#but they’ve become more and more centre right

[cqcandchill]

i’ve never seen an election with a liberal flop SO bad holy shit. they won a single seat. out of 57. the provincial leader just stepped down… good luck to him ever living that level of embarrassment down

[kingofthecotas]

part time soulmate full time problem

soulmate au, indonesia 2022 | ~ 1.6k

fun little au where everyone has a romantic and a platonic soulmate. all the mess happened but Worse because vale has an added level of neurosis about choice etc

(this does mention marc’s crash but no details)

——

The message comes among a flurry of others, from a number Marc hasn’t saved but can’t bring himself to block.

Don’t die. Faded marks are very unattractive.

He doesn’t read it until he’s through the other side, until they’ve run every test possible and decided he’s not concussed, he’s not dying, and he can have his phone back. It makes him—not laugh, but a sharp exhale that’s almost a laugh.

You’re such a dick, he replies, and does the mental maths behind the drumbeat headache. It’s almost five in the morning in Italy, so he has some time—

His phone buzzes. Not a message tone, but insistent. Fuck.

Despite himself, he answers.

“Marc?” Valentino’s voice is sleep-rough, unpolished in a way Marc hasn’t been privy to in years. His breath catches; the silence stretches on. “Unless you’ve let Álex loose with your phone.”

“No,” Marc says simply. “It’s me.”

“Hi,” Valentino breathes, and he sounds—

Marc swallows down something he can’t quite name.

“Are you flying back soon, or waiting for the plane you had booked anyway?”

“I’m not flying until after the race.”

“You’re not racing.” Valentino’s voice drops dangerously.

“They cleared me. I’m fine.” His head hurts like a motherfucker, but Valentino doesn’t have to know that. He doesn’t get to know that.

“No—no, no. Have they tested for everything?”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know,” Valentino snaps. “Everything. How can they clear you that quickly?”

“They said I’m fine,” Marc repeats, then, because his head hurts and he’s feeling snippy with it, “Why do you care?”

He knows what’s coming by now, the usual litany of destiny is such bullshit, I can decide my own life, I hate having you on my body, but unfortunately we’re linked for the rest of fucking time. He’s surprised Uccio sticks around, to be honest, if he’s getting something similar thrown at him.

That doesn’t come. Instead, Valentino exhales down the phone, shaky.

“Valentino?”

“It woke me up,” Valentino says finally, like the words are being pulled from his throat one by one. “I woke up, and I felt—I felt it. And for a second, the mark—” He breaks off. “Just a second. And you were back.”

“Sorry to disappoint,” Marc mutters.

“Don’t say that!” It’s sharp, cracking like a whip. It’s more than he’s had from Valentino for years.

“I—I didn’t mean that,” Marc whispers. “You’re right, that was—I’m sorry.” As if he’s the one who crossed the line first, as if he’s the one who sent a jokey little text about losing his mark. About losing his soulmate.

Because if Valentino isn’t lying—and he doesn’t sound like it—then Marc flickered, faded, even if for a split second. For a fraction of a moment, he was dead.

(Álex hadn’t said anything; but Álex would have had his leathers on. He might have felt something, but he wouldn’t have seen, wouldn’t have pulled up his shirt to an ashy smudge.)

That doesn’t help his throbbing headache.

“Please don’t race,” Valentino says after a long moment. “I—I can’t do that. It felt like I was dying.” More uncertain, more off-centre than he ever allows himself to be.

It’s nice he cares, Marc thinks, fighting down a burst of hysterical laughter, even if it’s to avoid himself suffering. He’ll probably add this to the long list of reasons he hates having soulmates—just another way for someone to hurt you. In the end, he snorts. “For me as well.”

“Marc.”

“Valentino.”

“You are—such a dick.”

Now Marc laughs. “I know. You told me a lot.” Not for a while; now, they just don’t talk. Sometimes Marc presses his fingers to his mark—still intact, despite it all, despite the twist of scars—and remembers. Just like always, the bad follows the good, and he stops that line of thought before it becomes too painful.

He’s doing it now, though, tracing one finger over it, again and again. Still dark and clear, despite it all. It hurts, but his arm always does, more when he pushes down on his soulmark.

“Marc,” Valentino says again, and just that, just his name, makes him close his eyes. “I know—I do not have any right to ask this—”

Marc hums.

“—and I know I spent so long telling the universe where to stick her soulmates, but please. Please do not get on the bike.”

“You didn’t call after Jerez,” Marc says instead of any promise.

Valentino makes a pained noise. It’s costing him a lot; it will have cost him to even pick up the phone, to roll over and show Marc his weakness. And yet Marc just wants to prod the wound a little more, to make Valentino run his fingers over his mark and feel the old throb of a bruise.

“After the first operation, when I woke up, I asked the surgeon.” Fine. If Valentino is going to offer him something, he can have something back. Give and take. Blood for blood. That’s how they do it. “He was so—shocked I was even asking, that I thought—but I couldn’t think straight, you know. All the drugs.” He smiles despite himself. “I didn’t want it to be gone.” I didn’t want you to be gone. “But you—you would give anything to get rid of it, no?”

It’s quiet for so long Marc wonders if his phone has died. Then—a slight hiss, a crackle in his ear. A breath.

“You don’t get to do this,” Marc says. “You don’t get to—you can’t tell me what to do. Not after everything.”

“You never listened anyway.” Valentino sounds—God. “I don’t—I don’t want to get rid of it.”

“Hm. Changed your tune.”

“Marc,” Valentino says. His name again. “It’s five o’clock in the fucking morning. I’m watching the Moto3 race because I’ve been awake since the middle of the night, and I can’t go back to sleep, because for half a second my mark faded.”

It used to be a little joke between them, whispered across sheets and pillows in the grey of early mornings in all their languages. My mark, mi marca, my Marc.

“I think—I cannot do that again. And…” A pause. Consideration. “You wouldn’t do that to Álex.”

“Bastard,” Marc growls. Low blow. Unfortunately, it’s working. He blinks, and his vision blurs, just for a second. To take his mind off it, he picks at the scab again. “Uccio must be thrilled. How many years has he had you telling him you don’t want soulmates?”

“Uccio knows what I mean when I say it.”

“Yeah?” It’s an old argument, familiar veins of hurt wound around it. Familiar pain, like pressing on a bruise.

“I want the choice. I would be friends with Uccio anyway, and I want that to be my decision. I wanted—” Valentino sighs. “I wanted to choose you. I would have anyway, back then.” Give and take. He’s never offered honesty like this, not for free.

Marc balls his fist, presses his knuckles against his forehead. It helps a little. “Do you think we would have ended up here still?”

“I think so.” It’s almost sad. “And at least then—”

“You don’t have the reminder. I know.”

“But without it—well, I would not be woken up at three o’clock in the morning. And I would not have called.”

Marc moves his hand back to his arm, presses the tip of a nail in. Traitorous thing, really, his soulmark. He understands Valentino in a way he was too hurt to, back then, back when it was unravelling like a cut thread. “That’s something.”

“Is it?”

And a hot flash of irritation, over quickly; even at their lowest he could never stay angry for long. “Not for you, then.”

Another silence—Marc is getting good at living in them—before Valentino says, “I am going to make coffee. The machine is loud. Just warning you.”

“What—?”

“It’s nearly five o’clock.”

“You keep saying.”

“If you are going to wake me up, you can wait while I have my espresso.”

You. As if Marc is the one etched into his skin.

(He is.)

“Now you avoid the conversation,” Marc mutters under the sound of beans grinding.

“What?”

“Nothing.” He pulls his phone away just to check the time, and—they’ve been on the call for eleven minutes. It should feel earth-shattering.

It doesn’t.

And Valentino wants Marc to wait.

He could hang up now. He could. It would be easy, easy as pressing down on his mark. One finger.

He doesn’t.

“Are you trying to distract me?” he says when the machine stops groaning. “Keep me on the phone so I miss the race?”

“That wasn’t the plan, but now you mention it…”

“You have a few more hours.”

“I can manage that.”

“Yeah?” And then, because he can’t just leave it the fuck alone, “Been a while, no? Lots to catch up on.”

“Marc.” It’s a wrecked noise this time, his name. “I am trying—”

Marc doesn’t apologise this time. Valentino hasn’t apologised at all, but that’s—

He expects that.

With a sigh, he closes his eyes again, accepts the white flag. “Can’t, anyway. They have to get me in a helicopter to get back to the circuit. No phones in there.”

“Ah. Thought I had convinced you.” There’s resignation now.

“You know me.”

“Yes.” He does. They do. But—they all know the deal with soulmates. You can’t be selfish with your life, not when you live on somebody else’s skin. They know that too.

“It’s not fair,” he says, half to himself into the silence that, for once, means Valentino is listening. “This was—this year, everything was supposed to be done. Start over.”

“Without me there?”

“Not everything is about you.” It’s too late when Marc realises that he’s smiling, and that there had been a laugh curled around Valentino’s words.

“This is.” More certain now. Putting his foot down. “Do not race.”

