#I am terribly abnormal about this man

[roadkill-punk]

I don't usually share WIPs but fuck he's so pretty I am actively passing away

[darkworkcourier]

Could you write Ghost x fem!reader where she finds him attractive but is too shy to actually tell him but also can't hide the way she's feeling, so Ghost notices her interest and eventually they end up in bed (*cough* you know what I mean)? Also Ghost being gentle and protective towards her, plz

Ps. I love your writing!

Word Count: 8314

i’m incapable of short prompt fills, apparently! o, but i am filled with grief!

anywho, reader’s codename is ‘ladybird’ (hc that soap gave it to her because she’s lucky) but is otherwise nameless.

contains masturbation, oral sex, lots of feelings, wee bit of slow burn, ghost being like weirdly emotional and soft, and soap’s gratuitous and unfortunate use of emojis. 💀/🐞4ever

---

The first time it really hits you, you're in a helicopter about two miles above the ground—honestly a terrible place to face your feelings. It's a velvet-dark night, strategically chosen for the new moon, the countryside below nearly invisible. You're almost in a doze, caught up in the Chinook's blades' low, thunderous pulse and the sporadic rocking as it hits little glades of turbulence. Your eyes lose focus on some of the running lights, until they turn hazy, and its only when the man across from you moves his boot do you snap back to attention.

Ghost. Right. You learned his name a few weeks ago during your orientation, but he was deployed on a recon mission only a day later. Price summoned him back for this mission, but aside from a few gruff comments at the all-hands meeting, you haven't heard him say much.

For a moment, you think he might have dozed off, too. He’s leaning back in his seat, arms crossed over his chest, eyes closed. And that’s fair, you think; Soap told you he didn’t think Ghost ever slept.

You silently study him, the way his head rocks a little with the turbulence, how much taller he is than everyone else in his row, the peculiar illusion that the eye sockets of his mask are empty—

And suddenly they aren’t.

He’s looking back at you, dark eyes regarding you passively, even though the mask makes every look significantly more intimidating. For moment that goes on way too long, you don’t look away, your gazes locked. Your heart takes the tracheal elevator to your throat, beating loud enough to drown out the Chinook’s roar.

You look away first, and you swear you hear him snort.

The rest of the journey to the drop-off zone, you deliberately don’t look at him; but when you close your eyes, there he is.

All you can think is ohhhh, shit.

---

Military crushes aren’t abnormal. Put enough people at the peak of physical excellence in a room, throw around some form-fitting uniforms, and mix in a few adrenaline rushes—it’s a goddamn potent mixture. You’ve had your share of mess hall dreamy-eyed gazing sessions, and a few ‘I hate to see you leave, but I love to watch you go’ moments in gyms and fitness centers. That’s fine; that’s normal.

What you start feeling for Ghost isn’t that.

Nevermind that he’s rarely out of tactical dress, and if he is, he usually defaults to a hoodie or something that doesn’t exactly entice the imagination. And he’s never out of some variation of his mask, so you can’t think woah, pal, do you cut glass with that jawline because as far as you can tell, he doesn’t have one. No mooning over cheekbones, admiring the curve of lips. He has nice eyes, but ever since the night in the Chinook, you haven’t been able to meet them for more than a second before your heart does that terrible little samba again.

Per your mental checklist, aside from being tall and muscular, he doesn’t check all your normal boxes. By all those counts, Gaz or Soap are way better fits. Hell, Soap likes to hang around in his silkies like they’re pajamas, showing off plenty to keep your fantasy fodder trough filled. And you’ve caught Gaz doing push-ups in the lounge, his tight shirt doing wonders for his shoulders.

But it’s Ghost who makes you feel like a hormonal teenager. It’s Ghost that gets you antsy and fidgety when he enters a room. And it’s Ghost that you think about during your rare alone time in the shower, when your hands start drifting south and the tile walls are your only support.

You’ve got it bad for him, and you have no idea what to do about it.

---

You’re doing recon in Berlin when Soap notices.

The mission details are simple: a drug lord known as Keiler using a night club as a go-between for his suppliers and dealers—all further complicated by the fact that he has plenty of friends in the arms trade, and by Laswell’s reports, he’s very generous to those friends. The club is a front, a money laundering wonderland. Through your observation, drugs and alcohol are doled out in equal volume, all to the backdrop of skull-splitting bass and sharp scalpels of strobe lights.

The biggest obstacle is that Keiler likes to use a private room overlooking the club as his perch, and your intelligence says that at any given time, he has a small army defending him. Getting to him requires an incredible degree of finesse. Naturally, Ghost is the one to do it.

You, Soap, and Gaz are scattered around the main floor of the club. Gaz is out on the dance floor, Soap’s taken up a spot near the bar, and you’re in the lounge. It’s the first time you’ve done something like this (and in an outfit with so little fabric), and you’re really not used to being ogled and pawed by a bunch of drunk, drugged, or horny Berliners.

Soap must see your discomfort from his position, as you hear a dry, amused, “Feelin’ a little tense, Ladybird?”

You swallow hard and chase it with a sip of your drink, which definitely needs to be watered down. “I’m fine,” you say.

“You look like you just drank petrol.”

“You’re the one who ordered it for me.”

Gaz cuts in with a weary, “Do we have eyes on Ghost, yet? I’m starting to get tired of people grabbing my—”

“I’m here,” Ghost’s voice scrapes over the comms, causing you to sit up straight and look around. You catch sight of Soap who has his hand curled in front of his mouth, clearly snickering like a heathen.

“Think you scared the shit out of Ladybird, LT,” he says.

He’s lucky he’s on the other side of the room, otherwise you’d pretend to be extremely clumsy and find an excuse to spill your drink on his (very, very tight) shirt. You mouth ‘shut up’ at him, and he reaches up with his pointer finger to draw an invisible halo over his head.

Ghost ignores him. “I’m near the east stairwell, headed to second deck. Got one guard at the far end. Gaz, you seein’ anything I should know about?”

A pause, then, “Negative, Ghost. I’ve got what you’ve got.”

“Copy. Going to second deck now.”

Out of habit, your eyes go to the east stairwell, peering through the haze pierced with multicolored lights to see a single dark shape ascending. He disappears behind a catwalk, then reappears to the right, mingling with the crowd near the second floor bar. Once he’s there, he seems to fade into the throng of people, most in dark clothing, some in masks. Just like that, he’s invisible.

It’s hard to focus on looking calm and happy to be there, but you keep sipping your drink, watching the dancers and feeling the bassline of yet another techno song thrumming in your chest. You’re glad you’re not out on the dance floor, or being called to give come-hither glances to bouncers and guards.

Then, “Coming back down to first deck,” Ghost says, clearly agitated. “Too many guards and too many people. We need another way up.”

Soap grins. “Violence isn’t the answer, LT?”

“Negative. Start looking for another route.”

On cue, you stand up and cross the room to the bar, sliding in beside Soap. He’s fishing for another couple Euro from his wallet, pushing it across to the bartender with two fingers. The bartender gives him a brief nod and refills his glass, while Soap turns his attention to you.

“Any bright ideas?”

You frown and adjust the straps on your top again. It’s a stupid piece of clothing, always feeling like it’s going to fall off. “Only the emergency stairs by the front doors, but I can’t imagine Keiler leaves those undefended.”

Soap looks thoughtful and scratches at his stubble. “Yeah, but probably no civilians, either. And if the door’s alarmed, Ghost can take care of that.”

As if summoned, you feel Ghost appear before you see him, a huge presence over your shoulder that makes you jump. “Jesus!” you hiss.

And Soap, the traitor, laughs to the point of wheezing as Ghost takes up the bar stool on his other side. “I think you’re giving our Ladybird here a complex,” Soap says through his laughter.

Ghost rolls his eyes. From this angle, you can see Ghost in more than just the dim light you’ve been working with most of the night. He’s not dressed too far outside his usual fashion wheelhouse—heavy boots, black trousers, and a loose black hoodie. His hood’s pulled up over a black beanie and a skull-painted gaiter, and he’s foregone his usual thick coating of greasepaint for black-ringed eyes (is that eyeliner?) and a streak of smoke-colored paint that just manages to obscure the color of his brows. The downside (for you, at least) is that the combo manages to draw his eyes into sharper contrast, making them that much more intense.

Suddenly, your heart’s doing the thing again.

Ghost doesn’t seem to notice any change in you, but you think Soap’s actually looking for it. He watches you, brows lifted, mouth curled like a flirtation of a smirk. Briefly, he glances between you and Ghost, and then the smirk appears in full force, enlightenment dawning.

Before he can insinuate a thing, you’re shoving your half-empty glass across the bar top with a too-high, “Bitte.” The bartender only gives you a brief, unamused look before taking your glass and remaking whatever godforsaken cocktail Soap ordered.

It’s not a good distraction, and the damage is already done. Soap knows, damnit. His smile is too easygoing, but he turns to Ghost and starts talking about the emergency stairwell, which is a relief. Ghost looks over his shoulder toward the stairwell in question, and as he does, Soap looks at you and makes the gesture of zipping his own mouth shut, throwing away the proverbial key with a wink.

As he does, Gaz pipes back up with, “Ghost, you copy?”

“Yeah, Gaz?”

“You, uh, know anything about a big guy with a tattoo of a boar on the back of his head?”

Ghost looks toward the dance floor, brows furrowing. “Yeah, that’d be Bauer, Keiler’s right hand man.”

“Great. Glad you know him, because he’s here.”

Shit. He wasn’t supposed to be. If Bauer’s here, then either Keiler’s doing something more than his usual partying upstairs, or Keiler knows someone’s here looking for him. Either way, the mission just got significantly harder, and your night got that much longer.

With a grunt, Ghost pushes off the bar and starts making his way to the emergency stairwell. “I’ll take care of it,” he says. “Keep your eyes open. Out here.”

Once he’s gone, there’s a pause—a very heavy pause. Then, Soap looks at you with an expression that is just a hair too pleased. “Ghost, huh?”

Your face heats up, right as the bartender hands you your drink. You reach for your wallet, only for the bartender to put a hand up and shake his head. “Nein, für das schöne Mädchen,” he says.

For the pretty girl.

“Bet Ghost thinks so, too,” Soap says, and you resolve to definitely spill your free drink on his too-tight pants.

---

Weeks after Keiler’s nice and cozy in a maximum-security prison and the 141 is back at base, you have another miniature existential crisis.

It’s all an accident—just a tempest of bad timing and bad luck. Ever since you came back from Germany, you’ve had a tough time getting a full night’s sleep. It’s easy to blame the natural stress of your work, the long hours, the high-adrenaline action you see more than you ever did before this job. And, well, part of it has to come from Ghost. He’s occupied your thoughts more than ever since the night club.

Your solution is to hit the gym late at night, pushing yourself until you can’t keep your eyes open and no amount of insomnia can overcome it. The first few nights of this effort work fine—you end up in bed around one or two in the morning, and sleep until your alarm goes off. No one bothers you; no one hogs the machines. It’s kind of nice.

However, you don’t account for all the night owls that share the base with you.

You head to the gym late on a Friday night, towel around your neck, water bottle at the ready, podcasts preloaded. If you ever hit the gym during the day, you usually do so in a t-shirt and sweatpants. At night, you’ve started opting for PT shorts and a tank top, happy for the lack of eyes around the room.

Except for tonight.

You open the door into the gym, only to hear the mechanical drone of a treadmill and someone sprinting damn fast on it. For a second, you freeze, hiding behind the corner. Then, slowly, you peer around it, clutching your phone and water bottle close to your chest.

Jesus Christ. It’s Ghost.

Ghost, in a t-shirt. In sweatpants. Running on a treadmill set to the highest incline. Panting.

Ghost, with bare arms, showing a detailed tattoo on his left arm, and prominent veins running over his chiseled muscles. He looks like a fucking Greek statue, and that’s just what you can see.

“Ohhh, my God,” you whisper to yourself, immediately working on an exit strategy that doesn’t involve catching his attention.

Which obviously doesn’t come to pass. It’s something you probably should have learned on the helo ride—Ghost knows when he’s being watched. He turns his head, dark eyes fixing on you immediately. Briefly, he looks back at the treadmill, then down at his watch, and back to the treadmill’s controls. He slows it down, dropping the incline, until he finally steps off and starts walking toward you.

Abort, abort.

You think about fleeing, running back to your room or rolling under a table or hiding behind a counter like he’s a goddamn velociraptor in the kitchen. You do none of those things, because despite your training, you freeze up. No one could blame you, you think. It’s hard to do much else when a six-foot-something skull-faced wall of muscle walks up to you. And you must look stellar, holed up in a corner by the door, your water bottle and phone held up like a shield.

Ghost takes in the sight of you, eyes flicking up, down, up. Heat rises to your face, and down to—to nowhere, because it’s better not to think about it. You suddenly feel too vulnerable in your choice of outfit, naked under his gaze.

“Ladybird,” he says. Your nickname becomes a hot scratch of sound, losing its whimsy in favor of a tone you can’t define. “You need somethin’?”

There’s a patch of sweat by his collar. You stare at it, then at the floor.

“No, I just—  I was, um, just about to leave, and... Yeah, I’m gonna go.”

He’s silent until you finally look up at him, meeting his eyes for the first time in what what feels like an eon. He looks amused, but there’s a quirk in his brow like he can’t quite get a good read on you. “You look like you were about to use the gym.”

You look down at your bottle, phone, and towel like you’re just now noticing them. When you bring your attention back to him, you feel like you need to just kick the door open and escape, dignity be damned. “I... was,” you say slowly. Then, you rally yourself, trying to look upbeat and resolved. “Y’know what? You can keep using it. I’ll come back later.”

He shrugs, but you see it. Some secondary expression slinking around in his eyes like it’s working through the perpetually-moving cogs in his head. He gives you another one of those assessing glances, and for a second, you think he’s going to step into your space. His body language looks primed to do so, and you hold your breath in anticipation for it, unsure of what he’s going to do.

Then he takes a step back, and another.

“Suit yourself,” he says. “I wouldn’t mind it, though.”

Before you can process his words, he’s back on the treadmill, tweaking the settings and raising the incline again. The belt starts moving, and he’s back to looking like power personified, a vision in motion.

