#HOW MANY KICKS CHINO???

[grayintogreen]

Matt just confirmed there are catfish in the waters of the Savalirwood. I just THREW MY PHONE DOWN.

[maxlarens]

Hi! Can i request friends for lovers with lando saying "i can't seem to take neither my eyes, nor my mind off of you, [name]." ✨🫶 thank you

usually i am so Consumed by the idea of the ✨Tension✨ of friends to lovers that i never do a confession scene but here is me making good on that finally. i hope u liked this anon!!!! sorry it took a while.

In hindsight, you think you should have woken up that morning and known. Known via some cosmic force that today was going to be it— the day you’d been waiting basically a decade for, the day you don't think you'll forget as long as you live—

Instead, you wake up bolt upright at three in the morning, heart beating frantic in your chest, to five missed calls from your best friend.

"What?", you groan, angry, into the phone, then, realising he's calling you at three in the morning, a more concerned note seeps into your tone, "Lan, is that you? You alright?"

"I locked myself out," is the gravelly reply.

"You locked yourself out?"

"I— yes," he hisses down the line, "I forgot my keys okay."

You snort, say, "You're a silly billy," without thinking anything of it.

You'll attribute it to sleep deprivation later, but you'll also find that Lando thinks nothing further of it, too used to you throwing affectionate nicknames his way—

"Shuddup," he mumbles.

You think he's drunk, at least tipsy. He'd said something offhandedly on your FaceTime call yesterday about going out with a few friends you don't know. Besides, there's a slur to his words, a tiredness.

"Come up already," you tell him.

"'M right outside."

You hum in confirmation that you've heard him, put your phone back on the nightstand and slip out from under the covers. You're wearing a sweatshirt that's three sizes too big it might be Lando's and pink fuzzy socks, you feel goosebumps rise on your legs as you pad to the front door. You lean heavily against the wall, closing your eyes as you unlock the padlock and swing it open for your friend.

Lando stumbles in. You twist around to look at him. He's not as drunk as you thought he might be. Sleepy though. You can tell by the squint of his eyes, how they're red rimmed and the mess of his hair. Run through too many times with his hand.

"You want your spare key?", you question as Lando turns on his heel, finding you at the sound of your voice.

He frowns, looking at you like you've grown two heads. Crease forming between his eyebrows.

"Nuh," he shakes his head, then reaches forward to take your wrist, hauling you back through the apartment, "Let's go sleep."

You shrug, acquiescing as he leads you to your bedroom. If you hadn't just been woken up from a dead sleep you might have felt a little weird about it. Paid attention to the stirring feeling low in your gut. Instead, you slip into bed and pull the covers back for Lando without a care in the world.

It's not that weird, you think as he kicks off his shoes and rummages around on your hanging rail for a shirt big enough for him. He finds one that you're sure was originally his. You look away as he changes, shucking out of the short sleeve button up you'd helped him pick out, peeling off chinos you'd also picked out. There's a pair of his gym shorts laying around somewhere, you know it— but he doesn't bother to look for them. Just pulls the t-shirt on over his bare tan chest and climbs in next to you.

You've done this before. Many times. And the two of you make a deliberate point of not being weird about, even though it's been a point of contention in every relationship either of you have had to date. And you don't know what it is tonight this morning, but his presence next to you is making your chest tight. Something skitters up your spine as he slots into your space.

As casual as ever he slings an arm over your waist, tugs you closer to him and presses the line of his nose into the back of your neck. Briefly, he reaches to swipe your hair out of the way, mumbling something about it tickling him.

There's something set ablaze in your stomach.

"G'night, babe," he mutters, breath fanning your ear.

God. You have to suppress a shiver. The babe thing isn't even anything different, he calls you that often enough mostly when he's had something to drink, there's just something about it right now. When you're sleep-woozy and he's just undressed in front of you. Maybe you had a weird dream about him again and you can't remember it, even if your subconscious does.

You bite down on your tongue, answer, "Sleep tight, Lan."

He hums. You crack your neck to stop from letting out a noise that would be utterly indecent right now. Unaware, Lando puts his nose right back in the same spot. You lie there for a while, wired and buzzing, until you hear his breathing steady and deepen as he falls asleep. And even though you feel like every nerve ending in your body is on fire, sleep finds you too.

You wake up again, later, to the morning sun pouring in through your curtains. It lights up the empty space on the bed in front of you. Acreage of bed, pillow, not taken up by anyone.

Still, on your other side, Lando's in your personal space to a degree that you don't realise at first. You wake up disoriented, grappling to remember the events of early that morning. There’s still no cosmic thing telling you that you need to remember today. Commit every single second to memory as it happens. You try to roll over, feeling warmth at your back but not thinking anything of it until Lando gripes something unintelligible into your ear—

Okay. Memories return to you now.

You start to contextualise the skin on yours.

Lando's arm is still slung around your waist, but his hand has made it's way underneath your jumper. Fingers dig into the plush skin of your bare stomach, clutching like you'll slip out of his grasp if he's not careful. Somehow, the other arm has forced it's way under your pillow and you can feel the line of his body against your back, where he's gotten as close to you as he could manage. His legs tangle with yours, one of them spreading out into your space, strewn diagonally across the bed. His knee presses up into the meat of your thigh.

You try not to think how easily your bodies fit together.

You're still for a while. Drifting in and out of sleep. You're comfortable, above all else. You don't really want Lando to move. This certainly isn't the first time you've woken up like this, tangled up with each other, you're betting you'll be able to pass it off with a silly comment once Lando wakes up. You'll extract yourselves from each other and get on with your day like usual.

No big deal—

Lando wakes up half an hour or so later and acts like nothing out of the ordinary had happened. He yawns loudly into your ear and rolls over without fanfare—

No big deal—

It's only when you're in the kitchen together— cooking bacon and eggs while Lando drinks coffee from your espresso machine— that the cracks start to show.

You glance at him sideways, watching as he gnaws at the inside of his mouth. His eyes slip off you, directing to the sizzling pan, “What’s up?”, you ask, “Something happen?”

He shakes his head, too quickly, “No. Nope— I—”

He tapers off his sentence, shaking his head. Nose scrunching momentarily. You raise an eyebrow but don’t think much of it. It’s Lando, he’ll tell you if it’s important. Plus, you’re kinda busy right now making sure the eggs don’t burn. A few minutes pass, you ask him to grab plates. He says okay and then drags out an,

“Um,” for so long that you’re a little concerned.

Something nervous flutters in your chest, you’re turning the heat on the burner down low before you know why. You’ve just been friends with Lando for so long, you know when there’s something heavy in his words, when there’s something on the tip of his tongue.

You turn to give him your full attention, your eyebrows furrowing as you look up at him.

“Plates, Lan?”

He’s staring at you. Like, staring at you. Like, slack-jawed, eyes glittering, staring. Like how the guy looks at the girl at the end of every rom-com ever. Like how Harry looks at Sally in every fucking scene of your favourite movie of all time. Like—

Shit. Do you have a massive fuck off pimple on your face? Have you turned blue? Are you being completely out of your mind delusional right now? Because there’s something suddenly wreaking havoc in your stomach. And you really do want to believe that Lando is looking at you in that way, and not just because you’ve got something embarrassing on your face—

“Lando,” you say, firmly, urgency to it, “Spit it out.”

He shakes his head.

You put a hand on his bicep, “Lando.”

It’s got to be that. It’s got to be—

God, your chest feels tight. Your skin feels like it’s on fire. He’s not even said anything yet!

It’s got to be—

He blinks. You think your sudden intensity has made him nervous because he rolls his shoulders and cracks his neck from side to side. A little groan escapes his lips.

“I just—” he sighs heavily, as if it’s too hard to force out; but he’s still looking at you, “What if, I was— ugh, no, nothing, it’s fine—”

“What if you were what?”, it’s out of your mouth before you can think. You think you know exactly what the end of his sentence is. You think perhaps you are too. A pause, then, being braver than you thought you could be, you add, “In love with me?”

He looks immediately as if you’ve sucker punched him right in the gut. Eyes wide and wet and red-rimmed, like kicked puppy, a pleading dog. There’s something scared, nervous, in the set of his shoulders as well. You watch them draw up to his chin as he tries to sink into them.

“Why would you say that?” His voice is downright panicked, “How did you know that?”

Your heart stops beating in your chest, drops into your stomach and falls right out your ass. You shake your head,

“I didn’t. I didn’t. I just guessed, Lan,” you realise your hand is still on his bicep, you squeeze, “Are you?”

“Am I?”, he looks slightly incredulous, baffled at what you’re saying like it’s supposed to be obvious that he is, “Jesus. Of course I am. I can’t– I can’t stop thinking about you. You’re there all the time. And y’know, I see you and you’re just,” he waves an arm between the two of you, gesturing up and down at your body, “You’re fucken’ gorgeous. And you don’t say a thing when we wake up together and I’m basically, on top of you—”

“You don’t say anything either,” you gripe, even though there’s something like joy clawing up your throat, “I thought it was normal.”

Lando tips his head back, groans something halfway filthy, “Normal. I didn’t let half my exes sleep over, and I turned around if they did sleep in my bed. And— fuck, y’know— my keys are actually in my pants pocket right now. I was out drinking and having fun and all I could think about was how much I missed you. How much I just wanted to like, crawl into bed with you.”

“You arsehole.”

“What?”

“You arsehole,” you repeat, “I would have let you in anyway. You didn’t have to lie.”

For a long minute, Lando gapes at you like a fish out of water. Briefly, you think maybe you’ve screwed it by being too mean. It’s never stopped you before, but you’ve also never been in this exact situation with Lando before, frighteningly enough—

One second you’re running through all the possible apologies you could give to make it better, to smooth it all over, and then the next Lando is kissing you—

Or, you feel his hand on your chin first, your mouth forming the first letter of shit, sorry Lan, and then suddenly his mouth is slanting across yours. He tastes a bit like morning breath and a lot like bitter coffee, but his mouth is wet and soft and your lips slot together so perfectly. You put a hand in his curls and find that it feels different to when you card your fingers through his hair.

God.

He’s got a hand on your waist and he’s digging his fingers into your jaw like you’re going to pull away from him without warning and never come back.

“Lan,” you say into his mouth, he pauses long enough for you to speak, lips hovering, nearly touching, “‘M not going anywhere.”

He shakes his head, slanting forward to kiss you again, “No, you’re not,” he pulls back again, pressing his forehead to yours, green-as-grass eyes boring into yours, “Please say you’re in love with me right now?”

Despite yourself, you raise an eyebrow, “Are you in love with me?”

He sighs something ragged out through his nose, kisses you again, says, “‘Course, I’m in love with you. How could I not be,” into your mouth.

You hum from the back of your throat, tongue slipping forward to press against his teeth, tangling against his, “Then of course I am, Lan,” you echo.

How could you not be?

u just know all of lando's gfs/situationships HATED the fuck out of her

[floralseokjin]

⤑ 9 months to fall in love extras.

#6 A beach trip

kim seokjin x f reader includes; smut, oral + ass eating (f receiving), girl on top, Seokjin makes breakfast shirtless and in an apron 😛 words; 3,527

⟶ read after chapter 17

jordan’s note; is it really one of my stories until Seokjin eats ass???

series index | drabble masterlist

“So once again, how close are we to the beach?” 

“____, I’ve already told you a million times,” Seokjin laughed, glancing over at you before he trained his eyes back on the road. “You open the back door, and there it is, you’re greeted by sand.” 

You squealed, clapping your hands together excitedly as if you hadn’t in fact, heard this a million times. “I can’t remember the last time I went to the beach,” you added wistfully. 

Looking over again, he smiled. “I’m really excited for our first holiday together.” 

“Same. I can’t wait until Seokwon and Seohyun arrive!” 

Every summer, Namjoon closed the office for two weeks, and when Seokjin had found out he’d immediately suggested staying at his parents’ beach house. You were beyond excited, living in the city you didn’t have many chances to see the beach. Plus, Seokjin deserved a break from work too, he deserved to relax. He was always working so admirably hard, and more than anything, you wanted to see him sleeping in for more than two days in a row. Seokjin’s brother and wife were joining you with Taeoh and Jiu tomorrow evening, and hopefully his parents could join you towards the end of the week. 

Pouting a little, Seokjin practically whined, “I hope you’re equally as excited for our alone time together first.” 

“Of course, Seokjinie,” you teased, but you reached over and squeezed his thigh. His tan chino covered thigh. Your man was in full-blown vacation mode, the bottoms rolled up and everything, no socks! Next he’d be pulling out those horrific sliders! 

“Good.” Satisfied, he linked his fingers with yours and continued to drive with one hand. You admired the view. “What do you want to do first?” 

“Is that even a question,” you retorted. “I bought like five different bikinis last week.” 

Correction: Seokjin had bought them, generously giving you one of his cards after much persuasion on his end. Either way, you were going to be racing towards that beach as fast as your six-month pregnant body could carry you. 

Seokjin smirked. “Do I get a fashion show when we arrive?” 

“They’re not exactly sexy.” 

Seokjin brought your hand to his lips and kissed your knuckles, his voice soft but seductive when he replied. “You make anything look sexy, angel.” 

Rolling your eyes, you broke free of his grip and pushed his shoulder. Still, you couldn’t stop the grin on your face, turning your head to look out the window as he chuckled. 

.

.

The beach house was impressive. The three-storey building was clad in wood, a wooden deck adjoining the beach, even complete with a hot tub and multiple seating areas. Inside was open-spaced and bright thanks to the large and many windows. After a lengthy tour, where you snapped multiple pictures to send to Yuna, Seokjin showed you to his bedroom. The nautical theme was down to his mother, he informed you, not his first choice, but you thought it was lovely. The bed wasn’t as big as his back home, but you’d make do. (Although, sadly Seokjin would probably get kicked in the shins more frequently this week.) 

Needing the bathroom, you sat down on the bed as you waited for him to be done. When he appeared again, you shot him a sly smile, tapping the mattress. “Is this where you entertain your guests?” 

“First of all, it was one guest, who my mother demanded I bring,” he informed you cleverly, wrestling his phone out of his pocket. Those pants were ridiculously tight – they looked good though. He placed it on the bedside table, standing in front of you. “And secondly, we didn’t even have sex here.” 

“Oh, God. Is that supposed to make me feel better?” you shrieked, forgetting you were eyelevel with his crotch. 

“Yes,” he grinned, tugging you up. His hands grazed over your sides and down your hips, your bump against his stomach. He lifted one arm to check the time on his watch, calculating something. “We have just under 32 hours before Taeoh and Jiu tear through this place like a wrecking ball.” Before you could laugh, he was kissing you, fingers in your hair. When he pulled away he was breathing heavier, his other hand on your ass. “I want to make the most of this.” 

You smiled slowly, equally as affected, but if there was one thing you valued more than sex, it was food. Especially while pregnant. It even took top priority over the awaiting beautiful beach outside. “Not right now, though,” you murmured, slipping away from his grasp and clutching Glob. “We’re really hungry.” 

.

.

You ate at a restaurant not too far away from the house and then headed back to change for the beach. Seokjin got his brief fashion show, much to his delight, choosing the mauve bikini with the ditsy print and ruffle sleeves. Out on the private beach you managed to persuade Seokjin to take his t-shirt off, taking a few pictures of him as he admired the horizon. Ever the modest, he had it back on in no time, despite you being his only audience. He turned the camera on you, and then you took some together – happy, smiling, kissing. Becoming someone who took couple photos (and even shared them on Instagram!) had become the biggest shock of this year. And yes, that did include the news of your pregnancy! You spoke about taking Glob here next summer, imagining dipping her toes into the sea for the first time. Talking about the future always made you feel instantly excited, but the idea of a family holiday this time next year made you feel as if you could burst with anticipation. 