“And why is it about you?”

This time, in the quiet, he wonders if he’s pushed too far.

Until Valentino says, “Marc,” on a breath, like he’s pressing hard enough to draw blood. Like he’s feeling Marc for the first time without wanting to rip him out of his skin.

[mountsmase]

a/n: hi 🫶🏻 this fic was inspired by this concept which was sent in by an anon a couple of weeks ago, for some reason this fic ended up being quite challenging for me to write and I ended up scraping one draft and starting again completely, but I’m so happy with how it’s turned out and it’s definitely a fic that I’m now proud of 🥺 I really hope you enjoy and feedback as always is appreciated 🩷

word count: 5k

genre: smut

———————

A Helping Hand - MM7

It’s the scratch of Masons beard against your skin that wakes you. His breath tickling over your skin as he scatters kisses along the expanse of your shoulder.

“Morning” he speaks once he notices you stirring, his gruff morning voice causing your skin to erupt in goosebumps.

Your eyes flutter open, taking a few moments to adjust to the morning light and when they do, you find his already focussed on you.

There’s a lazy smile on his lips, his hair a little messy and you can’t help but reach up, brushing your fingers through the soft strands to push it back from where they’ve fallen onto his forehead.

“Good morning” your voice is sleepy as hold your arms open for him, seeking his warmth under the duvet and he doesn’t hesitate to snuggle up to you, his head finding it’s home in the crook of your neck whilst your arms wrap around his shoulders.

“Sleep well?” He murmurs, voice slightly muffled by your skin.

“Yeah, did you?”

He doesn’t respond but you can feel him nodding into your neck, a sigh slipping past his lips when your hand finds the back of his head, fingers scratching over his scalp the way he loves.

You know that you should get up and start your day, the sunlight that’s streaming through the gaps in the curtains an indicator that you’ve probably slept in a little longer than you wanted, but leaving the warmth of the bed is the last thing you want to be doing.

Plus, a little bit of alone time with Mason is exactly what you want right now.

His family are currently visiting from Portsmouth, and as much as you love hosting them, having so many people in the house can definitely get a little bit crazy. Since you moved up to Manchester, their visits have become less frequent, but longer, and they’ve already been staying with you for a couple of days now, planning to stay a few more nights before heading back home.

Family time is so important to you, and you know it is for Mason as well, but quality time is a huge love language of yours, and even though it’s only been a few days, you’ve missed these little moments where it’s just the two of you.

You let out a content sigh, relaxing under him when his hand finds its way under your PJ top, and he doesn’t miss the way you shiver when he presses his lips to your neck.

His fingertips dance over your waist whilst his lips pepper kisses to your skin and you tilt your head back to allow him better access.

The kisses start off as innocent, just presses of his lips to your skin whilst his fingertips trace random patterns over your hip. But they soon turn to more, his lips lingering longer and you hold back a moan when he suctions them over your most sensitive spot, his teeth grazing your skin before soothing the slight sting with his tongue.

Your hands tug on his hair, pulling his head out of your neck and guiding his lips to yours instead. He kisses you back instantly, keeping it soft to start as his lips work over yours, hand moving from your hip to cradle your jaw.

He coaxes your lips open, slipping his tongue inside and you moan into his mouth when it glides against your own, the kiss gradually becoming more heated as he moves further on top of you.

He presses one of his knees between your legs, and you slip them open for him without hesitation, bucking your hips when the new position has his thigh pressing against your clothed centre.

“Mase, we can’t” you whisper, unable to stop your hips from rolling into his and when you feel his hard length pressing into your thigh through his boxers, you want to forget you ever said anything and carry on.

You nearly give into him, sinking into the mattress when he brushes his fingertips along the waist band of your shorts, but the sound of little footsteps running past your bedroom door has you snapping back to reality.

Under other circumstances, you would jump at the opportunity to spend the morning in bed with him, but it’s the thought of getting caught that has you reluctantly rolling away.

You hear a muffled groan behind you when you move away from him and climb out of bed, slipping one of his hoodies on before turning to find him with his face buried in his pillow. You regret leaving him immediately, wanting nothing more than to climb back under those covers, but the rational part of your brain stops you.

“You know we can’t Mase” you huff, walking around to his side of the bed and sitting next to him on the edge of the mattress.

You trail your fingers over his bare shoulders, lightly scratching over his skin in an attempt to get him to look at you.

When he lifts his head from the pillow and gazes up at you with wide eyes and pouted lips, you can’t help but lean down and give him a brief kiss, your lips barely brushing over his before you’re pulling back, way too quick for his liking.

“Do you want any breakfast?” You ask him before standing back up, and he has to stop him self from making a comment about wanting you.

He lets you know that he’ll get something a bit later on, sitting himself up in bed to give you one last kiss before you leave the room. He watches as the door clicks closed behind you, tipping his head back in frustration now that he’s been left alone.

He understands why you don’t want to risk doing anything with other people in the house, because honestly, the thought of getting caught scares the shit out of him too. But, after almost a week of not being able to touch you or love on you how he pleases, he wants nothing more than to go after you and pull you back to bed with him.

His mind is flooded with thoughts as he lays in bed for a while longer, unable to get you out of his head when he climbs out from under the covers and disappears into the en-suite bathroom.

You’re welcomed by a series of ‘good morning’s as you enter the combined living/kitchen space, finding everyone already awake and ready for the day when you walk in wearing one of Mason’s hoodies and a pair of PJ bottoms.

“Morning” you greet them all with a smile, heading into the kitchen to make yourself a drink, and you’re just switching the kettle on when Lewis comes up beside you.

“We were thinking of heading out for a walk in a little bit, you and Mase are obviously welcome to join us if you want to” he tells you, and you lean back against the counter beside him to get a better look out of the window.

You ponder over his question for a moment, noticing that it’s an abnormally sunny day for the middle of winter, and as much as a walk would be nice, some alone time with Mason sounds way more appealing.

You politely decline his offer, letting him know that you’ll stay home before asking if anyone else wants a drink and busying yourself with making them.

Your mind begins swirling with thoughts of what you and Mason could get up to if they’re out for even just an hour, and you scold yourself for thinking those things in front of his family, but you can’t help growing impatient as you wait for them to leave.

You follow them to the door when they’re ready, waving them off before closing it and watching from the window, you make sure they’re past the end of the driveway before you’re heading back upstairs.

You enter your bedroom, expecting to find Mason still in bed where you left him not even ten minuets ago, but you soon notice the sound of running water coming from the en-suite.

Assuming he’s just having a quick shower, you make your way to the bed, quite happy just waiting for him to be finished, but a noise that sounds strangely like a moan catches your attention. You stop in your tracks, waiting for a moment to see if it’s followed by another.

There’s silence for a few seconds, and you’re convinced that you’re just hearing things until another, louder and more clear moan comes from the bathroom.

Its still muffled, barely audible over the sound of the water, but it has heat rushing straight towards your core, mind swirling with thoughts about what exactly he’s doing behind that door.

Your curiosity carries you across the room, hand reaching to push the en-suite door open slightly and you peak your head around the side to find him stood with his back to you in the shower.

Your view is a little obstructed with all of the steam covering the glass, but you can just make out that he has one hand steadying himself against the wall, the other in front of him with the stream of water hitting his chest.

It doesn’t take you long to figure out what he’s doing, his posture tense and the muscles in his arm flexing with every movement of his hand as he pleasures himself, completely unaware of your presence.

You feel yourself flush from head to toe, cheeks blazing as you move yourself further into the steamy bathroom, careful not to catch his attention as you click the door closed behind you.

You’re debating what to do, not knowing whether to leave him be or join him, but your mind is made up when he lets out a groan, followed by a moan of your name which has your tummy doing somersaults.

You rid yourself of your PJs, throwing them in the rough direction of the laundry basket before sliding the shower door open and stepping inside, Mason still unaware of your presence.

Now that you’re in the shower with him, his moans and little whimpers seem louder, clearer and echoing off the tiled walls and they have your legs feeling like jelly as you move towards him.

You approach him slowly, trying your best not to startle him but he still jumps at your touch, halting his movements when he realises he’s be caught.

He slowly starts to relax again when you step closer to him. You run your hands over his back and shoulders, lips following them and drawing a path between his freckles and moles, before landing on the tattoo that sits at the base of his neck.

“You okay?” You finally speak, voice muffled by his skin.

“I, yeah, fuck- I” He stumbles over his words and you watch as he drops his head forward, just about catching his flaming cheeks before he turns his face to hide them from you.

“I’ve got you” you murmur, sliding one of your hands down from his shoulder.

Your fingers brush over his skin, tracing the lines of his Champions League tattoo on their way to his front. You tease your touch over his tummy, smiling to your self when the muscles of his abs flutter under your fingers, before moving to where he needs you most.

His hand is still wrapped around the base of his cock, unmoving since you joined him in the shower a few moments ago, and you gently pull at his wrist, moving his hand away and replacing it with your own.

