragged the word out dramatically. “since summer classes are finally over, i think it’s officially time for a summer trip!”

y/n looked up at emma, raising an eyebrow. “with the boys?”

“yeah! me, you, ken, mikey, and…” emma hesitated just a little, side-eyeing the boy on the couch, “izana.”

mikey didn’t even flinch.

emma watched him carefully. she didn’t exactly remember what went down during mikey’s birthday—she was way too drunk—but she just assumed the sibling drama had magically resolved itself. still, with mikey, you could never really tell unless he physically stated, “i am fine,” while making direct eye contact. and even then, you had to double-check.

mikey, for his part, had long since moved past it. no tension. no grudge. he and izana were good. but would he verbally confirm that to emma? absolutely not.

“mikey,” y/n said, giving his thigh a soft tap.

he blinked up at her, mouth full of taiyaki.

“emma said izana’s coming too.”

he nodded once and went right back to scrolling.

“okay! it’s settled then!” emma beamed. “y/n, didn’t you say before that your parents own a vacation home near the beach? could we maybe use that?

“mhm,” y/n nodded. “i’ll contact the caretaker later.”

“yes!!” emma fist-pumped the air like they just booked bora bora. “how about we leave saturday? stay for a whole week?”

“fine by me,” y/n replied with a small smile.

both girls turned to mikey, waiting for his input. he didn’t even look up this time, just gave another nod, still scrolling, still chewing.

“great! it’s settled!” emma clapped her hands in delight.

she grabbed a paper bag from the table and turned to mikey with a fake-sweet smile. “by the way, i was going to give you this dorayaki… but after that nasty attitude earlier? not happening.”

“NO!” mikey said way too fast, already lunging to snatch the bag from her hands.

emma let go with a sigh. “tsk. you’re such a child.”

“thanks, em,” mikey said with a mouth full of dorayaki and a huge grin, already unwrapping it like he didn’t just commit snack theft.

“whatever,” she muttered, rolling her eyes. “anyway, i’ll text you the details, y/n. just update me once you talk to the caretaker, okay? i just dropped by today since you magically disappeared the moment summer class ended yesterday. you promised we’ll go get ice cream together. i wonder why.”

she turned her full judgmental stare on mikey.

mikey blinked. “…what?” he said.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

emma finally left. the whole afternoon had been spent binge-watching a murder crime series, hours of back-to-back episodes until the sky turned dark. y/n was now in the bedroom, organizing both her and mikey’s stuff to place neatly in the cabinet, while mikey stayed on the couch scrolling through his phone.

suddenly, y/n’s phone started ringing from the coffee table.

“babe, your phone’s ringing,” mikey called out.

“can you answer it for me, please?” she called back. she figured it was probably emma.

mikey, curious, glanced at the caller id—and paused. it was just an old man emoji with a heart beside it. who could it be…?

before he could even say hello, the man on the other end spoke up cheerfully, “y/n, my child! i miss you so much!”

mikey froze. shit. it was her dad. what the hell was he supposed to say? how was he supposed to respond?

panic immediately set in.

“uhm… y/n?” her dad asked when he didn’t hear anything from the other side.

“uh—s-sir? sorry, this isn’t y/n. i’ll give her the phone real quick—”

“oh, is this manjiro? y/n’s boyfriend?”

boyfriend? mikey’s eyes widened. wait… how does he know my name? he thought.

“u-uh, yes. this is manjiro, sir,” he replied awkwardly.

“oh, great!” her dad said, sounding pleased. “actually, i called to check on how you were doing with the moving in. y/n texted me that you finally decided to live with her, and i just wanted to see how you’re settling in. i’m really glad. she’s been living alone for so long, and i couldn’t be there to look after her. knowing you’re with her now… it puts me at ease.”

“y-yes, sir. you can count on me,” mikey said quickly.

“i know i can. y/n’s told me so much about you. she’s never been happier, you know? i’m sure she told you about what happened with her mom. after that, she became so quiet, distant… she wasn’t herself for a long time. but now i feel like my daughter is finally back,” her dad said, chuckling softly.

mikey chuckled too, a small smile tugging at his lips.

“ah—sorry, i’m rambling. i’m just really glad you’re there for her. please take care of her for me, yeah? you’re the first guy she’s ever introduced me to. i used to be so scared she’d end up alone forever.”

“i’ll take care of her, sir. i promise.”

“mhm. i’ll talk to you soon, manjiro!”

the call ended, and mikey just sat there, phone still in hand, completely stunned.

mikey let out a long sigh. phew. what the hell was that? it honestly felt like talking to y/n… just in a different font. same energy, same chaotic warmth—just… dad version.

right on cue, y/n stepped out of the room. “was it emma?”

“nope.”

she narrowed her eyes. that call sounded way too long to be nothing. “then who was it?”

“your dad,” mikey said casually.

“what?!” y/n nearly tripped rushing over to him. “you talked to my dad?!” her voice shot up a pitch. “what did he say to you?!”

she looked horrified, and mikey could barely hold back a laugh. she was probably scared her dad spilled some embarrassing childhood story—like the time she got stuck in a laundry basket when she was little because she wanted to help her mom do the chores.

“nothing strange,” he shrugged. “just him calling me your boyfriend, is all.”

y/n’s eyes went round. she snatched the phone right out of his hand, face burning. it was her dad’s fault. he kept pushing the whole “mikey as a potential boyfriend” thing every time they talked. he wouldn’t shut up about it, so—maybe—just maybe—she said mikey already was her boyfriend. just to get him off her back.

mikey raised a brow, smug as ever. “you could’ve just told me you wanted to be my girlfriend, y’know? i wouldn’t mind.”

“shut up,” y/n grumbled, already speed-walking back to the room.

“so… are you my girlfriend now?” mikey called out.

the only answer he got was the sound of the bedroom door slamming shut.

he grinned to himself, stretching out on the couch like he’d just won something. “i’ll take that as a yes.”

but not even two seconds passed before the door slowly creaked open again. y/n peeked out with the most deadpan look on her face.

“…you’re sleeping on the edge tonight.”

mikey laughed. “so, technically, i can still sleep in the bed?”

y/n rolled her eyes. “don’t push it.”

but when she disappeared back inside, mikey got up and followed, the smile on his face refusing to fade.

he slipped into the room and found her already under the covers, facing away, pretending to be asleep. he quietly climbed in behind her, careful not to disturb the blanket too much.

he didn’t say anything—not at first. just scooted close enough for their backs to touch. close enough for her to feel him there.

“goodnight, girlfriend,” he whispered with a grin.

y/n didn’t respond. but her hand reached behind her, grabbed his arm, and wrapped it around her, tugging him closer.

mikey melted instantly.

chapter closed. boyfriend status: unofficially official? we never know.

chapter twenty-two | chapter twenty-four

[vinceaddams]

@mxbuster replied to your post “Being a part time alterations tailor may be a very...”:

Omg you are amazing. If you ever want to do a tutorial…….

​Sorry for the delay, I put the photos in a folder on my desktop and immediately forgot they existed.

Alrighty, here is how I shorten modern jacket sleeves.

First I should note that:

I work for a suit store that doesn't take very many outside alterations, meaning almost everything I alter is from the same few brands and I'm used to a specific construction. Other jackets from other brands may have different construction, but it shouldn't be too wildly different.

All the jackets I work on have false buttonholes, or none at all. If you've got one with functional buttonholes (statistically unlikely, but not impossible) you're kind of screwed, unless you need to shorten it by so much they'll all be turned to the inside.

The amount you need to shorten it by should already be marked on the sleeve, or you should have a measurement written down. The salesmen leave a little chalk line for me.

Start by cutting the buttons off. (Both this shop and my previous job use razor blades for this kind of thing, so I can only assume it's common in the professional tailoring world.)

Then turn the sleeve inside out. There will probably be a section on the lining seam where the 2 edges have been topstitched closed. Carefully pick this out with a seam ripper on both sleeves. If it doesn't have this, just open a section of the seam, but not too close to the end of the sleeve.

Often the sleeve lining will be tacked to the outer sleeve's seam allowance in a few places, and you can cut these if they're in the way.

Now you can easily pull out the threads that were holding the buttons on, and can remove the false buttonholes if there are any.

Most of the buttonholes on the jackets I do at work are chain stitch, which means they're easy to pull out quickly once you get one end loose and can un-chain them, but some of them aren't and take a lot longer. I especially hate the ones on the sport coats that have a little contrasting bar tack at the end, those ones are the WORST and take forever to pick off.

There's a seam holding the ends of the lining and outer fabric together. Cut it off.

On jackets with a particularly loose fabric there may be a bit of blindstitching around here holding the end up, same as there is inside a dress pants hem, and you should remove this first. It's big and loopy on the inside and you can find the end and pull on it to make it come apart, just like the string on a potato bag.

There's probably also a bit where the edge of the jacket sleeve is stuck in place with a bit of fusible tape, so pull that apart. Cut through the threads where the seam allowance is sewn to itself, and pick apart the seams that form the corners of the vent.

(I use the razor blade for this too, by pulling the 2 halves of the seam in opposite directions and cutting the threads in between, but you'll probably want to use a seam ripper.) Don't cut the top part of the seam on the vent though, that bit where the seam allowance juts out to provide extra material for the overlap should still be sewn shut, as you can see at the top of the photo below.

Turn the sleeve back right side out and mark the new line all the way around. At work I mainly use wax chalk which disappears as soon as you iron it, but regular chalk works too, it'll just take a bit more work to brush it all off after.

Press out all the creases from the old seams at the corners. (I have to be careful not to get steam on my wax lines, or else they'll disappear.)

Now press the end of the sleeve in and make the new crease. Sometimes I press out the old crease first, if it's far enough away from the marked line, but sometimes not.

I like to press both layers of sleeve at once in the middle, avoiding squishing the sides, and then I press each of those side bits using this little dense pillow thingy we have at work. It's kind of like a tailor's ham but small. You could easily make one and fill it with scraps, it's a useful thing to have. Make sure the overlap & underlap are facing the correct way.

I then straighten out the sleeve and see how the lining length looks. The end of the lining is usually quite wrinkled, so I press it first.

Here the lining is barely protruding, so I didn't trim anything off, but if there's more than about 1.5 cm sticking out past the sleeve then I'll trim that excess off.

Turning the sleeve back inside out, trim any excess off the folded up bit. I try to keep this bit about 4.5 cm wide, so this one just needed a little bit removed.

At this point you may want to add a bit more fusible interfacing to the button area, but it usually goes pretty far up, so I only do this if I'm shortening the sleeve by a LOT. (And if I'm shortening it by that much then there probably isn't enough overlap left to redo the vent.)

Now there should be creases showing where the new vent corners will be. On the underlap side I mark a little + right where I'll start sewing there.

And on the overlap side (the one with the mitred corner) I mark a diagonal x and then draw a line over the whole corner with a ruler, like so.

That is NOT your stitching line!!

This corner isn't perfectly square, it's a slightly wider angle. So when I fold that corner right sides together and match up the lines I start sewing from the tip of that marked line at the fold, but I veer off at a slight angle (in the direction of the seam allowance) and end about 4 mm out from it.

It's not very clear in the below picture, but you can hopefully see it.

Flip those 2 corners right side out, turn the whole sleeve right side out again, and press those corners nice and flat. I use the little sleeve pillow for this too.

Then you can pin the overlap shut just the way you want it to sit, turn it inside out again, and carefully re-pin it so the pin is on the inside, before removing the first pin.

(I actually skip this step and just pin it from the inside and go straight to the rest of the sewing up, and then press the corners after the lining is closed up, but I've done hundreds of these at this point so you'll probably want to do it this way.)

Sew the two halves of the vent together so that it'll stay closed. Just a tiny spot of backstitching on the seam allowances, like so.

Now you can match up the ends of the lining and outer sleeve and reattach them. I always start with the seam opposite the vent, since the vent side doesn't line up precisely.

I put them together like this, right side to right side, and pull those ends out through that opening in the lining before pinning it closed.

Then sew it, starting and finishing on either side of the vent.

There will likely be a small gap between the ends of the seam, since the vent is in the way, but this doesn't matter.

On the non vent side, clip into one of the seam allowances right below the seam.

Fold that seam allowance right sides together, keeping the rest of the sleeve out of the way, and sew it to itself. This is the same bit of stitching you removed earlier in the process, and it helps to keep the end of the sleeve from sagging.

If the seam allowances are too small or frayed you can also just turn it back right sides out and stick a bit of fusible tape in there.

Stuff everything back so that it's right sides out but the sleeve itself is still inside out, and redo that topstitching on the linings. (Or do it for the first time if there wasn't any. You may want to press the lining first if you don't have two nice creased edges.)

If this is your own personal nice jacket you might prefer to slipstitch it closed by hand, or to instead machine sew it closed from the inside and hand sew the lining back to the end of the sleeve, but I'm obviously not going to do that for my very low paying alterations job.

Turn the sleeve right sides out, sew the buttons back on, and you're done!

Nice mitred corner and all!

The first time I did this it took me over 2 hours because I didn't know what I was doing, but 5 years later I've got it down to about 45 minutes.

If the sleeve needs to be shortened by so much that there isn't enough overlap material left to redo the vent, then I just sew it shut and fold the whole thing up. I have to add new interfacing behind the buttons, as mentioned. For this I also need to turn it back right side out before I close up the lining, so I can stick the not-vent-anymore area to itself with some fusible tape.

Sometimes I have to lengthen sleeves, and for that the process is fairly similar, except of course I have to carefully unpick the seam at the end of the sleeve instead of cutting it off, and I sew an extra strip of fabric to the end. (I keep a box of cut off ends from some of the pants I've hemmed for this.)

For that you also need to use fusible tape for both seam ends, because when you've added an extra bit on you can't sew the seam allowance to itself. The amount you can lengthen a sleeve by is limited, since you need to make sure the new piece of material is entirely folded to the inside and out of view.

I hope this helps and makes sense!

[photo1030]

Heyyy I have a suggestion to make it’s kinda stupid whatever so it takes place at the mayor’s party where Arthur Morgan and Dutch is meeting mr Bronte and reader come running to Mr Bronte for some random reason and sense she’s wearing a corset she can’t get all the air in her lungs AND SHE PAST OUT so Arthur or Dutch (I LUV THEM BOTH teehee) gotta RIPS her out the corset.. that’s all I got LOVE YOUR WRITING BTWW MWAH! ❤️❤️❤️

Hi there @lizzie2980 So sorry this has taken me forever. Thank you for being so kind and patient (and hopefully still interested?) This was a great prompt, had a lot of fun with this one.

