#{ But now that she's older... she's a bit worried about what that would entail. }

[historical-painting]

❦ — She sees the way Shinya and Crosseyra have been flirting with each other, or at least commenting about how they'd kiss one another. Does this mean she's going to get an unofficial mom now?

[roxabellas]

Pretty From The Back

｡･:*:･ﾟ༓･*˚⁺‧͙ﾟ+..｡*ﾟ+˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.˚₊✩｡˚☽

part one two three four five

word count : 15,191

warnings : sex work, cheating (he's married), blowjob, backshots, piv, age gap mentioned and referenced throughout (19 & 38), bit of a daddy kink (towards the end), the slightest bit of thigh fucking, 1 spank, he gets attached easily

You were too young for this line of work, or at least that's what most people said when they found out how old you were. Nineteen, navigating a world reserved for people much older, particularly the men who frequented your services. Men double, sometimes triple your age, with failing marriages or no marriage at all, seeking something that had long since faded in their own lives. Your clients saw you as merely a service, a product, a body that could satisfy the desires that they couldn't voice to anyone else. They rarely saw you for anything more than the fantasy they craved.

While being seen as simply a sex object with no one making an attempt to scratch beneath the surface wasn't the greatest feeling in the world, you didn't treat the men asking for your services much better. To you, they were just a wallet. Walking, talking sources of money, worth no more than the cash they offered. Some of them tried to act like they cared, like they wanted to get to know you beyond the persona you put on, to try and make it seem like this wasn't what it was, but you knew better. You’d seen it before; how they’d ask your name, pretend to be interested in the smallest details about your life, only to turn around and reduce you to nothing but a means to an end.

So you learned not to care. It wasn't like you did this to build long-lasting relationships with these people, or even form some loose acquaintances. You didn't even expect respect. It was just for money. You were realistic about what it entailed, about what men were like, about what they wanted from you. And you were good at it, too. At least, you used to be.

You weren't sure what had happened, what had changed. It wasn't like you were old or used up or had downgraded in skills. But recently, things had been slow. Too slow. The kind of slow that made you worry about rent, about groceries, about whether you’d be able to pay off the debt you owed to people you really didn’t want to owe anything to. You had another job, sure, a “proper” job at a nearby petrol station, but they barely paid you minimum wage. You relied on your clients, or lack thereof these days, to get by. But why had they slowed down?

Maybe you were losing your appeal. Or you already had, and those last few clients had taken pity on you. You were young, of course you were, but that was the cruelest part of it all. A few years from now, would men even want you anymore?

You'd obviously known men were strange with what they wanted and desired beforehand, especially the age demographic that often came to you, but in the time you'd spent being a sex worker, you'd seen it first hand.

These men only want something when it feels fresh, for it to be untouched enough for it to feel exciting, but experienced enough to know how to give them exactly what they want. And once they got bored, they moved on, finding something new to chase after. Something more naive, at least on the outside. Maybe there was some eighteen-year-old girl on the other block, dressing in tube tops, fishnets, tiny skirts and pigtails, fit to fulfill those disgusting desires these men crave, telling themselves it's fine, she's legal. Nevermind the morals.

Maybe that's who all your clients had ran to. You'd previously thought about going to a different town in the city where you could lie, tell them all you'd just turned eighteen, that you were a virgin, change the way you dress and tie your hair in braids and ponytails, but with what money? What car?

The lack of work made you feel uneasy. You could handle a slow week, maybe even two, but this dry spell had been going on for too long, longer than you'd ever be comfortable with. It was starting to make you desperate, and desperation was dangerous in your line of work. It made you lower your standards significantly, far more likely to say yes when you should be saying no. You had started spending time in places you thought potential clients might be. Bars, hotel lobbies, certain street corners where men with too much money and too little self-control often found themselves after a night of drinking.

You exhaled sharply, your breath visible in the cold air, adjusting the hem of your short dress as you leaned back against the cold brick wall of dimly lit bar you'd started frequenting in hopes of finding new business. It wasn't the most glamorous place in town, but it was reliable. Or at least, it used to be. The men here often had money, and they were always looking for someone to spend it on. It used to be you they went to, now they barely even looked at you.

Maybe they were starting to recognise you, not as some thrilling, mysterious experience, but rather just like the rest of the girls around there, just trying to make ends meet. Or maybe someone you hadn't given the greatest service to, or someone you'd declined, had started a rumour you had some STD. You'd tried to not let your mind feed into it too much, to be reasonable, but what was reasonable?

You sighed, long and slow, leaning your head back against the wall as you fished the last cigarette from your pack. The thin paper crinkled between your fingers, slightly bent out of shape from being shoved into your pocket earlier. You straightened it out the best you could before bringing it to your mouth, holding the filter between your lips while you rummaged for your lighter. When you finally pulled it out, the cheap plastic felt light, too light. You already knew before you flicked the wheel that it was nearly empty.

The first couple of futile attempts gave you nothing but a weak spark, the metal grinding under your thumb without catching, undoubtedly leaving an imprint on your skin for the next half an hour or so. You gritted your teeth, flicking it again and again, shaking it between tries as if it would magically refill it, until, finally, a tiny, flickering flame emerged. You cupped your hand around it, shielding it from the cool breeze as you touched it to the end of the cigarette, inhaling deeply to coax the ember to life.

The first drag filled your lungs with the stale, bitter smoke, the familiar and comforting burn settling in your chest, warming you from the inside out. You held it in for a moment before exhaling through your mouth, watching the thin tendrils of smoke curl and intertwine as they floated upwards, dissipating into the dark. The earthy taste of tobacco lingered on your tongue and the walls of your mouth, sticking to the backs of your teeth and clinging your throat, but it gave you something to focus on. Something to do with your hands, something to think about other than the bills you had to pay, a landlord who didn't care about how slow work had been, and a stomach that still growled when you hadn't eaten.

This part of the city was usually quieter at night, the daytime chaos dwindling to nothing more than faint footsteps, the occasional hum of passing cars, and the distant murmurs of late-night conversations coming from inside the bar behind you. It wasn't the best spot you'd hung around by, not the safest either, but far from the worst. You'd been coming here for a few weeks now, hoping to pick up work, for something to change, but it never did.

Another slow inhale, another drag, another puff of smoke curling past your lips, and that was when you saw him again.

You saw him often, enough times that his face was vaguely familiar, but you never paid him too much mind. He was attractive, you'd noticed that, though often dressed in clothes that looked like they’d seen better days, but you weren't one to talk. You'd been wearing the same old, thin, ripped up tights you'd had since high school for about a week straight. The way he moved: calm, self-assured, not quite looking like he was in a hurry but with purpose. He always seemed to stand out just enough to be noticeable, but not enough to seem out of place.

He wasn’t usually alone, often accompanied by a woman who you had always assumed was his wife, or at least his girlfriend, from the times you'd seen them together, usually in the afternoon or early evening. You'd never given him, or them, much thought beyond that. He wasn’t a regular here, especially not at this hour. He wasn’t like the men you usually watched, the ones whose patterns you could predict down to the hour.

Men like him weren't your clientele. You were used to men who were lonelier, needier. The ones who looked at you with hunger barely concealed beneath thin veils of politeness. The ones who couldn’t help themselves.

But this man had never looked at you like that. You weren't sure if he'd ever even looked at you at all. You assumed he hadn't, most men like him didn’t. They didn’t have a reason to.

So why was he here now?

Alone, at night.

You took another slow drag from your cigaratte, inhaling the smoke deep into your lungs, then blowing it out through your nose as you watched him.

His posture was relaxed, hands tucked into the pockets of his worn, deep, navy blue blazer, his eyes drifting over the street as if it were his first time seeing it.

But then, for the briefest moment, his eyes flicked in your direction. It was brief, no more than a second, but it was enough, because you knew that look. You had seen it before, in other men, in different settings, but their intention was always the same each time.

He was looking at you. Not through you, not past you. At you.

You looked down at the cigarette between your fingers for a moment, nearly burned all the way down to the filter, but you didn't put it out. Not yet, anyway. You let it rest between your middle and index finger, an idle comfort as you tried to keep your breathing steady and your expression neutral.

Then he moved, deliberate and slow.

The steady rhythm of his footsteps grew nearer, sending a strange pulse through your chest. Not quite nerves, not quite anticipation, but something else. Something you couldn't quite register. Maybe it was because you'd gone without a client for so long you'd forgotten how to react to being approached. You switch your cigarette from between your middle and index finger to your thumb and index finger, before pressing it into the bricks on the outside wall of the bar behind you, grinding the ember into the rough surface.

By the time you straightened, he was there.

He was closer, close enough that you could see the shadow of stubble along his jaw, the faint noticeable creases near his mouth, the way the dim glow of the bar’s purposefully enticing lights flickered against the deep brown of his eyes.

He didn't say anything for a moment, just looked at you, but different from the way most men leered at you. Not like you were a product they were trying to assess, a service they were weighing up in their minds, deciding whether or not you were worth the price. He looked at you like he already knew, as if his mind had already been made up.

You shifted slightly, the silence stretching, thick, awkward and expectant. It wasn’t often that men like him approached you. Not men who carried or presented themselves the way he did.

You had dealt with plenty of men who thought they were above this. The ones who couldn’t look you in the eye and the ones who spoke in stammering hesitations and awkward euphemisms, as if it would somehow distract themselves from what they were actually there for, not wanting to admit to themselves that they'd stooped this low.

He wasn't like that.

“I was, uh…” He began, his voice low, smooth. “I was wondering if you were still working.”

You glanced up at him properly then, lifting your gaze just enough to meet his. He was a bit taller than you had realised, but not overwhelmingly so, just a few centimetres higher than you.

That was it. That was the moment.

The hesitation, the carefully chosen words, the way he said it like he wasn’t entirely sure if he was saying it right, while still maintaining a level of confidence.

You had seen this before. You had heard it before.

Some men were blunt, shameless in their asking. They treated it like any other purchase, like ordering a drink at a bar. “How much?” “How long?” “Can we go somewhere else?”

Others tried to be more discreet, more careful, afraid of being overheard or judged or caught in something they weren’t supposed to be doing.

“What were you looking for?” You asked in response, your eyes wandering down his body, particularly down his left arm, before he answers.

“Well, do you charge for time or… activity?” His voice maintained that limbo between confident, calculated and measured, and unsure, discreet and almost afraid, making him difficult to read.

“Time.”

“How much for an hour?”

“£200 for an hour.” You told him. Before your work had gotten slower, you'd sometimes charged upwards of £500 for an hour, but with the lack of clients, you'd began charging less in hopes of more work.

He nodded slowly, looking over his shoulder for a moment, then down at the ground, then back at you. He didn't argue, didn't try to haggle, just nodded. His hand fished into the pocket of his blazer, pulling out a tattered black leather wallet, the material peeling away in places, and that was when you noticed it. The ring.

It was a simple wedding band, gold, nestled tightly on the ring finger on his left hand, catching the dim glow of the streetlights as he flipped open his wallet.

Married.

You should've guessed.

Most of them were.

But somehow, you hadn't expected it from him. He didn't have that same guilty air that most men had carried when they sought you out; no hesitation, no second-guessing, none of the quiet shame that usually accompanied their requests.

You kept your gaze steady, pretending you hadn't noticed. It wasn't your business. It never was. You needed the money more than anything, even if the money came from a married man.

He held his wallet open for a moment, counting the notes inside before pulling out the £200, flipping it shut again and shoving it back into his pocket before handing you the notes.

You tucked them into your jacket pocket, and he looked at you, waiting.

“There's that hotel down the road,” he said, his voice smooth and unwavering. “I'll get us a room.”

You nodded once, and just like that, it was settled.

He turned, slipping his hands back into his blazer pockets as he began walking, his pace unhurried, like this was just any other night, any other walk. You walked beside him, your worn-out boots clicking softly against the pavement, the only real sound between you, but aside from that, it was silent. Uncomfortably so.

You’d walked with clients before, obviously back when you had more. Usually, they would filled the space with words. Nervous small talk, strained attempts at casual conversation. Some of them treated it like a date, asking about your night, your plans, pretending that this was anything but a transaction. Others made crude comments, testing boundaries, seeing how far they could push before you pushed back.

But he didn't say anything, and neither did you.

You kept your gaze forward, watching the city stretch out around you. The glow of the bar signs, the distant hum of traffic, the occasional burst of laughter from some drunken group staggering down the street. The city kept moving, oblivious to the two of you walking side by side: the married man who had just paid to cheat on his wife, and the girl he had chosen to do it with.

You weren’t sure what you’d expected from him. Hesitation? Guilt? Regret, maybe? But there was none of that. He didn’t fidget. Didn’t glance around like he was worried about being seen. If anything, he looked calm, like this wasn’t his first time, and that thought twisted something in your stomach. You didn’t ask, though. It wasn’t your place to care.

You focused on the hotel coming into view, its sign glowing dull yellow against the dark sky. It wasn’t the worst place; mid-range, decent enough to not feel cheap but not extravagant enough to feel too detached.

He reached the door first, pulling it open and stepping aside to let you enter first. You hesitated for half a second. It was the smallest thing, just a flicker of surprise. Not many men bothered with things like that. The whole situation was already an unbalanced exchange, so most of them didn’t waste time on little courtesies.

The lobby was quiet when you stepped inside, the drone of a TV playing on the wall the only real noise aside from the soft buzz of the overhead lights. A few armchairs and a coffee table with magazines stacked on top were tucked into a corner, likely placed there just for the visuals rather than actual use.

He stepped ahead of you, moving towards the front desk without hesitation while you lingered back slightly, letting him handle the transaction.

"Just one night, please,"

The receptionist, a woman who appeared to be in her late thirties with dark but slightly greying brunette hair pulled back into a low ponytail and thick-rimmed glasses perched on her nose, barely acknowledged him beyond a nod, her fingers already moving hastily across the keyboard in front of her with practiced efficiency.

He reached into his blazer pocket, pulling out his worn leather wallet once more, the edges softened from years of use, while the quiet click of keys filled the space between them.

"What name will it be under?" she asked, still focused on the screen in front of her.

"Alex Turner."

She gave a small nod, her gaze never lifting. "Any form of ID?”

Without a word, he slid his driver’s licence across the counter. She barely glanced at it, just registered the name and the photo before pushing it back towards him with an indifferent motion.

"Queen or a double?"

"Queen," he answered without hesitation.

"And how many guests?"

"Two."

More tapping, more quiet clicks of the keyboard. A few moments passed before she finally spoke again.

"That'll be £71 for the night."

He didn’t hesitate. Just pulled his debit card out from his wallet and slid it across the counter, and she slid it back along with a key card a few moments later.

“Room 314. Checkout is at 11. Lifts are just down the hall to your right.”

“Thanks,” he said simply before turning his head to meet your gaze properly for the first time since you'd stepped inside. “Let's go.”

Without waiting for a response, he started trailing towards the lifts. The card to the room rested between his fingers as he walked, his footsteps steady as he led the way.

You walked beside him, though your steps were instinctively slower than his, just enough to keep a small distance between the two of you. Not slow enough to seem reluctant or uninterested, but just enough to maintain a space that made you feel the slightest bit safer. It was a very small thing, but one thing you'd learned while being a sex worker is that there's no such thing as being "too safe."

The thick carpet on the floor of the hallway muffled your footsteps, making the silence between the two of you in the quiet hotel feel even more daunting.

He pressed the button for the lift, using his left hand, and you wondered if he was doing it on purpose. To make sure you saw the ring, make sure you were aware of what you were about to do with a married man.

The light above the lift blinked, signalling it's descent, and you stayed stood beside him. The wait was short, just a few seconds, but the silence that stretched between you seemed to elongate it.

When the doors finally slid open, he stepped in first, and you followed, once again keeping a little bit of distance between you two. The mechanical doors glided shut with a soft hum, sealing you both in.

He reached for the panel, once again with his left hand, and he pressed the button for the third floor, and you leaned against the mirrored wall, shifting your weight slightly. You didn't look at him, and he didn't look at you.

Aside from the soft whirring of the lift ascending, it was silent. The kind of silence that flooded a space quickly, swelling, thickening.

Your eyes flicked to the mirror on the wall that you were leaning on, and you watched him for a moment. His posture was relaxed but upright, with his hands in his blazer pockets and his gaze fixed forwards. He wasn't fidgeting or shifting his weight like most men you'd been in this scenario with.

When the doors slid open with a soft chime, the cool air of the corridor filtered in for a moment before he stepped out into the hallway, and you followed. The lighting here was dimmer, not as fluorescent as the ones that had illuminated the lobby. These were softer, warmer, rows of sconces mounted on the walls, casting a soft golden glow onto the otherwise beige hallway.

Each door was identical to the next; dark wood with a golden plated number. His eyes scanned the doors as he walked, until he stopped in front of one. Room 314.

He slid the key card into the reader, once again with his left hand, then there was a small pause before a soft beep accompanied by a green light and a quiet click of the lock releasing, indicating the door had unlocked, and he pushed it open, stepping inside without a word, and you followed.

You shut the door behind you, the sound muffled by the thick carpet, and you flicked on the light switch by the doorframe, though you weren't sure how long it would stay on for.

He shrugged off his blazer, hanging it on the coat rack by the door, barely paying you any mind at all, before slipping off his shoes and setting them neatly on the floor next to the rack. You look at him for a moment before sliding off your jacket as well, hanging it on the opposite side of the coat rack, and pulling off your boots and setting them beside his dress shoes.

It was a standard hotel room. Not overly luxurious, but not too basic either. A queen-sized bed, a TV on top of a chest of drawers on the far side of the room, accompanied by a small coffee table and a single armchair.

The silence stretched between you, thick and unspoken.

You tilted your head slightly, watching him as he took a few steps inside, pausing near the foot of the bed, then exhaled through your nose before breaking the silence.

"So," you said, your voice even. "What do you want?"

It was a simple question, obviously. One you'd asked a hundred different times to a hundred different men.

He looked at you then, properly, his dark eyes studying you with quiet intent, and you could tell he knew exactly what he wanted.

It was in the way his lips parted slightly, in the way his breath slowed just a fraction. But instead of answering immediately, he let a beat pass, like he was considering it. Like he was deciding how to say it. Maybe even pretending to hesitate, as if he didn’t want to seem too eager.

“A blowjob.”

You nodded, unsurprised. Most of your clients started with that, when you used to get them.

“You've got an hour,” you reminded him, and he nodded once.

“Just a blowjob,” he repeated, his voice firm but not demanding. He didn't seem to care about the hour, how much he could get in that time, no attempt to push for more or less.

He had no interest in stretching this out, no expectation of anything more.

Fine by you.

He moved without hesitation; no awkward fumbling, no nervous second-guessing. Just quiet, assured movements as his hands went to his belt, the soft clink of metal as he unfastened the buckle, pulling the leather to one side until it came loose from his belt loops, dropping it onto the floor, before his hands moved to the waistband of his jeans. His fingers pressed lightly against the denim before they found the button, pushing it through the hole effortlessly, before tugging the zip down, the quick whir as the metal teeth seperated.

The waistband of his jeans hung open for a moment before he pulled them down just enough to let them fall down his legs, pooling around his ankles. You stayed still as you watched him slide his thumbs underneath the soft, dark grey waistband of his boxers before tugging them down much swifter, letting them join his jeans around his ankles before stepping out of them both, leaving them crumpled on the floor, but he left his shirt on.

He was already hard. Very hard. You wouldn't of been able to tell how aroused he was from the outside. He'd seemed calm, steady, just generally at ease, completely contrasting the impatience and restlessness your previous clients exhibited in the moments leading up to the sex.

He wasn't in a rush, wasn't trying to shove you onto his dick as fast as possible. He didn't seem eager to push you into anything faster than you were willing to go.

He just climbed onto the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight, settling back against the pillows and spreading his legs slightly as he got comfortable.

It'd obviously been a while since your last client, that long dry spell you'd endured for the past couple of months or so, but none of that mattered now, because even after all that time, you still knew exactly what to do.

You climbed onto the mattress yourself, settling between his legs on your knees at first, putting one hand on his thigh for a moment for balance, to position yourself just right.

You reached for the neckline of your dress, your fingers sliding beneath the fabric, and you slowly pulled it down, letting the straps slip loose down your shoulders. It falls down your arms until your chest is exposed, the cool air of the hotel room making your nipples stiffen.

His eyes followed your movements, lingering on your tits, and he reaches up to grab one, massaging and squeezing it gently before moving his hand to give the same attention to the other one.

You let the fabric of your dress bunch around your waist, not bothering to pull the rest of it off. While he pinches your nipple, you wrap your right hand around his cock. He was thick, your middle finger unable to meet your thumb around his girth as you pumped your fist up and down one, two, three times before murmuring, “You’re fucking big…”

He didn't respond with words, but instead with a twitch of his cock and a squeeze of your boobs. From his response, or lack thereof, you could tell he knew one of two things. One, that he knew how huge his dick was, or two, that he knew you said that to all of your clients, regardless of whether they were two inches or twelve inches.

You glanced up at him for a moment, his prominent nose scrunched up ever so slightly as your thumb glides over his wide tip, smearing the bead of pre-cum that had formed over the sensitive skin.

You adjusted your position, lying on your stomach between his legs, your bare shoulders brushing against the insides of his thighs, and you licked a stripe along the underside of his thick cock. Your tongue travelled the long distance from the base, all up his shaft to the tip, tracing every ridge and vein with the tip of your tongue.

His left hand rested on your shoulder blade, the cool metal of his wedding band contrasting the heat of the moment, while you flicked your tongue against his frenulum. You pulled his foreskin back and pressed a kiss to that sensitive spot before wrapping your lips around the scorching hot tip, sucking gently for a moment before you took him in your mouth properly.

The weight of him on your tongue was familiar, yet distinct, his size stretching the soft heat of your mouth almost immediately. You kept your pace measured and slow as you bobbed your head up and down, adjusting to him, your lips sealing tightly around him as you took him deeper.

You wrapped your hand around the base of his cock, the thick patch of coarse pubes coiled over his groin lightly scratching your soft skin, and you kept up the gentle suction, hollowing your cheeks as you sucked.

You gave the base of his dick a gentle squeeze before starting to stroke him in time with the movements of your mouth, your tongue teasing the velvety underside of him, hoping to pull a noise from him.

You looked up at him, meeting his eyes with your mouth still full of him, and that's when you heard the first sound. It was barely audible; a slow, steady exhale with the undertones of a soft, breathy moan, accompanied by his head falling back against the white pillows.

It spurred you on, wanting to coax him deeper into the pleasure, for him to let go, to draw more of those soft, barely-there sounds from him.

Your moved your other hand to rest on his lower belly as you took him deeper, feeling the soft fabric of his t-shirt he still hadn't taken off beneath your palm, your lips stretching around his thick length.

The slick, wet, obscene sound of your mouth gliding up and down his cock filled the quiet space, along with a soft grunt tumbling from his lips. You pulled back all the way to the head, just suckling on the tip for a moment before taking him in again, deeper this time, the tip of your nose brushing against the thatch of dark, wirey hair around the base of his cock.