He feels thick and heavy in your palm when you wrap your fingers around his base, the softest yet most sinful whimper slipping past his lips when you twist your hand over his length.

“Fuck,” he curses when you brush your thumb over his tip, spreading the pre cum that’s collected there.

“Feel good, bubba?” You hum against his skin, lips continuing to scatter kisses over the expanse of his back.

“So good, Angel, fuck”

You bring your free hand around to his front, a whimper leaving his lips when you lightly scratch your nails over his tummy.

Needing to hold onto you in some way, he brings his own hand up, lacing his fingers through yours and he squeezes gently.

You continue to work him with your hand, tightening your grip slightly whenever you get closer to his tip, and the whine he lets out when you tease your thumb over his slit has your knees turning weak.

“Please, baby” He whimpers, head tilting to try and catch a glimpse of you over his shoulder.

You nuzzle your nose into his back, hand continuing to torture him with slow strokes.

“What do you need, Mase?” You whisper against his skin, thumb brushing another teasing stroke over his tip and he can only groan in response, “Need you to tell me what you want or I can’t help you, bubs”

You halt your movements when he still doesn’t respond, his hips hips jerking forward in an attempt to get you to move your fist again, but a frustrated sigh slips past his lips when you make no effort to continue.

“You know what I want” His words come out as more of a mumble, but you could hear the attitude laced in them from a mile away and he whines when you squeeze your fist a little tighter around him.

“I need to hear you say it, Mase” you pry,

“Need you, your mouth - fuck - anything, please” He finally manages to get out, hips bucking into your hand when you give one last stroke over his length.

“Not in here”

You lean up, pressing a barely there kiss to his cheek and he whimpers when your touch leaves him, watching in confusion as you reach around his body to turn the shower off before stepping away from him and out of it completely.

Your words take a few moments to sink in, but he quickly follows when he sees you grabbing two towels from the rail, holding one out for him as you rush to dry yourself off.

“W-wait, what about -“

“They’ve gone out” you tell him briefly, cutting him off mid sentence.

There’s still a few droplets of water cascading down his chest when you grow impatient and take the towel from him, discarding it, along with yours, to the side before pulling him through to the bedroom.

“Sit,” you say, gently pushing on his shoulders and he falls onto edge of the mattress, legs spreading apart when you move to settle on the floor between them.

He sighs contentedly, eyes fluttering closed as you run your hands up the insides of his thighs, his muscles jumping under your touch.

“Nuh-uh, eyes on me” you tut, and he sighs, eyes popping opening and locking onto yours.

“Good boy” you mumble, and the praise goes straight to his cock, length twitching when the words leave your lips.

Sliding your hands higher up his thighs, you shuffle forward a little, getting more comfortable between his them and he hisses when your hand wraps around the base of his cock.

“Ready?” You ask him, gazing up at him through your lashes and when he nods, you give him one last stroke before leaning towards him.

You run your tongue along the underside of his length before wrapping your lips around the head, and his deep brown eyes become fixated on yours, his lips parting when you flick your tongue over his tip. The taste of his pre cum coats your tastebuds and you hum around him, watching as he fights to keep his gaze on you.

You continue to tease him, revelling in the whimpers that pour from his lips every time you swipe your tongue over his slit before giving him what he wants.

Relaxing your jaw, you move your mouth further down his length, taking as much of him as you possibly can and he hisses at the sensation of his tip hitting the back if your throat.

“Oh my- fuck, Y/N” the moan of your name has butterflies erupting in your tummy, only spurring you on when you begin to bob your head, hand continuing to work what you can’t fit in your mouth.

“Feel good, Masey?” You coo, and he can only nod his head in response, unable to form a coherent sentence when you swirl your tongue around his tip.

The sinful sounds that leave his lips have you rubbing your thighs together, desperate for some sort of friction when his hand finds the back of your head. His fingers tangle into your hair, massaging over your scalp and you let him guide you, hollowing your cheeks around him when he lowers your mouth down his length.

You let it slide when his head drops back, his eyes squeezing closed when you take him all the way again. The sight of you on your knees and the feeling of your warm mouth around his cock becoming too much for him as he quickly heads towards his release.

“Gonna make me come already, Angel, oh my god” he pants, and he knows he’s done for when your other hand slides up the inside of his thigh, finding his balls.

“Come for me, Mase. I’ve got you” you coo, and with one final flick of your tongue over his tip, he’s cuming into your mouth.

You swallow every last drop, working him through his high until his hips start bucking out of sensitivity. Leaving one last kiss to his tip, you pull away from him, sitting back on your feet and resting your head against his thigh, eyes fluttering closed as you both take a moment to catch your breaths.

After a few minutes of comfortable silence, the hand that’s still in your hair gently massages over your scalp and you flutter your eyes open, finding him looking down at you with a soft smile.

His hand moves to cup your jaw, thumb swiping at an escaped drop of his cum before pressing it to your lips and you part them for him, cleaning the drop off his finger when he pushes it into your mouth.

“Come here” he whispers, motioning to his lap.

His hands finds your waist when you stand on wobbly legs, your knees aching from being knelt down for too long, but you can’t bring yourself to care as he helps you lower into his lap, knees either side of him as you straddle his thighs.

“You okay?” He asks, tucking some loose strands of hair behind your ear and your heart flutters at the simple question.

You nod, leaning into his touch when he cups his hand over your jaw, thumb brushing across the apple of your cheek.

“I’ve missed you” His words are soft, eyes locked on yours.

“I’ve been here the whole time” you whisper, nuzzling further into his touch.

“I know, but I’ve still missed you.” He leans closer towards you as he speaks, “Missed getting to spend time alone with you, missed having you like this” He tells you, close enough now that you can feel his breath fanning over your cheek, his lips brushing yours with every word.

“I’ve missed you too” You rest your forehead against his, hands coming up to hold the back of his neck.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah”

The word is barely past your lips when he presses his mouth to yours in a bruising kiss, taking you by surprise for a moment before you regain your composure, melting against him and kissing him back with just as much vigour.

His lips work in perfect sync against yours, his arms wrapping securely around your waist to pull you further into his lap and he hums into the kiss when you roll your hips over his.

Your hands find his shoulders, holding hard enough that you’re sure you’ll find little crescent shaped marks there later, but that’s the least of your concerns when his hand gravitates up your front. His warm palm cups over your boob, thumb stroking over your nipple and the feel of him toying with the hardened nub has you gasping into his mouth.

He takes the opportunity to coax his tongue between your lips, slipping it into your mouth and brushing it against yours in slow, unhurried strokes. One of your hands moves to the back of his head, tangling your fingers into his hair and scratching your nails over his scalp and the way he groans into your mouth has heat heading south to your already dripping core.

You reluctantly pull away to catch your breath, whimpering when his teeth tug on your bottom lip.

“Fuck, Mase, I need you”

“You’ve got me, Angel” he mutters, drawing kisses over your jaw before dropping his head into your neck.

You sigh on top of him when he trails kisses from your shoulder to below your ear, grazing his teeth over your delicate skin and the scratch of his beard has your back arching, grip tightening in his hair when he pays attention to your most sensitive spot. He nips at the skin, lips suctioning over it and you have to remind yourself to stop him, tugging on his hair and moving his lips away to prevent a bruise forming there later.

Your lips find his again, this time a lot softer as he slides his hand down between your bodies. His warm palm cups over your centre, a faint moan leaving your lips and a groan rumbles in his throat when he feels your wetness coating his fingers.

“Fuck, angel, you’re dripping for me” he speaks against your lips and you buck into his hand, whimpering when he nudges a single finger between your folds.

“Need to feel you, Mase”

“Yeah?” He coos, and you hum in confirmation, growing more impatient by the second.

His lips come back to your neck and you take the brief moment where he’s distracted to reach down, taking his length in your hand to find him hard again as you give him a single pump. You wiggle around a little, rising on your knees to try and find a comfortable position.

It takes him a second to process what you’re doing, but he stops you with a hand on your hip before you get a chance to line him up with your entrance.

“What about y-“ he speaks, but you cut him off with another peck to his lips, shuffling in his lap and he whimpers when his length brushes against the inside of your thigh.

“Later” you reassure him, and you smile softly at the pout that forms on his lips.

You know that he probably wants nothing more than to have his head buried between your thighs right now, always so eager to make you feel good, and you’d no doubt love that too, but you know that you’re working with limited time and you’re aching to feel him inside of you.

“Promise?” He holds his hand up between your bodies, pinky sticking out towards you.

You stifle a giggle, shaking your head at him in disbelief, but you quickly link your pinky with his none the less and he leans forward to peck your lips once more.

“Are you ready?” He asks you, lips trailing over your cheek.

“Yeah”

You line him up with your entrance, bracing your hands on his shoulders and you both moan in unison when you lower yourself onto him, his tip nudging past your folds.

His hand finds your hip, thumb rubbing over your skin in soothing circles as you sink down on him, head falling into his neck and eyes fluttering closed when you take him all the way.