You have got it so bad.

It’s a hasty retreat to your room, and once the door’s shut behind you, you’re panting like you had run on the treadmill and lifted weights.

“Shit, shit, shit,” you hiss, discarding your things on the table beside your bed, kicking off your running shoes, then laying down and staring at the ceiling. He knows. He has to. Ghost’s whole job depends on him being observant, and he looked at you like he was reading a fucking book. 

You groan and press your palms into your eyes until phosphenes appear, dancing around and shimmering like fireworks behind your eyelids. You’re going to have to leave the 141 out of pure mortification. You’ll have to go into some kind of witness protection, change your name, and move to the other side of the earth. Or if you stay, you’ll have to pretend Ghost doesn’t exist. You’ll hide behind walls, slinking through the building’s HVAC just to avoid him like you’re working on a heist. Maybe you can convince Soap or Gaz to accompany you everywhere so you can hide behind their bulk.

But then, your horrible brain reminds you of what you’ll miss out on. It runs through a greatest hits reel of your crush so far—Ghost’s eyes, his presence stretching long over you like a shadow, his massive frame, his arms. The tattoo, detailed enough to tell from a distance, and then the thought of running your fingers over it, tracing all the fine points and lines. And are those his only tattoos, or are there more?

And his voice. Jesus, you replay the few words you’ve heard him say over and over, savoring each syllable, each quirk of his accent. Even the last thing he said—

I wouldn’t mind it, though.

That makes you open your eyes again, widening them as you take in the pocks and scrapes on the ceiling. He wouldn’t mind what? Having company in the gym? Having you, specifically, as his company? You don’t know what to make of it, or what he meant by it. Honestly, you feel like you don’t know anything right now.

Except that you want him. That’s the only thing you’re sure of. You want to know how his hands feel on you, how they would run over your bare skin, what the callouses on his fingers would feel like on the most delicate and sensitive parts of your body. Your imagination leaps ahead of you, guiding your own hand down into your shorts and under the band of your panties. You tease yourself, just dipping your fingers into the wet heat, trailing them over your clit like a hint to yourself, coaxing your arousal out of your panic.

His hands would feel different. When you rub your index finger over your clit, you imagine his finger instead, pressing gently against you, building up friction slowly, making you ache. You wonder if he’d savor your reactions, watching you get worked up, grinding against his hand to seek any kind of relief.

“Easy, Ladybird,” you imagine him saying, the nickname now a tease. And he’d know your real name, the one hidden away in your file. He’d whisper it into your ear, breath hot on your neck, his whole body eclipsing yours.

Your pace quickens, fingers running urgently between your clit and opening, causing your core to tighten and your breath to come in short gasps and barely-concealed moans. Ghost would tell you to let them out, let the whole damn base hear how aroused he makes you, how badly you’ve wanted him.

You breathe his name into the small space of your room, a whisper in the still air broken only by the low hum of the forced air in the vents. When you finally plunge your fingers in, it takes every bit of self-control not to outright moan and let everyone nearby know what you’re doing. Normally, you can stay quiet when you get yourself off, but you’re damn near frantic with this, whatever it is Ghost has done to you.

His fingers in you, fucking you in long, languid strokes, drawing himself out and pushing back in—all the while, watching your reactions. When you rock your hips to the pace of your hand, you imagine his voice again, “That’s right. Fuck yourself on my hand. Let me see you.”

You’d show him. Hell, you’d soak his hand, and it would remind him that it’s his fault you’re like this.

The wet sounds of your hand on your cunt is lewd and loud. It’s almost too much, enough to make you stop at the apex of your pleasure, to hide yourself under the blankets in shame and pretend that none of this happened.

But the vision of Ghost keeps you going, keeps your fingers moving in and out, crooking them inside and forcing out a gasp as a white-hot shock of pleasure lances up your spine and settles warm in your belly. The pad of your thumb presses against your clit, and you multitask on yourself, building up that friction, bringing yourself to the precipice.

He’d take you there. He might even pull you back from the edge over and over, teasing you with the fall.

“Do you want it? How bad? Show me.”

God, you would. Any way he wanted, you would show him. You’d beg and plead if that’s what got him to finally make you come.

So you whisper, “Please,” into the night, to a man who is never going to be in your bed, never going to touch you like this, never going to see your pleasure through to the end. The Ghost in your imagination has to stay there, behind locked doors and bulkheads, secured and contained for good.

But until then, you chase your orgasm with him, hitting that divine height and going into a freefall. Blood rushes in your ears, muscles twitching, heart racing. Your head comes off the pillow, back arching, toes digging into the mattress, mouth open on a moan that you refuse to let loose. You come way harder than you ever have using your own hand, enough that when you finally lower yourself back onto the bed, you grimace at the feeling of a wet patch on the sheets.

“Fuck,” you say, very emphatically. To yourself, to Ghost, to the whole damn situation.

Groaning, you reach over and grab the towel, wiping your hand and tucking it under your ass before rolling onto your back again and wondering what the hell you’re going to do.

---

You’re going to hide from Ghost, that’s what.

Captain Price gives the team a few days off to rest up for the next mission, and you decide right then and there that you’re going to spend every second off base, as far away from the barracks as you can get. You’ll get a hotel, order a ridiculously expensive amount of room service, and marinate in your feelings for a couple days until it’s all out of your system. Maybe you’ll go to a bar or coffee shop and chat up some nice person who isn’t a tall, broad, terrifying British soldier. And maybe you’ll have a night of incredible passion and twisted sheets, and it’ll be so cathartic that when you come back to base, you’ll be a whole new person.

That plan holds until your phone goes off while you’re packing up.

It’s a text from Soap: ‘wyd?’

‘Going off radar for a couple days. Why?’

He sends a sad emoji, then two beer glasses clinking together, a soccer ball, and then a big red question mark. Apparently, Soap only knows how to speak in hieroglyphs.

You smile, and type back, ‘Sorry, need to go clear my head.’

Skull emoji. Question mark.

‘None of your beeswax,’ you send, followed by the soap emoji.

‘that sucks,’ he types back. There’s a short pause, and then he types again. ‘cause he was looking for u earlier’

Your heart damn near comes to a stop, and you very hesitantly respond, ‘Why?’

‘idk. think he wanted to ask u smth’

Nope. You’re not taking the bait. If Ghost wants to talk to you, he can come right up and—and you can walk off in the opposite direction and act like there’s something incredibly interesting that you need to see right that second.

You type a few variations of ‘Then he can come and talk to me himself,’ but none of them sound particularly nice. Ghost hasn’t done anything wrong, so there’s no reason for you to act like he has. And for that matter, you’re supposed to be hiding from Ghost, not encouraging him to find you. Instead, you send back a clipped, ‘Okay.’

Nothing.

For one hopeful second, you think Soap’s mercifully let the conversation go, allowing you to go in peace to your nice hotel and your overpriced room service food.

Instead, you get the sunglasses emoji, a wink face, and, ‘k i told him to come see u’.

‘WHAT’

The only response is the skull and the little running cloud dash emoji, suggesting that Ghost is making a beeline right to your room. Panic seizes you and you fling your phone on your bed like somehow it’s going to help. It bounces harmlessly, then lands screen up, emojis taunting you.

Quickly, you start shoving the rest of your clothes and toiletries in your bag without a care as to where everything goes, eager to book it out of there as fast as your legs can take you. Once your bag is zipped up and thrown over your shoulder, you think you might be in the clear. Mission nearly accomplished.

Nearly.

Two solid knocks on your door almost make you hit the ceiling. You hold still, using that Jurassic Park wisdom again: if you don’t move, he can’t see you.

That applies to fictional dinosaurs, not trained killers, and certainly not Ghost. He knocks again, then follows it up with, “Ladybird, it’s me.”

Yeah, you know. That’s the problem.

Briefly, you consider going out the window, shimmying out and potentially getting caught on a base security camera for someone to laugh at later. That doesn’t make the problem go away, though.

You can just tell him you’re in a hurry, that your ride is at the gate right now and you don’t want to keep them waiting. Whatever conversation he wants to have, it’ll have to wait until you get back. It’s a good response. Solid. Foolproof.

And it dissolves the second you open the door.

He’s there, not vanished in the disappearing act you were hoping for, and all that want flares up again the moment you see him. He’s in casual dress like what he wore to the club—boots, jeans, t-shirt, hoodie, balaclava. His posture’s more relaxed, one hand in his hoodie pocket, the other hanging at his side. You meet his eyes, and your regret mixes with desire welling up inside you.

It’s that intense gaze from the helo, the brief but incendiary look from Berlin, the thoughtful gaze from the gym. You’re drawn up in it immediately, and this time, there’s no possibility of looking away. Ghost has you locked in.

He takes in the sight of you, dressed in your civvies, backpack on your shoulders, and raises his brows. “Going somewhere?”

Your mouth is cotton-dry, and you’re proud of yourself for putting a little syntax together. “Yeah,” you say. “I’m headed out.”

Right now, you should say. I’m going out right this second and I cannot be stopped. Do not engage.

But you don’t say that. You leave the words as they are, hanging between the two of you. In that moment, you’re two opposing fronts of contradictions—you want him to go, stay, talk, stay silent, touch you, leave you alone.

Ghost seems to sense this, that you’re not making any move to either speak to him or push him away. He doesn’t get into your space, staying right where he is while looking at you with his head slightly tilted. “Can I come in a sec?”

No. “Yes.” Please.

You take a step back, allowing him to walk into your room. His presence seems to fill it, like there’s too much of him and too little space to contain it. He closes the door behind himself, then finds a spot against the wall (the rare section that isn’t covered by posters or mementos) and leans against it. Still, still giving you your space.

You’re all nerves, waiting for him to speak, yet feeling like you should say something—to get all your feelings out in the open, exposed and waiting for him to pick over and do with what he will. But your anxiety and silence wins out, and instead you fidget, trying to find a point in the room to fix your gaze. Ghost takes all your attention though, holding it in a firm, invisible grip that can’t be broken no matter what you do. You get now, more than ever, why people are so scared of him when they end up at the wrong end of his skill set—he immobilizes them, rendering them completely unable to do a damn thing.

He watches you for an agonizingly long moment, then sighs. “Look, I didn’t want to bother you if you were busy, but Soap said you were around,” he says. Ghost doesn’t trail off or leave a space in his words for you to fill in the blanks. It’s a good thing—no place for you to misinterpret him—but it suddenly leaves you terrified at the possibility of what he’s going to say.

“Just for a little bit,” you hear yourself say, voice subdued and small.

He nods. “Then I’ll just get it out now before you go. More or less a question.”

Fuck. You feel a strange, uncomfortably cold sensation curl up tight and tense in your stomach. The feeling of standing at the edge of a long drop, knowing you have no choice but to let go.

His eyes are locked on yours, unrelenting, pinning. And then he says, “Do you have feelings for me?”

Right. No way to misinterpret.

You suck in a breath—a gasp, jerking at the question even though you knew it was coming.

You could lie. It’d be easy to do, just a few movements of tongue, jaw, and lips. No, I don’t. Three easy words. You could say you appreciate him as a teammate, as a professional, as someone you can trust in tough situations. He has your back; you have his. Anything beyond that is too much, to far outside of the commanding officer-subordinate hierarchy.

But you can’t lie to him. He’ll know. He’s trained in looking for tells, for the slightest quirk to denote that you’re holding back the truth. That, and you don’t want to lie to him.

Instead, quietly, you say, “Yes,” and inwardly brace for impact. Any kind of dressing-down from your C.O. and reminder of responsibilities and duties; or on a personal level, that Ghost doesn’t do relationships. You’re tensed up, waiting for its inevitable blow and all the shrapnel that’s definitely going to land right in your heart.

“Oh,” he says.

Oh.

Just one syllable, said deceptively, uncharacteristically soft. It belies so many things—possibilities, dangers. This man is fucking complicated.

And then he takes a step toward you. Just one. Just enough to close the gap that many inches. You don’t back up, but you’re too afraid to walk to him, unsure of what’s coming next.

He’s looking down at you, gaze passive, calm, and strangely open. You’ve learned new and interesting ways to read his eyes since you fell for him, but this one has an unknown definition, a kinesic oddity that you can’t translate.

And for a moment, you let yourself hope.

Then, he says your name. Not Ladybird. Not your rank. Your name. The sound of it is a rush in your ears, in your whole head, through every artery, vein, and capillary. He takes another step, slower than the first, drawing in closer before he says, “Do you want this?”

You nod. There’s nothing else you can do. You take a step toward him, looking up into his eyes and trying to read everything there. “Do you?” you ask. You’re still waiting for the rejection, as though Ghost is the type of person to lure you in only to shut you down.

Rejection doesn’t come. Instead, he steps forward to close the gap, one of his hands finding your waist.

“Yeah,” he says. “I do.”

Holy shit.

You stare at him in surprise, and the look on your face must be ridiculously easy to read. His other hand goes up under your chin, tilting your face toward him. The touch of his fingers is exactly like you imagined, the callouses on his thumb brushing over the soft skin underneath your jaw, causing you to shiver.

Ghost leans in close to your left side, skull’s grin close to your ear, and whispers, “Thought you hated me. Every time I looked at you, you’d look away.”

A near-hysterical laugh bubbles up in your throat, and comes out as a compressed, breathless giggle. All that time, you were so hopelessly in love with him, you couldn’t look at him without feeling like your heart was about to give out; and he interpreted that as dislike.

“God, no,” you say. “Total opposite.”

He laughs in your ear, and the sound chases out the remainder of that cold tension, replacing it with a newfound heat that feels good. “Wish I’d known sooner,” he says, and one of his hands goes up to push a strap of your backpack off your shoulder.

You ease out of it, dropping it to the floor, before reaching out and tentatively touching his waist in return. Through the fabric of his hoodie, you can feel how solid he is underneath, and you run your hand along his side in silent wonder.

Ghost moves back suddenly, and you only have a second to question why before the light goes out, leaving you in muted darkness permeated only by the bare sliver of sunlight filtering through your curtain. One hand finds your waist again, pulling you close, walking you toward your bed.