You glanced up at him again, meeting his eyes as you continued to pleasure him. His cheeks were flushed ever so slightly, his lips parted, and his eyes hooded, watching you as you worked your mouth over him. His breathing had gotten heavier, his chest rising and falling deeply, but still, he didn't moan too much.

You held his gaze as you took him deeper again, his tip kissing the back of your throat before you pulled your mouth off of him for a moment, stroking his cock with your hand while you caught your breath. His hand moved from your shoulder to your hair, gathering it behind your head in a messy makeshift ponytail before you wrapped your lips around him again, pulling his foreskin back again to access that sweet spot right where his shaft meets the head, gently sucking and flicking the tip of your tongue against it, pulling yet another noise from him.

“God…” he sighed, tugging on your hair lightly before releasing his grip from your hair all together, using that hand to prop himself up slightly while his right hand slips underneath you, gently tracing your collarbone before finding your tits once more.

His head fell back, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat as he swallowed hard, letting out another noise somewhere between a whine and a breathless moan as you sucked hard on the head, before pulling off again.

“That feel good, baby?” you murmured, your lips brushing against the head of his cock, your hot breath ghosting over the ridge. He lifted his head back up at that, making the simple movement look laboured, and his right hand once again moved from your boobs to your face, brushing the stray strands from your forehead, his fingers tracing your jawline.

You smiled up at him, lowering your head to lick and kiss along his shaft before taking him in your mouth properly again, slowly, letting the heat of your mouth wrap around him completely. You hummed softly and contentedly around his girth as you felt him pulse against your tongue, the gentle sensation comforting and familiar despite him being a complete stranger. You swallowed around him, hollowing your cheeks to create that perfect pressure that usually had your clients moaning within seconds.

You took him all the way down again, relaxing your throat to let him fill your mouth completely, letting out a few soft, muffled moans yourself. His body shuddered beneath you before his hips lifted off the mattress slightly, pressing his cock deeper into your mouth. He moaned again, louder this time, breathless and whiney as his cock twitched in your throat, his thighs lightly trembling.

In a moment of desperation, he cupped the back of your head with an unexpected force, contrasting how he'd gently caressed your face just before, pressing your face right up into his groin as he moaned.

You kept sucking hard, your face buried in his pubes and your lips flush against the base of his cock as his he ground his hips against your mouth. He was unshaved. Not just a little, but very. Dark, coarse curls covering his groin and lower stomach and running thick down between his legs. You weren't surprised though. He was married, after all. A man with a wife probably didn't see much of a need to stay trimmed. Not with someone who presumably loved him unconditionally, pubic hair and all.

The noise that tore from his throat was deep, raw, the groan vibrating through his chest and rolling past his lips, his thighs taut on either side of you as he came. It was the kind of noise men made when their last bit of resistance had shattered, and all that was left was pure, unadulterated sensation.

You felt the hot pulse of him against your tongue, the way his cock twitched with each spurt, the way his grip tightened on the back of your head just enough to keep you in place, making you take it all. His stomach was tense beneath your hand, and you instinctively swallowed everything he gave you. Your throat tightened and relaxed around him, taking in every last drop without hesitation.

When his grip finally loosened, it was with a long, deep exhale, his chest rising and falling slowly as you gently pulled back. Your lips dragged along his sensitive skin before letting him slip from your mouth, his cock dropping onto his stomach, a little wet patch forming on the bottom of his t-shirt from the saliva.

You pressed a final kiss to the underside of his softening shaft before sitting up properly on your knees, wiping your lips with the back of your hand. You looked up at him, meeting his gaze. His eyes were half-lidded, dark, but his expression unreadable.

He leaned himself back against the pillows, draping one of his arms over his stomach while he tucked the other behind his head. The room fell quiet. Not just quiet in the way that followed something like this; where heavy breaths evened out, and the raw edge of pleasure dulled into something slower, lazier, but quiet in a way that almost felt unnatural. Stretched out, hanging in the air between you, heavy and lingering. The only sounds were the faint hum of the hotel air conditioning and the distant, muffled noises of the city outside, the occasional horn blaring or the low murmur of voices from people walking past on the street below, but between the four walls of this rented space, there was nothing.

You remained kneeled between his legs for a few moments, the top, folded over half of your dress still bunched around your waist, but you didn't bother to fix it yet. Your eyes drifted over him for a moment, studying the lines of his face, the way his tousled, slightly sweaty hair fell over his forehead, the way his chest rose and fell in a slow rhythm beneath the fabric of his soft, worn top.

He hadn't said a word since he came, and you weren't sure if he was lost in thought or just waiting for you to speak first.

After another long moment, you shifted from between his legs, sitting beside him and leaning back against the headboard. You looked down at him again before breaking the silence.

“You've still got about forty minutes left,” you said softly, your fingers idly smoothing out the crumpled white bedsheets beneath you. It was just a reminder, just a nudge, just an acknowledgment that the time was his to do with as he pleased. “If you wanted anything else.”

His eyes flicked up to meet yours for a brief moment before looking away again. “No,” he said simply but certain, as if he knew what you were going to say before you said it and had premeditated his response. “Just the blowjob.”

You raised your eyebrows ever so slightly, your eyes lingering on him for a moment longer with, not surprise, but mild curiosity.

You'd seen both ends of the spectrum before in your clients. Men booking an hour and only using a fraction of it, while most others tried to get the absolute most out of an hour, squeezing every last drop of pleasure out of the time they'd paid for.

But he was unwavering, adamant in his decision, and you couldn't help but find it a bit odd.

You let the silence settle between you again, feeling the cool air against your exposed skin, and stark contrast to the lingering warmth of his touch, the ghost of his fingertips imprinted on your tits, his wedding ring leaving behind the faintest memory of its presence.

Your eyes trailed down to his left arm draped over his torse, his hand sprawled across his stomach, and you caught sight of it yet again. The golden band wrapped around his ring finger. You never said anything about it when you'd noticed them on clients’ fingers before. It wasn't your business, but it was always impossible to ignore.

To think that there was someone else out there, an unsuspecting, trusting woman who thought she knew who his heart belonged to, someone who had made vows with him, shared a life with him, likely even slept beside him in their own bed just last night.

To think you knew who that woman was. Well, you'd seen her with him before.

But yet, here he was. Lying in a cheap hotel room, half-naked, spent, having just paid for the kind of intimacy he should’ve been getting from his wife. But still, it wasn't your business. It never was.

You tried not to think about it much more. Instead, you asked him, running a hand through your hair, “Do you have any cigarettes?”

You weren't desperate for one, but the craving was there, creeping up the back of your throat slowly. You also just wanted something to do with your hands. You hadn't had the chance to buy yourself a new pack after smoking your last one earlier, before he had appeared.

He glanced up at you before looking away again. He didn't seem to be able to hold your gaze for more than a few seconds. He said, his voice low and steady, “In my blazer,” he paused for a moment, “Pocket.”

Your eyes flickered over to the coat rack by the door where he'd hung up his blazer when he entered, and you pushed yourself up off of the bed. You crossed the room to the rack, your fingers slipping into the pocket and feeling the familiar shape of a cigarette pack. Thin cardboard, scuffed at the edges, and the foil inside crinkled. You pulled it out and flipped open the loose top, seeing that there were a couple left inside. Not exactly fresh, but not stale either.

You plucked one from the box, bringing the filter to your mouth and holding it between your lips as you turned your head back towards him. He was watching you now, his dark eyes following your movements, but there was no lust in his gaze now.

“You mind?” you asked, though it felt rhetorical. He shook is head, a small, barely noticeable movement, and you nodded, more to yourself than him.

You fished your own almost empty lighter out of your jacket pocket, also hung on the coat rack, and you shook it before flicking the wheel a few times until a small flame sparked. You inhaled, the familiar, comforting burn of the smoke floating in your lungs before exhaling.

You made your way across the room once more, the cigarette dangling from between your fingers, leaving a trail of delicate wisps of smoke behind you. You perched on the windowsill, one knee bent, the other leg stretched out slightly, nudging the window open ajar so the smoke can flow out.

The air outside was cool, enough to raise goosebumps across your skin, seeping into the room in lazy drafts. You didn't bother fixing your dress, pulling the straps back over your shoulders and attempting to make yourself decent. The cool breeze drifting in from the window made your nipples perk up once again. You left it down, the fabric still bunched uselessly around your waist, your tits exposed to the open air, to the room, to anyone who might have been looking up from the street below.

You took a slow drag, inhaling deep, letting the smoke settle before exhaling through your nostrils. The view wasn't much; mainly just rooftops, blinking streetlights, and the occasional set of fluorescent headlights as cars passed below. But it was more interesting than staring at blank hotel walls, whatever he was doing.

He hadn't moved much, still on the bed, his legs stretched and sprawled out, one arm resting on his stomach, still naked from the waist down. He was watching you. You could feel his gaze on you, a quiet presence between the two of you. You let the silence stretch out, letting him sit with whatever thoughts were running through his head.

Maybe he was thinking about his wife. About the woman who's finger their golden wedding band still sat snug around. Maybe he was thinking about everything you two had just done. Maybe he wasn't thinking at all.

Your cigarette burned slowly between your fingers, the orange of the ember glowing each time you took a drag. The cool night air kissed your bare skin, but still, you didn't pull your dress up.

His voice broke through the silence, low and steady, just like it had been all night. “Are you staying here tonight?”

You turned your head slightly, not fully looking at him, but just enough to acknowledge that you had heard him.

It wasn’t the kind of question you'd heard clients usually ask. Some might assume you’d just leave once the hour was up, others didn’t care enough to ask, and some would pathetically offer to pay for extra time just to have company a little longer. But he didn’t sound like he was offering, didn’t sound hopeful or pleading. It was just a question, simple and even, like he genuinely wanted to know.

You took another drag, letting his question hang in the air for a while as the smoke filled your lungs, exhaling towards the open window before you replied, “Do you want me to?”

You heard him shift slightly, the bedsheets creasing and the mattress creaking with his movement. He didn't answer right away, but when he did, his voice wasn't in the unreadable, measured tone it had been all night. There was a hint of something else; maybe a tinge of vulnerability, or hesitation.

“I don't know,” he admitted after a beat, his voice softer. “Maybe.”

That made you turn your head a little more. You met his gaze, and he was still sat where you'd left him.

Maybe. It wasn't a yes, but it wasn't a no either.

You tapped the ash from your cigarette, watching as it fluttered down out of the window in all different directions, dissipating into the night. You reply, “I normally charge for that.”

When you glanced back at him, his expression made you pause.

It wasn’t irritation or frustration at your response, nothing like that. It was something quieter, something more knowing. A look that told you he already had you figured out, at least in one way.

Because he knew.

He'd been observing you long before he approached you earlier that night. He had noticed you before, maybe not in a way you had caught onto at the time, but he had been looking. Studying. And he knew something most men wouldn’t have figured out so easily; that it had been weeks since your last client. That the dry spell had dragged on longer than you had ever anticipated. That you needed the money. That you didn’t have the luxury of saying no.

You held his gaze for a moment longer, the cigarette burning low between your fingers. Then, without a word, you turned back toward the window, taking another slow drag, letting the embers glow bright before fading again.

You didn’t say yes, but you didn’t say no, either.

“I'll pay you, if that's what you want. Or need.”

That hint of vulnerability you'd heard in his voice just moments before was more prominent now, the unbothered confidence he'd exuded during your time together filtering out.

“Just stay.”

It wasn’t a demand, not a command from a man used to getting his way. It wasn’t even a transaction, not really. It was something else. Something closer to a request, maybe even a plea.

You leaned your head back against the wall of the windowsill, closing your eyes for a second. If you said no, you knew he wouldn’t argue. He wouldn’t push. He’d probably just watch you get dressed, maybe offer you a lift somewhere, then let you go, but he’d noticed things about you that others hadn’t. He knew you hadn’t been working, and he knew you needed to be working.

And maybe he needed something too.

You sighed slowly before you spoke.

“Okay,” you said, looking over at him again. “I'll stay.”

You ground the cigarette against the windowsill, putting it out completely before tossing it out the window, leaving it ajar. You stepped out of the windowsill before slipping your hands under the waistband of your tights, pulling them down and off your legs. They were ripped and thin from years of wearing, clinging to your skin like cobwebs whenever you wore them. You pulled them off of your feet before tossing them to the side, not bothering to look or care where they landed.

You then finally pulled the straps of your dress back up over your shoulders, smoothing out the fabric. It wasn't the most comfortable dress in the world, but you didn't really have another option to sleep in.

You got into the bed beside him, slipping underneath the thick duvet while he stayed lay on top of it. As you made yourself comfortable, you expected him to say something, anything. Small talk, a question, some comment about the night, or even just a joke to break the silence.

But, nothing.

The air conditioner hummed softly in the corner, filling the room with a low, mechanical drone. You could hear the faint sound of cars outside, the distant murmur of life still moving beyond the walls of this hotel room, but between you and him, there was nothing.

You lay on your side, your cheek pressed against the pillow as you watched him in the dim light, your gaze falling down to his ring again.

You couldn't help but wonder where his wife thought he was. You knew all the basic, typical excuses. On a work trip, out with friends, visiting family. But you wondered what he had told her.

But once again, it's not your business. You just let the silence sit between you, until he moves, snapping you out of it and stopping your mind from getting too deep in that rabbit hole. He pulled the duvet up over him, joining you under it. He exhaled deeply, settling on his back once again, staring up at the ceiling.

You stayed on your side, facing him, but you closed your eyes. You heard him shift again, just slightly, only his head turning in your direction. He must've seen your eyes closed, as he murmured, “…Goodnight.”

You hesitated, just for a moment, before you replied, your eyes still closed, “Goodnight.”

You weren’t sure how long it took for you to drift off, but when you woke up, it was early. Far too early, judging by the pale light filtering through the curtains and the cold dawn air seeping in through the window you'd left ajar. It was morning, but just barely. The cool air had been slowly invading the room while you two slept, a contrast to the warmth beneath the duvet, and for a moment, you just lay there, still and quiet.

You rubbed the sleep from the corners of your eyes before looking over at him, still asleep. His breathing was deep and steady, his lips slightly parted. His dark hair was tousled against the pillow, a few strands falling over his forehead. The t-shirt he’d slept in had ridden up slightly as well as his side of the duvet being pushed down, exposing just a sliver of skin above his hip.

As for leaving, you weren’t sure what the right move was. Leaving now would spare you both the awkwardness of waking up next to each other, of the inevitable moment when he’d have to remember what he’d done and how he got here. You could slip out quietly now, gather your things, and disappear before he even stirred.

But then what?

You’d have to walk out of the hotel alone, past the receptionist who had already seen you last night, past the other guests making their way to breakfast or checkout, all while in ripped tights and a mini dress. And even though you’d walked away from plenty of clients without a second thought before, something about this one made you hesitate.

So you stayed.

The minutes felt like hours, slow and heavy, the room still dim with early morning light. You lay there, listening to the soft rhythm of his breathing, the occasional shuffle of footsteps down the corridor outside the door to your room.

You shifted slightly, careful not to disturb him, staring up at the ceiling. You didn’t know what him waking up would bring; whether he’d be distant, polite, or regretful. Maybe he’d pretend last night never happened. Maybe he’d slip back into the confidence he’d had when he first approached you.

Either way, you decided you’d ride it out.

Eventually, he’d wake up, and you’d leave together. No lingering, no drawn-out goodbyes. Just two people going their separate ways, back to their separate lives.

And then, like always, you’d move on.

You noticed his breathing change before anything else, the deep, slow rhythm of sleep turning into something lighter and more conscious. When he stirred, it was with a slow stretch, a small grunt and a rustle of the sheets as he rolled onto his side. His hand came up to drag over his face, but you didn't turn to look at him yet.

When he did finally move again, it wasn’t with hesitation. He sat up, exhaling quietly, running a hand through his messy hair. You turned your head slightly, watching as he blinked against the morning light, but the awkwardness you'd been expecting never quite settled in. At least, not entirely.

He seemed preoccupied, maybe even in a bit of a hurry. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, reaching for his trousers and boxer shorts on the floor. His movements were purposeful. Not rushed exactly, but definitely not slow. Like he had somewhere to be. Work, maybe. Probably.

You sat up, letting the duvet fall from your shoulders as you leaned back against the headboard. He didn't say anything to you at first, but neither did you.

When he buttoned and zipped his jeans, he turned to glance at you, giving you a half-hearted nod of acknowledgement. You pushed yourself up out of bed a few moments after, not bothering to even make an attempt to put your tights back on. You pick them up from where you'd discarded them on the floor the night before, then walking over to the door of the room to slide on your boots and jacket, stuffing your tights into your pocket.

He grabbed his blazer off of the rack before sliding his shoes on, and with that, you followed him out of the door.

The silence between you wasn't overly heavy, but it just existed. You two made your way down the corridors, past doors identical to the one you'd just left.

The lift ride down to the lobby was quiet, the soft, mechanical hum of descending floors the only sound that filled the space between you. The same uncomfortable lighting, the same mirrored walls reflecting the both of you back at yourselves. You didn’t glance at him, and he didn’t look at you either, both of you caught in the unspoken understanding of the morning after.

When the doors slid open, the lobby was as sterile and impersonal as it had been the night before. The receptionist barely looked up as he stepped forward to check out, giving his key card back with a nod and a murmured, “Checking out of 314.”

The process was quick, efficient. No questions asked, no lingering looks, just a receipt printed and handed over and a polite, almost automatic “Have a good day.”

The air was cool and crisp as you stepped outside. The city was already awake, cars moving sluggishly through the streets, people heading to work, to school, to whatever lives they led. You both stopped just outside the entrance, a brief moment before going your separate ways.

He turned to you, hands in his pockets, and he asked, his voice smooth but with remnants of sleep, “How much do you want for staying the night?”

You glanced up at him before replying “£100.”

He nodded, no argument, no negotiation. He pulled out his wallet once more, just as he'd done the night before, and he pulled out five £20 notes for you.

“Thanks,” you gave a half-hearted smile as you took the notes, slipping them in your pocket along with your hand.

“Thank you,” he replied, taking a slow deep breath in, glancing around before looking back at you and saying, “See you later.”

You didn't watch him walk away, or try to figure out which direction he was going, whether he was heading towards a cab, a parked car, or just blending in with the sluggish morning foot traffic. Maybe he was going to work, or home, or to a coffee shop or a bar, somewhere that served as a liminal space before he had to return to whatever life existed beyond the anonymity of last night. It didn’t matter to you.

You turned in the opposite direction, your worn boots scuffing against the pavement, hands stuffed in the pockets of your jacket. Your eyes scanned over the city as you walked, watching as cars idled at red lights, cyclists weaved between them, people shuffled along with tired eyes and takeaway cups warming their hands.

Your flat was as unremarkable as ever, a small, cheap place that barely fit the definition of home. It was the kind of place that didn’t ask for much, and didn’t expect much. A sink that dripped no matter how hard you turned the handle, a radiator that barely worked and rattled ominously whenever you tried to switch it on, and a window that didn't close all the way.

You'd told your landlord about these problems many months ago, but just like everything else in this building, it was just a problem left unresolved.

You kicked off your boots by the front door as you entered and shrugged off your jacket, draping it over the back of your tattered couch. You fished the money out of the pocket of your jacket, making sure you had it all. It was mostly twenty-pound-notes, a few tens, but you checked that it added up to £300 before tucking them into an old jar in the kitchen where you kept most of the money made by clients. When you used to get them more often, that was.

It was enough to pay for groceries, maybe even enough to pay off a few of your overdue bills.

Hopefully enough to get you through the next few weeks until your next client came along, if they ever did.

The next two weeks crawled by, thick and slow, dragging their weight behind them like something half-dead. Nothing. Again. Just like before that man. Alex, you thought his name was, or at least that was what you remembered from when he had checked into the hotel.

Names never mattered much to you, not with what you did. It made it too personal. Unless they'd asked you to moan their name, you never bothered.

But now, even he was gone, fading into the same absence that had filled your nights before him.

You tried. You went out, made the rounds, hung around by the places that used to get you flooded with work, but now, nothing. You dressed the part; skimpy dresses, short skirts, low necklines that left little to the imagination, heels that clicked against the pavement like an invitation.

But still, nothing.

You were invisible in the way that only people like you could be, standing in plain sight yet unseen. The men who used to look at you, who used to slow their steps and cast glances from the corners of their eyes, no longer lingered.

Maybe it was just bad luck, or maybe it was just the economy. The way indulgences like this had become harder to justify. Maybe it was just a slow season. Excluding that last man you had, it'd been over two months since your last client now.

The last of the money he had gave you was nearly gone. You'd stretched it out as much as you could, buying the cheapest groceries, skipping meals when you could, rationing what little warmth your radiator could provide, but £300 didn't last long.

Nights became longer. You walked more, stayed out later, hoping that maybe someone would stop. You tried different spots, changed up your routine, even considered lowering your rates again just to get something. But nothing worked. The men who did glance your way never stopped, never approached, never reached for their wallets with that familiar mix of guilt and desire.

The silence of your empty flat became unbearable. The dripping tap, the cold air seeping in through the cracked window, the faint smell of dust and cigarette smoke that clung to the fabric of your furniture; it all felt heavier now. Every night, you came home with the same empty pockets, the same unshakable weight settling in your chest. You would sit on the couch, scrolling through your laptop mindlessly, looking at nothing in particular, just trying to distract yourself from the growing anxiety curling inside you.

And sometimes your mind slipped back to him, Alex. It wasn't like he was anything too special, anyway. Older and married with a big dick, you'd had plenty of those. He was just the first in a long time, the only in a long time, and that made you wonder what he saw in you that nobody else seemed to anymore.

You hadn’t thought much about him in the days right after, too caught up in the relief of finally having made some money. But now, with nothing else filling the void, his face lingered in the back of your mind. The way he had been so sure of himself when he had approached you, the quiet confidence in his voice as he made his request. The way he had watched you, not just in the hotel room but before, before he had even come to you. He had known you hadn’t had clients in weeks. He had seen it.

You wondered if he was thinking about you now. Probably not, but you'd seen him around few times after your night together, with her, his wife. Walking hand in hand or with his arm around her shoulder, sharing a small kiss or a few whispered words. You should've felt guilty, should've felt sorry for her, completely oblivious to the fact her husband had cheated on her just days before, but you didn't.

Men like him didn’t think about women like you, not after the fact. You had been a moment, an indulgence, something he had sought out and paid for and left behind without a second thought. He had a wife, a life, maybe even a child, a world beyond what happened with you. If he was thinking about anything now, it was probably work, or his morning coffee, or whatever mundane responsibilities filled the lives of men who had the luxury of stability.

But still, your mind circled back to him more often than you wanted to admit. Because at least with him, for one night, the dry spell had ended. Now, it stretched on again, endless and unforgiving.