“Take your time, love” he hums and you give yourself a moment to adjust to him, brushing your lips over his skin until he’s cupping your cheek and pulling your head back from his neck.

You meet his eyes, the dark brown orbs staring right back at you and you swear you can see his pupils dilate, with your flushed cheeks and messy hair, lips parted and swollen, the sight of you on top of him is one he wants to remember forever.

“You okay?” He asks, thumb brushing over your lips and you nod, sending him a warm smile before slowly lifting yourself until only his tip is left inside of you.

You sink back down, moaning at the feeling of him nestled inside of you, able to feel every inch of him as you repeat the action.

“Fuck, taking me so well Angel” he drawls, and your whole body lights up at the praise.

You pick up your pace slightly, bouncing on top of him and his hands never leave your hips as he helps guide you, letting you take it at your own pace until you’re reluctantly slowing down, legs starting to feel tired.

“M-Mase” you whimper into his neck, falling limp on top of him and opting to roll your hips over his.

“I’ve got you, Angel” he whispers, lips finding your temple before he’s pulling you off of him slowly.

He takes a hold of your hips gently, lowering you to the mattress and he watches as you relax back into the sheets, head falling to the pillows as your hair spreads around you like a halo.

He parts your thighs before crawling in between them and settling his body on top of yours.

Resting his body weight on one arm, he reaches down with the other and you feel his warm palm slide up the back if your thigh, giving your bum a playful slap before hooking your leg over his waist.

“Sorry” you speak, voice quiet and small and he hates the pout that forms on your lips.

“Don’t be silly bubba, it’s okay” he whispers, lips brushing over yours.

You send him a soft smile, eyes locking onto his when he lines himself back up with your entrance. The new angle has him hitting deeper, your back arching off the mattress when he buries himself to the hilt inside of you and your moans mingle between you when he pulls almost all the way out before thrusting back in.

He keeps his pace slow, resting his forehead against yours as he thrusts inside of you and his tip brushes that spot that has you seeing stars.

“Fuck, Mase. Feels so good” you breath, one hand finding the back of his neck and when he notices the other clutching at the sheets, he takes it in his own, lacing his fingers with yours and holding them up beside your head.

He hooks his other arm around your waist, holding you closer to him and he hits that special spot inside of you with every thrust of his hips.

“I love you so fucking much” he growls against your lips, punctuating each word with a kiss and when you meet his eyes, they’re already gazing back at you, shining with adoration and a range of similar emotions.

“I love you too, holy shit” your voice is breathless and you send him a soft smile, sliding your hand up from his neck to the back of his head, pulling him down to place a series of pecks to his lips.

Your heart thuds at the way his eyes lock on yours. The chocolatey orbs shining with so much love as he pounds into you, able to feel every inch of him as he rolls his hips.

“Are you close?” He looks down to where your bodies meet, the way you’re clenching around him a tell tale sign that your orgasm is nearing, “Taking me so well, baby”

“Y-yes! Mase, fuck, gonna cum” you sob, eyes fluttering closed when he buries himself to the hilt inside of you.

“F-fuck” he stutters, thrusts faltering when your walls flutter around him, his own orgasm fast approaching.

“I’m there with you, angel. Let go for me” he rasps, and it only has one last push of his hips to have you toppling over the edge with a cry of his name.

Your high is overwhelming, pleasure overcoming your senses as your back arches off the mattress, pressing impossibly closer to him.

He isn’t far behind you, a moan of your name muffled into your neck when his own orgasm hits him, the feeling of your walls fluttering around him sending him toppling over the edge and he slumps on top of you, thrusts becoming sloppy as he works you both through your highs. His fingers still brushing over your clit until your bucking your hips from the sensitivity.

Your hand finds the back of his head when his thrusts slow, scratching your nails over his scalp when his body goes limp on top of yours, well and truly spent from his orgasm.

He keeps himself buried inside of you, laying in a comfortable silence with his head pressed into your neck whilst you catch your breaths and steady your heartbeats.

After a while, he moves to pull out of you slowly, littering kisses over your forehead when he notices you wincing from the sensitivity, before flopping down on to the bed beside you.

Getting himself comfy on his back, he opens his arms for you, letting you crawl into them and settle against his chest and his arms wrap around you securely, caging you to his body.

You stay laying like that for a while, enjoying the comfort and warmth of his body wrapped around yours. He has one hand on your thigh, massaging the sore muscles and the other tracing patterns over your shoulder until he’s shuffling around slightly to look down at you.

“How about another shower?” There’s a cheeky smile on his lips when you tilt your head to look up at him, “I still owe you an orgasm”

———————

I hope you enjoyed 🤭

[loveindefinitely]

༊*·˚ FOREVER WINTER (IF YOU GO) — task force 141 x reader

07 — DISTANT MEMORY I USED TO KNOW

featuring. simon 'ghost' riley + johnny 'soap' mactavish + kyle 'gaz' garrick + john 'bravo six' price + (non-endgame phillip graves)

warnings. nsfw, fem!reader, fmmmm, enemies to lovers, slow burn, polyamory, ghostsoap, pricegaz, alerudy, heavy angst, requited unrequited love, graphic violence

series masterlist. read on ao3. read on wattpad. fanfic playlist.

<- previous part | next part ->

Quickly switching to the main channel once more, you go to report the status of your target, when black consumes your vision.

Pain sparks in the back of your head, your head unnaturally twisting to the side as you fall to your knees, forehead colliding with the harsh concrete as all of the oxygen within your lungs leaves you in one thick swoop.

“Sweetheart?! Sweetheart, what’s your status?!” You can hear Price barking out through the comms, but all you can see, hear, feel, is the sparks in the darkness behind your eyes, the cool, rocky surface of the ground on which you lay. That, and the all-consuming ache your body’s become.

Your hand claws at the floor, an attempt to right yourself, but the very new feeling of a boot’s sole presses against your skull, crushing your cheek between it and the rocks.

“Now it’s clear why you got Colonel,” a nasty, nasally voice spits out from above you. Above? Beneath? You can’t tell, not with the world spinning, not with everything within you falling apart at the seams. “Thanks for confirming what we all knew.”

Even with your centre of gravity out of whack, your words never seem to fail you. “That your,” you suppress the urge to vomit everywhere from the onslaught of nausea, “Commander’s a bad lay?”

The man’s – a Shadow’s – boot presses further against your skull, and you can’t stop the pained groan that falls from your bloodied lips. When you cough, you can hear the red liquid splatter across the floor. He laughs, coldly, unamused.

“No. That you’re a filthy whore who slept her way to the top,” he seethes, and your chest heaves with every intake of breath.

“Real. Fucking. Original,” you manage to grit out, through every flash of pain in your head. Your stubbornness was going to get you killed. Right now, even, maybe.

…Hopefully not.

Struggling to open one eye, you manage to allow yourself a small sliver of vision. You know where your small, hand-held pistol sits, hidden beneath your vest. If you can distract him well enough, all you’d need is one shot.

He grinds the heel of his boot into the nape of your neck, and you find yourself hacking up even more blood. Not a good sign.

“How does a combat medic even make it to Colonel?” He continues, sneering, ignoring your grunts of pain and frequent squirming. “Was your pussy that good?”

“Jealous, Corporal? Wanted his small prick up your ass instead?” You goad, every word a struggle to get out, but worth it nonetheless. He doubles down, looking up to the roof to calm himself down with shaky breaths.

The short, two second window allows for you to slip a trembling hand into your vest, grab a hold of the small pistol, raise it, and pull the trigger.

Your eyes flutter shut once more as the revolting feeling of a corpse on top of you has you freezing up. You can’t even check for more threats, not with every nerve ending in your body feeling as though they’ve been frayed, the truest form of torture you’ve ever experienced.

It’s then that you fall into a state of limbo. A grey area, an unknown, a state of something that can only be described as a loss of self. The crash you’d been anticipating. A pain-induced one, maybe?

“Love! Love, shit, fuck, hey, hold on!” 

In the floaty, intangible abyss you find yourself floating in, you’re unsure if the words are even spoken in reality. If they’re just a figment of your imagination, a taunt, a way for the gods to mock you before you fall into their clutches. 

Graves escaped, the thought comes to you through your haze, as what feels like phantom hands clutch the nape of your neck and your hip, an alarm bell ringing through the blankness of it all. He’s free. He survived. 

You will never belong again.

“Ghost Team, I have Sweetheart, she’s in pretty bad shape,” the words are more certain, this time, your consciousness slowly coming to. You think someone’s carrying you against their chest, a potent smell of cinnamon and gunpowder surrounding you that has you instinctively curling in closer to the source. “We need exfil, now!”

You think you let out a small whimper from the confusion, the agony of it all, because the person holding you shushes you with a soft sound and tightens their grip around the back of your head, squeezing your outer thigh. A princess carry, then.

Attempting to open your eyes, the instant light that floods them has you burying your head into a chest, the fabric blocking your vision. It, too, has that distinct, comforting smell.

“It’s okay, Sweetheart, I got ya.”

…Gaz.

Gaz is the one holding you, the one carrying you to exfil, the one who, embarrassingly, saved you. Out of the four of them, you suppose you were grateful it was him that had seen you passed out. A body on top of you.

Oh. God.

“What,” you croak, your voice broken and throat sore, “What. I – are we safe?”

“You’re safe with me, love. Won’t let anything bad happen to ya. You probably have a concussion so imma need you to stay awake for me, yeah?”

But sleep. It sounded so nice. You haven't slept since. Since you met them all. Since everything, since your life got ruined.

Whatever he says next goes unheard. Whatever pleas are made.

You let slumber take you in its icy grip.

*

“It’s a myth, ya knob. Only gotta wake ‘em up every few hours.”

“Brushed up on ya first aid knowledge to impress her? Real smooth, Soap.”

“The two of you – quit it. She’s wakin’ up.”

“Great.”

“You shut your mouth too, Simon.”

With a small groan, you try your best to gauge your surroundings. You’re moving, that much you’re sure of – by the thrum of the engine in your core and the distant whirring, you’re in a helicopter.

You think your head’s resting in someone’s lap – a hand in your hair, stroking against your scalp, soft and sweet.

Eyes fluttering open, you quickly adjust to the neon lights of the roof, finding yourself face to face with Gaz. So, you figure, you’re in his lap, his hand in your hair. He’s good, you think distantly, a proper damn masseuse.

His brows are furrowed, bottom lip forming a small pout as he glares at who you gather is Soap to your left. 

When he looks down, however, a grin quickly replaces the expression and the hand in your hair starts rubbing smooth circles into the base of your skull. If this is what Heaven is, you suddenly understand man’s desire to reach it.

“There we are,” he smiles, voice lower and smoother. “Sleepy head.”

You shoot him the world’s weakest glare. He, dutifully, doesn’t comment on its lacklustre effect. “I promise. I don’t usually have to get saved,” you petulantly point out, but the edge is dulled as Gaz continues to play with your hair. And that intoxicating cinnamon seems to have you on a leash.

“Didn’t think you did,” he reassures, and you accept the confirmation with a steady breath.

You try and pull yourself up, using your hands to do so, when a soaring pain through your left shoulder has your breath hitching and your head falling back into Gaz’s lap. It’s only then that you realise that someone’s got your bent legs in theirs, too, and when you try and get a look, you see it’s Price.

“Try not to use that arm,” Price jerks his chin to your aching arm. “You got grazed.”

It hits you, all at once, what has just transpired. What you failed to do. 

“He escaped,” you croak, looking up to the ceiling even when it starts spinning. “I tried to take him down. I did. But. He escaped, I’m…” you swallow, a heavy thing, “Sorry.”

“Hey, no, lass,” Soap chimes in, and with a secure hand at your non-wounded shoulder, Gaz helps you sit up, head resting against his shoulder, “Dinnae ken why yer sorry. It was one against ten.”

Your head pounds, a relentless rhythm, and when you look down, it’s to find Price’s hand fall onto your thigh and give a comforting pat. When you turn to him, he gives you a small smile. “You did good. We have to finish up another loose end, but we’ll take you to the nurse on base –”

“I want to go,” you interrupt, sitting up straighter with a small wince. It’s a small helicopter, obviously meant just for the 141, with bolted metal as far as the eye can see. “I can’t. I have to be useful.”

“No.”

The final member, the worst one, the man seemingly out to get you.

Ghost.

“What do you mean, no?” You quip, shooting daggers at the man who sits beside Soap on the other side of the chopper. 

“Did the concussion give you hearing loss?” He asks, cold, and you feel as though you’re buzzing with energy, “Or do you just hate hearing the word no? We don’t need you on this mission.”

“Didn’t realise you were taking over the duties as Captain,” you grit, your headache increasing tenfold, even with Gaz’s hand at the base of your nape a soothing presence, “How does Price feel about his Lieutenant’s new role?”

Both you, and Ghost, shoot a look to Price. He unknowingly tightens his grip around your thigh.

“We can discuss this on base,” he commands, allowing no room for argument. “We head for Chicago in two hours.”

Your brows furrow. “Chicago? Why?”

Soap’s smirk is dirty, excited as he simply says, “We talked to a… friend. She gave us the information we needed.”

“Information for what?” You ask, narrowing your eyes, leaning further against Gaz as more pain shoots through your body. He doesn’t say a word about it.

“Graves didn’t tell you…?” Gaz asks, looking down to you with barely concealed shock. 

You look around at the four men. “What? What’s going on?”

“The last missile,” Price folds his hands together, leaning forward to meet your eyes with serious blue. “We’re heading to Chicago to dismantle the last missile.”

*

“There we go, doll. Right as rain.”

The woman gives you a kind smile, securing the bandage around your arm, the disinfectant and tape underneath it along with the shot of morphine she’d given you easing the pain. She pulls off her latex gloves, a ring adorning her wedding finger.

“Thank you…” You trail off, not seeing a name badge on the nurse.

She places her hand on your good shoulder and gives you a soft squeeze, her smile warming. “Sarah. My name’s Sarah. I’d say that I’ll see you around, but… I hope not.”

You let out a laugh, and she lets out her own chuckle.

Sarah’s gorgeous, with dark features, black hair cut short to her head, graceful in her movements. A gold necklace rests on her collarbone, the pendant in the shape of a K.

The 141’s base is, well, almost exactly how you’d imagined it. Busy, well-stocked, off the grid.

Gaz and Soap had been lenient to leave you in the Med Bay by yourself, but Price and Ghost had made them haul ass to the conference room. You were all running on a very tight ship, time seeming to fall through your grasps with every breath you took.

“Thank you, again, Sar–”

“Colonel?” Turning where you sit on the white, hospital-issued bed, your confusion doubles when you see a woman you don’t recall having met before. She seems kind, motherly, almost, but steely in a way that only came with being in Special Ops.

“Hello to you too,” Sarah rolls her eyes, and you watch as the stranger looks to the nurse, her expression immediately easing into something loving.

“Hey, love,” the blonde woman says, pressing her lips to Sarah’s cheek, before pulling back and watching you.

“Who are you…?” You ask, feeling bad for ruining what seems to be the couple’s greeting. But also. You just got here, and couldn’t be expected to understand everyone and everything on base.

Inclining her head in a small apology, the woman extends her hand to you, which you take with a firm grip.

“Kate Laswell, Station Chief,” she greets, and recognition sparks in the back of your mind. This was the woman that had found out about Shepherd and Graves’ off the books treason. It feels as though a rock has gotten stuck in your throat as you pull away, not breaking eye contact. “You want to come on this mission? You’ll be with me.”

You immediately look to Sarah, expecting her to object, as a normal nurse probably would.

Instead, she just gives you a cryptic, knowing look. “I know how you soldiers work. If I tell you to rest, it’ll just give you more of an incentive to get yourself shot again.”

Your smile is the brightest it’s been in years.

“What’s our role?” You ask, standing up from the bed with the smallest of winces. Morphine has its limits, you suppose. Sarah starts cleaning up the supplies, and when Laswell encourages you to walk beside her with a hand at the dip of your back, you do just as much.

“We’ll be locating the missile,” she explains, low as the two of you walk through the crowded hallway. Her hand doesn’t leave its position on your back, and you’re grateful. “And you’ll be telling me everything you can about Graves and the Shadows.”

You fall into pace beside her, embarrassed by the difficulty of the task. Sarah had said you’d suffered a minor concussion, and a pretty hefty cut on your temple which she’d patched up as best she could. Being a combat medic, you knew most of your diagnoses anyway, but it was nice having it cemented by the kind woman. The bullet graze was at risk of infection, and a general pain in the ass, but it was durable with the tending in Med Bay.

“I’m surprised the boys aren’t the ones interrogating me,” you jest, more of a seeking for reason than anything. Why would they have Laswell do the talking, when they seemed so… interested?

She shoots you a look – a mystery for you to uncover. “Price told me that you mentioned a… questionable difference in authority and age. Gaz said just as much, and while they may be brutes,” she smiles to herself, telling of her history with the team, “They’re good men. Think they’re looking out for you.”

The only person, in hindsight, who had ever looked out for you was your mother.

You blink away the burning in your eyes, swallowing, before adjusting your smile once more. “I think they’re… wary of me, more like it.”

Her brows shoot to her hairline. “You don’t think that Gaz finding you unconscious with a dead Shadow atop of you cemented your allegiance? The two Sergeants haven’t shut up about you since they arrived. Only stopped talking when Price threatened them.”

“He threatened them?” you choke on a shocked laugh, getting lost in how… nice it is, talking to another woman. How safe, how it feels like you have someone to trust. The 141, you think you can trust them, but there’s something so different in the camaraderie of women. The inherent safety you feel with one in a position such as herself, that niggling in the back of your mind gone.

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” she looks to you with a smug grin, pushing open the back exit of the compound with a nudge of her shoulder. The wind slashes against your face, a strand blowing into your mouth, making you wince and spit it out.

“Fucking hate that,” you mutter, Laswell immediately quipping, “The worst.”

You think you and Laswell are going to get along quite well.

“Fuck, Sweetheart, there ye are!” A now all too familiar Scottish lilt calls, stood with the rest of the 141 by two helicopters. You stand across the field, but you can’t help the smile that creeps onto your face when both him and Gaz come bounding over, Gaz adorning what appears to be a wetsuit underneath his standard uniform. 

Bulky arms wrap around your waist, and you find yourself being lifted off of the ground, Soap pressing you against him with a strong hug. A surprised giggle leaves your lips, and you see Gaz stop just in front of you both, hands on his hips.

“She’s still injured, you dolt,” Gaz goads, and Soap responds by squeezing you harder.

“Aye, that she is,” Soap grunts, letting you down a touch gentler as you find your footing once more. He smirks. “But… She still owes me one for that dirty move back in Las Almas.”

You playfully punch at his shoulder. “Wasn’t patching you up enough? Not leaving you for dead?”

“I don’t seem to recall…” He trails off, his dimples deepening when you punch him again, harder this time.

“Good to see you up and ready to go.” The wind whistles through your ears, the near-dusk light brushing you all in sensual blues as you meet the Captain’s affirming grin.

Even when you try and flatten your mouth into an authoritative line, the smile seems unable to leave your face. You fold your arms. “I seem to remember you all wanting me dead or nowhere near you, just a day ago.”

Gaz raises his hands in defence, teeth on display as he swings his arm around your neck, pulling you in. “Don’t group me with ‘em. Trusted you the moment I saw you.”

“And who’s to say we still don’t want those things?”

Right. Ghost.

Laswell, standing behind you all, seeming to cast her calculative gaze over the five of you, narrows her eyes at the Lieutenant at the exact same time you do. “If you can’t play nice with the Colonel, Ghost, we can and will swap you out.”

That has you instantly ready to protect the woman’s six.

“Someone seems to recognise my rank,” You look to Laswell as Gaz unravels his arm from around your shoulders, and the woman simply shrugs, hands in her vest’s pockets.

“I just recognise another woman deserving of her power when I see one,” she says, and you might’ve proposed at that very moment if it weren’t for her wife just a few doors away.

“Sergeants, Lieutenant, go ahead and check over the supplies. I’ll catch up in a moment,” Price orders, and when both Gaz and Soap go to answer back, he raises a hand, raises his brow, too. “That wasn’t a request, boys. Go.”

They do just as much, both Gaz and Soap waving back at you as they jog back over to the helicopters.

Just you, Price and Laswell then.

“Kate, a minute.”

…Or, well, just you and Price.

Leading you with a hand on your elbow, Price pauses by a quiet section of the base’s wall, looking around you for any stragglers. Not seeing any, he moves both his hands to rest on your shoulders.

“The deal we made,” he begins, and it’s like a blow to your side. You lift your chin, straighten your posture, clench your jaw. “We – I would like it to extend until Graves is officially KIA. If we can plan a takedown properly, not rush it as much, we can do it. But it’s only right if you do it right alongside us.”

He subconsciously squeezes your flesh, but it’s a grounding motion, one you find necessary.

This feels like more than just that. This feels like an offering – a sense of stability for your foreseeable future. A way for you to find your feet, with a community, a support system to help you restart this path your life has diverted to.

“Yes,” you say, earnest, eyes not straying from Price’s for a single moment. “Yes – thank you.”

“I’d argue that we get the better end of the bargain,” Price mutters, and it’s so quiet and human that you think you might’ve imagined the words. You go to push, ask what exactly he means by that –

“Captain! Hassan has entered the building!” 

He breaks eye contact, finally, and your eyes catch on his profile in the night of dusk – the slope of his nose, the angles of his jaw.

He is, all things considered, a beautiful man.

Your heart thunders, and you pull away, his hands falling from your frame like weights. With a small, delicate smile, you raise your hand to your head in a faux-salute.

“Good luck, Cap.”

His responding smile is softened by the dreaminess of it all, the light, the nervous buzz in the air. He raises his own hand, then, a mocking of your movement.

“See you on the other side, Sweetheart.”

taglist. @lilpothoscuttings @jng-yuan @iruzias @insatiablekittie @1wh4re1nova @kaoyamamegami @supernaturalstilinski @inthemiddle0feverywhere @msecho19 @nogood-boyo @alfa-jor @lalashhyl @letmeapologise @honeybeeznutz @1mawh0re @oreo-cream @lalashhyl @someonepleasedateme @letmeapologise @uhhellnogetoffpleasenowty @inarabee

author's note. i have TWO very specific. but huge. plot twists thatll happen WAY later in the fic. im very curious if anyone can guess em before hand! both of which HAVE been hinted at. a part of me hopes that you guys miss it!! :p

[jewish-vents]

I went to the Jewish quarter in Toledo today and I really don’t know how to feel. I’m part Sephardi, my ancestors most likely lived here at some point. I went to the Beit Knesset they would have went to, the oldest one in Europe, I think— it’s a museum now. Part of the floor was clearly new, and part of the floor was clearly ancient. I took a picture of the ancient part, the part that my ancestors would have also stepped on. There was a cross right under the two orange windows representing the Ten Commandments that Moshe brought down, and right next to that there were Christian murals of baby angels. It was beautiful, but there was such a tangible sadness to it, deadness, almost, that I couldn’t help feeling uncomfortable. The non Jewish tourists didn’t notice it, and that made me even more uncomfortable

There was a gift shop right next to the Beit Knesset. They were selling menorahs, not chanukias, seven-pronged menorahs— and all I could think of was ‘who is this for? Not for the Jewish tourists who come here, obviously, menorahs are for Beitei Knesset, not for home. Who is this for?’ It felt wrong. Later on, I saw the exact same menorahs in a different shop, a street away. This isn’t Judaica— Judaica isn’t mass produced like that, normally it’s handmade. It’s made with love, with care, it’s made with a Jewish touch. None of the items in this gift shop have a Jewish touch to them. Feeling like I was selling out my people, I bought a couple magen David magnets from there anyway

The Jewish part of Toledo feels… I’m not sure how to say it, but it’s like a remnant. You can tell that there was something before this, but that something is gone, it’s been wiped out. And that something was Jewish. And now it just drifts through this town, like dust, never properly gone but never enough than a vague feeling. And on top of all of that is a thick layer of Catholicism, and the knowledge of the brutality that brought this Jewish cultural centre to decimation

Toledo doesn’t really acknowledge what it did to its Jews. There’s a small square on the wall of a very old house, one that most certainly used to belong to a Jew before, that talks about Shmuel Levi, saying how he would rather have died by torture than become a confessor— they call him Samuel there, though, and I feel kind of stupid for how much I resent that. But that’s it. Instead they’re giving museum tours of the two Beite Knesset that used to exist before they were converted to being churches, and then war rooms, and now attractions. They’re selling Judaica that isn’t Judaica, right next to figures of Yeshu bleeding out on the cross. They’ve got small חי tiles on the corners of the street, but all I can think of is the Jews that were slaughtered in this town by the ancestors of the people who are now living in what were their houses

All I can think of is the pork being sold everywhere, and all the chametz people are eating before the sun sets on the last day of pesach

(sorry for the pretentious poetic language, I’m a writer I can’t help it)

Thank you for sharing this. There is something almost haunting about visiting places that were once Jewish but aren't anymore. I once saw a quote somewhere about how Memory is a sixth sense for Jewish people (I don't remember where I saw it but will try to find it again). Reading this reminded me of that.

I don't have many words of comfort. I actually don't live that far from Toledo. Our shul is tiny, but we have a kosher Torah from the time of the Inquisition. We outlived them.

-🐺

[moody-alcoholic]

Gala

Double upload since I have to focus on my main project now which mean's it's going to be at least a week till I can work on this again. It's a juicy one though please forgive me <3

MDNI 18+ content

Summary: Ghoap x Reader, throuple. Slow burn (sorry but not sorry). 3.7k words. Reader is female (she/her), army nurse, non descript physical features, names used: Ashe.

CW: MDNI 18+ content Smut, blowjob, fingering, alcohol, assault, assault with a deadly weapon (kinda), toxic family dynamic(not reader), hazing, mentions of vomit, hurt/comfort, angst. Little bit of everything here :p

Previous parts - masterlist - next part

Enjoy ya filthy animals <3

“I don’t care who knows, besides it’s not a work event it’s just a stupid show off party.” Johnny said. 

“I care Johnny, I’m going with Price so it is a work event.” Simon replied as he came out the bathroom. “Look, I’ll compromise at telling Price but I don’t need the rest of the fucking world to know our business.” You hear the bedroom door slam muffling their voices. They’d been spatting for the good part of twenty minutes and it was the first time you felt like you were probably not meant to be there.

Instead you just pretended to pay attention to whatever was happening on the TV until you hear the door open and close again. You look over to check who it is then back at the TV. Johnny makes his way over to you flopping down on the sofa. You look over at him playing with his wedding ring.

“I can go home.” You say, he turns to look at you. 

“Don’t be silly c'mere.” He says reaching over and pulling you up against him. He kisses the top of your head stroking your back. A few minutes later you hear the door to the bedroom open. Simon walks through the flat in front of the TV to the balcony door, with a cigarette hanging out his mouth. It’s dark outside, he goes out the door closing it behind him, you see him light the cigarette. The pit forms in your stomach, you feel like you’re invading their privacy. They would ask you to leave if they wanted you too.

You sigh wrapping your arm round Johnny’s chest. He doesn't say anything, you watch out the window seeing the end of Simon’s cigarette light up now and then. Simon's had a long day, been doing paperwork now he’s being forced to go to this stupid event, and with only 24 hours notice. It is stupid, God it was pure unfortunate luck that you happened to be in the same shopping centre on the same day as Chloe. Maybe you could convince them not to go. No that wouldn’t work Simon was right it was a work engagement for him. You watch Simon stamp the cigarette out coming back through the door. He walks over to the sofa, you follow him till he disappears out your line of sight. You feel Johnny move, trying to keep as still as possible. You hear Simon kiss him, that makes you relax, at least they’re not mad at each other. A few seconds later Simon sits on the sofa he pulls you out of Johnny’s arms onto his chest, you feel Johnny scoot closer so he can reach Simon. 

“We really don’t have to go.” You say out loud. Simon kisses the top of your head. 

“If only it were that simple.” He replies sighing, you stroke his chest, he's so tense. You pretend to pay attention to what’s happening on the TV. Some game show, you move to look up at Simon, he looks back down at you smiling, he seems a little relaxed after his cigarette, you lean up and kiss him. You just wanted a quick kiss but he pulls your face up pushing his tongue in your mouth, he tastes of ash, you don’t care. You feel Johnny’s hand run up your back working it’s way round to cup your breast, it’s like they’ve already communicated with each other, working in sync to touch your body. You find your hand moving down Simon’s body as Johnny’s fingers brush over your nipple. You kiss Simon deeper, becoming more eager, your hand slips into his pants you feel how hard he is already. You pull away from the kiss.

“Let me make you feel good again?” You ask looking up at him. He nods, you move so you’re on your hands and knees your ass in Johnny’s face. He doesn't seem to mind pulling your PJ shorts and underwear down to your knees. Your hand frees Simon’s cock and you waste no time locking your lips around the red tip hearing him moan as his head falls back. Johnny’s fingers brush your clit sending sparks up your body. Johnny doesn’t stop pushing two fingers into you, you clench round him which only makes him push them in deeper hitting that sensitive spot while his other hand plays with your clit. You thrust your mouth up and down as Simon runs his fingers through your hair. 

“She can tell when you need to de-stress Simon.” Johnny says. 

“Doesn’t mean you can slack off.” Simon replies, that makes you smile as you feel him react to your change in speed. You would ride it out longer if you weren’t so distracted by Johnny’s fingers all over you, you’re struggling to focus, moaning around Simon’s hard cock, your mouth filling with saliva as he hits the back of your throat.

It’s sloppy, messy almost rough as you try to keep from clenching round him with your teeth, but it's just what he needs. His hips start thrusting into you making Johnny’s fingers move faster. You whimper as you get closer to the edge tears streaming down your face, you don’t stop it feels too good and you know if you make Simon feel good Johnny will make you feel good too.

Simon’s grip on your hair gets tighter and you feel him twitch in your mouth. Johnny’s rubbing, faster his fingers thrusting in and out of your dripping cunt. Fuck, you’re going to cum if he keeps this up. You can feel Simon is close too. Maybe Johnny is trying to time it with him, it’s only when you feel yourself coming you realise Johnny and Simon are making out.

You don’t have time to think about it as Simon fills your mouth, you take him deep feeling each twitch as he pants in Johnny’s neck. You feel Johnny’s fingers pull out as you turn to lean up against the back of the couch, breaking Johnny and Simon apart. You want to feel bad but you’re too blissed out to care. Simon looks down at you leaning to kiss your forehead, your eyes switch to Johnny.

“Give me a second,” you say panting. 

“Don’t be silly lass, I��m more then fine.” He says getting off the couch before you can protest. You see him put his hand down his pants, and the stain soaked down his leg as he walks away. You could have sworn you felt both his hands on you. You sit up confused as he winks at you heading to the bathroom. You hear Simon chuckle behind you as he also gets up off the couch. You pull your bottoms back up trying to figure out what just happened.  

 —————————— 

“Uncomfortable fucking dress.” You say hitching it up as you walk along the gravel path to Chloe’s massive childhood house. 

“How many times have you been here?” Johnny asks his arm looped round yours. 

“Too many to count, before things went even more south with her family we used to spend a lot of time here.” You say. You were nervous and not just because this party was way out of your comfort zone or the fact that you were going to be surrounded by so many officials, it was that Johnny and Simon insisted on explaining the relationship situation to Price and now you were going to meet him for the first time.  

You walk up to the massive entrance butlers standing on the door, you take a champagne flute off the tray nodding at them. You sip it as you walk over to Chloe’s family greeting everyone in the entrance, you wait your turn to walk up to them.

“Very fancy.” Johnny leans in whispering, you smile sipping your champagne.

“Oh sergeant, so happy you could make it!” Chloe’s mother says as she kisses your cheek.

“It has been so long since we have seen you.” You smile accepting the hug. 

“I’ve been busy.” You say. 

“And who is this young man.” She asks looking him up and down.

“This is John-sergeant MacTavish, SAS.” You say hoping she would ignore the hiccup, you look over at Chloe who is sipping a glass of something as she taps her foot. 

“Another SAS soldier how lucky are we! Mark come over here say hello!” She waves Chloe’s brother over, he’s taller then you remember he walks over to Johnny putting his hand out Johnny shakes it. He introduces himself and talks about his unit you’re not listening, you’re trying to catch Chloe’s attention. 

“Well we’re so glad you can make it, there are more drinks out back.” Chloe’s mum says eagerly. You nod and head out to the garden, Chloe smiles at you on the way. 

“Know him?” You ask Johnny. 

“Fucking reserves.” He replies, you scoff finishing your empty glass and placing it on a butlers tray. You head to the bar and each pick up a drink then find a quiet corner of the party to people watch. Johnny doesn’t let go of your hand as you lean back on the fence. The garden is full, lots of people in formals, you're glad it's only officers needed to wear them, formals are definitely not the most comfortable.

“What you expected?” You ask him. He shakes his head sipping his drink. The atmosphere seems relaxed as your eyes move over to the live band.

“Different tax bracket.” He says, you chuckle. “How come Chloe’s so down to earth?” 

“She’s had it tough, she’s the youngest of 5, her parents would always pressure her into what they wanted her to do, which made her go harder in a different direction.” You sip your drink. “Moved out when she was 16 lived on her own without her parents support ever since, only ever comes back here for family events like tonight.” 

“This seems like more then a family event.” Johnny says. 

“You should see their Christmases and new years.” You say laughing. Johnny straightens up as you spot Simon in the crowd. He looks good in formals, almost too good. Johnny leaves you to walk up to him and bring Simon and an older gentleman towards you. 

“Price this is Ashe.” Johnny says, you put out your hand to shake his.

“It’s good to finally put a name to the face.” You say trying not to blush as Johnny’s hand finds it’s way to the small of your back.

“I read your file, army nurse?” He says. 

“Yes, sir,” You nod, you hear Simon chuckle. You look up at Johnny who nods. You’re about to open your mouth to speak when you hear the squeaking of a mic and the music slowly stop. Everyone turns to look at Chloe’s mum beginning to give a speech as the crowd moves forward, you can’t see Chloe though. You listen as she introduces herself and runs through that will happen and when the auction will start. Something catches the corner of your eye. You look over at the outhouse watching the door close. There is a pit of dread forming.

“You okay?” Johnny asks as you’re twisting your body. You look back up at him nodding. 

“I’m just going to use the bathroom.” You say, Johnny nods stepping up to join Price and Simon as you slip out towards the outhouse. You could have sworn you saw Chloe maybe she has a guy in here maybe they’re having sex. You hope it’s sex, because you haven’t seen her since you got here and she’s not on the stage with the rest of her family.      

“Chloe? You in there?” you ask as you push the door in. It’s unlocked, you pull your shawl tighter round you as you walk in, the lights are on. 

“I don’t care if you’re having sex, but you're missing your mums shit speech.” You say trying to squash your nerves. When you round the corner you see 4 boys looking at you one with their hands over Chloe’s mouth another with a pistol in his hand. 

“What the fuck is going on!?” You shout. 

“Come on it’s just a bit of fun.” One of the boys says with a beer in his hands he’s slurring his words. American.

“Yeah a bit of basic hazing.” The one with the gun says waving it around, you duck, holding your hand up. Please for the love of God be a fake gun.

“Hazing? This isn’t a fucking frat house! Put the fucking gun down before you shoot someone.” You say making your way over to Chloe who’s makeup is running down her face from tears.

