#Centre for Air Power Studies

[defencecapital]

Aerospace Power: Pivot to future battlespace operations

By Air Chief Marshal V. R. Chaudhari The foremost lesson that can be drawn from the twentieth century and indeed the early twenty-first century is that no war can be successfully prosecuted without aerospace power and in the words of Field Marshal Montgomery, ‘If we lose the war in the air, we lose the war and lose it quickly’. There are a few very pertinent words, which need a bit more study.…

[romugh]

SUDDENLY, THE STAR I STUDIED WAS YOU- NR

pairing- prof!natasha romanoff x gp!student!reader

cw- 18+!!; top!reader, bottom!natasha, legal age gap (23, 29), oral (n & r rcv), handie (r rcv), blowie (r rcv), slight lactation kink (if you squint), slight exhibitionism (?), slight praise kink, unprotected sex, soft & rough emotional sex, i think that's all?

wc- 12k??? smut (6k worldbuilding - angsty (?), 6k smut)

a/n- requested! this is my first request ever, so sorry if it's a bit weird, i tried to find a balance between everything while still following the request. have fun reading :p quite a few gip requests, but non-gip fics coming out soon, too! also, apologies for my nerdy physics side coming out, i promise not all metaphors will always be stars and the universe in my upcoming fics!

request- natasha and the reader meet at a bar, where an instant connection is formed. the next day, the reader realizes she’s late for class, only to find that natasha is a part-time professor filling in for the regular instructor on maternity leave. despite their complicated dynamic, feelings begin to develop, neither of them able to forget or ignore the connection that seems to have been written in the stars.

synopsis- what began as a fleeting connection at a bar turns into something deeper when you, a dedicated astrophysics student, find yourself caught between the stars you study and the one standing before you—your brilliant redheaded physics professor.

taglist?- @lost-mortemanghel - comment or dm if you want to be added x

The bar hummed with the usual Sunday night energy—laughter, clinking glasses, and music filling the air. You sat with your friends, playing the role of the designated sober one, one you were used to taking on during nights like these. The thought of Monday morning classes didn’t bother you much; you always managed to balance things out. Your attention wandered, eyes scanning the room as you sipped on your soda.

Across the room, Natasha Romanoff sat at the bar counter, her attention drifting as she absently traced the rim of her half-empty vodka glass. Her fingers, adorned with sleek silver rings, caught the changing light, glinting like electrons shifting between energy levels—an occasional shimmer with each delicate movement. Her gaze remained fixed on the woman who had entered the bar a few minutes prior, the small group of friends around her seeming to create a cosy bubble. Natasha had felt it the instant you walked in—an inexplicable pull that she couldn’t quite ignore.

Your eyes locked for the first time, and something clicked, like a cosmic event neither of you fully understood. The noise of the bar seemed to dull for a second. Her green eyes traced your face, your presence in the crowd creating a strange gravity she couldn’t quite explain, tugging her focus toward you as if you were the singularity at the centre of a black hole.

For you, it was no different. The world blurred at the edges, leaving only her. You couldn’t shake the sensation, that nagging curiosity about why you felt so drawn to this woman. The pull was strong, but there was no rational reason for it. You didn’t even know her, yet your gaze found hers again and again, as if pulled into her orbit.

Between the bustle of people, the two of you kept making fleeting eye contact. Each time, it lingered just a little longer, an electric charge building with every glance. It was subtle, like the gravitational waves rippling through space, just beneath the surface—something powerful yet invisible, drawing the two of you together.

Just when you felt like the next moment would finally break the tension, someone bumped into you, breaking your line of sight. You shifted, trying to find the woman again through the crowd, but she was obscured as someone passed in front of her, momentarily blocking her view of you. The connection, broken for a brief second, left both of you with an unexplainable ache, a yearning for something you didn’t quite understand.

The noise of the bar faded into the background, but the weight of that momentary connection lingered in the air between you and Natasha, tugging at something deep inside, an invisible force drawing you together. Even though the crowd shifted and swayed, people passing, glasses clinking, laughter echoing in the air, you couldn’t shake the feeling of being pulled toward her.

Your friends were immersed in the night’s fun, pulling you in with their conversations, but your thoughts kept drifting back to her. Across the room, Natasha sat at the bar, staring into her glass, though her mind wasn’t on the drink. She felt it too—the strange, almost gravitational pull that tugged at her every time her eyes found you. She couldn't help but scan the crowd, hoping for another glimpse.

But as the minutes ticked by, it became harder to focus on anything else. Both of you were caught in a loop, searching, finding, and then losing sight of one another in a pattern that felt more like orbiting than anything else. Natasha’s heart thumped in her chest, harder than she wanted to admit. She couldn’t place why her breath hitched every time she thought she saw you again, why it felt like the space between you was shrinking, collapsing like the event horizon of a black hole.

Finally, around 11, your friends started gathering their things, calling it a night. You followed them outside, laughter and banter still buzzing around you, but your mind wasn’t there. While you stood outside waiting for the Uber, Natasha remained inside, scanning the dancefloor for your face. Her heart seemed to beat louder, faster, like a photon travelling through space, seeking light but finding none. The momentary loss, the lack of your presence in the crowded room, tugged at her.

Feeling the need for fresh air, Natasha slid off her barstool, the cool night air rushing over her as she stepped outside. As soon as her foot hit the pavement, her mood lifted again—a soft, inexplicable flutter in her chest—because there you were.

You turned around just as she stepped outside. The world felt smaller, the space between you thinner. For a split second, everything else disappeared—the traffic noise, the hum of your friends talking, the bar chatter behind her. It was just you, standing there under the night sky, your eyes finding hers as if by some unspoken command.

And there it was again, that tension, pulling taut between you two like a force field. A smile tugged at the corner of your lips, and you nodded toward the bar. “Hey, want a drink?”

Natasha blinked, caught off guard, but she didn’t let it show. The warmth of your smile did something to her, something unexpected and unfamiliar. For a moment, her cheeks heated, and she cursed herself for reacting this way. But when she returned your smile, it was genuine, and her eyes twinkled like the stars above your heads, a silent reflection of the celestial wonder she often looked toward for answers.

“Sure,” she replied, her voice smooth, though inside she felt like she was standing too close to the sun, her resolve melting, but she wasn’t about to let it show.

⋅˚.⋆☾⁺₊ ‧

As the night wore on, the bar became a backdrop to a deeper connection that unfolded between you and Natasha. Time seemed to stretch and compress, bending to the rhythm of your conversation. Each word exchanged felt like a discovery, peeling back layers and revealing more of the universe within both of you.

For you, Natasha’s presence was mesmerising. Her gaze, intense and thoughtful, drew you in like the gravitational pull of a distant star. Her words were a melody of intellect and curiosity, and as she spoke, it was as if she was unravelling the mysteries of the universe right before your eyes. Her laughter, when it came, was like the twinkling of stars, bright and infectious, adding to the enchantment of the evening.

As the conversation deepened, the world around you seemed to fade into the background. The music played on, but it was a mere hum compared to the symphony of thoughts and emotions you shared. The chemistry between you was palpable, though it remained unspoken, hanging like a silent promise between your exchanged smiles and knowing looks.

The minutes turned into hours, and by the time the clock edged closer to 1 a.m., the atmosphere in the bar had shifted. The music, once a mere background noise, began to pulse with a vibrant energy. The crowd's energy surged, and the dancefloor started to beckon with an irresistible pull.

You felt it too—the undeniable urge to move, to lose yourself in the rhythm, to let the music carry you. You looked at Natasha, who was still absorbed in your conversation, her eyes reflecting the same sense of anticipation.

With a smile that spoke of unspoken desires, you stood up, extending your hand toward her. “Come on,” you said, your voice inviting. “Let’s dance.”

Natasha looked up, her eyes meeting yours, and for a moment, there was a spark—a shared excitement and curiosity. She hesitated only for a second before placing her hand in yours. As you led her to the dancefloor, the sensation of her hand in yours was electric, like a surge of energy connecting two celestial bodies. The transition from the intimate conversation to the dancefloor felt like a natural progression, a step closer to the unknown yet thrilling.

The music's tempo picked up, the beats more insistent, and the dancefloor pulsed with life. You and Natasha moved together, bodies swaying to the rhythm, each step a dance of discovery and connection. The surrounding world faded, and it was just the two of you, lost in the music and each other’s presence.

As you danced, the cosmos seemed to align around you, the energy between you building, charged with the unspoken understanding that this night was far from ordinary. The stars outside might have been the same, but within the bar, under the pulsating lights, the universe had shifted, drawing you and Natasha closer in a celestial dance of your own.

On the dancefloor, the lights cast fleeting shadows and highlights across the crowd, creating an otherworldly ambiance that perfectly matched the charged atmosphere between you and Natasha. The music's rhythm was a heartbeat echoing through the space, a constant pulse that synced with the mounting tension between you.

As you moved together, your bodies swayed in time with the music, and the space between you was filled with an almost tangible electric charge. Natasha’s proximity was intoxicating; her body moved with a grace that made every gesture seem deliberate, every touch a whisper of something deeper. The heat from her body radiated toward you, a warmth that contrasted with the cool air around you. It was as if the space between you was charged with a magnetic force, drawing you closer with each beat.

Your breaths were synchronised, each inhale and exhale creating a shared rhythm that made the air between you thick with anticipation. The warmth of Natasha's breath brushed against your skin, a tantalising hint of the intimacy that was just out of reach. Every time she exhaled, her breath mingled with yours, creating a delicate, almost imperceptible mist that hung between you, a prelude to something more.

The way you moved together felt like a cosmic dance, a choreography written by the stars themselves. Your faces were close enough that you could feel the soft, fluttering rush of Natasha's breath against your cheek, a feather-light sensation that made your heart race. Her scent—a subtle blend of something earthy and sweet—filled your senses, adding another layer to the growing tension. The scent of her perfume lingered around you, a promise of what might come if only you took that final step.

As the music swelled, so did the space between you, narrowing with each synchronised movement. Your hands brushed against each other, not quite touching but close enough to feel the warmth and electricity of the almost-contact. The tips of your fingers grazed Natasha’s arms, each brush of skin a delicate dance that sent shivers up your spine.

As you danced, Natasha became acutely aware of the press of your bodies against each other. She could feel the firm outline of your body pressing into hers, the subtle, undeniable evidence of your physical arousal becoming more apparent with each move. Her mind, however, was consumed by the emotional pull she felt towards you. The realisation of your physical presence was there, but it was the depth of the connection and the intensity of the moment that held her attention, making her heart race and her thoughts scatter, consumed by the unexpected bond forming between you.

Every step, every turn brought you closer, the space between you shrinking to a mere whisper. The world outside faded into insignificance; it was just the two of you, locked in this electrifying dance of proximity and tension. The music, the lights, the crowd—all were background to the magnetic force pulling you toward each other, a force that felt as inevitable as the gravitational pull of a star.

The longer you remained in each other’s orbit, the more the tension skyrocketed, reaching a crescendo that left you both breathless and yearning. It was as if the universe itself was holding its breath, waiting for the moment when the pull between you would finally break free and the last inch of space would vanish.

Every inch you moved toward each other was charged with potential, the slightest shift in your posture bringing you ever closer. Natasha's lips were soft and inviting, just a whisper away from yours. You could feel the heat of her breath mingling with yours, a tantalising promise of what was almost within reach. The world around you seemed to blur into the background, leaving only the two of you in this charged, suspended moment.

Just as your lips were on the verge of touching, a sudden, jarring push came from the crowd. Someone bumped into Natasha, jostling her slightly and causing your lips to make the barest of contact. The touch was fleeting, barely a brush, but it was electrifying. The moment your lips connected, a spark seemed to leap between you, sending a jolt of sensation through both of you.

Natasha’s eyes widened slightly, her breath catching in her throat as she absorbed the unexpected charge. You could feel the lingering warmth of her lips, the fleeting connection leaving you both breathless and yearning for more.

The crowd’s movement had broken the spell, and Natasha stepped back slightly, her cheeks flushed and her gaze still locked onto yours. The touch had been a mere fraction of a second, but it had set off a cascade of emotions, leaving both of you craving the closeness that had just been so tantalisingly close.

As you steadied yourselves, the magnetic pull between you remained a constant, irresistible force drawing you together. The music played on, its rhythm now a mere backdrop to the heightened anticipation that filled the space between you. Though the moment had passed, its electric charge lingered, leaving both of you with an unspoken promise and a shared yearning for what might come next.

The crowd around you swirled and ebbed with the rhythm of the night, but the tension between you and Natasha remained palpable, a hum of anticipation. As the music continued its relentless beat, you both found yourselves gravitating back to the bar. Natasha’s hand rested gently on your back, her touch warm and soft, a comforting presence amidst the pulsating energy of the club.

When you glanced at your phone, you were surprised to find it was already 3. The hour had crept up on you both with gentle inevitability. With a soft sigh, you decided it was time to head home, the night having stretched far beyond your expectations. You exchanged warm, lingering looks, the unspoken promise of what could be hanging between you like a delicate thread.

The brief connection you shared at the bar was intense, but neither of you had exchanged contact details, only names. Lost in the whirlwind of the night and the unexpected bond, you both had an unspoken understanding that you'd see each other again soon. Yet, neither of you anticipated how quickly fate would intertwine your paths once more. In reality, 'soon' would turn out to be just a few hours away, as destiny was ready to bring you together again in the most unexpected way.

⋅˚.⋆☾⁺₊ ‧

You woke up gently, still wrapped in the warmth of your duvet. A content sigh escaped your lips as you snuggled deeper into the covers. But as you lazily pried one eye open, your heart leaped at the sight of the digital clock flashing 8:20 a.m.

The realisation struck you with a jolt; you were already twenty minutes late for class. Panic surged through you as you scrambled out of bed, your mind racing with a mix of frustration and urgency.

You threw on clothes in a flurry, silently cursing yourself for oversleeping and hoping that, somehow, the stars would align in your favour. You clung to a faint hope that Professor Rambeau would understand—it was Monday morning after all, and you were usually always punctual.

As you hurriedly gathered your things and dashed out the door, a lingering thought crossed your mind: being late to class felt like a small price to pay for the pure connection you’d experienced the night before. A smile tugged at your lips, a fleeting reminder of that moment. But as you jogged towards campus, the smile quickly faded into a frown as you hoped, more than anything, that you wouldn’t be the only one arriving late.

As you rounded the corner of the campus building, you spotted Maria and Leighton walking briskly toward the lecture hall, their animated conversation making its way through the crisp morning air. Both were clearly running late as well, their hurried pace matching yours.

Maria Hill, with her signature no-nonsense demeanour, was in the middle of an animated tirade about Leighton's habit of hitting the snooze button too many times. Her voice, though frustrated, had a familiar warmth that felt oddly comforting. Leighton Murray, on the other hand, seemed to be giving as good as she got, her own sharp retorts mingling with laughter as she tried to defend her morning routine.

You couldn't help but let out a small chuckle as you approached them. Their bickering, filled with playful jabs and half-serious complaints, brought a smile to your lips and a sense of relief to your otherwise frazzled morning. As you caught up with them, you felt your heart steady, thankful that you were not the only one scrambling to make it to class on time.

"Hey, you two!" you called out, falling into step beside them. "Glad to see I'm not the only one who's fashionably late."

Maria glanced at you, her expression softening from irritation to mild amusement. "Looks like we're all in the same boat. Where’s your usual punctuality?"

Leighton grinned, her eyes twinkling with mischief. "Yeah, you’re usually the first one here. What happened—sleep in for the first time ever?"

You shrugged, the earlier stress melting away with their presence. "You could say I had a bit of an unexpected night. But hey, at least I’m not alone in this."

As you approached the lecture hall, the three of you exchanged knowing glances and shared a collective breath, ready to face whatever Professor Rambeau had in store for the day. The laughter and camaraderie of your friends had turned a stressful start into a reminder that sometimes, the universe has a way of aligning things perfectly—even if it's just for a shared moment of imperfect punctuality.

As you and your friends entered the classroom, a sudden hush fell over the room. The usual chatter about equations and coursework abruptly ceased, replaced by a palpable tension. Your eyes scanned the room, and to your shock, the figure at the front was none other than the redhead from last night.

Natasha stood at the front, her face composed and inscrutable. Her emerald eyes flicked towards you, registering a brief flicker of surprise, followed by an emotionless coldness that was hard to ignore. She then quickly shifted her gaze to the other two girls standing beside you, Maria and Leighton, who she realised were not at the bar a few hours ago.

Leighton, always quick with a quip, broke the silence with her usual bravado. "Uh, excuse me, but who the hell are you, and where’s Professor Rambeau?"

Natasha’s voice, sharp and devoid of warmth, cut through the air. “If you had been on time, like every other student here, you would know that I am replacing Professor Rambeau, who is on maternity leave. Unless you want to start off on an even worse foot with me, I suggest you sit down and get to work.”

The depth of Natasha’s rasp was familiar, but her tone was starkly different from the warmth you’d experienced the night before. It was all business now, a far cry from the easy connection you’d shared earlier.

With no other choice, and feeling the weight of Natasha’s authoritative gaze, you exchanged uneasy glances with Maria and Leighton before finding your seats. As you sat down, the reality of the situation set in. Natasha—your enigmatic redhead from the bar—was now your professor, and the unspoken promise of the previous night suddenly felt very unattainable in the light of this new dynamic.

As the classroom chatter resumed, Natasha wrestled with her swirling thoughts. The vibrant connection she had felt with you the night before now seemed almost unreal in the sterile academic environment.

Despite her efforts to focus on the lecture, her gaze kept drifting toward you. You were absorbed in your work, but Natasha couldn’t shake the pull she felt towards you. The ease and connection from last night clashed sharply with the formalities of the classroom, making her feel disoriented.

As students whispered and worked, Natasha’s thoughts remained centred on you. Each glance in your direction stirred up a mixture of confusion and longing. The promise of what had been a potential connection now seemed distant and unattainable, buried under the weight of her professional responsibilities and the unexpected emotions she was struggling to manage.

As the clock struck noon, signalling the end of class, the room buzzed with the sound of shuffling papers and the clatter of backpacks being packed away. You took your time, even though you knew you should move on from the fleeting connection you had felt the night before. It had been nothing more than an intense moment, pure and untouched, but still, it lingered in your mind.

Leighton and Maria were quick to escape, their footsteps echoing down the hallway as they left, eager to distance themselves from the professor who had, in their eyes, bruised their egos. Natasha, meanwhile, remained seated at her desk, her attention apparently fixed on her papers, though she was acutely aware of your presence lingering in the classroom.

The room had quickly emptied, but you were still there. You moved at a deliberate pace, your footsteps quiet and measured. As you made your way toward the door at the front of the class, bringing you closer to Natasha's desk, the tension between you seemed to build again, palpable and almost tangible.

When you paused to turn and look back, Natasha's gaze met yours. Her emerald eyes were now swirling with emotions—confusion, surprise, sadness, and a sharp pang of guilt. Despite the undercurrent of it, the tension remained, the unspoken bond between you still crackling in the air. It was as if the connection you had shared was waiting to be acknowledged, hanging heavily in the space between you, and drawing both of you into a magnetic, unresolved pull.

The room fell into an enveloping silence, both of you locked in a quiet standoff of unspoken emotions. Natasha’s gaze was steady, but her expression betrayed a swirl of confusion and yearning. You, unable to resist the growing tension, finally broke the silence.

With a small, rueful smile, you shook your head gently and murmured, “You don’t look a day older than 25, I’m sorry.” The words, meant to ease the tension, had the opposite effect. Natasha’s cheeks flushed a soft pink, her eyes wide as they searched yours. The warmth in her gaze was now unmistakable, reflecting a mix of surprise and a lingering pull towards you.

Her eyebrows furrowed slightly, a sad smile tugging at her lips as she absorbed your words. The soft blush on her cheeks spoke volumes, a silent testament to the attraction and connection that still simmered beneath the surface.

“I didn’t think a student would be out on a Sunday night,” Natasha replied quietly, her voice carrying a hint of regret. “I’m sorry too.”

The tension in the room remained palpable, as if the air itself was charged with the unresolved feelings between you. You were just as sweet, gentle, and caring as you had been the night before, and Natasha found herself just as drawn to you, the pull between you undeniable.

You sighed softly, closing your eyes for a moment to gather your thoughts. When you opened them again, the warmth and sincerity in your gaze were unmistakable. The room seemed to hold its breath, the weight of the unspoken connection hanging between you both.

Natasha stood up slowly, her movements deliberate as she turned her attention to the pile of papers on her desk. She gathered them with careful precision, placing them into her bag. The act was a physical attempt to distance herself from you, a bid to bury the connection that lingered so insistently.

She had to do this. She had to let the connection remain in the past. But how could she, when you had managed to break down the walls she had meticulously built? Walls that protected her independence, her self-reliance, and her belief that she needed no one. How was she supposed to simply walk away from someone who had managed to penetrate her defences so effortlessly, and so fast? This wasn’t like her, and she tried to convince herself that losing her job over a woman she had met less than 24 hours prior to this moment wasn’t worth it.

As Natasha turned, you immediately noticed the shift in her demeanour. She was retreating, attempting to leave behind the connection that had seemed so potent only hours earlier.

Maybe you were just imagining things—after all, you didn’t know her well enough to decipher the myriad feelings that flickered across her gaze. What were you even thinking, clinging to this fleeting connection?

“Make sure not to be late next time, Y/N. This is your first and last warning,” Natasha said, her voice striving for a cold, impersonal tone. But even as she spoke, you could sense the struggle behind her words, the battle between her professional facade and the personal turmoil she was trying so hard to hide.

You remained silent, trying to understand her position, even though it was difficult to fully grasp. After all, you didn’t know her well enough to be this affected. You reminded yourself to act like an adult—leave it behind, forget about the few hours you shared, and move on. You had to let go of the memory of her gaze, the way she danced with you, and the tender, reserved softness she had shown you just hours earlier.

With a heavy heart, you turned and walked out of the classroom. Natasha's face fell slightly as she watched you go, her emotions a mix of regret and resignation. She quickly masked her feelings, lifting her shoulders and straightening her back, running a hand through her hair as if to shake off the lingering weight of the moment.

⋅˚.⋆☾⁺₊ ‧

The weeks passed like drifting stardust, each day adding to the tangled web of emotions between Natasha and you. What had once felt like a fleeting connection was now a persistent gravitational force, pulling you both in a direction neither of you wanted to acknowledge. Yet, rather than embrace that pull, both of you built walls around it—resorting to coldness, even biting words, whenever the tension grew too close to the surface.

In the classroom, Natasha’s cold demeanour became a carefully constructed barrier. Her words were sharp, professional, and devoid of the warmth you had felt in her gaze that first night. But even through her frosty demeanour, you caught glimpses of the lingering emotions she was trying so desperately to hide. Her eyes would flicker toward you, a little too long, before snapping away—like someone dodging a question they don’t want to answer.