The night had started just like the others. You had been lingering near one of your usual spots, the cool night air pressing against your bare skin, the city moving around you in its usual detached way. The pavement was damp from an earlier rain, the lights from nearby bars reflecting in puddles, casting a distorted, artificial glow over everything.

You weren’t expecting much. You weren’t expecting anything, really. Just another night of waiting, another night of trying.

And then, you saw him.

At first, you thought it was just some other man, some stranger who just happened to look familiar in the dim light, but then he moved closer, and recognition settled in.

It was Alex.

The man from the hotel two weeks ago. The man who had given you your last job, or rather you'd given your last ‘job to, before the dry spell stretched on unbearably. The man who had watched you, observed you, knew you hadn’t had any clients for a while before him. And now, here he was again, standing in front of you, looking at you in the same way he had that previous night; like he had already made up his mind before he had even approached.

“Hi,” he said, his voice quieter than you remembered, like he was hesitant, or maybe just unsure of what to say. “I want to see you again.”

He slipped his hands into his pockets, glancing around for a moment as if to check if anyone saw him talking to you. Maybe the guilt was heavier this time, maybe two weeks had given him time to think about what he had done that night, but if he had regrets, they weren’t strong enough to keep him from coming back.

You met his eyes, and before you could respond, he continued. “There's a bar down the road, it's got a few rooms. We could go there.”

You didn't say anything yet, watching him shift slightly.

“I'll buy you a drink first,” he added, as if he felt the need to justify it, like that somehow would differ it from last time, but it made you smile. Just a small quirk of your lips, but enough for him to notice. It wasn’t something clients usually did. They wanted to get to the point, get what they paid for and be on their way. But he wasn’t rushing, wasn’t pushing for anything. Maybe it was guilt, maybe it was something else, but either way, you weren’t about to turn down a free drink.

“Alright,” you finally said, your voice soft and smooth. “For how long tonight?”

His gaze trails off from yours, down to the puddles of rain on the pavement from the earlier showers, and he says, a little quieter, “The whole night. Please.”

You nodded and told him, “£400.”

He didn't argue, again, didn't try to haggle or get you to lower the price, just another confirmation that he'd already made up his mind before soughting you out again. He just agreed and fished out his wallet, pulling the notes out carefully.

After he handed you the notes and you put them in your pocket, you two walked to the bar together, side by side, but not quite touching. The sound of drunken laughter spilling out of pubs, the faint, distant sound of music, and cars with blaring headlights driving past, the light reflecting off of every puddle.

Inside, the bar was small, warm, dimly lit, the kind of place where people came to drink quietly as opposed to getting drunk. A few tables were occupied, some older men nursing their pints alone, a couple in the corner speaking in hushed voices. The bartender gave you both a smile as you walked in before going back to wiping down the surfaces.

He ordered a whiskey for himself and a vodka cranberry for you before quietly asking the bartender about the room availability upstairs. The worker asked him a few questions before handing over a key, a much more laid-back than the check-in process at the last hotel you’d been to.

You watched as he handed over the cash, your eyes lingering on his hands. They were nice. Large, veiny, strong-looking. When the bartender handed over your drinks, he took a slow sip of his whiskey, his wedding ring clinking gently against the side of the glass, before leading you over to a small table in the corner.

“You been doing alright?” he asked after sitting down, his voice a bit rougher than before. The question caught you off guard. It wasn't something clients usually asked. In fact, they rarely saw you as a person, no more than a set of holes to be rented for a few hours, to be very honest. But there was something in his voice, something just slightly softer, like maybe he actually cared to hear the response.

You swirled your drink in your glass, the ice tinking against each other as they shifted. “Been quiet,” you admitted, setting your glass down on the sticky, dark brown wooden table.

He nodded as if he had already known the answer. There was another pause, another sip of whiskey, before he spoke again.

“When we go upstairs…” he started, his voice quieter and his gaze low, trying not to meet your eyes. “Can you- um… would you call me daddy?”

It wasn’t an unusual request. You’d been asked for worse. Much worse. But what caught your attention wasn’t the request itself, rather the way he said it. Not smug, not demanding, not trying to put on some kind of dominant act like so many others did. No, there was something else there. The slightest hint of embarrassment, a flicker of vulnerability that he couldn’t quite hide.

You didn’t say yes immediately, didn’t give him what he wanted right away. Instead, you just tilted your head slightly, watching him, letting the moment stretch just long enough to make him wonder.

"You like that?" you asked, voice slow, smooth. His eyes flicked back to you for just a second before answering, almost shyly.

“…Yeah.”

You smiled, letting his words hang in the air between you for a few more moments before replying softly, “I can do that for you.”

You noticed a flicker of relief flash across his features as he nodded, exhaling a small, quiet breath through his nose.

The conversation, if you could even call it that, was slow. Hesitant.

He sat with his drink, fingers wrapped loosely around the glass, rolling it slightly in his palm, watching the liquid shift. His wedding ring caught the low light every now and then, a fleeting glint of gold before it was swallowed back into the shadows of the dim bar. He didn't fidget much, but you could tell he was thinking, maybe too much, maybe about things he shouldn't be thinking about right now.

“You been busy?” you asked after a moment, your voice casual.

His gaze flicked up to meet yours then, just for a second, before he looked back down at his drink. "Same as always.”

’Same as always’. You wondered what that meant for a man like him. You wondered if he went back to his wife after the first night you'd spent together. If he kissed her when he came in through the door, if she made him coffee. If she noticed anything different about him.

But that wasn’t something you were going to ask. That wasn’t something you wanted to ask, and you were sure that wasn't something he wanted to answer.

"Thought about coming back sooner?" you asked instead, tilting your head slightly, watching him, studying the way his expression remained carefully neutral.

For the first time, he actually smirked, just a little, just the faintest curve of his lips as he exhaled through his nose. "Maybe."

You hummed, dragging your finger around the rim of your glass, a faint red lipstick mark pressed onto the glass from where you'd been sipping it. "What stopped you?”

He took a sip of his drink, his throat shifting slightly as he swallowed, before he finally said, "Didn't know if I should."

"And what changed your mind?" you pressed, curiosity getting the better of you now.

His fingers tapped absently against his glass, a small, repetitive sound. He didn’t answer right away, but when he did, his voice was quieter than before.

"Didn't want to stay away any longer."

The way he said it, the weight behind it, made your stomach dip just slightly. It wasn’t love, it wasn’t devotion, it wasn’t even attachment. But it was something. Some little thing that had tugged at him enough to bring him back to you.

“Should we do something about it?” you murmured, your lips curling at the corners into the faintest smile.

His eyes met yours again, and without a word, he downed the rest of his drink and set his empty glass beside yours on the table before standing up, and gestured towards the stairs leading up to the rooms above.

You followed him up the steep, narrow, rickety wooden stairs, creaking loudly with each step you took. He unlocked the door with the key he'd been given and pushed the door open, and you followed after him.

It wasn't at all like the last hotel you'd been in. It was smaller, only a three or four rooms available in total. It seemed older, the few decorations looking like they'd been plucked from an old vintage second-hand shop. The same dark wood from the bar downstairs climbed up the walls and framed the old furniture, polished but worn in places where time and use had left their marks. The wallpaper was dark, patterned in a way that might’ve been stylish once, decades ago, but now just felt old. Even the lighting was dimmer, warmer, the sconces on the walls casting a low, flickering glow

It was the kind that sat above places like this; a bar with cheap drinks and patrons who didn’t ask too many questions.

The room itself smelled like old wood and something faintly floral, like an air freshener that had been plugged in as a half-assed attempt to cover up the underlying musty scent.

The room was simple. A double bed with faded burgundy sheets, a small dresser, a mirror hanging slightly crooked on the wall, a tatty sofa with mismatched cushions, and a TV that probably didn't work. The kind of place built for one-night stays like this.

You slipped off your heels and draped your jacket over the back of the couch before turning back to him, letting your gaze drop slightly.

“What do you want this time?” you asked, tilting your head slightly.

He exhaled through his nose, a soft, amused sound before shrugging off that same blazer he'd worn last time, draping it over the couch next to your jacket. “Want you from behind,” he said simply.

There was no hesitation this time, no feigned uncertainty. He knew exactly what he wanted.

His fingers worked at his belt, the soft clink of the metal buckle tainting the quiet of the room as he undid it, pulling it to one side to free it from his belt loops before starting on his button and zip.

“On all fours,” he clarified while pushing the button of his jeans through the hole, followed by the soft, metallic whir of his zip being pulled down.

You smiled a little at his instruction, hooking your thumbs under waistband of your short skirt, sliding it down your hips and letting it pool at your feet before stepping out of it, draping it over the back of the couch on top of your jacket.

The room's dim, golden lighting from the lamp cast delicate shadows across your bare thighs as you turned to move towards the bed. You had no intention of taking your shirt off. Not that you were shy, far from it, but you liked the contrast of keeping something on.

You were stopped by his hands, firmly gripping your waist before finding the hem of your shirt, tugging it upwards. You let out a small breath of surprise, but you didn't stop him, letting him pull it up over your head and off your arms, bunching it up in his hand before tossing it in the general direction of the couch, but he didn't care too much where it landed.

The cool air of the room made your nipples tighten in response and he pressed a kiss to your shoulder, pressing his chest against your back, and you felt that he'd taken his shirt off this time. His arms snaked around your waist, one of his hands trailing up to squeeze your boobs as he kissed the side of your neck.

He pulled you closer to him, his arm tightening around your waist and his hand squeezing your tits harder, feeling your hard nipples against his palm.

He pressed a final kiss just below your ear before slipping his hands underneath the waistband of your panties, sliding them down as he kneeled down behind you, pressing a few kisses to the backs of your thighs, his eyes closing as he pressed a paticularly long kiss just below your ass cheek.

When he stood back up, he pressed a kiss between your shoulder blades before tugging down his own underwear down his legs while you stepped out of yours. Once they were down, he grabbed them off the floor by the waistband and tossing them in whatever direction his wrist flicked in first, not wanting to waste a single second.

His lips landed on your neck again, the opposite side this time, and you could feel his cock, long, hard, hot and pulsing, against your thigh as his arms wrapped around you from behind again, holding you close to him. Almost unintentionally, from shifting his hips in an attempt to get some friction, his searing hot cock slid between your thighs, and he moaned, his lips still latched to you neck.

He started to rock his hips gently, tentatively, adjusting the position of his feet to get more leverage as he thrusted his cock in and out of between your thighs.

After a few more thrusts, his hips stilled, his hips pressed right up against your ass before he murmured, an underlying hint of humour in his tone, “Should we get on the bed?”

Your lips curled into a small smile, turning your head just enough to look up at him. You half-expected him to kiss you, after all that neck kissing, but he didn't. You weren't sure if he was ready for anything mouth-on-mouth yet, and you weren't going to force him into anything.

His hands drifted down to your hips, his grip firm but not forceful, guiding you onto the bed and positioning you just how he wanted you. The mattress dipped beneath your weight as your crawled forward just enough to give him some space to kneel behind you, and you settled on all fours, arching your back just enough to give him a good view as well as easy access while he quickly padded across the room back to where he'd left his jeans, pulling a condom out of the back pocket.

The bed creaked as he got on the bed behind you, then you felt his hand on your ass, giving it a quick squeeze before it slid up your back, steadying himself as you heard him tear open the wrapped before he rolled it on himself.

His fingertips traced down your spine, just barely ghosting over the fair skin before he leaned down, pressing soft and warm, slow and deliberate kisses along your back, his lips moving along your shoulder blades, all the way down to the dip of your lower back.

His lips pressed against every vertebrae, his teeth grazing your skin, the contrast between his soft lips and the the sharp drag of his teeth sending a shiver through you. When he pressed the final kiss to your skin, the lowest point of your back, he straightened up again. He wrapped one hand around his latex-wrapped cock, rubbing the tip along your soaked pussy lips before lining himself up.

The head of his cock nudged at your entrance before he gently pushed his hips forward. He slid in slowly, his thick shaft stretching you just enough for that subtle burn you adored, but not enough for it to hurt.

You gasped softly, your breath melting into a gentle moan as you murmured, “Daddy…”

He liked that. A lot. You felt him twitch inside you as he continued to push forward, letting out a deep groan himself once he reached the hilt.

You felt his pubes gently scratch against your thighs as he held himself there for a moment, giving you a few seconds to adjust to the fullness before placing one of his hands on your lower back, his fingers sprawling out, and he pulled back before pushing back in again.

You let out another moan, slightly higher-pitched this time, whinier, your pussy fluttering and tightening around him as you adjusted to the sheer size of him. He was big, you knew that from the first time, but having him like this, feeling how deep he could get, how much he could stretch you, it was indescribable.

He exhaled deeply, his hands settling on your ass cheeks as he began to thrust properly, building a steady rhythm. You felt it again, the cool metal of his wedding ring pressing against the hot skin on your left cheek as his thumb rubbed over your skin absentmindedly, but the grip he had on you made it clear that he wasn't going to be gentle for long.

You could feel the tension in his body, like he had to physically restrain himself from pulling all the way out and slamming right back in again.

As he kept up those steady thrusts, you continued moaning softly for him each time he pushed in, but you could tell he wanted to get rougher, so to urge him on, you whimpered, breathy and laced with submission, “Fuck, harder, daddy…”

The effect was immediate. His grip on your ass tightened as he groaned, a low rumble from deep in his chest as he moved faster, thrusting into you with a newfound hunger, getting harder, deeper, and rougher with each snap of his hips.

The bed creaked beneath you, the rickety wooden frame protesting under the force of his movements. His hands roamed over your body. Up your back, underneath to your stomach, up to your tits and giving each of them a squeeze before settling between your legs, his rough fingers finding your clit and circling it in time with his thrusts, and then it happened.

A sudden pop, a sharp crack from his knee as he drove forward, and he instantly faltered. He slowed down, just for a moment, a quiet, barely audible huff of irritation leaving his lips. His rhythm stuttered, and you felt his hands momentarily tense before he eased his movements, shifting his weight slightly as if to lessen the strain.

You could tell he was embarrassed. He didn’t say anything, but you felt the way his fingers twitched against your waist, the slight hesitation in his next thrust. Maybe he thought you’d say something, acknowledge it, but you didn’t. Instead, you just pushed back against him, rolling your hips, coaxing him to keep going, and he did.

With a low grunt, he picked up his pace again, slower at first, regaining his bearings before he found his rhythm once more. But this time, it was different. Still rough, still deep, still relentless, but there was something else too. A slight urgency, like he needed to reclaim control, to push past that brief, unwanted reminder of his own age.

His breathing was rough, laboured, and every time you moaned for him, letting that daddy slip from your lips, you felt him twitch inside your warmth, heard the way his breath hitched ever so slightly. It was the only confirmation you needed; he fucking loved it.

The headboard knocked against the wall in rhythm with his movements, a steady, ceaseless rhythm, punctuated only by the occasional grunt from low his throat. His grip tightened on your ass, raising his hand up just enough before bringing it back down in a harsh slap, watching the flesh bounce slightly.

The feeling of his long, thick cock filling you up over and over again, combined with the pads of his fingers continuously rubbing your clit in tight circles almost too much. You lowered your head to rest on your elbows, your back arching as you moaned and whined for him, and you could tell he was getting close too.

His pace was getting less controlled, both in his thrusts and his fingers on your clit, his breathing getting shallower, and when he leaned forward, his chest pressing to your back, you could feel the thin sheen of sweat coating him, his small patch of twiddly chest hair slightly dampened.

“Fuck, you feel good…” he groaned into your ear, and you clenched around him at that, rocking your hips back against him, meeting his thrusts half way. His grip on your ass tightened almost painfully and his rhythm faltered again, this time not from embarrassment, but because he was right there, teetering on the edge.

You squeezed your eyes shut and whimpered, “Daddy, I'm gonna cum…”

A strangled moan rose from his lips as he buried himself in you one last time. His body went rigid, his face scrunching up and his cock twitching uncontrollably as he spilled into the condom, letting out a long, low moan of pure satisfaction.

The sensation of him filling up the condom inside you was enough to send you over the edge as well, your pussy muscles spasming around him as you came, murmuring a soft, “Daddy…”

For a moment, he just stayed still, his sweat-drenched forehead pressed against your shoulder as he caught his breath. The only sound in the room was the distant murmur of the bar downstairs, and the slow, steady rhythm of his breathing as he finally started to come back down from his high.

As he finally withdrew, you felt the slow drag of him against your sensitive walls as he slipped out, leaving behind a dull, empty ache in his absence. He took his time pulling the condom off, his fingers deft and practiced as he tied it off and set it aside on the bedside table for now.

The dim, warm glow from the bedside lamp cast soft shadows across his skin, accentuating the sweat still shiny on his skin, while you took a deep, steady breath before straightening yourself up, your thighs aching from the way he'd gripped you.

You sat up, rolling your shoulders for a brief moment before shuffling to lay beside him on the bed, mirroring his position. You stretched your legs out next to his, the sheets slightly cool against your warm skin. You didn’t bother slipping underneath the duvet. Not yet, anyway. Instead, you let your body sink into the mattress, staring up at the ceiling, still feeling the remnants of his touch.

The silence wasn’t uncomfortable, but it wasn’t exactly peaceful either. It was something in between, something neither of you seemed willing to break just yet.

Your gaze drifted to him, studying the side of his face. The soft line of his jaw, the faint creases at the corners of his eyes, the texture of his skin. His dark hair was a little messier now, strands sticking up slightly from where his fingers had run through it earlier.

You turned your head slightly, watching him as he lay there, eyes half-lidded, fingers idly tracing patterns against his stomach like he was lost in thought.

He shifted slightly, rolling onto his side to face you, one arm propped under his head, making eye contact with you.

He took a deep breath before saying simply, “My wife doesn't know.”

You turned as he spoke, lying on your side, facing him properly now. “I’d hope not.”

He let out a dry, humourless chuckle. “Yeah,” he sighed. “She's… she's a good woman, but… I don't know what happened.”

You didn't respond, wanting to see if he had anything else to say. You didn't want to admit it to yourself, but you had been curious about her. But when he spoke again, it wasn't about her. It was about you.

“How old are you?” he asked suddenly.

You hesitated for a moment, just long enough for him to notice, but you told him anyway. “I'm nineteen.”

Something changed in his expression. Just slightly, but enough for you to catch it. A brief flicker of something that looked like hesitation or disbelief before it smoothed out again.

“…Christ,” he finally muttered under his breath. “I'm thirty-eight.”

You watched him for a moment, reading the shift in his expression, the way his mouth pressed into a thin line. He wasn’t stupid, he’d known you were young, but knowing you were young and knowing you were nineteen were two different things.

“Regretting it now?” you asked, voice laced with dry amusement and a hint of teasing.

His eyes flicked back to you. “No.” A pause. Then, a little quieter, he added, “Should I be?”

You didn't say anything in response, just looking at him, watching, your eyes staying locked on each other's, until he started to speak again.

“My wife's younger than me too. Not as young as you, just about 6 years. I met her when I was thirty. She was twenty-four.”

You watched him closely as he spoke, listening carefully, and he added, “That felt wrong, back then. Six years felt like too big of a gap,” his eyes trailed off from yours, down to small gap between you on the bed. “God knows what the fuck I’m doing with a nineteen-year-old now.”

His morals, if he even had any left, had clearly stopped mattering to him a long time ago. Because he was here, wasn’t he? Paying for a nineteen-year-old to keep him company, and to let him fuck her in dingy hotel rooms.

The conversation drifted back to his wife, as if now that he’d finally mentioned her, he couldn’t stop.

“It’s not working, obviously,” he admitted, rolling onto his back to stare up at the ceiling. His voice was quieter now, less guarded. “Hasn’t been for a long time.”

He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling heavily. “I don’t think she knows. Or she does and she just doesn’t care enough to ask.”

He looked different now. Less composed, less put together. Your eyes scanned over him, still naked, now both physically and emotionally.

“I do love her,” he murmured, more to himself than to you. “Or... I did. I don’t know.” His fingers flexed slightly against the sheets, and when he spoke again, his voice was quieter. “I think I still love who she is. But I don’t think I love us anymore.”

You didn't say anything, just listened.

“She’s a good woman,” he continued, exhaling slowly. “Always has been. Stuck with me through a lot of shit. We did everything we were supposed to.”

He shifted slightly, his eyes flickering over to you for a moment before he turned his gaze back up to the ceiling. “I don't think she's too happy either. She'd never say it though. She doesn't say when things bother her.”

He stopped. His lips parted slightly, like he was going to finish the thought, but he didn’t. He just breathed out, shook his head slightly. “We still do all the normal things. I take her out for dates and buy her flowers and whatever, we have sex when she wants, but that's about all we do nowadays.”

Silence settled between you again, heavier this time. He turned over onto his side again, facing you properly once more, and his hand reached for you, gently resting on your waist.

“I don’t know if I can say I love her anymore,” he murmured. “Not after what I’ve done with you.”

You held his gaze for a long moment, searching for something in his eyes. You weren’t sure if you found it, but you nodded anyway.

You weren't here to try and fix his marriage or tell him where to go from here. It wasn't your place. You were just here because he paid you to be.

But as he pulled you against him, as his fingers traced patterns along the skin of your waist as he held you close to him, as he settled into the quiet beside you, it felt like just for tonight, the money wasn’t the only reason you stayed.

｡･:*:･ﾟ༓･*˚⁺‧͙ﾟ+..｡*ﾟ+˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.˚₊✩｡˚☽

i don't know why the age in these sorts of fics are always nineteen. but im not writing about an eighteen year old ��� for some reason eighteen feels weird but nineteen feels fine. that probably doesn't make sense but whatever. also the part where his knee cracks was inspired by this junedenim one where his knee also cracks. it's been plaguing me ever since i read it

[sawbcnes]

the fact that i have seen so many disingenuous takes on harding's banter with a romanced emmrich is wild, and maybe it's because the banter is actually part of a set and people aren't triggering the full conversation? but (more so on other social media) the jump to villainize her is genuinely surprising to me because i thought she made it pretty clear that she was coming from a place of concern - specifically, she was worried about emmrich.

whether it's reflected in the game or not (imo it isn't but that's another can of worms), he and rook are apparently moving fast, and a relationship between an older person and a younger person does in fact come along with some real considerations. not just how other people will see them, and how much this will change about their lives, though those are both also factors. i think in the case of emmrich and rook they're on even footing in a lot of other regards, but the prospect of emmrich dying first is absolutely on the table and, yeah, are we sure the guy with A Well-Known, Debilitating Fear Of Dying has thought that through fully?

their argument near the end of the game tells me that no, he hasn't. like... rook clearly has. they're confused why the issue is getting brought up at all after so long of already being together. but emmrich spends the whole game talking about how real, lasting romance was a dream he never quite reached, and goes on about summer companionships and failed courting attempts, and says he and rook are just exploring things and the game uses words like paramour and companion, significantly not anything more permanent. he hasn't even reached the point of saying the big scary L word (and doesn't until basically right before the final battle). he has been avoiding thinking about the specifics of a long-term, committed relationship with rook and rook can call him out on it during their argument - it's because he's scared. and harding is pointing that out; that he jumped into this relationship because rook was just so exciting and now they're running at, as she says, full gallop without looking out for branches, aka the genuine considerations of what this will entail for them moving forward. even if the banters with harding had never happened emmrich was always going to have a crisis about this - she says he's been mopey and distracted, it's clearly been weighing on his mind, and the night before tearstone island is when it comes to a head because if they pull this off, if the threat of the gods is over, then what will he and rook do? plan for the future? god forbid. no wonder he's such a bitch during the argument, he's trying to get rook to cut things off so he doesn't have to (because deep down he doesn't want to, he's just trying to pull the emergency brake)

anyway tl;dr imo harding was showing real concern about how emmrich is approaching the relationship and was fair to point it out. if you bring the two of them around often enough to hear their banter, they actually seem like very good friends (they dig into each other's pasts and interests more than a lot of the other companions and harding asks him for quite a bit of advice, emmrich asks her in turn for a lot of reflection on her connection to the titans... he even starts to take care of her plants if she dies) and i would fully expect my friends to bring up this sort of thing if i was in his situation because it's coming from a place of care. you can interpret that as misguided if you want, but even if she's romancing taash it doesn't necessarily come across as hypocritical to me - maybe taash and harding have already discussed their circumstances and worked through it, but it's clear that emmrich has not.

