#England seamlessly

[nfllivescores]

England's New Recruits Train Before Nations League Matches, Plus Coote Updates

  The England national team is in the spotlight again as new faces join the squad to prepare for upcoming UEFA Nations League matches. With the inclusion of emerging talent alongside seasoned players, England’s roster is undergoing a promising evolution. Fans have much to look forward to as these young recruits bring renewed energy and anticipation to the team, raising hopes of clinching a strong…

[theorist-fox]

Hesitate

Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader

Crossposted on AO3.

Part 1 >> Part 2 >> Part 3 >> Part 4

It can also be read as a standalone!

The description you'll read of Simon is heavily based on this fanart by @tiggerriot (give the creator some love!!!) because it has been occupying my mind 24/7. I'm in a chokehold.

Word count: 6k

Summary: Simon loses sight of you for far too long. In that time, he realizes he can't go a day without having you within reach. When you return, he tells you in the only way he knows.

18+

CW: smut (fingering, PinV), but with plot. Tiny angst, fluff. Protective and possessive Simon Riley. Mentions of stabbing and blood. Minor injuries.

Masterlist 🦊

𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬

“Quiet.”

He barges in. Because of course he does. There isn’t a piece of flooring in this godforsaken base that hasn’t been violently reclaimed by Ghost’s boots.

Not even in your goddamn room.

Thankfully, you have the reflexes of a trained operative and have moved out of the way in time, otherwise you'd be sporting a wonderful, purple knob in the middle of your forehead. And while there is a certain distaste surging in your chest – the kind that makes your lips pucker and your stomach knot –, you know there is very little you can do to move the mountain that is Ghost.

So, you close the door behind you with an exhausted sigh, as he ventures further into your room.

“Good eve-“

He swivels on his heel as soon as your mouth parts to speak. “Where the fuck ‘ave you been, uh?”

The balaclava on his face does absolutely nothing to hide the hatred sizzling in his eyes. Funny, because you’ve always thought that it was the whole point of the thing – to hide his face. You wonder, sometimes, if he knows just how expressive his eyes are. 

Does he know he tells so much more with those than he ever does with words? 

Nevertheless, yours are as telling as his own, as they bulge out of your sockets. The odd look you give him is comical, compared to the ire that's practically singeing his clothes.

“Uh,” you stutter. “Deployment?”

He narrows his eyes at you into tiny slits. So tiny you have to squint your eyes yourself to catch a glimpse of his irises.

“Alone?” He asks, clearly skeptical.

To match the distrust in his tone, you tilt your head toward his, brows furrowing in confusion. 

“…Yeah?” You reply, and the more you go on the more sarcastic you sound. “We do that, sometimes. Lone ops, recon. Y’know, we’re in the UKSF, in case you, uh – forgot.”

He hums gravelly. A sound that causes his body to straighten up as if the cogs have finally started whirring and working seamlessly once again.

“Don’t get smart, now.” He warns, freezing you with a look.

You pucker your lips and instinctively show him your palms, cheekily replying with an “I would never.”

Wrong move, unfortunately. 

You are your worst enemy. 

If this conversation goes downhill, you are the one to blame. Schedule a punishing whipping for yourself, later – you better fetch the goddamn cat o’ nine tails.

The movement causes the long sleeve of your loungewear to slip further down your forearm, pooling at your elbow, and exposing a large bruise. A galaxy of greens and mauves in the shape of five fingers and a large palm.

Ghost’s eyes zero on your arm with the rapidity of a hawk. Price has always said it, after all: he only knows one sniper who’s better than Ghost, and she’s a thousand klicks away now. You miss her – Farah would’ve been a lot nicer about this than him.

When his focus returns to you, he doesn’t even have to ask. As you’ve already stated time and time again, he conveys a lot more with his eyes.

And they are absolutely fuming. 

You suck in a sharp breath, nodding your head slowly while returning your sleeve where it’s supposed to be. Fucking traitorous piece of cotton that should stick around your wrist.

“Y’know,” you start, your chest all puffed because – well, you ain’t breathing right. Not with Ghost staring you down like you’ve gone and killed the King of England. “I had to sneak in, grab the USB key our contact set up for us, and then – bang, vanish. And I did it, yeah? I was brilliant at it.”

The smile on your face is as fake as the cheerful tone you’re using to dispense this information. It cracks as soon as you see the fabric of the balaclava shift on his jaw. 

He’s grinding his molars into dust.

“And?” 

You gesture vaguely. Shift your eyes to the ceiling. Tongue your cheek. Try to downplay it. “Well, ‘s nothing really.”

“Sergeant.” He barks. If he had hackles, they’d be dusting the ceiling. 

You sigh. 

God, how long have you been holding onto that breath? You’re positive it was the air you’ve inhaled, like, ten thousand years ago.

“Someone thought I was acting a bit dodgy and had me pinned to the floor.” You made grabby hands with a cheeky smile, “I have meaty forearms. Plenty to grip.”

Humor is usually the key to lessen the tension that would strangle your and his lungs. Normally, he’d let it go. He’d listlessly smack the back of your head or pinch the flesh of your biceps and call it a day.

Now, sarcasm seems like the last thing you should’ve resorted to. His posture is stiff and straight. The night lamp on your bedside table sheds light against his back, making him look like he's the wolf ready to pounce what it's going to be his dinner.

It makes your blood curdle.

“Yeah, okay.” You huff, digging your fingertips in the back of your neck to release some tension. “Nothing happened. I jabbed him in the throat before he could shout for help and shoved him under a desk. Got myself a proper blood shower.”

Ghost’s eye twitches.

And then he goes silent. 

Not the news of the year, of course. He’s always silent. You know he doesn’t get his callsign from that, but you can’t help but find his personality incredibly fitting with the military nickname.

However, this isn’t the usual Simon shut-up-and-sod-off Riley. He’s so still you wonder if he’s breathing. You have half a mind to wave your hand in front of his eyes to check if he’s gone catatonic.

You don’t, of course. Dogs bite.

You sneer, more in concern than anything, and gingerly take a step forward. Initially, your question comes out simply as a sideway tilt of your head paired with a puzzled look – a question mark would be floating above you, if physically possible.

But when that doesn’t seem enough to coax an answer out of him, you blurt out an “Oi.”

His eyes are jaded as they swivel to your face. Always with the heavy-lidded gaze that makes him look like he’d love to be anywhere but where he currently is. 

He seems… calmer. You're not sure whether it's a good or a bad thing. You prefer it when he's fuming because, as the saying goes, better the devil you know. 

“Off.” He states. 

Of course, he prefers syllables to full, clear sentences. Expressions you (or anyone else, really) don’t seem to catch, unfortunately. You’ve lost count of how many times you’ve told him that if he wants to have a conversation, he should start stringing words one after the other instead of settling for just one.

“What?” You deadpan. “Off with the bullshit? Off with my head? Words, L.T.” 

You don’t seem to have learned from your past mistake of using humor to sneak out of a predicament when Ghost appears to have all hell ready to unleash. 

He roughly points at your chest, “The shirt,” and then aims his finger to the floor. “Off.”

Look at you: dumbfounded. 

Sure, you two have fucked, occasionally – ever since he’d come to terms with the idea that he could do it without getting into trouble. It’s not like he gives two shits about someone finding out, he just doesn’t want to deal with commanding officers explaining to him why he shouldn’t stick it anywhere he finds fitting. God forbid someone puts him through one of those seminars about relationship policies and how they can disrupt the chain of command.

You splutter, “Wha – Excuse me?”

“Ya heard.” He reiterates. “The shirt. Off.”

You scoff. “You wanna fuck now?”

“Didn’t say tha’, did I?” He says flatly.

“Oh, sorry!” You snark. “Didn’t think there were other reasons why you’d want me to flash my tits.”

“Didn’t say tha’ either.” He deadpans and swipes his index finger in the air again. “Off with the shirt.”

You huff, pinching the bridge of your nose while, stubbornly, still wearing the t-shirt. 

“Not in the mood to have sex, honestly,” you explain, trying to stay calm in the face of the implications of the request. “I came back this morning, I’m beat. I need a cuppa and some sleep –“

He switches, then. “Take off that fucking shirt, sergeant.”

You bristle. Anyone would, at that tone.

Suddenly, you’re back to basic training in Pirbright with your wench of a drill instructor calling you a fucking idiot. 

Needless to say, you follow through with his order and rip the shirt off with more spite than cooperation. With a big frown on your face, you turn on your heel and start stomping angrily towards the bed.

“Make it quick.” You snap, getting on your knees on the edge of the mattress, ready to get pounded into oblivion. 

You’ll like it, eventually, even if you’re not really in the mood. 

Ghost fucks you good. It’s undeniable. 

You’ve soaked his sheets, his clothes, his mask – he’s that type of good. You won’t tell him though; his ego is already too big. If it grows more, HQ won’t be able to contain it and the whole base will blow up into smithereens.   

You’re saving lives, here, by keeping your mouth shut about it.

But he has other plans, it seems. 

“The fuck are you doin’.” 

It is not, in fact, a question. 

You look over your shoulder and find him still standing where you left him, a few paces back.

You quirk a brow, and shoot it back at him, “The fuck are you doing.”

“Why are you bendin’ over.” He states.

"To fuck?" You say, an unsaid obviously lingering in the air. 

Something shifts under his mask, as if he’s scowling. “Who said I wanted to fuck?” 

You splutter, yet again caught by surprise. “You made me get naked.”

He sighs, sounding exasperated, and approaches you, who is – by the way – still shamefully on all fours on the tiny bed of your quarters. 

Suddenly, all that spite sublimates under the heavy, hot weight of embarrassment. 

What are you doing, on your knees on the bed, half naked, if he doesn’t want to fuck?

In your defense, while the two of you often spent time chatting about everything and nothing, that happened in public places. Not once has he knocked on your door for a spot of tea and decent conversation.

Regardless, as soon as you manage to stand on your knees, you can feel him right behind you. Scorching fingers of shame crawl up to your neck. You feel your chest warm up, all the way to the apples of your cheeks. Awkwardly, you bring your arms up to cover your breasts. 

“Off,” he orders, again.

You swallow dryly, offering an insecure smile. “…With the pants?” 

He gives you a glacial look. Your blood freezes in your vessels. You think you might have turned cyanotic. 

“Fuckin’ hell – Off the bed.”

Obviously, your feet touch the ground with impeccable speed, because after that display, the least you can do is follow through with his orders before you make a fool of yourself twice in under a minute.

You feel his fingers curl around the top of your head, only allowing the pads to tangle through your hair and touch your scalp. It’s as if he doesn’t really want to touch you, but feels compelled to do so.

He flicks his wrist to give you a sense of the direction he wants you to turn to, and you do, waddling a little on your feet as you slowly twirl.

Your hands are tucked under your biceps, which are currently strangling your ribcage in an attempt to cover as much of your chest as you can with your forearms. 

When you’re finally facing him again, you look up at him through your lashes. His eyes, however, are not on your tits as you expect. He’s not even ogling, to be honest – which would be a blow to your ego, if the situation weren’t so… odd. 

Your brows are pinched. Your mouth parts only so you can suck in some air and then worry your lip between your teeth. 

This is much too intimate than what you’re used to. 

You realize, as he studies your body, with that weirdly placed hand on your head, that Ghost has never… seen it. 

Or – well, he’s seen it all right, but he’s never looked at it. Your encounters are usually very quick and to the point.

He fucks you. 

You come – once or twice. Thrice, if he’s feeling particularly generous.

He comes. 

Get yourself a glass o’ water and jog on. ‘M knackered.

Yeah, okay. G’night, prick.

Right back at ya.

That’s it.

Sometimes, you don’t even take off each other’s clothes. Sometimes, he doesn’t even turn on the lights. 

Now, his gaze is heavy as he looks at the dip of your waist, then at the fuzz below your belly button and where it leads, until the hem of your slouchy sweatpants that have seen better days. It’s like having lasers pointed at every nook and cranny of you, leaving scorching lines along your profile. 

He taps his finger on your forearm, the one without the bruise – a silent request to take your arms off your chest. Your hands are shaking as you comply, but you’re too preoccupied with him to notice. 

Ghost seems utterly uninterested at the sight of your tits bouncing down in response to gravity, instead setting his focus on the edges of your ribcage.

He flicks his wrist again, and you slowly turn the other way, giving him your back.

You feel his fingers twitch against your scalp, before a cold fingertip brushes against your right side.

"Here." He states, barely tracing the lines of your ribs. 

It's been so long since he's last spoken that you feel goosebumps rise along your neck. God, his voice will never not make your insides churn.

Regardless, you spread your elbows out, lifting your right arm so you can look at where he's pointing. You can't see much, but you definitely feel how the slight movement of your shoulder causes your right side to ache as if the skin were ready to burst at the seams.

“Ow.” 

You frown and curiously try again to take a peek at the cause of the pain. After some squirming, you spot the darkening patch of flesh, speckled with purples and yellows.

“Mh,” you muse. “Didn’t know that was there.”

The hand on your head finally abandons it, allowing the muscles on your neck to relax. 

You continue, somewhat feeling the need to explain why there is yet another bruise. “When that man saw me, he knocked me onto the floor. Must’ve hit it harder than I thought.”

He hums noncommittally. You could’ve told him the most absurd tale, and he wouldn’t have batted an eye, much too focused on the expanse of your back. 

You shrug, then. “’S alright. It’ll pass. It’s just a bruise.”

It’s then that he meets your eyes. 

There’s always a sort of veil over his, whenever the air around you both thickens. You wish you had scissors to rip it, sometimes. Or walk to the curtain and take a peek inside. 

“What is this?” You gesture at the two of you, looking back at him over your shoulder. “What are you doing?”

He deflects your questions with the same reflexes he uses to dodge bullets, answering instead with a question of his own. “You went to medical?”

Your lips twitch and you have to school your face into more muted frustration. 

Your response is a little petty, but you can’t help but give it to him. “No, just a couple of bumps, nothing that needs a trip to the doctor."

He is a looming shadow behind you, encompassing you with dark tendrils that threaten to swallow you whole. He sucks the warmth of the room with the ice embedded in his eyes – it forces you to look away, finding comfort in your own hands cupping your biceps.

You don’t even manage to reach for your t-shirt again, feeling the need to cover yourself up, that he curls an uncharacteristically gentle hand around your jaw. 

You stiffen. 

He seizes that moment to turn your head, his other fingers already hooked at the hem of his balaclava around the neck. He slides it up and off naturally.

There’s always some sort of solemnity when his face comes into view. 

Each groove and bump tell a story of their own, not a single one coming from the same tale, nor the same blade. 

He has crow's feet, but he rarely smiles – if ever. There are lines originating from the sides of his nose tipping at each corner of his mouth. They should symbolize happiness carved, but you fear it’s the opposite. 

Thick, convoluted scars paint him like rough brush strokes given by an angry hand – bristles of steel, paint of blood. 

Teeth peek out from a particularly gruesome injury that has torn the flesh off his upper lip. He constantly looks like he’s scowling at you, and if you didn’t know any better, you’d probably think he was. Would fit the character, and all.

Truth is, Simon rarely cares enough to scowl at anyone. You can either get a cold side glance or a disinterested one – if it’s the former, then you might be in his good graces. 

Right now, though, you don’t think he’s giving you either. His eyes are murky; a mud of anger, annoyance, and disappointment. He looks like he hates you with all his might, staring at you as if he could, by sheer force of thought, scoop out the eyes from your sockets.

“You wanna kill me?” You mumble, finding it hard to speak as he holds your jaw between his fingers. “Get in line, mate. There are at least a bunch a’ Russian men and their mothers before you, ever since I shanked their colleague.”

Then, his eyes leave yours to glance at your lips. He must think you haven’t noticed, because he doesn’t bother to hide it. However – and you’ve always found this incredibly interesting – Ghost tends to forget when he’s wearing the mask and when he isn’t. 

Each time, it’s like watching a child learning how to rein it in. Or, you know, like that sibling you have to surreptitiously elbow under the table at Christmas dinner when your pissed uncle is going off a tangent regarding the most idiotic, misplaced subject ever known to man.

That’s Ghost right now. 

The sibling elbowing him? Simon.

He blinks out of his headspace and then frowns, returning his eyes to yours.

“Don’t need to.” He grunts. “You’re doin’ a fine job by yourself.”

You scoff. “It’s just a bruise.”

His jaw ticks. 

“Yeah, but it’s on you.”

It’s said low and bitter, as if he’s had to fight tooth and nail to yank it out of his chest. 

You, on the other hand, are stock still in place – not only because of his hand holding you firmly by the jaw, forcing you to look over your shoulder to where he stands, but also because what was that?

You swallow but it's futile because your tongue is stuck to your palate. The air surrounding you crackles. The oxygen is lacking, and your lungs are suffering from it. 

You blink. That’s all it takes, and he lands his mouth on you.

Ghost’s kisses are always rough, determined to take your breath away and leave you wondering if you’ll ever say any other name but his own. This one is not much different, but you have to recognize that it is somewhat angrier. 

His lips part as if he could swallow you whole, working his tongue against yours and hindering your movements with his fingers holding your face, and a hand over your belly.