This is a bit out of the canon story, hopefully that is OK. This is a little bit of flirty and protective Arthur, with a smidge of charming Dutch in there...lovely combo, if you ask me....which you did...(This is not part of my existing fic, Leather and Lace, btw)

(The images used here were found on a lovely blog that is apparently designed to help fanworks. Check it out! Thank you to whoever put that together. https://reddeadreference.tumblr.com/post/679731317406072832/the-gilded-cage )

*Special thanks to @appalachiancowboy99 for being my sounding board.

DON’T MAKE A SCENE 

Summary:  You are at Angelo Bronte’s house for a fancy garden party when you meet a certain group of outlaws.

Your hands clamp down tighter as the plump elderly matron apologetically yanks the strings of the restrictive corset. Nails of already shaky fingers dig into the wooden bedpost that you use to support yourself with as you stand on wavering feet. You wince on the verge of painful tears as Bridget stands behind you and pulls the threads of the already too tight garment even tighter still, testing the limits of its stitching and causing a gasp to quickly get sucked into your folded-up lungs with each pull.

Sunset has already begun, the brilliant orange disc settling itself softly behind the horizon line for the day, and your room slowly dims to a pastel dusk as you get ready, the wall sconces glowing against the ivory painted walls of your lavish private quarters inside Angelo Bronte’s mansion. The garden party below will be starting any minute, and the shadows that dance along the walls inside the house mask the dread inside your chest. It is as if your hope and spirit are diminishing with the quickly-fading sun. You are hoping that Bridget doesn’t see the trepidation creeping into your expression as she flits about you, but the older woman is too shrewd for that. 

“You know...Mr. Bronte…he isn’t going to wait much longer for you”, she murmurs as her weathered fingers begin to run over your frame, smoothing out the fabric of your dress, picking at errant threads. “He will eventually want what he feels he is due.”

The obvious statement hits your gut like a prize-fighter’s punch. “I know,” you utter with a dejected sigh, your voice almost a whimper in the air.

The thought of the man’s pock-marked, oily skin against your own makes you sick to your stomach. It would be like a vile lizard rubbing up against you. 

But Bridget is not unsympathetic to your situation. She is definitely a woman of experienced years, as the graying hair of her loosely tied-up bun gives testament to. And she knows a thing or two from her twenty-some years in service to upper-society households. 

“You know, sometimes when you’re a woman, you just have to do what you have to do. Close your eyes and let your mind go somewhere else when it’s happening.” She waves her hand dismissively in the air as if speaking about the most matter-of-fact thing in the world. “Just tune it all out, let the man have his way, and then it will all be over quickly. In fact, it’s usually over quicker than you think.” She gives you a whimsical wink as a sharp cackle snaps out of her throat at her own joke. Whether Bridget is speaking specifically about Bronte, or any man for that matter, you are not sure, as this seems to have the feel of a rehearsed speech she has given many times over.

When Bridget sees the distaste of such a thing clearly coating your face as you silently stand there with your hands fidgeting over themselves, she continues.

“If you’re clever enough, you could let him have what he wants, but then have something for yourself on the side, you know.” 

Your eyes immediately shoot up to hers to find that knowing twinkle in her eye. The thought causes a humorless huff from your lips. 

“I can barely manage to look after myself, Bridget. I couldn’t manage that cat-and-mouse game.”

“Suit yourself,” she shrugs and continues to primp and preen your outfit. 

Despite the odd advice, you are grateful for Bridget’s counsel. She is the only friend you have here in Angelo Bronte’s mansion. You are not a hostage per se, but he has made his opinions very clear on how he feels about a woman, especially one indebted to him, leaving the premises to socialize without him as your escort and chaperone; so improper, so ungrateful. 

It is especially warm tonight on the evening of the garden party that Mr. Bronte has been planning for weeks now. The whole household buzzes with excitement and anticipation for the fancy event, despite the sweltering weather. St. Denis is dreadfully hot and muggy, making it difficult to breathe on a good day. You’re not used to such heat. You come from the northern state of Massachusetts, which is much cooler. The heat here is bad enough, but the humidity clings to the air like a wet blanket. 

And this damn dress doesn’t help in the slightest. 

The dress that Angelo Bronte hand-picked for you to wear tonight is way too tight, making you lightheaded already. You watch in the full-length mirror as the constricting fabric pulls your body into shape under Bridget’s strong, able fingers, transforming your voluptuous figure into an hourglass. A deep midnight blue hued fabric that shimmers in the light is cut to hug and accent your physique, leaving little to the imagination of the observer. 

If the origins of the dress weren’t so distasteful, you may have very well liked the beautiful gown that currently clings to your form and drapes over your hips in a cascade of silk. But you know Bronte did not provide this gown to please you. No, he did it for his own inflated ego. Bronte will parade you around tonight like a prized horse out of his stable, showing you off to all in tonight’s attendance. And he’ll treat you as such too - like something he’s purchased and owns outright.

You curse yourself for letting yourself get into this situation. You hate that you have to rely on this man for a place to live. You arrived new to St. Denis a month ago and were promptly robbed upon arrival, leaving you with nothing. So much for civilization. 

Bronte noticed you at the train station, frazzled and lost, and totally beside yourself as to what you would do now. You came here with no relatives, no contacts, just the promise of jobs and new adventure out West from an ad you saw in the newspaper back home. The man quickly made your acquaintance, preying like a vulture on your vulnerable situation. He was charming with a note of authority, like he knew exactly what to do and where to go. But it quickly became apparent that he offered you his home as a sanctuary in hopes to win your affections. You’ve managed to play coy for awhile, however, agreeing to be on his arm and accompany him to various social functions in town in exchange for residency in his home. But you have denied the man what he wants most - you in his bed. 

An involuntary sigh passes your cherry lips as Bridget takes your hand in hers, patting it in the same way a grandmother comforts her troubled grandchild, and leads you to the vanity along the opposite wall so she can set your hair. Your body mindlessly drifts to the tapestry-padded stool, like a lost flower petal in the wind, void of any energy or enthusiasm. 

Bridget’s nimble fingers curl your hair and pin it back to showcase your pretty face, adding in beautiful crystal clips for decoration and she even weaves a few flower buds from the garden into your locks. You sit silently in front of the vanity mirror with a blank stare, a melancholy overtaking your soul as you watch her prepare you to be the perfect accessory to the rich man’s life. The motherly woman’s presence comforts you, but she is also serving you up to the master of the house like a slice of beef on a silver platter for him to devour. 

“There, now. Don’t you just look breathtaking?” she breaths in awe. The deep-set lines around Bridget’s hazel-colored eyes crinkle as she admires her masterpiece. Your eyes refocus to catch the old woman’s proud gaze in the mirror, and then back over your own reflection.

“Yes, Bridget,” you whisper with a sad smile, your lower lip quivering just slightly. “You did a fine job. Thank you for your help tonight.” She catches the reluctance in your fluttering eyes and can only nod in agreement. She lovingly pats your arm in an attempt to comfort your growing uneasiness. 

“Well, I had better get downstairs and tend to the kitchen, then. Don’t hide up here too long, miss.” And she wipes her hands on her apron as her wide hips carry her to the bedroom door before she slips out and you are alone with your thoughts once again. 

With a deep sigh, you haul yourself up to stand. You swish the heavy fabric of your dress-skirts to the side to allow you to amble over to the balcony doors of your private room. Pulling the double-doors open wide with both hands, you step out onto the freshly painted wood as a rush of humid air hits you like a wall, causing you to take a brief pause to try to catch your breath. Your hands eventually find their place upon the smooth railing as you step up to the edge to look out over the balcony at the garden party below. 

Jovial music floats up to your ears from the string quartet that is playing on the patio beneath you. String lights delicately criss-cross over the open garden area, resembling a net that has caught a thousand fire-flies. Bronte’s guests have already started to arrive and their chatter fills the air, alternating with the clinks of champagne flutes. You casually observe as greedy fingers grab at the delectable food and free alcohol that is meticulously displayed along elegant tables that dot across the property, the delicious aromas wafting through the evening air. 

The scene laid out before you is like a page out of the society section of the newspapers. Always over-the-top, always impressive, Angelo Bronte spares no expense in his functions. Decadent food, expensive wines, extravagant decor. Always to impress the upper echelon of society. And yet, you have no desire to mingle with the high-society of St. Denis. From what you’ve seen, it’s hardly impressive to you. 

You watch with disinterest over the crowd, observing from the elevated vantage point as people collect in small groups, then turn to whisper to each other like conniving socal piranhas the moment one of the fold turns to leave to join another circle. With a scornful roll of your eyes, you have no idea how you are going to make it through this evening unscathed. 

And then, a collection of unknown men catch your eye. You’ve never seen them in Bronte’s circle before. And they clearly don’t belong. Under closer observation, this is an assembly of rugged looking gentlemen, a sharp contrast to the other guests in attendance tonight. Though they may have donned fancy tuxedos and hats, the way they carry themselves indicates they are not used to wearing such garb. Their eyes nervously shift all around instead of at whoever is addressing them as if more interested in what is happening around them rather than trying to assert social connections. Your bottom lip gets pulled between your teeth as your curious gaze lingers on them, trying to determine if they were invited or snuck in with the crowd.

As if he can feel your eye on him with the sixth sense of a trained outlaw, Arthur instinctively looks away from the men he is standing with and looks up towards the balcony of the great house and notices you. He doesn’t smile or even move for that matter, other than a single eyebrow lift as if in confusion. Your breath catches a bit at being caught staring. But yet you cannot bring yourself to break eye contact with the startling blue eyes gazing back at you from across the garden. And you can’t help the soft smile that blooms across your blushing cheeks at the ruggedly handsome man. 

When the mystery man eventually turns his attention back to his companions, you shake your head back to reality and decide you’ve stalled long enough. It’s time to begin to make your way down to the garden party and get this over with. You leisurely stroll along the length of the wrap-around balcony of the house to the stairs that will carry you down to the patio. Your hand has to grip the railing of the staircase as you walk, as your dress is so tight that descending the stairs makes you out of breath. The boning of the corset digs painfully into your ribs and hipbones as you move. Such a dreadful, masochistic thing, you wonder why on earth women put themselves through such torture for the sake of fashion. Once at the bottom, you attempt to take a deep breath, bringing your fingertips to your temples before bracing yourself to join the guests. 

First order of business, you scan the crowd to locate your host. It takes a few minutes, but you eventually lock-in on him when you hear his boisterous, condescending laugh echoing over the throng of people. Angelo Bronte really is a toad of a man. And despite his money and power, he is rather socially inept. Maybe it’s the fact that he's not from this country. Or maybe society is held differently in Italy. But either way, the elite here in St. Denis have mixed feelings about the wealthy man. Mixed as in, they like his wealth but do not care for the man. And that is where you come in. 

Bronte’s idea is that having a beautiful, refined and charming woman on his arm will make him appear more distinguished. Your role in this little arrangement with him is to be the doting young paramore, helping him to navigate the social circles. No one needs to be the wiser that the two of you sleep in separate rooms on completely different ends of the house. But for appearances sake, Angelo Bronte has acquired himself quite the crown jewel with your presence. 

As you meander through the crowd, you keep getting intercepted by random party guests, each one handing you a new glass of champagne. Your eye catches Bronte’s a few times as you mingle, as he checks to make sure you are performing as expected. Of course, the witty jokes, effervescent laughing and demure little smiles that emanate from you work according to plan. You can see Bronte pointing you out to guests from across the garden, a crude grin of approval splitting across the faces of the men he leans into, all chattering with hushed tones and hungry eyes. It’s enough to make your corset-restricted stomach turn. 

After about forty five minutes of false chuckles and empty smiles, you are desperate for fresh air and peace and quiet, so you discreetly head to the rose garden which is off to the right side of the party, hoping to find less people there.

Wandering aimlessly through the maze of hedges and rose bushes, you manage to find a quiet little corner away from prattling visitors and raise your tired eyes to the heavens above. The smog of St. Denis covers the night sky and it leaves you with a heavy feeling of disappointment that even the vast galaxy of stars is being kept from you in this dreadful place. With a dispirited sigh, your tear-misted eyes slowly roll shut, attempting to find some sort of solitude from this hell on earth. 

“Is this a safe place to hide?”

The sound of a deep, gravelly voice suddenly cuts into your mind, causing your eyes to snap open as you spin to see who is speaking to you. 

And there he is. The handsome fellow who you were staring at from the balcony. He stands quietly, a slight smirk of amusement on his face. It takes you a few moments to realize that he is indeed real, no fantasy apparition to come to stand before you. Confused blinks skitter across your face as you take in the sight of him. Now that you are up close to him, you can see just how tall and broad-shouldered he is. 

“Sorry, miss, I didn’t mean to startle you,” he offers when you hesitate to answer, his simple apology carrying little fanfare or bravado. Just a simple statement with no malice, no ill-content and no agenda towards you. 

“Oh…no…you didn’t startle me,” you manage to stammer as you try to regain your composure.

The stranger’s ocean-blue eyes float across your frame, head to toe, assessing you with a slight tilt of his head.  “You sure about that?” he jokes as he gives you a deeper smirk now.

Picking up on his genuine humor, you release the breath that you didn’t realize you were holding. “No, you’re fine,” you assure him. “I just needed a minute, is all. I didn’t expect anyone to be back here.” 

When you lob a smile back at him in return, Arthur takes a gamble and begins to move slightly closer to you, specifically intent on maintaining this conversation. “Hmm, needing to get away from the herd? Is that it?”

The term causes a chuckle to erupt out of your throat. “Yeah, something like that.” You begin to step towards him as well, both of you moving slowly yet purposefully towards the other to close the gap between you until you are about three feet from each other. The air surrounding the garden is like that before a thunderstorm, exhilarating because it could be both beautiful and dangerous at the same time. The two of you stand quietly, simply staring at the other like a couple of clumsy teenagers not knowing what to say. 

“No offense, but you don’t seem like you belong here,” you finally break the amorous spell with a raised eyebrow. As your words hover like a butterfly in his ears, you note the faded scars along the man’s chin, embedded into his tanned skin and nestled beneath his rugged beard that you can see was probably hastily groomed for this evening.

He doesn’t deny it, but counters almost playfully with “I could say the same for you.”

You flirtatiously narrow your eyes at him. “What makes you say that?”

He waves his large finger towards you. “You carry the same disdain for this place on your face that I do.”

Well, you have to admit, he’s got you there and all you can do is nod in agreement. “That obvious, huh?”

“Just a bit,” he chuckles, bringing his hand up to pinch his fingers together to accent his point. “It's ok, though. Glad I’m not the only one who doesn’t want to be here.” And he tosses a perturbed glace back over his shoulder towards the noise of the party. 

“I guess that makes us two peas in a pod, then, doesn’t it?” you muse with a glittering smile that makes his chest tight.

A grin pulls at the corner of the stranger’s plump lips, causing his scarred chin to wrinkle. “I guess it does, doesn’t it?” 