Outside the classroom, in the hallways and the cafeteria, your interactions were no better. When you crossed paths, there was an almost tangible electricity between you, but both of you chose to hide behind icy exchanges or curt nods. Every sarcastic remark from Natasha seemed to cut deeper than it should, but you responded in kind, unwilling to show any vulnerability in return. The magnetic pull between you, undeniable as it was, became something you both tried to sever with words and avoidance.

Yet, despite the coldness, there was still something underneath it all, a yearning that you both refused to admit to yourselves. As the days stretched into weeks, the tension only grew more unbearable. The brief glances, the curt exchanges, the moments of accidental contact—all of it felt like a star burning too brightly before it inevitably collapses.

You found yourself thinking about her at the oddest moments—late at night or when the classroom was quiet, the memory of her eyes and her presence refusing to leave your mind. Despite her sharp words, you couldn’t help but notice the way her voice softened when she thought no one was listening. Natasha, on the other hand, cursed herself every time her gaze drifted toward you or when her thoughts lingered on the conversations you used to have. Every insult, every cold word, was her way of trying to smother the fire that had started to burn too brightly.

In the spaces between, the two of you danced around the connection you once felt, pretending that the hostility was all that remained. But deep down, beneath the sharp words and cold exteriors, you both knew the pull was still there, simmering just out of reach—waiting for a moment when everything else would finally fall away.

⋅˚.⋆☾⁺₊ ‧

Natasha had always been good at compartmentalising—keeping her personal life in one box and her professional life in another, sealed tightly. But with you, it was different. The more she tried to put distance between the two of you, the more it gnawed at her. The pull between you two was magnetic, no matter how cold she tried to be, how many walls she threw up. Each glance in your direction became a betrayal of her own willpower. She cursed herself for feeling the way she did, but the flutter in her chest wouldn’t stop. And despite her best efforts to be distant, there was always a spark in her eyes when she looked at you, one she couldn’t quite extinguish.

You felt it too, the constant undercurrent of tension. Every time you looked at her, you saw something flicker behind those green eyes—emotions she refused to let rise to the surface. The way she treated you, cold and distant in class, felt forced, as if she were fighting herself as much as you. But you had grown frustrated with the pretence, with the tension that never seemed to resolve. Every shared glance in the hallways, every encounter in the cafeteria only

added fuel to the fire burning between you two. There was an undeniable pull, a gravitational force pulling you closer, but every time you neared, she pushed you away.

Natasha, on the other hand, was getting more conflicted with each passing day. It was becoming harder for her to hide the warmth that surged every time she saw you. Yet she kept up the act, treating you like any other student. But it wasn’t working. Not anymore. The barrier she had built was crumbling piece by piece, and she knew it.

For you, the frustration was mounting. She acted like the connection you had felt was nothing, as if she could pretend it didn’t exist. And yet, you knew it was there, simmering beneath every interaction. You could see it in the way her eyes lingered on you, the quick glances that conveyed so much more than she wanted to admit. It was only a matter of time before it all came to a head.

Both of you were falling—falling deeper into something neither of you could admit to yourselves, let alone each other.

⋅˚.⋆☾⁺₊ ‧

It started small—barely noticeable—but Natasha had picked up on it during the last few classes. You were acting differently. Smiling more at other people, laughing with Leighton and Maria, even flirting a bit with someone in the row behind you. The attention you gave others didn’t go unnoticed, and Natasha, from the front of the class, felt an unfamiliar tightness in her chest.

She wasn’t supposed to care. You were her student. You weren’t supposed to affect her this way, but every laugh you shared with someone else, every time you leaned in just a little too close to another person, that tightness grew. She gritted her teeth, her words sharper as she gave out the day’s assignment, trying to keep her tone professional. But you could tell—Natasha was fuming.

And that only made you push it more.

Over the next few days, you noticed her reactions becoming more pronounced. The way her eyes lingered on you longer when you talked to someone else. How her expression hardened when you didn’t give her your full attention. There was a cold jealousy simmering under the surface of her strict professionalism, and you knew it. You had felt the tension for weeks, and maybe it was the frustration of never addressing it that made you push her buttons now.

Today, you arrived late again, strolling in with an air of indifference, knowing it would irritate her. Her eyes followed you as you made your way to your seat, deliberately not apologizing, instead flashing a smile at someone next to you. You felt Natasha’s gaze burning into you from the front of the room, her hands gripping the edge of her desk just a little too tightly.

By the time class ended, the weight of her stare had become unbearable. She hadn’t said anything to you, but the tension between the two of you was thick enough to cut through. You

could feel her irritation from across the room, and part of you enjoyed it—enjoyed pushing her, seeing how far you could take it before she snapped.

As the rest of the class filtered out, you stayed behind. Natasha was still seated at her desk, papers spread out before her, but she wasn’t looking at them. Her gaze was fixed on you, cold and steely, the perfect picture of control—except for the way her jaw clenched every time you flashed a smile at someone else.

When the room finally emptied, leaving the two of you alone, Natasha didn’t wait.

"You were late again," she said, her voice dangerously low, each word clipped and precise. She pushed down the guilt she knew would follow, deciding that for your own good, this needed to stop. "Care to explain yourself this time, or are you really willing to throw away your degree over someone you spoke to for just a few hours at a bar?"

You raised an eyebrow, leaning casually against a desk, that familiar smirk playing at your lips, though you couldn’t help but feel your heart twitch slightly at her words. "I didn’t think you cared so much. Not like anyone else seemed to mind my late arrival."

Natasha shot you a piercing look, her annoyance barely masking a hint of something softer. "Of course I care. It’s part of my job to ensure you don’t waste your potential."

You leaned in slightly, a teasing grin on your face. "You know, I think I can sense how you feel. It’s hard not to, especially when the connection between us is so intense."

Natasha’s heart stammered in her chest as she fought to maintain her composure, the anger bubbling up faster than gravity could pull her down. Her eyes narrowed, the restraint she’d held onto for weeks fraying at the edges. "Don’t act like you don’t know exactly what you’re doing."

You crossed your arms, feigning innocence. "What am I doing, exactly, Professor Romanoff?"

Natasha stood, the chair scraping against the floor as she moved toward you, closing the distance with each deliberate step. "You’ve been testing me. Pushing me. I don’t have time for whatever game you think this is. Move on. Stop trying. This never started, yet we both know it’s over."

You scoffed, meeting her fiery gaze head-on. "Maybe if you’d stop acting so jealous whenever you see me ‘moving on,’ as you put it, I’d have more success at that. But see, Professor," you emphasised her title with a teasing smirk, "I think you’re a bit jealous. Maybe you should move on too, or stop acting like a scared deer and confront your feelings head-on."

Her breath hitched, hands curling into fists as she struggled to maintain her composure. The emotions in her eyes were clear—unknown to her, you could practically read her like an open book. The slight anger flickering in her gaze didn’t escape your notice; her jealousy was merely a glass wall, transparent yet impenetrable.

"You're right, Natasha," you continued, straightening up and taking a step toward her. "Something has changed. We’ve been pretending for weeks, and I’m done with it. You can push me away all you want, but we both know this doesn’t just disappear."

Natasha’s gaze flickered, her usual mask slipping as anger and desire clashed behind her eyes. She took another step forward, her voice low and trembling with the effort to contain her emotions. "You need to stop."

But you didn’t stop. You couldn’t. The tension had reached a breaking point, and the space between you crackled with everything left unsaid. "Why? Because you can’t handle it?"

That did it. Natasha’s control snapped, her hand shooting out to grab your wrist, pulling you closer until your faces were mere inches apart. Her voice was a harsh whisper. "You think this is easy for me? You think I don’t feel it? Every time I look at you, I—"

She cut herself off, her breath shaky as she tried to rein it in, but you saw the raw emotion in her eyes, the way her chest rose and fell with the effort of keeping it all inside.

"You don’t have to hold it in anymore," you murmured, leaning in closer, your breath mingling with hers. "Just let go."

For a moment, it felt like time stopped. Neither of you moved, both breathing hard, the weight of everything you had been holding back pressing down on the small space between you. Then, as if something in you shifted, you slowly turned towards the door. Natasha’s grip on your wrist tightened for a second, her eyes flaring in sudden panic as you reached for the handle.

Natasha’s chest was tight, each breath a struggle against the storm of emotions rising inside her. She’d kept her walls up for so long, hidden behind the cold professionalism that had been her refuge, but now, alone with you in the classroom, the weight of it all crashed over her. Her heart raced as you locked the door and closed the blinds, her pulse thrumming in her ears. 

"Leaving already?" she asked, her words cutting through the quiet, sharp and defensive, like a last-ditch attempt to hold onto some semblance of control. But the truth was laid bare in the way her voice wavered, betraying her. 

When you turned back, your eyes dark with intention, Natasha felt a shiver run through her. There was no going back now. No retreat. The late hour, the locked door, the quiet hallway—it all felt like you had stepped into another world, one where she didn’t have to hide anymore.

You stepped forward, your presence commanding, and the distance between you seemed to evaporate. Natasha’s breath hitched as you loomed closer, her fists tightening at her sides in a desperate attempt to hold on to the crumbling control she had left.

“We both know you don’t want me to go,” you said, your voice low, carrying a certainty that made her heart pound harder. You weren’t asking; you knew. The truth hung between you like a blade, sharp and undeniable.

She opened her mouth to argue, to push you away, but no words came out. Instead, her body betrayed her, leaning toward you as if it had been waiting for this—waiting for you—to close the gap.

“Why don’t you admit it?” you continued, stepping even closer, your presence overwhelming her senses. Your breath ghosted over her skin, your words digging into the rawness she had kept hidden for so long. “Why don’t you just say what you’ve been dying to say all this time?”

Her jaw clenched, the anger flaring up in her chest like a defence mechanism. "You’re so... infuriating," she bit out, her voice tight with the effort of holding it all in. But you could see it—the vulnerability she was trying to hide, the way her hands trembled slightly at her sides, as if she was on the edge of losing herself completely.

"I know," you whispered, your voice soft, yet heavy with intent as you reached out, your fingers cupping her chin, forcing her to meet your gaze. "But you love it."

And there it was. The truth she had been denying, the one she had tried so hard to bury beneath layers of professionalism and restraint. The truth that scared her, not because of what it was, but because of how deeply it ran. How much she wanted you. How much it terrified her to let herself feel it.

For a second, Natasha’s resolve wavered, her breath catching in her throat as the weight of your words settled between you. Her heart raced, her mind spinning with everything she had fought to suppress, but then your lips crashed against hers, and the last of her defences shattered.

The kiss was fierce, raw, and filled with everything that had built up between you for weeks. Natasha’s hands fisted in your shirt, pulling you closer, desperate and needy, as if the space between you was unbearable. Your lips moved against hers with an intensity that left her dizzy, her mind clouded with the sensation of you—your taste, your warmth, the way your body felt pressed against hers.

She moaned into the kiss, her body arching toward yours, her fingers digging into your chest as if she needed to anchor herself, to keep from drowning in the torrent of emotions flooding her. But then you pulled back, your gaze burning into hers, and for a moment, the world seemed to still.

"Sit on the desk," you commanded, your voice rough, thick with both desire and authority.

Natasha hesitated, her eyes flickering with uncertainty. Her mind screamed at her to stop, to pull back before she lost herself completely, but the fire in your gaze, the undeniable pull between you, left her powerless to resist. Slowly, she stepped back, her legs trembling as she hoisted herself onto the edge of the desk. Her breath came in shallow, uneven gasps, and in that moment, she wasn’t the composed professor anymore. She was just a woman, vulnerable and exposed, her walls finally down.

You moved between her legs, your hands sliding up her thighs, rough and insistent, and Natasha let out a soft gasp, her body responding to your touch without hesitation. Her head tilted back slightly, her lips parting as a shudder ran through her, and in that moment, it wasn’t just about desire—it was about everything that had been left unsaid between you.

The tension, the frustration, the fear—it all came crashing down, and with it, a deep, overwhelming need to let go. To stop fighting. To feel.

As your hands moved over her body, your touch was firm, unrelenting, yet there was something else beneath it. Something raw and emotional, something that made Natasha’s chest tighten in a way that had nothing to do with lust and everything to do with the fact that this wasn’t just some fleeting moment. This was real. You were real. And that scared her more than anything.

Natasha’s breath hitched, her hands gripping the edges of the desk as if she was holding on for dear life. "You have no idea what you do to me," she whispered, her voice shaky, her eyes filled with a mix of fear and desire as she met your gaze.

You paused, your hands resting on her thighs, your expression softening as you leaned in closer, your forehead resting against hers. "I think I do," you murmured, your voice low, intimate, as if the rest of the world didn’t exist. "And I’m not going anywhere, Natasha. Not until you let me in."

Her eyes fluttered shut, a shaky breath escaping her lips, and for the first time, she let herself believe it. Believe that maybe, just maybe, she didn’t have to keep running from this. From you.

"I’m scared," she admitted softly, her voice barely audible, as if the words themselves were too fragile to speak aloud.

"I know," you whispered, your thumb brushing gently over her cheek. "But you don’t have to be."

And in that moment, with the weight of everything hanging between you, Natasha finally let herself fall.

The room was suffused with a quiet tension, the world outside forgotten as you pressed your forehead gently against hers, the warmth of your breath mingling in the air between you. Natasha’s legs had wrapped around your waist almost instinctively, pulling you closer, holding you to her as if letting go meant facing the storm of emotions she had finally let herself feel.

Your hands cupped her face, your touch tender despite the desire simmering just below the surface. You kissed her softly at first, teasingly, your lips brushing against hers with the kind of control that let a shiver run down Natasha’s spine. Her hands, once clenched in anger and frustration, now rested against your soft chest, fingers splayed as if she needed to feel every inch of you, every beat of your heart.

Her breath hitched when you deepened the kiss, your lips parting hers as your tongue slid against hers in slow, deliberate movements. The kiss wasn’t hurried—it was filled with the kind

of longing that had been building for weeks. You poured every unsaid word, every moment of frustration, every bit of want into the way you kissed her, and Natasha responded with a soft moan that she barely managed to keep from escaping. Her thighs tightened around your waist, pulling you even closer.

The kiss grew more fervent, the emotional weight of it intertwining with a heat that neither of you could ignore any longer. Natasha arched toward you, her body pressed against yours, and as your lips moved against hers with growing intensity, you felt her start to lose the composure she had clung to for so long.

You couldn’t help but feel the way her body responded to you—the way her breath hitched in her throat, the way her fingers curled against your chest, desperate for more, yet still trying to maintain control. But the control wasn’t hers anymore, not really. You held it, though gently, almost reverently, as if you knew exactly what Natasha needed and how fragile this moment was.

But then you felt it—her legs tightening around you, pulling you in as your erection pressed against her through the fabric of your clothes. Natasha let out a quiet gasp, her grip on you tightening. Her lips parted against yours, the kiss turning rougher, more desperate, as the heat between you built to a fever pitch. Every kiss, every touch was charged with the intensity of everything that had been bottled up for too long.

Natasha tried to keep herself composed, tried to stifle the soft noises that threatened to spill from her lips, but you could feel her restraint faltering. Her legs squeezed tighter around you, her hips shifting ever so slightly, and you knew she was pushing herself closer to you, needing the friction, needing the closeness.

Your hands slid down from her face, trailing over her neck, her shoulders, until they settled on her waist, pulling her even closer, pressing her against the desk. She let out a shaky breath, her head falling back for a moment as your lips moved to her neck, trailing soft kisses that made her shudder.

Her fingers tangled in your hair, pulling you back up to her lips, and the kiss that followed was anything but soft. It was hungry, needy, filled with a desire that neither of you could hold back anymore. Natasha’s body pressed against yours, her legs keeping you firmly in place as her lips moved with a desperation that matched your own.

The heat between you grew with each second, the tension thick in the air as your hands roamed over her body, tracing the curves of her hips, her waist, as if you were memorising every part of her. The more you touched her, the more she responded, her body arching into your hands, her breath coming in ragged gasps that she struggled to keep quiet.

She bit her lip, her eyes fluttering shut for a moment as she felt your erection press harder against her. The sensation sent a wave of heat through her, and despite the risk of someone walking past, she couldn’t bring herself to care. All she wanted in that moment was you—your touch, your kiss, the feeling of you so close, yet still not close enough.

"Someone could..." she started, her voice barely a whisper, her lips brushing against yours as she tried to find her breath. But the words trailed off, unfinished, as you kissed her again, harder this time, swallowing whatever protest she might have made.

Her body betrayed her, hips pushing up against you, and you felt her legs tighten, pulling you even closer until there was almost no space left between you. The feeling of your erection pressing against her sent a thrill through her body, and despite the slim chance that someone could walk past, she didn’t care anymore. The risk only made it more intoxicating.

Your hands slid to her thighs, gripping them as you pressed her harder against the desk, your kisses growing more frantic, more heated with each second. Natasha’s breath came in shallow gasps, her chest rising and falling rapidly as she tried—and failed—to keep herself quiet. Her fingers gripped the edges of the desk, her body trembling under your touch, and you could feel how much she needed this, needed you.

Every kiss, every touch was electric, the tension between you finally breaking free, and the feeling of her pulling you closer, the way her body responded to yours, left you both on the edge of something you couldn’t quite control.

"Natasha," you murmured against her lips, your voice thick with emotion, with need, and she responded with a low moan, her body arching into yours, her fingers digging into your back as if she couldn’t bear to let you go.

Her lips parted, her breath hot against your skin as she whispered your name, her voice trembling with the weight of everything she had been holding back. The sound of it—the vulnerability, the need—was enough to undo you, and you kissed her again, deeper this time, pouring everything into that one moment.

As the kiss deepened, the air between you became thick with desire, the heat of the moment pressing against every corner of the small, dimly lit classroom. Natasha was still trembling under your touch, her legs locked around your waist, her chest heaving with shallow breaths as she struggled to keep the rising sounds inside her throat.

You pulled back slowly, the kiss breaking with an audible gasp from Natasha’s lips, her eyes half-lidded with need and confusion as she looked at you. Her grip on your shirt slackened for just a moment, but the fire in her gaze told you she was still desperate, still on edge. But you weren't rushing. Not now.

Without a word, you stood back, your hands lingering on her thighs for just a second longer before you let go completely. Natasha watched you, her breath still unsteady, her brow furrowing as you took a small step away from her. Her chest rose and fell rapidly, her body aching from the absence of your touch, but you didn’t rush to fill that space.

Instead, you took your time, letting your gaze travel over her—taking in the way her legs dangled off the edge of the desk, how her skin flushed pink in the soft glow of the classroom’s lights. Natasha was still, frozen almost, waiting for your next move, her body tense with the anticipation of it. Her lips parted, as if to ask why you’d stopped, but the words never came. She didn’t have to say anything. You could see it in her eyes, the way she was balancing on the edge of need, barely holding on.

Slowly, you reached for the hem of your shirt, your fingers slipping under the fabric. Natasha’s breath caught in her throat as her eyes followed your movements, her pulse quickening as you started to undress, the anticipation building between you like a crackling charge.

You didn’t pull the shirt off in one quick motion. Instead, you dragged it over your body slowly, teasingly, lifting it inch by inch, revealing the skin beneath in a sensual, deliberate way that made Natasha’s gaze darken. Her hands gripped the desk behind her, her knuckles white as she watched you. The soft rustle of the fabric was the only sound in the room, aside from the erratic rhythm of her breathing.

As you pulled the shirt over your head, you tossed it aside, letting it fall to the floor without a second thought. Natasha’s eyes followed it for just a moment before flicking back to you, her gaze roaming over the newly exposed skin, drinking in every detail. The controlled, measured way you undressed was a stark contrast to the fire that had been between you just moments before—a slow, sensual display that had Natasha captivated, her body humming with a new kind of tension.

You held her gaze as your hands moved to the waistband of your pants, your fingers slipping just beneath the fabric, teasing at the idea of what was coming next. Natasha’s breath hitched, her eyes locking onto your hands, and you could see the way her body shifted, as if every part of her was straining to get closer to you again. Her legs tightened around the desk, her lips parted as she fought to keep the soft sounds that threatened to escape locked behind her teeth.

With agonising slowness, you began to slide your pants down, revealing the skin beneath inch by inch. Natasha’s chest rose and fell in rapid succession, her eyes tracing every movement of your body. The smooth way you undressed, the control you still held in this moment, was a direct contrast to the way her body had been shaking, the way she had surrendered to the moment so completely. You could see the effect it had on her—the way her breath faltered, the way her fingers flexed against the wood of the desk.

Once your pants pooled around your ankles, you stepped out of them, your movements deliberate, your gaze never leaving hers. Natasha’s eyes were locked on you, her lips trembling with the effort to stay silent, to keep control over herself, even as her body betrayed her, every inch of her skin tingling with the awareness of you standing before her.

You stood there for a moment, letting her take you in, letting her eyes wander over your now half-bare form. The weight of her gaze sent a thrill down your spine, but you didn’t rush. You wanted her to feel this, to burn with the same desire that had been building between the two of you for almost three months.

Her tongue darted out, wetting her lips, and her eyes flicked up to meet yours, filled with a quiet plea. She wanted you—needed you—but you weren’t going to give in just yet. You were in control, and the power of that sent a rush of heat through your veins.

You stepped back toward her, standing between her legs once more, your hands finding her thighs again. Natasha let out a shaky breath as your fingers skimmed the sensitive skin just below the hem of her dress, teasing her without giving her what she wanted. Her body leaned into you, but you held her back, just slightly, enough to keep her wanting.

“You’re beautiful,” you whispered, your voice soft but heavy with intent. Natasha’s breath caught, her eyes flickering with something vulnerable, something raw.

She tried to respond, but you silenced her with another kiss, your lips moving against hers with the same measured control you’d used to undress. It wasn’t a rough kiss—this time, it was slow, deliberate, your hands sliding up her thighs as your tongue slipped into her mouth, tasting the need she could no longer keep hidden.

Natasha moaned softly, her legs tightening around you again, and you could feel her body trembling under your hands. The kiss grew deeper, more passionate with every second, but you maintained the control, teasing her just enough to keep her on edge, to keep her aching for more.

She could feel your erection pressing against her again, harder now, and the sensation sent a ripple of heat through her body. Her hands moved to your back, nails digging in as she tried to pull you closer, but you resisted, keeping just enough distance to drive her mad. The slow, sensual way you were kissing her contrasted so sharply with the intensity of her need that it left her gasping for air, her body trembling with the effort to hold back.

You broke the kiss, your lips trailing down to her neck, leaving a path of soft, deliberate kisses that made Natasha shudder beneath you. Her breath came in shallow, uneven gasps as you worked your way lower, your hands slipping under her dress, your fingers tracing the sensitive skin of her inner thighs, teasing, exploring, but never quite giving her what she craved.