[kimmiessimmies]

Personal post

This will probably be the most non-Sims related post I've put on this blog ever. I'll put most of it under a cut, so you can choose whether or not to read it. The thing is, I could use some advice. And asking strangers from all over the world advice on something important might be weird, but you are also my community, so I value your opinions. Don't worry, this isn't a "Kim being depressed" kinda post. 😉 It's a work thing.

Upfront: This post is about me being unhappy in my current well-paid job and my search for something that makes me happy. It might come across sounding a bit entitled, since I know there are many people who would be happy to have any job, just so they can pay their bills. I'm sorry if this post triggers that, and I know I'm privileged to even be in this situation. ❤️

TL/DR: Do I stay in a well-paid, secure job that doesn't bring happiness and actually negatively affects my mental health because of it? Or: Do I take the plunge into the unknown and give up the securities I have now for something that could potentially (but not guaranteed) not only make me happy but bring me opportunities as well?

Okay, here's the deal. Currently, I work in education. I've been teaching for 19 years, and for the last 3 years, I've held the position that best translates to special needs coordinator at the school where I've been all of my working life. In short, my job entails making sure the teachers have the tools they need to help all kids in their classes with special educational needs, to make sure each child ends up in the right form of education fitting their needs and dealing a lot with difficult or even alarming home situations. My job can be rewarding at times, and challenging at others. Aside from this, I've been part of the management team at my school for almost 8 years. I work at a big school. It wasn't big when I started there, but it's big now. I have a degree in Early Childhood Education, and that's also the age group I've always dealt with. It's the age group I've always taught, and it's the age group currently under my supervision in the position I'm now.

This past year, I've struggled with my mental health, as I've mentioned before, and have not been at work fully for a while. My therapist and I established that while work is "okay", it's also not bringing me joy anymore while my job was once the happiest and most passionate thing I did. Right now, it's blah. This position is not one that really suits me, yet I don't want to go back to teaching either. I've been there, done that. Add to that the fact that, come September, my boss requires me to change my position slightly. I'd be doing the same thing I do now, but for an older age group. This has given me a lot of stomach aches, because the thing that still drives me to do my job now is the fact that I'm doing it geared towards the youngest kids in school.

All in all, the job is not bringing me happiness in the slightest anymore. Having said that, I know a lot of people do jobs that don't make them happy, but it pays the bills, so let's suck it up and just do it. Which is fine, I can do that too, except my mental health suffers...

However, there are a few good things about this job too:

The pay is really good

I have lovely colleagues

I have a lot of credits here because I've been here for so long. They know my worth

I have a very understanding boss who's been nothing short of wonderful during my depression

(If you're still with me, thank you for reading this essay all the way, it's appreciated 💗)

My therapist asked me, "If money weren't a factor, what would you be doing?" My answer was "write." More specifically, I just want to stay home all day and work on ATOH, but no one is going to pay me for that. 😄 So, write, or do a job in which writing plays a role. So, she advised me to start looking for jobs that fit that description. It was a rather depressing search. Most jobs that came close to what I'd like to do require degrees or diplomas I don't have.

And then I suddenly stumbled upon something: Assistent Project Manager at a small, but well established company that creates educational projects (usually based on children's books), books and materials geared towards early childhood education in particular, and currently expanding to do the same for education to older kids as well.

I felt like I had found the holy grail. This is writing, this is editing, this is being creative, this is working with authors, but it's also closely related to early childhood education, the thing I know so well. Despite still being semi depressed, I felt like I needed to at least give this a shot. So, I wrote a letter, enclosed my resume, and waited. I didn't have to wait long, because a few days later I got an invite for an interview.

I went for the interview and was welcomed at a small and very homely office space (with an office cat!). We had a good talk and I left happy. They invited me to do a "trial day" with them, which is what I'll be doing today. They've had a lot of applicants for this position, but from the contact we've had since, it seems like I stand a good chance.

Sounds like a no-brainer? Perhaps, unless you have my brain... Because there are doubts:

Pay. This job pays quite a bit less than my current one. I'm a single parent and therefore sole breadwinner in my household. Currently, I make quite good money because I've been in this job for a long time and hold a relatively high position in the organisation. We can pay the bills, go on holidays, and even splurge occasionally (for example, the very pricey laptop I bought a few months ago). With this job, I would still make enough to pay the bills and go on holidays, but I will need to keep an eye on the money, and there won't be splurging for a while. I do know this sounds like a luxury problem to some.

Job security. In my current job, I'm under a fixed contract. Basically, unless I royally fuck up, I can't be fired. With this job I'd start on a year contract. After that year, they can either decide to give me another year or let me go. This won't just be if I mess up, but also if they decide I'm not the best person for the job after all, or if I don't fit in with their small, close-knit team. Worst case scenario; they let me go, and I'll have to go back to education and probably teach again.

These doubts are few, but strong. So, basically, like I already said above: do I stay in a well-paid, secure job that doesn't bring happiness and actually negatively affects my mental health because of it? Or: do I take the plunge into the unknown and give up the securities I have now for something that could potentially (but not guaranteed) not only make me happy but bring me opportunities as well (since it's publishing)?

I don't need anyone to actually answer those questions, but those are the wonderings on my mind I wanted to write down. Thanks for reading. ❤️

[an0ther1]

Untitled pt.2

Leah x OC

A/N: A little more in my current project. I’m still getting a feel for my characters. Feedback/thoughts welcome.

“What are we at, one more week?” Kim adjusted the weight on the bench press bar.

“Abouts yeah. I make it to the end of the week without any pain and things feel normal, I’ll get to run on the grass with everyone next.”

Kim laid down on the bench. “Well I’m sure you know what I’m going to say, but I’m going to say it anyway. Don’t do anything stupid and listen to your body. If something is off, waiting an extra day or 2 isn’t going to kill you.” She pushed the bar up off the rack. “Trust me.” She grunted as she lowered the bar to her chest.

“I hear you. And I won’t.”

“Hey Caps.” Beth came bouncing to the end of the bench. “Le, what time do we have the venue for Saturday?”

“Umm, 9 until whenever really. Though I told ‘em it would probably wrap up around 5. 6 hours for a baby shower seemed like more than enough.” Leah answered as she spotted Kim.

“Probably right on that. So we have 2 hours to decorate? That should be plenty. I think Steph has the catering scheduled for between 10 and 11.” Beth twisted her lips as she tried to remember.

“What did I do?”

“Catering. What time is that showing up?”

“Ah, yeah. 10:30 bouts. I’ll call and confirm on Thursday though.”

Kim put the bar back on the rack and sat up. “If we can get in at 9, I’ll schedule the cake and sweets to come around 10.”

“So we just need all the girls to show up at 9 to set up?” Leah switched with Kim after removing a few pounds from either end of the bar.

“Yeah, that should be about it. Caitlin promised that she kept a check on Katie and the games, but Stina is going to claim that she will be the one running the games so she can see what she came up with.”

“Good idea Meado. When Katie called dibs on games and said she was going to use a few “McCabe family classics” I was a bit worried about what those would entail. You really never know what you might get with an Irish family that large.” Kim helped Leah lift the bar to start her set.

“I thought most of Katie’s siblings were younger than her?” Steph asked.

“Ask her to name all her cousins some time.” Lotte interjected as she joined the group. “We talking about Erin’s baby shower?” The group nodded. “You know she’s right there.” Lotte pointed across the room to Erin, their social media content creator, who was sitting in a chair with a laptop balanced on a very round belly. “I thought this was supposed to be a surprise.”

“She has her headphones in editing. She can’t hear anything.” Beth shrugged. “You have everything worked out with Dylan?”

“Yeah. Him and Tao have some plan that Dylan swears Erin will fall for. They’re going to tell her I have a children’s event to attend so I can help set up.”

“Great. And Viv has been talking to Erin’s family, she just needs to confirm the time with them.” Beth added.

“What about Dylan’s family?” Leah said as she finished her set in the bench press. “I know they're American, but is Dylan’s parents planning on being here when Gemma is born? They might be in by then.”

Lotte shook her head. “Dylan told me and Tao he doesn’t talk to anyone in his family besides his cousin Rose.”

“Wait, isn’t that the middle name they’re giving Gemma?” Steph asked.

“Yeah. Rose is the cousin he grew up with. Dylan talks about her like a sister. I think she’s a year or two older. But she’ll be there. So he’ll at least have some family.” Lotte finished.

“Sounds like this is going to be a fantastic party for our little Gooner and her mum.” Kim looked around the group. “But now, finish up your reps. We’re on the pitch in 30.”

Everyone saluted their captain before dispersing.

**************************

The week for the most part had gone smoothly. The team didn’t have their first January game for another 10 days. But Leah was finally going to be able to join team trainings next week, after almost 9 months, and the anticipation was wearing her thin. Several times she was asked if she was excited, or nervous, and repeatedly reminded that the wait was almost over. Almost. She was sure Saturday was going to be full of the same, though the full Arsenal staff and then some would be at Erin’s baby shower, so Leah would hear it ten fold. She needed a break. Which is how she found herself out to dinner on a Friday night, alone, sitting at the end of the bar top of the restaurant she had come to the previous week. She had come in a little earlier this time though, hoping it would be less crowded before the dinner rush, and she had been right, allowing her to get the same seat at the end with her back to everyone else. Tonight she would be any other diner. Not soon to return from injury, Leah Williamson.

Leah greeted Colin as she took her seat, ordering a glass of Chardonnay. The bar keep was placing the glass in front of Leah with a menu before she had even gotten comfortable.

“Would you like the chicken again?” The ginger asked.

“Might do an app first. Take my time and do some reading on my phone if it’s no bother.” Leah smiled.

“Not at all. I’d say the hummus is great. That and the pitas are made in house.”

“Yeah? Alright. I’ll start with that, thanks.” Leah pushed the menu back towards Colin. “And I’ll order the chicken a little later.”

Colin reached for the menu. “I’ll have that right out.”

Leah leaned back in her chair and pulled up the book she was reading on her phone. Picking the wine glass up off the bar, she took a small sip and relaxed. Colin placed a plate in front of her a short time later and for the next 20 minutes or so, she enjoyed her wine and appetizer completely uninterrupted while she read. The noise in the restaurant slowly rose as the main dining area filled and the seats at the bar top were taken one by one. Colin had just refilled her wine and was putting in her dinner order when someone finally claimed the last seat next to her.

“Is this seat taken, miss?”

Leah had heard that voice before. She lowered her phone. “No it’s not. By all means.” She smiled at the new guest. “Hello again RJ.”

“Miss Williamson.” RJ smiled softly as they pulled out the chair before placing their coat over the back. “Nice seeing you here again.”

“Will you be watching another football match?” Leah asked as she watched RJ prop their phone up on top of the bar.

“I was planning on finally watching Sinclair’s last international match. Figured if I did it in public I wouldn’t cry.” RJ waved at Colin and gave him a thumbs up. Clearly not needing words to order.

“Are you Canadian?”

RJ chuckled and shook their head slightly. “No. But as a kid I just kind of decided she was my favorite player and that was that. Figured after a month I should finally just bite the bullet and watch the damn game.”

“Mmmm, yeah, retirement games are hard to watch. She’s still playing one more year for the Thorns though, yeah?” Leah finished the last of her wine and caught Colin’s eye, signally for another glass.

“She is. But that doesn’t make watching this any easier.” RJ picked up their phone and waved it before unlocking it. Leah couldn’t help but notice that their background looked like an abstract black and white print of some sort. Once RJ had the game queued up they set it back on the bar top. “You’re welcome to watch. But I won’t bother you if you wish to continue what you were doing.” They hit the play button on the screen.

“Thank you. I think I might try to finish this chapter of the book I was reading.” Leah turned back to her phone as Colin placed RJ’s drink down and refilled Leah’s wine glass. The pair sat in companionable silence as Leah continued reading.

“Who do you think is going to take the armband in the future?” Leah broke the silence after putting her phone down. “Sinc has been captain far longer than I can remember.”

“Fleming.” JR’s said with a seconds hesitation.

“Seriously? She’s so young?”

RJ turned in their chair and looked Leah straight in the eye. “Really?” They paused for a moment. “You, the youngest captain in England history, is going to say that Jessie Fleming, who is 25, is too young.”

“Oh. Yeah I see your point.”

“Aside from her age.” RJ turned back. “She’s been a regular fixture on the national team for about 9 years. When Sinc and Schmidt stepped off this field she was the 4th longest tenured player on the team.” RJ took a sip of their drink.

“You aren’t just a casual fan, are you?

RJ side-eyed Leah. “What makes you say that?”

“A casual fan generally doesn’t know those types of statistics for a player who don’t play for their team”

“How do you know she doesn’t play for “my team”?” RJ used air quotes. “She may not play for the US, but.”

“Ew. You’re a Chelsea fan?” Leah dramatically recoiled further from RJ who just laughed.

“No.” RJ smiled. A full bright, cheerful smile. “I am a fan of the players individually, especially Fishel and Macario. But not the team as a whole.”

“Do you even have a WSL team?” Leah raised an eyebrow.

“I do.” RJ smirked. “And don’t worry. They wear the right shade of red.” They leaned back in their seat. “Can I ask you something? None football related and not terribly personal.” They rushed out the last bit. “And you obviously don’t have to answer.”

“Well with those conditions, sure.”

RJ tilted their head. “If you hadn’t become a pro footballer, what would you have chosen to do?”

“Probably an accountant or something like that. I’m pretty good with numbers and enjoy that there is always an answer to any problem.”

“Figures.”

“What’s that s’pose to me?” Leah asked, offended by the assumption, regardless of what it was.

“You play football like a mathematician, calculated.”

“Oh.” Leah adjusted in her seat, sitting up a bit straighter. “Thank you.”

RJ just hummed in response.

“What about you? You obviously know what I do and now what I would do.” Leah relaxed a bit in her chair. “Colin said you did something in media, I think.”

RJ glanced down the bar at the mentioned bartender. “Digital media.”

“What do you do in digital media? That seems like a, a very broad field. And do you work for a company in the UK?”

RJ took a long slow sip of their drink, clearly stalling as they then swirled the liquid in the glass before answering. “The company is US based. I do a lot of behind the scenes stuff, sometimes editing, camera work, desk stuff.”

Leah picked up her phone. “Must be a small company if you’re doing all of that. Is there an Insta page I can check out? Give a like.”

“Yes, we have an Instagram account.”

“Okay. What’s the name of the company?” Leah had the app open and was just waiting.

RJ had their glass to their lips when they answered. “-third.”

“What was that?”

“Attacking Third.” RJ repeated.

“Really? That’s the show that covers the NWSL, right?” Leah started looking at the company's account on their app. “If they cover the NSWL, what are you doing here? Covering former NWSL players or something?”

“Something like that.”

Colin approached with a plate in hand. “Ms. Williamson, your chicken.” He slid the plate onto the bartop. “Enjoy. RJ, did you want anything?” RJ raised their now empty glass. “Be right back.”

After Colin dropped off the drink, the pair continued watching the game in silence as Leah ate her meal. Her plate was finished and cleared away when the match hit halftime. “I should get going. I have an event I need to be at tomorrow morning with the girls that will be far more mentally draining than 90 minutes on the pitch.”

RJ chuckled. “I can only imagine.”

The footballer gave the other patron a soft smile. “It was good to see you again. Maybe we’ll get lucky again.”

“I’ll get my hopes up.” They smiled. “Have a good evening Ms. Williamson.”

[alackofghosts]

got tagged by tumblr user @fourteenthz (loved reading about thesa, by the way <3)! thank you very much!

— B A S I C S

name: lil guy i'm very shy, don't worry about it

nicknames: none based on his name, as it's quite short already, but will also respond to a fond and/or slightly exasperated "hero"

age: 33 as of 6.55

nameday: 27th sun of the 4th umbral moon

race: rava viera

gender: cis man

orientation: gay

profession: adventurer

— P H Y S I C A L     A S P E C T

hair: black, naturally wavy, very thick and soft

eyes: dark brown

skin: warm brown, freckles easily, especially his face

tattoos: none

scars: burn scar on his left shoulder from his fight with ifrit, another burn on his right thigh from nidhogg. a few other scrapes here and there. notable lack of any significant scarring from shb and beyond, because that's how i see astrologian healing working - he feels particularly strange about not having a scar from his fight with zenos in endwalker

— F A M I L Y

parents: he has not been back to his home village, for obvious reasons, so doesn't know - but assumes - his mother is still alive and well; never met his biological dad. but because he showed signs of. however the viera would call/conceptualise the inner beast, one of the women called in a favour with a wood warder who was also a warrior, to take him under his wing to train. said wood warder, however, was wholly at a loss what to do with a child, having never taken in a ward before and decided to seek out an old friend, who had since left the forest. ...long story short, he ends up being raised by an all-viera dalmascan resistance cell, who end up packing up and leaving with him in tow after almost being rooted out by garlean forces. he views most of them as Parental Figures and loves them dearly, even if some of them have scattered into the winds after he left to become an adventurer

siblings: he isn't aware of any biological siblings, but the village took a very communal approach to raising kids, so at the time he definitely felt like the other kids were his siblings, regardless of any blood relations. one of the men in the resistance cell was a 'mere' 30 or so years older than him, so he also counts more as a sibling than anything else in his eyes

grandparents: he has definitely met his maternal grandmother, but as with his mother, he's not been back home and doesn't know if she is still alive (but in all likelihood: yes)

in laws and other: THE TWINS. putting an exact name to what alisaie and alphinaud mean to him would honestly not be Good or Close Enough, but they are absolutely like family to him and a reason to keep on going. he also has a very sibling-like relationship with lyse, who is always ready and willing to match his energy, tag along for workouts and tease the hell out of him

pets: he befriends an amaro hatchling at the crystarium during shadowbringers and during a later visit, her handler notes that she's been looking glum without him around. he loves animals, but his living situation has been far too chaotic after becoming an adventurer to accommodate an animal (that isn't his chocobo, who, at least, is much easier to house) and hasn't felt particularly inclined to change that. but after endwalker, he finds himself actually wanting to change that and has the time to do it... so, with a little bit of help from feo ul, he has a little amaro friend with him now

— S K I L L S

abilities: war + drk + pld and all that that entails. skilled and formidable fighter, good at navigating/strategising through a fight on the fly, quick study (as far as fighting is concerned, anyway)

hobbies: working out (especially running and swimming), hiking, he's been learning to enjoy fishing after endwalker

— T R A I T S

most positive traits: protective, caring, insatiable lust for life

most negative traits: too willing to let other people do the talking for him, impulsive, stubborn

— L I K E S

colours: warm red, gold, the bright green of sunlight filtering through leaves

smells: fresh earth, cinnamon, a meadow in early summer, the savoury smell of the stew one of his dads used to make

textures: soft grass under bare feet, tree bark, skin on skin, the scratch of ardbert's beard

drinks: water, pineapple juice, lemonade

— O T H E R    D E T A I L S

smokes: no

drinks: only socially, and even then it's fairly rare. he did drink a little more often as a baby adventurer, mostly because he simply had more opportunities to do so: mingling was useful and it wasn't uncommon to have a rowdy bar night to celebrate a job well done. he is a bit of a lightweight and tends to withdraw when tipsy/drunk, so he actually has more fun when sober

drugs: also no (unless we're counting medicine for this. he won't be refusing painkillers if he's in pain etc.)

mount issuance: his beloved chocobo, who he dotes on very much, especially because it was something of a dream to have when he was just a baby adventurer - he could not have afforded to buy or maintain one at the time

been arrested: he's got in trouble for those rowdy bar nights - he's not the type to start a fight, but if someone were to pick a fight with him or his friends, by gods, he will be finishing it. no serious jail time, more like being hauled off with everyone else involved to sober up until morning, though

[beth-purcell]

Mild drabble trying to flesh out ideas for my take on Neverland when I eventually get there plot wise haha

Basic gist: Smee plays reluctant doctor and voice of reason to a Lost Boy.

“Please Mr. Smee, I never ask for anything!” As much as the older man wanted to snark that there was a reason his home was not among his crew mates on the Jolly Roger, judging from the little boy's expression, his snark would be taken at face value and nothing would be done. Instead, he sighed softly and knelt down.

“Alright, let me take a look at her.” The Lost Boy carefully held up the bird, struggling to keep it together, as Smee checked over the animal. After a few moments, Smee let out a small sigh. “Now, I'm not exactly one for knowing all there is to know about birds, but she looks to just have had the wind knocked out of her. Once she has a few moments to recoup, she'll be alright,” The boy nodded quickly, holding the bird protectively. “Another one of your games go wrong?” 

“No Mr. Smee, Nibs and I were scouting when I spotted her not moving in the water and I had to help her! Nibs said he'd keep an eye out on things while I went to you for help…” Smee nodded slowly.

“I see…You do have a penchant for the birds here on the island…” The boy nodded, sitting next to the pirate, careful to not jostle the swan. 

“They like me quite a bit…” He agreed, though unsure. “I don't why…”

“Well, you're far calmer than any of the other boys when you're flying around.” Smee noted. “And that's when you're actually going through the shenanigans, Tootles,”

“I suppose you're right…I do quite miss a lot of the excitement, but that's ok!” The boy smiled brightly. “That just means everyone gets to tell me stories, just like Peter!” Smee nodded slowly.

“That's certainly a way to look at it.” He noted. “Stories are usually a delight after all,” 

“When are they not?”

“Ghost stories. Tragedies.” Tootles nodded slowly, though he clearly didn't have a clue. “I wouldn't worry about it; I doubt Peter knows what those mean anyways, and you know how he is about things he doesn't know.” Tootles nodded, his face falling.

“Yeah…” Smee studied the boy curiously.