All you can think is no fucking way over and over, even as the back of your legs hit the side of the bed, and Ghost is lowering you down. Your back touches the mattress, head on the pillow, and Ghost is over the top of you, his hands bracketing your head. He looks down at you, mostly in shadow, only the bright white of the skull motif visible in the darkness. Then, his eyes flicker to his left, and he abruptly snorts.

You furrow your brow. “What?”

Wordlessly, his hand moves to the right of your head, and he picks up your phone.

Your phone which is still on, showing the emoji-heavy conversation with Soap. Ghost flips the phone to show you the last text he sent.

Skull emoji, kiss, black heart, red heart, ladybug, eggplant, peach, confetti ball, birthday cake.

“What the fuck, Soap?” you say under your breath, grabbing the phone from Ghost. You quickly turn it off and shove it onto your bedside table, groaning in embarrassment.

Ghost shakes his head, and unlike Soap, he doesn’t remark on it. Instead, he brings the situation right back on the rails with one hand going up under your shirt. Then, he says, “Close your eyes a second.”

You do, without question. You hear a faint rustle of fabric, and then his lips press against yours.

You gasp against his mouth, and that thrill you felt at hearing your name seems to rush back through you twofold at the thought that he took his mask off for you. He kisses you firmly, a guarantee that this is what he wants. You reach up with one hand, combing your fingers through his hair, nails scraping along his scalp and drawing out a quiet groan. He smells like standard-issue soap and laundry detergent, and the faint spice of cologne only just clinging to his skin. The feeling of kissing him is dizzying, entrancing, and the sound of it just hammers home that this is happening to you, in your room, with him.

He pulls back just a little, kissing a trail from the corner of your mouth down to your chin, then your jaw, and up to your ear. The sensation makes you shiver again, arching up into him involuntarily. You hear and feel an amused huff of breath, before he says, “What do you want?”

Good god, what don’t you want?

“I don’t know,” you say honestly. “Anything. Whatever you want.”

He nods against your neck, then tilts his head up to press a kiss to your temple. “Tell me if it’s too much, or if there’s something you don’t like. Communicate.”

You grin, mostly at the sotto voce version of his command voice. “Yes, sir.”

He huffs a laugh and continues kissing down your neck, down to the hemline of your shirt. Undressing comes as an easy next step, shoes off first (and they were on the bed, ugh), and then Ghost pulls your shirt up; you lift yourself enough to help him pull it over your head. In the darkness, he does the same, and you watch his silhouette remove his hoodie, then pull his shirt over his head and drop it off the side of the bed. You can’t see his face, but the faint beam of sunlight touches his hair and brings out a hint of pale gold. It feels like a secret shared between you, adding to that warmth building up inside.

He leans back down, kissing down your sternum to the upper hem of your sports bra. He starts to go lower, and you decide then that you’d like to take at least a little initiative.

“Wait,” you whisper. “Come back up here.”

He does, like he’s accustomed to obeying your orders rather than the other way around. You reach up and touch his chest, eager to feel this part of him, the one he typically buries under layers of clothing and gear. He sighs at your touch, head dropping down to rest on the pillow beside you.

He’s firm and toned with well-honed muscle earned through endless missions and exercise. At the same time, the skin of his chest is surprisingly soft—even the scattered network of scars and keloids that mark his body. You feel old and new wounds, some still raised as they heal, some concave with age. They’re long, short, thick, thin, orderly, and jagged. Starbursts of bullet wounds, hard lines of cuts, spatters of shrapnel, textured lines of old stitches. His whole torso tells a long, tragic story from cover to cover, chest to back.

But he leans into this read of him, letting you feel every scar, every painful moment. His breathing is steady in your ear, giving way to the occasional sigh as your fingers trail over his skin.

In turn, he touches you. You don’t have even a fraction of his scars, but you have a few he can note. You know when he touches them, by the way his touch lingers, learning each one. It feels reverential, or communal—the two of you engaging in a silent trust exercise. He doesn’t ask about them, and neither do you. All of that is for another time.

Ghost presses a kiss to your shoulder, then pushes up until he’s over top of you again. His free hand goes down to the waistline of your jeans, finger tracing teasingly over the zipper. “Can I?”

“Yeah,” you say, breathless. As if you’d say anything else.

He undoes the button, then the zipper, slowly pulling your jeans to your hips, then removing them entirely. He sits up on the edge of the bed for a moment, removing his boots, then his jeans. You lay there, watching him move, feeling your arousal start to grow and burn like a low flame.

When he touches you again, you silently agree that you wish you’d said or done something sooner. It’s bliss. He’s gentle with you, mindful even, in a way you’ve never experienced or anticipated from someone like him. He helps you out of your bra, letting you pull it all the way off before his hands palm your breasts in slow, deliberate movements. It’s an extension of his exploratory touches, learning your body inch by inch.

Your breathing quickens, and Ghost looks up at you in what you guess is concern. “Doing alright?” he asks.

Your face grows hot, and you nod, turning your head to kiss his cheek. “I’m fine,” you reply. “I just don’t know what to do.”

It’s not like you haven’t had sex before, but sex with him feels completely different, like it doesn’t belong in the same category. You’ve never wanted someone this badly, or had someone respond to you like this. It’s almost overwhelming, but Ghost reaches up and combs some of your hair away from your face before pressing a kiss to your forehead.

“Lie back a bit,” he instructs. “And tell me if you need me to stop.”

You do as he says, leaning up against the pillows as he moves down your body, leaving a trail of kisses down your torso to your hips. He’s a shadow moving over you, long and languid, and every touch just adds to the mounting heat. When his fingers touch the hem of your underwear, you shiver in anticipation, then arch your hips to give him a little leverage in removing them. In one motion, you’re exposed to him, even in the dark. Yet after touching him, and him touching you, you don’t feel as vulnerable. If anything, this feels safe. This feels right.

His hands go to your hips, then run slowly along the outer sides of your thighs. You think he might fulfill that fantasy from earlier, fingering you until you’re a mess, drawing out every last ounce of pleasure with his skilled hands.

Which is why it surprises the hell out of you when he goes lower, until his head is between your thighs, sunlight leaving gold stripes along his back.

“Ghost,” you gasp.

He looks up at you, and now more than ever, you wish you could see his face. You only see the faint shine of his eyes, but at that moment, it’s enough.

Then he spreads you, and licks a stripe from your opening to your clit.

If you were entertaining any thoughts before, any fantasies carefully curated in those rare hours of alone time, they flee in that single movement. Even the Ghost of your imagination never did this, tasting and savoring you in long, slow laps that make your whole brain short out like a blown fuse. The sound is goddamn obscene, especially as he leans in close and starts to lap at your clit. It’s a shock of sound in the silence, louder than even your own noises when you got yourself off.

Your right hand finds his head, fingers running through his hair as he licks you. He alternates between short laps and long strokes, tongue circling around your clit, teasing you, making you shudder and moan. It’s frustrating and fucking heavenly, the sensation of ebb and flow, receding and rushing waves of heat building up then flowing back.

Right when you think you can’t take the teasing anymore, he switches tactics. The teasing abruptly ends, and Ghost gets relentless.

You moan way too loud when he sucks at your clit, tongue swirling around it, the sound of his mouth on you loud as a gunshot. You swear they have to hear it down the hallway, or anywhere on base. At this point, though, you really don’t care who hears you, because they don’t have Ghost between their legs, getting them off in ways no deity ever intended.

Then his fingers join his mouth, index tracing circles around your entrance, dipping in slowly, tauntingly.

“Fuck.” The word is sharp in the air, as you arch at the sensation.

It’s too much; it’s not enough.

He tilts his head up a little, but when he speaks, you feel his warm breath ghost over your sex. “Let me hear you,” he says, words drawn straight out of your fantasies. Every door containing that imaginary version of Ghost is unlocked, every bulkhead breached—that Ghost and this one are one in the same.

And when he pushes that first finger into you, you follow his order to the letter.

It comes out as a broken wail, cut off when he starts thrusting and licking you in alternate strokes. His pace quickens, merciless, sharp eyes watching you from the shadows as your head rolls back on the pillow, chest heaving to catch a single solid breath. Your hands drop to your sides, fisting the sheets just to have something to hang onto, any kind of anchor as Ghost guides you through a tempest.

You moan his name, last consonant catching on a sob of pleasure when he starts to add a second finger. Only then does he pause, and the absence of his mouth is stark. 

Then he says your name, temporarily drawing you out of the cumulonimbus of arousal you’re flying through, briefly bringing you back to earth.

You look down at him, the silhouette of his head, small locks of hair sticking up from where your fingers combed through. You see him tilt his head to rest his cheek against your inner thigh, and his voice rolls out like a dull roar of thunder in your ears. “It’s Simon,” he says. “I wanna hear you say it.”

Somehow, hearing his real name in the midst of all this is almost too much. Like the last little vestige of a play on stage falling away and revealing the inner workings of the backstage, all the ropes and pullies holding the show together. He’s more exposed now, more raw, more human.

You reach down, trembling hand brushing over his cheek, over stubble and scar tissue, and the soft skin of a very real face.

“Simon,” you whisper. It sounds like a confession.

He doesn’t reply, but you feel him smile against your hand, briefly turning his head to press a kiss against your palm. Then he’s lowering himself down again, coaxing you out of the eye of the storm and back into the maelstrom. Two fingers thrust and curl, filling you, leaving you empty, touching places that send bolts of pleasure through you.

Your pulse becomes the thunder of the helo’s blades, your body trembling with midair turbulence. Simon fucks you on his fingers, tongue lathing over your clit, mouth fucking worshiping you. He takes you to that precipice, the long fall, the drop through cloud cover to a faintly-marked point on the earth.

The step off the edge feels like perfect, natural progression.

Your orgasm sweeps through you from toe to tip, a roll of white-out pleasure shaking you, wringing a cry out of your mouth that makes Simon fuck you harder. His fingers don’t let up, working you through the tidal wave, taking you to shore on the other side.

You’re boneless at the end, slumping back on the pillow and panting, shivering, taking stock of your limbs and extremities as they each come back online after the outage. You only vaguely register the feeling of Simon moving on the bed, coming up to lay beside you.

He murmurs your name, then kisses you, and you can smell and taste yourself on him. Your hand goes up to run along his jawline, one rogue thought telling you, yeah, you can cut glass with it.

How everything gets so gentle afterwards is beyond you. Simon’s hand is on your face, thumb brushing the soft skin under your right eye. You can feel his erection against your leg, and somewhere in the back of your mind—still tingling with pleasure, shimmering bright and brilliant—you know how you’re going to take initiative.

You break the kiss just for a moment, delighting in the soft sigh of protest you hear and feel against your cheek. Then you lean in close, pitching your voice low like his, hoping it has the same effect on him.

“Hope you don’t have any plans this weekend,” you say, brushing your hand over his shoulder.

You feel him smile against your skin, and he shakes his head.

“Thought you were heading out,” he says.

“Only if you’re going with me.”

One arm goes around your waist, pulling you close as he nuzzles against your neck. “We have some time, though, right?” his voice slides over you, suggestion clear and presented like a gift.

God, yeah you do.

---

Somewhere in between rounds, your phone goes off on your bedside stand.

Once.

Twice.

You don’t hear it, and the short buzz is drowned out by moans and the soft slap of skin on skin. When Simon makes a move like he’s going to check on it, you hook him back in place with your leg around his waist, pulling him in close, then kissing him silent. He falls into it, all too happy to oblige.

So you miss the skull and ladybug emojis, then the volume symbol.

[phoenixkaptain]

The comics always have Tim comment on how normal his childhood was, and I just don’t believe them.

Like, the name “Drake” was set up in comics for years beforehand. Tim Drake is a rich kid. His parents did own an entire industry and Tim’s introductory comic tells us flat out that he spends most of the time his parents aren’t home at boarding and private schools. His parents were gone a lot!

Tim Drake is stated to be so normal. This kid can still clearly remember watching Dick’s parents die, he was traumatized and had nightmares about the scene. Especially if you believe Tim’s never taken a picture of Batman before the events of his introduction, Tim is extra strange because why was his first instinct to take pictures of Batman getting beaten up?! Is that normal child behaviour?? Am I the weird one for not knowing where Dick Grayson’s girlfriend lived when I was thirteen?? How on earth is Tim Drake the normal one?

He’s a stilted talker, absolutely terrible at speaking about important things. He is the Robin who called the most alike to Batman more than once, Ra’s al Ghul calls him a detective on Batman’s level, are you REALLY normal if you’re similar to Batman??

Like yeah, sure. Tim didn’t grow up in a circus. Tim didn’t grow up raised on the streets. Tim wasn’t trained from birth to be an assassin.

I would argue that this makes him MORE abnormal! He doesn’t have Dick’s background or flexibility! He doesn’t have either of Jason’s backgrounds nor his grudge. He doesn’t have Batman to live up to for a father. And yet, he still decides to put his life on the line to fight crime! His parents weren’t even dead!! He just decided that “If Batman and Nightwing aren’t going to take care of themselves, I have no choice but to do it for them.” Sure, he tries to get Dick to help Bruce, but he realizes pretty quickly that that isn’t going to work out.

Tim Drake tried to fight Superboy. You know, Superman’s clone? Invulnerable? Boy of steel? Literally only had one weakness that Tim didn’t have on him at the time??

Tim Drake is absolutely not the normal Robin. The comics really, really want me to believe that the kid who grew up in boarding school while his parents were off on business, the kid who took to being a Robin akin to Batman (ie. invisible, unnoticeable, unknown, a myth), the kid who got beat up by Jason Todd and then went “whoa, Jason Todd is back :),” the kid who Ra’s al Ghul is obsessed with, the kid who built his own vehicle; this kid is normal.

Yeah, okay. He’s perfectly normal. His dad being hinted at as being neglectful and literally abusive with how he breaks his kid’s things? Normal. Tim Drake knowing how to photograph the most paranoid man this side of the Rockies? Normal. Tim Drake deciding that it would actually be neat-o to don a suit that another kid died in to fight against people and beings that could and would absolutely kill him in a heartbeat? Completely. Normal.

Okay, DC. Whatever you say…

[carmillascrusade]

Of Eden III | Larissa Weems x F!reader

Summary: Larissa’s recollection of your life together.