“My name is Y/F&LN”. You extend your hand out and his large hand completely engulfs yours, dwarfing your delicate fingers with his own. You immediately notice how his skin is rough, yet warm to the touch, his hand strong in a comfortingly protective way. 

“Arthur Morgan.”

And the two of you hold each other’s gaze like a spark of electricity pulsing through the air to connect you. You can feel your fingertips go numb as your heart beats faster within your perfume-dusted chest. And Arthur hopes that you do not notice how he thickly swallows, flexing his now-sweaty hands before awkwardly kneading his thumb into the opposite palm. 

But your beautiful little moment together is short-lived when you hear your name being called out into the night, snapping you back to the real world. And before you know it, a very anxious-looking Bridget appears from around the hedges, her eyes darting around, her lips pressed tightly together in worry. 

“Miss Y/N, there you are! Mr. Bronte is asking for you.” She gives you a sharp wave in her direction before her eyes quickly slip to the burly gentleman to your right.

An embarrassed school-girl blush dusts your cheeks as you clear your throat. “Yes, of course, Bridget, thank you. I’ll be right there.” You turn back to Arthur. “Well, Mr. Morgan, it was very nice to meet you. If you will excuse me, please.”

“‘Course.” Arthur dips his head with a respectful nod as you float past him, your fingertips nervously tucking a few tendrils of hair behind your ear. 

Bridget gives Arthur a good look up and down before she turns and follows behind you back towards the music of the garden party with a sly, smug smile drawn on her lips. “Maybe you’re more clever than you think,” she whispers impishly in your ear. You shoot her a cautionary look as you smooth your hands over the fabric of your dress, making sure that you are presentation-ready before you make your way to your host. 

As you navigate the crowd to approach Bronte, you take notice that he is talking to the other men that came with Mr. Morgan. The moment he catches sight of you, Bronte’s face lights up.

“Ah, Miss Y/N! There you are! Come, Come!” He waves you over to stand next to him. “I’d like you to meet some special guests.” Bronte crudely clutches your hand, bringing it to his saliva-slick lips before eagerly wrapping it around his arm. “This is Mr. Van der Linde, and his associates, Mr. Williamson and Mr. Matthews. Gentleman, this is my…’companion’, Miss Y/LN.”

You force down the bile in the back of your throat that the toad conjures up as a graceful nod and accompanying smile adorns your pretty face when you turn towards the men you are being presented to. “Gentleman, it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” 

“Miss Y/L/N,” Mr. Van Der Linde greets you as he flashes a sultry grin in your direction, boldly reaching his ringed hand to take ahold of yours that sits tucked in Bronte’s elbow. He brazenly brings your digits to his warm mouth to place a tender kiss along your knuckles. “Call me Dutch.” His dark eyes fully take you in with a glitter of mischief behind them. “Mr. Bronte is indeed a lucky man.”

Unlike Angelo Bronte, you find this new social contact of his to be quite charismatic and charming. And while most of the attendees of this event carry some level of bravado, this man standing in front of you seems to be quite different, the type to put his money where his mouth is. 

Interest flashes through your eyes at this dark-haired stranger. And Bronte is quick to notice. With a deep scowl of disapproval, his arm quickly snakes around your waist, holding you possessively against him in the presence of these men, so tight that it makes you squirm against his grip. You are about to protest the moderately painful discomfort when Mr. Morgan suddenly joins the circle, his azure eyes immediately targeting the meaty hand that grips your hip before lifting to meet your grimacing expression. The sight makes his face turn dark with a menacing presence to it. It almost shocks you to see the stark contrast to his demeanor from your encounter a few moments ago. 

“Quite the shindig you got goin’ here, Bronte,” Mr. Morgan says cooly, his statement breaking the tension of the social circle. “You always run things like this?”

The disapproval in your new friend’s voice causes one of the other men in his group (Mr. Matthews, is it?) to shoot him a glare of warning, to which Mr. Morgan shrugs off. 

Bronte lifts his nose at the rub, but he will not be made a fool of so easily at the challenge. “Ah, I’m sure you country folk are not used to such luxury, yes?”  

“Personally, I don’t care for it,” snarks Arthur with a snort of derision. “Hard to enjoy myself like a gluttonous pig when there’s people right outside the gate starvin’”

As you stand there next to Bronte listening to these men throw thinly veiled contempt at one another, you begin to feel dizzy. Your head starts to swim, spots dancing before your eyes, making your stomach lurch. But no one notices at first, except for Mr. Van Der Linde.

“You alright, miss?” Mr. Van Der Linde questions you with concern skipping across his dark features. 

“Oh, yes,” you wave him off. “It’s just…just this heat…” You begin to fan yourself, desperate for some cool air to caress your face. 

And suddenly the world around you starts to spin and your knees give way underneath you as if they move of their own accord. You begin to crumple in front of everyone and Dutch is quick to catch you just before you hit the ground, his strong arms shooting out to enfold you and ease you into the grass. The moment Arthur sees that you are in trouble, he promptly hovers over you as well, catching your hand into his own and placing himself between you and Bronte as things go dark in front of your eyes.

A collection of curious guests begins to gather around the spectacle, whispers and fingers discreetly pointing in your direction.

“The lady needs some air,” asserts Dutch as he kneels behind you.

Arthur is at a loss on what to do at first, but is quick to notice how restrictive the corset of your dress is, as your chest can barely move as you desperately gasp for air, your face turning red from the heat of the evening.

With a look of determination, Arthur’s rough hands wrap around your biceps and carefully lift the upper part of your limp body to lean against Dutch, who cradles you into his chest for support. Without a word, Arthur grabs at the fabric of your dress and quickly rips the corseted area wide open, easily tearing the seams under his hands, to release your lungs, exposing the delicate silk undergarments and bare skin hidden beneath. Shock slaps Angelo Bronte in the face as he stands behind Arthur, helplessly watching this embarrassing little scene unfold before his eyes. 

Ignoring the judgemental gasps of the partygoers, Arthur then proceeds to snatch a glass of champagne out of the hands of one of the nosey women craning her neck to see the spectacle and tosses the liquid into your face. The moment the bubbly fluid hits your skin, your eyes instantly pop open as you deeply gasp, desperate to expand your lungs to draw in fresh air. 

Arthur cautiously watches your face in anticipation as you rapidly blink the sweet nectar out of your lashes. Your eyes land on Arthur in confusion as to what has just happened before looking down at yourself and realize that you are now exposed to the whole party. But Arthur immediately takes off his jacket and lays it overtop of you as you sit nestled safely against Dutch who is still behind you. And Arthur breathes a sigh of relief when he recognizes the threads of alertness brightening your features once again. 

“Get the hell outta here,” Arthur orders the crowd, waving them away with a wide arc of his long arm. “Nothing to see here, just a woman needing some air, is all.”

“Can you stand, miss?” Dutch’s deep voice carries softly over your shoulder and into your ear, anchoring you back to consciousness. 

“I think so,” you venture, although the wavering in your voice is not entirely convincing. Your head is still swimming with confusion, but at least you can breathe now and the pounding in your temples has started to recede. 

Arthur takes your hand again, his other slipping under your arm to guide you to your feet as Dutch carefully steadies you from behind. 

“I don’t know what to say,” you say sheepishly looking up into Arthur’s worried face. “Thank you.”

“Thank you?” Bronte suddenly bellows, finally finding his voice of outrage. “Thank you?! You make a scene in my house and you say ‘thank you?!”

“Easy, leave her be,” Arthur growls out, turning his threatening gaze to the party’s host. “Can’t you see the lady isn’t well?”

“No, she most certainly is not!” Bronte spits back in anger. His heartless, burning eyes now land back on you, his nostrils flaring wildly with impatience as his expression screws up into a hateful scowl. “Nuisance! I knew it was a mistake to bring you here” he hollers at you, flecks of spittle flying in your direction. “Should’ve left you at the station where I found you!” His finger thrown in your face causes you to shrink backwards, leaning your back into Dutch yet again, where the man’s hands protectively come up to cradle your arms. 

But Arthur is not having any of it, protectively placing his large bear-like frame between you and Bronte, towering over the other man and desperately trying to refrain from landing his massive fist into his face. “You best keep that finger to yourself, Mr. Bronte, else I'll break it clean off.” Arthur’s tone is low and deep, his threat making a shutter cascade down your spine as you watch with baited breath for what is to happen next. 

“Get out! All of you! Get! Out!” Bronte screams, waving at the group of newcomers. “And take that bitch with you, too!”

Your heart sinks as you watch the Italian spin on his heels and storm off towards the house, his arms flailing wildly as he vents his frustrations and anger out into the ether. The party has clearly ended now, as the guests murmur and whisper amongst themselves about the outrageous scene and begin to file out of the garden to leave. 

Your head hangs a bit in shame as you nibble nervously on your pink bottom lip, holding Arthur's jacket over your chest like armor. You have no love lost for Angelo Bronte, but the idea that you now have nowhere to go is a little terrifying. You have no money, no provisions. Nothing. 

Arthur turns to look at you, seeing your soft face frozen in stunned silence. His own countenance turns sheepish as he now realizes that he has cost you your home. “Sorry about that,” he mumbles, his hand coming up to rub behind his neck in embarrassment. “I didn’t mean to get you tossed out.”

“Don’t trouble yourself.” You shake your head and place a grateful hand along Arthur’s arm. “You probably did me a favor.” Your smile is warm and forgiving, but it doesn’t make him feel any less responsible for your new predicament. “But I meant what I said, Mr. Morgan. Thank you,” you whisper emphatically. Your gentle voice causes butterflies to flutter in his belly. 

“You have anywhere to go now?” Arthur asks, his blue eyes burning into your own. God, how you could get lost in those eyes for hours. 

Sadly, you shake your head, confirming his suspicions. 

“Well, then,” interrupts Dutch from where he still stands behind you, “If that is the case, you are welcome to come with us, Miss Y/L/N.” He offers you another of his charming smiles as he holds open Arthur’s jacket as you slide your arms in, and he pulls the oversized garment protectively over your shoulders. He then offers you his arm to escort you away from the party, with his entourage in tow. 

Arthur gives a lofty eye-roll to the heavens at Dutch’s attempt to swoon you, causing Mr. Matthews to chuckle at the interaction. But you smile graciously at Mr. Van der Linde’s offer as you gladly accept his arm and begin to walk with him. You look back over your shoulder and give Arthur a demure little grin, which he returns as he follows you and Dutch out to the front of the property towards the awaiting carriages with Mr. Matthews and Mr. Williamson close behind. 

“Thank you, Mr. Van Der Linde,” you smile brightly up at him. “I just may have to take you up on that offer.” 

Masterlist for more Arthur goodness

Taglist: @appalachiancowboy99 @rivetingrosie4

[honeyscara]

❝Thread of red❞ – Giyu Tomioka

~demon slayer

Synopsis: you're a hashira along with giyu. The two of you are close and one day before the final fight you propose a silly theory

Content: angst with a bif of fluff, mentions of death, giyu x female! reader

~3.3k words

The fire was small, just enough to keep the cold at bay. You sat shoulder to shoulder with Giyu on the edge of a cliff overlooking the dark forest below, where mist clung to the treetops like ghosts. It was quiet—too quiet for a night like this. The kind of quiet that pressed into your bones and made you feel like the world was holding its breath.

Tomorrow was the final battle. There would be no second chances.

You tilted your head back and looked up at the stars, scattered like old wishes you never made. A thousand thoughts pressed against your skull, none of them urgent enough to say aloud. Not at first.

Until one broke through the silence.

“I read something stupid once,” you said, softly, like it might shatter the air between you.

Giyu didn’t move, but you knew he was listening.

You kept your eyes on the sky. “It was about soulmates. Some old superstition. Supposedly, every person is tied to their soulmate by an invisible red string. No matter how far apart you are… the thread pulls you back together. It gets tangled sometimes, stretched to hell, but never breaks.”

You let out a dry laugh, one without joy. “Unless you die, of course. Then it snaps. Just like that.”

Giyu finally turned his head, gaze flickering over to you, unreadable as always. He didn’t say anything. He never did until he’d mulled every word over like it might be his last.

“I don’t know,” you murmured. “I used to think it was romantic. The idea that you’re destined to find someone. That no matter what, there’s one person meant for you.”

Your hands twisted in your lap, fingers fidgeting with the loose threads of your uniform. “But now? I think it’s just cruel. What’s the point of a thread that leads you to someone, only for time—or fate, or demons—to rip you away before you can even tell them what they mean to you?”

The fire cracked. Still, no answer. Just the night, and the wind, and him.

You glanced over at him. “Do you believe in that sort of thing?”

His brows furrowed slightly, and he looked back toward the trees. “...I don’t know.”

He didn’t shut you down. But he didn’t offer comfort, either. He just sat in the quiet with you, letting the weight of your words hang heavy in the air.

And maybe that was enough.

“Do you ever wonder who it could be?” you asked. “Your soulmate?”

His lips parted slightly like he might answer, but instead, he exhaled through his nose and said, “You talk like we won’t make it.”

You smiled then, but it was weak, trembling at the edges. “What if one of us dies.”

“Don’t,” he said, sharper than he meant to. His voice softened immediately. “Don’t talk like that.”

You finally turned to face him fully, your knees brushing. He looked tired. More than usual. Like the weight of everything he hadn’t said was wearing him down.

“I’m not scared to die,” you said.

He met your gaze. “You should be.”

You shook your head. “I’m scared of dying before I get the chance to say what I want to say.”

The words hovered, so close.

But then you hesitated. You’d both been through so much. Lost so much. What right did you have to hand him another burden the night before the world ended?

So instead, you forced a grin. “But hey. If I die tomorrow, and I’m someone’s soulmate, I hope they don’t hold it against me.”

Giyu’s eyes were on the fire, but his jaw clenched tight. He didn’t speak.

You felt the thread between you stretch, thin and fragile.

In another life, maybe it would’ve been different. Maybe you would’ve had more time.

He finally said, barely audible, “I think… if there is a thread, it’s already tied.”

You blinked, stunned still by the softness in his voice. You searched his face, heart thudding hard in your chest.

But then he stood, pulling his haori tighter around himself. “You should sleep now”

And just like that, the moment slipped away.

You watched him walk toward the tents, disappearing into shadow. Your pinky twitched at your side—empty. Alone.

You never got the chance to say it.

And neither did he.

.

.

.

The battle was over.

The sun rose with a cruelty Giyu couldn’t understand—golden and soft, spreading light over the bloodied ruins of a night that should’ve ended everything. It should’ve stayed dark. The sun had no place shining down on a world where you didn’t exist anymore.

People moved around him—Healers, Kakushi, Hashira still standing, even the wounded crawling to find some corner of rest. Voices called for aid, orders were given, tears were shed. Giyu heard none of it.

His knees were pressed to the scorched ground, one hand stained with your blood, still damp and sticky between his fingers. The other hand held your limp wrist. Your pulse had long faded, but he held on like he could will it back.