“Tell me what you want,” you murmured against her skin, your lips brushing against her ear, your voice soft and controlled. Natasha let out a quiet whimper, her body arching into you, but you held her back, just enough to keep her from getting what she wanted.

“I… I want you,” she breathed, her voice trembling, her body desperate for more.

But you didn’t give in yet. You wanted her to beg for it, wanted her to show you how much she wanted you.

You tutted softly, feigning disappointment as you gave Natasha a fake pout, shaking your head ever so slightly. “Be more specific, Natasha,” you murmured, your voice laced with teasing command. But beneath your words, there was a tenderness, a patience that had her wavering on the edge.

Natasha’s throat bobbed as she swallowed, her eyes flitting down to avoid your intense gaze. She was struggling, and you could see it—could feel it in the way her body shifted under your touch. No matter how much she wanted this, no matter how desperately she ached for you, she had never been stripped bare of her defences like this. You had torn through her walls, peeling back the layers of control she clung to so tightly. She felt vulnerable, exposed, naked in ways that went far beyond the clothes still clinging to her body.

You could sense it—her hesitation, her fear. And even though she sat before you, legs wrapped around your waist, desire burning in her eyes, you didn’t push her. You didn’t rush her to undress, didn’t demand anything more from her than she was ready to give.

You stood there, your body half-bare, clad in nothing but your bra and boxers. The air between you was charged, the intimacy of the moment so thick it was almost suffocating. Natasha’s eyes flickered over you, taking in your form, her breath catching in her throat. But you didn’t push. You waited.

“I know,” you said softly, your voice breaking the silence but carrying no judgement, only understanding. “I know you’re scared—for your job, for me…” You paused, letting the weight of your words hang between you. You knew her fears, knew the weight of the responsibilities she carried, the precarious line she was walking. But there was something deeper in her fear—something more intimate, more personal. She was scared for you too. Not just of losing you, but of letting you in.

But you knew, even as she struggled to speak, that if it ever came down to it, if she had to choose between you and her job, she would choose you. In a heartbeat. And as you stood there, the tension wrapping tighter around the two of you, the silent communication between your eyes and hers told you something else. Something just as important.

She realised you would choose her too.

For a long moment, the two of you stood in that quiet space, everything unspoken swirling between you, heavy and electric. And then, something in Natasha shifted. Her gaze softened, the fear still there but no longer consuming her. She let go—of her walls, of her control, of the weight she had carried for so long.

Slowly, her hands reached for yours. Her touch was tentative, trembling, but it was real. She pulled you closer, drawing you back into the space between her legs. But this time, there was something different in her movements—something raw and vulnerable, something that took your breath away. She was letting herself go in a way you had never seen her before. No more pretence. No more games.

“Please…” she whispered, her voice cracking with emotion, her breath trembling as she spoke. Her words were soft, but the need in them was palpable, heavy with everything she had been holding back. She was incredibly vulnerable in this moment, but so incredibly needy too. And goddamn, she was in love. You could see it in the way her eyes brimmed with tears, in the way her lips quivered as she struggled to keep her composure.

“Please,” she breathed, her voice barely above a whisper, but every word hit you like a wave. “Please… make me feel good. I just want you to be mine,” Natasha’s voice trembled, her hands tightening around yours, as if she feared you might pull away. “Please, I want to be yours.”

Her eyes, wet with unshed tears, searched yours, her vulnerability laid bare, her heart exposed. She had never let anyone in like this, had never given someone this much power over her. But she didn’t care. She just wanted you.

Natasha’s breath was ragged, her eyes glistening with a mixture of desire and vulnerability as she looked up at you. She took a deep, shuddering breath, then reached for your hands with a determined yet trembling grip. Without a word, she guided your hands beneath her white shirt, her movements urgent, as if afraid that if she hesitated for even a moment, the spell between you might break.

Her touch was electric, sending shivers across your skin as she pushed your hands higher. You could feel her body heat through the thin fabric of her shirt, the intensity of her need almost overwhelming. Her fingers skimmed over your chest, her touch both tender and insistent.

As your hands slid up, Natasha’s eyes fluttered closed, a soft moan escaping her lips as she pressed delicate kisses all over your chest. Each kiss was a gentle caress, an exploration of the very essence of you. Her lips traced over your skin with reverence, as if she were discovering a hidden galaxy, a universe of sensations that she had longed to experience.

Her hands cradled your breasts with an almost worshipful tenderness, as if they were celestial treasures—each touch a silent declaration of her adoration. She took her time, savouring every moment, her fingertips dancing over you with a care that spoke volumes about her feelings. It was as if she were tracing constellations across your skin, mapping out a universe that was uniquely hers and yours.

The contrast between her reverent touch and the raw urgency of the moment made the scene even more intense. She pulled back slightly to look at you, her eyes filled with an earnest plea. Her breath was warm against your skin, her gaze pleading as she waited for you to continue.

With a deep breath, you let your hands explore her body with the same reverence she had shown you. You carefully lifted the dress higher, revealing the soft curve of her skin, the blush of her cheeks, the way her breath hitched with every movement. Natasha's kisses became more fervent, her hands clutching you as if you were the only anchor in a vast sea of emotion.

In that intimate space, it was just the two of you—an entire universe wrapped up in the simple act of undressing. The room, the world outside, all faded away, leaving only the connection between your bodies and the boundless emotions that swirled between you.

Natasha’s fingers curled into your hair, a sharp tug that made your breath catch. Her lips hovered near your ear, her voice barely holding steady. “Please,” she whispered, her words shaky, pleading. “Please, make me feel good. I need this. I need you.”

This wasn’t like her. Natasha, your composed and meticulous physics professor, who always had control of her classroom, now looked so vulnerable. She wasn’t supposed to be this undone. Everything about her, the way she carried herself—polished, thoughtful, deliberate—was now unravelling. And yet, once again, she didn’t care.

Her forehead pressed against yours, her grip tightening in your hair. Her breathing was laboured, and the words that escaped her lips were soaked in desperation. “I just… I want to be enough for you,” she murmured, her voice thick with emotion. “I want you to want me, to be proud of me.”

This wasn’t the confident professor you’d come to know. Natasha, so careful and in control of everything in her life, was now asking, begging for reassurance. It wasn’t just about desire—it was about being wanted, being worth the risk. She was scared, terrified even, that you wouldn’t see her the same way she saw you. That maybe this was something fleeting for you, something you could walk away from while she’d lose everything.

Her grip on you tightened. The way she repeated “please” over and over made your heart ache. She was so scared of not being enough, of not measuring up to whatever pedestal she thought you had put her on. And deep down, you knew she didn’t need to worry. You would choose her over anything.

Gently, you cupped her face in your hands, your thumbs brushing away the tear that slipped from her eye. “You’re already more than enough, Natasha. I would risk everything for you. You know that.”

Her eyes fluttered closed as she leaned into your touch, her breathing hitching. It was as though your words had unlocked something fragile inside her, something she had been holding onto for far too long. For the first time, you could see the weight of the fear and uncertainty she’d carried, the fear that she wasn’t worthy of this.

“Please,” she whispered again, this time softer, her voice trembling. “Please, make me yours. I need to feel like I’m enough for you.”

Her hands slid down your back, her touch tentative, hesitant, like she was unsure whether she deserved this moment. But she did. She deserved it more than anyone else.

In that instant, you could feel the depth of her need, her longing not just for physical connection but for the reassurance that she was enough, that she didn’t have to be perfect or in control to be loved by you. She wanted to let go, to give herself fully, and she needed you to guide her there.

Her vulnerability was raw and real, and in this moment, she was yours completely—stripped bare emotionally, more open than she had ever been. You knew then that you had her trust, her heart.

Natasha should have been nervous about where she was, the risks it posed to both of you, but instead, she felt enveloped in a warmth that only you could give her. The building was empty, but even if it wasn’t, she didn’t care.

Guided by Natasha’s hands, you slowly sank to your knees, the weight of the moment thick in the air between you. Your eyes stayed locked on hers, searching for any sign that she might want to stop, that this was too much, too fast. But all you saw was trust—raw, vulnerable trust, like she was giving you a part of herself no one else had ever seen.

The vulnerability in her eyes only heightened your need to make sure she felt safe, to reaffirm that she had control even as she was letting go. Your hands reached for the hem of her dress—the sleek, black number she had worn that night in class, the same one she wore when she looked untouchable, unshakable. You hiked it up slowly, deliberately, the fabric slipping through your fingers like silk, revealing more of her bare skin.

Natasha’s breath hitched as you ran your hands up her thighs, feeling the heat radiating from her body. You could feel the tension in her muscles, the way her legs trembled slightly under your touch, not just from desire but from the emotional weight of what was happening between you. She wanted this, but more than that, she needed this—to be seen, to be wanted, to be adored, stripped of all the defences she’d spent so long building up.

You pressed a soft kiss against her thigh, your fingers tracing patterns up and down her skin, feeling her shudder beneath you. With each touch, each kiss, you could feel her letting go a little more, surrendering herself to the moment, to you. Her hands threaded through your hair again, but this time the tug wasn’t urgent—it was grounding, a silent request for reassurance, for connection.

Looking up at her, you whispered, "Are you okay with this, Natasha?" The question lingered in the air, but it was necessary, and you wouldn’t move forward without hearing her answer.

Her gaze met yours, her eyes softened by the vulnerability she was allowing herself to feel. She nodded, her lips parting as she whispered back, "Yes. I’m okay. I want this... I want you."

Your heart swelled at her words, at the trust she was placing in you.

You pressed gentle kisses against Natasha’s thighs, each one slower, more deliberate than the last. Her skin was warm under your lips, and the slight tremor in her legs didn’t go unnoticed. You were attuned to every detail—her breathing, the way her fingers tightened and loosened in your hair, the soft, barely audible sounds that escaped her lips as you kissed your way higher.

Despite the growing ache between your own legs, a steady pulse of need that had been building from the moment you had locked eyes, you focused on her. This wasn’t just about desire. It was about trust, about showing her that this—what was happening between you—wasn't just a fleeting moment. You wanted her to feel worthy, to feel adored and cared for, not like she was some fleeting impulse or a fantasy you would walk away from once it was over.

You wanted her to know that you weren’t going anywhere.

Your lips moved higher, brushing just above her knees, and then along the sensitive skin at the top of her thighs. You could hear her breath hitch as you got closer to her core, the anticipation tightening in the air. You paused, pressing a soft kiss just above her panties, teasing but gentle, taking your time to savour the moment, making sure Natasha knew you were fully present for her.

Your hands slid around to the back of her thighs, gripping softly as you kissed her through the delicate fabric of her panties. The sound she made—half a sigh, half a moan—tugged at your heart, and you pressed harder, letting your tongue trace the dampness growing against the lace.

Natasha’s fingers gripped your hair more firmly, a silent plea for more, but you stayed steady, slow, ensuring that every touch was careful, deliberate. She needed to feel safe, to feel cherished, before you let your own needs take over. You wanted to show her that this wasn’t just physical—it was so much more.

As your hands gently tugged the waistband of her panties down, Natasha's breath came in shallow bursts. You kissed her hips, then her pelvis, before finally brushing your lips against her core. She gasped, and her legs instinctively parted wider to give you more room. The heat between her legs was intoxicating, but you didn’t rush.

With a slow, careful movement, you licked her, softly at first, feeling her body react to the touch. Her hips shifted, seeking more, but you kept your pace tender and intentional. Your tongue explored her slowly, taking in the taste of her, feeling the way her body responded to you—her quiet gasps, the way her fingers tightened their hold in your hair, her thighs trembling slightly under your hands.

Despite your own body screaming for release, you didn’t let that overpower the moment. This was for Natasha. You wanted her to feel good, to feel everything she hadn’t allowed herself to feel for so long. You wanted her to understand that she could trust you with this—trust you with herself.

You focused on every sound she made, adjusting your movements based on the way her body responded. When her breath hitched, you applied more pressure, your tongue flicking against her more insistently, but still not rushing. You could feel her unravelling beneath you, the tension in her body slowly giving way to pleasure.

Her legs wrapped tighter around your head, pulling you closer, and you didn’t resist. The sensation of her pressed against your mouth, her need so palpable, only fueled your determination to make her feel good. Her breaths were becoming more erratic, the moans she was trying to suppress growing louder.

"Please," she whispered, her voice trembling, barely audible above the sound of her own gasps. "Please… don’t stop."

You didn’t. You let yourself go deeper, licking and sucking at her, increasing the intensity as her hips began to move in rhythm with you. Her fingers were tugging harder at your hair now, a frantic edge to her movements, but you didn’t let go of the tenderness. Even as the intensity built, you wanted her to feel how much this meant—to both of you. That you weren’t going to turn away or leave her.

Natasha’s breathing was ragged now, her body tightening with the approach of her climax, and you could feel her surrendering fully to the moment, to you. And that—knowing she trusted you enough to let go completely—was more satisfying than anything else.

With one last flick of your tongue, Natasha’s body tensed, and she cried out softly, her thighs trembling as waves of pleasure washed over her. You didn’t pull away immediately, continuing to kiss and soothe her through her release, letting her ride out every last tremor.

When her body finally relaxed, her breathing still uneven, you pressed a gentle kiss against her thigh before looking up at her. Natasha’s eyes were glazed, her expression softened by exhaustion and satisfaction. You reached up, taking her hands in yours again, squeezing them gently to remind her—this was real, and you were still here.

"You okay?" you whispered, your voice soft, filled with the quiet intimacy of the moment.

Natasha nodded, her lips curving into a small, tired smile, her fingers still tangled in your hair. "Yeah," she whispered back, her voice shaky but content. "I’m more than okay."

She glanced down at you, still kneeling before her, and her face flushed red. Her heart raced, not from fear, but from a sense of vulnerability she’d never allowed herself to feel before. Her eyes roamed over your body, lingering on the curve of your jaw, the softness in your gaze. That contrast—the way you held all the control yet treated her with such care—it was intoxicating. She bit her lip, her chest swelling with emotions she didn’t quite know how to express. For the first time, she felt seen, cherished, and safe, even in a situation that should have felt anything but.

A small smirk tugged at her lips as she gently pressed her palm against the bulge in your boxers. Your reaction was immediate—your body tensed slightly, a soft groan escaping your lips as the wet patch of precum dampened her hand. She rubbed you a little harder, enjoying the way your breath hitched with each motion. The control was shifting, and she revelled in it, taking her time as she palmed you through the thin fabric.

Your hips bucked slightly in response, the pleasure building quickly, but just as you felt yourself nearing the edge, Natasha pulled her hand away. A quiet, frustrated groan left your throat, but there was no impatience in your eyes. You stayed gentle, your hand reaching up to tangle in her hair, tugging softly as you guided her downward.

Natasha’s body complied, and she sank to her knees, her eyes flickering up to meet yours as she settled between your legs. She hooked her fingers into the waistband of your boxers, pulling them down with a slow, deliberate motion, exposing your hardened length. Her hand wrapped

around you, the warmth of her touch sending a shiver down your spine. She started slow, her strokes gentle but firm, building up the tension with a skilled precision that made your knees weak.

Each pump of her hand was designed to drive you higher, her touch alternating between feather-light and tight enough to have you gasping. You could see the small smirk still lingering on her lips, the way her cheeks flushed with a deep crimson, and it only fueled the fire inside you.

Her hand moved faster, and you gritted your teeth, trying to hold back the inevitable release, but it was too much. Natasha had you right where she wanted you, and she knew it. The pressure built inside you like a dam about to break, and just as the wave crested, you tugged her hair a little harder, pulling her face closer to your body as you came.

Your release spilled over her face, thick and hot, streaking her cheeks and lips like stars spreading across a midnight sky. It was a mess, but in the mess, there was beauty—something raw, visceral. The universe had always been a chaotic, unpredictable expanse, but in that moment, Natasha wore it on her skin. She was your universe, painted in a way that symbolised everything wild and untamed that existed between you.

Her breaths were heavy, her eyes fluttering shut as she felt the warmth of you settle on her skin. There was a softness in her expression, even as she wiped the edge of her mouth with the back of her hand. And you…you stood there, still panting, gazing down at her with a reverence that went beyond the physical. She had laid herself bare, given herself fully to you, and in return, you had shared something far deeper than lust.

Natasha’s eyes fluttered open, locking onto yours. She smiled, a mixture of mischief and something tender playing across her lips as she wiped a bit more from her cheek, still blushing. There was no awkwardness, no hesitation in her gaze—just the raw, undeniable connection between you both, as unshakable as the stars scattered across a vast sky.

Natasha's hand wrapped around your still half-erect shaft, her touch soft but purposeful as she began to pump you once again. The sensation shot through you, making you groan, the sound deep and raw in your throat. Your fingers, which had been gripping her hair tightly, loosened their hold, trailing down to softly cradle her cheeks. Her skin was warm beneath your palms, her flushed face a stark contrast to the cool air in the room.

She looked up at you, a playful, mischievous glint in her eyes, as if daring you to see how much further she could take you. With your hands still holding her face, her lips parted, and she opened her mouth, slowly taking you in. The sensation of her mouth wrapping around you, warm and wet, was like being pulled into the gravity of a star, the intensity almost overwhelming.

Natasha’s mouth moved with deliberate slowness, her tongue pressing flat against you as she took more of you in, inch by inch. You could feel every flicker of her tongue, every slight shift in pressure as her mouth tightened around you, pulling you deeper into her orbit. Her hands gripped your thighs, steadying herself as she hollowed her cheeks, the heat of her breath seeping into your skin, warming you from the inside out.

It was like being caught between two worlds—one of gentleness, where her every touch was soft and careful, and another of fire, where the raw need she had for you crackled with intensity. You felt it in the way she moved, in the way her lips wrapped around you with precision, and in the quiet hunger that radiated from her. It wasn’t just about lust anymore—it was about trust, about the connection that had been building between the two of you for so long, and now, like the universe itself, it was expanding, becoming something deeper, something untouchable.

Each slow, purposeful motion of her mouth sent waves of pleasure coursing through you. You couldn’t help but groan again, your breath hitching as you felt the pressure building once more. Her eyes stayed locked on yours, the heat in them undeniable, as if she was silently communicating her own need to make you feel just as exposed, just as vulnerable as she had felt moments before.

The room around you seemed to disappear, leaving only the two of you, suspended in this moment—her mouth on you, your hands gently holding her face, and the sensation that seemed to stretch out into eternity.

Natasha began to take you deeper, her movements growing more deliberate and intense as her mouth slid down your length. The wet warmth of her lips surrounded you, and you couldn’t hold back the deep, guttural groan that escaped from your chest. Each time she lowered her head, the sensation grew sharper, her tongue flicking and teasing, heightening your arousal with every motion.

As she pushed herself further down, a sudden gag escaped her, the tightness around you momentarily breaking your control. Instinctively, your hands gripped her head, your hips bucking forward, pressing her down harder onto your cock. Natasha’s eyes fluttered shut, her throat constricting as she tried to adjust to your deeper thrusts, her own need and willingness written on her expression. The way she surrendered to your touch, her hands clutching your thighs, sent a jolt of raw desire through you, and you couldn’t stop your hips from moving on their own.

You released inside her mouth with a powerful groan, your body shuddering as waves of pleasure crashed over you. Natasha stayed still, her mouth still wrapped around you, catching every drop. Your mind swam in the aftermath, the weight of the moment heavy around you, pulling you back to reality. As your eyes finally cleared, you saw the tears streaming down her cheeks, her lips still wrapped around your sensitive cock as she continued to suck, more tenderly now.

For a moment, worry flared in your chest, but she hummed softly around you, her hands gently caressing your legs, letting you know she was okay. It wasn’t pain—it was something else entirely. Her soft, rhythmic movements, the gentle suction, and the sound of her contentment vibrated through you. The tears weren't ones of discomfort, but something deeper—relief, happiness, a kind of release that matched the intensity of what you both had shared.

You ran your fingers through her hair, murmuring softly to her, "Are you okay? You're safe, Natasha." She hummed again, reassuring you with the vibrations from her throat, her lips curving ever so slightly against your skin, a sign of her quiet joy.

But then, you felt it again—that mischievous glint flashing in her eyes as she gave one more sharp suck, her tongue swirling expertly around your sensitive tip, pushing you to the brink of overstimulation. The sudden intensity made you gasp, and before you could recover, she pulled back, a thin string of saliva and your release still connecting her lips to your cock. The playful smirk tugged at her lips as she wiped her face with the back of her hand, her breath heavy, her eyes dancing with both satisfaction and hunger.

Then, with a delicate, almost bashful movement, Natasha turned around, leaning forward over the desk. Her dress clung to her curves, the hem still hiked up, and she bent over just enough to leave no question about what she wanted. She looked over her shoulder at you, her expression shifting from tentative sweetness to something more daring, though still tinged with a vulnerability that tugged at your heart. Her eyes, though, betrayed her—the sheer need burning there, her desire clear as day.

With a small smile that could only be described as cute, she spoke without words, her body doing the asking. There was an unspoken invitation in her posture, and despite the vulnerability she showed, there was also a trust between you now that felt unbreakable.

You couldn’t help but smile as you approached Natasha, your hands sliding over her soft backside before trailing up her back, fingers ghosting over the fabric of her dress. The way she trembled beneath your touch, her body so attuned to your movements, made your heart race. As you moved closer, your hand brushed over the slick coating her inner thighs, and it told you everything you needed to know—she was ready, aching for you.

With slow, deliberate care, you guided yourself to her entrance, gently pushing inside. Natasha let out a sharp gasp, her body welcoming you with almost no resistance, her slick warmth enveloping you. Her walls fluttered and clenched around you, adjusting to your length and girth, pulling you in deeper with every inch. The sensation was overwhelming, a perfect balance of tightness and softness, and you could feel her heartbeat in sync with yours, every pulse of her body crying out for more.

As you buried yourself inside her, Natasha’s moans grew louder, unrestrained, filling the quiet classroom with sounds that felt like music to your ears. Her usual control had vanished, leaving her raw and exposed, her voice trembling with need as she called out your name. Each thrust, slow but firm, drew a new sound from her lips, her body arching beneath you as she struggled to hold onto the desk for support.

The way she moaned for you now, louder, uninhibited, sent shivers down your spine. It wasn’t just the pleasure that drove her—it was the trust, the connection, the vulnerability she had offered you in this moment. You leaned down, your breath hot against her ear as you whispered softly, "You sound so beautiful, Natasha."

Her only response was a broken, desperate moan, her head dropping forward as you moved within her. The walls of the room seemed to close in, making the world smaller, more intimate, as if it was only the two of you and the sensation that swirled between you. Each thrust seemed to melt away another layer of resistance, and Natasha met you with every movement, her hips rocking back to match your rhythm, her moans growing more frenzied as the intensity built.

Her body was a symphony of sensations, her sounds, her movements, the way she clenched around you driving you to the brink of your own control. Still, you remained gentle, each motion filled with purpose, ensuring she felt every bit of the love, trust, and pleasure you wanted to give her.