Word count: 3,600

A/N: apologies for the wait, I’ve been making a blanket for my grandma. @barbarasstar

Part two

Larissa dreamed of you that night or, more importantly, she dreamed of the life that you had shared before… 

Larissa watched you speak amiably with the blacksmith, that ever present pleasant smile plastered on your face as you browsed the finger plates. The blacksmith flirted shamelessly but you seemed to pay no attention. You were the talk of the village; a pretty young bachelorette that bought the small cottage lying on the outskirts of Nevermore. 

Larissa had yet to speak to you, your terribly beauty unnerving. She had nothing to offer you- no manor, no respectable name- so she kept her distance, admiring you from afar to save her heart from the cruel rejection that would sprout from your lips if she were to ask for your hand. She could only watch in disdain as the blacksmith continued fawning over you. 

What she wasn’t prepared for, however, was for your gaze to fall on her. Your eyes went wide upon seeing her. You waved the blacksmith off, instead choosing to walk over to where Larissa was seated. She froze in her spot, unsure of what to do. 

“Hello.” 

It was a simple greeting but it caused her cheeks to heat up nonetheless. 

“Hello..” 

You tilted your head slightly at the strange woman sat before you, secretly pleased that she was treating you as you would any other human being. To put it frankly, you were sick of everybody flirting with you. 

“I’m afraid I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting you yet… what’s your name?” 

“Larissa.” She replied stoically. You are not going to charm her like you have the rest of the village. 

“La-ris-sa,” you repeated her name, sounding it out as you did so. “A beautiful name.”

“Thank you.”

Your mouth opened, a small sound escaping it as you went to speak again, before it shut abruptly at somebody jogging over to you. Your eyes narrowed ever so slightly, irritated at the interruption. The blacksmith from before warily glanced at Larissa while approaching. 

“Are ya alright?” He asked, slightly breathless from his jog. 

You didn’t bother gracing him a smile as you replied. “Yes. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Well,” he gestured towards Larissa. “You’re speaking to ‘er…” 

“Why is that an issue?” You gritted out. 

“She’s a freak! You know what they say ‘bout ‘er; they say she steals bairns from their cribs, sacrifices ‘em to the devil she worships.” 

You blinked at him, before looking back at her. “Why? Because her hair is light?” 

“Yeah, that and she’s abnormally tall… taller than any man in the village.” 

Larissa had shrunken into herself, radiating an aura that belied her stature. You hummed while you raked your eyes over her, disappointed when she wouldn’t meet your gaze. 

“Larissa?” 

Her eyes snapped up to your face, turning beat red as you focused solely upon her. 

“Yes?…”

“Say, with that height of yours you must be strong, yes?” You questioned lightly. 

Her brows furrowed, confusion colouring her face as she tried to figure out where you were going with this. “Relatively speaking, I’m rather strong.” 

“I see.” 

You turned back to the blacksmith. 

“Well, I think that settles it.” You stated, eyes flicking to your nails in disinterest. 

“Settles.. what?” The man asked nervously. 

“If I were you, I wouldn’t be spreading rumours about such a lovely woman… especially when she could easily beat you in a fight. Oh! I know. How about you go back to rest of your cruel friends and gossip about me instead.” You sidled up to Larissa, laying your head on her arm for effect before you continued to speak. “After all, how devious am I to have affairs with such a woman!” 

“A-affairs?!” He squeaked. 

“Why, yes! Larissa here has been a very lovely companion in my home… haven’t you, my love?” 

“Y-yes.” She stuttered. 

The man’s eyes flicked frantically between the two of you, searching for any sort of deceit,  before settling on you once more. “Well,” he scratched his head lightly. “If m’lady chooses to spend time with the light haired woman, then I s’pose she can’t be that bad…” 

You watched in glee as he stalked back to the heart of the village. Humming in satisfaction at halting any nasty rumours in the track, you stood up and dusted your skirt off. You smiled at Larissa in parting before beginning to walk away. 

“Wait!” She pleaded. You looked at her with a concerned expression, waiting patiently for her to finds the words she wanted to say. “Thank you… you didn’t have to do that.” 

“Of course I did. That’s what friends do.” You stated it as if it was obvious before sauntering away to whence you came, leaving Larissa gobsmacked on the bench, helpless to watch as you disappeared from view. 

“Friends…”

It had only taken three months into her friendship with you for all the horrendous rumours about Larissa to cease. Apparently, the village’s respect for you was so strong that, in turn, they began to respect her as well. She no longer had to live in fear of the villagers. She was no longer an outcast… all thanks to you. 

“Larissa!” You shouted from where you stood across the market square, waving her over as you did so. 

She grinned at you and found herself by your side within a second following her brisk walk over to you. Your arm linked with hers as soon as she got close enough, allowing you to tug her along to the market stalls you wished to see. 

“How would you feel about coming over after this?” You asked with a shrug of your shoulders, acting unbothered at whatever her answer may be. “I’ll make your favourite stew.” (Okay, maybe you were trying to bribe her.) 

Larissa looked down at you, her eyes leaving the potatoes she was scrutinising in favour for falling onto your face. Despite you proving your wish to simply be her friend time and time again, she still found herself sceptical of your intentions. Yet you hadn’t done anything to gain her distrust- she just couldn’t believe somebody would want to befriend and spend their time with her. 

“Are you sure you don’t mind?” 

You grinned up at her and took the potatoes out of her hand. “Of course not. I like having you near…” 

Larissa gasped at your words which caused your cheeks to don a vibrant shade of red. “I-“ you stuttered out, praying that the ground would open and swallow you up as it did so. Having feelings for another woman was wrong- a sin. If word got out that you were a sinner, you would be outcasted or, even worse, burned at the stake for your crimes. 

“Are you insinuating what I think you are?” Larissa’s face was stony, unreadable even to you. 

“W-would that be so bad?” Your voice lacked its usual confidence as you replied. 

She turned on her heel, swiftly marching off into the direction of her house without saying a word in reply. Your heart plummeted in your chest, breath hitching as the world seemed to slow to a halt. What have you done? 

You ran after her, breaths coming out shorts on ragged. The tears brimming in your eyes made it difficult to see but you persisted nevertheless. If she were to tell anybody, not that you thought she would, your life was over. Your dress wasn’t fairing well with the sticks and mud that lined the floor; the bottom of your skirts becoming heavy and difficult to manoeuvre the father you travelled. 

By some miracle you reached her. Although you weren’t expecting her to swivel so that she could face you, eyes blazed with fury, mouth twisted into a nasty sneer. You stumbled into her, slightly because of her demeanour, but mainly because she knocked you whilst turning. 

“Larissa, please!” You were begging at this point. 

“Do you think this is funny?” She barked. 

She didn’t even let you speak before continuing her angry rant. “Do you enjoy playing with people’s feelings? Is that why you’ve rejected every single bachelor in this god forsaken village? Is it?!”

You stared at her, mouth agape; the knife she stabbed into your heart with her departure twisting and turning painfully, leaving your already aching heart into a bigger mess than what it was a moment before. She was unpleased with your lack of answer.   

“Well?! Answer me!” She shouted, hands reaching out to shake your shoulders- harshly but not enough to hurt. 

“I- what are you talking about?!” 

“You! You could play with anybody else in this village, break any heart that you wanted with so much as a whisper of the word ‘no’. So, why? Why have you chosen to make me the centre of your whoreish games?”

“You think that I’m a whore?” You whispered defeated. 

“What am I supposed to think? Huh? When all you do is flaunt yourself around the village for all to see!” Her anger was palpable, but you just couldn’t understand why. 

It was becoming even more difficult to breathe and before you could think too much about your actions, you ran. 

Larissa hadn’t seen much of you recently. Well, the whole village hasn’t. You had hidden yourself away after the incident, feeling physically incapable of leaving the sanctuary of your small cottage. 

It had been less than a week and the village was already suffering from your loss. Your presence was like that of the sun; warm and enveloping but dangerous all the same. Your path destructive, burning anybody who dared get too close. 

But you hadn’t been the one to burn Larissa. No, she had torn your heart from where it beat within your chest.  It was ridiculous really. A woman you had known for less than  two months and she had turned your whole life around in the matter of minutes. 

If only she had communicated with you. This could have all be avoided. 

She caught you as you were in the middle of harvesting vegetables from your garden. Your face was shielded by the hood of your cloak, granting your eyes relief from the blaring sun. The soil moved with the coaxing of your hands, soft huffs of effort were exhaled when you reached a vegetable determined to stay in the ground. 

Larissa was content to watch you. No matter how many times she may deny it, she craved your presence terribly. These past few weeks without you has been torture. And she never wanted to experience that again. 

Never. 

Somebody clearing their throat startled you out of your task. The oddly shaped carrot you were holding dropped back into its bed with a soft thud due to your surprised state. Your head turned at the speed of light, startled by the current person intruding on your property. What you weren’t expecting, however, was to see the woman that plagued your dreams (and nightmares) to be stood at your gate. 

She stood with a shyness that belied someone of her stature. Her hand shot up, awkward and jerky in its movement to wave at you. Your own hand seemed to have a mind of its own as it returned the wave, your fingers curling into your palm rather than shaking your hand from left to right. 

She cleared her throat again before offering a meek ‘hi’. 

“Lar- what are you doing here?” You didn’t want to beat around the bush or evade a conversation that needed to be had. 

“I wanted to see you…” her admission was quiet, the wind drowning most of it out, but you heard her as clear as day. 

A short, mocking laugh could be heard from your place on the ground. A scoff following soon after. “You wanted to see me? And why would you wish to see a whore?” 

You thought that you were over the last conversation you had with Larissa but you could feel your cheeks flushing with anger as soon as you were reminded of that day. How dare she say those awful things about you and then come here as if nothing happened? How dare she think so lowly of you but still beg to catch glimpses of you?

“I- please, you know I didn’t mean that!” She defended herself, tone accusatory as if you were the one in the wrong. 

You picked your vegetables up before standing. The dirt was brushed off your knees as best you could with dirt-caked hands, ultimately making your skirts even more muddier than they were before you had stood. “And prey tell, what did you mean?” 

Larissa recoiled at your biting tone. Her lips pursed into a thin line once she realised that you wouldn’t just let her back into your life. “Please,” she sighed out. “Just- let me inside? We can talk there.” She was close to begging at this point, but if begging was what got you to humour her she would gladly do it one hundred times over. 

“Fine.” You snapped. 

Larissa trailed after you, like a puppy following after its owner. You held open the front door for her, stepping to the side so she could enter. She ducked through the doorway before returning to her full height in your living room. 

“I’ll be with you in a moment. I need to put my vegetables in the kitchen.”

She fidgeted nervously as she glanced around your living room,  committing as much of it as she could incase you decided that you never wanted to speak to her again after this. The fire roared where it stood, crackling loudly in the otherwise silence of the room. Flames licked at the fireplace, dancing mesmerisingly, drawing Larissa in the more she watched. Your walls were lined with the tapestries you had spent hours of your life creating; the latest one, Larissa noticed, captured a mass of blonde hair facing a market stall. 

No. It couldn’t be.. could it? 

The living room itself was scarcely furnished. Enough to live comfortably, but not enough to consider you wealthy by any means. She hadn’t heard you approach, too busy taking in her surroundings to pay attention to much else. 

“So, what is it that you want?” You asked bluntly. 

“I- I already told you. I wanted to see you.”

“Right.” You pursed your lips and nodded your head in false agreement. “Well, you’ve seen me now. So if that’s all…”

“I’m sorry.” 

Your head shot up to look at her, surprised at the sudden apology. 

“I’m so, so very sorry for what I said. I let my insecurities control me and I was awful to you. It isn’t an excuse, I know. But please believe me when I say that I never meant a word.” 

You were stunned speechless. Your eyes blinked rapidly, mouth opening and closing like a fish as you fought for anything to escape your mouth. “W-what? Insecurities?” 

She nodded her head in a sullen manner. “You- you know what the villagers think of me. I… I thought that it was another one of their cruel jokes. Why would a beautiful woman be attracted to me of all people? But you wouldn’t do that to me.”

“No. I wouldn’t.” You stated. “You asked me, that day, why I rejected every man’s advances. Have you figured it out yet?”

She laughed at that. A short, self-loathing laugh for she had mulled this over ever since that day. “Yes..”

You smiled at that. “How is it that a woman so intelligent can be so stupid at the same time?” You questioned. 

She went to open her mouth, eyebrows pulled down in slight indignation. “Ah! Let me finish. Larissa, the only person I could ever want in this village is you.”

“And the only person I could ever want is you.” She breathed. 

She looked at you with a childlike wonder. You were everything she could have dreamed of and more. The two of you had been dancing around one another since the very start, unfortunately Larissa was just too blind to see it. 

Until now. 

“Larissa! Where are we going?!” You questioned, voice trembling with fear as she dragged you along the beaten down path leading into the forest. 

She had entered your shared cottage in a frenzy, eyes wild and hair frazzled before she settled her gaze upon you. You hadn’t the time to think as, in an instant, she was dragging you from the comfort of your bed and outside with no further explanation.

Rough stones and stray twigs dug into the soles of your bare feet. Goosebumps rose on your flesh as the frigid air nipped your skin. Larissa came to a halt in a clearing, an otherworldly glow emitting from the alter in the centre. 

“Larissa?” Your voice trembled, whether that was due to the cold or your rising fear, you didn’t know. 

“Isn’t it beautiful?” She whispered, eyes transfixed in the knife floating above the alter. It seemed to drink in the moonlight, pulsating with a subtle, almost imperceptible energy.  

“Larissa… maybe we should go.” You tried again, tugging on her arm in a vain attempt to get her to leave. She payed you no mind. Instead, she dropped your arm and walked towards the alter. You were helpless. Rendered useless as you could only watch her grasp the blade. 

The moment her fingers clasped around the hilt, a surge of power coursed through her. She gasped into the night air, her eyes widening in shock as a searing heat spread up her body from her palm, mapping a direct path to her heart. She tried to pull away, take back control, but her hand was fused to the blade by an unforeseen force. 