There was a gaping emptiness where your body had once burned with life—your laugh, your voice, your impossible ability to bring warmth into the coldest corners of his silence. Now you were still. Hollow. And so was he.

Your final breath echoed in his head.

“I wasn’t scared to die…”

He wanted to scream. You should have fought harder to live. You should have stayed back. You should have let him take the hit.

But instead, you smiled through the blood. You looked at him and smiled.

He didn’t remember who pulled him away. Maybe Kanao. Maybe it was Tanjiro with blood in his hair and tears streaming down his cheeks. Maybe it was the wind. He didn’t know. All he knew was that one moment you were in his arms, and the next, there was only cold.

“Don’t.” He’d whispered when someone reached for your body. “Don’t take her yet.”

But they had to. The world kept moving. Even when his heart didn’t.

He should have said it that night. You were right there, talking about soulmates and stupid red threads and your fear of dying without saying what mattered. And what had he done? Sat in silence like a coward. Told you to sleep.

Giyu closed his eyes, fists clenched so tightly his knuckles cracked. He saw you there, beside the fire. Your voice echoing,

“Do you ever wonder who it could be?”

It was you. It had always been you. From the moment you stood beside him as a Hashira—quiet, stubborn, endlessly kind. You understood his silences, never pushed too hard, but stayed anyway. Like gravity.

You were the only one who never looked at him like he was broken.

And now he was. Again.

When they buried you, Giyu didn’t speak. He stood beside the others, eyes fixed on the dirt being shoveled over your body like it might crack open and reveal this was all a mistake. That maybe the thread wasn’t broken—just lost.

But it didn’t.

It stayed buried.

Like you.

He didn’t cry. Not there. Not when the others left offerings. Not when Tanjiro wept and blamed himself. Giyu just stood there, a stone in a world that wouldn’t stop moving.

That night, when he finally returned to what was left of the Butterfly Estate, he sat on the porch in the dark, your sword in his lap. It was cracked, stained—but it was yours.

“I loved you.”

The words trembled into the air like smoke, like they weren’t ready to be said aloud.

“I loved you,” he repeated, quieter. “Since the day you challenged me without fear. Since the day you sat beside me in silence and didn’t try to fill it. Since the night you asked about soulmates and laughed like it was all just a joke.”

His grip on the blade tightened.

“I thought we had more time.”

He bowed his head, shoulders shaking. Not with sobs—but something worse. The silence that came with mourning a lifetime you never got to have. A future that never arrived. A thread that snapped mid-tug.

“I should’ve told you.”

But he didn’t.

And now he was alone again.

Just like before.

.

.

.

The world was faster now. Brighter. Neon signs blinked like constellations in the city’s heart, and trains came and went like heartbeat pulses. But for Tomioka Giyu—now a quiet literature professor at a university tucked near the edge of town—life remained slow.

He wasn’t one for crowds. Or noise. Or connections. Not because he hated people—he didn’t—but because something in him always felt… like it was waiting. For what, he didn’t know.

A face.

A voice.

A feeling.

He saw it sometimes—in dreams. A battlefield drenched in fire. A hand reaching for his. A scarf fluttering in the wind. And a smile, warm and fleeting, slipping through his fingers like sand.

He never remembered the details. Just that when he woke up, his chest ached like something had been ripped from it.

You ran into him on accident.

Literally.

You were balancing two iced coffees in one hand, your phone wedged awkwardly between your cheek and shoulder as you apologized to whoever was on the line. The city sidewalk was packed, and you weren’t watching where you were going when you turned the corner—and crashed directly into someone.

“Ah—shit!” you gasped as one coffee cup slipped. It would’ve hit the pavement if a hand hadn’t caught it with precise timing.

“Careful,” came a low voice.

You looked up—and froze.

He was taller than you expected. Dark hair, tired eyes, dressed simply in a navy sweater and slacks. There was nothing remarkable about him at first glance—except something in your chest lurched. Something deep. Something ancient.

Your breath hitched.

He blinked down at you, still holding the coffee cup he’d caught. His eyes were… unreadable. Calm. But also, somehow, like he’d just seen a ghost.

“Thanks,” you said awkwardly, reaching for the cup.

Your fingers brushed his.

And something cracked.

It wasn’t pain—it was more like a memory that didn’t belong to you pressing at the edges of your mind. A wind-chime sound. The smell of rain. The weight of a sword in your hand.

You pulled your hand back quickly.

He still hadn’t moved. “Have we met?” he asked, softly.

You stared at him. “I… I don’t think so.”

But your voice wavered.

Because how could you explain that he felt like home? Like silence in the middle of war. Like warmth in a lifetime of cold. Like you’d known him before you even knew yourself.

Giyu’s eyes narrowed just slightly, not in suspicion—but recognition.

And you both stood there, on a busy street where the past and future blurred, hearts pounding with something neither of you could name yet.

A red thread, tied long ago, tugged softly at your souls.

And neither of you moved.

It didn’t end there.

You bumped into him again at the university library two weeks later. It was raining outside—soft drizzles against the glass—and the scent of books, old and new, lingered in the air like incense. You were curled into the armchair by the window, nose buried in an anthology of modern poetry, when a familiar figure passed by.

You looked up.

He was there—Giyu. Professor Tomioka. Navy sweater again. A satchel slung over his shoulder.

This time, he noticed you first.

“…It’s you,” he said quietly.

You smiled, surprised. “I swear I’m not stalking you.”

Something flickered in his eyes—amusement, maybe, or quiet curiosity. He stood there a second too long, shifting the strap of his bag.

“I was going to get coffee,” he offered, voice low but steady. “If you’re not busy.”

You weren’t.

Not for him.

From there, it was slow. Natural.

You exchanged book recommendations. Spoke over late-night calls that always started with casual topics and ended with you both on the edge of sleep, murmuring about dreams and regrets neither of you could name. You saw the way his hands stilled when you laughed. How his expression softened when you looked at him with that knowing, gentle gaze.

He never rushed it.

But one night—beneath a sky veiled in stars, your fingers brushing as you walked home together—you kissed him.

It was tentative. A question.

He kissed back like he already knew the answer.

.

.

.

The wind outside had picked up, brushing against the windows like fingertips tracing glass. In the quiet of Giyu’s apartment, everything felt still—timeless. The overhead lamp gave off a soft, golden hue, casting long shadows across the floor. The low hum of the jazz playlist, barely above a whisper, tangled itself with the sound of rain falling in rhythmic patterns.

You were curled on his couch, your body draped lazily across the cushions, legs resting comfortably across his lap. One of your hands idly flipped the pages of a dog-eared paperback he’d loaned you. The other nursed a warm mug of tea he’d made—his specialty, though he never said what he put in it. It always tasted like quiet comfort.

The book was... cheesy.

An overly dramatic romance where soulmates were bound through scars and tragic lifetimes, marked by matching swords and moonlit promises. You’d rolled your eyes more times than you could count—but you kept reading it anyway.

Because he’d read it.

Because it smelled like his bookshelf and made you feel closer to him.

You turned another page and snorted. “Seriously? They recognize each other by matching sword scars? What is this, a fanfic?”

Giyu glanced at you, a small tug at the corner of his mouth. “You’re still reading it.”

“Out of morbid curiosity. I’m too deep in to stop now.”

You flipped the page again, reading aloud in your best dramatic voice: “Their eyes met across the battlefield, and in that moment, their souls remembered each other. She had died in his arms once—but not again. Not this time.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “Okay, but—hear me out. What if that actually happened to us? Like, in some other life?”

Giyu looked up from his tea. “Hm?”

You smirked. “You know. What if we were soulmates or something? Warriors. Fighting some epic battle. Maybe I died protecting you. And now—plot twist—we meet again in this life, over coffee and overdue library books.”

He paused, looking at you for a beat longer than necessary, his expression neutral. But you could see the flicker in his eyes. It wasn’t surprise. It wasn’t shock. It was something else.

“…I don’t know,” he said quietly, his gaze dropping to his hands. “It feels familiar. But I don’t like the idea of you dying..”You blinked, taken aback by the weight in his voice.

“So, do you think it’s possible?” you asked, almost carelessly. You weren’t expecting an answer. But you found yourself speaking the question anyway. “Do you believe in soulmates?”

Giyu’s fingers paused. His breath caught—just for a fraction of a second.

You looked up, half expecting a quip, a witty remark, or even an indifferent shrug. But what you saw was different.

His eyes—those dark, unreadable eyes—were studying you with something close to an understanding, something deep and quiet, like he was holding onto a piece of a memory that didn’t quite belong in this lifetime.

"Giyu...?"

He cleared his throat, shifting slightly as if gathering his thoughts. “Yeah, I believe in soulmates.” His gaze softened as he looked down at your hand still nestled in his, fingers entwined. “Because of you.”

Your breath caught in your throat. “Giyu…” you whispered, your chest tightening in an unfamiliar way.

He met your gaze again, and this time, there was something stronger there—something resolute. “I don’t know how, or why, but I’m never letting you go. I’ll always protect you. In this life, in any life. I won’t let anything take you from me.”

The intensity of his words hung in the air, but instead of saying anything more, he exhaled slowly and let out a short laugh, breaking the tension. “Guess I got a little dramatic there.”

You blinked, the weight of his promise still lingering between you, but now—finally—you found yourself laughing too. “You? Dramatic? Never.”

Giyu’s lips twitched into the smallest of smiles, and you nudged his shoulder playfully. “It’s okay. I’m dramatic, too. Guess we’re both a little… tragic.”

“Tragic,” he repeated, his voice warm, the tension finally melting into something more familiar. Something comfortable. “Yeah, I guess that’s one way to put it.”

The sound of your shared laughter filled the room, the air suddenly lighter, the words between you both no longer heavy but full of something stronger—something unspoken but understood.

The past—the life that felt so distant yet so close—was still there, hidden beneath the surface of your conversations, lingering in the way his touch felt like déjà vu. A promise made long ago that, for the first time in so long, felt real again.

You glanced at him, heart still racing but no longer in fear. It wasn’t a fear of losing him—it was a recognition. A silent acknowledgment of a bond that had survived time itself.

In this life, he had found you. And nothing would tear you apart again.

As you both sat there, wrapped in the quiet comfort of each other, you couldn’t help but smile. Because no matter how many lifetimes had passed, no matter how many battles had been fought, you would always find your way back to each other.

[xo-myloves]

can you please write a Izzy fic where reader has a hobby for writing and one day while she's out with her friends or whatever, he finds a stack of poems and letters written just for him<3 thank you , luv u

༞༞༞༞༞༞༞༞༞༞༞༞𝚜𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚝 𝚐𝚒𝚛𝚕༞༞༞༞༞༞༞༞༞༞

Izzy wasn’t snooping. He’d tell himself that more than once.

You were out with friends, and he’d stopped by your place to crash—just like always. The window was open, breeze barely lifting the sheer curtain. His boots were off, jacket tossed across the chair. Everything smelled like you—ink, old paperbacks, a little bit of vanilla and something warmer underneath.

He was looking for a pen when he found them. Not hidden, not obvious. Just… stacked, in a little bundle tied together with a piece of red thread, tucked inside a half-closed notebook.

Letters.

Poems.

Some folded into quarters, worn at the creases like they’d been opened a thousand times. Others clean and smooth, untouched. A few had his name scribbled right on top. Izzy.

At first he just stared at them, fingers hovering like they might burn him if he touched them.

He untied the thread slowly. Like reverence.

The first one was dated months ago.

“I saw you tuning your guitar today, and you were biting your lip like you were angry at the strings. I wanted to tell you they didn’t do anything wrong. But I didn’t. You’d laugh, probably. Or maybe you’d ask me what the hell I meant, and I’d have to explain the whole dumb metaphor.

I think you look like cigarette smoke in sunlight—something temporary that feels permanent.”

Izzy sat back on the edge of the bed, heart doing something strange in his chest. Like skipping, like catching on something too big to swallow.

He read the next one.

And the next.

“You don’t know it, but when you leave your boots by the door and throw your jacket on the chair, it makes me feel like I live with you. Even if it’s just for the night. Even if you’re gone by morning.”

He swallowed hard. A tightness curled in his throat like smoke.

He hadn’t known. He’d had no idea.

All those nights you listened to him rant about studio bullshit. The mornings you made coffee and let him steal your last cigarette. The way you always wrote when you thought he wasn’t paying attention.

You’d been bleeding all over the page for him, and he never saw it.

Not until now.

When you came home, he was still sitting there, the thread wrapped back around the pages—but loose, like he didn’t want to trap them anymore.

You stopped in the doorway, froze when you saw his face. Quiet. Serious.

You opened your mouth, panic starting to creep in. “Izzy—”

He stood.

Crossed the room in three steps.

Pressed his forehead to yours like he needed to feel your thoughts firsthand.

“You should’ve told me,” he murmured.

“I didn’t know how.”

He smiled then—small, crooked. That rare, real one.

“Then write it down. I’ll read every fuckin’ word.”

And he meant it.

[withleeknow]

wishful thinking. (02)

chapter two: in plain sight

summary: the instruction was plain and simple: no strings attached. but you should’ve known from the beginning that it could never apply to you and him.

pairing: minho x f!reader rating: 18+ (minors dni) genres: friends to lovers, friends with benefits au, college au; fluff, angst, smut warnings: cursing, drinking, suggestive content at the end, could've been edited more but oh well lol word count: 4.9k

as always, i’d appreciate any thoughts or comments you may have, and please drop a like and/or reblog if you enjoy reading ♡

navigation › series masterpost › taglist

Damn baby, I'm a train wreck, too I lose my mind when it comes to you I take time with the ones I choose And I don't want to smile if it ain't from you

boyfriend - Ariana Grande ft. Social House

You end up not seeing Minho, nor any of your other friends, at all in the few days leading up to Yeonjun’s party.

True to your words, you were mostly holed up in your place, running on nothing but caffeine and sheer frustration, trying to finish your elective class’ final paper on the differences between the views of Greek philosophers. Time really flies when you wish it would slow down, because you could've used a couple more days to perfect the godforsaken thing.

You’ve been texting Minho though, and honestly, the man is practically a saint. You barely even talked about anything besides your stupid paper and your high maintenance perfectionist professor, and yet, he still listened to you yap away. He even offered to help you with your footnotes and citations, which you didn’t need, but the gesture was nice. If you had turned to Seungmin with your whining, he probably would've muted your notifications after three messages.

Regardless, all complaining aside, you did manage to pull through and finish the paper in the end, letting out a big sigh of relief the very second you clicked on the Send button on yours and your professor’s email thread just five minutes before the deadline.

Before you know it, it's already Saturday and Minho should be here any minute now so you two could go to the party. You’ve been working hard. You deserve to let a little loose tonight.