Being six months pregnant in the middle of summer was hard though, and soon you were sweaty and feeling weighed down, not even the water could make it better, so you retired back to the house for the evening, already talking about dinner choices. Mikyung had kindly hired someone to give the place a clean and stock the cupboards before your arrival, so your options were great. Inside, you headed to the ensuite to take a shower while Seokjin used the main bathroom. When you came out wrapped only in a towel, you found him lounging on the bed, shirtless and in dangerously low grey sweatpants.

“Hey.”  

His greeting might have only been a single innocent word, but the look in his eyes was telling you something else.  

“Hey.” You shuffled over to the foot of the bed, body pricking with heat when you noticed the slight bulge in his sweatpants. 

“Come here,” he ordered gently. 

“I need to finish drying myself first,” you refused, feeling a little mean. He could wait a little longer… 

You made a show of it, even though you were practically dry already. At one point, you lifted one leg onto the mattress, attempting to dry it seductively. If he noticed you teeter, he didn’t laugh thankfully. Your flexibility was disappearing fast. 

As you wiped the towel between your boobs, you looked over at his crotch, noticing he was harder now – and not wearing any underwear. The length of his cock was visible, angled towards the waistband of his sweatpants. You stepped back and dropped the towel completely, glowing in his hungry gaze. It was hard not to get turned on when he looked at you like that. As if you were the most desirable person on the planet. 

“Come here,” he repeated, voice low and husky. 

Flushed, you got on the bed and straddled him. He looked up at you almost reverently, stroking your sides. “Higher.” 

“Higher?” His touch was making you shiver. 

“Yeah, come sit on my face.” 

“No way,” you burst out with laughter. 

“Why not?” 

“It’s not fun anymore, I can’t see anything.” That, and it gave you backache.  

“____, please,” he whined, attempting to tug you up his torso. “I want you. I’ve wanted you all day.” 

“I want you too,” you placated, stroking a hand down his chest. He looked so good like this, under you, half naked. Hair frizzy from humidity, bottom lip wet from where he’d been swiping his tongue across it. 

He cupped his hand over yours, halting you. “Then how do you want me?” 

In truth, getting eaten out wasn’t as comfortable as it used to be, which was frustrating because if it wasn’t obvious, you loved him going down on you. Seokjin loved it too, which was why he was getting antsy beneath you. You ran through the different options quickly: on your back, on your side, sitting on his face, or… You got off him, moving to your hands and knees as quickly as you could manage, before shooting him a frisky smile. “Like this.” 

Seokjin let out a soft moan and sat up quickly to move behind you. He arched over you, pressing wet kisses down your spine and over your ass, his hands stroking over your bump and down your thighs before he took a hold of your hips and leaned you forward a little more, revealing more of you. He was on you immediately, tongue strokes slow and precise, creating an ache inside of you. You wriggled, needing more. 

“Be patient,” he pulled back, tapping your ass in warning. 

You huffed. “I’m gestating your baby, you should give me what I want.” 

“What a beautiful way of putting it,” he snorted at your nonsensical words, lips against the curve of your ass. He bit it playfully. “But I like teasing you, it’s fun.” 

You pushed into him, and this time he listened. That, or you had tempted him too much. He redoubled his efforts, making you moan softly and press your face into the pillow. When you felt him trail his thumb between your ass, you whimpered. “Oh, God…” 

“How about this?” He breathed against your hole, lips wet. 

You stomach dipped, your loud moan an obvious yes. Pregnancy had done many things to your body, but the weirdest thing went to making your asshole unbelievably sensitive. The nerve endings on that thing had gone haywire. You’d both discovered it on accident during sex one night, when he’d unintentionally brushed his finger over it while readjusting you on his lap. You hadn’t been the same since. Anal was off the cards, something you’d rather leave behind in your university days, but anything non-penetrative was enthusiastically welcomed.  

With a moan of his own, Seokjin started to lick you from hole to hole. It was so filthy it made you squeal, and you raised a little higher, wanting more, your thighs beginning to shake. He circled your asshole, before flicking the tip of his tongue back and forth. It felt so good you felt the sensations shoot up your spine, your body sagging a little. 

“Fffuck.” Your muffled noises were driving him crazy. Pulling away to catch his breath, he brushed his thumb over your soaking folds. “You’re making me so hard, angel.” You moaned, liking what you heard. “Are you going to come for me so I can put my cock in you?” 

When Seokjin spoke dirty, it was game over. Your body became reactive. 

He moved one hand between your legs, rubbing your clit, and brought his tongue back to your asshole. “Seokjinn, honey,” you moaned, fisting the sheets and pushing into his face uncontrollably, chasing as much pleasure as you could. 

He whimpered, tongue still against you. Yeonja’s term of endearment had been rubbing off on you after hearing it so much over the years, and Seokjin loved it. It never failed to bring a smile to his face, and now it seemed as though he liked being called it in bed too… That was a very interesting piece of information to store away for another day. 

He was loud with his effort in making you come, enjoying himself, and it wasn’t very long before your orgasm hit, the blast of pleasure making you nearly fold over. You caught yourself quickly, not wanting to squash your stomach. Seokjin gripped your hips, kissing up your sweaty back as your body quivered and you caught your breath. He bumped his hips against your ass, his erection so hard it must be painful.   

“I need you,” he husked, the roughness of his voice giving you goosebumps. “Please say you want to.” His desperation only made yours stronger, and you rolled over and sat up, tearing at his sweatpants. You wanted to. You wanted to, badly. 

His dick sprung out, angry and leaking. “Take them off all the way,” you rushed, tugging. You wanted him just as naked as you, and when he came back to you, his hands searching, you managed to get him on his back, straddling him once again.

He seemed dazed when he stared up at you, his lips wet and swollen, your arousal shining around his nose and chin. Sitting up, he reached for your mouth and cupped your butt, helping you sink onto him. You both moaned desperately as you took him, watching each other, as if you hadn’t had sex in months. It felt better than usual, maybe it was the new environment, on vacation. 

His thrusts were powerful, and you met each one with your own force, crying out. You clutched around his neck with one hand, the other gripping the sheets behind you as your feet dug into the mattress near his ass. He held you tight by the hips, no worry about slipping, and you were honestly surprised by your own energy. Things were slowly getting less adventurous in the bedroom – minus the ass eating – but this evening you were fucking fast and hard. But, by the way his neck strained, you could tell Seokjin was still holding himself back, and that wouldn’t do. You wanted to make the most of this spurt of energy. 

“Jin,” you urged, bringing your other hand to his shoulder, circling your hips to rub against him. 

“I don’t want to hurt you.” He spoke through clenched teeth, heavy breathed. 

“You won’t,” you reassured, wrapping your legs around him. “—it feels amazing­—please—just fuck me. Make me come again.” 

He groaned, your words having the desired effect. He gripped your ass, the look in his eyes drying your mouth. “Hold on to me tight,” he commanded in a strained voice. 

You listened, clinging to him as best you could with your bump in the way. He picked up the pace, fucking up into you hard, grunting with exertion. You cried out loudly in pleasure, thankful you were alone and that there wasn’t another house for miles. You both came together, the feeling out of this world. Your back arched with the pleasure, but he held you securely, moaning with his own release. When it was over, you collapsed against him, chests heaving, and when you looked at one another you both laughed breathlessly, amazed. 

.

.

“We should eat,” Seokjin murmured, stroking down your arm. 

It was a good half an hour later. You’d calmed down and caught your breaths, and you’d somehow managed to get out of bed to go pee – sure the baby was pressing on your bladder at the most inconvenient of times just for fun (or maybe she was only looking out for her mom, because UTI’s weren’t fun, especially when pregnant). Now, you were cuddling, hearing the sea outside and listening to Seokjin’s heartbeat beneath you, and you didn’t want to move again. 

“Later. Let’s stay here a little longer.” 

“Okay,” he agreed, before tapping your ass. “I already ate pretty well just now.” 

“You are such a loser,” you snorted, rubbing your face against his chest. 

“Hey!” 

You stroked down his stomach, cupping his now very worn-out cock. The warmth of it sent a tingle up your body, and you moved lower, tracing your fingers over his balls. You were suddenly horny again, unable to help it. This sea air was doing things to you. Smelling the faint sweat on his skin, feeling how warm and smooth he was – you just wanted him inside you. To wrap yourself around him and never let go. 

“I may need a moment,” he said above you, sensing where this was going. “Half an hour—maybe longer.” Laughing, he angled your face up to kiss you. “I know I was looking forward to all this sex, but servicing you is harder than it sounds.” 

“You’re slacking,” you teased, rolling onto your back a little. You looked down at your bump, running a hand over it absentmindedly. You still hadn’t been able to physically see the movements your daughter was making, but you could feel her getting stronger every day. As if she could read your mind, you felt a flutter. Your smile of joy slowly turned into a little pout as you came to a realisation. 

Seokjin noticed. “What’s wrong?” 

You shook your head, feeling silly, but answered anyway. “It won’t be long before I get too big and tired for sex.” Your third trimester was just around the corner. 

His responding laugh was deep and sincere. You looked up at him, confused. “It’s not all about the sex, ____—I mean, of course I love having sex with you,” he rushed to reassure you, seeing the offended look on your face, “and I want to have lots and lots of sex with you for the rest of my life, but that’s exactly it.” He squeezed your shoulder and kissed the top of your head. “We have our entire lives.” 

You smiled, liking that. “We do, don’t we?” 

He hummed, his hand trailing down to cup your boob, thumb circling your nipple. “The things I’m going to do to you once you’re not pregnant…” His voice was low and full of promise. “And ready of course,” he added, a little less sexily. 

You arched an eyebrow and moved to face him. “Is that a threat?” 

He kissed you once, eyes heavy-lidded. “If you want it to be.” 

.

.

You woke up alone and hot, and when you didn’t find Seokjin in the bathroom, you quickly peed and made your way downstairs, hearing noises coming from the kitchen. You walked in and found him making breakfast – in the sweatpants from last night, shirtless once again, but with a navy apron on for protection. 

Your brows jumped up. “This place also has a sexy chef?”

“Actually, it’s extra.” You watched him drape a dish towel over his shoulder as he turned to grin at you. “But I’ll take my payment in kind.” 

Moving towards him, you grabbed his ass. “That kind enough?” Looking over the countertops, the sight of all the food made your mouth water. He did know it was still the two of you this morning, right? Grabbing his phone from the island, you took a picture of your sexy chef (much to his chagrin), wanting to remember this moment. 

“You’ve already taken multiple nudes of me this weekend, and I have none of you.”  

“Your back isn’t a nude,” you laughed, placing his phone back. “Do I have time for a quick shower? My one last night was pretty pointless,” you teased. 

Seokjin wrapped an arm around your middle, pulling you in close, his voice hopeful when he spoke. “I was kinda hoping we could shower together after breakfast…” 

“What’s gotten into you?” you laughed. 

“If I recall correctly, you were the one groping me all over last night.” You didn’t reply because he was right. “We’re on vacation!” he continued. “That means lots of sex,” – he motioned to the food sizzling away – “and food.”  

And you better make the most of it. It wouldn’t be long before Seokjin’s brother and family got here, and while you’d been super excited yesterday, the thought now disappointed you a little. You wished you had a little longer to enjoy being alone – and naked – with Seokjin. 

But instead of voicing that disappointment, not wanting to make Seokjin feel guilty, you teased, “I thought you said servicing me was hard.” 

Seokjin smiled, his teeth showing. “I’m willing to die trying.” When you scoffed, he changed the subject a little, rubbing your lower back. “But are you feeling okay this morning?”

“I’m a little sore,” you admitted. Maybe you had been a little too vigorous last night. “But it was great,” you assured, rubbing his apron covered chest. 

Worry flitted through his features. Bless him. “So you want to shower?” You nodded quickly, knowing the warm spray of water would feel like heaven on your skin. He smiled at your eagerness. “Go on then, be quick.” He tapped your ass, directing you to the doorway. “Breakfast is nearly ready.” 

“Okay.” You kissed him goodbye and started to leave, but then you stopped, turning back. “When I get back, I think those should be gone too,” you told him, motioning to his sweatpants. 

His eyes widened in surprise, and then he laughed loudly, throwing his head back. 

Fifteen minutes later, fresh from your lovely shower, you made your way back to the kitchen to find he had happily listened to you… (However, another picture was out of the question, unfortunately.) 

SEASON 3 WILL BEGIN ON NOVEMBER 27TH!

Written 2022. Please refrain from posting my work elsewhere. No translations allowed. © floralseokjin 2022

[adoringhrry]

New Parents

Notes: I wrote this based off of a TikTok my mother sent me lol. Also imagine Harry in like mid-2022!

Dad!harry<3

They say children, when you have them, will become the best things in your life. You endure a few minutes of pain to spend a lifetime of happiness with someone who’s a product of you and your other half. Your life will hold smiles, laughs and wonderful memories together.

They will have you on the floor, giggling like a crazy person. Spending months creating a room for them to stay in, making sure your home is suitable so they wouldn’t ever get hurt. Going to doctor appointments to hear a heartbeat, shaking your partner awake in the middle of the night to feel their first kick.

Heaven.

“It’s your turn, Harry!” She spoke, turning over and pulling the satin covers over her head.

“Fuck off,” Harry moaned, begrudgingly slapping his hands over his tired eyes. “But it’s your kid.”

“Yours too.”

No one prepared the new parents for the all hours of the night screaming. The sleepless nights created delusions of their mother’s cackles whizzing around their minds. How the hell could someone put up with these little demons?

Harry grumbled a curse under his breath, throwing the covers off his body and standing. His eyes were closed, hoping to get some sort of more shut eye before he’d be up for hours.

Walking with their eyes closed while still half asleep had become a talent of theirs, having to do it so many times within the last three months does that to people. The mapping of their home has become second nature to him, even in the pitch black of the night.

He would need a cup of coffee, desperately.

Screaming echoed from their daughter’s room, increasing with every zombified step he took. This was how it was the last few months, except for the first week.

The first week they brought their daughter Presley home was heaven, it was everything they had heard about. She was a quiet and peaceful little squished face baby, not a single ounce of fuss at all.

Like an excerpt of the bible, on the seventh day all hell broke loose. That was when the screaming started. As much as Y/n loved her wonderful husband, Harry got on her nerves. And the same would go for him, but he was a little better at hiding it.

His bare feet made it into the room, turning to the crib to console Presley. He held her like glass, something that could break if you made a simply wrong move. A high pitched scream shot through his ear and right out the other side of his head, a need to cry as well punching him in the heart.

“Okay Princess, daddy’s here. Shhh, you’re okay.” He soothed, rocking his bundle of love in his arms. Swaying to a gentle unheard rhythm, he willed her to fall back to sleep. “I understand you love me, but daddy needs his sleep. Please” His words were breathy, pleading not only with the infant but with whatever god could hear him.

Sadly, Presley’s love for her father overpowered his wishes of sleep. Screams and whines continued to pour from the infant's mouth, seemingly for hours.

It only took a few minutes of the gut wrenching noise for Y/n to clamor out of her bed and join her husband. Standing in just black boxers and a white tee with tousled hair, he still looked good enough to bite. Here’s to another sleepless night, she thought.

“Babe, give me her and let's go get some coffee.” She spoke slowly, reaching for the bundle held with his large arms.

“Coffee?” He asked, sleep evident in his husky voice.

Coffee was a safe haven in their home now. Harry wasn’t proud of it, though. He loved to pride himself on only his English breakfast tea and baby-chinos on the off chance he got coffee. He wasn’t a coffee drinker. Well, he didn’t used to be a coffee drinker.

Y/n hummed and grasped onto her daughter gently. She stepped aside so he could shuffle past, rolling her eyes as he hoisted his under pants up and burped on his way out.

“We need a bath.” She pointed out to the wiggling little monster in her arms. “You need to sleep.”

It had been almost two weeks since she had last had a shower, her own smell couldn’t repulse her anymore. That’s when she just knew it was bad. She probably had vomit in her hair, which itself made her wanna crawl into bed and never leave.