Her head was thrown back in a mixture of pain and ecstasy; her face that once held shock, now being home to a crazed grin. Image after image flashed through her mind in rapid succession- visions of ancient battles, soldiers clashing beneath stormy skies. The face of a god imprinted itself in her mind, omnipotent in its omniscience. The power of the blade passed through her, setting her nerves alight with energy as it filled every fibre of her being.  

Her body was glowing a pale orange, her hair changing from its beautiful blonde to an icy white. And then, as fast as it happened, she dropped to the floor- unconscious. 

Larissa had been acting… differently ever since she took you to the woods. She had gathered a mass following; believers of the god ‘Andraste’ with Larissa as their preacher. You had been afraid at first. Afraid of what she was preaching, what she had become. But in the silence of your shared nights, you could see a flicker of the woman she had once been… and it was enough for you to stay. 

It hadn’t taken her very long to gather a large following, and then somehow she had obtained a castle and maids. You were treated like a queen, fawned over by Larissa and her servants. 

But it wasn’t the same. 

You missed the quiet nights you would spend with your blonde lover in the comfort of your cottage. When the only thing that mattered to you was each other. Now, Larissa was preoccupied with running her religion, or whatever it was. You were just an afterthought most days than not. 

You sat in the chapel, deft fingers lighting a candle in prayer. You weren’t praying to anybody in particular, you had never really been the religious type, but you were hoping that somebody out there was listening. 

Larissa was supposed to meet you once the sun settled in the horizon, but she was yet to be seen. You sighed softly, the flickering of the candles in front of you the only light source in the room. She was supposed to speak with you, listen to your worries about her and what she was becoming. She had promised that she would be here. 

A rustle sounded out from somewhere in the dark depths surrounding you. You swivelled on your heel and into a standing position as fast as you could, heart skipping a beat. Your eyes searched the dark as best you could from where you stood in the dimly lit room. Albeit ultimately finding nothing. 

“Larissa?” You questioned into the darkness, eyes straining to see something. Anything. 

Ba-dump. Ba-dump. 

Your heart sounded out, irregular in rhythm. Your hands flicked nervously, fingers twitching in anticipation. “Larissa? Is that you?” 

The silence stretched out. It felt like you had been looking for the source of the sound for hours before you finally settled down onto the floor once more. Another rustle. One too close for comfort. 

However, you weren’t fast enough for as soon as you turned your head a dull pain resounded in your temple before you ultimately succumbed to an inky darkness. 

Larissa was late. She knew that she had no excuse. You had asked for just a moment of her time and instead of being there waiting for you, she was selfishly seeking more power. She had only been drawn from her slumped form over the ancient scrolls sprawled across her desk due to Maura, your favourite maid and companion, reminding her about your meeting. 

She had rushed down the winding corridors and across the courtyard as fast as she could. Although it seemed that she was not fast enough. Her heart sunk once she reached the chapel, a soft call of your name went unanswered. The only clue that you had been there at all was the freshly lit candle in the centre of the alter. No… 

Larissa was so certain in your relationship. She foolishly believed that your blind devotion to her would be enough for you to stay. Despite her pushing you away, despite her neglecting you for months; she thought that you would be by her side forever. But she was wrong. The soulless chapel a sickening reminder that you were no longer by her side. 

You left. 

[sadstrever]

i’m still 114lbs. i feel sick. yesterday was an awful day, i came home and had an out of body chew and spit session. i wish there was more research on this part of ed’s, or just more people who talked about it because i can’t be alone in this. i refuse to believe i’m the only sick person who does disgusting shit like this. anyways the reason why i call it an out of body experience is because it’s almost like binging-just without all the swallowing of food. i came home and immediately started doing it and filled up 1 and 1/2 2 liter bottles with food. i spent 5 hours doing this without even realizing and pretty much emptied out my whole families fridge. the guilt i felt afterwards was worse than a binge in my opinion. not only did i totally waste SO MUCH food, make a huge mess, ended up with disgusting bottles of mush in my room, i also have to face the consequences of my family coming home to an empty fridge. but when they got home they were happy that i “ate.” god i’m such a fucking piece of shit.

anyways after all that i took 4 laxatives to try and get the guilt of wasting the food out of me. i woke up in the morning today in terrible pain but still had to go to class, cuz what am i supposed to tell my parents? “yeah i haven’t eaten in almost a month and basically just threw all the food we have out in the trash and i also took 4 laxatives, can i please stay home tehe?” so i went to 1 class and ended up leaving because the pain was so excruciating. straight from class i went to the gym and somehow burnt 900 calories because i guess that’s what guilt does to me. i had to take the bus 2 hours home afterwards(bus delays and i went to a new further gym location this time), high out of my mind. i’m home now and my stomach hurts but the laxatives finally did their job. i don’t want to keep doing this. 4 years ago i said i’d recover and then i didn’t. since then i’ve forgotten about recovery (with the exception of a few random moments here and there that i block out immediately), i am so used to living in this fucking misery that i didn’t realize how abnormal my reality is. i don’t want to be a bad person anymore. but i can’t stop lol.

this is what bothers me about the girls who romanticize this disorder SO MUCH, when much of the time they haven’t realized how difficult it can become. i know i’ve done this, even now sometimes as a coping mechanism. but man, i’m sick of it.

i have a friend who writes poetry and she wrote a poem about eating disorders that make me so fucking angry. the thing is, i’ve known her for years and she’s always had the best relationship with food out of most of the people i know. she’s naturally pretty thin(not too thin but normal) and she’s very open about her struggles. i know every single one of her stories, i know she’s diagnosed with adhd. that’s HER disorder, that i don’t understand so i DONT write fucking POETRY about it. a few months ago she kind of forced me into opening up about my eating disorder. after i did, suddenly she started writing these stories about her eating disorder-very very very suspiciously similar to mine. i obviously didn’t tell her everything but i told her about how long this has been going on and just my emotions about it. seeing her start to adapt my fucking disorder into her poetry disgusted me. she glamorized the fuck out of it and made me feel so stupid for ever opening up about it. she’s naturally skinny so she got a bunch of support from our friend group from it and i’m just upset man. i’m sick of living in misery while other people can use the idea of living in pain for attention.

i promised my best friend that in 3 weeks i’ll go back to therapy and try my best to recover. it’s not true. man it’s never fucking true. it’s never fucking over. unlike ms.deep-poetry-girl i can’t just fucking write this and log off and then eat a good warm meal and talk to my parents without them mentioning my body. i can’t wake up tomorrow morning and hug them without worrying that they’re gonna feel my bones. i can’t wear shorts anymore without people noticing the bruises. i can’t go to school and keep my focus because i have nothing to feed my brain. i can’t let anyone get close because soon enough they’ll be just like YOU. OR they’ll hate me for not wanting to get better. i can’t love myself like you do because of the disgusting things i do each day. i can’t wake up thinner and suddenly stop hating myself. FUCK YOUUUUUUUU GOD IM SO SICK OF IT GOD. whatever im done. just sick and tired.

[mossy-green-aka-ferrythem]

I haven't really read much on Limbus due to not playing it, but man, Outis deeply concerns me. Like everything about that woman feels... off. She's got that war-criminal energy with her. Like someone who's done terrible things, and even now, has deception on the mind. Really interesting to see how this thematically plays into her Abnormality EGOs and IDs... I think the one that sticks out to me the most is the Magic Bullet EGO suit (mostly because it's some of the coolest shit ever), with what the Der Freishütz represents, and how, from the snippet's I've seen, echo the same sentiments as the Abnormality. Can't say too much because I'm not informed on Outis, but I am informed on LobCorp and (Most Of) Ruina. Idk something just feels off about Outis, the fact that she uses Odysseus's Pseudonym rubs me the wrong way as well. Something big is brewing... but it will take a long while because MAN Project Moon is really trying to play the long game with Limbus Company!

[wolfcubx2]

Terrible plans

The first time they met was at a bar. She was on Midgard try to avoid her brother and his friends; avoid their never ending need to be on this quest or that. It didn't help that today was one of the days she couldn't stnd the thought of being male, it had been building all week. Thor like always was entirely unbothered by this fact, calling her sister instead and going about as usual. His friends on the other hand- well the less said about them the better in her opinion.

He was leaning against the bar, one drink in and and flirting with a couple mortal women. For obvious reasons this ment he reminded her something of Fandral, the only member of the warriors three she didn't entirely hate.. Her next thought however was that they shared very little similarities when it came to appearance. The man was tall for a mortal thought not abnormal so. With short cut brown hair and grey-blue eyes, he was handsome she decided, not bulky like the warriors of Asgard but fit and lean in a way that said he most likely knew how to fight.

Which was why she couldn't help playing a little trick on him. It was a simple trick one that didn't really require seider, a mortal could do it if they were skilled enough. He had noticed her staring, and they held eye contact for a while before she smirked. Turning away she vanished in to the crowd, the fact that the bar was well packed making it all the easier.

She wasn't leaving, there would be little point to her trick if that was all she did, instead she snuck up behind where he was standing.

"Another brandy please."

She called out to the bartender, enjoying how her voice made the man beside her jump. She smirked at him, her eyes conveying a small amount of mischief. After a second he let out a low whisle.

"That was some trick. You definitely got me good."

His face was all smiles now, before he wave the bartender down and ask him to put her drink one his tab.

"My thanks."

She said her smile softing, but he shook his head smile still on his face.

"No need, I'm James Buckman Barnes, but everyone just calls me Bucky."

James said after a moment.

"Kiol Silfur."

She responds, it's not her true name but it's certainly close enough. James smile again.

"So Doll how do you feel about a dance."

"I'd say that sounds quite enjoyable James. "

.....

Loki pauses his eyes drifting back to his brother's mortal lover. He hadn't been trying to hurt Thor when he told him to say his goodbyes. Even if she survived this mortals lived such short lives... this was something he knew from experience. But then again it wasn't as if Thor knew about James, and while there was a certain star spangled man who also remembered him as he was Loki wanted nothing to do with a man who could not even protect his own sheildbrethern, noble sacrifice be damed.

Au Loki met Bucky back before the war. They dated for a while and at some point Buck even proposed. The problem was Bucky only knew Kiol, so worried Bucky wouldn't except her/him Loki doesn't answer and instead returns to Asgard leaving him a note. [I think that perhaps I do love you James, but you do not know me as I truly am.. I won't return for a great deal of time. If your heart has not changed and still does not when I tell my truth then you may know my answer to be yes.] When Loki comes back five years later the war is over and James has been declared dead. It doesn't make much difference as far as the time line goes until Thor: Dark World. Where instead of immediately going back to Asgard and taking Odin's thrown decides to visit Earth, or more specifically a certain person's grave. The idea is that he was in fact stabbed so, between being slightly weaked and distracted because 70 years is all that long for his people, Hydra ends up grabbing him. Where Loki ends ups catching a glimpse of the Winter Soldier before and after a wipe and comes up with a really terrible plan to save James. Hydra doesn't have a way of truely stopping him from using his magic, but between drugs and a extremely strong shock collar they can stop obvious magic, and they just sort of assume the drugs keep him from thinking straight. Which is probably true considering his plan to help Bucky is to plant suggestions in the Hydra scientists studying him. The idea of breeding a superior super soldier using him or rather her at the time and the Winter soldier. So while their "breeding" them in the most literal sense Loki uses his magic to begin healing James' mind and more importantly place a protection against the wipes. It doesn't immediately make a difference, and Captain America: Winter Soldier still happens. But Bucky comes back for him/her/them and the story would go from there.

Loki’s terrible plan- get myself knocked up by my ex maybe sorta fiance to save him from the psyco spy organization we are both trapped in. Good thing I'm a shape-shifter.

Like all my plot posts I may or may not write it myself at some point but I posting this in the hope that others will use my idea to make something amazing.

Kiol (anagram for Loki) Silfur ( Silver in Icelandic)

[lovetogether]

We’re gonna write a Dale “fan” “fic” . Be nice

The door inside the wall inside the door inside the wall inside the door inside the wall inside the door inside the. Hang on just a minute, I’m starting to think there’s more to this. An endless array of disappearances only for reappearance completely anew? It’s abnormal. I walk away from time with the stature of a man on his way to kill himself, I had the enthusiasm of a child. One of those, the kids you see in the park, yeah. About to set off on some imaginary adventure built upon false ideas of a world larger than oneself. I think I was scared, but I didn’t feel scared. I had to leave. The reality which I was faced in was not one I knew to be true but moreso aside my actual reality, I felt I needed to shift almost, to get back to what was my true life. I think I’ve always been hungry. There’s something terrible happening and I’ve known it’s been happening and I knew it would happen and I am doing nothing. I have to do something. I think existing as I am now is a disgrace to living itself but I’m happy to be alive. Things follow me and I know they’re following me and I knew they’d follow me and I’m doing everything. I think it’s two, four, five years since I last was, yet here I am. I’m on a course for direct collision, with what I don’t know, but I’ve always known since I was born. Something calls to me and I don’t know what it says but I know it tells me to keep going. I think I am perpetually on the brink of a life changing revelation. I’m very important. The world revolves around me. It always has, everything has always been this way. I don’t exist outside of others sight or acknowledgement. Touched or having been touched - I think of myself as violated yet comparable to packaging which is to say I am to be violated if you want what’s inside. I see in the corner of my eye an evil which is at the core of every organic thing and I must in my power work as hard as possible to snuff out this evil but I fear this evil is from within me. The world revolves around me, so everything started with me. I knew the minute things changed because I felt it and everybody can’t shake the feeling, “how do we go back?”. Like a portal of I were to walk into a door I’d see a hallways and at the end would be a man exiting the door on the opposite side. That man is me, as to look into the hallway I must exit the last room. I see myself in front of me like some twisted up idea of dissociation. I can call this me a clone but it is - for all intents and purposes - me. It’s always been me, it’s always been us. The idea of me is a collective of others, versions of me, or rather not me, existing in relation to me to make me. I am only one, but there’s more. He’s been missing for a long time - me - an idea of me - the lack-thereof, you name it, your words not mine. But I think they’re mine. I’m selfish but isnt selfishness just an anagram for selflessness? There’s no H nor I, me, myself, I don’t know. I often feel detached from the people around me because I cannot exist in context to others without some kind of plot. There is no casualness to my presence. Put the pieces together and you get me and me is just an idea which exists to fail. I only exist in context to her.