Even though a college party isn’t exactly your top choice of ways to wind down from stress, the mention of free and unlimited booze sure does sound alluring.

When your phone lights up with a simple i’m here from Minho, you quickly throw on a cardigan over a simple black camisole and denim shorts and check your makeup in the mirror one last time before heading downstairs. He texted you a couple hours ago, saying he had some stuff to pick up near your place and asking if you wanted to walk to Yeonjun’s together. You sent him back an enthusiastic yes!!! in a matter of seconds, because lord knows you’d rather not enter the front door of that house unaccompanied. 

You opted for a simple fit tonight, mostly because you couldn’t be bothered to put on anything more decent only to go to the equivalent of a frat party.

“Hey, Min.” Your voice pulls him away from scrolling through his phone, diverting his attention to you instead.

“Hey,” he says, tucking the device into the pocket of his jeans. When he gives you a once-over, you do a little twirl for him, finishing off with an exaggerated kick of your foot at the end. “You look nice.”

“Just ‘nice’? I’m trying to get laid tonight. ‘Nice’ isn’t gonna cut it,” you joke.

He stares at you, a bashful expression befalling his features, the corner of his mouth lifted upward as he smiles in hubris. “You’re trying to get laid by whom?”

“I don’t know.” You shrug. “You tell me.”

He rolls his eyes affectionately before throwing an arm around your shoulders to pull you close. One of his hands musses up your hair that you spent twenty minutes trying to make look perfect, prompting you to poke him in the side so he would let go of you.

“Hey!” you scowl, smoothing over the strands that he flicked out of place. “I worked hard on that!”

“Sorry,” he chuckles, clearly amused by the temporarily sulky look on your face. “Didn’t want you to look too pretty. Can’t have all of the attention on you. Someone might try to steal you away from me.”

“Did it occur to you that maybe I want some attention tonight? I’ve been a hermit all week, I deserve a little something.”

“Is my attention not enough for you?”

You squint at him for a second. Then, you start walking in the direction of Yeonjun’s house without waiting for him. You hear Minho launch a laugh your way, and the scuffling of his shoes on the concrete pavement as he easily catches up with you in a few strides.

He leans down to whisper directly into your ear, making your cheeks heat up but you’re glad that they’re partially masked by the poorly lit street. “You know you never have to try.”

The walk to the party takes about fifteen minutes. When you’re rounding the street corner that leads to Yeonjun’s place, you can already hear the booming music coming from the biggest house on the block. Even from a distance, you can see people on the lawn and the two balconies on the second floor. You gotta give it to the guy - he sure knows how to throw a party.

The second you enter the premises, you’re almost taken aback by how crowded it actually is even though you expected this. A typical Yeonjun party.

You tug on Minho’s shirt, beckoning him to bend down so you could talk into his ear over the sounds of bad EDM and people basically having to scream in each other’s faces. “Are Hyunjin and the others here yet?” you ask.

“They got here right before us. I think they’re in-”

“Y/N!” The two of you whip around at the sound of a shrill voice calling out your name. Yeonjun practically shoves his way through the crowd of people when he spots you, bounding up to you and Minho with a bright grin on his face. “Glad you could make it!” he says, paying no mind to the man next to you at all. He eyes you up and down, shamelessly tugging his bottom lip between his teeth. “Damn, you look really good tonight.”

You give him a playful eye roll. Nonetheless, you still tell him, “Thanks.”

“You look that good to come to my party?”

You don’t mind at all the fact that Yeonjun is a natural flirt. That’s just a part of his personality, he’s inherently charming like that. It’s harmless and it doesn’t make you uncomfortable. Everything is all in good fun.

“Would you believe me if I said this is what I’d wear on a midnight convenience store run?”

“Ouch, you wound me.” Yeonjun says, holding a hand over his heart to emphasize his point. “C’mon, you can admit it.”

You open your mouth, a quick comeback about to be thrown his way but Minho chimes in from beside you.

“You should believe her,” he deadpans, stepping closer to you, one of his hands grazing your back. He's even standing straighter, with his chest all puffed out. “She even dresses like that when she takes out the trash.”

You turn to gasp at him before punching him right in the pec. “Hey!” Yeonjun is all but forgotten in a blink of an eye, because you have to defend your honor first.

“What? I’ve seen you do it wearing this exact same outfit.”

“Stop lying. It’s not true.”

“Isn’t it? I distinctly remember you wearing this when you went to take out the trash that night a couple of weeks ago while we were hanging out at your place.”

“Nuh uh. I didn’t take out the trash that night,” you protest, frowning. “I made you throw it out for me on your way-”

Yeonjun interrupts you with a chuckle, glancing between you and Minho as he gives your friend's shoulder an awkward pat. They share a look that you don’t quite understand. “Alright, duly noted. I’m gonna make myself scarce,” he says. “Help yourselves. Booze is in the kitchen!”

After you’ve finally squeezed your way into the kitchen that’s overflowing with people, you narrow your eyes at Minho. “What was that about?”

“What?” He scans the selection of liquor bottles on the kitchen island before asking you, “Rum and Coke?”

Your favorite.

You nod eagerly, momentarily distracted before you have to circle back to your question.

“What was all that back there with Yeonjun, Mr. Grumpy Cat?”

“What was what?” He pulls out two solo cups from a nearby stack, along with some napkins, and meticulously wipes the plastic cups even though they look pretty clean to you. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

You raise a disbelieving eyebrow. He shrugs.

“I didn’t know you and Yeonjun were that close.” Minho seems casual as he tells you this, not looking at you as he fetches the necessary liquor and soda from the sea of glass and plastic bottles in front of you.

“We’re not. I’m kinda friends with him because Jess is friends with him.”

“Okay,” he acknowledges, though he doesn’t seem entirely pleased with… you don’t even know what. “I don’t like him. He’s loud.”

“That’s not a reason. Aren’t you friends with him too?”

You watch as he mixes your drinks, a sight you’re familiar with whenever you attend house parties together. He’s always your designated bartender.

One for you, one for him.

One part rum, two and a half parts coke.

“It is a reason. And ‘friends’ is a stretch,” he says, handing you your cup before he tends to his own. His has less liquor in it, because you both know you like yours stronger. “We’re acquaintances at best.”

“You’re loud too.”

“My brand of loud is different.”

“Is it?”

He gives you a look. An offended cat, if you’ve ever seen one.

“Well, Yeonjun’s not bad,” you tell him. You take a sip of the drink, then give him a subsequent thumbs-up. “He can be a bit much for some people, but I don’t really mind it.”

When he’s done, you both try to navigate the battlefield that is Yeonjun’s extremely cramped abode. You try to stay as close to him as possible, meaning away from the loud boys that are either trying to get shitfaced as quickly as possible, or trying to suck faces with any girl they could find as quickly as possible.

“Still. You don’t think the flirting was a bit much?”

Minho pulls you to him by your elbow when some guy - probably a little more than tipsy, judging by the unsteadiness of the legs that carry him - tries to bulldoze his way through the crowd behind you.

“He’s always like that. It doesn’t mean anything. It’s harmless.”

“If he asks you out, would you say yes?”

You blink at him in surprise, feeling like the question came out of nowhere. “What kind of question is that?”

“It’s just a question,” he says, then repeats himself. “So, if he asks you out, would you say yes?”

You let him guide you to a spot that’s more breathable, where people aren’t practically on top of each other trying to weave their way through. You think about it for a second, then realize that there isn’t much to think about. “No,” you say decisively.

Because it doesn’t make sense to envision you and Yeonjun together. You practically sit on two opposing ends of the same spectrum. People often say that opposites attract, but this isn’t one of those cases.

And… because you simply feel strange thinking about yourself and someone else. Like it's something you shouldn't do.

Minho gives you a hum in acknowledgment of your answer, which you barely catch over the loudness of the party. You do catch the hint of a smile that tugs at the corner of his lip though, before he cranes his neck to scan the room for any trace of your gang of thieves.

“If I didn’t know any better,” you run the words over in your head before you decide to utter them out loud. Like you told him just now, harmless, right? “I’d say you’re jealous of Yeonjun.”

He turns, stares at you for a moment with unreadable eyes. 

“And what if I am?”

There’s something incredulous in the way you look at him. You think he would just wave you off or roll his eyes and move onto a new topic, not expecting him to fire back with a question you can’t really answer.

Or maybe he’s just playing along. You can’t tell.

“Am I that good in bed?” you chuckle, hoping he doesn’t notice the inkling of nervousness in your voice. “Did I do a number on you?”

He raises both eyebrows, pursing his lips as if in thought. Then, he answers, “Something like that.”

There’s a part of you that wants to dig deeper, to get him to say what he really means because there’s something in his eyes and there’s something in the way that his hand has moved to its designated place on the small of your back that makes your stomach roll with anticipation.

Once again, you don’t like that he keeps getting harder for you to read.

You try to think of words to say, of questions to ask, though you know this party isn’t the best place to voice them. “What d-”

“There you are!” Hyunjin pops up from behind Minho, practically jumping onto his back like a jumpscare ghost in a horror game, startling the both of you and almost making the grumpy cat spill his drink. Minho groans as he tries to shove his friend off, before sending Hyunjin a glare that makes the man bow his head in apology. He promptly drags you to where your friends are gathered on a big couch near the back of the room - Chan and his girlfriend Jess, Seungmin, Changbin, along with a distinct absence of a few more faces.

“Where are the others?” you ask, plopping down next to Changbin, followed suit by Minho.

“Jisung is stuck finishing a project,” Chan informs you. “And Jeongin is taking his girl to that new drive-in movie place.”

“They’re still in their honeymoon phase?”

“Pretty much, yeah.”

“Ah yes, young love. Good for them.”

You catch up with everyone about your week, about their week; gossip about how much Yeonjun might’ve spent on this party and where his family’s downright insane wealth actually comes from, about Seungmin’s on-and-off situationship (which might be more interesting than all of the above).

Minho remains seated next to you the entire time you’re all drinking and laughing with each other. He keeps subtly touching you one way or another - a hand on your back because no one’s really noticing, a shoulder brushing yours, a thigh touching yours, a knee nudging your own every now and then.

It’s not until you finish your drink that Minho asks if you want another one, then stands up to head to the kitchen when you say Yes, please.

The second he’s out of earshot, Hyunjin jumps into action, motioning for everyone to huddle together, like he’s about to share classified information.

“Minho is seeing someone,” he says immediately. 

“What?” Changbin asks. You hope he doesn’t notice the way your body immediately stiffens at the conversation’s sudden turn. You try to look as nonchalant and quiet as possible, as if this is just a talk about the weather, missing the way a pair of eyes flits to you outside of your peripheral vision.

Hyunjin purses his lips, before clarifying, “I went through his phone last week.”

“You went through his phone?” Chan frowns, shaking his head disapprovingly. “That’s not cool, dude.”

“He was in the bathroom and his phone was just sitting there unlocked. Then he got a text and I had to!” Hyunjin holds up his hands defensively. “Anyway, I don’t know if they’re dating or if they’re just fooling around, but there is someone! He’s simping hard.”

“How do you know that?” Seungmin chimes in. “Do you even know who it is?”

“I don’t know who it is. That’s what I need you guys to help me find out. There wasn’t a name name. He just calls her his-”

“What on earth are you guys doing?” Minho’s voice makes everyone disperse, leaning back into their respective seats like they were caught doing something they shouldn’t. He sits down beside you again, handing you your cup back. You give him an appreciative but awkward smile. “What is Hyunjin blabbing about this time?”

“Nothing!” Hyunjin practically squeaks. The poor guy can’t spin a little white lie to save his life. Then he has the audacity to look offended as he gapes, “Also, why did you automatically assume it was me?”

“Because it’s always you at the scene of the crime.”

“It happened one time! No, twice. It was only those two ti-!”

Seungmin cuts in flatly. “He said you’re whipped for a girl you’re seeing.”

Everyone stops to stare at Minho. Even you turn your head to look at him, trying to gauge how he’ll respond to this. It makes you a little guilty, seeing that you’re part of the secret too, and yet he has to shoulder the lies by himself.

Well, technically, there hasn’t been any lying involved up until now. Just a simple withholding of the truth.

His face hardens for a brief moment, and you think he lets it show on purpose - his way of telling Hyunjin that he’s annoyed - because Minho can put on a flawless poker face when he wants to. There’s a couple of seconds where he clenches his jaw before he relaxes, the sharpness of his features softening as he shrugs off the accusation. “I am most certainly not whipped for anyone,” he says. “It’s just a casual thing.”

“If it’s just casual, why were you being so secretive about it, huh?” Hyunjin prods. 

“I wasn’t being secretive. I just didn’t think it was anybody’s business,” Minho answers coolly. 

“We’re your best friends! I tell you guys everything.”

“You sure do. Even things I’d rather not hear about.”

Jess and Changbin burst into light laughter, and you chuckle along with them but you don’t really find it that funny. You’re just trying to blend into the background, be a fly on the wall and observe how things unfold. Minho has assured you that there’s nothing for you to worry about, that there’s no way they could find out about the secret, but still.

Hyunjin groans exasperatedly. The nosiest drama queen you know. “Seriously, who’s the girl? I’m dying of curiosity here!”

“Drop it.” Minho glares at him.

“Just give me a hint! Is it someone we know?”

“You haven’t eaten tissues in a while, have you?”

“Try me. I’m not scared of you anymore.”

“Hyunjin, I swear to-”

“Okay!” Chan claps his hands together suddenly. “Let’s just all agree that we are all entitled to our privacy and people can share whatever they want with whoever they want when they’re comfortable, yeah?”

Everyone nods in agreement, except for Hyunjin who narrows his eyes petulantly at Minho as if to say This isn’t over. No one wants to poke a disgruntled tiger, let alone about something he seems so disinterested in sharing. Minho has always been a notoriously private person, even with the rest of the group.

Changbin shuffles a new topic into the mix to move things along, which you aren’t very keen on contributing to at the moment. When no one seems to be looking, Minho places a hand on your knee, rubbing it soothingly as if he can sense the unease that you’re feeling. It makes you glance at him, though neither of you says anything. You just look at each other for a moment, then turn back to the group when someone calls your name.

Two hours and three rum and coke’s later, you were coming down from a good high when someone suggested ditching Yeonjun’s party to go to a club.

Normally, you would say no. You could only do one social event at a time, needing to recharge your metaphorical battery before you let yourself be dragged into the next one.

But you decided to make an exception for tonight.

Though, you promptly realized that it was probably a mistake.

You prefer the loudness of Yeonjun’s party than here. It’s loud and crowded, since it’s a Saturday night, and since it’s a club. The air is sticky and stuffy. The lights are perpetually blinding and headache-inducing. You’re not even on the dancefloor; you’re just hovering near the entrance and the bar, and there’s still barely any room to move. People keep trying to shove you out of their way, even with Minho attempting to act as your human shield. 

