#Flyer hanging advertising

[creativeadagencyadzze]

Exploring the Power of Flyer Hanging Advertising

As businesses strive to reach their target audience and stand out in a crowded marketplace, they are constantly exploring creative avenues for promotion. One such avenue that has gained momentum in recent years is flyer hanging advertising. This unique marketing strategy offers a fresh approach to connecting with potential customers and can yield remarkable results. In this blog post, we'll delve into the world of flyer hanging advertising and why you should consider it as a valuable addition to your marketing arsenal.

What Is Flyer Hanging Advertising?

Flyer hanging advertising is a marketing method that involves the distribution of customized flyers or promotional materials in strategic locations where your target audience frequents. Unlike traditional advertising, which can often be costly and less focused, flyer hanging allows you to directly engage with potential customers by placing your message right in their path.

The Advantages of Flyer Hanging Advertising

Tangible Impact: Unlike digital advertising, flyer hanging provides a tangible experience for your audience. When people encounter a well-designed flyer, they can touch it, read it, and keep it for later reference, making your message more memorable.

Cost-Effective: Flyer hanging is a budget-friendly marketing strategy, especially when compared to expensive TV or radio ads. It allows small and medium-sized businesses to reach a wide audience without breaking the bank.

Targeted Outreach: With flyer hanging, you have the ability to pinpoint specific locations or events where your ideal customers are likely to be. This precision targeting ensures that your message reaches those who are most interested in your products or services.

Freedom for Creativity: Flyers provide an open canvas for your imagination. You have the flexibility to create attention-grabbing visuals and craft compelling messages that strike a chord with your intended audience, effectively conveying your brand's distinctive selling propositions.

Measurable Results: Many flyer hanging campaigns can be tracked and measured. This means you can assess the effectiveness of your efforts, allowing you to fine-tune your strategies for better results in the future.

Implementing a Successful Flyer Hanging Advertising Campaign

Define Your Goals: Start by setting clear objectives for your campaign. Whether it's promoting a special offer, announcing an event, or simply increasing brand awareness, knowing your goals will guide your strategy.

Design Captivating Flyers: Invest in high-quality design and content creation for your flyers. Ensure that they are visually appealing and contain compelling information that encourages action.

Selecting Strategic Locations: Determine the spots where your target audience congregates or visits regularly, such as local businesses, community centers, or event venues. Ensure to obtain any required permissions as needed.

Timing Matters: Consider when and where your flyers will have the most impact. Timing your distribution to coincide with events or seasons that align with your campaign can be highly effective.

Monitor and Adjust: Regularly assess the performance of your flyer hanging advertising campaign. Use the data you gather to make necessary adjustments and optimize your future efforts.

Conclusion

Flyer hanging advertising is a dynamic and cost-effective way to connect with your target audience on a personal level. By harnessing the power of tangible marketing materials and creative messaging, you can make a lasting impression and drive customer engagement. If you're looking for a versatile marketing strategy that delivers results, flyer hanging advertising is a game-changer worth considering for your business. Don't miss the opportunity to connect with your audience in a meaningful way—get started with flyer hanging advertising today!

[thestuffedalligator]

I read Fat Face by Michael Shea last month and it was. Fine? It was a Cthulhu Mythos story written in the 80s, it was very edgy and it had a lot of tropes I’m not a fan of, I don’t really recommend it, but I have to talk about one detail I have not stopped thinking about since I read it.

So. I knew Fat Face through reputation because it was the story that inspired Shoggoth Lords from the Call of Cthulhu TTRPG, shoggoths that can control their cellular makeup to look like humans. And the twist in Fat Face is that shoggoths have been hiding amongst humans in Los Angeles, and at the end of the story one of them eats the protagonist.

The tone of the story is grit. It’s grime. It’s sleaze and sexual violence and drug abuse on top of cosmic horror. It wants to be taken seriously so bad.

But here’s the thing about the shoggoths: they have a business.

They have two businesses they run out of an office building in downtown Los Angeles. A shoggoth is a primordial blob of eyes and mouths and flesh and hunger, and the idea of one of them at the LA Office of Finance registering an LLC is already. Great. Perfect. No notes.

The business is a front — and again, that’s great, a shoggoth went, “I want to do some nefarious deeds and not get caught by humans; I know, I’ll register a fake business that’ll be a front, and no human will ever suspect” — because the actual interior of this office is a room of pools of water made from black and ancient Antarctic rocks so that shoggoths can relax in their original blobby forms and eat stray animals that they’ve caught.

So it’s basically just. A place for shoggoths to unwind after a long day of pretending to be human. It’s portrayed as cosmic horror, but it’s shoggoth Cheers. Sometimes you wanna go where nobody knows your shape.

Here’s the kicker. The front of the business is a hydrotherapy clinic and stray pet rescue.

When they decided to make a front for their secret lair in an LA office building where they hang out in pools of water and eat stray animals — the front they prominently display and advertise — they decided to go with a hydrotherapy clinic and stray pet rescue.

That is Goosebumps shit. The rest of the story reads like a tone poem about the sleaze and violence of Los Angeles, and the main twist of the story reads like R.L. Stine.

But that’s not even the detail I can’t stop thinking about. Because the story reveals that this business — which again, is a front made by alien blobs to eat stray animals like an ALF-themed buffet and hang out in jacuzzi tubs of Antarctic rocks in an LA office — has a flyer.

Which means there’s a shoggoth with a passion for graphic design

[doormatty3]

Pushing Further (Josh Lambert x Reader)

Masterlist Ao3

Summary:

[Josh Lambert x Female Reader] [Josh Lambert x You] There is nothing more stressful than moving day - the campus is packed with freshmen and their parents. And you just want some peace and quiet. However, amidst the tumult, a tall, broad, and handsome man grabs your attention that is until he sends you sprawling to the floor. Annoyed you go on with your life and meet Dalton who you soon befriend. When you find out that the stranger is his father - you're doomed. Josh Lambert is everything you want in a man but there are reasons why you should not give in: He's almost two decades your senior, divorced and most importantly your friend's dad So you go out of your way to avoid him and walk the tightrope between attraction and avoidance. That doesn't make him any less hot though - even more when you discover that the attraction is mutual. OR: And they were friends - except you fucked his dad.

Wordcount: 7,134

Warnings: 18+, fingering, unprotected sex, creampie, breeding, semi-public sex, vaginal sex, smut, dirty talk, older man/ younger woman, daddy issues

A/N: There is a criminally small amount of Josh Lambert ffs, so I decided to change that

ALSO: Insidious 5 plot (Josh Lambert) >>>>

You hate move-in day. 

The college campus swirls with a kaleidoscope of emotions. Freshmen, wide-eyed and eager, navigate through the labyrinth of unfamiliar buildings, their parents hovering nearby, taking in the scenery, a mix of pride and reluctance in their gaze as they prepare to part with their newly-minted scholars.

The sun bathes the bustling scene in its warm rays, transforming the campus into a vibrant panorama. The old grey stone building looms tall and resolute against the canvas of the sky. It wears the patina of years with a dignified charm, its weathered facade a testament to the countless stories etched into its walls.

As you observe this annual rite of passage, a sense of nostalgia mingles with a tinge of wistfulness. Your own move-in day, with its mix of excitement and trepidation, feels like a distant reverie. Now a senior, the campus teeming with eager newcomers stirs conflicting emotions. The excitement and youthful energy are heartening, yet the multitude of people and the bustling activity feel almost too much, too overwhelming.

You sit at a secluded spot beneath the sprawling canopy of one of the many trees that grace the campus. From this vantage point, you observe the ebb and flow of people, hesitant to venture into the dorms that will surely be crowded.

The leaves above gently rustle in the breeze as you sit, absorbing the sights and sounds of the day. 

Your attention is drawn to a cluster of fellow students distributing flyers, unmistakably advertising a fraternity event that you have never attended and will never attend - the frat boys just creep you out. Self-assured and arrogant has never been your type to hang out with.

However, amidst the lively scene, your gaze lingers on a lanky young man strolling by, seemingly impervious to the flyers being thrust into the hands of passersby. 

Artist, you think. Everything about him just extrudes an artistic flair and you’re sure that your assumption would be right if you were to ask him.

You watch him stride away from the frat boys and you can’t help but think that he made a good choice by not interacting with them.

Your attention shifts from the bustling crowd to the presence of a man making his way down the path. Intrigued, you furrow your brow, momentarily curious about whose father he is. Your eyes linger on him, drawn by a magnetic quality.

As he walks, you find it hard not to notice his striking appearance. Despite the rough edges, there’s a rugged handsomeness about him. He is tall, with broad shoulders and his short, wispy light brown hair catches the sunlight, adding a subtle sparkle to his presence. A scruffy stubble grazes his face, enhancing that rugged charm.

Your gaze can’t help but follow the flex of his muscles as he carries a considerable amount of stuff for his child. The hot summer day is a blessing, you think, since it prompted him to don a tight polo shirt and shorts. You silently appreciate the view - the way his biceps and triceps tense with each step, and the way the shirt accentuates the breadth of his shoulders and chest.

Silently observing, you witness him engaging in conversation with the fraternity members, taking one of their flyers, presumably for his child. You can see him being a frat boy in his younger years - he certainly has the looks. 

As he walks away, the flyer securely in his grasp, your eyes remain fixed on him. The contrast between his mature, composed stature and the frat boys is striking. His steps are deliberate, and everything about his presence seems secure and strong.

Your tongue darts out to wet your lips as you watch him and you’re somewhat surprised - even if also glad - that he doesn’t acknowledge your burning gaze since you’re practically undressing him.

Part of you hopes that you’ll see him more often on the campus and that that won’t be the last time your paths cross - maybe you’ll be able to strike up a conversation with him.

Your gaze lingers in the direction where the broad man disappeared and you find yourself momentarily lost. The vibrant energy of those who come after him seems to pale in comparison, they fail to capture your interest and it begins to feel boring.

With a sigh, you stretch your limbs, the pull of your muscles urging you to stand up. The prospect of a quieter atmosphere within the dorms becomes increasingly tempting, and hope that the flow of people there will have dulled. 

_____

Rounding the corner and approaching your dorm, you eagerly open the door, hoping for a reprieve from the bustling crowds. However, your optimism is quickly diminished as you find the space still densely packed with a mix of eager freshmen, parents, and the occasional irritated senior, annoyed at the number of people - a hive of activity and a melting pot of an array of voices.

Undeterred, you press forward, determined to make your way to your room despite the persistent throng. 

Navigating through the diverse sea of faces you make your way down the corridor. The air is charged with a blend of anticipation, familial warmth, and a touch of exasperation from those who had hoped for a quieter return to their familiar living spaces.

The sounds of conversations, laughter, and occasional sighs create a lively symphony that fills the air, providing a vivid backdrop to the varied emotions playing out in the cramped dormitory corridor. 

Turning another corner, your curiosity is piqued, and you slow your pace to observe the activity around you. As you walk past a series of doors, your attention is drawn to the scenes unfolding in each room - freshmen unpacking with enthusiasm and parents offering last-minute advice.

Lost in this observational moment, you’re caught off guard as someone collides with you, sending you sprawling to the floor suddenly. A breath escapes you and you blink disoriented.

In the abrupt stillness that follows, you glance up to see the source of the collision, and to your surprise, it’s the handsome man from earlier. In the fleeting seconds your eyes lock, and you notice the striking shade of blue in his gaze and the sadness that seems to emanate from him.

Rather than offering a hand to help you up, he mumbles a quick apology and resumes his stride without missing a beat. A sense of frustration flares within you - as handsome as he is, his manners are clearly lacking.

Arsehole, you think as. you gather yourself from the floor with a shake of your head.

The brief encounter leaves you with a mix of bewilderment and a lingering sense of irritation as you make your way to your room.

______

Professor Armagan’s voice reverberates through the expansive art studio, commanding the attention of her assembled freshman class as she introduces you. 

“Today, I want you to meet one of our seniors—she’s really gifted, and it’s important to me that you get to know more students of mine,“ she declares, her enthusiasm evident in the cadence of her words.

You raise your hand in acknowledgement, a subtle greeting to the newcomers, and take a moment to let your eyes wander across the room. The art studio, a sanctuary of creativity, is filled with eager faces, each potentially harbouring a unique artistic voice.

As your gaze travels through the room, you spot the lanky boy from the first day. 

Ha, I knew it, a quiet sense of validation washes over you - your intuition about him being an artist appears spot-on and judging by the strokes on his canvas, a talented one at that.

The lesson unfolds with a straightforward tempo, and your role is mainly confined to sharing insights about the college and providing a glimpse into how art functions in Professor Armagan’s class. The information is delivered efficiently, and you find yourself relieved as the session concludes.

“Hi, I’m Dalton,“ the lanky boy strides up to you, extending a hand in greeting.

You reciprocate with a friendly smile, taking his hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Dalton,“ 

As your eyes fall upon Dalton’s pencil drawing, you can’t help but offer a genuine compliment. “Wow, this is really good. You’ve got some serious talent,“ you remark, appreciating the skill evident in his work.

Dalton’s face lights up with a grateful smile. “Thanks, I appreciate that,“ he replies, the sincerity in his tone confirming your initial impression of him as a genuinely nice individual, and you find yourself thinking that Dalton is the kind of person you could see yourself being friends with. 

“You have to work on your disguise though - I could tell from a mile away that you chose the art program and was just wondering whether you made it to her class,“ with a playful grin, you jest to Dalton.

Dalton chuckles at your remark, and there’s a warmth in his response, “Yeah, I guess it’s pretty obvious, huh? Can’t hide the artist in me, I suppose.“

As you both exit the art studio together, the door softly closes behind you, the ambient sounds of the campus filling the air. The sunlight casts a warm glow over the pathway as you begin to make your way through the bustling campus, the occasional laughter and conversations of students blending into the lively background.

Turning to Dalton, you initiate a conversation about his college experience so far. 

“So, how are you finding college so far? How’s it treating you?“ you inquire, a casual smile accompanying your words.

Dalton reflects, “It’s been an interesting ride. Meeting new people, navigating through classes, and, of course, diving into the art program. It’s everything I hoped for, honestly.“

The two of you continue to stroll, the campus unfolds around you. 

Dalton shares more about his classes and the artistic projects he’s eager to explore, and you reciprocate with your own anecdotes.

Continuing your conversation, you find a natural segue to inquire about Dalton’s residence on campus. “By the way, which dorm are you in?“ you ask curiously with a casual tone.

Dalton smiles, “Oh, I’m in the last one down the path. How about you?“

As he reveals his dormitory, you can’t help but feel a spark of excitement. “No way! Me too,“ you respond, a genuine grin spreading across your face.

Dalton’s eyes light up with joy, and you pick up on the enthusiasm that suggests he might not have a large circle of friends. 

He suggests, “We should totally hang out sometime. And you’ve got to meet my roommate, Chris – she’s really cool.“

You quirk an eyebrow and playfully tease Dalton, “Rooming with a girl, huh? The administration must have a wild sense of humour.“

Dalton chuckles, “Yeah, it was a bit of a surprise for both of us. Chris is fine, though. We make it work.“

You share a laugh, the notion of unexpected room assignments becoming a shared source of amusement. “Well, I’m definitely looking forward to meeting this mysterious Chris. Maybe the three of us could grab a coffee or something,“ you suggest, already envisioning potential hangout sessions.

Dalton’s eyes light up with genuine enthusiasm. “That sounds awesome! Chris will love it. She’s been itching to make some new friends around here.“

“How about this? There’s this amazing little coffee shop I’ve been a regular at since my first year here. It’s got this cosy vibe, and I think you and Chris would really enjoy it,“ you suggest, your enthusiasm echoing through your words.

Dalton’s eyes light up even more, his excitement matching yours. “That sounds awesome! I’m in, and I’m sure Chris will love it too.“

As you and Dalton walk through the dormitory halls, he suddenly comes to a stop and points to a door. “This is my room,“ he says with an appreciative smile, gratitude evident in his eyes.

You return the smile and quip, “Well, look at that! I guess I’ve been on the unofficial welcome committee. My room’s just further down the hall.“

Dalton laughs, appreciating the light-hearted exchange. “Thanks for walking with me. Do you wanna stop by tomorrow? I’d introduce you to Chris and we can get that coffee?“

“Absolutely, sounds like a plan,“ you respond. “See you tomorrow, dude,“ you add with a nod and a parting wave, continuing down the hall to your own room.

_____

The next day, you make your way to Dalton and Chris’s room, thankful to do something today. The familiar dormitory halls lead you to their door, and you give a light knock before it swings open.

Dalton greets you with a welcoming smile. “Hey! Glad you could make it. This is Chris,“ he introduces, gesturing towards a short, black girl with braided hair, vibrant clothes, and a warm smile.

“Nice to meet you! Dalton’s mentioned you,“ Chris says and extends her hand, you grab it and shake it.

Upon entering the room, your eyes are immediately drawn to Dalton’s paintings adorning the walls. “These are really nice,“ you remark, genuinely appreciating the artistic talent displayed.

Dalton beams with gratitude. “Thanks,“ he responds, a hint of pride in his voice.

As the three of you settle into conversation, you decide to delve into a bit of small talk. “So, Chris, do you also major in art?“ you inquire, curious about her academic pursuits.

Chris chuckles, her demeanour warm and friendly. “Nope, not at all. I’m actually a math major. Total left brain-right brain dynamic we’ve got going on here,“ she says with a playful twinkle in her eye.

As the conversation flows, a sudden knock interrupts the camaraderie. Chris and Dalton exchange confused glances, both wearing expressions of mild bewilderment. “Were you expecting someone?“ Chris asks, looking at Dalton.

Dalton shakes his head, equally puzzled. “No, I have no idea. Were you?“

“Nah,“ Chris mirrors the headshake.

The room falls into a brief silence as Dalton opens the door, revealing a man standing on the threshold. Dalton’s confusion is palpable as he utters, “Dad?“

A breath hitches in your throat as recognition sets in. It’s him - the handsome man from your first day, the same person who unintentionally sent you sprawling to the floor and didn’t have the decency to help you up. The lingering ache in your hip serves as a constant reminder of that memorable encounter.

“Hey. Sorry for the surprise visit. I was in the area and thought I’d drop by and talk to Dalton,“ he says, his eyes widening a bit as they lock onto yours. Recognition flickers across his face. “I’m Josh, by the way.“

Holding his gaze, you find yourself momentarily captivated, drinking in the details like a starved soul. His blue eyes, once a passing detail, now reveal a depth that draws you in. The slight curl of his hair at the nape of his neck and around his ears adds a touch of casual charm, accentuated by the scruff of his beard that now appears more prominent. Your gaze appreciatively lingers on the nuances, savouring the details.

Your appreciative gaze shifts downward, taking in the way his dark blue, tight dress jacket with rolled-up sleeves complements the form-fitting light blue t-shirt beneath. The fabric spans deliciously over his broad shoulders, chest, and the little tummy he has, accentuating his physique effortlessly. It makes you want to be under him, your bodies pressed together while he thrusts inside you, holding you tightly with his strong body - you’re sure that he’s soft in just the right places while being muscular and powerful.

The spell of fascination is abruptly broken as Chris, standing next to you, coughs purposefully to snap you out of your trance. The sudden interruption startles both you and Josh and you tear your eyes away from him. 

You can’t shake the feeling that the attraction is not one-sided. Josh’s lingering gaze and the subtle shift in his expression suggest that he, too, was captivated.

The realization that the attraction might be mutual, even in this unexpected and somewhat inappropriate context, leaves a tinge of discomfort. Josh is not just a stranger; he’s Dalton’s dad, Dalton who is your friend. You silently hope that Dalton didn’t pick up on it. 

Meeting Dalton’s gaze, you instantly sense that hope is futile - his raised eyebrow speaks volumes,

Josh clears his throat and his tongue darts out to wet his lips, your eyes involuntarily follow the movement, captivated by the subtle gestures. 

For a brief moment, you indulge in the thought of his lips on yours, and his tongue on you. You wonder, if the stubble would scratch you, leaving marks on your skin so you could remember and feel him days later.

“Well, I should get going—I didn’t want to interrupt you,“ Josh says, directing his gaze at you again. “It was nice to meet you.“

As Josh offers a tight-lipped smile and exits the room. Once he’s gone, both Dalton and Chris turn their attention toward you.

“What was that?“ Chris’s inquiry comes with a hint of humour.

“Could you not undress him with your eyes next time - he’s my dad,“ Dalton says to you and you feel your cheeks heating up.

“I’m sorry, man,“ you mumble, a tinge of embarrassment colouring your words, “It isn’t my fault he’s hot.“

_____

The next time you encounter him, you’re on your way to your dorm as Josh is just leaving.

“Hey, Josh,“ you greet him with a bright smile.

He responds with a big, bright, and goofy grin etched on his handsome face. You can’t help but think that he looks good when he smiles. 

“Hey, it’s nice to see you again,“ he greets you, his eyes sweeping over your form, lingering longer on the neckline of your tight shirt than is appropriate. 

“I’m sorry for running you over when he first met,“ he starts, scratching over the hair on the back of his head, “ Or at least just walking away and not helping you up again.“

You reach out to place a reassuring hand on the skin of his arm. Intending for it to be a featherlight, brief touch, as soon as your fingertips trace over his arm, it feels like electricity is being passed through you. 

Josh, in response to the touch, swallows heavily, his Adam’s apple bobbing in a visible display of tension. Instead of pulling away, he surprises both of you by taking your hand in his. Intertwining your fingers, he begins to rub soothing circles over the back of your hand with his thumb.

You notice the size of his hands—big and fitting for a man of his stature.

At that moment, it feels as though time stands still. Both of you just stand there, locked in a gaze, drinking in each other’s presence. 

As he moves a bit closer, you become acutely aware of him, and his scent engulfs you like a private cocoon. It’s uniquely him - a blend of cologne and something inherently Josh. The cologne carries a woody fragrance, specifically dry wood, with nuanced undertones of sandalwood and amber.

The sun casts shadows on his face and accentuates the contours of his features. You observe that the short beard framing his face is threaded with salt-and-pepper hair. The interplay of light and shadows makes him more than just attractive—it renders him captivating. 

His blue eyes, sparkling in the sunlight, reveal a depth that draws you in. They are akin to fire in water, reflecting a passionate intensity that burns within the warm sun-lit undercurrents of his gaze. 

The healthy shine of his hair catches your attention, and you can’t help but notice the vibrancy it adds to his overall appearance. Your fingers itch to push the wayward locks behind his ear again, to feel if it is as soft as it looks.

The enchanting moment is abruptly shattered as someone carelessly bumps into you, jolting you out of the reverie. In the sudden disturbance, Josh releases your hand.

“I-,“ he clears his throat, the remnants of the charged moment still lingering, “should get going.“

There’s a palpable pause, a shared awareness of the disrupted connection. At that moment, you sense that he, too, is affected by the sudden intrusion into the private bubble you unintentionally created. The unspoken understanding between you deepens, and as he looks at you with an intensity that mirrors your own feelings, you find yourself nodding in agreement.

As Josh begins to move away, you’re left standing there, your gaze fixed on him. Your eyes trail along his departing figure, captivated by the sight of his muscular back.

_____

The inappropriate thoughts about Josh weigh heavily on your conscience, creating a turbulent storm of emotions within you that refuses to settle.  Part of you acknowledges the relief of not having seen him in quite some time, while another part feels a twinge of sadness - There’s an undeniable sense of loss or longing; you want to see him again. 

But you cherish your friendship with Dalton and don’t want to jeopardise it. It feels like you walk on a tightrope between desire and loyalty, especially because you’re fairly certain that this perpetual tension will snap at some point. So you find yourself consciously avoiding Dalton and Chris’s room. The fear of running into his handsome father fuels you, in particular, because he seems to make frequent visits - and the question lingers in the front of your mind: does he purposefully stop by so often, driven by a desire to see you?

Your gaze drifts around your dorm room, and you spot a sketchbook that isn’t yours. A moment of realization hits you like a sudden jolt—shit, that’s Dalton’s. He’s forgotten it again.

With the certainty that both Dalton and Chris are currently in class, you entertain the idea of stopping by to return the forgotten sketchbook. The timing seems opportune—no risk of encountering them, and by extension, no chance of a surprise visit from Josh, Dalton’s father.

The thought forms a plan in your mind, and you decide to seize the moment. The dormitory halls echo with quiet solitude as you make your way to Dalton and Chris’s room.

The door swings open, and to your surprise, the room isn’t as empty as you expected. There, standing in the middle of the room is Josh,

Time seems to slow as you lock eyes with him, and an involuntary thought escapes your mind— Jesus, your memories really didn’t do his handsomeness justice.

You find yourself taking in the details—the way the room frames him, the play of light accentuating the contours of his features, and the way his presence seems to fill the space.

All the subtle nuances of his appearance, from the slightly tousled hair to the hint of scruff on his jaw, draw your attention. His blue eyes, usually a captivating shade, seem to shine darker than normal, adding a layer of intensity to the moment.

“I didn’t expect you here,“ the words escape your mouth, almost breathlessly, and you curse the involuntary reaction you have to Josh.

Instead of responding immediately, he looks you over, his gaze lingering on your form. Then, he opens his mouth and says, “You’ve been avoiding me.“ 

It’s not a question; it’s a statement, and it holds a truth you can’t deny. You have been avoiding him, but it’s more about not trusting yourself in his presence than anything else.

As you remain silent, Josh takes a step closer, closing the distance between you. His hand lands on the wood of the door, near your head, applying gentle pressure. The muscles in his chest and arms tense as he leans against the door, closing it with a quiet click. 

Instead of moving away, he keeps standing there, effectively boxing you in between the door and his body.

He maintains an unbroken gaze on you, his eyes locked onto yours. The close proximity allows you to observe the intricate details of his eyes. They are not uniformly blue; instead, there’s a fascinating interplay of shades. A ring of light blue delicately encircles the pupil, creating a mesmerizing gradient with the darker blue that surrounds it. The hues blend seamlessly, forming a captivating dance of colours within the confines of his gaze.

The fragile silence hangs in the air, and a subtle fear lingers—fear that any spoken word or sudden movement might shatter the enchanting spell woven between you and Josh. In the cocoon of quietude, you choose to remain still, each heartbeat echoing in the confined space, cautious not to disrupt the delicate equilibrium of the moment. 

You can’t help but feel lazy arousal starting to pool through your veins, fueled by Josh.

“Tell me to stop,“ Josh speaks, his words almost a whisper, “tell me to walk away.“

The quiet plea hangs in the air, revealing the internal struggle he faces. He’s your friend’s dad, divorced, and almost two decades your senior—valid reasons to resist the magnetic pull drawing you both in. Yet, in this charged moment, those rational arguments seem to lose their significance in the haze of him that clouds your thoughts. 

Your eyes flicker to his lips, and as quietly as he had spoken, you finally respond, “Kiss me.“

And so he does. 

Josh’s lips descend to yours, capturing you in a kiss that feels both urgent and consuming. His warm hand gently cups your cheek, adding a tender touch to the intensity of the moment. It’s a kiss that feels like an act of hunger as if he’s been starved and you are the only remedy to satiate it.

Your hands find their way to his strong shoulders, instinctively pulling him closer as you reciprocate the kiss. The texture of his lips against yours becomes a tactile language, each brush and press conveying a depth of emotion words might fall short of capturing. You feel his stubble scrape over your skin. The taste of his kiss is a fusion of want and need, a shared desire that resonates between you, eclipsing any reservations that linger in the back of your mind. 

Josh breaks the kiss, and both of you are left breathless. “Fuck, you have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that,“ he confesses, his voice laden with a mixture of desire and relief.

He starts leaving open-mouthed kisses along your jawline, and you laugh quietly in response. “Well, I have an idea,“ you playfully remark and reminisce of when you first met him - you wanted to do that since then. 

“Yeah, tell me,“ Josh smiles, his hand finding its way into your hair, tightening its grip. He is looking directly into your eyes smouldering blue burning into you as he leans down to bite into your bottom lip lightly.

“Josh,“ was all you managed to say in a breathy voice.

His lips move to your jaw, leaving soft kisses and sucking a mark into the soft skin of your neck, letting his teeth nip over the spot before moving on. You let out a moan and dig your fingers into his shoulders, before loosening your hold and roaming his whole back. You feel the strength of his muscles between your hands as well as the heat he emanates. 

Not being able to contain yourself, you are desperate for some skin so you lift up the hem of his shirt and slip your hands under it, feeling his skin. 

With a groan Josh presses his hips into yours, making you feel the hardness of the erection he is sporting. You grind against it as you feel your heart beating fast in your chest.

Josh pulls back, his eyes dark and glinting with arousal. 

He slips his thick fingers under the thin straps of your dress and pulls them over your shoulders, leaving burning pathways in the wake of his touch. At that moment, you’re so glad you decided to wear a dress. And you second that again, when he tucks down the upper part of your dress, exposing your breasts to his nimble fingers and hungry eyes.

Almost instantly his hands find their way to your tits and you groan when he rubs the pad of his thumb over your nipple. 

Josh takes his sweet time exploring you and finding out which sound he can wring from you by just his hands touching your chest. Deliberately, he flicks his forefinger against the hardened bud before capturing it between two fingers, rolling and tugging on it.

His lips skate over your collarbones, nibbling and sucking leaving more marks in his wake. 

Something shortcircuits in your brain when you notice how his hands span over your ribs, making you feel fragile beneath him. And in that moment you want nothing more than for him to just lift you and impale you on him, manipulate you to his liking until the only thing you can remember is his name. 

You hook your fingers in the belt loops of his jeans, pulling his hips against yours, wishing that he wasn’t wearing anything. You feel the hardness of his cock pressed against your belly as you grind down on him. 

When his lips and fingers leave your skin you almost whine at the loss of contact but Josh wraps an arm around your back, pulling you flush against his thick frame before covering your mouth with his own again, possessing you.

He presses one of those strong thighs between your legs, pressing it against your clothed cunt, locking you against the wood of the door again. Without a coherent thought, you moan into his mouth as the rough fabric of his jeans rubs over your wet pussy.

Frantic your hands undo the belt and open his jeans, pushing it down, before tugging on his shirt, desperate for more skin. Josh takes pity on your frazzled attempts and takes off his shirt, pulling it over his head as well as letting his jeans fall to the floor with a quiet thud. 