“Did something happen recently?” Tootles looked away sheepishly, the swan leaning against the boy to try and comfort him as best she could. “Hey, if you want this to be a secret, it can be done; it's not like Peter would believe me…”

“I know, I know….” Tootles let out a sigh after a few moments. “I-I think I remembered seeing my father and someone my age with me…”

“A sibling perhaps?” The boy shrugged sheepishly. “Well, I can see why you don’t want Peter to know; he does not like the idea of fathers…”

“Yeah, and he seemed very nice!” Tootles exclaimed. “W-We were out near a lake and I-I don’t really remember a lot about what happened…” He trailed off, making sure the swan was alright, gently petting the feathers as the swan gave the pirate a look, as if to warn what saying the wrong thing would entail. Smee sighed softly.

“Well there’s nothing wrong with trying to remember, especially if it’s something nice,” 

“...but what if Peter finds out and gets mad?”

“Well, then I suppose you’ll be banished for sometime, at least until he forgets, cause he is rather forgetful.” Tootles didn’t look very convinced. “And in the meantime, the captain will find out and go ‘Such terrible form!’ and what not,” Tootles snickered at the impression of Captain Hook as Smee offered a smile. “And as it would proper form, you’d be allowed two nights on the ship, and then on the third, you’d be asked if you wanted to join the crew.”

“What if I don’t want to be a pirate?”

“Then the captain will be a tad dramatic about it, but it isn’t good form to try and force someone into piracy and the captain is always on about good form, so he’ll ask you what you want to do.” Tootles made a face, clearly thinking.

“But he’s going to want to kill Peter…”

“He can put a pin in it for a moment or two.” Smee leaned in slightly. “He’s a particular individual, and he can’t handle not doing things by proper form, so he can pause on finishing off Peter.” Smee was paused for a moment. “And he knows that he’s got to set an example for the crew or else he’ll never hear the end of it.” Tootles was quiet for a few moments before nodding slowly.

“I guess you’re right…” The swan made a small sound and shimmied itself out of the boy’s arms, shaking out her wings. “Oh! She’s ok! She’s ok!” Smee couldn’t help but smile at the scene as Tootles jumped to his feet, leaping in excitement at the situation. “Thank you, Mr. Smee! Thank you!” Before the man could respond back, the boy and the swan flew off, clearly wanting to go find Nibs and the others, leaving Smee to himself. The man chuckled softly, watching the boy leave before pushing himself up to his feet, making note of the owl that had been observing them the entire time before making his way back to his houseboat.

[unkajosh]

The time I was mistaken for a visiting minster

So I was in the hospital today, and a patient said something to me, and we talked. (I stayed in the entryway to her room, not going in.) She told me about her conflicts with one of the nurses, and the guilt that she felt over having to call the techs in so often for help with pain management, and to adjust how she was sitting in her bed (she was a fall risk and wasn't allowed to move around on her own) and how her daughter had been in to see her, up from a small town nearby, and her daughter was very happy that she'd been eating-- chicken broth and Jell-O, but this was a big improvement from what she had been eating. She explained how she'd fallen at her house, and when she falls, she can't get up on her own, and she called for help, and here it was, four days later and she was still in the hospital, to her frustration. She mentioned her arthritis. And also how the doctors had told her that she had pneumonia. She showed me all the bruises on her arms, and told me how they'd had to bring in a special machine to find the veins in her arms so they could get an IV in her. And she told me about how scared she was that she would never be able to just swing her legs over the side of the bed again and get out of it. I told her that she needed to make sure that she kept eating; I wasn't sure what would happen, but she'd never heal if she didn't eat. And some time in there, it came up that she'd mistaken me for a visitation minister. I told her that I was there for another reason, but I was going to be back tomorrow, and I'd say hi. She was clearly uncomfortable, and a bit scared (if not wanting to show it), and wanted someone to talk to. And sometime in there, I had to explain that no, my wife and I were in the hospital visiting the room next to hers. The one my mother is in. I was in the hallway while my wife was talking to mom; she has a bacterial infection, and may be septic, so she's only allowed one visitor at a time, and there are rules that we have to follow to go in at all. So I was waiting outside her room. And maybe talking to a stranger turned out to be easier than worrying. My mother has autoimmune diseases. Not an autoimmune disease, not something as simple and well-known as lupus, but flocks of them-- the rheumatoid arthritis that crippled her older sister, and Sjogren's Syndrome, and obscure ones that only doctors in the Mayo Clinic have even heard of. She's had congestive heart failure, gastric MALT (a form of lymphoma in the stomach), and just had to have all of her teeth removed. She now has a bacterial infection; there could be sepsis. Her memory isn't great, and her husband is a wreck, dealing with this. And I'm keeping it together as best as best I can, somehow. She knows it's medically inadvisable, but that would not stop her from grabbing my hand. She craves touch. She needs contact with people, but feels isolated, now that she can't get around without a walker or a wheelchair. Her hands are so swollen with arthritis, I wonder how much it hurts her to use them. This is the thing about getting older. Everyone else does, too, with all the things that that entails. I guess it's something we all go through, if we're lucky. If we made it this far. If our parents did. If our friends did. But the great truth of life is that it doesn't last forever, and the longer we live, the more we see death around us. The more the people we love die. We're all scared of that. We use indirect language -- James Lacy passed on. The late Doug Atkinson. The fondly remembered Gil Pettigrew. The dearly departed Bonnie Kaufmann. But it's death, and it awaits us all. And it scares me. But we're all going to have to deal with that, sooner or later. I don't know. I'm rambling. But this is the story of how I was mistaken for a visiting minster, anyway. Maybe I should look into that line. I hear it's really rough work, but people need it.

[gangstalkerbarbie]

There's a difference between having someone in a community with you who's 17 when you're 24 (that's usually hardly worse for them than hanging out with older siblings and their friends; you're still generational peers), and regularly talking about your private woes and suicidal ideation to a 17 year old at 40.

The problem is on the Internet, nobody knows you're a dog, and parents typically eventually have no access to the private correspondence of their children. I'm all for 19 year olds befriending 17 year olds and 30 year olds and whoever, but a responsible adult understands there are boundaries, and would want a young person they vaguely knew from online to understand where their worried parents were coming from.

When I was 22 my Homestuck friends and I met this tagalong who was 15. He's 17 now, and because his parents give him unrestricted access to the Internet, we somewhat regularly have to sit him down and talk to him about the fact that they're human and worried and have a point. They know we exist, they know who we are, and they know that we're not teaching their gay little son to accept or romanticise abuse, or radicalising him into a cult or hate group. They know that the silly collaborative Homestuck fanfiction we write for fun deals with some heavy topics, and they know what those topics are, and that we're not sitting at our computers simulating sex with him. We're literally and actually just some slightly older kids in their frame of reference who have taken this whimsical little fellow under our wings and taught him a lot of important things about civics and sociology. He talks to his mum about the kinds of things we get up to. That's more than a lot of young people in close proximity to older people, especially in fandom, where there's a very real grooming problem, can say for themselves, but it's as reasonable an expectation to have about the internet as about real life.

As a parent you should absolutely at least know what your teen is up to online. They won't all let you read it because they don't all trust authority not to be abusive, but you have to be at least as aware of what's going on as you would feel you need to be if these were people the child is hanging out with in real life.

Real-life intergenerational friendships come with accountability to the community. No one keeps it deathly secret that they have a close, nearly familial dynamic with Old Aunty Edith at her tiny Chinese takeout place. This is because Old Aunty Edith is known to everyone as a motherly soul, accountable to the community, and knowing she exists doesn't immediately raise concerns that she could be telling children that showing her their no no square just a little tiny bit is fun and normal.

There are safe secrets, which usually expire and entail keeping something hush hush for a good cause ("don't squeal to Sam about the surprise birthday party"), and then there are unsafe secrets, like "don't tell your mom I blog about women getting eaten alive, it's my kink but she's old fashioned", which has no end date, implies consequences other than the broken trust, and needless to say, confuses and terrifies children.

If you must connect with much younger people than you online, you have to make an effort to make it clear that it isn't a bad thing to make you known to the people who care about them. You have to be supportive, reinforce things about safety that they might turn to you to refute their stupid parental units about, and occupy the appropriate generational role for you in the dynamic.

Your minor acquaintance might not choose to tell anyone about you (maybe they're in the closet and you're their first gay role model, in which case I still think it's best to keep it relatively public), but you have to emphasise that they have that right, stay in your lane on your side of the boundary, and just generally be a responsible grown human being towards people who aren't fully cooked yet and will believe you uncritically about large swaths of reality.

It IS unsafe for kids to interact with adults their parents don't know. A safe adult understands that and takes steps to make it clear that they're not a secret to be kept from those parents, and fucks right off if the parents decide they have bad vibes, as is their right to do.

There is only one nuance here and it is that if a child in some public fanspace's parents are failing them, they need people who will teach them what they miss, and it's not wrong to step up and be those people. But in the case that you find yourself in this position with a child, ask yourself, does this _need_ to ever be one on one? Why? What could you possibly have to say to a fifteen-year-old that you can't say in front of everyone else in that space, and be accountable for? What could your totally trustworthy friend, who would never hurt a baby?

Maybe the kid doesn't have models for normal healthy adulthood and needs them, sure. But the thing is that in real life these adult models behave very differently than the average Discord predator: they don't isolate the child, seek out opportunities to be alone with them in a way no one can intrude on, ply them with platitudes about being soooo mature, privately dump grievances on them and expect them to emotionally provide for their wellbeing like an adult, etcetera. In real life these healthy role models largely keep interaction with the child to the public sphere, until the child is not a child and it's not extremely, hackleraisingly weird for them to be invited, as an adult, to a grown friend's family dinner.

It's quite simply exactly the same on the internet. I don't think reasonable people think you shouldn't have younger friends — again, online nobody knows you're a dog, it will happen, it's like being at the library except everyone is a completely anonymous cloud of ether until they aren't — but it is important for kids to practice internet safety, just like it's important for kids to stay safe outside, and it is actually incumbent on all responsible adults to cultivate that in the kids they meet in public, physically or otherwise.

No part of any healthy intergenerational friendship requires the kind of boundary violations that need to be hidden from the younger party's loved ones.

Don't panic and run from the youth on sight, OP's actually right, that only leaves them with the pedophiles. But also the replier's concern is not only valid, it's the only normal opinion to have about child safety online. The net is full of creeps, and you are creepy if you're not OK with touching base with concerned parents but you are cool with being top-secretly, uber-privately emotionally vulnerable with a teenager. Just as creepy as you'd be if you acted like this in your real life, which you know, because that's why you don't.

Let's all be honest about how truly healthy adult-nottheirchild interaction works for a second.

Saw a tiktok of a guy saying he doesn’t feel comfortable talking to minors because he’s 19. And it’s just. I’m so fucking tired of this.

And like to be clear, I’m speaking as a victim of pedophilia when I say: We need to get over this collective fear of endangering children. Because holy shit, this stuff is getting out of hand.

The average person is not a threat to a child.

And also!!! It is actually really really good for kids to have friendships with adults that aren’t their family.

Having friendships with adults when you’re younger prepares you for adult life in a better way then only interacting with adults that are family members or teacher as well.

And also if there’s any sort of weird behavior happening with adults or teachers, it’s very helpful to have unrelated adults, you can go to, and also have a model for what normal adults are supposed to look like.

And also! You’re just making it way easier for pedophiles to prey on children when you completely avoid interacting with them as an adult. Because kids are naturally inquisitive and curious. They are going to want to interact with adults and they are going to want to ask questions. And if the only adult adults that are willing to interact and speak with them or adults who have ulterior motivations. Guess what’s gonna happen.

Also on a more general note. Having a model for what a normal healthy adult is supposed to look like makes it way easier for kids to be able to recognize and identify when adults in their personal life are being weird.

[castlequeenie]

Inspired by that one post about making dark shows into a just a bunch of kids, i present to you: Batman pretend AU :D

Bruce isn’t a billionaire, but he’s a reasonably wealthy criminal defense attorney living in Gotham. A bit after he adopted Dick, his own adoptive dad (Alfred) moved in to Bruce’s apartment so that Dick had someone to watch him while Bruce was at work. Dick’s favorite game to play was superhero, and in the evenings Bruce would run around with him as Batman and Robin!! :D Alfred didn’t like how much running the game entailed, so Dick made him Batman’s butler :)

Occasionally, when Commissioner Gordon would come to Bruce’s apartment to discuss work stuffs, he would bring along his teen daughter. While Barbara was much older than Dick (let’s say he’s like 10), they had fun playing pretend together as Robin and Batgirl

When Bruce adopted Jason, Dick was like a tween and growing out of his love for Robin, so Bruce made a ceremony where Robin became an adult superhero and got a new persona! Nightwing was now an independent ally of Batman, and he passed down the mantle of Robin to Jason

Jason loved being Robin, but when Tim was later adopted he was extremely excited to get a ceremony like Dick! :> He got to be extra Dramatic™ and his character died, coming back to life as Red Hood~

At around 7 years old, Tim’s best friend Steph regularly visited the Wayne family and got her own persona, Spoiler, but she occasionally snatched the Robin cape from Tim >:]

When Bruce adopted Cass, the kids weren’t sure what to do with Robin, since Cass is older than Tim (and Jason too). But she didn’t want to be Robin, she wanted to be like Bruce, so she played as Black Bat :D

Bruce then fostered Duke (he’s hoping to later adopt him~), and Duke was thrilled to join in on superheroes! He already had his own persona, Signal, and he was the first to really think up superpowers

Around this time, Bruce was dating Talia and their relationship was strained at best. They split, but Bruce got primary custody of Damian! He’s just a wee bab rn, but Tim is worried about having to give up being Robin

Barbara still visits even after she doesn’t have to come along with her dad, and it’s a nice change of pace from her new work at the Gotham Public Library. Since she was paralyzed a couple years ago in an accident, she plays Oracle to give the kids missions and facilitate their stories. She loves to watch them play and chat with Alfred :)

At this point, Dick is like 16 and isn’t really into it anymore, but he feels responsible for his younger siblings and makes sure the 11 year olds (Jason and Cass) and the 7/8 year olds (Tim and Duke, and Steph when she’s there) play nice together. Usually he keeps two year old Damian entertained and away from sharp things :>

And recently, Bruce and Selina have begun to date, but they wanted to keep it a secret from the kids at first. Bruce would invite her over after the kids were asleep, and if they heard anything he would pretend he didn’t know what they were talking about. ~However~ this lead to the kids thinking a cat burglar was robbing their house at night, so Bruce quickly introduced Selina to them (Bruce had told her so much about them already so she was ecstatic, she had only met sleeping baby Damian beforehand). Her being a cat burglar became a running joke, so when the kids got her to play with them, she became Catwoman :)

[thesecretoflivereactions]

What happened so far in "A girl and Her Guard Dog" XD

(BTW... Crunchyroll is now useless for me, as I can not take screenshots anymore. So whatever Anime we watch, I have to... uh... "own" now in some way shape or form. How annoying. Thankfully tho I just got... uh... "access" to the remaining Episodes of this Anime. So... we are good to go! Obviously we will have trouble with newer unfinished Animes tho.)

Episode 11. There are 13 in total. So we are close to the end at this point.

Took her quite some time to notice XD

She goes for love-advice to the woman who just recently kissed Keiya - I mean, she didn't know that... but it still feels... uh... not very intelligent to do that ^^'

AAAAHHHHH! In know that given his behavior and his own words, it was clear as day that he is not a virgin by all means, but... did she really have to say that she slept with him and all that while smiling? I mean, even if our main girl is intelligent enough to understand that do to his age he has experience, hearing that he has experience with someone else is not something you want to hear.

What irritates me a bit, is that only now she is really thinking about this. She was in love with him FOREVER, she should know what it would entail if he feels the same way about her. Girls often think about how a future with their crush would look like and yes, we usually do overromanticize it, but she is old enough to be more realistic in how she imagined her future with him. It also feels like and unnecessary plot point, to suddenly bring those worries up now. I mean yes, she mentioned the Yakuza thing before and that it is an issue, but it never felt like she did use it for anything else but an excuse to try to fall out of love with him, not like she seriously considered it a problem.

How naive of her. He told her she made him "stay" and that it was hard for him to do so and now she told him he is "free" to move. Which was stupid. She should have set boundaries first. He is older than her and she just heard that he was more experienced as well. She thought he would kiss her, but we waited quite a while and the way he sought body-contact with her made it obvious that if he would be free, he would not just simply gently kiss her. BUT I guess that is something you have to figure out while you go, if you are in a relationship like this. I assume he very much respects her boundaries if she sets them, which I am sure, out of pure embarrassment, she will.

I told you he wouldn't just go for a simple gentle kiss. He is an experienced male and he is craving her for a while.

Of course, they end the episode here XD

This is while you never watch stuff until the season is finished XD

[messers-moony]

Wish | F.H

Paring: Five Hargreeves X Wife!Reader

Summary: Five storms out to time travel after an argument with his wife and comes back to an unexpected surprise.

A/N: Five time travels at the age of 26 instead of 13

He was angry, that wasn’t mistaken, “ You aren’t listening to me! “

“ Are you hearing yourself?! What you’re about to do is dangerous! “ She yelled in response, and he scoffed.

They stood in the main room of their apartment. Y/n was placed in the kitchen leaning on the island while Five was dangerously close to the door. Both of them at the age of twenty-five. They had gotten married only a year before finding each other during one of his trips to Griddy’s with his siblings. He thought she was the prettiest thing he had ever seen.

Five stalked closer to her, “ You are so stubborn. “

“ I am the strongest one. “ His voice was dangerously low as they stood only a foot apart, “ I will do this. I don’t care what you say. Nothing will change that. “

“ Five, please. “ Y/n begged, “ I’m- I’m just worried about you. “

“ You don’t need to be. “ Five snapped, and he fast-walked to the door.

The male swung open the door, “ Five wait, please- “ But before she could finish, the door slammed, “ I’m pregnant. “

It was new news. She didn’t find out until a week earlier. She didn’t know when to tell him; there never was a suitable time. Now he had just threatened to fulfill a lifetime goal of his– time travel. Since he was a boy, he’s wanted to prove his worth. The only way Five could think to do that is by time-traveling into the future. He didn’t know what the future would entail. He definitely didn’t plan to get stuck in an apocalypse.

So for nine torturous months, Y/n endured a pregnancy. She was carrying a child of her presumed to be dead husband, which she didn’t believe in the slightest. Five Hargreeves was alive, and she knew that regardless of what anyone told her. She had a baby boy who she named Malachi. The same bright, alluring green as his fathers.

Despite his birth father not being around, Diego was a significant help. Diego stepped in where Five couldn’t. He was there for all of Malachi’s firsts and everything in between. But he was always Uncle Diego. A constant reminder that this man wasn’t his father. As far as the little boy knew, he didn’t have a father.

Things got more tricky as he got older. Malachi realized that a father figure was more common than not, which brought raising questions. She answered to the best of her abilities, but nothing was ever valid. None of her answers could be a hundred percent true because she didn’t know either. It was killing her to see her son this way.

He longed for a father. Wanted nothing more for a father-son relationship. Every birthday, every Christmas, he wished for his father to come home. It was killing Y/n because she understood his pain. The amount of dread, guilt, and sadness.

Maybe if she had told Five sooner, he would’ve never left. The guilt ate away at her. It was like an insect slowly crawling its way under her skin into her bones and nibbling them until they were gone. It didn’t help Malachi was an exact replica of his father. The dark, almost raven hair parted to the side, the glittering green eyes and a defined face.

No matter how long Five was gone, Y/n never took off her rings. She was a married woman until proven otherwise. Malachi had never even seen photos of his father. That was normal to him. All he knew was that his Uncles and Aunts told him he looked the exact same. Despite the same appearances, they had clashing personalities.

Malachi was the sweetest guy you could ever meet. Kind no matter who the person was. Wise beyond his years and intelligent like no other. His strong suit was English while he struggled in math. The irony was amusing. His father excelled in math, but he couldn’t do a two-step equation if he tried.

In the grand scheme of things, this didn’t matter. He got all the way up to high school. He was seventeen, to be exact, in his junior year of school. It was the summer before his senior year, and he couldn’t be more excited. As the years went on, the hope of meeting his father diminished to the point where he didn’t even think about it anymore.

He had his mom, and that’s all that mattered. His mom was his rock, his number one supporter, and his best friend. Malachi loved his mom more than anything and would give anything to keep her safe. Diego had grown to be like a father to him, but it was never the same. Malachi was sitting at the island doing homework while Y/n was cooking.

“ Hey, mom? “ He called, “ Yeah? “ Y/n turned to look at her son.

Malachi fidgeted with the pencil in his hand, “ Can I- Can I see your rings? “

“ My rings? Why? “ She asked, “ Well, dad gave them to you, didn’t he? “ Malachi replied.

Y/n nodded, “ Of course he did. We were married, technically we still are married. “

“ I just wanted to see what dad gave you. “ He murmured.

Hesitantly Y/n twisted both her engagement ring and her wedding ring off her left ring finger. She set them down on the granite island before her son so he could look at them. Gently he picked the engagement ring up and looked at it. It was the only time he’s ever seen the ring this close. She never took them off.

“ We got engaged in the snow. “ Y/n informed quietly, “ I really wasn’t expecting it. He never seemed like one to settle down. “

Malachi listened intently, “ Regardless. It was almost Christmas, and he took me to go Christmas shopping at one of the malls which was outside. “ She chuckled, “ Why he did that, I don’t know, but it was amusing. We got hot chocolate despite his love for coffee, and I made him wear a Santa hat. “

“ He was never into festivities before meeting me. Neither were your Aunts and Uncles. I started making holidays become more festive when you were born. Eventually, they got the hang of it. “ Y/n continued, “ Why was dad's name a number? “ He interjected.

“ He never got a name like the rest of his siblings. “ She answered plainly, “ Why? “

Y/n sighed, “ His father, more specifically your grandfather was a cruel man. Still is a very cruel man, which is why you’ve never met him. Reginald made the Umbrella Academy, where he adopted your dad along with his other siblings. “ She explained, “ They endured long days of training without breaks and horrid living environments. They were treated as experiments rather than children. “

“ They all got names, but Five didn’t want one. He rejected it because it didn’t matter. Name or anything. Their numbers would always define them, and Five was the only one who understood that. “ She finished.

“ What really happened to him? I know you’ve given me vague explanations, but I think I’m ready for the real thing. “ Malachi stated, “ I’m seventeen now. “

“ I know. Your father had powers. His others siblings do as well. They all do certain things. Five could travel through space and time. “ Y/n began, “ Growing up, he always felt the need to prove himself, to be better than everyone else. “

“ So, one day, he told me he was going to time travel. It was a big argument that definitely didn’t need to happen. At the time, I was a week pregnant with you, and I didn’t know how to tell him. “ She swallowed the emotions arising after remembering Five’s glare,

“ When I told him, it was too late. He was already out the door and gone. “

Y/n walked forward and took the rings back. She placed them back on her ring finger carefully as her son watched every movement. He knew she was upset. Malachi couldn’t help but be a bit resentful towards his father. All this to make a point? It seemed far-fetched.