“Harder, please… more,” Natasha’s voice came out in a breathless plea, her desperation cutting through the heavy air. The need in her tone left no doubt in your mind; she wanted you to let go, to give her everything. You smiled softly, your slow and deliberate thrusts transitioning into something rougher, more intense.

Each movement brought a new sound from her lips—a mix of moans, gasps, and whimpers that drove you to the edge of control. You could feel her body tightening around you, the slick warmth of her drawing you deeper, her hips pressing back in perfect rhythm with each thrust. Her hands gripped the desk hard enough to turn her knuckles white, as if she needed to hold onto something solid amidst the storm of pleasure crashing through her.

You gave her what she wanted, your pace picking up, the gentle strokes turning into something rougher. Each thrust was harder, your hips slamming into hers as the intensity between you mounted. The sounds coming from between your bodies—skin meeting skin, the wetness of her arousal—filled the room, combining with her increasingly frantic moans. Every whimper, every desperate noise that fell from her lips only pushed you to move faster, harder, deeper.

Natasha’s voice was growing ragged, her pleas becoming a chant, “More… harder… please,” her tone dripping with need. You obliged, giving her everything she asked for, pounding into her with abandon. Her walls clenched tighter around you with each thrust, her body trembling as she neared the edge, her moans becoming louder, more frantic.

The sight of her—the way her body surrendered beneath you, the sounds of her pleasure—was driving you wild. You could feel yourself nearing your own breaking point, but this moment wasn’t just about you. It was about her, about making her feel as desired, as safe, and as loved as she deserved.

Natasha’s body bucked against you, her voice rising with each thrust, her moans spilling into the air like a symphony of raw emotion. The intensity of it all, the connection, the overwhelming pleasure, it was almost too much, but you couldn’t stop. You didn’t want to stop.

You didn’t stop even as Natasha’s body quaked beneath you, her release crashing over her like a tidal wave, every nerve ending igniting in pure ecstasy. With a firm grip on her hair, you pulled back gently, a primal instinct guiding your actions. The sharp gasp that escaped her lips sent a thrill coursing through you, an electric reminder of the connection you shared. Tears streamed down her cheeks, reflections of the intensity of her pleasure, and the sight of her vulnerability only stoked the fire deep within you.

“Please… don’t stop,” she breathed, her voice trembling with desperation and longing. “I need you—everything.”

You felt her walls tighten around you, each clench pulling you deeper into the bliss of the moment. Every thrust became more urgent, more fervent, as you moved in perfect sync with her. Her hips met yours in a relentless rhythm, the sounds of your bodies colliding filling the air—a raw symphony of skin against skin, punctuated by her soft cries and your deep, primal grunts.

“Stay inside me,” she gasped, urgency lacing her tone like a sweet poison. “I want to feel you.”

Obeying her plea, you surrendered to the pressure that had built within you, a wave of heat surging as your release burst forth, filling her completely. The sensation was intoxicating, a heady mix of pleasure and possession that pushed Natasha over the edge once more. You felt her body tremble as she milked you dry, every pulse and contraction sending shockwaves through both of you. The warmth of your climax mingled with hers, slick and overwhelming, trickling down to the back of her thighs and pooling against your own.

As your bodies connected in this beautiful aftermath, you slowed your movements, wanting to savour every moment. The world outside ceased to exist; there was only the two of you, entwined in an intimate cocoon of warmth and intimacy. Her breath came in soft, ragged gasps, and you could see the remnants of pleasure flickering in her eyes, a mix of satisfaction and lingering desire.

You shifted your hands from her hair, cradling her waist, grounding her as the waves of pleasure began to recede. With each slow thrust, you relished the way she responded, her body trembling beneath you, as if she was still lost in the echoes of her release. You leaned down, brushing your lips softly against her forehead, whispering sweet reassurances that enveloped her like a gentle embrace.

“Natasha…” you murmured, your voice low and filled with admiration. The corners of her mouth lifted slightly, a shy smile breaking through the haze of bliss.

She looked up at you, her gaze filled with warmth and something deeper, a connection that transcended the physical. “I never knew it could be like this,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper, yet it resonated with profound sincerity.

In that moment, you knew that this wasn’t just about desire; it was about trust, intimacy, and a bond that felt unbreakable. You both lay there, intertwined, sharing the warmth of your bodies and the lingering aftermath of your shared ecstasy, each heartbeat echoing the promise of what was still to come.

As the world slowly came back into focus around you, you could feel Natasha’s breath steadying, a calm settling over both of you. You caressed her cheek, wiping away the tears of pleasure, feeling an overwhelming sense of tenderness for the woman before you. With each soft kiss and gentle touch, you knew that this was just the beginning of something beautifully complicated.

a/n- whew, that was a ride. thank you so much for your request, anon, i loved writing it, and although i suppose it isn't exactly what you had in mind, i hope you still liked it! for all of you who keep supporting me as i slowly figure out how to use this platform again, thank you so much. all reblogs and comments are appreciated! the love on my last fic had me overwhelmed x

[queenshelby]

Auctioned (P. 3)

Pairing: Dark!Thomas Shelby x Virgin!Reader/OC

Warning: Darkish Themes, Prostitution, Smut, Eventual Loss of Virginity, Dubious Consent, Corruption, Destructive Behavior, Massive Age Gap

Notes: Damn, I had this in my drafts for a while but could not publish it as I was a little afraid about how it would be perceived. Also this is the first time I used an OC, so be gentle with me.

You settled into your new life at Arrow House, a grand estate where elegance and opulence intertwined with darkness and danger. As a shy and inexperienced woman, you had much to learn about the ways of pleasing Thomas Shelby, the dominant gangster who ruled over this unforgiving world.

The days passed slowly as you acclimated to your surroundings. You found solace in the stables, where the horses seemed unbothered by the treacheries that lurked beyond the estate's walls. Their gentle presence offered a temporary respite from the weight of your newfound responsibilities.

Inside the library, you delved into books, seeking knowledge and distraction. It became your sanctuary, a place of refuge where the stories transported you to distant lands, far from the clutches of Thomas Shelby's demanding presence. 

The library was adorned with antique furniture, its rich scent of leather bindings and aged parchment elevating the ambience.

You felt safe there, hidden amidst the countless tomes that were silent witnesses to the sins committed within these walls. But even here, you couldn't escape the shadow of Thomas Shelby. His presence loomed over everything, a constant reminder of your precarious position.

Alison often visited you in the library, offering her wisdom about navigating your role as Thomas' "possession". Her guidance was invaluable, yet it never seemed enough to fully ease your fears.

The more time you spent with Thomas, the clearer it became that he was a man of many contradictions – tender one moment, cruel the next.

***

One evening, after a lavish dinner party, you were summoned to his office. Nervously, you followed Alison down the corridor, trying to hide your trembling hands behind your back. She glanced back at you with a reassuring smile, reminding you to breathe and find your centre.

Thomas waited patiently inside his office, seated upon his large, comfortable leather chair. He leaned back, studying you with an unreadable gaze. The room was dimly lit, adding to the air of mystery surrounding him.

"Y/N," he began, his voice a deep rumble that vibrated through your core. "Tonight, I require your services as Alison has not been feeling too well." His eyes flickered to Alison, who stood quietly beside you, nodding, and you took a deep breath, feeling your nerves calm slightly as you tried to focus on the task ahead. 

Thomas continued, "You have proven yourself capable before, so I know you can handle this." Your confidence wavered slightly as you considered the pressure he placed upon you. But you knew it was necessary to prove yourself to him once again. 

As such, and without words, you approached him, kneeling on the floor in front of his imposing presence. He allowed you to take control, giving you an opportunity to showcase your talents while still hurrying you along since he had business to attend to. 

"You have fifteen minutes, Love. I suggest you get to it, eh?" Tommy pointed out while he opened his belt and then his zipper. 

Your heart raced faster than usual; your hands trembled as you reached out to touch him. Time seemed to slow down, the only sounds in the room being your heavy breaths and the rustling of his clothes as his erection was revealed to you once again.

His powerful thighs his commanding presence, all enveloped you, making you feel like you were floating outside of your body, a mere observer of the events unfolding.

With shaking hands, you reached forward, letting your fingers brush against his skin, feeling the heat radiating from him. You could sense his impatience growing as you wrapped your hand around his hard, throbbing length.

He wanted satisfaction quickly and efficiently. You focused intently on your task, desperate to prove yourself worthy to him.

"Come on, Love, use your mouth," his eyes remained cold and distant, making you question if your efforts were truly appreciated.

"Yes, Mr Shelby," you confirmed before taking his length into your mouth with a mixture of nervous excitement and determination. Your tongue swirled around the head, tracing patterns designed to bring him pleasure. You listened carefully to the sound of his breathing, monitoring the rhythm to match your movements.

"That's it, Love. Keep going," he eventually groaned as hips shifted restlessly, and you maintained your focus, determined to prove yourself worthy of his attention.

With each passing minute, your resolve grew stronger, driven by the desire to win his approval.

Your mouth moved fluidly up and down his length, creating an erotic dance that matched the tempo of his breathing. His moans and gasps intensified, feeding your confidence as you perfected your technique.

Time seemed to warp around you, as if every second was a lifetime spent entirely under his gaze. Your lips wrapped tightly around him, sucking firmly, creating waves of pleasure coursing through his body. With each movement, you felt your power grow, and your connection to him deepened.

"Good girl, keep your tongue firm against my cock", he groaned, his grip on the armrest tightening, his eyes burning with intensity.

Your hands worked together, caressing his thighs, teasing his balls gently. You could feel his arousal building, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

"Yes, just like that…" he muttered, his voice thick with desire.

Every word, every touch, served to fuel your determination.

As the minutes ticked away, the intensity of your focus heightened.

You could hear the echo of your laboured breaths, the creak of the leather chair, and the subtle click of the clock. Each sensation brought you closer to achieving the level of mastery you sought.

The warmth emanating from Thomas radiated onto your face, filling your nose with the distinct scent of masculinity. His fingers clenched and unclenched, mirroring the turbulent storm of his thoughts and emotions.

Alison watched from a distance, silently observing both of you, her expression a mix of admiration and concern.

"Almost there, Love. Fuck," he cursed, his hand reaching back to play with your hair. "Don't stop now," he commanded, a possessive tone in his voice. His gaze held yours, daring you to defy him, but you knew better than to test his patience.

You kept working diligently, maintaining eye contact with him, allowing him to see the depth of your commitment. Your lips continued to slide up and down his length, creating a rhythmic pattern designed to please him.

"I expect you to swallow every drop, Love," he went on to say before; with a loud roar, he came, shooting hot liquid into your mouth.

Your reflexes kicked in instinctively, taking his seed into your mouth, savouring the taste as he let out a long, satisfying sigh. His breathing gradually slowed down, and he released you from his grasp.

You gently touched his thigh, looking up at him with a mixture of humility and pride, unsure of how he would react. He looked down at you, a slight grin playing at the corners of his mouth.

"Not bad, Love. Not bad at all." His praise sent a surge of relief through you, washing away any lingering doubts about your abilities. 

"Thank you, sir," you confirmed before licking the remnants of seed from your lips.

You felt a strange mix of apprehension and accomplishment, proud of your ability to provide him with pleasure yet concerned about what the future might hold.

***

Over the next two days, you spent more time at the stables, and even Thomas joined you on one occasion, taking an interest in your passion for horses. 

As he watched you tend to the animals, you found yourself sharing anecdotes about your life before Thomas Shelby. His attention focused solely on you as you shared stories about your family and childhood dreams. Despite the awkwardness of sharing such personal experiences, it strengthened your bond with him.

He listened intently, asking questions about your past, genuinely interested in understanding who you were beyond the physical aspects of your relationship. It was during those moments that you realised Thomas possessed a complexity rarely seen in others.

As you tended to the horses, he observed you with a keen eye, almost as if he was searching for something deeper. He inquired about your love for horses and how it had begun. Your heart fluttered at the genuine curiosity in his eyes, and you shared your tale with fervour. You spoke of your first horse, a gentle mare named Whisper, who taught you the art of connection and trust. It was evident in his expressions that your words resonated with him, striking a chord that few other subjects ever did.

As you shared your stories, Thomas became increasingly invested in learning more about you. He asked probing questions, seeking to understand the motivations behind your actions and choices.

You couldn't help but be amazed by his genuine curiosity and openness. In the midst of it all, you found yourself drawn to him in ways you never imagined possible. The warmth in his eyes whenever he looked at you was intoxicating, leaving you yearning for more.

Yet, you remained cautious not to let your feelings for him run wild. You cherished these rare moments of solitude where he appeared vulnerable and engaged.

As the days passed, you continued to learn more about him, too. He revealed parts of himself that surprised you, and you discovered a gentler side hidden beneath his hard exterior. However, you couldn't help but notice the darkness that occasionally clouded his eyes, hinting at a past filled with pain and betrayal.

It left you wondering how someone so wounded could find joy in a world that seemingly brought him nothing but suffering. As you delved deeper into his history, you uncovered the reason behind his controlling nature. It was a need to protect himself, and he seemingly enjoyed the thrill of being the one in charge.

Taking charge was exactly what he did that same night again when you were called into his chambers, and it was Alison who gave you a pep talk before your impending encounter. 

"Tomorrow night, Mr Shelby wants to claim what he acquired during the auction," Alison told you softly. 

"You will be spending time with him alone. This is what he wants," she added, her voice steady and confident.

You nodded in understanding, knowing full well that giving in to his desires would keep you safe and secure within his domain. 

She placed a comforting hand on your shoulder, telling you not to worry about it too much.

"You will do well; I have no doubt about it. Despite this, Mr. Shelby seems to have a soft spot for your innocent nature. I think it intrigues and arouses him all at the same time," Alison explained, watching you carefully. 

"But don't fret; it's just another aspect of his personality. He enjoys pushing boundaries and testing limits." She smiled reassuringly, offering advice to calm your nerves.

"Which brings us to tonight, where he wants to see us both to ensure that, come tomorrow, you are ready to lose your virginity to him," Alison exclaimed, and thus, as the night fell, Alison led you through the labyrinthine hallways of Arrow House, guiding you towards Thomas Shelby's private quarters. The anticipation and nerves danced in your chest, each step amplifying the thump of your heartbeat.

Finally, you stood before the imposing door, your palms slightly damp as Alison knocked, her knuckles rapping against the solid wood. The sound reverberated through the silence, announcing your arrival. You had not been in his bedroom before and were surprised that tonight, this was where he wanted you both to come.

The door creaked open, revealing Thomas Shelby, his eyes sharp and piercing as they scanned both you and Alison. His lips curled into a predatory smile, and you felt a shiver trickle down your spine.

"Come in, close the door," Thomas said, his voice carrying the weight of authority.

Alison stepped aside, allowing you to enter first. You walked slowly across the threshold, careful not to make eye contact with Thomas, your heart racing in your chest. You followed the path Alison had shown you earlier that evening, walking towards the centre of the room. As you approached, Thomas' presence became more pronounced, enveloping you in his powerful aura.

"Y/N, stand here," he ordered, pointing to a spot near the edge of the large, ornate bed. As you moved closer, the fine detailing of the furniture around you caught your attention.

The opulence of the room seemed to overwhelm you, a stark contrast to the simple life you had once known. Standing beside Alison, you took it all in – the rich fabric of the curtains, the intricate patterns carved into the bedposts, and the sense of power that hung thick in the air. Thomas' eyes bore into you, his intensity causing your pulse to race faster.

Alison broke the silence, addressing Thomas with a calm demeanour. "Mr. Shelby, Y/N has proven herself capable of pleasing you, so what do you expect of her tonight?" she asked.

His lips tightened, the lines around his eyes deepening.

"Well, first, I want to see how receptacle she is to my touch, and then, we shall see, eh?” Tommy said, and your heart raced as you absorbed his words, trying to hide your nervousness.

Alison seemed unfazed by his crude language, her face remaining composed.

"Of course, Mr. Shelby," she replied coolly, maintaining her composure despite the demanding situation.

Tommy's eyes locked onto yours, assessing your reaction. He leaned back against the bedpost, his gaze turning predatory. "Let's begin then."

You hesitated for a moment, feeling the heat of embarrassment rise within you.

"Undress, Sweetheart," Tommy then ordered, his tone commanding and authoritative. With trembling hands, you began to shed your clothes, revealing your body to him for the first time as you stood there, vulnerable and exposed.

Tommy walked towards you, his eyes trailing across your now-exposed body. You held your breath, trying to mask your discomfort. "Beautiful," he whispered, running his fingers lightly along your skin.

You felt your cheeks flush as you met his gaze, a mixture of surprise and attraction burning in your eyes.

Without warning, he grasped your wrist, pulling you toward him. Your breath hitched as you found yourself pressed against his hard chest, the heat of his body seeping into yours. You closed your eyes, trying to remain composed amidst the intense sensations coursing through your body.

"Don't be afraid, Love," he murmured, his voice low and seductive.

"This isn't something to be ashamed of." Your eyes met his, finding solace in the sincerity of his words. You allowed yourself to relax slightly, the tension easing from your shoulders. As your confidence grew, so did the desire coursing through your veins.

He led you over to the bed, sitting you down on its edge. He positioned himself behind you, his hands resting gently on your shoulders. "You must trust me, eh," he whispered into your ear, sending shivers down your spine.

"I won't hurt you." His tender touch made you believe him, even though a part of you wondered if he was lying. Still, you found yourself wanting to surrender completely to him despite the lingering uncertainty.

Slowly, he ran his hands up and down your arms, gently tracing the curves of your body. His touch was gentle yet firm, stirring both excitement and trepidation within you. The warmth of his touch caused your heart to beat faster, filling you with a longing for more.

His touch was masterful, expertly skimming over your skin with just enough pressure to leave you wanting. As his hands continued their journey down your body, you found yourself growing increasingly aroused. You were caught between the desire to satiate your yearnings and the fear of revealing too much of yourself.

Your mind drifted to the various lessons Alison had taught you, trying to find strength in those memories. You remembered the way she spoke of Thomas, describing him as possessive yet kind.

"Now, listen carefully," he began, his voice resonating with control. 

"I want you to lie down, legs spread open so that I can get a good look at what I acquired," Thomas told you before gesturing for Alison to join you on the large bed.

Alison, ever composed, obeyed his order without hesitation. You watched her, taking note of her composure.

"Come here, pet, rest your head on my lap and present yourself to who owns you now," she said, her language surprisingly crude and dominant, just like Thomas enjoyed it.

You felt your heart quicken, unsure if you could fully comprehend her words. But as Thomas' strong fingers wrapped around your nape, you realised that you needed to submit to his will, as Alison had advised you previously.

So, you obliged, placing your head upon his strong lap and looking up into his penetrating eyes. They were cold, like steel, but there was also a hint of tenderness beneath it.

"Spread your legs wide for me, Love," he commanded, his voice harsh yet commanding.

Obeying instinctively, you extended your legs, feeling the vulnerability of your exposed position. As you lay there, exposed and submissive, you couldn't help but feel the intense mixture of fear and arousal coursing through your veins.

"Look at me," he demanded, his voice echoing throughout the room. Unwilling to disobey, you raised your gaze to meet his steely eyes.

"Do you understand that you belong to me? That your body belongs to me?" He asked, his tone demanding an answer.

Nodding your head, you acknowledged his claim, feeling the weight of his ownership settling upon your shoulders. You swallowed hard, the lump forming in your throat growing larger with each passing second. As you lay there, feeling the heat radiating from his body, you tried to come to terms with the fact that you belonged to him.

"Good girl," he cooed. "Now let me have a look and see whether you are really still a virgin, eh?" Tommy smirked playfully, his eyes filled with curiosity and determination. Despite your anxiety, you felt a rush of excitement surge through your veins. This was a new experience, one that would change your life forever.

As you lay there, exposed and vulnerable, the room was filled with an electric tension. The atmosphere was charged with desire and apprehension. Your eyes darted to Alison, who remained poised and calm, seemingly unaffected by the intensity of the situation. She smiled at you encouragingly, conveying confidence and reassurance.

Your heart skipped a beat as Thomas approached, his powerful presence casting a shadow over you.

"Are you ready?" he whispered, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through your core.

Nodding your head, you managed a small smile, hoping it conveyed your readiness. Your stomach flipped in anticipation, and your heart raced in your chest.

"That's my good girl," he responded his approval warming your soul. He leaned in, his rough fingers tenderly tracing your cheekbone.

"Trust me, Love, I will be gentle. I won't claim you just yet, not until tomorrow night," he whispered softly, his warm breath tickling your ear. Your heart leapt, caught between excitement and apprehension. You wanted to give yourself wholly to him, even though doubt still lingered in the back of your mind. However, Alison's assurance that Thomas wasn't entirely cruel lent you some comfort.

With a delicate touch, he began exploring your body. His hands brushed over your sensitive skin, eliciting waves of pleasure you'd never imagined possible before, finally descending to your core to assess the condition of what he purchased.

You felt a mixture of nervousness and anticipation as his fingers traced over your slit before he opened you up slightly. He then used two fingers to spread your pussy lips open slightly, determining the truth of your virginity.

You felt a twinge of pain and discomfort, which only heightened your awareness of your vulnerability. Yet, simultaneously, you found yourself becoming increasingly aroused by the intense sensations.

As he examined you, you felt a strange blend of fear and arousal, a complex mix of emotions that you had never experienced before. The knowledge that you belonged to Thomas, that he could do anything he pleased with you, sent a thrill of excitement coursing through your veins.

"You are already wet, my love. Are you enjoying this?" Tommy asked his voice husky with desire. You nodded, unable to find your voice due to the intensity of the sensations coursing through your body. His fingers were skilled, teasing you expertly, drawing out your pleasure and tormenting you simultaneously. It was a sensation, unlike anything you had ever experienced before, leaving you craving more of his touch.

Thomas's gaze locked onto yours, his expression one of satisfaction and control. "You're so responsive, sweetheart," he purred, leaning in to press his lips against your forehead.

"Let's see how you taste, eh?" Tommy said, wanting to run his tongue through your slit.

You couldn't hide the mixture of fear and excitement that gripped you at his proposal. But as his face drew closer to your core, you felt a surge of trust welling up inside you. Perhaps it was because Alison had been so kind and reassuring, or maybe it was simply your growing desire for Thomas. Whatever the reason, you allowed him to take you in his mouth, opening your legs wider to accommodate him.

As he began to taste you, you closed your eyes, letting the exquisite sensations wash over you.

Thomas's mouth moved skillfully, causing waves of pleasure to course through your body. You moaned softly, lost in the intensity of the moment.

Meanwhile, Alison watched you both intently, silently observing the interplay between you and Thomas. There was a sense of pride in her eyes but also some profound jealousy.

She wanted Thomas to acknowledge her as his primary source of lust, not some inferior second choice. However, she knew that your innocence held certain allurements for Thomas. Thus, she didn't show her feelings on her face, hiding them well.