You let your displeasure be known through a deep frown.

Minho catches onto your chagrin almost immediately. “What’s wrong?” he asks, leaning close to your ear to make sure you hear him over the music.

“Too many people,” you try to raise your voice so the booming noises don’t drown you out. “Can we go somewhere over there?”

He turns around, taps on Chan’s shoulder to get his attention before gesturing vaguely to that spot near the back that you just pointed out to him, presumably to let the others know that you’ll be wandering over there.

He takes your hand and leads the way. In the back, it’s still loud but less deafening than before, and much less crowded compared to the areas surrounding the dance floor.

“Better?” he asks.

You lean against the wall though you probably shouldn’t. The ick is apparent, but at this point in the night, you yourself are already feeling pretty gross anyway.

“A little bit,” you say. “Thanks.”

“You wanna go home? We can leave if you want.”

“Without saying goodbye?”

“Did you know that people who leave parties without saying goodbye save two days a year? It’s been researched.”

You rephrase your words so Minho would understand better. “Without Hyunjin’s permission?”

“Hyunjin has been pissing me off plenty all week. I can play my card for you.”

“What card?”

“The ‘I don’t give a fuck’ card.”

You tilt your head, clearly amused. “And how does that usually work out for you?”

“I don’t care how it works out because Hyunjin is not gonna do anything to me.” He shrugs. “Besides, I can always just throw him in the airfryer when he gets too annoying.”

This makes you laugh, recalling the exact moment Minho brought up the legendary instructions on how to cook Hyunjin.

“How violent,” you comment with a snort.

“He deserves it.”

“You know you still have a soft spot for him,” you say.

“I have a soft spot for you,” he replies.

“Now look who’s trying to get laid.”

He grins. “Could you blame me?”

Some drunk girls stumble into your space on their way to the bathroom, bumping into you, pushing you into Minho’s body where he instinctively puts a hand on your back to keep you steady. You glance up at him after the girls have safely arrived at the bathroom, only to find him already staring down at you. His back is turned toward where the lights are coming from and the angle shrouds his face in darkness, but you can still make out the stars twinkling in his eyes.

The sudden lack of space between your bodies makes your breath hitch.

“Are you still drunk?” he asks.

“No. Not really.” You don’t like the way your voice comes out small, vulnerable.

“I…” he starts, hesitating for a moment before he continues. His eyes flicker to your lips, and the breath that was previously caught in your throat further thickens. “Fuck, I really want to kiss you right now.”

For some reason, your heart leaps to your throat. It’s probably because of the remnants of alcohol refusing to leave your system, because how else would you explain the way your pulse quickens just from hearing those words coming from him?

He bites his lip, similar to how Yeonjun did it just a few hours ago, but seeing Minho do it is at least a hundred times more enticing.

You want him to kiss you too. You really do.

“What if the others see?” you protest meekly, but you’re already staring at his mouth, finding yourself gravitating toward him like he’s got you hypnotized.

“We’re all the way back here,” he tells you. “They won’t see anything.”

He leans closer until his lips are brushing yours. With a hand on your hip and the other on the back of your head, he meets your mouth in a soft kiss, which is a stark contrast to the upbeat and booming music blasting all around you. Some guy drunkenly gives you two a sleazy whistle, the sound coming from somewhere on your right, but neither of you pays it any attention.

Your hands come to clutch at the collar of his shirt like a lifeline. He’s never kissed you outside of the comfort of your bedroom before, let alone amidst a sea of people like this. It feels strange to be intimate with him in public, but at the same time, it excites you. There’s still a sense of anonymity because you’re camouflaged by the lights, masked by the darkness, hiding in plain sight.

The kiss gets more heated. He guides you a step back until you’re all pressed up against the wall, your hands tangling in his hair, tugging on it the way he likes that makes him groan against your mouth. He sucks on your bottom lip before shoving his tongue into your mouth, the wet muscle dancing with yours, making your knees buckle. It’s dizzying. It makes your head spin, and you don’t know if it’s because there’s still enough residual alcohol in your system to knock your world off its axis, or if it’s just him.

The hand previously on your hips sneaks underneath your shirt to rub at your bare skin. He gropes your breasts over the bralette you chose to wear tonight, squeezing the soft flesh in his palm, all the while slotting one of his legs between yours to help you grind on him. Your clothed cunt rolls over the denim of his jeans, and even though the friction is coarse and your movements are limited in this crowded space, the pleasure still sets your entire body alight. Minho spreads all over you like wildfire, and Minho consumes you like a hurricane.

You moan into his mouth when he rolls your nipple between his thumb and forefinger, over the flimsy material of your undergarment. “Min,” you whimper desperately. You don’t know if he can hear you over the obnoxiously loud sounds coming from the speakers littered all over the place, but he groans against your mouth regardless. Almost like the nickname is driving him crazy.

He pulls back just slightly, to let the both of you catch your breath. “Should we go back to yours?” he asks, eyes still focused on your mouth.

You nod eagerly. You know you must be wet as hell right now, and if you have to wait any longer, you will probably explode from frustration. You might just drag him into that disgusting bathroom over there and let him have his way with you, but you will definitely regret it afterward because it’s a bathroom in a nightclub. It’s beyond revolting.

He helps you smooth out your hair, gentle and tender. In turn, you wipe your lipstick smudges on his face. Instead of taking you by the hand like he did earlier, he wraps an arm around your shoulder and navigates the two of you through the crowd, shielding you from anyone who might bump into you. You lean into the touch; it’s just comforting.

As you make your way back to the group - or what’s left of the group at the moment - his hand drops to his side again. There’s an inkling of disappointment that blossoms in you, but it dissipates quickly when Hyunjin spots you and lights up. Him and Seungmin are at the bar, seemingly trying to get the bartender’s attention. Changbin is next to them, but he doesn’t seem to care about anything other than the girl he’s chatting with. You try to scan the crowd for Chan and Jess, and find them a couple minutes later, standing in a corner, pressed up against each other just like you and Minho moments ago.

“Where did you run off to?” Hyunjin asks. Clearly Chan was too preoccupied with his girlfriend to relay the information.

“It’s too loud in here, I was getting a headache,” you say, only half a lie. You know your face must still be flushed from your impromptu makeout session, but you hope your friend can’t see the rosy shade painting your skin under all the flashing lights. “Min and I just went back there to see if it was quieter.”

“Okay.” He seems to believe you. “We’re trying to get drinks! You want anything?”

“I think I’m gonna just go home. You guys stay and have fun though.”

Hyunjin looks at you like he’s so flabbergasted. “It’s not even 3AM yet!”

“Headache,” you say, pointing to your temple with an exaggeratedly pained expression on your face. “I’ll stay out all night with you next time.”

“But-!” The second he opens his mouth to protest, Minho cuts in sharply, his tone leaving no room for anyone to argue despite the gigantic pout on Hyunjin’s face.

“I’m gonna take her home and call it a night too,” he simply says.

Hyunjin groans, but he relents in the end, muttering to you something that sounds like “You owe me one,” when you go to hug him goodbye. Before you and Minho can reach the door, you hear your man child of a friend call after you two in his pterodactyl voice, “Don’t make Minho’s girl jealous!”

all rights reserved © withleeknow. reposting, translating and/or modifying is not permitted by any means. [posted 04.01.2024]

[momotonescreaming]

Stripping Back the Coats

Rating: T | WC: 5.2k | Evan Buckley/Tommy Kinard Tommy & Chim Friendship, Post Break-Up, Hurt Comfort

[read on AO3]

Apropos of nothing, or what looked like it at first glance, Tommy broke the silence. Shattered the stagnation in the air that swamped his living room. The movie he and Chim were watching had finished, the room falling into quiet.

Hand loosely cradling a bottle of craft beer — some fancy brew he'd been talking up that was as nice tasting as it was expensive. Not that Chim was just going to admit that, at least not right away — he'd let Tommy sit with it first. Tommy, who was perched on the edge of his comfortably large couch like he was unsure he was allowed to be there. One move and the string holding him together would be pulled taut, and he'd spring off the couch to standing. He looked like he wasn't sure whether he wanted to collapse or stand at attention.

Instead he hovered in this weird middle ground of tight posture, perched on the edge of his couch. Like he was afraid he'd shatter with one wrong move, like glass spun too thin.

Chim thinks he's not as put together as he likes to seem — especially now, with the break up hanging over his shoulders.

"Did he ever tell you about our first date?" Tommy asks, brows gently furrowed, the words falling out of his mouth and onto the floor. Chim just hums, he's listening, acknowledging the rhetorical question. Even now, his words feel carefully chosen, strung together in the gossamer shield that seems to hold Tommy together. He. Not Evan, not even Buck. Chim wonders if it's because he knew he'd stutter over which to call him.

It'd feel weird hearing the name Buck come out of his mouth. Hell, it feels weird when he calls him Chimney. There's something comforting about being Howie to him. Buck must feel much the same, Chim imagines, getting to be Evan to him. There's just something special about how Tommy says names. Like they're special, like it's an honour just to get the privilege to say it. Maybe Chim's reading too far into it.

He takes a sip of Tommy's craft beer, his own bottle cradled in his hand, and it goes down smooth. He turns to look at Tommy, at his friend, and tries to leave his face blank and carefully earnest. As much as he likes to joke and kid and tease, he knows when it's not the time for it, and Tommy is barely holding himself together. If he looks close enough, he's sure he can see the cracks. That spindly thread holding him in place.

"Dinner and a movie." Tommy continues, and his voice sounds almost carefully flat. Each word finding it's place on his tongue. Chim tilts his head to look at him as he speaks. "We went to Miceli's — this nice Italian place, Old Hollywood, y'know? — ate, got a pitcher and talked."

He huffs out a laugh, more an exhale of air than anything, smiles at the memory. Chim smiles with him. Whatever he's thinking, there's something genuine there. Can see it etched in the lines of his face, in the lines gathering in the corner of his eyes, the curve and tilt of his mouth.

He looks more himself than he has all evening. More like the Tommy that Chim met flying a helicopter through a hurricane, and the Tommy he re-befriended after. Snarky, and cool, and lighter than he ever was at the 118. Even after Chim saved his life. Even after Gerrard left. He seemed like almost an entirely different person. More open.

Turns out there's still a long way to go.

"Beer wasn't even that good," Tommy jokes, turning to Chim with an almost conspiratorial smile.

"Saved the good stuff for me, huh?" Chim teases, placing a hand on his chest. "I'm flattered."

"You should be, I got these on special order." Tommy teases back, gesturing to his beer bottle with his own. "Not sure they're even making them anymore — it was a limited edition batch, y'know?"

Chim lets him talk through the very clear tangent, the very clear distraction Tommy is letting himself go down. Talk about the craft beer he's passionate about, that he was saving. Neither of them bring up the very real possibility that Tommy was saving it for date night with Buck.

He takes a sip of the limited edition beer, and watches something flicker over Tommy's face. The smile fades, the teasing smirk, and he looks down at the floor. At the rug beneath their feet.

"But yeah. The beer wasn't great but I really liked talking with him. He was earnest, interesting, cute. There was something about him that really drew me in, y'know?" Tommy smiles again, another sad thing, that same flickering over his expression. A glimpse of the new Tommy, happier Tommy — before he's gone again. "But, uh, it really didn't seem like he had processed what it meant to date another man?"

Tommy dims, his voice quieting, Chim only hearing him by virtue of Tommy wanting him to hear. Tilting his head towards him. The silence around them roars, the softness of his voice easing through it.

"He still hasn't." He says, voice walking the line between that careful flatness from before and an undercurrent of sheer sadness. There's something raw about it, something real, even moreso than the Tommy he was after he left the 118. This is deep-seated stuff, this sadness.

Chim knew that Tommy liked Buck, he's not stupid, but it sort of hits him in the moment just how much. It may have just started with thinking the other man was cute, earnest, interesting, but there was no doubt about it that it had settled into something real about it for Tommy.

And now it sort of sounds like Buck wasn't. Chim doesn't quite know what to think, not with what he's seen of Buck — he's tasted his baking, saw him drowning in oversized hoodies and staring at his phone on shift.

Maybe he didn't show all that to Tommy? He doesn't know what to say, how to say it, so he doesn't. And fuck it's hard, keeping what he knows of Buck in, but he does. Takes another sip of beer. He wants to know what Tommy thinks.

"Eddie walked in the restaurant with his girlfriend — Marisol, I think? — and spotted us immediately." Tommy continues, voice still low and sad, but he looks at Chim with questioning brows as he mentions Marisol. To which Chim just nods. Must not have met her much then, he thinks. "Buck panicked."

Tommy pulls a face as he says it, Chim following suit, his face screwing up as he hears the name Buck fall out of Tommy's mouth. He's right, it sounds weird. It feels wrong. Not allowed. Like something wonderful and special has been taken back. Pulled away.

He lets the feeling sit weird and awkward in his gut, Tommy rescinding his right to call him Evan, and focuses on the words.

Buck panicked.

A joke is sitting on the tip of Chim's tongue, a snarky comment, something teasing. Guess he really bucked it up. He'd say it to ease the mood if he didn't think it would upset Tommy. Turning his name into something bad. Even though Chim doesn't mean it maliciously — that's his brother-in-law, after all.

"He'd only just told me that it was his first date with a guy — I was ready to play it off as just new friends grabbing a beer — I wasn't going to out him before he was ready. I'm not that sort of guy—"

"Hey." Chim interrupts. Tommy seems like he needs it. To be shaken out of it, his voice speeding up, just slightly, looking up at Chim with wide eyes. All these tells, all these signs, are so small and easily missed. If Chim wasn't looking he had a feeling it would fly right past him. "I know you're not. Buck knows you're not."

Tommy takes a deep breath. Shaky on the exhale. He looks like he needed to hear it, there's a small easing of the tension in his shoulders. But he wasn't going to ask for it. There's a lot more to Tommy then he wants it to seem on the outside. His befriending him, his move to Harbour, his coming out — all first steps in opening up. But maybe he hadn't taken any more.

So if telling Tommy he was a good dude, helped, then Chim would remind him. He was, of course. He saw the start of his journey first hand. He remembers that first hug in the locker room. Love actually, monster trucks, craft beer. He saw Tommy's evolution, of sorts. He saw how happy he made Buck, how happy he seemed in return.

"But…" Tommy continues, steadying his breath, getting himself under control.

"But Buck put his foot in it."

"Yeah," Tommy says with a shaky laugh, an exhale of air. He doesn't think it's funny. "He told Eddie we were going to go out and pick up hot chicks."

"Shit." Chim winces, hissing air through his teeth and cringing backwards. "On your first date?"

Tommy hums in affirmation. Lets out another small, humourless laugh. Face almost impassive, as if he's processing as he speaks. Rolling everything that happened through his mind like he's thumbing at a marble, running thought by thought like a string of rosary beads. Chim wonders if it's helping.