His skin is damp, a thin sheen of sweat giving it a dewy glow that catches the light of the room. Your eyes trace over him appreciatively, taking in the details that make him undeniably attractive as he just watches you with dark, hooded eyes. 

The rise and fall of his chest, accompanied by a scattering of sparse chest hair, draws your eyes. Your gaze lingers on the muscles that play beneath the softness of his belly. In this moment, you find that he is a perfect harmonious mix between being ripped and soft.

Driven by a need to touch - to feel - him your fingers trace a delicate path across Josh’s chest, shoulders, and belly, exploring the terrain of his skin with a gentle curiosity. 

As your fingertips navigate the expanse of his chest, you feel his breath and breathing heart, a subtle rhythm syncing with the beating of your own heart. The transition to his shoulders unveils the sinewy strength that lies beneath, a testament to the physicality that drew you in. Moving lower, your touch encounters the softness of his belly, tracing the trail of hair that leads into his briefs. 

Without warning you cup his hard cock that’s straining against the fabric of his underwear, making him groan, a deep sound that reverberates through his chest. 

Josh wraps his arms around you, lifting you up as he dips his head to kiss you. He bites your lip, the sharp nip of his teeth making you whimper into his mouth. His fingers dig into the soft flesh of your ass as he carries you, prompting you to wrap your legs around his thick middle.

With one fluid movement, he sets you down on the desk, dimly you register the books on the table being swept to the floor. He slots himself between your legs as he tangles his hand in your hair to tilt your head back to force you to meet his gaze.

“If you want to stop - at any point - you tell me,“  Josh’s voice is a quiet, husky murmur, the darkness in his eyes reflecting the pleasure shared between you. His lips, now deliciously pinked from your kisses, hover close.

Wordlessly, you nod. In this moment, he embodies everything you desire and more, a captivating presence that has ensnared your senses. If this is your only chance at tasting him, feeling him, having you - you’ll gladly take it. If not somewhat sad, because you’re sure you will not be able to forget him.

He captures your lips in another short kiss while hitching your dress up higher. Josh’s hand is between your legs now, rubbing one finger over your clothed cunt. You just know that the cotton has to be damp, that he now feels how much you want this - want him.

When he applies more pressure, scraping over your clit you arch your back into his touch. His eyes are on yours, drinking in your every reaction. 

Josh repeats the act and you rake your fingers over his back so hard you’re certain to have marked him. It’s making him moan, low, deep and frantic as if he’s enjoying this as much as you. Your entire skin fizzles with electricity upon his reaction.

In one fluid motion, he seats himself beneath your things and yanks your ass off the edge of the desk. His fingers curl around the waistband of your panties and he pulls them down, off your legs.

Just the sight of Josh between your legs edges you closer to an orgasm. His big hands are wrapped around your thighs, keeping you open for him. If you had to describe the look in his eyes you don’t know if another word than feral was fitting. 

He makes you want to paint him, to capture this moment for eternity, with his messy hair and dark eyes.

Your head falls back and every thought becomes impossible when he presses a featherlight kiss on your clit, the stubble prickling like electricity. You cry out when he draws a circle around it with his wet tongue.

“You need to be quiet, sweetheart,“ he says, voice low, rough and deep. “Wouldn’t want anyone to come in here, right?“

You can’t do much other than nod - you know that you can try but you also surely know that you will fail.  

As soon as Josh presses his palm across your stomach to hold you down and tastes your cunt with a long lick you lose that train of thought again. 

He builds you up with a slow and dexterous tongue, determined to make you cum beneath him. Your back arches off the desk, only held down by his strong arm as you whimper. 

You feel your cunt clenching and you’re sure that you’re staining the desk with your wetness. 

Arousal crashes through your vein and you feel yourself getting closer - and he apparently also does because he hooks his arms around you, to pull you closer to his mouth. 

A curse rolls over your tongue when he sinks two of his thick fingers into your cunt, curling them inside your so you spasm around him.

While you know that your orgasm is drawing closer it still hits you like a freight train. The mixture of his fingers and his mouth on your clit brings you over the edge. 

You cry out and your back arches off the desk, fire pulsing through you. Josh’s mouth is still on you, licking through your wet cunt, catching every drop. You feel like your muscles are locking up and the fire has extended to your lungs as he continues to work you through it. Only when you whimper against him, overstimulated he pulls back. 

Josh’s neck and chin are coated in your wetness, glistening in the light of the room. A blinding smile is etched across his features, reaching his eyes. The pleasure radiating from him is palpable and genuine, he likes how you react to him.

Your fingers instinctively dig into the firm contours of Josh’s shoulders, a desperate longing urging him to rise and meet your lips. In response, his strong arms envelop you, pulling you irresistibly close as your mouths meld together in a fervent kiss. You taste the salty tang of yourself on his tongue. 

His hard cock is pressed against your bare cunt and you grind down on him, making him groan into the kiss. Just from feeling him, you know that he’s big and you ache to get your hands on him.

You reach into his briefs, following the trail of hair. Josh’s cock is thick and twitching in your palm as you smear precum over him to jerk him off easier. 

God, he’s going to split you in half, make you burn from the stretch as he forces you to accept every thick, hot inch of him.

Driven by need you push his underwear over his hips, mesmerizes as you finally see him naked. His dick stands proud and hard in neatly trimmed pubic hair. You wrap your hand around him again, tracing the pulsing vein on the underside of his cock. Josh jerks his hips into your hand and you wet your lips as you clench around nothing. 

It’s almost surreal, the realization that this handsome and gorgeous man is as captivated by you as you are by him and you itch to return the favour and take him into your mouth to see what sounds you can elicit from him.

But when you show signs of slipping from the desk he stops you with a long-fingered hand on your thigh. 

“You can return the favour next time, we have to be quick,“ Josh’s voice is husky and dark as his eyes are on you intently.

Next time? Fuck, yes, you really hope that there will be a next time because you don’t think you can get enough of him.

His arms wrap around you again to claim your mouth before lifting you up from the desk. The dig of his fingers into your skin lingers are you just hope that they will bruise. He walks both of you over to a bed in the room, laying you down on your back.

Josh is a solid form above you, chest heaving as he braces his weight on his elbows. He nuzzles his face in the crook of your neck, before licking a stripe along the length of your pulse.  

The feeling of his weight pressing you into the bed with his bare chest on yours is indescribable. The soft swell of his stomach against yours is heavenly s you claw into his shoulders and back to pull him further on you,

“Fuck me, please,“ your voice wrecked and hoarse as you buck against him, feeling his hard dick press against you.

He pushes his cock against your cunt, nudging your clit with every stroke, just slicking himself with your wetness. 

You whimper when you feel the tip of his broad dick slide into you, keeping it buried inside you, “Josh, please .“

Josh takes pity on you. He leans forwards and his eyes are on yours as he fills you with short and shallow thrusts, inching his cock further and further inside you. Your eyes fall closed at the overwhelming feeling of him in your cunt and he stops again.

Your eyes fly open when his hand finds its way around your throat, wordlessly telling you to keep your gaze locked on him. The slow drag of his dick elicits a high-pitched whine from you.

When his hips are flush against yours, he stills, giving you time to get used to him.

“Just like that…. You’re doing so well,“ his voice is low as he praises you. 

The combination of the barely contained edge in his voice and the praise causes you to clench around him, making Josh groan. You’re drunk off him, off how you feel every ridge, every vein against the wall of your cunt. 

When he pulls back and only leaves the tip inside you again, you whine. That is soon replaced by a loud moan as he slams his whole length into you. 

He feels impossibly deep in your cunt, like he’s carving himself inside with every slap, stroke and thrust of his hips. There is nothing you can do but lay there and take it.

With every thrust, he almost growls into your ear as he possesses you. The slap of his balls against you and the wet squelch of your cunt is loud in the room as he continues to wreck you.

The head of his cock drags over that spot that makes you see stars and you twitch and jerk against him, completely overwhelmed by him. 

You hiss when he reaches between you to press the pad of his thumb against your sensitive clit. He flicks it against it before starting to rub small circles that make you quiver under him and clench around him. 

Josh’s face is the epitome of concentration as he drives his dick inside you again and again, his brow furrowed as he fucks the both of you towards your high. 

You scream when you come. Blinding pleasure shoots through your veins, expanding from inside you and engulfing you. His lips come down to kiss you, capturing you in a feverish and feral kiss. Your teeth click together as he devours you and continues to slam into you. 

With a load groan, he pushes into you as deep as possible, clutching you tightly as his hips jerk and he spills inside you.  

He kisses you, hard and short while he keeps his hips flush with yours as he rocks them, milking himself dry. 

It feels almost soft when he pushes your damp hair from your face and cups your cheek as you catch your breath. The kiss you share is lazy and soft, your hands comb through his hair lightly. You wrap your arms around him tightly, holding him close and savouring the feeling of his body on yours. 

The post-orgasmic bliss disperses suddenly when you feel him soften inside you, his cum leaking onto the bed.

“Shit, Josh,“ panic is evident in your voice, “Get up.“ 

The realisation hits you, that Josh just ruined you in the room of his son  - on his desk and bed. You know that you can’t pretend that this never happened, not when you know how perfect he feels inside you or how he looks when he comes.

His quiet laugh irritates you at first but your eyes flutter closed again when he presses his lips against yours. 

“It will be fine,“ Josh’s blue eyes shine bright as he traces your lips with his thumb, “Let’s get cleaned up first. And then I’d like to take you out for some food.“

“Yeah… yeah,“ you start, a smile on your features, “I’d like that.“

[novasintheroom]

Ghost who, under “orders” from his army therapist (and with Price’s encouragement), starts looking around for hobbies when he’s on leave.

Not sure what to do at first. Tries gaming but gets bored of it and the PS4 stays gathering dust in his flat. Plants don’t appeal to him because he won’t be around enough to take care of them. Thinks about knitting, but is a bit too embarrassed to walk into the local craft shop to start making doilies.

Finally goes to the library after seeing a flyer advertising a painting class and thinks, “Hell, why not.”

Shows up in his hoodie, black face mask, and black baseball cap. Gives most of the old ladies attending the painting session a good scare

Until he rolls up his sleeves to avoid getting paint on his good hoodie. Then those old ladies are ogling his forearms and the tattoos painting his skin.

Is very attentive to the hired artist leading the session. Hasn’t got an artistic bone in his body, but dammit, he’s going to report back to his therapist that he tried if it’s the last thing he does.

Two little old ladies, Mrs. Levine and Ruby, pluck up the courage to sit beside him and start chatting him up. Compliments his painting, talk about their grandkids, how one of Ruby’s grandsons is into heavy metal (assuming Ghost is as well). Ghost listens half-heartedly, just trying to get the brown right for the deer he’s putting on paper. They manage to weasel out his name:

“Simon,” he announces gruffly.

“Oh, what a good name,” Mrs. Levine says.

He goes to the next activity as well: polymer clay creations. His hands are big and meaty and he has to take more clay than is probably reasonable to make the little pig he’s got going.

Mrs. Levine and Ruby are there too and sit right next to him to chat with him again. They love his idea of a pig and make a cow and sheep to go with it. When the hired artist comes around to see how everyone’s doing, Mrs. Levine announces that the three of them “have a little farm going” and that “Simon’s the farmhand.”

He's glad he's got his face mask on. He can feel his ears going red at the look the artist gives him.

Again, he’s very attentive to the hired artist, watching her hands carve into the soft clay with her nails to get texture on her dinosaur. He tries to do the same, giving whispy little hairs to his pig. It’s not pretty, but he feels a smidge better about going when it’s all done.

Mrs. Levine and Ruby get more information out of him as time goes on and he attends more activities. Soon their friends join in on the conversation, and Ghost – Simon – is well-known at the library for being the military guy who attends every Saturday when he’s not deployed. The little old ladies love him, even if he “doesn’t say much.” He’s helped them carry their bags of books and crafts to their cars, listens to them prattle on about activities and their aches and pains, and even scared off some hooligans who were trying to disrupt their library activity.

(They’ve all got little old lady crushes on this big man who takes time out of his day to better himself, and they love his dry/dad jokey humor)

(And he won't admit it, but these are his little old ladies now. Clarice brought him brownies that he absolutely devoured when he got back to his flat they were so good, and he can't help but laugh at how often they try to set him up with their granddaughters. And how they "trip" often just to hang on to his big arms. Birds are birds, no matter their age.)

[steviewashere]

Dream Come True

Rating: General CW: Minor internalized ableism on Steve's end Tags: Established Relationship, Married Steve Harrington/Eddie Munson, Future Fic, Adopting a Child, Parenthood, Steve Harrington is a Sweetheart, Eddie Munson is a Sweetheart, Fluff, Domestic Fluff, Let Them Live a Quiet Life God Damn It, Mild Hurt/Comfort

For the @steddielovemonth prompt: "Love is about healing each other's wounds."

💕—————💕

They haven’t discussed children since the second month they were together. Was that probably a little too early in their relationship? Probably—Eddie will be brave enough to admit that right now. But, considering where they’re at now: Steve is forty-seven and Eddie’s forty-eight, their wedding bands are simple and gold (something easily spotted amongst the silver ones that Eddie still wears), the house they took a loan out for is painted yellow with white shutters installed (well, they paid Dustin and Will to do it. They were happy to help), they live in Massachusetts away from public eye, and though they don’t have a dog—not yet, the service dog process has been a long and weary one on Steve’s end—they have their little brown tabby cat. They’ve got a well furnished home. And years of love between them.

Nearly twenty-eight years in total. Nineteen years wedded. Six years of that are legally recognized. But that doesn’t matter. What matters is they stopped talking about the prospect of having kids.

Eddie’s initial answer at the beginning was, “Maybe. I think it would be neat. But, I’m gay, Steve. That isn’t really a possibility.” He chuckled a little bit. “I meant like adopting, but in a technical sense—Considering what’s in my pants, the possibility is still out the window.”

Steve’s was changed from what he told Nancy in that Winnebago. “I still want children. Or, just one. I want a quiet life. Even if you make it as some big rock star, I want a quiet private life.”

It was doable. What Steve had whispered on Eddie’s shoulder, that was doable. The question for years though was, When does he want that? And also, When will he leave to pursue that?

The answer was clear. Steve was never going to pursue that. That, sure, they’d have the quiet life. But never have children. And Eddie saw him wilt a little further and further. When they passed by the playground at the park. The daycare up the street from their home. After the seizure diagnosis, Steve stopped looking and thinking about it all together. It hurt Eddie’s heart.

He may have got the quiet life. And Eddie may have lived out his simple dream. He’d been a rockstar for a little bit in the late nineties and early two-thousands, retiring before they got married. But…Steve hasn’t lived his dream. Eddie hates that he thinks it’s being held back from him. Eddie’s determined to heal that hurt inside him.

��—— Steve comes home from his Wednesday teaching shift around four in the evening. Eddie’s already on the couch, combing Poncho’s fur, watching the local news. He’s got a very important print out laid neatly on the coffee table. He hears Steve set down his briefcase on the dining table, his footsteps retreating to their kitchen to rinse out his thermos, coming back to the front door and placing his loafers on the shoe rack, and he hangs up his coat. Then, he enters the living room, hands scrambling to undo his tie, body leaning over the arm of the couch to press a kiss against Eddie’s mouth.

But then he pulls away, turning his whole body to watch the news. And that’s when he spots it. The flyer. He shuffles over on his mismatched socked feet, hands falling away from the collar of his dress shirt. He swipes up the paper. Behind his glasses, he squints.

It’s advertisement for the adoption agency some forty minutes out. Eddie hopes, by everything, that this will heal the pain in his own chest, and the emotional line of thinking in Steve’s brain. Hopes with everything that his body can physically give.

“What’s this about?” Steve asks. His voice is neutral. Almost…dare Eddie say, steely. Okay, maybe he made the wrong move. “We haven’t even—“

“I know,” Eddie immediately says. “I know we haven’t talked about it. But, sweetheart, just listen to me, alright?” At Steve’s confused and hesitant nod, Eddie tries to arrange his words. “This is something you’ve been wanting since forever ago. And I know that I haven’t really voiced my wants on it. But I also thought that it would never happen.

“That it would never be something people like me—“ He raises his eyebrows and points to the keyring attached to Steve’s belt loop. The short rainbow garland that sits discreetly among his keys. “—Would ever get the chance to do. But I—Steve, god, I want it so bad. I want to be able to be a dad and chase around a kiddo of our own while you’re busy at work. I want to see one off for school for their first day and cry like I’ll never see them again. Wanna make them a lunch they can bring to school, the same time that I make your lunch for your school. I want to watch them grow up with your goofy dancing skills and our combined love for music. And I—I want to be a better parent that I could’ve ever imagined.

“I want it with you,” Eddie breathes. “I want all of that with you. And I know that you still want it. Your forlorn looks at couples with babies. Every time you see Lucas and Max and their spitfire teenager, your eyes get this brightness to them that I—I have to be honest, I don’t think I’ve seen you happy like that since we got married.” He swallows at some of the implications there. And it’s not meant to be accusatory, but gosh does Eddie notice. The way his sunflower wilts. “This is just something for you to think about, okay? I know my decision on it. But think about it.”

Steve’s grip on the paper trembles. And his eyes are searing Eddie in a way that melts him. Blazing with adoration and love. “You want that?” He shakily asks. “You want to raise a kid with me?”

Eddie nods. “Yeah, baby. I really, really, really do.”

“Even though…Even though I have seizures that could scare them shitless? And I get so angry some days that all I can do is hide in our bedroom and cry? And I—You want that with somebody like me?” He hesitates to ask again. Eddie doesn’t answer, but his arms open in comfort and his eyes soften with earnest. Steve doesn’t move from his spot, though. He looks back at the paper. “What’s the—Our first step?”

“We apply. And they determine if we’re worthy and that it’ll be safe,” Eddie answers. “If they see us fit, they’ll look at our house and things like that. We’ll come back to that later on. If that’s something you still want.”

“Okay,” Steve states with fervor. “Let’s do this.”

——— After a tedious process, Eddie realizes how correct he was.

It’s a Saturday. The curtains are open. Dinner is simmering on the stovetop. And Eddie stirs the soup while he listens in on Steve’s activity in the living room.

“There you go, sweetheart,” Steve is cooing. “Good job, Carmen. Look at you.” He’s been supervising her tummy time everyday he’s able to. Loves being able to lay on his back on the floor, eyes watching their daughter, his fingers combing through her hair as she uses her wide brown eyes to wonder about the world around her.

Eddie bites back a smile.

“That’s Poncho,” Steve is saying. He’s introducing them like they’re all acquaintances around a water cooler. Eddie, maybe, snickers a little bit behind his hand. “He’s gonna be your buddy. He likes the space between his shoulder blades scratched. Just like you, huh?” And hears the moment that Steve dully traces his fingernails on Carmen’s back. She gurgles a little excited babbling. “That feels good, doesn’t it?” Steve murmurs. “Daddy likes that, too.” He’s talking about himself. Because he practically fought tooth and nail for that title. Eddie wouldn’t have it any other way.

From the kitchen archway, Eddie surveys the display on the living room floor. And Steve’s on his back in his pajamas. Glasses smooshed awkwardly up his face as his cheek is pressed against the carpet, eyes gone soft and glistening while Carmen is on her belly. Her hands are sprawled in front of her, squeezing at the soft toys they had gotten. He’s brushing his fingers through her short, curly wisps of brown hair. Then, his hand travels back down to massage and scratch at her back again. She’s wearing a pink striped onesie and a pair of white socks on her little feet.

He clears his throat to make himself known. Steve looks up at him, softly smiling. “I reckon things are going good in here?” Steve only nods, too enamored with petting at Carmen’s back. Eddie finally smiles at him. “Good,” he whispers. He leans his weight on the doorway. A dish rag thrown over his shoulder, arms crossed low over his belly, hair thrown up in a loose bun on his head. Domestic life has really begun to suit him, if he’s honest. He finds himself at ease about it now.

As he turns back to the kitchen, to serve up their bowls of soup, Steve calls his name. He immediately turns back around. Greeted with his husband’s soft face, his deepened smile lines, his messy hair spread on the carpet. He’s more youthful than ever, fatherhood has changed him for the better, at least Eddie thinks so. He hums to see what Steve needs, because by god, he’ll do anything for him.

“Thank you,” Steve whispers.

“For what?”

“Making my hurt go away,” Steve says. But Eddie’s eyebrows furrow in confusion. And Steve clarifies, “Allowing me to accomplish my final dream. I’m really happy that it’s with you.”

Eddie crosses into the living room, crouching down to kiss Steve’s forehead, pecking Carmen’s soft head, too. He combs his own fingers through Steve’s hair. Smiling at the way he keens. “You made me believe that I could be a good dad,” he admits. “I can’t wait to do this right.”

Steve brings a hand to Eddie’s cheek. His index finger softly tracing down the side of his face. “Love you,” he murmurs.

Turning his face, Eddie kisses the tip of Steve’s finger. “Love you, too,” Eddie easily says in return.

Sure, he got to be a rockstar, but he thinks that this life—Steve soft and middle aged and smiling at him, petting down their daughter’s back, cooing soft as if he’s not almost fifty—is much better than anything he could’ve ever dreamed. Maybe filling the hole in Steve’s soul, the remedy that their daughter brings—Maybe that heals something for Eddie, too.

💕—————💕

[hunnysnoops]

˗ˋ𝕎𝕙𝕚𝕥𝕖 𝕋𝕖𝕖𝕥𝕙 𝕋𝕖𝕖𝕟𝕤ˊ˗

Chapter Nine: Take Me Out

Kyle Broflovski x fem reader

So if you’re lonely, you know I’m here waiting for you and if you leave here, you’ll leave me broken. Shattered I lie.

Also available on Ao3 and Wattpad!

Premise: Over the course of days and eventually weeks you grow closer with Kyle as feelings begin to shift.

Warnings: crude language and humour

MASTERLIST

.˙꩜°˖:*࿔ ☼ ࿔*:˖°꩜˙.

June 29

You and Kyle rush through the park, the world around you blurring as your feet pound against the pavement. The sun filters through the canopy of leaves overhead, casting dappled shadows that dance along the path. You feel the wind in your hair and the exhilaration of the run in your chest, your breaths coming fast but steady.

Recently, you had been looking forward to your runs with Kyle. You had always hated doing it with others, either too slow, stopping too often, or talking too much but there was a sweet spot with Kyle that you didn't mind in the slightest. 

There are several children playing soccer to your left, and you can hear their enthusiastic yells as they play. A couple walks their corgi to your right, the dog is so obscenely fat that his stomach almost scrapes the ground though he seems happy. 

You match his stride by the pond, where the water reflects the clear blue sky and the swarms of ducks gliding across its surface. Kyle slows down, and you equal his pace, both of you breathing heavily but smiling wide. "You're getting faster."

You laugh, the sound light and relaxed. "Maybe you're getting slower," you tease back. He rolls his eyes, but there's a twinkle in them that shows he enjoys the banter.

"Can you ever just take a compliment?"

"Uh, nope," You grin turning for the exit of the park. Your lungs burned in the perfect kind of way. 

The energy shifts instantly as you break away from the still park and enter town, the quiet rustle of leaves replaced by the hum of human life. Cars honk, people chat as they pass by, and the air is filled with the scent of food from nearby cafes and food trucks. Hanging in the air is the strong smell of liquor from a smashed bottle of tequila that crunches beneath your sneakers. 

Kyle is still ahead, his pace unwavering as he navigates through the crowd. You follow close behind, weaving through pedestrians and occasionally bumping shoulders. The buildings loom tall around you, their glass facades reflecting the afternoon sun.

As you turn a corner, something catches your eye. You come to an abrupt stop, causing Kyle to glance back, curious. There, plastered on a wall among a collage of posters and flyers, is an advertisement for an upcoming concert. The bold, colourful design grabs your attention, but it's the picture of the band that really makes you pause. The heading reads 'Suburban Wasteland' one of the hidden gems you listened to almost on a regular. They sang to your edgy little middle school self who went through an emo phase and claimed you would be that way forever. 

The lead singer stands front and center, his eyes smouldering and his messy hair perfectly tousled. He's cute, undeniably so, and you find yourself staring at the poster, your heart beating a little faster for reasons other than the run. "Oh my god," You mutter.

Kyle halts to a stop and walks to your side, staring at the poster. His eyebrows knit together as he takes in what he's seeing "What?"

You hadn't heard him, expression softening as you focused in on the tour dates. "Look!" You point at one of the dates, eyes lighting up "They're coming to South Park!" 

"You actually listen to these guys?" He looks at the four men on the poster 

"Yes!" You grab his arm and shake it, swaying his body in doing so. You were almost screaming the pure excitement that was running through you like lightning causing passersby to cast you judgmental glares. You weren't sure you had been so thrilled about something since you started high school. "They're here in July, we should go!" 

"Is he wearing eyeliner?" Kyle narrowed his eyes at the poster. At first glance, they looked like some corny screamo boyband from the early 2000s, brought to life by ripped skinny jeans and deep side parts. 

"He's so hot," You mutter, hands still gripped onto Kyle's arm without even noticing how tightly you were holding him. 

 "That's the kinda guy you're into?" He abruptly swerves his head to look at you. His eyes widen for a brief moment before they narrow in at you, his lips downturned in a slight frown. 

Your hands drip from where they rest on his arms "Yeah, I guess." Your near shaking with elation at the thought of the band you played on loop daily coming to your little bumpkin town. "Do you wanna go with me?"

He rubs the back of his neck "Don't you want to go with Red or something?"

"Red's going to Alaska at the end of July."

"Why is Red going to Alaska in July?"

"Doesn't matter," You answer "They're really cool, I think you'll actually like their songs-

"I'm sure they're fine. But I'm not really into that type of stuff?"

“What do you mean that type of stuff?"

"Like angry thrashers pushing each other around and breaking necks in a mosh pit," He says, sweat still glistening on his brow, only accentuated by the blaring sun overhead. 

"None of my friends like this thing, please?" Your eyes go wide, silently pleading with him.

He bites the inside of his cheek for a second, staring you down, his thoughts bouncing back and forth like a game of ping pong "I don't really like it either."

“I know you don’t really listen to that genre but-

“I’m not going,” He says, firm.

You give up, rolling your eyes. Your shoulders slump a little, disappointment washing over you. Taking one last longing look at the poster before resuming your pace, you resume your run, pushing aside the lingering let down "You're boring," You call back to Kyle "And slow."

.˙꩜°˖:*࿔ ☼ ࿔*:˖°꩜˙.

July 4

As you sit at the back of the dimly lit restaurant, the clatter of plates and the murmur of the last few lingering customers fade into the background. The cold, metallic touch of cutlery presses against your fingers as you roll knife after fork into napkins, your movements mechanical and practiced. 

You were nearing the end of your shift though there were still bins of cutlery left for you to roll into little place sets before you could go home. This wasn't exactly how you wanted to spend your fourth of July, especially when all your friends were out and about, living it up while you developed blisters on your feet from countless hours jetting around a restaurant.

The fourth of July seemed like a good cash grab to make good tips but you were proved wrong by the amount of rowdy tourists who talked a big game but tipped you very little if anything at all. You had ended the night with less than you came in with, the tips were so poor you had to use your own pocket money to tip out the house, bartender, and kitchen.

There was the same awful 80s playlist reverberating through the speakers. It was the same 60 songs over and over again, you knew them so well you could recite every lyric and the more you heard them, the more you hated them. You were almost tempted to take two steak knives and shove them into your ears.

Some shifts were so bad that you just needed to sit in silence, this was one of them. The fourth of July was one of your favourite holidays and your evil manager had coerced you into missing it. The worst part for you was the fact that you didn't get to see any of the fireworks, you just heard them faintly outside along with the sounds of people actually enjoying their night.

You wore your little black dress in the hopes of racking up more tips but instead, you had another server knock their customer's drinks onto you, drenching you in the smell of red wine and ceasers. There were little bits of the ceaser spice still visible on your dress while you continued rolling cutlery and biting the inside of your cheek to avoid screaming.

Outside, the sky is dark, with only a faint glow from distant fireworks that you can't quite see. You missed them again this year, the bursts of colour and the laughter of friends and family. The fourth of July has come and gone while you served tables, refilled water jugs, and plastered on a tired smile. 

You think of the sparklers you loved as a child, the barbecue smells, and the warmth of being surrounded by your family. Tonight, the warmth comes only from the overhead lights the persistent hum of the kitchen appliances and the cursing coming from the remaining staff. It didn't help this overwhelming feeling that your dad dropped you off on your way to work, meaning you didn't have your car or a ride home.

Checking your phone only made you feel worse. No new messages. The majority of your friends were at Clyde's party while you hummed along to old rock n' roll songs you've grown accustomed to hate. His party was long over, you had seen through Snapchat stories that the cops showed up. It was nearing twelve am, it was almost the fifth and you had wasted your day.

You weren't sure you could hold your tears back for another minute until your co-worker poked her head into the backroom "Your boyfriends here," Brooke says, walking in and grabbing her phone off the table that had cutlery sprawled out over top. 

"I don't have a boyfriend," You say, furrowing your eyebrows.

"I don't care," She says while tapping around on her phone "Someone's here for you."

Quickly, you tie off your last napkin roll and poke your head out of the staff room door to see Kyle awkwardly standing by the host stand. You bite back a smile, diving for your locker and snatching your bag from it. You hurriedly throw your hoodie on over your dress and spritz some body spray in an attempt to mask the smell of liquor soaked into your dress. 

"Wait, you didn't clock out," Brooke looks up from her phone, watching you as you walk out of the staff room.

"You know what really hasn't clocked out?" You ask and continue without waiting for an answer "Racism, bullying, soap brows, maybe you should get on that first."

You walk down the corridor towards the front door, tugging your skirt down and pushing hair away from your face as you approach Kyle. He looks up from his phone and spots you.

"What are you doing here?" you ask, a smile tugging at your lips despite your tiredness.

"Your dad told me he dropped you off today, I'm taking you home."

"Oh," You keep a smile on your face despite the urge to let it drop. 

As the two of you leave the restaurant and step into the dry heat, he shoves his hands into his pockets "How was work?"

