#bleach no breaths from hell color

[flowerismi]

HE'S IN COLOR ARGHHHHH!!!!

MY BOI!

[florencemtrash]

Club Rats and Cigarettes: Part I

Azriel x Modern Reader

Summary: When Azriel stumbles into a new world with his brothers, the last thing he expects to find is a mate. But she has a hell of a way of making a first impression, and Azriel can't help but fall in love with someone who feels familiar in a strange world.

Warnings: Violence, mentions of drug use

Masterlist of Masterlists

Author's note: I had a thought. I wrote it. Here ya go!

Next chapter ->

Y/n leaned back against the motley wall covered in indie movie and band posters 10-layers deep. Humidity caused the paper to lift away from the brick, curling like steam off coffee before being frozen in place by the next slather of paste. Y/n felt the sharp, glue-soaked edges poke through the mesh of her shirt. 

Looking left and right she saw a few stragglers heading towards the club — three girls huddled in fake-fur coats with freshly-shaved legs trembling in the October air, and a group of college boys dressed in the same jeans, sneakers, and pale collared shirts. They flickered in and out of the darkness as the streetlights hummed with the effort of keeping their failing bulbs alight. A handful of skeletal cars sat beside busted parking meters or half-hidden in the employee parking lots of the closed down street. During the day when the restaurants were open, inoffensive jazz battled it out with the reggaeton blaring from the trendy taco joint at the end of the block, and Kpop dancers pressed themselves against the screens posted by the corn dog restaurant’s windows, neon lights announcing that they were “OPEN!” But right now the neon was just another sad shade of grey. Even the sky’s colors were muted by packed clouds threatening rain. 

Music shook the pavement, but it came up from the sub-basement club deep and muffled. Y/n felt its vibrations pass through the soles of her boots, up her stocking-clad legs, and into her chest where her heart rumbled like a car without a muffler. 

A flash of flame revealed her glitter-coated cheeks and cobalt-blue eyeshadow. The color slipped and slid across her skin still tacky from club sweat until it was a pale wash of blue extending up to her temples and down to her cheekbones. A cloud of smoke covered her soon after as she lit her cigarette between nail-bitten fingers. A fresh coat of black polish glittered like stones, already chipping towards the tips. Menthol crisp bled into her lungs along with a breath of cold air perfumed with car exhaust and day old restaurant grease. She licked her lips and found that she did not mind the taste of lip gloss, mint, and char. 

Out of the corner of her eye she saw a boy with salt-white hair and shy, bent shoulders slink over to her trying to make himself as small as possible. “Can I bum a cigarette?” He asked, shockingly polite despite the black band t-shirt that read “Anarchy now!” and the careful spikes gelled into his hair and tipped green and black. 

Y/n wordlessly held out her pack and he plucked one out before hesitantly reaching for a second. She held out her lighter next and soon there were two plumes of smoke wafting into the air as music faded in and out with each body that passed through the rusted paint doors. Drunk giggles followed voices hoarse with drink and screaming. Heels clicked down the street, some heavy as a bass drum and others high and piercing like castanets. 

A quick flash of lightning splintered over the sky, followed seconds later by a dull crash like furniture toppling over. 

“One mile,” The boy said, leaning over. He smelled like bleach, aftershave, and surprisingly, cherries. The overly sweet ones that came out of a jar and decorated the tops of ice cream sundaes. 

“What?”

“You can count how far away lightning is from the thunder. Every five seconds between lightning and thunder is one mile.” 

Another flash painted the sky purple followed shortly by crumbled eruptions of noise. 

“That one was close by.” 

Y/n took one last drag before putting out her cigarette on the wall. The paper smoldered and was scarred black, but never burned. “Guess that’s my cue to go back inside then.” 

The boy nodded, smiling and looking her up and down a little too closely. Then his eyes sharpened, red-rimmed and squinting, as he glared into the street beyond her. 

“Do you see that?”  

Y/n twirled around on her heels, staring down the street to where it ended in shadow. It looked… darker than it should, although she couldn’t explain why. Like she stood before the throat of an animal. The darkness seemed to pulse and writhe, muscles clenching down on invisible meat. Then she felt stupid for having listened to him at all. 

“Don’t fuck with me,” she growled, pushing the salt-haired boy aside and slipping back inside the club. 

The music and heady scent of perfumes, cologne, and sweat punched her in the face, and she remembered why she’d chosen to stumble outside to begin with.

She moved in between bodies sparkling like disco balls, stealing body glitter as she went. She felt the tiny particles stick to her skin, tacky with sweat. Someone’s hand brushed against her wrist, but she swatted them off, pressing forward in search of her friends. She didn’t trust them to stay still, not in a place like this, nor did she trust them to check their phones, so she just kept searching the packed dance floor. Raised platforms crowded with plastic couches and spray painted tables hit her at eye level, but none of the platform heels and combat boots looked familiar. She thought a head of red corkscrews might have belonged to Cecelia, but it was only the changing lights reflecting off bleach blond hair. 

She dipped into the corner where a line of scantily clad girls with lanky legs waited for the bathroom. Ducking beneath the overhead speakers helped dull the noise, and if she climbed up two rungs of the barrier surrounding the DJ’s booth like a fighting ring, she could make out more of the crowd. Four stationary spotlights lit up the corners of the club pulsing red, blue, pink, and purple. A man in leopard print briefs was climbing onto one of the poles there, shredding his policeman’s shirt down the center as a woman in a zebra-print coat eagerly shoved a handful of dollar bills into his underwear. A drag king had his hot pink fedora knocked off by a drunk college student stumbling towards the bathrooms with a hand over his mouth. All over there were faint pinpricks of light followed by subtle releases of vape pen air, adding hints of watermelon and strawberry to the air. 

It was because she stood half-hanging off the DJ’s booth that she caught sight of the three men that entered one after another like the mob. Dressed in all black, they were better suited for a funeral than a club, save for one thing… their wings. 

Y/n blinked in confusion. There had been flyers hung up around the library and grocery stores about some anime convention being held in the city, but this place was a little out of the way for hardcore cosplayers. The most severe looking of the three lifted his nose to the air, then stumbled back in shock. As the strobe lights passed over his awe-struck expression, Y/n caught the glint of knives sheathed across his chest and at his side. 

Fuck. She looked up to the booth, but the DJ and the guys in ripped t-shirts bobbing their heads around him didn’t seem to notice. 

“Hey!” She dropped back onto the floor and tapped the shoulder of a barrel-chested man with the word “security” printed over his shirt in all caps. “I think those three guys brought knives in here.” She pointed in their general direction with one chipped, black fingernail. 

“The fuck?!” He gently pushed her aside, shouting something into his earpiece as he shoved his way into the crowd. People took a second to read the sign on his shirt before parting to make way for him. One guy with bright pink hair and studded lips even tried to kiss him on the cheek as he passed. 

Suddenly, this corner of the club didn’t seem so safe anymore. There was a splash of pale light on the floor as a bottle girl in a black leather catsuit slipped out of the kitchens. She swayed her hips back and forth, a bottle of tequila swishing in its frost-rimmed bottle against her hip. She moved up the stairs to the platform where a private bachelor party was going on, heels clicking like beetle wings rubbing together. Y/n slipped into the shadows closer to the kitchens and waited for someone — anyone — to answer the text she’d typed out with shaky fingers. 

Azriel had never heard music like this before. He didn’t even know such a sound could exist. Someone had weaponized the bass tones so it felt like a punch to the gut. A male’s deep voice, grainy and harsh, was indistinguishable from the crashing of cymbals and a strange, high clang that skittered over steady drums like a stone over water. Through layers of sound he could just make out the soft sighs of a female as she tried to tie the chaos together with her voice. 

All around him were sweaty humans decorated in shiny, colorful clothes that sparkled as they spun and jerked about. He stood a head above most, although every so often a male or female in eight-inch heels would pass by at eye level, looking him up and down like he was a meal and they were starving. 

“Hey there handsome.” Someone had found the courage to slink up to Cassian’s side — a male with pupils blown open wide enough to swallow his pale blue irises. There was alcohol on his breath and something else, something sweet and bitter at the same time. The human male smiled, teeth white and straight. Azriel had never seen a human with teeth so perfect. He was handsome — wiry and slim with a flush to his cheeks that accentuated the smattering of freckles across his tan skin. “Did you come here alone?” Rhysand and Azriel’s presence did not seem to deter him. “Did you want to leave here alone?”

Cassian sputtered in surprise. He’d never been propositioned by a male, let alone a human one. 

“I’m-I’m a mated male.” 

The male raised his brow, taking full stock of the skin-tight leathers Cassian wore. He took a deep drag of an oddly shaped pipe that lit up in the dark. “Ok. If that’s what you’re into.” A cloud of smoke spilled from his mouth — the source of the sweet and bitter smell on his lips. His eyes slid over to Rhysand, who only smirked and stuck a hand into his pocket. “And you? It doesn’t look like you’re into the leather stuff.” Then he seemed to reconsider what he’d said, looking between Cassian, Rhys, and Azriel like he’d figured out the final piece of the puzzle. He blinked in surprise, tipped back his head, and laughed. He was still laughing as he turned and walked away into the crowd. 

“What the hell was that?” Cassian asked. Azriel shrugged, shaking his head. 

“It’s a strange place we’ve landed in,” Rhysand remarked, although the comment was unnecessary. “I expect the strangeness touches everything here. Even the people.” He marveled at the scene before him. The only comparable place in Prythian was Rita’s, but even that paled in comparison to the sight before him. 

Rita’s was a pleasure house with music and drinks to spare, but everything here was… more. The music was louder, the smells an assault to the senses, and the lights changed every second and made the dancers flicker in and out of existence. Even the people seemed to have more substance to them, more color. 

Azriel loved it.

He loved the uneven floors that sucked at the bottoms of his shoes, the pulsing lights that made his eyes swim, and the sound blaring in his ears that drowned out all other thoughts. And something in the air smelled crisp and sweet to him, despite all the other competing scents that had Cassian and Rhysand wrinkling their nose in distaste. 

He strained his neck to catch better hold of the scent. His shadows clung to his body like children, hiding in the folds of his leathers. This world was not made for them, and they worried that if they strayed too far they would be left behind. 

Amren had warned them that this world was different, that its magic was different. But she hadn’t been here in thousands upon thousands of years. Who was to say what had changed in her absence and what had stayed the same?

Get in. Find what you need. Get out. Had been Nesta’s command before strumming The Harp. That’s how the three brothers had found themselves at the end of a narrow lane with boxes of metal and brick on either side. The club had been a logical next step — it was the only establishment that still whispered of life in the otherwise dead neighborhood. 

One shadow dared to explore the club, slipping past a broad-shouldered man with a scowling face and sniffing at half-full glasses of liquor with bright umbrellas laying against their salt-coated rims. Then it had caught sight of something that had it scurrying back to its master. 

Mate. The lone shadow hissed into Azriel’s ear. Mate. 

Azriel’s fluttering bird heart dove into his stomach, carrying with it all reason and restraint. There was no possible way… no. No? Right? 

Az? Rhysand steadied his brother as he stumbled back. 

She’s here? Azriel breathed. If it weren’t for his powers, Rhysand would never have heard the soft sigh escape Azriel’s lips as he searched the crowd desperately. Azriel tipped his head back, breathing in the comforting scent that held new meaning. My mate. She’s here.

What?!

Azriel ignored Rhys and dove into the crowd, head swiveling this way and that as he tried to find a familiar face he’d never seen before.

Az! Wait! But his brother was gone, and the crowd closed over the empty space he’d left behind like a healing wound. 

Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Rhysand cursed. 

“Hey man! Where did you get your wings? They’re fucking awesome!” A plump male with cornflower blue hair and matching eyeliner piped up from behind Cassian’s back. Cassian whirled around in anger, feeling the ghost of a finger slide down his spine. No one touched his wings without his say. No one. 

The male startled back in fear. Upon seeing Cassian at his full height, he cowered against the wall, clutching a crinkled red cup against his chest. Cassian blinked in surprise. The male was wearing a black and white dress, the starched apron and collar crisp and clean. 

“Someone call the police. Now!” Someone hissed behind him.

“What seems to be the problem?” Rhysand spoke coolly. At the moment Cassian turned back to Rhysand, the maiden-male scuttled away and upstairs into the cold night. Rhysand examined his fingernails, an action that had the guard’s ruddy face turning white as he saw they were armed to the teeth.

The male’s arms hung loose and ready at his sides like two boulders, fists opening and closing slowly. “You guys need to leave. And before you say anything — I don’t give a shit if those weapons are fake or part of some Halloween costume, you can not bring them here.” 

“What fool would carry fake weapons?” Cassian asked seriously. 

The male’s face lost even more color. “Out. Now.” 

“There’s no need for—” Rhysand’s brows shot towards his hairline, violet eyes flickering up like a cat’s. Cassian, I can’t control him. 

His brother’s eyes widened. What do you mean? 

His mind — I can’t get into it. 

He’s only human!

Clearly.

The male moved forward then to grab at the knife hanging from Cassian’s side and on instinct, Cassian swung. His fist met the corner of the male’s jaw cleanly and he sank like a stone, crumbling to the floor. 

A female with glowing white lips nearby let out a strangled shriek, twisting her ankle as she grabbed her friend and sprinted towards the glowing red exit sign. All around her people began taking notice of the guard’s dark shape on the black floor and the two males that hovered over him, knives sparkling in the ever changing lights. 

I had hoped that the humans would not notice, Cassian explained. More alarmed cries erupted around them. He leaned down, carefully checking the male’s pulse. He was still alive, just knocked out cold. 

The music dimmed and then went out completely leaving an empty hole in the air that blew against the back of Cassian’s neck. Overhead lights turned on shortly after, burning with a fluorescence that had everyone hissing in pain. 

Things looked much better in the dark. In the dark no one noticed the sticky stains littering the floor, or the gum wrappers, and plastic straws, and crushed cups; the dusty strobe lights and haphazard paint jobs that left the walls bubbling with air pockets. They were also less likely to notice the three fae in their midst — 6-foot-everything and looking like they stepped out of the world’s most expensive LARPing tournament. It didn’t help that Cassian was kneeling over the man he just rendered unconscious. 

Confusion led to confused panicking, and then plain panic as people began pushing towards the exits in droves. 

I think they noticed. Rhysand looked over the crowd as they fluttered around him, but try as he might, he couldn’t enter anyone’s minds. Not even one. He didn’t like the oily vulnerability that followed, naked and unnerving. 

Cassian slung the unconscious male over his shoulder before he could be trampled beneath pairs of dusty white sneakers and stripper heels. Then it would seem it’s time for us to leave.

Where are you? Azriel cursed at no god in particular. He didn’t know which of them existed in this realm, if any did at all. 

This way. His shadows whispered, urging him towards the back corner of the club.

A battered door swung open and shut to the rhythms of females in skintight leather carrying chilled bottles in their hands. Thousands of signatures had been scrawled against the door in neon paint, and Azriel watched one of the females sign her name — Ava — in bright orange before kissing the door and slipping inside to grab another bottle. 

Just to the right of the door stood another female in ripped stockings. Bright blue glitter painted her eyes and cheeks. She bounced back and forth on the balls of her feet, playing with a hole in her sleeve as she held a shiny black box up to her ear. 

“WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU MEAN YOU ALREADY LEFT?! I’M THE DESIGNATED DRIVER!” She yelled into the box. Her eyes kept shifting over the club. Her lipstick, already blurred from time and dancing, smeared further as she bit her lip. A swipe of her sleeve on her cheek left a faint trail of plum-colored lipstick. She slammed her finger down on the box and for one moment, the glow it let off shot across her eyes. She looked close to tears. 

Azriel froze, feeling a pressure in his chest tighten and then burst apart. He felt her fear — her anger at being abandoned by her so-called friends. It was more overwhelming than the music. If it weren’t for the thin crowd of strangers in front of him blocking his path, he might have dropped to his knees and crawled to her. 

Mate. The bond sang in his chest. Mate. 

Screams broke through the music, high and panicked, and the magic of the moment crashed all around him. The darkness broke, harsh white light colliding with them and rendering the glitters and colors the humans adorned pale and lifeless. But not his mate. She sparkled brighter in the resulting chaos, eyes narrowing in a dare as she caught Azriel staring. She was a prey animal ready to bolt. A worm preparing to turn and reveal its teeth. 

Sharp cracks of plastic on linoleum rattled the ground as leather-clad women sprinted for the kitchen door brandishing empty bottles like weapons. Y/n raced after them. 

The door flapped shut behind her before Azriel had the sense to move his feet and follow, calling out, “Wait! Please!” 

He was doing this very poorly. He knew better than to chase a female like this. Sickness twisted in his stomach as he slammed into metal doors and ran through hallways crowded with glass bottles, aluminum cans, and wrinkly lemons stacked precariously in wooden crates. 

To your right. A shadow whispered in his ear.

Azriel slid to a stop in front of a heavy metal door, its edges frosted over with cold. 

It locks from the outside.

Azriel ripped the door off its hinges and was blasted in the face by a wave of cold. Frigid air curled out of the edges of the room and slithered over the floor like smoke. A young female in a pink tutu yelped in surprise and dove for the corner of the room, hiding behind racks of beer bottles. It wasn’t his mate. 

She was just a frightened female who’d hidden in the fridge, not knowing she was trapping herself in the process. 

“Here.” Azriel said, quickly ripping a coat off the wall hook and tossing it towards her. She reached for it with shaking hands and lips, mumbling out a confused “Thank you?” as Azriel turned and hurried away. The door was no more. She could walk out of the freezer whenever she pleased now. 

Azriel chased after his mate’s scent, stumbling through grey, blank hallways that belonged to the insurance company next door. He strained his ears to hear the tell-tale pounding of her boots, but came up empty. A dull red light told Azriel to “EXIT” as he pushed against a door groaning from rust and disuse. 

He was outside once again, breathing in car exhaust and restaurant refuse.

And something sweet. 

He heard the rush of air a second too late. 

A bottle slammed into the side of his face, cracking and cutting his skin. Tequila washed over the wounds. It burned like a bitch. 

Azriel didn’t let out a groan of pain, but he did stumble, landing on his right knee with a twinge of soreness.

The female — his mate — stared at him in horror as blood began to pool at his temple and drip down the line of his jaw. She held the shattered neck of the bottle in her hands. Her shoes were gone, toes curling against the pavement with cold. 

Gods, she was beautiful. 

Cassian was a blur of movement, knocking the bottle out of her hand and wrapping his arms around her arms. She screamed, squatting down before shooting back up and locking her knees. The top of her head slammed into Cassian’s nose. A brutal, bloody crack had Cassian stumbling back, gripping his nose.

“FUCK!” He swore. 

She whipped around and sprayed a mist in his eyes that had him cursing like a madman and slapping the palms of his hands over his eyes. 

“FUCK! FUCK! FUCK!” 

Rhysand stepped forward and cornered her against the wall. Violet eyes glittered with something bordering fury and amusement. 

“No.” Azriel moved between Rhys and his mate before she could spray him too. “No one touches her.” 

Rhys backed up immediately. This is her?

It’s her. 

He could hear her heartbeat quicker than a rabbit as she flattened herself against the wall, holding her spray out in warning. Cassian moaned in annoyance, wiping the tears that kept leaking out of his eyes.