After another moment, Presley stopped screaming. She opened her eyes and peered up at her mother, chubby cheeks giving her a permanent fake-grumpy face. They decided to go join Harry, the thought of liquid gold the only thing present on Y/n’s mind.

The hallways were covered in ultrasound photographs and in every room were some sort of baby item. It had taken a month to babyproof the whole home with the help of Kid Harpoon and Lizzo.

Y/n walked into the kitchen to find her husband at the island counter, eyes still closed.

She walked over to him to offer a hand. Her steps halted when she made it behind his shoulder, peering down at what her husband was doing.

Using the coffee scooper, he was plopping spoon fulls of baby formula into the coffee maker. Holy shit. A smile crept up her face, which turned into a giggle. And giggling turned into a hysterical laughing fit of delusion.

When Harry opened his eyes and seen what was so funny, he himself started laughing. It had to have been the no sleep, but this was the funiest thing in the whole world.

Presley was confused as to what was happening, though. Both of her parents were laughing at seemingly nothing, slowly going mad.

[ifhymona]

٭* Not Too Late *٭

Chapter 4 | chino moreno x reader

chapter 3 ~ chapter 5 | ao3

1.6k words

a/n: !! PLEASE READ !! the chapter is going back to y/n and chino’s argument, in case anyone is confused !

chino’s pov:

she turned around and walked away. that hurt. i stood there for a second thinking to myself. i remembered telling her those things but i also dont. at the time, i was more focused on the fact that she told me to break up with her. my mind kind of blocked out what i said. it hurt even more when a week later she cheated on me. i hated that she was right. that she knew something i didn’t.

when i walked back inside, the guys were all huddled around the door acting like they weren’t listening.

i looked at them and they looked at me. “you heard her!”

“she didn’t mean it though, right?” stephen asked. i stood quiet with my eyes on my feet. “right?” he exclaimed.

“did you guys hear everything?” they all looked at each other and nodded. i sighed. “she meant every word she said.”

chi spoke up. “you should go home chino. we’ll all meet back up in two days and check in, alright?”

i was grateful towards chi. despite my actions, he was still my friend when i needed it.

i nodded and we all packed up at went home.

~

here i am watching star wars for like the millionth time. star wars always helped me feel better when i was in a funk. no matter how many times ive seen it, it will always be my favorite. i even still use a star wars lunch pail anytime we go to a venue in case i get hungry.

but this time, it wasn’t helping me the slightest bit. all i could think of were y/n’s harsh words.

“you’re the most selfish person i know and i want nothing to do with you.” i repeated her words back to myself. “i mean how could she say that? we used to have so much fun together. she aint’t no saint either. what about that one time we all went to the skate park and she didn’t even talk to me. not once. she was only talking to ethan smith. she knew how much i hated ethan too.”

who am i kidding? what i did to y/n was way worse. i just couldn’t stand the fact that she was right. that she basically predicted the future. when i discovered cassandra with another dude, it felt as if my world was crumbling apart. i had lost my girlfriend and my best friend.

i thought i loved cassandra. she was the first girl to ask me out. every guy has a phase where they’re obsessed with their first girlfriend, that’s just how it goes. but after i found her cheating, i slowly grew a resentment towards her. i didn’t understand why i was even with someone like her. but now, i’m neutral about her. that was just a dumb high school relationship. but with y/n it was different.

when i broke up with her, i found myself waiting for y/n’s call for hours hoping she would put everything aside and things would go back to normal. but it never came. i missed y/n more and more. but i couldn’t believe that she had just left so easily. like we didn’t a past together. i didn’t like her like that. i just needed a friend.

after graduation, i stopped seeing y/n less and less. eventually, i started moving on from her. then i got with the band and life has been great. that was until she came back in the picture to be our assistant. when i seen her name in that paper, i didn’t wanna believe it was her. but it was. now i feel like i’m going crazy over her.

i stood up to go smoke a cigarette since star wars wasn’t helping me. i stood on my balcony still trying to erase my thoughts about y/n. but i couldn’t help feeling like an asshole.

my mind kept going back to the memories we used to make. like when we shared a PE class sophomore year and we would always talk and joke and mess around.

or when i snuck into her art class to see her but got kicked out after we started laughing too hard.

or when i would go to the bathroom and would pass her class walking back to mine. i would wave to her through the window and somehow she noticed me each time.

she always had her hair down and it was long and thick but naturally flowy. she would always tuck her hair behind her right ear. i always liked it when she would do that. i don’t even know why i remember that.

i wanted to apologize. but the more i thought about it, the more i realized how much of a bad idea it might be. i missed y/n and i was stupid enough to lose her. what if she really did want nothing to do with me? what if i went to her house and it ends up backfiring on me? what if i apologize and she doesn’t accept it? what if i lose her for good? i needed to give her some space.

~

me and the band were practicing a new song that we had just came up with. but the whole time, i wasn’t feeling it and you could hear it in my voice too.

“okay stop stop stop.” chi shouted. “what is up with you today, man? your voice keeps cracking dude and i miss your little whiny voice.” he said sarcastically. i smiled but didn’t respond.

chi walked my way. “is it really that bad?” he said while holding my shoulders. i nodded.

chi sighed and told everyone, “let’s take 5.”

me and chi sat down on the couch and he asked “is this about y/n?”

“yes. i’ve just been thinking about what she told me and i never felt like this much of an ass before.”

“look man, you need to snap out of it. why don’t you just say sorry?”

“because i’m scared that if i say sorry, she’ll think im lying and never wanna talk to me again.”

chi bursted out laughing. “i love you chino but sometimes you’re such an idiot. if you and y/n have a past and you know that what you’re saying is genuine, then i doubt she’s never gonna wanna see you again. you need to man up and say sorry before it’s too late. plus we still need an assistant and the band has been lacking without her help so you need apologize either way. so go and talk to her right now because we need her.”

chi was right. i’m glad i had someone like chi to keep me in check.

~

after skating for 15 minutes, i had finally arrived at her house.

when i knocked on her front door, her mom had answered.

“is that camillo moreno?? i haven’t seen you in ages! how have you been?”

“hi mrs. l/n. i’ve been good, just got busy with my own life i guess.” i shrugged. “is y/n here?”

“yes but she hasn’t left her room in days so good luck with her.” she sighed.

i didn’t realize how badly i had hurt her. hearing her mom say that made me feel worse. but this wasn’t about me.

i knocked on her door. “leave me alone!” y/n shouted. i walked in anyway.

her room was a mess. there were clothes everywhere but luckily no old food plates.

“jeez this place is a mess.” i teased.

“go away, chino. didn’t i tell you i wanted nothing to do with you?” i knew i was right. this is going terrible already. i should just leave.

but i didn’t want to. i needed to fix this. “you did but since im so selfish, im gonna do what i wanna do.” i joked.

no response. i knew i shouldn’t have said that.

“oh come on, y/n. ive been thinking about what you told me and.. i’m sorry.”

no response. i needed to get her back into my life. i need to tell her how much she means to me.

i sat down at the foot of her bed. “you’re right. it was selfish of me to expect all those things from you. at the time, i thought cassandra was my everything. despite all the bad signs, i only payed attention to the good ones. i guess i was just so caught up with cassandra that i failed to realize i had lost the most important person in my life, you.”

she sat up. her hair was tangled and greasy. her eyes were glossy and red. her nose was stuffed and she had eye bags. but despite all that, she still looked beautiful.

“jesus you look like shit.”

“yeah i wonder why camillo!” she shouted at me.

it went silent. “you have every right to be mad at me. but there’s no reason to leave the band.” i looked into her eyes. “the band hasn’t been the same without you and the guys really miss you. they keep reminding me that i screwed up big time and that i needed to fix it.” she laughed. how much i had missed her laugh.

“y/n, i really am sorry about everything.” we stared at each other. “you know, i will admit that i did miss you a lot. like a lot a lot.”

she smiled. “me too camillo.”

i hugged her. not only because i thought she needed it but also because i needed it too.

“how did you even get in anyway?” she asked.

“i hopped through a window.” i smirked.

she punched my arm. “ow! your mom had let me in, you jerk.” we both fell into laughter.

i love being around her. she’s my best friend. i missed laughing with her like this and i will do everything to make this friendship last.

a/n: please leave a like and a repost if you enjoyed todays chapter !! chapter 5 will be out next week. lots of love <3

[thehousepatron]

My Arsenal of Drow Tavs/Durges:

Yazdaer Mizzrym:

Class/Race: Lolthsworn Rogue/Warlock

Background: Noble/Charlatan; bastard descendant of Greyanna Mizzrym (who killed her twin sister for looking like her), his Uncle is Pharaun Mizzrym, a talented master wizard of Sorcere. Yazdaer did a runner from Menzoberranzan after his own twin sister attempted to assassinate him, and got kicked out of both Sorcere and Melee-Magthere for his misdemeanours. Trained in both combat and magic, he formed a pact with the Old One, and became a Zhentarim, before being murked by the nautiloid on the surface.

Tam’lin Baenre

Class/Race: Ex-Lolthsworn Ranger

Background: Second son of noble house Baenre, he is Minthara’s cousin. Tam’lin was in love with a young, drow Kar’niss (both of them Szarkai and trained at Melee-Magthere before progression under the priestesses of Arach-Tinilith) and vowed to find his love again. Kar’niss disappeared suddenly at the same time he was ‘deployed’ to the surface and Tam’lin did a runner, deviating from his duties. Tam’lin became a folk hero known as the ‘Nightwatchman’, never giving up on his quest to find Kar’niss. He was nicked by the Nautiloid from the outskirts of Baldur’s Gate.

Vesz (unnamed house)

Vesz is my resist durge. He is a Lolthsworn Drow Monk/Barbarian.

Background: He remembers very little of his past, only that he was holed up in Arach-Tinilith with the priestesses who took care of him and prized him for his enormous stature and beauty (note: they knew he was a Bhaalspawn and opted not to tell him). He’s not the sharpest knife in the drawer. He was also granted certain privileges because he was ‘born’ a female, but transitioned to male. Many Lolthsworn Drow women saw him as a highly sought after male, not just because of his stature and appearance, but also because he had a distinct knowledge of how to please women, having once been a woman, himself. He was ripped from Arach-Tinilith by the nautiloid the moment he briefly ventured outside against his Matron Mother’s will.

Zilvantar Arkentyl

Race/Class: Lolthsworn Draconic Sorcerer/Wizard

Background: A noble of the lesser house of Arkentyl, Zilvantar trained briefly under Gromph Baenre, becoming a master wizard of Sorcere due to his natural talent, with which he was born. He did, however, gravitate towards the outer city and eventually towards the Myconid Colonies in order to study the fungi, crystals and the flora and fauna of the underdark, becoming a successful alchemist before he was nabbed by the nautiloid.

Malhounnet Arabani

Race/Class: Ex Lolthsworn Druid/Bard

Background: Malhounnet was born male but raised as female by her parents, who did not wish to draw unnecessary attention to the fact that they had bore a third ‘son’. She was, however, very much grateful for the way she was raised, because she would have suffered horrific dysphoria had her parents not raised her as female. After both of her parents were assassinated, as a result of her sex being outed, Malhounnet fled to the Myconid Colony to live under the protection of said Myconids. She developed a love of fungi and crystals, and this became her special interest, however she longed to return to Menzoberranzan after learning of an Adamantine forge (yes, it was she who got Dhourn petrified by the Spectator) to restore her house to its former glory. The nautiloid stole her as she was venturing undercover into Menzoberranzan for Alchemical Supplies.

Other drow songs:

[mischas]

and its sad too cause eddie's the one who said to ryan "out of all the places, she picked chino. she picked the one place only you could find her." speaking of, ryan seems to be zoning out after he said that and not in an "excited" way, because in s2 he feels like it's "task" for him to help marissa. but what do you think in that scene with eddie and ryan from s1?

I just rewatched that scene yesterday actually (and why I posted that ~hot take~) and I interpret it to mean that Ryan's thinking many things. So, 1) The inherent romance of Marissa picking a place only Ryan could find her 2) her embrace of Chino and the people he grew up around 3) going back to their relationship and how much that connection is still there kind of shocks him 4) even though he says it belongs to his 'old life,' Chino represents a lot of who he is now, so the past and the present are combining in ways he always tries to keep separate in his head.

He'd pushed his romantic connection with Marissa out of his head ever since the Oliver blowup and being reminded of their still-existing connection so blatantly, by someone who five minutes ago wanted to kick his ass, brings a lot of feelings back to the surface. Ryan's feeling guilty about tricking Marissa into going to LA but also feeling a duty to bring her home all while ignoring whatever feelings he associates with Chino. He's never gone back there without reason. Combine that with Marissa finding safety and security there, it's a lot to ponder in that one moment.

[concerthopperblog]

Tour of the Valedores: John Garcia (formerly of Kyuss) Live at The Masquerade

John Garcia is a stoner rock/desert rock/heavy metal singer best known as the founding member and vocalist of several prominent bands in the desert/stoner rock genre: Kyuss, Slo Burn, Unida, and Hermano. Garcia has also performed with Vista Chino, formerly Kyuss Lives! (w/ former Kyuss bandmates Brant Bjork and Nick Oliveri), and John Garcia and the Band of Gold. One can say that Garcia has always kept himself busy within the music industry since starting his career with the legendary band Kyuss. Garcia’s discography is massive since he has participated in many bands over the years: Solo – three (3) LPs and one (1) split w/ Black Mastiff, Kyuss – five (5) LPs, Slo Burn – one (1) LP, Unida – two (2) LPs, Hermano – two (2) LPs, Hermano – three (3) LPs and one (1) Live record, Vista Chino – one (1) LP, and multiple guest appearances over his historic career.

Via his social media channels, Garcia announced on March 7th an ambitious tour that would feature Garcia playing songs from Kyuss, Hermano, and Slo Burn. The Tour of the Valedores would start in Madison on May 15th and conclude in Brooklyn at Elsewhere on May 29th. The Masquerade in Atlanta, GA. would host the Tour of the Valedores on May 19th and you know I would be there with camera in hand. For this tour, John Garcia’s band consists of John Garcia (vocals), John Bennet (guitars), Billy Cordell (bass), and Greg Saenz (drums). Garcia would call on some amazing artists to assist him with opening support on this tour; Jared James Nichols, Telekinetic Yeti, and Left Lane Cruiser.

Left Lane Cruiser is a blues rock/rockabilly/ punk blues band from Fort Wayne, Indiana formed in 2004. Left Lane Cruiser consists of Frederick “Joe” Evans IV (slide guitar/vocals) and Brenn Breck (drums/backing vocals) who are signed to Fat Possum Records. Left Lane Cruiser has released eleven (11) LPs since 2006 when they were previously signed to Hillgrass Bluebilly Records and Alive Records respectively. This would be my first time seeing Left Lane Cruiser live, and I was eager to see what they had to offer.

Starting the evening, Left Lane Cruiser kicked off with some bluesy rockabilly that got the crowd warmed up as they performed songs from their vast discography. This blues-rock hybrid duo knows how to get the crowd involved with their electrifying riffs and dynamic vocals. Left Lane Cruiser was the perfect band to kick off this celebration of John Garcia’s influential legacy.

Check out Left Lane Cruiser’s setlist from this evening’s performance:

·         “Wash It”

·         “Skinny Woman” (R.L. Burnside cover)

·         “Claw Machine Wizard”

·         “River Picker”

·         “Backyard”

·         “Turkey Vulture”

·         “Hillgrass Bluebilly”

Follow this link to Left Lane Cruiser’s Official Bandcamp page today and check them out! Or head to their website and pick up some merchandise from their online shop.