“ That solution seems a bit absurd. “ Malachi commented, “ That's what I was trying to tell him, but he was very prideful and stubborn. “ Y/n replied.

A knock echoed through the apartment. The room felt tense. It wasn’t right; something felt off. Malachi felt it immediately cause he stood up and began walking to the door, wanting to protect his mother if a threat was there. Secretly Diego may have given him some defense classes, but that didn’t matter.

The boy opened the door to see almost the exact same face staring back at him, “ Who are you? “ Malachi snapped.

“ More importantly, who are you? “ The man retorted.

Every hair on Y/n’s body stood up. She knew that voice, and she knew that tone. It was him. He was back. It took everything inside her not to scream or cry but seeing Malachi hold his defensive stance against his own father was worrying her.

“ Malachi. “ She called, and he turned to her as she began to walk to the door, “ I need you to go to your room and promise not to eavesdrop. “

He wanted to protest, “ Please, sweet. I’ll be okay. I promise. “

Reluctantly Malachi backed away from the door giving the man a harsh glare that made the man evidently tense. Y/n waited for Malachi to be fully retreated in his bedroom before looking at the man in front of her.

“ Well. It looks like you’ve moved on. “ Five murmured, “ No- please. It isn’t what it looked like. “ She pleaded.

Her hand took his, and he recognized the rings on her finger. The same rings Malachi had just been examining. The same rings he took months to search for to find the perfect fit for his perfect girl. Everything seemed so colorful in his greyscale world now. His wife was still his.

“ Who- Who is he? “ His voice trembled as his lingering suspicion felt more accurate than ever, “ Come in and sit. We need to talk. “ Her voice was gentle and held no malice.

Five entered the now unrecognizable apartment. It wasn’t the same as when he left. In fact, everything seemed moved out of place. Y/n walked to the stove and turned off the burner that she was using. Five had peered at the papers on the island that were math worksheets and took a seat beside them.

“ Where did you go? “ She asked, “ The future. “

“ No shit. What did it look like? “ Y/n retorted playfully, “ It’s not as I hoped. It’s an apocalypse, love. “ His voice held so much pent emotion it was almost radiating off him.

She sighed, “ Okay. We need to talk about that- “

“ I- I want to know who that kid is. “ Five interrupted, and she gave him a knowing look, “ Malachi, can you come out here. “ Y/n called, and instantly he was out of his room.

The boy stood beside his mom, still not comfortable with the unfamiliar man. This time Five got a chance to really look at the teenage boy in front of him. The defined face, the almost raven hair, the same sage green eyes. His posture was protective and territorial, obviously for his mom.

“ Y/n… “ Five began as he swallowed the tears in his throat, “ Is- Is he mine? “

She nodded, “ Five Hargreeves, I’d like you to meet your son, Malachi Hargreeves. Malachi, I’d like you to meet your father, Five. “

[britishboystm]

Yoga Antics | Fred Weasley 18+

Pairing: Fred Weasley x Fem!Reader

Warnings: smut 18+ (minors dni!), unprotected vaginal penetration, male masturbation, kissing, swearing, fluff

WC: 2.9k

Summary: Y/N gets into yoga. Now Fred wants to get into Y/N...

A/N: A little something something while y’all wait for the next chapter of TDWM. Enjoy ya horny bastard!

•••

Stress management was something that you had grown to value a great deal in your free time. Even more so when you wound up marrying a Weasley twin.

It wasn’t that you didn’t absolutely adore your husband. You loved him with every fibre of your being. It was true however that sometimes you just needed a moment to yourself to unwind and recuperate, especially when living with such a hectic personality like Fred.

On the hunt for new tactics to tend to your mental health, you came across yoga, a muggle activity that Hermione had been raving about once her and Ron came back from her hometown during the Christmas break. She had said that her mom got her into it and how it made her stress levels drop drastically.

Admitly, you were skeptical at first. The idea of twisting and contorting your limbs to relax your racing mind seemed ridiculous. A simple spell should have been able to do the trick just fine, but alas one did not exist for such a thing, so you were left with not much to work with.

Hoping to persuade you, Hermione handed you a book from across the kitchen table while Ron and the twins laughed about some absolute nonsense in the living room of your home.

“Trust me Y/N. I’m usually a cynic myself about these things, but when I tell you yoga changed my life,”

She quickly glanced over at the boys to make sure their attention was averted elsewhere before leaning in so only you could hear.

“You would not believe the sex I’ve been having. Ever since I started doing yoga, I’ve been able to do things with my body that I could never imagine even in my wildest dreams.” Your eyes expanded instantly upon hearing her saucy confession. It was very unlike Hermione Granger to be so flippant about something as personal as what her and her husband did behind closed doors.

“Hermione!” You squeaked out as you shot your hands up to your flushed cheeks, embarrassed at the thought of your brother in law and best friend/sister in law in any kind of compromising situation. The image was now ingrained into your brain, an image you could easily do without no less.

Hermione lightly giggled but quickly covered it up with a cough when she noticed Ron and the twins look over at the two of you with interest.

“Everything alright ‘mione?” Ron asked, clearly oblivious to the raunchy conversation taking place between the whispering women.

“Nothing, go back to whatever you were doing.” She spoke, pursing her lips to hide a smirk. He gave her a look that read what are you up to over there? but quickly dropped it when he turned back around to continue the conversation he was having with his older brothers.

“I’m serious though, it has been an absolute godsend. I’m sure you and Fred can both get something out of it.” Your cheeks grew an even deeper red at the thought of what all of that might entail.

“Thank you for the advice Hermione. I’ll keep it in mind.” Maybe you would give the book a quick look through, if you were able to find any time during your insanely busy schedule.

“Love, time to head out?” Ron spoke as he stood up from the couch and brought over his finished cup of tea to the sink for washing later.

“Yes, we best be going. Remember what I said Y/N.” She nudged the book further towards you and got up to pull you in for a warm embrace.

“I’ll see you soon.” You spoke, giving her a warm friendly rub on the back before she went over to the door to get her ballet flats on.

“Y/N, always a pleasure.” Ron came over with a dopey smile, opening his arms to give you a big bear hug.

“Bye Ron.” He then headed over to Hermione, giving her his arm to hold on to as she struggled to get on one of her shoes.

“Only thing I’m good for, it seems.” Everyone laughed as Hermione rolled her eyes and smacked him the chest playfully.

“Oh shut it Ronald,” She jeers before opening the door.

“Bye!” The couple speak in unison as they head out the door, Fred closing it behind them.

“Well, I best be off too. I think I’ve left poor Angelina with the kids long enough.” George let out a sigh, bracing himself for what he knew he would be coming home to.

“Good luck with that mate.” Fred chuckles as he pats his brother on the shoulder.

“Bye love,” George speaks as he comes in for the usual kiss on each cheek with you.

“Bye George. Tell Angie we say hi.”

“Will do.” And then he makes his way out the door, Fred once again closing it behind him. He then turns around and looks down at you, a sly smirk dancing along his lips.

“Alone at last.” He groans before picking you up and throwing you over his shoulder.

“Gah! You big idiot, if you drop me I swear to Godric!” You screech out. Fred let’s out a laugh before abruptly bending his knees, pretending to lose his grip on you. Your hand comes in contact with his back with a loud smack.

“I’m serious Fred, don’t do it!” He chuckles again before plopping you down on one of the couches in the living room. He shifts about so he was now straddling your waist. His hair, which he had been growing out, covered his face slightly. You brought your hand up to caress his light stubble ridden cheek.

He sighs out in contentment and flutters his eyes shut, leaning into your touch and kissing the knuckle of your thumb.

“Hi.” You say sweetly with bright sparkling eyes as you begin to twirl his fiery red locks between your delicate fingers.

“Hi.” His soft voice makes your stomach flutter. To this day you still experienced the same excitement you would get when you first started dating Fred back in school.

“Can we have sex?” He asks out of the blue.

You couldn’t help but laugh at his request. Ever since you tied the knot, the mystery and suspense your sex life once had began to simmer. Being upfront about both of your wants and needs became a part of the beauty of your marriage. No secrets were kept and no childish games were played. If one of you wanted it, all you had to do was ask.

“Only if you carry me, ‘m tired.” You spoke, going back to playing with his hair.

“Works for me.” His face lit up as he lifts you up off of the couch and carries you bridal style up to your shared bedroom.

You had to admit, Hermione was right.

The morning after that visit, you began to read tidbits of the book she gave you.

Not wanting to answer a billion questions, you kept the material out of your husband's sight. You knew he would become super curious and make you explain everything to him, and having just begun learning yourself, you decided it was best to keep it hidden away. Again, this concept was feorgein to the wizarding world so you couldn’t blame him.

It really did work out perfectly. Once you felt that you had gotten the hang of it, every morning after Fred left for the shop, you would set up in the living room and practice your yoga.

It honestly felt awful at first. Your body was so tight and tense that you had almost given up completely after your first time doing it.

But not wanting to throw in the towel so early, you kept it up until you began noticing a slight change in your body. Little things like being able to touch your toes or go into a deep lunge were gratifying and it almost became a bit of a drug to you. Not to mention it helped you sleep like a baby.

Fred was also starting to notice a difference. Knowing you were tight all over, sex usually consisted of fairly mild positions that didn’t put to much of a strain on your body. But that one random night in which you were suddenly able to bring your legs up to wrap around his neck as he pounded into you set off alarms in his head.

You had done something and he was going to get to the bottom of it.

That was a while ago.

Since then, you had fully converted to a life of zen, and yoga was your remedy to all of the worries that plagued your mind. Mornings were becoming easier and easier to face as Fred would shut the door behind him and you would pull out your yoga blocks and mat.

And this morning began like any other. The sun seeped through your white translucent curtains which made Fred groan in irritation. He hated getting up in the morning.

He turned over to face you and slowly opened his eyes, watching you shift about and slowly begin to wake up yourself.

“What time is it?” You spoke, nuzzling your face into his bare chest.

“7:15.” He was able to croak out in his scruffy morning voice.

“Off to work then?” You asked, finally looking up at him with this innocent and soft look that never failed to make him turn into a puddle of emotions.

“Off to work indeed.” He sighed, running a hand through his hair, flopping on to his back to allow himself to wake up more.

“You're going to be late if you don’t get a move on.” He smiled at this before deciding to scoop you up into his arms so you were now laying on your stomach on top of him.

“George can manage for a bit can’t he?” He asked as he moved your crazy morning hair out of your eyes so he could get a better look at you. Your chin rested against his sternum as you rolled your eyes.

“Remember last time you tried to pull that stunt? He threatened to hex you.” Fred winced at the memory.

“Better not then huh?” He grimaces slightly, already knowing the answer to his question.

“Well unless you are willing to have your hair be green for the next year, then yeah I wouldn’t. Now stop stalling and get your arse up!” You say, pinching his hip which makes him arch up slightly underneath your touch.

“If you do that again I may never get out of bed.” His smirk would usually get to you but no one could ever get between you and your yoga sessions. Even Fred Gideon Weasley.

“Nice try Casanova, that isn’t going to work this time,” You lifted the sheets off of both of you and got out of bed to take a shower.

Later that morning, Fred ran over to you, pressing a kiss to your temple before grabbing a orange from the fruit bowl and rushing out the door for work.

You smiled knowingly, waiting for at least a minute before jumping up from your spot on the couch and ran back into your bedroom. Never in your life had you been so excited to wear spandex.

Once your setup was organized, you quickly got into child’s pose, hoping to give your begging joints and muscles a gentle wake up. It felt so good that the groan you emitted covered up the sound of the front door opening and closing.

Fred was back.

He had come from downstairs, having forgotten important paperwork he had to fill out for some possible investors. But the heavy package of documents seemed to have slipped his mind for a second time when he came across your arse stretched out in the bent over position.

His trousers tightened almost instantly and his finger had to come up and tug at his shirt collar that had suddenly become too tight.

Unaware of his presence, you continued your late morning with no care in the world. Feeling satisfied, your body moved up into a downward dog. Your lower legs and ankles gasped out in gratitude as you slowly leaned deeper and deeper into the upside pose.

That’s when you saw him.

Between your legs, you were able to notice a pair of brown dress shoes, one tapping away impatiently. Your eyes went wide and your throat let out a squeak, making you collapse to the floor and quickly turn to look up at your amused and very turned on husband.

“So this is what you’ve been doing when I’m away?” Your cheeks were all flushed, partly from the blood rushing to your face when you were upside down and partly due to Fred looming over you in a dominating stance.

“Fred I-.” You quickly tried to cover your tracks. Explain that it was a stupid thing Hermione told you about and that it didn’t matter.

“Hush love, I’m not mad.” He said through a relaxed chuckle.

“You’re not?”

“How could I? You are so fucking fit babes.” Your cheeks burned stronger and your eyes flitted down to the mat beneath you.

“Hey dove, no need to be shy. I liked what you were doing there. What was it anyway?” He was now crouched in front of you, lightly tracing his thumb against your cheek.

“Yoga, supposed to make you feel less stressed and more flexible.” You could see the gears turning in his head.

“Oh so I have yoga to thank for the amazing shagging we have been having recently then?” His comment made you giggle, making him swoon in return.

“Show me more. I want to watch.” God he knew how to make your stomach twirl. His face was no longer soft, but rather dark and naughty. The lust that was connecting the two of you caused your leggings to dampen. You shifted, now feeling slightly uncomfortable with sitting in your own wetness.

“What, you feeling uncomfy? Here I’ll help.” Before you could respond, he laid you on your back and dragged you towards him along the mat, his hands gripping the back of your thighs.

“Shall I take these off then?” He asked, an eyebrow raised in question. He was playing a game and he knew he had already won.

“Yes please.” Your voice was breathy and soft. He aggressively grabbed the waistband of your legging and tugged them down your legs.

Once they were in a wet mess somewhere in a corner of the living room, he bent down between your legs to pull you in for a kiss. Your hands went up to his hair and your legs wrapped around his torso, slightly grinding up into him.

His lips detached from yours and he looked down to notice your desperate actions.

“Awe love, you all worked up now?” He was obviously teasing you. Hell if anything, he was more bothered then you were, but he was always better at keeping his emotions below the surface.

“Want you to show me what you were doing again. This time in your undies babes.” You nodded urgently and turned yourself around, going into a cow position.

His heavy breathing and warm palms on your arse cheeks made his presence very much known.

You pushed back slightly, hoping he would get the hint.

“Patient, I’ll deal with you in a minute. Want to see more first.” Gaining some power, you got up and pushed him back, indicating for him to move onto the couch, giving him a front row seat to what would become his favourite show.

You pulled out every suggestive pose in the book. At one point, when you were able to look over at his reaction, his tie had come undone along with some buttons and his hand was fisted around his cock.

He looked heavenly sitting there, one arm draped along the top of the couch and his head thrown back in pure pleasure. He should have been back to work by now but neither one of you cared.

“Fuck, keep it up love.” You wanted his finish, not his hand so you stopped your performance and crawled over to him, kneeling between his spread open legs.

Without speaking a single word, your mouth opened wide, your tounge stretched out in a plea for his cum.

“You want me down your throat darling?” You nodded, eyes shut in patience. His groans increased and your palms began to sweat as anticipation grew all through your body.

But nothing came.

One of your eyes opened in confusion only for you to be met with him coming off of the couch and pushing you back into the mat once more. He stretched your legs open wide and moved your thong to the side. There was no time to adjust as his length rammed into you. Instantly gripping his biceps you let out a cry of submission and pleasure.

“Feel so nice and warm. Want you nice and wide for me when I finish yeah? Are you going to finish with me little dove?” You could only let out a wail of acceptance as you sobbed.

His drilling quickened and quickened until you both finally were able to come as one, something you had yet to achieve in your relationship. He let out a surprised laugh at the accomplishment before collapsing on top of you in exhaustion.

“Thank Merlin for yoga.” He spoke through heavy breaths.

[nightcolorz]

🧡☀️🌾

aaa thanks for sending me an ask <3 u guys r in for smth very detailed and personal lol. SO SORRY ABOUT HOW LONG THIS IS 😭

🧡 - How has the way you presented yourself (ex. Clothing, hairstyle, etc.) changed since you realized you were queer?

This is a slightly complicated question for me bcus realizing I was queer and coming out was a pretty drawn out process, I suppose bcus being transgender entails a lot of complications that other queer identities don’t really. I realized I was queer when I was 10, realized I was FTM transgender specifically when I was eleven, came out when I was 12, started socially transitioning when I had just turned 13, and started medically transitioning a few months before I turned 14. And all of these phases entailed their own lil changes in self expression + presentation. I’m going to try my best to keep it short, lol. During the phase in my life where I knew I was trans, had come out, but wasn’t allowed to transition bcus of my circumstances, I dressed like shit. My mom didn’t think it’d be safe for me to transition bcus I lived in a pretty conservative environment and she wasn’t sure how she’d go about that. I was very depressed, I felt horribly trapped. I did the hard part (came out) and got none of the benefits I thought I would. The people in my life behaved as if me coming out had never happened. So I payed no mind to my appearance, I dressed in huge oversized hoodies and sweatpants everyday to school, and right when I got home I’d change into pajama pants and an oversized t-shirt. I did pass relatively well, I had a short haircut and a natural bit of facial hair above my lip because of my Hispanic genes, but the fact that I was oftentimes gendered correctly by strangers didn’t help much. It felt like a smack in the face, almost. That time in my life was probably the time I was the most visibly queer. It wasn’t a good year or so. But! Eventually, my family was forced to move, which my mom looks back on as a miracle in disguise. I was allowed to transition then, I started attending a more progressive school where no one knew me. Bullying became less of a concern with a clean slate where I could be whoever I wanted to be. I was then thrust into an environment where I’d be assumed by peers to be a cisgender boy, which was, um, a journey. I was stealth, at least I tried very hard to be, and despite the progressiveness of staff the kids were..less so. I had no idea how to present myself at first, I came off as very weird and got bullied pretty bad. But after a bit, especially since I started medically transitioning, I really got my act together. I had cut out a very defined style for myself. I was really into wearing what the kids call “dark academy” clothing. I wore sweaters, turtlenecks, my grandpa got me a trench coat for my 14th birthday which I was very excited about. I’m very thankful for being able to transition so early, so that now that I’m much older I’m pretty much past my awkward queer experimentation stage. I now dress similarly to how I did growing up, but now I’m much less worried about “passing” and I try to wear clothes that make me happy rather then conceal my body. I’m finally at a stage in my life where I’m happy and comfortable in my body and don’t mind showing it off. I think I have a ways to go still when it comes to self expression, I still have some trauma left over from the hell that was getting queer witch hunted as the weird kid who was rumored to be trans, but I’m moving in the right direction. I’m trying not to hide so much now! Also, I’ve gotten over some anxiety I’ve had throughout my life about not “acting masculine enough”, which has also greatly improved my self confidence and happiness.

☀️ - Is there anyone who helped you accept that you were queer? If so, who? Exploring the internet as a youngin was what introduced me to what the lgbtq community actually was. (Don’t let the transphobes who think trans kids are getting indoctrinated online get their hands on this 😭). But yes I was indoctrinated online by fanfiction.net and tumblr. Hilariously enough, the thing I used the internet for exclusively as a child was indulging in Harry Potter fan content, and the Harry Potter fandom was what introduced me to queerness and transness, leading to my realization that this was what I’d been feeling all my life. Suck it jkr! When it comes to people in my real life, I had a stereotypical weird girl best friend during the period where I knew I was trans but didn’t tell anyone, who was into warrior cats and openly lesbian. She opened my eyes to the fact that I wasn’t the only queer kid my age, let alone queer person in the world. I never ended up coming out to her, though I considered it often, but we did have some very stunted and awkward conversations about queer identity. I like to think she knew. Also, thankfully and unusually, I did have an ftm trans relative who fit into my queer journey in a very interesting way. I’d always had a favorite uncle growing up, who I was told had changed his name, but that was the extent of what I knew. I idolized him very strongly lol, he was everything my child self wanted to be. It wasn’t until I started to realize I was trans that puzzle pieces acquired throughout my life started to fit into place, and I started to suspect my uncle was trans too. It was weird, I felt like a detective. I felt super alone during this time, and I also felt like being queer and trans were forbidden things that only applied to me. So the possibility that there was this trans man in my family who was loved and embraced by all my loved ones and I had never even knew was shocking and unbelievable. I eventually decided that my suspicions were delusions made up to try and make myself feel better. That was until I came out to my extended family, which only occurred when I had started to socially transition. My uncle took me aside and explained that he was also trans, very gently, and before he could even finish I blurted out “I KNOW!!! I FIGURED IT OUT!!” It was such a joyful and unexpected moment. Even though my uncle wasn’t technically there during the meat and potatoes of my self discovery and acceptance journey, since neither of us knew the other was trans, he always served as an encouragement. A reminder that trans ppl were everywhere living happy adult lives. And when I was transitioning he was a great friend and mentor for me. I’m so lucky to have had someone like him growing up. He continues to be my favorite uncle to this day, and I may or may not still idolize him like a child, lol.

🌾 - How queer do you think you look? Would it be obvious to someone that you were queer if they looked at you?

I alluded to this earlier but I am not visibly queer in the slightest 😭. I haven’t mentioned it yet but in addition to being transgender I’m also bisexual! Which hasn’t been really relevant to this post bcus my journey with that is so minute and uninteresting in comparison, lol. But anyway I’m bisexual! I’m a bisexual man! And I want to be perceived as a queer person, a bisexual man, but Im so used to basing my presentation around passing and blending in and not getting harassed that I don’t really know how to do that without getting some crazy anxiety. It’s so frustrating! I see queer ppl in public and try to telepathically communicate that I’m one of them but they never even glance at me 😭. So no, definitely not, I look straight as a rod, if not slightly nerdy. If you were to interact me, however, you’d likely peg me as a homo if you have keen radar. I have pretty feminine mannerisms, and since I pass really well I usually come off as a gay guy to other queer ppl. Straight ppl, not usually. And you wouldn’t be able to tell by just looking at me, haha.

Once again thank you sm for sending me the ask! Great questions btw, obviously they made me self reflect a ton (I’m so sorry this is so long!). I really appreciate it tho and I hope my answers are interesting to read about

[another-tmnt-writer]

Truth or Dare?

Raphael x Reader

Author: Admin Mo

Summary: When Mikey needs another actor for his film project, Raph gets roped into it. He didn’t, however, expect for his costar to be so cool.

Note: There are not NEARLY enough college au fics for the bayverse boys, so have this as my first contribution. <3

Warnings: Swears, mentions of drinking, plenty of fluff

Word Count: 3.9k

“Raph, PLEEEEEAAAASE!!!” Mikey folded his hands together, pleading. “We need actors for our project and our group members can’t be in it.”