You, however, were too preoccupied with the sensations cascading through your body to notice her jealousy.

The sensations continued to build, culminating in a powerful climax that left you shuddering. Thomas released you from his grasp, pulling away to admire your flushed face and quivering form.

You looked up at him, the afterglow of passion evident in your eyes. His gaze burned with possession and desire, the power dynamic between you tangible in the air.

"This is just tonight's beginning, Love," he murmured softly, a wicked grin playing on his lips, and your heart raced as you processed his words, anticipation building within you. 

"Now, what do you think, Alison? How many fingers could I get into her virgin hole without tearing her?" Tommy asked, his voice laced with dark desire for you.

Alison raised her brows in a challenge and considered for a moment. "Two fingers, no more than that," she replied confidently. 

"Two, eh?" Tommy mocked. "How about we start with one, Love?" Tommy suggested before asking you to spread your legs wide again. 

As you complied, your nerves became jangled with anticipation.

You looked at Alison, seeking guidance from her as you lay there, exposed and vulnerable. Her cool demeanour seemed unshaken, giving you courage. She smiled reassuringly, telling you that you could handle this.

As Thomas moved closer, his hands slowly caressed your thighs, sending shivers down your spine. He took his time, pressing his first fingers against your entrance, attempting to penetrate you gently.

You cringed at the sudden intrusion, your body tensing in response.

Thomas, surprised by your tightness, forced his digit into you nonetheless.

You cried out in pain, your body resisting his intrusion. He stopped, hesitated for a moment, then pulled his finger out carefully. Alison's expression remained unchanged, unperturbed by your distress.

"You may need some practice, Love," Thomas commented, his voice dripping with condescension. You bit your lip, trying to control your tears, fighting back the urge to succumb to despair. You refused to accept defeat, determined to prove your worth in Thomas's eyes.

"I can take more than one finger, sir," you said defiantly, looking directly into his eyes. Thomas regarded you with a mix of curiosity and appreciation.

"Let's see how much you can truly take, Love," he murmured, his tone hinting at the challenge ahead. Slowly, he pressed his second finger against your entrance, this time applying more pressure. You winced, your body instinctively protesting the intrusion.

Thomas observed your reaction closely, his eyes narrowing in concentration.

As you clenched your teeth, refusing to cry out in pain, he pushed his finger deeper into you. Despite the burning sensation, you maintained your resolve, staring straight into his eyes with determination. Alison continued to watch from the sidelines, her demeanour unmoved by your discomfort.

"Not bad, Love," Thomas acknowledged, his voice imbued with respect. His fingers flexed within you, pushing further in as you tried to bear the increasing discomfort.

Your face contorted with pain, your body struggling to adjust to the foreign invasion. With each incremental advance, you gritted your teeth, silently vowing to overcome the pain.

Alison's gaze remained steady, unwavering, her expression betraying no sympathy for your suffering. As your agony intensified, you felt a renewed sense of determination, fueled by your need to prove yourself worthy in Thomas's eyes.

Sweat trickled down your forehead, a testament to your resolve.

"I can take it," you reassured Tommy again, even with tears forming in the corner of your eyes.

Thomas was now visibly impressed with your resilience. He admired your courage and tenacity in the face of immense pain.

"I know you can, Love, but I don't want to stretch you too much just yet. My cock will take care of that tomorrow night," he groaned, withdrawing his fingers from you, causing a wave of relief to wash over you.

You wiped away the tears, taking deep breaths to calm your ragged nerves. Your chest rose and fell rapidly, trying to regain composure.

Alison watched Thomas's every move with an unreadable expression, her thoughts hidden behind her emotionless mask. She seemed neither envious nor impressed, merely observant.

 You looked at Thomas, seeing something new in his eyes - a hint of admiration, perhaps even respect." Tomorrow night, Love, I will not be so kind," Tommy then said to you, his voice carrying a warning mixed with promise. Your heart skipped a beat, the excitement growing within you before he told you to leave his bedroom so that he could finish off with Alison.

"Mr Shelby, may I watch? Perhaps I could learn something from it for our encounter tomorrow night," you suggested, and Thomas smirked.

"By all means, Love, you can watch while fuck Alison. Although bear in mind that what I am about to do to her is not something you will be capable of enduring just yet, eh" Thomas said before motioning for Alison to come over so that he could fuck her.

She approached him with a cool confidence, undoubtedly aware of the power dynamics between them.

Your eyes followed every movement, absorbing the raw, primal energy of their interaction.

Without losing any time, Alison got on to all fours.

"Very good, Alison. She knows that this is how I like to fuck her," Tommy said before he took position behind her, grasping her hips firmly and pulling her close to him.

He was hard and ready after having toyed with you for an hour, and, without losing any time, he lined himself up with Alison's entrance without giving consideration as to whether she was wet enough or not. 

His forceful entry caused Alison to let out a sharp gasp, her body jolting slightly as she tried to adapt to his unexpectedly brutal thrust.

Thomas, driven by lust and power, took control of the situation, forcing Alison to submit to his desires. Her resistance, if there ever was any, was crushed under the weight of his dominance.

You watched with bated breath, fascinated by the spectacle unfolding before you. Alison's face remained impassive, though her eyes betrayed a mixture of pain and resignation.

In her moments of quiet defiance, she would occasionally look over at you, her gaze holding a subtle challenge. It was clear that she was both envious and threatened by your presence, torn between admiration for Thomas's preference for you and fear of being replaced entirely.

As Thomas continued his brutal assault on Alison, you found yourself growing increasingly aroused by the sight. The erotic tension between them heightened, fuelling your own desires.

You could not help but feel a twinge of envy as you watched Thomas and Alison engage in their fierce, unapologetic union. Their bodies moved in harmony, each thrust eliciting a moan or grunt from the other. Thomas's strength and dominance contrasted beautifully with Alison's feigned indifference, creating a seductive dance of power and submission.

Your heart raced as you observed their fervent exchange, your breath quickening with each powerful thrust.

The atmosphere in the room was charged with palpable sexual tension, leaving you feeling utterly captivated. Alison's performance was a masterclass in maintaining composure despite the brutality of Thomas's thrusts. It was almost as if she enjoyed being on the receiving end of his domination, albeit with a veiled resentment towards you for being his chosen concubine.

As the intensity of their coupling reached its peak, Thomas pulled out of Allison and called for you.

"Kneel and open your mouth. I want you to take my cum" he said, his voice laced with authority. You felt a surge of power as you obeyed him, opening your mouth eagerly, your lips parted in anticipation. Thomas's arousal was evident as he stood above you, his eyes filled with desire.

"Make sure you swallow, eh?" he groaned before shooting his load into your open mouth. Your cheeks bulged as you swallowed, savouring the taste of his seed as it coursed down your throat. The act served as a reminder of your place in his world – submissive and willing to please him at any cost.

Thomas watched you intently, a hint of satisfaction playing across his features. His gaze held a mixture of admiration and possession, making you feel cherished but also owned. Alison, having witnessed the entire encounter, glared at you with a jealous, defiant air.

You held her gaze, unfazed by her hostility. Though you were physically weak, your spirit was strong, unbowed by her disapproval. The battle lines had been drawn, and you knew that your relationship with Thomas would only grow more complicated as time passed.

As you cleaned up, you could not help but feel a sense of accomplishment. Though the evening's events left you drained and sore, you knew Thomas's trust in you had grown significantly.

[wheelsgoroundincircles]

1969 Holden Hurricane Concept

1969 Holden Hurricane Concept

1969 Holden Hurricane Concept

1969 Holden Hurricane Concept

1969 Holden Hurricane Concept

Holden has gone back to the future, restoring its very first concept car - the 1969 Holden Hurricane Concept.

The futuristic research vehicle described as an experiment "to study design trend, propulsion systems and other long range developments" has been restored to its former glory as a labour of love by a dedicated group of Holden designers and engineers.

Code named RD 001; the Holden Hurricane is a mid-engined, rear-wheel drive, two-seater sports car which incorporates a remarkable array of innovative features and technology, much of it way ahead of its time.

Features such as electronic digital instrument displays, station-seeking radio, automatic temperature control air conditioning, rear vision camera and an automated route finder were all showcased in this ground-breaking vehicle 42 years ago. Many of these technologies have only recently made their way into mass production, demonstrating Holden's remarkable foresight into both design and engineering technology.

The Holden Hurricane stole headlines and dropped jaws nationwide when it debuted at the 1969 Melbourne Motor Show.

Michael Simcoe, Executive Director GMIO Design, said it was fantastic to see such a significant vehicle restored.

"At Holden we have always prided ourselves on our ability to look into the future through our concept cars," Mr Simcoe said.

"It's amazing to think that the features we take for granted today were born out of creative minds over 40 years ago."

As its code name suggests, the RD 001 was the first product of the GMH Research and Development organisation, staffed by a small squad of engineers working in conjunction with the Advance Styling Group at the Fishermans Bend Technical Centre in the 1960s.

The team that designed and built the original Holden Hurricane employed some advanced technologies and techniques when it came to the powertrain. Powered by an experimental 4.2-litre (253 cubic inch) V8, this engine was a precursor to the Holden V8 engine program which entered production in late 1969.

The Holden Hurricane's V8 engine featured many advanced design components such as the four-barrel carburettor - a feature which wouldn't be seen on a production 253ci Holden V8 until the late 1970s. The end result was approximately 262hp (193kW), a towering power output in 1969 and one that ensured the Holden Hurricane had the go to match its show.

But perhaps the two most innovative features were the "Pathfinder" route guidance system and the rear-view camera.

The "Pathfinder", essentially a pre-GPS navigation system, relied on a system of magnets embedded at intersections along the road network to guide the driver along the desired route. A dash-mounted panel informed the driver of which turn to take by illuminating different arrows, as well as sounding a warning buzzer.

The rear-view camera was also a ground-breaking innovation.

Engineers using a Closed Circuit Television (CCTV) system with a camera mounted in the rear bumper feeding vision to a small black-and-white TV mounted in the centre console.

Former Holden Chief Studio Engineer Rick Martin led the modern-day Hurricane team in researching the vehicle's components, systems and history in order to restore it.

"There are some genuinely remarkable ideas and technology in the Hurricane," said Mr Martin.

"From the automatic air-conditioning and magnet-based guidance system, to the inertia-reel seat belts and metallic paint, this was a car that was genuinely ahead of its time.

"The hand-picked team of engineers and designers who built the original Holden Hurricane worked in strict secrecy and began Holden's now proud tradition of ground-breaking concept cars."

RD 001 stands just 990mm high and has no doors in the conventional sense. A hydraulically-powered canopy opens upwards and forward over the front wheels, combined with twin "astronaut type" power-elevating seats which rise up and pivot forward, along with the steering column for ease of access. Occupants are then lowered to a semi-reclining position before the roof closes over them.

The wind tunnel-tested fibreglass body consists of three segments; the canopy, the engine hood and body shell and was finished in an experimental aluminium flake-based metallic orange paint.

Safety innovations included a foam-lined fuel tank, integrated roll-over bar, digital instrument readouts, ignition safety locks, interior padding and a fire warning system.

The project to restore RD 001 began in 2006 and has been a genuine labour of love for some very dedicated Holden employees. The entire restoration process has been driven primarily by volunteer labour from Holden designers and engineers in their spare time.

But the Hurricane first entered Holden Design in less than immaculate condition. RD 001 had a residency in a trade school where apprentices practised their welding on the priceless concept.

After being returned to Holden in 2006, the Hurricane restoration project has taken many thousands of painstaking man hours to lovingly restore RD 001 to concourse condition.

Holden's Manager for Creative Hard Modelling, Paul Clarke, has been largely responsible for managing the restoration of RD 001. He ensured as many of the original parts as possible have been used or remade using modern techniques to 1969 specification, in order to preserve the authenticity of this hugely important Holden.

"The entire team has done a fantastic job in bringing this beautiful concept back to life," Mr Clarke said.

"The talent we have within the Holden organisation is simply outstanding. Every time we take on a project I'm constantly amazed by the passion and talent in this company, making it a genuine pleasure to work on these projects.

"The Hurricane plays a crucial role in Holden's story and the company has such a great sense of history and heritage that it was very important to bring RD 001 back to life. It's been a challenging but incredibly rewarding process."

Since the debut of the Holden Hurricane Concept in 1969, Holden has continued to build a global reputation for envisioning and executing world-class concept vehicles. Holden is recognised globally within General Motors as a centre of excellence for concept vehicle and show car development and is one of only three GM design studios that is capable to design and build concept cars.

Michael Simcoe added that the Hurricane holds a particularly special place in Holden's history as it kick-started Holden's long love affair with concepts that has since seen the likes of the iconic GTR-X, Torana TT36, Coupe 60, the GMC Denali XT (which was requested specifically by GM for the North American market) and the award-winning Efijy.

Holden Hurricane Concept (1969)

[archonsoflove]

The Laws of Attraction

A Neuvilette Character Study

Gender Neutral! Reader/Neuvilette Pairing

SPOILERS AHEAD!

Fontaine’s politics had always been something of a theatrical marvel to outsiders. Raised in Inazuma, where even the smallest affairs – whether it be a whirlwind romance or a white lie – were kept secret to spare social ostracization, you found this strange.

The way crime was dealt with terrified, and both thrilled you upon your first visit to the Opera Epiclese.

“I do hope you have been enjoying your time in Fontaine.”

Out of all the members of the High Court to approach you, you had not expected Chief Justice Neuvilette, the Ordainer of Inexorable Judgement. This man’s demeanour in court alone had every spectator take in a breath, waiting on the edge of their seats for the final verdict.

“It was unlike anything I have ever seen in court before,” you admitted, casting your eyes down to the marble stairs leading to the Lucine Fountain.

-

Neuvilette had found you to be a refreshing addition to his days in court after your first meeting. As a highly regarded member of the Fouche family, he discovered that you had returned to Fontaine due to your mother’s health.

“I haven’t been home since I was little.” The wine had loosened your tongue on an evening invited out to dine with him. “But Fouche does have a lovely ring to it, doesn’t it? My father loved his work in and out of the courtroom…”

“Surely you are glad to be home?” sympathy swam amongst hues of lilac in his eyes. A tea candle glimmered in the centre of the table, trapping the deeper notes of violet in fire.

And you were. Seeing the land you wished you had grown up in took your breath away. Over the past few days, you had felt more at ease than you had ever in your twenty year life. There was something about the water, the air and the aura of the people that sent excitement thrumming through your being.

And just maybe, a certain attachment to your new acquaintance.

-

“I haven’t asked you about your vision yet,” Neuvilette observed, voice gentle in the late evening.

The two of you were walking through the quaintly lit streets down to the Marcotte Station when he brought it up. The day had been long and tedious, and your last enquiry for the day had passed.

“Oh?” you tapped the vision laying against your breastbone, much like the fine necklaces the Fontainian nobility so often wore. “I am afraid it’s not of much use. I was gifted as a Healer.”

A hint of a frown threatened to overtake the man’s features, before he stopped walking entirely. You were stunned when he brought an elegant and finely boned hand up to gently brush your cheek.

“In the time I have known you, I am most certain that the God of Dendro made no mistake when she chose you.”

The jolt your heart gave at hearing such sincerity did not go unnoticed.

“I suppose you’re right,” you tried to brush him off. “But surely your vision holds more weight than mine in terms of power?”

It was then that you noticed that Neuvilette did not hold a vision. But after so many visits to his office to deliver files, marvelling at the small bursts of hydro that seemed to land on his desk in small baubles, how could it be that he had no element to wield?

-

You hadn’t known about Navia until her appearances in court.

The weather had been terrible. And Neuvilette had remained in his office up until Thursday, shadows beneath his eyes, and pale hair falling from its usual style, framing his face.

“I’ve been neglectful lately, and for that I apologize,” he had started. The sound of tea being stirred filled the silence as you waited for him to continue. It was in moments like these that you knew an ear to lend was most appropriate.

His office remained the same: put together, and lined with shelves full of novels you couldn’t begin to familiarize yourself with.

“Navia is a very old acquaintance, and her father even moreso. He was held on trial, and I made an error that I still haven’t, and will never come back from.”

As he continued retelling the events of the past few days, you sat and listened. You could not help but look at the man before you, stunned and filled with grief, witnessing his composure slowly start to crack.

Thunder rolled outside, heavy and quaking. You both looked up inn surprise, as if that would help you acknowledge the sound better. A small, watery laugh left you, and you brought up a hand to wipe away a tear from your cheek.

Your heart swelled with empathy, seeing Neuvilette reaching for a handkerchief in his pocket. For a man so threatening in court, behind closed doors, he wore his heart on his sleeve.

-

Hydro Dragon, Hydro Dragon, don’t cry!

You had heard the children chant in the streets, jumping in puddles and huddling under parasols to fetch warm goods at the bakery. But you had held no truth in the saying, and simply found it charming.

But you found it strange that it rained only when Neuvilette locked himself away in his office for days on end after a particularly gruelling and unfortunate trial. You wondered if his lack of vision may have been a decoy…

MASTERLIST

SEND AN ASK / FIC REQUEST!

[nasa]

5 Ways Studying Water Will Help Us Better Understand Earth

Studying our home planet is just as powerful as exploring what’s beyond it.

Surface Water and Ocean Topography (SWOT) is a joint mission developed by NASA and the French space agency Centre National d’Études Spatiales (CNES), with contributions from the Canadian Space Agency and the UK Space Agency. It will track water on more than 90% of Earth’s surface and help communities, scientists, and researchers better understand this finite and vital resource. And it’s launching this month!

So how will SWOT help us better understand Earth? Here are 5 ways.

SWOT will address some of the most pressing climate change questions of our time.

An important part of predicting our future climate is determining at what point Earth’s ocean water slows down its absorption of the excess heat in the atmosphere and starts releasing that heat back into the air, where it could accelerate global warming. SWOT will provide crucial information about this global heat exchange between the ocean and the atmosphere, enabling researchers to test and improve future climate forecasts.

The satellite will also offer insights to improve computer models for sea level rise projections and coastal flood forecasting.

Data from SWOT will additionally help scientists, engineers, water managers, and others better monitor drought conditions in lakes and reservoirs and improve flood forecasts for rivers.

SWOT is the first satellite mission that will observe nearly all water on the planet’s surface.

SWOT will measure the height of water in Earth’s lakes, rivers, reservoirs, and the ocean, giving scientists the ability to track the movement of water around the world.

SWOT’s eye in the sky will provide a truly global view of the water on more than 90% of Earth’s surface, enriching humankind’s understanding of how the ocean reacts to and influences climate change along with what potential hazards – including floods – lie ahead in different regions of the world.

SWOT will see Earth’s water in higher definition than ever before.

Because everything is better in HD 😉, SWOT will view Earth’s ocean and freshwater bodies with unprecedented clarity compared to other satellites, much like a high-definition television delivers a picture far more detailed than older models. This means that SWOT will be able to “see” ocean features – like fronts and eddies – that are too small for current space-based instruments to detect. Those measurements will help improve researchers’ understanding of the ocean’s role in climate change.

Not only will the satellite show where – and how fast – sea level is rising, it will also reveal how coastlines around the world are changing. It will provide similar high-definition clarity for Earth’s lakes, rivers, and reservoirs, many of which remain a mystery to researchers, who aren’t able to outfit every water body with monitoring instruments.

SWOT data will be used to help make decisions about our daily lives and livelihoods.

As climate change accelerates the water cycle, more communities around the world will be inundated with water while others won’t have enough. SWOT data will be used to monitor drought conditions and improve flood forecasts, providing essential information to water management agencies, disaster preparedness agencies, universities, civil engineers, and others who need to track water in their local areas. SWOT data also will help industries, like shipping, by providing measurements of water levels along rivers, as well as ocean conditions, including tides, currents, and storm surges.

Finally … SWOT will pave the way for future Earth missions.

With its innovative technology and commitment to engaging a diverse community of people who plan to use data from the mission, SWOT is blazing a trail for future Earth-observing missions. SWOT’s data and the tools to support researchers in analyzing the information will be free and accessible. This will help to foster research and applications activities by a wide range of users, including scientists, resource managers, and others who in the past may not have had the opportunity to access this kind of information. Lessons learned from SWOT will lead to new questions and improvements for future missions, including our upcoming Earth System Observatory, a constellation of missions focused on studying key aspects of our home planet.

Keep track of the mission here. And make sure to follow us on Tumblr for your regular dose of space!

[stars-and-inkpots]

Ok- sorry I’ve never done this before. But I was wondering if you could do a Gale fic/ oneshot where tav/reader somehow finds a way to like remove his orb but instead of getting rid of it all together it goes to them? Like now they have the orb in their chest and they have like all the pain and the possibility of going boom? If not that’s completely fine- I just had that idea and I felt you’d be amazing for it! I hope you have an amazing day!<3

OKAY! I know I've been gone for like five months, but I finally got motivated again! (Those new patches have thrown me right back into my hyperfixation) I know this is so very very late, but I hope you enjoy! I really liked this idea, and it honestly might end of a part of a multi-chapter thing if I get around to it. This is set before the events of the game.

(p.s. it's 3 am and I haven't really read through this, so I'm sorry if there are some mistakes that I won't catch till I've slept)

What's Yours is Mine | Gale x Reader

After months of research, you finally find a way to get rid of the volatile orb in Gale's chest. Of course, things don't work out exactly the way you intend them to.

Pairing: Gale/Reader

Tags: hurt/comfort, angst, brief allusion to suicide(kinda?)

Ao3 Link: Baldur's Gate 3 Requests

Word Count: 1249

You know it isn’t going to be easy. It’s taken months of research, and even now as you look through the large practically ancient book, you aren’t entirely sure that this is going to work. Gale is sceptical too, he doesn’t want to get his hopes up. He also knows that when it comes to old magic like this, there is always the chance of something going wrong. It wasn’t like this was simple magic either. The nature of his condition is complicated and volatile, and this could easily cause problems.  

Gale sits in the centre of the chalk circle while you finish drawing the runes around it. 

“Are you sure about this, my love?” 

You’ve been talking in circles like this for the past twenty minutes while you’ve been preparing for the actual ritual. 

“Yes, Gale. We’re so close to a solution now.” You draw the final line of a rune and walk over to kneel in front of him. “I’m sure. If there’s a chance to help you, I want to take it.” You kiss his forehead and he gives you a small smile. “Are you sure you’re okay with this?” 

“I’m sure,” he answers, and kisses you quickly before you stand again. 

With the circle of runes finished, you move to grab the book. The page you need is bookmarked, and you flip to it to study the words on the page once more. Between the lines are notes and annotations in both Gale’s and your own writing. You added reminders on how to pronounce some of the words, and Gale had marked the translation. You look at Gale once more, and he gives you a reassuring nod. 