Telekinetic Yeti is a stoner/doom metal band from Dubuque, Iowa that has made heads bang since 2015. Telekinetic Yeti consists of Alex Baumann (guitar/vocals) and Rockwell Heim (drums). They are signed to Sump Pump Records and have released two (2) LPs with Primordial (2022) being the latest release. You may recognize Telekinetic Yeti from my review a few weeks ago, Weedeater w/ Telekinetic Yeti, Restless Spirit, & Possum Rot Live at Grantski Records (ICYMI). I was excited to see Telekinetic Yeti again so soon based on their last performance at Grantski Records with Weedeater.

Adding to the list of powerful duos in the stoner/doom metal genre, Telekinetic Yeti commands the stage when they perform live at any venue. Tonight was textbook Yeti as they pulverized their way through each song on their setlist. You could see some Telekinetic Yeti fans in the crowd enjoying seeing one of their favorite bands rip up the stage in Hell at The Masquerade.

You can see Telekinetic Yeti’s setlist from The Masquerade below:

·         “Ghost Train Haze”

·         “Abominable”

·         “Stoned and Feather”

·         “Ancient Nug”

·         “Toke Wizard”

·         “Himalayan Hymn”

Show them love and check out Telekinetic Yeti’s Bandcamp page to stream some of their music.

Jared James Nichols is a blues rock/hard rock guitarist/singer from East Troy, Wisconsin who is most notable for his finger-picking technique on his electric guitar. Jared James Nichols has released three (3) LPs, two (2) EPs, and four (4) singles since 2015. Jared James Nichols is accompanied by Ryan Rice (drums) and Brian Weaver (bass) during his live performances. This would be my first time seeing Jared James Nichols perform live, but I did do some research before the show to see what Jared James Nichols was all about. Wow. The energy and vibe that you see on recordings does not do Jared James Nichols any justice, because his live performances are more captivating with his wild style of guitar picking mixed with his entire band’s energetic performance. And to top it off, Jared James Nichols ended their set with a crushing cover of Black Sabbath’s “War Pigs”.

You can support Jared James Nichols by following this link to his official merchandise store or by supporting him through the Listenable Records official Bandcamp page today!

During the 90’s, I was fascinated with a few West Coast desert rock bands: Fu Manchu and Kyuss. The sound was not common during the 90’s, so I was intrigued with how loud they played but kept an invigorated and chill vibe throughout their discography. Kyuss broke up in 1995 and before I had a chance to see them play live. So, tonight was a special moment getting to see John Garcia performing songs from Kyuss and his other bands, Slo Burn and Hermano. Witnessing a legend perform his legacy live in front of you at The Masquerade with his friends backing him up is the stuff you tell your friends about. Plus, I cannot tell you the last time John Garcia came through Atlanta to perform, let alone take on the massive responsibility of performing songs from three of his influential bands.

John Garcia and his band arrived on stage and the crowd told them they were ready to rock! The time had finally come, and you could tell that the crowd was exhilarated as John Garcia and his band started their set with one of my favorite Kyuss songs “Gardenia” and proceeded to perform five more Kyuss songs in a row. Garcia brought out the songs “Cowboys Suck” and “The Bottle” from Hermano and “July” from his band Slo Burn. For an extra special treat, Garcia treated the crowd to “Dragona Dragona” from his days with the band Vista Chino.

John Garcia was very thankful and acknowledged gratitude for the crowd who came to rock out with him on a Sunday night in Atlanta. The funny thing is that I know we all thought the same thing about John Garcia and this tour. John Garcia rarely tours the East Coast, let alone the South. I know that this tour will go down as one of the best tours in 2024 hands down.

What a setlist curated by John Garcia and his band! Check out all the classics from John Garcia’s setlist from this tour stop at The Masquerade:

·         “Gardenia” - Kyuss

·         “Conan Troutman” (Outro) - Kyuss

·         “Hurricane” (Ending) - Kyuss

·         “Thumb” - Kyuss

·         “Odyssey” - Kyuss

·         “Cowboys Suck” – Hermano

·         “Supa Scoopa and Mighty Scoop” (Outro) - Kyuss

·         “The Bottle” – Hermano

·         “July” – Slo Burn

·         “100” - Kyuss

·         “Writhe” (Riff) - Kyuss

·         “Whitewater” - Kyuss

·         “Phototropic” - Kyuss

·         “One Inch Man” - Kyuss

·         “Dragona Dragona” – Vista Chino

·         “El Rodeo” - Kyuss

Encore:

·         “Green Machine” – Kyuss

You can still catch John Garcia with Jared James Nichols, Telekinetic Yeti, and Left Lane Cruiser on tour on the following dates:

05/22: Detroit, MI @ Crofoot Theatre

05/23: Grand Rapids, MI @ Pyramid Scheme

05/25: Montreal, QC @ Club Soda

05/27: Hampton Beach, NH @ Wally's

05/28: Philadelphia, PA @ Union Transfer

05/29: Brooklyn, NY @ Elsewhere

Curious about Concerthopper? You can find more music-related articles, interviews, various photo galleries, indie music reviews, our ‘Bars & Bites’ section, our exclusive “She Said, She Said” column, or become a Concerthopper at www.concerthopper.com. Sign up for our monthly newsletter by following this link: The Setlist! Please ‘Like’ our page on Facebook and follow us on Instagram to stay up to date in 2023, on all music-related events/festivals such as Ashes of Leviathan Tour: Mastodon & Lamb of God @ Ameris Bank Amphitheatre, An Evening with Goose (Night 3) @ The Fox Theatre (Atlanta), Least Anticipated Album Tour: A Day To Remember @ Outer Harbor Live at Terminal B, S.E.R.P.E.N.T. Festival w/ SLASH, Larkin Poe, ZZ Ward, and Robert Randolph – Live @ The Orion Amphitheater (Huntsville), Blackout Tour Pt. 2: From Ashes to New Live @ Water Street Music Hall (Rochester), Is For Lovers Tour (Fox Summer Stage), We Legalized It 2024: Cypress Hill, The Pharcyde, & Souls of Mischief: Live at Tabernacle, King Gizzard & The Lizard Wizard: Live at The Fox Theatre (Atlanta), The Godmode Tour: In This Moment Live @ Landmark Theatre (Syracuse), Hawthrone Heights: 20 Years of Tears Tour (Sound @ Coachman Park), Catalyst 20 Years Later - New Found Glory: Live at Buffalo Riverworks, Underoath “They’re Only Chasing Safety” 20th Anniversary Tour: Live at Buffalo Riverworks, and Pallbearer w/ Rwake & The Keening @ The Masquerade (Atlanta) by following us on all social media formats: Concerthopper on Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram.  You can also follow my concert hopping on Facebook and Instagram.

[zannolin]

For fic ask game: 16, 39

16. How many fic ideas are you nurturing right now? Share one of them?

hhhhhahahahha. um. too many. too many to begin to list. at any given time i contain multitudes. like 10 minimum for each thing i'm Actively into. i am actively writing three right now (one beyonders, one cobra kai, and one stranger things, though that might count as one and a half because it's two fics that are intertwined? eh) and i have about four or five others just waiting on the back burner in the outline stage. we shan't speak of what's in the freezer or the pantry or the cabinets. the cobra kai one is basically if the chop shop fight in s3 went Less Good for johnny and he and daniel were stuck together for longer instead of them fighting each other and johnny getting to run off after.

39. Share a snippet from a WIP

Mike Wheeler. Michael goddamn Wheeler. In a gay bar. In the same gay bar as Will. Getting chatted up by some guy in chinos and grinning as he runs a hand down Mike’s arm. Will feels— Will has no idea what he feels, actually. Like he’s going to pass out from shock, maybe. Like he needs more than just the one drink for sure. Like he might scream or kick something or lie down and die on the spot. Mike Wheeler, with the ponytail, in the gay bar—that’s how the police report will read for cause of death. That would be how he goes out, huh? Because no matter what Will does, his life keeps circling back to his childhood best friend who never fucking loved him back.

forcing you all to consume byler content because i need to talk about estranged childhood friends forever and ever. and also bc i know none of you will read it when i post it so i will make u read it here.

get to know your fic writer!

[chuppsindia]

Kick It in Style: Chupps Cool New Collab with ICC

Hey there, cricket enthusiasts! We've got some exciting news for all you cricket fans who love to stay on-trend. CHUPPS has teamed up with The International Cricket Council (ICC) for a super-cool  official cricket-inspired sliders collection. So, get ready to step up your style game both on and off the pitch with these sporty kicks! Let's dive into the deets and find out how you can rock these cricket-inspired sliders

What's the Scoop?

 Swanky Designs: The CHUPPS x ICC collection is bursting with cricket-inspired designs. Think cricket ball stitching patterns, stumps, and other cricket-centric awesomeness, all wrapped up in some seriously stylish sliders

Performance Matters: These sliders aren't just for show. They're built to give you top-notch grip, support, and comfort, whether you're charging down the pitch or just strolling around town. They're not just for the pros they're for all of us who love cricket!

Choices Galore: No matter your style, there's something for everyone in this collection. Whether you're into simple designs or loud and quirky prints, you can score a pair that screams "you."

How to Rock Your Chupps x ICC ChillStrides:

Alright, now that you've got your hands (or should I say, your feet) on these cricket-inspired sliders, here are some easy-peasy style tips to show them off:

Casual Cool: Keep it laid-back by pairing your Chupps sliders with your favorite jeans and a cricket-themed tee. Add a cap with your team's logo, and you're ready for a day of effortless coolness.

Sporty Spice: Get in on the athleisure game by teaming your new sliders with comfy joggers or track pants. Top it off with a hoodie or a sporty jacket, and you'll be nailing that trendy sport-inspired look.

Dress It Up: Wanna look sharp while flaunting your love for cricket? Try chinos or khakis with a crisp white shirt. Let your cricket-themed sliders do the talking while you dazzle with smart-casual elegance.

Game Day Swag: Heading to a cricket match or watching one with friends? Rock your Chupps x  ICC with your jersey or a cricket-themed polo shirt. Don't forget your team cap or scarf to complete the fan look.

Accessorize:  Amp up your cricket-inspired style with accessories like wristbands, watches, or even a cricket bat-shaped pendant. It's all about the little details, my friends!

In Conclusion: Cricket and Style, All in One:)

The Chupps x ICC collaboration is your ticket to cricket style heaven. Whether you're a die-hard cricket fan or just love a fresh pair of kicks, these cricket-inspired sliders have got you covered. They're not just sliders, they're a statement. So, go ahead, rock 'em like a pro, and let your footwear speak volumes about your love for the game. Cricket never looked so good, did it?

And hey, You can get a chance to earn early access, exclusive discounts & many more benefits. So, Stay tuned, stay connected, and stay updated. The best is yet to come, and you're invited to be a part of it! 

[poliwat]

Nipomo

Four weeks sharing a room in San Francisco, four weeks since I decided not to go back to England. Michael wasn’t sleeping. A quarter tab of acid for his breakfast. Spliffs throughout the day, booze and blue raspberry C4 preworkout all through the night. He was recording an album, working on his set, making a website, building a 24-7 open-source radio live-stream at a free hackers’ space, and not finishing anything.

I was trying to write but spending a lot of time crying on the hot roof of the apartment building when he wasn’t around. He found me up there one afternoon at the end of one of his twelve-hour stints at the hackers’ space. Two straw hats, a beer, two cups. “I know you like to drink out of little cups!” He smiled and the inside of his mouth was blue from the raspberry preworkout. How do you hate someone as much as you love them? He said he’d been looking for me because he had a great plan. A childhood friend in the city was driving down to their hometown and we could get a ride. I could meet Michael’s parents; go to the beach; see the fields, wildflowers, and back roads. So beautiful this time of year. I wondered if it might save us. “It’s God’s country,” he said.

We arrived at his parents’ the following morning, after a four-hour drive south. A low ranch-style house on a wide road of low ranch-style houses. Michael said it was too nice a day to be stuck inside, so he took me around the side and we climbed straight up onto the roof: “I know you like roofs in California!” I did like roofs in California. The front and back yards of gravel, wood chip, and pebbles, interspersed with the occasional palm tree or redwood. At the end of the road was the main street, a couple of stores, a steak house, and a taqueria. Beyond, fields of lemon trees and mustard grass and farmland that stretched a few miles inland, up to a range of golden hills. Above us, the sun shone like the grill of a new truck.

The house was full of knickknacks and shells and crystals and string lights. A “Be Grateful” sign by the coffee maker. A “Be Grateful” mat by the front door. A canvas in the kitchen printed with a picture of three fluffy ducklings and the words “I have joy down in the bottom of my heart.” It was hard to make out how many cats there were. And then PooPoo, the overweight chihuahua, waddled in from the hallway and charged at Michael, baring his red gums and gnashing tiny, pointed teeth. Michael told me the dog was the spawn of the devil and the root cause of all the issues that existed between him and his parents. I already knew that the issues between Michael and his family had begun when Michael had gone to college in Santa Cruz five years before, found drugs, wouldn’t get a real job, and kept having to move back home when he ran out of money.

His parents were musicians who’d met in Santa Barbara in the seventies. She’d sung in one band and he’d played guitar in another. They’d both worked in the same hippie jewelry store downtown before marrying and moving to a smaller town up the coast. I met them that morning when they followed the pets into the kitchen. Gene was short and round with a kind face, freshly shaved with a peaked cap on his bald head and a smart cowboy shirt tucked into chinos. He gave me a warm hug that smelled of Irish Spring. He picked up PooPoo and fed him some bratwurst from the fridge. Mom went straight to the coffeepot. She wore a blue shirt with cropped leggings and had her blond hair put up neatly in a clip. She had the same unblinking stare as Michael.

Gene left to work his shift at a music shop in the next town over and Mom said she needed more coffee before her pain medication kicked in and she could talk properly. She had arthritis and had pain from a series of botched surgeries. The pain was the worst in the morning, but she was managing it with physical therapy, swimming, and half a pill on the bad days. She spent the next hour pacing around the house, telling me about all the things she needed to do—pay the bills, fill out paperwork, physical therapy, feed the dog, feed the cats—only to be derailed from doing any of it by the pets, or the phone ringing. She kept apologizing for being so busy, but she couldn’t seem to get anything done. The bills stayed untouched in a pile that took up most of the kitchen table, the phone rang and rang. There were Post-its all over the house: “Put coffee out,” “Tell Dad to clean sink,” “Ask Michael where he is living in SF,” “Be Grateful.”

Michael derailed her the most, as he tried to make breakfast and clean up after himself. Mother and son knocked around the place, from the coffeepot to the piano to the back door, to the front door to the coffeepot again. They both had the habit of getting lost midaction and the same strange sweetness. At one point, just after getting at him about putting the dishes away in the wrong place, she went into the living room and sang out with joy. When she came back into the kitchen she was smiling. She put her arms around her son. He rested his cheek on the top of her head and closed his eyes.

Michael and I spent the afternoon walking around town. Not a place built for walking but it had its charm, the slanting golden light making even the Vons supermarket look beautiful. We bought three beers for five dollars at the Stop and Shop and watched the sun go down as we sat against a fence by a dusty abandoned lot. He told me that the most famous thing about this town was a Dorothea Lange photograph of migrants from the thirties.

For dinner Michael made sandwiches and, to his mom’s exasperation, moved the bills off the dinner table and told everyone we were going to sit down. They were very good sandwiches, pastrami and banana peppers and mayo with a steak seasoning, on thick slices of bread. He made a sandwich each for his parents, and two types for me and him to share. “Me and Helen share everything,” he announced. “We’re in love.”

After a few bites, Mom started talking about how hard it was, living with her husband, how she loved him but needed him to leave. “I keep telling him, but he won’t go. He does nothing around the house, just eats and spends and plays his guitars.” She said that when she married him, he was already deep in debt. He’d never told her how bad it was. Then she said to me, “I love my son, but I’d understand if you wanted to leave him. Don’t make the same mistake I made.” Gene didn’t say anything in response, just happily ate his sandwich and seemed to be somewhere else. Michael went to the fridge and popped a Corona.

The next day was a Saturday. We borrowed Gene’s car and spent the day in the ice-plant dunes of Grover Beach. When the sun set, we snuck into a motel jacuzzi. Crouched in the bubbles, Michael said he’d told his dad that he’d marry me if he had a dollar. “I dunno about marriage,” I told him.

Gene was in the kitchen when we got back, enjoying a Corona Familiar in a frosted glass. He was in a good mood from playing a gig at a wedding where he’d devoured a seafood-platter buffet. “I tell you … those crabs. All that fish. Mountains of it.” We sat at the counter with him. Over more Coronas, Mom cackling along to Scrubs on the TV, he told me about his first love. At one point he made the mistake of asking Michael what his plans were. Michael said he was going to start an open-source 24-7 radio station that spread empathy across the world and freed a billion people. He already knew his mission on Earth, God had told him. His parents didn’t need to worry. Gene turned to me with a smirk. “I told Michael to experiment with LSD. I didn’t realize he’d be experimenting every day for five years.”

They drove us to the train station in San Luis Obispo the next afternoon. Another sunny day but things felt different. Now I knew that this impossible person had a mother and father and that he made some kind of sense beside them. When his parents hugged us goodbye his dad whispered something in Michael’s ear. “If I had a dollar,” Michael said.

We found a booth with a table in the train’s observation car, beside a window. Gene and Mom spotted us as they were driving out of the parking lot and circled back through three or four times, waving as the train left the station. Leaving San Luis Obispo, the train wound around and between the Pacific Coast Ranges. The slopes reached up on either side, rolling above the windows. Michael leaned on my shoulder while I read him a story I’d written about my alcoholic dad. It made him cry. I told him not to move yet—a girl in another booth was painting a picture of us. I could see it in the corner of my eye, strokes of yellow and green and gold.

***

Six months later, Gene was diagnosed with stage four cancer. A melanoma that had not been removed properly in the spring had spread to his organs by September. Michael and I were living in Chicago by the time Gene began chemo, sleeping on a futon at an event studio that my sister ran and earning a bit of money setting up and cleaning up after baby showers and photoshoots during the day and after parties and music videos at night.

The family told Michael not to come back yet. So we stayed in Chicago for September and into October. Michael’s desperate restlessness and acid-fueled benders had subsided, and the deranged passion that had brought us together had calmed to a more dependable, if rocky, companionship. We kept our clothes in a cupboard and pretended to the people who rented the space that we didn’t live there. When the studio was in use, we visited my sister and her son, or wandered around Lincoln Park, or walked along Lake Michigan, waiting for the call from his family to say that he needed to come home. Sometimes Michael brought his guitar and I brought my notebook and we’d sit playing and writing, cooling our feet in the lake. Other times we had long, agonizing arguments walking around the humid parks. He said I was unloving and spiritually dead inside. I said he was cruel and overbearing, that we were two very different people from different worlds and it would never work anyway, it was doomed. He said that only proved how godless and unloving I was. What was cruel was how little I believed in us. All that needed to happen was for me to find faith. We were twenty-seven. We could move off the grid, have lots of children, and raise chickens. I wanted to get on a plane and go home. Whenever we had an especially bad argument, he stormed off to the hot-dog place around the corner from the studio, where the staff was famous for insulting its customers. He made friends with the people who worked there. “The only real people in this city,” he said. Baby Jesus Ted Bundy was one of the names they called him. He would come back in the best of moods. He was on one of those hot-dog runs when his sister called and told him the doctor said it was a matter of days. He spent his entire savings, four hundred dollars, on a flight for the next morning. I packed up the futon and moved into my sister’s apartment. He called after two weeks at home. His dad really was dying now and he needed to see me. Please could I come? My sister found me a flight from Chicago to LA for fifty dollars for the following week.

***

The Amtrak train from Los Angeles to San Luis Obispo goes up the Pacific coast, at times along the beach and at others high in the cliffs. Michael was waiting for me on the platform, wearing a black hoodie and a black cap with a small red-and-white mushroom on the front. He called it his mourning costume. In the car he gave me a paper bag. Inside was a bar of chocolate wrapped neatly in tissue paper. As he drove out of the lot a full moon appeared over the trees.

We arrived at the house to find Gene sitting on a red La-Z-Boy, watching Blazing Saddles, PooPoo on his lap. The dog jumped off when he saw us coming and charged at Michael’s ankles. Michael picked him up, thrashing, and plopped him outside, slamming the screen door. Gene had almost halved in size, his face completely sunken, his arms and legs, bluish and pale, poking out of a baggy T-shirt and shorts. I tried to hide my shock but it must have been apparent. People had been coming over all week to say their goodbyes.

When Michael had first told me they’d put Gene on home hospice, I’d assumed it meant he would be home under regular medical care. What it really meant on his low-cost insurance was a hospital bed in their house, medication, and thirty-minute visits from a nurse twice a week. The rest of the time it was up to Michael, his mother, and his sister to look after Gene. By the time I arrived, the home hospice had been going on for two weeks and they’d stumbled into a rhythm. Gene slept in the Blue Room (blue walls and carpet), which had once been Michael’s bedroom, then the bedroom of a series of lodgers, then a room for Mom to stretch in. Now it was the room where Gene was going to die. There was the hospital bed in the center and a folding table against one wall, covered in a red paper tablecloth, pieces of hospital equipment, dozens of pill pots, and Michael’s junk. Michael and his mother took turns administering a regimen of medication every few hours: liquid morphine, vitamins, blood pressure pills, pills to help his organs deal with all the pills. There was a mattress in the corner covered with a Lion King quilt where Michael had been sleeping. Gene had a little bell by his bedside that he rang when he needed something.

I was tired from the travel, so Michael set me up a bed in the Green Room next door. It had a single bed, another folding table, and a few blankets laid out for the cats to sleep on. Michael gave me his pillow and the Lion King duvet and put on another hoodie over the hoodie he was already wearing. We sat down on the bed for a moment and he rested his head on my shoulder. From the next room the little bell rang and he shot up. I curled up and drifted off.

The next morning Michael woke me up at nine o’clock with a mug of creamy coffee. “Get up! We’re going to the store!” His dad wanted egg bagels. They’d already given Gene his medicine, taken him for a shower, and rustled up a small first breakfast of eggnog and toast. It was only a quick drive to Vons but Michael drove very slowly, all the windows open, lighting one cigarette after another.

We returned to the sound of the little bell ringing. Gene wanted to sit out on the lounger. He wanted a coffee. Michael helped his dad outside and made the bagels. I did the dishes and Mom put on another pot of coffee while telling me how much pain she was in, her arthritis, her hip —she was falling apart.

I soon discovered that the most demanding part of the home hospice was Gene’s appetite. Over the next week we went out three or four times a day to find whatever thing he craved. The bell would ring and Michael would go running. “My dad wants a steak dinner!” We’d jump into the car to go pick up a steak, then sushi, then burritos.

Mom was paying for these elaborate requests with envelopes of cash she’d saved over the years, each one labeled with a particular purpose. Every time she pulled out a new one from the back of a drawer, my heart sank: forty dollars for Michael’s birthday, a hundred dollars for a plumbing emergency, a hundred for yard work—all gone.

As the morphine doses got larger and Michael more sleep-deprived, nights and meals and dreams collapsed into hallucinations. Gene would wake up, feel hungry, and ring his bell. Michael would help him into the kitchen and cook whatever Gene instructed. I’d hear all about it in the morning. Clam chowder from a can with packet noodles. Chicken soup with pork gyoza and taquitos. Michael told me that sometimes he’d drift off in the middle of cooking, laying his double-hooded head on the kitchen counter.

I slipped by the Blue Room one morning, sheepishly hoping I could just make a coffee and bring my book out into the backyard. “The English Muffin!” Gene called out. “I want an English pot roast. Can you do that?”

I returned to the doorway. PooPoo, who was more or less living on Gene’s chest by this point, greeted me with a growl.

“Yes!” I said. “I think I can.”

Waiting for the coffee to brew, I googled English pot roast. It seemed to be something to do with potatoes and meat, a stew. I couldn’t find Michael anywhere.

“Gene …” I said, eventually going back into his room. “What do you mean by English pot roast?”

“I mean Henry VIII creamy banquet pot roast. Pig’s blood! Potatoes! Lots of meat. Don’t forget the meat!”

I called for Michael all over the house, in the front yard, the backyard, down by the shed. Finally his voice came down from the sky.

“I’m up here!” he said. I couldn’t see him, but some branches moved at the very top of the thirty-foot redwood.

“He wants me to make a medieval pot roast,” I told Michael when he came down.

“He’ll go back to sleep. I need to give him some more morphine now anyway. He’ll forget all about it.”

Michael was right. While PooPoo barked and tore at his fingers, he fed his father the liquid morphine, and Gene fell back to sleep. Michael took a nap. An hour later the little bell rang again.

“Blueberry pancakes!” I heard. “Can she do blueberry pancakes?”

I found a mix for blueberry muffins in the cupboard. It was the middle of the day by the time they were done. One came out with a funny face. Two freeze-dried blueberries for wonky eyes and a crease below them like a sideways smile. I thought it looked a bit like Michael. I showed his mother and she agreed. Excited, we woke Michael up with the muffin doppelgänger on a plate.

Hold it up to your face, we told him. Do your wonky eyes. Smile sideways a bit. See?

Mom brought a muffin cut up in four with a pile of butter to Gene on a little plate. He put the whole lump of butter on one quarter, had a bite, and put the plate down on his lap, exhausted. “Do you like your muffin, Dad?” Michael said. Gene didn’t respond. I felt that in some great way I had failed.

***

Michael’s sister, Bonnie, lived in the next town over. She had a two-year-old girl, Sofia, and was heavily pregnant with her second. She’d bring a meal or some shopping over every few days and spend a few hours with her dad. When she and the little girl spilled in through the front door, the whole house seemed to calm.

One afternoon, Gene and Bonnie were stretched out on the sofa, the patio doors letting in a warm breeze. Sofia was running around, looking for the cats. Mom was out in the hammock. I was sitting next to Michael on the piano bench. He started playing a peaceful, sweet song. I asked Bonnie what Sofia’s birth had been like. She said it had been an amazing experience. She said she went full wild woman. At the moment of the birth, she’d been on all fours and felt her whole heart open wide to God. There was no pain, no body, no one else, just her baby and God. Gene said that was the way he felt about death. When the moment came, he was going to go into it with arms open to God. He held his arms out wide as he said it.

Later, Bonnie’s husband, Paul, came over. They got out some guitars from the garage, brought them into the Blue Room, and sang songs around Gene’s bed. Nineties folk—The Moldy Peaches, Bright Eyes—and then an amazing rendition of “O Holy Night,” Paul on the harmonica, Michael on the guitar, and Bonnie singing. I sat on the mattress and watched them. I wanted them to keep playing—no more talking, talking, talking. “O night divine, o night …”

At the end of the song, Mom came in. She said it was late, Dad was tired, she was tired, we were all tiring him out. Michael said, “Wow Mom, you even managed to ruin this.” Bonnie snapped at Michael, “Don’t talk to her like that.” Michael said, “Yeah, yeah, it’s all my fault.” Bonnie’s husband asked no one in particular if they’d noticed that the moon’s face had changed. “They’ve done something to the moon’s face,” he said. “I swear …”

“He’s tired,” Mom said, turning to Gene. “Are you tired, sweetie? Tell them you’re tired. No one believes me. Someone’s gotta look after him. He needs his rest. Tell them for once. I know how tired you are. He’ll never say it himself …”

“All right, Mom. I’m tired.”

I followed Michael out to the backyard with a beer and a cigarette and found him up in the redwood again. I coaxed him down with my offerings and convinced him not to climb all the way up the tree in the dark.

***

Gene’s body was shutting down. His legs and arms were swelling and leaking fluid. He had to carry paper towels around with him to mop up the mess, but he never complained. We took turns massaging his legs to ease the pain. When it was my turn, I made a bit of conversation, asked him about his life. He didn’t want to go into any of that. He just smiled and told me to massage with all the strength my skin and bones could muster.

Amid all this, Michael wanted to have sex whenever he had a minute free. When his dad was sleeping he’d usher me into the Green Room or drive us out to the back-road fields and pull over on the side of the road. At night, with the hills behind us, the hum of cars in the distance, a light breeze through the grass, it was kind of spectacular. But I was never in the mood. So often we would go all the way out there for me to freeze over. “You’re removed,” he told me. “Checked out. A sandbag.”

“Well, sorry,” I said. “But I massaged your dying dad’s legs earlier. I’ve come all the way here. I’m doing what I can do. Right now all I can be is a sandbag.”

“I’m exhausted and I need love.”

“We just had sex.”

“Oh yeah. ‘We just did this, we just did that. I gave you a blowjob last week …’ ”

“I know you’re sad but you’re being a dick. How can you not see that?”

“I don’t want to talk.”

“You were the one who started the conversation. I was just lying here.”

“Exactly.”

***

The days went on and Gene held on. One evening I noticed a slice of a moon through the kitchen window and realized it had been two weeks since I’d arrived. Despite the pain, Gene still wanted to move around, take a stroll with his walker, barbecue pork, play guitar on the patio with his son. “This is not how normal hospice patients behave,” Mom said. We were standing in the kitchen, looking at family pictures. In many of them the whole family and some friends were sitting around jamming, having a good time. Not that long ago—five years, maybe.

“Most people just lie in bed. But my husband—he’s on his feet demanding fine dining! I don’t want to complain, but it makes me think—miracles can happen. And if he does get better, things would have to change around here. There’s no money. We can’t live like this. Steak-dinner takeout! We’d lose the house.”

I nodded and made to say something, but she carried on.

“Sometimes I think I might be an alien,” she said. “I’m not like other people. Like lying—people lie so easily but I can never lie. Neither can Michael. We’re both like that. I can see how hard it is for him in the world. We just don’t make sense here! He needs to get a job, get a car. Get going with his life. You’re so good for him. He listens to you. I always told him, If you wanna just do what you want, then find a groupie. You’re no groupie. You’re like an angel sent here. I mean it. I prayed to God for you and you came. But you’ve got your life ahead of you.”

Michael must have been listening because he ran out of the Blue Room at that point.

He took my hand and peeled me away. “We’re going on a walk now, Mom. She doesn’t wanna talk anymore.”

“See,” Mom said. “He’ll do anything for you.”

***

Gene was still ringing his bell on his sixty-fifth birthday, November 16, a milestone that had seemed unthinkable a month before. We arranged a small party for his family and a few of his music buddies. Michael spent the morning setting up the backyard with microphones and guitars. He even put a TV and VCR on a cart on wheels to play home videos. We drove out to the Mexican supermarket and bought carnitas and a case of mini Corona bottles. On the way out he impulse-bought a ceramic Day of the Dead guitar to give his dad. When the friends arrived at the house, Mom took the opportunity to go have some time alone and run errands at Vons and CVS.

The men barbecued pork, and I made pico de gallo, according to Bonnie’s instructions. It was a hit. The men in their cowboy getups were shocked that the English girl had prepared it. The sun was shining, people were sitting out, eating the barbecue. Michael tried his best to get people to play music but it wasn’t happening. How do you celebrate the birthday of a dying man? I couldn’t figure out what to do with myself. At one point, Michael gave his dad the ceramic guitar wrapped up in Christmas wrapping paper. “Día de los Muertos,” said his dad. He held the guitar in his palms, disgusted.

The men got it together and started playing “The Cowboy Who Started the Fight.” Gene watched on in his wheelchair. He closed his eyes as they sang “screamed through the veins of the street.” They sang a few more songs. Michael and I took a break to catch the sun go down over a field of tomato vines. In the ten minutes that we were out, Gene stood up with a guitar to play a song with them. He was just sitting back down as we came in the door. Soon after, the guys all left.

“Man plans, God laughs,” Michael said.

Mom was gone for most of the day. She returned from her errands with a gift for Michael. She was so excited about it, she wanted to give it to him straight away. Out of a green and white paper bag, Michael pulled a fluffy llama with wonky eyes. He squeezed it and the llama squeaked.