"Fucking shitty," You answer, feeling no urge to sugarcoat "Just a bunch of asshole tourists who smell like cavities."

"What does a cavity smell like?"

"Like plaque build-up and sour breath," You answer, wrinkling your nose at the thought alone. "Uh, how was Clydes?"

Kyle shrugs "Fine, I guess, nothing special."

"You didn't drink?"

"Nah," He opens the door to his car, flicking the light on and waiting for you to climb into the passenger seat. "I left early, actually."

"What? Why?" You shut the door as you get in, dropping your bag to the floor of the car "I wanted to go so bad."

"Just felt like I could've been doing something better with my night," As you and Kyle settle into the car, the familiar scent of his aftershave mingles with the cool night air. The engine hums to life, and the car glides out of the parking lot, leaving behind the warm glow and the remnants of another awful shift. 

You worried if he could smell the liquor on you or the steak sauce but he gave no indication, eyes focused on the road as he drove. "Were the fireworks cool at least?"

"Yeah, they were."

The streets are mostly quiet now, a subtle contrast to the earlier hustle and bustle of Fourth of July celebrations and drunk partygoers, roaming the streets decked out in patriotic accessories from the dollar tree. Streetlights cast elongated shadows, flickering as you pass beneath them. The rhythmic click of the turn signal is a comforting sound, a steady beat that matches your slowly calming heartbeat as your eyelids begin to grow heavy.

You notice the little details as you drive: the way the trees sway gently in the wind, their leaves rustling like a whisper; the soft glow of porch lights in the distance, each one a silent witness to the night's festivities, air running through them like whispers. You pass a park where sparklers flicker in the hands of teenagers, their laughter carries through the now-hushing night.

Kyle glances at you, a smile playing on his lips as he sees you taking it all in. He doesn't rush, allowing you to soak up every moment. The radio plays softly, a nostalgic tune that seems to fit the sleepy mood perfectly. You hum along absentmindedly, despite the disappointment you were coming to terms with it all.

"Where are you going?" You ask as Kyle turns onto a narrow, gravel path leading up a small hill. The car bumps along the uneven road, and your eyebrows furrow at the sound of animals rustling mingling with the crunch of gravel under the tires. "Please don't kidnap me, I'm too tired to fist fight but I do have a corkscrew in my bag," You say, waiting a beat and then filling the silence "Fine, you got me, I stole the corkscrew from my manager." That was true. You were so angry and fed up that you went into her purse and stole the corkscrew her husband gave her for her anniversary, it even had her initials carved into it. You figured she drank enough and you were doing her a favour.

"I'm not kidnapping you, Jesus," His eyes are steady on the beaten road "Just wait." He looks at you for a second "And give that corkscrew back."

"I dunno, sounds like something a kidnapper would say," You tap your fingers on the dashboard. “And the really Kyle would never tell me to give something stolen back.”

“Yes, he would.” He pulls up to a small hill overlooking the town, yanking the keys out of the ignition. Wordlessly, Kyle gets out of the car and gestures for you to follow him. You decide against the idea of him kidnapping you and trail him to a grassy spot that overlooks the town.

Kyle looks down at his watch before looking back up at the sky. He stands beside you, close enough that you can feel his warmth. The inky black sky is punctuated by the sudden, brilliant explosions of light. Like a gigantic chrysanthemum, a flash of red blooms, each flower trailing shimmering flames as it dies. Then there's a silvery waterfall that shimmers as if it's trapped in midair. With each fireworks being more spectacular than the last, you watch, transfixed, as the colours change and intensify.

The air smells faintly of smoke and summer, it takes you right back to the last Fourth of July you spent at Bebe's house, watching the show from the roof of her house and downing Dr. Pepper. The fireworks paint the sky with vibrant hues- fiery oranges, deep blues, radiant greens- each of which leaves a brief afterimage against the night sky.

You glance at Kyle, his face illuminated by the bursts of light. His eyes are wide with wonder, and there's a content smile on his lips. The reflection of the fireworks dances in his eyes like a mirror. 

The grand finale begins, and the sky erupts in a riot of colour and sound. Rapid-fire bursts fill the air, overlapping in a dazzling display that takes your breath away. The booms are louder, the lights brighter, and for a few moments, the sky is swallowed whole with chaos and beauty.

As the last firework fades, leaving trails of smoke that slowly dissipate into the night, a peaceful silence settles over the hilltop. The minute passes over and so does the holiday, the last fireworks of the night and you had a front-row seat. The stars, previously outshone, now reclaim their place in the sky, twinkling softly. Kyle turns to face you "Worth it?"

"Could've been better," You tease, sarcasm hanging from your tone. You know for sure this is one memory you will be forever clinging to. 

.˙꩜°˖:*࿔ ☼ ࿔*:˖°꩜˙.

July 9

Both yours and Kyle's family gathered in your living room for game night, which felt long overdue. The teams were you and Kyle, Weston and Ike, Your mother and Sheila, your father and Gerald. There was hardly even competition between the four groups, you and Kyle were sweeping them. 

"Whose turn is it?" Your mom asks looking around the room. 

"Weston and Ike," You answer, pushing your brother off the couch and taking his spot, pulling your knees to your chest and yanking a throw blanket overtop.

Ike sits on the floor and leans against the armchair his brothers sitting on, watching as Weston digs around into the popcorn bowl filled with prompts. He pulls a slip of paper out and groans when he reads it "Bruh," He draws out "I don't even know this one."

"Just pick another one," Your dad tells him, he's nursing a glass of wine and standing behind the couch like a vulture.

"Dude," Weston crumples up the slip of paper and chooses a new one "I dunno this one either."

"Just try your best," Sheila tells him.

Weston holds his arms out and begins to enthusiastically flail them. "Shake?" Ike asks, face utterly perplexed as your brother lets out another groan and then begins to convulse his body. "Earthquake?" At Ike's second guess, your brother pauses, runs his hands down his face then begins to violently shake again.

"Seizure?" Your dad asks, eyebrows drawing in at the sight of his son "What is this?"

Your brother clenches his fist, taking a deep breath in then he mimes juggling, but his hands flail wildly, and it's hard to tell if he's juggling invisible balls or trying to swat away imaginary flies. His exaggerated movements have everyone squinting and guessing wildly. "Stroke?" Ike asks, mouth slightly agape while he tries to decode your brother's rapid movements. 

Weston shakes his head vigorously and switches tactics. He starts hopping in place, then drops to all fours, pretending to be an animal of some sort, but it's not clear which one. He growls, then stands up and begins doing it deep lunges back and forth, switching legs.

“Furry?" Ike asks "Gym? Exercise?" 

"Bruh, no," He then stands still and makes a grand sweeping gesture with his arms, as if presenting something spectacular.

"Circus?" Ike guesses again to which Weston shakes his head. 

Weston balls his hand up into a fist and cracks it through the air like he's whipping something. Everyone in the room awkwardly glances at one another, waiting for it to end.

"Cat woman? Batman?" Just for a moment, Ike thinks he is close and then Weston shakes his head once again. Weston starts jumping in place and moving his hands in tight circles like he's skipping rope. Your eyes shift to Kyle, both of you too confused to laugh "I give up!" Ike throws his hands up in defeat "You're awful at this."

"It's the Great Gatsby, bruh," Weston exasperated like it was obvious what he was trying to portray. 

"What was great about that?" Your mom asks, only half joking. 

"I'm gonna lie," You say "That was really good." The second the parents look away your brother sticks up his middle finger for the briefest moment before wedging himself between you and your mom on the couch. You stand up walk to the spot in front of the TV and pull out the slip.

You hold up three fingers on each hand, looking at Kyle "Six words?” He asks and you nod. You hold out one finger to symbolize the first word, Kyle's deep in focus as he watches you. You begin to draw out an infinity symbol in the air with your finger. "Infinity? Forever? Always?" His eyebrows draw in deep and you can see the gears turning in his mind "Eternal!"

Holding up a quick thumbs up, you move on to the fifth word, pretending that you're spraying the air with cleaner and wiping it off.

"Clean? Maid? Tidy? Spray? Wash? Scrub?" 

You shake your head, continuing to do the motion. After thirty more seconds of him not getting it, you move on to the sixth word and start pointing at your head, tapping it and eventually patting it with the palm of your hand.

"Brain? Head?" He stares at you trying to piece together the other clues and muttering to himself "Mind?" He asks and you nod enthusiastically. He slaps his knee, shooting to stand up "Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind!"

"Yes!" You exclaim, immediately rushing over to give him a high five. "Eat it shrimps!" You shout at both of your brothers "Being illiterate isn't so funny now, is it?"

"I miss when they were screaming at each other," Weston mutters to Ike.

.˙꩜°˖:*࿔ ☼ ࿔*:˖°꩜˙.

July 13

You and Kyle hurried into the dimly lit theatre, the screen already glowing with the opening credits as you scanned for empty seats. The hushed murmurs of the audience and the faint sound of dialogue filled the air, punctuated by the occasional burst of chatter from those already settled in.

"Over there," Kyle whispered, pointing to a row near the middle of the theatre. You nodded and followed him, trying to tread lightly as you squeezed past knees and feet in the dim light. Each step felt like an intrusion into the quiet atmosphere of the theatre.

As you reached your row, you realized it was already almost full. A couple gave you a disapproving look as you attempted to slide past them, their eyes narrowing in annoyance. Kyle muttered a quick apology, but you could feel the tension in the air as you squeezed into your seats.

Trying to settle in quietly, you fumbled with your jacket and bag, the soft rustling seeming to echo loudly in the stillness. You exchanged a sheepish glance with Kyle, both of you acutely aware of the eyes on you from nearby patrons who were less than pleased with your tardy arrival.

You didn't expect to find yourself so caught up in the movie, it was an incredibly corny action film and kept finding yourself making faces at the cheesy bots which was almost the entire thing.  Kyle kept stifling sniggers whenever you would mock the movie.

"He's right behind me, isn't he?" The lead protagonist turns around to see his enemy behind him. He pulls a large rifle from his trenchcoat and the two enact in an overly acted fight scene.

"Jeez, he's dressed like someone's imaginary friend," You utter under your breath.

"Sh!" You hear from behind you. You turn to see a large man, his greasy hair tied into a ponytail and a stringy beard that made its way down his neck. You mouth a sorry and look back at the screen. 

The movie got worse the longer you watched, they had managed to pull out every single cliche and implement it into a plot with stiff dialogue and flat characters. Your boredom only grew, the only thing entertaining was a little whisper passed between you and Kyle. 

However, every time you leaned over to share a quick remark with Kyle, you felt a sharp "Shh!" from the man seated directly behind you. His voice was low but firm, cutting through the air like a disapproving whisper.

Startled, you glanced back, catching a glimpse of his stern expression and raised finger before turning back to the screen, cheeks tinged with embarrassment. Kyle stifled a chuckle beside you, clearly amused by the unexpected scolding.

During another action scene, Kyle ducks his head into his elbow and sneezes "You know, if you're sick, just stay home," The man from behind you speaks again, his jaw clenched tight in irritation. 

"You know, if you reek of body order, just stay home," You retort. 

"Excuse me?" He says.

"Yeah, excuse you."

"Calm down," Kyle puts one hand on your shoulder to steady you then looks at the man "We're sorry."

"Oh, of course. The boyfriend steps in to play peacemaker," he sneered. "Put a damn muzzle on your girlfriend," The man says to Kyle. He turns his attention back to the movie but you've already turned around, knees on the seat while you hang over the back and glare at the man. 

"Put a muzzle on yourself, that way you might not look like you ate the ham burglar." You whisper-shout. 

"Don't talk to her like that, man," Kyle adds, also turning around to face him. 

The man's face grows red "You better watch-

"Sh!" You say, watching the man look stunned. Silence stretches between the three of you and when the man opens his mouth to speak you do it again "Sh!"

"Okay-

"Shhhh," You draw out putting a finger over your mouth. "How many pubes did you have to steal from motel shower drains until you had enough to glue on your chin?" You point at his scruffy neck-beard, staring him dead in the eyes. 

"Are you done?" The man asks, huffing.

"Yeah, sure," You snap, turning back around, sinking into the chair and trying to focus on the movie despite the grimace-shaped man behind you.

"Stupid bitch," He mumbled. 

Kyle's entire demeanour changed in an instant. He turned around, his face red with anger. "What did you just say?" His body tense, muscles visibly tightened.

"Leave them alone," Another man from the row above says "They're just kids."

"Y'know what man? I'd be pissed off if I looked like that too," You seethe, eyes narrowing at the guy behind you. 

"Whore," He said in a mocking tone, a proud smile on his face as he did so.

Before Kyle could react, you reached forward to grab the drink sitting in his cupholder and hurled it at the man. The liquid splashed all over him, drenching his face and clothes. The theatre erupted in gasps and murmurs as the man sat there, stunned and dripping. Not one person was still paying attention to the movie.

"What the hell?" the man yelled, wiping his face with his sleeve. His shock quickly turned to rage, and he lunged forward, raising his hand to hit you.

Kyle was quick to grab his wrist, holding his arm midair before it could land on you. Other moviegoers scrambled out of their seats, some trying to pull the man away while others called for security. You could see the fear consume the man's face as Kyle held tightly.

Within moments, the usher returned with a security guard, their faces stern and ready to intervene. You hadn't seen them come in when you bent over the back of the chair, one hand pointed at the man accusatorily while you screamed at him. "Yeah, try to hit me, biggie!" 

The security rushed over to you, trying to put space between you and the man. When you refused to cease, he grabbed the back of your shirt to pull you away, his free hand was held out in front of Kyle, he balanced on one foot while his other was in the air in front of the man. 

"Stop," He said, trying not to lose his balance "Out, now, all of you, out!" 

A manager rushes into the scene, a blue button down and a name tag that reads Hailey. The large man lands a solid slap across your face and you retaliate by throwing a right hook. "No, no!" Hailey shouts, frantically trying to keep you all apart while the man grips your hair and pulls it with what little force he can muster, you grab hold of his wispy neck beard, pulling it until hair rips out. "Stop!" 

Tensions only continue to escalate rapidly. After the man tries to wrap his hands around your neck Kyle hits him, this time everyone freezes as the sound of Kyle's fist connecting with the man's cheekbone sounds through the theatre.

The security guard comes up behind you, grabbing you by your waist and pulling you off the chair. He continues to drag you out while you yell "You smell like a yeast infection, wash your damn rolls!" 

Kyle looks at the man and then at you, following you out of the theatre and into the lobby. The manager comes out with the man walking behind her, shamefully, he drips Diet Coke onto the floor. "Stand against the wall," Hailey says and you oblige like you're getting your mug shot taken.

She snaps a picture of each one of your faces "Banned," She says "For life!" 

"For life?" The man asks, his voice rising.

"Yes!" Hailey says, gesturing to the wall behind the concession where there were several pictures of people taped up for everyone to see, above each of their profiles was a piece of printer paper, the words 'banned 4 eva' written in red Sharpie "Or do you want me to call the police?"

"No, I'm cool with being banned," You answer first "Not sure I can speak with Jabba the Hutt though." 

Kyle's eyes never left the man's as he reluctantly stepped back, his chest still heaving with anger. "Let's go," he said, turning to you and grabbing your hand.

As Kyle trudges to the exit and you follow behind, hand in hand, you stick a middle finger up behind you as you push through the doors and into the daylight. "What a fucking asshole," His jaw was tightly clenched, the muscles visibly twitching with the effort to contain his anger.

.˙꩜°˖:*࿔ ☼ ࿔*:˖°꩜˙.

July 19

Tolkien sets up his phone on a nearby table, adjusting angles and checking lighting, while Kyle starts brainstorming ideas. You and Red find yourselves sitting by the sparkling blue waters of Tolkien's pool, feet dangling in while you watch the pair.

"What about this one?" Kyle asks, playing an audio. 

Tolkien bites his lip for a moment, deep in thought before he shakes his head "Nah, trends over."

You and Red exchange amused glances, she huffs on a blue raspberry ice vape, occasionally giving you a hit. Her hair is tied up into a ponytail, an old Mötley Crüe shirt thrown over her blue bikini. 

"Let's do this one," Kyle huddles next to Tolkien showing him a video on his phone. The audio replays several times before the two of them begin to practice, going through the motions in little segments to remember until they have it down. 

Tolkien takes the lead, attempting to mimic the choreography he just watched, his movements almost too precise. He kicks off with a series of dramatic arm waves and hip sways, trying to sync his steps with the beat of the short song. 

You lean onto Red, burying your head into her collarbone while you laugh. "That's it, boys, you've made it to the big leagues," She calls out between giggles.  

"Can we get less input from the fog machine over there?"  Tolkien turns around before walking back to his phone and restarting the video. You lift yourself off Red to watch Tolkien start from the beginning; he moves almost exactly the way he did before like it was a formula.

Tolkien dances his part and then Kyle comes into the frame and they begin a synchronized dance routine, exaggerated and goofy, their attempts at coordination often ending in laughter and playful nudges.

It was nice being friends with Kyle even though it was difficult for you to admit. You liked being able to hang out in a group with him and not trying to murder each other even though the thought still passed through your head on occasion. Both of you promised that you wouldn't tell a soul about the movie theatre fiasco and would swear up and down that your pictures weren't posted up next to crackheads. 

When Kyle starts doing his bit of the dance you can't hold back your cackling, clutching your stomach while you brace yourself on Red who herself is shaking from laughter. The boys ignore you but you keep laughing to the point you need to stand up and walk over to the side of Tolkien's house to brace yourself against the wall. 

Tolkien finally manages to nail a sequence, and Kyle lets out a triumphant cheer, their joy infectious despite the cringe you and Red felt watching them film TikTok's, they seemed unbothered. "You won't be laughing when I get famous," Tolkien says to you, Kyle's standing next to him watching the video they just finished filming.

"I'm sure it'll be super unfunny then," You say in a mocking tone.

"Yeah, whatever, nice lungs," He says, briefly looking up from his phone.

"Woah, woah, woah," you put a hand out "Where did all of this hostility come from?"

"Where do you think?"

"Okay, okay, I'm sorry," You get the last of your giggles out, straightening up. "Tolkien, show me how to do one of those dances," you suggested with a playful grin.

"Seriously?" Both Kyle and Tolkien say in unison. 

"Yeah," You walk over, biting your lip to stop yourself from laughing "Show me."

"Uh, okay," Tolkien says, his expression softening "Which one do you want to do?" 

"I dunno," You answer, leaning over his shoulder while he scrolls through his saved folder. 

 He began to break down the steps of a popular dance trend, his movements fluid and precise. His enthusiasm was infectious, and soon you found yourself mimicking his steps, albeit with a hint of hesitation. "Okay, so it's like this," Tolkien explained patiently, demonstrating the footwork and hand gestures slowly. "And then you add a little spin here..."

Kyle leaned casually against the poolside, a faint smile playing on his lips as he watched you. The way you focused intently on learning the steps but couldn't move without laughing- it all captivated his attention. He admired your willingness to throw yourself into the dance, your laughter mingling with Tolkien's as you both enjoyed the moment.

"You look so ridiculous right now," Red said, holding her phone up to film you and Tolkien while you danced 

"It's kinda fun!" You admit, eyes on Tolkien while you mirror his motions. 

"I told you!" Tolkien says, a bright smile on his face. You followed along, stumbling at first but gradually finding your rhythm. Tolkien's encouragement spurred you on, his gentle corrections and cheerful demeanour made the learning process enjoyable.

You were beginning to think you might've been too critical over Kyle's constant filming of TikToks, while you didn't understand how someone could make a career off it you could confess that you were enjoying yourself despite feeling more than stupid. 

"We should film one and I'll post it," He props his phone up on a lawn chair, setting up the timer.

"What?" You ask but the timers already nearing it's end and Tolkien is in his place. The music started, and you launched into the routine. He was by far more comfortable than you but you still tried your best. 

Your arms swung out to the side in unison, followed by a sharp clap above your head. The song itself was sped up and incredibly annoying, you had a feeling it would be stuck in your head in the following days and you would regret playing it on a loop while you did the choreography. You glanced over at Kyle, catching his eye with a smile.

 Just as the music reached a crescendo, Tolkien swept you off your feet, spinning you around in a dramatic flourish. Your laughter echoed across the poolside, an elated sound that filled the air as Tolkien's unexpected move took you by surprise.

The spin was exhilarating, and your laughter bubbled up uncontrollably, your legs kicking playfully in the air as you struggled to regain your balance. Tolkien caught up in the moment and the infectious joy of the scene, couldn't contain his laughter either. As he tried to set you down gently, the combination of laughter and the slick poolside caused both of you to lose footing.

While Tolkien sprawled out on the ground, you tumbled backwards into the deep end of the pool. Red was laughing even harder, the camera still trained on you, she wasn't sure if your cartoonishly dramatic fall was funnier or Tolkien's face plant.

"Are you okay?" Kyle asked, unable to bite back the smile on his face as you resurfaced. You pushed your hair away from your face and wiped chlorine water from your eyes. 

"Yeah," You laugh wading over to the edge of the pool where Kyle was standing. "Help me up," You held your hand out.

"You're gonna pull me in," he says, inching backwards just the slightest. 

 "No, I won't," You said like his accusation was incredulous "I swear," You outstretch your hand even further. 

"I don't trust you."

"Why not?" You smiled, feeling a flutter of warmth in your chest at his attention. "Just be cool," you replied, reaching out to grasp his hand.

At last, he gave in and as his fingers wrapped around yours, a jolt of electricity seemed to pass between you. The warmth of his hand was a stark contrast to the cool water, grounding you in the moment. Kyle's grip was firm and steady as he carefully pulled you up, his strength evident as he helped you find your footing.

The air grew thick with unspoken tension. Water droplets glistened on your skin, catching the last rays of sunlight, and Kyle's gaze softened as he took in the sight of you. The playful banter from earlier seemed to fade, replaced by a deeper, more intense awareness of each other.

As you stepped out of the pool, you stumbled slightly, your wet feet slipping on the smooth surface. Kyle reacted instantly, his arm wrapping around your waist to steady you. The closeness sent a shiver through you, your heart racing as you looked up into his eyes, which were now only inches away.

"Are you good?" Kyle asked, his voice low and filled with a mix of concern and something more, something that made your pulse quicken.

You nodded, unable to find your voice for a moment. The way he held you, his touch gentle, made it hard to focus on anything else. "Yup, fine," you pry yourself away from him. 

Neither of you moved immediately, the moment stretching out as the world around you seemed to blur. Kyle's eyes flickered to your lips for a brief second before meeting your gaze again, his expression hesitant.

The moment was broken by the distant sound of Tolkien and Red's laughter as they rewatched the video, reminding you both of where you were. Kyle takes a step back "I can't believe you actually didn't pull me in."

"Yeah, I would never do something like that," You say, casually walking past Kyle and shoving him into the pool as you do so. 

.˙꩜°˖:*࿔ ☼ ࿔*:˖°꩜˙.

July 25

The sun had long set, leaving the kitchen bathed in the warm, soft glow of overhead lights. Your family and Kyle's had come together for a shared meal, full of far too much wine consumption and brain-rotten jokes made by your little brothers. 

As the adults moved to the living room for more conversation and the younger kids dashed outside to play, you and Kyle volunteered to handle the dishes. You both stepped into the kitchen, where the soft light illuminated the scene of culinary aftermath: plates smeared with the last bits of sauce, glasses smudged with fingerprints and lipstick, and serving dishes still holding crumbs of the evening's feast. Even a disgusting concoction your brother had made, water mixed with white wine, rootbeer, ketchup, and relish. He had dared Ike to drink it and then drank it himself when Ike chickened out.

Kyle rolled up his sleeves with a mock-serious expression. "Good god," He mutters at the sheer amount of dishes. 

"Get to work, ginger." 

The sound of running water and the clinking of dishes filled the space, creating a rhythm as you and Kyle fell into an easy routine. He washed, you dried, and the banter flowed as naturally as the water from the faucet.

"So, how does this thing work again?" Kyle asked, holding up a sponge as if it were a foreign object.

"Just like that," you replied, mimicking his exaggerated movements with the dishtowel. "It's a highly specialized technique, you see."

Kyle chuckled, passing you a clean plate to dry. "Ah, I see. Years of training."

As you dried the dishes, you couldn't help but notice the way his muscles flexed beneath his rolled-up sleeves, his hands moving efficiently through the soapy water. There was something undeniably attractive about the way he approached even a mundane task like washing dishes.

You thought back to those massive sleepovers where all of your friends would pile into one bedroom and talk about everyone and everything. How they gushed about how cute Kyle was and you always went quiet, wrinkling your nose like the name alone was poison. 

"Achoo," Kyle feigned a sneeze, taking water from his hands and flicking it onto you. He kept his eyes down on the sink like he hadn't done anything. You retaliated by whipping the wet dish towel at Kyle a little harder than intended, there was an audible snap when you hit him and your eyes widened. "Jeez, are you trying to take me out?"

"Obviously," You deadpan "That's been the plan for the last seventeen years."

The dishes didn't seem to let up, pan after pan, utensils piling higher than mountains. While your brothers played video games and your parents laughed obnoxiously in the living room, you were still stuck on dishes until your fingers wrinkled to prunes. 

The entire time Kyle kept skittishly glancing at you and then glancing away while you pretended not to notice. He didn't know when was the right time to ask you or if you'd even want to hear him out. 

Kyle leaned casually against the counter, a hint of nervousness in his eyes. He cleared his throat, drawing your attention from the last few utensils you were drying. "Hey, I've got something for you," he said, his voice holding a note of anticipation.

You raised an eyebrow, curiosity piqued. "Oh? What is it?" You wiped your hands on a cloth to dry them before settling them on your hips. 

Kyle reaches into the back pocket of his jeans and pulls out an envelope, holding it out towards you. You took it, your fingers brushing against his, sending a small thrill through you. Carefully, you opened the envelope, revealing two concert tickets inside. Your heart skipped a beat as you read 'Suburban Wasteland' printed at the top above the seating and date information "I don't know if you still want to go with me. I was kinda a dick about it so you can give the other ticket to Bebe or something and I won't-

Without thinking, you let out a joyful scream and began jumping up and down, the sheer exhilaration bubbling over. Face lighting up as you looked down at the tickets, re-reading them over and over again. "Oh my fucking god!" 

He wasn't sure he had ever seen you so happy, not even when your soccer team placed first in regionals or when your parents took you on vacation. Despite his own indifference towards the band, seeing you so elated made it all worth it for him."You like it?"

"Yes!" You jumped around in a little circle, hands holding the tickets shaking as you looked back up at him "I thought you didn't want to go?"

"I listened to their stuff and I changed my mind," He said nonchalantly. That was only half true. He felt bad watching you go through the month, trying to find someone who would go with you and being turned down every single time. 

"Eeeek!" You shout again, jaw almost sore from the uncontrollable smile. Kyle thought that in seconds you would be bouncing off the walls. In a very impulsive moment for you, you throw your arms around him in a spontaneous hug. It's the first time you've ever hugged Kyle, and the warmth of your body against yours sends a shiver down his spine. 

His frame is taller and more solid than you expected, and you find yourself nestled against his collarbone, feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest against you.

For a split second, neither of you move. His arms hesitate before tentatively wrapping around your back, his hands lightly resting on your waist. You can sense his surprise, his body slightly tensed with uncertainty, yet there's a warmth in the way he holds you. Your own hands, holding the tickets, press against his shoulders, and you feel the firmness of his muscles beneath his shirt. 

"Stop fighting!" Your mom rushes into the kitchen at the sound of your shrieking, panic across her face which quickly turns into confusion as she sees you clinging to Kyle. 

You break away from him, clearing your throat awkwardly as you stare at your mom, trying to still yourself. You quickly gather yourself, smoothing down your clothes and clutching the concert tickets a little tighter. "Can I pay you to pretend that never happened?"

A/N: So excited for the next chapter 😽

[paperultra]

THE FIVE NONSENSES

[ SOULMATE!AU ] Pairing: Miya Osamu x Fem!Reader x Miya Atsumu Summary: Like most people, you do not meet the Miya twins so much as they are thrust upon you. Unlike most people, you are thrust upon them as well. read on ao3 | read on quotev

CHAPTER THREE: SMELL Word Count: 8,205 words Warnings: Swearing

“Hey, you! Join the photography club!”

You narrowly dodge the flyer thrust in front of your face, knocking back into someone in the process. Flustered, you move in the opposite direction, only to knock shoulders with another student walking the other way. Both of your apologies get lost in the noise.

“Join the basketball team! Winter Cup finalists two years in a row!”

“Improve your focus in calligraphy club!”

“Join kyudo club!”

“Join marching band!”

With a small huff, you grab the strap of Osamu’s schoolbag and squeeze through the crowd. Osamu looks over his shoulder at you, and you meet his raised eyebrow with a grimace; not long after, a hand presses between your shoulder blades to usher you forward.

“Dammit,” Atsumu grumbles, digging his phone out of his pocket. “Where’s the volleyball club?”

“Hell if I know,” Osamu says. “Call Aran.”

“’S what I’m doin’, dumbass.” Punching a few buttons, the other boy presses his phone against his ear with visible impatience. “Aran!” Your cheeks burn with embarrassment as Atsumu’s voice carries high over the clamor surrounding you, causing several students to swivel their heads. “Where the hell’s the volleyball club? … Class 1-7? Seriously?”

Hanging up without so much as a thank-you, Atsumu quickens his stride down the congested hallway. Osamu follows suit, and you end up seizing the back of his blazer as the three of you head to Class 1-7, evading arms and signs and flyers the entire way.

Having visited the school before to watch Ojiro play, you had known that Inarizaki High School is big; navigating it as a student on the first day of school, however, is a whole different animal. You hadn’t realized it was this big. Or this crowded. After a year of being large fish in a small pond, you now find yourselves in an ocean.

At least you have the twins to rough it with.

(It should be noted that your thankfulness varies wildly from hour to hour.)

Near the entrance to Class 1-7, you spot Ojiro wielding a bright sign advertising the volleyball club. He easily stands head and shoulders above most of the other students, and the sight of a familiar face helps you relax – even though you’d just seen him at graduation a few weeks ago, he somehow looks older here, comfortable and self-assured in the raucous halls of Inarizaki.