[navy-heart]

eeeek hi its the moon(frequently on tumblr, as you know).... I don't really wanna vent in a place where people can connect in back To Me but I also need to vent so hard so uh. Don't answer this if you feel uncomfortable with it! I just need to feel like I'm talking to someone who's not actually a person I know irl ykyk

horse ocean voice: man. like. I'm kinda vaguely aware that other high school freshmen are like out enjoying their lives right now but like I genuinely what if my parents get the Deportation. I'm aware it's a pretty slim chance but !!!!!scary nonetheless...I know a lot of trans women from this one discord server I'm in and I'm very scared for all of them. I really don't. Know? What to do...most things that people are recommending you do are like. Yknow for adults but I'm Four Teen so there's not much I can do so I've just been very anxious and sad for the entire day and it's just. Augh.mmmmmmmmhmhnhn. terrified!whatttt am I gonna do... my grandparents who are Old were going to move here but they Probably Not Going to oDo that Anymore. Which makes me sad I was kinda looking forward to that. Man what a terrible time to be a multiply minority

Sending /pat pats. Definitely a shitty place to be in.

Ok so several points:

1) There has been election interference of unprecedented scale and voter fraud which may yet turn the tide. Don't lose hope yet. I know this sounds silly when I'm out here doomposting myself but we won't know the real results until at least 12th. It can change.

2) Don't borrow grief from the future. Do what you can to prepare (emotionally if nothing else) to Shitty Things Happening but there's no point of grieving about what has not happened yet. Worst case scenario Trump won't be in the office for two more more months, and then it'll take him some more time to start doing shit, dangerous shit. You have time before any real change will happen; the scenario where he starts mass decoration won't happen on Trump Office Day 1, it's literally impossible for him to do that. You have plenty of time.

3) You're 14? You're not responsible for political shit happen, ever, in any way. Whatever guilt you have you have full right to drop it right then and there. Adults of your nation failed you. You have no responsibility to take any action in retaliation no matter what anyone tells you, which I can't say about the adults here.

That said: you can probably do some type of volunteer work. You can just be attentive to minorities in your life and offer your help. I've also posted about Community Building stuff on my main which you can also do regardless of age.

Being 14 is just an exceptionally shitty period of life because you feel responsible for every bad thing happening and want to help people but can't in any substantial way. It sucks. It always sucks no matter who or where you are. This is a universal 14 years old experience. Breathe. You're not alone and managing this will be easier later on.

Also: don't compare yourself to other people your age. I mean this with care, but you don't know the actual numbers here. Most high-schoolers I know are also the most stressed out and anxious and depressed people I know. The average highschool freshman enjoying their life without a care in the world is not real and a result of a statistical anomaly called Rich White Straight Kid + the abnormal portrayal of High School in most media. Most of your peers are also worried about this and have strongly held political opinions, it's just unlikely they'll be open about it.

The most subversive act you can do right now is learn from this experience, persevere and make your voice heard next time. This is why most of my advice here focuses on mental health stuff and not Actual Action. Unfortunately that's the case for underage people in most of politically charged countries. My heart goes to you.

[misscrawfords]

I've been feeling absolutely nothing at all in regards to my father's death since returning to the town where I work. It's like nothing that happened back home over the summer actually took place. Apparently this sort of new phase of denial is normal, but it feels really weird. Every now and then I have a sort of flash and then my mind screams at me and it goes away again. But I can't help feel like it's all going to come crashing down around me at some point. I feel really melancholy this evening and lonely (not abnormal for me) but I'm not really thinking about it directly or anything. I just think/feel it... sideways. IDK.

I've got a weird set of feelings towards men at the moment. Because on the one hand, while my father was ill and dying, I saw the absolute best of men- strength, compassion, support, kindness - and sometimes where I wouldn't have expected it. It buoyed me up and gave me hope. But I have also been totally ignored the entire summer by a man I considered a close friend who couldn't even do the bare minimum and post a message of condolence on facebook, let alone contact me directly. I am so disappointed and disillusioned. Whatever I might have felt for him, a) I definitely don't now and b) was clearly not in the same ballpark as him. Meanwhile, the random guy from uni who I was talking to a bit at the beginning of the summer faded away and although I actually asked him out (well, asked if he wanted to come with me to an exhibition but that's basically asking him out, RIGHT?) because I am no longer afraid of rejection, he never even bothered to reply. His loss. But what is WRONG with the men I choose to be interested in? Why are they incapable of communicating or showing any interest back? I know I'm not super hot but what about me is making them lose any interest they ever had? Or why am I going for such utterly useless men? When clearly there are kind, generous, humorous, giving, intelligent men out there! Because this summer proved it! It's so baffling to me. And frustrating. Are single men who apparently want relationships just genuinely not interested in interacting with and showing interest in women who show some interest in them? Or is it just me?! Again... IDK.

I'm seriously considering dealing with all my issues by writing Harry Potter fanfiction. I KNOW OKAY??? But this summer has been... all manner of terrible and I'm trying to figure out who I am - really and truly figure it out. As my mother pointed out to some relative recently, "She really did identify to such an extent with Hermione Granger" and maybe I just need somehow to retreat to that safe space of my adolescence and explore who I am through Hermione Granger again. I know JKR is no longer someone to admire, I get it, but HP fandom (rather than the books which I've actually only read once) has always been such a safe space for me. Again... I don't know.

I don't know much at the moment. I think I should go to bed.

[vtforpedro]

personal/med update

My brain is fried mush right now. I survived my disability hearing on Tuesday. It was definitely informal, a little intimidating, but I feel I got through it well enough. My attorney said it’s a toss up because this judge is extremely professional and won’t give any indication and he sure didn’t. The vocational expert narrowed me down to like 3 jobs, then 2, then 1, then 0. I felt that was a good thing? Like am I not disabled if I can’t do any jobs? Either way, my age is working against me so we shall see. It’s very strange that you can be completely disabled and unable to work, but not by US law so they won’t provide aid. Blegh. Gotta wait another 1-3 months for his written decision. ._. Last Thursday, I noticed I had a ‘spot.’ I call them spots b/c I have eczema but I also had a bad ringworm infection in 2015 and called them spots then. Red spots that turn into rings. Anyway thought it was gonna be eczema but by Friday I was covered in many more. Cue me having multiple meltdowns about it interfering with my hearing if it got too bad lmao It didn’t, but it is bad! I had 49 ringworm spots as of last night and they grow in number by day. So, I went to see an NP b/c my dr couldn’t fit me in. Went as well as every other medical professional interaction has, which was terribly, and left me in tears and feeling beat down yet again by the medical field. She wants disabled me, who was bedbound for eight months and currently in PT to recover, to put cream on 49 spots and counting. With IIH and nerve damage that limits my movement and ability to stand for longer than 10-15 min. But she kept interrupting me and wouldn’t let me explain any of this. Her notes said ‘she is not usually terribly active’ so I guess being bedbound translates to that somehow??? She also said I had 3-4 spots on my breasts which is not what she was told by me or what her MA wrote down. lmao so guess who had to message her pcp again!!!!!!!! A completely healthy person can’t be expected to put cream on 49 spots 2x a day. For me, this involves washing my skin since I am unable to shower every day cause of the whole disabled thing. She said a lot more bullshit about my swollen feet and fatigue, so basically I got zero help. It was barely a 10min appt. Fucking hate them, I swear. She refused to give me the oral anti-fungal cause of my other meds, but my mom asked the pharmacist today and she said I’d be fine to take it. The pharmacist asked, unprompted, if an NP, urgent care or ER doctor said no to the oral pill and my mom was like YES! And she said they don’t understand it and won’t give it despite it being used every day even for yeast infections and athlete’s foot. She said her friend went through this shit too trying to get the oral pill. Back in 2015, I suffered this infection for 5mos while applying for health insurance/getting approved/waiting for a pcp because no NP, UC or ER doctor would give me the oral med lmao I saw my new pcp finally and he was like uhhhh no here’s a prescription for it you have way too many spots to worry about putting cream all over your body. Y’all I had been washing my sheets, towels, clothes, taking apple cider vinegar baths, soaking my spots in ACV, then applying one of five or six otc and prescription creams EVERY DAY. I spent two hours twice a day in my bathroom. Ringworm was what I did every day all day for five fucking months. I cannot fathom doing that again. It’s insanity. I was close to a mental breakdown and I only had MH issues back then, none of the physical stuff. I hate it here man Also why do I keep having shit happen every time I turn around. No idea why my feet are swelling, no idea why I have this abnormal fatigue that makes me teary because I sit here and stare at my screen unable to think of anything else but how tired I am. Like for long periods of time. She said to talk to my psychiatrist about it HOOOOOOOO. I woke up this morning and immediately started crying. It’s triggering being treated this way after three years of it. I should’ve waited to see my pcp and used otc in the meantime or something, but my pcp wanted me in asap for my swollen feet so I could get lab orders. Which, according to this NP, ‘there are no labs for swollen feet.’ Where did they get this lady She’s like WHAT ABOUT YOUR LEUKEMIA DID THEY CURE IT? I’m like my chronic, lifelong leukemia? No, it is in remission lmao chronic is right there in the name ma’am. It’s the first word. HHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH I’m gonna go cry again sorry for ranting I am so so so fucking sick of medical professionals and I cannot wait for it to slow down but my february is completely booked and march is halfway there. Chronic pain life baby!!!!

[dandunn]

Oh goodness I am terrible at coming up with prompts but what about Lupin and Goemon and, early mornings? Or maybe waking up together

Cw: mentions of drinking, sex, references to vomit

Mornings. Time for quiet; meditation, contemplation, the calm before the storm and chaos of the day.

…But now that he's a semi-permanent fixture in Lupin's gang, morning peace isn't always a given. Or it comes with a price.

Goemon frowns, sensing something amiss. It's abnormally hot, his bed sheets stifling despite the cool of the morning waving past gossamer curtains. 

Even though he already suspects where the source of the extra warmth is coming from, he throws off the covers to reveal Lupin wrapped around him like a python. His normally backswept hair is falling in loose bangs over his forehead and his eyes are deeply shadowed, accentuated further by the fact that he seems to have a black eye. One eye opens to peek at Goemon coyly, smiling despite his battered appearance.

"Oh, mornin' Goe-Goe." Lupin says, his voice groggy and rasping.

"Why are you in my bed?" Goemon replies mildly, too used to Lupin's clinginess to be annoyed. At least he isn't naked (this time) in fact he only seems to have shucked off his jacket, shoes and tie before giving up and getting into bed in his rumpled clothing.

"I don't remember." Lupin shrugs, "I think I tried to get in with Jigen but he kicked me out."

Ah. Black eye.

An empty bottle of whiskey made it into bed with Lupin, which he now pulls out and unscrews to take a sip.

"You know that you should not surprise him like that." Goemon chides him.

Lupin wipes his scruffy chin and grins, transferring a drop of amber onto the back of his hand, "Well, I know you wouldn't do that to me." He tosses the bottle aside and wriggles closer to Goemon still, rubbing his unshaven chin all over his bare shoulder.

"I am only giving you a pass for being extremely drunk." Goemon mutters, Lupin's chin scruff itches and he reaches over to lightly cuff his face away.

They all have their moments of inebriation, but Lupin is likeliest to get what he refers to as 'sloppy drunk'.

"You are aware that I need to rise soon." Goemon reminds him, attempting to move and finding himself being prevented from doing so.

Lupin giggles and hugs him tighter, "Nuh-uh."

Goemon lies there, stuck on his side and blushing. He only went to bed wearing underwear and Lupin doesn't seem to care. Either that or he's fully aware and enjoying it. 

"Was that the only reason he hit you?" Goemon asks.

"Well I was trying to be a good wingman at the bar and get him laid, but he didn't give me any appreciation for it." Lupin snorts, breath puffing Goemon's ear. "He was being cranky. When you're in a mood like that you either need a fight or a fuck and I was trying to save him some pain and get him to do the latter."

"Stop trying to assume people's needs, Lupin. You are not always the best at it."

The man behind him huffs before shuffling around, and Goemon hears the whiskey bottle being unscrewed again.

"You are already hungover, how is that going to help?" Goemon twists around, using Lupin's temporary lapse in concentration to try and snatch the bottle away.

"It's called the hair of the dog, dad!"

"And I suppose Jigen giving you a black eye wasn't because you asked him if he would like to sleep with you again?"

"I told you I don't remember." Lupin pouts, but he turns furtive and quiet. He hugs the whiskey bottle to his chest when Goemon tries to take it.

Lupin gets awfully honest when he's drunk and his filter lets more things slip through than usual. He turns his back on Goemon, cradling the bottle like it's his child. 

The samurai, pitiless by nature, would just leave him there to go about his day. But for some reason, some kind of impulse propels him to press his chest against Lupin's back. 

"You cannot force people to desire you in a specific way, Lupin. Appreciate what you have. If something is meant to be, it will show its true form eventually."

Lupin sighs deeply, running his nails  across the textured surface of the whiskey bottle with a musical sound, "Thanks, Dr Spock."

"Who?"

"Nevermind."

Goemon brushes Lupin's upper arm a couple of times, before the smell of him causes his nose to wrinkle. He stinks of whiskey and cigarettes, "I believe a shower will help you feel better." He hedges, gaining no response from the man in his arms, he adds; "and breakfast?"

Lupin half rolls over, his shadowed eyes starting to sparkle, "you promise?"

"Yes."

"And it won't just be white rice and a plain omelette?"

"...I will make an effort."

Goemon finally manages to tug the whiskey bottle out of Lupin's grip and places it on the bedside table, then the thief dives into his arms.

"You're the best, Goe-Goe."

Despite himself, Goemon nuzzles Lupin's scruffy face and kisses his swollen brow lightly. "Come, it is time to face the day."

"Yeah, you're right." 

When Lupin gets to his feet he instantly turns white, then a shade of green which could match the colour of one of his suits.

"Bathroom!"

[silver-tooth-the-panther]

I have a question that has bugged me.

How would your Half-Demon Tanjiro! AU react to my Muzan Au?