I do not like the humans in this world. Cassian complained, sniffling. Even his nose burned.

As if Nesta wouldn’t have done this given the chance. Rhysand said. 

…I see your point. Cassian muttered. 

Be careful around this one. 

Because she’s a menace?

Rhysand smirked, flicking dust off the sleeve of his jacket. Because she’s Azriel’s mate.

Cassian straightened. His eyes darted back and forth between Rhysand, the blood dripping from Azriel’s head, and the human female. 

Oh. Cassian thought, suddenly embarrassed. We have… not made a good first impression. 

You think?! Azriel all but growled. 

Her fight or flight response was running out — her energy draining. She could feel it in her leaden limbs and the faint slowing of her heartbeat as the three men kept looking around like they were seeing each other for the first time. 

And they kept looking at her in mixtures of shock, concern, and — surprisingly — affection. 

What sick fuckery is this? She dug her fingernails into the brick, searching for cracks like she might be able to pull out a piece and throw it at them, or find some hidden portal through the wall and back into the safety of the inside. 

Were they going to kidnap her? Was she about to be shoved into a bag and tossed into some dingy trunk? But then why the wings? It was too dark to see them in their entirety, but they looked meticulous and expensive and very memorable — not ideal for kidnapping. Was this a LARPING thing? Were they Satanists? Was that how this worked?

The one in front turned. The one she’d attacked with a bargain bottle of tequila. The blood had stopped flowing and darkened against his tan skin. Hazel eyes, bright and piercing as a copper penny, looked out from a face made of elegant, serious lines. His was not a face that smiled often, beautiful as it was. The burly, rugged one looked like he was made for laughing. Smile lines gently graced his cheeks and temples. But maybe those were scars. He sported many of them, like pale whiskers over his skin. The third was the most put together of the three. Instead of strange, leather armor, he wore a suit of velvet over something stiff and protective that hugged his trim waist and broad shoulders, and his eyes were violet, not hazel. 

The elegant, unsmiling one coughed awkwardly, shifting to hide his wings. Shockingly, they slid closed behind his back, the movement so smooth it looked real. 

“I am…” His voice was a deep, gentle caress. “I am so very sorry. I did not mean to frighten you as I did. Please, forgive me.” He was… alarmingly polite, and his accent was… pleasant, although impossible to place — all soft rolls of the tongue complimented by the rich timbre of his voice. “ Please.” He spoke the last word quietly, urgently. 

Y/n said nothing. Her arm was beginning to get sore from holding out the bottle of pepper spray. Although, it can’t have been that effective if the rugged one was already recovered. Maybe it had expired without her realizing? 

“My name is Azriel,” the man spoke again quickly and gently. Even his name sounded odd. “And this is Cassian—” He pointed to the burly one,“And Rhysand.” The last of the men tilted his head in a mock bow. 

“A pleasure.” The violet-eyed one said. Rhysand’s voice was weighed down with sultry charm. He purred the words more than spoke them. 

“Pleasure,” Cassian copied, gruff but kind. 

Y/n remained silent. Somewhere in the distance, sirens wailed. The pretty one — Azriel — stepped forward and pulled out a sleek, small blade from the belt about his waist. Y/n was about to spray him in the face when he twisted the blade so that the handle faced her.

“This will do more damage than the little bottle you carry,” he promised. “I hope this will make you more trusting of me. I swear to do you no harm. I’ll even make a bargain, if it would make you trust me long enough to explain.” His wings twitched nervously and Y/n found she couldn’t draw her eyes away from them and how real they looked. 

The three men kept looking at each other furtively. Conversations, complex and unknowable, hide in every twitch of their eyes.

“Speak out loud,” Azriel snarled at them finally. “You’re frightening her.” 

Rhysand smiled apologetically at the female. “We need to leave. Now. You can hear the humans coming as well as I can.” 

Y/n bristled at that, and a detached feeling of horror came over her. “Are you not… are you not human?” 

Cassian gawked at her, speaking his wings out far and wide. “Do the humans of this world have wings?” 

She sputtered to answer, fear giving way to curiosity. Azriel took advantage of that, moving close enough that he slid the blade into her hand. It was a cool, welcome weight against her hot, sweaty skin. Up close she saw he had freckles dotting the high corners of his cheeks and that his hair came alive with dark tendrils of smoke that wafted off his skin like steam. They wrapped around her and she heard their strange whispers in her ears like white noise. 

“We’re not human. We’re not even from this world.” The sirens were only a block away now and Azriel swore beneath his breath. More of those dark tendrils shot out like shadows and dulled the noises of incoming fire trucks, cop cars, and EMTs. “I swear to you that I will explain more, but we must go. Please.” He took hold of her wrist, angling the blade he’d given her right beneath his last rib. 

It was a dramatic declaration — if she wanted to kill him and run away, he would let her. 

Y/n swallowed thickly, her mind thick with fog and the dying embers of adrenaline. “I—I parked a few blocks down that way. I can take us somewhere else.” 

Azriel breathed a sigh of relief and she pulled away from him, taking with her any shred of comfort he’d felt since coming to this world. 

Somehow they managed to walk the quarter of a mile to her car without being stopped once by another living soul. She suspected it had to do with the shadows that now poured off of Azriel’s skin and trailed after her. She could feel them licking at her heels like curious dogs… or blood thirsty wolves. 

She gripped the knife tightly in her hand, stretching her fingers to wrap around the steering wheel as she drove through familiar roads on autopilot. Azriel watched her curiously as she stopped at a red light and clicked her blinker on. 

None of the men looked comfortable squished into her tiny sedan, wings tucked in so tight they cramped. Cassian’s boot was stretched out on the center console, almost reaching the gear shift. Rhysand was hunched over in the back seat, pressing his forehead against the cool metal of the headrest in front of him to keep from getting sick. 

“What is this cursed thing?” He grumbled, then promptly shut up when Y/n took them down a local road with craters that had them jolting and jerking for a mile. “This metal box… I do not like it.” 

Azriel and Cassian ignored their brother. Az was too busy paying attention to his mate and politely explaining the complexity of their situation, and Cassian was too busy looking out the window at the houses that passed by. He could hear the unfamiliar hum of electricity like a dragonfly's wings. 

By the time she pulled the sedan down a beaten road to a quiet, homely one-bedroom house, her mind was swimming with words and phrases she could barely string together — Koschei, fae, Illyrians, seers. It was worse than when she’d spent two all-nighters cramming for an exam in college fueled by nothing but Red Bull and desperation. 

Before the keys were even out of the ignition, Rhysand was spilling out of the car and breathing in gasps of clean, woodsy air. Gravel crunched under his feet. Once this road had been paved, but time and weather had broken up the asphalt until only chunky black rocks remained. Green grass, not yet killed off by Autumn frost, grew in uneven tufts up to Y/n’s squat, brown-sided house, skirting around the makeshift garden in the backyard before disappearing into the woods beyond. Neighboring homes inched as close as they could to the main road, half-submerged in golden brown trees that trembled in the wind. 

The porch steps creaked, flexing in the center like backs ready to break, but they’d recently been cleaned and painted over with a fresh coat of white. The front door had been given similar treatment, although it was painted green. A small Autumn wreath hung from a nail. 

Y/n fumbled with the keys, fingers shaking and numb from the cold. 

“Here,” Azriel murmured, gently taking them from her. His shadows could have unlocked the front door in less than a second, but he was in no mood to test his mate’s patience and understanding. The fact that she’d driven them to her home in the dead of night was testament to the uneasy trust she’d placed in them. 

A disgruntled meow greeted them as they filed into the short and narrow entryway. Cassian bumped into the entry dresser with his wings and nearly jumped out of his skin when the dark monstrosity that sat by a ceramic dish full of rings hissed. 

It was the fattest cat Cassian had ever seen. 

Acidic yellow-green eyes narrowed at him, as if sensing his judgment, and the cat’s whiskers twitched along with its pink button nose. 

“Jefferson, be nice.” Y/n reprimanded the cat, scooping up its rotund body into her arms. The cat swatted her shoulder once, then consented to being held. He did not like strangers in his house, even if they were Y/n’s guests. “This is Jefferson.” She looked behind her back to the rest of the house. “And this is my home.” 

She busied herself preparing for her unexpected guests. She scoured the bathroom closet for spare toothbrushes, towels, and lotions, and pulled out the thickest blankets she could find. One person could sleep on the pull out couch, the other two would have to fight for the best spot on the floor. 

Azriel watched her as she moved. It was not a large house — it was barely even a cottage — and it took his shadows a short time to familiarize themselves with your home. 

A lumpy couch, wicker armchair, and coffee table made up the living room, tied together by a retro rug that may have once been white, but was now a respectable beige. Four mismatched chairs huddled around a scratched wooden table near the kitchen, one of which carried a stuffy cushion that held the imprint of Jefferson’s soft body. 

The cat watched them from the kitchen counter with its piercing eyes, and did not seem at all concerned when a stray shadow wound around its tail. 

Pathetic. All of them! Were the cat’s thoughts. Master will not like this.

His eyes did soften when Y/n returned from her bedroom, arms heavy with blankets and sheets and pillows. Azriel quickly relieved her of her burden, promising that they’d spent nights in worse conditions than a heated house with bedding and clean floors. 

She seemed charmed by that and almost smiled. Almost.

“There’s leftovers in the fridge if you get hungry, and the bathroom’s by the front door. I’ve already put some toothbrushes and towels in there if you need them.”

“Thank you,” Azriel said softly, tilting his head in a faint bow. His brothers followed suit before busying themselves laying out blankets and pillows like they’d done this a thousand times before — which they had. 

Y/n nodded curtly and swept a judgmental Jefferson into her arms before disappearing into her room. Azriel heard the lock click into place and the rummaging of drawers as she pulled out an extra can of pepper spray, a pair of scissors, and the three knives she’d taken from the kitchen. She bolted her windows and drew the curtains closed and even stuffed a towel into the space beneath her doors just in case.  

She was meticulous and careful despite her generosity, and Azriel found himself smitten at her resourcefulness. 

Stop thinking about her and go the fuck to sleep, Az. Cassian grumbled. He could feel the longing dripping off of Azriel’s shoulders. She’ll feel more comfortable if she knows we’re asleep. 

How much would you like to bet she kills us in the night? Rhysand asked, and then seemed amused by the prospect of it. 

I’d worry more about the cat. Cassian chuckled. Then he turned over onto his stomach and was out like a light. Centuries spent in war camp barracks and makeshift battlefield tents had taught him to steal sleep wherever and whenever he could. 

Rhysand was quick to follow suit, although centuries as a High Lord had pampered him just a little. 

Azriel stayed awake, waiting to hear your heartbeat and breathing slow to a comfortable pace. But it never happened. Not even as the sunlight trickled in and touched the light-bleached floors. 

Next chapter ->

[waynes-multiverse]

Florida!!!

Summary: One fishy monster hunt, one sweaty afternoon at the beach, and one innocent popsicle – Florida is fucking hell for Dean.

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader

Warnings: +18 language and smut in the form of dirty fantasies, severe pining, one idiot in love, humor, Florida, one popsicle, unresolved ending & feelings

Word Count: 2.8k

A/N: My entry for @chevroletdean's 500 Follower Celebration! Congrats again, lovely, and thank you so much for hosting this challenge and creating this awesome moodboard!! I was immediately inspired (and have wanted to write something set in Florida for an eternity). This was perfect and so much fun! 💛🧡🩵

Main Masterlist || DW Masterlist || Tag List

Florida can eat his ass.

Dean’s decided this at least seventeen times today. He has known this little fact since the first time he set foot here at nineteen, chasing a ghoul through backyards full of pink lawn flamingos and chainlink fences.

And Dean doesn’t mean the good kind of eating ass, either. Nope, he means the swamp-ass, sunburned, get-mauled-by-an-alligator kind.

Because no matter how pretty the scenery looks – sugar-powder beaches and sea-glass tides, slats of the boardwalk bleached bone-white under a honeyed sky – the whole damn state feels cursed.

It’s humid enough to drown standing still, and the sand sticks to everything, including parts of him he’s not ready to confront.

And between the humidity thicker than chowder and the scent of fried seafood and moldy flip-flops lingering like a bad decision, every drone-sized mosquito here is carrying at least three diseases and a vendetta. The crime rate also looks like a Mad Libs page: “Florida Man assaults alligator while wearing tutu and high on bath salts.”

It’s too hot, too wet, and too damn weird and crazy. Every breath here tastes like sweat, regret, and a hint of swamp water.

Florida’s not even a real fucking state. Can’t be.

Dean’s convinced it’s a bad trip someone had in the ‘70s that somehow got voted into the union. The sun feels less like it’s shining and more like it’s attacking. Everyone’s either a retiree, a guy named Skip with a neck tattoo of a flaming dice, or some batshit meth-head who thinks they saw Bigfoot behind the Waffle House.

Dean hates it with every fiber of his being. Florida is Satan’s back porch.

And now, thanks to a string of weird drownings at a no-name beach town outside Destin, Dean is trapped in the sweaty armpit of the country, baking alive in jeans, while trying very hard not to stare at you.

Which is impossible.

Because you’re right next to him in a little turquoise lounge chair and a skimpy bikini the color of wild citrus – or tangerine, maybe. You hum a little tune – that stupid Weezer song that only plays on the radio during summer. You kick your feet lazily in the sun, flashing him a smile so bright he’s pretty sure it could get him legally blinded.

The bikini strings are tied in neat bows at your hips, a popsicle melting bright mango-orange between your fingers, and you’re working the thing over like it owes you goddamn money with the most sinful mouth he’s ever had the misfortune of knowing.

All tanned legs and unapologetic sunshine. A vision of temptation under the molten saffron sun.

Dean sweats. Internally and externally. Better than that: He is cooked. Absolutely fried. Every casual motion of yours is branding itself into his frontal lobe forever.

Your tongue flickers out again – pink and wet and glistening – smoothing a drip from the rounded tip, completely oblivious to the fact that you’re currently starring in every X-rated daydream Dean’s ever had.

His vision whites out at the edges.

You hum absently, flipping through the manila folder in your lap. Your voice floats over, sweet as saltwater taffy. “So,” you say, casual and sunny, “are we thinking mer-creature, or like, a shapeshifter with a thing for boats and aquatic cosplay? Or what if it’s a water demon? Like a kelpie, but more murdery?”

Dean makes a strangled sound that’s supposed to be a word but comes out more like a dog’s dying whimper.

You blink at him. Tilt your head. Wait.

Dean clears his throat. “Yeah. Mer-thing. Whatever.”

“Or,” you muse aloud, tongue darting out again to lap at a drip, “maybe it’s like–… like a water wraith? Something that sucks the breath outta your lungs?”

You pop the popsicle out of your mouth with an obscene little smack. Dean’s mouth works soundlessly. Because all he can imagine is you on your knees, tongue slick against him, big eyes wide and innocent while you–

Focus, he barks at himself. For the love of fucking God, focus, Winchester.

Dean swallows hard, dragging his eyes off your mouth and back down to the battered folder in your lap.

This isn’t normal. He’s doomed. Maybe even cursed.

Yeah, that’s gotta be it. He’s probably been hit with a lust spell. Florida is full of weird shit, right? That would explain why he’s three seconds away from dropping to his knees and offering to be your loyal, desperate, sunburnt servant.

But then again, this isn’t entirely new either.

You’ve been driving him nuts for goddamn years. Laughing too loud at his dumb jokes. Sitting too close in motel beds when you both casually watch movies. Calling him Winchester in that honeyed voice that makes him feel like he’s being dared to fuck up and kiss you.

And still, he’s always been good. Good at pretending. Good at stuffing all that want somewhere deep under rib and bone and battered leather jackets.

But this? This is fucking torture. This is some bikini-clad Greek tragedy, starring one dumbass in boots on a beach who can’t stop fantasizing about licking saltwater off your thighs.

He should be thinking about the case. About that water-witch or whatever the fuck they are hunting this time. He should be thinking about hex bags and salt rounds, not about how your bikini bottoms ride up just a little when you stretch your arms over your head–

Stop it!

You lean forward to show him something on a photocopied page and tap a newspaper clipping about the latest victim – some unlucky fisherman who swore he saw a “golden-scaled woman” before getting dragged into the shallows.

But the little bow at your hip shifts, skin glinting like bronzed sugar under the clear sky. Dean makes a small, wounded noise in his throat, and his brain immediately supplies another vivid fantasy:

You perched in his lap, that bow coming untied with a lazy pull of his fingers, your thighs slick and hot against him, the ocean thundering in the tropical background while you ride him so slow it borders on a religious experience.

He blinks against the burning sun, feels himself slipping again, heat and blood rushing downward. The image hits him so hard he has to adjust himself in his jeans, subtle as a heart attack.

His dick twitches miserably.

He slouches lower, trying to think of anything not filthy – taxes, Sam’s hair care routine, the time Bobby caught him naked in the kitchen with a meatball sub – but it’s useless.

“Dean? You even listening?” you ask, laughing, poking his leg with your sandy toes.

Dean grunts something noncommittal that might be English, jaw clenched so tight he’s surprised his teeth don’t shatter. He tries to answer. Really, he does. But the words get bottlenecked behind the visual of you dragging your tongue slowly up the side of the melting treat.

You bite your lip, thoughtful, tapping the end of the popsicle stick against your mouth. “Maybe it’s something worse,” you continue. “Like a siren who doesn’t seduce you to death, just… I dunno. Sucks you off and leaves you floating.”

Dean’s soul physically leaves his body.

You tilt your head, grinning wickedly. “You want me to suck you off too, Dean?”

Time freezes. The ocean quiets. The gulls still midair. Dean’s pulse slams loud and dizzy in his ears. His world narrows to you, your suntanned legs, the glint of sea-salt crystals on your skin, your bright and glistening mango lips.

Jesus fucking Christ.

You just–

Did you–

He stares at you, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. “Huh? What?” he croaks, voice pitched embarrassingly high.

You blink at him, then repeat – slowly, sweetly, “I said: Should we check if it sucks the breath outta people like a leech?”

“Uh, yeah,” he croaks. “Suckin’. Life. Outta dudes. Totally.”

You stare at him a second longer, suspicious, before shrugging and going back to the file.

Dean exhales, trying to will his hard-on into submission through sheer force of shame. You’re systematically dismantling his ability to think in complete sentences. His entire brain is on fire.

His internal organs shut down one by one. He drops his head back against the lounge chair, squeezing his green eyes shut. He is too old, too tired, and too desperately in love with you for this shit.

The sun beats down, hot and merciless, painting everything in shades of clementine and burning copper. Apricot umbrellas dot the beach like slices of candy. The ocean blinks lazy and endless, a rolling quilt of bottle-green and blue-fire sapphire. Seagulls wheel overhead, shrieking insults.

Dean’s mind drifts again.

He imagines dragging you down into the frothy surf, your hands curling into his hair, your giggles swallowed by the sea.

He imagines you mouthing at his jeans, impatient and greedy, while the sun sets behind you in a tangle of electric clementine and bruised lapis skies.

He imagines you kneeling between his legs, licking a stripe up the underside of his cock like you’re taste-testing it, humming around him, sweet and filthy and happy about it.