“Yo! Aran!” Osamu and Atsumu call out, running up to the second-year. You, still holding onto Osamu’s blazer, are unceremoniously yanked along.

Ojiro perks up and grins widely when you all reach him, freeing one hand to bump fists with the twins. “’Bout time you guys showed up. Thought ya chickened out or somethin’,” he exclaims, then nods at you with a grin. “Good to see you here too, [L/n]-chan.”

You smile back. “Hi, Ojiro-senpai.”

(Of all the people the twins consider friends, which have always been rather scant in number, you like Ojiro Aran the best.)

“Chickened out?” Atsumu scoffs. “No way. You scrubs are gonna need us if ya wanna win nationals this year.”

A laugh bursts out of Ojiro’s chest. “Don’t ya think you’re gettin’ a little ahead of yerself?”

“Yeah, well, what’s new?” Osamu pipes up. He elbows his brother’s side, jabbing a thumb at the doorway when the latter chokes up and glares. “Hurry yer ass up, ‘Tsumu, we haven’t even signed up yet.”

You cough. Ojiro laughs again, leading the three of you into the classroom.

There’s a ton of students already inside when you enter. In one corner of the room is the girls’ volleyball club, and in the other is the boys’, though many are mingling and wandering around to chat. A few are upperclassmen wearing the Inarizaki volleyball team’s jacket – the rest, you assume, are first-years hoping for a chance to join.

It’s not surprising for a school that’s gone to the Spring Tournament almost thirty times. Most of these applicants will be benched for their entire high school career.

Following Ojiro to the desk for the boys’ volleyball club, you encounter the two people sitting behind it.

“Arata-senpai, Kobayashi-senpai,” Ojiro announces, clapping one hand on Osamu’s shoulder and the other on Atsumu’s, “got a package deal for ya.”

The first thing you notice about Arata is how tall he is when he’s sitting down. Then he slowly stands up, and your eyes widen as he keeps going and going, finally stopping about half a head taller than Ojiro.

Arata breathes in, vulpine eyes narrowing, before he slams his hands down on the desk with a loud thwap.

“If it ain’t the Miya twins!” he chirps, voice much peppier than expected, and you choke back a surprised laugh. “I watched yer match last year at nationals. You two think ya have what it takes to be part of a powerhouse?”

“Why talk big when we can just show ya, senpai?” Atsumu says, as if he hadn’t been gassing himself up to Ojiro moments before. He pulls out his signup sheet, already filled out in his usual large, messy print, and slides it over to the captain, leaning over the desk with one hand on his hip. “Got yers, ’Samu?”

“Yup.” Osamu slides his over as well, handwriting slightly neater.

Arata takes the sheets happily. Your gaze falls upon his hands by chance, and then it remains there, taking stock of the scribbles of purple and red decorating his skin.

Ojiro whistles. “Looks like yer soulmate’s havin’ fun with some gel pens,” he comments, pointing at Arata’s hands.

“Hm?” The other boy blinks and takes a moment to inspect the words curving below his knuckles. His brow furrows, and he squints before finally breaking out into a goofy smile. “Ah,” he says, and his voice takes on a distinctly fonder, dreamier tone, “guess they are. They’ve been practicin’ hiragana a lot lately. See? Pretty good, eh?” Arata stretches his hands out face-down, showing them off.

(You can barely read the characters.)

“Neat,” Atsumu says, though his tone has flattened just slightly.

“Right?” Arata doesn’t seem to notice. “We’re gonna finally see each other in person next summer after I graduate. They’re graduating high school this June in Spain …”

“He’s really excited,” Ojiro mutters to the three of you, “in case ya couldn’t tell.”

The volleyball captain’s cheeks turn an endearing shade of pink. “What’s wrong with that, huh, Ojiro? I’m gonna spend the rest of my life with them, so it’s a good sign I’m lookin’ forward to it.”

Next to you, Osamu shifts and shoves his hands into the pockets of his pants. You feel his elbow brush against your arm, bare skin separated by layers of fabric.

The rest of your life.

A strange feeling forms in the pit of your stomach. It’s the same kind you get whenever your parents ask about Osamu, and whenever you see couples wearing matching outfits at the mall – a feeling a little less than longing, and a little more than guilt. Like you ought to be doing more, saying more, expressing more. Feeling more.

You wonder what it is like to be Arata, infatuated, proudly flaunting the colors on his hands.

The girl sitting at the desk finally speaks up.

“I thought we were talkin’ about volleyball, not yer love life, Arata.”

Your gaze moves away from Arata’s wrists and onto the girl.

Still sitting, she and the captain paint a picture of a mouse and an elephant, her tiny form complemented by large, expressionless eyes and a small nose. The maroon jacket hanging off her shoulders looks one size too big.

And yet, when her gaze flicks over and meets yours, you’re overtaken by a sudden chill.

Scary.

Arata jumps and glances down at her. “O-Oh, right! Sorry, Kobayashi-chan, I guess I got carried away.”

“It’s fine.” Kobayashi continues to stare at you, and you start to feel slightly uncomfortable. “’S why I’m here.”

“Yeah!” Coughing, Arata rubs the back of his neck and turns his attention back to the twins. “Gettin’ back on track … if it isn’t obvious already, Kobayashi-chan is our manager. She’s real good. Real detailed.”

“But I’m also in my third year, which means we’re currently lookin’ for a new manager for next year,” Kobayashi supplies. “So if ya happen to know any first-years who’re qualified and willing to apply for the right reasons, please let me know.”

Your brow furrows at that.

“Whaddaya mean, ‘the right reasons’?” Osamu asks.

A sheepish laugh escapes Arata’s throat. “Well … the volleyball team’s pretty popular, so we get a lot of folks wantin’ to be manager just to get closer to the team and see if one of the members is their soulmate.” He sighs. “It’s not that I wanna keep any soulmates apart, but those kinds of applicants slow down the search, and obviously, we want a manager who actually wants to manage.”

Ah. Already, some of your peers already seem like they’re on a time crunch to find their person. Soulmates are getting to be a bigger and bigger deal as you get older, and with that comes certain expectations. It’s not hard to figure out why some would hope to have someone popular and athletic.

“Sorry, don’t know anybody like that,” Atsumu replies at the same time Ojiro says your name.

You look at your senior, surprised.

He directs a finger upwards. “Ya know volleyball pretty well,” he points out. “Wanna apply? You already manage the twins, after all.”

“Oi, what’s that s’posed to mean –”

Arata seems to finally notice you, eyebrows raising. “Oh! Sorry, didn’t see ya there,” he exclaims. “What’s yer name?”

Reluctantly, you step up next to Osamu and introduce yourself.

“[L/n]-chan. So ya know the twins?”

“I’ve lived on the same street as them since elementary school.”

“Really! Ya must know them well, then.”

“More than well,” says Kobayashi.

She points down at your hand. Arata follows her finger, and you resist the urge to curl your pinkie when his mouth drops.

“Oh, damn, you’re soulmates with – er, uh –”

Osamu and Atsumu just stand there, watching the captain flounder. After a few seconds, you reach up and tug Osamu’s earlobe sharply.

“Osamu,” you say, both as an answer and as a scolding, ignoring the muttered ‘ow’ coming from your right.

Clapping his hands, Arata nods. “You’re soulmates with Osamu-kun! Wow, that’s amazing. And you’ve been together since elementary school? He’d think and play better with you just bein’ there.”

You smile, embarrassed.

“That doesn’t make her the right candidate, Arata,” says Kobayashi. “Even if she really wants to manage the team, she might still prioritize Osamu-kun over everybody else. The last thing I want is a manager who picks favorites.”

She says it so bluntly, so seriously. Your smile weakens as her words hit a sore spot you didn’t know you even had.

There must be a good way to disagree. The two truths of the matter are that being a good manager would mean risking being a bad soulmate, and that being a good manager is a risk you can afford. Osamu isn’t the type of person who needs to be worried about. He gets scraped up, but he doesn’t mind it, and he knows his limits. If a player got hurt right as Osamu called you for something, you know you’d check on the other player first. Even if the other player was Atsumu. (Maybe.)

Osamu simply does not need you to take care of him. You don’t know how to express this without seeming like you don’t care as much as you should.

Atsumu cuts in before you can organize your thoughts into words.

“She wouldn’t,” he says, “unless it’s me. But ’Samu and I are soulmates, so we’re already at our best when we’re on the court.”

The upperclassmen before you tilt their heads simultaneously.

“… Wait,” Arata says after a while, slowly. “You’re tellin’ me that Osamu-kun has two soulmates?”

Osamu glances at you, eyes half-lidded, and you can only meet his eyes for a few seconds before you have to look at the ground.

“Guess I’m favored,” Osamu replies.

“Wow.” Huffing out a laugh, Arata crosses his arms. “Two soulmates … huh. I wonder how that works …” Kobayashi grunts and he clears his throat. “S-Sorry. Anyway, [L/n]-chan, if you’re interested in the manager position, just fill this out and give it to Kobayashi-chan. We’re taking applications until July first or until we find someone, whichever comes first.”

He hands you a sheet of paper, and you take it tentatively.

“My phone number’s at the top in case you have any questions,” Kobayashi adds. Her voice lowers, but its monotony remains. “And if ya end up applying, know that I won’t show any favoritism just because of yer soulmate.”

You take in a breath through your nose, fingers curling into the application in your hands. “Yeah, of course.”

She nods once, then leans back in her seat. The set of her mouth relaxes just slightly, and she crosses her arms, morphing from a cutthroat manager to a tired senpai.

“See ya after school. Good luck,” she says. Her eyes bore into yours. “To all of ya.”

There’s a moment of silent surprise between you, Osamu, and Atsumu. Then all three of you bow as Ojiro and Arata chuckle.

“Thank you!”

—

The twins, predictably, become one of three first-year regulars on Inarizaki’s boys’ volleyball team. You place your manager application in the top drawer of your desk, which you pull out frequently over the next three weeks just to stare at the blank form, unsure about the whole thing.

Saturday afternoon rolls around, and you’ve taken the paper out of your binder and set it on top of your desk at home when your phone buzzes.

Osamu: you home

You: yeah

Osamu: ok

And that’s it. You stare at your screen for a few seconds, unblinking, before you shoot up from your seat and scramble to your dresser to get changed.

Five minutes and a bit of haphazard cleaning later, there’s a few firm knocks on the front door, followed by incessant banging. You stalk over to open the door before it’s knocked off its hinges.

“I could hear you,” you tell Atsumu, unimpressed, as the two enter and shuck off their shoes.

“I know.”

He deftly dodges the kick you aim at his ankle. This usually happens nowadays, unfortunately, but it doesn’t stop you from trying.

“’S just you here?” Osamu asks, shuffling into some slippers and walking further into the house. His gym bag hangs from his shoulder, big and bulky, and you look at it curiously.

“… Yeah?”

“Fer someone left home alone all the time, you’re duller than a rock,” Atsumu says. “Folks’re gone and ya don’t even throw a party? Geez.”

You narrow your eyes as he grins. “Maybe I just want peace and quiet after havin’ to sit in class with you all week, Atsumu. Anyways, why are you guys here?”

You receive no answer. After eyeing the kitchen, Osamu turns and heads down the hallway, prompting you to follow. You’re further confused when he enters the bathroom and sets his bag on the countertop.

As he unzips it, Atsumu squeezes past you and reaches into the bag, pulling out a –

A shower cap.

“… Is the shower at yer place broken or something?”

“No,” Osamu says, and he pulls something else out. “Ma’s home.”

You stare at the box in his hands. Then you look back up at the twins.

“She’s gonna kill you.”

—

Watching Osamu and Atsumu bleach each other’s hair is like watching a train wreck in slow motion.

Their dark T-shirts have speckles of orange on them, there are bits of foil littering the sink and the bathroom floor, and the acrid stench of bleach filling the bathroom is starting to creep down the hallway. You can only hope it doesn’t linger past Sunday night when you go back to the dorms.

“If you screw this up, I’m shaving yer giant head in yer sleep.”

“I’m doin’ it better than you did, ya scrub!”

You stand outside, shirt collar pulled up and over your nose, as Atsumu finishes combing through the top part of Osamu’s hair. It’s an incredible thing to witness: Osamu sitting on the shower seat, hunched over and holding a sheet of foil over his undercut while Atsumu hangs over him, wearing one of the shower caps to keep his own hair out of the way. It’s also a disaster.

You lift your phone up to snap a quick picture.

“Oi! What’re ya doin’?”

“Making a present for Ojiro.” Upon viewing the photographic evidence, you realize something. “You’re not gonna tell Auntie that you dyed yer hair at my house, right?”

“Don’t worry about that,” Osamu assures, letting Atsumu hold onto the foil while he pulls on a shower cap. He sets a timer, and the two of them hurry out of the bathroom to escape the fumes. “She won’t be thinkin’ about the details when she finds out.”

“Like she’d ever blame ya, anyway.” Atsumu scoffs. “You’re the favorite and you ain’t even her kid.”

“Well, I don’t wanna take my chances.” You recall the countless number of times the twins had received a whooping for something stupid they did, and the countless number of times you had just barely managed to slip under the radar by keeping your mouth shut. “Y’know, she might make ya dye it black again if the school doesn’t like it.”

“Please. If anything, they’ll thank us fer givin’ them an easy way to tell us apart.”

“Is that why you’re dyein’ yer hair? You’re already in different classes.”

“It ain’t fer class,” Osamu says. “It’s fer volleyball.”

Atsumu presses his back against the wall and slides down to the floor, pulling up a game on his phone. “Some of the scrubs still can’t tell us apart on court,” he sniffs. “’M tired of it.”

That, you think, makes a lot more sense.

Osamu and Atsumu have always taken full advantage of being identical twins. You’ve seen them pull just about every stunt in the book – switching the way they part their hair on random days, pretending to be the other when one of them gets in trouble, making money off classmates who bet on knowing who’s who (and lying on more than one occasion). Looking alike isn’t usually a point of contention between them.

When it does bother them, volleyball is usually involved. They don’t always wear different shirts or numbered jerseys at practice, and you’ve been to enough of them to know that this can cause issues at the beginning of the year. The coach calls out the wrong name, a teammate calls for Osamu when they mean Atsumu, things like that.

They get especially miffed when one gets praised for something the other did. Atsumu, in particular, hates that the most.

“Ya have anythin’ to eat?”

Head snapping up, you look at Osamu and nod halfway through absorbing what he’s just asked. “There’s leftover onigiri in the fridge and snacks in the cupboard,” you reply, stepping over Atsumu’s outstretched legs to lead his brother towards the kitchen.

(“Heat up an onigiri fer me,” Atsumu calls out.)

(“Get it yerself, lazy-ass,” Osamu shoots back.)

In the kitchen, you fish out the last two onigiri the twins’ mom had given you yesterday and present them to Osamu.

“Here. You and Atsumu can each have one.”

“These the ones with salted salmon?”

You nod.

Osamu thinks for a moment. His lips purse, his eyelids droop, and even though he kind of looks like a lunch lady with that shower cap on, it’s cute.

“I’ll make ochazuke and yaki onigiri,” he decides. “What do ya want?”

“I’ll just have some chips or something. I just ate lunch, so I’m not that hungry.”

He stares at you, then accepts the onigiri from your hands. “Okay.”

Putting the rice balls on the counter next to the stove, Osamu retrieves a small plate, a bowl, and a mug from the cupboard. He finds most of everything else pretty quickly – the cast iron skillet under the oven, the spatula in the drawer right next to the fridge, and the soy sauce and oil in the lower corner cabinet. The only thing he asks for you to locate is the green tea, which you get from the depths of the second shelf in the pantry.

While he works, you grab a bag of your favorite chips and pop it open, leaning against the unused counter on the other side of the stove to watch.

You like it whenever Osamu cooks. The click of the stovetop turning on, the curve of oil being poured into the skillet, and you’re rocking gently in a small boat, curled up in an overstuffed chair on a rainy day.

(It’s an extension of how he feels, you’ve learned – for as much as Miya Osamu loves volleyball, he loves food just a teeny bit more.)

When the oil is hot enough, he unwraps one of the onigiri and places it in.

You turn the opening of your chip bag towards him as he wipes his hands on a towel. “Here,” you offer once he notices.

“Thanks.”

Atsumu’s onigiri sizzles in the skillet while the water for Osamu’s tea continues to heat up. Osamu mirrors your posture on his side of the stove, messily crunching down on several chips, and the two of you wait.

“Didja apply for the manager position yet?”

You swallow too early, rough shards of chips cutting down your throat. Fighting the urge to cough, you shake your head and reach for the water you’d left on the table this morning. “No. Still thinkin’ about it.” He hums. “You guys haven’t found one yet?”

“Kobayashi-senpai’s real picky.” He flips the onigiri over with one sharp push of the spatula, brushing soy sauce over the freshly grilled side. The water boiler beeps right after, and he seamlessly transitions over to pour the hot water over the teabag in his mug. “Most of the applicants we saw were annoyin’, anyway.”

“Oh.”

You recall the last practice you’d attended, watching from the balcony with your homework as the team ran laps around the court. The applicant on trial that day had watched them go by a few times, still and proper, before suddenly turning to Kobayashi and excusing themselves from the gym. They never came back.

On the walk back to the dorms that evening, Atsumu explained that the student had a counter for how many times their soulmate would pass by them.

(“Waste of time n’ space,” he’d complained. “Who’d wanna be with someone that desperate?”)

“Ya wouldn’t be half bad at it.”

“… Yeah …”

“If ya don’t wanna apply, just say so.”

“It’s not that. I just don’t know if I’ll wanna do it for the next three years.”

“Whaddaya want to do, then?”

“I dunno.” With a sigh, you set your bag of chips down. “I mean, I guess it wouldn’t hurt to apply.”

Osamu shrugs. “If ya are,” he says, turning off the stove top, “don’t do it just ’cause of me.”

Your teeth sink into your lower lip, sharp and knowing as he flips the yaki onigiri onto the plate he’d pulled out earlier.

After calling Atsumu, who had migrated to the living room couch while he had been waiting, the twins scarf down their afternoon snack in no time at all and raid your cupboard for the complimentary snacks your parents usually bring back from their trips.

Halfway into his fourth wafer, Atsumu’s timer goes off.

“Oh, shit.” Shoving the rest of the wafer into his mouth and silencing the alarm, Atsumu gets up and eagerly makes a beeline to the bathroom.

“… Do ya think it worked?” you mutter as you and Osamu stand up more slowly.

“I dunno.”

A loud swear explodes from the bathroom.

You look at each other sharply. Wiping the crumbs from your lips, the two of you run over to investigate.

As you get closer, you hear the sink running, then Atsumu muttering underneath his breath.

When you peek into the bathroom, your eyebrows shoot up into your hairline.

Holy shit.

“Holy shit,” Osamu says, leaning past you to get a better look. “’Tsumu, ya look like a carrot.”

“Shaddup, ’Samu,” Atsumu moans, rinsing his hair angrily. “I know. Fuck.”

Hair bleach on dark hair, as you find out, works similarly to hair bleach on dark fabric. Contrary to the sandy blond the older twin had desired, the result he had gotten is instead a bright, burnt yellow-orange matching the stains on his T-shirt. Not carrot, necessarily, but definitely not blond.

“Ugh.” Nose and forehead wrinkling, Atsumu leans toward the mirror, pinching a section of hair between his fingers. “It … it ain’t that bad, right?” His pitch rises with the slightest hint of denial. “I’m pullin’ it off.”

“It’s that bad,” Osamu says.

“’Samu!”

“Maybe you can bleach it again?” you suggest.

“And then his hair falls out? Bad idea.”

“Dye it, then, like you are.”

“We don’t have money left to buy a different color.” With a sigh, Osamu puts his hands on his hips. “Damn. Sorry, ’Tsumu.”

Atsumu groans and thunks his forehead against the mirror, dripping water all the way down its surface onto the counter. His frustration is so palpable that you can feel it prickling your skin.

If he hadn’t been so excited before, you’d probably poke fun. You should poke fun, but the disappointed twist of his lips and the droopiness of his sopping wet hair just makes you feel bad. He looks like a wet puppy.

Dammit.

You take your phone out.

Osamu tracks the movement. “Whatcha doin’?”

“Lookin’ something up.” You press on the first link you see, skim the webpage quickly, and put your phone back into your pocket. “I’m headin’ out fer a bit. Stay here.”

“… ’Kay.”

“Whatever,” Atsumu grumbles.

After grabbing your wallet and checking its contents, you head outside to drag your bike out from underneath the vacant carport. And as you hop onto the seat, pedaling down towards the nearest drugstore, you tell yourself that Atsumu better thank you on his hands and knees once you get back.

—

“Blue shampoo?” Atsumu’s tone is suspicious as he slathers the back of Osamu’s hair in grey dye.

“It’s supposed to cancel out the orange.” Turning the bottle to face you, you read the description beneath the brand name. “‘Eliminates brassy, orange undertones.’ See?”

“It ain’t gonna fuck up my hair even more?”

“’Course not,” you retort, all hopes of veneration quickly fading away. “I ain’t an asshole, Atsumu.”

His eyebrow twitches, hands slowing. You take the opportunity to place the bottle sideways in the crook of his neck, forcing him to tilt his head to hold it in place.

“Oi –”

“Go try it. I’ll finish Osamu’s hair.”

“Yer so bossy,” Atsumu grumbles, but he lets you nudge him out the way, peeling his gloves off and grabbing the shampoo.

You snap some gloves on in turn, keeping one eye on Osamu’s hair and the other on Atsumu as he ducks his head beneath the sink faucet. They’d pretty much finished up applying the dye for Osamu, at least from what you can tell, so you start combing through the locks with your fingers to make sure everything is covered.

Miya hair is very thick. Soft, too. You hope all this bleaching and dyeing won’t ruin it too much.

“Hm,” Osamu hums abruptly.

You stop. “What?”

“Nothin’.” You furrow your brow but resume, only to just barely hear him mumble, “… Feels nice.”

Oh.

A smile crawls onto your lips without warning, the space behind your ribcage suddenly cozy and soft.

“Alright, I’m doin’ it,” Atsumu announces. You look up just in time to see him squeeze a dollop of shampoo into his hand. “Euch! It’s so blue!”

“Why do ya sound so surprised?!”

“Shaddup, I just wasn’t expectin’ it to be so dark! … Smells okay, though …”

While the shampoo does its work on Atsumu’s hair, you take a little extra time combing Osamu’s. He remains quiet and still, thumbs tapping idly on the dark screen on his phone. You wait for him to make more snide remarks at Atsumu’s expense or complain about the smell of the dye, but he doesn’t.

You eventually finish up while the water still runs blue and sudsy into the bowl of the sink. Osamu mutters a thank you and ambles off after eyeing his brother for a few seconds. You linger for a while longer.

(God, you hope it works. If not for Atsumu’s sake, then for your pride and your wallet.)

After what seems like forever, he rinses out the last of the shampoo, wrings his hair out a bit, and straightens up to look in the mirror.

You examine his reflection as well. It’s less orange, yes, but still not as light as he had wanted, more gold than sand. Not necessarily good, but certainly less bad.

Atsumu fixates on the more muted shade of his hair for a minute or two. His lips press downwards at the corners, and then they part to say your name.

You blink.

“What?”

“Why’d ya buy the shampoo?”

He sounds almost accusatory, but not quite; there’s an undertone that you very, very rarely hear in his voice. He meets your eyes in the mirror, hair a dripping, tangled mess.

“… ’Cause I felt bad fer ya,” you admit unwillingly. Atsumu makes a face, and you sharpen your tongue, because that is what feels comfortable with him. Normal. “And I didn’t want to hear ya mopin’ and complainin’ about it all week.”

“It wasn’t that bad,” he persists. “I coulda pulled it off.”

You scoff. “Just ’cause you’re taller than most of the school doesn’t mean they wouldn’t’a noticed. And anyways, it’s better now, ain’t it?”

“I didn’t ask ya to buy it.”

“Ya didn’t even know what it was until I told you.”

“An’ if I did, I still wouldn’t’ve asked!”

“Yeah, ’cause yer prideful ass would rather die than ask fer help!” you snap, jabbing his bicep with your finger. “God! I knew ya wouldn’t even say thank you!”

“Well, if ya knew I was gonna be a dick about it, why’d ya waste yer money?!”

“I felt bad fer ya!” you screech. “My mistake!”

“Yeah, yer mistake!” Atsumu shouts back.

Chest heaving for breath, you glare at him. He glares in return. Temper pinks his face and the tips of his ears, flares his nostrils and curls his lip in that fierce and familiar way. In the back of your mind, you know you are doing the same.

Asshole.

You’re angry, yes. And offended, and exasperated, and and and –

And hurt.

“It’s so hard,” you say, your voice deciding to crack at the worst time possible, “to be nice to you sometimes, Atsumu.”

When the words leave your throat, his face grows blank in that way you’ve always hated, his mouth pressing into a fine line.

“So?” he replies.

You roll your eyes. “Forget it.”

Casting one last glance at the bottle of shampoo next to the sink, you clench your fists and turn to leave. What a waste of money. This is the last time you’re ever going to feel bad for him.

A hand wraps around your elbow upon your first step outside the bathroom.

“… Are ya cryin’?”

“No,” you bite, wishing he hadn’t asked because now you do feel like crying, just a little bit.

Atsumu pauses for an excruciating moment. You can practically feel his distaste for whatever words he’s about to say.

“I’ll pay ya back,” he mutters. “Fer the shampoo.”

“No.”

“Whaddaya mean, no?”

“I don’t want yer money.”

“Well, what do ya want, ’cause I ain’t owin’ ya anything.”

“I want a thank you.”

“… Can’t I just –”

“No.”

Atsumu throws his hands up. “Fine!” he says. “Thanks fer buyin’ somethin’ I didn’t ask fer! There, ya happy now?”

“I want ya to mean it,” you say quietly.

“I did mean it.”

You cross your arms.

He groans. Glancing around as if checking for hidden cameras, Atsumu slowly pushes his bangs away from his face and wipes his nose, sniffing.

“… Fine,” he eventually grumbles at the floor tiles. Cheeks puffed, he looks up at you from the corner of his eye and scratches the back of his head. “The shampoo fixed it a little bit,” the words struggle their way out of his mouth, “so … thanks … fer gettin’ it fer me. Ya didn’t have to.”

He looks like he’s just eaten soap, his ears still red, and that’s how you know he’s being sincere. Your shoulders relax a little bit.

“You’re welcome,” you say.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Atsumu’s expression, almost doleful for just that moment, blooms into something more sarcastic once you accept his gratitude. He gestures at the doorway behind you. “Can I go now?”

“Dry the mirror and the counter first.”

“But I said thank you.”

You throw a towel at his face and walk away, more satisfied than not.

—

“How’s Osamu-kun doing?”

You prop your phone up against the wall behind your desk, tilting your pen between your fingers. “He’s fine, Ma.”

“Did ya tell him how good his curry is? He makes it better than me.”

“Yeah, he says he’s glad you guys like it.”

After resolving the blue shampoo issue with Atsumu on Saturday, you’d gone back to the kitchen and found Osamu chopping vegetables and tofu next to the sink. At first, you figured he was hungry again, but upon your questioning, he’d only denied it.

(“’S fer you.”

“… Fer me? No, you don’t have to –”

“Yeah, I know. Ya don’t like the curry at the cafeteria, so bring mine back to the dorm and save it in the fridge fer later. If ya don’t want it, leave it fer yer folks to eat when they get back.”)

He didn’t leave much room for debate. And since he was using your family’s food to make it anyway, you accepted, a bit perplexed but happy nonetheless. You hadn’t expected him to remember your complaint about the cafeteria’s bland curry.

The amount he made was enough to fill two Tupperware containers, one of which you left for your parents when they returned two days later. Needless to say, they were delighted.

“What a thoughtful boy. He’s so good to you, honey.”

You smile, walking back to your desk. “Yeah.”

(“Ya like dark chocolate in it, right?”)

Your mom sighs. It’s a familiar sigh, and you click your pen, knowing what she is about to say before she even takes a breath.

“I just don’t know why he hasn’t asked ya out yet.”

You can hear your dad speak up between chews in the background. “It ain’t like how it was back when we were young, dear. Soulmates these days don’t like makin’ things so formal and official.”

“Oh, I know, but wouldn’t it be sweet? I was so happy when we went on our first official date.”

“The one at the konbini ’cause I couldn’t afford anythin’ nicer?”

“Yes. I loved it.”

“I know. You were smilin’ the whole time.”

“Glad you’re still in love,” you say dryly when they giggle over the phone, your nose wrinkling when your dad comes into view to give your mom a loud smooch. During these moments, you wish you’d called instead. “I’m still here.”

“Oh, I know, I know. Honey, you should bring Osamu-kun somethin’ fer his next game! A snack fer afterwards. He’ll like that.”

“Okay.” You’ve done that before. The first time you gave him an orange in your first year of junior high, he and Atsumu squabbled over dividing it for five minutes. Now you get double portions whenever you have the compulsion to bring something after games, just to keep the peace.

“Speaking of games …”

Here we go.

“… Have ya applied to be the manager for the volleyball team yet?”

“Um.” Glancing at the wall to your right, you click your pen some more, taking your time to answer. “I filled the form out …”

“[Y/n]! If ya dawdle, someone else’ll snatch it up. When’s it due?”

“July first or until they find someone.”

“Turn it in tomorrow!”

“Okay, okay.”

Your mom sighs again, and she places a bowl down onto the table. “… Otherwise, are ya okay? I’m sorry we missed ya at home.”

“It’s fine. I hung out with Kokomi and the twins. How was yer anniversary?”

“We’ll make sure we’re home next time you’re on weekend leave. And it was lovely! Oh, honey, ya should’ve seen the fish yer pa caught …”

You talk with your parents until they finish their dinner, hanging up once they’ve started cleaning up. As soon as the video cuts out, you release a breath and turn your phone face-down.

You don’t know why you’re so nervous about applying for the manager position. It’s the natural thing to do, because it’s natural to want to be involved with something Osamu is interested in, his own opinion on the matter notwithstanding. You think you might like being a manager. It’s not like you want to do something else more.

Getting rejected by Kobayashi would be horrible, though.

Maybe you’ll wait a little longer to turn your application in. Polish it up some more, and such.