While I am here, can I request some Zohakuten noms with my oc: Kiriku?

He is a harpy type of demon, and is more bird like. His personality is strict, and hates it when weak people are being hurt/ picked on.

Take your time!

(Here’s your fic! Sorry it took a while, but I’m dealing with a lot of personal stuff. As for your question, the half demons would definitely be surprised by your AU. Tanjiro and the Hashiras would probably be incredibly protective and quick to fight until they proved to them that they weren’t a threat. The demons though would probably be really scared. They just don’t want to go through what Muzan put them through again. This fic takes place in the modern era and Zohakuten looks like an adult.)

Traveling Within a Harpy

(A Zohakuten Vore Fanfic)

Warnings: some blood, rescue, soft vore

“Damn it! How the hell did this happen?” Zohakuten growled angrily as he ran through the forest. He was sent on a patrolling mission with Rengoku’s team. Nothing too abnormal. However, things changed when Giyuu saw a woman, covered in blood, stumble out of an abandoned warehouse.

Then, a group of men burst through the doors, grabbing her and telling her to get back inside. The team couldn’t just stand there, so they immediately took action. The clones formed Zohakuten and decided to come out from the back where the forest was. Everyone else approached from the front.

The team was quick and they burst through the warehouse walls. They found the group of men tying the woman to a chair. They looked shocked and a bit scared when they saw the group of half demons. Luckily, it took barely any time to get those thugs to the ground. Rengoku agreed to take the injured woman to a hospital while the others stayed and cleaned up.

Unfortunately, one of the thugs wasn’t fully unconscious. He immediately made a sprint towards the hole in the back wall. “Hey! Get back here!” Zohakuten gave chase to the thug. He chased him all the way to the heart of the forest until the thug collapsed from exhaustion. “Finally gotcha!” Zohakuten panted as he kicked the thug. “Monsters like you don’t deserve to live.”

“I couldn’t agree more.” A strange masculine voice called out from above him. “What the- Who are you?!” Zohakuten turned his head to face the strange voice. There he saw a large being flying in the moonlight.

The being had long black hair and sharp, green eyes. Most of his chest was covered in a white bandage and there seemed to be some jewelry around the top of his head. The strangest part about him were his magenta wings and bird-like legs. “I’m Kiriku. The Harpy demon.” He said in a calm voice.

Kiriku gently landed in front of Zohakuten and the thug. Although Zohakuten’s appearance has matured, he still was incredibly short. So the harpy towered over him. “You must be this world’s version of Zohakuten.” Kiriku purred as he slowly approached the small demon.

“What the hell are you talking about?!” Zohakuten growled, stepping back. He didn’t want the demon to know that he was intimidated. “No need to worry, dear. I’m not going to hurt you.” Kiriku smiled at him before walking over to the unconscious thug. “I can merely travel to different universes. That’s why I know your name, but I don’t know much else about you.” The harpy nudged the thug with his talon.

“That must be why Lord Tanjiro hasn’t converted him yet.” Zohakuten mumbled to himself. Kiriku perked his head up. “I’m guessing this man was doing something terrible. I smell blood on him and it’s not his.” Zohakuten nodded. “Yeah. My team and I saved a poor girl from his gang’s grasp.”

Kiriku’s eyes glimmered with interest. “Really? You saved someone?” His voice was filled with wonder and curiosity, not sarcasm. Zohakuten nodded once more. “We demons don’t kill anybody anymore. We are now actually referred to as The Dark Angels or Half Demons.”

“I see.” Kiriku purred with interest. “Things certainly have changed since I was last here.” He gazed up at the stars, fondly. “Well I better get going. I don’t want my team to worry about me.” Zohakuten turned to leave, but his knees buckled and gave way.

“Oof!” He yelped as he hit the ground. Kiriku sprang to his feet and went to Zohakuten’s side. “Are you alright?” He asked calmly with a hint of concern. “I’m fine. Just tired is all.” Zohakuten tried to get up again, but his legs were simply too tired. “God damn it!” Zohakuten growled.

“Here, I can help you.” Kiriku spread out one of his wings to help Zohakuten up. “I can take you back.” Zohakuten grabbed the wing and stood up. “How do you plan on doing that?” Zohakuten grunted. Kiriku chuckled nervously and fiddled with his feathers. “Ever heard of pouching?”

Zohakuten’s eyes widened. “Yes. I have, but why would you want to pouch me?” Kiriku gave him a soft smile. “I just want to make sure that you get home safely.” Zohakuten furrowed his brow in disbelief. “Why should I trust you?” The harpy continued to fiddle with his wings. “Do I smell untrustworthy?”

“No..” Zohakuten sighed. “Fine, but you will let me out when I get back.” Kiriku chirped happily. “Deal!” Before Zohakuten could say another word, his head and shoulders were trapped inside the harpy’s jaws. “Not so fast!” Zohakuten struggled out of surprise, but quickly stopped himself. He felt the harpy pick his body up off the ground and tilt his head back.

Zohakuten then entered the demon’s throat. He grumbled to himself as he was carried down by the warm and soft tube. The demon’s heartbeat became louder and louder with every swallow. It didn’t take long for Zohakuten to reach the harpy’s stomach.

The warm pouch-like organ held the small demon gently. The walls moved with every breath the harpy took and the sound of his heartbeat came from all around him. “Are you okay in there?” Kiriku chirped softly. “I’m fine, but give me a heads up next time!” Zohakuten growled.

“Alright! Alright! I will.” Kiriku shook his head and stretched out his wings. “So where do you live?” Zohakuten eased his body against the soft tissue. “By the Butterfly Donation Center in Tokyo.” The harpy nodded. “Got it.” Zohakuten then felt the walls move around him. He presumed it was because Kiriku had finally taken off.

Zohakuten sighed as he curled up inside the warm organ. His eyes grew heavy as the harpy continued to fly. Instead of fighting his urges, he took advantage of the moment and fell into a deep sleep.

[saveourskinship]

15 Questions/15 People

Rules: answer these 15 questions and tag 15 people

Unrules: I don’t actually know 15 people. So I’m not gonna do that. I also might not actually answer the questions but just ramble instead.

Thanks for the tag @akorah  I’m procrastinating so this is perfect.

1. Are you named after anyone? Names are so weird, aren’t they? We don’t get to pick them and they just hang around for the entirety of your life and if you decide you want to change it for any reason there is so much PAPERWORK. I am partially named after someone who no longer knows who I am or even who they are half the time. 2. When was the last time you cried? Today because I accidentally created a painting spirit by being too in love with someone and then had to abandon said love to hunt the painting spirit down (it kept putting people into comas). The spirit trapped me and my love in a mirage and tried to burn us alive but my love saved me but he remained stuck inside the mirage for three whole years. We finally reunited at the Festival of Lanterns and it was beautiful. Tears of Themis is wild y’all. 

3. Do you have kids? No, I live in a tiny apartment. If I ever own a cottage though, I will buy a couple to eat the brambles around my hedge-witch lawn.

4. Do you use sarcasm a lot? I used sarcasm to type that question. So no, of course not.

5. What’s the first thing you notice about people? If their eyes match their expression. Followed by where their centre of gravity is.

6. What’s your eye colour? Line 1, Verse 2 of Christmas Day by Dido.

7. Scary movies or happy endings? Is this boiling down to Marlon Wayans versus Damon Wayans Jr? I’ve definitely seen Scary Movie’s more often but have been thinking I should give Happy Endings another go.

8. Any special talents? I can put my leg behind my head and can glide down a flight of stairs absolutely beautifully. Not at the same time though.

9. Where were you born? In a hospital room with ten very disappointed training doctors who all thought I was going to be what they called an ‘abnormal’ birth. They were rather put out I came out ‘normal’. If they’d just waited twenty or so years...

10. What are your hobbies? Writing, reading, board games, video games, tabletop rpgs, assassinations, lying to people on the internet about how dangerous I am.

11. Do you have any pets? There is a cat which resides in my house but I live in fear she will get offended if I call her a pet. 

12. What sports do you play/have you played? That is a very long list and I don’t find it terribly fascinating. I would like to invent a sport, but... owning a team is weird, too, isn’t it? Like, owning people who run and jump and get concussions for you? You take their best years and they earn you money? It’s all very crossroads/brimstone vibes, huh. But if I HAD to invent a sport, I think I would combine the Running Man name-tag rip off game with handball except you have to play in bare feet tand the scoring area is covered in acupuncture mats (the goalies are allowed shoes).

13. How tall are you? 1 cat and 78 dice ranging from d4 to d20 in varying sizes. I tried doing dice only but the cat wasn’t having it.

14. Favourite subject in school? This does not specify which school so it’s a toss up between Look After The Penguin Chicks from pirmary and Sex and Sensuality from university. 

15. Dream job? The job I have most often in my dreams is being a pirate captain but my boat only sails through wheat fields. The hull (for whatever reason) is made out of sponge cake so stale is has turned rock hard, however whenever I try to sail my ship in water, the sponge cake softens and my ship begins breaking apart.

Tagging @they-call-me-megs 

[moonchild-things]

Chapter Eight: Beachside Summer Story!

Summary: Being a psychic is not an ideal life, at least for Saiki Kusuo. Didn’t you read/watch The Disastrous Life of Saiki K to know that? Still, this isn’t about him, not really. Instead, let’s focus on his one and only friend, Akari Watanabe, who is also quite abnormal. You might not believe that Saiki would actually have a friend, but that’s what fanfictions are about, right?  

Word Count: 4081

Blog Masterlist | Series Masterlist | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

---

MORNING TIME WAS SOMETHING THAT AKARI HATED with all her being. With the sun coming through her window, birds chirping their greetings, and annoying morning people starting their day with a scary amount of enthusiasm, it was the bane of her existence. All she wants to do is sleep in, especially since it was break time from school. The perfect time to let her sleep for however long she wants. Her family understood that fact. If they didn't, they risked facing her wrath.

From time to time, she enjoyed some mornings. It wasn't like she always had terrible starts to her days. However, the usual components that made up a morning mainly consisted of annoying, shiny things that usually gave her a migraine. Mornings that were a bit overcast or training were something that she appreciated. Or even when she didn't have school, though when that happens Akari sleeps in for as long as she can. Which is what was happening right now.

Though one thing that definitely had her up and awake was the sound of her little brother screaming at the top of his lungs. Akari was instantly out of her bed and sprinting down the stairs to find Rikuto and why he had suddenly screamed bloody murder. If there was one thing that would get her up, it was definitely the sound of her family members in distress.

Her yellow eyes were sharp as she jumped down the stairs and turned the corner to look for her brother. At the moment, it was only Rikuto and Akari in the house, if she remembered. Her mother had been forced to take a day off by her father because they all knew she had been working herself to the bone for such a long time. She needed some time to just rest, which their father was more than ready to provide for her with a nice day out. He'd most likely take her to a park or something to just spend a nice peaceful day with her. Though that didn't matter, what mattered was finding out why the hell Rikuto was screaming.

She found that the front door was wide open, which is certainly something to be concerned about. Though she wasn't that worried once she noticed the two people in the doorway. "Heya, gal pal!"

The biggest idiot known to man, Nendo Riki, was currently standing at her front door with a stupid smile. He was decked out in beachwear with quite a few beach items on his back. Next to him, quite obviously annoyed was Kusuo. He looked like he did not want to be there in the slightest bit.

'He sure looks upset.' Akari thought to herself and approached them.

Kusuo glared at her heatedly, 'Of course, I am.'

"Hey, Nendo," she greeted him softly and took a glance around trying to look for Rikuto. "I, uh, heard my brother."

"Oh, that kid who screamed?" The moron asked, "Yeah, he ran and hid over there." Nendo pointed to the couch in the living room where the trio of teens was able to catch a glimpse of black hair hiding behind it. Akari raised her eyebrow at her brother's behavior.

Rikuto was visibly shaking as he peeked out from his hiding place. His face was pale, paler than Akari, which was saying something. "M-M-Monster!" He called out shakily pointing at Nendo.

"Oh." Akari simply said, now understanding what had happened. Rikuto must have opened up the door and been greeted by Nendo on the doorstep. With his less than friendly appearance, Rikuto must have screamed at the sight of the moron. Nothing to worry about. She turned back to her friends, "Well, what are you guys doing here?"

"We're headed out to the beach!" The idiot shouted, causing Rikuto to squeak out in fear behind them and run out of the room to find refuge in his own bedroom. The older teens didn't acknowledge him as Nendo continued to smile down at the girl. "I saw my pal's house on the way there and he said you lived right across from him. So now we can all go together!"

Akari stared at him with wide eyes. The beach? She never goes to the beach, for good reason. "Oh, well I-"

'You're coming with.' Kusuo cut her off with a mental demand before she could decline. She stared over at the pink-haired boy to see that he was glaring at her rather harshly. He obviously didn't want to be the only one to have to go to the beach and socialize.

Akari pouted, 'But why?'

Kusuo's green glasses gleamed in the light as he stared down at her, 'Because I won't suffer through this alone.'

Akari huffed at him and crossed her arms over her chest, 'You just want to see me go through the same pain, huh?' Kusuo didn't say anything else, just continued to glare from under his tinted glasses, which gave her an answer. Akari nearly had half the mind to sneer at him, 'Truly a sadist.' She turned to Nendo, who was completely oblivious to their mental conversation and was just quietly waiting for her answer. She sighed loudly through her nose, "Let me grab some stuff, all right?"

"Awesome!" Nendo jumped up happily as Akari reluctantly walked off to grab some essentials for the beach.

She surely couldn't go to the beach without a plethora of sunscreen and also her favorite sweatshirt. Though it was really only her favorite because it was a tad bit oversized. She liked the feeling of being swallowed up by the extremely soft fabric(It isn't hers, but Kusuo never explicitly asked for it back, so she's kept it). It would be quite stupid of her to show up at the beach dressed in her pajamas. So she had to get the correct clothes, to make sure that she was covered up from head to toe. As if this girl would actually wear a bathing suit to the beach, come on. Akari hates the sun, what gave you the idea she would even think of wearing a bathing suit. Some nice leggings would go really well with her stolen sweatshirt, the perfect outfit for the beach!