He imagines you under the boardwalk, hips rocking against his like the waves, bikini strings snapping loose with frantic fingers.

He imagines you bent over the hood of the Impala, bikini tangled around your ankles, hands bracing against the hot metal while he rails you like a man possessed.

He imagines your thighs caging his head, that same lazy, teasing look on your face, and him savoring your taste of sugar and salt and heat, while the whole crazy, humid, goddamn state of Florida spins off its axis.

“You’re quiet,” you chirp, tossing a sideways glance at him. “Florida getting to you?”

Dean clears his throat, gruff. “Yeah. Somethin’ like that, sweetheart.”

You raise your sunglasses, peeking at him over the frames. “You know, Winchester, you’re the only guy on this beach dressed like he’s about to sell used beach towels out of the back of a van."

Dean frowns, looking down at himself: worn boots, jeans, his favorite faded black tee with a sun-bleached flannel thrown over it. Practical. Battle-tested. Entirely inappropriate for beachside Florida.

“First of all,” he says, lifting a finger, “this is classic Americana ruggedness. Chicks dig it.”

You lean your head back and laugh, all bright and cruel. “You’re sweating through your ‘Americana ruggedness.’”

Dean scowls, dripping like a busted fire hydrant. “I told you. I’m not gonna wear fucking board shorts like all the other frat boy idiots here.”

You laugh again, the sound bright as bells, and Dean’s heart trips hard enough to hurt.

“You’re gonna die of heatstroke,” you tease. “Right here. Buried in Florida sand. Some old lady’s gonna find your corpse and knit you a ‘Bless Your Heart’ sweater.”

He snorts a chuckle. “I’ll haunt this beach just to piss you off.”

“Promise?” you ask, giving him a cheeky wink.

Dean is about five minutes away from lighting himself on fire. And honestly? Florida would probably consider it normal Tuesday behavior.

Your gaze drifts out to the ocean beyond your feet and sandy calves with a blissful little sigh. “It’s kinda pretty, though, isn’t it?”

Dean looks at you – skin kissed by flame-petals and sunset sugar, hair blowing soft in the briny breeze, popsicle stick clutched between your fingers like a crime scene weapon.

Yeah. Pretty.

Pretty much the goddamn end of him.

“Victim said he saw orange,” you murmur thoughtfully. “Bright, like-… like a koi? A clownfish?”

Dean is about to make a dumb Finding Nemo joke when you lick a bead of melted popsicle off your wrist, slow and absentminded.

And all Dean wants is to dig a hole right here in the sugar-white sand and bury himself alive in this cursed, gator-infested sandpit.

“Dean?”

He snaps back to reality so hard he gets whiplash. “What?” he wheezes.

You arch an eyebrow. “I said, should we check the tide charts? Maybe the creature only comes out during low tide.”

Dean coughs into his fist, face hotter than the sun overhead. “Uh, sure. Tide charts. Definitely. Research.”

But all he can think about is those legs locked around his waist, sand clinging to your thighs as he fucks you into the waves. You moaning into his neck, salty and sweet, fingers yanking at his shirt like you can’t stand to have him dressed another second.

You nibble at the edge of the popsicle, teeth scraping the melting mango sheen, and Dean watches helplessly as a single sticky bead runs down your wrist.

He fantasizes about leaning over, licking it off your skin, trailing his mouth up your arm to your shoulder, your throat, your mouth. He imagines you gasping against him, laughing breathless.

He fantasizes about hauling you out of that chair and onto his lap, mouth on yours, sticky hands sliding under the knot of your bikini top, tugging until you’re bared for him and only him, sunshine turning your skin to gold, and–

Greatly frustrated, Dean runs a hand down his freckled face. Why the fuck can’t he bring himself to stop? You’re unraveling him atom by atom.

But then, the fucking frozen treat drips again, and you lean forward to catch it with your mouth, lips wrapping tight around the end. Dean watches you hollow your cheeks slightly when you suck, head tilted thoughtfully like you’re considering footnotes and not absolutely wrecking his entire being. You pull the melting syrup back again with a soft, wet pop.

At this point, he wants to fucking throw himself into the ocean and let the sharks tear him apart like Hellhounds. He’s pretty sure his soul leaves his body, too.

He grips the arms of his chair so hard they creak in protest, knuckles turning white as he’s trying to tether himself to reality and not his fantasies.

Florida is hell.

You are hell.

And he’s a good man being punished for crimes he hasn’t even committed yet.

Dean shifts in his chair, crossing one leg over the other like that’ll hide the state of emergency going on in his jeans. He’s surprised no one here has asked any questions yet or called fucking 911.

Meanwhile, the world keeps spinning. The ocean rolls in lazy, glassy sheets of turquoise and teal. The sun licks liquid gold down your shoulders. The salt air curls the loose strands of your hair into a halo. And Dean – miserable, desperate, wildly in love – watches you polish off the last inch of your popsicle, tongue flicking the stick clean.

“Earth to Dean,” you sing-song, waving a hand in front of his face and kicking sand lightly at his boots.

Dean jerks back into consciousness. “Yeah?”

“Should we check out the marina witnesses after this?” you ask, tossing your popsicle stick into the trash bucket next to your chair.

Before he can say something catastrophic (like “Marry me right now” or “Please put your mouth on me, I'm begging”), Sam comes jogging up the beach, waving his phone like a savior in flannel.

“Got a lead! Marina worker said he saw something with gills and claws dragging people under.”

Dean launches out of his chair like his ass is on fire. A man escaping execution.

“Awesome. Let’s roll!” he barks, voice too loud and way too eager.

You tuck your notes into your beach bag and sling it over your shoulder, grinning wide and bright as the sunset. The same grin that ruined him long before the bikini did.

You hop up beside him, laughing, brushing sand off your thighs with maddening slow sweeps, and Dean bites back a groan so hard it nearly gives him a hernia.

“You sure you’re okay, Winchester?” you ask, teasing. “You looked like you were about to pass out there for a second.”

“I’m great,” Dean lies, voice strangled, letting the sun melt him into roadkill. “Peachy.”

“You sure? Seriously, you’re a walking heatstroke PSA,” you quip, hip-bumping him lightly as you fall into step beside him.

Dean coughs. “'M fine, sweetheart. Just… dehydration. And Florida. And mermaid murder.”

As you brush past him, the smell of your sunscreen and coconut shampoo punch him square in the gut. Dean follows, trying very, very hard not to watch the way your hips sway like you own the whole damn coastline.

He thinks about how easy it would be to slip his arm around your waist, how natural it would feel to lean in, to kiss you like he’s wanted to for years. Instead, he shoves his hands deep into his jeans pockets and marches grimly through the sand, already planning a quick, ice-cold shower and about eight beers after this job’s done.

Yeah, Florida is one hell of a drug, but you’re the one that fucked him up.

Okay, I may have had way too much fun with torturing Dean here. Forgive me, guys 😂☀️🏝️

Hope you enjoyed this one! 🩵

Tag List Pt. 1:

@alwaystiredandconfused @xlynnbbyx @lyarr24 @deans-spinster-witch @blackcherrywhiskey

@deansbbyx @foxyjwls007 @ladysparkles78 @roseblue373 @zepskies

@agalliasi @yvonneeeee @hobby27 @iamsapphine @globetrotter28

@lori19 @lacilou @feyresqueen @suckitands33 @onlyangel-444

@syrma-sensei @perpetualabsurdity @yoobusgoobus @jessjad @dayhsdreaming

@hunter-or-the-hunted @k-slla @just-levyy @mrsjenniferwinchester @illicithallways

@muhahaha303 @ultimatecin73 @nancymcl @leigh70 @brightlilith

@nesnejwritings @samslvrgirl @xx-spooky-little-vampire-xx @fromcaintodean @barewithme02

@impala67rollingthroughtown @star-yawnznn @spnaquakindgdom @thej2report @americanvenom13

@lamentationsofalonelypotato @supernotnatural2005 @stoneyggirl2 @kr804573 @m0e0v0v

[theyhavetakenovermylife]

I love your writing! Can you please write a 2003!Leo X reader where Leo shows up at their apartment injured so they bandage him up and give him some comfort (by making him lay down and relax while they ride him)👀

Injured (Angst/Fluff) (18+)

2003!Leonardo x reader

A/N: Finally got around to write something!💚 I’ve been so busy, but I hope this was worth the wait💚 Btw, I’ve just started watching the Fallout series, so I had to stop myself from going to gorish.

All characters are aged up.

Warnings: Description of wound, blood, mentioning of sewing a wound, masturbation?, stripping, unprotected sex, cowgirl position, implied orale - female receiving.

“What the hell happened?!”, you asked in a panic as you helped Leo in through your window, your body shaking at the sight of his hand, clutching his bleeding side, covering the palm of his hand in a deep red color.

“Foot ninjas”, your boyfriend muttered through gritted teeth, pain shooting across his face with every move, as you guided him towards the couch. “Wanted to get some night training in, but they surprised me. I was just lucky to be so close by”.

“Does anybody know that you’re out?”, you asked, your mind raising trying to remember everything that the turtles had taught you, in case something like this would happen. Granted, you had never thought it would happen…

“Yes”, Leo answered, his voice straining a bit, trying to cover the pain in his right side, while watching you hurry through your apartment, in order to find everything you needed. He knew very well that you were trying to keep him talking. Talking and awake. “I asked if they wanted to come along, but they said no. Probably a good thing”.

You almost fell down next to the couch, fumbling with the first aid kit in your hands, taking deep breaths in order to calm yourself. Just like Leo had taught you. And finally, you were able to open the first aid kit, feeling some form of calm wash over you, as you got to work on Leo’s wound.

You had never heard Leo make such sounds as the ones he did that night. He groaned in pain when you sewed his injury shut, his hands clutching on the couch pillows, his breathing heavy as he tried to calm himself. The pain a mutant was able to go through was still hard for you to wrap your head around. And for a moment you had to steady yourself, in order not to let your hands shake once again.

Once you had finally bandaged Leo’s wound, you helped him from your couch and into your bedroom, laying him down on your bed, so that he could relax, while you took on the task of cleaning your living room, from the red blood he had brought with him. You disinfected the hard surfaces, and took the fabric off of your couch, contemplating whether or not you should try to bleach it, or just get a whole new set. In the end, you decided to worry about it another day.

“How are you feeling?”, you asked as you reentered your bedroom, seeing Leo still laying on your bed.

“Better”, Leo smiled. “Can already feel it healing”.

“The perks of being a mutant”, you smiled, before taking a seat next to your boyfriend.

“I guess so”, Leo said, his hand instinctively finding yours, before interlocking your fingers.

You sat like this for a moment, smiling at each other, looking into each others’ eyes, before Leo's hands slowly came to your face, his thumb stroking your cheek. You instinctively knew what this gesture meant, and with a small chuckle, you leaned down, before pressing your lips to Leo’s in a soft and sweet kiss. Leo let out a small hum - a sound of joy and relaxation. Sure, his wound may have been taken care of, but that did not change his still somewhat alert stage. So to feel you like this against him, made him calm down. His breathing deeper and his touch heavier against your cheek. You had experienced Leo’s minor changes in actions before, knowing very well what effect you had on him. Therefore it did not surprise you when his small hum turned into a small churr, somewhere deep within his chest, the hand on your face getting a soft yet firm grip on the side of your face. It was almost instinctive. Sudden yet very slow. Leo was holding back, both because of his wound, but also because of you. He would never do anything without making sure that it was okay with you.

With another small chuckle, you leaned your head to the side, allowing you to deepen your kiss, Leo’s hand moving from your face to your hair, tangling his fingers with your locks. You felt Leo’s tongue glide across your lower lip, asking you for entrance, which you gladly accepted. Your tongues danced together in a sloppy dance, small sounds of joy and excitement escaping the two of you.

Leo placed his other hand on the mattress, leaning on it as he tried to sit up, your lips still on each other. But he did not get far before you pushed him back down on the bed, breaking your kiss as you did so. Leo looked up at you in slight confusion, only to be met by a mischievous smile by you.

“You’re injured”, you said, your hands finding the bottom of your shirt before pulling it off. “And it’s my job to take care of you”.

Catching on to what you meant, Leo let out a strangled noise, feeling the need behind his cloaca grow. With lustful eyes he watched as your hands moved to the zipper of your pants, before slowly taking them off. Had he not had a gash in his side, he would have jumped on you by now. Instead he settled for curling one arm up around his head, letting his other slowly run towards his cloaca as he watched you slide your pants down your legs.

Once your pants were off, your hands slowly ran from your hips up to your chest, where you let your hands glide over your bra covered breasts. Catching Leo’s eyes as you did so, he let out another wounded sound, before slowly undoing himself from his cloaca, holding his erect member in his hand while he waited for you to continue your little show for him. And you did, undoing your bra before letting it fall to the floor, so that your hands could start massaging your chest. Leo chuckled with a small smile, his hand slowly beginning to work up and down his member.

“Beautiful”, he mumbled, his voice having gone deeper and slightly raspy, making your panties more wet than they already were. “Absolutely beautiful”.

You felt pride bobble within you. Leo’s words always seemed to have that kind of effect on you. Just like you could turn him on with his, so could he turn you on. And he knew it. He could smell it, your scent strong in the air, making him just a little light headed. And he loved it. He had always loved what the scent of your arousal was able to do to him.

Your hands went from your breasts and down to the hem of your underwear, taking a hold of them by hooking your thumbs, before slowly pulling them down your hips, all while maintaining your intense eye contact with Leo. This had Leo churring much louder, with his hand quickening its motion on his erect member. What eye contact couldn’t do to this man.

You let your panties fall to the floor before stepping out of them, making your way up on the bed, stradling Leo’s waist. Having retracted his hand from his member, in order to make room for you, Leo’s hands came to rest on your thighs, needling the flesh, before letting his right hand move upwards, with the intent of cupping your sex. However, you slapped his hand away with another mischievous smile.

“I just told you, I’m the one that’s going to take care of you”.

Leo relented, letting his hands run mindlessly up and down your thighs, watching as you took his throbbing member into your hand, letting your thumb run over the tip of his head, smearing his precum around.

Leo’s brow muscles frowned as he let out a shaky breath, watching your hand do slow tugs on him, before carefully lining him up with your entrance, teasing both you and him.

“(Y/N)...”, Leo let out in a low moan, his fingers holding on tight to your thighs.

You bit your lip with a smile, knowing exactly what it was that your boyfriend wanted, making sure that you were lined up, before slowly sliding down upon him. You let out a breathy moan as you felt his thickness stretch you out, the sound of Leo’s churring only becoming stronger and louder, his hands becoming restless on your thighs once more. If it wasn’t from the wound on his side, he would have thrusted up into you. He would have pulled you down, so that you would lay flat against his plastron, where he could allow himself to pound into you relentlessly. But he couldn’t, leaving his at the mercy of you to give him needed.

“Now, lay still”, you said, already breathless just from his size, before you slowly started to rise up his member, only to slide back down on it once more, making you both moan from the small wave of pleasure. You repeated the motion, slowly increasing your speed as you went.

“Shit, babe”, Leo groaned, watching as your chest began to bounce with your movements, one of his hands grabbing one with a squish. You in turn let out a louder moan, before angling your legs, allowing you to increase your speed even further, your skin slapping against his with every bounce, the head of his member hitting the spot of your insides with ease.

With the increase of your speed, Leo threw his head back with a moan, closing his eyes momentarily at the amazing feeling of your tight wet walls around him.

“Don’t stop, babe”, Leo moaned, his eyes still closed and his face showing the relaxation and pleasure he was feeling. “Please don’t stop, (Y/N)”.

His words spurred you on, your hands coming to rest on his chest, providing you more support with each move. One of Leo’s hands found yours on his chest, stroking it with his thumb, watching your form above him, the looks he was giving you sending shivers and tingles straight to your core.

It might have been Leo’s slightly weakened state, or the fact that you made him calm down after a period of intense emotions with adrenaline rushing, but to his surprise, Leo already found the pressure build up behind his cloaca, alerting him to the fact that he was getting close. And you knew Leo well enough to know that he was close as well. From the restlessness of his hands feeling up your body, the way that his legs were moving behind you, and how his hips fought to move with you, was letting you know how close he was getting to his high.

“Want to cum?”, you asked sweetly. Leo nodded, his hooded yet lustful eyes never leaving yours. It was strange yet incredibly erotic to see him like this. Normally he was full of energy, having to use his impressive self control to hold himself back from fucking your brains out. But right now it wasn’t an option. With Leo’s wound and his body relaxing after such a high state, he did not have energy to hold back or hold his hips still, nor did he have the energy to force you down on the mattress and plow into you. He was truly at your mercy.

“Yes”, Leo almost whimpered, his fingers lightly clawing at your hips. “Fuck, yes please. I want to cum”.

The sound of Leo begging was new to you. Usually he would be the one calling the shots in the bedroom, edging you over and over again, and making you beg before he would let your orgasm take over you. But now, as your normally dominant boyfriend was begging beneath you, you suddenly understood why he wanted you to do the same usually. It felt like a powerrush. It was almost too good not to enjoy. And had Leo not been injured, you might have done it. Toyed with it, and do the same to him like he usually did to you. But you decided against it, not wishing to accidentally make his injury worse. Tonight the goal was to make Leo relax, and provide him comfort.

You leaned your face down to Leo’s, where you gave him a quick kiss, before moving your lips to neck, passing by where his ears would have been, whispering to him in a sultry voice; “Then cum for me, babe”.

And Leo did, moving his head to the side, giving you space to work your lips over his neck, while he came inside of you, his hips buckling as much as his wound would allow him to, his churrs and moans filling the room, making the excitement in your core grow even stronger.

Once Leo was calming down from his high, you moved to get off of him and lay down on the bed, letting his member slip out of you. But before you could get up from your straddling position, Leo stopped you with his hands on your waist.

“Where do you think you’re going?”, he asked with a slight mischievous glint in his eyes.

“I’m going to lay down so we can cuddle”, you said. “Just like we always do when we’re done”.

“Nah, we’re not done”, Leo said, pulling your hips back to his.

“But Leo, your wound-”.

“My wound is on my side, not on my face”, your boyfriend said, catching you off guard, leaving you stunned for a moment. He smiled at you, enjoying the look on your face, tugging at your hips. “Now, move up, sweetheart. I can’t heal without eating”.

Who would have thought that even a wounded Leo, would find ways to make you beg all night long…

[beardedalcoholic]

Battle Gods

First Medical officer of the Galactic Union Revka Jihar looked on in awe as the human zipped from one console to other.

Sliding her chair from one side of the room to the other only to go back she displayed a true mastery of her job. Coordinating rank upon rank of human shock trooper forces into position, confirming approval of Human Medium Force Allowed, checking and double checking the health status of hundreds of humans, receiving reports from multiple divisions of engineers and mechanics about the status of one drop group or another…it was overwhelming to the Kalarian to watch.

“Shock Troopers stand by to stand by for final approval on drop, med squads confirm ready stations for injured, eng corps get those fucking launch tubes in the green before I come down there and fire you out one by one until I am satisfied my boys won’t hit atmo looking like strawberry jam, Hell Jumpers get to your pods and strap in we have yellow light on drop and I am not waiting for any Late Lucys should we get green.”