—

After volleyball practice ends, and after everyone who had lingered behind to practice some more is ready to call it a night, Atsumu tells you and Osamu that he’s staying a little longer to practice his jump float serves.

“Are ya sure? Cafeteria’s servin’ all-you-can-eat pasta for dinner.”

“I’ll be done before it closes.”

Osamu doesn’t look convinced. To be fair, neither are you; Atsumu often loses track of time when he stays behind, resulting in an extra hungry, extra irritable Atsumu.

“Atsumu,” you say.

He huffs at you. “Seriously, I will!” he insists, before turning to walk back to the end line. You, Osamu, Ginjima, Akagi, and Ojiro all look on helplessly as he throws a volleyball into the air and gives himself a running start.

“Don’t worry,” Kobayashi says, grabbing your attention just as he jumps. She holds up the key to the gymnasium. “I’ll kick him out before he misses dinner.”

Ojiro, ever the responsible one, lets out a noise of protest. “Senpai, I can lock up. You should go.”

“No, it’s fine.” Though her tone is impassive, she makes it clear that her mind is set as she waves him off. “I’m goin’ out to eat with my boyfriend later, anyway.”

You blink.

Though Ojiro is visibly reluctant, he acquiesces. “… Okay. Thank you, Kobayashi-senpai.”

“Mmhm,” Kobayashi hums, and her gaze falls upon you. “Make sure they get to the cafeteria in one piece, [L/n]-chan.”

“I will, senpai.”

You wait outside while the guys change out of their gym clothes and gather their things. Once they exit the building, you join them, listening idly to their chatter about today’s practice as the five of you trek towards the cafeteria.

“Hey, Ojiro-senpai, Akagi-senpai,” Ginjima speaks up during a lull in the conversation. “What Kobayashi-senpai said earlier …”

Attention piqued, you look at your upperclassmen for their reactions to Ginjima’s question. Next to you, Osamu does little to hide his curiosity as well.

Ojiro and Akagi, in turn, share a glance, and Ojiro raises an eyebrow at Ginjima.

“Yeah?” Ojiro replies.

“Well, y’know …” Ginjima presses expectantly, “when she said that she has a boyfriend, did she mean …?”

“That’s somethin’ you can ask Kobayashi-senpai about, ain’t it?”

You imagine doing just that and cringe.

Ginjima’s eyes widen, and he clears his throat. “Well –!” he replies, a bit too loudly. “I would, but I don’t want her to think I’m bein’ judgmental or somethin’. Plus, I’m just a first-year …”

“Aw, I think it’s fine if they know, Aran. It ain’t like she’s hidin’ it or anythin’,” Akagi says. Ojiro looks up for a moment in thought, then shrugs tentatively, and Akagi smiles at you and the two boys. “Kobayashi-senpai’s not datin’ her soulmate. They’re pretty serious, too.”

Ojiro rests his hands behind his head. “He’s a nice guy. Comes to games sometimes.”

“Oh, I see …”

You nod slowly, absorbing this new piece of information. Kobayashi has a boyfriend. A boyfriend that she goes on dates with, one she really likes. You wonder how long they’ve been together.

You wonder if Kobayashi’s met her soulmate yet.

“E-Excuse me! Hello!”

The quick patter of footsteps interrupts your train of thought. Glancing behind you, you stop short when you see one of your classmates running up to your group, waving one hand and holding a camera in the other. The golden orange of the sky burnishes her red hair.

“Naruko-san,” you and Ginjima greet at the same time. Ginjima laughs.

“Sorry to bother ya!” Naruko bows and quickly straightens, holding her camera up and smiling nervously. “I-I was just takin’ some pictures for photography club, and I was wonderin’ if you guys would mind me takin’ a picture?”

“How long’s it gonna take?” Osamu asks.

“Not too long. Five minutes? U-Unless y’all are in a hurry to get somewhere …”

“Not too much of a hurry. Just wanna make it to dinner.” Ojiro smiles, patting Osamu and Akagi’s backs. “Where do ya want us?”

Naruko brightens, her cheeks going red. “J-Just keep walkin’! The lighting’s perfect right now, and I wanna take a picture of yer backs with yer volleyball jackets on.” She glances at you, and her expression grows more nervous. “Er …”

You lock eyes with her for a few seconds before catching on. Nodding, you take a step towards Naruko to join her.

Osamu’s hand grasps your shoulder.

His hold is loose, but you bite back the urge to slump over at the sudden warmth of it, pausing instead to look back at him.

“Where’re ya goin’?”

You answer tentatively. “I don’t have a team jacket.”

“That’s fine. You’re walkin’ with us too.”

“Yeah, but …” You wet your lips. “Like, visually, it’ll look weird if one person doesn’t have one on …”

The corner of Osamu’s mouth twitches, and he frowns. You watch as his gaze moves past your shoulder. A sudden, brief twinge of irritation, not belonging to you, zings through your ribcage.

“Why’s that matter?”

“Yeah. C’mon, it’ll be fine,” Ojiro says.

“It’s okay!” Naruko suddenly blurts, and you jolt slightly, looking back at her. She bounces on her feet, voice even higher pitched. “I can do a more candid shot, now that I think about it! A-Actually, Miya-san, could ya give [L/n]-san yer jacket? And Ginjima-san, you can keep yers around yer waist …”

Her sudden change in idea perplexes you a bit. But Osamu seems to be satisfied, and he shrugs his jacket off, placing it over your shoulders.

After a bit of hesitation, you slide your arms through the sleeves.

(It’s just as warm.)

“Ooh, [L/n]-chan’s wearin’ Osamu’s jacket,” Ginjima teases behind his hand, and your face heats up.

“Okay.” Behind you, Naruko lets out a wistful-sounding sigh. “I’m ready. Y’all can start walkin’ now, just like ya were before.”

With only a bit of self-consciousness, the five of you follow her instructions. There are only a few clicks of the camera before Naruko calls out her thanks and goes off without another word, leaving you and the boys to speculate whether you’ll ever see the results.

“How cute,” Akagi comments. “She looked like she was gonna throw up, though.”

“I hope those were conflicting statements.”

“Okay, Aran, I wasn’t implying …”

While the two upperclassmen start to banter, you move to take Osamu’s jacket off, only for him to stop you.

“’S fine,” he says. “You can wear it if ya want.”

“Oh. Okay.”

And so you do.

—

The boys’ first practice game in July is brutal.

Many of your peers have come to watch. It’s a favorite after-school pastime of Inarizaki’s student populace, you’ve quickly discovered, to hop from one athletic club to the other simply to spectate and speculate. People pack the balcony and peek around the doorway, catching the scent of blood and sweat.

Between the crowd’s cheering and jeering, the squeak of sneakers on the gym floor, and the sound of palms ramming into volleyballs, the atmosphere is sharp, almost electric – something that you feel tingling on your skin as you stand on the sidelines, Kobayashi right by your side.

Atsumu delivers another devastating service ace. It ricochets off the corner of the other side of the court with a thunderous boom.

“Did you catch that, [L/n]-chan?” Kobayashi asks, arms crossed. “That was one of his better ones.”

“Ah, sorry, I didn’t.”

“Hm.”

You watch the slow, satisfied stretch of Atsumu’s smile, and wait patiently. “It’s okay. He ain’t done yet.”

Indeed, Atsumu is just getting started. You spare an amused glance at Osamu in front of the net, his hands locked protectively behind his head, before turning back to Atsumu as the volleyball is thrown back to him.

Raising your camera, you adjust the focus, finger ready on the shutter button.

Toss. Run. Jump.

Click.

On your other side, a girl pumps her fists and cheers.

“Wow! Another one!” she gushes.

You smile behind your lens. “Ya always sound so impressed, Tsubaki-chan.”

“I’m just excited! We’re crushin’ them in the last set!”

“’Course we are,” says Kobayashi. “Our offense is that much better. I’m a little disappointed.”

As your upperclassman patiently points out each player’s strengths and weaknesses, you keep an eye on the team and crouch low. You’ve got plenty of photos now that the game’s nearing its end – lots of sets, a few spikes and digs, some flashy jump serves. Hopefully, some of them have turned out halfway decent. Even though you’d widened the aperture to make up for the gym’s crappy lighting and adjusted the shutter speed for blurring, you still worry about your timing.

By the time Inarizaki scores the winning point, you’ve moved to the opposite end of the court and have to race back to capture their reactions.

One thing you like about the volleyball team is how expressive they are. Joy, passion, pride – off the high of a victory, they bare everything, whether it’s through their expressions or the way they move or both.

Tsubaki says your name excitedly as soon as the teams have finished thanking each other, tugging on your arm. “Can I see the action shots, [Y/n]-chan?” she requests.

“Ah, sure.”

You turn the camera towards her, and she leans in as you scroll through the photos, her grin widening.

“Wow! Yer timin’s amazin’. They look so cool!”

The praise brings summer to your cheeks. “Thanks,” you reply genuinely. After a moment of hesitation, you lift the camera again. “Smile, Manager-san?”

Tsubaki doesn’t hesitate to broaden her already present grin, throwing up a peace sign for good measure. Kobayashi looks your way as well, and you take one shot, knowing it will be kept.

“Cute!” Tsubaki exclaims.

Two shadows loom over your shoulders as the girl bestows you with another compliment. When you turn your head to the right, your nose nearly brushes Osamu’s cheek.

“Ya got any good shots of us, [Y/n]?” Atsumu asks expectantly.

“Yes, actually, I did,” you reply, going back through the camera roll with a particular image in mind. You’re only vaguely aware of the warmth they exude as they budge into your personal space, the smell of sweat lingering on their skin. “Here.”

You’re particularly proud of this one. It had been a split second of pure luck, standing on the sidelines when a window of opportunity opened for a fast-tempo set. You had felt it – you knew Atsumu would set to Osamu, and as Osamu jumped, arm reared back as Atsumu sent the ball to him, you had captured it.

Somehow, you always get the timing right with them.

“Cool,” the twins approve proudly.

“Email that one to us, will ya?” Atsumu says. “I ain’t lettin’ you photography nerds hoard it away.”

“She’s sendin’ all these to Arata-senpai, ya dolt.”

“Hey, I wanna see!” Gintama breaks into your little group, trying to sneak a peek in. “Did ya get one of my spikes?”

“Yeah, how about my jump serve?”

“That super cool block me and Ren did in the second set!”

“Didja get one of Coach?”

One by one, the team gathers around you, eager for a glimpse of their successes. The crowding is uncomfortable, but you try your best to show them what you can anyway, feeling a rare sense of pride about your own accomplishments.

You’re happy with your choice.

Tsubaki will be a great manager. Even when you first met her, you knew she had everything she'd need for the job – a passion for the sport, a desire to help others succeed, and an endless amount of perseverance. Inarizaki couldn’t ask for a better person to replace Kobayashi next year. She’ll do well in what she’s decided to do.

And so will you.

—

prev

[dontbesoweirdkira]

A/N: Obssesed with mortal kombat rn so i naturally had to dive into invincible. I love mark but i love him being evil even more so...hehe

Requests: open

Plot: yandere! mark grayson finds you hanging out with your friends and is missed off about it. He hates when your attenion is elsewhere because he's an attention whore...lol ooc-ish?

masterlist

"You didn't think I would be able to find you, did you babe?" a familiar voice spoke from above you

Looking upwards, you were a bit startled to see your boyfriend mark in the air. He was in his full uniform and took his mask off when you noticed him. A disingenoius smile was on his face, you could tell that he was not pleased.

Earlier this morning, Mark had to leave to handle a few pressing matters and told you he'd be back sometime late that night, if not the next day. Figuring you had an entire day to burn alone, you reached out to your friends to join in with their plans. They were headed to the fair just later in the evening and were stoked you finally could spend time with them again.

Mark hated any interactions you had outside of him. You didn't need anyone besides him. He's the one who always keep you safe, he's the one that loves you the best. Your "friends" are all subpar beings that do nothing for you and he made thses rather *strong* opinions very clear. So as you can imagine, coming back to see that you jumped at the opportunity to be with them the second he had left, set him off.

"You weren't where I left you. What did I tell you about running off?" his question seemed like harmless playful banter but you could hear the underlying annoyance with it.

"Oh! Mark, i was just hanging out wit-"

"I can see that."

By this point, your friends and a couple of standbyers were paying attention to the confrontation at hand. All a bit unsettled by his demeanor towards you, but too afraid of what might conspire against them if they interjected.

"where's your phone? Did you turn it off?"He questioned you once more, this time cutting you off as he lowered himself closer to you. Though he remained slightly hovered over you to assert his authority. His arms crossed as he eagerly waited for your response.

"I-no? It shouldn't be. Here, let me check." A little confused by the question you fumbled through bag until you stumbled across your phone.

Mark was a possessive tyrant. If you *were to go out alone, you needed to not only update him the entire time but also share your location so he could track you down if he needed to. You weren't allowed to silence your calls or ignore him. You certainly couldn't take longer than a few minutes to respond to his texts for he would be in a passive-aggressive mood for the rest of the day. Saltily, he'll drag out the entire thing. You're guilt-tripped into begging for his forgiveness.

"I tried calling you a thousand times, but you ignored me. Not to mention your location was unavailable.. I'd like to find out why."

"No, that couldn't of happened. See-" pulling out your phone, you go to show you boyfriend that your location was on but that there just wasn't any service at the fair. Nothing was coming through. You thought proving your innocence of not purposefully ignore him would calm him down but he didn't buge.

His face became increasingly dark, his eyes narrowed and he shifted in his position. That wasn't enough for him. You shouldn't even have come here. You shouldn't be with them. You should be in the safety of his home, right where he left you. How stupid are you to go to some event where you can't even have access to your phone to call him if you get in danger.

You've left him worrying sick and exploring the city to find you. If it wasn't for some stupid flyer he saw on the ground, advertising the opening of the fair, he would've still been searching. His glare shifted over towards your friends. his anger seething at the thought of them curropting your obedience..stealing your precious attention. They're no good for you, this is why he keeps them away.

"It's a fair, Marky. You can't keep her couped up all the time. Let her have some fun for once." Idiotically, one of your friends defended you. They meant well, seeing as this wasn't even the first time Mark has overreacted to you spending time with them. But your lover didn't take to kindly to the remarks.

Mark's jaw tightened and his fists balled so tightly, you could audibly hear the grotesqueness of his bones cracking. His gaze turned back unto you.

"You don't think that i let you have fun?" his teeth gritted out his question

"uhh..let..her...?" Your friend spoke once more, concerned by his choice of words

Swiftly moving from you to just inches away from your friend's face, Mark raised up his hands to their throat and made a gesture strangulation,

"You're so lucky there's whitnesses here because if not I'd-"

"Mark!" you exclaimed his name in disbelief that he'd let his jealousy get to the point of threatening your friends. He took a long, deep breath out before turning his body towards you. He reached out his arms and beckoned you to come and take you into his embrace.

"Let's go." he demanded

You hesitated for a minute, looking over at the group. You were fustrated and truky embarrased by your boyfriends repeated actions. You loved Mark dearly but he's just so draining...He wants so much out of you that it was hard to enjoy his presence as much as you enjoyed your friends. He's only gotten worse with time, as you looked at their disgruntled faces, you pondered if it was even worth going back home with him..everyone around you seemed to be just as offset by him as you were. You knew if you contiened to obey him, that you'll loose everyone that you cared about.

"No. I'm not ready to go yet. You can meet me back at home when i'm done."

"...what did you just say?" His question was rehtoric and you better not actually repeat your words if you valued yourself and your friends.

"Mark- I need time away from you. I'm going to say out with them until I'M ready to leave."

Mark shot the most murderous glare over towards you group of friends. They were all going to pay for this...one by one, they will groesomely leave this earth. But first, he needed to handle you and you defyance. Without any second thought, he grabbed your arm, and pulled you into his body. A harsh burst of air let out from beneath him as he shot off into the orange sky. By the end of the day, you will regret your actions...

[sourmiguel]

Reach Out by weathervaanes (wc20246, explicit)

Summary: Or, In Which Stiles Falls in Love Twice...With the Same Person -0- Stiles sees the flyer on his very last day at Beacon Hills High School. It’s hanging, unassuming, in the hall near the front entrance along with bulletins and other flyers, advertisements, posters for free student concerts, but the fact that the word “sex” is written in a font two times larger than the rest of the page catches his attention. It’s an advice hotline for a whole range of things, from teenage angst to how to deal with your parents telling you you’re adopted and a whole mess in the middle. Stiles thinks it’s funny, though, that they offer advice on sexuality and sex education. It makes sense on the one hand, since high school sex ed does jack shit for actual learning, but anyone who really wants to know stuff has an infinite source of knowledge right on their phone—the internet. So it starts off as a joke.

I am a SUCKER for two person love triangles. This one doesn't disappoint.

[heygerald]

Falling Without A Harness - Chapter 10

AU where Tom Ryder is still an asshole, just not a psychotic one. When Parker gets to spend some more one on one time with Tom, she's left wondering how it's possible that no one else can see him the way she does. Maybe, rose colored glasses aren't so bad after all.

Read the story here: prev / next

Three weeks pass without much fanfare.

Tom, as it turns out, actually does live quite a busy life as an A-list celebrity, and when he's not recording a new paid advertisement or championing photoshoots, he's flying from one state to another to do appearances on various talk shows. It's weird going so long without seeing him—weirder even when Parker thinks about how shortly they've known one another, yet how he's somehow become a part of her routine—and though they share an occasional text message here or there, for the most part she doesn't hear much from him.

She's disappointed, but also understanding, and so rather than sit around moping about the lack of Ryder in her life, Parker uses the time to focus on tackling Melissa's ever growing list of renovations in her bookstore. The last of the shelf liners get pasted, the paint is finished, half of her tacky posters are replaced with thrifted decorations and the other half are spruced up with wooden frames. She adds a coat rack by the door, buys a new welcome mat, and even gives some life back to the tattered reading chair thanks to the cleaning underworld of YouTube.

It's a lot of work, definitely more than she had originally envisioned when propositioned by the teenager, but when it's all said and done...

Well, it's worth it.

Parker has never been so in love with her shop as she is now. She comes in early to straighten her latest arrivals, and hangs around late to sweep underneath the shelves. She's always loved her little shop—it's the only thing in her life that has ever, unequivocally, been hers—but it's better now; now it's something she can take pride in showing off.

And showing off she does. The throng of customers increases throughout the weeks. Not enough to add a couple more employees to her roster, but enough to add a modicum of business to her days. Melissa has somehow enlisted half of her high school to stop through; teeny-boppers hoping to catch glimpses of Tom, and young boys hoping to gawk at the teeny-boppers. Plus, she's been dropping flyers off at Crave Cafe on the daily that seem to be drawing in tourists and retirees alike.

It's not quite success, but it's close.

And damn if it doesn't feel good.

"What are you all smiley about?" her brother asks as if specifically trying to ruin said good feeling. "You look like you're high. Are you high?"

"You look like you're high all the time," she rebuts with a bite of her sandwich.

"That's—I have small eyes, you know that. It just looks like I'm squinty and red when it's too bright," he says in that upsettingly righteous tone of his. It's an excuse she's heard before, and when Parker arches a brow at him, he huffs. "It's—blame Mom! I didn't ask to look like this."

"Aw, Mom doesn't look like an idiot, Colt. That's all you."

His features flatten, deadpan eyes. "Ha, ha, ha. That's hilarious. Soooooo hilarious that I almost forgot to laugh. Almost as hilarious as the first time you made that joke. When was that—the seventh grade?"

She smirks around her straw, and Colt sinks in his chair to cross his arms.

"I was just trying to make conversation," he says, waving his arms around at her. The movement scares off a nearby pigeon, and she watches its flight with languid eyes. "Trying to be nice, see what's new in your life or whatever, but you just had to take it too far."

"That's you being nice?"

"Always have to take it too far," he continues, ignoring her to shove some fries into his mouth. They're sitting at a picnic table outside, a sun umbrella with bright red stripes propped open above their head, the beach in the near distance swelling with the smell of saltwater and taffy, and despite his demeanor, Parker sports a blithe smile. It's a nice day; too nice to be truly bothered by her petulant child of a brother. "Next time, you can buy yourself lunch."

"Oh, hit me where it hurts," she jokes. He shakes his head at her, more fries gone, and all it takes is her offer of an onion ring for Colt to be smiling too. "I'm just happy with how works going. We finished painting, finally, and I think I hit a record for customers this week."

"Yeah?"

"I mean, I think most of them still have braces, but I'm not complaining. If I hired Melissa a few months ago I might have been rich by now."

He makes a face at the mention of her employee, and Parker rolls her eyes. Only Colt would have beef with a high schooler.

"I suppose I can pop in after this, give it a look. See if it's up to par."

"I forgot you were an expert. Where'd you go to school again? Was it Carnegie Mellon? Or Pratt?"

Colt shakes his head at her teasing, but there's no love lost between the siblings. They argue about arguing about arguing. It was pretty much a natural response at this point in their lives. And though she was arguably better at it than him—Colt had a real problem with being tongue-tied, wit was certainly not his forte—every once in a while he gave as good as he got.

"Yeah, well, you're successful, I'm successful. I guess it's a family trait. Glad to hear the store is doing well, though. I was worried I'd have to pay your rent for Christmas again this year, and, well... I really didn't want to."

"Magnanimous as ever," she joked with a sip of her soda.

"What? Three years in a row? I'm not Santa Claus. I do have a life, and I've been eyeing this really nice mountain bike lately."

She furrowed her eyebrows. "Since when do you mountain bike?"

"Since—well... shut up. Can't a guy have hobbies?"

"Why can't you ever have a normal hobby? One that won't end up with you in the emergency room or on my couch for three weeks."

He rolled his eyes to jab some fries in her direction. "That was once, and it was a hernia. It had nothing to do with my hobbies. Besides, you read for fun. I'm not going to take criticism from someone that can't even walk up the stairs without hurting herself."

"I can!"

"Oh, can you?"

Parker flung an onion ring at him, only to have it backfire when Colt victoriously stuffed it into his mouth. She probably should have seen that one coming. She half considered throwing her phone at him next, but it was at that moment that their waitress stopped by to check on them, and by the time she'd left Parker didn't feel so inclined for violence.

A good thing for her brother considering he quite literally needed his body functioning for work.

Speaking of, "how's work for you going? When's filming start?"

He tilted his head to the side. "Not for a bit, but I've been working on some stunt coordination with Dan and the other guys already. This sci-fi movie is really stepping it up from the last one. I've already had to learn a couple new moves."

"Like what?"

"Rolls, jumps, fighting sequences, jumping out of a moving car. That sort of thing."

Parker considered that, before frowning. Suspiciously, she narrowed her eyes at him. "What exactly is this movie about again?"

"NASA," he said around a bite of his burger, as if that explained anything. It didn't; not in the least, but before she could badger him some more he finished the last of his food with a belch. Any thoughts evaporated at the disgusting display, and she waved the air in front of her a grimace. "Now, I gotta go see a man about a goat."

"That's not the—"

He was gone before she could correct him, and when the door inside fluttered close with a fwap, Parker just settled into her seat with the shake of her head.

"Idiot," she said, stealing a sip of his beer now that he wasn't around to guard it. Colt got like a dog when it came to his food and drinks, and despite him always asking for some of her food, she rarely got the same treatment in return. Thoughtfully, she took another sip, adding, "bastard," just because it felt warranted.

She was almost done her own sandwich when the table shook beneath the buzzing of her phone.

You gotta get up, gotta get out, gotta get gone before...

"Hello?" she mumbles through a mouth full of onion rings, phone tucked into the crevice of her shoulder as she wipes the grease off her fingers.

Only her brother would sniff out the greasiest restaurant on this side of LA for a casual lunch.

"Are you—are you eating?" a judgmental voice asks; as if he can see her slumped at the table, stuffing her face, and sucking down soda like it was nobody's business.

Parker immediately sits up straighter, swallowing the remaining food with a grimace, before lying, "no, of course not. That's rude and gross and, you know, totally not what I'm...."

Subtly, Parker glances around the patio. There's a couple sitting at her left, a family at the table on the far right, but other than that there's not a soul to be seen besides the occasional tourist trying to catch the bus. Certainly no Tom Ryder to be found spying on her from the bushes.

"Er, what's up buttercup?" she says, then immediately cringes at how overly causal that question was. What's up buttercup? she mouths to herself. "You don't—that's—what are you doing?"

The line is quiet for a moment, but she swears she can hear Tom shaking his head at her in the interim. But, when he speaks, he sounds no more scornful than normal. "I just got back from New York. Well, got back this morning, anyways. I just woke up from a nap."

"Oh, right! You were on Fallon last night."

"You watched it?" he asks, and this time, he does sound smugger than normal. Though, she supposes his usual levels of smugness was already more than the normal person. Tom Ryder really did love to brag about himself; even more, he loved when other people bragged about him.

"Don't be ridiculous," she tuts, shaking the ice in her drink as she sips it. She tries her hand at scornful as well, but it comes across teasing and light. "Even I draw the line at late night television. Melissa was talking about it this morning."

"Oh?" he hums. "And what'd she think?"

"That you looked even dreamier than usual. And then something about barking, but, honestly, I was a little too afraid to ask what that meant so do with that what you will. Was it fun?"

"I guess. Fallon isn' t so bad. The time difference is killer, though."

She hums, not having any idea what it would be like to travel back and forth across the country multiple times in a few days, but imagining that it likely did suck. "Kudos to you for being awake at all. I think I would have just slept all day, and then been awake all night, and then the cycle would continue until I died from caffeine overdose."

He laughed, and Parker chewed on her straw to keep a stupid smile from splitting across her face. "Maybe that's a reason why you're not famous."

"Right. The only reason I'm not famous," she teased, and when he snorted, she didn't bother to hide her grin. It's a good thing she wasn't at home or she might be lying on her bed, twirling some hair, and kicking her feet in the air like a lovesick idiot.

Speaking of idiots—she glanced towards the door and sighed in relief when her brother was still nowhere to be seen. It wouldn't be long, now, as he had a habit for bad timing.

Knowing this, she asked, "listen, could I call you back later? I'm out with Colt right now and I swear to god he's like a baby when I'm not paying attention to him. Unless you want to be put on speakerphone, that is."

Tom scoffed. "You ever consider getting him a babysitter?"

"He's not up to date on his vaccinations," she joked with a dramatic sigh. "And the kennel stopped taking him after he bit that other dog."

Tom laughed again, and it felt like a victory. Especially since he had called her, and here she was asking to call back later. The guilt didn't have any time to fester, however, before he was moving on. "Well, listen, I thought maybe since I was back in town that we could, er, get dinner. Have dinner, I mean, at my place."

"Oh," she said, so thrown off by the offer that she didn't really know what else to say. She quite literally hadn't stopped thinking about getting lunch with Tom on set a few weeks back; it had been so nice, so fun, to just hang out with him—no Gail, no Colt, no drunken executives or paintball warfare to distract them—just him that she had already planned on accompanying Colt onto set as often as she could manage in hopes of doing it again. She hoped the fact that he was offering meant he enjoyed it too. "Oh! Yeah, sure! That sounds great."

"Great," he echoed. "My place? After you get off work?"

"Sure," she said, nodding a bit too enthusiastically given the fact that he couldn't see her through the phone. Her thoughts drifted to work, and immediately she wondered if she could close early or talk Melissa into pulling a double. "Do you want me to bring some more books? I know you already got the role and everything, but I could bring some more recommendations for you to talk about tonight. Or you could just explain to me the plot of the movie because I'm honestly so confused about it already. Actually, I think I still have some napkins in my purse..."

She shifted through said purse, rattling through a mess of tampons, coins, bobby pins, receipts, and collection of rocks that she thought looked cute but never knew what to do with as Tom cleared his throat across the line.

"You don't need to—" he started, before sighing. As if he there was a bigger picture here that she wasn't quite seeing. Parker, too enthralled in why she had four different buttons in her purse didn't even notice. "I'll just see you later?"

"I'll text you when I get off work."

"Alright," he said. "It's a date."

And then, before Parker could question whether that was just a colloquial saying he used from time to time, a joke, or the reality of what this whole thing was going to be, Tom hung up.

She stared at the buttons in her hand, dial tone buzzing in her ear.

In perfect timing, her brother flopped into the seat across from her, and snatched a onion ring off of her plate. He swept his gaze from her plate to her phone to the buttons in her hand.

"What's wrong with you?" he asked.

"Er," she said, wondering the very same thing, before slowly dropping said phone and buttons back into her purse. "Nothing. Just... nothing."

Colt took that in, thought it through, and then pointed to her plate.

"So, uh, are you going to finish that?"

---

Parker doesn't get to give the date versus dinner conundrum much more thought over the next couple of hours due to a constant flow of customers, deliveries, and teenagers. She thinks the sudden business might be penance for taking a long lunch with her brother, made even longer when he insisted on hunting down some iced coffee after their meal, and when she does make it back to the shop Melissa is so relieved that she practically melts on her feet.

And though the teenager does agree to stick around for a double shift, Parker finds that she's too occupied to sneak out early anyway, and by the time she gets a moment to catch her breath she's already running late.

There's no time to fix her hair or grab a change of clothes, just as there's no time to do anything about the smell of old, papery books clinging to her besides drive with the windows down at a speed likely to get her a ticket. That, of course, only seems to frazzle her braids even worse than they started the day with, and by the time she's parking in Tom's driveway, she looks likes she's just finished an eighteen hour shift down at the docks.

Please let him have gone blind, she thinks while hastily taking out her braids with paper-cut laden fingers. It's a mess of tangles and knots due to her driving, however, and by the time it's straightened out she's running even more late than she originally was.

Hoping out of her car, Parker doesn't think of anything as she rushes up the steps, knocks a hasty staccato, rocking on her feet with a wayward glance down at her dirty sneakers that certainly don't belong walking on real wood floors.

Please don't throw up, she thinks next, stomach in her throat.

Please—

Any thoughts are silenced when the door swings open, and Tom Ryder is suddenly there.

She's speechless as she takes him in; dark slacks, a white tee, jean jacket with a gold chain that catches in the light, freshly clean sneakers that put her dirty ones to shame. He looks good in the way that he always does; polished and shiny, Hollywood and new, but his hair is airdried and lacking gel, his beard freshly shaved, sleep lines dotting the skin along his cheeks.