"I cut the date short." Tommy says simply, an almost wistful sadness to his words. Eyes faraway, thinking about what was and what could have been. "Left him outside the restaurant instead of taking him to the movie."

"Nothing wrong with that." Chim says carefully, turning to Tommy. Nudging his side with his elbow. Wiggles his eyebrows, plays it up. "Sounds like he deserved it."

"Maybe a little." Tommy admits with a weak smile. He sighs, stale breath falling out of his mouth, dropping the smile. Scuffing his socked feet against the rug. "I don't want to be too hard on him."

"I won't tell him if you won't," Chim jokes, tipping his beer bottle towards the other man, before drawing it to his mouth and taking a sip.

Tommy lets out a weak snort.

"Buck invited me back to Miceli's for our six month anniversary," Tommy continues on an exhale of air, and it seems like the battle is leaving him. Not that there was much to begin with. Tension seeping out of his shoulders and dripping onto the floor, easing into something sad. Something resigned. "Didn't tell me it was for our anniversary when he invited me, but we both knew what it was. Maybe we should have talked about it more."

"You can't get caught up in what-ifs, Tommy," Chim adds simply. He knows it's not that easy, stopping going down the spiral of what if things were different, what if you changed things, what if you did xyz. Before he met Maddie, with Tatiana — there were a lot of what-ifs. Hell, there might have been even more once he started dating Maddie. "I've been there, and it's never any good. Even for the little things. You'll just drive yourself crazy."

He watches the other man sigh, dropping his head again. Cradling his beer bottle in the palm of his hands. Thumbing gently at the label, picking at a loose corner wet from the moisture of the cool bottle. "Yeah, Maybe."

Tommy takes a deep breath, sips his beer, and continues. Still thumbing at the label of his bottle. "A lot like that first time, it was going good until the end."

"Maybe Miceli's is cursed?" Chim teases, smirk quirking up the corner of his mouth. "Like his cowboy."

He hears Tommy snort, as he looks out over his living room. He's been barely looking at him as they talk, but Chim doesn't mind. It's easier, he knows, when no one is looking at you. When you can't see their reactions, their emotions, what they think.

As nice as Tommy's living room is — very cozy, very homey, with rugs and throw blankets and plush furniture — he draws his eye to Tommy himself. Watches his face, his posture, the way he holds himself. Watches for the things he shows, but doesn't say.

"Some lady came up to our table mid-dinner. Blonde, very Hollywood-pretty." Tommy's voice drops as he speak. Low, but not quiet. The words falling out of his mouth as his eyes drift somewhere far away. "Skipped like three tables in order to get to us. Asked Buck to take a photo of her and her friends."

"Flirting." Chim comments.

"Very obviously. Didn't seem to care that we were in the middle of dinner." He sighs, his face almost sagging under the weight of the emotion in his words. "He's hot, I kind of can't blame her."

"Except you can." Chim notes, eyes scanning Tommy's face, watches the upset twitch of the muscles in his jaw. "Or you can blame Buck?"

"I don't know." Tommy admits, and he can see he's telling the truth. "Buck was flustered, looked at me, but when he went to take their photo he automatically went to use his phone and she asked if he was trying to get her number."

He purses his lips together as he speaks, as if he's trying to stop them from turning down into a frown. His brows furrowing. "Buck didn't get her number — obviously — took their photo and went to sit back down with me. But."

"It hurt anyway?" Chim assesses, shifting subtly so he's closer to Tommy on the couch. He looks like he needs it. Someone near. He hopes he's helping just by listening.

"So much." Tommy says on a shudder. "I didn't quite realise I was waiting for him to debuff her, to tell her he was on a date with his boyfriend — until he didn't. I didn't want to say anything, ruin the mood, make it all about me."

"Hey," Chim comments, voice warm and comforting. He places a hand on Tommy's back, hoping it's a comforting presence, a comforting weight on the man's broad frame. "It wouldn't have been making it all about you. Especially not what happened last time you were there."

"It felt like a step backwards. Like, he could tell his family he has a boyfriend, but he's still ashamed to be seen with a man in public." Tommy sighs, a sad almost pitiful thing. Leaning into the weight of Chim's hand on his back. "Especially around a pretty woman."

Oh Buck.

Chim just purses his lips, and gently rubs Tommy's back. Hand moving in gentle circles. He doesn't know what to say to that. He's had his own struggles in love, in work, but he's never felt like the people he's been with have been ashamed to be seen with him. Even Tatiana. She started dating a Chim that didn't exist, sure, but they went on dates in public. And people knew it.

There's no way Buck meant for that to be the way his actions were portrayed, the man is head over heels for his boyfriend — but he can see how it came across that way. He can see the way it was the crack that helped grow the rift between them.

He just hums, and lets him continue.

"I had a hard time coming out. Worked hard to finally be authentically myself. Upended my whole life to do it." Tommy admits, his voice wavering. Wet, and thick. Emotions pushing at the words, at each syllable, begging to be let out. "I can't be shoved back in the closet. Be some dirty little secret. Not again. I can't."

Wrapping an arm around Tommy's broad frame, the expanse of muscle, Chim rests his beer bottle on the table next to him and turns his attention towards the other man. The other man who really seems like he needs it right now.

Tommy never really talked about his experience coming out, and Chim didn't ask. It didn't feel like it was his place to do so. They became friends over their time at the 118, and they caught up for beers a couple times after Tommy had moved to the 217. And he had cottoned on that Tommy came out — but he didn't ask for specifics. He worked with Gerrard, he knew Tommy was in the army, he could guess what it was like.

It hurt knowing that Buck put him right back there. It hurt even more knowing he didn't do it on purpose. And from what he'd heard of the breakup from Maddie — there was some reversal there, with what Tommy said before he walked out.

But that wasn't helpful now.

Today was about Tommy. About letting him talk, process. And Chim was there to help. It's not like there was anyone else. Tommy kept people at arms length and the only other people close enough were going to be with Buck. Eddie, Maddie, Hen. So Chim went to Tommy's, and he doesn't regret it.

"When he asked me for a second chance, after that disastrous first date," Tommy started, Chim huffing out a small laugh. An exhale of air out his nose at the way Tommy said disastrous. And after hearing what happened, he kind of can't blame him. "He said sorry, of course. And then he told me he wasn't sure what he was ready for. But he was ready for something and he wanted it with me."

Tommy smiles sadly, and Chim smiles along with him. It sounds almost romantic. That rom-com shit that Tommy not-so secretly loves. Sweetness and romance and earnest declarations. No wonder he fell for Buck. The smile drops from Tommy's face just as soon as it had appeared. "I should have listened when he said he wasn't sure what he was ready for."

"What do you mean?" Chim prompts, more curious about what Tommy's going to say than anything else. He can guess, of course. Turns out that he wasn't ready for something with me after all.

"He asked me to move in, did he tell you that?" Tommy questions, turning to Chim with brows furrowed. Gesturing with his beer bottle as he talks. "Brought up marriage and everything."

That, Chim did know, and not from Maddie. Buck had brought it up at the station, talking to everyone in the kitchen, and Chim had to bite his lip to hold back the snark sitting on his tongue. Into your loft, Buck? You rent, and Tommy owns his house. He had excused himself to go sort inventory. With how distraught Buck seemed, that also wasn't the time. Even though Chim was right. And it sounds like Tommy thinks so too. He hums that he's listening.

"And I just — what if we did move in, what then?" Tommy continues, voice strained. Chim can feel his chest start to rise and fall faster underneath his hand. "What if we did move in and Buck realised that what he was ready for wasn't me? What if he wanted more? What if it's me holding him back from really looking at his sexuality, from being able to comfortably call someone his boyfriend in public?"

"And you panicked." Chim states.

"And I panicked." Tommy confirms, breath stuttering as he exhales. Clenching his hands, steadying himself, as he takes another shaky breath. "I couldn't handle it. The idea that he finally figures himself out and doesn't want me anymore. That I'm not enough. He said he admired me, that I was confident and comfortable, and was one of the brave queer people who came before him. And I felt like a fraud."

"I've been there." Chim admits, the words falling out of his mouth before he can really process them. He turns to look at Tommy, pulling a face as he continues. Tommy watches him speak with searching eyes, his gaze roaming his face. Tommy's shared so much, much more than it seems he has in a really long time — the least Chim can do is reveal some things of his own. " The feeling like a fraud thing, I mean. Years ago, I was dating this girl — Tatiana, I don't think you met her before you left the 118?" he continues with furrowed brows. Tommy just shrugs. "But that's beside the point."

Shaking his head, as if to shake off the words. Tommy doesn't say anything, and for a moment Chim wishes he still had that beer in his hands. Something to fidget with, that's not the shirt on Tommy's back.

"We were together for far longer than we should have been. I was always complaining to the others how bored she always was, how hard it was to impress her. Hot though." Tommy snorts at that, and it feels like a win. A little reprieve from all the heavy shit they've been sifting through. "So I started exaggerating the truth, shall we say."

"Is that what we're calling it now?" Tommy jokes, turning towards him in return, smirking faintly. Chim notices he doesn't pull away from his hand resting on his back. So he doesn't move, and continues talking.

"I wasn't lying!" Chim laughs. "Everything I said really happened! It just wasn't me who did it." He pulls a face, and tilts his head, conceding his own point. "And dialled up to 11. But it wasn't a lie! Technically. Maybe."

"Okay so you were lying."

"Yeah." Chim sighs. "Probably. I took things others did on call, went back to my apartment, and told her wild tales about what daring stunts I had done. Saving children and animals. Doing The Maneuver. I had to go home and pretend everyday."

And that gets Tommy listening, the smile fading into something earnest, attentive. He's hanging on Chim's every word now. It feels a little weird, oddly raw — telling Tommy these things. Most people he'd be comfortable knowing were there watching that relationship unfold. He's never had to tell anyone before.

"But I was so desperate for a family, a connection, something," Chim says, trying not to focus on Tommy's eyes drilling holes in the side of his head. "That I was willing to lie to my girlfriend to do it. Let her manipulate me, shape me, blind me to what was going on." He lets out a shaky breath, but powers through. For Tommy. "It blew up in my face of course."

"How so?"

"I proposed to her, she said no, told me she cheated on her ex-fiance, and then I got rebar through the skull."

"Jesus fucking Christ, Howie," Tommy exclaims, words falling out on the exhale.

"Not I'm not saying that that's going to happen to you,"Chim jokes, sliding his hand across Tommy's back and gesturing at him. He slides his voice into something more serious. "Or even that's what you and Evan were doing, just that I get it. It's hard."

"Yeah," Tommy shudders. "I spent so much of my life pretending, half the time not even knowing that it's what I was doing, that I don't know if I know how to stop anymore."

"And you think Buck saw a version of you that wasn't there?"

"Fuck, maybe?" Tommy says, brow furrowed unsure. He turns to look at Chim, a little distraught, pulling a face, before he turns away again. Stares back into the deep black of his TV Screen. "Probably. Which is probably my own fucking fault, not talking to him. But it's not like he asked either?"

"Do you think you wanted to be asked?" Chim prompts, guessing the answer is going to be another maybe. Or at least — that's what Tommy is going to tell him the answer is. He has a feeling the answer is secretly, obviously, yes. Tommy Kinard wants to be known, craves it so desperately, but is terrified of it in equal measure.

"If he did ask," Tommy starts, voice flat again, mouth down turned as he speaks. "It would have shattered the pedestal it felt like he put me on. And I don't know if that's worse."

Chim hums that he's listening again.

"He said he admired me, and Howie, you knew me way back then — there's nothing to admire."

Now that is just a blatant lie. There is something to admire about overcoming what Tommy overcame, about getting out and coming out. But he really doesn't think Tommy wants to hear it. He wouldn't believe it. He didn't believe it when Buck said it — the person he's most likely to believe.

Chim's not Buck, and he's only heard bits and pieces about his thought process, what he was going through on his side of things — but there's no way Buck meant that maliciously either. He knows about Buck being thrown for a loop, about talking to Maddie and Josh and something about Glee? But he knows for sure that the core of Buck's admiration for Tommy is love.

He loves him, and is proud of him. The man he was and the man he's become. His big beautiful boyfriend who's come so far and settled into himself.

It just sounds like Tommy's shit runs a lot deeper than anyone knew. Maybe even Tommy himself. He's learning so much about Tommy, here on his couch, the two of them spilling their guts. It's kind of nice, getting to know him more, this absent sort of friend he's know for over a decade.

He just wishes it wasn't like this.

"I'm not comfortable. I'm not confident. Not about this." Tommy says, shaking his head, and Chim wraps his arm back around his friend. "I'm not some paragon of gay rights. Gay pride. Someone who paved the way for those who came after, like he said when he brought up marriage. Fuck."

He shudders out another shaky breath, and Chim wishes he knew what to say. What joke to crack to make it all better. But he doesn't, so he listens. Just stays there for his friend. It feels like a long time since anyone has been there for Tommy. Not until Buck, at least.

"Did you know I've never been to pride?" Tommy asks, and Chim swears he can see his bottom lip wobble as he says that. Just ever so slightly. Until Tommy ducks his head, bowing it in a facsimile of prayer. Eyes shut, lashes shadowing his cheeks, that wobble to his bottom lip. "It always just made me feel like I didn't deserve to be there. Like I don't count. So I don't go."

Chim squeezes his side, draws him in like Tommy isn't bigger than him. Like he can tuck him underneath his arm completely, curled up like a sad roly poly of a man. There's nothing he can say to this. He'd go with Tommy to L.A. pride in a heartbeat, bring the whole 118 if it would make him feel better. But he really doesn't know if it would. Like a dehydrated man drowning in the depths of the ocean, it feels a little like throwing him to the sharks.

"I've always wanted to. Go to pride, that is." Tommy whispers. He clears his throat and looks at Howie. "He admired me because I'm one of brave queer men who paved the way to gay marriage, and I can't even go to pride without feeling like a fake."

He's never seen Tommy this open, this exposed, like ever. Even after years of friendship.It kind of hurts to see, pulls at his heartstrings hurts, seeing just how broken and vulnerable he is. Chim doesn't know what to say. What can he say about pride, without sounding fake himself. Like a well-meaning ally extending himself too much.

He knows about learning about your own culture, about exploring that part of yourself, he just doesn't know if now is the time to say it.

"I'm scared, Howie." Tommy admits quietly, sadly. "I'm scared that Buck is going to finally start learning about the queer community, about our depressing history, about what being a queer man means to him — and he'll realise that I have no part in that."

"So you broke your own heart before he could break yours." Tommy nods at Chim's words. He carefully doesn't mention that he broke Buck's as well. He wonders if a part of Tommy knew that would be a side effect. But that maybe the breakup would give him room to figure himself out, label his sexuality, and then he's ready to move on. Be a happy queer man, without the queer elder who opened the doors and stepped away. Who lived through the shit so he could live in the sun.