Mikey, as part of his endeavor to explore every creative program at the university the turtles were currently attending, was taking a filmmaking class. And, as a part of that class, he and his fellow classmates were required to make short projects in order to learn the basics of filmmaking, from writing to directing to using the equipment to editing. As an added bonus because his professor was so especially cruel, none of the people in his group could appear in his project, and while they had managed to recruit some of their classmates to fill in the smaller roles, one of the main roles was still unclaimed.

Raph scoffed. “Mikey, you know I can’t act for shit.”

“You don’t have to actually be good at it!” He pleaded. “You should see some of the other projects. No one in the program is good at acting.”

Raph was quiet for a second, his large arms crossed in front of him, thinking. “How long is it gonna take?”

“Few hours.” Mikey shrugged. He raised an eyebrow. “And your costar is really, really hot.”

Raph sighed, disgruntled. “When?”

“YES! DUDE THANK YOU SO MUCH! YOU WON’T REGRET IT!” Mikey ran and returned with a script and a schedule, shoving it into his older brother’s hands. “We film tomorrow!”

Raph’s eyes widened. “TOMORROW?!”

***

Raph went with Mikey to where the rest of his group was meeting to film their project. He hadn’t really had time to look at the script and Mikey assured him that they’d be filming in small enough chunks that he wouldn’t need to have very much memorized at a time. He also didn’t really know what kind of movie it was and he didn’t care; he just couldn’t wait until it was over.

A few minutes after they arrived, so did his costar. And god, he couldn’t stop staring. Mikey was right. God, why was Mikey always right?

“I am so sorry I’m late. The bus almost hit a pedestrian and it was a whole thing.” You apologized.

“Don’t worry about it!” Mikey waved off your concern. “This is my brother, Raph.”

“Nice to meet you, Raph. I’m (Y/N).” You introduced, a warm smile on your face.

Raph didn’t miss the way your eyes lingered on him, but instead of the looks disdain he usually got, instead it seemed to be curiosity. Awe, even? Weird, he decided, but not unwelcome.

It was a long, awkward moment before he realized he’d better respond. “Oh, uh, nice to meet you too.”

“Um, you guys can get to know each other a little better. We’ve gotta get the equipment set up.” Mikey said, leaving the two of you on your own.

The filming location was a place you were very familiar with: the library. Particularly, in front of the cozy little coffee shop in the library.

“I didn’t really, uh, look at the script, but I’m guessing they needed a monster for a horror movie or something…” Raph flipped through the pages, skimming.

“It’s a rom com.” You corrected quietly. “I’m the main character. You’re the love interest.”

If Raph could physically blush, he was sure his cheeks would rival the color of his mask. “…Oh.”

“Is that alright?” You asked.

“Oh! Yeah, yeah it’s fine, I just…” He chuckled to himself. “I ain’t ever acted in anything before, let alone anything romantic.”

“It’s not too much, I don’t think.” You reassured him. “I’m pretty sure the most they’ll have us do is awkwardly brush hands. It’s a coffee shop meet-cute.”

“Gotcha.” And while he was relieved, he was also a little…disappointed? Huh. Weird. “So, uh, what’s yer major?”

“I’m a film major. I’m in Mikey’s class and they needed actors, so I’m paying it forward in case I need someone in my project. What’s yours?”

“I’m undecided. Just, uh, taking some time to figure things out, you know. I never really had any…school experience before this.”

“That’s a lot to adjust to.”

“Yeah, it is. I’m getting used to it, though.”

“That’s good! If you need any help with anything, let me know. I’ve picked up a bunch of good tips and tricks.”

He chuckled. “I will, thanks.”

“Do you have snapchat?”

“Yeah, I do.”

“One second.” You fished your phone out of your bag and unlocked it, opening the app to your snapcode, which he scanned and added you. “There you go.”

“Thanks.”

“Of course.”

Raph took some more time reading over the script to get the gist of the scene and you were right. Indeed, it was a rom com. Not his preferred genre, by any means, but maybe he’d warm up to it a bit over the course of the day.

“Hey (Y/N)?” Mikey called from over where they had the camera set up on the tripod. “Do you know how to white-balance this thing? Everything is orange for some reason. Which is a great color, but I’m sure Smith will dock us points for it.”

“Oh, I’ve got you.” You nodded. You looked up at Raph, your purse in hand. “Will you hold this for a second?”

“Uh, yeah. Sure.” He nodded, holding out a giant three-fingered hand to take the bag from you. He watched you walk over to where the rest of the group was standing, crowded around the camera. You worked your magic, shuffling through the menu and helping adjust the camera correctly. Raph couldn’t stop staring. You looked so focused. So passionate. He could tell you really liked film and everything it entailed and he wished he could just find something he cared about as much as you cared about your major.

“Awesome.” He heard Mikey say, his eyes fixed on the camera’s screen. “Thanks!”

“Of course!” You walked back over to where Raph was and he handed you your bag back. “Thank you.”

“Yeah, no problem.” He opened his mouth to say something else, but Mikey walked over to the two of you.

“You guys ready? I think we’re good to start now.”

“All set.” You confirmed, giving him a thumbs-up, and Raph nodded.

***

Raph might have to reconsider his stance on this acting thing. Did he think he was all that good at it? No. But so long as he had you as a costar, he’d act willingly in any project Mikey (or you) needed him for. And at the end of the shoot, he ended up having a really good time. So much so that when you guys were all done, he was…sad. Like, really sad about it.

You parted ways. You weren’t in any of his classes, so Raph wasn’t really sure if he’d see you around that much. And he didn’t see you around…until a few weeks later.

He was at the library studying with his brothers at their favorite table when suddenly, his phone buzzed, a message from snapchat coming in. He looked at the notification, doing a double-take when he read your name there. And when he reached to answer it, he moved too fast and knocked his shell-shaped cell phone off of the table.

Shit.

He bent down to pick it up and when he opened the snapchat, he was surprised to see…the back of his shell? It was captioned: “I spy with my little eye…Something red and green 😉”

Immediately, he whipped around, and sure enough, nestled in a table by the windows was you, looking at him over the top of your laptop screen. You giggled when he spotted you, waving.

Raph nudged Mikey, who was sitting across from him and Mikey traced Raph’s eyeline to where you were, his face immediately lighting up.

“Oh! Hey (Y/N)!” Mikey waved. “You wanna sit with us?”

“Is that alright?”

“Hell yeah!” Mikey motioned you over. “The more the merrier! We can pull up a chair over here on the end.”

So, you gathered your stuff while the guys rearranged some things, putting you on the end of the table, right between Mikey and Raph. When you got over there, you noticed they were sitting with the other two giant mutated turtles on campus, who you had heard of, but hadn’t met yet.

“(Y/N), these are our brothers. Leo’s over there in the blue, our fearless leader. And this is Donatello, the one we go to for homework help.”

“Not tonight you aren’t. This paper is due at midnight and it is…” Donnie glanced down at the clock on his laptop and as soon as he did, he started typing impossibly faster. “Eleven thirty-seven. Do not look at me or breathe in my direction.”

“Noted.” Mikey nodded, a trace of fear in his eyes.

“Nice to meet you, (Y/N). You’re in one of Mikey’s classes, right?”

“Yep! I’m in his film class.” You smiled, taking a sip of your iced coffee. “I got the pleasure of costarring with this one.” You nudged Raph lightly, causing him to smile the most genuine smile Mikey had ever seen on his older brother’s face.

Huh. Mikey took note, something devious stirring in the back of his mind. Interesting…

“What did you get on that, by the way?” You asked.

“We got an A! Well, Minus. But you know how Smith is.”

“Dude that’s awesome!” You bumped your fist against his. “Good job. I’m pretty sure my group got a B, but we’re not mad about it. C’s get degrees, as they say.”

“Cheers to that.” Leo chuckled.

“What are you working on today, Raph?” You asked, tilting your head in a way that sent his heart racing in a way he could not explain.

“I have a paper for my Writing 150 class.”

“Oof that sucks. Who do you have?”

“Trainor.”

“Ouch. She hated me.” You grimaced, shaking your head. “She found out I was bi and it was all over for me.”

“Did you report her? I’m pretty sure you can report her for that sort of thing.” Raph asked, trying not to get heated over it. He was pretty sure she didn’t like him very much either, but it was probably due to the fact that he was a giant green turtle. “That’s bullshit.”

“I’m in the process of that right now.” You nodded. “She’s a bitch. I don’t know if they’ll actually do anything about it though.”

“Keep me posted. I might file something too if she doesn’t stop glaring at me during class.” Raph grumbled. “It’s annoying.”

“That would be annoying. Her beady little eyes glaring at you for two agonizing hours of ‘This is how to correctly use a comma’.”

He chuckled. “Yeah. It is.”

You glanced at your phone, which buzzed with a text from one of your roommates. “Oh! Uh, do you guys have any plans this weekend?”

“Nope. Why?” Mikey asked, curiosity seeping into his voice.

“My roommate is throwing a party, if you guys wanna come. It’ll be pretty chill. Drinks, pizza, some music.”

“Oh hell yes.” Mikey nodded. He looked at Leo. “Leo, can we?”

“I don’t see why not.” Leo shrugged. “Sounds like a good time.”

“Is there a dress code?” Mikey asked. Now that he was finally allowed to socialize, he didn’t want to fuck it up.

“Nope. Just casual. Come as you are.”

“Do you need us to bring anything?”

“If you guys have a drink of choice, bring that, I guess, but otherwise, my roommate’s boyfriend works at a pizza place, so we get a pretty good discount and we have literally so much wine.”

“That’s amazing.” Mikey nodded, making a mental note to look into jobs at a pizza place later.

“We’ll bring a veggie tray.” Donnie said, his fingers flying across the keyboard of his laptop until finally, he stopped. “I finished, by the way.”

“Good job, dude!” Mikey gave him a thumbs up. “You wanna write mine next?”

“Ha.” Donnie stared at him. “Funny.”

“What’s your paper on, Raph? Maybe I can help.”

Raph turned his laptop towards you. “We have to write it about like growing up. You can, uh, read it if you want. I don’t mind. I’m kinda stuck right now anyway.”

“Okay.” You agreed, switching his laptop for yours. You winked. “Trade ya.”

“What are you writing about?” He asked, scrolling to the top of your document.

“Women in Film.” You shot finger guns at him. “I’m about to make some Film Bois REALLLL mad.”

“Roast ‘em, (Y/N).” Mikey laughed, knowing all too well exactly which film boys you were talking about. He was not a fan.

“That’s the plan.” You chuckled and then started reading over Raph’s paper. You had known before meeting them that they hadn’t exactly had the best childhood, but…wow was it eye-opening reading the experience from his eyes. “Holy shit.”

“That bad?” He joked, trying to read your expression.

“No, it’s…Raph, this is really good, but wow. You guys went through a lot, huh?”

“Yeah…” He shrugged. “It wasn’t all bad, but it sure wasn’t normal by any means.”

“Mmm…” You nodded, looking up at him. “I mean, normal is kinda overrated.”

He chuckled. “I’m glad ya think so. Not many people do.”

You shrugged, smiling softly. “Well, it’s a good thing I’m not like many people.”

***

“(Y/N), this place is as clean as it’s gonna get. It’s a party. It’ll be messed up in,” your roommate, Haley, glanced down at her watch, “like twenty minutes.”

“I know, I just…I’m nervous. These guys are basically superheroes. I want to make a good impression.”

“Fair point.”

You swept the kitchen floor and got out the cutest paper plates you had in the cupboard as well as some solo cups and plastic wine glasses. If you could avoid broken glass today, that was probably the move.

The doorbell buzzed and your heart raced, but it was just your other roommate’s boyfriend with the pizza.

“Is Darcy here?” He asked.

“She’s upstairs getting ready, you explained, helping him get the pizza and breadsticks and everything set up on the counter. He’d also brought a few two-liters of Pepsi, which was good. You put it next to the giant jug of fruit punch you’d bought at the grocery store. It was important to make sure your non-drinking friends had something to drink, too.

A few minutes after, guests started arriving. Darcy came downstairs and started up her iconic party playlist. Your neighbors popped in. It was easier to invite them and let them have a good time with you than have them call security on you guys for throwing a party, even if it was the weekend and it was only nine.

You turned off the lamps in the living room and instead set your strip lights to party mode, causing them to cycle through a bunch of colors in time with the music. It was then that the doorbell rang again and you rushed to the mirror to check yourself once more. You adjusted your hair, straightened out your top, and checked your teeth for food. Nope, you were good.

So, with the rest of the hosts distracted, you opened the door. On the other side of it were four tall, green gentlemen, one of them carrying a veggie tray.

“Hey guys, come on in!”

You moved out of the way so they could step inside.

Mikey’s eyes widened, looking into the living room full of dancing college kids. “Woahhhhh this is awesome!”

“Glad you think so.” You laughed. “There’s food and drinks in here, the bathroom is in the hallway, and everyone else seems to be either in the living room or the back yard.”

“Where do you want this veggie tray?” Donnie asked.

“Thank you so much for bringing this, by the way! You can set it over by the pizza boxes. I can get a spoon for the dip.” You said, walking towards the silverware drawer and producing a spoon while Donnie popped the lid off of the plastic serving tray and opened up the dip. You handed him the spoon.

The guys were each sporting their signature color, but they were wearing clothes you hadn’t seen them in before. Usually, Raph liked to wear a large gray hoodie, but today, he was sporting a black t-shirt and an impossibly large red flannel with some jeans. It looked good on him. Like, really good.

Apparently, he was thinking the same thing, because as soon as you were free, he walked up to you and nudged you gently. “You look really good.”

Your cheeks flushed with warmth and you wished you could blame it on wine, but you hadn’t even had a sip yet. “Thanks. You clean up pretty nice yourself.”

Had you worn a red top on purpose? Yes, absolutely. Would you admit to it, though? No, definitely not.

But Mikey noticed. Oh, Mikey noticed everything. And he couldn’t help but think that you and his older brother would make quite the couple. Maybe there was something he could do to just…give it a little push.

***

The time came later, when the party was finally starting to wind down. Some people had left. Your neighbors had gone home, and you’d switched the strip lights to a light, warm color. You’d also switched the upbeat party playlist for something chill to play in the background. The remaining partygoers were all settled in a circle in the living room, eating whatever pizza was left, sipping on box wine, and playing a game of truth or dare.

“Haley, truth or dare?” Darcy challenged.

“Truth.”

“Okay…Fuck, Marry, Kill: Chris Evans, Chris Hemsworth and…..Chris Pine.”

“DAMN.” She cursed. “You can’t do that to me. Shit. Uh…Fuck Chris…Hemsworth. Marry Chris…Pine? And—”

“Don’t you do it!” You warned.

“Kill Chris Evans.”

“Noooooooooo!” You whined, taking a sip of your drink. The rest of the group laughed. “Poor Captain America.”

“Rest in pieces, Cap.” She agreed, shaking her head. “Okay…Mikey, truth or dare.”

“Dare.” Mikey answered quickly. He always picked dare, so in the fifth round of the game, it wasn’t much of a surprise.

“I dare you…to take a shot of straight lemon juice.”

“Easy peasy.” Mikey scoffed, pouring himself a shot and downing it.

You watched as his face contorted at the sour, sour taste. You couldn’t help but giggle a little at that.

“Good job, Mikey.” Donnie laughed, dipping a piece of broccoli in dip before popping it into his mouth.

“Taking it like a champ.” Leo added, nodding.

“Alright, my turn?” Mikey asked, looking around the circle for his victim, pretending he hadn’t been planning this since round one. “(Y/N). Truth or dare?”

You thought about it for a second. How easy it would be to just choose truth again, but for some reason, you were feeling a little brave, so instead, you picked, “Dare.”

“Oooooooh,” the circle said, all of them a little surprised by that choice.

“Okay. Alright.” Mikey rubbed his hands together mischievously. All according to plan. “I dare you to kiss the hottest person in the room.”

“OOOOOOOHHHH!” The circle all stared at you and you thought for a second, a smirk settling on your features.

“Oh that’s easy.” You got up and crossed the circle until you were standing in front of Raph. Even sitting down, he was almost your height. “Think I could get a kiss?”

Raph stared up at you, shocked, waiting for you to say Sike! HAHA! Did you actually think I thought you were hot?! Loser!

But you never did, instead looking down at him with sincerity, patience. Were you a little…nervous, even?

“Why me?” He whispered, his eyes fixed on you. There were plenty of good-looking human guys still there, and yet you were certain. Unwavering. Then, louder, he asked, his heart absolutely fighting to get out of his chest, “Are you sure?”

“Positive.” You nodded, starting to lean closer. Once you were most of the way in, you let him meet you in the middle, your soft human lips meeting his, which were, you had to admit, way softer than you thought they would be.

Raphael kissed you like you were made of glass, like if he moved too fast, you would shatter. It was his first kiss, after all, and he didn’t want to fuck it up.

When it finally ended, you walked back to your seat in the circle, your cheeks rosy, heart racing. Haley gave you a nudge and you giggled, your stomach filled with butterflies. The rest of the game went along with little fanfare, and once everyone was tired enough, the apartment cleared out even more, leaving just your roommates, Darcy’s boyfriend, and the turtles, who insisted on helping clean everything up. Well, it had been Leo’s idea, but the rest had agreed to stick around to help.

You volunteered to go out into the backyard to pick up all of the stray solo cups and White Claw cans. You hated litter. You worked out there alone for a bit. As you bent down to pick up the last can you heard the signature screech of the sliding door opening.

Raph squeezed through the narrow doorway, cursing his shell for making him so damn wide.

“Hey,” you said softly, tucking a piece of hair behind your ear. Your voice was almost swallowed up by the sounds of the choir of crickets outside.

“Hey.” He closed the sliding door. “Can we talk?”

“Yeah, of course.” You nodded, tying off the trash bag you were using to collect garbage. “How was your first college party?”

“It was great. Really, really great.” He said, taking slow steps through the grass towards you. “Um…I…did you mean what you said? Earlier.”

“What do you mean?”

“When you…was I really…” he laughed at the absurdity of it. “You think I’m hot?”

“I do.” You nodded. “Of course I do.”

“I’m sorry if I find that a little hard to believe.” He shook his head, stopping right in front of you. When he was standing in front of you like this, he was remined of just how big he was compared to you, just how much he towered over you. Just how different you were. “I’m just used to the opposite reaction.”

“Believe it.” You reached forward and took his hand in yours, gripping one of his giant green fingers.

“I’m trying to.” He chuckled and fiddled with your little hand, nervous. “You know, uh…that was my first kiss in there. I wasn’t too awful, was I?”

“I didn’t mean to steal your first one.” You laughed softly. “Sorry. But to answer your question, I thought it was perfect.”

“That’s a relief.” He was quiet for a moment, thinking. “Uh…If it’s alright with ya…I’d like to give you my second kiss, too.”

Instead of answering, you took another step closer, looking up, up, up into his piercing green eyes. “You’re gonna have to come down here; I can’t reach.”

He laughed. “Right.” Raph craned his neck down, one of his large hands tilting your face up towards his so he could meet you in the middle for another perfect kiss.

***

“What are you doing?” Leo asked Mikey, who was peering through the blinds into the back yard of the apartment.

Mikey only grinned proudly, nodding to himself. “Works every time…”

[spiltscribbles]

Oooo it’s my birthday today and I neeeeeed my sweet boys, is it too greedy if I ask for you to write something absolutely adores like you always do. I can wait there’s no rush. It would really make my day a whole lot better

~Notes: HI HI BABY!!! I’m so so fucking sorry this is like two days late 😭😭😭 I am a piece of shit and I had an idea and then I scrapped it and then I came up with this crack shit! But I included singling like you wanted!! And ILU endlessly!!! I hope your birthday was at least filled with sunlight and friends and all the adoration you deserve🎉🎉🎂🥳🎈🎈🎈🎊🎊🥳🎁. And I hope this isn’t a shitty gift!😭😭

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Send Me A Prompt<3  |  A Reblog is like a hug!!!!

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The 4 Times People Suspected About Remus and Sirius, and The One Time They Called It By Name

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~I~

Peter notices it first.

He doesn’t know quite what it is, or what it means— Peter doesn’t understand what it entails when he’s watching the way Sirius gently thumbs at a high patch on Remus’s cheek while he’s sleeping on the hospital bed after the first full moon of fourth year, a fraught look in his stormy eyes. Or how Remus’s gaze always search Sirius out first after he’s made a wry comment in the expense of the Slytherins, going alight with the other boy’s laughter. Peter doesn’t comprehend the way it sometimes seems like he’s caught in some sort of static— a negative space that makes him feel out of bounds— when he’s alone with only the pair of them. When they’re all huddled around the common area or their dormitory while James is probably skulking in search of Lily Evans or cajoling the other chasers to have another lap around the court. With Remus lounging on his fourposter, or the sofa, reading one of the infinite books he’s got tucked away in his trunk, and Sirius is quietly  sat by his feet, toying with a non-magical contraption he’s found in Muggle London after sneaking out from his ancestral home while his folks were having a row. And Peter is ordinarily just fiddling with a scroll he has to finish for one of the tougher courses from a bit away, intermittently  glancing at them side long, just waiting for an excuse to leave the suffocating ambiance that feels like it’s been fitted for just the pair of them and not another soul.

But the most peculiar part about all of this is that Peter is accustomed to feeling like the spare, the cast off who’s clinging to the glimmering forms that are James and Sirius, and their ravenous appetite for any and all attention that’s given over because that’s the sort of boys they are— affluent and prominent and radiating with a sort of spark that’s all there own— the sort of boys that others find doubtless that they are something miraculous. But when Peter’s around just the pair of them, in the corner of the galaxy that the marauders have carved for them to rule like kings— It never feels quite so stilted, so weighty. Sirius and James have a gift of making everyone in the room feel like they’re in on the joke, that they could be showered with that same granger just as long as they play in the tableau. Remus and Sirius together feels the contrary of that, like there’s something pregnant lying between them, waiting to pounce. Like there’s an understanding that no one else gets to glimpse at, and no one else should try. An understanding  that’s personal and private and crackling with an energy that is far beyond anything between mere friends, beyond anything Peter could fathom with all his fifteen years.

Idly, over supper after an entire two hours being stuck between that strange tension simmering beneath the surface of Remus and Sirius, Peter wonders for the umpteenth time on whether he should ask James about this development in their small brotherhood, should ask him if he’s detected the difference there. And if he has, Peter will listen to James’s plan to ensure this doesn’t ruin anything. How whatever is brewing under the surface won’t absolutely ruin them.

But then, from the corner of his eye, Peter sees Sirius— none to gently— piling Remus’s plate with an abundance of the potatoes that Moony likes best, dipping down to whisper something in his ear— something surely lecherous— before tousling his curls in that brash, bombastic way of his that he does with Peter and James too, even if he ends it by gingerly cupping the nape of Remus’s neck with a surreptitious squeeze that ends just as quickly as it began, falling back into conversation with James and Marlene about the Wasps’s chances against the Harpies this Friday night as if it was just an innate action, even if it’s one Peter’s only ever witnessed him doing to Remus.