He looks good, but he also looks comfortable and soft. Natural, in a way that she's never seen him look before.

"...hi," she says dumbly.

Tom's gaze, having been taking her in the same way that she was taking him in, snaps back up to her face, and with a characteristic eyeroll and huff, he echoes, "hi. You coming in or...?"

"Oh, right."

Parker flushes but enters, and his house seems so different than the last time she was there that she cranes her neck to gander. Without people flush wall to wall she's able to see the character of the house better, taking in the hues of orange and yellow paint, the shiny brown age spots on the wooden floor, taupe pillows and white fuzzy blankets sprawled messily across the couch. ESPN is playing on mute, music drifting from the kitchen, a mess of protein powders and vitamin bottles scattered across the marble island in addition to dirty pans.

A reminder that he's a person as much as a celebrity, and Parker smiles at the thought.

"Where should I put my shoes?" she asks.

He blinks at her, already halfway back to the kitchen. "What? Just wear them."

Parker glances down at the muddy soles of her sneakers knowing just how many questionable places they've walked through, and with nothing more than a glance at the too white couch she bends to untie them. Tom rolls his eyes a second time, and she scoffs in response. "What? I'm not trying to mess up anything here. I can't even imagine what you're cleaning bill must be like."

"You're not going to mess anything up," he says. "And if you do, it doesn't matter. I have maids for that shit. You really think I clean this whole place myself?"

She tsks, imagining how nice that must be. "Ooh-la-la, look at me, I'm Tom Ryder and I have maids and—" she mimics, only to slip on the first step she takes in her socks. "Okay, that's humbling. It's like an ice skating rink in here. What kind of polish do they use? Pine sol on crack?"

"Do you really think I have the answer to that?"

"Something fancy, I bet," she continues, head on a swivel as she ambles closer. Even the ceiling looks free of cobwebs. "You should give your maids a raise. Very nice, Ryder. Very nice. Consider me impressed and a little scared of their ability."

"I'm glad you're impressed," he drones, clearly not caring in the slightest, but she wiggles her eyebrows at him anyways, and Tom bites back a smile. "Are you hungry?"

"Starving."

"Good," he nods, pulling a wine glass down for her. "I made paella."

"You made it? I change my mind, I'm not hungry at all, " she teases, accepting the glass from him. It's a hefty pour of red wine—not necessarily her favorite—but Parker doesn't doubt it's expensive and some sort of collector's edition so she keeps that to herself. Tom seems so used to just giving people things instead of asking for their preference that she tries not to be too miffed about it.

He shoots her a deadpan look, betrayed only by the amusement in his eyes. "You think I'm going to poison you?"

"No, I think you're going to force feed me some sort of seaweed, or, like, lemon grass salad under the presumption it's good for me."

"Seaweed is good for you."

"For facials, maybe," she rebuts with a sip of wine. It is good, just dry, and Parker takes reminds herself to drink it slowly. Tom doesn't seem all too amused by her teasing, however, and she reminds herself that food seemed to be a touchy subject with him. Still, her stomach is despairingly empty, and she's thankful for the music just so he wouldn't hear it growling. "Just tell me there's some sort of meat and I'll be happy. And not, like, tofu. I don't care what PETA says that stuff tastes like cardboard."

"Are you so poor that you're eating cardboard now? That's disgusting."

"Tom Ryder thinks poor people are disgusting," she echoes with a smile, and she can tell just from the look he shoots her that he's amused. "Who should I sell that to? TMZ or Perez Hilton?"

He shakes his head at her but moves towards the patio, and with nothing else to do, she follows on socked feet. "Hilton is a tool, you'd get more money if you went to TMZ," he said, playing along. "Anyway, you don't need to worry about that. I'm not eating seaweed on a cheat day, and travel days are always cheat days. Plus, it would just be wasted on you."

It's an playful insult, and even if it wasn't it's not one she would care about, and so Parker sips her wine with an indifferent shrug as he continues.

"Anyway, I made paella. The salad is on the side."

"You made—?"

Her scathing retort comes up empty when they step out onto the patio, and Parker is met with a table flush with food. There's a large steel pan of paella in the middle, a heaping of bruschetta on the side, brussels sprouts and green beans in a beautifully printed dish on one side, a large serving of salad on the other. There are placemats, linen napkins, fancy silverware, and a bottle of chilled water in the middle.

Parker stops short.

Tom, already seated, gives her an odd look. "What?"

She knows there's a more tactful way to frame it, but the first and only thing that comes out of her mouth is a rushed question of, "is this actually a date?"

He blinks at her, before pouring himself some more wine. He's calm, collected in his movements, but his shrug is stiff. "It's dinner."

"A dinner date," she corrects.

"It's dinner," he reiterates, glancing back at her before immediately glancing away. Clearing his throat, Tom shifts in his seat to stretch an arm over the back of his chair; a catalogue worthy pose with the dark sky of LA behind him. "It's a date. What difference does it make? Have you never been on a date before or something?" he asks in a tone she can't quite place.

Teasing, but serious. Cocky, but hesitant.

Yet, Parker is too distraught to think about the paradox that is Tom Ryder, and instead throws her hands up. "Okay," she announces. "I'm leaving."

"Wait—what?" he asks, standing with a screech of his chair as Parker turns on her heel. She makes it two steps before turning back again, head feeling like a nest of squirrels as she tries to put her thoughts in order.

"I can't—Tom—honestly! I'll be back in, like, an hour. Maybe. Probably not. Is there an outlet near here? Oh, they'll all be closed. Okay, maybe two hours then. Or maybe we could just reschedule to, like, Monday night so I have time to—"

"Parker, what the fuck are you going on about?" he interrupts her derailed train of thought. It's an innocent question, well-meaning, but honestly the fact that he doesn't know pisses her off.

She gestures at herself with a wild flap of the arms.

"Look at me! Look at you!" Her jeans are ripped and tattered, cut in places where they weren't originally intended, and faded on the butt from years of use; her sweater was found at a yard sale (five dollars, but she haggled for three) and the tank-top beneath was stretched at all the wrong spots. Even her socks—why did she insist on taking off her shoes?—were mismatch shades of orange. "I can't wear this on a date! Our date! A date with you looking like that! I mean you just got back from New York! How do you look so good?"

Tom let out a sharp breath, color returning to his cheeks. "Jesus, Parker, I thought.... you look fine."

She didn't buy that for a second, and crossed her arms at him haughtily. "You're literally always telling me my outfits are awful. I could have, like, gotten a skirt or worn a dress or something, anything, other than this. Jesus! And I forgot to wash my face this morning—"

"Parker," he said again. "I don't give a fuck. I like what you're wearing."

She raised a brow. "Really? This? You like this?" she challenged, arms thrown out so he could get a better look at her ensemble. Tom's gaze flickered down then up again, and his mouth quirked at the side. She stabbed a finger at him. "Ha! See? I knew it. I look like Chucky. Or, the bride of Chucky, or whatever—I never watched those movies. The doll reminded me a little to much of our cousin, and I didn't feel like trying to unpack that."

He clipped his smile, coughing into his hand. "You look nice."

"Don't patronize me."

"Fuck, you're so annoying sometimes."

"I'm leaving."

"Alright, alright. I think the outfit is awful. You look like a scarecrow. But that's how you're always dressed, so you shouldn't change that just for a date. You could throw a stone in Hollywood and hit somebody with no sense of style. At least you dress like that because it's who you are, and not just an attempt at getting attention. There's not many people around here like that, you know; genuine," he said slowly, and although it was an insult, Parker oddly felt better at hearing it. It was less nice and complimentary and more cocky and rude, more like him. And she wouldn't want him to change that for her either. "Now, are you going to be normal? Or, you know, normal for you. I'd like to eat before the paella gets cold."

She shook her head at him with a sour look. Part of her didn't want to give in to the asshole—not when he was mocking her, and certainly not when he was showing her up on a date—but the other part of her didn't want to leave. She wanted to stick around, eat his food, laugh and talk and joke just like they were doing.

In defeat, she slinked back towards the table. Tom made a show of pulling out her chair with a smirk so cocky it could kill. "I'm not going to get salmonella or something from this am I?"

"Colt told me about how you set the kitchen on fire while trying to bake him a birthday cake," he snarked in that self-righteous way of his, sitting himself. "I'd cool it on the shit talking. You're not exactly Gordon Ramsay yourself."

"Oh my god, that was one time and it was an accident!" she cried in her own self-righteous way. He didn't buy her excuse, however, and when Tom laughed at her, she gave up. Huffing, Parker waved a hand at him impatiently. "Whatever. Just pass me the paella already. I'm starving."

---

Dinner has long since gone cold as they talked, carried inside and stuffed unceremoniously into the fridge upon Parker's worries that the food might spoil. Tom hadn't been all that concerned about it, and she suspected he likely wasn't. She doubted that he had to worry about any sort of household chores living in a place like this, but he had worked too hard on cooking it, and she was too poor to ignore it, and so under her pestering everything had been moved inside when they did. Their first bottle of wine is long forgotten as two more sit on the table between them. There's a few waters there as well; both half-drank, and dripping condensation onto their wooden coasters. They've moved from the outdoor patio to the inside living room—the couch a much more comfortable alternative, though with an arguably worse view of the twinkling LA landscape—and Tom's jacket has been shed along with his sneakers as they volley questions at one another.

Parker's enjoying the activity a little too much; carefully prying into the life that belongs to Tom Ryder, and it seems that Tom, rosy-cheeked and smiling more than she's ever seen before, is in too good of a mood to mind.

He's answered more questions about himself tonight than she thinks he ever has on any of his talk shows, and she's told more stories about her and Colt getting into trouble than is probably appropriate for a date. But neither mind the other, and as the night just gets darker around them, they've yet to get bored.

And they've discussed quite a lot of topics.

"What would it take, then, for you to shave your head for a role?" Parker muses at one point in the night with deviously arched brows. Her head is just starting to feel heavy, a sign that she's teetering past tipsy, and she makes sure not to rush the latest pour of wine he's given her as she swirls it around the glass with careless movements. "Like, you get the role of a lifetime, maybe—oh, maybe a Nicholas Sparks movie, gut-wrenching love story, that type of thing—but your character has to shave his head."

"Shave my head?" he asks, his own head heavy and propped on a crooked elbow as he thinks. "No bald cap, I'd have to shave it."

"Completely."

His head tilts left, then right, before he shakes it. "No way."

"Seriously? Not for a really good role?"

"No. A wig? Sure. Bald cap? Fine, I've done worse for roles. But there's no way in hell I'm shaving my head," he says with a laugh and a shrug. "There's just no way."

"Not even a little? Just a bit. It'll grow back."

"No fucking way! Do you know how many gigs I get just for my hair? I'd have to give up my campaign with Old Spice. I love them."

"You love Old Spice? Seriously?" she echoed, nose scrunching in disbelief, but he either hasn't heard her tone or is ignoring her judgment, and Tom takes another sip of his wine with a confident shake of the head.

"No way, not happening. My hair is everything, you know. Tom Ryder without hair is... that's ridiculous."

Parker tilts her head, squinting one eye as she tries to imagine him bald. But it's too difficult to do, which brings her to the startling realization that he's right. His hair, gorgeous no matter the color, is part of him. It'd be like seeing Taylor Swift without her red lipstick or Dwayne Johnson without his tattoos. One doesn't go without the other. Still, the idea is funny, so she pesters, "what if it was a Spielberg movie?"

That has him pausing, but only for a moment. When he shakes his head, she can't help but laugh at his dedication. "Still not worth."

"That's—Spielberg isn't worth it?" she cries. Parker doesn't pretend to know a lot about the movie industry, but even she knew which directors were worth something and which weren't. Only Tom Ryder would refuse a chance at making history for the sake of his vanity. "You're crazy."

"It's my brand," he sniffed with a laugh of his own. "It'd be bad marketing to just shave it all off. I'm not just an actor, you know. I'm also a businessman."

She's sure that's true, but Parker doesn't care for the argument, and so she thinks hard for a moment. Snapping her fingers, she tries again. "Okay, what about Tarantino? Pulp Fiction is your favorite—you said that yourself."

He made a face. "Well, yeah, it's my favorite..."

"So...?"

He glanced at her, before a hand snaked up to his head to softly rake through his hair, as if testing the worth of it. He did that a lot, a nervous tick she had noticed, and as they sat together it was messier than she'd ever seen it before; slept on, air-dried, with no gel to perfectly coif the blonde tufts. And yet, she wished he wore it like that more often. "I mean... nah. Still couldn't do it."

His answer didn't surprise her in the least, but it was still so ridiculous, that she tipped her head back to laugh at it, cheeks splitting open for the grin that came. "You're crazy. Actually psychotic, Tom. You wouldn't work with your favorite director if you had to sacrifice your hair."

"I like my hair."

"I do too, but, come on! Tarantino?"

"It's not easy to have nice hair. I've worked on it for years to get it how I like it," he said, and then as if he she was suddenly a suspect, Tom narrowed his eyes at her shrewdly. "Do you not like me hair or something?"

Another absolutely ridiculous thing for him to say, and if Parker wasn't aware of how deep his insecurities ran, she would have mocked him. Instead, she gave him a patronizing smile and a pat on the shoulder. "Of course I like your hair."

"Then why are you trying to get me to chop it off?"

"Just trying to see what your limit is," she defended with her palms held up, as if she really was a suspect. He didn't buy it for a moment, but he gave up easily. Parker rolled her eyes at him. "Big baby. I'. just trying to figure out what is crossing the line in Hollywood. You get paid for acting gigs, so where's the line at what you will and won't do for a lot of money if it's required for a role?"

"Easy," he shrugged. "The line exists as shaving my head."

She blew a raspberry at him. "I'm serious!"

"So am I!"

"Well, what if—ha! okay—what if you got to work with Tarantino and made, like, a million dollars."

He blinked at her. "You think a million dollars is a lot?" he deadpanned.

Parker waved her hand at him flippantly, dismissing that comment with a disgruntled eyeroll as she adjusted on the couch. They had started with a full cushion in between them, but over the night, they had both been moving towards one another without meaning to—stars in orbit—and as she pulled her legs up underneath her, Parker's knee pressed against his.

But he didn't mind like she worried he might, and when he stretched an arm over the couch back behind her, Parker continued.

"Alright, thirty million dollars. You would do it for thirty million, wouldn't you? Rich or not rich, thirty million dollars is a lot of money."

His brow lifted higher, and she hesitated.

"...right?"

He laughed at her, bending forward to pour more wine into his glass as she smacked him on the shoulder. "Seriously? Yes, that's a lot of money. I'm not that rich."

She rolled her eyes. "Well, excuse me, Mr. Money Bags. So? Would you?"

He hummed, popping the cork off the bottle to pour out the rest of it. She waited impatiently as Tom then took a long swallow of the fresh pour, really dragging it out.

"Tom!" she whined.

"Okay, yes. If I got to work on a movie with Tarantino and got thirty million dollars, yes, I would shave my head," he finally admitted, looking both pleased at her irritation and troubled by the concept. He sat back while lifting a hand to run through his hair. She watched him tug on a few strands as if reminding himself it existed and when he caught her watching, Parker swung a hand up to hide her smile. Rolling his eyes, he tacked on, "but... it'd have to be a really good role. A starring role. You know? Not just some side character, something that is actually worth it."

"Worth more than thirty million dollars?"

"A lot more."

"You really love your hair," she said, then, as if only to be obnoxious, gave a mock gasp as she clutched a hand to her imaginary pearls. Tom spared her a look as if he knew what was about to come, but was amused by it nonetheless. "Oh my god, your hair is your superpower, isn't it? That's where you get all the swagger and rizz from."

"Rizz? You're spending too much time with Melissa," he commented blithely.

But Parker was on a run, and she wasn't about to let his sour commentary stop her, and so she continued with an air of dramatics that Hollywood would appreciate. "All this time I assumed you were a Bruce Wayne—you know, rich, sad, rich—"

"You said rich twice."

"—rude, egotistical, awful with women—"

He sat up. "Hang on a minute, awful with women?" he echoed in bewilderment, but Parker just continued as if he hadn't said anything at all.

"—the type of hero who gets his superpowers just from being, you know, insanely rich. But, really, all this time you've been like Superman. Good looking, obsessed with wearing glasses that you don't actually need, but with a real superpower. Your hair is totally your kryptonite, isn't it?"

She finally glanced at Tom, only to find him shooting her an unimpressed look. "That doesn't make any sense."

"What? Sure it does. It's what makes you so... you know, Tom Ryder."

"Are you saying my hair is the source of my power or my greatest weakness? Because kryptonite is his weakness. You know, the one thing that can kill him," he said as if it was obvious.

"Well—alright, your Achilles' heel or whatever," she threw her hands up with a huff. Of all the times that he didn't know what she was talking about, of course he would be a closeted comic book geek. "I bet if I cut it off, you would just fall over and die."

Tom rolled his eyes, setting his glass down on the table. "Do I need to hide my scissors?" he asked.

"Scared?"

"Of you? Well, yeah, I'm starting to be."

Parker laughed at his deadpan tone, and something smug curled his mouth as he laughed as well. She always knew that he was a bit of an attention whore, liking when other people were praising him and following him around like puppies, but the smug look didn't much feel like that. Instead, she was starting to get the distinct impression that Tom liked making her laugh in the same way she liked making him laugh.

Proud to be able to do it at all.

Parker bit her lip knowing that her face was flushing a deep red, both from his attention and from his jokes, and she took a moment to set aside her wine glass. The last thing she needed to do was spill some red wine on his expensive white couch, and knowing her history of spilling things that shouldn't be spilled, it was a miracle that she hadn't already done some damage.

"Do you want some more?" he asked, mistaking her reasons.

"No, I shouldn't. I still need to drive home," she said. Then, she glanced at the couch with a worried gnaw of her lip. "Besides, you may not care about this couch, but I do, and red wine is just a disaster waiting to happen."

"It's had worse."

"Oh, I'm sure, but not by me."

"You don't have to worry so much about that," Tom told her with a shrug and a gesture around them. "It's just a couch and you already know that I have maids."

"Well, yeah," she hedged. "But... it's still your stuff, and it's nice stuff, and I'm not trying to ruin it just because you can afford to replace it. Maids or not. What kind of logic is that?"

He shrugged again, utterly unconcerned. "This is, like, my third couch this year."

"What?"

"I have people over a lot," he explained as he ran a hand over the smooth material himself. "Shit happens when you're drinking. If it gets fucked up, I just get a new one."

She frowned. "Yeah, but, still... Accidents happen but I'd be furious if my friends ruined three of my couches in a year. That's just... Do you really not care when people wreck your house?"

Tom glanced at said house for a moment, gaze sweeping over the lavish furniture and expensive decorations before returning to her. He looked so innocent as he just said, "it's just stuff. Freddy and my boys are constantly fucking something up. You know how it is when I throw a party; people get drunk. I have an interior designer on speed dial to replace whatever gets ruined. You should have seen this place after my birthday last year."

"Yeah, but..."

"It's just stuff," he reiterated.

And that much was true. It was just stuff.

In one way, that was a good viewpoint of life. Things were just things, and they could easily be replaced. But as Parker sat there on the couch, feeling how comfortable and soft it was, examining the wooden pegs and beautiful details, she couldn't help but feel offended on his behalf. Things were just things, sure, but she would never go over to someone's house and not care about whether or not she ruined their things. Money or not, that was just shitty behavior.

Certainly not the behavior shared between friends. The idea that he would invite people over—friends, supposedly—that would trash his stuff without caring at all was so off baffling that she could only blink.

"I guess," she said after a moment.

As if he sensed her discomfort, Tom nudged her with his elbow, and when she blinked up at him, he was wearing a troublesome smirk. "Besides, women like my stuff."

Parker felt blood rush her face that didn't have anything to do with the wine, and his smirk widened at seeing it. She couldn't let him off that easily, however, and so she feigned disinterest. "Oh, really? They like this stuff? Hm."

"Oh, come on, it's nice. Just admit it."

"Well, I suppose the couch is okay."

He huffed, shaking his head at her. "Yeah, sure, okay. This couch was featured in Vanity Fair."

She stuck her nose up. "Oh? I don't read Vanity Fair, so I'll have to take your word on it," she continued to dig in, satisfied with the way his smirk twitched at the edges by her goading. "But I guess that's supposed to be a big deal, yeah? Not too bad, I guess."

"Not too bad?" he echoed incredulously, his earlier smugness gone, replaced by incredulity. It never ceased to amaze Parker how easy it was to push his buttons. "Come off it. It's a good couch. George Clooney has the same one in his house in Lake Como."

She poked a cushion, pinched the material between her fingers. "Hm. I would have thought he would get something... I don't know, classier."

"Classier?" he deadpanned.

"Like real leather. Or, oh, you know I read on Buzzfeed that some really rich people don't even have couches nowadays. They just stand all the time, and if they really need to sit, they have super big beanbags. Like, giant. Heard they're all the rage."

He huffed. "Fuck off."

"I mean, I'm not sure if they're in Vanity, they're kind of underground, you know," she continued, getting far too much enjoyment out of teasing Tom. He didn't seem all that amused from where he sat next to her, and she leaned closer to pinch the material of his shirt next. "And this? I mean... Tom. Seriously, I don't want to step on your stylists' toes or anything, but a white tee? Are you Kevin Bacon?"

His eyes grew wide as he swatted away her hand. "This is Armani!"

"Are you sure? Fake brands are a thing, you know. You have to check the stitching, the material, the tags. All of that. It's easy to get it wrong nowadays."

"Parker—"

"It's a whole scam. You might not be able to tell, but I have a great eye for detail. Plus, I've been getting scammed my entire life—I mean, the pink tax? What even is that?—so I'm pretty familiar with the concept."

"It's not—I'm not being scammed!" he exclaimed, swatting her other hand away as it tugged on the back of his shirt. He was fully scowling. Clearly, not pleased with her joking, and as she exploded in laughter, he lifted a brow at her crossly. "You think you're funny?"

She poked her teeth with her tongue, giggling. "I think I'm hilarious."

Tom hummed, eyes jumping over every inch of her face, and the moment his mouth curved into a devious smirk, Parker knew that he was up to something.

"Tom—"

She wasn't quick enough to get away, and all it took was for Tom to wrap an arm around her waist before she was being bodily hauled towards him as though she weighed nothing. She shrieked—never having been one for manhandling in all the years Colt forced it upon her—but despite trying to get away from him, she found herself sitting across his lap, an arm barred across her back to prevent her from going anywhere.

The same hand that was previously poking fun at the quality of his clothes was now firmly fisted into the soft material of his shirt.

"You're going to judge my clothes when you're wearing this?" he asked while pinching her sweater with his free hand. On the back patio, it hadn't seemed so out of place, but now that they were inside, surrounded by expensive bottles of wine and his collection of movie props in glass cases along the wall, it was impossible to ignore. "It's awful, Parker."

She swallowed, trying not to seem too flustered by the abrupt decrease in distance. "I got it at a yard sale."

"You should have put it out of its misery."

"Hey!" she cried, a soft punch into the hard muscle of his shoulder. He didn't seem all that surprised, and his smile crooked further as his palm spread wide against her back. "I like this sweater, jerk. It has character."

"That's what they say about ugly things in vintage stores."

She narrowed her eyes, only a hair's breadth away from him now, but refusing to let him win this argument just because he was looking at her like that, holding her, mouth coiled into a damning smile as if he could feel the way her heart was beating faster. "Just because something is ugly doesn't mean it shouldn't be loved."

He huffed. "No one actually believes that."

"Well, I do," she corrected him. "And I've had this sweater for five years, and I just so happen to love it."

"You've had the same sweater for five years?"

That's what surprised him? "Of course I have," she blinked, thrown by his surprise. "I can't afford to buy a new one every time I want to. I just... you know, take care of my stuff. Ugly or not. I mean, every once in a while I accidentally shrink something in the wash, but I do my best to make stuff last. Are you going to judge me for that too?"

It was a joke, but Parker didn't need an answer. She could tell just from the soft look in his eyes that he wasn't judging her. Just... looking at her.

The kitchen lights were off, the balcony ones too, and the only light in the room came from the fireplace and the small chandelier over the stairs. It cast glittering lights around them, highlighting everything that shined in the room—glass, picture frames, awards, props, and screens—yet somehow Parker swore that he shone brighter than all those other things; as if he was made to be in the spotlight.

At this distance, she could make out the miscolored flecks in his eyes; not just blue but golden and brown and hints of green that were always absent in his airbrushed ads. She could just make out the tired rings beneath his eyes, the crease of his mouth, the tiny curve of his nose, the wayward tufts of hair that he'd mussed wrong at one point in the night.

All a sign that he was human, he was no different than her.

Not really, anyways. Not in a way that mattered.

He blinked at her, and though Parker would never know for sure, there was something in the depth of his features that made her think he was realizing the exact same thing. And as the thought passed between them, their movements synched, and as she leaned up, he leaned down.

This kiss wasn't like the first one; that one had been hard, knocking the air out of her lungs and the thoughts from her brain in a single fell swoop. It had felt rushed; brought on by a moment of excitement and laughter, but lingering in sloppy kisses as if they were teenagers given only a moment of privacy before they would be found out by the English teacher. An absurd thought, that wasn't actually so absurd when the sound of laughter or chatter would drift up to their little patio from the party happening down below. Maybe that's exactly what they had been, just two kids pretending the rest of the world didn't exist, kissing like there wouldn't be another chance.

But this?

This one started slow. Just the gentleness of his lips on hers, the feeling of his hands slowly tugging her to his chest until there was no room left between them. It was hesitant in how her hand skated up his chest, his shoulders, and into his hair. Featherlight, as if afraid to touch, before becoming more confident. His mouth tasted like wine and rhubarb as she kissed him, the smokey flavor of a stolen cigarette chased by the berry-sweet flavor of her chapstick as he chased the delicate curve of her mouth.

Hesitant became familiar as the kiss evolved, nervous became excited as they realized they weren't going to be interrupted or chased away. The kiss turned harder as he shifted their bodies on the couch, pillows knocked to the floor as they became a jumble of laughter, and just as her skin had started to feel like it was on fire, hands nothing but a jumbled mess of firing neurons as they skated around the back of his neck, catching on his gold chain, before a gentle tug on his locks as all thoughts ceased to make sense—

You gotta get up, gotta get out, gotta get home before the...

Thoughts came back, and the pair froze with matching looks of horror.

Tom blinked at her with wide blown eyes. "Is that your phone?"

Parker glanced over her shoulder finding said phone face up on the table, vibrating a steady rhythm on his glass table as the song played aloud for them to hear.

Of course it was her brother's fucking face flashing across the screen.

"...I'm actually going to kill him this time."

"Colt?"

"Colt," she repeated irritably. Tom blinked at the ceiling as Parker glared at the phone, willing it to stop entirely, but neither wanting to move in fear of shattering the moment entirely. "It'll stop eventually," she said awkwardly.

What if I'm late? Gotta big date...

"What the fuck is your ringtone?" he asked, breath tickling her skin.

Parker flushed for more reasons than one, and cleared her throat. "Harry Nilsson," she said, but that didn't seem like an adequate answer, and as the stanzas continued, she added with a nervous chuckle, "uh, it's from a Netlix show. It's not the theme song, but there's a scene where Nadia—er, the main character—she keeps dying, you know—like an endless loop sort of thing—and this is always the song that's playing when—oh, it stopped."

They blinked at the phone screen, and together the pair let out the breath they had been holding when it finally went black.

Parker turned back to Tom, somehow more nervous than she had been before. "So—"

He kissed her before she could ramble, a good thing for them both considering just how much she could ramble, and as if they hadn't stopped at all, her entire body melted back into goo beneath his touch. It wasn't hard to pick up where they had left off, not when he held her so close, when his chest was burning hot as she skated across it with timid hands, when his owns hands skimmed beneath her sweater to leave tingling trails down her spine, or when he ducked closer, sealing away any last inch of—

You gotta get up, gotta get out, gotta get gone before the morning...

She winced, and Tom glared at the phone so sharply she thought it might shatter. Too cowardly to look herself, she let her head fall against his chest as she asked, "is it...?"

"Colt? Yeah."

She groaned.

"Can't you just turn the fucking thing off?" he asked, and though it was a logical next step, the thought of what if had her hesitating. He noticed immediately. "What?"

"Well, I am his emergency contact." That logic didn't seem to matter to Tom at all, and Parker let out a great huff as she stretched for the phone. "He could be, like, dead or something! What kind of emergency contact would I be if I didn't pick up?"

The hand that had been under her sweater fell against her thigh with a thud. "If he's already dead, then there's nothing you can do about it," he snarked.

"Dying, then," she corrected tartly. When that didn't earn her any compassion, she tried puppy dog eyes. "Just thirty seconds."

Tom flopped against the cushion behind him with a sour look, and she rolled her eyes at his petulance. "Honestly, I can only handle one child at a time," she muttered, much to his annoyance, but he wisely didn't respond as she lifted the phone to her ear, hitting the green talk button. "Hello? This is Parker."

"What—of course it's Parker. Who else would it be?" Colt said, and the fact that it was Colt and not some hospital administrator had Parker relaxing.

Just as quickly she tensed in annoyance when she realized that this was very likely not an emergency. "Colt, is, uh, something wrong?"

"Wrong? Why would something be wrong?"

"Because... you just called me twice in a row. That's, like, something is wrong textbook 101."

"Oh," he said as if that had never occurred to him. And considering the fact that she had never had to call him in the middle of the night for a medical emergency was probably to blame for his ignorance to the situation. "Well, no, nothing's wrong. What are you doing?"

"Er, just, you know," Parker hedged, glancing anywhere but at Tom. "Just... hanging out. Drinking some wine."

"Nice. You want to go to the movies?"

Parker's eyes rounded. "W—what?"

"The movies! I feel like it has been forever since we went to the movies, just the two of us. You know, for something that wasn't a premiere, anyway, and I still haven't seen the new Alex Garland movie, so I figured we could go together."

Parker, baffled, grabbed Tom's wrist and twisted it until she could read the very expensive Rolex sitting on his wrist. He looked perturbed by her manhandling of him, but Parker didn't even notice as she huffed, "it's—it's late! What movie theater is even still open right now?"