The rapid-fire communication of the humans had never ceased to amaze Revka, how they could say so much with so few words using only inflection, context, tone, body language and a myriad of other factors that they themselves seemed un-aware of.

Keys rattled like gunfire beneath First Rank Orbital Shock Drop Coordinator Amelia Hargrove’s nimble fingers, screens bloomed in thin air only to be replaced by others as they were dismissed. Within barely a handful of human minutes Frist Rank Hargrove sat back limply in her chair with her arms hanging down the sides as she breathed deeply in seeming exhaustion, Revka knew better though, he had seen this human go cycles without rest or nutrition.

An alert from the single remaining screen in front of the human grabbed her attention and her head snapped up from its slumped over position, the gleam of anticipation and sudden movement reminding Revka of the humans’ predatory lineage. Jumping to her feet with enough force to send her division command chair sliding back on tracks laid into the floor to the edge of the large room they occupied Amelia commed the captain of the ship.

“Captain Shelsa, Shock Trooper Command…I have green on all drop requirements, personnel and approval…Awaiting Final Command.”

Amelia Stood disturbingly still and focused as she awaited the order from her captain to release the humans upon the world beneath them. Revka stood in the back of the room next to the abandoned chair, furiously making notes upon his digital clipboard without even looking down at it.

Being the first species other than human to witness the deployment of Shock Troopers into an active battle field Revka was not about to miss a single documentable moment of what he was witnessing. The tension in the air radiating from the human in the middle of the large room was almost enough to choke him, the human had not moved in the slightest since her last communication, her muscles seemed to bunch beneath her skin tight command suit as the micro-cycles slid by, until…

“Shock Command, Captain Shelsa…you are green for trooper drop, repeat you are green for drop…Amelia!” First Rank Hargrove’s head snapped up at the sound of desperation and pain in the captain��s voice.

“Yes Captain? I am here.”

“…Amelia, these, monsters attacked earth…they struck down schools and hospitals…these invaders took my baby girl from me without warning or reason given…invoke the Battle Gods….”

First Rank Amelia went dead silent and painfully rigid from this last command. It was well known humans had music for all occasions and that they would perform different tasks with more or less efficiency depending on if music was being played to them and depending on the task or musical selection.

Revka felt his feathers bleach of all color at the last command…it was not a command given with hopes of leaving survivors, the Battle God Queen was something of a legend among different species due to the effect said music had on humans…but these last words were spoken with such cold venom Revka had to grip the deck plates with his talons to keep himself from bolting in fear. Revka watched as the Orbital Shock Drop Coordinator calmly answered in the affirmative, slipped an Augmented Reality Visor over her eyes and seemed to deflate as tension left her body.

Walking to the middle of the room First Rank Amelia began to glow softly as synaptic relays lit up across her suit, lines of light racing from her toes to her visor and everywhere in between, muscles slid with liquid grace beneath her suit as she stalked forward.

It started gently…hands lifting to flow through screens only she could now see through her visor…hands and arms moving like the conductor of a symphony Revka had seen on earth. With each movement a new small screen came to life around Coordinator Amelia, each screen containing a new face…the faces of her boys…the faces of humanities most feared ground-based battle troops…the Orbital Shock Troopers known only as the Hell Jumpers.

No words were spoken at first, Amelia simply stood there under the gaze of over five hundred trained, battle hardened, soldiers. Soldiers that were about to be dropped from orbit onto a planet light years away from home into a raging warzone with nothing but a small pod made to break away on impact to protect them from the heat and violence of atmospheric entry. None looked scared, no tears were shed in fear or pain, this was simply another good day to die for these individuals Revka realized.

“Kikiki! Kakaka!” The suddenness of Coordinator Amelia’s cry and movement nearly had Revka molting a full tails worth of feathers. Amelia slammed one foot down to her side so that she was bent at the knees.

“Kauana kei waniwania taku tara” Hands slapped into her thighs and stomach muscles in time to her chant.

“kei tarawahia, kei te rua i te kerokero!” Feet stomped and hands slapped as she continued her chant, voice raising to echo throughout the room.

“He pounga rahui te uira” Amelia’s voice rang with a clarion call to battle, it vibrated with the rage of an entire race that had been wronged as she raised a fist and slapped her arms.

“ka rarapa ketekete kau ana” Revka felt sorry for himself as he watched the display before him as he had not thought to make arrangements for his newly born clutch of whelps should he perish on this mission.

“To peru kairiri mau au e koro e!” Looking at the many images of the Shock Troopers arrayed before and around the still stamping and chanting Coordinator Revka could see that each one was focused upon her with a burning intensity.

” Hi! Ha! - Ka wehi au ka matakana,” Eyes narrowed, teeth were bared in rictus smiles, pulses throbbed in necks, nostrils flared in anticipation as the chanting grew somehow louder and more fervent.

“ko wai te tangata kia rere ure tirohanga” First Rank Amelia stamped and pounded her feet into the ground as if to defy fate to move her, as if she was seeing the future and challenging it to be anything other than what she demanded it to be.

“ngā rua rerarera” Hands slapped and struck with force that would shatter the bones of Revka’s species like she was trying to beat reality into submission and bend it to her will.

“ngā rua kuri kakanui i raro! Aha ha!” With one final strike First Rank Orbital Shock Drop Coordinator Amelia Hargrove let loose a sound that would haunt Revka’s rest cycles for the rest of his life.

The sound that echoed throughout the room seemed to contain all the suffering that had been felt at the hands of the enemy, all the pain of loss and the rage of those who could not do anything to seek retribution for those wronged. Screens lit up as each trooper dropped from the belly of the ship into the planet’s gravity well, each and every face pulled into a mask of rage and determination beneath face shields snapping into position.

Revka thought that perhaps the spectacle was over now that the humans had been sent planet side…until Coordinator Amelia’s arm snapped out and with a few deft movements brought up a simple non-standard screen.

The media screen floated barely a hairs breadth from the end of Amelia’s finger tips as she scrolled down a list of songs. With little more than a thought a song was selected and broadcasted to every shock trooper, soldier and crewman.

Drums beat and strings were plucked with a sense of anger lurking behind the sounds, after only a few seconds of this First Rank Amelia began to sing in a tone of voice unlike anything Revka had heard from the normally bubbly and flirty Coordinator, like gravel grinding in honey and rising into an angry cry tinged with desperation.

I feel the pressure is building in me

 My stomach's sick, it's getting harder to breathe

 I hear the screaming, I feel the disease

 It's burning me up and there is nothing to breathe

Will you crawl with me

 Will you stand with me

Would you follow me

Would you believe with me

Tell me you'll breathe with me,

 tell me you'll die with me

Come on, get on, let me hear your war cry!

Come on, get on, let me hear your war cry!

Come on, get on, let me hear your war cry!

Yell it out, do or die

Let me hear your war cry!

The battle that followed after the start of this terrifying song was less a battle and more a chaotic slaughter of the enemy. Humans that had been forged of star matter and tempered over eons of living on a death world and driven by madness channeled from a world in pain through musical Battle Gods dark and ancient tore across the land. They fell from the skies in gouts of flame like avenging angles come to strike down the very gates of Hell, no enemy was spared, no mercy given nor asked.

The battle had been long and hard, the final count of the dead had come out to one hundred and seven troopers lost out of over five hundred…a small number but one that was felt like a hammer blow among those that knew them.

Revka had stayed and watched the entire time as Coordinator Amelia somehow split her attention between directing troop movements and battle plans all while continuing to dance and sing to various songs of battle and victory. When the final call of victory came over the open channels the music was allowed to stop and First Rank Amelia fell still. Her arms hung limp at her sides…screens showing haggard and haunted faces of her soldiers, her troopers, her boys signing off one by one as they went to seek medical aid or further orders, synaptic relays dimming from a fiery blaze to a pale glow until they too fell silent and dark.

Revka walked slowly from his position in the back of the room towards the silent and still figure of the human known among the crew as Battle Siren…the one human who was expected to endure the responsibility of coordinating hundreds of war machines, who was given authority to make decisions in battle and who had to carry the weight of those decisions. As he got closer Revka noticed a new taste on the air, sharp and salty…not sweat, he didn’t have sweat glands and the skin suit Amelia was wearing prevented her body from needing to sweat…tears? Yes, Revka could taste the salt of tears on the air.

Slowly coming around to face the Battle Siren Revka was somewhat surprised to find a river of tears slowly falling from under the AR visor. With a deep breath as if she was emerging from deep waters Amelia lifted the visor from her tear-soaked eyes and seemed to stare through the bulkheads and deep into the void, then in a soft whisper she said a single sentence that would be taken to the Galactic Council and repeated again and again among those who thought to strike out against the humans.

“They sowed the wind with their strike against our young and injured…so too did they reap the hurricane of our vengeance.”

With that single sentence spoken a new sound began to emanate from the Coordinator, a long drawn out note not unlike the tune of a bell. Revka backed away and made his way out of the room, the Battle Siren had begun to sing a new song but not one of war and conquest, rather a song of pain and history filled with conflict but also about seasons changing and hope prevailing. The humans may have had a great pantheon of voices to channel inspiration from when going into battle, but so too did it seem that they had ones for peace and healing.

[dokkamj]

RIGHT PLACE, RIGHT TIME

some of the characters are created by me to gave some layers at the story. But still, Simon Ghost Riley is from call of duty, enjoy.

english is not my first language, sorry for grammar mistakes!!🤍

-

it was midnight and you were thirsty as hell, and it was hot, that’s why you hated summer, at least when it was cold you could cover yourself but in summer?? makes you wanna rip your skin off.

you drag yourself out of bed, yesterday training was rough, the bruises on your legs, arms and ribs could tell. But you won the sparring, that’s what matters.

whit sleepy eyes you get in the kitchen walking on your tiptoes to don’t wake the rest of the Task Force sleeping in their rooms at the squad apartment.

yawning and feeling like you where about to melt, you opened the fridge grab a bottle of water and gasped loudly and bring yourself in guard position.

“Oh chill young lady” you immediately recognize Ghost voice, you laughed and notice that he was well- shirtless.“fuck- what you doing here?” you ask but he was too focused on something else.

you look down to see if maybe you had something on your t-shirt, but you didn’t have your t-shirt at all, you gulped crossing your arms and sigh trying not to blush. you probably take it off during the hot night.

“care to explain why you are here, Ghost?” you asked, he look up at you embarrassed from the face that you catch him stare for too long, he gulped and look out the window that was right next at both of you.

“well Ace asked me to pick him up, as he couldn’t drive guess he had too many drinks, and he also spilled one of those on me” he said with a shrug, oh that’s why he was shirtless huh?

“if only Deacon will find out” you murmur before sigh, pinching your nose nervously. “he will be fine, don’t ya’ worry” he said with his Manchester accent.

you take a sip from the bottle of water “have a cig?” you asked, since your sleepiness disappeared when Ghost catch you off guard. He gave you one and grab one for himself too.

you open the window and light it up turn around “stil here?” you teased him before chuckle “funny girl aith’cha?” he grinned as he take a puff of his cigarette.

“gotta’stay here until 7am, since i left my keys in my squad apartment, i don’t wanna wake up Price” he says looking out the window. “mh i understand” you said.

“like ya’ new hair” he pointed out and you rolled your hair, last week at one of the barracks party you drank that much with the rest of your squad that you passed out on the couch, and of course Rocket had the brilliant idea to bleach your hair in white.

“oh really funny” you said as you grab one of your locks and start to play with it. “nah, not lying here, telli’n the truth, withe seems ya’ color” he said and you look away feeling flattered.

“wanna give you a compliment too but seems you like to hide yourself pretty boy” you teased him and chuckle as you take another puff of the cigarette between your fingers, was he trying to flirt in some way or another? you ask at yourself.

“hmm, it’s not that i don’t like to show myself little thing, but for the safety for person like ya’, that i need to protect” he says getting closer to you, and you stay there with a puzzle look on your face.

“huh? what do you mean?” you ask “i don’t need to be protect” you said, he chuckles “i know ya’ can handle ya’ self pretty well doll, but still-“ he trailed of as he didn’t want to talk about it, you heard many voice about Ghost being a prisoner of war, but you didn’t have the guts to ask.

“mh, i appreciate then” you said pinching his arm, you could see a smile appearing on his lips “wait you have some ash here” he said cup your cheek on his palm brush away the ash of the cigarette away from you.

his palm go grab your chin, and you couldn’t help but stare at him as he got closer, your hand grab his wrist gently, you don’t want him to step back.

your faces get closer, feeling his breath mixing with yours “Ghost…” you trailed off as he pose his lips on yours in a gentle kiss, other hand on your bleached hair.

god, he needed this so bad.

“yeah? sweetheart?” he murmur on your lips “we are not supposed-“ you trailed of as another kiss got on your lips “i like you y/n, always look around to see if you are next to me” he admit, you blushed, it was the same for you, you always had a little crush for him just a little…

“thought i wasn’t your type” you murmur and chuckle “ya’ definitely ma’ type sweet thing” he said before kiss your forehead.

[elementaldoughnut12]

"Poked, Painted, Pierced"

*contains needles, minor blood and mention of sexual act*

*This involves CM Punk so if you don't like then don't read!*

Doughnut Team: @afterdarkprincess @thlayli-ra

“Shit, where is it?!?” Cody says worryingly as he looks in the cabinet under the sink. He's currently looking for his spare box of hair bleach because he's starting to see his original brown hair color at the roots. He's also trying to stay quiet so he doesn't wake up his husband. He realizes that the bleach isn't under the cabinet and sighs. Cody presses his forehead against the edge of the sink and tries to think of what to do.

“I could always use a yellow marker or something” Cody says as he looks at himself in the mirror. “You could, but then you'll look like an idiot” a voice says behind him, catching the man's attention. Cody turns around and sees it's his husband, Punk. “I'm sorry, did I wake you up?” Cody asks worryingly as Punk walks up to him. “Nah, I was awake when you got up to go to the bathroom” Punk says casually. “So you decided to watch me suffer?” Cody asks with a small smile.

“You remind me of a raccoon looking for trash, it's kinda adorable” Punk answers truthfully as he snacks on a granola bar. “Where did you get a granola bar?” Cody asks curiously. “Stashed it in my little dresser next to the bed” Punk says as he takes another bite. “Phil, I told you not to do that anymore!” Cody says as he glares at his husband. “What's the problem with it? I throw away my trash after I eat” Punk says with a confused tone.

“Yeah, but the crumbs you leave in the bed attract rodents! I already have enough to worry about and this shouldn't be one of them!” Cody says, clearly stressed out. Punk doesn't react at all and shoves the granola bar in Cody's face. “What are you doing?!?” Cody asks with a confused tone. “You're clearly stressed the fuck out so I'm trying to feed you” Punk answers as Cody just looks at him. “Come on, eat it! It's your favorite!” Punk says as he shakes the granola bar in front of Cody.

Cody continues to stare at him which leads to an idea sparking in Punk's mind. He takes a bite of the bar without chewing on it and kisses Cody. He slips the food from his mouth to Cody's while trying carefully to not knock Cody's teeth with his tongue bar. When he pulls back, Cody is a blushing mess and slowly chewing. “Feel better?” Punk asks with a smirk. “Yes, thank you” Cody says with his mouth full as he chews and swallows.

“No problem now, can you tell me why you're trying to cosplay a sunflower?” Punk asks jokingly, causing Cody to sigh. “My hair is growing out which means the bleach is too” Cody explains. “Yeah, I can see the roots which are easy to cover! Still don't understand why you're stressing over it though” Punk says as he throws away his wrapper. “Cause tomorrow is the Elimination Chamber and me telling Rock that I'm not gonna be his corporate fuckboy!” Cody says a bit worryingly.

“So you don't want him to find a weakness of yours while also trying to make a statement” Punk explains casually with a smile. “Was my stress that obvious?” Cody asks with a small smile. “Yeah, but I think I know a way to help” Punk says as he walks out the bathroom. Cody was confused as all hell until his husband came back with a box of hair bleach. “Where the hell did you get that?!?” Cody asks in shock.

“I've kept it hidden for this exact moment” Punk says with a smirk. “You're an asshole, you know that?” Cody says with a giggle. “Yeah, but you love me regardless! Now, follow me to the kitchen so I can fix your midlife crisis” Punk says jokingly as he walks out the bathroom again but with Cody following behind him. “You're six years older than me” Cody says as they make it to the kitchen. “Yeah but you don't see me doing anything drastic!” Punk says as he grabs a plastic bowl and spoon.

“The piercings and tats tell a whole different story” Cody says under his breath, which Punk clearly hears. “Babe, I got these years ago! They tell what kind of person I am and prove what kind of statement I wanted to make in the world. That statement was being someone who broke the mold and decided to be their own person” Punk explains which makes sense to Cody.

“Then why are you with a vanilla boy scout like me if you wanted to break the mold? Wouldn't being with a boring person do the opposite of what you're trying to do?” Cody asks which shocks Punk. “I meant to break the mold in the wrestling division! I would never give up my little boytoy” Punk says affectionately, causing Cody to blush. “I don't deserve you sometimes” Cody says quietly. “Yes you do you blonde himbo” Punk says jokingly as he kisses Cody. The younger man whimpers when he feels his husband's cold lip ring against his face.

Punk pulls back with a smirk on his face. “Before this gets too far, let's get back to the task at hand ok?” Punk asks with a laugh. “F-Fine” Cody says quietly as he sits in the chair. Punk turns back to the counter and puts on some gloves. He opens up the box, pours the bleach and developing lotion into the bowl and starts mixing. “I forgot how much that stuff stinks” Cody says as he covers his face. “That's the price of a dye job babe” Punk says casually as he grabs the tint brush.

Punk walks over to Cody and applies the bleach from front to back of Cody's head. “You look like a pineapple” Punk says with a laugh. “Love the constant bullying I'm getting today! So how long do I gotta wait?” Cody asks curiously. “I think thirty minutes? Why, you hungry? Want me to feed you again?” Punk asks with a smirk, causing Cody to blush again. “Sometimes I wonder if I was drunk when I married you” Cody says jokingly, receiving an eye roll from Punk.

“Sometimes I wonder how I got so lucky marrying a blonde twink” Punk says with a smile. Cody was about to say something until they heard the sound of the timer going off. “Hell yeah, my favorite part! Scraping time!” Punk says excitedly as he grabs a come. He gently scrapes the bleach away from Cody's hair. Cody notices that when Punk is focused he sticks his tongue out a bit which is kinda cute. “OK I think that's the last of it!” Punk says proudly.

“Does it look ok?” Cody asks as he tries to look in the mirror but is stopped by Punk. “Yeah no, you ain't looking til it's finished boy scout” Punk says sweetly as he takes Cody to the sink. “You better not drown me” Cody says as he puts his head in the sink. “Wouldn't imagine it hon” Punk says as he grabs the shampoo. He started washing Cody's hair which was relaxing to Cody. Cody lets out a sigh of relief which Punk notices.

“Enjoying yourself?” Punk asks sweetly, Cody slowly nodding in response. “Yeah, I definitely needed this… makes me wanna go to sleep” Cody says quietly, causing Punk to chuckle a bit. He forgot his husband gets sleepy after taking a shower or getting his hair washed. “We can go back to sleep later babe! Next we gotta tone your hair” Punk says as he ushers Cody back to his chair. He grabs the colorant, mixes it with the developing lotion and shakes the bottle.