Howie can't say for sure, only guess, and he doubts either of them are going to tell him.

Neither of them are moving on.

Chim can't even be too mad at the guy for breaking Buck's heart. His own brother-in-law. He's clearly miserable himself, and his words just make him think of Maddie.

"Maddie left, you know?" Chim says, hand rubbing in gentle circles on Tommy's back. He looks across the living room, past the TV, and out the window into Tommy's backyard. Now it's his turn to take a deep breath. "She thought she was doing the right thing, and I don't dispute that — that she thought she was doing what was right for Jee, and for herself, and for us."

He takes another deep, shuddering breath, and looks back at Tommy with a wry look on his face. "But it sucked."

Tommy drops his head, curving his body towards the floor. Hiding his expression, his misty eyes, but from the flash Chim could see — he looks almost ashamed. Which wasn't Chim's intention, to make Tommy feel bad. He just wanted to lay it all out, share his perspective, share Buck's perspective.

"If she needed time, if she needed to slow down, hell — if she needed space — I just wish I could've been there to give it to her." Chim says, still careful to not reveal too much about his time separated from Maddie. Her journey. It was hers to tell, but he thinks the perspective could help Tommy.

Maddie was a runner, the person who leaves — and maybe Tommy is too. Maddie is Buck's sister, first and foremost — But Chim thinks it'd be good for them to talk to one another. She gets it. Just like he gets Buck, the person left behind. He hopes he's helping, telling Tommy this. Voicing his perspective.

"You chased after her?" Tommy asks, looking up at Chim, almost as if he's stating a fact, not voicing a question. They both know what the entirety of chased after implies.

"Of course." Chim replies, nodding. "I love her."

Tommy's eyes start to water again — not that they ever stopped — and Chim sees the light reflect through watery tears before Tommy bows his head again. Doesn't let him look, hides the way his face contorts as tears start to fall. His voice is thick and wet as he speaks.

"I love him, you know?" Tommy says, sounding all choked up, and Chim's heart clenches at the sound. He wraps his arm around his friend, and tugs gently, pulling him towards his side. "I didn't think it'd hurt this much."

Chim doesn't say anything, just holds Tommy as he starts to cry.

[aesthetictarlos]

Hold my hand, hold my heart as well

Rated G | 525 words | tooth rotting fluff

Written for @bucktommyfluffebruary day one prompt: non sexual intimacy.

I didn't plan to join Fluffebruary since I'm the one running the event but I can't stay away from my beloved fluff so here we go, just a ficlet I wrote in half an hour to celebrate our boys.

Read below or on AO3

Buck's never been a movie enthusiast but he enjoys movie nights with Tommy. His boyfriend is a bit nerdy when it comes to movies and Buck is more than happy to indulge him as they go through a list Tommy made because “there are movies you absolutely have to watch, babe.”

Most of all, he adores seeing Tommy so relaxed and comfortable as they snuggle up on the couch, bodies pressed together and a giant bowl of popcorn balanced precariously between them.

Tonight they're watching Notting Hill and he’s enjoying it - the plot and a young Hugh Grant - but it doesn't matter if he actually likes the movie they're watching or not, at some point he starts to get restless, unable to sit still.

They're halfway through the first part of the movie when he starts fidgeting with one of his hoodie strings, rolling it between his fingers.

Tommy, oh-so sweet Tommy, obviously notices and subtly moves his hand, resting it on top of his thigh and squeezing, a silent invitation that Buck doesn't miss because it's a habit, an established routine by now. When he gets restless, he holds Tommy's hand and plays with his fingers instead of torturing his own or the poor loose thread on his sweatpants.

Turning his head, he presses a soft kiss to Tommy's neck and then traces the veins on the back of his hand, reverently, one by one.

Buck loves Tommy’s big, warm, capable hands. He loves having them on his body, gentle fingers skimming across his skin, leaving goosebumps in their wake. He loves how perfectly their fingers fit together, loves how gentle Tommy is with his touch.

When they shook hands for the first time, Buck appreciated his firm but soft squeeze and the feeling of his callouses against his own but he had no idea that it was only the beginning. He had no idea that holding hands with Tommy would make him feel so safe, so loved, so complete, like two puzzle pieces finally sliding into place.

It's been a while since that first time, but the feeling is still the same and holding Tommy’s hand always calms him down instantly, especially when he's feeling restless.

He knows the palm and the back of Tommy's hand better than his own by now, so even if his eyes are fixed on the screen, he traces the tiny scars on Tommy's skin, the adorable mole on his third knuckle, the lines on his palm. He grazes every inch of his smooth skin, committing Tommy's hand to memory all over again.

When he's done with his gentle touching, he lets his lips take over, pressing them against Tommy's pulse point, along the thick veins on his wrist. He presses a kiss to his palm and then turns his hand so he can graze every knuckle, lingering on his ring finger, a promise of forever floating around them.

“I love you,” Buck whispers, still clutching Tommy's hand, pressing it against his chest as he settles back down, feeling warm all over as Tommy holds him close, brushing a kiss on his birthmark.

“I love you too, Evan.”

[kittycatpopprincess]

***

“Now, dear, would you like to choose a name?”

***

The voice filled its head as it slowly came to. Its eyes were open, it was sure of that; Yet it could not yet see the face of the person humming the sweet lullaby reaching its ears. As it began to struggle in panic, a hand came to rest on its shoulders.

“You’re already awake,” the voice spoke in a soothing tone. “I must apologise, I spent so much time stringing you up. I wanted to make sure everything was perfect. Please, wait here, I’ll put in your eyes right away.” Just like that., she waked slowly to somewhere farther in the room, before returning to its side, getting to work. The cold sensation of a metal instrument surprised it as its bottom lid was stretched out a bit, and a small, round object was carefully inserted in one eye, then the other.

“There,” the voice spoke again, “try to blink a few times. It will be uncomfortable at first, even in this dim light. You’ll be seeing with those eyes for the first time, after all. You’ll need time to adjust.”

It blinked, and blinked again, and slowly, vague shapes and splashes of colour came into its view, some reds and yellow. It blinked a few more times. The details were fuzzy, blurring together no matter how hard it tried. Noticing the discomfort, the woman spoke up again in a worried voice.

“Oh, are you having trouble seeing, dear? Eyes are such a finicky little thing, they’re hard to get just right. I tend to make mine near-sighted.” Saying this, she took off her own glasses, flipping them and placing the temples upon its ears carefully. It blinked some more; Its eyes strained a bit as its vision gradually became clearer. It was in an opulent room: Heavy curtains of red velvet and golden thread barred the light of day outside from coming in. The fabric covered the furniture as well, a fainting couch in the corner and an arm chair in front of the fireplace. Its attention, however, fell upon the face of the one to whom the voice belonged. A mature-looking woman, her kindly gaze fixated upon it, observing its reactions with some careful apprehension.

“Back to the matter at hand. You will need a few days to learn everything again,” she explained. “How to move, how to speak, it will all take some time. In the meantime, you can try and think of a new name, if you wish. I’d be delighted to name you myself. But you’re not just any old doll, dear. It would be cruel of me to not let you decide upon your own name if you want.”

A doll. With some effort, it tilted its head downwards. There, in its lap were folded a pair of cream-coloured porcelain hands. And sure enough, in lieu of knuckles lied fragile balls, each allowing the fingers limited movement for now. It tried to grasp at its emerald green dress, then let go again. Grasp, and let go. It repeated the movement a couple of time, slow and hesitant.

“Ah, but I have yet to introduce myself!” Exclaimed the woman, drawing the doll’s gaze back up. She carefully held its hands in hers. “My name is Hélène, dear doll. I like to think of myself as my dolls’ mother.”

***

Learning the piano was no simple task for anyone. Least of all a doll who had just awakened. Yet, here it was, sat in Hélène’s lap, its fingers hesitantly hovering over the keys, carefully coming down, almost fearing a wrong note. A timid chord rang out through the large and empty concert hall, barely more audible than the metronome ticking away next to a doll.

“That is very good, dear.” Hélène praised her doll, gently running her fingers through its hair. “Now, try to keep time. One, two, three, one, two, three…” She instructed, as the doll shifted its gold-streaked fingers into position for the next chord. The doll had already broken its fragile fingers by accident, and Hélène had spent much time putting great care into piecing the porcelain back together, leaving thin ring-like cracks filled with gold. Another timid chord. “That’s it, dear. Relaxed and loose. Now, try to sing the words.”

A doll reared its head, minding its posture, mimicking a habit no doubt retained from its previous life. Yet, as the next measure came, no sound was heard. Hélène pressed a kiss atop of the doll’s head.

“A doll is sorry, mama.” It spoke in a whisper. It was still so strange, speaking let alone singing through its closed, immobile lips.

“What for, dear? A doll did nothing wrong.” She reassured it. “I am certain your voice will be beautiful when you find the courage to sing. And, when you are more familiar with your body, you will have my opera house all to yourself, so you can practice as much as you want.” The doll remained silent, slowly retracting its hands back onto its lap. “Should we maybe get some fresh air? Would you like another tea party on the beach?” A doll slowly acquiesced.

***

The waves were calm today. Despite the soft pitter-patter of rain upon the sand and the umbrella covering them both, there was little wind. All things considered, it was a beautiful day for a tea party. A doll sat on a blanket, its poofy navy dress outfitted by Hélène for the occasion. It held the fragile cup in both its hands, the heat from the undrinkable tea only a distant sensation. Despite its glasses, a doll had trouble discerning the cup’s edge: It seemed to merge with its own hands, waxing and waning, where a doll’s own porcelain would seem to overtake the cup.

“What are you thinking of, dear?” Hélène asked a silent doll, its eyes fixated on the cup in its hands. “Have you chipped your fingers again?” She continued as her gaze turned worried, carefully grasping a doll’s hand to examine the delicately sculpted limb. With a hesitant voice, a doll finally spoke up.

“Mama, what was a doll’s old body like?” Hélène fell silent for a second, thinking of how to word her answer in a way that would not upset the doll.

“Why are you asking, dear?”

“A doll’s body still feels odd, and not quite like its body. Yet this feels familiar.” At a doll’s word, Hélène fell silent. “Has a doll ever felt at home in its body, mama?” Her fingers shaking a little, Hélène leaned forward, cupping a doll’s face in both her hands, and pressing a kiss upon its forehead. Like clockwork, a doll’s eyelids fell closed.

“I cannot say for certain, my doll. I only know of the body I found you in,” She whispered against its porcelain skin. “It was a beautiful thing, however. A deep blue shimmering under even the dimmest of light. It was like looking up at the sun rays from deep into the sea.”

“Was it really so beautiful, mama?”

“Of course. A doll looked so pretty, in this body you haunted for so long.” A doll kept its eyes closed, trying to imagine the look of such a body. “You know,” Hélène continued, “I have kept your old body. To me, it holds the fond memory of me finding you.” A doll was silent, unsure of what to say, and as it tended to do in those moments, its limbs started to grow limp and it started to fall forward. Hélène caught a doll in her arms. The teacup escaped its hands, the now lukewarm liquid spilling over and leaving a faint spot upon the dark fabrics of both their dresses. She gently giggled, patting the top of its head. “I meant to say that, if you are curious, I could show you this old body of yours,” she murmured to it. The rain had stopped, and over the horizon, the clouds had started to part, revealing the timid rising moon in the distance. Its body still limp in her arms, it merely murmured back. “I would like that, mama.”

***

This was increasingly natural to it. If at first, it would tense up as soon as it felt itself slip away, a doll came to find, day after day, that falling limp, relying on its mama and the bands inside itself to hold a pose, was the most relaxed it had ever felt. Naturally, it felt perfectly at peace as Hélène handled its hands with great care, resting them around the small porcelain urn. It was small, round and heavy, and sealed by shimmering resin. The dark porcelain indeed felt familiar to a doll, and as Hélène got to work at her easel, capturing the odd family picture (as she had described it to a doll), it looked down, pondering the surface. It was indeed a beautiful object, a body it could only now appreciate after haunting it for… How long exactly? It couldn’t remember. Nor could it remember if it ever had haunted any other body, besides the one now in its hands. Again, it felt its vision falter, the urn becoming part of itself once more. It didn’t mind, however. Such a beautiful thing was not unpleasant to be. A doll caught the faint reflection of its doll face upon the smooth surface, and found itself amused as it wondered: If it was both the doll and the urn, then what was it really, the reflection of its face or the one beholding it? It giggled at the thought, as it started to imagine one case then the other, back and forth.

“A doll is always beautiful, you know,” spoke Hélène. “Dolls are such pretty things, no matter what.” Careful, practised strokes of the brush applied large strokes of colour on the canvas, the hair letting out a faint, gentle rustling along Hélène’s steady motions. “There is little, in this world, more precious than a doll’s joy as it gazes upon its own body; Than a doll who loves its own beauty, as it is loved by others.”

“Then, mama,” a doll tilted its head, “Do dolls sometimes learn to make dolls as well?” Hélène’s smile grew fonder at the question, and she acquiesced.

“They do, dear doll. I have known dolls who, once they had learnt my craft, chose a new name, crafted a new doll, and enchanted it to inhabit it.” She picked up a finer brush.

“They must have been beautiful…” A doll sighed, trying to imagine how it might fashion its own body.

“They were indeed.” Hélène nodded, returning her attention fully to the canvas. Slowly, another question bubbled into a doll’s mind, one it was unsure how to even formulate. Still, it spoke up, more timid than before.

“Why do you love dolls so much, mama?” She paused, taking a long glance at the urn tucked into a doll’s hands, a gleam of light in her gaze as she thought of how to best answer her doll.

“I suppose I am still a bit childish,” she answered, visibly amused at the realisation. “There is a singular beauty in dolls. Rather, one that dolls embody perfectly.” She paused once more, now observing a doll in full. “There is beauty in creation, I think. And thus beauty in all constructs.” A doll fell silent, thinking over the answer, as Hélène returned to her painting. It weighed the words, slowly, repeatedly. “There is beauty in creation,” it repeated to itself, focusing, and soon forgetting all other thoughts, all other sensations, until it fell asleep with one last echo of these words.

A doll woke up sometimes later, to its mother kissing the top of its head, gently rubbing its shoulders. Rousing from its sleep, its eyes opened, and through the glasses atop its nose, its gaze fell upon the easel, now turned to face it, mounted with a coloured canvas. It peered at the portrait, noting how the gold shimmer of its fingers drew the eyes to the midnight blue hue of the urn, blending into the folds of its assorted dress. Finally, the thin, golden glasses framing its face, so similar to mama’s own. It had seen its own face before, of course. And yet, seeing each of its details so carefully captured by a caring hand… Yes, this was its true self. And looking at the painting, and being looked at the self in the painting, it felt pretty.