Seeing as it was break time for school, it wasn't much of a surprise to see that there were quite a few people at the beach. Just another reason why Akari didn't want to be there. I mean, she could have just said 'no' to Kusuo's demand and shut the door in their faces to stay at home and sleep. However, one does not simply say 'no' to Saiki Kusuo. Her life most likely would have become a living hell for some time after this if she had not gone with them. He would make sure that she regretted not obeying him to go to the beach. So, to save herself from future misfortune, Akari had no choice.

That being said, both Kusuo and Akari were now sat underneath an umbrella on a beach towel. Unlike the other beachgoers, neither teen was lounging around in the sun or running around having fun. For one thing, they both didn't want to be there, at all. So they just sat underneath an umbrella, sharing a towel to sit on while watching Nendo and Kaido playing around in the water. Another thing, Akari did not want to be in the sun for an extended period of time. Her skin was extremely white, which makes her susceptible to getting sunburnt super easily. So to prevent it, she had put a generous amount of sunscreen on nearly her entire body and also wore a sweatshirt that was a tad bit too big for her. In doing so, she protected her body to the best of her ability. She definitely didn't wanna end up as a burnt chicken nugget at the end of the day.

Akari could understand why people like the beach. The calmness that came with watching the waves lapping at the shore and the gentle warm breeze that drifts over the sand is a nice scenery to see. There were just a few downsides to the beach though, that Akari found to be unavoidable. That's when there are a ton of people around screaming and splashing in the water, obnoxious guys flirting with any and all girls they can see, the scorching sun rays, and the annoying kids kicking up sand by her. If those things were to disappear, then Akari would enjoy the beach far more than she currently was.

"Don't you know how to swim?" Nando taunted Kaido while standing in the ocean water, "Wimp!"

Unlike the big idiot, Kaido hadn't gotten into the water at all. He hadn't even taken his shirt off yet even though they had been here for a while. Though both Akari and Kusuo were wondering where the blue-haired boy had come from, since they had only come here with Nendo. Guess they just wanted to add him to this episode, no need to question it that much. "What are you saying?" Kaido shouted out as he started to cry, "I can swim."

Akari deadpanned while getting herself comfy on her shared towel, 'That's a lie.'

'His eyes can, at least.' Kusuo commented on the fat tears that were streaming out of Kaido's eyes.

Kaido then fell down in the ankle-deep water, "Water!" He cried out and squirmed around in the few inches of water that he had fallen into.

The two teens under the umbrella stared at him boredly. Saiki raised an eyebrow, 'It would be impressive if he drowned like that.'

Akari eyed the poor boy as he pathetically flailed around in shallow water. As strange as the sight was, would he actually drown like that? Given his luck, it's pretty possible. 'Should we help him?'

Kusuo was about to deny helping the poor eight-grade minded boy when they heard the pounding of feet coming up behind them. Whoever it was, shouted as they got closer to the struggling boy, "Are you all right?"

'No need.' Saiki commented to Akari as they watched someone dive at Kaido to "save" him. The water crashed around them as Kaido's savior's pants fell down revealing a recognizable ass. 'Could that butt be...'

In all his amazing glory, Kaido's savior was the one and only Hairo Kineshi! The passionate and firey class representative! "Oh, Hairo!"

The red-haired teen flashed them all a smile. A smile that nearly blinded Akari just by looking at him. He was far too bright for her taste if she was to be honest. He could chase away every shadow with that smile, including Akari. "Nendo?" He asked while approaching his classmates, "And Saiki, too?"

Nendo pointed at the silent girl next to Saiki that the passionate boy hadn't seen, "Don't forget Watanabe!"

"Ah, Watanabe," Hairo chuckled while scratching the back of his neck, "I didn't notice you there."

Akari gave the boy a small wave from her spot slightly behind Saiki, "...Hi." As class representative, Akari thought that Hairo was her perfect pick for the job. He was so firey and supportive of all of his classmates and tries to push them to their best ability. That is what any class representative should be. Though he can easily become far too much for Akari's liking when he tried to involve people in things that they didn't want anything to do with. Thankfully, Hairo never really notices her, so she doesn't get dragged into any of his annoying team-building exercises or other shenanigans. Another blessing that comes with her powers.

"What are you doing?" Nendo asked while tilting his head.

Hairo walked over and placed his damsel in distress onto the sand. The blue-haired boy scuttled across the sand like a crab as he seemed grateful to be back on the shore. As a heroic aura radiated off of him, Hairo proudly placed his hands on his hips, "I'm volunteering as a lifeguard."

A man suddenly yelled out in distress before the teens could continue to talk with each other, "I'm drowning!"

Hairo was already sprinting away towards the man in need of help, "I'm on my way!"

'He's always so eager,' Akari thought as she brushed off the sand from her oversized, white sweatshirt.

"Volunteering on a hot day like this? He sure is enthusiastic." Nendo commented. Really, it's probably around 35*C out here! How he could continue to have so much energy to run around in this heat is both impressive and terrifying. Also, 35*C is about 95*F, in case you needed the conversion. Nendo then turned to the teens under the umbrella, "Hey, pal, gal pal, aren't you two going to swim?"

Kusuo shook his head and buried his head into the book that he had brought, "Don't mind us."

Akari shook her head at the idiot, "Sorry, Nendo." She flashed him a small smile in apology, "We don't feel like swimming."

The giant of a teen huffed, "What is this? Nobody is swimming. It's no fun to swim alone." He popped on some sunglasses that I'm sure he thought improved his appearance. I didn't. "I guess I'll hit on some girls."

Kusuo raised an eyebrow, "What are you saying?"

"With that face of yours?" Kaido asked snarkily. Yeah, there was no way that Nendo would get a girl looking like he did. Sorry, Nendo, but I don't think any girl would go for a guy looking like him.

"Why not try walking on water?" Kusuo suggested, "You would have a better chance of success." Oh, look, foreshadowing!

Akari shook her head and cringed slightly, "It's a good thing to be optimistic, but don't give your hopes up." Even if she wanted to try and cheer the poor guy on, she had to be realistic. It was better to just tell him not to get his hopes too high since she was certain no girl would agree to talk with him.

Nendo brushed off their words and shook his head, "For a man, looks don't matter." He flashed them a thumbs up, "What matters is the spirit."

Soon enough, Nendo went off in search of some ladies to flirt with. Though just as suspected, they all turned him down within the first few seconds. Even though he tried, they all waved him off. It also didn't help that he chased after them afterward. He really needed to work on his communication skills.

While Nendo went off looking for any woman who was willing to have a conversation with him for more than a minute, Akari and Kusuo stayed bundled up on the towel. They made sure to stay as protected by the umbrella as they could, considering neither of them, especially Akari, wanted to get a sunburn or something. The long-haired girl leaned against Kusuo's shoulder while reading the book over his shoulder. While Kusuo wasn't exactly a fan of physical contact, there were times where Akari was allowed to be closer to him than most. Of course, she never went out of her way to be close to Kusuo. The last thing she would want to do is make him uncomfortable. Though if he was, he would make it clear to her and straight-up tell her to stop. He had yet to do so as they read the book together. However, Akari can usually tell when he was uncomfortable, so she would back off if she saw the irritated twitch in his brow when he wanted to be left alone.

'This is actually kind of nice,' Akari thought to herself as they finished a page. She glanced at Kusuo from the corner of her eyes. 'I guess it was okay that you forced me to come with you guys, Ku-kun.'

He didn't spare her a glance as they continued to read together. 'Maybe you won't question me next time.'

Akari huffed while rolling her eyes. She will admit, there are plenty of times where she was forced to do something or go somewhere with Kusuo because he gave her no other choice that she ended up enjoying. Just like now. Though every time she said that she didn't necessarily regret leaving her shadowy domain, Kusuo always teased her about it.

'I still think you're a sadist though,' she commented. Which is true, Saiki is one of the more sadistic anime characters I've seen, don't you agree? He's kind of like Kyoya and plenty of others... Uh, excuse me while I go rewatch Ouran High School for the 100th time.

The barest hint of a smirk graced his lips, 'And you're a masochist for agreeing to come with.' Akari sputtered for a moment, slowly becoming red for having been coined a pain-loving person. They then heard Kaido's and Nendo's shouts as the smaller teen was now buried in some sand. The result of having gained the attention of the women that Nendo had tried to woo. Kusuo sighed heavily, 'He sure is embarrassing.' Then he disappeared, leaving poor Akari by herself as he floated in a tube in the ocean. He wanted to be left alone, that much Akari could tell. He would probably just swim down to the bottom of the ocean where he likes to be alone whenever they were at the beach. Akari would join him, but she can't hold her breath like him. So she'd rather not drown, thanks.

"Where did our pal go? To the toilet?" Nendo asked as he lumbered back over to their spot, "Gal pal," he spun around to face Akari. The black-haired girl was now trying to catch a few minutes of shut-eye since she had nothing better to do. "Where'd pal go?"

Akari shrugged her shoulders and tried to get comfortable on the towel, "I'm not sure… somewhere to be alone probably."

"And he left you alone!" Nendo gasped dramatically at even the thought. He had rarely seen his two pals apart from each other. So he could barely imagine seeing Akari by herself. "Pal, where are you?" He called out before he eyed something from the shoreline that caused him to jump right into the water, "Look at that girl. She's drowning!"

Akari eyed what was happening. She had no doubt that Nendo would be able to help him. He's an idiot, but he's a strong idiot with a big heart. Nendo could easily save that girl. Though, she glanced around the beach, where was Hairo? He's the lifeguard so where was he while this poor girl was drowning?! All of a sudden, Kaido followed after Nendo and started to swim out alongside him. Akari would have called out to him, but he was already so far away before she could even stand up. He couldn't swim, right? She may or may not be slightly worried about her idiotic friend now.

She finally caught sight of the passionate teen and ran over to him. Abandoning her shady paradise, she thought that it would be better to get the lifesaver than her own preference to stay out of the sun. "Hairo!" Akari called out to the fiery boy. Of course, she had gained his attention straight away since he had never heard her speak that loudly before. "There's a girl out there drowning and Nendo went out there to get her!"

The red-haired teen nodded and gave her a thumbs-up, "I got it! Thanks, Watanabe!" He then sprinted off into the water to start his swim out there.

Akari watched from the edge of the shore as Hairo jumped after them and swam to the distressed teens. At this point, Kaido and the unconscious girl had now needed to be held up by Nendo. The large teen had seemed to have a handle on it. Eventually, Hairo got close enough to help out Nendo. Though he only ended up in the same predicament as Kaido and the girl as his leg cramped up. So now, Nendo had three people to lug back to the shore. At the sight of the teen struggling, Akari was nervous about them. There wasn't much that she could do herself since she was, physically, not that strong. And there weren't any shadows for her to use to possibly save them. However, she certainly wouldn't want to expose herself for having strange powers to anyone.

'Stop worrying so much.'

She was dragged out of her thoughts at the smooth voice that invaded her mind. Akari jumped slightly but calmed herself down with a deep breath. 'I can't help it, they're our friends.'

'Not friends.' Out in the ocean, Kusuo scoffed as he swam up to the struggling teens, 'Did you forget that I can help them.'

The shadow-manipulator bristled slightly at the reminder that her best friend was an over-powered psychic who could save them with a snap of his fingers. Still, she was just relieved, 'So you're going to help them?'

'It'll be annoying if I didn't.'

Akari giggled, 'So heroic!' He may not be admitting it now, but he cared about their friends. Yes, they were his and Akari's friends. Kusuo could easily just make them leave him alone, but he tolerated them enough to spend time with them. Sure they were annoying and idiotic most of the time, but Akari knew that he found them to at least be aquiqntences.

So(as foreshadowed beforehand), Nendo found himself "walking on water". Though it was really just Kusuo holding up Nendo by his feet. How Nendo didn't notice that someone was holding his feet, is beyond Akari. Despite that, Kusuo easily carried the four to safety.

As the sun started to disappear behind the horizon, the now safe group all stood on the sand. Akari gladly placed herself next to Kusuo and used a towel to dry off his wet hair. While the others were happy to accept the fact that Nendo had miraculously walked on water, Akari knew who really saved them. So she was definitely going to show her gratitude to him when no one else would. "Thank you very much." The now conscious girl said reluctantly and coughed as she addressed Nendo, "I'm sorry I was rude to you earlier."

Nendo was more than happy to get that from her. Since she had been one of the girls to turn him down rudely before, he was more than happy to accept her apology and gratitude. Kaido commented on it as they watched the woman walk away, "Knowing you, I thought you might demand compensation for saving her."

"I would never do something so lame." Nendo shrugged his shoulders as if it was nothing, "If she falls in love with me, though, that's that."

Kaido laughed, "Fat chance."

"What did you say?" Nendo raged, just about ready to jump his friend for making fun of him.

Kusuo smirked, 'Well, one person has fallen for him.'

"I'm in love, Riki Nendo." Hairo thought to himself. Obviously, the one to have been enraptured by Nendo. Tears of admiration ran down his cheeks while he stared after the giant buffoon. "I'm in love with your way of life."

'Though, it's a guy.'

Akari glanced over her shoulder to spy at the weeping boy. She laughed lightly at the love-stricken expression on Hairo's face. 'Coming to the beach today was quite fun,' she smiled slightly. She glanced up at Kusuo with a sly look in her eyes, 'So, Mr. Hero, I think you deserve a reward for your heroics.'

Kusuo let out a small huff in amusement, 'I'll accept the usual.' It felt nice, to have someone recognize what he does. Sure, he hated having attention on him so he kept his powers quiet. However, when he does something like save lives, he's more than happy to have someone thank him for what he did. It also helped that it was Akari doing it. If there was one person he glad knew about his abilities, it's Akari. While she can understand what it's like to have powers, she knew what it felt like to not be thanked every time she did something good with those powers. They related to each other in that way.

'Mhm, I thought so.' Akari hummed, breaking Kusuo out of his thoughts about her, 'Pretty sure there's leftover coffee jelly in the fridge. If not, I'll make you some!' The little skip in her step was quite obvious now that she was more than happy to reward her friend for what he had done.

---

Blog Masterlist | Series Masterlist | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter