#7/8 drop-in anchors

[p0orbaby]

It Doesn’t Get Any Easier

summary: you’re the new physio, tasked to help leah one on one with her recovery; but lines start to blur the longer you spend with one another

warnings: none

a/n: i enjoyed this one. also trying out a slightly different style so let me know what you think

word count: 2.8k

-

Leah comes in every morning just after 7:30, always a little earlier than the rest of the team—well, what’s left of the team—who roll in around 8, give or take. You start noticing her patterns by the second week. It’s not intentional. It’s just that she’s hard not to notice. The way she slips into the room quietly, moving like a shadow, like she’s trying not to be seen even though she’s Leah Williamson and there’s something impossible about Leah Williamson going unnoticed. You’re not sure she’s aware of it, or maybe she is, maybe it’s part of the act, something people like her learn over time—how to balance being seen and unseen simultaneously. Either way, she always acknowledges you. It’s a brief nod or a soft “Morning” that comes out like a sigh. But it’s there. And you nod back because it’s professional, it’s polite.

You’re the new physio, brought in because someone higher up decided that ACLs are the new pandemic, and Arsenal’s hit hard by it. One by one, players dropping like flies—tears, rips, stretches that aren’t supposed to stretch. Someone needed to focus on rehab, on these slow and tedious one-on-one sessions. So, here you are. Your life has become a revolving door of knee braces, resistance bands, ultrasound machines, and cold compression therapy. A strange, repetitive kind of intimacy.

Leah is assigned to you. "Take care of her," they say. She’s a captain. She’s the face. There’s an unsaid urgency that comes with her, an invisible asterisk by her name. You feel it in every briefing, every passing mention of her progress. Everyone’s waiting for her return. Waiting for her to be fixed.

Your first session with her is awkward. Stilted. You’re overly conscious of how she sits, her knee elevated, her eyes on the ceiling, like she’s counting the tiles instead of looking at you. The air smells faintly of antiseptic and that weird plastic-y scent that medical equipment always has. You ask her the standard questions: pain level, range of motion, any stiffness. She answers with one-word responses, tight-lipped. There’s a distance between you that you can’t quite figure out if it’s professional or personal. Maybe both.

-

Weeks pass, and the routine becomes muscle memory. You know when to push and when to pull back. How to make her laugh, how to coax her into stretching just a little more without her getting defensive. You start to notice the little things about her. Like how she always wipes her hands on her shorts after you adjust the brace on her leg, or how she clicks her tongue when she’s frustrated, a soft noise that barely registers unless you’re paying attention, which you are. You’re always paying attention to Leah.

It’s in the middle of a session that things shift. You’re guiding her through a series of exercises—balance work, stuff that’s boring but essential—and she’s sweating, biting her lip as she focuses on not wobbling. You’re right there, hands out, ready to catch her if she stumbles. She doesn’t, but the proximity is there. Too close, maybe. Your fingers brush her waist as you correct her form, and she inhales sharply. You freeze, but she doesn’t move. Neither do you.

"Is this okay?" you ask, your voice lower than usual, and you’re not sure why. Maybe it’s the weight of her stare, those sharp blue eyes locking onto yours.

"Yeah," she says, but her voice sounds strained, like she’s not sure it’s the right answer. She’s not looking at you anymore, her focus now on the floor, her hands gripping the sides of the bench like she needs to anchor herself. The room feels smaller, the air thick.

You pull back, step away, putting space between you, but it doesn’t feel like enough. You can still feel the echo of her skin under your fingers, the heat of her proximity. You clear your throat, force a smile. "Let’s take five”

She nods, doesn’t say anything, just grabs her water bottle and takes a long drink, her throat working, a bead of sweat rolling down her neck. You turn away, pretend to be adjusting something on the ultrasound machine even though it’s perfectly fine, just to give yourself something to do, something that isn’t thinking about how her skin felt under your hands.

-

The next time around is more tense. There’s an unspoken tension now, like a line has been crossed, or maybe it hasn’t, but it’s close. You’re hyper-aware of every movement, every brush of skin. Leah doesn’t mention it, but there’s a change in her too. She flirts, subtly at first—offhand comments, jokes that land just a little too close to something more. You laugh, play along, because it’s harmless. It’s nothing. Except it’s not.

You catch yourself watching her more. The way her muscles ripple under her skin as she moves, the way her lips part when she’s concentrating, how her eyes flick to you when she thinks you’re not looking. You wonder if she notices you doing the same. You wonder if she feels it too—this thing simmering between you that’s becoming harder to ignore.

One day, after a session, she lingers. The rest of the team has filtered out of the gym, and it’s just the two of you, the hum of the air conditioning the only sound.

"Thanks for today," she says, her voice soft. She’s sitting on the edge of the bench, her knee still wrapped in the brace, but she looks more relaxed than she has in weeks. There’s something in her eyes, something you can’t quite read, and it makes your chest tighten.

"It’s my job," you say, but the words feel hollow. You’ve been telling yourself that for weeks now, trying to convince yourself that this is just work, that this is just another injured player, another knee to fix. But it’s not. You’re not sure when it stopped being just that, but it has.

"Is it, though?" she asks, and her voice is lighter now, teasing, but there’s an edge to it. A challenge.

You swallow, your mouth suddenly dry. "What do you mean?"

She stands, slowly, her movements careful, deliberate. She’s close to you now, too close again, and you don’t step back this time. "I think you know what I mean," she says, her eyes locked on yours, and you feel like you’re standing on the edge of something dangerous.

You don’t have an answer, or maybe you do but you don’t trust yourself to say it out loud. The air between you crackles with something electric, something that feels inevitable.

She leans in, just a fraction, and you freeze, your heart pounding in your chest. You could close the distance. You could kiss her, right here, right now, and no one would know. It would be easy. Too easy.

But you don’t.

Instead, you step back. You force a smile. "We should stick to the plan. Don’t want to push the knee too hard too soon”

It’s a cop-out, and you both know it. The shift in her expression is almost imperceptible, but you catch it—the brief flicker of disappointment before she masks it with a shrug.

"Right. The knee," she says, her tone casual, but the tension is still there, hanging between you like a thin thread ready to snap. She doesn’t push it, though. Instead, she grabs her bag, slings it over her shoulder, and heads for the door. But just before she leaves, she glances back at you, her eyes sharp, like she’s trying to figure you out, trying to decide if this is a game or something else entirely.

You stand there for a long time after she’s gone, the gym feeling too big, too empty. You can still feel the weight of her gaze, the heat of her body close to yours. You tell yourself it’s just work, just rehab. But deep down, you know it’s not that simple.

It’s never that simple.

-

The sessions after that are different. There’s a push and pull now, a tension that neither of you acknowledges but is impossible to ignore. Flirting turns into something sharper, more pointed, like you’re both testing the limits, seeing how far you can go before something breaks. But nothing breaks, not really. Not yet.

Then one night, you cross the line. It’s late, the training ground is empty, and Leah’s the last one in the gym. You’re both exhausted, worn down by weeks of slow progress, of frustrations mounting. The conversation starts off innocuous—something about her recovery timeline, how she’s feeling. But it shifts quickly. There’s an edge to her voice, a sharpness that cuts through the usual banter.

"Why do you keep pulling back?" she asks, and there’s nothing light in her tone now. It’s serious. She’s serious.

You blink, thrown off. It’s late, the harsh fluorescent lights above cast everything in this sterile, washed-out glow that makes you feel like you’re in a hospital, or some kind of waiting room where nothing feels real, nothing matters. Leah’s standing in front of you, close but not too close, not like before, but close enough that you feel it—the weight of her presence, the space she occupies, the air between you vibrating, charged with something neither of you is willing to name but it’s there. It’s been there for weeks. Maybe longer.

“I don’t know what you mean,” you say, but it’s a lie and you both know it. You’re tired, too tired to come up with something convincing, and it’s the way she’s looking at you now, like she’s seeing through every excuse you’ve built up, every wall you’ve thrown up between you because you know you have to, because you’re the physio, you’re supposed to be the professional, the one who stays detached, clinical, objective. You’re supposed to care about her body, her knee, not the rest of her. Not this.

But the truth is, you do care, too much, and it’s bleeding into everything. Into the way you touch her during sessions, the way your fingers linger just a little too long on her skin when you’re adjusting the brace, or the way your pulse speeds up when she leans back on the bench, sweat glistening on her forehead, the tendrils of her hair stuck to her neck, and you wonder what it would feel like to brush them away. You know you shouldn’t, that it’s a line you can’t cross, but the line’s blurred now, so faint you can barely see it anymore.

Leah narrows her eyes, crossing her arms over her chest. She’s wearing an old Arsenal training kit, the fabric worn and soft, the logo faded from too many washes, and you notice that she tugs at the hem of her shirt when she’s frustrated, twisting it around her fingers like she’s trying to keep her hands busy, like she doesn’t know what else to do with them. “You’re not stupid,” she says, and her voice is sharp, but there’s something underneath it—something vulnerable, like she’s exposing a part of herself she doesn’t want to, but she can’t help it. “You know exactly what I mean”

She’s right. Of course she’s right. You’re not stupid. You know why you’ve been pulling back. Why you’ve been keeping your distance. It’s because this—whatever this is—is dangerous. It’s complicated. It’s wrong in a way that’s hard to define but easy to feel, like a low hum in the back of your mind that you can’t shake. And yet, the more you try to stay away, the more you find yourself drawn to her. Like gravity. Like something you can’t control, no matter how hard you try.

“It’s not that simple,” you say, and your voice sounds hollow even to your own ears. You’re aware of how this looks—two people alone in a gym, the air thick with unspoken tension, the kind of tension that feels like it’s been building for a long time and is about to spill over. You glance at the clock on the wall—it’s almost 10 a.m.—and you wonder how it got so late, how time seems to bend around her, how hours slip by when you’re with her but still, its never enough. There’s always more, always something unsaid hanging in the air between you.

Leah uncrosses her arms, taking a step closer. You can see the faint scar on her knee, the way the skin’s still a little pink, a little raw, and it’s a reminder of why you’re here, what your job is, but all you can think about is the way her eyes are locked on yours, unflinching. “I’m not asking for simple,” she says quietly, and there’s an intensity in her voice that catches you off guard. “I’m asking for honest”

The word hangs in the air, heavy, and you feel something in your chest tighten. Honest. You think about what that would look like. What it would feel like to stop pretending, to stop playing this game where you act like you don’t notice the way she looks at you, the way your body reacts to hers. You think about what it would mean to cross that line, to give in to what’s been building between you. The consequences. The fallout. The way it would shift everything irreparably, and yet, the thought doesn’t scare you as much as it should.

You take a breath, slow, steady, trying to collect yourself, trying to find the right words, but they’re all tangled up in your head, a mess of things you can’t say, shouldn’t say. “Leah,” you start, but you don’t know how to finish the sentence, because there’s no good way to say what you’re thinking, no good way to explain the way your heart speeds up when she’s near, the way your skin prickles under her eyes, the way your mind drifts to her at night when you’re lying in bed, staring into the darkness, replaying moments in your head that shouldn’t matter but do.

She’s watching you, waiting, and you can feel the weight of her expectation, the way she’s daring you to say something real, something that matters. And maybe it’s the exhaustion, or maybe it’s the fact that you’re tired of pretending, tired of holding back, but something inside you cracks, just a little, just enough.

“I’ve been trying to keep this professional,” you say, and the words come out in a rush, tumbling over themselves like they’ve been waiting to escape. “Because I have to. Because I don’t know how else to do this without—” You stop, shaking your head, because it sounds ridiculous, it sounds like an excuse, and maybe it is. “It’s not just about your knee,” you say finally, and it feels like a confession, like something you’ve been holding onto for too long. “It’s about everything else”

Leah’s eyes widen, just for a moment, and you see something flicker across her face—surprise, maybe, or relief, or something else entirely. She doesn’t say anything right away, but she steps even closer, close enough that you can smell the faint trace of her sweat mixed with the scent of her shampoo, something clean and floral, and it hits you like a wave, overwhelming in its simplicity. You feel the pull again, stronger now, undeniable.

“You think I don’t know that?” she says, and her voice is soft, but there’s an edge to it, a sharpness that cuts through the haze in your mind. “You think I don’t feel it too?”

The words hang between you, suspended in the air, and for a moment, everything else fades away—the gym, the team, the world outside this room. It’s just you and her, and the weight of everything you haven’t said, everything you’ve been too scared to admit.

Leah reaches out, her fingers brushing against your arm, and the contact sends a jolt through you, a spark that ignites something deep inside, something you’ve been trying to suppress for weeks, months. You’re not sure who moves first, but suddenly, the space between you disappears, and her lips are on yours, and it’s like everything snaps into focus all at once.

The kiss is rough, urgent, like it’s been building for too long and now there’s no stopping it. Her hands are on your waist, pulling you closer, and you can feel the heat of her body against yours, the way her breath mingles with yours in the small, stolen space between kisses. It’s messy, frantic, like neither of you can get enough, like you’ve been starving for this and now you’re finally letting yourself have it.

You don’t think about the consequences, about what happens when this moment ends. You don’t think about the power imbalance, the lines you’re crossing, the mess you’re making. All you can think about is the way she feels against you, the way her fingers dig into your skin like she’s afraid you’ll disappear if she lets go.

[dotthings]

Some spn Cas history (because yay facts!! Facts are fun!!)

Misha was a guest star in S4. Castiel was originally planned to be a 3 episode and done character, but Misha was so electrifying as Cas, had great chemistry with Jensen, and Cas turned out to be such a compelling character, the show kept him around.

Misha was promoted to regular in S5 and continued in S6.

He was dropped from the show for S7 because Gamble and Singer decided to write out Cas. The network did a lot of fans a solid for once, called up the EP's, and went "hahahaha you aren't really planning to get rid of that fan favorite pretty angel are you???? hahaha ok no really bring him back" and literally refused to let spn get rid of him.

There was for sure a listlessness factor in S7 once Cas was removed. J2 were the anchors in the early seasons. In later seasons, J2M really became the show's center supports, more than just J2. (No, this is not arguable. This is reflected in canon story, and Cas's growth as a character and plot role and emotional role and in promotion for many years. No, I don't care who is offended that I said it. It's not a point of argument).

Jeremy Carver took over as showrunner in S8 and brought Misha in for an 8 episode arc, so Misha was a guest star in S8. Carver wanted to rebuild the character and in S9 Misha was promoted back up to series regular, and he stayed at that status the rest of the series.

Originally, Misha's regular status was denoted by having him third in opening credits after Jared and Jensen, before the "guest starring" section. Eventually Misha was given an "and" credit.

The "and" credit is a contract status thing. It's for series regulars of particular note, usually for a particularly noteworthy performance. Tony Head was "and" status on Buffy the Vampire Slayer. When he stepped back to recurring, Alyson Hannigan became the "and" status.

Some have tried to paint Misha's "and" designator as a sign of his lesser importance, but it's the opposite. It's a promotion and a sign of respect.

A further note, zero fans have attempted to supplant Jared and Jensen as the "top leads" of the show, but it's abundantly fair to label Misha a 3rd lead, given the proportion of Cas's plot and emotion impact on story and Misha's longevity and status. It's semantics, really. If someone gets offended if you say he's a 3rd lead, they're aren't worth your time. Eh, okay, "main character" isn't wrong either, but I'm suspicious of people who break out in hives over calling him "3rd lead"--but main character is a descriptor for Cas's role. SPN at times had 3-4 series regulars, with J2 as the only two constants the entire run of the show, which is why we say J2 are the 2 top leads. But Cas and Misha's importance are also facts.

Misha was "guest star" in S4, 7, and 8. Eventually he got "special guest star" credit during his guest starring era on spn, another indicator of an actor/performance/character of note, but not a series regular. He was a series regular for S5, 6, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15. (No this is not arguable. These are production facts. Some people still, after all this time, try to erase his regular/main character status on spn, and they aren't working in facts).

[pxnsneverland]

Ruthless Grace | Austin Butler x OC (part 1)

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9

plot summary: Amidst the grime and squalor of Victorian England's winding cobblestone alleys, a young woman's life hangs precariously in the balance. Violet, a poor peasant girl with long raven locks and piercing gray eyes, possesses a haunting beauty that belies the harsh realities of her existence. Tragedy struck two years prior when Violet's mother succumbed to illness, leaving her to fend for herself and her father – a cruel, selfish man consumed by vices of alcohol and gambling. On one fateful night, Violet's father drags her unwillingly to that very den of iniquity, and there she learns a horrifying truth from the club's greedy, perverted owner: to repay his mounting gambling debts, her father has sold her into sexual servitude. Violet's vehement protests fall on deaf ears, until an unlikely savior emerges from the shadows. Lord Austin Butler intervenes with a bargain of his own. This dangerous man offers to pay off Violet's father's debts in exchange for her accompaniment, and Violet is torn from the only life she has known. While Austin's demeanor remains shrouded in mystery and detachment at first, Violet gradually glimpses his softer, even playful side as time passes within the manor's walls and an unexpected connection blossoms between the unlikely pair.

pairings: austin butler x oc

word count: 3,025

warnings/notes: I decided to post another Austin fic I've been playing with for a little while. This is a set up chapter for the story and hopefully you guys enjoy it. The romance will begin soon :)

Chapter 1: Anchors and Aspirations

The icy wind bit through Violet's thin shawl as she maneuvered through the bustling market square, her gray eyes flitting from stall to stall. With the stealth of a seasoned thief, she slipped a hand into a basket, withdrawing a bruised apple before anyone noticed. At her heart, there was no love for thievery, but survival in the grim alleys of Victorian England left little room for scruples. As she tucked the stolen fruit into the folds of her dress, a shadow loomed over her. Her heart caught in her throat. She turned slowly, only to see Mr. Clarence Johnson, a local shopkeeper known for his scrupulous eye and unforgiving nature.

“Miss Everly,” he said, his tone surprisingly soft, his gaze not on the stolen apple but on her face. “You look more worn than usual. Are you unwell?”

Violet tensed. Clarence Johnson was an uncommon figure in their decrepit part of town; his presence alone suggested he was either lost or up to something far beyond her understanding.

“I am just fine, sir,” Violet replied, her voice steady despite the fluttering of her heart. “Just tending to some errands for my father.”

“Aye,” he nodded slowly, his bushy eyebrows knitting together in concern.

“But you needn’t resort to pilfering for your sustenance,” he continued, glancing at where the apple had disappeared into her dress. “There are other ways, Miss Everly, ways that do not risk your slender neck at the gallows.”

Violet stiffened, her hand instinctively clutching the fabric over the apple. The threat of the law was always a ghost that haunted her every step in these streets. “Thank you for your concern, Mr. Johnson, but I assure you, I manage as best I can.”

Clarence surveyed her with those discerning eyes that missed little. “Your father,” he began, his voice dropping to a softer timbre, “he does little to provide, am I right?”

The accusation stung because it was true, yet Violet felt a surge of defiance. “He is my father still,” she said coldly, daring him with her gaze to speak ill of the man despite his failures.

Clarence sighed digging into one of his pockets and pulling out a few coins. He handed it to Violet. “Go buy the apple, girl. It would be a shame to see you hang for a fruit.” A trace of regret flitted across his features. “Miss Everly, I—” He paused, seeming to choose his next words with care. “I find myself in need of a reliable assistant at my shop. Someone keen and observant. Your... talents could be put to better use than thievery.”

Violet's heart pounded fiercely against her ribcage at the offer. Employment from Mr. Clarence Johnson was an unexpected lifeline, a beacon in her relentless sea of struggles. Yet, mistrust curled inside her like a dormant snake. Why would a man of his standing offer her, a known petty thief, an opportunity?

"I appreciate your offer, Mr. Johnson," Violet started cautiously, her voice a low murmur as she glanced around the bustling market to ensure no eavesdroppers lurked nearby. "But why would you trust someone like me in your establishment? You know very well my... activities."

Clarence's eyes softened, hinting at a depth that Violet hadn't noticed before. “Everyone deserves a chance at redemption, Miss Everly. I’ve watched you, not just today but many times. You’re quick, smart, and despite your current... enterprise,” he said, the corners of his mouth twitching slightly, “you have morals. You steal only what you need and no more.”

He was right—Violet never took more than necessary to survive. Her actions were driven by desperation, not greed. The acknowledgment of that fact from Clarence Johnson stirred something akin to hope within her chest.

"Consider it," he urged gently as he started to turn away, leaving the coins in her palm.

Violet watched Clarence's retreating figure, the coins heavy in her hand like the sudden possibility they represented. In a world that had offered little but hard edges and cold shoulders, the warmth of an unexpected offer ignited a flicker of daring in her spirit. She could almost taste the promise of stability, a stark contrast to the bitter tang of pilfered fruit and the relentless ache of uncertainty. Still, Violet knew better than to leap without looking. Her life had taught her the sharp lessons of betrayal and disappointment too well. As she moved away from the market square, her mind raced with both the perils and prospects of Clarence Johnson's proposal. Could she truly step into the light of legitimate work without the shadows of her past pulling her back? And more pressingly, what did Clarence see in her that others didn't? Was it pity, a calculated gamble, or perhaps something more personal?

As she wandered through the alleys, her route took her instinctively towards home—a term used loosely for the cramped, dingy room she shared with her father. The door creaked ominously as she pushed it open, revealing Edward Everly slumped over a table littered with empty bottles. The stench of stale liquor and despair hung thick in the air. Violet's entrance went unnoticed by her father, his consciousness lost to the depths of another drunken stupor. She stood there a moment, her gaze hardening as she took in the sight of his decrepit form. This was the life she was born into, one suffocated by poverty and neglect, a stark reminder of what awaited her if nothing changed.

With a soft sigh, she stepped over the threshold, her boots echoing softly on the bare wooden floor. The coins still clenched in her hand felt like both a promise and a burden. She walked past her father, careful not to disturb his fitful slumber, and seated herself on the small, worn-out chair near the cold fireplace. Here in the dim light of their one-room abode, Violet allowed herself a moment to think. Mr. Clarence Johnson’s offer was tempting—an escape from this life of constant desperation. Yet doubt gnawed at her; trust was a luxury she could scarcely afford. Her thoughts were interrupted by a sudden groan from across the room. Edward Everly stirred, his eyelids fluttering open only to squint at his surroundings in befuddled drunkenness.

"Violet?" he slurred, his voice soaked with alcohol and confusion.

"Yes, Father," she replied quietly, steadying her voice to hide the tumult inside.

"What are you doing, sitting there like a lost soul? No food again?" His voice was rough, accusatory, as he tried to focus his bleary eyes on her.

Violet's hand tightened around the coins, the metal biting into her palm. She considered telling him about the job offer, about the possibility of change, but the words died on her lips. Her father's unpredictable temper and his disdain for any sign of ambition or hope outside his own distorted view discouraged any such revelations. Instead, she rose to her feet, smoothing the front of her dress with a practiced motion. "I'll get us something to eat," she said, her tone neutral. "Rest now. You need it."

Edward grunted in response, collapsing back onto the table with a weary thud. Violet turned away, feeling the weight of responsibility press down on her once more. As she stepped out into the waning light of day, the coins still in her grasp represented more than mere currency; they were a test of her courage and resolve.

The streets outside whispered with the voices of dusk—traders packing up their stalls, children playing before they were called in for supper, men heading towards the pubs for their evening respite. Violet moved through them like a shadow, unnoticed yet sharply attentive. She made her way to the tiny store at the corner of the street, its windows dimly lit and shelves sparsely stocked. Mrs. Bauble, the elderly proprietor, looked up from her knitting as Violet entered, her eyes narrowing slightly with suspicion and then softening as she recognized the young woman.

"Back again, Violet?" Mrs. Bauble asked, setting aside her knitting. Her voice was raspy yet carried a warmth that was often absent in their bleak surroundings.

"Yes, Mrs. Bauble," Violet replied, approaching the counter with the coins still tight in her grip. "A loaf of bread and whatever meat you can spare for this."

Mrs. Bauble eyed the coins and then Violet, a knowing look crossing her features. "Trouble or fortune, my dear? Those coins look heavy with one or the other."

Violet offered a small, weary smile. "Perhaps a bit of both," she confessed softly.

The old woman nodded as if she understood all too well the dual nature of sudden opportunities. She turned to gather the requested items, wrapping them carefully before handing them over to Violet. "Be cautious, child. Fortune's favor is a fickle friend," she advised, her wrinkled hand briefly squeezing Violet's.

Violet nodded, feeling the weight of the old woman's words sink into her heart. "I will, thank you, Mrs. Bauble," she murmured, taking the small parcel with a sense of gratitude mixed with trepidation. As she left the store, the cool evening air brushed against her face, whispering possibilities that both exhilarated and terrified her. The walk back home was a quiet one, filled with the sounds of her own footsteps echoing off the cobblestones and the distant laughter of children not yet called to their suppers. Violet's mind spun with thoughts of Mr. Clarence Johnson’s proposal. It was a chance to step away from the shadowy margins of survival into something resembling a normal life. But at what cost? Could she really leave behind the streets that had taught her everything about resilience and distrust just as easily?

The uncertainty churned inside her as she approached the door of her humble abode once more. Violet paused, hand on the latch, feeling the divide between her current life and the one that might await her with Clarence Johnson. She could almost hear her mother’s voice, soft and encouraging, urging her to take a chance for a better future. Yet, the haunting memories of past betrayals loomed large, making her hesitate. Resolutely, Violet pushed open the door, stepping back into the shadowed confines of the room she shared with her father. Edward Everly was now snoring loudly, lost in an alcoholic haze that seemed to provide him the only peace he knew. Violet set down the small parcel of food on the shaky table and took a moment to look at him. Despite everything, he was still her father, and a pang of compassion tempered her longstanding resentment.

Quietly she unpacked the bread and meat, setting aside a portion for herself before preparing a smaller plate for Edward when he would inevitably awaken. Her actions were mechanical, performed with little thought as her mind wrestled with larger concerns. She knew that accepting Clarence’s offer would mean more than just changing jobs; it would mean stepping into an unknown world, risking exposure and vulnerability in ways she hadn't before.

Later, as darkness enveloped the room and the flickering candle cast long shadows across the peeling walls, Violet sat with her thoughts, tracing the outline of the bread with her fingers. The sense of impending change weighed heavily on her. It wasn't just the prospect of leaving behind the familiar, suffocating squalor that gnawed at her; it was also stepping into a realm so vastly different from anything she had known. What if she was unprepared for the challenges? What if she failed?

As these doubts swirled in her mind, Edward stirred from his stupor, his movements sluggish as he adjusted to the dim light. He squinted at the plate set before him and then up at Violet, a rare flicker of confusion crossing his usually indifferent gaze.

"Did you fetch this, Violet?" he mumbled, his voice hoarse.

"Yes," she replied quietly, watching him closely.

He took a piece of meat and chewed slowly. For a moment, there was silence between them—a silence filled with unspoken words and stifled dreams.

"Why do you stay?" Edward's question came unexpectedly. His eyes, clearer now, fixed on her with an intensity that made her flinch slightly.

Violet paused, her breath catching in her throat. It was not like Edward to show interest in her choices or her life. The question hung in the air, heavy and laden with implications that Violet had long avoided. She searched for an answer that could appease both her father and her own restless heart. "I stay because this is my home," she replied quietly, her eyes not meeting his. "And because you are here."

Edward snorted, a bitter laugh escaping him as he looked around the decrepit room that barely served as a shelter. "This? This is no home, Violet. It's a prison. You're young still. You shouldn't be shackled by my failures."

His words, so starkly honest, struck Violet with unexpected force. It was rare for Edward to acknowledge his own shortcomings so openly or to express concern for her well-being. This glimpse of the man he might once have been—before grief and vice had reshaped him into the figure he now presented—left her momentarily speechless.

"You could leave, find a better life. Isn't there anyone...?" His voice trailed off, his question unfinished but clear.

Violet’s heart pounded in her chest as she considered her father's words. They echoed the very thoughts that haunted her nightly dreams—the possibility of a life beyond these walls, a chance at happiness that seemed so tantalizing yet so remote. But the thought of leaving her father in this state, as wretched as it was, tugged at her conscience. "There might be," she admitted softly, allowing herself to think of Clarence Johnson once more. His offer had been genuine, filled with promises of respect and a new beginning. Yet, the weight of her current reality shackled her ambitions.

"But I fear what leaving would mean for you," she continued, her voice barely above a whisper.

Edward scoffed, looking away from her piercing gaze. "Don't make an anchor out of me, Violet. I'm already drowning." His voice was gruff, edged with the harsh self-awareness that alcohol sometimes brought to his lips.

Violet swallowed hard, feeling the sting of tears she refused to shed. Her father’s usual indifference made his moments of clarity all the more painful for their rarity and raw honesty.

"I need to think on it," she finally said, standing up and moving towards the small window that overlooked the dim alleyway below. There, she pressed her forehead against the cool glass, trying to draw strength from the night itself. The tangled streets of London sprawled out before her—so familiar and yet suddenly brimming with the promise of escape. Her heart fluttered at the thought, a wild bird caged by years of oppression and fear.

Inside, Edward shifted uneasily in his chair, watching her silhouette framed against the weak moonlight that dribbled through the grimy window. For a moment, he seemed about to speak again, perhaps to retract his harsh truths or to further encourage her departure. But no words came; instead, he sank back into his chair with a heavy sigh that spoke volumes of his resignation to life's cruel turns.

Violet remained at the window long after her father's breathing evened out into the rhythm of sleep. Her thoughts were tumultuous waves crashing against the shore of her resolve. Clarence’s proposal was not merely an employment offer; it was an invitation to step into a world where she could perhaps wash away the stains of her past and emerge reborn. It promised safety, respectability, and above all, an identity unchained from the degradation that had colored her life. Yet, her father’s words haunted her: "Don’t make an anchor out of me." Could she really leave him here, adrift in the haze of his vices, or was it her duty to stay and prevent him from sinking deeper into despair? The weight of decision seemed insurmountable, anchoring her to this moment of indecision.

Violet pressed her cheek against the cool pane, the glass fogging slightly with each exhaled breath. Outside, the labyrinthine alleys of London whispered secrets of escape and adventure, but also murmured warnings of betrayal and hardship. Each whisper tugged at her soul, a symphony of opportunity and fear mingling in the night air. Her thoughts were interrupted by a soft noise behind her. Turning slightly, she saw Edward shifting again in his chair, his face etched with lines of discomfort and regret. For a fleeting second, she saw not the man who had failed her but rather the father who had once held dreams and aspirations beyond the confines of their dreary existence. The weight of his words echoed in her mind, a haunting reminder of their shared struggles and the unspoken bond that tied them together.

Drawing in a deep breath, Violet stepped away from the window. The cool air had not offered solace nor had it stiffened her resolve. If anything, it had only deepened her turmoil. Walking over to the flickering candle, she snuffed it out with a quick pinch, plunging the room into darkness. She navigated through the black with practiced ease, her every step whispering against the wooden floor. Reaching her modest bedding in the corner, she lay down without changing, drawing the thin blanket up to her chin. The darkness was not just a physical veil but also a metaphor for the uncertainty that clouded her future. As she lay there, her mind continued to race, replaying her earlier conversation with her father, weighing each word, each pause.

As sleep eventually claimed her in its restless embrace, Violet dreamt of vast oceans and endless horizons—a world away from the cramped confines of their decrepit home. In her dreams, the ocean was a deep blue, not the murky grey of London's foggy mornings. She stood on the deck of a ship, the wind tugging at her hair and billowing her threadbare dress like a sail. This was a freedom she had never known, unshackled from the burdens of her father's failures and the oppressive weight of their squalid existence.

Stay tuned for part 2!! Click HERE to view!

[wheredidhiseyebrowsgo]

Hi! I hope you're doing well. I just shared a gifset of de-aged Derek and present Derek pinning Stiles to the wall and was curious if there are any fics where de-aged Derek maybe sticks around longer than canon, and he and Stiles start dating because it looks like he'll be stuck like that. Then, of course, he gets aged up again at some point ... anything? Thanks!

Yeah!

Out of the Mouths of Pups by��cardel

(1/1 I 1,358 I General)

Everyone smells anxious and that should set off alarms in him but it doesn’t. The human begins walking towards him, slowly, until he’s standing in front of him. Derek looks up at him curiously, not feeling threatened, Derek stays calm.

That is until one of the werewolves takes a step closer to Derek, the human’s heartbeat picks up. This triggers Derek’s instinct to protect, and propel him to stand in front of the human. He flashes his alpha eyes at the approaching werewolf.

You feel like mine too... 🩵☄️🧡 by Eerien_Ent29

(1/1 I 2,681 I General)

Stiles' anger and frustration boiled over as he spoke with Erica on the phone. "What do you mean he's gone? I entrusted him to you guys so you could take care of him! What happened? What did you tell him?" His voice crackled with a mixture of concern and anger.

Of Boundaries and Bedroom Walls by AClosedFicIsNeverRead

(7/7 I 19,015 I Explicit)

Noah eyed the teenage werewolf with barely concealed apprehension, taking in the unhealthy measure of swagger and self-confidence oozing off the kid. He was entirely too good looking and built for 16 years old and it was clear that he damned well knew it.

Derek smiled back at the Sheriff, self-assured and showing off just a few too many teeth to look strictly human.

“Alright. Let me see if I’ve got this straight,” Noah began, rubbing his forehead as he prayed for strength. “You want me to allow a teenaged boy to sleep directly across the hall from my teenaged daughter with zero parental supervision while I’m pulling overnight shifts?”

“Daaaad!” Stiles groaned. “It’s still Derek!”

- OR -

The one where de-aged Derek moves in with the Stilinskis and becomes fixated on the delicious, hyperactive human girl. Sure, she says they won't be more than friends. That doesn't mean he can't try to change her mind, right?

anything that's dead shall be regrown by blueinkedbones

(26/? I 54,176 I Teen)

“Derek,” the guy with the hands says. He's still got his hands out, kind of reaching, kind of catching, kind of dropping to his sides. His voice is calm, but his eyes are too bright to sell it, and his heartbeat is out of control. “Are you—Do you know who we are?”

Derek swallows, thinks. If this is a treaty thing, another pack thing, why would they care about him? He's not even the alpha-in-training, he's nothing. Mom doesn't even bother explaining most werewolf politics to him. He knows most of it from Laura, Peter, from passing packs who used to think it was cute to tell the youngest beta their complicated histories and have it repeated back to them around still-awkward fangs. Now that's Cora, and not recently, either—She says she's too big to play kid games.

“No,” Derek decides. “Should I?”

A Wolf In Wolf's Clothing by alexenglish

(8/8 I 81,325 I Explicit)

The pack of Beacon Hills' past transgressions are about to converge on them, and Derek stumbles out of the forest with no recent memories and straight into a pack he doesn't know, with an alpha and an anchor he can't possibly remember.

[longwuzhere]

Here are some cool Easter eggs that I found the newest My Adventures with Superman episode, “Let’s Go to Ivo Tower, You Say”. Links to the easter eggs post:

Episode 1 is here

Episode 2 is here

Episode 3 is here

Episode 5 is here

Episode 6 is here

Episode 7 is here and here

Episode 8 is here

Episode 9 is here

Episode 10 is here

My Easter eggs and references in My Adventures with Superman comic issue 1 post is here

My Easter eggs and references in My Adventures with Superman comic issue 2 post is here

My Easter eggs and references for My Adventures with Superman comic issue 3 post is here

SPOILERS if you have not seen the episode of course:

Perry assigns our intern trio to go get interviews about Anthony Ivo. I previously mentioned Ivo's deal in the comics in this post, but we'll talk more about this version of Ivo later.

Shout out to Lois' hanbok! As a kid in the 90s my first exposure to the DC was through the DC Animated Universe. Because of the way some of the characters like Lois, Clark, Bruce, Dick, Tim, and Terry, were designed, as a kid, I thought they were Asian. Very cool to see this version of Lois be Korean.

Before Lois shows up for their black tie event at Ivo Tower, Jimmy knocks down a stack of papers and magazine and Clark goes to pick it up and stumbles upon the Metropolis Star with a cover that shows him as a kid flying 15 years ago.

The Metropolis star is a rival newspaper to the Daily Planet in the comics. The publisher makes its first appearance in Superman #9 (1987) (W&P: John Byrne, I: Karl Kesel, C: Tony Ziuko, L: John Costanza).

When our intern trio makes it to Ivo Tower, Lois spots some very interesting powerful and political figures of Metropolis, the CEO of Galaxy Communications and Mayor Fleming.

Galaxy Communications makes its first appearance in Superman's Pal Jimmy Olsen #133 (1970) where it was headed by Morgan Edge, the then leader of Intergang. In the comics Clark and Lois does work for Galaxy communications thanks to it buying out the Daily Planet forcing Clark to be the evening news anchor. The Galaxy Communications panels here are from Swamp Thing #68 (1988) (W&P: Rick Veitch, I: Alfredo Alcala, C: Tajana Wood, L: John Costanza).

Mayor Fleming makes her first appearance in Action Comics #894 (2010) (W: Nick Spencer, P: R.B. Silva, I: Denis Freitas, C: Dave McCaig, L: Rob Leigh) where she appoints Jimmy Olsen and Sebastien Mallory as a welcoming committee for Dalwythians aliens. Like her MAwS counterpart she is obviously the Mayor of Metropolis.

Later, Lois goes and questions Senator Sackett at the party/event.

In the comics Sackett was a councilman not a senator who makes his first appearance in Superman #130 (1997) (W: Dan Jurgens, P: Norm Breyfogle, I: Joe Rubenstein, C: Glenn Whitmore and Digital Chameleon, L: John Costanza) depicted here in the issue's panel wearing a Superman costume. Sackett in the comics is in Luthor's pocket.

I am like 99.99% sure this is Lex Luthor like who else in Metropolis is named Alex, has red hair (if this is Lex Luthor and he shows up again, I'll talk about him and what I mean by this in another post.), and works in the science and tech field.

We finally meet Ivo and he is as I was hoping he'd be a major techbro tool. The way he acts in his introduction and his meeting with Clark is very much like Lex and Clark's meeting in Batman v Superman. Both Ivo and Lex upon meeting Clark know how strong he is. In MAwS Ivo punches his chest and it hurts him and in BvS you heard an audible thud when Lex knocks on Clark's chest. Very similar vibes between both scenes.

Clark confronts Ivo about one of his deals and name drops one of Metropolis' mob families.

Bobby Gazzo, head of the Gazzo crime family in Metropolis, makes his first appearance in Batman: Dark Victory #1 (W: Jeph Loeb, P&I: Tim Sale, C: Gregory Wright and Heroic Age, L: Richard Starkings). Fantastic sequel to Long Halloween, highly recommend reading both books.

After Clark gets thrown out and Lois offers to repair his jacket, we see Lois mentioning her dad, Sam Lane a military general and if the person at the end of the second part of the first episode is Sam Lane...

...and he shows up again in the show I'll talk more about it in another post. For now this is all just speculation.

Might be reading into this but maybe a subtle nod to how the words "Superman" and "pal" are often used together. Both have been used as a comic book title, "Superman's Pal Jimmy Olsen" as I've mentioned in these posts a few times.

The show here did a very clever thing with Ivo. Normally any other media pertaining to Ivo would give the audience his power and weakness stealing robot Amazo, but here the MAwS team was able to combine both Ivo and another villain in Superman's rogues gallery, Parasite.

The first Parasite, Raymond Jensen, makes his first appearance in Action Comics #340 (1966) (Cover Art by Curt Swan, George Klein, and Ira Schnapp). All iterations of Parasite have the ability to temporarily steal away anyone's energy, strength, and their knowledge. As I've said there have been other Parasites that Superman fought, the second and most recurring Parasite is Rudy Jones, the Parasite I'm more familiar with, who makes his first appearance in Firestorm #58 (1987).

Cover Art by Joe Brozowski, Bruce Peterson, and Tom Ziuko Alex and Alexandra Allston the third and fourth Parasite (green Parasite and purple Parasite respectively) first appeared in the Adventures of Superman #633 (2004).

Cover art by Gene Ha and Art Lyon

The latest Parasite, Joshua Allen, makes his first appearance in Superman #23.4 (2013).

Cover art by Aaron Kuder and Dan Brown So yeah there are similarities between the Amazo robot and Parasite and it was smart of the MAwS team to just combine Ivo with Parasite to avoid redundancies. Besides the Amazo robot is more of a Justice League villain anyways.

Near the end of the episode, after the Parasite suit wrecks Ivo's body, he begins to look more like his recent iterations in the comics now. The panel here is from Justice League of America #4 (2013) (W: Geoff Johns, P: Brett Booth, I: Norm Rapmund, C: Andrew Dalhouse, L: Rob Leigh). Hope you all had a wonderful time checking this post out. Like I said at the beginning my other MAwS easter egg posts are:

Episode 1 is here

Episode 2 is here

Episode 3 is here

Episode 5 is here

Episode 6 is here

Episode 7 is here and here

Episode 8 is here

Episode 9 is here

Episode 10 is here

My Easter eggs and references in My Adventures with Superman comic issue 1 post is here

My Easter eggs and references in My Adventures with Superman comic issue 2 post is here

My Easter eggs and references for My Adventures with Superman comic issue 3 post is here

[someprettyname]

✨GF FC INDIGO AWARDS 2024 PT 4✨

part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4 | part 5 | part 6 | part 7 | part 8 | part 9 | part 10 | part 11 | part 12 | part 13 | winner's list | after party

Some points to note before you move to the event visualizer : 

🟣 My anchoring style is highly energetic and bubbly so you can imagine me doing a lot of hand gestures, changing pitch and tones of my voice, moving around on the stage a lot, etc. Hehe.  

🟣 The theatre/event venue has been engineered by the best engineers of the world, with the most modern technology. The petals of the lotus can close or open to hide or reveal the night sky. It can also change its colours. For tonight, it's indigo!  

🟣 The "OUTFIT CHECK" were clicked in different places (according to where the member was spotted first) hence the different background. 

🟣 I didn't want to write too dialogues on yall's behalf but I can't really bother you with every small detail, so I hope whatever dialogues I've made up are not too out of character! 

🟣Ignore the contradiction of same blue locker entering the scene multiple times, pretend there are a few copies of each member 🥰👍🏻

🟣 Ignore the outfit mismatch in the edits (any edit after the outfit checks please, our editing skills only go so far 🙏🏻 ) 

🟣 I highly suggest that you listen to songs as you keep finding them being embedded in links for added feels and extra hype! 🔥

🟣 The performances where multiple songs have been used is supposed to be a mashup. You can imagine the mashup to be as you please! The songs I've bunched together are for the sole purpose of creating a particular vibe, so as long as to they are fulfilled it's all good! 😌🤝🏻

🟣 The posts are scheduled at a gap of 3-4 hours each, this event is going to be spread throughout 2 or more days. Feel free to go feral in the comments/reblogs/community my mates. 🔥 

🟣 I hope you enjoy this! Tagging all the attendees here : 

@glue-thief  @getosugurusbangs @bueris @soleilonthesun @galaxynajma

@sid3buns @mariyumemi @pinkinsect @refrigeratedboombursts @satosuguhastakenovermylife 

@10renz0 @simp-simp-no-mi @boinin @sharkissm @milkteansugar 

@thebestsetter @merlucide @jujutsustraycats @kurona-theshark @nskiyuriz

@asarajaa @writingonthewalls1832 @hooudie212back @sadao-tsuki @milaisreading 

@8-xnny @licoririce @rinitoshisgirl @luvingshidou  @duckydee-0

@kuro-min @gojoracle @marcsnuffy @filecurropt0 @riririnnnn 

@wroophruh @sanaexus @melodiclune

(*The lotus petals curl outwards, revealing the night sky to the attendees as certain beat fills the place and atmosphere. The lights shine upon IZZY (@/luvingshidou) as the audience recognise the beats to be that of DIVA by BEYONCE. The stage burst into fireworks and audience sing along as IZZY demands. Fireworks can be seen in the sky, marking the beginning of an epic evening which will go down in history.*) 

[ LINKS : DIVA | Choreography ]

(*Confetti works are seen on the stage as the curtains fall. *)

(*The curtains rise again and this time they reveal a dark figure coming more and more into light as she walks forward on the stage. Nami. The MC for the evening.*) 

GOOD EEEVENING LADIESSS AND GENTLEMENNNNN!! 

How are we FEEELIINGGG TONIIIGHT? 

LET. ME HEAR. YOUUUU!!  🎤

*Turns the mic towards the audience*

*indistinct sounds so hooting, clapping and cheering*

WOAH! WOAH! The mood in here is even better than I expected!! Well! Well! That's Girlfriend FC for you!! Always breaking past the metric of expectations, leaving everyone's jaws to drop to the ground. Ha! 

I'd like to take this moment to officialy welcome you all to this award ceremony. Ladies and gentlemen, you all look ABSOOOLUUUUTELY gorgeous and HANDSOME in your gowns and suits! I also thank the blue lock players for accompanying our members to this show! You really do add a shine, like stars in the night sky of our celebration!

*camera moves around to show the hall*

(The seating area for attendees.)

*Camera flashes to Isagi waving politely at the camera, REO clapping and Aryu flipping his hair ✨osha✨ way* 

*The camera moves back to the stage.*

(Best part? It keeps changing the colour as per mood! This pic was taken before show started so it's not lighted up yet, but it has a lower platform too!)

Before I move any further, a HUGE THANK YOU to @/luvingshidou for the SPLENDID performance which most certainly hyped us all up! I'd also like to extend our gratitude to our engineers who used the most modern technology to build this hall, but I suppose it's about time we say a bye to the night sky. 

*I click my fingers and the huge wall like petals of the lotus start whirring and buzzing as they move closer to each other, within a few seconds the hall was completely covered with walls on all the sides and secured from the nightsky* 

 Now, first things first, I hope everyone didn't have difficulties finding their assigned seats. Each table has been equipped with blankets and shawls in case any one of you gets cold. Specially the ones with sleeveless gowns, or shorter dresses.

Moving on, should we start our evening folks?

*Turns the mic to the audience with a grin again*

*Indistinct sounds of "Yeahhh" "woo" "yeasss" "let's goooo"*

Alright then! Like we all know, the world never sleeps. The world never stops. Every day thousands of people achieve success and make a name for themselves while other thousand fall from grace. One thing about the people in the latter category is that they forget their roots. They forget where they started from and to respect it. But we can't let that happen to us can we? And that's why it's been decided to start our evening with a special crowning. 

[ All the introductory slide(s) editing credits goes to @/soleilonthesun. ]

Please welcome on stage @/getosugurusbangs @/galaxynajma and @/glue-thief!!! 

*The audience's side bursts into cheers and applauds as @/riririnnn simultaneously walks out from the backstage for the crowning* 

This one is to thank them and pay them a token of respect for starting this community which is a reason for many people's smile and laughter today! How wonderful it is to have a safe space for self ships with our favourite most characters!! The applause shouldn't stop ladies and gentlemen!! KEEP THEM GOING!! 🗣️

Thank you Riri for the crowning, now before we move onto awards, let's fill this place with some optimistic beats first, shall we? 

PUT YOUR HANDS TOGETHER FOR TEEEEAAAM YOUNG SIX!! 

[ links : show | odo | dare ]

(*After the performance, Nami and Soleil walk up on the stage together.*)

Nami : Thank you, team young six for the splendid performance!! (*walks up to the front of the stage with a smile*) Daaamnnnn! I can see some fired up and happy faces here! Looks like now's the perfect time I introduce you all to the FIRST category of awards we'd be giving out tonight : 

THE GF FC HONORARY INDIGO AWARDS!!!

*the camera zooms past several trophies of the same design kept on a table*

Soleil : This one is to honour the members who have contributed undeniably something very special to our community. Something so special that it can't go without being acknowledged and praised. This award can be won by one or more than one members. 

Nami : That's right Soleil! So shall we introduce the first category of the awards, everyone? 

*Distant cheering and clapping*

Soleil : (*chuckles*) alright! I think, as a community, we all need those adorable little members who go around creating chaos but in the most endearing ways. They always make sure that everyone's getting their daily dose of serotonin, and that in itself is worth honouring, don't you think so Nami?

Nami : (*grins*) Indeed! So ladies and gentlemen, please welcome on stage miss KIRA (@/merlucide) for giving the first award for tonight : GF FC HONORARY INDIGO AWARDS FOR THE MOST PEACEFULLY CHAOTIC MEMBERS! 

*Kira walks on the stage waving and smiling as the audience cheers on and takes over the mic* 

Kira : Thank you! This award is shared by 2 of our members.....and they are....

🥁

🥁

🥁

Kira : ISH AND BILLY!! 

(*The audience breaks into cheers and claps as they stand up with a huge smile on their face and walk over to the stage, recieving pats on the back on their way.*

*Kira grins and hands them both the award* ) 

Jujutsustraycats : I am really thankful for being graced with this award, but I'm not really the one for speeches so I'll let Kitty take this one! 

Bueris : *grins* yeah!!! it's fine!! so fine! everything is totally okay yeah 💞 life is about living it, you can't die completely without regrets in a world of infinite choices but you can certainly lessen that amount by following your heart! even if it means eating baked beans out of a can you found on the roadside! not joking! really I'm not! they tasted 🔥 mediocre 🔥!

I'll shine forever, just for u ma, glad to be on ur side!!! :33

Nami : Aww Billy!! 🥹❤️❤️

Soleil : So lovely! Thank you for joining us, my lady! 

*Kira nods and they all get off the stage.* 

Nami : So, Soleil? What do we have next? 👀

Soleil : Hm. I think, having someone who's  talented with an amazing foresight really helps in keeping things fascinating. Isn't it? 

Nami : Ah! (*Smirks knowingly*) It's time then, eh? Please welcome on stage @/sadao-tsuki for announcing the winner of GF FC HONORARY INDIGO AWARDS FOR THE DIVINE PREDICTOR!! 

*@/sadao-tsuki walks up from the backstage* 

Sadao-tsuki : *smiles and nods until the cheers die down* And the award goes to none other than....

🥁

🥁

🥁

Sadao-tsuki : NAJMA!! 

*The camera cuts to najma who's found shaking her head and a smug looking Kaiser is patting her back encouraging her. In the end, she gets up and walks over to the stage to recieve the award.*

Galaxynajma : honestly all I wanna say here is…. FUCK YOU APOLLO you made me look so bad! With both jjk and blue lock HOW DARE YOU… but I am happy I won this award … am I a little scared to speak my mind now? Yeah but it’s worth it. 

Nami : (*Giggling as they both get off the stage*) Well Najma, i certainly wouldn't want you to be scared of speaking your mind. Where's the fun in that? 

Soleil : True! But Nami....now that we are on the topic of being scared...it's made me think. 

Nami : Hm? What is it Soleil? 

Soleil : It makes me realise how being bold and strong is something worth being honoured too. 

Nami : (*smiles*) You're right Soleil. Every Kingdom needs their soldiers to be able to sleep peacefully at night. These people are doing a noble job by providing us the assurance of safety all that by their mere strength. 

Soleil : Please welcome on stage ELI (@/getosugurusbangs) on stage to handout the GF FC HONORARY INDIGO AWARD FOR BRAVEST WARRIOR. 

*audience breaks into a huge round of applause, camera cuts to @/licoririce smiling and waving and back to Eli walking up on the stage*

ELI : I think we all know who's winning this one, so without wasting too much time let's put our hands together for....

🥁

🥁

🥁

ELI : RIRI AND KIRA!! 

(*Kira gasps slapping hand over her mouth, her surrounding members patting her back before she gets up, hugs Riri on the way and they both walk on stage hand in hand, smiling and complimenting each other. What a truly beautiful example of camaraderie!!*) 

Riri : I'm honoured to share this award with my fellow, very brave rival, @/merlucide. She is very courageous and I've never met a rival like her! She is the best! She was the only reason why our battle was so legendary!!! And it's dedicated to beautiful Miss Manager, @/licoririce!! It's her kisses and smooches that made Merlu and me so strong!!

Merlucide : Definitely! Thank you for this award!! 

Nami : No! No, Kira! In fact we're grateful to have such amazing guardians to our community like you both! ♥️

Soleil : That was certainly inspiring! 

Nami : You know what what else is inspiring, Soleil?

Soleil : Sae's amazing goal in the last match? 🤩

Nami : ☺️

Nami : With all due respect, no. What's inspiring is the next set of team who's going to take over the stage with their amazing performance. Ladies and gentlemen, PUT YOUR HANDS TOGETHER FOR TEAM PRANCE AND PROWESS!! 

[ links : eve psyche and the bluebird's wife - choreography | unforgiven | tomboy - choreography ]

Soleil : Wow 🤩 That definitely fired me up!! 

Nami : (*runs to catch up -> was left alone because Soleil got too excited*) 

Nami : Yeah, yeah Soleil. That indeed was a badass performance, but don't leave me behind. :") 

Soleil : oooooh :0 

Nami : Well, anyways. You know else can get you all fired up with her amazing comments and reblogs on someone's post? Whose comment spam can absolutely make your day? 

Soleil : I think I have an idea about who we are talking of 🤭

*They share a knowing look*

Nami : Coming up on stage is IZZY (@/luvingshidou) to hand out THE GF FC HONORARY INDIGO AWARD FOR PERFECT COMMENTS. 

Izzy : I'M SO HAPPY TO SEE EVERYONE SO FIRED UP!! 🔥💯 The one who's winning this is none other than my pookie....

(*Camera cuts to Shidou, who's cheering on top of his lungs and table, essentially spoiling the suspense silence*) 

🥁

🥁

🥁

Izzy : @/rinitoshisgirl !! 

(*She instantly gets up from her seat, flipping her hair and strutting to the stage. Meanwhile the camera cuts to rin who's lip were twitching up into a smile but instantly turn into the expression of glare when the camera turns to him.*) 

Rinitoshisgirl : (*she walks up on stage and hugs Izzy before taking the award*) I really appreciate this award very much. I guess if i can't be perfect enough atleast my comments will be eyy they aer going AFTER me bro i die before them ykwim🔥🔥 (*throws her hand [with the award] in the air and does a dramatically graceful bow and struts off the stage*) 

Nami : (*chuckles*) Thanks for that @/rinitoshisgirl, seeing your comment spam on my posts literally makes my day, haha!! All your energy really does make heart swell. 

Soleil : Do you know what else can make someone's heart swell, nami? 😁

Nami : Chocolates? Sweets? Food? 🤩

Soleil : (*sighs and shake her head*) A mother's love. 

Nami : Oh. 😳

Soleil : That needs to be honoured and awarded too isn't it? 

Nami : Yeah, well...(*a little flustered*)....of course! 

Soleil : Then let's welcome on stage @/Galaxynajma to announce the honoured one who'd be taking back home GF FC HONORARY INDIGO AWARD FOR CARING MOTHERS!!

*A certain royal tune plays over speakers as Najma walks on stage.*

Galaxynajma : Well, we have a huge family tree today but I suppose we shouldn't forget where this all started from isn't it? The 2 mothers among us who inspired the chaos. The ones who'd be sharing this award. The mothers who are the winner for this award, none other than....

(*Camera cuts to Riri (@/riririnnn) and Billy (@/Bueris) momentarily*) 

🥁

🥁

🥁

Galaxynajma : HOOUDIE AND NAMI!!! 

(*The crowd breaks into applause as Nami makes her way around to the stage staircase, offering her hand to hooudie who just walked up and both of them walk to Najma hand in hand and smiling.*) 

Hooudie : Today as we are gathered here for this wonderful event, I wanna talk a little about my experience in this amazing team

I never thought that I would be a part of such a wonderful group full of amazing people, never thought I would laugh a lot and have fun. And now, I'm a mom for two amazing daughters; Riri and Bue, who made me realize how beautiful it is to be a mother

I thank everyone in this team who accepted me as part of it. And, of course, most thanks to Soleil; who always does her best to create the best scenarios and ideas for us to engage in. And finally, and I can't forget, most and special thanks to my bestie Nami, who thought of this award ceremony, and went out of her way to invite everyone and make the preparations so that we all can have fun. And thank you for being my friend :)

Nami : (*grinning widely*) Of course Hooudie! The way you're such a sweetheart, I should be the one thanking you, really! (*Looks at award with awe filled look and continues in an emotional voice*) This is actually such a beautiful moment for me. I'd like to devote this one to Riri and Billy for being the best daughters there is. And also to hooudie (*they both smile and side hug*) for being the best homie! Haha! I can't even describe the way my heart swelled when they wished me a happy mother's day. Being a mother is truly beautiful isn't it, hooudie? (*Hooudie smiles and nods.*) 

Nami : I always thought they were both really cute so of course adopting them bought me a lot of happiness!! And now.... getting this award....(*voice breaks a little*)....yeah. I'm just so happy for our small little family. I couldn't ask for more. I feel privileged to be your mother my daughters. Thank you so much! ❤️

 (*Camera cuts to Billy and Riri who seem happy and are cheering for their mothers.*) 

(*The crowd cheers and applauds again, the camera cuts to REO who is so hyped that he stood up and started clapping and hooting for Hooudie, while Nami walks back to the MC mic and sets down her award*) 

.·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:·. .·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:·.

Stay tuned for more upcoming honorary awards. It's all barely getting started!!

[ organiser : @/someprettyname

script writing credits : @/someprettyname

proofread by : @/melodiclune

editing credits : @/soleilonthesun ]

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

A Fate Fought For

How heartfelt. This is part 19 of 20. We tie up loose ends.

Tale of the Cursed Raven: Part 1 I Part 2I Part 3 I Part 4 I Part 5 I Part 6 I Part 7 I Part 8 | Part 9 I Part 10 I Part 11 I Part 12 | Part 13 | Part 14 | Part 15 | Part 16 | Part 17 | Part 18

Knock, knock.

Crowley’s knuckles pause. He waits, straining his ear, waiting for a reply—or at least some sign of life.

His niece has been holed up in her room for the past… He has lost track of how long. The few times she has emerged, she is progressively more and more haunted. Pale complexion, dark circles under her eyes, a hollow expression.

She had stopped leaving entirely for three whole days.

He knocks again, this time calling out. His voice is thin and desperate.

“Raven-kun? Raven-kun, are you awake…? It’s your dear old uncle!”

The panic sets in when he’s met with silence. He fiddles with the doorknob, then feels for the keys dangling from his waist.

“Young lady!! I am respecting your privacy but asserting my authority as your guardian by coming in anyway!!” he crowed, inserting a skeleton key into the lock and turning.

The door swings open.

His jaw drops.

“Wh-What happened here?!”

The place is a terrible mess, even moreso than usual. Bookcases have toppled over, their contents spilling and making the floor a maze of covers and pages to wade through. Handprint-shaped ink stains paint the walls, as if a ghoul were desperately trying to claw out from the underworld. And there, in the center of the wreck, is a small body slumped over a writing desk.

Crowley rushes to her, laying a hand on her shoulder. But he sees the quill jutting out of her left hand and startles.

“R-Raven-kun?!”

“… Mmmm…”

Raven shifts under his touch. Her eyes flutter, and he sees the warm honey rings of her irises. Tired, but still bright.

“… Uncle? What are you doing?”

“That is what I would like to know!!” He jabbed a finger at her injured hand. “You’ve gone and hurt yourself, silly girl! Hold still. We must treat this immediately.”

Crowley raises his walking stick and gives it a wave. Items from a first aid kit materialize and float down.

He sets to his work, using a clean cloth to apply pressure to the injury site. Raven squeals, but plays the part of a good patient by squeezing her eyes shut and bearing with it. The blackened ooze breaks.

Then comes the water, a small sterile stream from midair rinsing off the area. A bottle of ointment uncaps and applies itself—she winces. The quill slowly unlodges, magic suspending the bodily fluids until a fresh dressing is applied neatly over top.

Raven watches in quiet awe.

“There we are.” Crowley gentle pats the bandaged hand. “Now then, would you mind explaining yourself?”

Raven blinks. “… Sometimes I forget what a powerful mage you are.”

“Hmm? Oh—well…!!” The headmaster flushes. “It’s not everyday that I receive such kind praise!!”

He stops.

“W-Wait just a minute, don’t change the subject!” He indicates the room. “What happened here last night?!”

Raven lowers her gaze to the papers at her desk. Crowley follows it, coming across a paper stained a brilliant sky blue. Hastily scribbled over it, as if written by the hand of a madman, is three lines.

But she still dared to dream.

And she lived happily ever after.

The end.

“I wrote my magnum opus with my blood, sweat, and tears,” Raven says very quietly. “The only story I know how to tell from beginning to end. Mine.”

She tries to rise from the desk and nearly careens to one side. Crowley catches her and tuts.

“You need to lie down and rest, some food in your belly as well!” he lightly scolds. “Here, come to your bed.”

Raven clutches onto him tightly. Using him as an anchor, she hoists herself up on trembling feet.

“… I can’t.”

“What?”

“I can’t. I have to…” She shakes her head. “There are things I must tend to first. A blue letter in my drawer that needs to be read, classmates I must talk to..."

“Not in that state, you won’t!! You'll stay put until further notice. To your bed--I'll brew you a cup of tea, perhaps that will whet your appetite. Maybe some rice porridge after?" Crowley coos, smoothed her hair down. “With sunny side egg eyes and a bacon smile!”

She peers up at him. Her cheeks are wet with trails of tears.

"Oh dear, oh dear! You're crying now?" He cups her face and brings her to his chest. “You’ll tell me what’s wrong, won’t you?”

"N-Nothing. Nothing’s wrong, I just..." Raven wipes at her eyes, sniffling loudly. "Uncle, you…”

“Is it something I’ve done? Come, out with it.”

There’s a nervous, stuttery laugh.

“You really are so very, very kind. And your hands... Have they always been this warm?"

Raven leans into his palm and openly weeps.

He lets her.

She’s definitely a goner now,” a mob student declares. “It’s been weeks.“

The comment is made in 1-A's homeroom, in the hallways, in the courtyard and cafeteria, all over campus. Kon leaves his classes with a weight on his chest, pushing the breath out of him.

He doesn’t want it to be the end, not like this. Not when what he last recalls of her is an unanswered question, a hand left untaken. And a girl petrified, as if the blade of a guillotine loomed above her.

I hope she’s okay.

“Kon?”

He lifts his head. To either side of him are his friends—students from Scarabia and Pomefiore, respectively. Cyril, pale with his fluffy violet mop and Augustine, tanned and dirty blonde hair cut short.

“Something up?” Augustine asks, digging an elbow into his side. “You have that faraway look in your eyes again.”

“I’m thinking about… stuff.”

“Your missing classmate?” Cyril suggests. For as long as Kon has known him, he’s been good at reading people. Guessing, Cyril calls it—but he’s always been humble.

“This again? You shouldn’t waste your energy on that. She’s a lost cause,” Augustine snips. He’s gruffer that Cyril and Kon combined, quick to cut to the chase. “And anyway, it’s not like you were super close or anything.”

“Well, no. But it still doesn’t feel good, knowing the person you sit next to in class is… There’s an empty seat. It’s sad.”

It’s lonely.

“Accept it and move on, bro. Wherever she is, whatever happened to her, she’s not comin’ back.

“Are you sure?” Cyril squints into the distance. “… But isn’t that her right now? The one running around over there.”

“What?” Kon throws his gaze across the courtyard.

A black bundle darts from student to student, pigtails whipping back and forth. She stops before each person, her mouth a burst of movement. The girl executes a bow, then goes to the next student.

“R-Raven-san?!”

She turns in the direction of her name. Smiles, then begins making her way toward him.

Kon gulps. “You’re… okay.”

“Yes. I had to take some much needed time off. Headmaster’s orders,” she says, holding up her bandaged hand.

Her cheeks are pink, eyes rimmed red, forehead coated with a light shine. Has she been running around for a while? Kon wonders. Or… crying? Both?

“Th-That’s a relief.” He attempts to return her smile.

Raven passes a look between Cyril and Augustine. “… Oh, are these the friends you told me about?“

“Y-Yeah. Um…” Kon gestures vaguely at them. “Cy is a second year in Scarabia. August is a third year in Pomefiore. Guys, this is Raven-san from my class.”

Cy waves.

August gives a noncommittal grunt.

“It’s nice to meet you!” Raven chirps. Again, she bows. “Starting today…! I hope we can have a strong working relationship!”

The mob students stare at her. “Uh…okay?”

“You too, Kon-san!”

“E-Eh, me?!”

“Of course.” She rights herself. “You’re important too. Let’s all get along!”

With that, Raven bounds off, leaving the confused mob students. Her heart skips, matching her frantic paces. Feeling so free.

She stops whenever she spots someone. Teacher, student, ghost. An introduction offered, followed by a hopeful wish.

“Let’s all get along!”

Raven clears the Main Building, exiting into the spring time.

The air is sweet and whipped airy like a mousse. The sun is out, lighting errant pink petals on the wind.

Another day, priceless.

How pretty.

“The apple blossoms are beautiful,” a soft voice remarks, echoing her sentiments.

In the corner of her vision, a shape shifts into view.

It’s a lady with a flowery parasol, her gown a deep emerald hue. Her hair is golden, some of it done up in a milkmaid’s braid, the rest falling in waves down her back. A pearly shimmer radiates from her delicate, pixie-like features—button nose, rose cheeks, rounded eyes. One deep violet eye peers at her, the other half of her face covered by a swoop of flaxen locks.

Wow, Raven marvels, it’s like a storybook princess came to life.

“They are,” she manages as politely as she can.

“Ah, my apologies,” the lady gasps, fingers knitting over her mouth. “I didn’t mean to interrupt whatever it was that you were doing. Student life must be so busy."

"Oh no, it's fine!" Raven stammers. She feels compelled to drop to a curtsey before her. "You must be from Foothill Town...?"

"From beyond that," she says mysteriously. "I've come to see someone. An old acquaintance, one might say--but they aren't expecting it. I know them, but they do not know me."

Raven tilts her head. "That’s a strange conundrum. Do you need help locating them? I may not be the best with directions, but I’m certain I could at least escort you to a help desk.”

She giggles. “They needn’t be aware. After all… I have already been watching from afar for quite some time.”

“You have?” A vague sensation trails along Raven’s back. Light taps, as if her spine is a xylophone being played. “What changed, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“They did.” Her single violet eye shuts. “… It was not the ending I was expecting. They defied my expectations of them.”

There is no fire to her words. No ice either. She is devoid of feeling.

Raven doesn’t know why, but she shivers in the middle of that spring day.

“Is that a good thing or a bad thing?” she asks hesitantly.

The stranger tilts her parasol down, shielding her expression from view. “It is simply ‘a thing’. It would not be wise to invest too much of oneself in what is only a story.”

A story?

Raven’s ears perk, her eyes blowing wide.

“… What did you just say?”

But when she looks back at the stranger, they are already gone. Vanished without a trace on a warm wind.

Raven clutches her heart. She has not noticed until now—it is at a gallop.

“Who was that…?”

In the midst of judging the wildflowers cut for the lounge, Vil is called away from his work. He turns away from the crystal vases and moving to receive the surprise guest.

The rain had come in the afternoon. Not a sprinkle, but a downpour. Hard and rhythmic against their pointed turrets. If the lack of appointment didn't deterred visitors, then the weather most definitely would have.

The double doors open to reveal a small figure. She is drenched to the bone, her feathers and hair sodden, flat with water weight.

“Shetland potato.” Vil’s hands find his hips. If he has sympathy for waterlogged animals, he doesn't show it in his stern glare. "It has been some time. What brings you to Pomefiore, hmm? Are you looking to resume your etiquette lessons with me, since it seems you haven’t the manners to know it’s highly inappropriate to appear unannounced?”

“U-Um…! I know it's rude of me, but could I possibly come in? I'll be quick--there's something I'd like to tell you and Rook-senpai--and Epel-san too, if he's around. Then I'll be out of your feathers."

Vil looks at her long and hard.

Finally, a sigh.

"... Quickly, you said? Then make it quick. And you're going to catch a dreadful cold walking around like that. I'll call for a towel and hair dryer."

"Here you are, Roi du Poison!" a chipper voice pipes up, producing the items he had requested.

"Thank you, Rook," Vil replies nonchalantly, accepting them. The dorm leader ignores Raven's gaping mouth and hand-waves her inside. The huntsman moves to close the door after her. "He has excellent hearing," Vil explains, "and comes promptly when summoned. Spend enough time with him and you'll get used to it."

("Bonjour, mon petit oiseau!" he whispers.)

They herd Raven to a stool ("Not on the couches! You'll get them all wet!") and proceed to dry her off, as promised. Ruffling fabric and the low hum of the dryer fill the lounge, shutting off only when Vil is satisfied. Throughout the entire process, Rook hovers at a distance as if he is a theatre patron watching a show.

Finished, Vil passes her a mirror, granting her a few merciful moments to admire how he has blown out her curls. She oohs and aahs at her reflection.

"... Now then, what is it that you wanted to say?"

Raven almost drops the mirror. She's thankful that she's able to get a strong grip on its handle. Seven years of bad luck, avoided.

"Oh! Er... I-I wanted say thank you."

Vil lifts a brow.

"For everything you've done for me," Raven continues anxiously. "I don't think I've ever had to chance to properly express my gratitude.

"So thank you. Vil-senpai, for giving me pointers on how to be more ladylike. Rook-senpai, for your support when I was going through a hard time. I'm... so grateful that I can be here with everyone."

"Oh la la!" Rook throws both of his hands up. His expression is one of alarm, but not displeasure. "Mon petit oiseau, I had sensed that something was different about you from the moment you strode in. Could it be...?"

"E-Eh?!"

Raven is rugged off the stool, swept up into his arms. Rook pulls her into a twirl, letting her feathers fly. She dizzies, her feet tangling--but he steadies her, catching her hands.

"It is!" Rook declares giddily. "You've been freed--found yourself at last. I know it."

"You're going to make her motion sick," Vil warns pointedly.

The huntsman gives a musical laugh. He doesn't release his grip on her. Instead, he lowers himself, peeking into Raven's confused amber eyes.

"You still have someone else to speak with, non?" Rook says it like a suggestion. A secret, shared between the two of them. "Go to him. Let him know how you feel."

"... Yes, I'll do just that." She squeezes his fingers. "Thank you again for everything, senpai."

"Fufufu. Please, don't mention it." He pulls back. "I wish you nothing but the best."

Vil is silent as he watches Raven drift for the exit. She pushes the door open, and sunshine spills inside. The sky is blue, and he hears faint birdsong.

The rain has stopped.

Raven doesn't look back as she closes the door behind her. Her vision is focused only on what lies ahead.

"... You're fine with letting her go like this?" Vil asks of Rook. "Surely a huntsman would fight tooth and nail to keep ensnared prey from fleeing the trap."

"You're mistaken, Roi du Poison." He raises an arm, as if performing to a stage. "There is joy to be found in witnessing the ones we love at their happiest. Raven-kun now knows where that happiness lies--and I am content with that."

Vil frowns. "You're truly an incomprehensible man."

[itacats]

Under the Shadow of Ghost

FT: Simon "Ghost" Riley x gn!reader

Warnings: trauma, war themes, nightmares, hospital environment, feelings of guilt/failure, please let me know if anything else should be here!🙏

A/N: Guess what? Part 6 has officially dropped! Yep, the saga continues. Grab your favorite snack, settle in, and dive right back into the story.

Read Part 1 here! Read Part 2 here! Read Part 3 here! Read Part 4 here! Read Part 5 here! Read Part 7 here! Read Part 8 here! Read Part 9 here!

Part 6: Shadows and Whispers

The hospital walls loomed around me, stark white and cold, a reflection of the sterile life I was now confined to. The air was thick, tainted by the scent of antiseptic, but beneath it lingered something else—something unspoken, lurking in the unasked questions of those who passed by my room. The doctors, the nurses, they all had the same look in their eyes, a mixture of pity and hesitation. As if they wanted to ask what had happened, but knew the truth would be too ugly to face.

Recovery wasn’t a straight path. It was jagged, like the shards of my shattered mind, each step forward dragging me through the broken pieces of myself. The physical wounds—they could heal. The bruises would fade, the scars would form, but the deeper wounds—the ones carved into my psyche—those would linger, festering in the dark corners of my mind. Each night, as the world outside the hospital drifted into slumber, the nightmares came, relentless and unyielding.

In those nightmares, I saw them. My captors. Their faces twisted into grotesque masks of cruelty, eyes gleaming with malice. Their laughter echoed through the recesses of my mind, a haunting, mocking sound that made my skin crawl. They had a way of invading the darkness, warping it into a cage that I could never escape. Each scream I heard, each cry for mercy, was my own voice thrown back at me, distorted and alien. And no matter how hard I tried to claw my way out, I was never truly safe.

The nights stretched on endlessly, an unbroken chain of torment. And yet, amidst the suffocating weight of my memories, there was one constant—Simon. He was always there, a shadow standing guard at the edge of my consciousness, his presence a faint whisper against the roar of my fears.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.

He would come at night, slipping into the sterile confines of the hospital room like a ghost—fitting, given his name. The first few times, I thought I was dreaming. His form, tall and silent, would materialize against the backdrop of the dim, artificial light. His skull mask, which had always seemed so imposing on the battlefield, now felt like an anchor—something solid to cling to in the storm of my mind. Simon had become my tether to reality, a lifeline pulling me back from the abyss I so often found myself teetering on.

There were no words between us. No explanations or reassurances. He would simply sit, his presence a quiet comfort in the face of my unraveling. The chair beside my bed creaked under his weight, the sound somehow grounding in the stillness of the room. And as much as I tried to hide it, he knew. He could see the ghosts that haunted me, just as I had glimpsed the ones that followed him. We shared the same burden, carried the same scars—though his had long since healed into the hard, unbreakable armor he wore every day. Mine were still raw, still bleeding beneath the surface.

There was something in the way he sat there, unmoving, his silence a mirror to my own. It was as if the two of us had entered into an unspoken pact, one where words were unnecessary because we already knew the truth: *we were broken*. Not in the way that could be fixed with stitches or bandages, but in the way that only time and shared pain could begin to mend.

I would lay there, eyes closed, feigning sleep while the memories clawed at the edges of my mind. I felt his presence, his steady breathing in the silence, and it became the metronome that calmed my racing heart. It was strange, how someone so scarred, so hardened by years of battle, could exude a sense of peace that nothing else could. Perhaps it was because he, too, had fought the same war—both within and without. He knew the demons I faced, because they were the same demons that haunted him.

And then there was the grief—his grief. Though he never showed it, I could feel it hanging in the air between us, heavy and oppressive. It clung to him, wrapping itself around his silent form like a shroud. He had lost people—just like I had. He had seen the same horrors, felt the same crushing weight of failure. But where I crumbled beneath it, he stood firm, a silent sentinel against the darkness.

There were nights when I would wake, drenched in sweat, heart pounding in my chest like a war drum. The nightmares clung to me like a second skin, suffocating me with their weight. And in those moments, when the world felt too heavy to bear, I would open my eyes to find Simon still there, his gaze unwavering, as if his very presence was enough to push back the shadows.

It was during one of those nights that I finally spoke. My voice was hoarse, barely a whisper, but it was enough to break the silence that had settled over us like a heavy fog.

“I... I see them,” I muttered, my throat tight, as if the words themselves were strangling me.

Simon didn’t respond, didn’t even turn his head. But I knew he was listening.

“They’re always there,” I continued, my voice cracking under the weight of the memories. “Laughing. Mocking me. I can’t... I can’t get away from them.”

The silence stretched on for what felt like an eternity, the only sound the rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor beside my bed. And then, in the quietest of voices, Simon spoke.

“You will.”

His words, simple and without fanfare, cut through the haze of fear that had enveloped me. There was no promise in them, no false hope—just a quiet certainty that, somehow, I would survive this. Just as he had survived his own ghosts.

I looked at him then, really looked at him. And in that moment, I saw not just the soldier, not just the mask. I saw the man beneath—the man who had walked through the same fires I was now trapped in, who had emerged on the other side, scarred but still standing.

He was my Ghost, yes. But he was also my reminder that even in the darkest of nights, there was always a way back to the light.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, I believed him.

Read Part 7 here!

You made it through Part 6! Thanks for sticking around and following along. Keep an eye out for the next chapter, along with a new story starting up tomorrow!

[high-priestess-house]

𝕿𝖆𝖗𝖔𝖙 𝕯𝖊𝖈𝖐 𝕭𝖑𝖊𝖘𝖘𝖎𝖓𝖌

NOTE: you do not have to do this. however, if you're looking for a tarot deck blessing ritual, this may be for you.

Materials Needed:

• Your tarot deck

• A white candle

• Incense (such as sage, lavender, or frankincense)

• A small dish of salt

• A small dish of water

• A crystal (such as clear quartz or amethyst)

• A piece of cloth or a special box for storing your deck

• Optional: Essential oil (like lavender or frankincense)

Steps:

1. Preparation:

• Find a quiet and clean space where you won’t be disturbed.

• Cleanse the area by lighting the incense and walking around the space, allowing the smoke to purify the environment.

2. Create a Sacred Circle:

• Place the candle, salt, water, and crystal at the four corners of your space to represent the four elements: fire, earth, water, and air.

• Light the candle and place it in front of you. This represents the element of fire and the light of your intention.

3. Center Yourself:

• Sit comfortably and take a few deep breaths to center yourself. Close your eyes and focus on grounding your energy. Imagine roots growing from your feet into the earth, anchoring you.

4. Cleanse Your Deck:

• Pass your tarot deck through the incense smoke, visualizing the smoke removing any negative or stagnant energy.

• Sprinkle a small amount of salt over the deck, symbolizing purification and grounding.

• Dip your fingers in the water and flick a few drops over the deck, representing emotional clarity and cleansing.

5. Invoke the Elements and Spirit:

• Hold the crystal in your hand and place it on top of the deck. Visualize the crystal’s energy infusing the deck with clarity and spiritual insight.

• Say a prayer or invocation to the elements and any deities or spirit guides you work with. For example:

Elements of Earth, Air, Fire, and Water,

Bless this deck with your strength and clarity.

Spirit guides and guardians, lend your wisdom and protection.

May this deck be a tool of insight, truth, and light.

6. Set Your Intention:

• Hold the deck in your hands and close your eyes. Visualize a bright white light surrounding the deck, filling it with positive energy.

• Speak your intention aloud. For example:

I bless this tarot deck with love, light, and divine guidance.

May it bring clarity, wisdom, and insight to all who seek its counsel.

7. Store Your Deck:

• Wrap your tarot deck in the cloth or place it in the special box. This protects the deck and keeps its energy intact.

• Keep the crystal with the deck to maintain its energy.

8. Close the Ritual:

• Thank the elements, spirits, and guides for their presence and assistance.

• Blow out the candle and allow the incense to burn out naturally.

• Take a moment to ground yourself by touching the earth or a grounding object.

Your tarot deck is now blessed and ready for use. Remember to periodically cleanse and recharge your deck, especially after heavy use or significant readings.

[i-literally-cant-with-this]

C/W ::: Sorta sleepy oral M->F, cum // piss on face, piss play (??) heed the warning, please. And planning // prep for more piss play. Over use of italics as usual. What. I like them, ok?

F!reader married to Dilf!Bkg (in his early 40's), v. established marriage // 7 years, 1 kid at Mitsuki's house for the weekend,

Katsuki wakes up first. The sky is bright as he peeks out of his sleepy eyes. He lays there for a few minutes, just staring at the outline of your curves under the light pink sheet. It's already hot. Probably 85 outside by now despite it being only 8 or so in the morning. He hasn't looked at the clock yet. He can't seem to take his eyes off of you.

You shuffle in your half-asleep state and roll onto your back. He smiles at you when you open your eyes to see if he's still there. But in your heart, you knew he would be.

"Good morning," he whispers to you and moves over to kiss your shoulder up to your neck. It's slow and lazy. The kind of affection that didn't know the rush of everyday necessity.

"Hey, you. What are you still doing here? I thought you'd be long gone by now. You think you'd be getting breakfast after the dessert I gave you last night?" You tuck your chin and giggle as the 2 day growth on his face tickles your bare chest. His hair is wild against your face as you try to push him away.

"Oh my god, you perv! Are you trying to shove my head down to your cunt again? Jesus fuck. I go down on you last night and you think it's all I'm good for? You think you deserve it? You're somethin' else, ya brat." He grabs your hand and holds it above you, against your pillow and scoots over so he's between your legs.

He hooked his arms under your knees and raised them up to your chest, his hands rest on the mattress next to your hips. "Mm, I gotta pee real quick. Lemme up. I'll be right back."

"You weren't even that good at it, ya loser." You spit back. He stopped and looked you dead in the eye, "That's not what you were sayin' last night. You goddamn liar. You wouldn't shut the fuck up, 'Oh Kats, don't stop Kats, holy shit Kats. You're God's gift to women, Ka-'…"

You slapped his flexed bicep, laughing. "I would never say such lies. I would never wish you on anyone. Man or woman. You're terrible. You're a terrible, horrible, filthy person."

You tried, and failed.

"Yeah? Gotta piss, eh. Well, you should've thought about that before you sassed off to me, fuckin' brat. Now, lemme see if you can keep that smart ass mouth of yours shut while I give it to you again." He leaned down and started to lap at your clit. You inhaled sharply, unable to get anything out of your mouth but a desperate whine. "K-Kats, really. I - h- oh fuck, th- fuck that's good. You're stupid good at eatin' pussy. And I promise I'll come back to you after I use the little girls room. Ge-get up, p- pl- … Kats, you're gonna make me cum and it's not gonna stop at that. It's not gonna be pretty."

He wouldn't let up on your clit. And it was so fucking hard for you to make him. It felt so good, very first thing in the morning. His fingers found their way inside of your hot and dripping pussy, sliding in and out easily. He knew just where to hit you and when. He knew exactly what buttons to push. He knew your body almost as well as you did and it was so good.

Katsuki looked up at you, his eyes hooded and his mouth slick with your juices, "You're so fuckin' cute when you whine for me to stop. However … not gonna ... stop. Not until I can feel your cum dripping down my chin and your legs are shaking aroun' my ears."

You laughed and dropped your head back onto your pillow. "I'm warning you. You have been warned, you stubborn shit." Resting your forearm over your eyes and anchoring your other hand in the hair just above his undercut, you gave in to him. And relaxed, while trying not to relax everything too much.

And, so you did. You quit your bitching and relaxed into his mouth on your cunt. It was warm. His tongue running between your folds wasn't much in contrast to how the rest of you felt; it was wet and hot, too. But when he doubled down, sucking on your little bud of nerves and delving his fingers into you, it was nearly more than you could handle. His nose sliding over your clit when his mouth wasn't on it. You could feel yourself quickly approaching that crossroad.

He hummed approvingly when you melted under his touch and raised your hips to match the ebb and flow of his ministrations. He was sloppy, his slurps and soft moans only egged you on more. "What are you so - hohh shit - happy about? Nothing about this is going to end well, Katsuki." He let go of your clit with a pop and told you to quit yer bitchin', let him do what he enjoys doing and does best. "Fine. But you're changing the sheets, shit ass." You laughed at his response to that; He buried his face even further into your hot core and doubled his efforts.

"Hm-mahh, Kats, nuh-uh, nonono oh fu- holy shit! I'm g- I'm gonna fffuuuccckkk, Katsuki!"

Your cheeks turned rosy pink and you felt the sudden urge to have the fan on. "Kats - hot, I'm h-hot." He grumbled into your cunt, "Fuck, I know y'are. I know, baby. So fuckin' hot. Cum for me, c'mon."

Your body tensed up and your knees snapped shut as your orgasm hit you like a runaway semi. The hot liquid - not much of a surprise to you - caught your husband completely off guard. Despite your many, many warnings, he still didn't anticipate the release of such bodily fluids.

"Hol- … holy fucking shit, babe! Did you … did you just … piss?" He yelled. You had never been so grateful that your kid was at their grandma's house and not there to hear their dad yell at their mom about pissing the bed.

"I-I- YOU!!! I fucking told YOU!! And your dumbass just pushed and pushed and poked and sucked on me. And now? Well now, you have to change and wash the sheets." You looked at him with a smug look on your face that you had not earned but felt like he deserved to be at the receiving end of.

He laid there. Half stunned and fully hard. "Babe. I'm … you … fuck. That was so hot. I mean, I'm sorr-sorta sorry. But fuck. You just came so hard you pissed. I have never made you cum like that." He stood and walked over to where you were standing, dripping onto the hardwood floor. Cupping your pussy and rubbing it with the palm of his hand and fingertips, he leaned down to kiss you. "We're doing that again. I'll get the shit we need. You do whatever you need to do. I'll be back and serving up some drinks after a bit. Be ready for me. I love you, peeps."

"Peeps?" You tilted your head in confusion. "Oh, yeah. 'S my new nickname for ya. You like it?"

Laughing, you tiptoed the rest of the way to the bathroom to clean yourself off. "Whatever floats your boat, baby. Whatever floats your boat."

Taglist ::: @darkstarlight82 @millennialmagicalgirl // @bakubunny (Yes I know. But just in case you somehow missed it and because of the conversation we had about his little kinks the other day ; )) @thenamesmiz (if you only wanted kiri stuff lmk!) @callm3senpaii (are you still out there? Lol) @arlerts-angel

[lowcountry-gothic]

A poem for each EnneaType.

By Melissa Kircher, transcribed from @enneagrampaths.

A poem for EnneaType 1

and failure isn't failing it's actually an event creating space for new life to burst into wild reality

A poem for EnneaType 2

the soot and ash a charcoal facade behind which two eyes, glowing watch out she burns hot

A poem for EnneaType 3

I think poetry might be inside you the words there ready to tumble out I think the stars shine only for you tonight and the earth turns to keep you on it

A poem for EnneaType 4

if I let out the pain I said it will shatter galaxies that's fine she replied I made lots of them you can break a few

A poem for EnneaType 5

stay anchor in the depths every drop in the ocean sings for your presence here. now.

A poem for EnneaType 6

opening like petals rooted like pines woven back whole one thread at a time stretching up, out, down new rhythms like rhyme mothered soul tender finding child eyes dancing forest wild tasting deep like prophets wise

A poem for EnneaType 7

the sun hanging by a thread details that weigh mountains I want to find you again the girl in the tutu that sparkled and when I do pulling you into my lap I'll whisper you already knew the wisdom of the Universe

A poem for EnneaType 8

strong is two feet solid in the soil toes curled into the loam strong is letting pain sweep through your branches and losing some leaves strong is allowing the shadows to surround you to change you and then gently letting them pass

A poem for EnneaType 9

what could I do? these were my people so I went I entered their anguish I felt their relation and then I understood the spectrum of my own heart

[tk-duveraun]

9/? Luo Binghe is SO NORMAL about Shen Yuan

1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9 (here), 10

Read up through even numbered parts on Ao3

Migrane + Wedding is why delay :) Enjoy!

It was another vision, which should have been obvious even before the System popped up with:

[Quest Complete! User reward: Luo Baixiao backstory fragment]

Luo Binghe followed behind the Original Goods. Luo Baixiao couldn't have been more than fourteen, though with his adult mind, Luo Binghe honestly thought of anyone under twenty as a baby. Was he himself only twenty-five when he died? Yes. Did that change anything? No.

"Not this memory again," came Meng Mo's voice.

"Then don't watch, Old Man," Luo Binghe shot back. He flexed his power and the demon was locked away behind a partition in his mind.

That the Original Goods dwelt on this memory was good information. The fact that Luo Baixiao was clearly heading toward the Bamboo House was even better. Even though Luo Binghe was clearly making progress with Shen Yuan their past was an anchor around his neck.

Luo Baixiao was allowed in, though he clearly hadn't been expected. Shen Yuan took him into his side of the Bamboo House and Luo Baixiao went and prepared tea without being asked.

Luo Binghe frowned at the scene. Luo Baixiao's uniform was ill-fitting, too small. the belt was tied loosely in the front and the collar was wide open, showing off childish collarbones. When Luo Baixiao sat opposite Shen Yuan, alarm bells started ringing for Luo Binghe.

But there was nothing he could do when Luo Baixiao coquettishly splayed his legs to the side rather than sitting properly.

I really don't like where this is going.

It only got worse from there. Luo Baixiao leaned into the table and pulled his arms back to pull the collar even further open. He fluttered his eyelashes and tilted his head to look at Shen Yuan through them.

How dare this unfilial brat! Did Luo Binghe have similar aspirations? Perhaps, but he was both an adult and not actually Shen Yuan's sworn student. What kind of shotabait trash was this? Did Snowball write this? It certainly wasn't in the novel!

[Answering Host: This System used all available resources when instantiating Intricate Rituals with my Shixiongdi.]

I'll take that as a yes, then. Writing it and refusing to post would explain some of the pacing issues and weird cuts. Luo Binghe's stomach turned just watching the scene.

Shen Yuan sipped his tea calmly, not having noticed the show being played for his benefit. His eyes were on his desk across the room; it was piled high with scrolls and letters.

Luo Binghe could only watch in slow motion as Shen Yuan noticed his disciple had sat across from him.

Shen Yuan choked on the tea and coughed, even as he covered his eyes with one delicate hand. "Baixiao!"

That was interesting. Shen Yuan had once called the Original Goods so intimately?

"Baixiao just wants to serve Shizun," he crooned. He was a child.

Luo Binghe held back the urge to gag. What the actual fuck was going on?

[User requested character backstory. End scenario?]

No! I need to see what else this idiot did!

Shen Yuan threw a handful of talismans at the Original Goods. One stuck to Luo Baixiao's forehead, one to his mouth and one to each of his shoulders. Shen Yuan jumped to his feet and audibly gagged, clutching the hand over his mouth until his knuckles were bone white.

He took a few steadying breaths and glanced at his disciple. Even though Luo Biaxiao was frozen in place by the talismans, his robes were still indecently open. Shen Yuan reached into his sleeve again, pulling out an outer robe, but before it could leave his hand, he changed his mind and shoved it back in. He left the room and returned a moment later with a paint-stained drop cloth that he threw over Luo Baixiao's torso.

Shen Yuan's hands shook as he stared at his disciple, trying to decide how to proceed. Eventually he nodded to himself and left the room again. Luo Binghe tried to follow, but since it was the Original Goods' memory he couldn't see beyond the door frame.

Shen Yuan returned with an enchanted box. He opened it with a drop of his blood and a seal formed with both hands. He removed a vial from inside before resealing the box. He tipped Luo Baixiao's head back with his closed fan and then peeled the talisman off of his disciple's lips. Shen Yuan then poured the contents of the vial into Luo Biaxiao's mouth.

"Shizun!"

"Enough! You'll say nothing but the answers to this Master's questions." Shen Yuan snapped his fan open and covered a majority of his face. "Disciple Luo is not possessed, so he will explain what brought this on."

Luo Baixiao attempted to make himself look wronged, but since he could only move part of his face and even that was obsured by the talisman stuck to his forehead, the effect was lost. He seemed to notice because his eyes tightened in frustration and the muscles in his neck visibly tensed as he fought the paralyzing talismans.

After failing in his struggles, Luo Baixiao resorted to crocodile tears. "This Baixiao just wanted to show Shizun his appreciation."

"This master has never once intimated he would be amenable to such 'appreciation.'" Shen Yuan sneered the word with such scorn it was once again unclear whether or not he was related to Shen Jiu. "No child comes up with such ideas on his own. Who told you to do this?"

"No one told this Baixiao to-" The Original Goods choked on his words and tried a second, then a third time. When he failed to speak, his eyes widens in alarm.

"This Master has administered a truth serum. Now, who is giving Disciple Luo orders?" Shen Yuan looked cold and deadly. His eyes were narrowed and looked entirely black over his fan as he towered over Luo Baixiao.

Unfortunately, Luo Binghe couldn't even appreciate it. The reason for Shen Yuan's disgust? Having this idiot baby try to offer him sexual favors. Luo Binghe bared his teeth at the moronic half-demon and paced.

Given Shen Yuan's silence, the truth serum clearly had some element of compulsion that they were just waiting for.

Luo Baixiao growled, every muscle in his face and neck taut as he fought the potion, but eventually he slumped forward, held up only by the talismans on his shoulders. "Linguang-jun."

[xx-blueboy-xx]

Oooooh Gabriel’s guide to Sam Winchester I must know 🥺

WIP Ask Game!

Sooo!!!

The title is a reference to "Hitchhiker's Guide To The Galaxy" - and there is a reason for it!

Here is a little synopsis of the fic I have:

Gabriel, in a last ditch effort to save his life - goes careening through space and time. Searching for his one and only: Sam Winchester.

Sorta.

He really should have told the hunter about his feelings, before he went off and nearly died. Now, he is stuck jumping through universes and alternate-timelines, until he manages to discover the soul his own was anchored too.

So: basically, the plot is season-13 divergent where as Gabriel is being stabbed by Alt!Michael he tries and does his "fake death" trick but due to a lack of grace (and Alt!Michael's doing) something goes awry. Anddd, so, instead of ending back with OG!Sam in the bunker in the OG!Supernaturalverse he crash lands himself straight into an AU!

The fic follows him hopping between universes as he attempts to track down his Sam - meeting a bunch of AU!Sams along the way! And each chapter is titled realted to something he knows about Sam/learns what is different about the AU!Sams he meets! (and are numbered like a list)

I was planning on finishing it for GBB but, life happened and I didn't get around to it + had to drop out due to a lack of time. It is currently sitting at about 23k words with 4 complete chapters!!

Which are, because i genuinely love this fic and I will finish it someday (there is 2-3 more chapters I have planned and a lit of editing)

1. Sam Winchester is Not A Coward

- which is taking place in the world where Dean visted during his jinn dream! Lawyer!Sam who because of OG!Dean's visit entire timeline was set astray... (so the supernatural still exist in this world he just didn't know about it obv - because all the ppl they saved died)

2. Sam Would Die For Dean

- this is also taking place with Lawyer!Sam

3. Sam Likes Two Spoonful of Sugar in his Coffee

- in this one Gabriel meets a coffee-shop no real monsters Sam! Who is a huge fan of the books "Supernatural" (but they feature the Ghostfacers as the two brothers)

4. Sam Winchester is Warm

- Still with coffee-shop Sam! And it features Gabriel meeting his own alternative (who is basically just Richard Slieght)

5. Sam Winchester is Not An Evil Son of A Bitch

- the unstarted chapter but !! It's BoyKing!Sam :) and Gabriel meets his own alternative from this world too!

6. Sam Is Perfectly & Beautifully Human

- Gabe ends up in a Reverse!verse and meets angel!sam and hunter!gabe (unstarted only plotted)

7. Sam Is A Survivor

- Sam is dead. That's it. That's the world. (plotted only)

8. Sam Is Everything

- Gabe finally makes it home!!! 🎉 To his Sam!

I am like spoiling the whole thing but it has veen a while since I touched it so, jt's nice to explore it again/think about it once more. Life just got soooo busy when I was working on it.

Anyways! Have an excerpt because, well, I have a lack of self control!!

(From Chapter 4, the last few hundred words of the WIP)

“I don't owe a traitor anything. All you need to know, dearest little brother: is that you are never getting home. And that I am tired of being nice. I tried my best to give you a happy ending. But, perhaps, I should show you one of the bad endings, hm? Maybe that will make you appreciate my gifts more.”

“Bastard! You know over the millennia, you would think someone would have managed to remove that stick from your ass!” he screams at nothing hearing his own voice echo off the walls, and spiral down the staircase: his true voice is leaking through a bit as well. Ever since Asmodnoues he hasn’t had such good control over it as he used to. Having spent hundreds of years in a vessel had made him a master of control. He doesn’t receive an answer to his quip, feeling the world tilt before it swirls. Melting around him, the walls and ceiling dripping. Feeling as if he is being thrown by an invisible hand he finds himself stumbling into an entirely new environment. His vision swims and he feels his grace flare out around him defensively only for it to be - locked. Not gone. But locked inside of his body. He feels shackles around his wrists and his blazing golden eyes snap to them. There are Enochian runes carved into strange flickering-smokey bracelets. They vanish, but their effect is as strong as ever.

He has been bound. To what, or who, well that’s to be seen. Gabriel flares his wings out feeling them stir the air around him from their incorporeal state. He doesn’t fly. His shoulders slump in defeat and he finally starts to take in where he is. In some kind of grand throne room.. It looks nicer than it had in a long time, there is a strange familiar touch to the layout. Every ruler of Hell loved to reshape the place. Large black-marble columns, very Greek in style around him lining the long-hall. Beneath his feet a plush red carpet was rolled all the way to the base of a massive throne, carved from bone. Human skulls line the top of the throne, placed delicately upon spikes, hollow eye sockets glaring with small red-burning fires in them.

The archangel feels like he has lost the ability to process as his gaze first finds the shining black-dress shoes upon the man sitting in the throne. Gabriel’s eyes reveal the long-blue tail whipping behind him, deep-red spikes lining it, and he can see carefully folded leathery-wings behind his back, the spiked tips blood red while the wings themselves fade from black into a navy blue. Two long-horns protrude from the man’s head of wavy-brown locks spiraling straight up in spires. On earth, these kinds of things would be unseen on the vessel. But not in Hell. Blazing yellow eyes glow as they take in the sight of the archangel, who finally processes the face that bares the sharp-toothed grin being sent his way.

“Well, well. Look what the cat dragged in?”

The Boy King, steps down from the throne of Hell.

[lacedinweb22]

You're... Spider-Man (Miguel O’Hara x reader)

🕸️ Entangled series 🕸️ ch. 8 - prev parts: ch. 5, ch. 6, ch. 7

You've figured him out.

✰ ✰ ✰

I ran out of my apartment building, dragging my bike beside me. The front of the building was completely surrounded by reporters, cop cars, news station vans, and Spider-Man fans, cosplaying and shouting, waiting to catch a glimpse of their hero in action. 

Umbrellas filled the scene; red and blue flashing police lights reflected in the puddles I stepped into.

The news anchors stood in a row, all reporting in front of my building. 

“It’s almost 9:30; we should be seeing our favorite hero very soon!”

“Why this block? We’re asking ourselves the same thing!” 

I pulled my raincoat hood over me, pushed through the crowd, then hopped onto my bike and headed for Miguel’s apartment.

***

I stood on his doormat, my knuckles resting against the door, hesitant to knock. 

What if he rejects me? What if I’m insane and wrong about him? What if he’s done with me and turns me away?  

I took a deep breath and knocked. 

No answer. 

I knocked again. 

Still no answer. 

He programmed my prints onto his door knob’s recognition algorithm weeks ago, allowing me to enter his apartment if necessary. This felt necessary. 

I wrapped my hand around the door knob. It glowed blue then pushed in, opening the door and revealing his dark apartment. The windows and blinds were all closed up, the apartment was lit only by the orange glow that peeked from his bedroom, the door ajar. 

I slid my shoes off, tiptoeing and looking around for Miguel. He wasn’t here. His motorcycle helmet was still here and his car keys remained on his kitchen counter. Where is he? Out being Spider-Man?

I walked towards his bedroom, slowly pushing the door open, the light glowing brighter on me. This feels wrong. But in the end, this will be worth it. Miguel will trust you, the lying will be over, and you’ll … live happily ever after.

I walked into his room. It looked the same as when I saw it last. His desk covered in gadgets and scribbled notes, his bed neatly made, books littered across the comforter.

I sat at the edge of his bed, realizing that Miguel wasn’t here, and wasn’t using his car or motorcycle, confirming my suspicions. 

He’s probably on my block, at my apartment. He’ll be on the news anytime now. Maybe he’ll come back early because I’m not there. My stomach dropped. Things will never be the same after this.  

“Okay so Miguel is Spid— no. It can’t be you. Was it fucking obvious? Right in front of me all along? How could I not see it?” I whispered as I stood back up, panicked, pacing back and forth in his bedroom. 

I stood at his desk; the orange hologram lit up my face as it all dawned on me. I looked down at the clutter, giving attention to the detailed gadgets he must have engineered, and piles of sketches of prototypes I’d never seen before. This isn’t physics. I traced my fingers along his handwriting, beautiful scribbles spread across his notepad. He’s so smart. I guess if anyone is Spider-Man, it would make sense that it’s the genius geneticist that is the arrogant, annoying, bratty Miguel. 

A photograph poked out of his journal. It was us; Lizzie took it during a study group in the spring. That’s Spider-Man? This competitive son of a bitch is our friendly neighborhood Spider-Man? The Miguel who will rematch me one million times until he wins? The Miguel who won’t shut up about my physics solutions being off a decimal? This stubborn, arrogant asshole?

My laptop bag was hung across his shoulder. Always holding my shit. If he knew my bag was heavy, he’d steal it from me, using his height advantage to dodge my grabs. Stubborn asshole.

But,

Sweet, generous Miguel. 

…

Shit.

It’s adding up.

The noise of metal clashing disrupted my memories, booming from his bedroom window, causing me to turn sharply, my stomach dropping, my heart beginning to race. I watched the fire escape stairs rattle, anxiously. I stepped back, waiting to see him. This is it. 

Red webbing wrapped around the metal followed by a figure quickly pulled up onto the fire escape, the huge crash making me jump. It was him. Spider-Man. The man who saved me in the alleyway and walked me home. Massive, tall, and muscular, in costume, just like I’ve seen on the news, right in front of me, the side of him he’s kept from me. The side of him I met that night, but

hadn’t truly met. 

I gasped, catching my breath as he pulled the window up then stopped suddenly as he looked up to see me through the glass. He paused then slowly slid it further up. I helped lift it up, our hands against each other on opposite sides of the glass. I crawled through the window before he had the chance to come in. I stood in front of him, the rain pouring down on us. 

“I have to be dreaming,” I whispered, backing away as his tall, glowing figure towered over me. The adrenaline began to hit. “Y/N,” “It’s you. The guy that saved me last month, right? That’s who you are, right? God, how could you keep this from me?” I shouted against the beating rain, exhausted. 

“Jesus christ,” he grumbled, dragging his hand over his mouth and down his chin. 

“¡Lo sabía! I knew you’d be here. You weren’t at your apartment, and I still had to deal with the whole crowd following my every fucking move,”

I ignored him, picking up his arm, my touch interacting with the nanoparticles. 

“I could hear your heart racing from a mile away,” 

I looked up at him, my anger put on hold. 

“And smell your perfume from a mile away,” he muttered, looking down at me analyzing his nanotech.

I dropped his arm sharply, pushing him away.

“You’re– I mean I was right! You’re a liar and you’re… Spider-man,” I said, nodding to his get-up.

“Why are you here, Y/N? I had one simple rule for you to follow! Just. One. Not to visit me at night,” he scolded, his mask furrowing down at me. Shit, forgot about that. 

“You and your fucking rules! You’ve broken more than I can count and you’re worried about this one? I mean this lie— it breaks all of them. Look at you, Miguel, you’ve won, you’ve outdone yourself,” 

My eyes glossed over every mezzo detail. His suit was unbelievably detailed. 

He was this mesmerizing figure of crimson red glimmer and dim dark navy towering over me, glowing onto me, as I stood under him, his loyal shadow.

“Miguel, you’re Spider-Man,” I breathed out again, in shock, hearing my voice confirm my most outrageous theory.

“Really? Had no idea—” he muttered, looking down at his suit, “Why. Are. You. Here?” he asked, slower and quietly.

“I figured you out, Miguel. I want to hear the truth from you now… but first— you— you’ve been lying to me all along: your brother knows how to fix a fucking car, you didn’t bang up my soda breaking up a fight, you weren’t interning late, you’ve been out… being Spider-Man.”

His head hung low, his mask emotionless, a barrier between us; my reflection in his eyes looked back at me. 

“Miguel, to think you could’ve been hurt, seriously hurt, or been taken, I— I could’ve lost you any fucking second, and I wouldn’t have even known! I wouldn’t know how, or where … I wouldn’t have even said goodbye! How, Miguel… how could you keep this from me?” I yelled, looking up at him through my tears, the rain drenching my hair, blurring my vision. I looked up at the glowing figure; I knew Miguel was under there, or just a stranger I thought I knew. 

“I was trying to protect you! I didn’t want you to get entangled in my messes, with the shit I have to deal with!”

“I’m already entangled! I thought you trusted me—”

“I do but this isn’t about that! This is your life! This is so much bigger than petty fucking lies!” he exclaimed, rain glazing his suit. 

I wiped my drenched face. Miguel reached his hand up to me, but I pushed it away. 

“This is your life too! These are lies you’ve told me that– I wouldn’t have known that I lost you! Lost. Do you fucking get that? You’ve been in harm’s way this whole time and I didn’t even know! I’ve also– I mean god, do you even know how fucking crazy you made me feel? All these mixed signals? I’ve been fucking delusional about you being gone for hours at a time thinking you’ve just come back from a— a fucking quickie! I mean— I even thought it was the girl from the bookstore!” 

I sighed, my burning heart coming to a simmer. 

“I thought… I just— It could’ve saved me so much confusion and… maybe we would’ve been together by now, maybe we would’ve made sense,” I breathed out, wiping the rain and tears from my face. I looked up at his mask; I hate that I can’t read him.

“Together,” he muttered, his head hung low in thought.

“Nevermind that. Let’s go back for a second, so you’re ‘protecting’ me… is that why you’ve been surveilling my apartment this whole week? You don’t want me to get entangled yet you’re there crawling up and down my building? Is that why you were there the night of the attack? You’d rather stalk me then just tell me the truth?” 

“Well maybe if you let me speak every once in a while, I would’ve already told you!” he exclaimed, looking down at me. 

I collected myself. 

“Can you just take off your mask, please?… I came here to tell you, okay? To show you, I connected the dots… finally, about us and about your second life, I figured it out. And I want to be mad at you so bad right now, for keeping this from me and lying to me, but— you’re right, okay? I’m sorry. I’ve been so selfish and… oblivious, and I’m sorry,” I finished quietly, looking up at his masked gaze.

He deactivated his mask, his face finally confirming the Earth-shattering truth I thought I was prepared to face.

I exhaled, seeing the truth for myself.

He hovered over me; the street lamps lit up the side of his face. I looked down at his suit then back up at the bruises and cuts on his cheeks. The rain began to soak into his waves, his hair dripping down onto his face. 

It made sense. The sudden splash of maroon in his eyes, late nights at Alchemax, the new frequent bruises on his knuckles. All of it. 

“And I’m sorry I lied… a lot,” he whispered. My lips fought a smile. He looked at me the way he did at the party, surrounded and drowning in all of the noise. It feels the same. 

“How did this happen?” 

I lifted my hand to his lips, tracing my fingers on his sharp fangs. 

He put his hand on my hand, “Alchemax,” he whispered back, still staring down at me. I grabbed his hands, the suit glitched away exposing his bare hands. I held them in my hands, tracing the bruises on his knuckles, and his nails, where I knew his claws hid under. 

I traced my fingertips along his suit then noticed black peeking from his suit collar. I pulled it out; it was the necklace I gave to him. 

“You… wear it when you…?” I whispered.

He nodded, looking down at me, “Never taking it off,” he muttered, softly smiling down at me. 

“I thought you were too stubborn to want to talk to me again. What… changed?” 

I grabbed our notebook from the windowsill, and quickly turned to the sketched page. I hovered over it, trying to shelter it from the rain. 

“You… you drew this. It kind of opened my eyes, helped me realize that I— that you—” 

“I want you?” 

He looked down at the page then back up at me. “Glad you finally see how fucking oblivious you are,” he scoffed, grabbing the now drenched notebook and tossing it back inside. He filled in the gap between us, our bodies pressing against each other. 

“Let me set things straight, Y/N. I wasn’t flirting with you because you were the only girl around at the party. It wasn’t me being lonely, or bored,” he explained desperately, his eyebrows knit together. He pushed my wet hair out of my face. 

“And it wasn’t the alcohol that made me say all of that or act that way with you, it was you. It was you,” he breathed out, nodding, his hypnotizing crimson eyes latching onto mine. 

“You want me?” I whispered, smiling up at him. He put his hands on my waist, pulling me into him.

He nodded, his lips right in front of mine, “Of course I want you.”

I wiped his wet face, my hand slipping against his soft skin. 

“I really really do,” he whispered.

His thumb caressed my cheek, his lips brushing against mine. Our bodies pressed tightly together, slippery against one another. He combed his fingers through my drenched hair, brushing the mess back. He slowly pressed his lips against mine, his warmth spreading to my stomach, triggering butterflies and sparks of electricity throughout my body. 

And suddenly, it all made perfect sense. 

✧༺♥༻∞

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[pisupsala]

Of All The Stars in The Sky | 12 | Bradley ‘Rooster’ Bradshaw

Summary | War looks different from high above in the sky. But when Bradley finds himself on the ground, far behind enemy lines, it becomes a race against the clock to get out. And try not to look back at what he’s leaving behind.

Pairing | Bradley 'Rooster' Bradshaw x fem!reader / Bradley 'Rooster' Bradshaw x fem!oc (no use of y/n)

Warnings |Mature content | 18+ only[WWII AU] swearing, war, violence, death, explicit smut

Words | 9.6k

Index | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10 | Chapter 11 | Chapter 12 | Chapter 13 | Chapter 14 | Chapter 15 | Chapter 16 | Chapter 17

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Chapter 12 - I Fall in Love Too Easily

“Do it, you coward.” You challenge him instead, that mischievous smirk suddenly on your face again—it is fast becoming his favorite thing about you. Fearless, stubborn, and oh so sweet when you want to be. You keep surprising him on every front, encircling him, until he cannot think about anything but you. He’s dreamt of this moment—that you would come to him. Finally, admit that you really felt something for him. That you wanted him. That he wouldn’t feel so goddamn alone anymore.

And now you’re challenging him. Because of course you are. 

Dropping the matches at his feet, he reaches for you, cupping your face gently and closing the distance between you. Your breath is coming out in rapid bursts, your face suddenly flushed—you almost don’t believe he’d actually go through with it.

He lightly brushes his lips against yours, like he is testing the waters—giving you a chance to retreat. You parried his advances—overt or subtle—so many times like a doe shooting away through the forest.

Your breaths mingle as his mouth hovers only millimeters away from yours. It’s so familiar. The flames you had been desperately trying to extinguish are roaring higher than ever before. You’ve been close to Rooster before, felt his skin under your hands, his hot breath on your face—but never like this. Never this real. 

You can’t wait anymore. Pushing yourself up on your tiptoes, steadying yourself with your hands on his broad shoulders, your lips meet his.

Your lips are as soft as Bradley imagined—for all your boldness, your kiss is almost shy, lips gently brushing against his. But you are finally here. He lets you lead, not wanting to break the spell or spook you, trying to have the moment last. 

If you ever thought just getting a taste of Rooster would be enough to quench your want for him, you feel almost cursed by the knowledge that this isn’t enough. It will never be. You want him whole.

With the slightest sigh, you open your mouth, Bradley grabbing the chance immediately to deepen the kiss. His hands slide down your neck to the collar of your coat, causing you to shiver under his touch. A smile tugs at his lips. He cannot deny how much he enjoys every small reaction he draws out of you, like with every sigh and every moan; he learns how to read you a little bit better. 

You press yourself into him, hand snaking up the back of Bradley’s neck, raking your fingers through his hair. It’s silky and soft. Your fingers instinctively tighten around his curls, like you’re looking to anchor yourself against him. He groans into the kiss. The vibrations of his sounds are quaking down to your core. 

Your kiss turns hungry, greedy almost, and Bradley welcomes it, pulling you impossibly closer to him. He noticed long ago how nicely your body fit against his, even though it was only in fleeting moments, through accidental touches. Now that you’ve launched yourself into his arms with purpose, your want is apparent; everything has fallen into place—even just for this moment. It feels right like this is precisely where you are both supposed to be together. 

Bradley tries to hold back, but you are so goddamn beguiling, balancing on your tiptoes, softly moaning into the kiss—he cannot help but match your fervor.

Your breath hitches as he pushes your coat down your shoulders. As the sleeves slide down your arms, your fingers untangle from his hair, almost automatically falling by your side You break the kiss as you land back flat on your feet. Looking up, you study Rooster for a moment—he looks flushed, but he moves with purpose. The soft thud of the heavy wool of your coat hitting the ground is the only sound in the room besides your heaving breathing. You gasp loudly as Rooster pulls you back into him and latches his lips on the column of your neck. 

The soft skin of your neck has been beckoning to him, teasing him in glimpses for so long now. He smells the soap on your skin—it’s so deceptively simple but completely intoxicating. It’s like you are melting in his hands, stretching your neck, exposing more of your skin to him.

Your fingertips lightly dance over the quickly forming scars on Bradley’s face and neck—the wounds you treated for him, a constant reminder of how he got here, why you are here. 

He sighs as he finds the pulse point on your throat, dragging his teeth across it—his mustache tickles against the sensitive skin, sending shivers of pleasure down your spine. You can’t stop the moan that tears from your mouth. Bradley’s hands tighten on your waist, bunching up the fabric of your sweater under his fingers.

Your lips find him again. You don’t even care if it’s evident how desperate you are for him; you just want more. It gives you no small amount of satisfaction that Rooster doesn’t seem to be able to hold back either, his hands roaming over your sides frantically, pushing your sweater up, fingers tantalizingly dancing over your rib cage. 

“Tell me to stop.” He mumbles, voice raspy and breathing heavily against the shell of your ear. “Anya, tell me, and I’ll stop.” 

“N- no.” You stutter desperately, voice high. “Please, Rooster, no.” 

His mouth returns to yours feverishly as he guides you backward, your feet tripping over your coat on the floor. Bradley catches you easily, pulling you up against him, a strong arm wrapped around your waist. Your toes are barely reaching the floor anymore as you fist his cotton shirt on his back, pulling it out of the waistband of his slacks.

Your back hits the cool wall as he sets you back on two feet. His forearm is resting flat against the wall next to your head. You grapple at him, pulling his face to yours, kissing him fiercely, desperate not to break the spell between you.

You’ve spent so long filing off every edge and hook of yourself, fitting yourself into an unassuming role, slotting neatly between everyone else, you almost forgot that that’s not who you were before. It feels like Rooster’s hungry kiss is peeling back the layers of you, exposing every imperfection, every sloppy stitch, and every rough edge that is part of you.

The realization that this is the first time in maybe years you have genuinely felt like yourself, like the person you were supposed to be instead of what you were made to be, stokes the fire in you even more. You want to remember this moment, in all its chaos and passion, and you want to remember him because he’s making you remember you.

You press yourself into his muscular chest, hooking your leg around his thigh. Bradley’s hand travels down your side to the curve of your ass, dragging you up while kneading the flesh through the layers of fabric. Wedged between Bradley and the wall, you decisively pull his shirt up, your nails grazing over the exposed skin of his stomach. His muscles twitch under your touch. Bradley groans into your kiss, grinding his lower body into you as he shrugs off the garment. 

He feels so hot against you, like a fever taking hold of you. He’s making quick work of your sweater, pulling it over your head in one fluid motion, his lips following close behind, anointing the newly exposed skin of your collarbone with kisses.

Your mouth travels over Bradley’s neck, lightly licking the newly forming long scar over his throat. He hisses at the contact, your heart skipping a beat at every reaction you elicit from him. Bradley nips your shoulder, fingers hooked under the straps of your slip dress and brassiere and pulling them down.

Bradley grinds into you again; you feel how hard he is against your pelvis. You gasp in ecstasy, your fingers clumsily traveling down his torso to the fly of his slacks. The soft trail of hair on his stomach tickles against your wrist. He is pushing your skirt up now, his calloused fingers palming the delicate skin of your thighs.

He isn’t sure how it’s gotten from you playfully taunting him to him pinning you against the wall, feverishly pulling at each other's clothes. It sure wasn’t what he was expecting, your propensity to sidestep him at every turn when things got a little too real, but he’s far from complaining. Every little dream, every dirty thought he tried to bury somewhere deep inside him, guilty he cast you in that light in the first place, is now suddenly turning into a reality.

You taste sweeter than he could have ever conjured up in his mind, and the fact that you came to him on your terms, reeling him in with that teasing twinkle in your eye, makes it all the sweeter to Bradley.

Progressively, your movements turn hesitant and light, Bradley notices. Like you’re unsure how to proceed—as if the haze is melting off you. He forces himself to slow down, heart almost beating out of his chest, matching your pace, before he pulls back to look at you. You meet his eyes with a dazed look, eyes lidded and swollen lips. He’s breathing as heavily as you are, the swell of your breasts blooming over the top of your simple cotton slip with every movement. You’ve never looked more beautiful to him as you reach out back to him, gripping his hair and pulling his face back to yours.

Your kiss is shy. Bradley lets you take the lead—maybe reality is setting in for you, the ebbing rush of adrenaline suddenly leaving you cold. He waits for you to break the kiss and turn away, but selfishly, desperately, he hopes you don’t. But then you grind against him, a small moan falling from your lips as you arch your back, the top of your breasts brushing against the bare skin of his chest. He curses, painfully grasping your hip.

You still, your arm wrapped around his neck. You open your mouth like you’re about to say something,but uncharacteristically hesitate again, fixing your eyes on his shoulder instead, where your fingers trace a delicate pattern.

Shit.

“Have you -” Bradley starts, willing himself back into equilibrium, trying to calm the blood rushing in his ears. “Have you ever been with a man before?” He asks gently, his voice husky from need. Bradley cannot imagine you didn’t have everyone wrapped around your little finger with that beautiful smile. His heart is pounding in anticipation so loudly now; he’s sure you can feel it, as close as you are still to him, your arms still tangled around his neck, his large warm hand still under your skirt, holding you up between his hard body and the cool wall.

You lick your lips nervously, eyes fluttering across the room but avoiding him. The tiny crease between your eyebrows is there again. It would be adorable if Bradley weren’t burning for your answer. 

“Yes.” You swallow. “Once.” It comes out in almost a whisper. You burn in embarrassment. Fuck. Rooster had his choice of girls, and a dark part of you is suddenly intimidated that you will not measure up to his experience. One somewhat drunk, certainly regretful roll in the hay is your best offer.

You hate to feel exactly what he called you: a jumped-up little schoolgirl —hopelessly, only playing at it.

“Was he good to you?” Bradley asks, pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth in a moment of selfishness, wanting to pull you back into him. The question catches you off guard as you look at him in confusion. However, he doesn’t elaborate or cease his efforts to keep your head spinning—his large warm hand massages your thigh, fingers creeping a little higher with each motion. You sigh deeply before closing your eyes.

“No.”

“I’ll be good to you, sweetheart.” He promises, trailing kisses up your jawline, hot breath caressing the shell of your ear. “So good.”

You are convinced that at this point, Rooster could tell you the sky was purple and the grass blue and you would believe every word. You want to believe him more than anything. Every off-hand comment, teasing joke, all those lingering touches; in your heart, you always wanted it to be true.

“I trust you.” You breathe.

The hunger and desperation of Rooster’s movements become a simmering heat as he methodically moves his hot mouth over your skin, leaving a fire trail in his wake. Your nails rake over his broad shoulders. Tortuously slowly, his mouth moves over your now-exposed collarbone. You are breathing hard,like your throat is parched with an intense thirst only Rooster’s lips can alleviate.

But he won’t give in to you. Bradley is savoring the moment, committing every little noise you make, the softness of your skin, the heat of your body to memory. It’s been so long since he’s been close to someone—Bradley can barely remember, only in vague shadows and flashes, the last time he fell into someone's arms like this. It must have been before he left for that last cursed sortie; it all feels so far away, like everything that happened in England, let alone back home in the United States, happened to someone else in a different lifetime. 

All he can think about now is how he feels completely touch-starved God, he wants to be good for you, but right now, he needs this. He needs you in every way he can have you; take as much as you are willing to give him, from every smile you grace him to your sharp spitfire tongue, but most of all, the comfort of your body. 

He needs to feel a measure of control. You whine in frustration as Rooster keeps denying you his kiss, his mouth only inches away from yours as he bumps his nose tenderly, teasingly against yours. It’s hard to miss the grin on his face as he watches you struggle. 

Of course he’s enjoying this.

The bands of your slip hang off your shoulders, the fabric slipping over your heaving chest alluringly. With nimble fingers, Rooster pops the button at your skirt's waistband and effortlessly pulls down the zipper. Taking a step back, his fingers sliding down the length of your leg, fingertips playfully skimming past the back of your knee, he sets you back down. You’re not proud of the whiney sounds escaping your lips as the cold air suddenly hits you.

Rooster just grins at you. That devastatingly handsome grin; it fills you with want. To slap him or to kiss him—either would work right now. His hands are skimming down your sides, quickly tugging your skirt down your hips—the rust-colored fabric pools at your feet. Stepping out of the skirt, you kick off your shoes and socks, shivering again as your bare feet touch the floor.

You look so cute—wild strands of hair that have escaped from your braid frame your face, your lips swollen from the kiss, the small marks on your skin from his teeth, pupil blown. In that simple white cotton slip, so deceptively simple, so deceptively innocent -

“If you back out now, Rooster…” Your words are forced, the barely concealed anger seeping through. Your hands are balled into fists. “Then I’ll…” 

Taking a deep breath, nostrils flaring, you look at Rooster, eyes blazing. He is perfectly unbothered by your unfinished threat, still grinning at you. You don’t get another second to consider how you would finish the sentence when Rooster’s fingers graze over your cheek so tenderly before sliding up the nape of your neck into your hair at lightning speed. 

There is nothing gentle about how his fist closes at the roots near your scalp, pulling your hair tightly. He tilts your head back, exposing the length of your neck. He ghosts his lips over the taut skin, not quite touching you, but you feel his mustache brushing against you—your skin erupts in goosebumps. You hiss, not in pain, but in anticipation. 

“You’ll what, Anya?” Rooster practically purrs. You are firmly wedged between him and the wall again, suddenly keenly aware you are only in your underwear.

“Ah- I’ll -” You screw your eyes shut. Something clever, hell, even something dumb, would be great now, but the words won’t come. It’s like you’ve lost the ability to form sentences. Head tilted up, you can’t see Rooster’s face, but you can practically feel that smug grin on his face. Swallowing hard, you struggle to finish your threat. 

“I- I swear I’ll… - shit, Rooster!” You cry out as he nips you just below your ear, jerking your head involuntarily in reaction to the overstimulation. Rooster’s grip immediately eases, allowing you some movement back, but he keeps his hand buried in your hair, fingertips pressed against your scalp.

He watches as your eyes flutter shut as he slowly tightens his grip again. Arching into him, your hands rest on his chest, a slight tremor shaking your fingers. Oh, so this is working for you. It’s a secret Bradley gets to uncover about you. One Bradley doesn’t want you to share with anyone else. A part of him hopes no one else will ever hear your soft breathy moans; he wants to be the only one you cling to so desperately with that longing look in your eyes.

Bradley doesn’t consider himself a particularly selfish person. Or possessive, for that matter—he is keenly aware most things in life are just passing. Temporary. And the one time, it should be more evident than ever that there is absolutely no chance of this going anywhere beyond what it is—just in this moment —he cannot help it. He wants more, and he wants all of you to himself.

Somewhere from deep in his gut, words start bubbling up—but Bradley thinks better of it, kissing you rather than saying anything, releasing your hair, and pulling both legs around his waist. You hook your ankles around his back, anchoring yourself against him.

Bradley moves back, pulling you away from the wall. You gasp in surprise, suddenly self-conscious that Rooster is holding you up, although he does not indicate any struggle. You try to steady yourself by grabbing onto his shoulders—Rooster’s muscles are tensed, and suddenly you feel the definition of every plane and edge. He is not only good-looking, he feels goddamn good. Strong. It’s making you weak at the knees—something you haven’t felt in a long time.

A giggle escapes you as you land lightly on the narrow single bed, back first. Rooster is hovering over you, looking at you in wonder. Whenever he thinks you can’t look prettier or more attractive, you’re happy you prove him wrong. Your slip dress has ridden up your thighs, bunched up at your hips as your legs are still around his waist. Hair mussed, lips kissed swollen—you look ravished. And he’s not anywhere done with you yet.

Leaning on your elbows, you look back up at him. So many times you had wished Rooster would look at you with longing—lust even —not to tease you, but genuinely. You hated yourself for it because you were sure that would never happen. But now Rooster is looking at you like you’re the only thing in the world.

He leans back, gently unhooking your legs from his waist. You sit up a bit straighter, planting your palms on the mattress, following his movements sharply. Your stomach clenches as he pulls back from you. Rooster is not looking at you as he maneuvers your legs, placing your feet on the mattress. 

“Rooster…” You trail off, frowning slightly as he finally looks at you, his face suddenly uncharacteristically serious, but he doesn’t reply.

“Wha-” Not even able to finish the whole word, you yelp loudly as Rooster suddenly grabs your ankle and yanks your leg up, pulling your weight off your hands. You land flat on your back again, head just below the pillow, as Rooster casually drapes your leg over his shoulder.

You start laughing—from shock, nerves, the way his mustache tickles against your calve as he peppers it with kisses—everything feels so strange, and your emotions are so high-strung after today it’s coming out in weird ways. Rooster’s shoulders shake as he laughs with you before he looks at you again. You bite your lip, holding your breath in anticipation.

“I don’t think I like it anymore when you call me that, Anya,” He says earnestly between kisses—gone is the playfulness of just a few moments ago. His hand is running up and down your thigh, thumb gently brushing the hollow of your knee, tickling the sensitive skin. 

You breathe to confirm. He doesn’t reply, gently nipping you right above the knee. Your hand comes up to cover your mouth.

“I think you should be calling me by my name,” He clarifies, meeting your gaze again. It never bothered Bradley what people called him—most people call him Rooster. But you are not most people, and he wants you closer. He is not just his call sign and the reason he got it; he doesn’t want that to be how you look at him. Not anymore. He just wants to be Bradley for you.

“Bradley.” It sounds almost like a question, the name unfamiliar on your tongue, a slight lilt weighing down the L. No one has ever said his name in such a delightful way before; he is sure of it. The dazed look on your face, your fingers resting lightly on your lips, your state of undress and laying on his bed, is the perfect way to finally hear you say his name. 

He groans heavily, screwing his eyes shut. Bending forward, Bradley rests his head against your stomach, your leg still hooked over his shoulder—your slip has now bunched up above your hips, exposing your panties. His hand moves up under your slip dress, comfortably resting on the bare skin of your waist. He stays there for a moment, trying to get a grip.

Gingerly, you rake your fingers through his hair. Bradley hums in response, pushing your slip up further.

“Bradley, please,” You whisper, squirming, trying to move your hips. The fire in you is burning almost painfully, and you desperately want Bradley to fucking move. 

He cannot stop the litany of curses as he hears you say his name so needily, roll your hips against him so wantonly, fingers tightening in his hair. Hearing him lose control and swear like that spurs you on more—seeing your effect on him is exhilarating.

“Anya - fuck,” He groans as he finally lifts his head, tightening his grip on your waist to keep you still. But you do not intend to make this easy for him, arching your back and tugging at his hair. “Sweetheart, wait one second.” 

You stop deliciously contorting under him, only your heavy breathing moving your body now. The frustration passes over your features like a shadow, although you try to hide it. Bradley knows that the following words out of his mouth will probably not make you much happier.

���Sweetheart, you don’t happen to have condoms, do you?” There’s no way to make the question less awkward, but you are both taking enough risks. Leaving you as a lover is one thing; leaving you as an unwed mother is another.

“No,” You narrow your eyes at him momentarily as you lean on your elbows again so that you can look at Bradley. “Why don’t you?”

“I must have lost them when I crashed my plane.” He deadpans in response. You pout before you drop yourself back onto the bed. Hand covering your face, your shoulders start shaking. If Bradley didn’t know you better, he’d think it looks like you’re crying. But your laughter suddenly fills the room.

You cannot believe this. It’s absurd.

“This is so stupid!” You exclaim between bouts of laughter. Bradley can’t help but laugh as he sits up again—all the tension you've built up needs to go somewhere. And he likes to hear you laugh like that, without inhibitions. 

“Is this really how this night ends?” You ask, peeking at him between your fingers, trying to hide your disappointment by filling your sudden emptiness with words.

“I wasn’t aware of the night ending, sweetheart.” Bradley purrs, his hands suddenly moving up your legs again. You look at him wide-eyed, reminding him that despite your nimble fingers and plenty of bravado, you’re quite inexperienced. 

“I promised I’d be good to you, Anya,” Bradley soothes. “And I’m a man of my word.”

He pulls you up before grabbing the hem of your slip and tugging it up, stopping just under your breasts. “Will you let me show you how good I can be to you, sweetheart?”

You swallow heavily, averting your gaze. “But…” “I won’t do anything to compromise you, Anya,” His fingers wrap around your chin, gently guiding you to look at him. He seems earnest—there is no trace of him joking or teasing. “I promise, sweetheart.” 

Inhaling deeply, trying to make sense of all the feelings rampaging through you, you look back into his warm brown eyes. You feel nervous because you are in largely uncharted territory here, making you feel vulnerable. Both physically and emotionally. One part of you wants to start laughing again, to somehow diffuse the tension you are feeling.

But looking into Bradley’s eyes as he patiently waits for your response, his fingers caressing your jaw—what are you really feeling?

Trust your gut.

“I trust you.” You echo, your hands coming up to gently cradle his face. His eyes close for a moment, leaning into your palm. You feel vulnerable, but when you examine it, it doesn’t feel heavy or scary. Nervous but not apprehensive. Not with Bradley. 

Pulling Bradley’s face to yours, you don’t hesitate as you kiss him again. This whole night felt like you were hurtling downstream on a violent river—the tension and stress of sending the message, the desperation and burning need you felt for Bradley—it now finally feels like a calmness besets you because it feels right.

This kiss feels a lot more intimate, and it’s giving you butterflies. Bradley’s hands travel from your jaw to your collarbone before he breaks the kiss to tug your shift dress up further. He doesn’t need to say anything; you understand him instinctively as your arms come up automatically to allow him to pull the garment over your head. 

His hands start roaming over the newly exposed skin of your stomach, back, and rib, while he presses kisses on your collarbone, before his thumb lightly brushes over your breast. The sensation feels dull through the layered fabric. You push your chest out, pressing your breast into Bradley’s hand. He gladly obliges, squeezing and tugging the band down further. 

The anticipation in the air is electric as Bradley's touch sends shivers down your spine. You can feel your heart pounding in your chest, your senses heightened, every nerve on edge. With a soft sigh, you let your hands wander over his shoulders and chest, caressing his skin—his muscles move and contract under your touch. You want to make him feel good too.

The soft click of your bra unclasping should have you hesitating. But you want to feel Bradley everywhere, that this goddamn thing is in the way right now. You boldly pull the bra off down your arms, pushing it away. In a flurry of movement, your panties follow suit. 

Bradley was always gentle around you, never fighting as you pushed and pulled him with you—gladly following your lead. You know he was strong—the broad shoulders, the defined arms, and the chiseled chest make that hard to miss, and god knows you’ve sneaked enough peeks—but before today, he rarely demonstrated the functionality of his physique. The effortlessness with which he picked you up earlier and he now how lifts your hips, sliding your panties down, pulling them off your legs with one hand, is leaving you breathless. 

It’s exciting to realize how you’re at his mercy right now and how much power he has been allowing you over him all this time. He trusted you all this time—the realization makes you feel warm. A fluttering comfort settles in your bones. Trusting him back was the right choice.

You are naked now—instinctively, you want to cover yourself up, bringing your arm over your chest as if that will make you feel less self-conscious. 

“Don’t, sweetheart.” Bradley pulls your arm away, holding your hand down by your wrist as his mouth covers your nipple, his tongue flicking against the puckered bud. He uses his other hand to manipulate your other breast, teasing your nipple between his fingers. At moments, it’s painful, but it doesn’t hurt—it’s like every sensation heightening your pleasure. 

Bradley is kissing and licking his way down your body, like he is determined to mark as much of your skin as his, to taste every little bit of you. Every moan and whimper you make for him is a reward for him, marking you as his own. He is so patient and precise in his endeavor you lose yourself in his touch. Only when his mouth lands on the inside of your thigh it suddenly breaks your reverie. You gasp, instinctively trying to move away. But his hand rests flat on your stomach as he gently shushes you. 

“It’s okay,” He cajoles you. “You lay back, sweetheart, relax,”

Bradley’s head dips down again, kissing your hipbone, his hands running down your sides before he places his lips just above the slit of your pussy. You whimper softly in anticipation. “And tell me if it feels good,” Bradley murmurs against your skin, his hot breath brushing against your wet, sensitive core. You open your mouth, but no sounds come out as Bradley’s tongue slides up your slit. It’s as if your rational brain has completely disconnected from your base desires. Your hips buck up in Bradley’s face, because you want him to do that again. His hand tightens around your waist, steadying you.

His tongue moves against your clit slowly as he explores every fold of your pussy. You’re wet for him already; shit, it’s such a shame he doesn’t get to fuck you properly tonight. All the more reason to blow your mind with his mouth—especially since it seems he’s the first one to do so. Good. You deserve to get taken off properly, and he gets to enjoy your perfect pussy. 

He takes his time licking and sucking, listening for your reactions, sounding off your enjoyment. You writhe under his ministrations, but no words come out. That won’t do for Bradley.

“Does it feel good, baby?” He purrs, looking up. “You taste so sweet.”

Your body is moving shakily, contorting, your breathing rapid.

“Tell me with words, Anya.” Bradley teases you as his hand travels up your stomach to your breast, pinching your nipple. You moan, but he wants to hear you say it—he wants to hear you say his name in ecstasy. A dark part of him wants you to sing him praises with that same sharp tongue you’ve cut at him before. But he wasn’t lying when he told you he is a man of his word—he will make this good for you. 

“Y-yes,” You stutter out between shallow breaths. “Don’t stop.” You whine, rolling your hips, heavy with need.

He rewards you by sliding a digit into you—god, you’re so wet for him. Your back arches as he sets the pace, none too slow to not lose the momentum of getting you to your peak. Not another word makes it out of your mouth, everything distorted by your moans. 

“Talk to me, sweetheart,” He encourages you, teasing his mouth close to your clit again. “I want to hear you.” 

The first coherent thought that flashes through your mind is that if Bradley’s face weren’t buried between your thighs, you would probably kick him in the face. However, it all falls apart rather quickly as he slides another finger into you, the angle of his fingers putting pressure on the most sensitive nerves—but he keeps moving back, applying a little bit less pressure each time. You curse lowly, not being able to find the words.

“Please, please, please,” You beg, blinking hard. It feels like every fiber in your body is tense, wound up in knots, and you are desperate for release. Every moment his mouth is not on you is almost painful. You feel desperate, you don’t know what to do, what to say to make him move again, your bravado drowning in the lusty mist of your brain.

“I need you,” You finally whisper, like in a broken prayer. “Bradley, baby, I need you to-”

That’s all he wanted to hear. The rest of your sentence drowns in a moan as his tongue presses against your clit, moving quicker than before, hooking his fingers up. You exclaim loudly, as electricity seems to be coursing through you now. The words now come off their own accord, like an emergency part of your brain, has finally engaged with one single mission—don’t let him stop.

“You feel so good,” You moan him praises, his name on your lips like the chorus to your favorite song. The tension in your body is rising, your hips rolling of their own accord, your muscles growing taut. Bradley reads you like a book, understanding your fervor, and meeting your need with quicker, harder movements of his fingers.

“Bradley—more, I need more,” You’ve been reduced to begging again. “I want you harder.”

Jesus fucking Christ, it’s like you’re vocalizing every single thing he’d been fantasizing about, begging him to go harder in that cute little needy tone. He liked to think you might like it rough, but shit, you’re so inexperienced; he didn’t think you’d ask for it already. He is more than happy to oblige you, of course. 

But Bradley needs to keep his mind on getting you off because he’s so pent-up at this point; he might cum in his pants like a schoolboy from just your voice and sweet-tasting pussy. Putting his free hand on your ass, he props your pelvis, creating more tension around your abdominal muscles. It takes only seconds for your foot that is resting on his back to start shaking. The irregular tremors have him intensify his efforts.

“I’m almost… there,” You hum, anchoring yourself to Bradley, grabbing his hair and probably pulling too hard. He groans against your core, the vibrations nearly leaving you screaming. “Please -Please—like like this, Bradley,” 

And then, suddenly, like a band snapping, your body collapses and you finally find your release. Bradley presses his face into you as you cum, not stopping licking you, wanting to taste you at your peak. Your thighs tighten around his head, delightfully painfully before shakily releasing him again—the way you tighten around his fingers, makes him wish it was his cock instead. Fuck, you are tight.

As your body melt into the mattress, all tension suddenly gone, every knot untangled, Bradley withdraws his fingers from you. He helps you ride out your wave, softly kissing your folds, feeling how it still makes your leg shake. Bradley wonders if you’d let him make you cum for a second time, but you start squirming the moment he applies more pressure.

“No - no,” You’re feebly trying to pull him up, grappling at Bradley’s face and shoulders. “I can’t, I don’t-” The words come out disjointed, but your intent is clear. You’re overstimulated and don’t want any more right now. Luckily, Bradley understands you perfectly and simply kisses your hip again, before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

You’re still trying to catch your breath, and focus your vision as you come off your high. Bradley moves up to you and pulls you in his arms, moving you onto your side, sliding your leg over his hip. Your head is resting comfortably on his arm, nose brushing against his chest. Closing your eyes, you cuddle up closer to him.

“You’re so beautiful,” He tells you softly, as he kisses your forehead. “Next time, I want to see your pretty face as you cum.” Bradley adds teasingly. You giggle, as you look up at him, your eyes meeting his. He is teasing you, of course, but he’s looking at you lovingly.

Fuck.

It’s really never going to be enough.

You will have to go living the rest of your life with the knowledge that your paths only intersect at this moment in time, and that Bradley’s loving looks, strong hands and skillful mouth are not yours to have. Just for now. Just for here. 

So where do you go from here?

Do you pull back and accept the burden of knowing that you’ll never have more of him than this? Or do you plunge in head first, understanding that every additional touch, every kiss, and every way height Bradley teases you will be the impossible measure for every future encounter?

Right now, your head and heart still buzzing, your limbs tangled around him, and his fingers dancing down your spine, the answer is so easy. 

Craning your neck, your mouth seeks out his—you are pretty sure you can taste yourself on his wet lips. It exhilarates you. If you’re going to let this change you, you wouldn’t be you if you didn’t at least try to make sure Bradley won’t forget about you so easily, either.

Your hands are traveling down his torso, your fingers clumsily back at the waistband of his slacks, unbuttoning them. You can feel how hard he is against your stomach—it would be incredibly unfair if you didn’t reciprocate. Even though you’re not quite sure what to do. Bradley hums as your hand brushes against his erection.

“You don’t have to, sweetheart.” He lies, wanting nothing more than your hands on his cock, or, even better, your mouth. But he also doesn’t want to force you into anything—for tonight, he can take it slow.

“I want to,” You reply determinedly, tugging at his pants. Well, who is he to deny you? He thinks with a grin.  Raising his hips, he helps you strip him off his pants and underwear. Finally, he is a naked as you are. Your eyes greedily roam over his body, and linger on his erection. The way your tongue darts out to wet your lips, the fact you’re probably not even doing that consciously, has Bradley’s head spinning. 

“Show me what you like,” You whisper against his mouth as your fingers move up and down over his treasure trail. He groans, screwing his eyes shut.

He must have dreamed you up. He must have died the night he crashed, and gotten stuck in a strange purgatory where you are his redemption. 

Gently, Bradley takes your hand from his stomach, and wraps your significantly smaller hand around his cock, covering it with his own. 

“Just like that, baby,” He moans as he moves your hand with his own. Using your hand to jerk himself off makes him feel like he’s corrupting you, and it’s turning him on even more. Bradley is unsure how long he will last as he guides your hand to just the right amount of pressure and speed. You’re kissing his neck, experimentally nipping at him, finding his most sensitive spots. God, you’re so eager to please, so determined to excel—and a quick study. 

“You’re so big,” You hum in between kisses. “Can I… taste you?”

Bradley curses. He wasn’t going to ask, but if you’re offering…

He lets go of your hand, moving onto his back. You’re half draped over him, your hand still on his cock. You move back, sitting on your knees between his legs. Propping his head up with the pillow, he follows your movements with rapt interest. Tucking a few trends of your now-messy hair behind your ears before your hand returns to his erection, moving slowly but determinedly. Cautiously, you bring your mouth over his cocks, dragging your tongue over his length. Bradley hisses, and you almost stop moving. “Keep going, baby,” He encourages you. 

A blush is creeping down his chest, and he is breathing heavily as he’s looking at you with hooded eyes. Pumping your hand, you take as much as you can in your mouth—it’s never going to fit—a slight chocking sound escaping you, Bradley’s cock hits the back of your throat. You hear him curse between encouragements as you begin to move more, trying to find a rhythm.

You hope he’s not just being kind to you and this is actually pleasurable for him, as your jaw soon starts straining. Releasing his length, your eyes meet Bradley’s for a moment, and you wonder if it’s really clear you have no idea what you’re doing. 

Bradley reaches out to you, caressing your jaw before winding his fingers through your hair again, grasping you tightly at the scalp. Your eyes flutter. 

“Let me show you how I like it, baby,” He guides your head gently over his cock again, pushing you down until he feels you resist with a small whimper. Fuck. Just that sound over and over would be enough to send him over the edge. 

“Your mouth feels so good, Anya, and you’re doing such a great job,” Bradley’s constant flattery has you on a cloud. “Relax your throat, baby.” He advises you as he sets a rhythm, moving your head up and down. You try your best to fit more of Bradley, moving your hand over his thick cock in tandem with your mouth, but tears spring in your eyes as he bucks his hips up.

Bradley is so close already he’s almost embarrassed. But when you lock eyes with him, his cock filling your pretty mouth, as you valiantly take more and more of him, he can’t take it anymore. 

It’s been a long time since the need to orgasm has almost caught him off guard—god, he wants to cum in your warm mouth, and watch it dribble down your chin. No, not this time, not if this is only your first time giving head. That would be unfair to you.

You yelp in surprise as Bradley suddenly pulls your head up—for a moment you’re scared you did something wrong. Your hand still as his hand comes to cover yours again, pumping along his length hard and fast. Bradley arches backward, every muscle in his body taut, as this ropes of cum shoot all over your chest.

Bradley collapses into the mattress for a second before immediately sitting up, a worried look in his face. 

“Shit, sweetheart- I’m sorry,” He starts hurriedly.

“Why?” You ask, unsure, but also a little dejected.

“I didn’t mean to cum all over you,” Fuck, he’s never going to get his vision from his mind. You, sitting on his bed, naked and marked, with his cum covering your beautiful tits. “Let me get you a towel.”

“You’re saying it like it’s a bad thing.” Your tone has a light edge.

“Not a bad thing, sweetheart,” Bradley assures you as he moves past you. “I think my cum looks great on you,” He winks at you over his shoulder as he grabs a towel from the small adjacent bathroom. You playfully narrow your eyes at him.

Bradley helps you wipe down, stealing teasing kisses from you as he does. Finally, he pulls you against him under the covers on the narrow bed, slotting his legs between yours as he spoons you. 

“Stay the night.” Bradley murmurs in your ear.

“I can stay now, not the whole night,” You reply, fighting your heavy eyelids.

“I can live with now.”

***

It’s still early in the evening—it can’t be later than 8 PM—but the sun is almost set. Over the hills flanking the river valley in the center of the city, the sky is dappled in quickly fading shades of pink and orange. It’s not warm after the long rainy day, and the April air still has a bite to it. You are wrapped up in your coat, a light scarf helping protect you from the chill.

But what helps most is being cozied up to Bradley, your left hand wrapped up in his, tucked securely in his coat pocket. You are strolling, shoulder to shoulder, savoring the moments when you can appear just as any other couple. He knows the way now—as many escape routes and diversions as you could teach him, there is no reason to pretend this is still for practice. It’s for you.

Six days is such a short goddamn time, and you’re already halfway through your allotted time together.

It’s been hanging over the two of you like a sword. You don’t really talk about it, both tacitly electing to avoid the subject. Of course, it’s not like you can pretend it’s not happening. Bit by bit, you’ve been trading and searching for things for Bradley’s journey. All you know is he will be traveling south, towards the Austrian border, where his liaison will take him on the rest of the journey. The southern border is mountainous and overgrown with this pine forests. It’s muddy in spring—slippery and treacherous. 

Good boots. Dark, warm clothes. Wax-covered matches. A torch. Food.

The list in your head goes on, but always stops short before the final items you should return to him. The ones you took from him all those months ago, hidden away, tucked into an old shoebox behind at the bottom of your closet. His papers. His gun. 

Bradley's identification bracelet suddenly feels heavy in your coat pocket, where it’s been for all this time.

Your heart clenches. When you give Bradley all those things back, it’ll be the real end. He’ll disappear out of your life, and you won’t have a tangible trace of him left. Which is the safest solution.

But what if you forget him? Forget his warm brown eyes, soft honey curls, that cocky smirk, and the sound of that deep raspy voice in your ear? What is your mind cannot conjure up the smell of his skin anymore? Is it all eventually meant to fade away in a dream?

Just because that’s the sanest, most sensible, and safest thing to do?

Your face pulls into a sorrowful frown, staring down at the cobbled pavement under your feet. It’s easy to forget around Bradley, he drives you to distraction with one look. But you’d be lying to yourself if you didn’t long for the intimacy, someone to share your secrets with, and just him. You’re throwing yourself into this romance with reckless abandon, but the reality is never far away. 

Whenever you allow yourself to dwell on it for more than a few seconds, the dark pit in your stomach seems to get deeper. In just a few days, you will have to take the plunge, and you’ll watch him turn away from you for the last time—and you’ll still be here with only memories for company.

It’s only when you feel a slight nudge against your shoulder, you look up. Bradley is looking down at you wordlessly, but fondness and worry are evident in his eyes. Why spend your precious time worrying? He’s here now. And he’s looking at you—only at you. 

You smile, stopping him, not minding the people on the street rushing past you. You bounce up, aiming your lips for the corner of his mouth. Bradley automatically inclines his face to you, almost as if by a magnetic force, easing your access. His mustache tickles against your lips with easy familiarity, like you’ve been packing a lifetime of experiences into six short days.

Slowly you resume your journey down the street, turning onto the embankment. It’s fully dark now, the promenade lit by the orange glow of the ornate wrought iron streetlights, casting creeping, flickering shadows around the street. The soft wash of the flowing river and the call of birds fill the background. 

You pass a few other couples—the vista of the old town, the thousand spires, and quiet spots on the benches between the trees make it a prime spot for romantic couples. It feels like the most natural thing to be walking here with Bradley—you can’t help but think that this is exactly what you’d be doing together if it weren’t for the war. 

Carried on the wind, a piano melody sounds from an open window. You recognize it. It was a popular pre-war jazz song. The tempo is lower, and the pianist is adding flourishes and improvisations, almost as if any recognizable part of the melody is just a coincidence. You slow down a little bit, almost involuntarily, to stretch out the moment.

Bradley notices—how can he not? You’ve been comfortably burrowing yourself into every part of his brain. And heart. Although he’s not quite sure, he is ready to admit to that. To what end even? To make an impossible promise? 

He follows your gaze up to the open window. Whoever plays the piano is exceedingly good at it, carefully weaving the simple melody in complex patterns. It’s almost surreal, mesmerizing even—the quiet promenade in twilight, the music fluttering down. You’ve come to a standstill, almost wistfully looking up at the window, lips just a fraction apart.

Bradley takes your hand from his pocket, lacing his fingers through yours. Your eyes meet his as he pulls you against him, other arms sneaking around your waist. He could charm the devil with that smile, and you cannot help but smile back at him. “Can I have this dance, miss?” He teases, voice soft, leading you through the first few steps. Your free hand comes up to his shoulder automatically. “Gentlemen ask first.” You chastise in a whisper, grinning, following his lead. The last time you danced, you were so distracted you barely noticed how well Bradley danced—he always moves with such ease, so fluidly. He maneuvers you so easily through the steps it’s like you’re floating in his arms.

“And miss a moment of this?” Bradley’s voice is suddenly earnest, brushing his nose against yours. You just chuckle in response before closing your eyes and sighing. In a faraway part of your mind, you allow yourself to uncover your unspoken wishes, the dreams you hardly dare to dream, the fantasy where nothing but Bradley happened. You go dancing together, laughing and joking instead of speaking in covert glances and whispers, where he’ll wait for you after class with flowers in his hand, sweeping you off your feet every time. “I wouldn’t miss this for the world.” You utter softly. Saying it out loud makes you feel strangely light, like for a moment, you are living that fantasy.

Bradley twirls you playfully, heart jumping slightly as he catches sight of the dreamy smile on your face. The giggle that escapes your lips mingles with the music as if it was always supposed to be part of it. 

He’s known you for almost two months, you being the only person he ever saw, ever spoke to—and he thought he had you figured out pretty well. But it’s as if he’s had a crash course in you in the past three days. From your spitfire attitude and drive to excel that excite him so much, to your endearing innocence and warm generosity that have his head spinning.

Bradley’s been in love before; he’s quite sure of it. Had anyone asked him a few months ago, he would have joked he’d been in love a thousand times for a night at a time. But nothing he ever felt before—even when he was sure he had been in love—measures up to the maelstrom of feelings he has around you. Everything else just fades into the background when he has your full attention.

Bradley pulls you back into him, wanting to feel your closer again. Now that he still can. Your fingers trace over his cheek, where the scar has been forming. The soft look of fondness on your face makes it impossible not to kiss you. Bradley wasn’t planning on restricting himself when it comes to that. Every kiss might be the last.

You welcome his mouth against yours, immediately opening your lips for him. It’s hardly appropriate for him to kiss you so passionately in public, but you cannot find it in yourself to truly care.

All you want is for this moment never to end. ***

You try to stifle a yawn unsuccessfully, turning your head away from your companions at the small table at the café. It’s mid-morning, and you and Eva are having a friendly catch-up over tea with old classmates. You have a vague recollection you promised you’d tag along, but you didn’t remember it was supposed to be today—or rather, you didn’t think about it anymore—until Eva dragged you out of bed this morning.

Forcing yourself to participate in the gossip and light chatter, you can’t help when your brain fogs over from tiredness. You didn’t slip into your bed until 5 AM that morning—the sun was already coming up by the time you managed to untangle yourself from Bradley. He keeps insisting you sleep over; you keep insisting that you can’t.

It’s about patterns. Like you take the same route to work each day, you greet your neighbors, you sleep in your own bed. Because there is no explanation for why you wouldn’t.

“Anna, are you okay?” As Tereza asks, three pairs of eyes at the table all turn to look at you, all other chatter stopping short like they’ve all been dying to ask the question. “You look...” She hesitates as if she’s looking for the right word. “Exhausted.” 

Oh.

“I’m on the night shift a lot.” You clarify, smiling serenly, taking a sip from your tea.

“Oh, is that what we’re calling it these days?” Eva���s quip elicits giggles from the whole table. You titter along, shooting Eva a sharp look. She just shrugs in response, a satisfied grin on her face. Mercifully, the conversation moves along quickly; after all, it’s a lot more fun to gossip about people that are not at the table currently. 

When you finally leave the café, you feel like you’re dead on your feet. Eva hooks her arms through yours, and together you start walking back home.

“It was fun seeing the girls again,” Eva starts conversationally. 

“I’m glad they’re doing well,” You reply, blinking against the sun. “The tea was good too.”

“It doesn’t compare to before.” Eva retorts. “And those cakes! They’re more sawdust than flour.” She adds dramatically.

“I’m sure they don’t put actual sawdust in it.” You laugh. Eva just rolls her eyes. “It tasted more like sand to me.” You whisper conspiratorially. 

Eva elbows you in the ribs as you laugh together. When you feel another yawn coming up, you don’t bother hiding it, merely covering your mouth with your hand.

“I don’t know why you bother pretending you sleep in your bed,” Eva says in that tone, where it sounds so very clinical and non-accusatory, but you’ve known her long enough to know it’s a dig at you.

“I like sleeping in my own bed.” You reply simply.

“Funny,” She snorts. “As you’ve barely done so in the last few days.”

“Okay, Mom.” You roll your eyes at her.

“Hey,” Eva stops walking, grabbing your sleeve. “I’m just making fun of you—I can hear you sneaking in the early hours.” 

You regard her impassively, expecting some sort of lecture.

“And Tereza was right; you look exhausted. But… you also look happy.” Eva cracks a genuine smile. “And I just want you to know, you don’t have to pretend on my account.”

“Thank you.” You tell her warmly. Of course your best friend would be able to see beyond your facade—and you don’t really expect differently from her.

“That said—I want details. Who are you spending your - ehm, “night shift” with?” She starts walking again, pulling you with her, wiggling her eyes brows. You groan, trying to tear your arm from hers. “I’ll start guessing.” She warns you.

The strangled sound that escapes you is way too loud, akin to a dying animal. Several people walking down the street past you on the street look around at you like you’ve grown a second head, which sends Eva into a fit of giggles. 

“You are so dramatic sometimes, Anya, honestly.” She chastises you, still laughing.

“No, you just drive me to insanity.” You sigh.

“No, but really, you have to tell me,” Her voice is suddenly quiet, as she quickly looks around to see if anyone is near. “Is it that tall and handsome piece of ass that you have stashed, you know…” She jerks her head upward. “Up there?”

A part of you wants to slap your hand over Eva’s mouth to stop her from talking out of embarrassment and to stop her from blabbing something dangerous. The more rational part of you decides it’s better not to react at all and just write this off insane ramblings. So instead of saying anything, you just shoot Eva a stern look as you shake your head—this is not a topic you’ll be discussing.

Of course that’s all the confirmation she needs.

Maybe one day, when the story is no longer a threat to your life, you will tell Eva the whole story over a bottle of wine or two—your crazy, dangerous, and impossible wartime romance. One day, that’s all it will be; a story rooted in distant memories.

note | im the actual worst, sorry (but mostly slow)

taglist |@katieshook02 |@gretagerwigsmuse |@yanak324 | @helplesslydevoted | @benhardysdrumstick | @chaoticversion | @cherrycola27 | @roosterschanelslut | @notroosterbradshaw | @eli2447 | @imnotcreativeenoughforthisblog | @m-1234 | @phoenix1388 | @galaxy-moon | @indigomaegrimm | @annathewitch

[itacats]

Under the Shadow of Ghost

FT: Simon "Ghost" Riley x gn!reader

Warnings: trauma, war themes, nightmares, hospital environment, confessions (?), please let me know if anything else should be here!🙏

A/N: Lucky number seven is here! Part 7 just dropped and it's time to dive in and see what awaits!

Read Part 1 here! Read Part 2 here! Read Part 3 here! Read Part 4 here! Read Part 5 here! Read Part 6 here! Read Part 8 here! Read Part 9 here!

Part 7: Confessions Beneath a Shroud

The night had a strange way of playing tricks on the mind, especially when it was veiled in fog. It wasn’t just the fog outside the window—the mist that curled against the glass, soft and ethereal—it was the fog in my own mind, a dense, suffocating haze that blurred the line between memory and nightmare. The cold of the hospital room did little to stave off the clammy sweat that clung to my skin as the dream, more vivid than ever, took hold of me.

I was back there, in the cell. The walls were alive, twisting into grotesque shapes that sneered at me from the corners of my vision. The shadows were no longer passive—they had come to life, clawing at me with the hands of my captors, pulling me deeper into the abyss. Their voices, guttural and mocking, echoed through the confined space, beckoning me to give in. It was a seductive pull—dark, alluring, promising that I would no longer have to fight if I just let myself fall.

But then, something changed. A hand gripped mine, firm and unyielding, cutting through the fog like a lifeline. It yanked me from the abyss, dragging me gasping for air as I jolted awake, my body rigid with panic, heart slamming against my chest. I was back in the hospital, the shadows retreating to the corners of the room, but my pulse still thundered as if I were running for my life.

Simon was there, his silhouette barely visible against the dim glow of the room. His presence was so solid, so real, it was as if he had stepped directly out of my nightmare to anchor me back to the waking world. His hand remained on mine, grounding me, his grip tight with something that felt dangerously close to desperation. The world was quiet except for the sharp gasps of my breath, and in that silence, his voice came, low and cracked, almost as if he was speaking to himself.

“I thought I had lost you,” Simon murmured, his words hanging heavy in the air between us, weighed down by something more than just fear. 

It was a confession—raw, vulnerable, a crack in the hardened armor he wore so well. I stared at him, still trying to catch my breath, still trying to separate the nightmare from reality. His words swirled in my mind, and before I could stop myself, a bitter laugh escaped my lips, rough and strained.

“Thought I was lost too,” I choked out, the laugh sounding alien to my ears. It wasn’t humor that drove the sound—it was pain, laced with a desperation to feel anything other than fear. 

Simon didn’t laugh. His eyes, usually so carefully guarded behind the mask, burned with an intensity that sent a shiver down my spine. The mask didn’t hide the emotion that flickered across his features now. His hand tightened around mine, and for a moment, it felt like he was clinging to me just as much as I was to him.

“Never,” he said, his voice low and resolute, the weight of that single word hitting me like a blow. His gaze held mine captive, unwavering, and for the first time since I had been pulled from that hellhole, I felt seen. Truly seen. And it terrified me.

My heart pounded in my chest, not from fear this time, but from something else—something that had been buried deep within me, something I hadn’t dared to name. But in that moment, with Simon’s hand on mine and the fog of the nightmare still lingering in the corners of my mind, the words slipped out before I could stop them. They came from a place raw and unguarded, a place that had been stripped bare by pain and survival.

“I lo-... I care about you, Simon,” I whispered, the words barely escaping my lips, trembling under the weight of the truth they carried. They hung in the air between us, fragile and dangerous, laden with all the fear and yearning I had locked away inside me for so long. 

For a split second, his mask slipped. The infamous Ghost, the man who had survived horrors far beyond what I could imagine, let the vulnerability seep through the cracks. His eyes widened, just a fraction, and in that fleeting moment, I saw *him*. Not the soldier. Not the legend. Just Simon—a man haunted by ghosts of his own, a man whose scars ran deeper than any battlefield wound.

“You don’t know what you’re asking for, do you?” His voice was rough, like gravel, and there was a tremor in it that I had never heard before. His gaze flickered, torn between something unspoken—an emotion too dangerous to give voice to—and the iron walls he had built around his heart.

I swallowed hard, my throat dry, but I didn’t look away. I couldn’t. My heart hammered in my chest, but I met his gaze with a steady resolve I didn’t know I possessed. “I may be a survivor,” I whispered, my voice soft but unwavering, “but I know what I feel.”

The silence between us was thick, charged with an emotion neither of us had the courage to name. I had crossed a line—there was no going back now. And in his eyes, I saw the same realization. I had seen through the mask, through the layers of pain and loss that he wore like armor, and in doing so, I had exposed myself as well. We were both laid bare, stripped of the walls we had spent years building to protect ourselves from the world.

And in that moment, I understood something. We were both ghosts, both survivors of battles that had left us hollow in ways no one else could understand. We had both clung to the shreds of ourselves, tethered to the world by the smallest of threads. But somehow, amidst the darkness, we had found each other—two wayward souls, bound by shared pain and an unspoken connection that ran deeper than either of us dared to admit.

Simon’s gaze softened, just for a moment, and in that brief flicker, I saw every ghost he carried. Every loss. Every scar. And I realized that, just as I had been clinging to him, he had been clinging to me too.

We were two people trapped in the shadows, but in each other, we had found a light. It wasn’t bright, and it wasn’t enough to banish the darkness entirely. But it was there, flickering, a fragile flame that somehow managed to burn through the fog.

And for now, that was enough.

Read Part 8 here!

That’s it for Part 7! Thanks for reading—you’re truly in it for the long haul, and I'm super grateful. Tomorrow, we'll have the "official" ending for this story!

Also, Part 1 for the new Mafia AU story for the TF141 guys will be dropping here in a few hours!! Keep an eye out for Operation 141: The Family Business. Hope you all like it!