You can work with this. This, you know how to behave around. This is charted territory – the hunger, the stress, the need to decompress and find solace in the oasis you offer so generously between your legs.

You know the dance, and so you press your bum against his groin. You weren’t in the mood, like – ten minutes ago. You were a different person back then. 

If Ghost now wants to split you in half, you’d hand him the butcher knife.

You’re already turning feverish, lifting your right arm to tangle with his hair, ready to grab and pull and bite and – 

He stops you.  Palm to your knuckles, guiding it down once more. He doesn’t hold your hand, instead removing his own as though your skin were burning coal. 

Not as carefully, though, he snakes under your sweatpants and unceremoniously dips his middle finger inside your cunt.

“Fuck,” you hiss. 

You weren’t that wet, and while you're not one to say no to a bit of pain, this has caught you so off guard that you decide to chastise him by nipping at his lower lip. 

It’s not much of a punishment, you guess, because his hips jerk to rub himself against you. 

You wish to move and take this to the bed, where you can lie down and be his pillow princess. Let him fuck you until his heart's content, because you're tired and you'd love to get used for his pleasure and yours.

But he’s an unmoving statue, boots glued to the floor and hand shackled to your pussy, dipping in relentlessly until your knees buckle under the sheer pressure of his finger buried to the knuckle. 

When your hips start undulating to increase the friction – specifically of his palm against your neglected bundle of nerves where your pussy tips – he inserts a second finger, and you positively melt against his chest. It’s then that he releases your lips, allowing you to moan under your breath. 

He starts sucking blindly at whatever piece of skin he can find, leaving love bites on the length of your shoulders all the way to your neck. Teeth and tongue and words that escape his lips, while he curls his fingers inside you, drowning your thoughts in frayed growls from his mouth, and raunchy squelches from between your legs. His offhand gets busy and starts toying and pulling at your nipples. 

You're being absolutely ravaged; his nails are talons and he wants to rip you apart and eat you inside out after he's prepped you alright. It's juxtaposing - the pleasure, and the crudeness. It's new, but not unwelcome.

“You should’ve told me.” He grunts. You don’t pay it much mind, he usually murmurs a lot during sex, and less than half of the time you catch what he says – the other times, you’re already too stupid to use your senses.

“Should’ve.”

He snaps his finger upward, burying them to the knuckle.

“Told me."

Then rolls his palm against your clit.

"You were being posted." 

Finally, he curls his fingers inside, making your legs quiver.

You whimper and your eyes roll back. Is this your punishment? Hell fucking yes, then. You’ll keep your secrets more often. 

But alas, you do feel compelled to at least explain and apologize.

“M’sorry,” you breathe, “It was a last-minute thing. Got called the day before.”

Surely, he’ll understand. That’s how deployments work: they give you a timeframe, and you might or might not get the dreaded call. If you do, then you’re off – one day you’re lounging at the beach, the next you’re buried in gore.

No in-between. 

You don't want to distract him though. You're so close. If he just – moved a little, maybe? Or allowed you to rest your legs somewhere. 

You shift imperceptibly so that you can rub your clit at your preferred pace against his palm. The callouses on the heel of his hand make it somehow even better.

He allows you, meaning that even if you’ve kept the deployment from him, he’s feeling magnanimous.

You roll your head against his shoulder to nuzzle his neck, the tip of your nose tucked behind his lobe. You pant as he fucks you with his fingers, and murmur sweet things about how good he is to you, because he’s being kind and for that he deserves a generous stroke to his ego. You leave open kisses on his neck, his jaw, lapping the sweat off his skin with your tongue – to try and give back some of the pleasure he’s offering you.

When you come, it is with a loud groan muffled in his neck, and he holds you by the waist before you keel over. The orgasm almost stings, since he’s ripped it out of you so quickly and forcefully. It tingles from the tips of your toes, curling against the linoleum, all the way to the knot that finally snaps in your gut. 

Only then, when your vision clears and your skin still prickles in goosebumps, do you hear him through the ringing of your ears.

“You don’t understand.” He’s saying, like a prayer repeated gruffly to the skin of your neck. 

He doesn’t say it once, he doesn’t say it twice. He repeats it with fervor, and the more it escapes his mouth, the angrier it gets.

You feel the back of your knee being pushed by his own, and you stumble forward on the mattress. You’re confused, still descending from the high of your orgasm, feeling your limbs move under his command and notyours. Trying to find sense in his words. 

You don’t understand.

Your ears are cottoned – the orgasm has been that blissful – but you still catch the sound of a zipper being pulled down. Your front is plastered against the mattress, cheek buried in linen of freshly washed sheets. 

You don’t have the strength to stand, nor to look behind, so you can solely rely on your hearing, on your touch.

Shallow breaths. 

Shuffle of fabric – he’s taking off his shirt. 

His hand skims over your back, purposefully avoiding the bruise on your side. 

A finger pulls down the sweatpants to your ankles – the air feels cold against your skin, flushed and burning. 

Wet fingertips trail down your legs with uncommon reverence, until they reach down and yank the pants off your feet.

The denim of his jeans shifts. A thud – he’s on his knees.

He forces your leg to bend and kisses your ankle. Then the arch of your foot. Your toes, and it makes your cunt flutter around nothing. The actions are paired with a wet, rhythmic sound – he’s touching himself the way you’d touch him. 

He has fingered you with such voracity you thought you’d rip in half on his hand, and now he’s on his knees, kissing your feet. He’s switching rapidly – angry, then devoted. 

The former you know, but the latter is different. It’s new. 

You feel the mattress dip and protest under the additional weight, each of his thighs on either side of yours, keeping your legs flush together. 

A hand appears in your vision, gripping the sheets. 

You kiss the knuckle on his thumb, and he flicks it gently over your nose. 

His chest exudes warmth even if he isn’t properly touching your back. He simply hovers above it, putting his weight on his palm, while his other hand is busy stroking his cock.

You're wet and prepped just how he likes, in fact he slides in easily. 

You already came, which means you're hypersensitive – it feels like he's inserting something long and scorching hot inside. Your breath hitches in your throat at the intrusion, and he dips his forehead to your shoulder, leaving an apologetic kiss.

He fucks you slow and deep, dragging backward without ever pulling out. He wants to stay sheathed inside. He wants to bury himself in there, with your velvet walls squeezing him dry. You won’t complain. You’ll keep him snug until he’s sated. Until you are, too.  

This dance you know as well, and so you fold your arms behind you, bending your elbows so that he can grip both your forearms with one hand and use them as leverage to rail you until you’re only babbling nonsense.

But he… doesn’t?

He still fucks you, sure, but his hand doesn’t reach for your arms, preferring the sheets instead, and it makes you feel a little neglected, wondering if you're doing something wrong. Sure – you just came, he’s treated you to your nice little post-operation orgasm, and then proceeded to fuck you. So, he must still be into this – into you. 

Right? 

You thought this could’ve been a nice way to reciprocate, since you know how much he likes to get you to bend as he pleases.

A thank you of sorts. 

You reach up with your fingers, tickling his abdomen to make him notice that you’ve prepared yourself for him, arms knotted behind your back like a bow on a present – just in case he’s missed it, you know?

But he reaches down only to guide your arms back to the bed, distending them ahead. He goes to hold one hand but stops, instead digging his palm back into the mattress.

Just when you’re about to protest, lifting your head from the bed, he drags his tongue around the shell of your ear. 

You shudder. 

"I- I'm not good at this." He grunts as he fucks you slowly, dragging breathy moans out of your lips. "So jus’ listen for once in your goddamn life.”

It’s then that his pace picks up, punching a ragged groan out of your lips at the first abrupt thrust. 

He’s either doing it to shut you up, or to make you focus on something else while he speaks. So, maybe, if you’re busy molding your pussy around his cock and rolling your eyes to the back of your head, you won’t hear what he’s saying.

“Lieut –“

“Simon.” He chides loudly. “Fuck – Told you it’s Simon, ‘ere.”

You grip the sheets as your head bobs to the pace he takes. Your breathing is more akin to a wheeze, and your belly flutters each time he hits you just right.

“Simon,” you whimper.

“Yeah,” he croons. “Simon. Good.”

Simon is as breathless as you are, but much more contained.

“Need to know where you are,” he murmurs under his breath. “You got no idea wha’ I –“

He releases a shuddering breath that tickles your ear. 

You’re keening and shivering, trying to focus on his words but it seems like he’s trying his best to prevent you from listening, even if he’s the one who’s asked you to.

There’s something rabid in his motions. He bullies his cock as deep as it can reach, his hips brutally slap against your ass. You can feel the fat recoiling, the vibration tipping at the base of your skull. He’s feral and yet it’s so different.

He groans, but it's frustrated more than satisfied. 

“You got no fuckin’ idea, do ya?” He mutters the sentence like a curse. “No fuckin’ idea. You – “

You reach for his hand with your own, but he swats it away. 

You try again and he nibbles at your ear.

“Don’t." He warns lowly, stilling his motions until he’s hilted all the way inside. 

You suck in a breath as he shoves himself until there’s not an inch of space for him to move.

He’s ramrod stiff above you, struggling to keep his chest off your back – denying you of his skin. Of intimacy. Of contact. 

You twist your head that much to look at his face and find him staring blankly ahead. 

To say it worries you would be an understatement, especially if paired with the puzzling behavior he’s had all evening. 

You follow the trajectory of his gaze with your eyes and heartbreakingly discover that he's burning holes in your bruised flesh – the hand of that now-dead man still darkly imprinted on your skin. 

Skin still untouched by him.

You feel yourself falter. “Si-“

“You’re hurt.” he croaks. “I’ll hurt you more.”

You don’t know what staggers you the most: his cock up your cervix making you dizzy, or the hesitance in his voice. 

Hesitance.

Simon doesn’t hesitate. He’s not tentative. 

He takes.

If he can’t take, he delegates, and whatever he needs eventually will fall into his hand. 

You fell into his hand without too much of a fuss. He gave you the impression that you were the one demanding and obtaining, but the truth obviously lies elsewhere. 

Simon wanted you, too. He wants you, too.

He gave you the chance to sneak into his office and request an immediate closure to the cat-and-mouse chase. He delegated it to you.

And then he took.

Hesitance, clearly, isn’t in his daily vocabulary. 

This dance, you don’t know. You’re out of your zone. You don’t know which steps to take without tripping over his toes and disrupting the music. 

He’s unmoving inside of you, catching his breath with his lips on your ear.

“Can’t hurt you.” He breathes, and you have to focus to even catch it. 

“You won’t,” you whisper, trying a first step. “I’ll tell you if – “

And it’s the wrong one.

He starts again, pulling out and fiercely slamming back in. Your breathing snaps, palm coming down to slap against the mattress, “Fuck!”

It would feel oh, so good, if you were in the right headspace. 

He won’t allow you to talk. He’s begging you, in his contorted ways, to let him speak without judgment. Without the fear of knowing he has dropped the mask too low. 

This is his time. 

You should’ve shut your mouth, for once, and allowed him to speak. Stupid, stupid, stupid. 

He asked for one thing. 

Jus’ listen for once in your goddamn life.

You purse your lips in a line and nudge your head against his own, a silent way to prompt him to go on.

I’m sorry. I’m listening.

“You got no idea.” He repeats again, but this time his voice cracks – overwhelmed.

He starts his voracious pace that always steals your breath and fucks your brain into a mush.

“I’ve looked for ya, asked ‘round – no one fucking knew. Got told you were off on deployment, and that’s it.” 

Each word is as accusatory and irate as the cock he’s drilling inside of you. 

“You weren’t comin’ back. One. Two. Three weeks. No fuckin’ sign of ya.” He thrusts in for each week you’ve gone missing, “I was – “

He stops. Inhales sharply. Hesitates, once again.

“Don’t wanna feel tha’ again – don’t put me through that again.”

Suddenly, you can feel everything at once. 

Your body perks up. 

Vision, hearing, touch, taste, smell – all filled of him.

And it’s not about sex anymore. 

It never has been, but how obvious it is now.

You want to hold his hand, but you decide to leave him space. 

The hand-shaped bruise on your arm glares at him like a promise he silently made with himself and failed to keep. You won’t make him feel like he broke a thing, because he hasn’t.

If anything, you’ve never felt more whole in your life.

You and Simon have never gone further than physical. You don't know how to soothe a heart so afraid if it belongs to him. So, you do the only thing you’ve learned that manages to get through to him.

You keen and moan and breathe, allowing tiny praises and sinful curses to leave your lips. 

Like that – yeah. Shit.

Yes, yes, yes. 

Deeper. Please.

His name – not his callsign, not his rank.

Simon, you croon. Simon, Simon, Simon. 

You feel the pressure of his come spurting out, flooding your walls like a dam has broken and crushed. His mouth on your ear won’t allow a single sound to pass, but he’s clearly overly affected – you know, by the way his breath comes. As if he’s clinging to life and has found purchase for survival right on your skin.

You want to kiss him, but you leave the choice up to him. You won’t squirm under the press of his forehead against your temple, but your lips are there for him to taste – moist and plump and ready.

Simon’s lashes flutter against your cheekbone as he regains his bearings. Looks at you. His eyes hint at regret – it’s a fraction of a second that has your stomach knot. But then he squashes it down, when he realizes that you saw nothing wrong in his words.

He kisses your cheek, and then your lips. Thankfulness seeps through.

"Don't hide from me again," he murmurs and gingerly hooks his thumb around your pinky. Not touching you yet, not so close to where you’re already aching.

You curl your finger around his own. “I won’t.”

[karlachismylife]

Flutter Into the Skies

CW: fem!reader, girly reader (dresses, makeup, all that jazz), flirty banter, mentions of alcohol, Ghost is a menace as always, toothrotting fluff.

(Title from "Butterfly, Butterly" by a-ha)

You're excited.

That bubbly feeling of sincere happiness for someone else is filling your chest with lightweight foam, rising as if you're the most perfect, airy meringue that has ever graced anyone's kitchen - and it's soft too, not choking or overwhelming like any strong sensations tend to be.

You're literally beaming on someone else's wedding day. It's good.

Even Ghost and his ever so heavy, even unintentionally, presence seem to have nothing on you and your metaphorical butterfly wings of a flowing dress, fluttering behind you as you're running around to finish getting ready to head out. He considers himself already good to go, a sharp suit matching colour with your dress, grown out hair styled neatly, keeping the subtle waves it naturally has whenever he lets it go. You even got him a half-face mask that matches his tie and pocket square, no black allowed to your sweet friend's celebration. He's wearing it already, getting used to the feeling of unfamilar fabric on his face, as he stands in the hallway, leaning on the wall in a lazy manner, hooded eyes watching you with a deep satisfaction and a crooked smirk of a predator in its den lurking somewhere behind the satin mask.

You hear a distinct chuckle as you zoom past him in your festive frenzy, looking for a particular eyeshadow palette in your impressive collection - so, naturally, you turn on your heels and give Simon a mockingly stern look.

"What's so funny, huh?" You demand, pointng your eyeshadow brush at him, right between his dark, magnetic eyes. Sparkly glitter smeared on the soft hairs makes it look like you're about to zap him with some pixie dust magic. "I wanna look good, it's her special day, can't ruin it by being a mess! You could put some effort in too, Mr Riley."

That's when you get him - light eyebrows sliding upwards in a quizzical look, eyes dipping down to give himself a quick one-over before coming back up to stare at you. Daring you to tell him he doesn't look exquisitely and magnificently. He would go meet the Queen of England herself looking like this, not to mention a friend of his own little queen.

"Your tie, dummy," you giggle and put your formiddable weapon of artistry and glitter on the nearest surface, dancing up to Simon and gripping his unevenly tied accessory.

"Could've fixed it meself before headin' out," he grumbles in response, standing upright for you to adjust the tie into a straight line and tighen it up just the right way. Sure, he could, but that's what he gets for being a menace and teasing you for fussing over every detail of your appearance today.

You lift your gaze to retort with some smartass quip, but Ghost is already two steps ahead, staring at you with a heavy, sultry look he knows you can't resist - eyelids half-closed and lazy, white lashes fluttering slightly as he assesses your expression, notices the way your half-done makeup blends together into a colourful picture, bright, sparkly, not subtle at all and screaming "this is a happy day for me too!"

You must be a fairy or some other mythical creature to posess this wonderous ability to dissolve seamlessly into other people when they need your support and then emerge unscathed; complete, full and whole on our own - and yet always there to be a part of a bigger thing.

He knows, because you've seeped under his skin every time his own shell crumbled, and held the fortress for him, mending every crack with your pink pixie dust and golden unicorn fur. They are still there, still visible, still hurting - but not threatening to collapse on top of him, crushing whatever soft and alive still is kept inside.

If there is a pang of guilt prickling him for never supplying you with something this good to melt into, sharing happiness instead of a deadly burden, it disappears too quickly once Simon sees the simmering adoration in your glitter-eyeliner emphasized eyes.

Sliding the knot of his tie up and adjusting it around his collar, you don't let go of it immediately, instead opting to tug on it - an indication of your intent clear enough, you think. But of course, the mountain that is Ghost, doesn't move.