You start reciting the lines from the book. Immediately, you can feel the air begin to buzz with magic. Three lines in, and you can taste copper, which is a common side-effect when it comes to older magic like this so it’s not too concerning yet. What is a little worrying, is the sheer amount of power you can feel moving through your body while you speak, and the slight purple glow that is spreading across your arms and steadily growing brighter. You chance a glance at Gale and notice that he too seems to be feeling the same effects. There’s a growing apprehension in both of you as you continue to speak the words on the page. By the time you reach the final line, the feeling is almost unbearable. It’s like the pressure in the room has increased tenfold, like a weight has been dropped on your shoulders and bears down on your lungs.

Once you utter the final word, everything seems to slow for a moment. 

Then you feel it. 

A horrible pain wracks through your body. You let out a scream. It feels like something is tearing open your chest- or is it clawing its way in? You can’t tell; you can’t think. Your vision is dark, and you aren’t sure if it’s because you’ve blacked out or because pain has forced your eyes shut. Everything feels cold, far, far too cold, but also so terribly hot. 

Finally, the pain lessens enough that you can take a full breath, though it is interrupted by a sputtering cough. When you eventually open your eyes again, you realise that at some point you must have fallen to the floor. You can feel Gale’s arms around you, he is shaking. 

“Did it work?” You ask, despite how much it hurts to speak. The burning feeling in your chest hasn’t entirely left yet. 

“That doesn’t matter. Are you okay?” 

You try to sit up and wince with the effort. Gods, your chest hurts. 

“I’ll be alright. Gale, did it work?” You ask again, looking for the tell-tale mark on his chest and neck. You find the scar still, skin sunken in some parts and raised in others, but it is no longer the usual, shimmering purple. Now, it just looks like a normal (save for the shape) scar. You smile, because at least the spell did its job. Then you see a look of horror cross Gale’s face. 

“No, gods no,” he whispers, tentatively brushing his fingers along your collarbone. You hiss in pain. It feels like he’s brushed his hands across a fresh burn. 

You bring your own hand up to feel the centre of your chest, and your stomach drops. You know the shape, having memorised it from the number of times you ran your hands across Gale’s scar. This spell worked, but not in the way it should have. 

“We have to do it again,” Gale stands, pushing a still shaky hand through his messy hair. He stares at the special candles that have already burnt far too low to make it through the ritual a second time, and lets himself believe that they will be enough. “I am not going to let you carry my burden like this. Get in the circle and I can start the ritual again.”

“You know that won’t work. The candles are out, and all the herbs and incense are burnt, not to mention the crystals. It will take ages to find those again.” You don’t blame him for this, no matter how much he might blame himself and how much he might want you to blame him. “I’ll be fine, Gale. You managed it for so long, and now it’s my turn. We’ll figure it out.” A part of you remembers what Gale said of his power and how the orb drained it, but you quickly silence those thoughts before you can worry too much about your own magic. 

“No. This wretched thing is the consequence of my mistake. I will not let you suffer through it. I can’t.” He’s kneeling in front of you again, cradling your face in his hands. “What if it becomes unstable? I can’t-” Gale tries and fails to keep his voice steady. “That cannot happen to you.” 

“And it would be better if it were to happen to you? It is fine for you to die with it?” You return, perhaps too harshly, but surely now he might understand how it felt to hear him say such things when it was him with the magic bomb in his chest. 

“I’m sorry,” is all he answers after a few moments of silence. You aren’t sure what exactly he’s apologising for, but you wrap your arms around him and rest your head on his shoulder. 

“We’ll figure this out. We always do. I promise.” The pain still hasn’t subsided completely. You can’t imagine how Gale has managed to grit his teeth and bear it on his worst days if this is how the orb feels when it is, more or less, stable. You feel him press a kiss to the crown of your head. “It’s like we always say, remember? What’s yours is mine.” The phrase was common between you two. It was one of the first things Gale had said when you moved into the tower with him. ‘What’s mine is yours,’ he had said with a grand sweeping gesture. Since then it has been used whenever either of you had to borrow something from the other, anything from books to warm wool sweaters you had no intention of returning anytime soon. It seems strange to say it now, but you hope it gets your point across regardless; by the slight shake of Gale’s chest as he laughs softly, you figure it has. 

[mariacallous]

The Times has a rather odd piece today about Radek Sikorski, the new Polish foreign minister. Headlined “Why Poland’s new foreign minister reminds people of Boris Johnson,” it points out that Radek, like Johnson and indeed David Cameron, went to Oxford and joined the Bullingdon Club.

Well, yes, he did, and thank you for reminding us, but we should not hold that against him because there is one glaring and obvious difference between Boris Johnson and Radek Sikorski. Unlike so many Conservatives and Republicans, Sikorski did not succumb to populism. His return to power in Poland is an optimistic moment as it came as part of the regime change that drove the crank right law and justice party from power.

Sikorski fell out with Johnson over Brexit. He knew perfectly well that Johnson did not believe in leaving the EU because had Johnson had told him as much. But then 2016 rolled along and Johnson realised that Brexit was the cause that could propel him to power.

The story of their relationship is told by Sikorski’s wife Anne Applebaum in her memoir Twilight of Democracy: The Failure of Politics and the Parting of Friends, one of the best accounts of the rise of the new right in Europe, the UK and the US I have read.

When I gave it a glowing review in the Observer, a few readers complained. Why was I praising a conservative? I pointed out that her background meant that she understood the extent of the right’s betrayal of free markets and free societies better than any leftist. Give me a compromised insider over a purist outsider any day. The insiders know where the bodies are buried.

Here is what I wrote

Anne Applebaum can look at the wreck of democratic politics and understand it with a completeness few contemporary writers can match. When she asks who sent Britain into the unending Brexit crisis, or inflicted the Trump administration on America, or turned Poland and Hungary into one-party states, she does not need to search press cuttings. Her friends did it, she replies. Or, rather, her former friends. For if they are now embarrassed to have once known her, the feeling is reciprocated.

Applebaum’s latest book, Twilight of Democracy: The Failure of Politics and the Parting of Friends, opens with a scene a novelist could steal. On 31 December 1999, Applebaum and her husband, Radosław Sikorski, a minister in Poland’s then centre-right government, threw a party. It was a Millennium Eve housewarming for a manor house in the western Poland they had helped rebuild from ruins. The company of Poles, Brits, Americans and Russians could say that they had rebuilt a ruined world. Unlike the bulk of the left of the age, they had stood up against the Soviet empire and played a part in the fall of a cruel and suffocating tyranny. They had supported free markets, free elections, the rule of law and democracies sticking together in the EU and Nato, because these causes – surely – were the best ways for nations to help their people lead better lives as they faced Russian and Chinese power, Islamism and climate change.

They were young and happy. History’s winners. “At about three in the morning,” Applebaum recalls, “one of the wackier Polish guests pulled a pistol from her handbag and shot blanks into the air out of sheer exuberance.”

Applebaum was at the centre of the overlapping circles of guests. For the Americans, she was a child of the Republican establishment. Her father was a lawyer in Washington DC and she was educated at Yale and Oxford universities. Now her Republican friends are divided between a principled minority, who know that defeating Trump is the only way to save the American constitution, and the rest, who have, to use a word she repeats often, “collaborated” as surely as the east Europeans she studied as a historian collaborated with the invading Soviet forces after 1945.

Even when she was young, you could see the signs of the inquiring spirit that has made her a great historian. She went to work as a freelance journalist in eastern Europe while it was still under Soviet occupation and too drab and secretive a posting for most young reporters. She then made a standard career move and joined the Economist. But it was too dull for her liking and she moved to the Spectator in the early 1990s. The dilettante style of English conservatism charmed her. “These people don’t take themselves seriously and could never do serious harm,” she thought, as she watched Simon Heffer and his colleagues compete to see who could deliver the best Enoch Powell impersonation. She came to know the conservative philosopher Roger Scruton and Margaret Thatcher’s speechwriter John O’Sullivan, figures taken with unwarranted seriousness at the time. They had helped east European dissidents struggling against Soviet power in the 1980s and appeared to believe in democracy. Why would she doubt it? How could she foresee that Scruton and O’Sullivan would one day accept honours from Viktor Orbán, as he established a dictatorship in Hungary, whose rigged elections and state-controlled judiciary and media are now not so far away from the communists’ one-party state.

What was life in the English right like then, I asked in a call to her Polish lockdown in that restored manor house in the countryside between Warsaw and the German border. “It was fun,” she said.

It isn’t now.

Her husband knew Boris Johnson. They were both members of the Bullingdon Club at Oxford. She assumed that he was as much a liberal internationalist as Sikorski was. When the couple met Johnson for dinner in 2014, she noted his laziness and “all-consuming narcissism”, as well as the undoubted charisma that was to seduce and then ruin his country. In those days, Johnson appeared friendly. He was alarmed by the global challenge to democracy, he told them, and wanted to defend “the culture of freedom and openness and tolerance”. They asked about Europe. “No one serious wants to leave the EU,” he replied, which was true enough as Johnson was to prove when he came out for Brexit.

As for the Poles at the party, they knew Applebaum as a friend who had co-authored a Polish cookbook, and published histories of communism, which never forgot its victims.

Today she is a heretical figure across the right in Europe and America. Many of her guests would damage their careers if they admitted to their new masters they had once broken bread at her table.

Heretics make the best writers. They understand a movement better than outsiders, and can relate its faults because they have seen them close up. Religions can tolerate pagans. They are mere unbelievers who have never known the way, the truth and the light. The heretic has the advantages of the inside trader. She can use her knowledge to expose and betray the faithful. One question always hangs in the air, however: who is betraying whom? Although Applebaum has left the right, and stopped voting Conservative in Britain in 2015 and Republican in the US in 2008, she can make a convincing case that the right betrayed her.

In person, Applebaum combines intense concentration with an exuberant delight in human folly. You can be in the middle of a deadly serious conversation and suddenly she will break into a grin as the memory of a politician’s hypocrisy or an incomprehensible stupidity hits her. As the western crisis has deepened, the intensity has come to dominate her writing as she provides urgently needed insights.

You can read thousands of discussions of the “root causes” of what we insipidly call “populism”. The academic studies aren’t all wrong, although too many are suspiciously partial. The left says austerity and inequality caused Brexit and Trump, proving they had always been right to oppose austerity and inequality. The right blames woke politics and excessive immigration, and again you can hear the self-satisfaction in the explanation.

Applebaum offers an overdue corrective. She knows the personal behind the political. She understands that the nationalist counter-revolution did not just happen. Politicians hungry for office, plutocrats wanting the world to obey their commands, second-rate journalists sniffing a chance of recognition after years of obscurity, and Twitter mob-raisers and fake news fraudsters, who find a sadist’s pleasure in humiliating their opponents, propelled causes that would satisfy them.

Applebaum let out a snort that must have been heard for miles around her Polish home when I mentioned the journalist and author David Goodhart’s pro-Brexit formulation that we are living through an uprising by the “people from somewhere” against the “people from nowhere” – a modern variant on the old communist condemnations of “rootless cosmopolitans”, incidentally. It’s a war of one part of the elite against another part of the elite, she says. Brexit was an elite project. “The game was to get everyone to go along with it”. Were all the southern Tories who voted for it a part of the oppressed masses? “And who do you think funded the campaign?”

She is as wary of the commonplace view that supporters of Trump, say, are conformists, who have been brainwashed online or by Fox News. They may be now in some part, but brainwashing does not explain how populist movements begin. Their leaders weren’t from small towns full of abandoned shops and drug-ridden streets. They were metropolitans, with degrees from Oxford in the case of Johnson and Dominic Cummings. The men and women Applebaum knew were not loyal drones but filled with a dark restlessness. They may pose as the tribunes of the common people now but they were members of the intellectual and educated elite willing to launch a war on the rest of the intellectual and educated elite.

Populist activists are outsiders only in that they feel insufficiently rewarded. And their opponents should never underestimate what their self-pitying vanity can make them do.

One of Applebaum’s closest Polish friends, the godmother of one of her children, and a guest at the 1999 party, provided her with the most striking example. She moved from being a comfortable but obscure figure to become a celebrated Warsaw hostess and a confidante to Poland’s new rulers. She signalled her break and opened her prospects for advancement with a call to Applebaum within days of the Smolensk air crash of April 2010. She let her know she was adopting a conspiracy theory that would make future friendship impossible.

Outsiders need to take a deep breath before trying to understand it. Among the dead was Lech Kaczyński, the president of Poland, who controlled the rightwing populist party Law and Justice with his twin brother, Jarosław Kaczyński. The party has grown to dominate Polish politics, and the supposedly independent courts, media and civil service. The flight recorder showed that the pilot had come in too low in thick fog, and that was an end to it. Jarosław Kaczyński and his underlings insist that the Russians were behind the crash, or that political rivals in Warsaw, including Applebaum’s husband, allowed the president to fly in a faulty plane, or that it was an assassination. Repeating the lie was the price of admission to Law and Justice’s ruling circles and the public sector jobs they controlled. As Applebaum noted in the Atlantic magazine: “Sometimes the point isn’t to make people believe a lie – it’s to make people fear the liar.” Acknowledge the liar’s power, and your career takes off without the need to pass exams or to display an elementary level of competence.

Other friends from the party showed their fealty to the new order by promoting antisemitic conspiracy theories. The darker their fantasies became, the more airtime Polish state broadcasters gave them. “They had not suffered or been ‘left behind’ in any way,” Applebaum says. Yet they happily worked for propaganda sites that targeted her family. Because she is married to a political opponent of Law and Justice, and because she writes critical pieces in the international press, Applebaum, who had faced no racism in Poland until Law and Justice came to power, was turned by the regime’s creatures into the clandestine Jewish coordinator of “anti-Polish activity”.

I once believed you should never let politics destroy a friendship. But that maxim depends on politics not turning into a danger to you and those you love. Applebaum could not stay friends with women who would not protest as the state they supported went for her and husband.

The Anglo-Saxon world is not so different from Poland and Hungary. Britain has handled Covid-19 so disastrously because only servile nobodies, willing to pretend that a no-deal Brexit would not harm the country, could gain admittance to Boris Johnson’s cabinet. As Johnson politicises the public sector, showing “fear of the liar” looks like becoming the best way to secure a job in the higher ranks of the civil service as well. American Republicans have had to go along with every lie Trump has told since his birther slur on Barack Obama. As for breaking friendships, British Jews broke theirs when they watched friends in Labour cheer on Jeremy Corbyn and thought: “If they ever came for me and my family, you would stand by, wouldn’t you?”

Careerism is too glib an explanation for selling out, and Applebaum is too good a historian to offer it. Likewise, bigotry and racial prejudice were never enough on their own to move her friends away from liberal democracy. Among Applebaum’s acquaintances is one of Orbán’s greatest cheerleaders. She has a gay son, but that has not stopped her espousing the cause of a homophobic regime. Laura Ingraham, a Fox News presenter, became one of the earliest supporters of Trump, despite the fact that she has adopted three immigrant children.

Rather than grab at standard explanations, Applebaum understands that a society based on merit may sound fine if you want to live in a country run by talented people. But what if you are not yourself talented? Since the 1950s, criticisms of meritocracy have become so commonplace they have passed into cliche. Not one I have read or indeed written stops to consider how one-party states represent the anti-meritocratic society in its purest form. Among her friends who became the servants of authoritarian movements, Applebaum sees the consequences of the lust for status among resentful men and women, who believe the old world never gave them their due.

They were privileged by normal standards but nowhere near as privileged as they expected to be. Talking to Applebaum, I imagined a British government abolishing press freedom and the independence of the judiciary and the civil service. I didn’t doubt for a moment that there would be thousands of mediocre journalists, broadcasters, lawyers and administrators who would happily work for the new regime if it pandered to their vanity by giving them the jobs they could never have taken on merit. Hannah Arendt wrote of the communists and fascists that they replaced “first-rate talents” with “crackpots and fools whose lack of intelligence and creativity” was the best guarantee of their loyalty. She might have been talking about contemporary Poland, Britain and America.

“Given the right conditions any society can turn against democracy,” Applebaum says, and explains why better than any modern writer I know. To the political consequences of offended vanity – Why am I not more important? Why does the BBC never call? – a sense of despair is vital. If you believe, like the American right, that godless enemies want to destroy your Christian country, and prove their malice by not giving you the rewards you deserve, or think, like Scruton and the Telegraph crowd of the 1990s, that English culture and history is being thrown in the bin, and you are being chucked away with it, or agree with the supporters of the new tyrants of eastern Europe that a liberal elite is plotting to extinguish your culture by importing Muslim immigrants, and proving its contempt for all that is decent by laughing at you, then any swine will do as long as the swine can stop it. You will pay any price and abandon any principle in the struggle against a demonic enemy.

Shouldn’t she have seen it coming, I ask her. Shouldn’t she have realised that the world she inhabited included authoritarians, who would turn on her and everything she believed in. Typically, instead of huffing, puffing, and trying to pretend she has never been in the wrong, she laughs and admits that she probably should have asked harder questions sooner of her former friends.

Readers should be glad she bided her time. Applebaum can bring a candle into the darkness of the populist right precisely because she stayed on the right for so long. She does not know whether it can be beaten. She’s a journalist not a soothsayer. But I know that if you want to fight it, her writing is an arsenal that stores the sharpest weapons to hand.

[materialsscienceandengineering]

The possibility of hydrogen-powered flight means greater opportunities for fossil-free travel, and the technological advances to make this happen are moving fast. New studies from Chalmers University of Technology, in Sweden, show that almost all air travel within a 750-mile radius (1200 km) could be made with hydrogen-powered aircraft by 2045, and with a novel heat exchanger currently in development, this range could be even further. "If everything falls into place, the commercialisation of hydrogen flight can go really fast now. As early as 2028, the first commercial hydrogen flights in Sweden could be in the air," says Tomas Grönstedt, Professor at Chalmers University of Technology, and Director of the competence centre TechForH2* at Chalmers.

Read more.

[syrupsyche]

In honour of our favourite group of men finally entering the story, I'll fish out 1-2 quotes I love about each man from this chapter.

Enjolras

"Enjolras was a charming young man, who was capable of being terrible [...] One would have said, to see the pensive thoughtfulness of his glance, that he had already, in some previous state of existence, traversed the revolutionary apocalypse."

Best introductory line to any character in literature by far, if I say so myself. I also like the reincarnation implication in the second half, framing Enjolras not as a person but rather the recurring phenomenon of revolution.

Combeferre

"He read everything, went to the theatres, attended the courses of public lecturers, learned the polarization of light from Arago, grew enthusiastic over a lesson [...] He declared that the future lies in the hand of the schoolmaster, and busied himself with educational questions."

I adore the fact that he strives to educate himself on everything, and that he loves the process of learning as well. And I agree wholeheartedly that the future is in education! My dream man.

Jean Prouvaire

"His name was Jehan, owing to that petty momentary freak which mingled with the powerful and profound movement whence sprang the very essential study of the Middle Ages [...] He spoke softly, bowed his head, lowered his eyes, smiled with embarrassment, dressed badly, had an awkward air, blushed at a mere nothing, and was very timid. Yet he was intrepid."

I love his little Middle Ages hyperfixation, go Jehan! And of course, we get a slight foreshadow of his fate at the end of his description, where he is said to be brave, despite everything.

Feuilly

"[Feuilly] had but one thought, to deliver the world. He had one other preoccupation, to educate himself; [...] The protest of right against the deed persists forever. The theft of a nation cannot be allowed by prescription. These lofty deeds of rascality have no future. A nation cannot have its mark extracted like a pocket handkerchief."

Feuilly's description is really similar to Enjolras' (minus the waxing about his looks), and I find it interesting Hugo adds the last part under Feuilly rather than anyone else's. Someone smarter than me can probably give a better analysis as to why.

Courfeyrac

"Beneath the apparent similarities of the exterior mind, the difference between him [...] There was in Tholomyès a district attorney, and in Courfeyrac a paladin. [...] Enjolras was the chief, Combeferre was the guide, Courfeyrac was the centre. The others gave more light, he shed more warmth"

Hugo loves his parallelism and so do I. Courfeyrac as a nice Tholomyès is a good way to efficiently describe him, and the last part of his description is so iconic to our triumvirate characterisation that I had to put it in.

Bahorel

"Every time that he passed the law-school, which rarely happened, he buttoned up his frock-coat,—the paletot had not yet been invented,—and took hygienic precautions. [...] In reality, he had a penetrating mind and was more of a thinker than appeared to view."

Bahorel is so funny; I too want to live my life as a student for 11 years without the need for graduating. I like that Hugo points out his intelligence too, its easy to reduce him to just a comic character, but theres a reason he's in this group, guys!

Bossuet

Bossuet was a gay but unlucky fellow. His specialty was not to succeed in anything. As an offset, he laughed at everything. At five and twenty he was bald. [...] He was poor, but his fund of good humor was inexhaustible. He soon reached his last sou, never his last burst of laughter.

This is such a fun and vivid character description, Hugo really manages to bring Bossuet to life. I love a man who can laugh at himself and while it's sad to see him be used to his unfortunate circumstances, I admire his humour about it all.

Joly

"What he had won in medicine was to be more of an invalid than a doctor. At three and twenty he thought himself a valetudinarian, and passed his life in inspecting his tongue in the mirror. He affirmed that man becomes magnetic like a needle [...] Otherwise, he was the gayest of them all. All these young, maniacal, puny, merry incoherences lived in harmony together, and the result was an eccentric and agreeable being"

He and Bossuet have the most fun descriptions ever, I'm jealous. The magnetism part is hilarious and I love that Hugo makes a point in saying that despite it all, he is still a happy-go-lucky man, similar to the unlucky, but jovial Bossuet.

Grantaire

"Grantaire was a man who took good care not to believe in anything. Moreover, he was one of the students who had learned the most during their course at Paris; he knew that the best coffee was to be had at the Café Lemblin, and the best billiards at the Café Voltaire [...] However, this sceptic had one fanaticism [...] it was a man: Enjolras. [...] No one loves the light like the blind man. The dwarf adores the drum-major. The toad always has his eyes fixed on heaven. Why? In order to watch the bird in its flight. Grantaire, in whom writhed doubt, loved to watch faith soar in Enjolras. [...] their name is a sequel, and is only written preceded by the conjunction and; and their existence is not their own; it is the other side of an existence which is not theirs. Grantaire was one of these men. He was the obverse of Enjolras."

This is embarrassingly long. But look, I LOVE how contradictory Grantaire's character is, even in his own, third-person omniscient description. He doesn't care about anything, but he knows and loves Paris so intimately that he learned of it the most. He doesn't believe in anything, but he believes wholeheartedly in one man. And like Jehan, his fate is foreshadowed at the end. He only exists if Enjolras exists. Without the latter, there is no former, and vice versa.

[selmasemlan]

A Hero's Defiance

Summary: In the midst of a tense confrontation at a Tokyo nightclub, Luna, a quirkless hero, takes down a villain with fierce precision, shocks Japan's top heroes with her boldness, and leaves Todoroki in awe, sparking his resolve to win her heart.