“Shake! Shake! Shake! Senora!” Punk sings, causing Cody to laugh. “You're so dumb” Cody says through laughter. “Says the guy who literally got a rubber chicken thrown at him at a pay-per-view” Punk says with a laugh of his own. He then grabs a different brush and brushes Cody's hair with the toner from front to back. Punk then proceeds to smoosh the toner all over Cody's hair, making sure not to miss a spot. “Now we just gotta wait twenty minutes this time” Punk says as he leans against the counter.

They stay silent for a few minutes until Cody speaks up. “Hey Phil?” Cody asks a bit nervously. “Yeah babe what's up?” Punk asks, kinda confused on why his husband is nervous. “Earlier you said you changed your appearance to make a statement… what if I wanna do that too?” Cody asks as he looks into Punk's eyes. “You wanna get tatted and pierced? Seriously?” Punk asks curiously. “Yeah, I already got my neck tat so what not add one more and a little piercing ain't gonna hurt right?” Cody asks with a smile.

“Oh sweet sunshine boy, being with me has fucked up your brain hasn't it?” Punk asks, causing Cody to laugh. The timer goes off again which catches both men's attention. “Ok babe, time to use conditioner” Punk says as Cody once again goes back to the sink. Punk pours some conditioner onto Cody's hair and starts washing it again. “This makes me wanna get a pool” Cody says casually, causing Punk to laugh. “We'll talk about it when your brain isn't full of cotton” Punk says sweetly as he finishes washing Cody's hair.

He then ushers Cody back to his chair once again and grabs a towel. “I can dry my own hair off you know?” Cody asks with a smile. “Yeah, but I like doing this better! It's like drying off a dog” Punk says jokingly, causing Cody to roll his eyes. Punk dries Cody's hair with the towel. “Now you look normal again!” Punk says as he takes his gloves off. “Am I allowed to look now?” Cody asks curiously as he tries to look in the reflective surface of their oven.

His husband notices that and opens the oven door. “You really are an impatient little shit aren't you?” Punk asks with a smirk. “How long have you known me?” Cody asks with a cheeky grin. “Fair point, but anyways you stay here while I go get my piercing kit alright?” Punk asks, Cody nodding in response. While Punk goes to their bedroom, Cody waits patiently. He then looks around to see if he's the only one in the kitchen. Once the coast is clear, he gets up to go to the cabinet and grabs the bag of gummy worms he has stashed in there.

Trolli was his all time favorite brand of gummy and he popped a few in his mouth. He moaned at the sour taste of them and even kicked his feet a bit, excited over getting to eat them. “Enjoying yourself over there?” Punk asks jokingly, causing Cody to freeze up. “I wanted something sweet” Cody says while blushing from embarrassment. “You're so adorable sometimes! Anyways here's some rings you can pick out” Punk says as he sets a case on the table and opens it.

Inside were nose rings of different metals, sizes and designs. “Did you also hide these for this exact moment?” Cody asks curiously as he looks at the jewelry in awe. “Nah, I had these from when I used to have my nose pierced” Punk says confidently. “Why don't you wear them now?” Cody asks as he continues looking. “Let's just say… don't ever wear them during a street fight” Punk explains, causing Cody to cringe a bit. “Good to know, also I choose this one” he says happily as he points at the ring.

It's a simple silver bull ring with gold and diamonds engraved on it. “You sure? You know those aren't real jewels right?” Punk asks as he puts on a new pair of gloves. “Yeah, but it fits my aesthetic doesn't it?” Cody asks with a smile. “What, being fake or being extra?” Punk asks with a laugh. Cody just pouts as he looks away from him. “Aww, don't look at me like that sweetheart! I'm just messing with you” Punk says as he grabs Cody's face and kisses him.

Cody leans into the kiss which makes him feel better. “Feel better, cupcake?” Punk asks with a smirk. “Yes” Cody answers with a blush. “You ready to get pierced?” Punk asks as he grabs his piercing kit. “Are you talking about your needle or something else?” Cody asks with a smirk of his own. “Go lay on the couch before I actually fuck you senseless” Punk says as he points to the living room. Cody lets out a laugh as he goes into the living room with Punk trailing behind him.

He lays on the couch with his head dangling off the arm. Cody lets out a squeak when his husband straddles his chest. “Calm down, I'm only doing this so I can get a better view of your nose! Don't cum your pants over it” Punk says with a laugh, causing Cody to glare at him. “Dick” Cody says quietly. “You'll get that later” Punk says with a wink as he grabs the needle. He uses the blunt side of the needle to make a divot in the soft tissue of Cody's nose.

“Hold still baby, this may pinch a bit” Punk warns his husband. He inserts the needle into Cody's flesh, causing the younger man to whimper. “It's ok babe, I'm halfway done” Punk says as he inserts the ring halfway through. “OK, scoot down a bit so I can put it all the way through” Punk says, causing Cody to set his head on the arm of the couch. Punk then inserts the ring fully through and gently pulls the needle out.

“Alright all done” Punk says proudly as he wipes the excess blood from Cody's nose. “Really? That was fast” Cody says as his husband gets off his chest. “How does it feel?” Punk asks as he disinfects his supplies and puts them back in the case. “I feel like a door decoration” Cody says as he tries to itch his nose but is stopped by Punk. “Don't itch it because it'll lead to irritation in your nose” Punk warns as he ushers Cody back to his chair in the kitchen.

Once Cody is seated, Punk grabs another kit from the table and pulls his seat up next to Cody. “Since this is your first at home tattoo, we're gonna start off with a stick and poke” Punk explains as he pulls out wipes and rubbing alcohol. “What's a stick and poke?” Cody asks curiously. “It's basically gonna be me stabbing you in the hand with a needle covered in ink” his husband explains with a smile. “I'm not gonna get an infection am I?” Cody asks worryingly.

“No, I've used to do these all the time back when I worked in the indies” Punk explains as he disinfects the top of Cody's hand. “Damn, you're old!” Cody says with a giggle, causing Punk to glare at him. “First rule, don't fuck with the guy giving you a tattoo because they can always give you something you didn't ask for” Punk warns with a smile, silencing Cody. After filling the needle with ink, he carefully starts poking it into Cody's skin. “This kinda tickles” Cody says as he tries to stay still.

“What part of you isn't ticklish?” Punk asks, causing Cody to blush. “What are you even poking into me anyways?” Cody asks curiously, trying to change the conversation. “Just a simple outline, nothing major” Punk answers as he continues poking. “You're gonna keep me in suspense aren't you?” Cody asks, his husband nodding in response. “Yep, surprises are always better in my opinion” Punk says casually. “Figures you'd say that” Cody says quietly, causing Punk to roll his eyes.

He continues poking while Cody snacks on his gummy worms. “Gummy” Punk says as he opens his mouth, Cody sticking one in his mouth. He keeps poking for a few more minutes until he's satisfied with it. “Alright it's done” Punk says proudly as wipes the excess ink off Cody's hand. Cody looks over and is in awe at the results. On his hand is an outline of a small heart that was no bigger than a quarter. “I love it” Cody says truthfully.

“I knew you would” Punk says with a smile, clearly enjoying his husband's excitement. “Why did you pick a heart though?” Cody asks curiously. “You always wear your heart on your sleeve so why not have it on your hand?” Punk asks as he puts away his equipment and takes off his gloves. Cody gets out of his chair and straddles Punk's lap. “You're amazing, you know that?” Cody asks with a blush. “I think I've heard it once or twice” Punk says jokingly as he kisses Cody.

The younger man lets out a whimper when Punk grabs his ass. “You look so pretty right now” Punk says sweetly. “Does that mean I can actually look now?” Cody asks curiously. “Yeah, you can look now you impatient little baby” Punk says as he grabs his phone. He turns on the camera and faces it towards them. “Smile!” Punk says as he takes the picture. “How does it look?” Cody asks, Punk letting out a smirk. He shows his husband the picture and Cody's eyes go wide.

Cody has his signature blonde hair but now he has the nose ring and the small heart on his hand. “Holy shit, I look cool!” Cody says with a big smile. “I think we should post it! What should the caption be?” Punk asks as he goes onto Instagram. “I don't know! I'm just too happy right now to think!” Cody says excitedly as he starts bouncing in Punk's lap. Punk felt himself get a little hard at that. Cody felt that and let out a smirk. “Are you hard Phil?” Cody asks, causing Punk to blush.

“Yeah, so what if I am?” Punk asks as he tries to control himself. “How about we post the picture later and see if my new ring bounces when I ride you” Cody says seductively, eyes blown with lust. “You're on you seductive little shit” Punk says as he puts his phone down and runs to the bedroom with Cody in his arms.

[writingoddess1125]

Resturant Duty

Smell that Angst in the Air? Mmm Its fragrant and Sad!

König 👑 x POC Female Reader + OOC Leon

Support me on Ko-Fi

Main Masterlist <<<

"CeeDee Nigerian Delicacy?-"

König grumbled as he looked up at Horangi who shrugged. Standing Infront of the man who he would most likely consider a friend, who happened to be slouching in his desk with a wicked bad aura.

"Had a coupon- Good ratings and apparently hell good food. Not like there are any better places here-" The Korean man said with a shrug, earning a eye roll from the Colonel, couldn't disagree with that.. This was a off shore base, in the middle of nowhere with only a small village near by. The locals didn't care about Kortac nor their business, as long as they bought from the locals and kept the economy up the village kept their mouth shut.

"Well if you don't want anything Ill just grab it-"

"Nein- I'll grab it. Need to get off base anyway.. Add something with beef for me" König waved off, rubbing his face under his mask. He hated this region, he hated this base- it brought back too many damn memories he wanted nothing more then to forget about.

Horangi nodded and walked off to place the order over the phone leaving the Austrian Giant to simmer in his bitterness.

Everyone on base knew to avoid König while at this base- his temper was shorter, much more quiet and far more ruthless. The new recruits always had questions as to why, while the old ones knew to keep their mouth shut.

After 45 minutes König left the base to pick up the food, sporting a face mask only and as he felt familiar with the area and didn't feel like the sniper mask was necessary.

König looked up at the restaurant, it was new he could tell that much- Fresh red paint, Bleach white letters and a cheap sign most likely shipped in from god knows were online. Taking a deep breath he marched inside, hearing the gentle dig from the bell and glanced around, a few stools, a few plastic and chair sets for dining in, some paintings on the wall and some plants here and there. But at the lightly colored counter sat a boy- Most likely in the realm of a tween to early teenager much to König surprise.

"Welcome to CeeDee Nigerian Delicacy- Do you need a table or picking up?"

The child said, not even looking up from his homework. König raising a brow at this, clearly amused by it- Most kids would stare at him, hinting fear in their eyes as they stared him down before usually rushing away to their parents.

"Pick up"

The child standing up- Despite the round baby face he could see the boy was tall. A curse he knew too well... König couldn't help but take a look at the kids appearance, his looks scratching a weird part of his brain like he'd met him before. A short Jersey of a sports team nowhere near by, a lighter brown completion with lose curly dark hair.

"Uhh whats the name?" The kid asked as he looked through some papers. Gray eyes looking back at him finally, like some sick mirror.

"Should be under Horangi..." The kid nodded, going through the thin stack of receipts next to him.

"Oh that one's almost done one second-" The kid said as he poked his head into what König assumed was the kitchen, hearing muffled yelling of a female voice. The large man cocking his head to the side as he saw a figure stepping forward with a bag of food- The moment she walled through however his breath caught in his throat...

(Y/N)... The women who had plagued his nightmares to this day- and made him hate this base.. The women who had stolen his heart when he was a young man and had felt guilt ever since he broke hers. (Y/N) pausing as well at the sight of him, her movements becoming stiff as she set the bag of prepared food on the countertop.

König locked eyes with her, those pale gray eyes staring into (Y/N)'s very soul as the two stared at each other down like a fight for dominance.

"(Y/N)- long time no see" König finally whispered out, his voice seeming watery at best.

"..Felix-"

She said sharply, he damn near winced. He always hated it when she used his real name, off base or not. It was a sensitive button for him that she knew how to push well.

"Ku koma baya" ¹

(Y/N) said calmly to the boy, who was still seated there looking confused around the two adults and how the air had changed so much. His movements hesitant and unsure as he started to pull away from the countertop with his papers in hand.

"Mom?"

"A Yanzu-"²

She barked, Now the boy quick and scurrying away to the back with his homework in hand. König watching him closely, those clumsy hands and awkward graces that reminded him of his own when he was young.

"Seems we have some things to talk about- Don't you agree?" König said, finally breaking the silence that hung in the empty lobby.

"There is nothing to talk about-"

"I'm pretty sure I just saw the topic of conversation leave"

König turned and reached over, locking the restaurant door and putting the sign on 'closed' (Y/N) giving a laugh of disbelief at his audacity to do this. In HER resturant.

"Get out-"

"He's mine- Isn't he?" (Y/N) rolled her eyes quickly and walked around the counter to get him out of here.

"I said Ge-"

"Isn't He!"

König hissed blocking her path to the door with his massive frame, glaring at (Y/N) who took a steady breath and closed her eyes for a second, clearly afraid even for a split second. König heart clenching at seeing her like this- Even if he knew he was the cause of it all.. he took a even breath, keeping himself from raising his voice again.

"Does it matter?.." She whsipered finally, looking up at König who felt like his world was spinning at this moment.

"Of course it does! That's my kid, my son- I have a son"

"Shut your mouth before he hears you.."

"Why Not!? I have a child, a part of me is with you and and-" König said in disbelief as he gestured behind him were the back of the restaurant was, a shaky breath leaving him as he swallowed thickly. Shuffling back a bit as he felt his body start to feel light- a son..

"You said you couldn't have anything permanent- You. You left me- Do you not remember your exact words to me?"

König took a step back, seeing the rage in her eyes as his face began to burn.

"While I care- I can't be with you. I don't want anything permanent-' Those were your words to me before you left 13 years ago- So no, You have no right to know nor does he need to know who you are" She growled, König turning his head as he bit his lip running his hands through his short buzzed hair.

"You should have told me-"

"I didn't know when you left me-"

"You should have found me!"

"HA! Like you're so easy to fucking find Felix!"

"You could have tried instead of sitting on your ass-!" He raised his voice again, This time a harsh slap meeting his face which made him hold his cheek and stare at the women he had loved once. The women who had gave her his innocence and whispered sweet words to him in his bunk, now rage in her eyes as she had raised a hand to him..

"DONT You DARE- Ever insinuate I sat on my ass while I was pregnant, that I didn't look- If you haven't fucking realized that whoever you work for doesn't talk! I of course went to the base to find you and guess what! YOU WHERENT THERE! I WENT BACK EVERY DAY FOR 3 YEARS!" (Y/N) yelled.

"I tried! I don't deserve this- Leon doesn't deserve this either! So before you stand in my restaurant screaming at me look at yourself!"

She screamed and pointed to the back where their son was, tears in those beautiful eyes of hers. König silent for a moment, a wave of emotions hitting his chest staring at (Y/N) as she stopped her yelling and lowered her arm a bit awkwardly.

"His name is Leon?.. that- That was my father's name" König said almost in a whisper, looking at her and seeing the tears in her eyes. He wished so desperately to wipe them away and hold her close.

"I know..You told me..."

There was more silence after that, the two just sharing the space together as the blanket of the situation hit them both. König shaky hand reaching next to him, Grabbing the stool that was meant for waiting guest and sitting down. Pulling one put for (Y/N) as well in front of him for her to sit, quickly she did so.

"I'm sorry..." König said after a minute or two, looking to (Y/N) who looked just as defeated as König felt.

"Everyone's sorry for something Felix..."

"Can I get a chance?.. J-Just one more... I-I can pay for everything I've missed.. Whatever you want"

(Y/N) sighed and shook her head, rubbing her face tiredly as she opened her mouth as if to refuse but closed it instead and looked at him.

"Pay?.. You honestly think I want a check?- After all this time?" She asked with almost disgust in her voice.

"I just.." König rubbed the back if his neck, looking to (Y/N) as he thought over his words and let his hand fall.

"No- I don't think that its just.. I shouldn't have left you and if in just some way, i can make your life easier and my sons easier.. It will be the least i can do to hopefully fix what I've done today and all those years ago" He said as his voice cracked at the end, feeling tears well in his eyes.

"If you cared you wouldn't have left me and-" (Y/N) started but König was quick to grab her hands, sliding off the stool to his knees before her, tears running down his scarred face.

"I didn't want the risk of you getting hurt.. My job is dangerous, risks the lives of others around me.. It's not that I didn't want to be with you.. It's the opposite- I am so in love with you I couldn't risk the idea of you getting hurt because of me.." He admitted as he held her hands like she was a saint she was praying to, (Y/N) eyes wide at his confessing.

"I've regretted letting you go for all these years...Please Just one chance, its all I ask-" He begged, (Y/N) staring at the man swallowing thickly as she opened her lips.

"I.."

Translations

(Go to the back) ¹

(Right Now) ²

[lucky-penne]

After days of procrastinating, IRL stuff, and suddenly writing out of nowhere I finally got him done 😭

So anyway this Aina's hubby Hitoshi (RIP). I have no idea how to draw or color scars so the design of it might change a bit in the future.

More rambling/info down below 👇

• I don't have an explanation/idea for the scar right now other than it came from something mundane (relatively speaking), so no traumatic backstory for it.

• I don't have a proper surname for him yet, but ideas right now are Moriya and Nieda. Definitely want to look into more in the future.

• A laid-back guy who's very empathetic, kind-hearted, and a bit goofy. Just wants to make the world a better place, even in small ways.

• Comes from a very average family. Haven't really thought much about them other than he gets along with his parents well and that they might own a small business?

• The backstory of how he and Aina met has been changing lately, but the first idea I had was them meeting through an omiai. It could still work I'm not entirely sure. The only detail that has stayed throughout was that they married just before the start of WW2.

• Aina actually went through several omiai and got rejected by them all before meeting Hitoshi. Got rejected mostly for her appearance (“too dark skinned”, “too tall”, “hair too unruly and messy”) and her personality and interests (“wasn't demure or proper enough”, “too enthusiastic”, “awfully strange”. Hell, even when she tried to conform by acting “more proper” she was still criticized for being too quiet or distant). One candidate even straight up called her a burakumin/buraku. She promptly shoved that guy off the bridge and into the river. At one point, she had plans on bleaching her skin to be paler and thinning out her hair. Got the materials and everything for it. Thankfully, she had a big “Wait, why am I even doing this?” moment and didn't go through with it (Her and Mitsuri would've been besties no doubt).

• But yeah Hitoshi was based and wasn't an asshole. Found her to be gorgeous and absolutely captivating. Helped that he was also a bit of a fellow outcast. Was probably neurodivergent in some way low-key. Hitoshi was a breath of fresh air that Aina needed in her life, especially after all the rejection she's gotten (among other issues she has struggled/is struggling with at that time). Really got her out of her shell.

• He and Aina were married for a couple years at most before he was drafted into the military...