"Come on, I wanna kiss you," you murmur, yet to realize that Simon didn't misread your gesture as a part of fixing his tie.

The bastard ignored it on purpose.

"Oh, I can tell," his smugness rains down on you through the slyly narrowed eyes of his and the undeniably satisfied smirk unable to be contained discreetly with the mask alone.

It takes you a few seconds to go from charmed and adoring to scandalized and outraged.

"Fuck you, Simon Riley," in sincere wrath, you jerk your fist up, choking him with the tie, and yank the asshole's face towards you, pressing a loud, mocking smooch directly over the light fabric of his mask. It's his fault he didn't want to remove it and give you a proper kiss.

"We'll be late if ya do," unfased by the silky hanging noose around his neck, Ghost hammers in the last nail.

You're pouting at him the whole way to your friend's wedding, his poorly muffled chuckles only digging his grave deeper as you glare at him, no threat in your butterfly princess appearance whatsoever. The only thing that keeps you from elbowing the self-assured dog or telling him what a bastard he is, is the sweet revenge you're gonna get once everyone at the wedding sees him with a stupid, bright-pink, sparkly kiss print on his mask that he still hasn't noticed is there.

That's what he gets for being an ass: mighty image completely ruined, reputation of a scary, battle-worn beast shattered. Everyone will see just how wrapped around your finger and domesticated he is (as if it wasn't obvious already - or as if he didn't have you wrapped around his himself).

It's only at the afterparty, when everyone's letting loose and your cheeks are definitely tingling from the sweet alcohol you drank in the name of your friend's union with her sweetheart, when you suddenly get jumped by Ghost on your way to the bathroom. He's just leaving it himself, and you know from the look in his eyes that he finally had a chance to look in the mirror and see what a pretty sight he had been the whole day.

"Were ya even planning to tell me, ya little minx?" Somehow he growls right into your ear, already caging you against the wall. Good thing he does - your head is spinning, you're tipsy, charged with the best mood, buzzing from hearing good music at the dancefloor, full of sugar and sweet, sweet aftertaste of someone else's love wafting through the air.

"Took you long enough," you giggle, resting your palms on his shoulders - even through the blurriness of your lightweight happiness you clearly see that he's smiling, little lines crinkling in the corners of his eyes and warmth in his voice as he nuzzles into your temple. "Not so sharp-eyed anymore, Lieutenant?"

"Jus' didn't expect blatant betrayal in me own home." You roll your eyes and that's enough to miss him sliding his marked mask down. "Ya will pay for this, lovie."

"I'm shaking in my- mmph!"

Whatever you were shaking in, gets cut off by a whole tornado of smooches, light alcohol taste on Ghost's lips and tongue too. Should've known he'll get like this after a couple of glasses.

But then again, do you really mind?

[pitchprowler27]

Hearts On The Sidelines

The energy in the stadium was electric, pulsing beneath Ellie’s feet like a living thing. It was a chaotic symphony of chants, cheers, and clapping—a sensation that might overwhelm most, but for Ellie, it was oddly comforting. Chaos wasn’t foreign to her; she thrived in it. As a paramedic, her life was a series of high-stakes moments and adrenaline rushes. This? This was her version of peace.

Beside her stood Bobby, her childhood partner-in-crime, arms raised in a roar as the Arsenal team burst onto the field. Bobby was as loud and commanding as Ellie was quiet and reserved—a six-foot-tall force of nature to her compact, toned frame. He was the extrovert to her introvert, the life of the party to her quiet observer. They were opposites in nearly every way, save for their shared queerness and their unbreakable bond. They’d joked often that they were each other’s emotional support queer.

Their friendship had roots deeper than most. They’d grown up together, survived the Army as field medics, and now found themselves sharing a new chapter of life in England. Ellie had needed to escape the States and her family, and Bobby, ever her loyal shadow, wasn’t about to let her go alone. England was as far from home as they could get, and Arsenal games had quickly become part of their new routine.

Ellie didn’t know the first thing about football, or as Bobby loved to tease her, soccer. What she did know was that the women’s team had a roster of ridiculously attractive players, and she wasn’t above enjoying the view.

“Honey girl, close that mouth before someone thinks you’re catching flies,” Bobby teased, nudging her with an elbow. Ellie snapped her mouth shut, her face going beet red. She hadn’t even realized she’d been staring.

“Shut up,” she hissed, shoving him playfully. “If this were the men’s team, you’d be drooling all over the place.”

Bobby threw his head back and laughed, the sound booming over the crowd noise. “Touché, little one. Touché.”

Their banter was cut short when a woman in front of them suddenly slumped in her seat, unconscious. Ellie and Bobby shared a quick look—a silent, shared exhale of here we go again. Even on a day off, work seemed to follow them.

Seamlessly, they fell into action. Bobby stabilized her head and neck while Ellie checked for a pulse, her hands steady despite the rush of adrenaline. The woman’s clammy skin and shallow breathing were telling, and both friends suspected dehydration and heat exhaustion. By the time stadium medics arrived, the woman was starting to come around, but Ellie and Bobby insisted on accompanying her to the medical tent to make sure she was okay.

Inside the tent, it was clear the crew was green—two young EMTs who looked as if they’d just graduated. Ellie didn’t waste time. Flashing her badge, she barked out instructions while Bobby set up monitoring equipment and Ellie established IV access. They moved as one, the rhythm of years working together palpable in the ease of their movements.

The woman, Amanda, gradually improved under their care, her color returning as fluids worked their magic. Bobby kept her distracted with easy conversation—he had a gift for making people feel at ease, and Ellie was grateful for it.

“I’m Amanda, by the way,” the woman said, sitting up a little. “My daughter plays for Arsenal. She’s going to be worried sick when she finds out.”

Ellie smiled softly, finishing her checks. “She’ll be worried, sure, but relieved when she sees you’re okay. Just make sure you hydrate better next time—it’s no joke in this heat.”

As the game ended and Amanda prepared to leave, her daughter appeared, jogging toward the tent. Ellie glanced up, and her heart stuttered. The woman—blonde, tall, and impossibly fit—was instantly recognizable. Leah Williamson. The Captain of Arsenal. Ellie had seen her on posters and in headlines, but in person? She was breathtaking.

“Mum! What happened?” Leah’s voice was tinged with worry as she knelt beside Amanda. Ellie found herself frozen, her brain short-circuiting as Bobby’s smirk widened beside her.

“Ellie and Bobby took such good care of me,” Amanda said, gesturing to them. “They’re absolute angels.”

Leah turned her attention to them, her piercing blue eyes locking on Ellie. “Thank you,” she said, her voice warm but firm. “I’m Leah, by the way.”

Bobby, ever the charmer, extended a hand first. “Bobby. And this shy one here is Ellie.”

Ellie managed a nod, her voice caught somewhere in her throat as Leah turned her attention to her. Leah extended her hand, and Ellie shook it, the contact sending a jolt through her. She forgot to let go, and when she realized, she dropped it like it was on fire, heat flooding her cheeks.

“Uh… yeah. No big deal,” she stammered, rocking nervously on her heels. Bobby’s silent laughter was palpable next to her.

Leah’s lips quirked into a smirk, her gaze lingering on Ellie. “Well, I appreciate you both taking such good care of my mum.” She paused, her tone turning playful. “Hope to see you around, especially you, pretty girl.”

Ellie’s jaw dropped, and before she could formulate a response, Leah had turned, leading Amanda away. Bobby grasped Ellie’s shoulders, shaking her gently.

“Oh, Ellie, Ellie, Ellie,” he teased, grinning from ear to ear.

“Not one word, Bobby. Not one,” Ellie muttered, though her wide-eyed stare said everything she couldn’t.

[virgoilluminati]

A Match Made in England

Episode 1: Just two kids from england; the ups and downs of football...

A/N: This got put as mature (i have no idea why hahah) so I've re-uploaded it to make sure it's appropriate.

Series Masterlist | Next part

Episode 1

Settling into the inviting cushions, you became a tableau of spring comfort. The distant hum of a camera being activated blended seamlessly with the rustling leaves outdoors. Levi, the seasoned producer with a knack for drawing out personal narratives, sat across from you. His demeanor was calm yet engaging, a reassuring presence amid the studio's buzzing equipment.

"Okay, where to begin..." you mused aloud.

Levi nodded thoughtfully. "What about signing for England?"

The scene transitions to a bustling pressroom years earlier, where a 17-year-old you, with long, flowing hair cascading down your back, sat nervously next to Sarina Weigman after being signed to the England national team.

Reporters leaned forward eagerly, their cameras clicking and pens poised.

One interviewer asked, "Y/N, you're the youngest Lioness to join the senior team. Do you feel the weight of expectations?"

With a shy smile, your long hair framing your face, you responded, "Honestly, it's an honor to be here. I'm just going to give my best and learn from these incredible players and coaches."

Another reporter chimed in, "Y/N, what do you think you bring to the team at such a young age?"

You took a moment, glancing at Sarina for reassurance. "I think I bring a fresh perspective and a lot of energy. I know I have a lot to learn, but I'm eager to soak up as much as I can from my teammates and coaches. Being young means I have time to grow and improve."

The flashback showed you nervously twiddling your fingers as more questions came your way.

"Do you feel any pressure considering your brother's legacy in football?" one reporter asked, the question hanging heavily in the air.

Your smile faltered for a brief second before you composed yourself. "Of course, there's always pressure when you're following in the footsteps of someone successful. But I'm here to make my own mark and contribute to the team in my own way."

Cutting to a childhood flashback, you and your older brother Noah were seen playing football in the backyard, his encouraging voice guiding your early steps in the sport.

Back in the present, you ran your fingers through your now slightly shorter hair, reflecting on that moment with Levi."

"I probably would've lied back then and said I had nothing to prove. At the time, I truly hated people who asked me about my age," you laughed. "I hated people knowing I was so much younger than everyone else, you know. I guess I felt belittled and also very undermined."

Levi looked intrigued. "How come?"

You sighed, thinking back. "I don't know, when I look back on it now, l'm like damn, you know. I was just a kid. The amount of pressure I was under—"

The little screen continued to display snippets of that press conference, overlaying the commentary, "Y/N Morrison, only 17 when she first started playing for England. Now, at 19, she stands as the youngest player in the senior squad."

Levi leaned forward with genuine curiosity. "Can you tell us more about Noah? How did he influence your journey in football?"

Another childhood flashback played out, this time of you and Noah practicing together, his supportive presence shaping your early skills and love for the game.

Levi continued, his voice gentle and probing. "Do you think some of that pressure came from your brother and the legacy he left behind?"

An awkward pause hung in the air before you let out a light laugh, breaking the tension. "Uh, yeah. Haha- I don't think being the sister of an already well-known Morrison did me any favors, no."

As the crew members bustled around, adjusting cameras and discussing logistics for the next segment, you took a moment to collect yourself, reflecting on the profound journey you had just shared and preparing to continue with the interview.

The screen seamlessly transitioned into a poignant montage. One particular video clip unveiled a pivotal moment in your shared narrative. It was a chilly evening at a local pitch, where a younger you, barely a teenager, kicked the ball around with a sense of determination mirrored in Noah's watchful gaze. This seemingly ordinary moment turned out to be a precursor to the journey that awaited you.

The video shifted to a rainy afternoon at a school tournament, where Noah, now a mentor as well as a brother, stood on the sidelines cheering your every move.

The camera caught a glimpse of Noah sharing insights and encouragement, laving the foundation for a dvnamic that encouragement, laying the foundation for a dynamic that extended beyond sibling ties.

As the montage continued, it unfolded a series of snapshots: Noah consoling you after a tough loss, the two celebrating victories with infectious joy, and the subtle exchange of nods and smiles that spoke of an unspoken understanding. Your story went beyond the spotlight, a tale of shared passion, shared defeats, and the unwavering support that siblings uniquely understand. Y/N Morrison, shaped by the echoes of Noah's footsteps, began to carve her own narrative in the beautiful game.

The scenes shifted to a day of reckoning, the moment you received your call-up to the national team. Noah, now a seasoned player, embraced you in a tight hug, the pride in his eyes telling a story of shared dreams realized. And then, the turning point. Y/N Morrison, amidst her brother's legacy, emerged as a rising star in her own right. The torch passed not just through genes but through a bond forged on countless pitches, a bond that shaped you into the player you are today.

In a touching moment, the montage included a clip where, as soon as a match ended, Noah handed his sweat-soaked shirt to you—a symbolic gesture of support and shared triumphs.

As the montage concluded, the screen faded back to the interview room, where your reflective gaze spoke volumes.

Levi, now deeply moved by the narrative that had unfolded, adjusted his notes and looked at you with a newfound respect for your journey.

The interviewer, acknowledging the depth of your shared journey, posed one final question.

Interviewer: "Looking back now, how do you see your role within the legacy you and Noah have created in the football world?"

You, with a thoughtful smile: "I see it as a story still unfolding. Noah laid the foundation, and now I'm building upon it. lum-"

Levi nodded approvingly, allowing the weight of your words to resonate in the room. However, the interview had ventured into personal territory, and you couldn't shake off the vulnerability that surfaced with the last question.

Emily, noticing your unease, interjected gently, "Why don't we take five, everyone? Y/N, take your time. We can continue whenever you're ready."

You nodded gratefully, feeling a mix of emotions after reliving such intimate moments of your journey.

You walked off the set, feeling a whirlwind of emotions after the intense interview. Emily followed closely behind, her pace matching your thoughtful stride.

"Did I do okay?" You asked with a hint of uncertainty. "I stumbled at the end—"

"You did great, Y/N! Don't worry," Emily reassured her with a warm smile. "These guys can be quite intense, don't worry I'm sure Jude is in Madrid right now, getting the same level of interrogation. Why don't you wait here—" She gestured towards the makeshift living room that had been set up in one of the spare rooms. "I'll call you back in ten?"

You nodded gratefully, finding comfort in Emily's words. You entered the cozy room, furnished with plush cushions and soft lighting, and sat down on the comfortable sofa. The room exuded a sense of calm, a stark contrast to the a stark contrast to the bustling energy of the studio outside.

As you waited, you pulled out your phone and began scrolling through messages. Moments later, a text from Jude popped up.

Jude: Hey there, dove! How's the hot seat treating you?

You grinned at his message, appreciating his attempt to lighten the mood.

Y/N: Surviving so far! They didn't ask me about my secret dance moves yet.

Jude: Phew, dodged one there! Remember, if all else fails, just dazzle them with your best dance move.

You chuckled softly, enjoying your playful banter despite the distance between them. You felt a surge of warmth and affection for Jude, grateful for his ability to make you smile even in challenging moments.

Your messages continued, Jude teasing you about his own interviews and you responding with playful comebacks.

Jude: Hey, have you thought any more about Madrid?

You hesitated, your heart sinking as you read his message.

You took a deep breath before responding.

Y/N: Jude, please. I can't have this conversation again.

Jude: It's been six months, Y/N. First it was the press mania, then it was your sister's baby, now it's this TV show. When are we going to talk about it?

Your fingers hovered over the screen, conflicted emotions swirling inside you.

Y/N: My answer hasn't changed, Jude. I love you, but I love my life here too. Things are finally starting to settle down, and—

Jude: No, they're not. You're lethargic, you're sitting out almost every game now, you're always not sleeping-

Your heart raced, tears welling up in your eyes. You couldn't bear to have this argument again.

Y/N: I've been helping my sister, Jude.

Jude: But it's not just that, is it? Your barely eating, your constantly distracting yourself with work. You need to take a break.

You felt a pang of guilt. You knew Jude was right, but you weren't ready to face that reality.

Y/N: Jude, I can't have this row again.

Jude: Y/N, I'm trying to be there for you, but you won't let me in!

You closed her eyes, tears streaming down your cheeks as she struggled to find the right words. Your eyes scroll along judes words once more, lethagic, trouble sleeping, weak fitness, trouble eating...

He was right of course. Ever since the end of the world cup, you had become incredibly tired, with limited energy for the basics of tasks. You had made excuses that it was the press interviews, the constant ware and tare of family life and fame, or even sometimes just thinking you weren't getting enough hours. Deep down, you knew it was something more.

As much as you would regret it, there was a part of you that wished it was a ACL injury, something that yes would take time to heal, but could be cured. Atleast you'd know what was wrong with you. Instead whatever kept you up at night, made it difficult to keep down food and made it impossible to stay on top in football games, was tearing both you and your relationship with Jude apart

Setting your phone down on the sofa, you walked over to the kitchenette area to pour herself a glass of water. As you stood there, contemplating your next move, you felt a sudden pang in her abdomen—a sharp cramp that caught you off guard.

You winced, clutching your stomach as you leaned against the counter. It wasn't the first time you'd felt this way lately, but it was a stark reminder of your ongoing health struggles.

Taking a deep breath to steady herself, you returned to the sofa and picked up your phone. With a determined expression, she typed out a message to Jude.