“It’s a dog toy,” he said, sounding like his father when he held the Day of the Dead guitar. Mom laughed and laughed. She said it reminded her of Michael and the blueberry muffin. I laughed too. Michael grimaced.

“Oh no … I think he’s angry,” Mom said.

“Here,” I told Michael. “Don’t be angry. Squeeze your dog toy.”

He took the llama in both hands, crossed his eyes, stuck his tongue out, and let it rip.

***

November 18 was the eighth anniversary of my own father’s death. I woke up feeling sad and drained. At this point, I thought to myself, Gene needed to die or someone else would. I spent the morning swinging in the hammock by the redwood at the bottom of the garden, hiding from everyone. I heard Michael and Mom calling for me from the house. Gene wanted a massage, they said. His legs were hurting. I couldn’t face it. Michael called my phone. I ignored it.

When I went back inside, the two of them were maneuvering Gene into the living room. Michael almost dropped him and he fell back on the sofa with a cry of pain. “You’re not helping!” Mom screamed at Michael.

“Mom. I am midhelping. You’re brain-dead from your painkillers.”

“Enough!” Gene’s voice boomed from the sofa, where he was half-collapsed, falling off the side of it. “Stop it! Both of you!”

Mom and Michael stopped, ashamed.

“Now, son.” Gene took in a quiet, pained breath. “Can you help me off this damn sofa and take me back to bed?” Michael pulled him up by the armpits.

That night Gene could only manage a spoonful of canned tomato bisque.

“I think he’s going to die today. The same day as your dad. If our dads die on the same day that’s God talking. We’ll have to get married.”

Later, Michael slept next to me in the Green Room while his mom was with Gene. I dozed while I listened to Mom talk to Gene, telling him about their life together. “We’re good people,” she told him. “Weird people.” She could have been saying anything really, the hum was so soothing. “There’s no one around here like us.” It kept sending me back to sleep.

I woke up to Gene’s voice crying out: “Help! I can’t breathe!” I pushed Michael and he bolted into the Blue Room. Mom woke up too. “I’m coming!” she called out.

I stayed in bed, listening. They were arguing about how much morphine to give Gene. Mom said Michael was giving him too much. Michael said it wasn’t enough. She ran to get the phone to call the nurse. Gene was desperately trying to get words out. He couldn’t breathe. And then a desperate gargling, drowning on thin air. Michael was saying, “It’s okay Dad. I’m right here. I’m right here,” all through the gargling until Gene was no longer making any sound.

When I walked in, Gene’s skin had already yellowed. I realized I’d seen three dead bodies now. My dad, my granddad, and Gene. They all looked the same, laid out on a hospital bed. It was five minutes to midnight. An hour later a nurse came. Another hour, and a man and a woman arrived from the mortuary. At the door, their long, gray, thinning hair obscuring half their faces, they told me they were here for the body. Never have I seen more ghoulish-looking people. They wore baggy suits with sleeves that came down over their hands, and round, shiny shoes that also seemed a few sizes too big. They moved slowly. “Was he in the military?” they asked. “No,” we said. “He was not in the military.”

“Okay, thank you.” They put a sheet over Gene’s body and wheeled him through the house, out the front door. Mom followed him out, holding PooPoo. She wanted to show the dog that Dad was leaving. Dad was being wheeled onto the van.

“See, it’s okay, PooPoo. There he goes. They’re wheeling him in now. He’s going …”

Michael didn’t want to watch his dad go into the back of a van. I found him in the backyard with a tall glass of vodka, smoking a cigarette. He joked that he’d been praying to his dad as he was dying. “Come on, five more minutes. If you make it five more minutes I won’t have to marry her.” Then he said that he was plotting to steal morphine to kill the dog.

All the lights were on. It was three in the morning. Michael pulled out a crate of home videos and Mom and I told him to put them away. I made us some tea. We had some more vodka. Mom went to bed and I put Michael in the shower. I washed his hair and cried, but he was like a stone. I could tell he was still obsessing about killing PooPoo. After the shower, I put him in a clean T-shirt and underwear, tucked him in to bed, and held him tight until he fell asleep.

I woke up in the morning to Michael sleeping soundly next to me. He looked so at peace I didn’t want to wake him up. It made me cry. His eyes opened. “Dad?” he said. I couldn’t tell if he was joking. Soon after, we heard Mom howling. Long, slow howls. One of the saddest, strangest noises I’ve ever heard. “My life!” she called out between the howls. “My life!” It was almost like singing.

After that first day Mom said she needed to mourn alone. We needed to leave so she could scream and cry and talk to God. We went to Bonnie’s for a night but then Bonnie said she was too sad and stressed to have us there, with the baby coming soon. A little desperate, we decided to go camping. For the next week we drove between beaches along the central coast, walked, wrote, drank beer. Michael wrote a list of plans for the future, plans that involved him getting paid to travel, recording his album, singing at a body of water every day, building the 24-7 radio live-stream, moving every three months. He was going to give this list to his family, to prove to them that he had a plan. “You two need to move on with your own life now,” Mom had told me before we left. I couldn’t understand how his family could abandon him at a time like this. I’d had to remind her that Michael had come home to look after Gene, that we’d been living and working in Chicago. At the same time, I got what she was saying and why they didn’t want him hanging around. Michael was a liability, and now he was my liability.

***

Gene didn’t have a funeral. They were going to take his ashes out to the ocean in the spring. After the week of camping, Mom got lonely and wanted Michael back again. I decided to leave, to stay with a friend in Brooklyn for a while. I found a flight from San Francisco and booked a train from San Luis Obispo up the coast. Before I left, I found Michael a job doing yard work for a neighbor. He would save some money and leave in January. We said we might travel around. I tried to believe it could happen but I knew that it would not.

As we left for the train station, a commode arrived for Gene, more than a month late. Mom couldn’t bear to look at it, so we said we’d give it to Goodwill on the way to the station. She gave us a trash bag of old blankets to donate, too. I said a tearful goodbye to Mom and she gave me an envelope with a hundred-dollar bill in it. She thanked me for all the help and told me to get something nice for myself.

“Michael doesn’t want you to go,” she said.

I hugged her again and got in the car. “I never say goodbye,” she said. “I only say see you later.”

We drove up to the back of Goodwill and waved down a man who seemed to be accepting donations. “Is that a commode?” he asked.

“Yep. My dad just died. He never used it.”

He shook his head and tutted. “Nah. We can’t take that. That’s nasty.”

“How about these blankets?” Michael said, pointing to the trash bag.

“This bag? Those blankets?” The man took a quick sideways look. “Nah, we can’t take that either. That’s nasty, too.”

We were in a silly mood, driving to San Luis Obispo with the commode rattling in the back. It was a fresh December day. You could feel a change in the air. We stopped off at Ben Franklin’s Deli and I ordered three Californian sandwiches from the cashier, one for me, one for Michael, and one for him to bring home to his mom.

“My dad just passed away and my girlfriend is leaving for New York!” Michael announced out of nowhere.

There was still some time before the train. At the station we ran up over the footbridge to get a good view of the tracks and the hills. I took a few pictures of Michael. He took a few of me. The train came, we said goodbye, and I found a spot with a table at the back of the second-floor observation car, the same booth we’d sat in after that first trip. My bags stowed away, I looked down and saw Michael on the platform below, dancing to get my attention. He was trying to say something, but I couldn’t understand him. He mimed and danced around a bit more. Got on his knees. Drew a picture of a house with his finger in the air.

A man sitting a few seats ahead of me watched the scene in awe. All of a sudden he began narrating it to the rest of the car.

“Marry me,” the man said. “We’ll have a house by the sea.”

Michael mimed writing in a notebook, then swimming, then playing guitar.

“You can write poetry. I’ll swim. Play music,” said the man.

By this time everyone in the observation car was watching. The narrator turned to me.

“Does he have a phone number? I want to tell him something.”

“He doesn’t have a phone,” I said. “But you can leave a message on his mother’s answering machine.”

So the man dialed Mom’s number, and Michael, feeding off the audience, mimed a phone in response. I thought of Mom at home alone, rattled by the phone ringing. The man spoke to Michael through the glass and Michael nodded along, though he definitely couldn’t hear. Neither of them broke eye contact. The man said he was a preacher. He’d married about a hundred couples by now. Each time it had been uniquely special. “Why wait?” he told the future Michael, who would be listening to his mother’s answering machine if he ever got around to it. The preacher ended his message with his number, saying to call him if we wanted to get married.

The train started moving and Michael ran along the platform. I waved until I could no longer see him. Soon I was coasting inland. A rush of green-gold on either side. Pesticide farmland, trees, bushes thick with leaves, sunlight gracing the tip of everything. I stared out the window the whole journey. No sign of December anywhere, no sign of time passing. So much talk of marriage in God’s country. No doubt He had it all planned out for me.

[cyarskj52]

Nas "Ether" (2001)

Target: Jay Z

Producer: Ron Browz

Album: Stillmatic

Label: Ill Will/Columbia

Best Line: "Eminem murdered you on your own shit"

After Jay Z dropped "Takeover," a sleeping giant was awoken in Nas, giving God's Son the kick in the ass he needed to get his career back on track. Where "Takeover" was prepared like a finely written essay, "Ether" was more like a lunchroom taunt.

After the classic "Fuck Jay-Z" vocal sample, a far more vile Nas went in, calling Jay Z a camel, accusing "Gay Z" of being a Nas stan, and questioning Hov on his overuse of recycled B.I.G. lyrics. So vicious was the attack that "ether" has now become a verb in the hip-hop lexicon, and the song was arguably the launching pad Nas used to revive his at-the-time waning influence.

3. Jay Z "Takeover" (2001)

Target: Prodigy, Nas

Producer: Kanye West

Album: The Blueprint

Label: Roc-A-Fella/Def Jam

Best Line: "Four albums in 10 years nigga? I could divide/That's one every, let's say, two/Two of them shits was doo/One was naahhh, the other was Illmatic/That's a one-hot-album-every-10-year average"

Jay Z and Nas had a longstanding rivalry and were engaged in a silent power struggle for years, but the shots remained (somewhat) subliminal until Jay Z called out Nas on stage at Hot 97's Summer Jam in 2001: "Ask Nas he don't want it with Hov." Nas subsequently took the bait and dissed Jay on his "Stillmatic" freestyle, prompting Jay to unleash the classic "Takeover."

Jay's response was crafted more like an essay than an actual battle rap, with Hov introducing the argument, analyzing the data, raising counter-arguments, and then concluding. Prodigy of Mobb Deep was dissed on the second verse, but this was dramatically overshadowed by Jay's beef with Nas. Hov's shots at P focused on his small stature, smaller record sales, and the infamous "ballerina" pic he flashed on the screen at Summer Jam 2001.

The Nas portion was far more brutal, attacking Nas' descent from hip-hop's top MC list to a guy who was now being out-rapped on posse cuts by his bodyguard. Jay went on to clown Nas' catalog, and on the final line alluded to sexing Nas' baby-mother, Carmen Bryan. Many speculated Nas' career would be finished after "Takeover," and some believe Prodigy was never able to recover.

2. 2Pac "Hit Em Up" (1996)

Target: Mobb Deep, Puffy, Junior M.A.F.I.A., Lil Kim, The Notorious B.I.G., Chino XL

Producer: Johnny J

Album: How Do U Want It [Single]

Label: Death Row/Interscope

Best Line: "That's why I fucked your bitch, you fat motherfucker"

Reworking the beat of the opponent's popular song? Check. Claiming relations with the opponent's baby-mama? Check. Poking fun at the opponent's physique and labeling him a biter? Check. Video parody? Check. Letting your little homies get in on the action? Check. On paper, 2Pac perfected and personified the diss song formula on "Hit Em Up," incorporating all of the elements those before him used to become victorious against their adversaries.

However, Pac kicked his up a few notches, taking this from a war of words to a war of coasts that eventually divided an entire hip-hop nation. What began as a beef between two rappers (Biggie and 2Pac) eventually turned into a battle between the West Coast-based Death Row Records and the East's Bad Boy Records, who were the top two labels in hip-hop at the time. This sent the media into a frenzy, who dubbed it the East Coast vs. West Coast war, which quickly became the most publicized and sensationalized hip-hop beef of all time.

In the wake of "Hit Em Up," two of hip-hop's greatest talents (B.I.G. and 2Pac) would be killed (both murders remain unsolved), changing the face of hip-hop—and beef—forever. This battle will forever be a reminder that, unless kept on wax, rap beef can quickly become real beef with dire consequences.

1.

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[sonatine]

can’t watch this new version of west side story without thinking POISON BOOTS!!!!! every two seconds

[hozierandco]

Henry Cavill x Reader / Lessons / SMUT

A/N: Henry has to learn how to play golf for a film but his teacher may teach him a bit more than golf. In which Henry is a clumsy cinnamon roll. Inuendos intended, sorry not sorry. SMUT: oral sex (female receiving), vaginal sex, teasing, cursing, cumshot. Read at your own risk.

For the sake of a film in which he would play an aristocrat, Henry had to know how to play golf. He had agreed to it though he never had one single piece of knowledge on the matter.

Him who had done life-endangering stunts was not going to abandon for golf. He had three weeks before the beginning of the set and had decided to spend his holidays at a golf resort off in Scotland where he was determined to master the skills to that sport.

Y/N had been working at the Baurheid Club for the past five summers. The rest of the year, she lived in Glasgow but since her uncle was the club's manager and since she knew all about golf, she kept on working there.

The season was about to start and she was in charge of giving private classes for top-notch clients. Her rock solid privacy was celebrated by all and she was the perfect fit to deal with bankers and members of the idle class. An actor was about to complete the list.

"Y/N, here's the list of your clients for the next week"

Three names as each client required all attention. Quality over quantity was the motto of the club on that regard. The second one rang a bell to Y/N: Henry Cavill.

"Why does that name sound familiar? We've already have him, perhaps?" Y/N asked to Olivia who was welcoming the clients in the resort and who happened to be a close friend to Y/N.

"He's an actor, you fool" she replied in a moment of rest from the wave of clients "A handsome one too, lucky you!"

Instead of rejoicing along with Olivia, Y/N just hoped he was not the megalomaniac kind and that he wouldn't be a nightmare to work with. She went on with her day, many things had to be fixed before her first classes the next day.

Henry arrived by the entrance desk where Olivia acknowledged him and welcomed her just like any other client, in spite of her shouting internally. He had packed the bare minimum so his installment was brief.

The next day, it was almost noon when he woke up so he took himself out to the cafeteria.

Y/N had finished her first class of the day with a young member of the Dutch royal family and was gaining back the main accomodatio, up to the staff's lunch room. She had not changed clothes as she was not to meet any client.

Or so she thought.

"Oh, come on now!" Y/N heard someone grunting in her back as she was about to open the door to the place where she had left her food. She turned around only to see a frustrated Henry Cavill.

"May I help you, sir?" Y/N asked.

"Yes, please!" Henry jumped on the occasion "I'm looking for the lunch room but I always end up in this corridor... It's a bloody labyrinth there", he added holding back a nervous laugh.

Henry came back from his frustration as his misery was coming to an end with Y/N's arrival and that's on his way back that he noticed just how splendid Y/N was.

"Please, let me be your guide"

"Thank you very much. By the way, I'm Henry"

"And I'm Y/N", she responded making the connection with the photograph of Henry Olivia had shown her on her phone.

Along their journey to the lunch room, the two of them made some small talk while Y/N had to keep her composure. Olivia was right, he was bloody handsome. Even more so that on any photograph. And besides, he was visibly not a douche but an angel, making her feel at ease early on in their conversation.

As they arrived by the cafeteria filled with expensive furniture, the actor accompanied his "thank yous" with an offer: "I'm all alone at the resort, I could use some company for the lunch"

It was tempting if it wasn't for the fact that Y/N and the whole staff wasn't allowed to eat with the clients.

"Oh I see..." Henry said as Y/N explained the situation "But what if it's the client's decision. Isn't the customer always right?" he completed, glad he had found this trick to make her stay.

"Well, I suppose that it's the rule, yeah..." Y/N had been upset to decline the offer but she figured that indeed, she could stay a little while. Besides, the cafeteria was big enough for her not to be seen by anyone.

"It's a yes, then?"

"Yes, it is"

"So, what do you do here anyway?" Henry asked her as he came back from the buffet.

"I'm a golf instructor"

"Well, in that case, I'll probably see you on the green"

"About that, I should probably tell you that I'm the one who's gonna take care of your lessons for as long as you stay"

"I cannot wait. Though I should apologise in advance"

Y/N quizzed him by fixing his eyes. Shit, those eyes... Don't stare, don't stare, Y/N thought.

"I'm probably the worst golf player in Britain"

***

"You want to hold it like that" Y/N informed the way to seize the putter as she placed herself behind the impressive stature she had in front of her.

She could not believe that she was giving in the cliché of being glued to get someone to play golf.

Henry had not exaggerated, he indeed was pretty bad. In fact, he lacked of coordination and Y/N had to constantly remind him of how he was supposed to swing his body.

"May I?"

"Yes!" Henry was relieved to hear that he would get more help from her as she suggested than she could grab his arms to show the move.

She took his arms by the elbows. Henry being in a polo, she could feel all of his muscles under her touch.

"There, that's right! You've got the move. Now try to hit the ball"

And Henry executed himself but failed to even graze it. He snickered and then gave in a frank laughter that Y/N echoed.

"Right, you're gonna need to spend more time with me, Mr. Cavill"

"It's all I'm dreaming of. Dinner with me tonight in the garden?"

The class ended and for Y/N, it meant the beginning of her third and last class of the day.

As it was only 4 pm, Henry joined the games room where he had a view on the green where Y/N was helping an old lady to practice.

Of course, Y/N was too busy to notice him but it didn't stop him to smile like a child at her.

He was admiring her grace and her air of benevolence when a man came to him "She's a beauty, isn't she?"

Henry nodded at the stranger who in turns carried on "It must run in the family"

As Henry took his eyes oof of Y/N to see whom he was talking to, the stranger introduced himself "I'm Max, the club's manager. Y/N's uncle"

"Oh! How do you do? I'm Henry"

Max nodded, knowing very well who his select guest was.

"Is she a great teacher to you?"

"For sure. It's just that I'm a terrible pupil"

Max laughed along with Henry "Ah, son, she'll make a great player out of you"

The dinner happened. Henry had changed into another polo paired with camel chinos.

Y/N too had changed into a strapless floral dress with brown sandals. She greeted Henry as she sat down in the grass on which Henry had displayed a basket of fruits.

They started drinking and talking as the moon rose in the sky.

"I've talked with your uncle this afternoon"

"Oh have you? He's quite something, isn't he?"

"That he is. According to him, you're the greatest teacher out there"

"And you doubt it?"

"I'll try to be as good as a lamb for you"

After dinner, Y/N suggested that they take a walk around the resort. Any way to make the night last longer was worth seizing.

Everything was calm. No one around. Under their feet, the grass was slightly wet as dew had started forming and tinting their shoes.

Y/N took off her shoes, soon followed by Henry who had not done something as spontaneous as throwing a picnic in a very long time.

With their shoes in their hands, they carried on walking on the grass as crickets were going for a symphony and more and more windows got dark afar.

"It's been ages since I hadn't spent a lovely night like that" Henry sighed with pleasure "but that being said, I should hit my bed if I want to be at the top of my performance for my strict instructor"

The two of them had gotten very close to one another "If I stay now, I'm staying the whole night" Henry commented as Y/N's lips were dangerously close to his.

"I would let you" Y/N replied.

***

Henry and Y/N had met regularly apart from the times set for the classes over the last two weeks and if Henry had barely gotten better, the two of them had grown fond of the other. They had kissed on the fourth night, but both of them were not craving for more. Henry did not wish to rush things, nor did Y/N though the tension became unbearable.

"Do you think your uncle would kick you out if you spent the night at my room tonight?" Henry ventured as the class was over, wishing that he could kiss her right there, on the green.

"I wouldn't mind being kicked out if it meant spending the night with you" Y/N answered as she put back the clubs in the trolley.

After they finished eating at their favourite spot, Henry seized Y/N's hand and together they traveld to his room.

As Henry opened the door, he preceded Y/N,cupping her face with his hands to make her follow him in the suite.

He shut the door behind her and took her in his arms, only letting go on her after having carefully laid her on the bed.

"It is my turn to teach you a lesson, baby", he purred in her ear as he had let his lips wander from her legs to her face.

He placed his body over Y/N's but suddenly he got repentant and cursed "Fuck, I came here with nothing..."

Of course, Henry had no plans of making love to his instructor when he had booked holidays at the resort and found himself caught off guard, without protection for the night.

"In my purse" Y/N told him where to look.

"You might just be the most prepared teacher ever"

"Just grab it" Y/N begged him as he was going for encores, giving another sequel of kisses to her skin.

Henry ripped the scabbard and took his apparel out of his trousers, dressing it for the occasion.

Gracious God! There was lot to look at...

Fully erect, Henry came back in bed where Y/N was trying her best not to stare at the length.

"You sure about this?" Henry inquired as he aligned himself.

"Never been more sure in my whole life"

Henry then slid his member, inch by inch to be sure that Y/N was coping with what she was given.

He was just half through when it began to hurt.

"It's alright, doll!" Henry consoled her "I'm sorry, I'll go slow, I promise"

Henry found his way out as he had an idea to ease the process. Y/N still under him, he got down on her and made a feast of the flesh flashing before his eyes.

There was no doubt: he was much better at this than with golf.

As Y/N looked down at the face that had found shelter between her legs, she noticed just how dedicate he was. He was giving it all the attention required.

His eyes were glistening by the feeble light above their head.

Henry's cock was beating a rhythm of its own, pleased at it was that Henry was able to make Y/N moan with just his tongue and fingers.

The resort was known for "its quiet nights" and "tranquil setting" but tonight, Henry was eager to go off the rails.

It did have the expected effect on Y/N since her lair had gotten damp. Henry let her come back from the mountain she had climbed before he dived inside.

This time around, the whole length got in no sooner said than done.

"You're just so gorgeous!" Henry articulated with difficulty as he was carrying his moves, putting more energy by every second that went by.

Y/N's fingers borrowed the path drawn by his torso which was dripping with sweat "You're one very good student. And a very hot one too"

Henry's heart was pounding in his chest as he lifted Y/N's legs to put them by each side of his spine. That way, he reached a new spot with the tip of his penis which made Y/N pant with his name on her lips.

"Henry!" she cried her lungs out through the dark of the night. The tranquil nights long gone.

"Come for me, doll!"

She didn't have to hear twice as she was unleashing her falls.

But Henry was insatiable. Though teased twice by the sight of Y/N coming for him, his cock was still showing no sign of weakness.

He was willing to let go of her lover to give her some rest while he would take care of himself but Y/N stopped him as he was about to take off the condom.

"I wouldn't mind a third lesson" she told him "Let's change the angle. Show me how your swing's going. As for your stamina, Mr. Cavill, it got much better"

Y/N got on all fours, spreading her legs for Henry to come up behind her. As he entered the well, Y/N stretched herself so that she in turn allowed more of Hnery to get in and out.

Henry was admiring the view as he held Y/N by her hips, pounding her.

In and out, fast at first, the sounds of his cock hitting the bottom of her cunt.

Then Henry who got tired of the the action - and who was not going to hold it back for very much longer as Y/N's moans were rushing his climax - got slow, savouring every second he had ahead of him before he would come too.

Sensing that Y/N was close to get her third orgasm as she got tight around his cock, he decided for her to come to do so as well, and hoped that it would arrive soon.

She did come, shouting and laughing as she came back.

"I don't want you to come in that. I want to see you coming for me, Henry"

Henry then quickly removed the piece of latex which was soiled with pre-cum. The sole fact of taking it off almost made him come.

Henry kneeled on the bed by the level of Y/N who was laying down and emptied himself on her stomach.

"I cannot wait for our next class" Henry said in a sigh as he rested his limbs by Y/N.

[right-brain-of-froggy2]

Christmas In July- Chapter 3

Another lighthearted snippet of the Tracy’s Christmas for y’all! This one is a perfection reflection of my own experience of siblings giving me everything to wrap, including my own presents! And no, Froggy One is not excluded from that list lol

Without further ado: Little Saint Nick!

AO3 link here

John sits surrounded by half wrapped presents and scraps of mis-sized wrapping paper. The gingerbread men dancing on the paper mock him with their smiles. John rips a piece of tape stuck to the bottom of his sock.

Christmas is only a night away and the villa is dead quiet. EOS is handling the sparse missions as John take his required dirt-time. Kayo and Gordon are off the rota as well, leaving the remaining three spread out across the globe. Kayo’s doing some maintenance on Shadow but she’s as horrible as John is when it comes to wrapping presents. Her creative touch is not to be trusted.

And John really doesn’t feel like disturbing Gordon just for this.

The only noise is the sound of John’s frustrated huffing. (Not that John would ever admit to being bested by wrapping paper). He doesn’t want to count how many paper cuts litter his fingers. All he knows is that there’s enough for his hands to pulse with a stinging ache.

John kicks out the roll of wrapping paper and promptly swears as it unravels. He’s a fully grown man with a doctoral degree! He’s lived in peace on his own for years with the most advanced technology! He wrote textbooks for NASA! He’s John Glenn freaking Tracy! He should be able to figure out how to work the wrapping paper and scissors and tape and ribbons in some way that looks decently respectable!

But no.

John glares at the giant box. It glares back at him.

It’s the siblings’ tradition to get everyone a few small gifts, and then draw a name to get that person a more expensive present. Grandma then filled in to spoil her grandchildren to her heart’s content. This year, John had to get something for Alan. Out of everyone, the little astronaut is honestly the easiest to buy for.

Being the avid gamer he is, Alan had been wanting a new gaming chair that John had picked out last month. While the youngest normally played holo games, he enjoyed immersive console games every once in a while. The chair had built in keypads and speakers which John’s hoping are the right style.

The chair remains in a perfectly rectangle box and John still can’t manage to wrap it. But it can’t go unnoticed that he tried! Tried and failed miserably.

John lays his face in the carpet and let out a half-strangled moan. He has to get this wrapped before the stress does him in. Then he’ll be past the point of no return and stressed the rest of the holiday season. The party is upcoming tonight when One and Two arrive home. EOS set the ETA at seven; John has nothing to show for his attempts at wrapping since early this morning.

It’s nearing five thirty. John makes up his mind.

It’s time to go see Gordon.

John manages to get the box out in the hall and into the villa elevator with nothing but elbow grease and a prayer. The tape, ribbons, and scissors are spread between his chino pockets while the tube of paper sticks out awkwardly from under his elbow. Getting it into the infirmary is another matter altogether. By the time he’s gotten the box into the medbay, Gordon’s sitting up and judging the sweat dripping down John’s back hard.

“You having some trouble there, Johnny Boy?”

“Just fix it,” John grits out. He doesn’t correct Gordon because, well, he’s the one asking for a favor here.

Gordon laughs and scoots forward until his legs dangle off the edge of the bed. He chucks a pillow down and motions for John to help him get on the floor. He holds the arm not tangled up with IV antibiotics to John. “Give me the paper.”

“Here.”

“…really John? Gingerbread men?”

“Alan picked it out.” The astronaut looks to the other wrapping papers it is not a hard game of guessing which wrapping paper is form who, courtesy of Alan. “You can’t tell anyone,” John warns. Gordon gives him a look of utter shock.

“Why would I ever do that, brother mine?”

“Because you’re Gordon.”

“I’m also the only one in this godforsaken family that knows how to wrap presents.” Gordon nods his head to a stack of various wrapping papers, two pairs of scissors, a wide array of nametags, and bows on the medicine counter. John doesn’t know how he missed that upon entry. “You’re the last one. I’ve had plenty o’ visitors this holiday season. Maybe I should start charging people for my services.”

“You really want me to pay you?” John pulls out his wallet and his credit card. He waves it until Gordon slaps it away. “I’ll DD it to your account. I’m sure a rich boy like you must be hurting for money.”

“Ass,” Gordon says as he sticks out his tongue. “Just keep me company? might get too bored to wrap properly if you’re not here to keep me entertained,” Gordon pokes. John rolls his eyes but drops to the floor anyways. He quickly stands back up.

“Wait! I have all the others you need to wrap!”

Gordon unravels the paper and stares at the uneven hack marks along the edge as John races up the villa to get his load of smaller presents. “You’re so lucky mine are already wrapped.”

When John gets back, it’s with two boxes full of little presents for everyone. “I tried at least,” John says. “Last year I made you do it all without even trying.”

“Doing that is better than this!” Gordon answers without looking up. He snips off the end of the wrapping paper to start with an even edge. “You gave me two weeks last year! Not an hour!”

The chair is wrapped in what John can only assume is record time. The edges of the box are crisp and no wrinkles can be seen. Gordon’s handiwork is impressive considering the infection he’s getting over and being one fully functional arm short with the IV line. John passes the ribbon to Gordon in hopes that Alan’s present will get some extra decorations.

And the aquanaut doesn’t disappoint. Gordon runs the edge of the ribbon along the scissors blade to achieve the perfect curl. It’s a big box and takes most of the wheel of ribbon, but Gordon manages to make it look picturesque. He moves onto the presents for all the brothers, wrapping them with what’s left of the gingerbread paper before moving onto the mismatched set left in his medbay room.

“One of these is mine, isn’t it?”

“Oh shit, yeah,” John says as he scrambles to dig through the boxes for Gordon’s present. His fish brother laughs and kicks him away.

“You really think I’m bothered? Scott’s been making me wrap my own present since high school and Alan’s joined in. I don’t like surprises that much anyways.”

John’s going to debate the issue, but Gordon moves onto digging into the first box of presents. “Who is this for?” Gordon asks as he holds up a bath bomb set and a face mask set. “Wait, Scott?”

“He’s so stressed. Literally all of the time,” John exclaimed as he starfishes back on the floor next to Gordon.

“But skincare?”

“I had EOS run some search history recon missions for me.”

“You didn’t.”

John smirks with a Cheshire grin. “It can’t hurt, right? Besides, I told her to keep everything a secret.”

“He’s going to kill you when he has to open a…” Gordon peers at the label, “leopard print aloe vera moisturizing face mask set in front of everyone.” Gordon laughs and sniffs at the bath bombs individually. While they have a plainer design than the funky face masks, each is a unique color and scent. He gives a thumbs up at his favorite scent of mulberry. They’re wrapped in mere seconds.

John shifts in his spot. “Do you want to help? I can at least manage to put bows on the tops and labeling.”

“All we have is actually ribbon. Not those sticky pre-made bows,” Gordon warns. “I’ll teach you if you want.”

Gordon sorts through the mess of paper lying about before finding the leftover rolls of silver and red ribbon from previous wrapping fiascos. John sits to the side, watching how Gordon unravels a good length before folding it over with his fingers and applying a small amount of tape to hold it in place against the top of the present. He waves John over and had him practice on a piece of discarded paper. It turns out about as well as John expects.

“Y’know? I think no one will even notice there’s no bows,” John says as he tosses the frustrating ribbon to the side.

Gordon moves on to a pair of shoes as John wallows in self-pity over the lack of ability. Opening the box, he takes out one of the wrestling shoes. “Kayo?”

“She mentioned how her favorite pair are getting worn out and she never goes down into the gym without them. EOS found that this was her normal brand and size.”

“You should have stuck with scrunchies, man. Fuel her obsession,” Gordon jokes. He throws the shoes back into the box before wrapping them.