"The one on Beumont Ave. I'll swing by your place, and we'll be just in time for—"

"No!" she said, louder and more forcefully than necessary. The line went silent as she blinked, and as Tom arched his brows at her, Parker waved her free hand around in the air in a vague gesture that he clearly wasn't able to interpret. When he opened his mouth to make what likely would have been a scathing comment about her ability to stay calm under pressure, she clapped the hand over his mouth instead. "I, uh, can't. Not tonight. Sorry. I actually have to, uh... I just can't."

"What? You just said you weren't doing anything."

"Well, technically, I'm not doing anything."

"Then, what's the problem? I'm like fifteen minutes away from your place. Just wear sweats, or whatever."

"Colt—"

"Jody can't make it, though, so it'll just be us."

"Colt—"

"That's cool, though, you know, I don't have to do everything with Jody. We used to hit the movies all the time, just the two of us, before, and I already bought some gummies from the gas station, so make sure you bring a purse so we can sneak them in. I'm definitely feeling popcorn. Maybe some—"

"Colt, I'm not going to the movies with you!" she blurted out, and the second she did so, Parker's shoulder sank in disbelief at her tactlessness. But—to be fair—she was a little overwhelmed in the moment, tipsy on expensive wine, with Tom Ryder staring up at her like that. Not to mention the fact that the moment he kissed her, her brain elected to take the rest of the night off. As if he knew he was the problem, his mouth curved into a wolfish grin. She shot him a glare. "Don't even start with me."

That caught her brother's attention.

"Are you—are you with someone?"

Tom rolled his eyes at the question, clearly put up with Colt's needling, and he tried to grab the phone from her. But Parker was quicker than he was, and in a better position to evade, and so she stretched onto her knees as high as she could as his hand tangled in her hair. "I'm, stop that! I mean, technically, yes."

"Well—what the hell, Park? Who are you with?"

"...that's none of your business," she said whilst swatting Tom in the chest when he tried to make another grab for the phone.

"Just hang up already!" he hissed at her.

"I will! I am! Just—give me a second!" she hissed back, as her brother's voice droned across the line. "I really can't talk right now, Colt."

"Oh. Oh. Sure, of course you can't, since you're all so busy having secrets now apparently. I mean, I thought we shared all our business with one another, but fine. Be that way," he groused, clearly hurt by her evasion, and as Parker twisted out of Tom's reach once more she prayed for a meteorite to come crashing through his ceiling. "But, just for the record, when I go on dates, I tell you about them."

"Yes, and I've told you before that I really wish you didn't do that."

He huffed, then huffed again. "Well, sorry."

"Can I just call you back tomorrow?"

Another huff, then a scoff. "Sure. Fine, Parker. Whatever."

"Colt—"

"No, no, it's fine! Go have your date, have fun or whatever. I mean, I go on plenty of dates that I don't tell you about, too. So, yeah, I guess we both do have secrets."

"Colt—"

"Just, you know, don't do anything you don't want to do and if he asks—"

"Oh my god!" she shrieked, misery at an all time high. "I'm hanging up now!"

"But—!"

The dial tone echoed in the empty room around the pair, and only when Parker felt like the humiliation of it all had faded enough for her to operate normally again did she dare a peak towards Tom.

"Did he just totally kill the—?"

"Yup," Tom said. "Killed it, stomped it out, and threw it in the river. I hate your fucking brother."

"Yeah," she groaned, letting her head tip all the way to the side until she was flopping off of his lap and onto the empty cushion. She brushed some hair out of her face with a grimace. Tom didn't look much better, and she watched him sink deeper into the couch with a miserable frown of his own.

Silence sat between them, thick and suffocating.

He fiddled with his watch as she counted seconds in her head, and when she got to thirty, Parker gave up entirely. "Do you... want to watch some tv?" she asked.

Tom looked surprised by the suggestion, and his gaze flickered over Parker; as if assessing how serious she was. "You don't want to leave?"

"Why would I leave?"

He didn't answer that, and his refusal to say anything was answer enough. Parker considered the course of events this evening; the food, the wine, the flirting before moving onto the couch, the kissing...

She suspected this was usually how dates went for him, just like she had a strong suspicion that his dates probably treated him in the same way his friends treated his things; without respect, and with a single purpose in mind. But she saw more in Tom than a single purpose, and so the thought of leaving hadn't even crossed her mind. Clearly, though, that wasn't a reaction he was expecting, and she fiddled with her hair timidly.

"Do you... want me to leave? Because, I was thinking I'd hang around a little longer."

Something flickered across his features as he stared at her, and as if he hadn't even thought he had a say in the matter, when Tom relaxed into the couch, he had a small smile curling his lips. "Do you watch House of the Dragon? I'm a couple weeks behind."

"I watched Game of Thrones, but haven't seen any of it yet."

"Want to watch it now?"

"You don't have to start over," she said, watching the little box drift back to episode 1 with each click of the remote. "Just tell me who is fucking who, and I'm sure I'll catch up."

But Tom wasn't having that excuse, and as he gathered up some pillows and a blanket, he tutted at her. "May as well just rewatch it. I've missed half of this season, anyway, so it won't hurt to go back and refresh a little."

"You don't mind?"

He tsk-ed, rolling his eyes in that judgmental way that he did—as if he couldn't believe she would ask something so stupid—and for some unbeknown reason to her, Parker didn't mind one bit. He wasn't acting like she was stupid, just the idea that he wouldn't want to do something as simple as rewatch a tv show for her was. And when he lifted an arm with an expectant look allowing her to snuggle against the warm plane of his side and wrap her legs with his, Parker accepted that maybe it was a stupid question.

After all, she's starting to think that there's very little she wouldn't do for Tom.

It was nice to know that he might feel the same about her.

And when she woke up the next morning to sunlight streaming in through the windows, wrapped up in Tom, surrounded in every way by his essence, to find the celebrity A-lister drooling on his white Armani shirt...

Well, Parker couldn't help but smile.

Maybe Superman was a little more human than people realized.

[cherry-pop-elf]

S.P.E.W For Werewolves

Abigail Grey x Reader

Can be read as platonic

Ever since the HogsHead became a safe heaven for Abigail’s pack, she’s been busy with trying to help make the place more liveable and better for them. Along with bringing awareness to werewolves as well. As if you would refuse to help her!

Warnings: Werewolfphobia, Renka, disabilities, medical issues, small acts of violence

“Oh! Hey-!” Abigail would adjust her ever present scarf, as to make her words more audible. “I was looking for you. I don’t mean to bother, but do you think you can help me with something?” She asked you, with another fiddle to her scarf.

“Course, what’s up?” You asked, as you looked her over. She seemed to have her messenger bag stuffed with papers, and one was in hand even. Said paper was quick to be handed to you, as if it would explain it all.

The paper itself looked to be an advertisement of sorts. A means to ask the public to donate old books, clothes, what have you, to the likes of The Hogs Head In. A donation to the ‘local pack’ if you will.

“Werewolfism can affect anyone, of any age, as you are well aware of. Not a lot of my pack went to schooling of any kind. Would be nice for them to learn to read and write. More than just their name, ya know?” Abigail explain to you, as you kept looking over the flyer. Such a noble cost it was. How could you refuse?

“Where to first?” You asked her. The way her eyes lit up just had you beaming. It was a noble cause, after all. It’s also her family. Who could say no to family? Well, family you love anyway. As if anyone wanted to dive into that complicated mess.

Onwards you two went. Going through out the halls, and into classrooms that permitted you both to enter. A adventure of simple nature. Hanging up flyers on the hallways, talking to fellow friends to hang them up in their designated hang out spots when they weren’t all busy with whatever adventure the year brought them. Asking teachers if they would be ok with hanging them up. Noble cause. It was all going well. To well, and you both knew it would change. Change, it did.

“Donating to the HogsHead-? For one, why would a student need to donate anything. Second off, why such a place as that?” She scoffed, and that scoff was what you two knew so well. Cassandra.

“Because, not everyone gets an education like us. A lot of witches and wizards can’t read.” Abigail was quick to say, with a spin on her feet. Silvery eyes meeting those hypnotic emerald.

“Sounds like a them problem-“ The blonde scoffed, making Abigail bubble. She took a deep breath, before being more direct with her. Helped that you held her hand, so she could have support.

“Yeah, it’s them who are the issue. Not the fact they were cursed, and can’t do anything about it. Do you know what it’s like to not be seen as human, because of how you were born? How you’ll never be seen as equal, all because your blood isn’t ‘pure’ and is ‘tampered’ with. That you just will never be seen as anything more than inhuman?” Abigail asked, and….Cassandra paused.

You never seen Cassandra think so hard before. Her eyes avoiding both of you. Why was Cassandra not smarting off at you both? Why isn’t she scoffing, and calling you both some insult? What was she thinking?

“…..I’ll talk to Colby about this. He’s the poetry writer. I’m sure he has some old books he has no use for.” And she turned, with a snap of her dress, and left. You two were jaw dropped at the kind gesture. The hell? Cassandra? Kind?

“What was that about?” You whispered, as the two of you begun to head outside. A plan to hang them up around Hogsmeade. “Beats me. Maybe she has inhuman blood in her family as well. Maybe like Veela. Would explain how she seems to escape getting suspended, with all the crap she pulls.” Maybe. Maybe….

You tried not to stress over it, and instead focused on carrying all the flyers for your friend. Letting her skip in-front of you, with such pep in her step. So excited to make that old tavern way more friendly, and enjoyable. She was just so excited, she hardly could hear you call her name. The moment it dawned on her you called her, she crashed into the worse person to bump into. Renka.

Abigail would give a squeak, and was quick to run back to you. She’s no scardy cat, but Renka is the exception. Especially when it dawned on her who had crashed into her pink coat. Had her out right cast a cleaning charm on herself, as if Abigail would infect her. That had you glare, and the woman glared back.

“And what are you two doing here? Shouldn’t you be in that useless school, learning useless things?” She scoffed, as you would hold the flyers closer to your chest. Renka was quick to notice this, however, and was quick to Accio them away from you.

“GIVE THOSE BACK-!” Abigail shouted, throwing her fear aside. For her Pack. “Those are ours!” She added, as she tried to grab one of the papers, only for it to fly higher. Made her slip on the ice, and fall on her butt.

“Let’s see what you two gremlins are doing-“ She huffed, as she adjusted her glasses to read the paper. Meanwhile, you helped Abigail up. Dusting off the snow, and giving her respect and dignity.

“You are trying to scam people! Of course you two would! Trying to scam people out of what they rightfully earned, so you freaks can get a meal ticket!” She gasped, as that had Abigail pink in her face.

“None of that-“ You two gasped, as the papers were now engulfed in flames. “NO-!” Abigail shouted, as she tried to grab said paper. You tried to stop her, but her cry of pain said you were too late. She now held a burn on her hand, and stumbled back. You swore Renka smirked.

“Rabblehauser-! That’s enough-!” The three of you would look over, and see a sight. One being Mr. Weasley, with an older man. Worse for wears, that’s for sure. With a face that was scary to you, but nothing abnormal to Abigail. With his cheek missing, exposing teeth. Scars that cut into his brilliant red hair line, and an eye clearly blinded. The attire made it clear he was a curse breaker. Leather vest, white dress shirt, and a cloak over his shoulders. Fur edging for warmth. Quite the classy attire, compared to Mr. Weasley’s G sweater.

“Deal with her, I’ve got the kids-“ Mr. Weasley said, as he hurried over to you two. “Come here love, let me have a look at your paw-“ He tried to joke, to get her to smile through her tears. Of course, it worked. She smiled, you calmed down, and he worked on applying a palm to her burnt flesh. Something of his own invention, given it smells so sweet.

“Renka, you can’t just keep doing this-!” The curse breaker would shout at her, as he would steal one of the posters from the air. The moment his working eye fell on it, he gasped. Made his scars stretch out even farther. Made your stomach twist.

You had no idea what he said, but it was in a string or another language. One you didn’t know. Seemed Mr. Weasley did, as he snorted. Saying something about how ‘that must have been where Ginny got her potty mouth from-‘ or something.

“Thats Billy. He works at a little ole bank, called Gringotts-“ He explained, before Abigail was soon in his arms. Comforting her, as he would hold your hand as well. Her on his hip, and you close to his side. Comforting you both, while Bill and Renka were screaming at each other.

“He’s normally super calm, but he’s sensitive when it comes to werewolf stuff. That’s the face of someone who was attacked by Greyback. Because of his curse breaking skills, he didn’t get entirely infected. He still has side effects, but he doesn’t transform or infect.” He explained, as that had both of you light up. He was kinda like Abigail, but was still living a successful happy life. Hope. That was hope.

“I’ll bite you-!” Bill warned, and that had Renka run. Let her own stupidity chase her away. The man would shake his head, as he looked so exhausted. Seems it’s not the first time those two fought. With a brush of his cloak, he would return to his brother.

“Everyone ok?” He asked, as you just couldn’t stop staring. You wondered so many questions. How does he eat? How does he still have teeth? Is he actually blind? What happened?

“My posters….” Abigail sniffled, which caused Mr. Weasley to kiss her head. Comforting her. That’s when Bill offered his own arms, and Abigail was handed over. The moment she was handed over, it was like a switch. She seemed to instantly calm, and nuzzled his neck. The bond of wolves.

“Hey, don’t worry. I’ll talk to my pal, Ragnok at Gringotts. See if he can pull any strings on trying to help out the HogsHead. I know Georgie will, by seeing on making wolfsbane to supply the tavern.” That had you both gasp. You were confused. You were told goblins were greedy monsters. Was that a lie? A stereotype?

“They’ll listen to him. Billy is pretty much their kid there. Just a bunch of old men, and their favorite grandkid.” Mr. Weasley laughed, as Abigail had stars in her eyes. There was hope. So much hope for the future.

“Just leave it to us. Now, let’s get you two back to Hogwarts. Hm?” Mr. William said, as you two nodded. That was enough adventure for one day. Even for the likes of Hogwarts kids.

Through a secret passage way, that Mr. Weasley knew, you two were back in the castle walls. Sent away with a few sweets to calm the burns, and show your good deeds deserved compensation.

“He’s like me-!” Abigail couldn’t stop bouncing, as she bit at her Bloodlollipop. “He’s like me-!” Was her chant, as she bounced. He was just like her, and that had you smile.

There was hope for her, and her pack. People who actually cared about them, and wanted them to succeed. To be equal, and have as much of a life as they did. Help did exist, and not everyone thought like Renka. There were people who were even like Abigail, and could still live fulfilling lives.

The future looked bright, and damn. You wanted to keep seeing Abigail smile.

[laylawatermelon]

Side Eyes or Raised Eyebrows

Buddie: Marketing Tatic or Something Else?

Hello! Back on my big brain I cant sleep stuff.

I've been a Buddie fan for over a few months now (idk how time works) and have lived through the beautiful bi buck confirmation.

Now I do have some think pieces about queer representation in American media and in different countries (i literally spend all my time watching tv I'm a conessiur or sorts) and how they differ on impact/deal with issues etc.

What I woke up thinking about is something that's bugging me a bit about Oliver and his interviews.

If we're (both the ga and buddie fans) supposed to be convinced about this new relationship the writing and promotion MUST be changed.

Let me explain.

Tommy, Tevan whatever you want to call it is Buck's newest relationship.

It's a new relationship with a similar set up/feeling around it.

The only way I think Buddie can be override/mitigated is if they have a doctor love interest who consistently stays over the course of seasons who has their own backstory and storyline.

I'm starting to swing my eyes at ABC and their marketing team now.

Madney's wedding coming up and we barely saw either of them ( granted kudos on keeping this all under wraps y'all) and they've been hanging a shiny bell in front of us as distraction like a baby.

Look at the shiny buddie then BAM character death!

Please don't take this serious, please don't take this serious, Tim! PLEASE don't take this serious.

But anyways, I have been thinking about Oliver and all of his recent press and just the way Busdie has been uttered and whipped around like a tennis ball.

He currently has a boyfriend but the way it's been discussed and portrayed has me a bit dazed.

I wanna be a bit objective (I'm asking the big questions here)

The main problem is the Buddie relationship and how it's portrayed/written and had continued to be this season.

If you compare the past seasons and how they've developed as let's face it a couple, because there's no way to deny it as they've been written to parallel in unverse and other show romantic heterosexual relationships.

They quite literally qualified for a queer platonic relationship (if you wanted to view it that way. I however have not. I say let the gays free!/j)

If they intended for it to be platonic let it BE platonic.

They shouldn't be doing an if, of the gender was swapped would it be romantic/ship coded?

They literally have that in the show already. Bobby and Chim, Bobby and Eddie, hell Chim and Eddie (do they even have solo scenes together???).

Bathena is a blatant parallel. The main one almost beat for beat is the orchard shooting and the hostage situation. (Pretty sure it's the same season I believe)

But those are just some examples of the show.

My main gripe is if it's not about buddie don't make it/lean to heavily into it as it can backfire.

I'm not gonna lie, bi buck episode was a bait and switch (beautifully done and still very infuriating all the same).

Oliver I gotta bone to pick with you (I really don't I'm side eyeing the network i know they approve questions).

He's also a Buddie warrior so I can't really fault him on how he talks about it it's been like 6 years he's had the same partner with the domestic (cough sexual tension cough) with.

So I don't really blame him tbh.

*Swings around and points fonger at marketing team*

It's all your fault.

I know the episode will feature Madney (duh it's their wedding episode and I'm ready to cry) but I'm pretty sure there could've been another way to advertise this occasion.

Use flyers (similar to the ones used to say that one of the dispatch crew was attending) to get fans buzzed about watching the show in a few weeks as though they're rsvp'ing, talk about past scenes, more interviews centering the couple and what they thought about the episode, a promotional photoshoot?

Photoshoot in a magazine with jlh and Ken would've been really cute. Madney fans would then be happy. (I'm included🙋🏾‍♀️ give the beautiful couple their photos i wanna see it😤 my little queer heart and eyes demands it)

Literally would've been the perfect time to pair up with some wedding magazine or something. Literally a million ways to go about it.

Madney in formal wedding clothes, then a dystopian kind of dress clothes to reflect the chaotic wedding ending.

Use a highlight reel.

Similar you are cordially invited to a 911 wedding -

Show madney karaoke, engagement ring being missing, proposal, hugs after hostage, this season cute date idea and excitement for the wedding then a simple where's chimney.

Then put the bachelor stuff then have him crawling.

Something as simple as that puts more of the focus on madney visually and marketing wise.

For the interviews they could've split it between Oliver talking about bisexuality and the other two talking about relationship and the high beats and low beats and how it felt to play.

How their relationship developed as costars and what the characters mean to them.

Split it down the middle so both fans are appeased.

I am a fan of all characters and this is really funny because I the first half of this one morning I woke up before the scene was even mentioned being cut but i was like there's a shift in something and it's not good🤣 as expected something went wrong)

Though I'm pretty sure the fans of both will be happy because Buddie are going to be the comic relief so they'll have a decent amount of time as the blockers so to say because we will know who's gonna kidnap Chimney. He only had one enemy??

But yeah this was a Tuesday thing I wrote and it's now very hilarious in hindsight and in the future.

Happy Madney day i guess!

This will be linked to Twitter cause whew...

[candyflossfairy]

𝐺𝑖𝑟𝑙 𝑜𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑀𝑜𝑜𝑛 — 𝟶𝟷

—𝟶𝟷. 𝑤𝑎𝑙𝑘 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑤𝑎𝑦

𝑚𝑎𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑙𝑖𝑠𝑡

𝑠𝑢𝑚𝑚𝑎𝑟𝑦: Corroded Coffin is an up-and-coming band gaining traction quickly; however, their lead singer just left to go solo. After finding a flyer advertising that they were holding an audition to find a new lead singer, you decide to take a chance and go for it. 𝑤𝑎𝑟𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠: 18+ only, Wet dreams, fingering, petnames.

𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑑 𝑐𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑡: 3.3k

This was it. It was your big break. Your opportunity. Your time to shine. Well… maybe not quite yet. You had to get through the audition first, and get the spot in the band, but… well, Corroded Coffin was up and coming. They’d already hit radio stations in your city, and when you’d seen the flyer that they were looking for a new lead singer you just… had to try. 

It was a sign. It had to be. 

Not to mention, hanging out with a bunch of cute boys and making music didn’t sound bad at all.

Even though this was a total long shot and you had to be amazing for them to pick you since their old lead singer was a guy. Their songs were made for a guy to sing, not a girl. Even still. You had to try.

You had to.

You stood outside in the line of others auditioning, every one of you dressed up in your best rocker attire. You thought a little cleavage and fishnets didn’t hurt, and you were the only girl in the line other than girlfriends who seemed to come and support their boyfriends in auditioning. 

You were alone. You hadn’t told anyone what you were doing, out of fear of jinxing it. Your guitar was in its case at your side, being your only companion as you slowly moved up in the line. 

Finally, you were inside and signed in with your name and phone number. The attendant handed you a number that you pinned on your shirt. Number seventy-six. Seventy-five other people were auditioning ahead of you, and god knows how many were after you. Your chances felt even slimmer.

Still, you would do your absolute best.

You sat with the others who were waiting to audition as another attendant called a number every once in a while. Your knee bounced with jitters as you played through the song you were going to sing and play for them in your head. 

You had this.

“Seventy-six!”

Fuck. You were going to throw up.

You stood and grabbed your guitar case with shaking hands as you walked up to the attendant. It was only then that you noticed all of the stares. You were the only girl there; of course, people were staring.

“You’re seventy-six?” The attendant asked as if to check once more.

You nodded, wetting your lips. “I do have the number on.”

The attendant seemed to want to say something else but just opened the door for you.

You took a deep breath and stepped inside. 

Sitting on one side of the room behind a table were the members of the band; and, of course, their manager. Your cheeks turned a little pink as they were all staring at you, surprised. 

One of them, however, was grinning way too widely at you. 

“Welcome to the audition. I’m Eddie. This is Gareth, Billy, Jonathan, and Steve; our manager.”

“Hi,” You greeted. 

“Can we get your name, sweetheart?” Eddie asked.

You stated it, and then sat your guitar case on the floor to unlatch it and pull out your guitar as they scribbled down notes on their papers. 

“Do you need anything? Maybe a bottle of water?” Steve spoke up next, leaning back way too far in his chair. He looked very different from the rest of them, more preppy boy than a rockstar. That was probably why he was their manager, you thought.

“Oh, a bottle of water would be nice.” You smiled.

Steve snapped, and the door attendant brought one over to you. You plugged in your guitar before flicking on the provided amp and stepping up to the microphone. It was a small room, so the volumes on both were pretty low. Shockingly, the acoustics in the room were very good.

You took a sip from the water before picking up your pick and giving your guitar a quick strum. 

“What are you playing for us today?” Billy asked another person who looked way more pretty boy than rock band, but you couldn’t judge.

“A Rose Bush Symphony.” You stated one of their songs, and they all looked intrigued.

“Whenever you’re ready.” Eddie nodded. 

You took a deep breath before you started strumming the opening notes on your guitar. It was only a little off with it lacking a drum beat behind it, but they were already aware of that.

This, in all honesty, was probably the best you’d played in a while. It was a good feeling, and you forgot that it was an audition at all as you strummed and sang along and hopped around like you were on a stage, playing at your own concert.

By the end, you were getting the big O from the band. A standing ovation.

“Damn, didn’t expect that from you.” Billy laughed, clapping slowly.

You licked your lips and flipped off the amp before unplugging your guitar. 

“Thank you guys for this opportunity, I appreciate it.” You smiled at them as they started discussing quietly among themselves. You placed your guitar back into its case and closed it before standing. 

“Have a good day, sweetheart. You’ll be hearing from us.” Eddie finger waved at you before Steve whacked him in the back of his head.

“What he means is that we’ll be discussing. If we pick you, you’ll hear from us in a few days. Thank you for coming.” Steve nodded to you.

“Thank you guys, again.” You gave them all a smile before leaving the room. 

Jesus Christ.

They were a rowdy bunch. Whatever happened now, you did your absolute best. You knew you did. You were proud, regardless of if you got the position or not. You nodded to yourself and released a breath before heading home.

An hour car ride later you were back; you quickly put up your guitar before heading to work. 

You stepped into the back of the dive bar and punched in before heading to the bar. 

“Hey, Rudy.” You greeted your coworker. He was around your age and not bad looking — but definitely not your type. He smelled like an ashtray even though you knew he got good grades in school. 

“Hey.” He grinned at you as you stepped up to take a patrons order.

Twelve orders later and the bar was pretty satisfied for the moment. You leaned against the back counter next to Rudy.

“Sooooo… how are things going?” He asked.

“Fine. Normal. Totally normal.” You sputtered.

“Sounds like things are not normal.” He laughed, grabbing you both a bottle of water.

“Oh, you know. I just… maybeauditionedtobecorrodedcoffinsleadsingertoday. Nothing crazy.” You laughed.

“I’m… You what?” He looked at you, confused.

“I… auditioned… to be—”

“Wait, wait, you’re telling me you actually auditioned somewhere?! That’s amazing!” He laughed, pulling you in for a back-slapping hug.

“Yes, yeah, I did. Actually. Corroded Coffin is looking for a new lead singer.” You told him after he let go of you.

“Corroded Coffin? Oh, honey. You could’ve picked any bar in town to play by yourself, and your first audition in years you picked something you can’t get?” He shook his head, “You’re just trying to put yourself down. I see what you’re doing.” 

“Why—who says I can’t get it?” You huffed. 

“C’mon. Their lead singer was a guy. They’re looking for another guy. They recorded their old songs with a guy. They’re not going to change their whole thing for some girl.” 

Ouch. 

“Well, nice to know I’m just some girl—” 

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it. I just mean that you’re not… that’s a total different level and you haven’t performed in a long time.” He explained.

“I am very aware how—”

“Ay! Gimmie another beer!”

You sighed and grabbed a fresh glass, pouring the mans draft for him before sliding it over and grabbing his ticket to add it to his tab.

“Look. I’m not trying to make you feel bad. I just think you should’ve picked something more on your current level before you went straight for the big leagues.” Rudy bit his lip.

“They’re not a huge band or anything. They’re just… up and coming.” You tapped your fingers against the counter.

“They’re the biggest thing Indiana has had in a while.” He looked at you.

“Okay, I know it was stupid to think I could actually get it, but it got me back into it anyways, right? Like, that’s the scariest thing I’ll ever have to do unless my own career takes off, right?” You pointed out.

“Alright, alright. Just don’t get upset when they don't call you.” He sighed heavily.

“I won’t,” You promised.

Your shift ended around three a.m. and you drove back home. Rudy really did a number on your confidence levels, even though the band seemed to be excited about you after your audition.

Then again, maybe they acted that excited about everyone, just to make them feel better. 

After a quick shower — and maybe a quick crying session in said shower, you were in bed; dreaming of what will never be.

Your pussy clenched tightly around his fingers as they pumped in and out of you, his mouth on your pert nipple; sucking, nipping. His fingers curled inside of you, pressing right into that spongey spot in you that made your back arch high and a moan leave your lips.

“Eddie—” You whimpered, “Please!” You cried out.

“Please what, sweetheart?” He looked up at you with those pretty brown eyes, his lips glistening slightly.

“Plea—”

You shot up out of bed at the loud ringing that flowed through your house, your cheeks flushed a deep red as you tried to catch your breath. It had been a long time since you’d had a wet dream, and even longer since you’d had one about a literal stranger.

The phone rang again, and you scrambled out of bed, trying to ignore the tingling between your legs as you made your way into the kitchen.

“Hello?” You answered.

“Hi, this is Steve Harrington with Corroded Coffin, how are you doing today?”

Oh shit. “Hi! Hi! I’m doing great, how are you?”

“Great, actually. We were really impressed by your audition and wanted to see if you could come in today and play with the band as a sort of callback situation.”

“Oh, oh shit, yeah! Absolutely! What time, and where?” 

Steve gave you a time and an address, which you scribbled down on the palm of your hand. 

You didn’t have much time to get ready. It was about an hour drive to Hawkins; but you would make it. Thank God you showered last night.

You slapped on some makeup and clothes; including the fishnets again because they seemed to give you good luck yesterday. 

The drive into Hawkins was filled with you listening to the one Corroded Coffin CD you had, trying to make sure you knew the lyrics to most of the songs at least. You did know them; but you wanted to be sure. 

Where you pulled up, after following the side streets, was a house. The garage door was open, and the band was all in it, laughing and talking together. Your nerves welled up once more, but you took a deep breath and got out, grabbing your guitar case from the back seat.

“There she is!” Eddie was the first to greet you with a wide grin and a wave. You smiled back and tried not to blush too hard as you remembered your dream from last night.

“Surprised?” Billy asked, his arms crossed over his chest.

“A bit, yeah.” You admitted, placing your guitar case down. 

“Well, don’t be nervous. You’re mostly just hanging out today.” Steve told you with a kind smile. 

“I’m more surprised that we’re in a garage.” You laughed.

“Yeah, it’s Gareth’s. This is where we started.” Jonathan piped up. He wasn’t paying much attention to you as he was tuning his guitar.

"Cool," You nodded.

"You want a beer or anything?" Eddie asked, crossing his arms over his chest. He looked way too smug, and you couldn't help but wonder why. 

"Maybe later? Beer isn't exactly good for the vocal chords." You laughed, pulling your guitar from its case. 

"Well shit, look at her. She knew something that you didn't." Billy teased Eddie, slapping him on the back. 

"Yeah, yeah. It's good to know, though. For concerts." Eddie huffed, walking over to grab his guitar. 

Everyone got into place with their instruments, Billy on drums, Gareth on bass, Jonathan on rhythm guitar, and Eddie on lead. You, in all technicalities, didn't need your guitar. It was a comfort object for now. 

"Alright, let's start off with A Rose Bush Symphony since we know you know that one." Steve piped up, taking a seat off to the side.

The drums started and you tried to not shake as you strummed the opening notes at the same time as Eddie, taking a deep breath before you started to sing. 

"Alright, alright! Free concert’s over. Everyone shuffle along!" Steve shouted over the crowd you had accumulated in the driveway. 