Y/N: Good luck with your match tonight. See you monday

Jude sat in a cozy room tucked away within the Real Madrid training grounds, the distant echoes of his teammates preparing for their final training session before the upcoming match seeping through the slightly ajar door. His phone buzzed incessantly with messages from you. With a faint sigh, he retrieved it from his pocket and read your latest text:

"Good luck with your match tonight. See you Monday x." His jaw tightened in frustration; you had once again changed the subject, avoiding the difficult conversation he knew you were reluctant to have.

"Jude, you still with us?" Romeo's voice cut through his reverie. Jude blinked, refocusing on the Spanish producer seated across from him. "Oh, uh, yeah. Sorry about that." He slipped his phone back into his pocket, mentally shifting gears to engage in the interview.

Romeo chuckled knowingly. "No worries. Let's continue.

Your journey in football-from your early days in Birmingham to now playing for Real Madrid-has been remarkable. How do you reflect on your career so far?"Jude nodded thoughtfully, a flicker of nostalgia in his eyes.

"It's been a whirlwind, mate. Starting out at Birmingham City as a young lad, then moving to Dortmund, and finally landing here at Madrid-it's been nothing short of a dream come true. Each step has taught me invaluable lessons, both on and off the pitch."

Leaning forward with interest, Romeo probed further."You've undoubtedly faced numerous challenges along the way. What would you consider the biggest challenge of your career?"

Jude grinned wryly, his mind drifting momentarily to thoughts of you. "Well, besides dodging defenders on the pitch, adapting to different leagues and cultures has been quite the challenge. Each club has its own unique style and expectations. But hey, I thrive on challenges; they've helped me evolve as both a player and a person."

Romeo's eyes sparkled with curiosity. "And what about the immense pressure of playing for a club as prestigious as Real Madrid? How do you manage that?"

A faint smile tugged at Jude's lips as he thought of his experiences. "Oh, you know, I just pretend I'm still kickin' it back in Brum with me mates. Nah, seriously though, the pressure is immense, but it's also an incredible privilege. Playing for Real Madrid demands peak performance every day. I rely on my training regimen, the banter with my teammates, and saying focused on my goals."

Romeo chuckled at Jude's casual demeanor. "Looking ahead, what are your personal and professional aspirations for the future?"

Jude leaned back, considering. "Well, professionally, I want to keep raising the bar, winning titles with Real Madrid, and maybe snaggin' a few Player of the Year awards along the way. But personally, I want to be there for the people who matter most to me, supporting 'em in every way I can."

Picking up on the personal note, Romeo inquired further.

"Family and relationships seem pivotal in your life. How do you manage to balance the demands of your career with your personal commitments?"

Jude's expression softened with a genuine warmth as he thought of you. "Ah, it's a juggle, mate. But having a strong support system makes all the difference. My family, friends, and my girlfriend-they keep me grounded. Despite the challenges and the distances, we find ways to make it work."

Romeo nodded, impressed by Jude's candid responses.

"Thank you for sharing your journey with us, Jude. It's been a pleasure."

"Cheers, Romeo," Jude replied warmly, though his thoughts were still partly occupied by concerns for you. As the interview concluded, he couldn't shake off the growing determination to support you, despite your stubbornness. It reminded him of the first time he had got sick, a couple weeks after they had moved into your family home.

Jude lay in bed, feeling utterly miserable. His head throbbed, his throat felt like sandpaper, and every muscle ached. He had caught a nasty bug, and it was knocking him down hard. Despite his condition, he had a match later that day, and he knew he had to rally.

You, always the caretaker, had spent the entire morning fussing over him, bringing him tea and making sure he took his medication. You were a natural nurse, your concern evident in the way you flitted around the room, fetching blankets and adjusting pillows.

"You really don't have to stay," Jude protested weakly, though secretly grateful for your presence.

You chuckled softly, brushing his hair back from his forehead. "Of course I do. Who else is going to make sure you don't forget to take your medicine?"

Jude managed a weak smile, reaching out to grasp your hand. "You're too good to me, you know that?"

"Just rest," you insisted, squeezing his hand gently before heading out to run some errands.

The next morning, Jude woke up feeling marginally better but was still under the weather. You, on the other hand, woke up feeling awful. Your head pounded, your nose was stuffed, and you felt like you hadn't slept at all. Despite feeling under the weather, you stubbornly insisted on going about your day as usual. You had meetings to attend and training sessions to oversee-there was no time to be sick.

Jude watched you with increasing concern as you hurried around the apartment, trying to ignore your symptoms.

"Y/N, maybe you should stay home today," he suggested again, his voice laced with worry. "You look like you could use some rest."

You waved off his concern with a weak smile. "I'll be fine, Jude. It's just a cold. I can't afford to miss work today."

Jude sat up in bed, his expression earnest. "I know you're tough, but pushing yourself when you're sick won't do you any favors. Let me take care of you for a change."

You paused, torn between your determination and Jude's heartfelt plea. You sighed, knowing he had a point but not wanting to admit defeat. "I have so much to do today, Jude. I can't just stay home."

Reluctantly, Jude nodded, knowing from experience that you were fiercely independent and determined once you set your mind to something. "Okay, but promise me you'll take it easy," he said softly.

Hours later, you returned home earlier than expected, your face flushed and your eyes watery. You sank onto the couch with a defeated sigh, clutching a box of tissues.

"What." You sniffle, your eyebrows frowning.

"Nothing." Jude says with a glint of a smirk.

"Stop smiling." You respond

"I'm sorry, it's just i told you so."

Jude, seeing your exhausted state, moved closer and gently took the tissues from your hands. "Why don't you let me make you dinner tonight?" he suggested, his voice tinged with concern. "You've pushed yourself enough today."

You looked up at him with a stubborn glint in your eyes, still not fully willing to concede. "That actually sounds really nice," you admitted reluctantly, finally allowing yourself to relax.

Jude smiled warmly, relieved to see you starting to unwind. "I'll take care of everything. You just rest and recover," he said softly, knowing that even in your stubbornness, you trusted him to take care of you when you needed it most.

But now, he wasn't so sure. Ever since the World Cup he had begun to see a change in you. You were absent most days, granted he was in Madrid which didn't help, but even on days when you could have dinner together, your mind was always somewhere else.

He understood the pressure of being the world champions, the demands to make public appearances, but sometimes he wished that you hadn't won. Not because you didn't deserve it, but because it was taking a huge toll on you and there was very little he could do about it.

***********

Leah glanced over at you with a raised eyebrow as you took a breather during your training session at Arsenal's practice ground. You had been noticeably tense all morning, and Leah, her teammate and close friend, couldn't help but address the elephant in the room.

"Yeah, okay, but what's up with you two at the moment?" Leah asked bluntly, wiping sweat from her brow. "You keep picking at each other like cats in a sack."

You sighed, your frustration evident as you leaned against the goalpost. "It's just... we've been on edge lately. You know how Jude can be sometimes."

Leah nodded knowingly. "He's a good guy, but he can be a bit cheeky," she remarked, recalling a recent incident.

"Remember that comment he made last week? You were fuming."

You rolled her eyes, her irritation flaring again. "Yeah, and rightfully so. Sometimes he doesn't think before he speaks."

Leah gave you a sympathetic look. "Look, I get it. But you two have been solid for ages. Maybe it's just a rough patch.

You should talk it out."

You sighed heavily, running a hand through her sweaty hair.

"I know.. it's just been one thing after another. First the media frenzy, then family stuff, now this reality show nonsense he's pushing for. It's like we're not on the same page anymore."

Leah nodded in understanding. "Relationships take work, especially with all the craziness in your lives. But you guys are strong. Don't let a few bumps get in the way."

You nodded thoughtfully, grateful for Leah's perspective.

"You're right. I'll talk to him. Thanks, Leah."

Leah flashed you a reassuring smile. "Anytime. Now, let's finish this training strong. No distractions!"

With renewed determination, you and Leah resumed their training, focusing on their drills and pushing themselves to perform at their peak. The afternoon sun beat down on the training ground, casting long shadows as you ran through your routines.

As you practiced, you couldn't shake Leah's words from your mind. You knew Leah was right-you needed to address the tension with Jude before it escalated further but as much as you wanted to clear the air, doubts nagged at you.

Leah noticed your distracted demeanor and decided to lighten the mood. "Hey, Y/N, remember that game against Chelsea last season?" she asked with a grin.

You chuckled, grateful for the diversion. "Oh, don't remind me. That was a tough one."

"Yeah, but you scored that amazing goal in the last minute!" Leah exclaimed, mimicking the commentator's excitement.

"The look on their faces was priceless."

You laughed, the tension easing slightly. "Yeah, that was a good moment."

You continued your banter, reminiscing about past matches and sharing stories from your time on the pitch. Despite the weight of your conversation earlier, you found herself enjoying the camaraderie with Leah, grateful for her support.

You and Leah resumed their training drills at Arsenal's practice ground, your focus returning to the swift exchanges and precise footwork demanded on the pitch. The air was alive with the sound of coaches' instructions and the rhythmic thud of balls being kicked.

After a particularly intense sprint, you paused, a slight grimace crossing you face as she clutched her abdomen.

Leah, noticed this, her brow furrowing with worry. You had been training together for years, and Leah had noticed your occasional bouts of discomfort over the past few months, especially since the incident during the World Cup where you collapsed briefly.

Leah slowed her pace, coming alongside you. "Hey, Y/N," she began cautiously, "perhaps what I should be asking is, whats up with you lately?"

You sigh defeatedly, indicating to the pain in your stomach. "It's cramps. "They come and go, but they've been worse lately. It's stopping me from sleeping and making it hard to eat-"

Leah's expression softened with concern. "Since the World Cup?"

You nodded, avoiding Leah's gaze for a moment. "Yeah. It started then, but I didn't think much of it at first."

Leah frowned, her mind racing with possibilities. "Have you seen a doctor?"

You hesitated, her voice quieter now. "Not yet. l've been putting it off. I don't want it to be a big deal."

Leah shook her head gently. "Ah now i understand Jude's frustration recently. Y/N, your health is important. You can't keep ignoring this."

You sighed again, your frustration evident. "I know, I know. I just... I don't want it to affect my game, you know? And with everything else going on..."

Leah nodded sympathetically. "I get it. But you can't keep pushing yourself like this. Promise me you'll see someone soon?"

You met Leah's gaze, her resolve firming. "Yeah. I promise."

********

You stood in front of the mirror, smoothing down the fabric of your emerald green dress. The soft candlelight flickered around you, casting a warm glow in Jude's apartment. You had gone the extra mile tonight, not just with your appearance but also in preparing a special meal for Jude. As you heard the door open, you turned to see Jude entering the room.

"You look stunning," Jude said softly, a brief smile appearing on his face as he closed the door behind him.

"Thank you," you replied with a shy smile, feeling a mix of nerves and anticipation. "I thought we could use a quiet evening together. No cameras, no distractions just us!"

Jude nodded, his eyes lingering on you appreciatively. "It's perfect," he murmured, though his mind was still clouded with the tension between you.

You sat down to dinner, the delicious aroma filling the room as you exchanged polite conversation about work and football. Jude was keen to lighten the mood, steering the conversation towards a recent match.

"So, what did you think of our performance against Barcelona?" Jude asked, taking a sip of wine.

You smiled, grateful for the change in topic. "I thought you guys played brilliantly in the second half. That goal you scored was top-notch."

Jude grinned, a hint of pride in his voice. "Thanks. It was a tough match, but we pulled through."

As you continued discussing tactics and upcoming fixtures, Jude noticed how you winced slightly every now and then, how you seemed to sit more rigidly than usual.

"You seem a bit off tonight," Jude remarked gently, reaching across the table to take your hand. "Is everything okay?"

You hesitated, your gaze flickering away for a moment.

"Yeah, just tired from the week, I guess," you replied, forcing a smile.

Jude searched your eyes, sensing there was more you weren't saying. "You know you can talk to me, right?" he said softly. "I'm here for you."

You nodded, grateful for his understanding, but unable to voice your worries just yet. The conversation shifted back to lighter topics, but the tension lingered between you.

After you finished your meal, Jude cleared the dishes while you tidied up the table. You could feel the pain in your abdomen intensifying, a relentless throb that seemed to squeeze your insides like a vice. You tried to push through it, not wanting to spoil the evening.

Jude glanced over at you, concern etched on his face.

"Damn it, y/n" Jude's voice echoed through the kitchen, frustration and worry pouring out in a torrent. "How can we be together if you won't let me in? Do you even trust me?"

You froze, your heart sinking at the raw honesty in his words.

You knew he was right, knew you had been keeping him at arm's length out of fear and stubbornness.

"I made dinner tonight to try to change this, but we keep arguing," you retorted, your voice tinged with frustration and hurt.

"You keep doing this to yourself, y/n!" Jude's voice cracked with emotion, his frustration palpable. "Pushing yourself until you can't anymore. Why won't you let me help you?"

You looked up at him through tear-filled eyes, your face contorted with pain. "I'm sorry," you managed to say, your voice barely above a whisper. "I didn't want to ruin tonight. I just wanted one night... ONE night where it wasn't about how I was feeling. I wanted to celebrate you-."

Jude takes a sigh, loading a couple of dishes into the dishwasher before turning back over to you. "And this is surely the best way to celebrate me- being quiet and constantly wincing in pain-."

"No- !" You try to finish your sentence before the pain pulls you down, you stabilise yourself on the edge of the table, dropping a fork on the ground. A annoyed sigh leaves your body, as you attempt to pick up the fork. Jude glances over, reminding himself, that despite how stupid you could be, he still cared about you.

Jude turned around at the sound of your stifled sob, his annoyance quickly giving way to concern as he saw you doubled over in agony. Without a word, he crossed the kitchen in quick strides, his heart pounding with worry.

As he glances over, he see's your weak body, attempting to keep you from falling down. Jude's expression softened, guilt washing over him as he realised how much you had been hiding from him. As he saw your body give way, he closed the distance between you, gently taking your arm to support you.

"Hospital. Now," Jude said firmly, his tone leaving no room for argument.

You nodded weakly, clutching his hand tightly as you hurried out the door, the weight of your unspoken fears finally giving way to a shared resolve to confront whatever lay ahead.

[naturistgirl]

Naked - the Best way to Relax

It's Sunday and a great day to relax. For me it's a bonus day. Saturday is my rest day but it's also a day to be naked with family and welcome people around. Sunday is quiet where we live. We get up a little later. As we don't wear clothes it's just a shower and a late breakfast. This is a great day for myself and my husband to get lost in each other, to enjoy being intimate together and to relax.

I start my day with freshly ground coffee; made with a Mocha Pot or a cafetière. Like being naked, making coffee properly means taking things back to basic principles and enjoying coffee the traditional way. I always feel that coffee (and food) tastes better when I'm naked, preferably out of doors. Today sadly in Northern England it is cold, wet and rainy! It feels like Autumn now (another reason to enjoy intimacy).

I try to keep sex out of this blog simply because people can confuse naturism and sex. Please don't assume however that naturists don't indulge in it! Both naturism and intimacy are beautiful natural things; there for us to enjoy. Neither is shameful. Neither needs to be hidden or taboo. When a wife is around the house tantalisingly naked all day and her husband too, it is easier to slip seamlessly from everyday tasks to love and ecstasy. Those of you who follow all my blogs can will be aware of that side of me.

These photos however were part of of training session with my husband (photographic!) trying to teach me how to light a portrait using different techniques. I asked him for a few of the photos so that I could share them with you :-)

Here's my attempt at a photo of him relaxing with his laptop. I shoot with an old Minolta Dynax film camera, but I still have a long way to go, learning these techniques.

and one of him bouldering naked up in the Yorkshire Dales.

I hope you enjoyed today's little blog. Please feel free to like, share and re-blog with our blessing. Photos remain our copyright.

Enjoy your Sunday!

Jane x

[strugglingwriterwattpad]

walter deville teaser

In the magnificent ballroom of a majestic Tudor manor, a spellbinding scene unfolds. Bathed in the soft glow of candlelight, a mysterious woman glided across the polished floor, her movements as graceful as a swan. The haunting melody that filled the air seemed to possess her, guiding her every step between each guest. In the depths of the shadows, a figure stood, his presence both alluring and enigmatic. His face remained concealed, adding an air of intrigue to his already captivating aura. Their eyes locked, two souls drawn together by an invisible force, and the world around them faded into insignificance.

As the music swelled, reaching its crescendo, the stranger took a bold step forward. His voice, filled with a whisper of longing, broke the silence, confessing a love that seems to transcend time itself. “you have no idea how much I love you, Miss Stoker.” The woman's heart raced, her breath catching in her throat, as she was swept away by the intensity of his words.

In the moment frozen in time, their lips finally met in a passionate kiss. It was a collision of desire and longing, a union of souls that defied explanation. But as their embrace deepened, a peculiar taste lingered on the woman's tongue, a metallic tang that sent a shiver down her spine. Suddenly, a surge of curiosity mixed with a hint of fear flooded her heart. The taste of blood upon his lips was unmistakable, a jarring contrast to the tender moment they shared. Questions swirled in her mind, like whispers in the wind. Who was this faceless man? “(Y/N)?” he whispered. “(Y/N)?”

With a sudden jolt, the woman catapulted out of her seat, causing Evie to quickly reach for her pills. "We've landed," Evie whispered, handing her boss a pill with a sympathetic smile. "Don't worry about it," she added, noticing the beads of sweat on her forehead. "Oliver's waiting for us, let's go!" with a nod of her head (Y/N) slowly stood from her seat.

“So, who lives here again?” Evie asked as (Y/N) sat in the car, cruising along the secluded roads on the outskirts of Whitby, she couldn't help but feel a sense of nostalgia. The ever-changing weather, a characteristic she had missed dearly, played its whimsical game once again. One moment, the sky was a brilliant canvas of blue, devoid of any clouds, and the next, it transformed into a murky grey, with gusts of wind that seemed to dance through the air. “The De Ville family.” As they continued their journey, (Y/N)'s gaze was drawn to the enchanting woodland that enveloped their family estate. It was as if nature had painted a masterpiece, with emerald green shades blending seamlessly into fern green's vibrant hues. The lushness of the trees and foliage created a mesmerizing tapestry, inviting her to explore its hidden secrets. “But our family will be staying the weekend for the festivities.”

“Holy shit. are they royalty or something?” as the manor came into view (Y/N) felt a sense of familiarity. Nestled amidst a sprawling landscape, stood an opulent white brick mansion exuding an aura of wealth and influence. Its majesty matched only by the pristine gardens that surrounded it, meticulously manicured to perfection. Every corner of the magnificent abode reflected the abundance of riches it houses, while the walls remained untouched by even the tiniest speck of dirt. “No, it's just old money. England's full of it.” the artist knew something felt strange about the manor. It felt like home to her, and she couldn’t tell if she liked it or not.

“Welcome to New Carfax Abbey. Let me find our host.” As Oliver wandered off to find the owner (Y/N) also started to wander around the outside of the beautiful building. As she approached the entrance, the pillar carvings beckoned to her with an irresistible allure. Intricate and mesmerizing, they depicted a whimsical dance of enchanting forest creatures, each one brought to life in the bleached stone. These were no ordinary animals; they were the very same majestic beings she had encountered in her adventures. The sight filled her with an overwhelming sense of wonder and curiosity, igniting a fire within her. She yearned for the owner's permission to document every intricate detail, to capture the essence of this extraordinary building. Her excitement surged through her veins, as her mind raced with a flood of ideas, eager to be transformed into words on paper.

“I hope you don’t mind I brought a friend with me, Lord Deville,” Evie spoke pointing towards (Y/N) as she traced the pillar with her manicured nails. “(Y/N).” She called out but the girl seemed to ignore her. evie and the lord watched her closely, the rich gentleman listened to her breathing slow down as if slipping into a trance. “(Y/N)!” Evie called once again but still no reply. As the man gracefully approached the mesmerized woman, his presence seemed to cast a spell of intrigue. With a gentle touch, his large hand found its place on her shoulder, as if to guide her deeper into the enchanting world of his home. And there she stood, lost in a trance, her gaze fixated on the captivating artwork that adorned the brick. “miss are you alright.” His voice as smooth as milk snapped her from her brain her twinkling eyes locking with his stormy ones. The two matched their gaze smiling lightly at the sense of familiarity of each other.

“I'm sorry were you both calling me?” she stuttered looking towards Evie was an embarrassed look. “don’t worry (Y/N) your probably jet lagged.” She laughed picking up the poor girl's bag from the ground. “Walter, this is (Y/N). the artist I was telling you about.” The man now known as Walter stared back at (Y/N) his storm eyes now swapped with a flash of light of excitement. “it’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Stoker. I am a very big fan of your work. obviously.” The sun-kissed hue of his skin suddenly blushed with a fiery red, as if caught off guard by his own rambling. It was almost endearing to witness him in such a vulnerable state as if his emotions were laid bare for all to see. But there was no denying the transformative power of the new face that had entered his life, for it had swiftly altered his entire demeanour. “I'm glad you enjoyed them Mr Deville and thank you for the generous donation to the gallery I can assure you there are big plans for it.” his smile couldn’t get any bigger, but it did. The sound of her voice lulled his heart into a stuttering beat as if it had been out of service for many moons.

“come let me show you around the manor. I hope you like how I've displayed your art.” His cotton-covered arm poked out to her as an invitation to his home. She slowly slipped her arm into his feeling a familiar spark ignite in their touch. His smell was so calming and alluring sending her into a high, her doing the same to him. Walter held her small hand in a comfortable tightness not wanting her to slip from him again.

[its-time-to-write]

Hello! I absolutely love your work. You’re a fantastic writer. Is it possible for you to do something based a bit off of the song London Boy by Taylor Swift? If not I understand. I just feel there’s some cool way to tie it with Jamie Tartt. Sorry if it’s a bit of a generic request

ALRIGHTY gotta preface this, I actually hate this song 😂 Lyrics aren’t bad, but the like accent thing she does makes me die a little bit. BUT. I saw what you were going for (I think)! So here it is, I suffered through listening to this song bc you asked for a fic and I am nothing if not eager to please.

This is also a response to two other requests. So if that was you, ✌️😗 y’all were on the same page, congratulations. This is also my first song-based fic, although all of my works are (very, very loosely) based on songs. That’s why they have such insane titles😅 ANYWAY that’s enough talking from me. Enjoy!

i fancy you

i love my hometown as much as Motown, i love So-Cal

Richmond in London is very different from your hometown in Southern California. It’s colder, for one. And older. Things in California don’t have the same extended history as they do in England. You’re here visiting family for a couple months, although your cousins are trying to convince you to stay longer. 

“What do you really have waiting for you in California?” Holland asks.

“Uh, the beach. Sun. Great Mexican food.” you respond.

Holland isn’t buying it. “When else are you going to be able to live here? We can help you get a job and all that, not a huge problem.”

Holland is very convincing. You decide to stay for a year, single year, and see what happens.

Holland is four years older than you, and has always been the cousin you’re closest to. You’ve had a long-standing bond since being the two eldest sisters in your family. Holland takes you to clubs and introduces you to her friends, including a Miss Keeley Jones who thinks you are “abso-fuckin-lutely adorable.” 

“You have to bring her to a Richmond match, babes,” Keeley says. “Lots of fit footballers.” She winks.

You ask Keeley of she’s dating a footballer.

“Oh god no,” she shudders. “A coach.”

You don’t really see the difference.

saw the dimples first and then i heard the accent

It was a good match, even you can tell. The Richmond team played seamlessly, passing the ball back and forth without letting the other team even touch it. Their conductor of sorts, the one mediating the passes, was crazy. He never seemed to get tired, anticipating his teammates’ moves and those of the opposing team. It seemed like he was always five steps ahead of everyone. Holland notices you watching him and pokes Keeley.

“You like Jamie?” Keeley laughs. “Makes sense. Anyone with eyes likes him. He’s right fit, too. Good in bed, shit with feelings. Well, used to be. Still fucking cocky.”

That’s interesting. “You’ve been with him?” you ask.

Keeley gives you a 50/50 hand motion. “Sort of. Don’t really count it, do I? Was with him at his fucking worst. That’s why Roy fucking hates him.”

“He’s much better now,” Holland chimes in. “Something happened last season and he stopped being such a dick.”

“Holland!” you reproach, laughing. “That’s not nice!”

She and Keeley shrug. “It’s true though, innit?”

You don’t know if it is, because when you first see Jamie up close in the club later that night, he seems perfectly fine. You see a flash of a smile, a dimple, then he says something (you don’t know what) but his accent is… something else. It’s not like Holland’s, or any of your family, but you know enough to pinpoint it to Manchester. 

“The accent got you, didn’t it?” says a voice near your ear and you yelp as Holland slides her arm around your shoulder.

“Gets the best of us,” says Keeley, grabbing your hand. “C’mon, I’ll introduce you.”

She drags you over despite your protests.

he likes my American smile, like a child when our eyes meet, ‘darling i fancy you’

Regular dinner dates are scary, but dinner dates with a Premier League footballer are downright terrifying. 

You made Holland help you figure out what to wear, and when she showed up at your aunt’s house she had Keeley in tow.

“Heard you’re in need of a bit of a makeover,” she grins. “Lucky for you, that’s my specialty.”

Keeley and Holland have brought some of Holland’s dresses and you’re in a dark green one that “does fucking wonders for your hair, babe.”

Keeley did your makeup while Holland curled your hair and just like that, you’re ready to go.

You groan, “God, I fucking hate first dates,” while shaking out your arms. 

“It’ll be fine,” Holland promises, and she’s right.

It’s more than fine. It’s fucking fantastic.

“I like your smile,” Jamie says. “Fuckin’ American, it is.”

You laugh. “What does that even mean?”

Jamie shrugs. “It’s bigger. Brits are more reserved. Like Roy. You met Roy yet? Biggest fucking twat I ever saw,” but he says it with such affection that you’re sure he means something else.

His eyes are electric, blue and dazzling. They betray his every thought and feeling and right now you feel like if you hold his gaze any longer you’re going to say something completely stupid. 

Turns out your not the one to say something stupid; he is.

You’re walking back to his car, holding hands and swinging them in between you when he stops and says, “Darling, I fancy you.”

You grin and he returns it. He asks, “Was that British enough for you? Feel like you got the whole experience?”

“Definitely,” you say. “Was I American enough for you?”

“Dunno,” he replies, “Got to test one more thing.”

His lips are very soft on yours.

met all of his best mates, so i guess all the rumors are true

“This is Isaac, Colin, Dani, and Sam.”

Jamie is introducing you to some of his team. You’ve been dating for a month now, and your first picture together just popped up in the papers the night before.

The boys of AFC Richmond were pretty sure Jamie was seeing someone, but they didn’t know who it was. Jamie had set up this dinner thing a while ago, it just so happened that the tabloids got to you first. 

It’s not even that great a picture honestly, but you’d been around Nelson Road enough that the boys were able to recognize you. 

It’s a little unnerving to meet them, what with Isaac’s intense stare and Dani’s wide, wide smile. You’re grateful Colin and Sam are acting normal.

“We have an American coach,” Colin says in an attempt to break the ice. It does, because you’re all laughing at the absurdity of his attempt. 

“We have heard very much about you,” Dani says and you wonder if he ever stops smiling. It feels so weird and so normal to be at Jamie’s house with a pile of food and FIFA queued up on the TV, ready to go. You figure that if you’re meeting his friends, Jamie must be at least a little serious. He finds your hand and squeezes it under the table as Isaac cracks his first smile of the night. It’s weird dating a footballer, but you think you can get used to it.

babes, don’t threaten me with a good time

Jamie’s house is the largest you’ve ever been in, and it used to be strange that it was only just the two of you, clattering around that big home. 

It’s a cool night after a warm day so you both decided to lay in his backyard under the stars. 

It feels so much like something you’d do as a teenager, and you tell Jamie as much.

“Used to sneak on me mum’s roof,” he tells you. “Didn’t even do dumb shit, I’d just go to look.”

You lay there in silence for a few moments until you feel something tickle your side.

“Jamie!” you shriek.

“I didn’t do nothing!” he protests. “Must’ve been a bug.”

You don’t believe him, but you don’t push it until you feel another tickle.

“Babe!”

“Babe, it weren’t me, I swear,” he says and you really don’t believe him, especially when he tickles you again less than a minute later.

You laugh. “Fuck you, Jamie Tartt.”

He smirks. “Babe, don’t threaten me with a good time.”

“Hm, maybe I want a good time.”

Jamie’s grin widens and he sits up. “You know where the bedroom is, love.”

you know i love a London boy

“I don’t fucking get it,” Jamie says. You shrug. 

“I literally don’t either,” you say. Your dad leans over to Jamie. “So basically…” he begins.

He’s halfway through his explanation when Jamie pokes you. “Babe,” he says, “can we switch seats so I can hear your dad better?” You chuckle then wiggle your way into Jamie’s seat while he gets into yours.

“Why the fuck is it called ‘football’ if it’s with their hands?” Jamie asks.

Your dad shrugs. “Not a clue, son, not a clue.”

The game progresses and one of the teams scores a touchdown.

“Hold the fuck up,” Jamie says. “Why did their score change that much?”

“I know this one!” you exclaim. “Different types of goals get different points. And there’s something called a lateral which has to do with moving backward I think?”

You dad just shakes his head with a grin and doesn’t attempt to clarify. 

Your dad spends the second half explaining everything to a very focused Jamie, and he asks questions the entire car ride home. It’s funny have Jamie here in America, staying at your parents house and seeing where you grew up. 

When you’re finally back home and in bed, you pull him as close as you can and whisper, “I love you very, very much. You know that, right?”

You can feel Jamie smile against your hair. “I love you too, very fucking much.”

[jotadoul]

rubbing my forehead to cope with reading an article where the author claims Zaibach is like the USSR. unnngggghhhhhh only if the USSR resembled ridley scott's 1984 apple ad, lol.

well, aside from the deutschy name and being inspired by industrial revolution era england— a colonial power— headed by a protestant english symbol of western thought creating the world as he wants/understands it straight from the 1700s to 1996, i see the show as using his belief that god must necessarily have a hand in driving the natural world (Newton insisted that divine intervention would eventually be required to reform the [planetary] system, due to the slow growth of instabilities) extrapolated to him eventually viewing himself as such a god. but forgetting all of that,

Zaibach

i think the name is mostly nonsense, but fwiw the hebrew verb "zabach" primarily means to sacrifice or to slaughter, particularly in the context of offering an animal to God as an act of worship.

Metropolis (1927) concept art by erich kettelhut

Zaibach

Metropolis was made during the era of the weimar republic (the german reich.) things were really shit because of WWI, then oh! prosperity! while the resentment and hatred from the right boiled, then the great depression ended that prosperity, then the nazis came into official power. Metropolis is known for having been greatly edited (endlessly recut and with versions lost) such attempts in part were to remove the communist-sympathising subtext in a film about a false and fairly explicitly german utopia— inspired too by the tower of babel and 1920s new york skyline— for the wealthy elite... wherein those same elite plot and scheme to construct clever events to keep themselves in power and remove the need for workers at all by destroying them and relying instead on machines (see: the great worker riot of 2026.) don't get me wrong though— there's plenty to criticise about Metropolis, much of it coming from Lang himself.

there are 3 major, interconnected machines which run the city. this one is called The Heart Machine.

the "Heart Machine", which is the central dynamo that generates most of the power to the entire city. Every day it produces an average of 1000 megawatts of power that is transferred through various power nodes throughout the machine room complex. The machine has run non-stop for 25 years with the exception of pausing for preventive maintenance. Unlike most equipment build in the late 1900s to the 2020s, these machines were built not to be replaced. The heart of the city system was built by Fellar, Inc. and came with a price tag of 78.7 million M.

The Heart Machine is under the charge of one man, Grot, a worker who has maneuvered his way up through the ranks by "helping" uncover covert information about the workers. 

(from here)

Metropolis, osamu tezuka

also, if you're interested in the approach to design—

The film's use of art deco architecture was highly influential, and has been reported to have contributed to the style's subsequent popularity in Europe and America.

art deco had no goal or philosophy of restructuring society/lifestyle. it glamourised the industrial revolution, moreover the opulence that everyone but the workers enjoyed, seeking to symbolise wealth and sophistication and rejection of tradition. Art Deco design exemplified opulent consumption, crass commercialism, and the acceleration of contemporary life summed up in the Futurist credo "Speed is beauty." (here. also would like to add that most? all? in the futurist movement were italian fascists who went and died in the war, effectively killing the futurist movement too.) however, in america, whose infrastructure was impacted far less by the war than europe, the style continued almost seamlessly into the new international movement— such is the case with any decade and its trappings; there's no actual definitive beginning or end to an era, especially for poorer people (whose customs and ideas are upcycled by the wealthy.) all of this art was continued or discontinued more randomly than that. ftr though i'm using generalities as opposed to finer details here only for the purpose of discussing what/how things appear in Escaflowne.

the exterior of Zaibach is more art deco while the interior, as well as that of Escaflowne itself, are from the movement of the pre-WWI art nouveau— since they're both related to Atlantis/draconians, who within the series have the strongest association with art nouveau as if a symbol of their elegant idealism, that makes sense. art nouveau sought to establish a "synthesis of the arts" (Gesamtkunstwerk) breaking down the previously firm distinction between fine art and applied art— incorporating the lushness and assymetry of nature into architecture, stained glass, metalwork, etc. etc., allowing rooms and practical/functional objects to "become" art as well, with the same approach as illustrations. it also should be said that art nouveau pulled heavily from japanese prints, as seen previously in the orientalist """japonisme.'"""

hôtel tassel, the peacock room, myst III exile

Decorative artists experienced a rise in status following the turn of the century; similarly, a rise in wealth and social as well as technological progress gave birth to the widespread luxury industry. This golden combination solidified the Art Deco movement.

William Morris, the founder of the art nouveau arts & crafts movement in england, was a staunch revolutionary socialist/anti-imperialist. he believed one should "have nothing in your houses that you do not know to be useful or believe to be beautiful." according to him, the main goals of the movement were "to give people pleasure in the things they must perforce use, that is one great office of decoration; to give people pleasure in the things they must perforce make, that is the other use of it." during a time which saw the beginnings of mass-production, the intended effect of this was to restructure a person's relationship to even the mundane items in their possession (see: commodity fetishism) and in that process, exposure to and relationship to art.

art deco suffered heavily during the aforementioned great depression because the materials to make it were no longer affordable and the labour classes exploited for other means. so i view it as... dornkirk claims he did all the shit himself but we know he's building on these ancient ideas and amassing/hoarding resources to achieve this, and he's keeping these organic forms— as representative of the natural world and part of that world being humanity— for himself exclusively as he burns the world down. however, we're not moralising art here, just as fritz lang regretted focusing on the moral over the social. escaflowne is also a weapon of war and must be put to rest as part of van's own break from punitive tradition.

ultimately, what we see in Escaflowne is people— while retaining any surface-level, or even essential and difficult differences, made even more clear by the sheer amount of different cultures/customs to which we're exposed— changing the calamitous course of fate when committed to a common goal, quintessentially represented by communal, mutual love and respect. i would say that's much more communist than what Zaibach represents.

[mccreesun]

Dracula’s plans for arriving in England

Step 1. Blend in seamlessly with the English masses for easier hunting

Step 2. Instantly become a beloved local celebrity while in wolf form the very same day you arrive in England

Step 3. Failed step 1

[leiascully]

@nimlurks gave me the word "cattywampus".

"Where do you want to eat?" Scully asks.

"There's a diner cattywampus from our motel," Mulder says casually. "Or I think I saw an ambiguously Asian restaurant out closer to the highway."

"Cattywampus?"

"Meaning askew from or in disarray," Mulder says. "In this case, I hope it's the former. Otherwise cattycorner or kittycorner, among other synonyms, although those tend more to the diagonal."

"I understand the term," Scully tells him. "I question your use of it as a New Englander."

She's always envied this about him, the way he seamlessly slides between subcultures. When he wants to, of course. There are times the arch New Englander comes in handy. But she would sound ridiculous mouthing the word "cattywampus" - it sounds like some local cryptid. She's the one who moved more often as a child, and yet, by whatever twist of fate, she speaks overeducated middle-class Mid-Atlantic and no other dialect with any level of comfort.

He grins at her. "Cattywampus, Scully. Doesn't it roll off the tongue?"

"Not particularly." She tries not to soften in the face of his charms and fails.

"The diner has pie," he tempts.

"The cattywampus diner." She raises an eyebrow at him as he stops at a stop sign.

"That's the one." He's still grinning. The slanting sunlight brings out gold flecks in his bosky eyes. "I told you, it rolls off the tongue."

She rolls her eyes at him. "The pie better be good."

The pie is excellent.

[writer-or-whatever]

On The Ground

Wrote a little Harry/Draco pre-relationship piece for prompt #2 (Rival) on my 100 prompts list. Read under the cut or on AO3

Summary: After two years of being rivals in the professional quidditch league, Harry and Draco are both selected for the English National Quidditch Team for the next Quidditch World Cup. They’ve now got to learn to get along.

Rating: T | Word Count: 1.3k | Fluff & Humor

Harry was being ridiculous. He knew this. They were on the same team and there were bigger things at stake than his own pride. But, Merlin, he still could not stand Malfoy. 

Yes, okay, he’d mellowed out a little since the war. And maybe he grew into his obnoxiously blonde hair and his sharp features. And he’s a reformed and productive member of society now or whatever. 

Doesn’t matter. They’re still rivals, Harry reminds himself, repeating it like a mantra in his head as he exits the locker room and heads out to the pitch. 

He wasn’t the last one out of the locker room, but only barely. So when his eyes adjusted to the bright sun, he’s met with twelve of the other players, both starting and reserve, for this year’s English National Quidditch Team. And off to the left side, talking to one of the beaters, is Malfoy. The red and blue of the National Team jersey suits him better than the bright orange Chudley Cannons uniform that Harry’s grown accustomed to seeing him in over the last two seasons. Not that Harry is taken in by the way the blue brings out his eyes or anything. 

Harry is mercifully brought out of his not-at-all-creepy staring by an arm being slung over his shoulders. 

“Come on, Potter. Can’t keep the rest of the team waiting,” Ginny said, grinning and almost vibrating in place with excitement. Making England’s National Team had been Ginny’s childhood dream, and even two seasons of professional quidditch hadn’t dulled her excitement. 

“Right,” Harry agreed, letting her pull him along behind her. 

Upon their arrival, the coach smiled and whistled a shrill sound that jolted everyone to attention. “Right! Okay! Welcome to day one. I want everybody in the air. We’re doing drills until I’m satisfied and then it’s skirmish time.” He whistled again and then they were off. 

Drills were easy. He felt himself relax and start to focus in, paying Malfoy no more mind than any of their other teammates. At least, until they were split up for the first practice match. 

“Alright. We’re going to start with startings versus reserves. We’re going to gradually mix up our combinations as we go. I need all of you flying seamlessly together in any formation, especially if France plays as dirty as they did in the last cup. Except you, keepers and seekers. Some rivalries live to see another day,” Their coach said, giving Malfoy and Harry a look. Their quidditch feud was legendary. It’s at least half of the post-match wireless commentary every time they’ve played in the last two years. “But only on the pitch. I need you two to at least pretend to like each other on the ground,” he continued seriously.

 Harry and Malfoy both gave him a nod and then they were off. 

The practice match was brutal. The starting players were evenly matched with the reserves and everyone played like they were out for blood—Malfoy especially. He played a lot more offensively as a professional seeker than he ever did in school, and, while Harry was used to it after two seasons of fierce competition, he was playing particularly viciously today. Malfoy was as physical of a player as he could possibly be without getting penalized. He jostled Harry when they happened to be flying side by side. He chased the snitch into, around, and even under the other players or pretended to—a feint that caused Harry to very nearly crash headlong into Oliver Wood, who was the starting keeper, in his pursuit of Malfoy. He was, all told, an absolute menace on a broom. 

His strategy did have its merits though, as Malfoy managed to catch the snitch—jostling Harry hard to the left and wrapping his fingers around the ball the second Harry’s were out of the way—ending their three hour practice game. 

Despite Malfoy catching the snitch, the reserve team lost the match by 20 points, a point which their coach commented on—loudly and at length—to both Harry and Malfoy. By the time they were done for the day, Harry’s ears were ringing with the refrain to ‘pay attention to the damn score before you catch the snitch.’

He and Malfoy were the last ones to the locker room. When Harry finally stepped out of his very long shower, everyone else was already gone except for Malfoy, who stood in front of his locker with just a towel around his waist. Harry’s locker was on the opposite side of the aisle, so thankfully he could pull his own clothes out and dress without looking at Malfoy. 

He had no reason to shy away from Malfoy. They hadn’t been truly antagonistic over anything but Quidditch in several years. Harry didn’t exactly like him, but he’d grown out of the horrible kid he’d known at school. And it wasn’t like Malfoy was the first fit bloke that Harry had shared a locker room with since he figured out he was gay. There was absolutely no reason for him to be this nervous around him, wanting to sneak glances at the other man while simultaneously wanting to be looking elsewhere at all times. Harry was twitchy and awkward as he pulled on his jeans, t-shirt, and trainers, resolutely not turning around to where he could hear Malfoy doing the same. Once he was dressed, he shouldered his bag and started toward the door, forcing himself not to look over at Malfoy on his way out. 

He was out of the locker and almost to the floo when a voice stopped him. 

“Potter! Hold on a second!” Malfoy called as he jogged to catch up with him. 

“What do you want, Malfoy?” Harry said, though it lacked venom. 

“Come get a drink with me,” Malfoy said as he stopped next to Harry. He was still a little damp, and some of his long hair was still wet and clinging to his neck. Not that Harry was looking or anything. 

“Er-,” Harry said as his brain short-circuited. “I thought about maybe grabbing some dinner with Ginny.” He definitely had not been. He was going to go home, get enough take-away to make the team’s nutritionist a little bit crazy, and watch The Weakest Link on the charmed television that he bought recently. 

“Planning on crashing your ex’s date with her girlfriend are you?” Malfoy said with a laugh. 

Harry blushed as he remembered that Luna and Ginny were going to a fancy celebration dinner. Ginny had gushed to him the day before about how Luna had arranged a portkey to Paris for dinner and a fancy night out. “How did you know about that?” 

“I helped Luna plan it,” Malfoy said with a bright smile. 

“Right.” Harry had forgotten that Malfoy and Luna were friends. They’d gotten close after the war ended. Harry just happened to miss every pub outing or game night hosted by Luna where Malfoy had been invited too. He’d been busy is all. 

“Right. So. Drinks?” 

“Won’t it be weird?” Harry blurted out, unable to think up a reasonable reason to say no.

Malfoy shrugged, though he was still smiling. “Maybe. But you heard what coach said—you have to at least pretend to like me while we’re on the ground. So come get a drink with me and practice.” 

Harry bit his lip lightly as he looked at Malfoy, who looked earnest enough. It didn’t sound like a horrible way to spend the evening and Malfoy had a point—they were teammates now. 

“Scared, Potter?” Malfoy said after a moment of silence from Harry. “It’s just a drink. I don’t bite.” 

“Of course not, Malfoy.” 

“Alright then. You, me, drinks at the 3 Broomsticks.” 

“Yeah, alright, Malfoy,” Harry agreed with a smirk. “But you’re buying the first round.” 

“Fine,” Malfoy replied with a smirk of his own.  

[science-lover33]

Exploring the Intricacies of the Respiratory System 🫁💨

Welcome to my Tumblr blog, where we embark on an exciting journey through the intricate world of human anatomy and physiology. Today, we're focusing our lens on the respiratory system – a wondrous network of organs and tissues that orchestrates the exchange of gases essential for our survival. So, fasten your seatbelts as we venture into the fascinating realm of respiration!

Anatomy of the Respiratory System: A Symphony of Structures

At its core, the respiratory system consists of a highly organized ensemble of organs and structures working together seamlessly. This symphony of components includes the nose, pharynx, larynx, trachea, bronchi, and, of course, the lungs. Each of these elements has a crucial role to play in the intricate process of breathing, ensuring our bodies receive a constant supply of life-sustaining oxygen while effectively eliminating carbon dioxide.

The Alveoli: Tiny Powerhouses of Gas Exchange

Now, let's zoom in on the alveoli, the star players in the respiratory system's performance. These microscopic air sacs, nestled deep within the lungs, are where the real magic happens. Through the process of diffusion, oxygen from inhaled air enters the bloodstream, while carbon dioxide, a waste product of metabolism, is expelled from the blood into the alveoli to be exhaled. It's here, at this cellular level, that the respiratory system's vital exchange takes place.

Breathing Mechanics: The Art of Inhalation and Exhalation

But how does it all come together? Breathing, a seemingly simple act, is a complex process guided by the contraction and relaxation of specialized muscles, primarily the diaphragm and intercostal muscles. These muscular movements manipulate the volume of the thoracic cavity, creating changes in pressure that facilitate the flow of air in and out of the lungs. Understanding the mechanics of breathing is fundamental to comprehending various respiratory disorders and their potential treatments.

Regulation of Respiration: A Symphony Conducted by the Brain

The respiratory system doesn't operate in isolation; it's under the watchful eye of our central nervous system. The medulla and pons, two regions of the brainstem, serve as the conductors in this symphony of breath. They continuously monitor factors like blood pH, carbon dioxide levels, and oxygen levels, adjusting our breathing rate and depth to maintain the delicate balance required for optimal body function.

Recommended Resources to Dive Deeper:

Book: "Principles of Anatomy and Physiology" by Gerard J. Tortora and Bryan H. Derrickson - This comprehensive textbook provides an in-depth exploration of the respiratory system, complete with detailed illustrations and accessible explanations for all levels of learners.

Article: "The Physiology of Respiration" by Stephen A. Ernst and John R. Helliwell - Published in the New England Journal of Medicine, this scholarly article offers an authoritative look into the physiological mechanisms of respiration, making it a valuable reference for those seeking in-depth knowledge.

Book: "Respiratory Physiology: The Essentials" by John B. West - For a concise yet informative journey through the key concepts of respiratory physiology, this book is an excellent resource, perfect for those looking to grasp the essentials of the subject quickly.

I hope this extended entry has sparked your curiosity about the intricate workings of the respiratory system. Feel free to reach out if you have any questions or if you'd like to explore another captivating topic in the realm of medicine and biology! 🌬📚

Here is my YouTube channel where you will find interesting videos, here is the anatomy and physiology of the respiratory system

Don’t forget to like, share and subscribe

[cetaitlaverite]

Why All This Music?

Masters of the Air - Rosie Rosenthal x OC

link to the masterlist is here <3

10. Lost Puppies

Freddie had been in training for Operation Corona, as she found it was called, for a week, and she felt she’d finally found her place in the war. She’d liked being a wireless operator, had been proud of the small bits of comfort she was able to afford the pilots before they went out on a mission by being the last voice they heard before setting off, but it had never felt overly interesting to her. Important, she knew - the British government wouldn’t have been spending so much time, money, and resources making it happen otherwise - but she’d always secretly felt like she could do more if given the opportunity.

And now she had been. Her promotion to flight officer quickly became a promotion to squadron officer as it became clear she was a better fit for the job than anyone could have guessed. She’d spent so many years by now listening into German radios she picked up that she’d inadvertently retained their ordering patterns and found, even with the lack of use, she was able to slip into her German seamlessly. There was also the matter of her being the only trainee who had ever actually spoken to a German pilot. Her experience and expertise became invaluable. Suddenly she found herself a leader.

The other wireless operators in the operation had little to no experience working with radios. As such, Freddie helped them. A great majority were Jews who had fled mainland Europe once it had become clear Hitler would stop at nothing until he’d gotten rid of them - Endlösung der Judenfrage, they told Freddie he was calling it. The final solution to the Jewish question. None of them knew all too well what this solution was but they’d had a couple of letters from family since coming over to England which had hinted at horror. Those letters had now stopped coming.

It was grand to get to speak to these people. Gut wrenching to learn of what they’d had to endure to get to Britain, even more so to understand their fears about what was happening to their families, but it was important to Freddie to know. And it was wonderful to get to speak German. Proper German. She only ever got to speak German when she went home - it wasn’t, of course, a skill one liked to advertise - but now she was surrounded by native German speakers who asked about her Viennese accent and gave her updates on the last they’d heard about the city.

Freddie was amongst the first wave of trainees to head out into duty. She was reassigned back to Thorpe Abbotts, as she’d been assured she would be. It was a condition of her signing on; she’d told her recruiter in no uncertain terms that she wouldn’t be offering her services if she wasn’t allowed to stay where she was. So, once her week of training was up, she was put back on a train, accompanied by a compartment full of green, freshly trained, native-German-speaking wireless operators, only recently promoted out of civilian life, who hung onto her every word about what to expect of life at an airfield and how to keep calm even when you were talking to the enemy.

She was also returning with a third promotion. She was now proudly displaying the insignia which identified her as a wing officer. The w/op girls were going to lose it when they found out. Now she outranked Jones.

When she stepped out of the jeep which had come to pick her up from the train station - her own personal escort! A perk of her new rank, the driver had told her - she breathed in the air of Thorpe Abbotts and marvelled that at some point over the two years she’d been there it had become home.

The girls would all have been working in the tower at this time of day, Freddie knew, so she headed to her new hut to set up her bunk. She had first pick of the beds and chose the one in the far corner, the most amount of privacy she was likely to get as well as furthest from the rushes of cold air which would fill the room when someone came back from the officers’ club late and, notably, furthest from the bathroom and all of its accompanying smells. She made up her bed with the fresh sheets folded at the bottom, unloaded the bag she’d travelled to training with, then went between her old hut and her new one transferring her belongings.

Someone new had already filled her old bed, she found with a start. Someone else’s belongings were in the footlocker at the end of the bed. But her old footlocker she found right beside Millie’s, sticking out into the walkway which Freddie was sure a few of the girls had complained about. And the pictures Freddie had stuck to the wall above her bed had been moved to the wall above Millie’s. Freddie had no idea why, but the thought of Millie sleeping beneath photos of Daniel and her dogs and her parents made tears fill her eyes.

Carefully, Freddie unstuck the photographs and transferred them, along with her old footlocker, to her new bunk. She stuck them carefully to the wall above her bed and frowned as she wondered who Meatball would live with. He’d always slept on her bed but maybe he was better off with Millie and the other wireless operators he already knew instead of trying to acclimatise to all of the new faces Freddie would be accompanied by.

All of a sudden it was difficult to be so excited about her new post. She was doing something useful, she knew, something that would save bombers’ lives. Something that might go on to save Rosie’s life. It was silly to be upset by things such as where Meatball would sleep and the fact that she would no longer fall asleep beside her best friend. She would be doing a lot of good. She had to hold onto that.

The Operation Corona wireless operators had to have dinner earlier than everyone else because their first briefing had been set for the normal dinner hour. Freddie was more than just a little bit upset about this; she’d been missing her friends for a week and as soon as she was back in their sphere she was being kept away from them. Indeed, the base may as well have been empty for how few people she’d seen around. But dinner passed quickly, all of the new w/ops too nervous about their first briefing to want to talk much, and then the briefing came and went. Their first real mission briefing would be tomorrow, they were told, and their first assignment the day after that. They were less than two days away from directly sabotaging the enemy and nerves were running high.

Freddie did her best to reassure them all and managed to cajole them into going to the officers’ club that night. With no bombing mission set for tomorrow there was bound to be a party.

Freddie herself couldn’t help but feel jittery as she got ready. She had new insignia to show off and a new glow of responsibility. She wanted to look pretty, look distinguished in a way befitting her new rank. Really, she was anxious to see Rosie again.

No one was more jittery than the girls in Freddie’s new bunk, who were so anxious to meet the airmen on base they spent the better part of an hour just on their hair.

By the time Freddie and the others made it out the door she was all but worn out, too tired from deciding on countless hairstyles and helping to set curls and the like to feel much nervousness anymore.

She led her new charges to the officers’ club, smiling to herself at the sound of excited chatter which followed her. Almost the instant she stepped into the club she was met with a shriek.

“Fred!” Millie cried, running at her. “You’re back!”

A wide smile split Freddie’s face. “Mils!”

They tackled each other in a hug, holding on tight and swaying from side to side. A week was longer than they’d been separated since they’d met two years ago. The longest they’d ever gone was three days when one of them would go on leave.

A loud, insistent barking fought for dominance with the gramophone’s music as Meatball came bounding over to them. “Hi, buddy!” Freddie cheered, crouching down to hug him as Millie let her go. 

Meatball kept on barking as she hugged him, then covered her in kisses when she pulled back to hold him at arm’s length. “Oh, my sweet boy,” Freddie cooed, understanding suddenly that his excitement at seeing her again was likely because he’d expected not to. He’d already lost one companion and he’d expected to lose another when she’d gone away for training all of a sudden.

She pressed kisses to his head and his cheeks, taking his paws as he offered them to her and giggling as he started to run circles around her, still barking as loud as he could in his excitement.

“Come here, my darling boy,” Freddie cooed, catching him in the midst of yet another circle and wrapping him in another hug. “I’m not leaving you, I promise,” she spoke into the fur on his neck. “Okay?”

“Looks like he missed you just as bad as we did,” Jem said as she came over.

Freddie laughed, rising to stand and hugging her, too. “Missed you, Jemmy.”

“Missed you too, Fred.”

“Come on,” Millie cut in from behind her. “Come see everyone else.”

Freddie acquiesced, linking her arms with Millie’s and Jem’s.

And this, Freddie thought as the three of them made their way over to the bar with Meatball weaving excitedly around their feet, was home. She hadn’t realised how badly she’d missed it while she’d been away until she got it again. 

“Who are your lost puppies?” Jem asked as they came upon the bar.

Freddie stifled a smile as she glanced back and saw her charge of newly trained wireless ops trailing dutifully behind her. 

“These are my wireless ops,” Freddie said, unhooking her arms to gesture to them proudly.

“Your wireless ops?” Millie echoed with a smile. “Bit presumptuous of you, Fred.”

“Well,” Freddie replied, grinning, “it’s actually not presumptuous of me at all. Last time you saw me I was being promoted to measly flight officer status. I’ve been promoted twice since then.”

“Shut up!” Amy cut in from across the bar. “You’re a squadron officer?”

“I’m a wing officer,” Freddie corrected her, giggling at the absurdity of it. “You should all be calling me ‘ma’am’ and saluting me on sight.”

Freddie accepted the congratulations from all of her former colleagues, laughing as they took it in turns pressing kisses to her cheeks. “I bet I’m all covered in red lipstick now!” she objected when Paddy wouldn’t stop.

Paddy only laughed. “It’ll wash off!”

Congratulations received, Freddie turned to introduce her new wireless operators and smiled as she watched her old friends and her new ones greet each other. In turn, she was introduced to the girl who had taken her place, a twenty-one year old named Cecelia who had been transferred from her boyfriend’s base because she’d gotten in trouble for flirting with him over the radio. Freddie giggled when she heard the story and decided immediately that she liked her.

She was immersed in conversation with Cecelia and Amy, Meatball sitting on the toes of her shoes, about how the girls were trying to hook Amy up with one of the rear gunners of one of the replacement crews when a light hand came to rest on the small of her back. 

Turning, Freddie grinned at the proffered glass of lemonade and the smirking face above it.

“We’ve got to stop meeting like this,” she joked. She accepted the lemonade from him and placed it on the bar in favour of getting up on her tiptoes and wrapping her arms around his neck, giggling as he wrapped his own around her waist.

“Hi, Fred,” Rosie said, his smile audible in his voice.

“Rosie,” Freddie replied, grinning, “I missed you.”

“You did?”

“Of course!” 

He held her just a little bit tighter. “I missed you too.”

Freddie smiled as she pulled out of their hug and picked her lemonade back up, taking a sip. “Thank you for my lemonade.” Rosie smiled and brushed her thanks away. “I hear you went to the flak house - how was it?”

Millie had updated her hurriedly on everything which had transpired on base since she’d been away, informing her that Rosie and his crew had been forced, much against Rosie’s will, to go on rest and recuperation at Coombe House, not-so-affectionately nicknamed ‘the flak house’ for how crews tended to be sent there when their commanding officers feared they were getting ‘flak happy’. In other words, Coombe House was intended to give the crews a place where they could talk to a therapist about how they were handling everything without everyone else having to know about it, while maybe also playing a few games of tennis here and there while they were at it.

Rosie scowled at the mention of his visit to the flak house, opting to take a big gulp of beer before even attempting to answer.

Freddie laughed as she watched him consider his words. “Everything you hoped it would be and more, I see,” she observed.

Rosie cracked a smile at this. “It was fine,” he said diplomatically. “I got something for you.”

Freddie visibly brightened. “You did?”

Rosie’s smile widened at whatever he saw on her face. “Yeah,” he confirmed. “I didn’t think you’d be back tonight, or else I would’ve brought it with me.”

“So sorry not to give you advance warning,” Freddie teased him. “I was let go from training early because I’m just so very good at it, see.”

Rosie grinned. “I’m sure you are. And ‘it’ would be..?”

Freddie laughed, sipping on her lemonade to keep him waiting, purely to entertain herself with the way he watched her do it. “Oh, you know,” she finally answered, fiddling with the straw in her drink, “this and that.”

Rosie groaned. “Fred…”

Freddie giggled. “Give me my gift and then I’ll tell you.”

“Your gift is back in my bunk.”

“Oh, well.” Freddie smiled innocently.

“Wing Officer Leroy!”

Freddie turned, smiling as she came face to face with one of her new recruits. 

“Ma’am -”

“You can just call me Freddie when we’re not working,” Freddie cut her off, smiling, “remember?”

“Right,” the girl, Anneliese, replied, then promptly forgot this information as she continued, “ma’am, are we allowed to fraternise with the Americans?”

Beside her, Rosie snorted.

Freddie fought to hold onto her laugh. “Well,” she began, “not officially, but people do.”

“If I get caught fraternising will you bail me out, ma’am?”

This time, both Freddie and Rosie actually did laugh. “Anneliese, what kind of fraternising are you expecting to get caught doing?” Freddie asked, her jaw just slightly agape at the insinuation.

Anneliese shot a quick glance at Rosie, conscious he was listening in, and then started to speak in German, “One of the Americans - a bomb-aimer, he says - is very handsome. But he lives in a bunk with all of his crew, and I live in a bunk with all of you. Where do you suggest we go as an alternative?”

Freddie laughed, rolled her eyes, and rested a hand on Anneliese’s arm. “I suggest you wait for a weekend pass.”

Anneliese perked up. “Will you give me a weekend pass?”

“You haven’t even been here for a day yet!”

Anneliese sighed with all the air of a teenager being grounded by their mother, even though she was only a year younger than Freddie. “Fine.”

“If you get caught fraternising it’ll be out of my hands,” Freddie warned her, not entirely convinced she was about to take her advice.

“Yes, ma’am,” Anneliese answered, saluted - all of these new recruits loved to salute, Freddie had found, just because they were excited to be working for the military - and then turned on her heel to walk away, presumably off to find her American bomb-aimer.

Rosie waited a moment before speaking. Freddie sighed and started sipping on her lemonade as she awaited whatever comment he was about to make.

“Enjoying your new promotion?” he finally asked.

“You mean am I enjoying wrangling a bunch of civilians into military duty, forcing them to keep their mouths shut about what we’re doing, and also trying to keep them from running off every five seconds?” Freddie sighed, shut her eyes, and sipped her lemonade again. “Why, yes, Rosie, I’d say I am.”

“Looks like you’re good at it,” Rosie observed. “They’re clearly all fond of you.”

Freddie smiled at this, glancing over at a group of them still huddled together by the wall, joined by some of the boys in their outfit now, too. “They’re good people,” Freddie told him. “Most of them are Jewish and had to flee the mainland when war broke out. They’re happy to finally get to do something. They’re going to do a lot of good.”

“Do you like your new post?” Rosie wondered.

Freddie smiled softly to herself and turned back to him. Of course he’d noticed she felt conflicted about it all. “I’m happy to be getting to do something bigger, something more directly important. But it’s lonely, leading them. I haven’t even been back a day and I miss my old bunk and I miss hanging around with the girls and I know I’ll miss talking to all of you over the radio before you go out on raids.”

“We’re all still around,” Rosie reminded her softly.

Freddie nodded, even though her smile had gone sad. “I know. I just worry you won’t be close enough.”

[lilac-amethyst-skies]

Hello !! I didn't know if your request were open so feel free to ignore this. The scenario is quite specific, I hope you don't mind.

Can I ask headcanons for Ludwig and Arthur (separately)? They had an s/o in the past who was incredibly important as a member of some type of royalty (it could be when they were teens or the time you prefer), and both had a forbidden love type of romance. Years passed since the reader died just to casually find them reincarnated in just a simply janitor or any common job around the building.

I imagine them trying to convince their s/o desperately, saying she had a past life as an important member of society and hoping they'll bring the memories back, but the reader doesn't believe them? Or just laughs innocently because she doesn't understand a single thing.

Sorry if this is weird, if it works better as a drabble you can do it. I just wanted to free my mind from this though, thank you! Have a great day💕

Germany, England X Reader Lover from a Past Life

Germany; Ludwig’s day was nothing short of an intense whirlwind of meetings, demands, and far too many expectations. As such, his mind followed his fast-paced day, thoughts seemingly running thousands of miles a minute. Though, if there was anything that Ludwig was good at, it was working under pressure. He worked seamlessly throughout his day and the people around him were truly none-the-wiser.

But now the end of the day was here, and Ludwig was ready to go home.

His bag was packed with the necessary papers, anything he might need at a convenient moment’s notice, and now he was making a brisk walk toward the exit of the building.

And Ludwig was nearly there when he collided with something—or rather, someone.

Much to his dismay, Ludwig realized that his desire to get out of the workplace had blinded him of other surroundings. Guilt flooded him as he dared to look at the woman who had been knocked down onto the floor. Her head was hung a bit low, and her stunned silence only made him feel worse.

Apologies tumbled from his mouth, embarrassment hot on his tongue. Ludwig reached for her and gently found her at her feet.

The moment she lifted her head to a reasonable height, he froze. She was speaking, but he couldn’t hear a single word she said. She sounded polite, kind, apologetic—even though he was the one that surely ran into her.

But none of that mattered now that Ludwig could see what she looked like.

The truth of what he was seeing was an undeniable truth. A face that he hadn’t seen in centuries time. And as steady and sure as Ludwig came to be, this was more than enough to break his inner calm. Memories of the past writhed within the confines of his mind, and how was it that he was feeling his heart shatter all over again? Had he so soon forgotten his love until now? Surely not, but to see her now and here in the flesh all over again—Ludwig thought he was going to be sick.

Heavy pressure weighed against his chest and the tension in his jaw would start a headache if he allowed it to go on any longer.

These following scene of events only lasted a few seconds, but to Ludwig everything moved horrendously slow. His body felt odd and agitatedly hot, but he knew the longer he sat frozen the more awkward this would be. Without thinking or trying to pull apart what she had said previously, Ludwig spoke the first thing that came out of his mouth—even though he knew how much her answer would hurt.

“Do I know you from somewhere?”

There was a hopeful glint at the end of his sentence, but Ludwig knew the truth whether he wanted to believe it or not. And as such, she very politely made a face of thought, wracking her brain in an effort to pull some pieces together that she may have missed.

Surprisingly, after some thought, a look of immediate recognition lit up her face.

“Oh! You know I think I may have seen you from somewhere!” Ludwig’s body was suddenly filled with something akin to electricity. His eyes grew brightly warm and he could barely control the tremor in his hands. Regardless, Ludwig did his best to keep his voice steady.

“Really?”

He couldn’t believe it. Could she really remember? Could this really be her from so long ago—

“Yes! I took the new receptionist position here and I’ve only been here a few weeks, but I think I remember seeing you when I first arrived! We haven’t officially met, but I’m sure we’ve crossed paths before.”

Ludwig’s heart immediately sank like a cinderblock smashing rock bottom to the ocean floor. Yes, now, he was sure. His heart was breaking again.

“R-right—right. I’m sure that’s it,” Ludwig did what he does best, and shoved it down in the moment, “It was a pleasure to meet you. I hope you settle in well.”

His robotic kindness earned a smile from her, which did make him feel a little better.

“Thank you, it was great meeting you. See you around! Oh, and sorry again for not looking where I was going…”

“No, no it’s fine. I should have been paying better attention.”

At that, she cordially laughed a bit and went on her way and so did he.

Ludwig realized having her working in the same building as him would prove to be one of the greatest challenges of his life.

England; Arthur hadn’t hesitated to show as a guest speaker for a lecture at the local university. He valued education and the moment he saw (mostly) eager-faced youth in the lecture hall, he was filled with a sense of purpose again. He understood that in a way, he was a living, breathing piece of history to his nation, and there was no better way to learn about the past than speaking with someone who was actually there.

Though of course, this feeling of excitement that set his mind and body alight was kept on the inside. On the outside, he was pristinely stoic and dare he say—intellectual. He had to keep face and not appear too eager because that was best left for the university-aged students in front him. Or at least, that’s what he was telling himself.

Arthur had gone above and beyond. He created a clever presentation matched with opportunities for students to interact, and brought an entire bag of artifacts and other pieces of the past.

He also made the age-old joke that he too, along with these items, probably belonged in a museum somewhere and not in his house.

The class laughed and it further spurred him on.

Needless to say, it went smoothly and sooner than later Arthur was packing his bag of things at the front of the classroom. He stayed behind a bit for any extra questions, but eventually all of the students filtered out. The professor had offered to walk him out, but Arthur politely declined.

Arthur got a bit lost in the set of manuscripts he had brought for the class, deciding to look through them a little longer. As such, he was left alone.

A few more minutes passed when Arthur heard one of the chairs from the very back of the room move against the floor. On instinct Arthur looked up to find a young woman promptly cleaning desks and chairs.

She must be a janitor for the university, Arthur reasoned.

She must not have noticed him quite yet. Either that, or she had no interest in making note of his presence.

He didn’t care about this all too much and planned to continue on with what he was doing—until she moved just a bit closer.

The moment her face came into view, his heartbeat thrummed heavily in his ears. Arthur was immediately out of breath, shakily setting the manuscripts down. All of his nerves and senses suddenly felt stripped bare, and he felt aghast and entirely uncomfortable. He feared the thoughts spilling haphazardly in his brain were about to waterfall out of his mouth, onto the floor in the space between them.

Arthur could only blame the presentation that he just gave—that it placed him in the headspace of a past life that everyone else had left behind except him. As was the curse of every Nation, they were always left behind while the world continued onward.

And so, he spoke without thinking. Arthur spoke in a desperation that he’d buried years ago that only now had its chance to see the light of present day.

“___.”

Her name came out first in a whisper—he hadn’t spoken that name in so long. It felt dangerously sweet on his tongue and he couldn’t believe he’d ever have the chance to say it again.

“___!” Arthur spoke a little louder this time, but still couldn’t bring himself to move from his spot, but words continued to spill.

“I—I can’t believe…that it’s you! I would have never thought I’d find you again or—or here like this. But that doesn’t matter! All that matters is that you’re here with me, love,” finally Arthur moved from behind the desk toward her, and she must have noticed because now because her head snapped toward Arthur in surprise.

They were looking at each other now, and Arthur thought he could cry.

“ ___, do you remember? Do you remember me? I’m sure you do, you have to. I—"

It was now that he noticed the pair of wireless headphones in her ears. Had she even heard a single word he just said?

She scrambled to pull one of the earbuds out.

“Oh! I’m so sorry, I didn’t even realize anyone else was in here! You actually gave me quite a scare,” she put her hand over her chest to emphasize her fright.

Arthur could only stand silent as reality and reason took over his previous fantasy.

“I’m so sorry, sir, were you trying to talk to me? My music was turned up so loud I couldn’t hear a thing.”

Finally, Arthur snapped out of it, but only enough as to not be considered rude.

“No, it’s quite alright. I—” Arthur thought for a moment, “…I was letting you know that I would be leaving.”

As expected, she politely told him to take his time. And so, Arthur collected the rest of his things and left, entirely not ready to unpack all of the feelings and memories now stirring inside of him.

|||

a/n: ok real talk, I saw this ask in my inbox and I was SO excited about writing for this!!!! Thank you for the awesome ask; it was a blast to write! <3

[daphnefisherofficial]

bugna: TAKIPSILIM | destiny's twilight

CHAPTER NINE

Pairing: MCU Moon Knight System (Marc/Jake/Steven) x Avatar Fem!Reader

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CHAPTER NINE - FORGOTTEN MEMORIES & INEVITABLE TRUTH.

You summoned and stepped through another portal, the world around you twisted and shimmered like a mirage as you returned to the solitude of your residence in Surrey, England. The familiar scent of aged books and ancient relics greeted you as you crossed the threshold of the study once more.

Your ceremonial suit of armor shifted seamlessly back into your olden clothes as the punong babaylan (head priestess), marking the end of another night's service as Mayari’s avatar. The soft, silver glow of the moonlight bathed the room, casting eerie shadows on the bookshelves and arcane artifacts that lined your study. Mayari's divine presence filled the room once more, and you turned to face her as she materialized at your side.

"Salamat sa iyong paninilbihan ngayong gabi," Mayari spoke, her voice filled with gratitude like the gentle rustling of leaves in the wind. Both her luminous and blind eyes held a warmth that seemed to reach deep into your soul. "Nalalapit na ang kabilugan ng buwan sa mga susunod na linggo, kaya’t maghanda ka"

Thank you for your service tonight. The next full moon is approaching in a few weeks, so make the necessary preparations.

“Paghahandaan ko ito, aking diwata”, you replied with a nod, knowing that another night of rituals and magic awaited you. 

I’ll be ready, my goddess.

But as Mayari's words hung in the air, your thoughts were already drifting into the depths of your own mind. A nagging unease suddenly crept into your heart as vague, unsettling memories of the full moon from two months ago began to plague you like fragments of a forgotten dream. The furrowed brow and worried expression on your face did not go unnoticed by the moon goddess.

"May bumabagabag ba sa iyo, aking anak?" Mayari inquired, her silvery hair cascading like liquid moonlight around her shoulders.

Is something troubling you, my child?

You hesitated for a moment, unsure of whether to voice your concerns. After all, you had come to trust Mayari with your life and your secrets. "Hindi ko magawang maalala ang tunay na wangis ni Darius,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. "Para bang ang alaalang iyon ay unti unting nawawaglit sa aking isipan"

I... I still cannot remember Darius’s face, not clearly. It's as if his memory is slipping away from me.

Mayari's eyes widened, and for a moment, a shadow of concern flitted across her radiant features. She reached out, her cool fingers touching your cheek in a soothing gesture. "Kaunting paghihintay pa, mahal kong Mira" she said gently. "Pinagtutulungan nating mapanumbalik ang iyong mga alaala nitong mga nakaraang buwan. Nalalapit na ang mga kasagutang ating hinahanap, kaya’t manalig ka"

You need to have patience, my dear Mira. We are working to restore your memories these past few months. We are nearing the answers you seek, so have faith.

But you couldn't let it go so easily. The thought of never being able to remember Darius's face, the warmth of his smile, or the love in his eyes was almost unbearable. You loved him with all your heart, and the fact that this man who had perished right before your eyes was now just a hazy figure in your mind didn’t sit well with you. It frightened you a great deal, and you needed answers as to why and how it happened.

"Ngunit bakit ito nangyayari sa akin?" you pressed, your voice trembling with a mixture of fear and frustration. "Bakit hindi ko maalala ang kanyang wangis, Mayari?"

But why is this happening to me? Why do I forget his face, Mayari?

The moon goddess hesitated for a moment, her silvery eyes clouded with a sadness you couldn't quite comprehend. "Ikinalulungkot kong ang mga nangyayari sa iyo ay dulot ng pakikipagtulungan mo sa mga diwatang pinaglilingkuran ng iyong namayapang asawa," she finally spoke, her voice carrying a weight that seemed to pull at the very fabric of reality. "Hindi mo ito natatandaan, ngunit isang mintala ang iginawad sa iyo ng diwatang si Set bilang kaparusahan sa iyong pagiging tapat kina Darius, Anubis at sa Ennead” 

I’m afraid what’s happening to you is a consequence of you and your late husband’s alignment with Anubis and the Ennead, my dear. You do not remember it, but the god Set has cursed you as punishment for your choices.

Your heart sank at her words. Set, the god of chaos and disorder, was known for his ruthless punishments. You had been warned by Mayari of the dangers of dabbling in the affairs of the gods, but your love for Darius had driven you to help him in joining Anubis’s cause to prevent Set’s destruction from wreaking havoc on Earth. And now, it seemed, you were paying the price.

"Ginawa ito ni Set sa akin?" you whispered, feeling a chill run down your spine. "Anong klaseng mintala ito, Mayari? Ang makalimutan ang wangis ng lalaking aking pinakamamahal?!"

Set did this to me? What kind of curse is this, Mayari? To forget the face of the one I love?!

Mayari's gaze remained steady, but her voice quivered ever so slightly as she replied, "Isang makapangyarihang mintala na nagbubura sa iyong isipan ng wangis ng iyong pinakamamahal, at nag-iiwan ng isang huwad na alaala na hindi maipaliwanag. Isang mapaghiganting diwata si Set, at pinaparusahan niya ang kahit sinong umaanib sa kanyang mga kaaway."

It is a curse that erases the memory of your beloved's facade, leaving only a void in its place. Set is a vengeful god, and he does not take kindly to those who align themselves with his enemies.

Tears welled up in your eyes, and you turned away, unable to bear the weight of your own grief and despair. "Hindi ito maaaring mangyari," you muttered, your voice choked with emotion. "Pakiusap, Mayari, kailangang may gawin tayo."

I cannot let this happen. We must do something, Mayari, please.

Mayari's hand reached out to touch your shoulder, her touch gentle and comforting. "Narito ako para sa’yo, aking anak," she said softly. "Gagawa tayo ng paraan upang alisin ang mintalang iginawad sa’yo, ipinapangako ko iyan. Hindi kita pababayaan na mag-isa sa iyong pagdurusa"

I am here for you, my child. We will find a way to break this curse, I promise you. Until then, know that you are not alone in your suffering.

You nodded and accepted her answer, grateful for her support, though a lingering doubt gnawed at the edges of your mind. Something in Mayari's words, in the tremor of her voice, had struck you as odd. But you chose not to press further, not wanting to burden her with your doubts.

With a final reverent bow, you turned away from the moon goddess as she vanished from the study. The night had been eventful, but your duties as the avatar of Mayari were far from over. As you left the study and descended the grand staircase, the moon's silvery light bathed your path, and the mysteries of your past remained shrouded in darkness.

You made your way to your sanctuary in the master’s bedroom, magically shedding your ancient head priestess robes on the way in favor of the modern clothes you previously wore that night. As you lay in bed, the image of Darius Carter slipped further from your grasp, and tears welled in your eyes as you missed his presence the most. The weight of the curse bore down on you, but you were determined to undo Set’s punishment on you and avenge Darius’s death at his hands.

Outside, the moon bathed the world in its gentle light, a silent witness to the secrets and sacrifices of those who served the gods. And in the stillness of the night, you closed your eyes, bracing yourself for the challenges that awaited you in the days to come.

Meanwhile, as the chill of the London night embraced him, Steven Grant made his way through the bustling streets of the city. His thoughts were consumed by the delightful evening he had just experienced, still basking in the warmth of your company. He had just returned to his modest flat in London, a cozy haven amidst the cacophony of the city. It had been a night of revelatory conversation and shared laughter, all with the one person who had become a source of intrigue and affection in his life.

He couldn't help but gush to Marc about how the dinner went as they settled into the familiar rhythm of their shared existence.

"Marc, you wouldn't believe it," Steven exclaimed, a dreamy smile on his face. "Tonight has got to be the best night of my life ever"

Tell me about it. Marc’s voice echoed in Steven’s head, his voice slightly groggy as if he just awoke from his slumber in their shared headspace.

"It was splendid, mate," Steven enthused, stepping into the comfortable living room of their flat as his eyes met Marc Spector’s reflection in the nearby mirror. "Mira and I talked about almost everything under the sun - the history of Ancient Egypt, and even about her home country. She’s been an absolute delight."

Sounds like you had a fantastic time. Marc replied in his head with a hint of a smile, quietly listening to Steven's effusive commentary on their dinner companion. Despite being more reserved, cautious and always considering the potential consequences of their actions, Marc couldn't help but feel genuinely happy for Steven. Try as he might, he couldn't deny the genuine connection that had been forming between the two of you.

“I really did”, Steven said happily as he slowly changed into his indoor clothes. “She showed me the mockup of her upcoming exhibit, me! I mean, she must have shown it to all the tour guide applicants since it was a part of her evaluation, but still. And she has some really nice feedback from the guided tour I gave, even though I almost fainted…”

Marc listened intently to Steven rambling, appreciating the genuine happiness that radiated from him. It warmed him to know that his headmate’s budding relationship with you was flourishing. However, as Steven continued to gush about you, Marc's thoughts drifted toward the inevitable discussion that had been looming over them for some time.

That sounds wonderful, Steven. Marc replied, his voice tinged with a hint of approval. I'm glad you and Mira are becoming fast friends.

Steven's enthusiasm was contagious, and he seized the opportunity to broach a subject that had been on his mind for a while now.

"You know, Marc," Steven began cautiously, "I can feel how strongly you're drawn to her, and she seems to feel the same way about you. We can't keep avoiding this conversation forever."

Marc sighed, running a hand through his unruly hair as he knew this conversation between him and Steven was inevitable. He had always been more guarded as their shared existence had always been a complex circumstance that not many people can understand.

I know, Steven. Marc conceded, his voice tinged with frustration. But you know how I feel about this. I can't just bring her into our mess. What if she can't handle it? What if she leaves?

"You're selling her short, mate”, Steven shook his head in mild frustration, his British accent accentuating his exasperation. “She's shown nothing but kindness and understanding to us both, separately. You can't keep her at arm's length forever, I mean. Life's too short for regrets, and you should know that"

Feeling conflicted, Marc decided to avoid pursuing the topic altogether. He and Steven finally changed gears, allowing Marc to be on the driver’s seat of their shared body. Glancing at their shared desk, Marc noticed your calling card neatly placed there. It had been a parting gift from your delightful time together on the plane back to London, and after Steven already used it for his benefit, Marc had been unsure of what to do with it next. 

It had been a simple and innocent gesture on his end, inviting you to meet for coffee on Sunday. But with his conflicting feelings currently in the forefront, Marc simply cannot deal with seeing you again right now.

“I can’t do this”, Marc muttered, picking up the card and studying it for a moment. “I can’t meet her tomorrow.”

Why? She must be looking forward to it. Steven's eyebrows shot up in surprise from his reflection in the desk. Mate, don’t do this, you’re being very dramatic.

Ignoring Steven's protest, Marc’s fingers poised over his keypad. Briefly saving your phone number in his contacts, he then swiftly typed out a text message to cancel your plans for tomorrow. He pressed send on the message, and a small sense of accomplishment washed over him. The message was simple enough, but it carried the weight of Marc's internal struggle.

Hey, Marc Spector here. I’m really sorry to do this, but something urgent came up for me and Steven tomorrow. Rain check on our coffee lunch?

You really are a nutter, Marc. Steven sighed, shaking his head in disbelief as he retreated into the depths of their shared consciousness. You can't live your life in fear like this - give it a chance. Give her a chance.  

Feeling the weight of his alter's words, Marc sat there for a moment as he allowed himself a moment of reflection. His heart then raced with a mix of anticipation and anxiety, briefly second guessing his earlier actions. What had he just done? Had he been too ahead of himself and painstakingly obvious for pushing you away?

Of course, Marc, I hope it’s nothing too serious. We can definitely reschedule, just let me know. It's no problem at all.

Your reply loomed over his screen, prompting Steven’s words about your true depth of understanding to circle his inner thoughts once more. Marc couldn't help but give what his head mate said some thought: maybe he had been too cautious, too guarded. 

He could no longer deny his growing feelings towards you, and perhaps there will come a time when he can finally let you in. To let you see the complexity of his existence. After all, he had already taken a huge step toward bridging the gap between his two selves. 

And perhaps, just perhaps, you would be willing to meet him halfway.

The sun painted the London skyline with hues of gold and pink, heralding a new day for Marc Spector and Steven Grant. As the day's first light streamed through the window of their modest London flat, Marc awoke, the muddled memories of the previous night's recurring vivid dreams lingering in his mind.

He stretched, his muscles protesting the slumber's grip, and sat up in bed. In contrast to the Chicago life he once knew, London had become his new home, thanks to Steven. His British alter had embraced this city as his own, and Marc had slowly come to terms with that. Sometimes, he even found solace in the bustling streets and the gentle cadence of British life.

With a sigh, Marc swung his legs over the side of the bed and rubbed his temples. Today, he decided to venture out to the nearby Tesco's to buy groceries for both him and Steven. It was a routine task that allowed him to have some semblance of normalcy amidst the chaos of their unique existence. 

As Marc strolled down the aisles of the supermarket, a sense of calm serenity washed over him. He felt in control, disconnected from the relentless turmoil of his mind. He picked up a few boxes of Twining’s, his hand momentarily steadying as he remembered that it was Steven's favorite.

But fate had something else in store. As Marc turned a corner, his heart leaped into his throat, and he felt as if the ground had been ripped from beneath him. There, standing in the fruit section, was you, dressed in a casual, cream-colored Sunday dress, your hair arranged in a messy bun. You were engrossed in selecting quality fruit, your laughter filling the air as you discussed your shopping choices with another young woman who he suspected to be your secretary. William “Bill” Jones on the other hand, the middle-aged man Marc had been introduced to not long ago, was on your other side, observing the girl banter before him with a polite smile.

Panic surged through Marc as he ducked behind a shelf of canned goods. He watched you from afar, hidden in the shadows as his heart pounded in his chest. It was as if the universe had conspired to bring him face to face with you once more, against his wishes. What were you doing here? Why was fate so intent on entwining your lives?

Steven, lurking in the corners of Marc's consciousness, was equally bewildered and frustrated by this unexpected encounter. 

Marc, mate, we need to get out of here. He muttered urgently, remembering Marc’s not so good alibi on today’s canceled coffee lunch. This is not looking good for us.

But Marc couldn't tear his eyes away from you. He was drawn to you like a moth to a flame, unable to resist the magnetic pull of your presence. With a reluctant sigh, he murmured back to Steven, "Just a few more minutes. I need to see what they're doing."

As you continued your shopping, oblivious to Marc's hidden presence, he discreetly trailed you like a silent specter. His military training and mercenary instincts had honed his ability to remain unseen, a skill that now served him well in this clandestine pursuit. The tightrope he walked between curiosity and caution threatened to snap at any moment.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, you and your companions checked out with a massive amount of shopping bags before heading for the exit. Marc hurriedly paid for his groceries and followed you from a distance out onto the bustling streets of London. His heart pounded in his chest as he kept a safe distance, careful not to alert you or anyone else to his presence.

To Marc's astonishment, you led them to a place he hadn't expected: St. Mungo's, a homeless shelter that he and Steven had heard of but never visited. They collectively watched from a discreet vantage point outside the window as you walked inside with a radiant smile on your face. Bill and the other young woman followed, their expressions mirroring your own.

From the shadows, Marc and Steven observed the scene unfolding before them. You greeted everyone in the shelter with genuine warmth and kindness, your happiness infectious. It was as if a ray of sunshine had descended upon the homeless souls gathered there, dispelling the darkness that clung to their lives.

As you began distributing the numerous shopping bags filled with groceries, both Marc and Steven felt an unfamiliar tug at their hearts. It wasn't just attraction or curiosity anymore; it was something deeper, more profound. Your selflessness and compassion resonated with them in a way they hadn't anticipated. 

"Steven, do you see this?” Marc was the first to break the silence, his voice barely above a whisper. “She's… she's incredible. The way she cares for those people."

Aye, mate, she’s a literal ball of sunshine. Steven, too, was moved by the scene before them. It’d be hard not to fall for her after seeing this. 

Marc nodded, his eyes never leaving you. Their shared realization hung in the air, binding them together in a newfound purpose. As you continued your acts of charity inside St. Mungo's, Marc and Steven knew that their lives had taken an unexpected turn. They were no longer mere observers; they were drawn into the orbit of someone who had touched their souls in ways they couldn't explain.

It was a revelation that left Marc both awestruck and conflicted, unsure of how to navigate the intricate web of emotions that had entwined his and Steven's lives with yours. As he continued to watch you from the shadows, Marc could no longer deny the undeniable truth. 

He was falling for you, and there was no turning back.

END OF CHAPTER NINE.

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