Next up is a no-spill coffee mug. “I’m guessing Virgil?” Gordon holds up the box with the mug to the fluorescent lights as if it is a precious gem. He strokes his chin.

“You make it sound like any of the rest of us drink enough coffee to be worthy of that thing.”

“Did he really need another one though?”

“Put it on the ground.”

He follows John suggestion. Once the mug is flat on the ground, John smacks it with his hand. Gordon jumps at the sudden sound but the mug doesn’t flinch. It stands upright in the exact same spot as before.

“Sorcery…”

Gordon moves on after wrapping the mug in a new snowflake print paper. The gingerbread one only lasted so long with Alan’s gaming chair.

“What about this?”

He’s in the middle of folding an oversized sweater with a simple design on it. Gordon pets the soft material more than actually folding it. He passes it over and John gets the opportunity to show off his own skills. Not that John’s naturally talented or anything, but he folds the sweater with military accurateness. Something that Gordon never did pick up on in WASP.

“This is the ‘just wrap it and forget about it’ present.”

“Ooh!”

There’s a low rumbling as One’s silo is opened. John and Gordon share twin looks. The sweater is finished and shoved back into the box with the other wrapped presents.

“Want help getting all this off?”

“Hell yes.” Gordon holds his arm out for John to help disengage the drip. He locks the line so no more antibiotic or saline will dirty the floor, and ensures that Gordon’s pick line left in his arm is in a comfortable position. John wraps his brother’s arm in a wrap to keep the IV from jostling around or potentially getting wet.

Gordon is bouncing with Christmas cheer and the promise to get to escape the infirmary. John piles up the presents in a medical cart before following Gordon out into the chaos that is the Tracy Christmas present exchange.

[mycrofts-gunbrella]

Caring is the Greatest Advantage- Part Eight (Mycroft Holmes x Reader)

Sorry for such a long delay!! It’s my little boy’s first birthday this week so I’ve been running around making arrangements and picking up last minute presents! Hope you enjoy this little chapter. It’s only 3K words, but it is a build up ready for the next chapter which will contain smut! Not full blown smut (I don’t think Mycroft is ready for that yet!) but still smutty nonetheless!

I will separate the smutty bit enough so that you can skip it if you want, but it will be referenced later on in that chapter!

Word Count- 3062

This morning differed from the last few that you had experienced since staying at Mycroft's home, namely because Mycroft had awoken before you this time, but also because it was the first morning you had ever been awoken by long fingers prodding at your forehead. That and also because, despite last night's late events, you managed to arise at a reasonable 9am.

"Did you know there are a lot nicer ways to wake somebody up?" You questioned, opening your eyes to see Mycroft staring at you with a slight frown to his brow. He retracted his hand slightly and shifted to sit a little higher.

"You know, Sherlock as a child once woke me in a similar way. I felt small scratches on my eyebrows and woke up to see him crouched over me with a smug little grin on his face. As it turns out, he had slipped sleeping pills into my cup of tea before bed and in my slumber covered my eyebrows in toothpaste." You covered your mouth with your hand and snorted slightly. "He'd come in to see if there was anything left beneath them, which, of course, there wasn't.. claimed it was just an experiment. I'd like to laugh and be more dignified about it upon looking back, but I struggle because he was only six and already a sod."

"Okay, you've proven there are in fact worse ways to wake up." You didn't make big deals out of it, but every time Mycroft welcomed you a little more into the stories of his youth, you can't help but feel your heart warm. It may not seem like much, but coming from Mycroft, a very private man who hasn't been treated the best over the years, it meant everything. You stretched and moved your hands up to rub your eyes, flinching a little as your fingers brushed against the bit of your head above your eyebrows. "Bugger." You winced, poking again and feeling a small lump.

"I was going to warn you but you laughed at my traumatic eyebrow removal story." You groaned and recalled your memory of last night and where you believe the bruise originated from.

"I jumped into bed last night sulking a bit that you wouldn't talk to me and uh.. misjudged.." Mycroft snickered slightly from your side, you swatted his arm. "Tit. I'm blaming you. This wouldn't have happened if you didn't go all Han Solo in carbonite on me." You spoke playfully, letting him know you weren't truly peeved.

"I thought you said it was cute?"

"That was clearly a concussion talking." You stretched once more and climbed out of the bed, walking over to a mirror above a dressing table and rolling your eyes. "Might need your special government powers to clear out the cafe else Ms Woodall will think we've had a domestic." Bernice Woodall, owner of one of your favourite little cafes settled on the outskirts of St James' Park was a very.. particular lady. She could have a good laugh one moment, and start a quarrel with a customer over the amount they stir their tea the next. But, you'd have to admit, she has one hell of an all day breakfast menu; you could practically taste one of her omelettes just by thinking about it, making your stomach growl loudly.

"I would but, if I am to be very honest, she genuinely scares me a little. I think she could overthrow MI5 so I daren't even try." You stood and moved into Mycroft's bedroom, grabbing your bag of clothes and picking through a few of the pairs of your jeans Anthea had brought and scanning through the t-shirts. Your fingers brushed over the creases of the shirt that had formed from being stuffed in the bag and frowned.

"Perhaps it would be more suitable for you to pop those in one of the chest of drawers? I'm sure I have at least one drawer empty.." Myc's voice came from behind you and you fell from your crouching position, clutching your heart.

"You and your bloody spy legs, you just scared the shit out of me." You stood back up, your pile of today's clothes in one hand and the bag of the rest in the other. "Giving me a drawer in your place already? Ooh Myc you are serious." You grinned playfully, following him as he guided you to a set of drawers in the opposite corner of the room. Mycroft halted and opened his mouth to make some kind of comment but you cut him off, placing your folded clothes inside the Edwardian furniture. "Only teasing.. I'm just glad you haven't kicked me out yet. Though I don't think my own bed will ever feel as comfortable as yours. I might not want to go back now you've spoilt me, you'll just have to be blunt when you're bored of me." You winked at him and carried your outfit into the en suite bathroom to get ready. Mycroft headed over to his wardrobe to pluck out his own clothes, electing to remain somewhat casual for your trip to breakfast with a pair of navy chinos and a lighter blue button up before muttering slightly under his breath.

"And if I never am?"

In the rare parts of his life where he allowed to imagine himself getting into a relationship, Mycroft had never expected himself to be overwhelmed with so much emotion so quickly, but with you it was almost as though he had no control; as though there had been so many pent up feelings over the years that they just seem to have exploded without any rational thought behind it. And whilst these were all new to Mycroft, and how he still wasn't entirely sure about everything that he felt when it came to things with you, the only thing he was positive about was that he didn't want it to go. And that meant not wanting you to leave. Which was ridiculous. You had just under two weeks left together until you would be needed back at work, and he would have to return to fighting on Britain's behalf, but the thought of you not being at home to greet him when he finished, or him not being able to pick you up in one of his cars from the Yard to take you both home made him feel a sense of disappointment. He shook himself from his thoughts when you emerged from the bathroom fully dressed.

"On second thoughts, I may take the risk. I'm not sure I can have members of the general public associating me with a Sex Pistols fan, no matter how humerous you may believe that top to be." You walked out proudly wearing your 'God Save the Queen' t-shirt with a grin. "You are aware tha-"

"That when the Sex Pistols released their song 'God Save the Queen' in 1977 it was around the same time of The Queen's silver jubilee and thus it was banned for a while on the premise of being 'bad gross taste'? You've only mentioned it every time I wear this shirt.. Though if your research extended enough then you'd know Paul Cook said it wasn't written specifically FOR the jubilee.. So if one of Lizzie's spies catch me in the act, I shall make a very sincere apology." Mycroft took his own clothes into the bathroom to get ready himself and scoffed.

"But I AM one of 'Lizzie's Spies'." He mused, leaning slightly against the doorframe after settling the outfit on the counter. You turned around on your heel and stood up on your tiptoes, pushed him more forcefully against the doorframe and placed your hands on Mycroft's cheeks, pressing your lips softly against his. His shock subsided before he kissed you tentatively, his hand resting on your lower back. You pulled away after a moment and ushered him into the bathroom to get ready, closing the door behind you and leaving him still slightly red faced and confused.

"Consider that my sincere apology." You headed over to the dresser and began to tie up your hair. "But hurry up, I'm starving." You called, moving the hairbrush too low and brushing against your bruise, making you wince loudly. From the bathroom, you heard Mycroft's voice before the sound of him brushing his teeth.

"Head?"

"Well I was thinking more along the lines of breakfast, but who knows what the day will bring." You heard the sound of Mycroft choking on his toothpaste and wished to whatever deity out there that you could have seen his face. Yes, you had promised to try and be less overbearing with your comments but he walked into that one. You grinned and sat down on the side of the bed, briefly scanning through your phone before Mycroft emerged, his face still burnt a red as deep as the burgundy sweatshirt he had paired with his outfit. The fact he had come out at all at least let you know that your joke hadn't taken it too far.

"You're a minx."

"And you wouldn't change it. Now let's go!"

---

Only 20 minutes later had you both be found sitting comfortably in Ms Woodall's cafe, tucking into your respective meals- with you noticing, but not commenting on, Mycroft eating comfortably until the last bite of toast was gone, a sense of pride warming within you. Not too long after, Bernice herself headed over to clear up your tables.

"I trust everything was up to standard?" She asked, piling your plates onto her little trolley and offering top ups on your drinks.

"Splendid as usual, Ms Woodall." Mycroft smiled, accepting his new cup of tea and cradling it comfortably between his long fingers.

"Still proving to be our favourite place for breakfast." You praised, your hand reaching out to fondly brush against Mycroft's before taking your coffee into hand. Bernice watched your movements and raised her brow knowingly.

"Took the pair of you long enough. I had been half tempted to abstain from feeding you here until I got one of you to say something, it had started making me feel a bit sick watching you eye each other up each time you'd get up to order something." You rested your elbow on the table, hand covering your mouth as you let out a laugh.

"Yes, well, I can't promise you the ogling will stop on my behalf." You teased.

"And why should it? Mr Holmes in those posh little outfits is enough to make anyone swoon." And with that she had headed back out into the kitchen again.

"There you go, Myc. Should anything happen to me, my replacement is only round the corner."

"Mmm, and she does make a rather good cup of tea. Perhaps I shouldn't wait that long." His lip raised slightly in a smirk as he took a sip of his hot beverage.

"Oh really? Need I start getting possessive; stand my ground?" Before Mycroft could quip back, Ms Woodall had returned with a plate of biscuits in hand.

"Means you've already answered my next question, anywho." She hummed, placing the plate down between you and perching on the corner of the table beside yours. The pair of you gave her a questioning look and she continued, pointing up to her own forehead. "Tony and I were just as bad at the start of our marriage. Anywhere and everywhere we could get our hands on each other, I ended up with bumps and scrapes from alleys, the backs of cars, even in that one restaurant toilet that time.." You choked on your coffee and Mycroft all but dropped his teacup. "Oh don't act so ignorant, even us oldies had sex in their time." Your eyes caught Mycroft's and you could see him stifling down a laugh, biting softly on his knuckle- which, in itself, shouldn't have been as attractive to you as it was, but it is what it is.

"And with that thought, we best be off. Got a movie date planned." You commented, coughing down your own laugh as Bernice continued.

"Though to be fair it never stopped, all that spontaneity. Even towards the end, he could be like a lad of nineteen with how it was. God the positions, you'd have mistaken me for a gymnast and he could last for ages. I'd just lie there wondering 'will this pleasure never end'?" You could feel tears prick at your eyes as your laughter began to break through. "And then of course once Tony passed a couple years ago it all stopped. Shame really, all those years together, ending how it did.. Though sometimes I'm not sure if it's him that I miss or his massiv-"

"Ms Woodall we really should be going, thank you for breakfast." Mycroft hastily threw a few £20 notes on the table, far too much to cover your meal but enough to distract Bernice while tugging your hand and beelining for the door. Once safely distanced from the apparent nymphomaniac cafe owner you had to stop in your tracks to let out a laugh, Mycroft's hand still in yours as you doubled over.

"I can't believe she said that! She's so open."

"Evidently." Mycroft's comment set you off again, his laughter following, ignoring how you caught the attention of a few people passing by. "I do hope you are in no rush for breakfast there again any time soon, I don't think I can look her in the eye for a good while."

"Still so sure on replacing me with her so soon? I think she'd break you."

"Or turn me into a whore." You snorted and settled back to walking.

---

"Drink?"

"Please. Tea, hold the sexual history."

"I'll try my very best, though, much like my tea, I imagine my list would be abysmal in comparison to old Ms Woodall." You flicked on the kettle, eager to replace the half drunk coffee you had discarded on the cafe table in your escape from listening about pensioner sex. "Will you load up the movie?"

"No. But I shall get the film ready to go.. How the American dialect found its way back to England will never fail to disappoint me." You had followed him into the room shortly after, mugs on the table and settled on the sofa beside Mycroft.

"You know, typically, when people elect for a movie day, they don't choose the tenth movie in the series to watch first." You grinned, tucking your legs beneath your body in an attempt to get comfortable. You continued your shuffling movements and heard Mycroft's voice.

"I believe we both agree that Carry On Cleo is the superior of the 31 movies for, well, a multitude of reasons." He trailed.

"I shan't object. It's sweet that you remember it's the first one we watched together.. Had it not been for you hearing Kenneth's famous 'Infamy, infamy' line persuading you to come over, I fear that I'd have been set up with one of Greg's mates by now, sitting in a pub nursing a G+T."

"I never said I remembered that."

"You didn't have to. You and I both know that your favourite was always Carry on Camping."

"Yes, well.. Opinions change with experience."

"Is this our equivalent of a patronus? Yours has changed and matched with mine? Very cute, Myc. Might I expect you in a 'Never Mind the Bollocks' shirt next week?" You teased, electing to lay down with your head lightly using Mycroft's thigh as a pillow, feeling grateful when he didn't shove you off with a comment about ruining the linen of his trousers, and instead took to softly brushing his fingers over your head, narrowly missing the purple bump each time.

"You'd have better chances of catching me running naked down the street."

"Is that a promise?" A flick to your forehead.

"Just play the bloody film."

---

By the time the film had finished, your cheeks had hurt from smiling and your eyelids had felt heavy. Whilst getting up at a reasonable hour had felt like an achievement this morning, the lack of sleep from the previous night was beginning to catch up to you.

"Myc? Would it be entirely improper to nap on the sofa when there are multiple reasonable beds upstairs before continuing our films?"

"Only about as improper as it is to have a midday nap when you're not a young child." You shifted your head from his lap and sat up, ignoring the fact that you actually did end up ruining the linen of his trousers with the crease of your skull.

"Let me rephrase. Mycroft, would you be willing to break your proper posh boy streak and nap with me on the sofa?"

"I suppose it wouldn't hurt to deviate from one's usual behaviours in order to satisfy those one holds dear."

"That's a yes, right? Good, lay down, else I may just collapse right at this moment." Mycroft's sofa certainly was a significantly bit bigger than those usually found in somebody's front room, but it was still nowhere near wide enough for two people to lay with distance. Even still, he followed your request and rotated his body, lifting his long legs to rest down the side of the sofa while you slid into the gap beside him. He eventually circled his arm beneath you and rested his hand on your hip, your face softly brushing against the comforting material of his jumper. "If you drop me, I will be holding you accountable." You mumbled, shifting your body closer to his. He merely hummed, his hand slightly bunching in your shirt and his arm tightening. "I'd always hoped you were secretly a cuddler."

"Make a point of it or tell Sherlock and I'll throw you off." You couldn't even think of a witty comeback before your slumber had taken over, the smell of Mycroft and the sounds of him breathing overstimulating your senses. Mycroft being a secret cuddler hadn't been as much of a shock to you as it probably should have, but you welcome it completely and feel incredibly thankful that he trusts you enough to let you be that close to him, to feel his body in such a way. And you would embrace that- and him- as long as he would let you.