• Hitoshi got medically discharged after suffering severe illness and injury from battle (should state that I haven't done any real research as of writing this on how the Japanese military was like during that time besides the idea that it's better to commit suicide than be taken as a POW and that any sort of surrender was the most offensive thing you could do. I did attempt to do some brief research on how medical discharge was viewed by the IJA (Imperial Japanese Army) and the general public and I couldn't really find anything substantial so I assume it wasn't exactly looked down upon?). Struggled a lot with chronic pain, disease, mental illness, and trauma. Aina tried her best to be there for him, even if it got difficult at times to do so, but eventually it got to the point where he just wanted it all to end (very much a Mary and James Silent Hill 2 type situation). So when he was allowed to go home to visit for a short time (considered to probably be one of his last. The doctors had long accepted that he was going to die at some point), Aina did what he wanted and ended his suffering. I think before she did that, they shared a few moments together. Even her revealing to him what she truly is. She wanted to wait until later into their marriage for that, but circumstances changed those plans…

• They weren't married for long in the grand scheme of things, but Aina truly loved him and believed they would've had a happy future together even though she would've outlived him regardless. She probably went to Yuka (her mom) sometime afterwards (after the mercy killing or the funeral haven't decided which yet though I tend to lean towards the former) and had an incredibly bad breakdown in front of her. A whole lot of guilt and self-hatred for killing Hitoshi. Feeling like she didn't do enough for him. (Purposely to contrast with Hantengu’s lack of guilt, delusional attitude, and self-centeredness towards his own crimes💃)

But hey here's a low effort meme for the AUs where Hantengu/the clones are still around/aren't dead to distract you from the angst! 😊

RIP² 😔

[reidslovely]

Just a Tap

Synopsis: Before they were Peter and Bashful they were strangers with an annoying (semi-traumatic) meet cute.

Pairing: Frat!Peter x Fem!Reader/OC

CW: None really, car accident? maybe if you can count that. Swearing.

Reblog or comment in place of liking this post, pretty please.

Pulling out of ESU parking structure six was a hell fest. There was a constant flow of traffic that seemingly never let up, and a ton of pedestrians that would either wait for all the cars to pull out before crossing the path, or simply used the heavy traffic flow to their advantage. (Y/N) pushed her head back into her seat frustrated, why was New York traffic such a nightmare. The highway traffic started to let up and she sat straight up breathing a sigh of relief. 

“Fucking finally.” 

She looked right and then left before letting off her gas, letting her car roll. Out of nowhere a skateboarder rolled in front of her, causing her to barely tap him with her car. But still she felt terrible. She slammed on her breaks, her hands flying up to her mouth. The boy slammed his hands on the hood of her car, throwing his hands up. He was quite obviously laughing at the situation, and did not seem injured at all. Placing her car in park and throwing her flashers on she basically threw herself out of the vehicle, the skateboarder had already started walking away tossing a look over his shoulder. (Y/N), however, was frozen in place. 

“I am so sorry, are you okay? Do you need a ride?” She yelled after him, looking over her shoulder to make sure no other cars were leaving behind her. 

“I’m good! Just wanted to play it up a little bit.” 

 He laughs, turning, his skateboard in hand. “We should both watch where we are going next time.” He yelled back smiling. “You’re too pretty to be hitting boys with your car.” 

(Y/N) shook her head, swallowing the tears that had built up in her eyes. How could he just be joking about this. Then she saw the shirt: yellow with a red Theta Tau logo on it with ‘ESU est. 1930.’ stitched below it. Frat boys. Suddenly she felt less bad for tapping the bleached blonde with her car. 

“But I skate through here the same time everyday, maybe don’t hit me next time okay?” 

“How about I make sure I don’t miss next time?” She yells back getting into her car, now annoyed that he found the whole interaction funny when she was trying to be sincere. The blonde smiled in response, she watched him turn and skate away. She checked both ways multiple times and pulled onto the road heading to pick her friend up from work.

- 

Fraternity row was lit up in all different colors, the first football game of the season had just ended and the whole street was celebrating the victory. M.J. wrapped her arm around (Y/N) as they walked down the street. 

“Come on you seriously can’t still be hung up on the douchebag that skated out in front of you. He was in the wrong not you, he was jaywalking..jay..skating? Doesn’t matter.” The red head shook her head, her curls shaking. “He’s a dick for that and I’ll tell him if we ever see him. Now please relax and party. Please, it's the first big frat crawl of the semester.” 

“Fine..yeah, you’re right.” 

“I know I am.” M.J. kissed her friend's head, and started to say something else before being cut off. 

“Hey! Watson! Hey!”

M.J. and (Y/N) turned their heads quickly trying to spot the voice that came blaring towards them. A head of blonde hair was in front of them in seconds. A lanky guy stood before them engulfing M.J. in a hug which she gladly returned. “Oh my god. Osborn you scared me, hey this is my roommate and friend (Y/N). (Y/N), this is Harry the guy I was telling you about.”

Harry Osborn was a name you were all too familiar with. M.J. had been in love with him since summer orientation when they met and got stuck in the elevator together. They’d been talking ever since. 

“Hey nice to finally meet you.”

“Yeah you too.” Harry smiles at her. “Hey, why don’t you guys come into Theta and party?” He offered up, pointing in the direction of the bright yellow door contrasting against the white siding of the huge house. 

“Look at that line, no thanks.” (Y/N) laughed.

“No no it’s my frat, well I’m a pledge but I can get y’all in come on.”

-

(Y/N) stood against the back wall of the party, a black plastic cup in hand as she sipped the vodka sprite mixture out of it. If she could fold in on herself she would, she didn’t even like frat crawls. She only went because M.J. begged her, and she didn’t want to pass up the opportunity to hang out with her. However, M.J. was nowhere in sight. Osborn had stolen her away as soon as they got into the house. 

“Well..look who it is.” A voice pooked around the corner at her, she jumped slightly. “Oh come on don’t be bashful. You already hit me with your car.” 

It was the blonde guy from yesterday, he leaned against the wall next to her. Smiling at her slightly. “I said I was sorry, you walked out in front of me.”

“I did yeah sorry. But it’s really rude of you.” (Y/N) stomped her foot wanting to crawl in a hole and cry. “I didn’t mean too hi-”

“No not that. I mean not asking for my name..it was the least you could do after all.”

Her brows furrowed, mouth forming a smile ‘o’. Her eyes feel to the ground and she bit the inside of her cheek. 

“Peter Parker..and you?”

“(Y/N) (Y/L).” 

Peter smiled and slid down the wall sitting on the floor, waiting for her to join him. 

“Nice to meet you (Y/N)…again.”

Wrote this very quickly this morning because the lab is empty and have no one coming in until later.

[awhdoe]

01. HIGHWAY 59

✦ ⌇ chapter one: blacktop baptism

⸻

you don’t remember when you stopped thinking about time.

sometime after the sun climbed high enough to bleach the clouds bone-white and tear them clean off the sky, sometime before you smoked your second cigarette down to the bitter nub and flicked the ash across the empty parking lot like an offering no god was ever going to take.

it wasn’t a conscious decision. more like your mind slid sideways under the weight of it all — the heat, the hunger, the knowing there was nowhere else to go. time melted into the asphalt right alongside you.

the gas station squats off highway 59 like a picked-over carcass.

the walls, once some forgettable shade of blue or gray, are now the dull, lifeless color of old concrete. the sign listing the gas prices swings from one rusted chain, missing half its letters, a ghost tongue whispering to no one. the pumps, fat-bellied and chipped, lean at slight drunken angles, their glass faces spiderwebbed with cracks, digits frozen somewhere between empty and obsolete.

it smells like hot rubber and burned oil and something faintly sweet rotting in the sticky heat.

you sit hunched on the curb, elbows digging into the rough concrete, road atlas splayed across your lap, the pages gone soft and greasy from sweat, from the endless touching and folding and wishing.

the map barely even makes sense anymore. the ink has bled at the edges. the paper feels limp, wilted. maybe three towns ago you spilled a soda across the texas panhandle, or maybe it was blood from that gas station scuffle you haven’t let yourself think about too closely. doesn’t matter. it’s ruined either way, and you sure as hell weren’t leaving without that snickers bar.

you run your thumb along one faded red line.

houston: behind you now, its smoke and sirens and broken promises already fading into a grimy, unreal smear.

oklahoma: too far north. wrong direction.

new mexico: barely more than a desperate thought. a dream bruised yellow at the edges from too many years without touching it.

your cigarette droops dangerously low, the cherry wobbling, and you let it singe your fingertips before you finally flick it away. it arcs through the air, tumbling end over end before landing near a tuft of dead weeds clawing through the cracks in the lot.

you don’t bother lighting another. not yet.

the heat presses down too thick for even that small act of rebellion.

around you, the world hums and buzzes and creaks, sounds thin and stretched by the heat — the cicadas rattling high in the ragged trees lining the lot, the vending machine’s pathetic whine, the cracked awning sighing against its rusted bolts every time a lazy gust breathes across the station.

everything moves slow out here.

even you.

your skin feels too tight, baked taut over your bones. your clothes cling damply, sweat pooling in the smalls of your back, your knees, your elbows. the soles of your boots stick with every shift of your weight, peeling up from the softening tar with a wet, reluctant sound.

and somewhere far above you, a vulture drifts lazy circles in the blinding blue sky, patient.

they always know when to start watching.

you tilt your head back against the curb, feeling the concrete scrape hot against your neck, the roughness digging into your spine.

you close your eyes for a moment, the sunlight painting your lids bloodred, and listen to the sound of your own shallow breathing.

there is no plan. no next move. no secret escape route.

just this — the cracked blacktop, the dust sticking to your ankles, the empty ache in your belly, the sour fear curdling under your ribs.

no one is coming for you.

they never were. it’s almost comical how you still keep looking.

you think, distantly, about how easy it would be to simply dissolve into the asphalt. melt down into something unrecognizable. a cautionary tale nobody would bother telling.

and maybe you would have, if not for —

grr-rummm-grummm!

the sound of an engine, low and steady, rumbling up from the south like a tide rolling over hot sand.

your eyes snap open.

you sit up too fast.

the world tilts, swimming in the corner of your vision, the colors smeared like wet paint. your heart lurches — foolish and wild and reckless — slamming itself against the inside of your ribs hard enough you think you can hear it.

there, in the distance —

just a shimmer at first, bending and warping in the heat haze — and then a shape solidifying out of the mirage.

a truck.

an old one, battered and stubborn, rust bleeding down cream-colored panels, rattling its way toward you like it belongs to a different era entirely.

it moves like it’s got nowhere better to be and all the time in the world to get there.

it swings into the station, tires crackling over the broken asphalt, and pulls up at the pump opposite you.

for a long, suspended moment, it idles there, coughing thin gray smoke into the thick, buzzing air.

then the engine cuts off.

the sudden silence is brutal.

you freeze, every muscle locking up tight.

instinct screams in your chest — stay still. stay invisible.

but the hope is louder.

god help you, it’s louder.

you stub your cigarette out under the heel of your boot without looking away, the sound sharp and final.

the driver’s door screeches open, and a man climbs out, slow and stiff, like every joint protests the movement.

he’s broad-shouldered, solid through the chest and arms, the heavy kind of strong that comes from a lifetime of labor, not lifting weights in some shiny gym. his t-shirt, dark with sweat across the back and under the arms, clings to him in places, outlining the stubborn heft of his body — not sculpted, but built to endure.

his jeans hang low on his hips, worn pale at the knees, threadbare along the seams. thick work boots hit the ground hard, scuffed and nearly bald at the soles, each step heavy enough to shake dust from the cracked pavement.

a ballcap, battered and salt-stained, shields most of his face. but you catch glimpses as he moves — the sharp angle of his cheekbone, the rough stubble crawling over his jaw, the sunburned stretch of his neck.

his mouth is set hard, lips cracked and tight, a deep line carved between his brows like it’s been there for years. the hollows under his eyes are dark, almost bruised, sinking into skin worn raw by too many miles and too little sleep.

he moves to the pump, fumbling with the stiff nozzle, muttering a curse low under his breath — a voice rough and gritty, thick like whiskey and sand, curling into the hot, buzzing air and making something in your chest twist.

you don’t mean to move.

but your body does.

lifting itself up from the curb, grabbing the strap of your too-light backpack, your boots dragging against the cracked pavement as you drift toward him, slow and heavy, like a moth circling a flame it already knows will burn it down.

he still hasn’t seen you.

not yet.

you could turn around. you could sit back down, light another cigarette, pretend you were never desperate enough to think about asking.

but you won’t.

you never do.

the sound of your approach must catch his attention, because he finally glances up — and for the first time, your eyes meet.

and it’s like the air gets sucked out of the world.

his eyes —

dark, hollowed, sinking deeper into his skull than they should — stare at you with a kind of slow, worn-out curiosity. not wary. not sharp. not even surprised.

just… tired.

bone-deep and soul-deep.

the kind of tired you only earn by surviving when you didn’t really want to.

he doesn’t speak. doesn’t tense up or shift his weight like you’re a threat.

he just watches you approach, head tilted slightly to the side, jaw working slowly behind the scruff.

your heart knocks hard against your ribs. your mouth goes dry.

still — you push the words out, rough and cracked from disuse:

“you… uh — you headin’ west?”

the corner of his mouth twitches — not a smile, not quite — and he shifts, thumb hooking into a belt loop, his weight resting heavy on one hip.

he considers you. really considers you.

and the space between you feels thick and heavy, like trying to breathe underwater.

for a moment — just a flicker of a moment — you think he might say no.

might leave you standing there, stupid and small and already half-gone.

but instead —

he shrugs. one long, weary roll of his shoulder, like even that small motion costs him something.

“gettin’ there,” he says, voice low and broken open by something you can’t name.

then:

“you need a ride or somethin’, darlin’?”

the nickname lands soft but solid in your chest. not sweet. not mocking. just a word. simple. easy.

like he’s already decided it doesn’t really matter what you’re running from.

your hands tighten on the strap of your backpack.

you nod. fast. sharp. desperate.

“yeah,” you croak out. “yeah, i do.”

he watches you another moment — making sure, maybe, or just measuring how much trouble you’re worth.

then he jerks his chin toward the passenger side.

not a question. not a reassurance.

just: get in, or don’t. your call.

you don’t hesitate.

you swing your bag up, your boots scuffing over the cracked blacktop, crossing the distance fast before either of you can think better of it.

the truck door squeals when you yank it open. the heat that hits you from inside is like walking into an oven.

the interior is worse than you expected — cracked vinyl splitting at the seams, an old wild turkey bottle rattling in the footwell, the ghost of a thousand cigarettes clinging to the upholstery.

you slide into the passenger seat, the skin of your thighs hissing against the molten leather, your hands scrambling for the seatbelt.

the buckle sears your fingers. you fumble it closed with shaking hands.

the man finishes pumping gas, hangs the nozzle with a solid, metallic clunk, and climbs back into the truck without a glance in your direction.

he slams the door shut. twists the key.

the engine growls awake, the whole frame shuddering around you.

for a long, shuddering second, you just sit there together — trapped in the boiling cab, breathing the same sour, heavy air.

you glance at him, stealing a quick, nervous look.

he’s staring straight ahead, jaw clenched, hands loose on the battered steering wheel.

then — without looking at you — he mutters:

“buckle up.”

your seatbelt’s already latched tight across your chest, but you nod anyway, heart knocking against the webbing.

“thanks, mister,” you whisper.

he doesn’t answer. just shifts the truck into gear with a slow, deliberate motion, tires screeching slightly as they pull away from the pumps.

the gas station — the cracked pavement, the empty machines, the watching vultures — shrinks behind you, swallowed by dust and distance.

the road opens up in front of you — wide and flat and endless, stretching into a future you can’t quite see yet.

you lean your forehead against the window, letting the glass burn a bright, angry brand into your skin.

you don’t know his name.

you don’t know where you’re going.

but you’re moving.

and for now —

for now, that’s enough. you were in no position to nitpick, anyway.

[ghosti02art]

blood orange (reader vers)

summary: Y/N, an INTERPOL agent on vacation, is unlucky enough to be on the same Bullet Train as a bunch of professional killers. Even worse, one of them has the sort of attitude that makes her want to pull out his teeth. Perhaps it has nothing to do with luck, and entirely to do with fate. Can this is be called destiny?

Pairing: Tangerine x Reader (This is the Reader variant of the OC post)

Fandom: Bullet Train

The sky was dark, and the night air was cool. It was late evening in Tokyo, but that did not stop this bullet train from being filled to the brim. If Y/N had known it would have been such a busy ride, she would have just walked back. Or even just slept in the streets. 

She was sitting in the small train seat, and let out a sigh. There was an assortment of noises as people boarded and unbounded the transport. 

Boy, she hated being on vacation. 

She hated it so much that her employer had to make it a part of her “occupational rules”, otherwise she’d never take a break. She did not need a break. Breaks were for the weak - at least to her - because that was how she was brought up. And now, due to her boss, she has to take a 4-day vacation every 3 months. 

She was sketching on a small pad - a drawing she planned to paint later once she got back to the house she was staying in - when she felt someone bump into her shoulder. 

“Fucking hell” She cursed, glaring at whoever caused the graphite streak across her drawing. Her eyes were met with a sneer, as the man appeared to have no understanding of the term ‘remorse’. 

He looked to be on the cusp of 6 feet tall, and way overdressed for a simple train ride. Perhaps he was a white color worker, but she quickly dismissed that idea, for there was no amount of nice tailored suits that could make up for his awful attitude. 

He cursed right back at her, his thick English accent making everything he said almost laughable to her,” Fuck off mate, get outta my way.”

Y/N simply rolled her eyes at this and went back to her drawing. Despite her foul Spanish, and her tendency to be petty, she bit her tongue. She did not really care to get in a fight with some random curly-haired Englishman. Although, she did have the crossing thought to rip off that mustache of his. 

She mentally noted that he and whoever he was with sat down diagonally across from her. She shifted in her seat, making sure her deep navy overcoat still covered her gun. She always kept at least three things on her that could be used as weapons, and her governmental-issued firearm was one of those. 

Just because she was not currently on INTERPOL business did not mean she was unprepared. She always expected the worst. At any moment, something could go wrong on this train - a fight could break out, a gang could hold someone hostage, a very attractive assassin could sneak onto the train-

Her train of thought was broken when she noticed the Englishman get up and walk toward the luggage end of the train. When he passed her, she quickly put out her foot, tripping him. He quickly caught himself on one of the train seats in front of her, hissing as he spun to growl at her. He started to throw every curse he knew at her, but she simply hummed. 

She looks up from her drawing and tilts her head. There was a slight touch of redness on his cheeks, and it suited him. 

“No se ingle?” She says to him, watching as his frustration rises as she claims ignorance. He huffs, and quickly goes towards the luggage, muttering obscenities under his breath. 

There is a chuckle coming from the set of seats the man left, and Kat turns to look at the individual. There were two other men, and the one that was laughing had dark skin and bleach-tipped hair. 

When her eyes slide over to the quiet male, her blood runs cold. She recognized this man- or should she say, boy, since she knew him from when he was much younger. This was The White Death’s son, and that automatically put a target onto this train. After all of her avoidance of Russia, of that world, it still tracked her down. Her eyes flit back to the humored one, and she realized she knew of him too. It seemed that he recognized her too, but before either of them could say anything, the tough guy over by the luggage called out for him. 

“Lemon! Where’s the stuff? You gave me the wrong directions!” The dark-skinned man, Lemon, quickly gets up to go over to the luggage,” Bruv, I told you, it’s right behind-“ 

Y/N did not wait behind to listen to the remainder of their conversation. She quickly got up from her seat and grabbed her bag, and walked in the other direction towards the bar car. She needed something strong if she was going to make it through this ride. 

Once at the bar, she did not even wait for an attendant to help her get a drink. She easily hops over the counter and turns around to search the cabinets for some good vodka. Yes, she loved hard liquor. She had been through enough in her life to afford to be cruel to her liver.  

She can feel the presence of another in the train car- actually, two others in the car. She continues to pour herself a drink and mix it properly, before finally turning around. 

She looks down the barrel of two guns, one for each eye, and takes a sip from her glass. 

“Well, boys. You’ve got me outnumbered. That gives you two an extra 25 seconds before I make you tell me what is going on.”

Y/N smirks slightly, before setting her drink down, still mostly untouched. 

“Alcohol always tasted better with blood on my lips.”

————————————————————————

PART TWO COMING SOON

[adore-laur]

REWIND: PART ONE

Reese likes to play an imaginary game using the sixteen squares above the produce section. 

The grocery store ceiling bears a resemblance to a checkerboard, its tiles creating a stringent pattern with alternating colors of fluorescent white lights and grainy brown drywall. The juxtaposing design is an eyesore, and she has to play on a smaller scale compared to the standard board, but she makes it work. The challenge is a perfect distraction. 

Moving her dark piece diagonally to the upper right, she ends up being captured by her pretend opponent. Two squares kitty-corner from the ploy, a light flickers... 

Rewind. 

There's a piece tucked in the bottom left corner that illuminates from the flash. It can be moved without being overthrown, so she plays her turn again. No consequences occur this time. That's much better. 

Alas, a bleached retina will do Reese no good if she stays in a trance of staring at the ultraviolet beams, so she tears her eyes away and instead focuses on the array of freshly-misted vegetables directly in front of her. 

Rutabaga. What the hell does a rutabaga look like? 

The paper list in her pocket feels like an anchor weighing her down. She prefers not to go shopping alone, but her detrimental procrastination and social anxiety problems have led her to the place she currently stands at a quarter past midnight. No one else is around except for the zombie-like employees that roam the vacant aisles and robotically stock shelves, which is the exact reason why she decided to venture out at the odd time. 

Reese roughly swallows down the apprehension that crawls up her parched throat and sidetracks herself by counting the heads of iceberg lettuce. Two, four, six, eight... 

Rewind. 

Her single mission is to find rutabaga, so she mouths the ill-sounding syllables and scans the rows of cruciferous vegetables, attempting to find one that might look unfamiliar. There's kale, cauliflower, and radishes, but nothing that appears as a godforsaken rutabaga. It's the last item she needs on her list, and with her pathetic luck, it happens to be an impossible hunt. 

Reese just wants to go home. It's late, the rain is pouring outside, and her eyes burn from either insomnia or her long game of ceiling checkers. The skin of her cuticles has been picked raw, and her cheeks are starting to become prickled with heat because she's getting frustrated. She could ask for help, but that would be a crippling recipe for disaster considering her social skills amount to zero. There's also no need to be a burden, especially to minimum wage workers who also want to go home. 

Taking out her phone from her sherbet orange puffer coat that she bought because it looked like a Creamsicle, Reese slides down on the cracked screen to open the search bar. She types in a few incorrect spellings of the unknown vegetable — rootabega, rootabayga, rutabayga? Thankfully, spell check comes to her aid. 

A muted gasp escapes her mouth when the first picture loads. It's possibly the most horrendous-looking food she's ever seen. It almost doesn't look edible with its skin that looks like mold. 

According to WebMD, it's a turnip that's not quite a turnip, therefore making everything more confusing to her. Sighing under her breath, Reese begins foraging again now that she sort of knows what to search for. The reason she absolutely needs it is because it's required for her Halmoni's infamous rutabaga and parsnip soup. She's disabled, so it would have been cruel to ask her to come to the grocery store at an ungodly hour, but she desperately wishes she were here right now to assist her. Speaking of her grandmother, she should probably... 

Rewind. 

Reese reels back the tangled film of her brain. If she could just focus for one second, then she could get home quicker. Just find the rutabaga! 

"Broccoli!" 

A voice that's not her own comes from her right, making her jolt a little. It's scratchy and it seems to be directed towards someone younger since it goes a pitch higher than what she's usually used to hearing from a man. She was too lost in her own head to realize someone was in the same aisle as her, evidently looking for broccoli and, lucky for them, successfully finding it. 

Reese's phone is still in her hands, so she opens her empty messages and pretends to text a nonexistent person so she can peek over at the honey-voiced enigma. Shifting her gaze to the side, she instantly locks eyes with a bundled baby in the seat of a shopping cart. They're already staring at her, green irises and a button nose emerging from the hood of a coat that engulfs their tiny body. Their legs kick in the seat, and their hands hold a squeezable pouch of applesauce, the mushy substance dripping onto the mittens that they wear. 

Reese's cheeks color with a rubescent flush when they point their hand and begin making gurgling noises of nonsense. Regret instantly seeps into her nervous system. 

The mysterious voice playfully gasps and says, "Yeah? Tell me more." 

Stuffing her phone in her pocket, Reese wanders further away from the potential awkward position she might put herself in. She doesn't dare to look at the man as she hastily turns her back to them and heads over to the display of vibrant fruits that are opposite to the vegetables. Bright lemons with leathery peels distract her eyes, but her ears are still tuned into the two people that have also decided to go on a late-night grocery store run. She assumes it's a dad with his baby, or perhaps a babysitter. Maybe someone with their niece or nephew. Either way, she doesn't want to disrupt them. 

Rewind. 

Dammit, she just needs to find the rutabaga and go home. 

"Excuse me, ma'am, do you work here?" 

Her heart plummets and her hands become clammy with anxiety. She feels as if she's in a horror movie, the moment when the main character turns around and is confronted with their worst nightmare. In this case, Reese's worst nightmare is socializing. 

Taking a shallow breath, she slowly twists her head around. She might as well just press play. The nightmare, it turns out, is a handsome man that now holds the baby who was staring at her in his arms. Sat on his hip, the baby, who Reese guesses to be around the age of one, gnaws on a yellow teething ring that's clipped to the man's wrist. They're mesmerized by the stalk of raw broccoli that he holds in his other hand. 

"Hi, do you work here by any chance?" he asks quietly. 

Reese believes his face could make Jesus weep, surely. It can only be described as kind from first impression. Flawless skin decorated with a few beauty marks make him seem put together, physically and mentally. He has a nose that fits perfectly on his face, sloped and dotted with faint freckles. Further down, his lips that look as soft as pink sand dunes curve up into a bashful smile. He also has compelling green eyes that identically match the child's, confirming to her that it must be his daughter. The V-neck striped sweater he wears with earth tones of autumn orange, creamy white, and sangria purple goes well with his slightly tanned skin. His hair is an attractive length with soft, brown strands curling up at the ends. The rings on his fingers glow under the fluorescent lights, every scratch and bit of rust on the metal visible. It's devastating how pretty he is. 

He doesn't look much older than she is, maybe mid-twenties based on pure estimate. If her guess is true, then the fact that he already has a kid makes her feel incredibly behind in life, but she shouldn't assume his family or relationship situation. 

The man suddenly brings his pointer finger to touch his ear and the brings it down to his mouth, his lips forming the question: Are you deaf? 

Good lord. How long has she been ogling him in silence? 

"No," Reese finally manages to say, her voice sticking in her throat. "No, I can hear. And no, I don't work here." 

He nods with an apologetic yet friendly smile. "My mistake. Sorry to bother you." 

She forces herself to keep the conversation going. If she ends up stuttering and making a fool of herself, at least she knows she'll never have to see him again. 

"It's okay," she says, doing a terrible job at trying to maintain eye contact. "Hey, um, do you know where the rutabaga is? I know you don't work here either, but I can't seem to find it anywhere." 

That's good, right? She's doing well. She's honestly glad she didn't come across one of those sketchy old guys who slowly lurk by her in the aisles and tell her that she should smile more. 

His eyebrows raise as he asks, "Is it that ugly-looking vegetable?" 

"That's the one," she replies awkwardly while shifting her feet. 

He jerks his head to the side. "I think I saw some over there. Here, I can show you." 

He begins leading the way while hiking the baby up on his hip, their head lazily bouncing with each step. They look back at Reese and smile with tired, blinking eyes. 

"I'm a pediatrician, so I have to know a decent amount about vegetables since my daughter is starting to eat solids," he says, stopping in his tracks and examining the display of organics. "Surprisingly," — he holds his pointer finger up and beams innocently at her— "rutabaga is a good place to start." 

Reese doesn't know how to respond, so she just nods and tucks a braided strand of hair behind her flushed ear. 

"I'm Harry, by the way," he adds as he picks up a discolored bulb. He then points to his daughter who is drifting off. "This is Marlowe. She had trouble falling asleep tonight, so we decided to go on a little adventure. It seems to be working." 

"I'm Reese," she mumbles shyly. "She's your daughter, right? She's very cute." 

Harry looks at her with a steady, hypnotizing gaze. "She is. Thank you, Reese." His eyes drop down for a brief second before he says, "I love your style." 

Reese looks down at her outfit. It's casual, but she prides herself on the way she's able to coordinate unique vintage pieces. "Oh, uh... thanks. I like your sweater." 

He hands her the rutabaga and then rolls his sleeves up, revealing inked skin. "I got it at a thrift store near Sister Bay. Are you from around here?" 

"I'm from here, yes. I've been to that thrift store a couple of times." 

"Strange that I haven't run into you at one." He grabs a bundle of carrots and inspects them. "It's beautiful this time of year, isn't it? All the trees are changing colors. And the early sunsets." 

Maybe he hasn't run into her because she rarely leaves the house, and her only friend is her grandmother. It's probably why she's single, but that's beside the point. 

"I love northern Midwest skies," she replies, watching his daughter slowly close her eyes and rest her head against his shoulder. "I think the aurora borealis was supposed to be tonight, but I'm pretty sure the rain ruined it." 

Harry points his thumb behind his back. "I saw it on my way in! No joke." 

Reese supposes she's been in the store for way longer than originally planned. Or maybe it's her mind playing tricks on her. She doesn't even want to know what time it really is. 

"Really?" she asks, trying to catch a peek out of the store windows over the tall shelves. 

"Yeah, it's gorgeous. It's raining pretty hard, so the lights are a bit faint, but..." he trails off. 

"Shit, it'll go away soon." She immediately slaps her hands over her mouth. "Sorry! I didn't mean to swear in front of your kid." 

He grins, deep dimples indenting his cheeks. "No worries. You should be able to see the lights if you just look north where Lake Michigan is." 

"Thank you so much, Harry" she tells him, teetering on the heels of her feet. "Um, I'm going to go look for them. Thanks for helping me find the rutabaga." 

He just politely nods and waves, then continues shopping. After Reese checks out, she grabs the two brown paper bags full of her groceries and heads through the automatic doors. The rain is coming down hard, slanted and pelting the pavement. The parking lot is empty except for about five vehicles spaciously sat getting a free car wash from nature. Her sneakers squelch with each step as she veers left to try and catch a glimpse of the lights. Raindrops cascade off her coat, and her mom jeans are becoming splattered with dots of wetness. Her sleek black hair sticks to her face, but she oddly loves the feeling. 

Eventually, she stops walking and looks up, goosebumps immediately spreading from her neck down her spine when she sees the polar captivation. The faint neon green and violet streaks painted over the starlit horizon are mesmeric. Her eyes don't want to break away from the atmospheric phenomenon. It's dreamlike, yet surreal. She feels as if the earth is putting on a show just for her, the brilliant curtain of colors dancing across the sky. 

She stays frozen in place for several minutes, admiring the flickers. It's much more interesting than the grocery store ceiling. This is real life, not some mythical game she created to escape her mind. 

This is the perfect distraction. 

Reese suddenly hears footsteps from behind, splashing noises from the puddles echoing around the empty lot. She turns around to see Harry walking towards her, a long, plaid coat thrown over his sweater now. One hand carries his daughter and the other holds a clear umbrella over his head, along with three heavy grocery bags. He's lifting them with incredible ease. 

"I told you it was beautiful!" he calls out. 

Reese purses her lips and squints up at the sky. "It really is." 

He strides over and holds his umbrella over both of their heads. "Worth getting soaked for?" 

He's close. So close to the point where she notices a small silver earring in his left ear that reflects off the streetlights in the parking lot. Her gaze then falls upon Marlowe as she's fast asleep in his arms, her face squashed on his shoulder and her lips pouted. 

"So worth it." 

"Hopefully she stays asleep," Harry murmurs, adjusting his grip on the grocery bags. 

"Does going to the store usually help?" 

"Anywhere but home seems to help. Being a pediatrician means I sometimes work the night shift, so I take her to the hospital with me. That's probably why her sleep schedule is a mess. I don't really have any other choice, though." 

She doesn't want to pry, so she simply responds with, "That sounds rough." 

He sighs and says, "You could say I'm in desperate need of a babysitter. It's such a small town, so it's difficult to find one that's not already booked. My family doesn't live here either, which means they're not able to watch her." 

Reese's brain fast-forwards before she can stop the tape. It reels past every logical outcome, pausing at an accidental place. 

"I can babysit," she blurts. "I mean, I'm not a professional or licensed by any means, but I have a little brother who I watch all the time and I'm sure babies can't be too hard." 

Harry blinks once. "You're serious?" 

She can back out. She can preserve her social battery. She can say goodnight and never run into such a gorgeous specimen again. 

"No, yeah. I'm super serious." 

Rewind, rewind, rewind. 

No! Press play! 

Reese is going to do this for her grandmother. She can't sit around being unemployed anymore and expect money to grow on the tamarack trees. She needs to start pushing past her trepidation and get a kickstart on something that reaps benefits. What she really needs to do is start letting life happen naturally and in real time. If working for a hot dad can pay next month's rent, she should snatch that opportunity immediately. 

"Wonderful," Harry says enthusiastically. "I'll want to do an interview and run a background check if that's okay. I just met you, so I hope you understand my being a bit wary." 

Reese nods quickly. "Of course. That's not a problem." 

"Awesome." He kisses the side of his daughter's head. "Can I get your email or phone number so we can set up a date and time?" 

She takes her crinkled grocery list out from her pocket as well as her lucky pen she brought along that she clicks whenever she gets anxious. 

"Also," Harry says, clearing his throat, "Marlowe is deaf. I really should have prefaced that. It's why I asked in the store if you were deaf because... I don't know why, actually. I guess it's just a habit for me now." 

"I understand," Reese assures while writing down her number. "That's not a hindrance to me at all. My grandmother is partially blind and in a wheelchair, and I know it's not quite the same as deafness, but I have experience dealing with—" 

"You'd be helping me immensely, Reese," he softly interrupts. He then smirks and narrows his eyes. "If you get the job, that is." 

She laughs, breaking eye contact because goddamn, he's scarily easy to talk to. "Well, I'll be expecting a call." 

He clicks his tongue and takes the paper from her. "Absolutely. Have a good night, yeah?" 

"You too." 

Harry looks at his daughter who has now woken up. She's already studying him as he bends his fingers down to touch his palm twice. "Say bye-bye, Mar." 

She smiles and looks at Reese, imitating his gesture with her tiny hand. She awkwardly returns the gesture, then waves one more time to Harry before making her way to her car. 

On the way there, her rutabaga falls through the soaked paper grocery bag and rolls past her sneakers, stopping at the back tire of her car. She probably should have wrapped it in a reusable produce bag. 

Don't rewind, she tells herself. What's meant to be, will be. 

—— 

[wouldntyou-liketoknow]

Day 5: Submerged

(Disclaimer: one of the characters in this story belongs to me. For more information on Parker, go here. For my personal headcanons on Murdock, who belongs to the Markiplier Cinematic Universe, go here. And if you’d like to learn more about the mob these guys work for, go here.)

(As usual, I got tons of help with developing the main character of this story from the amazing @sammys-magical-au ! Please go check out their blog and stories!)

(Trigger Warnings: blood/gore, implied murder/death, implied drowning, implied violence, water/the ocean, descriptions of illegal business, descriptions of decay, aquatic insects, strong language. Please let me know if I missed anything.)

Day 1 Day 2 Day 3 Day 4 Day 6 Day 7

___

Parker rolled his shoulders, still not quite adjusted to the straps that connected the tank to his back. They were good and secure…which, of course, was code for pinching and scratching against his skin. 

He’d been swimming ever since childhood; he was more than strong enough to free-dive if he chose. (In fact, if that wasn’t the case, then he’d probably have a few more questions about reality than he already did.) 

Even so, personal skill did nothing to change how the reef he was swimming towards—he could never remember its actual name, so he always just called it Ocean’s Nine-And-A-Half—grew about a hundred feet below the waves.

Fortunately enough, that also meant the reef was outside of almost every legal jurisdiction. In a technical sense, at least.

As often as he visited those sea-caves clustered by one side of the local beach, he typically never swam deep enough to need professional gear like this.

Hell, he usually made sure to keep his head above the water…unless he was out on a job and happened to see unfamiliar figures in the dark.

Unless he had to duck under and hide, peering up at the surface and feeling the breath he had to hold writhe around in his lungs until he was sure any potential witness had moved on.

Yeah, the salt stung the eyes like a bitch, so sometimes he’d take a mask on his exploits (kinda funny, considering the carmine-colored facemask he always wore on land)—but then, that was a simple type. One that wasn’t designed with inner mechanisms that whirred and hissed in time with his breathing. 

The stretchy, rubbery material of each flipper clung around his ankles, almost as though they’d been suctioned to his skin. (And that was the reason he was so grateful that a dive like this didn’t technically require an entire wetsuit rather than just his bleach-dyed swim trunks.) 

Parker shook his head, reminding himself to focus on the water. 

The water was cold. Not the freezing type that forced its way into your bones—not to him, at least. To him, it just felt perfectly cool. Maybe just a few degrees cooler than the water inside sensory deprivation chambers.

(Fine, there was a layer of goosebumps prickling along his skin. But he still adjusted quickly, and the collection of colorful tattoos he’d gathered on his arms through the years helped to sort of cover them, so shut up.) 

The water was dark. Not a gaping, pitch-black abyss that most thlasssophobia-havers probably had intrusive thoughts about whenever they went to a public pool—not to him, at least. More like a deep sapphire. Plus, even as the sun was actively setting, plenty of its rays still filtered down through the surface.

The way it swirled all around his arms, his legs, his torso…it almost reminded him of musical notes. The way music could feel almost tangible if you were feeling angry enough to burrow into the sound.

Sometimes the only way to calm down was to wait and listen and play until you could physically feel each of those notes crawling through your brain. 

It took a moment or two for Parker to actually enter Ocean’s Nine-And-A-Half, but that didn’t mean he stopped swimming. He maneuvered himself around an organ pipe coral and kicked off further, careful to avoid scraping against algae-covered rock formations.

Anemones clung to stone at higher angles, their long, vivid green polyps slowly swaying to and fro.

A small octopus with bulging, pale eyes that honestly made it look like a C- Arts & Crafts project clambered along the sand, staring up at him as he passed by.

A pair of mandarin fish fled from the ripples he sent through the water. 

A banded krait slithered out of a crevice, its sinuous body waving like a ribbon as it slowly-but-surely made its way for the surface.

(Parker made a mental note to bring that up with Azalea the next time he saw her. She’d mentioned her work-collection running a bit low on certain snake venoms during The Pentas Family’s latest meeting.)

He’s gotta be somewhere close, he thought. We were just a few miles away from the city’s buoys when we stopped to drop him…

Although, as he turned a corner in the reef, he was caught in a nearly neck-snapping doubletake when he spotted a cluster of small, sock-shaped creatures clinging to a rock on that very corner.

Sea squirts were basic filter-feeding invertebrates; sure, they came in a variety of colors and shapes, but that was pretty much it. 

These ones, however, seemed to be more on the overachieving side.

They each boasted a strange stripe pattern underneath their translucent skin. Aforementioned pattern was white, save for a trio of little black dots on the part where a face might have been. This might not have sounded like much at first, but when you realized how the stripes really did resemble a tiny spine flanked by tiny ribs that raced up toward a tiny skull with tiny sharp teeth. . .

Parker found himself unable to help but pause—without the regulator connected to the oxygen tank, his mouth probably would’ve fallen open.

Despite all the things he’d done in his career so far, somewhere deep inside him was a tiny kernel of something that demanded an occasional dose of whimsy.

And it’d been a hot minute since he'd gotten some whimsy, and there was some fresh whimsy right-fucking-here. 

So, he had to take a moment to circle around these creepy-yet-cute, strangely skeletal-looking sea squirts.

In fact, aforementioned sea squirts ended up being the key to his little conundrum. 

Because on his third time circling then, he caught something else out of the corner of his eye: a very odd shape that sat about ten-or-so feet away. 

…Well, sat wasn’t the right word. Hovered would be more accurate, considering how a thick, sturdy rope was coiled around the end of it, connecting it to a cinder block that was partially sunken into the sand. 

Adrenaline reaching a boiling point, Parker surged toward the shape. Even with the supply of oxygen literally strapped to his face, his heart and lungs felt as though they were crystallizing from the inside-out.

As he grew closer and closer, he realized that the shape didn’t appear dark or blurry due to the water; no, that honor went to all the creatures that were currently pushing and shoving to nip at it. A few dozen schools of tiny fish all gathered around the mass, truly seeming to move as one, their little scales glinting in the dim light. 

Thin, misty veils of something drifted out from between all of them, slowly-but-surely drifting upward, only to fade into the water before they had a chance to reach the surface. 

Of course, once Parker got within potential touching distance, the tiny fish all darted away before he could even blink. Almost like a magic trick. 

A generous amount of crabs stayed, either not noticing their sudden watcher or not caring about his opinions on their dietary choices. They clambered along what was left of the shape’s clothing—even that thick jacket he’d been wearing those three days ago had already been reduced to a pile of shredded rags. 

Parker tilted his head, feeling an unhinged smile etch its way across his features. 

He knew from experience that decomposition typically took longer underwater than it did on land, but there simply wasn’t much left of his latest target. 

His rotting flesh was an awful combination of loose and taut, desperately clinging to the bones underneath. Not a single square-inch of tissue was unmarked by jagged wounds that were oh-so-clearly strange little bitemarks. His mouth hung open as if in a silent scream, revealing that his tongue was gone and probably not coming back anytime soon. 

Both of his cloudy eyes (such a departure from the dark brown shade they’d been before. They’d been so dark that Parker had barely even seen the way his pupils had constricted as he thrashed and howled through the water) still remained in their sockets, but they’d taken on a definite sag.

Even with his disturbing satisfaction, an icy chill dripped down Parker’s spine as he watched a sealouse scuttle up the target’s neck and along his withering jawline before squirming its way through the space between the right eye and its papery-looking lid. 

Just like before, Parker swam a few circles around the corpse. Only this time, his movements were more relaxed, maybe even a bit lazy, calm. A cacophony from the past tapped its rhythm through his eardrums. 

Screams laced with threats and profanities that eventually bled into gagging and wretching and pleading, which themselves had bled into unintelligible gurgles after a few long, hard-fought moments… 

With that, Parker finally looked up and began wading toward the surface. Toward that dark, rectangular shape that gently bobbed against the water, waiting patiently for him (he wasn’t sure the same could be said for its owner, though).

While he didn’t look back down, part of his couldn’t shake the feeling that the corpse was somehow staring after him as he swam further and further away. 

Another part of him hoped that the corpse was watching him, because it would only cement the fact (if Caliban was here, he would’ve gotten a kick out of that) that the dead fucker wasn’t going anywhere. He would have to sit at the bottom of that reef and think about what he’d done, about how he’d fucked around with Parker and his peers one too many times. 

As always, the surface looked like wobbling glass right before Parker’s head broke through it. The cool air practically slapped him in the face, but that didn’t stop him. He paddled his way around to the bow of the houseboat, hissing through clenched teeth as one of his knees collided with the ladder that hung in the water.

Parker hefted himself onto the deck, shrugging off the oxygen tank right after pulling the eye-mask and regulator away from his face. He then sat back on his haunches, leaning against a nearby lower beam. The burning, aching sensation that slithered through him almost made the muscles in his arms and legs seem to be vibrating. 

Even so, it wasn’t a bad kind of ache. That was just how you knew you’d had a good, effective swim-time. 

Footsteps thudded from down the very short corridor that led into the main reason why this structure was called a houseboat. By the time he looked over in their direction, a purple blur came flying over to crash-land directly into his face. Considering how soft, fuzzy, and obviously harmless this blur turned out to be, Parker didn’t immediately fly into a defensive rage. 

Instead, he simply yelped and fumbled with the towel, pulling it down to see Murdock leaning against the nearby threshold with a patented smirk on his face. 

“Well?” The hitman asked, his deep baritone oozing up from his lungs and into the air. “How’s that buddy of ours doing?” 

“Oh, good,” Parker answered, voice dripping with sarcastic humor. “Totally good. He’s made a bunch of new friends down there.” 

He raised the towel over his head, quickly drying his hair; it wasn’t quite as long as Murdock’s, but it seemed an even darker shade of black in the right light. 

Murdock nodded, chuckling. “And do you think there’ll be anything left of him later in the week?”

“Probably. But even if someone comes across him, they won't be able to recognize him. Let alone find any fingerprints.” 

Deciding that his face was now dry enough, Parker pulled himself onto the very bench he’d been leaning against. He pushed the towel aside in favor of rummaging through the duffel bag he’d brought onboard an hour ago. 

Sooner or later, he found his prized facemask, the straps of which soon returned to their place behind his ears, hiding everything below his eyes from the world. 

“Well, alright then!” Murdock proclaimed, the beautiful mixture of orange and pink and violent on the horizon reflecting in his black-tinted shades. “Job’s officially done.”

He shifted in place, making to turn on his heel and head back to the control-room positioned right beside his bedroom…only to pause, his eyes lingering on his fellow contract-killer. 

Parker raised an eyebrow. “What?” 

“Nothing, nothing.” Murdock offered a coy shrug. “Just thinking about how you’d drowned that idiot in one of the sea caves before you’d dragged him through the water and onto the same spot you’re sitting now.”

Parker snorted, smirking. “That’s what we call efficiency, isn’t it? I couldn’t have just left him to float over by the docks; someone would’ve found him in the next hour.” 

“Oh, I’m not doubting that,” Murdock reassured. Another bout of quiet snickers seeped through his lips as he traipsed down the hall. 

In just a moment, the houseboat’s engine roared to life. 

Parker instinctually held onto one of the nearby support bars, admiring the way the sunlight glimmered against the water. It almost felt like the scene was so pretty because the elements themselves were actively trying to hide what he and his accomplice had done. 

And as the houseboat began to turn in the water, its bow now pointing toward all those glowing buildings that loomed near the Cove Port Inlet’s beach, Parked began humming to himself.

He would be dropped off back home in an hour; he wondered if he’d have enough time to sneak over to the studio and polish up that song he’d been struggling with lately…

@sammys-magical-au @the-matpat-ever @th3w00ds @flaming-dolph16 @nwtbobsessedemo

[howlingday]

Ok so since you've opened prepare for the Pandora's box.

- First a follow up on the two dead Jaune sisters comeback grimmverse style giving our boy a lot more trauma, angst, and moral dilemma. I asked a while ago

- Second so you know about @arc-misadventures magical girl Pyrrha post where Pyrrha has a Sailor Moon transformation, (if not I'll grab the post and send it) can you do one but with Bleach Ichigo for Jaune, Bankai style with the whole environment shifting and vortex of pure aura. And maybe the rest of JNPR with RWBY watching.

Thank you!

A twofer? That's a first. But I think I can do it.

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

REUNION

First/Previously

Jaune was shaking. He'd just survived a horrifying experience straight from his nightmares, as if the Grimm had found a way to reach into the very depths of his soul and found exactly what he feared to make this happen. He sat in the Bullhead, only minutely concerned about taking off soon. The rest of his mind was occupied by near-death experience with his sisters.

His two oldest sisters, Kassandra and Polly were alive. Or, at least, that's what he thought when he saw them. However, their return from the grave was not without its horrors. Like some horrifying macabre portrait about the origin of humanity, his sisters looked like they emerged from the bodies of Grimm, their skin pale as death with eyes bloody red.

Kassandra towered over him on horse-like hooves, her eyes framed by blinders blocking her peripherals. Her arms hung low, like twisted, black vines sprouting thorns and spines until reaching the connected tip of a hooked blade, almost like it was a cross between a harpoon and a spear. She easily closed the gap between herself and him, taking him into her perforating arms to squeeze the life out of her baby brother. He almost puked from the smell of death from her.

Polly was shorter, standing taller than Jaune but not Kassie, while her face was framed by a thick shell similar to a boxing helmet. This went well with massive arms she sported, about as large as a Beringel, that ender in thickly armored fists that hit like a truck against his shield. Of the two, she seemed the most eager with her fanged mouth spread into a sinister smile. When she had him pinned against the tree, he heard her speak...

"Jauney... Cry..."

And yes, he did cry. He wept int front of his sister as she crushed his lungs against his ribcage against his chestplate. If it wasn't for the sudden rescue by his team, Professor Goodwitch, and Ruby's uncle, he was certain he was going to die right then and there.

"Jaune?" He flinched, looking up to see his partner standing over him. "Are you okay?"

"No." He then grabbed her and sobbed into her chest. It was awkward for them both, but Pyrrha rubbed his back, cooing reassurances. Jaune Arc had been through hell, and he survived. But knowing his sisters were still there only made him feel worse.

(Also, I was recommended to look to this post for inspiration, so credit to @ratchetmath for his work)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Jaune panted hard as the Grimm Hound continued to wear him down. Apparently, Salem had learned her lesson about her previous attempt with the Grimm and decided to improve on what was already a deadly killing machine. It was stronger, faster, and definitely smarter than the one before, being able to speak full sentences instead of barks of only one word at a time. To make matters worse, Jaune's aura was starting to slow on its recovery.

"You will die." It growled. It wasn't the first time it said it, but with what Jaune had planned, he hoped it would be the last.

Taking a deep breath, he sheathed his sword. He could feel his aura build inside him, then changing its color from yellow to white. As the Grimm barreled down on him, he held up his shield, hand firmly gripped on the hilt of his sword.

"Ban... KAI!"

With a draw of his blade, blinding light shot high into the sky. The Hound roared in pain as it covered its eyes. As it regained its vision, it saw Jaune had completely changed. Seated atop a pristine white mount shaped like a cross between a horse and a rabbit glared with indignation at the black beast snarling at them. Its golden antlers glittered in the dark environment. Jaune had also changed into pearl white armor with golden frames, and in his hands he held a massive shield shaped like a teardrop and a longsword of pure light.

Chevalier Blanc du Ciel

As the Hound leapt towards Jaune, the mounted paladin raised his sword, which had shifted into a spear. In half a blink, the spear had torn through the Grimm, and a new spear had taken its place in Jaune's hands. It roared as it continued its pursuit, ready to tear through the knight and his mount. The spear changed into a sword and Jaune cued the jackalope forward. The two passed, the Grimm finding itself perfectly split in two by a gaping slice in its shoulder while the cavalier remained unharmed.

"Thank... You..." Jaune nodded as the Grimm disappeared and its human host was finally put to rest.

(This post was also recommended as inspiration, so please also credit @arc-misadventures)

(Also inspired by my previous bankai posts here and here)

[tenderjock]

don't let it in with no intention to keep it au, p3

"Hey, Will! Wait up!"

Riley and Forrest turn at the sound of the motorcycle's approach, Riley's face breaking into an automatic grin when he hears Buffy's voice. Forrest nearly overbalances the dolly stacked high with beer. Willow, who they had been walking to the party along with her roommate, turns as well.

"Hey, Buffy," Willow says. "We thought we were gonna see you at Lowell House. We were just walking there now."

Buffy looks very sexy in a little halter top thing under a leather jacket. Riley notices that for about one second and then he notices the guy driving the motorcycle that Buffy just climbed off of the back of.

"Yeah, we were on the way over but we had to stop to fight some - uhm, to stop a fight," Buffy is saying to Willow. "To stop a fight! There were some men, and they looked like they were going to fight, so we stopped them. From fighting."

Willow's roommate Tara, a pretty, quiet girl in the Lesbian Pride Alliance group, says, "Oh! Oh, that - that sounds upsetting."

The guy isn't someone Riley's seen around campus or around town before: a Caucasian male, late twenties, maybe 5'9'', bleached platinum blond hair, light-colored eyes, scar in left eyebrow, piercing in right, several identifying tattoos on his neck, upper chest, arms, and hands - nothing explicitly gang-related, Riley notes, but the overall picture screams bad news.

Bad News is also painfully, razor wire thin, which in combination with the bruise-dark circles under his eyes and the way he's only wearing a thin, ratty t-shirt and ripped acid wash jeans despite the chilly SoCal night air makes Riley think habitual drug user, too. He doesn't see needle tracks, but that doesn't necessarily mean anything.

The other thing Riley's trying not to notice about Bad News is that the guy is, for a skinny-ass pasty semi-goth punk, kinda hot. And that some girls go for that sort of look.

"It wasn't bad," Buffy reassures Tara. "We just gave 'em a stern talking-to."

Riley meets the man's gaze square on. He doesn't look away, even when most people would - and listen, Riley's a big guy, muscular, and he's got a friendly type of face but he's not a friendly type of guy, generally speaking. He knows how to intimidate people, and right now, this motherfucker is looking at Agent Finn with a little smirk curling up his mouth like he'd love to get popped one right in the jaw.

Neither of them are wearing helmets. That's against the law, in California. Technically, Riley has the authority to cite them for it. He's trying to decide whether his immediate gut reaction to beat the shit out of this guy is worth potentially sinking his chances with the girl he's crushing on, when Forrest cuts in.

"Hey, Buffy," Forrest says, nodding friendily and subtly digging an elbow into Riley's ribs. "Who's your friend?"

Riley looks down at his feet and takes a deep breath. Gets a fucking grip on himself. Jesus Christ, Finn.

"This is Spike," Buffy says. There's a beat where everyone waits for the introduction to continue.

When it doesn't, Tara offers a little wave and says, "Hello, Spike."

"'Lo," Spike says. He smiles at her, a bit. "Pleasure t'make your acquaintance."

He's English? And what the hell kind of a name is Spike?

Before Riley can ask any of the pressing questions, Buffy says brightly, "So, we're all walking to Lowell then? I think the party's already started, and they're gonna need that beer." She points to the dolly stacked with cases that Forrest has all but forgotten about.

Spike revs the motorcycle engine and pulls away from the curb. "Give us a ring if you need to be picked up, luv," he says.

"I'll prob'ly walk," she tells him. He shrugs. "But thanks."

The five of them start walking again. They fall into a short little line; Forrest goes first with the beer, Willow and Tara following, and Riley and Buffy bring up the rear.

Riley tries to organize his thoughts. After a few minutes of walking in silence - bewildered and tense on his part, placidly innocent on Buffy's - he says, "How - can I ask a question?"

"Ask away!" she says, blinking up at him prettily. A lock of hair has come loose from her updo and is falling into her face. Riley resists the urge to push it behind her ear.

"How do you know that guy Spike?" At her immediate frown, he rushes to expain: "He just doesn't seem like the kind of person you'd know in your life."

Buffy thinks about that for a while, walking with her arms folded across her ribcage. "You don't really know much about my life," she points out, not ungently. Riley feels his brow furrow. "But, yeah, I guess he doesn't." She grows quiet again, not like she's not answering, but like she's considering her answer.

"You don't have to tell me," he says. They're outside Lowell House at this point, just across the street. He looks to Forrest, who has stopped at the front door to offload the beer.

Forrest gives him an all clear? Riley nods, and his brother slips into the house, which is pumping with music and booze and quite a few people already. Buffy smiles and waves to Willow and Tara, who are doing the same thing Forrest just did but without the military hand signals.

Willow casts one last glance back at her friend, then takes her roommate's hand and enters the house, leaving Riley and Buffy outside alone. The air is still and cool and dry; in the distance, an owl screeches. Buffy's hair looks soft and golden in the low moonlight.

"We met while I was in high school," Buffy says. "He was - we didn't really get along." She laughs. "That's an understatement. But he ended up helping me with something ... something really important, something that saved people's lives. Like, that level of important. And this summer, he came back to Sunnydale after being gone for like a year, and he needed help. So I did what I could."

"What did he need help with?" Riley asks.

"Well," Buffy says. "He needed a place to stay, that was part of it."

"He lives with you?" Riley says, shocked.

Buffy nods her head. "He's living in my mom's basement."

"He lives with your mom?!" Riley wouldn't let that asshole anywhere near his mother. Jesus Christ.

Buffy giggles, actually giggles! "Yeah, Mom loves him, she thinks he's really sweet. They gossip together all the time. Dawn - my little sister Dawn - she has a total crush on him, it's so funny."

That's it. The Summers family must be made up of crazy people.

"Anyway, Spike mostly hangs out in our basement and works out or reads or does, like, the gross chores no one else wants to do," Buffy says. "And he drives me around, 'cause I commute to school, at least if it's - uhm, if it's, like, late at night? And not safe, you know, to walk."

There's several things Riley could say to that. What he settles on, eventually, is, "You should really wear a helmet if you're gonna ride a motorcycle."

Buffy blinks at him. "Oh," she says. "Okay, sure." She mostly sounds like she's humoring him, not like she's agreeing with him.

"It's just," he starts, and breaks off. It's been a weird night, and it's barely ten p.m. The girl he likes is out here tucked against his arm, talking to him about the mysterious Sid Vicious junkie guy that lives with her, who ferries her around on the back of his motorcycle at all hours of the night like her personal taxi service, who is also someone she's known since she was a teenager, apparently, and who she's saved people's lives alongside.

Riley blows out a long breath.

"It's just safer," he says. "For everyone."

Buffy's eyes soften. "Okay," she says. "You wanna go in to the party now? I hear they have mediocre, lukewarm beer."

"I hear someone dropped it and got it all shook up while they were carrying it here," Riley says, and takes her hand to lead her into Lowell.