All of you were sweaty, despite the cool air. Spirits and adrenaline were high. You’d just played your first concert, and everyone enjoyed it. There had even been shouting for “Encore! Encore!” You felt lucky that you knew the lyrics to their songs. At some point, your guitar had been put down and you’d taken the microphone in hand, hopping around and playing off of everyone else’s energy. If you asked yourself, you fit right in. You just hoped the others thought the same.

“How about that beer?” Eddie laughed, brushing his bangs back. He’d pulled his hair up into a bun between songs around midway through to get it off of his neck. 

Billy had done the same, but had also shed his shirt. You were trying to not drool over all of them. With their arms out and their skin glistening. 

“A beer sounds great.” You smiled, your voice a little raspy from overuse. You’d definitely have to train it up if this was going to happen.

Gareth and Jonathan stepped inside of the house to grab everyone a beer while Steve approached you and gave you a pat on the back.

“Well, I think that answers that. We can draw up a contract tomorrow. How does that sound?” He grinned at you.

“You mean it?” You asked, a little giddy.

“Of course. You rocked the fuck out of that crowd!” Billy barked a laugh, finally standing up from his drum set. You got an eyeful of his abs and had to look away from him to keep from blushing.

“You don’t live around here, right?” Eddie piped up.

“No, I’m about an hour north.” You nodded.

“We’ll look into finding you a place here. We’ve already booked a few gigs out of state, so it’ll be tour bus city for the next month anyways.” Steve told you.

You went a little wide-eyed. 

“We’re not that big, yet. What he means is we’ll be high tailing it out of here in about a week in a couple of vans. After these gigs, we should be able to afford an actual tour bus to take a US tour.” Eddie explained.

“Yeah, yeah. I’m just dreaming big for us.” Steve huffed.

Gareth and Jonathan came back with the beers, passing them out. Gareth gave you a shy smile as he handed one to you, and you smiled back.

“What about my job?” You asked.

“This is your job now, baby.” Billy grinned.

“If you want, to save money, you can even live with us. You’ll have to get used to sleeping in hotel rooms and vans with us anyways.” Eddie pointed out.

“Can I think about it?” You prompted, not certain you really wanted to move in with five boys. That would be…definitely a lot. Especially if they weren’t clean.

“Yeah, of course. I didn’t think you would want to do that anyways. That’s why I didn’t suggest it. Living together permanently and sleeping in the same area for a month are completely different.” Steve said, shooting a look at Eddie, who held his hands up.

“We’d have to move our shit around anyways.” Jonathan huffed. “There’s not enough room.” 

“Don’t be like that. We had room when Tommy was with us, we have room for her.” Billy grunted. 

“I don’t want to impose.” You frowned.

“You wouldn’t be. Jonathan just takes a while to warm up to people. Don’t mind it.” Steve rolled his eyes.

You nodded, but you still couldn’t shake the feeling that Jonathan really didn’t like you. He barely spoke around you — the same could be said for Gareth, but at least Gareth smiled at you. He came off as shy more than he did mean.

After a little more chatting between you, Steve, Billy, and Eddie — with Jonathan randomly chiming in and Gareth saying absolutely nothing — they decided to take you back to their house to give it a look over, just so you could see what you would be getting into if you did end up moving in.

It was a pretty normal-looking house from the outside, but on the inside, it was… cleaner than you expected. There was a handful of dishes in the sink, but the counters were clean and organized, the couch was lacking stains, and the TV even had a VHS player and an NES attached to it. 

Downstairs were two rooms, Steve and Billys, and upstairs were another three; Jonathans, Eddies, and Gareths. Steve and Billy were happy to show you their rooms, both clean for the most part — only a stray T-shirt or a cluttered vanity showing any mess. Eddie and Jonathan said no, Eddie being more sheepish about it and Jonathan being more… fuck you about it. 

Gareths room was the last one, and his was spotless and organized. You suddenly knew who kept the kitchen so clean.

“So, if I did live here…where would my room be?” You asked, as the six of you came back down the stairs.

“Oh, right. This way.” Steve said, leading the group through the kitchen. He slid open the glass door to the backyard and headed towards a rather large shed.

He opened up the door and stepped in, you stepped in after him.

“We’ve been using it for storage, but this is where Tommy stayed. There’s heat and air, and no issues with bugs or anything. We can move all of this junk to the basement and attic; we just got lazy.” Steve explained.

It was just one big room with a couple of windows. There wasn’t that much stuff in it, really, but there was carpet on the floor and the walls were painted, so it was, really, like a room. 

“The only downside is you have to come inside for a bathroom,” Eddie said quickly. “But you get to control your own temperature which is really nice!” 

You nodded slowly, mulling it over in your head. It wouldn’t be an awful setup, honestly. You could see where your bed would go, and your desk, and you could get a vanity for your makeup and—there was even a closet.

“What’s this?” You asked, bending over to pick up an old shoe box at the bottom of the closet.

“Nothing!” All of the boys seemed to chorus at once, and before you knew it the shoe box was out of your hands.

You looked at them suspiciously. “It’s not drugs, right?” You asked.

“No! God, no.” Eddie laughed. “The worst we ever have here is weed. It’s just — This was Tommy’s. We should really get it back to him.” 

“Yeah, Tommy is like.. Super protective of his stuff. He just forgot it.” Billy nodded.

“...ooookay, weirdos.” You pushed passed them and back into the room.

“My lease is up soon anyways, so… I don’t see why I can’t move here.” You told them.

“Awesome. We’ll start cleaning this shit up, and you can start packing. We need you back here tomorrow for the contract, and then we’re going to rerecord some songs with your vocals. Sound good?” Steve asked.

“Yeah, cool. I’ll be back tomorrow then."

[seiunzzz]

XDINARY HEROES AS AESTHETICS.

🌐 seya : before we dive into an amazing world of web-aesthetics, there are few things that i’d like to point out. first of all, i chose aesthetic for each member based solely on my associations with their vibe. meaning: i associate the vibe of aesthetic with them, rather than the history behind it. secondly, some of the information was gathered from such sites as:

https://cari.institute/aesthetics.

https://www.are.na.

https://eyeondesign.aiga.org.

now that we got that out of the way — enjoy!

𝐠𝐨𝐨 𝐠𝐮𝐧𝐢𝐥 : 𝐃𝐈𝐍𝐄𝐑 𝐊𝐈𝐓𝐒𝐂𝐇

“baby boomer & silent generation revival of various 1940s-1950s cultural iconography, design, and kitsch associated with diner, drive-in's and malt shop culture. jukeboxes, poodle skirts, 1950s advertising kitsch, neon, chromed-out automobiles, metallic paneling, 'american graffiti'-style fonts.” — ©️ cari institute.

diner kitsch – aesthetic familiar to everyone, yet not that many people know it’s actual name (or that it is, in fact, an aesthetic!). checkered floors and walls, milkshakes, burgers, neon signs and, of course, waitresses on roller skates — these things define diner kitsch. originating from 1950s, when diners were seen as a place, where you could enjoy a hearty comfort food and have a good time with your family or friends it was finally revived in our years through media that depicts mainly high schoolers or travelers of any sorts, going out for a dinner.

🌐 seya : i chose diner kitsch for gunil because he is literally the embodiment of a nerdy boy who would definetely hang out with his group of friends in a place like that. doing homework, reading comics, getting cookies on the house because of how often they visit a diner… 🥤🍔 yum!

𝐤𝐢𝐦 𝐣𝐮𝐧𝐠𝐬𝐮 : 𝐍𝐄𝐎𝐍 𝐍𝐎𝐈𝐑

“the term neon-noir is a film genre, but it can also represent an aesthetic. this aesthetic includes a brooding, mysterious, cyberpunk, and dangerous atmosphere. the neon-noir aesthetic can be related somewhat to the sibling-genre neo-noir (without the “n”), including avant-garde fashion, femme fatale style, dark clothing, technology, and neon lights.” — ©️ wendy zhou (from her blog wendyzhou.se)

neon-noir (also known as future-, cyber-, tech-noir) was born in the film industry around 1980s, when sci-fi was blooming yet again. not so popular in web, it is still quite known in gamer community, thanks to such games like “cyberpunk 2077”, “anno mutationem”, “blade runner” etc. this aesthetic is mixing old-school noir with futuristic elements, giving it a whole new look. neon signs, robots, androids, futuristic technology are going hand in hand with good old detective genre, accented shadows, rain and fog.

🌐 seya : i find this aesthetic to be the most suiting to jungsu. i can imagine him in this type of setting so well and i’d actually like to read or even write something, where he is portrayed as a detective in a mysterious and futuristic setting!

𝐤𝐰𝐚𝐤 𝐣𝐢𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 : 𝐀𝐂𝐈𝐃𝐆𝐑𝐀𝐅𝐈𝐗

“rule-bending, medium-blending "instagram grunge". full of horror vacui, chrome type, oddball textures and self-referentialism.” — ©️ cari institute.

originated in the 1990s and revived in 2010s, acidgrafix (also known as: acid graphics and acid design) aesthetic is mainly seen nowadays on the covers of music albums. bright colors (usually red, orange and neon green, neon yellow, neon purple), wireframes, distorted images, liquid metal forms – all of these are key elements of acidgrafix. the term acid, as you might’ve already guessed, came from the acid house and rave culture. it first appeared on flyers, used to promote and to invite people to raves. smiley faces (of course, resembling nothing else but the actual drug), op-art-esque patterns, sci-fi futurism – all of these were such an eye candy for party-goers, that soon enough this style overtook the music industry. after being long forgotten in the 00s, acidgrafix finally found it’s new home in instagram, where musicians would design their insta-stories and albums with all of the key details of this aesthetic.

🌐 seya : aaand this is the part that i was worried about the most. this aesthetic took it’s origins not from the best culture, but i still find it’s style being quite suiting for gaon. it’s bright, innovative and bold – just like he is!

𝐨𝐡 𝐬𝐞𝐮𝐧𝐠𝐦𝐢𝐧 : 𝐓𝐄𝐄𝐍 𝐏𝐔𝐍𝐊

"the millennial and gen-z iteration of edgy grunge aesthetics, associated closely with "pop punk" and the store hot topic." — ©️ cari institute.

*puts a cd in the drive, "girlfriend" by avril lavigne starts playing* now that we're in the mood, let us find out what the hell is a teen punk. the dirty, the angry, the free and THE wild – this aesthetic conveys the whole essence of the rebellious period that every teenager eventually goes through. you can usually see this movement being expressed through clothes, style, make up and, most importantly, music, rather then the way you could draw something or edit a photo. mainly seem in early 00s, teen punk found it's new home in hearts of people through nostalgia that overtook us all as soon as pandemic started. this aesthetic combines different colors like foggy green and blue, obviously black, red and pink (yes, the tricolor of emo aesthetic is very important here). essential details of teen punk are denim jackets, torn jeans, big ass t-shirts with logos of musical groups, fishnets and those humongous military boots that everyone used to wear. the pioneers of this movement are mainly musical artists, like the infamous avril lavigne, all-time favorites my chemical romance, green day, paramore etc.

🌐 seya : now i need you to look me dead in the eyes and say that THIS isn't his aesthetic. bro literally dresses as if hot topic was more grunge and still managed to survive.

𝐡𝐚𝐧 𝐡𝐲𝐞𝐨𝐧𝐠𝐣𝐮𝐧 : 𝐆𝐑𝐀𝐅𝐅𝐈𝐓𝐈 𝐏𝐎𝐏

"first wave of corporate appropriation of graffiti culture. typically includes urban streetscapes & iconography contemporary to the time period (eg. trash cans, brick walls, chain link fencing, street lamps, sidewalks, industrial elements, general 'urban decay'). it's also associated with that eras' portrayal of street, hip hop, & punk culture." — ©️ cari institute.

disclaimer: this part is mostly retelling of an article from this site: https://www.grafftergallery.com/2023/08/graffiti-pop-art-vivid-intersection-of.html | i really don't think that i would be able to express myself better than they already did, so let me give the credit to the rightful authors!

this aesthetic is a firm proof of the dynamic between street culture and the world of art that was born in early 80s and was especially popular till the 00s. bright colors, bold splashes of different patterns, provocative slogans, popular singers, models, tv personalities – it screams fight for the freedom of self expression. this movement is first and foremost was heavily affected by socio-political issues, causing street artists to voice their concerns through art. graffiti itself is a rebellious act (you're literally damaging private property) and when you mix this with media icons and pop culture that was thriving, you're guaranteed to have all the attention that you need.

🌐 seya : i feel like this aesthetic really suits jun han because in my eyes he is one of the most brave idols in terms of expressing himself through his style and art.

𝐥𝐞𝐞 𝐣𝐨𝐨𝐲𝐞𝐨𝐧 : 𝐑𝐄𝐓𝐑𝐎 𝐒𝐔𝐑𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐌

"let's take a look at what is included in such aesthetics as retro-surrealism (also known as airbrush surrealism and included in the subgenres of retro-futurism), shall we?"

retro is an imitation or conscious derivative of a lifestyle, trend, or art form from history, included in music, fashion, or looks. the retro art movement always invariably revives and in one way or another refers to everything that happened in the past. surrealism is an art direction that always strives to revolutionize human experience. it balances a rational vision of life with one that asserts the power of the unconscious and dreams. combining these two trends of media art, we get abstract paintings made in the style of sci-fi comics from the 70s-90s. very often they feature elements such as musical instruments, outer space and electronic objects such as telephones, radios, televisions, etc. usually such paintings are airbrushed, which gives them a slightly hazy, matte effect, typical for surrealism (promotes immersion into the unconscious me thinks!).

🌐 seya : i love, love, LOVE this one so much, i just had to give it to my favorite boy jooyeon! i feel like this one suits jooyeon just because he looks like that one dude obsessed with weird ass comic books, always going around with his old mp3 player and vibing to daft punk bangers. sorry not sorry, no one is getting this image out of my head.

[jujumin-translates]

Event | 7th Anniversary: All Actors Aboard! | Chapter 1: VELUDO STATION MEMORY ✕ Sakuya Sakuma

Sakuya: Put this book away over here, and…

Sakuya: Huh, this is… the issue of “VELUDO” when I was on the cover!

Sakuya: That’s so nostalgic. I remember doing the photo shoot while the staff gave me advice.

Sakuya: (Wait, but I’m in the middle of tidying up right now! I can read it later, I’ll move on to where I have things stored next.)

Sakuya: (That reminds me, I need to think about what I want to do my article on for the web edition of “VELUDO”.)

*Something falls*

Sakuya: Hm? Something just fell…

Sakuya: This is--.

· • —– ٠ ✤ ٠ —– • ·

Manager: Hmmh~m ♪ Cleaning, cleaning~♪ Pretending not to see the fine details~♪

Izumi: Hey, don’t pretend not to see them, do it right!

Sakuya: Manager!

Manager: Sakuma-kun? What’s up with that box you’re holding?

Sakuya: I was cleaning up in my room and found some really nostalgic stuff! I found something I just had to show you and…

Sakuya: Remember when you… wait, h-huh? Where did it go? I swore I put it in this box…

Sakyo: …Is this what you’re looking for?

Sakuya: Sakyo-san!

Sakyo: It was on the ground over there.

Sakuya: Sorry, I must’ve dropped it. Thank you so much!

Sakyo: What’s with those pocket tissues anyway?

Izumi: Pocket tissues?

Izumi: (There’s a small advertisement on the tissues. “MANKAI Company! Now Recruiting Theater Troupe Members!”...)

Izumi: This is unmistakably a design by the manager…

Manager: Uwoah! That’s a blast from the past!

Sakyo: I know that badly designed ads are a very Matsukawa-like idea, but… what the hell?

Sakuya: …The manager gave me these tissues on the first day I came to Veludo Way.

*Flashback*

Announcement: “The doors are closing.”

Sakuya: (I’ll be there soon…)

Announcement: “Next stop, Veludo~, Veludo~.”

Sakuya: --.

Sakuya: (I’m almost there. To the place I’ve always longed to go to--!)

· • —– ٠ ✤ ٠ —– • ·

Sakuya: Waah…!

Sakuya: (This is it, the holy land of theater…)

Troupe Member A: “Alright, I’m gonna build the best invention ever!”

Troupe Member B: “Aah, my beloved…! How can I possibly convey to you how I feel?”

Spectator A: I knew this troupe would be good~.

Spectator B: I wanna see their next play! Let’s go get a flyer.

Sakuya: (This must be a street act. There really is theater going on everywhere in town.)

Sakuya: (I wonder if I’ll ever be able to act like that one day.)

Sakuya: Umm, MANKAI Company should be… that way.

Sakuya: (I saw that they had a posting on their site that they were taking applications for a live-in theater troupe and I applied without a second thought.)

Sakuya: (I’m sure there’ll be auditions or something. I’m kinda nervous…)

???: KYAAH!!

Sakuya: !?

Spectator A: …Is that a street act too?

Spectator B: It must be, otherwise he wouldn’t have fallen down in such a cartoonish way like that.

Sakuya: (Is it… really a street act?)

Shaggy-haired Man: Ow, ow, ow…

Sakuya: U-Um, are you okay?

Shaggy-haired Man: T-Thank you! I was so distracted by these boxes that I didn’t notice the step and fell.

Sakuya: Are you hurt? I hope whatever is in those boxes didn’t break either or something.

Shaggy-haired Man: Yes, I’m okay! And what’s in the boxes isn’t breakable anyway!

*Rustling*

Shaggy-haired Man: Here, these are promotional pocket tissues~. I’d love for you to take one!

Sakuya: MANKAI Company, Now Recruiting Theater Troupe Members…?

Manager: Yep! I’m actually the manager of the troupe… I thought that tissues would be easier to hang on to than flyers.

Sakuya: …Um! I’m Sakuya Sakuma!

Sakuya: I recently applied to MANKAI Company after seeing you were taking applications on your website!

Manager: Huh!? You’re Sakuma-kun!? Well, what are the odds~.

Manager: I’m glad to see that you’re so lively and kind. Please to be working with you from this moment on, Sakuma-kun!

Sakuya: Huh!? R-Right!

*Flashback end*

Sakuya: And in the end, I decided to join the troupe as it was.

Sakyo: I see.

Izumi: So you never really auditioned, after all.

Sakuya: Back then, MANKAI Company was just me and the manager.

Sakuya: But I’m really glad that I have so many friends now.

Manager: Yep, yep, same here!

Izumi: Fufu, right.

Manager: I never thought I’d end up living with the same Furuichi-san who tried to destroy our theater with an excavator~.

Sakyo: If you hadn’t been wastin’ so much money back then, I wouldn’t have had to get the excavator out in the first place.

Sakyo: Typically, theater companies with no money don’t go outta their way to make tissues for advertisements and… blah, blah, blah…

Manager: Awahwhoa… b-but the past is in the past!

Sakuya: For me, these pocket tissues are also a memory.

Sakuya: It’s thanks to this that I can remember how excited I was when I first got off the train at Veludo Station!

Sakuya: …I’ve got it!

Sakuya: Can I use this as the topic for my article for the web series?

Izumi: Of course. I think it would make a very good article.

Manager: HUH!? So you’re going to write about me too!?

Manager: If that’s the case, could you say that I, MANKAI Company’s manager, am sensible and reliable…

Sakuya: Yeah! Understood!

Sakyo: Don’t make Sakuma tell lies.

Izumi: C’mon, just let him have a little something.

[ ⇠ Previous Part ] • [ Next Part ⇢ ]

[the-roo-too]

fancy -> guitarist! bae

-a step by step tutorial on how to make advertisements, be painfully obvious and get a possible girlfriend

warnings: bae needs help; gay panicking on every corner

genre: fluff

notes: featuring itzy, rest of nmixx and jisung of nct; nmixx is kinda a band?; this was supposed to come out on valentine’s day…

↺͏͏ ° << ll >> ⋮≡

“you’re kidding, right?”

“i’m really sorry.”

you sigh. in front of you stands a boy from the upper grade, jisung. he was supposed to play the guitar and accompany you on this year’s school music festival, but as it turns out, that wasn’t happening anymore. a week until the event and you’re suddenly without a guitarist. it wouldn’t be that bad if jisung backed out a couple days earlier, before you submitted for the live performance section. technically, you could fake being sick on the day of the festival, but that would make your class look bad, as you were the chosen participant.

the only other logical option seems to be looking for another guitarist. the problem is, basically every good player is already busy. your section is one of the most anticipated but also biggest, with many people wanting to take part in it. if not that, you’d ask ryujin for help, she played with you last year. this year though, she represents some band she’s part of. you’re left at a dead end. 

you text your group chat, asking for ideas. after most of them laugh at your misery, finally someone proposes to make a couple flyers and hang them around school. it’s a cliche idea, really, but with only a week to spare, you aren’t about to be picky. you text a upper grader who owns you after you covered for her at play rehearsal, choi jisu. she got out of the read-through of the script with your help, and went on a date with ryujin instead. jisu is a computer science major, so she’s the obvious first choice when you need to print some flyers out. 

through the text, the older girl tells you to meet her at the lab, where she was testing some softwares. with a ‘be there in 5’ message, you make your way upstairs, towards the science department of the building.

“took you long enough.” you glare at jisu, who sits snuggly in her chair, her hair in a low bun and a pair of glasses perched on her nose. you greet her back, as she turns in her seat to face you.

“so you want to cash in the favour, huh?”

“you could say that.”

“what do you need then, y/nnie?” she scans you head to toe, as if the answer would magically jump out.

“you remember jisung? he bailed out on me, was supposed to be my guitarist on this music even next week.” jisu’s expression momentarily changes from curiosity to shock, to understanding, until she finally starts looking angry.

“i am so getting jinnie to beat him up.” you note in the back of your mind to never get jisu too mad at you, or you won’t avoid ryujin’s fist.

“uh, yea, point is that yeji suggested i ask you to make some flyers? like, ‘looking for a guitarist’ or something. i know how it sounds but that’s really the only idea i have-“

“i get it, kiddo. i’ll have something by tomorrow, how’s that? meanwhile make a ad on facebook or something.” you nod your head, turning on your heel to leave the room. with a quick goodbye, you’re already out the door, just barely hearing jisu shout ‘good luck’ from the inside.

↺͏͏ ° << ll >> ⋮≡

the school music festival is just ‘round the corner and jinsol’s having second thoughts. despite her friends begging her to join them at their performance, she declined, saying her guitar skills weren’t that much compared to the other band mates. which isn’t exactly the truth as the only other person who can play other than her is lily, and she practically fought jiwoo to be the one in charge of the drums.

the group consist of seven members during rehearsals, but on their first year, they all agreed that making it to the performances wouldn’t be mandatory. the band could always do it without one or two instruments. this year, after applying for the live performance section in the school’s music festival, the group initially wanted to play together, but kyujin backed out. she said some major exams were coming up and after showing haewon her reviser, which was almost as thick as bae’s guitar, the leader allowed the younger to sit out the performance.

now it’s five days until the event and jinsol’s talked her way out of the group performance. it’s not that she plays guitar badly, but truth be told, she’s learning the instrument the shortest, compared to the other members. she picked guitar randomly when they created the band, as that was what they were lacking, and she taught herself how to play it. the others all practiced their chosen instruments way before.

the true reason why bae decided to abandon the group (as jinni quite dramatically expressed) is actually really embarrassing. it’s because she saw this cute girl frantically running around the cafeteria the previous day, handing some flyers to people passing by.

to tell the truth, jinsol saw her once before. even back then, she thought the girl was pretty, but she couldn’t exactly express it, as she was busy apologising to her for hitting her straight in the face with a handball during p.e. she’s sure the girl doesn’t remember her nor the little accident (she really hopes so), but there is still something holding her back from confronting the latter.

jinsol’s gripping the flyer tightly in her hand as she knocks on the door of one of her best friend’s dorms. she’s fidgeting with the piece of paper, nervously waiting for the other to appear. she perks up at the sound of the doors opening. there stands her trusted right hand, sullyoon.

“bae? what’s up?”

“i need some advice.”

↺͏͏ ° << ll >> ⋮≡

“how’s the search going?” you resist the urge to roll your eyes as shin yuna, a dear friend of yours, speaks up.

“are you really curious about that?”

“i couldn’t care less to be honest but chae told me to be nice so…”

“i swear to god, shin.” the taller girl on your side laughs, attracting the attention of other’s gathered near the table.

“no but seriously, anyone messaged you or something?” lia asks, finally turning away from her girlfriend. ryujin also gives you her time of the day as she glances at you with a look of sympathy.

“no one. four days left and i’m at loss of options. if someone doesn’t show up today, we wouldn’t even have enough time to practice the piece.” you whine, hiding your face in your hands. lia hums lightly, but she also has no idea what to do.

“what about the girl who’s glancing over right now?” you glare at yuna, thinking she’s joking. with a roll of her eyes, she subtly points a group couple tables away from you, where in fact a girl seems to have her eyes on you.

“who’s that? she seems familiar…” you agree with ryujin as you try to pin point where you’ve seen the face before.

“and what about her?” you face yuna as you speak.

“didn’t you notice how she’s been observing you for like two days?” all the heads around the table turn to look at the younger shin bewildered.

“um, no?”

“gosh, y’all so blind!”

“you’re just staring at people unprovoked! it’s creepy?” you’re about to start a (hopefully playful) fight with yuna, when lia suddenly perks up.

“wasn’t she the one to hit your face with the handball?”

↺͏͏ ° << ll >> ⋮≡

“you’re staring~”

“hush!”

“if i were her, i’d be freaked out to be honest.”

jinsol glares at sullyoon, who smirks teasingly. after talking with the older girl, bae was set on facing the cute girl. she just needed a little preparation?

“stop it, i don’t need everyone around here to know about it.” she elbows yoona, hoping the other would finally keep quiet.

“know about what?”

“n-nothing, haewon!” surprised, she almost jumps out of the chair.

“did you forget the math homework i reminded you three times of?”

“uh, yea, sorry.” she gazes at the cute girl’s table again, surprised to see that one of her friends seemed to catch her staring. “shit.”

“what happened?”

“i forgot my lucky pen at mr son’s class, be right back!” bae bolts out of her seat, hoping it doesn’t look as awkward from the cute girl’s table. yoona doesn’t even get to question her further before she leaves the canteen.

“she has a lucky pen?”

“i thought i broke it last monday.”

↺͏͏ ° << ll >> ⋮≡

“there she goes.”

“yuna, please stop stalking people.”

“she stalked y/n first?”

“shut up everyone!” both lia and yuna look at you with a apologetic look. “can we just not? i am not in the mood for gossip.”

“jeez, you fine bro?”

“i’m bummed out about the performance, you know? i was really excited for it this year.” you mutter in response, hiding your head in your palms.

“the target reappeared?”

“shut up yuna i’m having a moment.”

“no because some girl bolted out of her seat when she left and now she’s dragging her back to the table by her ear?”

“yuna i swear to god-“

“just look over there!” so you direct your gaze to the table which the younger shin’s been obsessing over. the short haired girl who was staring at you earlier sits back at her seat, seemingly getting scolded by another girl?

“now i’m kinda invested.”

“can y’all shut up i’m trying to read their lips.” you shake your head at your friend’s antics. the girl at the far away table looks at you for a brief moment, then back at the other girl towering over her, then back at you. she pushes the other’s hand off her shoulder and stands up.

“she’s coming over here!” you’re sure the whole canteen is watching your table now because of yuna. but just as she said, the short haired girl is making her way towards you.

“um, hi!” she comes to a halt in front of you. she appears nervous under your friend’s stares, rightfully so. “i’m jinsol, uh, i saw you around.”

“y/n. that’s-“

“jinsol?” you glance at yuna, who squints at the newcomer. “aren’t you a friend of yoona?”

“yes!”

“what brings you here, jinsol?” you direct the girl’s attention away from the younger shin.

“ah, that. i saw you giving out flyers the other day and i picked up one of them and it said you needed a guitarist and coincidentally i’m a guitar player and sullyoon told me to talk to you but i-“

lia, who until now seemed to be deep in though, speaks up suddenly, cutting jinsol’s banter.

“yeah, you hit y/n with the handball! that was her, wasn’t it?” you see ryujin stand with her eyes suspiciously glaring at the newcomer, and you basically jump from the table.

“it’s loud in here, i can barely understand you. why don’t we talk in the library? there shouldn’t be anyone else at this hour.” and you grab jinsol by her wrist, saving her from facing ryujin.

↺͏͏ ° << ll >> ⋮≡

a million thoughts forms in bae’s mind as she lets the cute girl drag her from the canteen. not one of them is coherent as she wonders if the girl who glared at her just a second ago would hunt her down now. hopefully not.

it takes a while before they arrive at the library, where true to y/n’s words, seems to be little to no one. the girl leads jinsol to a more secluded table, where she’s sure no one will interrupt them.

“so, jinsol.” she gulps lowly. somehow now that she’s one on one with the other girl, the situation feels tense. “what we’re you trying to say before jisu cut you off? i apologise on her behalf by the what, that was rude.”

“no no, it’s fine! and i, uh, the flyers? i play guitar at my band but i already told them i won’t play this year because something came up so now i’m free and yeah.”

“you’re free?”

“i ditched them as jinni said. it’s just that- well- i don’t really know. i just saw you handing the flyers yesterday and thought you’re cute- yeah, here i am.” she swears her heart melts when the cute girl giggles at her banter.

“so you ditched a band just because you thought i’m cute?”

“kyujin ditched them too!”

“did she also think i’m cute?”

“…she had some major exams coming up.”

↺͏͏ ° << ll >> ⋮≡

in the back of your mind, it’s almost impossible how much chemistry you have on stage with the girl whom you’ve meet four days ago. as the two of you step off the stage after your performance, jinsol gets stolen away by jinni, a friend of hers, who firstly whines about how she ditched the band, and then congratulates the both of you. she says you were magical out there and she’s right, that was the best performance you ever had. definitely better than it would go with jisung.

“so… would you mind getting a coffee with me later, after this is over?” bae finally freed herself from the strawberry blonde. she came to you, a shy smile adoring her lips.

“gladly. thank you for playing with me, really. i thought i was doomed when jisung backed out.”

“i’m glad we could play together, y/n.”

she catches your hand in hers and smiles wider. you swear her band mates are groaning in the background.

“i’m glad too, jinsol.”

↺͏͏ ° << ll >> ⋮≡