Pairing: Todoroki Shoto x Luna Aizawa (OFC), Bakugo Katsuki x Luna Aizawa (Platonic), Midoriya Izuku x Luna Aizawa (Platonic)

Author note: This part 1 of this multivers. Make sure to check out the masterlist for the Multiverse of Luna

Warning: mention of violence, Endeavor getting rosted

Word count: 1818

A Hero's Defiance

The neon lights of the city flickered like distant stars against the inky sky, casting a kaleidoscope of colours across the sleek skyscrapers of Tokyo. The city was alive, pulsing with energy as the nightlife thrummed with activity. Amidst the chatter of late-night revellers and the distant hum of traffic, a disturbance had erupted, sending ripples of unease through the crowd.

In the heart of this chaos, a distress call had been made. It wasn’t just any call—it was a direct summons from the Hero Commission, demanding the presence of Japan’s Number One Hero, Endeavor. Alongside him were his current interns, Bakugo, Midoriya, and Todoroki, each of them eager to prove their worth under the fiery hero’s watchful eye.

As they approached the scene—a notorious nightclub known for its exclusive clientele and high-stakes atmosphere—the tension in the air was palpable. The club’s entrance was crowded with onlookers, kept at bay by police tape and a handful of officers trying to maintain order. The sharp, pulsing beat of music from inside the club clashed with the tense silence outside, creating an eerie dissonance that set the heroes on edge.

“Stay alert,” Endeavor’s gruff voice broke the silence, his eyes narrowing as he surveyed the scene. His presence alone was enough to command respect, his towering frame and the constant flicker of flames from his body a stark reminder of his power. Bakugo, Midoriya, and Todoroki followed closely, their expressions reflecting a mix of anticipation and readiness.

As they entered the dimly lit interior of the club, the scene that greeted them was a stark contrast to the vibrant energy outside. The room was in disarray—tables overturned, chairs scattered, and a few patrons huddled in fear near the walls. The source of the disturbance was clear: in the centre of the chaos stood a man, tall and imposing, holding a young woman in a vice-like grip.

But something about the woman’s stance was off. She didn’t cower or tremble like the others. Instead, she held herself with a calm defiance, her eyes fixed on the man with a look that was more calculating than afraid. Her black outfit, sleek and practical, was in stark contrast to the shimmering dresses and sharp suits of the club’s patrons. Her dark hair fell around her face, partially obscuring her expression, but there was no mistaking the steely determination in her gaze.

Bakugo and Midoriya exchanged quick glances, both of them trying to place the girl. There was something familiar about her, but the situation left no time for idle thoughts. Todoroki, ever observant, narrowed his eyes as he studied her, sensing an underlying strength that didn’t match the image of a helpless victim.

Endeavor stepped forward, his voice a deep rumble that resonated through the room. “Let’s resolve this peacefully. There’s no need for anyone to get hurt.”

The man holding the girl sneered, his grip tightening as he eyed Endeavor with contempt. “Peaceful? You think I’m afraid of you, Endeavor? You’re too late to play the hero.”

The tension in the room was suffocating, every eye fixed on the unfolding drama. Endeavor’s fists clenched, his flames flaring slightly in response to the man’s defiance. The air seemed to crackle with the anticipation of violence, every second stretching into an eternity. Bakugo’s hands twitched, ready to unleash an explosion at a moment’s notice, while Midoriya’s eyes darted around, searching for a way to defuse the situation without bloodshed.

But before anyone could act, the girl—who had remained silent and still up until now—suddenly spoke, her voice cutting through the tension like a knife.

“Fuck it.”

The words were barely out of her mouth before she moved, a blur of motion too fast for the eye to follow. In one fluid motion, she twisted out of the man’s grasp, her body a whirlwind of precision and power. Her first strike was a brutal uppercut to his jaw, the impact resonating with a sickening crack. The man staggered back, his eyes wide with shock as blood dripped from his split lip.

But she didn’t stop there. Her movements were swift and relentless, a flurry of kicks and punches that left the man reeling. Each strike was calculated, aimed to incapacitate rather than kill, but with a force that left no doubt about her intent. The room was silent, the only sounds the dull thuds of impact and the man’s grunts of pain as he crumpled to the ground.

By the time the dust settled, the man was on his knees, bloodied and dazed, his hands cuffed behind his back with a set of restraints the girl had pulled from her belt. She stood over him, breathing heavily but with a look of fierce satisfaction on her face, as if she had just completed a particularly challenging exercise rather than taken down a dangerous criminal.

The heroes were stunned into silence. Even Bakugo, who was never at a loss for words, found himself momentarily speechless. Midoriya’s mind raced, trying to process what he had just witnessed. Todoroki’s gaze was fixed on the girl, his expression unreadable but his eyes filled with a newfound admiration.

From the shadows, another figure emerged—Monoma Mamoru, dressed in a dark hero costume that contrasted sharply with his partner’s. He walked with an air of calm confidence, his eyes flicking between the downed villain and the stunned heroes. As he reached the fallen man, he bent down and hauled him to his feet, securing him with a firm grip.

As he passed by the group, Mamoru leaned in, his voice low and laced with amusement. “Good luck,” he murmured, a smirk playing on his lips. “You’ll need it.”

Endeavor, who had watched the entire scene unfold with growing disbelief, finally shook himself out of his stupor. He stepped forward, his flames dimming slightly as he approached the girl. “Well done,” he began, his tone gruff but with an edge of respect. “You handled that situation with—”

But before he could finish, the girl turned on him, her eyes blazing with fury. “You compromised the mission,” she snapped, her voice sharp enough to cut through steel.

Endeavor blinked, momentarily taken aback. “What?”

“Your intervention almost ruined everything we’d planned,” she continued, her tone not giving an inch. “Do you even realize how close you came to blowing our cover? We had the situation under control, but thanks to your grandstanding, you nearly escalated it into a disaster.”

Endeavor’s eyes narrowed, his pride pricked by the young woman’s harsh words. “I was trying to prevent further violence,” he replied, his voice a low growl.

“And in doing so, you almost caused more,” she retorted, crossing her arms over her chest. “You’re the Number One Hero, aren’t you? You should know better than to interfere in an ongoing operation without assessing the situation first.”

The words hung in the air, a stark reprimand that left Endeavor momentarily speechless. He wasn’t used to being challenged, especially not by someone so young. But there was a truth to her words that he couldn’t deny, and that realization only deepened the scowl on his face.

Midoriya’s eyes widened as recognition finally clicked into place. “Luna?” he whispered, disbelief coloring his voice. His heart raced as memories of their childhood together flooded back—days spent training, dreaming of becoming heroes despite the odds stacked against them.

Bakugo, ever the realist, scoffed and crossed his arms, his usual gruffness returning as the shock wore off. “Tch, only Luna would have the guts to tear into the Number One Hero like that,” he muttered, a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Luna’s fiery gaze softened as she turned to face her childhood friends. A small, genuine smile broke through the stern expression she had worn moments ago. “Kacchan, Izuchan,” she greeted warmly, her voice carrying a note of nostalgia. “It’s been a while.”

The tension in the room seemed to melt away as Bakugo and Midoriya exchanged glances, a shared understanding passing between them. Bakugo let out a huff, his smirk growing wider. “You haven’t changed one bit.”

Midoriya, still in shock, stammered out, “Luna, what are you doing here? How did you—”

But before he could finish, Todoroki, who had been silent and still throughout the exchange, finally spoke. His voice was soft, almost reverent, as he stared at Luna with wide eyes. “I’m going to marry her.”

Bakugo’s head whipped around, his eyes narrowing into a glare as he stared at Todoroki. “What the hell, Icy Hot?!” he barked, his voice laced with incredulity.

Midoriya’s face flushed bright red as he fumbled for words. “T-Todoroki-kun! You can’t just say things like that!”

But Todoroki seemed completely unfazed, his gaze still locked on Luna, as if the rest of the world had faded away. There was something different in his eyes—a spark of admiration, of awe, that hadn’t been there before.

Luna, catching Todoroki’s words, arched an eyebrow but chose not to comment. Instead, she gave a small, enigmatic smile, her eyes twinkling with amusement. She turned back to her partner, Mamoru, who was watching the scene unfold with a bemused expression.

“Mamoru, let’s go,” Luna said, her voice calm and composed once more. “Our job here is done.”

With that, she began to walk away, her movements fluid and confident, as if she had just completed a routine mission rather than faced down a villain and verbally eviscerated Japan’s Number One Hero. As she passed Bakugo and Midoriya, she paused, giving them both one last, lingering look. “It was good to see you two,” she said softly, her smile warm and genuine.

Then, without another word, she turned and strode out of the club, Mamoru following closely behind. The heavy silence left in her wake was almost suffocating, the weight of what had just transpired settling over the room like a thick fog.

Bakugo, always the first to break the silence, let out a low growl of frustration. “Damn it, she really hasn’t changed at all,” he muttered, shaking his head.

Midoriya, still processing everything, couldn’t help but feel a strange mix of emotions—pride, nostalgia, and a deep, aching sense of loss. Luna had grown into someone incredible, someone strong and independent. But she was still the same Luna they had grown up with, the same girl who had always been determined to prove that being quirkless didn’t make her any less of a hero.

And Todoroki… well, Todoroki was still staring after her, his expression a mix of awe and determination, as if he had just seen something—or someone—that had completely changed his world.

“I’m serious,” Todoroki finally said, his voice quiet but firm. “I’m going to marry her.”

This time, neither Bakugo nor Midoriya had a retort. They could only stand there, watching as Todoroki’s words hung in the air, and wondering just how much more complicated their lives were about to become.

[childotkw]

Absolutely adore listening ears!!! Care to share how Harry interacts with other sirens and sea life?

Ah now this is an AU I haven't thought about in a while 😅

Harry's interactions with the sirens in the Black Lake were largely contained to the Slytherin common room. It was his favourite place to sit, and by second year, everyone knew that it was Harry's spot.

It was where he studied, where he relaxed, where he spoke to his friends. And by the time Harry was the undisputed leader of Slytherin, it was the centre of their House. No longer was the armchair by fireplace, the hearth, considered the 'seat'; because no one could deny that Harry Potter, bathed in the eerie black-green glow of the water and pinning you in place with his otherworldly eyes, was the image of power.

There was just something enthralling about watching him stare out at the murky water with such quiet longing. Of seeing large, sinuous forms slink out from the darkness and approach the thick glass; pressing their webbed hands against it or dancing playfully.

Of sometimes, late at night when most have gone to bed, hearing the soft, magical, trilling sounds of Harry's Voice communicating with the other sirens.

Sometimes though, they could find Harry out on the shore of the Black Lake, sitting on the wooden pier and talking seemingly to the open air - the only sign that he wasn't alone being the occasional ripple in the water.

Or they could see him wading out into the deeper water, unbothered by the biting chill and the way his wet clothes threatened to drag him down. Under the surface of the water, dark shapes would twist around him teasingly.

No one could say that Harry Potter wasn't drawn to the water, to the sirens; nor that the sirens weren't just as captivated by him.

As for other sea creatures - well, small schools of fish would often drift by the windows when Harry was sitting in the common room.

The Giant Squid would breach the lake's surface more often when Harry walked along the shore.

And the little goldfish that his classmates got him as a joke would do excited little figure-eights in its bowl whenever he stopped beside it to talk at it.

[harmonyhealinghub]

Athlete Transitions to Wellness Shaina Tranquilino August 26, 2024

Jack Reynolds stood in the centre of the large, sunlit room, inhaling deeply as the scent of eucalyptus and lavender filled the air. It was a far cry from the sweaty locker rooms and the thunderous roars of the crowds that once defined his life. But as he looked around the space that would soon be the heart of his new venture, he felt something even more profound—a sense of purpose. Jack had been a star in the world of professional football. For over a decade, he’d been a household name, known for his explosive speed and relentless drive on the field. But the years had taken their toll. His body, once a finely tuned machine, had begun to break down, and with it, his career. A string of injuries had forced him to retire earlier than he’d planned, leaving him adrift and searching for what came next.

The transition from the spotlight to a quieter life had been anything but smooth. For a while, Jack had tried to stay connected to the sport—coaching, commentary, even a stint as a team consultant. But none of it filled the void. He missed the camaraderie, the challenge, the way football had given him a reason to push himself every day.

It wasn’t until he stumbled upon a small wellness retreat in the mountains, far from the hustle of the city, that things began to change. The retreat had been a revelation. There, Jack discovered a world beyond the physicality that had dominated his life for so long. Yoga, meditation, acupuncture—these practices were entirely new to him, and yet, they spoke to him in a way nothing else had since his playing days ended.

He began to study, not just the techniques but the philosophies behind them. He learned about the mind-body connection, the power of breath, and the importance of mental well-being. It was a different kind of training, one that required not just strength but mindfulness, not just endurance but balance.

That’s when the idea hit him. What if he could combine his deep knowledge of fitness with these holistic practices? What if he could help others find not just physical strength, but true, lasting wellness?

And so, the idea for Renew Wellness Centre was born.

The centre was designed to be a sanctuary, a place where people could come to heal, to grow, and to transform. There were the traditional fitness programs, of course—personal training sessions, group workouts, and sports rehabilitation services, all based on the same principles that had guided Jack throughout his career. But alongside these were the holistic offerings that had so profoundly impacted him: yoga, meditation, nutritional counselling, and alternative therapies like Reiki and acupuncture.

The day the centre opened, Jack felt a familiar mix of nerves and excitement, just like before a big game. But this time, the stakes felt even higher. This wasn’t just about him—it was about creating something that could truly change lives.

Clients came, drawn by his name at first, but they stayed for the unique blend of programs. They found in Jack a guide who understood the demands of pushing the body to its limits, but who also knew the importance of nurturing the mind and spirit. He worked with professional athletes seeking to prolong their careers, as well as everyday people struggling with stress, chronic pain, or the challenges of modern life.

As the centre grew, Jack watched with pride as people transformed before his eyes. They became stronger, not just in their muscles but in their resolve. They found peace, not just in their minds but in their lives. And in helping them, Jack found something, too—a sense of fulfillment that rivaled even the greatest victories of his football career.

One evening, after the last client had left and the centre was quiet, Jack sat on a mat in the middle of the studio, the setting sun casting a warm glow across the room. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, feeling the peace that had eluded him for so long.

In that moment, he knew he was exactly where he was meant to be.

[fiendishartist2]

too alien to take you home– mp100

Once the dust settled over Seasoning City, and Toichiro Suzuki was finally taken away, Shou found himself with nowhere to go.

For a few hours, he wandered. He scaled rubble, looking for anything to occupy his mind with. Anything that could push away the static in his brain– that could stop the leftover shockwaves of adrenaline shooting through his restless limbs.

Eventually, he found himself perched on an upside-down park bench. Over and over, he spread his aura thin over the city, marking names and faces on a mental map. He counted them on his hands, making sure to take stock of every single Claw member first, then smaller, less familiar auras second.

There, on the outskirts of the city, in an apartment carefully crafted to be inconspicuous, were Fukuda, Higashio, and Ootsuki. Another familiar aura– Serizawa, in the lower-end suburban area. Minegishi and Hatori were together, picking apart what remained of the centre of the city. A few Scars were scattered around as well; Tsuchiya and that little girl Shou never got along with were near the train station, while Sakurai and Koyama were in a restaurant. Joseph and his father were long gone, but their auras left behind a trail of power in their wake.

He ran over them all in his head, dwelling on his father's violent red explosion in the centre of the city, where a giant broccoli now grew out of the ground. It hurt, deep and sharp like a hole in his gums where a tooth used to be– but he kept running his tongue over the bloody spot regardless. It loosened something in his chest, the constant reminder that Claw was over for good. His father left his mark on the city, but that mark was an outright confirmation that he wasn't coming back.

Then something else caught his attention; something cold, in deep indigoes and bubbly cyans. Glittering, like it wanted nothing more than to distract him. Next to it, two more auras sparkled, overpowering to anyone else, but just background noise to Shou compared to the alluring blue.

"Ritsu…?" Shou mumbled to the empty air. That's not his house, Shou thought, icy trepidation spider-webbing through his gut. Goosebumps spread across his grimy skin, and Shou was overcome with the sudden need to find his newfound best friend.

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

Shou landed roughly on the fire escape of an apartment. Through the haze of his brain, he remembered vague definitely-illegally-dug-up information he studied for weeks before his coup. This shitty little flat on the bad side of the city belonged to Reigen Arataka. He only really bothered to look into ways to get Ritsu's brother to flip out, which lead him to Spirits and Such and eventually, this apartment. Other than what he saw of him on the Culture Tower through the pain of being thrown around by his father, Shou didn’t know anything about Reigen.

He perched on the windowsill, willing his double vision to come back– if only to stop the sharp tunnel-vision of his gaze giving him a headache. Pain pounded behind his eyes in time with his racing heart.

He squinted through the window, trying to parse out what was what. And more importantly, where Ritsu was.

Soft, orange light filtered in from a side room no bigger than a closet, illuminating everything inside. The single room apartment was cramped, furniture packed together to give just enough space to walk between them. The couch and desk were unoccupied, but if Shou squinted, he could see three distinct lumps curled up on the bed. Ritsu's brother, flat on his back and dead to the world, was the most distinct, due to his whole face being visible above the blankets. Ritsu laid sprawled out next to him, clutching onto his brother with an iron-grip. Only his untameable, sea urchin hair poked out of the top of the blankets. Shou wheezed the closest thing to a laugh he could manage without aggravating his ribs. On the other end of the bed– someone Shou only recognised as the guy Shimizaki nearly killed– was starfished over both of them, barely covered in the wrinkled duvet he was wrapped in.

A lanky young man came into view and Shou zeroed in on him. He manoeuvred around the closely packed furniture, with a laundry basket balanced on his hip. Shou wrinkled his nose at the pretty ugly bear graphic on his sweatshirt.

He was padding around the apartment as quietly as possible, picking up clothing from the floor and placing it in his basket. It made Shou a little nauseous, the amount of blood on some of them.

Shou leaned in closer, nose nearly touching the window as he studied the man.

Absolutely no psychic power emanated off of him. Reigen didn't even have a visible aura, just the traces of someone who spent a lot of time with very powerful espers. But that just served to make Shou more confused.

Espers with as much power as Shou was convinced Reigen had couldn't suppress their auras to that degree. Shimazaki, Kageyama, even his own father– they could do nothing about the halo of pure psychic energy that surrounded them at all times.

But Shou was convinced he had to have some kind of psychic abilities. Otherwise, why would he have shown up at the Culture Tower and attempted to stop Ritsu's brother from fighting Shou's father? If he didn't have a way to defend himself, why did he try to go toe-to-toe with a man who could render him a stain on the floor, armed with only a small handgun? Kageyama could handle himself, even if he was losing to his father because he was too much of a saint to fight back. So why step in unless he's more powerful than the both of them?

Shou focused harder; there had to be something he missed. Some detail he had forgotten to look into that made this frankly weak looking guy make sense-

With a loud resounding thunk, Shou smacked his face on the window he was spying through.

He froze as a muffled squeak came from inside the apartment. The man he was essentially stalking had heard him and knew he was there.

Shou's instincts screamed at him to run. His rational brain wanted nothing more than to jump into the alleyway and hide from the man approaching the window who, for all he knew, could be double the esper his father was. But his body was so tired. For once in his life, Shou couldn't muster up enough energy to fight. Maybe it was the way his ribs ached with every breath, or how despite his open wounds all healing over with Kageyama's explosion of light, fresh blood still dribbled out of the corner of his mouth. And despite himself, maybe it was the relief in knowing that his father couldn't hurt anyone anymore and it didn't have to be through death. For all he talked of putting a stop to his father by any means necessary, Shou didn’t know if he could kill him. Even if that meant he lost.

Either way, Shou couldn't move from his spot slumped against the glass.

Reigen roved across his apartment slowly, picking up his TV remote and brandishing it like a weapon. Enough crazy shit had happened today and he would rather die than let anything else happen to the three boys crashing on his bed. Logically, he knew that if it was any of the nutjobs they ran into today, a remote and his own scrawny, tired body wouldn’t last in a fight. But he was ready to die on that tower for Mob, and that same protective adrenaline was still burning inside of him.

Stepping around the couch, Reigen set down the laundry basket under his arm. He wielded the remote in both of his shaking hands. The floors creaked as he prowled closer and he thanked his unbelievable luck that the kids were still fast asleep. Just as he raised the remote over his head, ready to strike, he got close enough to see through the window and-

And he sighed, nearly collapsing with relief. He was less relieved to see the little redhead boy from the Culture Tower slumped and unconscious on the windowsill, but anything was better than a Claw grunt coming to finish them off.

Reigen tossed the TV remote back onto the couch with the basket. He pushed open the window, holding out his arms as the boy nearly tumbled out.

“Woah-!” Reigen stared back at the boy’s wide, electric blue eyes. He braced himself on the window, gripping the frame with his knobby knuckles. Reigen tried to ease the tension in his trembling shoulders with an easygoing smile.

“Don’t you know spying on others is illegal, kid?” He said before he could stop himself. The boy wasn't deterred by his bluntness– in fact his expression hadn't changed at all. His piercing blue eyes shot holes into Reigen. Now that they were face to face in the light of his apartment, Reigen could clearly see the blood splattered all over his face. His stomach turned.

"Do you need help down?" Reigen subtly invited the boy in, trying for a gentle tone. He didn't move.

"Are you hurt?" He didn't even blink. Reigen swallowed the urge to groan, "You got brain damage or something, kid? C'mon in before I kick you out." He didn't mean to be so short, but it had been a long day and the weight of it all was making him a little high-strung. This kid's unwavering stare in place of any actual answer was grating on his nerves.

All of Shou hurt, a bone-deep soreness that couldn't be attributed to any visible injury. But, he couldn't admit that to anyone, especially not a potentially dangerous adult esper like Reigen. He shook his head and grit his teeth against the way the room spun.

Carefully, Shou lowered himself down from the windowsill, until his tattered sneakers hit the floor. He let his white-knuckle grip loosen, causing him to stumble back into the wall with a soft thump. A hiss escaped past his clenched teeth.

"M'fine," he slurred. He shoved his trembling hands deep into his pockets, "Jus' need a min- m'nute…"

"Uh-huh." Reigen scoffed, eyebrow raised. It made Shou want to punch him in his smart mouth.

Reigen sighed, "How about you sit down before you faint?"

Shou crossed his arms. The impact of his glare was hindered severely when he winced. Something twinged violently in his ribs.

"I said… I'm fine." His breath came out in bursts, exhaustion pulling at his wobbling knees, "Leave me alone. I don'-don't need your help…"

Shou leaned his head back to rest on the wall, closing his eyes. It soothed his nauseating headache and his vision stopped swimming for a moment.

"Well, at least I know you're well enough to sass me." Reigen's voice floated around in the blackness behind his eyelids. He walked away with soft footsteps. The distance between them eased a little tension in Shou's shoulders.

Shou cracked an eye open at the sound of a drawer opening. His eyes narrowed in on Reigen's hands on instinct, watching as he pulled something out of the tall dresser. He kneeled down to rummage in the bottom drawer, holding up clothing and checking the tags. This went on for a while; Reigen pulled out a shirt or pair of pants, checked the tag, glanced at Shou, then grimaced as he put it back. Eventually, Shou felt his eyelids grow heavier and he couldn't fight to keep them open anymore. Sounds fizzled out the longer he spent with his head ducked down and his eyes squeezed shut.

Something soft was shoved into his chest in the darkness and Shou gasped. His heart caught in his throat as he brought his aching arms up to block his face.

Except, no other attacks followed, and Shou was left reeling with the anticipation. He chanced a peek at what had startled him, finding a stack of clothes and a towel in Reigen's outstretched arm.

Reigen was giving him a weird look– eyebrows furrowed and eyes crinkled in a mock wince, mouth pulled into a deep frown. Shou's staring must have made him uncomfortable, because Reigen started to ramble.

He cleared his throat, "Uh- I got you a change of clothes. Y'know," Reigen's other hand started flopping around, landing on a thumb pointed over his shoulder, "So you can take a shower and stop tracking dirt all over my house." Sluggishly, Shou realised it must have been some kind of joke because Reigen was laughing, high-pitched and stilted. He scowled.

Shou's heart was still stuttering in his chest, adrenaline pumping with every short panicked breath he took. He pinned himself back to the wall, trying to get as far away from Reigen as he could without his knees giving out. His vision blinked out every few seconds.

None of this should be happening. Someone like Reigen shouldn't be helping him. It wasn't normal for an adult with as much supposed power as him to be here, speaking softly to Shou and trying to coax him into taking care of himself.

Maybe, Shou reasoned, he's trying to get my guard down. If I listen to him, he'll just double cross me. I mean, it wouldn't make any sense for him to be so nice to me. Shou didn't know why, but the thought comforted him a little. At least if he was tricked into thinking he was safe, he wouldn't be in uncharted territory anymore.

Reigen started sweating under Shou's glare. For a kid who looked like the wind could knock him over, Shou was incredibly intimidating.

"C'mon Suzuki, I'm not gonna bite." That broke Shou out of his one-sided staring contest. He ripped the stack of clothes out of Reigen's hands.

"It's Shou." He bit out, stomping across the apartment and shutting himself in the bathroom.

Once Shou had locked himself away in Reigen's dingy bathroom, he realised his mistake. He just trapped himself in a room with no exits, where he would be a sitting duck to anything Reigen was planning to do. If he was ambushed in here, that would be it.

With wheezing breaths, Shou encased the door with the strongest barrier he could muster. He braced himself on the counter, too occupied with the door to care about how it dug painfully into his back.

He waited there for a few minutes, carefully trained ears straining to make out any sounds outside of the bathroom. Once in a while, a floorboard would creak or blankets would shift and Shou's whole body would tense. It was agony, knowing something was coming and just waiting for it to happen.

Ten more minutes passed and Shou's barrier was starting to flicker away. His raised arms shook with exhaustion, but he couldn't let them drop. Not if Reigen was playing the waiting game, tiring him out before deciding to strike. Not if Reigen was going to barge in and reveal himself to be another Toichiro Suzuki.

Except– except, if he was just like Toichiro, why would he be here, watching over the Kageyamas and their blond friend? Shou's father hadn't ever shown that level of care, at least since Claw started getting big. Shouldn't he be on top of that weird broccoli tree, claiming the remains of Seasoning City for himself?

Irrationally, Shou wanted to believe in this idea; there was stability in someone he could hate, someone he could fight back against. Honestly, he didn't know what to do with being shown genuine kindness. It wasn't normal.

Again, his barrier wavered as his thoughts pooled around the fight with his father. Reigen had put his life on the line for Ritsu's brother, promising to protect him even when Toichiro was ready to kill them both. When he shut his eyes against the memory, all he could see behind his eyelids was Kageyama's subtly grateful expression. His trust that Reigen would take care of it. The way he relaxed for a moment, relieved at the sight of Reigen strolling up to a losing battle with the arrogance of someone who had the world in the palm of his hand.

This is so stupid.

Shou let his barrier fall as he slumped on the floor.

If Ritsu's brother trusts him, then that's going to have to be enough for me too.

It took a long time for the water to run clear, but eventually Shou had scrubbed all of the grime and blood (both dried and fresh) caked on his skin and hair. Now, under the lukewarm water spewing unevenly out of the dinky showerhead, Shou felt the full force of his exhaustion. He could have fallen asleep right there, leaning against the yellowing shower tiles. Instead, Shou got out and dried himself off, shivering against the stale, chilly air.

The clothes Reigen gave him definitely belonged to a kid, which surprised him. He didn't remember his guys telling him about Reigen having any children. The matching pyjama shirt and pants were adorned with cats, each with a speech bubble telling a horrible cat-themed pun. Their only saving grace was the fact that they were a peaceful blue, not unlike a certain best-friend's aura (which was quickly becoming Shou's favourite colour, incidentally). Shou wrinkled his nose at them, his cheeks growing warm with embarrassment at the thought of putting them on. If anyone caught him wearing these– god forbid if Ritsu saw these– he would die of mortification on the spot. He eyed the bloodied and ripped jacket he shucked off, but dismissed the thought of putting it back on. Reigen told him he was making a mess and Shou's stomach squirmed at the prospect of angering him.

Despite probably belonging to someone a few years younger than him, the pyjamas swallowed Shou's meagre frame. He floated a little to reach the small mirror hung up for someone much taller than him. As he poked and prodded at his ribs in his reflection, Shou realised just how prominently they stuck out. It was normal for Shou, but alongside the twinge in his stomach, he couldn't ignore it. He grimaced, trying to remember when his last meal was. Fukuda might have made him choke down a few spoonfuls of rice the day before he met up with Ritsu. He couldn't remember; Shou could barely keep the days straight in his head in this state.

At least his ribs weren't broken like he thought they were. They definitely cracked during the fight, probably when his father blasted him into a wall. Silently, he thanked Ritsu's brother, not for the first time that day. Before he healed everyone, Shou was sure he was going to die on that tower, with broken ribs and a few missing teeth to show for it.

He was paler than usual and his eyes were still a little unfocused. But, judging by how most of his dizziness had gone away and his head splitting headache was reduced to a low thrum, Shou didn't have a concussion. That stumped him, since Toichiro had fought him without mercy, incapacitating him to an extent that coming out of it without irreparable damage was shocking. Shou snorted; not like he hadn't tried.

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

Reigen paced around the apartment as quietly as possible. He couldn't stop, even when he kept bumping into the corner of his couch. Everytime he knocked his shins into something he froze, whipping around to make sure he didn't wake the kids. He was buzzing with nervous energy and continued his pacing anyways.

Reigen had been on his feet since they made the long trek to his apartment. The last few hours were spent cleaning up after the boys and watching them like a hawk, even after they had long since fallen asleep. It was irrational, but Reigen didn't want to shut his eyes for a second. The thought of leaving these kids vulnerable when he was supposed to be responsible for them again filled him with dread.

This was a different kind of restlessness now though; Shou was obviously tired and hurting and Reigen couldn't help but worry for him. He was even younger looking than Ritsu– shorter than Mob and with a frame so underweight, Reigen wondered if he was malnourished. Everytime he looked at the boy, Reigen's heart rate spiked thinking about what that meant for Toichiro. Yeah, beating up middle schoolers was awful, but a kid younger than that? Now that was deplorable. Seeing the small teen tattered and nearly falling asleep standing up left a sour taste in his mouth.

It took Shou so long to start his shower that Reigen wondered if he was even in the apartment anymore at all. Was he the one that could turn invisible? Reigen couldn't keep all these espers and their different powers straight. A few months ago he didn't even know espers other than Mob existed. He stopped his pacing, waiting for the water to start. After a few moments, the sound of his shower filled the silent apartment and he sighed with relief.

Eventually, Shou finished his hour-long shower. He finally creeped out of the bathroom and Reigen could see the full extent of his fatigue.

He limped across Reigen's cheap flooring, favouring one of his legs and walking stiffly, trying to move his hip as little as possible. An arm rested around his chest protectively; he was hunched over it and breathing shallowly, breath stuttering every few seconds as he rubbed circles into his ribs. His nose was crooked, like it had been broken and set wrong, and when he grimaced, Reigen spotted a few missing teeth. He really hoped they were baby teeth.

Reigen knew that if he looked, he wouldn't find any evidence of injury at all– Mob's powers took care of that. Where they failed however, was the details; broken bones set imperfectly or leftover pain where no cuts or bruises lie. He saw it in the kids already, when he looked them over for the source of their soreness. Teruki complained the whole way home about his chest, until Ritsu shut him up with his own grumblings about the twinge in his back. Mob was completely out of commission, barely able to keep his head up as they floated him to the apartment, but he too complained about various aches and pains in due time. But when he sat them all down after their showers, he couldn't find a single scratch on any of them.

The quiet rage that had been simmering beneath his skin since he met Toichiro on the Culture Tower was near impossible to set aside now. Reigen couldn't imagine the type of person you would have to be to see literal children as fair game to fight. That cold, merciless look in Toichiro's eyes– different, yet just as immature as the ones reflected in the 7th Division members'– set something dangerous aflame inside of Reigen. That same something that let him aim Sakurai's gun at another person without hesitation.

While Reigen seethed, Shou shuffled over to the couch. He tried to sit as far away from Reigen as possible, crossing his arms and eyeing him with blatant suspicion.

"Where does it hurt?" Reigen asked without preamble, "I've got painkillers, but I want to make sure nothing else is wrong before I give them to you. No concussion or anything, right? I don't actually know how to check for those…" He rambled, trying to fill the gap in conversation. Shou's heart pounded in his ears, and his mouth was wired shut. He didn't want to answer, but Reigen was getting more animated by the minute and each fast, sudden movement made Shou's want to scream.

"No." He stated, emotionless. Sweat gathered under his wet hair laying limp against his forehead.

"Oh, well, that's good then. Great. Let me just-" Reigen scrambled into a side room, emerging with a squat bottle of liquid medicine and a glass of water. He handed them to Shou, watching him expectantly.

The bottle of generic kid's painkillers was nearly full and obviously old. He could see a layer of dust on it and the label was yellowing with age. Shou tried very hard not to crinkle his nose at it.

"I know it's ah- not brand new or anything. But it's not expired! Don't worry, I checked." The smirk he sent Shou was not reassuring, which must be why he continued despite getting no acknowledgement, "Sorry, I just haven't had to buy medicine for kids in a little bit," he laughed, "Mob outgrew that stuff pretty soon, so I stopped stocking up on it."

"...How old do you think I am?"

Reigen paused. He wasn't sure what the right answer to this question was.

"Um… like ten? Eleven, maybe?" He said, tentatively.

This 'totally harmless' front Reigen was putting on was pretty convincing, because Shou contemplated throttling him for a moment before he caught himself.

He handed the bottle back to Reigen. It was probably– no, definitely– laced with something.

"No thanks." Shou's patience was growing thin. The urge to escape back out the window itched just under his skin.

Reigen blew out a long sigh, "Alright, guess we're doing this the hard way. No medicine." He ran a hand through his hair, "You hungry, then?"

He didn't wait for a response, already halfway to the side room (which Shou could now see was a tiny kitchen) that he got the medicine from. Shou sat rigidly on the edge of his seat, hands balled by his sides just in case. He was spring-loaded, ready for anything, like always.

The microwave beeped. Shou scolded himself for flinching at it.

Reigen was soon sitting in front of Shou on the coffee table. Once again, he handed Shou something he had long since learned to never accept.

Shou took the plate, staring down at the food Reigen reheated for him. The smell of barely seasoned rice and eggs, scrambled together haphazardly, attacked his senses. His hands trembled as he fought with himself to refuse it, just like the medicine.

He looked up at Reigen, venom in his voice betraying the shaky smirk on his face, "How do I know you didn't do anything to it?" He challenged. Reigen visibly paled.

"Wh- you think I'm trying to poison you?! What kind of person do you think I am?" He whisper-shouted.

Shou shrugged, "I don't know, you tell me." His stomach turned– whether from the nearly irresistable temptation of the food sitting in his lap or from the frustrated pinch of Reigen's face, he didn't know.

"Just eat, kid. You look like you're going to faint if you don't. I promise I'm not plotting to kill you– I can't believe I even have to say that." He said, exasperation clear in the way he buried his face in his hands. When that didn't convince Shou, Reigen moved to stand up. He might as well get some laundry done while the boy sulked.

Shou jumped back with a choked shriek. He threw up a bright orange barrier at the abrupt action, flinching away. Reigen sat down just as fast.

"Hey- hey! It's okay– look I'm sitting, don't worry just- kiddo, just calm down!" He babbled, hands up in a placating manner as he tried to reassure Shou. His teeth were chattering, but by the strain in his jaw, he was desperately trying to hide it. His eyes, wide as saucers, were trained on Reigen. The rest of his face was tense, trying to keep a mask of aloofness over his fear. It looked wrong on a face so young.

He kept rambling until Shou stopped tracking his hands with his eyes. The crackling barrier between them fizzled out soon after.

"Sh-shut up." Shou mumbled, voice shaking. He picked up his spoon and took a bite of the first full meal he's had all day.

"Woah- slow down! You'll make yourself sick!" Reigen exclaimed. Shou tuned him out, continuing to shovel mediocre rice and eggs into his mouth with reckless abandon. He barely took a breath between bites. Now that food was in front of him, the ravenous hunger tearing through him was making itself known.

Shou got up from the couch and mindlessly walked into the kitchen.

Reigen blinked, "Where are you going?" He asked dumbly. Shou could barely stand just moments ago, so why was he suddenly keen on stumbling around Reigen's apartment?

Shou rummaged through Reigen's barren fridge. He spotted the rest of the leftovers immediately, popping open the container and helping himself to its contents. He didn't even heat it up.

Alarms were going off in Shou's head; he was seriously pushing his luck acting like this. No matter how nice Reigen seemed to Ritsu's brother and how strangely accommodating he was being to Shou, there was no telling how much annoyance he would take before lashing out. But Shou couldn't help it– this newfound instability was like a rug pulled from under his feet and he needed something familiar to hang on to. And being a smartass was unfortunately very familiar to him.

"I'm getting more obviously." Shou grumbled in between bites.

"Please don't overeat. I am not cleaning up vomit tonight." Shou padded back into the main room, crashing on the couch and curling into the arm.

"Whatever, old man. I'm not g'nna barf…" He drifted off, finally giving into the tired itch behind his eyes.

He shook his head, suppressing a sigh. Slowly this time, Reigen stood again. He tip-toed around the apartment, searching for something to lay on top of Shou. Reluctantly, he nabbed one of the blankets he piled onto the boys. He hovered in front of Shou. Will he freak out if I tuck him in? He's kinda jumpy… Reigen thought. He didn't want to think of why the kid was so skittish– it was too late for that kind of rumination.

After a few awkward moments of shuffling, Shou started snoring and Reigen gave up. He threw the thin fleece blanket over the boy.

God, finally, they're all down. He scanned his apartment, chuckling softly to himself. How did I manage to become a temporary guardian to four kids? What the hell are their parents doing instead of watching their kids?

Reigen had asked after they found Mob if the boys all had somewhere to stay, which was met with a resounding (and reluctant, in some cases) no. Apparently, their houses had all been destroyed right before their attack on Claw. He decided to ask more about that later, unease settling in the back of his mind at Mob's faintly haunted expression. Teru skirted around the issue, but Mob chimed in absentmindedly that he lived alone and Reigen decided right then that they would all be staying at his place.

Suddenly, he realised that with the boys taking his bed and Shou passed out on his couch, there was nowhere for Reigen to sleep. Although, after the day's events, Reigen didn't even know if he wanted to. He settled into his squeaky desk chair, crossing his arms over his chest and reluctantly shutting his eyes.

[hannahssimblr]

Chapter Six

I have Deja-vu when I return to the Tullamore stadium where I spent countless Sunday afternoons as a teenager, forced to sit at pitch side as Kelly roared her support for the players with a ferocity that always kind of pissed me off. She wasn’t into sports, not really, she just pretended that she was because she had this fantasy of one of the players spotting her by the barriers and coming over to ask for her number. Of course, none ever did, but eventually, when she was sixteen she talked her way into one of their after parties at the club house and kissed six of them one after the other with the same efficiency as a local politician handing out fliers at a shopping centre. She didn’t get any phone numbers either, just a crusty cold sore that hung around on her lip for two weeks.

Today, for the first time there is no Kelly by my side, and I realise upon entry that it’s been almost four years since I’ve set foot in this place. I don’t know why I thought it’d look different, but everything is the same, from the sun bleached plastic seats to the mud, grass, and leather smell in the air. I’ve changed but all these old places, they stay exactly the same. Claire links her arm with mine and we head down the steps towards our seats near the front. She’s wearing a Tullamore jersey. Most people on our side are too, painting one whole side of the stadium in blue and white. I’m just wearing a grey jumper. I had a matching jersey years ago, in fact I even went to the trouble of digging it out of the bottom drawer of the chest in my childhood bedroom earlier, but it’s girls size 13-14. It won’t even go over my chest anymore. 

“Are you excited?” I say to Claire, who I expect to be beaming, but isn’t. 

“Yeah I suppose.” She says. 

“It’s a bit mad to be here together, isn’t it? Like, how many of these matches would you say you go to?”

“Oh God, like, probably all of them, I’m always stuck in these seats watching him.”

“You’re very supportive.”

“I’m a saint.”

My smile falters a bit, she doesn’t seem excited in the least. When I imagined her coming to these games I always had a picture in my mind of her cheering him on with voracious enthusiasm, hanging over the railings, chanting his name, but by the rather stoic expression on her face today I’m starting to doubt my own assumptions. “Not pushed about the match, no?” 

She sighs. “No, it’s fine, I just… this has been a touchy subject between us lately.”

“Football?”

“It’s how much he wants to play it.”

I frown. “But he’s made it onto the senior team, surely it’s normal that it’ll take up a lot of his time.”

“Yeah it’s just like,  he’s in fourth year in UCD now, I wish he’d just study or something, focus on his degree.”

“Oh.”

“There’s no future in football, like, he’ll never get paid for it and I just don’t want him to throw away his science degree because he’s too caught up with an amateur sport. There’s good money in pharmaceuticals if he works hard enough, and then we could start saving for a mortgage or a wedding, or I don’t know, kids or something.”

I nod, though it’s incredibly weird to hear her talk about such things now, at twenty one years old, when they seem lightyears away for me. A mortgage? I don’t even know how that works, never mind how I’d go about saving for one, but Claire has always been eager to settle. 

“Is he struggling to balance both things?”

“Well, he isn’t really trying to. He’s just not doing his college work.”

“At all?”

She shakes her head. Her mouth becomes a thin line as she stares out over the pitch where the players have begun to filter out, shaking the hands of the other team, and I spot Shane for the first time, dressed in a blue jersey with stripes across his shoulders. He is powerful looking, even amongst all of the others. Two men in Helly Hansen fleeces and caps walk straight through my line of vision and settle into the seats directly in front of us, blocking out the view momentarily. By the time I regain my view of the pitch the players have all settled into their starting positions. 

“I assume you’ve talked about this with him.” I say to Claire. 

“Yeah of course, but I might as well be speaking to a brick wall. You know how he is with talking about things. At all. Ever.”

I hesitate. “He can be a bit withholding, for sure.” 

“Never go out with an Irish man.” She declares. “They’ll only wreck your head.” I want to tell her that men from other countries haven’t been much more straightforward in my experience, but then the whistle blows and the match begins. 

It’s true what they say in the newspapers about Shane Healy. He’s like a bolt of lightning on that pitch. He’s big, he’s quick and he’s aggressive, and yet there is something about his style of play that I didn’t expect to see. He’s like a child out there. The way that he practically skips along with the ball, lobbing it up into his hands and kicking it up the pitch makes it seem like he’s mocking the players around him, the ones who can’t catch him, can’t stop him. 

I watch him possess the ball once again, drop it onto his right foot and neatly slot it through the goalposts for a perfect point. The crowd erupts into euphoric cheers, including me and Claire, who both laugh ourselves onto our feet and start yelling out for him. I’m not close enough to see him smiling, but I know he is, jogging around in a wide circle, clenching his fists in celebration. 

The two men in front of us are muttering about something when we sit back down, and the only reason I tune in is because I hear them say his name. “Healy. Number fifteen. ” I nudge Claire and mutter “They’re talking about your boyfriend there.”

“What are they saying?”

We try to listen in, but the stadium is too loud to catch anything but the odd word. “I can’t hear.” I admit. “Are they Australian? Hardly.” The idea of a person coming all the way from the continent of Oceania to find themselves in a shabby Tullamore stadium, of all places, would be markedly strange. 

“Oh, foreign men?” Claire drawls. “Maybe I should give one of them my number.” She slams her sunglasses onto her face, shielding her eyes from the sharp October sun, and we both put our focus back onto the pitch. 

Beginning // Prev // Next

[asoulsreverie]

While discussing the 3.7 livestream Fontaine leaks with my sister, some inspiration struck me and I said: sirens. The mermaid kind.

I mean we will have a swimming mechanism which I think will be similar to the sheer cold accumulation- maybe the traveller gets a device like an oxygen tank and we have to fill it up with air bubbles at some centres- like how we have to stand near fire to clear the sheer cold effect in Dragonspine.

There will be a stamina bar for speed, but we can't drown.

Back to the siren thing, the theory is this. The game has like the female enemies with slightly concerning voice lines, right? Mondstadt and Liyue released cicin mages, Inazuma brought out Mirror maidens and in Sumeru we have the eremite ring dancers.

So for Fontaine, maybe these enemies will be scattered in the underwater region?

Mélusine (French: [melyzin]) or Melusina is a figure of European folklore, a female spirit of fresh water in a holy well or river. She is usually depicted as a woman who is a serpent or fish from the waist down (much like a lamia or a mermaid). She is also sometimes illustrated with wings, two tails, or both (Wikipedia)

So in Greek mythology (and I know Fontaine is based on France, this is just a theory) Sirens basically draw people to their deaths by their singing.

Now we know that the above mentioned enemies have a phase where they're much stronger (cicin mages electrocute you, mirror maidens let the power of their majesty flow through them and the eremite dancers can summon monsters)

Imagine these 'sirens' have a phase where they sing, and instead of drawing the player in, they reduce the DEF of the character, or reduce elemental resistance? I think it'd be very cool.

Also another thing I'd like to add is that I believe the swimmable area might not be all around Fontaine, but only a smaller region (like dragonspine, the chasm, the 3.6 desert region with sorush) and maybe some lore about a sunken city or something

That's it for today cause I have a physics quiz and I should be studying, so bye!