And even though there’s another full in two days, and even though Remus looks like a walking inferi— pale faced and exhausted posture and circles the color of midnight smudged beneath his eyes— Peter watches the ends of his lips quirk up into the best approximation of a smile Peter’s ever seen on him so close to the wolf breaking through the surface of his body that’s all skin and bones, and he isn’t sure if it’s a trick of the light or not, but Remus actually looks like he might be glowing over the strange attention that Sirius’s only ever paid to him.

So no… No, Peter doesn’t think he’ll ask James quite yet, reckons that if anything can help his moon plagued friend, that it must be something good, something that shouldn’t be tempered with.

They can figure out how the strange string pulling Remus and Sirius together will alter their brotherhood later on, there’s still time. There’ still a possibility that it won’t devastate everything.

~II~

Lily’s suspected for a while.

The thing is that she’s known about Remus since the end of third year, when he rebuffed the advances of an eager Heleen  Abed, and Lily found him on the ledge of the largest window in the vacant common room— the same one that they regularly commandeer with Mary McDonald to discuss the finer points of Muggle politics and current events, separate from the melting pot of their Gryffindor class that’s composed of either pure bloods or those with their closest Muggle relative being a long dead grandparent. And it was definitely a dangerous, knife’s edge she was playing at, but Lily had sat besides the boy who she’s cultivated a real and true friendship with— one beyond pleasant platitudes and fodder about their course work— and she told him about her cousin Joey with green spiked hair and a mischievous smile adorned with a sparkling stud and how she and Petunia had caught him holding hands with one of his friends from sixth-form in the garden of her Aunt’s cottage, and how even the sneer on her older sisters lips hadn’t deterred Lily from thinking anything but mild indifference about the situation. Only wanting her cousin to always live in that easy effervescence she’s always known when it came to him.

And nothing else was exchanged between them, but Remus had grinned in that barely perceptible way of his, and Lily had nudged his shoulder with her own and then fished out her final handful of chocolate frogs for them to share while they revise their notes for the transfiguration exam coming up. 

Two summers have past since then—they’re in the midst  of their final term of fifth year now— and she thinks that they’ve become even closer, that the frequent late nights in the library for their impending OWLs and their countless prefect rounds has helped forge a real and true bond— especially that whole snag earlier in the year when they had realized they were both snogging Leon Bennett on alternating nights behind greenhouse three. But all of that withstanding, Lily knows that there are still secrets Remus keeps tight to his chest, ones that Lily’s analytical mind— the mind of a potions expert and future healer— has suspected to do with the thin, silvery scars running down his strong hands that are all tapered fingers and slender wrists, and another across his right bicep that she saw when he had changed his robes for a jumper in front of her, and the one cutting down from the bottom of his ear and nearly across the entire length of his neck, ending at the corner of his sharp collarbone. But Lily suspects he’ll tell her about that soon enough, what she isn’t so confident about is him admitting that particularly dazed look he gets when around Black, of all people. The way he stammers his words occasionally and the way he worries on his bottom lip while averting his glance when Sirius is chatting up a very pleased looking girl, and the way he flushes when Lily is ribbing about him in particular. And Lily knows that the foursome of Gryffindor boys had a falling out of sorts before winter hols, that there’s a hairline fracture between them and Remus now— one that she’s sure no one else can pick up on after the way they had seemingly come back together in late January, right before her birthday funnily enough. But Lily’s always been the analytical  sort— the sort to absorb the barebones of a situation so she could conjure a hypothesis that she could prove after careful study.

So Lily knows that it’s something deeper, and she can see  how Remus is reticent around them in ways she’s actually worried won’t be shaken off anytime soon— which is all levels of bazaar considering she’s been telling Remus for years that he needs to shrug off his rowdy mates like a snake shedding an old coat. But before, when she’d barb as much he’d only stick out his tongue and tell her what happens to busybodies, and how she doesn’t really know them at all. But now days, he just looks particularly hurt, and more than a bit put out, and Lily catches him flickering over to wherever Sirius was holding court, longing in a way she couldn’t possibly articulate out loud.

Honestly Lily thinks it’s really quite gracious of her to have dropped the subject completely, rather, she takes up the mantel of his friend that can distract him from all those sorts of woes, biting her tongue over his lingering feelings for Sirius that are more than likely far beyond a passing fancy. And she thinks that maybe that’s a good call, maybe it’s good for Remus to beat down those sorts of emotions  that he’s harboring for the wanker. She knows Remus, and she knows he wouldn’t hold a grudge— even such a quiet one— for no reason at all. Besides, she doesn’t really think it’s her place to tell him how when he’s glancing away, Sirius is holding vigil to him with that same sort of fervor. That Sirius is the one who collects the notes for all his classes on those conspicuous absences of his when Remus is feeling poorly in the infirmary. That Sirius occasionally looks so very gutted when Remus is wilting away from them, when he seeks Lily’s company instead.

She has a heavy suspicion that Remus might already know all of those things— that maybe they’ve already discussed it at length, that maybe the falling out in December has caused a full stop of anything that could’ve potentially blossomed between them. And she just wishes she knew the entire story so she could decide on whether she should be jinxing Black’s face to a putrid orange color, or pushing Remus to actually give him a chance.

Lily just wishes she could read Black as easily as she can Remus, maybe that would help in this experiment she’s testing, because for now she’s just confused as all hell over what exactly Black feels towards him. Well that is until it’s a fortnight before Remus’s birthday, and she’s being bodily dragged into a closet on her way to charms.

“Oi— What the bloody—“

“Language, Evans,” the annoyingly familiar baritone of Sirius Black tsks, lighting up the cupboard with his wand and smirking in that jagged way she’s heard countless girls tittering over, and the one that makes her want to pop him one right against his ridiculously smug face.

“Black,” she says, caustic as all get out with her fists clenched against her sides and her brows making a really resilient effort to meet in the middle. “You’ve got thirty seconds before I hex your bollocks off.”

“Pff, and Jamie thinks you’re some sort of saint.”

“Twenty-eight. Twenty-seven. Twenty-six.”

Sirius pulls a face at her, but must understand the credence in the words, because it’s not another moment more before he pulls out a bedraggled looking slip of paper from his robe’s pocket, and thrusts it at her face. So with an indignant huff, Lily opens it up and begins scanning the words— becoming all the more confused when she sees measurements and things like coco powder and melted butter, instead of whatever the hell else she was preparing herself to read.

“I’m being pranked, aren’t I? You’re trying to distract me so you and Potter can do something horrid to the Slytherin’s common room.”

“We’ve actually already done that today,” Sirius jeers, raising up his hands in concession with a cluck of the tongue at her scowling face. “’s from Moony’s mum, all right. I asked her to send me the recipe of this chocolate cake she use to make him for his birthdays before Hogwarts— I just thought… It might be nice is all, and you can sod right off if you look at me like that, Evans, with the soft eyes and all that rot. Are you going to help me or not?”

Lily resolutely ignores the pang to her heart, because God, this really is such a sweet gesture. “And what? you thought I could help you because I’m a bird?” She asks in the most scolding inflection she could muster in the face of this incredibly soppy gift he wants to give Remus.

“None of that, blimey, Evans.” Sirius snarls, obviously diffident, and combined with the faint flush to his cheeks, Lily suddenly realizes why he’s considered one of the best looking blokes in the entirety of their school. “There’s a whole load of Muggle mumbo jumbo, so it was between asking you, or McDonald, and I adore Mary and all, but  she has got such a mouth on her.”

“You should know,” Lily counters with a leer. “She couldn’t stop going on about your date back in October.”

Sirius’s brows hike, and he actually smiles at her— one that’s vacant from all his bravado from his upbringing in his pretentious, pure blood home, and one that isn’t trying to show off. And Lily can’t help but favoringly liken him to an excited pug. “Oh you’re wicked, Evans!” He shrills delightedly. “Oh this is great, you’re just as depraved as Remus, are all prefects like this?”

Lily snorts, shaking her head at him, indulgent. “Never mind that, Black. Most of this stuff can be found in the kitchens below, I’m sure the house elves won’t mind us borrowing anything.”

“And the ingredients that won’t be down their?” He asks worriedly.

“Well, good on you planning this so far ahead of time, we’ll just have to experiment.”

Sirius groans in retort, muttering things about Muggle potions and James thinking he’s getting off with his future wife and other ridiculous things that Lily doesn’t bother to stay and listen to. Though, when Remus’s birthday does roll around, and she sees his countenance go a thousand shades brighter as he bites into the pudding, and Sirius’s grin stretch just that much more across his face in response— their eyes meeting across the room and past the crowds— Well Lily suspects Sirius never really minded any of the things he was whinging on about, not at all, not as long as the result was a beaming Remus.

~III~

Regulus hears about it in the halls.

He’s not much for gossip or that sort of dribble, doesn’t have much patience for anyone outside his house if he’s being at all frank— and even then, it’s not as if he doesn’t frequently find himself escaping to his fourposter for a moment’s quiet. It seems that everyone in this bloody castle are just dimwitted, daft idiots, and Regulus’s never been the sort to offer allowances for that kind of behavior. He’s been raised in the home of a family as close to royalty as Wizards permit, a prince among men. And he was told that he should have patience for the dull folks beneath him, just as long as they have the correct ideals, but sometimes he can’t help but wish they would all just let him be, sometimes feels like he’s being carted around Hogwarts as the perfect pure blood,  like he was nine years old again and being shown off in the parlor of  his home when guests came to call, watching from the sidelines while his mother rave about how splendid of an heir Sirius is turning out to be. How his tutor calls him a genius for any age, and how darling he looks in Slytherin green, and how he’s already mastered three romance languages to help in his spell work. 

And Regulus can’t help but scoff at those contemplations now, thinking of the past summer when his dramatic and brash brother had made a whole production of leaving behind the values that gave him everything he has. How he escaped to that Potter git’s home the way he’s been doing for nearly every holiday since his second year, how he offered Regulus to come along as if he’s a trader just like him. What a risible excuse for an heir.

But Regulus won’t commit such follies, he’ll make his parents proud— even if his father is nearly never paying much mind and his mother goes from raving to sickly in a blink of an eye. It doesn’t matter, because he’ll carry on the Black legacy, something that his oh so perfect brother never could’ve done. Regulus is only a fifth year, will be turning sixteen in only two months after Sirius’s coming of age, and sure, this might mean he’s still young enough that the Death Eaters don’t find him adequate to fight on the line of fire, but he’ll do it eventually, feels the weight of the letter from Bellatrix praising him for as much resting heavy in his pocket. And if Regulus finds them all a bit too vicious or a bit too excitable and completely lacking a deft hand to make the changes they’re searching for, he shrugs it off. He knows what he must do, and as he stares at his brother from across the valley cusping the lake, he’s only that much more steadfast in the conviction of the fact.

Sirius is sitting and laughing with a group of his Gryffindor mates, the mudbloods, and blood traders that had warped him from the brother he knew to the stranger he is now. And there’s a dark skinned Ravenclaw bird— Meadowes if he remembers correctly from his prefect meetings— and she’s telling some sort of long winded tail with hand gestures and loud cackling coming from the group as she goes on. And Sirius is tossing around a quaffle with Potter— the glint of a handsome, silver watch on his wrist catching in the dying sunlight. And Regulus wonders who had gifted him such a personal passage to adulthood, but is soon distracted by spotting the way Sirius nearly gets smacked in the face with the ball because he was too busy gawking over  at Lupin in such a stripped down, cautious way that it makes Regulus squirm.

He doesn’t know much about the elder Prefect, only that his name had come up nearly as much as Potters during that first year when Sirius would send him correspondence on a frequent basis because he knew how lonely Regulus would get while stuck in Grimmauld all by himself. And then when he began attending Hogwarts, Regulus never could get a good reading on him. He knew Potter because of how his family is infamous for their liberal views and nouveau riche attitudes, and Pettigrews family owns a hokey herb shop in Diagon. All he’s found out about the Lupins is that his father is the son of half-bloods and his mother is a Muggle, and that this mudblood is a reserved, carefully aloof bugger, and that somehow he’s seemingly captured all of Sirius’s attentions that he’s not giving Potter or the clinger ons who follow him around like mindless fools. Beyond that, Lupin and Regulus have only traded a hand full of words whenever their roles of prefects would force them to intermingle, and it’s always been punctuated by Lupin giving Regulus a witheringly cold look anytime they were in close proximity, which is admittedly impressive considering that half the time the sickly bastard looks like he’s about ready to keel over.

So no, Regulus doesn’t know much about him, but he’s heard the rumors. He knows that it’s basically an open secret between the Gryffindor class and selected friends. The fact that  his brother is probably shagging the mudblood, convincing Regulus that Sirius really has never given a toss about the decorum and standards befalling them as the only two Black males of their generation. And he hates his brother  so scathingly right then, hates his little munblood lover probably even more. 

And when he watches Lupin straying his gaze from the novel he was reading while that red haired Muggle born was resting her head in his lap, and Regulus saw the way both of their expressions went a peculiar sort of tender— well that’s the last straw, so he stands up in a huff— so unlike himself— and he cuts the story Mulciber was crowing on about, and he tells them he needs to complete a scroll for Slughorn.

And while he prowls away from the sight of his brother continuing to ruin everything, Regulus plunges a hand into his pocket, and crunches Bellatrix’s letter in his grasp, promises himself to write her back soon, and ignores the ache in his chest that’s only been growing larger since Sirius had left permanently.

~IV~

James’s always known.

Perhaps that’s an over reach, but it’s true enough. He’s known for years, on some level, that the thing between Sirius and Remus is something completely foreign to him. Something completely separate from how Sirius licks his face when James is over sleeping and he wants to be a general nuisance. Separate from how he and Remus have begun discussing anything and everything in the wee hours of the morning, with a spot of tea between them and a blanket on their legs, because Remus can’t sleep from the moon and James has never been able to sleep through the whole night without feeling guilty over it. He thinks it stemmed from when he was younger, when his parents were feeling sickly, and before they were gifted a house elf by a family friend who recognized that the elderly Potters needed just a bit more assistance. 

James never knew whether it was obvious to him because he’s always considered Sirius as his bastard brother since Christmas of first year, and that he’s always trying to make sure that Remus is all right after finding out just how impressively the bloke can keep secrets once Sirius figured out his furry little problem. So he’s not sure what others know, or even what Remus and Sirius  know of what’s happening between them, honestly, there have been so many almosts that James has picked up on over the years. And he still shutters thinking about the near total break that happened with the prank, still isn’t quite sure what had past between them to get Sirius and Remus  speaking with each other once more, but he does know that Remus staying with James, Sirius, and  Peter the past summer after Sirius escaping the twisted place he was suppose to call a home, is what helped indefinitely. And now, a year separate from the prank, things finally feel normal between them.

Well— Erm, not normal per se. Those idiots are still blustering and bumbling and bashfully avoiding one another when anything close to romantic comes up in a discussion or when their hands touch over the Great Hall table or whenever James makes a pointed remark when he catches one of them staring a bit too slack jawed at the other in the midst of something totally bloody innocuous in the eyes of a normal person— EG: Sirius gathering his hair— that’s nearly to the bottom of his neck now a days— into a small knot on the back of his head, or Remus sucking idly on a sugar quill while he’s revising. And sure, James has to deal with the kicks at his ankles, or a spare jinx if one of them is especially pissy, but Lily’s come to join him in the ribbing, so it kind of makes everything all right. Especially when she levels her beautiful, forrest green eyes with his own brown ones, and she actually looks sort of endeared.

Yeah— that’s a fucking amazing feeling all right, and it’s probably the memory of that happening only a few hours ago that has got James all jittery now, far past midnight. So with a tired sigh, he slides open the drapes of his fourposter, is ready to go downstairs for a kitchen raid if Remus isn’t awake— Though once he sets his glasses on, and blinks a few times over to get acclimated with the dark, he’s only a bit stunned to find the shapes of Remus and Sirius crowded on the former’s bed— and they’re really not much more than suggestions beneath the shadows, but it’s enough for James to see Sirius’s head bent low, resting it against the crook of  Moony’s neck and shoulder, while the shorter boy has got his arms wrapped around Sirius’s torso. And it’s nothing obscene, not really— it’s not like they’re nude or anything— but Sirius is shirtless, and Remus does have this blissed out expression painted over his features, that James would bet good money is the same one Sirius has got on if most of his face wasn’t covered by his hair.

And in another breath, Remus’s honey colored eyes flap open, widening exponentially when he catches sight of James, and wiggling around as if he wants to move away from Sirius completely, which is of course stunted when Sirius makes a low noise under his breath, and presses closer so that his mouth is quite literally right against Remus’s neck, and his arms tug him closer.

And James is definitely convinced that he’s the best mate any bloke could ask for when instead of chuckling at the obvious show of territorialism, he just shakes his head indulgently at them, mouthing an “About time plonker,” to Remus, who replies in kind with a hefty, two fingered salute.

This time James has to bite down to prevent his chuckle from spilling out.

“And here I was, about to offer you a snack from our dear house elves.” He whispers, hopefully quiet enough so that only Remus could hear.

“Oh, just bugger off,” Remus retorts, smiling with such mirth that James can’t even feign to be affronted over it, only follows the playful command and tries figuring out just how to give the ‘If you hurt him I’ll hurt you’ talk to the pair of them without it coming across insincerely. 

~+I~

Millie was bored until she saw them.

The only reason why Millie got this boring job in this beyond posh restaurant is because her folks reckon that she needs to learn some form of responsibility before university, and she hates it. The pay is absolute shite, and most of her coworkers are all levels of boring, and the patrons are not nearly entertaining enough to try and make up some secret back story of tumultuous affairs or secret agents from the MI6, or a royal from some country on the continent meeting their star-crossed lover.

It’s all just painfully ordinary, and she’s cursing her parents while she chomps on her gum, reading some stupid note by an ugly old fart who left her his number on the receipt. 

Scoffing while she bins it, Millie glances over to the newly occupied table in her section, heart immediately leaping once she gets a good look at the pair of blokes sitting down. 

The sandy haired one is definitely cute in that reserved way her best friend Claire would definitely be mad over— the guy who could read you poetry in French or Italian and then gently kisses the back of your hand. And that’s all and well, but Millie’s every attention is laser focussed on his mate, the one that looks like he can be bloody James Bond with those smoldering eyes and that ink black hair, and God, those cheekbones! Definitely one of those beautiful, Public school boys who’s born and bread by the patrician. And while she takes their orders, she tosses him her most flattering of grins and slips in her giggle that an ex boyfriend compared to silver bells, and is sure to flip her long, chestnut hair enough times so he’d notice, even if she’s pretty sure he’s either pissed or probably more than a bit stoned. (Truly, where the bloody hell would he come up with pumpkin juice? How horrid must that taste). 

Millie may or may not spend an unreasonable amount of time spying at them from where the cooks drop off the completed plates to be sent away. He’s just so bloody good looking, and she can’t believe this awful job has finally brought her such an amazing distraction, and the arse doesn’t even pay her much mind, leaving the ordering and the conversing to his fair haired friend.

Maybe he’s sensitive, she thinks to herself. Maybe he’s just a shy soul. And yes, that must be it! The poor, beautiful sod. She’s sure to make her intentions clear next time she thinks it’s appropriate to top off their waters, because she’s so very  gracious like that.

“Enjoying yourselves?” Millie asks in her most light hearted of cadences, filling up the shorter one’s glass but smiling fully and exclusively to the boy who looks like he should be starring in some sort of Brook’s Brothers advert.

“Ta,” the sandy haired boy says, sounding a bit amused at her dilemma, but it’s kind enough so Millie doesn’t feel brassed off over it. “Do you mind pointing me to the loo?”

“Oh of course!” She crows, suddenly ecstatic as she directs him, finally getting a chance to be alone with the model. Though when she turns her attention to him once the other one leaves to take a leak, she’s kind of confused how he’s staring after him with a glance she vividly remembers on the face of her ex whenever she’d peer back around to ensure he was watching her go— Though, if Millie’s being honest, the model somehow looks simultaneously eager to watch the back of him, but also already disheartened not to have him around in ways she doubts anyone she’s ever gone out with has ever exhibited. “He’s a nice chap,” she states, instead of marinating on the strangeness of this development.

The practical model starts, seems to have forgotten about her presence all together, but then he glances over towards her with those impossibly flattering, pale gray eyes, and he nods disinterestedly. And yeah, yikes. That is a total hit to Millie’s ego.

“Ahem,” she clears her throat, begins twisting her free hand into the material of her apron. “’S nice you guys came for dinner, you don’t see much friends considering how bloody expensive it is here, hah.”

Millie feels herself going absolutely scarlet at the impassive way he drags his gaze up and down her form before taking a swig of his Bellini. “He’s not my friend.”

“Oh,” Millie practically squeaks out, suddenly wonders if maybe he’s a tutor from his class or something? Maybe the model is just taking the cute one out to dinner as a thanks for helping him pass his A-levels? Maybe this is considered cheap in the circles that the model keeps.

“’S our one year anniversary actually,” he tells her, still in that methodical, blasé way of his. And oh. Oh wow! Suddenly everything is snapping into clarity.

The way the two boys had brushed the back of their hands before being seated, how model had trusted the other boy to order for him, how model never looked away from the cute one’s mouth or collarbones or hands as they spoke. How whenever she came around to ask if they needed anything else, it felt like she was intruding on more than just a couple of mates catching up.

Oh Jesus, she feels like such an idiot, and Millie tells the model just as much.

“I’m sorry, I’m an idiot! I didn’t even put it together.”

Remarkably, the model’s rigid posture goes a bit loose at her apology, and the corner of his thin lips quirk up into a grin. “’S fine, he didn’t want to make a fuss out of it, but yeah— Just feels good telling someone.”

Millie nods eagerly, she can’t understand exactly what he means, obviously not,  but she can definitely try to, and if it feels good for him to tell a random bird about something so important, then she’s more than happy to help. “Well the point stands, yeah? He seems like a good sort, you’re lucky to have found each other.”

The model’s grin goes elastic at that, and he looks actually approachable for the first time tonight. “I’m the luckiest bloke in the world that I get to be with him.”

Millie flushes at the intensity embedded into his statement, but thankfully doesn’t have to answer when she hears the sandy haired boy walking closer now, smiling so brightly that there’s a dimple popping up on the apple of his cheek that Millie’s only just noticed— The mirth is a good color on him, she reckons. Makes him look as gorgeous as those boys on the telly dramas her Mum is always gushing about, even his eyes turn more golden than light brown. “You pestering our waitress Padfoot?”

“You know I keep my devilish tongue for you and you alone Moonbeam,” the model—Padfoot cannot be his actual name for heaven’s sake— retorts.

“Lucky me,” the sandy haired boy says wryly as he takes a seat, and while Millie walks away— intending to get them a pudding that’s on the house to celebrate the milestone of their relationship— she peers back around only once and it’s enough to see the tips of their fingers kissing across the table, and their smiles looking like a secret language not meant for anyone else to read. 

.-

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