“Jack said she needed it,” One says. You scoff, pulling the guys hand off her mouth. Of course it was fucking Jack behind this. 

“Hey, fuck you.” The guy behind you says as you wrap your shawl around Chloe. He pushes your shoulder. Fuck you’re too tipsy for this, at least the adrenaline hasn’t let you down yet. You turn to look at him and before you can stop yourself punch him in the face. It’s not hard and you almost miss but it’s enough to make him back off. Then you feel the butt of the pistol hit the side of your face. Fuck that hurt. But you’re still on your feet you turn to look, the guy looks freaked out.

“Put it down before you shoot someone!” You say again steadying yourself and then wrapping your arm round Chloe. You just need to get her out of here. She leans into you as you start to walk to the exit. There’s no way they’ll shoot you it’s just boys being stupid. When you’re outside you welcome the cool air, and the cover of darkeness as you walk to the kitchen backdoor away from the party, still gathered on the back lawn. There are waitstaff mulling around but they pay no mind to you, you take her through to the dining room leaving the door open so you don’t have to turn the light on. 

“Stay here I’ll be back in a sec.” You go into the kitchen to get a glass of water and pick up a glass of champagne for yourself. 

“Here,” you pass her the water and she sips it shaking. “Do you want me to get your mum-maybe not her-your dad?” Chloe shakes her head. 

“You’re going to bruise.” She slurs pointing at where the gun hit your head. You reach your fingers up it hurts to touch. 

“Yeah I’ll just say I got it having really good sex.” You try to lighten the mood. That makes her smile as she sips the water. 

“You want to come and stay at my place?” You ask. She nods. 

“Okay let me go find Johnny and we’ll get out of here, stay here okay.” She nods putting the glass on the table. You down the glass of champagne, now the adrenaline was wearing off and you’re remembering how tipsy you were. You make your way back out looking for Johnny or Simon in the sea of bodies, you spot Johnny from a mile away even with his back turned. You grab his shoulder and he turns to you still mid conversation. You take one look at him and his face goes grim. You want to put your arms out to stop him but it’s too late he’s gripping your arm pulling your chin up so he can get a better look. 

“I’m fine,” you say trying to swat him away. You hear him calling Simon over, Christ, you don’t want to cause a scene. 

“Just come.” You say pulling his arm into the building.

“What happened?” He asks, you don’t want to say anything till you’re away from the party so you keep leading him through the kitchen to the dining room. Chloe is still sat at the table with your shawl round her. 

“Some cunt’s got a bit too excited, I just want to get her home can we leave?” He nods looking at Chloe. 

“You okay?” Johnny asks her, she nods. His face turns back to you touching the red mark on your face, you try not to wince but can't help pulling away from his touch. 

“Fuck, let me get Simon then we’ll leave.” He says going out the room, you pull a chair out next Chloe. 

“What you going to do?” You ask her. She looks at you for a second then at the floor. 

“What fight Jack on his own turf?” She chuckles. 

“I could press charges, assault with a deadly weapon.” You say, she shakes her head. 

“They were only joking, they’re kids, grass on them it’ll end their careers.” She says.

“Yeah, damn right it should, they attacked you, attacked me.” You were angry. “One of them is running around with a fucking gun.” 

“Leave it, you don’t have to fix everything, it’s just stupid kids being kids.” She says her voice laced with something, annoyance? sadness? You’re too drunk to tell, too worked up to care. Johnny and Simon walk into the room before you can respond. Simon doesn’t say a word just steps over to you pulling your chin up, you look in his eyes, they’re burning into you looking round your face. 

“I’m fine Simon.” You say he drops your chin turning to walk out the room. “Simon!” You get up out the chair going to the door.

“Who’s Simon?” Chloe asks, you turn back to look at her rubbing your head feeling the throbbing start, the adrenaline has definitely worn off now. You didn’t have the energy to explain all this to Chloe tonight, she’s probably too drunk to remember anyway. You grab Johnny’s arm pulling him round the other side of the door.

“She was attacked, by some American frat boys, trying to haze her or something, she doesn’t want to do anything about it.” You explain quietly.

“What about you?” Johnny asks.

“One of them pistol whipped me, I’m fine.” you say gripping his arm. 

“One of them has a gun!?” He says gritting his teeth trying not to talk too loud. You look past Johnny seeing Simon and Price in the kitchen doorway. 

“Johnny, I just want to get home.” You say, feeling drained. He sighs pulling you into his arms.

“We’re going home don’t worry.” You wrap your arms round him as he kisses your head. You close your eyes breathing him in, you feel a wave of emotions, you can’t cry now not here not in front of Johnny and Simon. Later. You promise yourself. You feel more hands on you, you’re too woozy to pay attention.

“I’ve got her, go get Chloe.” You feel yourself transferred into Simon’s arms. You lean into him as he walks you out to the front entrance. Price is already stood with a car door open Simon helps you in the back then gets into the front passenger seat. A few seconds later you feel Chloe and Johnny get in the car. 

“You’re cute.” You hear Chloe say. 

“She get’s flirty when she’s drunk.” You say resting your head on the window. 

“I can tell,” Johnny says as he struggles to try and attach her seat belt as she flirts with him. 

“Where to?” Price asks. 

“Our place.” Simon says. You can’t help but look into the rear view mirror Price’s eyes meet yours. You look a way, what an embarrassment you must look. Price starts to drive, you listen to Chloe flirt with Johnny the whole way. At one point she tried to climb in the front seat to flirt with Simon and Price. 

“Man why are all you military guys so fucking hot!” She slurs as Johnny pulls her back. 

“That’s one reason to join,” You whisper under your breath. When you get back to their flat you help Johnny get her out the car. Closing the door behind you Simon stays in the car for a little longer. You help Johnny get her to the front entrance man she’s drunk, she can barely walk. You hear a door close and feel Simon’s arms round your waist, as you all stumble in the lift. You lean into Simon’s touch enjoying his hands being on your body. 

“You bunk with her, we’ll take the spare room.” Simon says, as you get into the flat.

“No let me take the spare room with her.” You say breaking from Simon’s grip walking over to take her out of Johnny’s arms. She sounds disappointed as you walk her to the spare room. You go in throwing her on the bed you walk back out into the bathroom. 

“What about your head?” Johnny asks following you take the bucket out the cupboard. 

“I’m fine,” You lie your head has been pounding since you left the party. “Besides if you get into bed with her she might try and fuck you.” 

“You know where we are if you need us.” Simon says putting his arms round Johnny’s waist pulling him towards their room. You nod going into the bedroom putting the bucket on her side of the bed. You strip her down to her underwear and go into the kitchen to get a glass of water. Simon and Johnny’s door is not fully closed. You pause for a second almost wanting to leave Chloe and just curl up into bed with them instead, you push the thought away going into the spare room putting the glass on her side.

She’s passed out already you tuck her body into the bed going back out into the bathroom. You look at your head in the mirror, yeah that’s going to leave a nice bruise you brush your teeth getting the taste of alcohol out your mouth. While you’re swilling your mouth out you hear her heaving in the bedroom, dropping the brush and running back to the room to make sure she’s getting it in the bucket and not all over the bed. You rub her back as she spills her guts. After the first round, she begins sobbing all you can do is rub her back and encourage her to take sips of water. You empty the bucket once, twice. Eventually she falls asleep again and you crawl into bed next to her, your head throbbing, a pit in your stomach. You knew this party was a terrible idea.

Next part

[ladymarycrawley]

Forbidden but delightful - Mason Mount

Request: I actually had a imagine request for Mason Mount…where the reader works for him and they’ve always been fond of one another and one day she comes in wearing a guys jumper, it doesn’t fit her properly and it smells like a man. So Mason feels himself becoming jealous, when in reality it’s just her brothers jumper that she ended up wearing because she fell asleep at his babysitting his kids + @anon that asked me sth based on Mase's Nike shooting that got out out in august/september

Warning: none

Tag list: @prideofpd , @johnstonesfc , @chelsealover , @masonxomount , @masterclassbaby

(gif credits to @bracedes)

A thing Mason promised himself he would have never done in his life was falling in love with someone that worked for him or that simply happened to cross his path for business reasons: he knew it would have been unprofessional but, most of all, he feared he would have ended up as the wronged party.

Another thing he knew deep down his heart was that promises are sometimes meant to be broken and the aforementioned one was one of those.

Since Y/N took on the role of his personal stylist she became the ever so present object of his thoughts as she charmed him since day one, when that shy smile of hers made him blush and ask for more, more moments of him in her company. 

He knew she had something special but didn't know what that was, he only knew it was something that made him feel relaxed, at peace with the world around him. It was as if she held an aura of calmness that was never enough for him as his engaged lifestyle required a lot of it.

Needless to say they got along instantly and, as he was one of the most appreciated footballers on the planet, she soon became one of the most envied women for spending so much time with him. That time they would spend together wasn’t related to fashion matters only but quickly spread to their spare time too: after their work for a magazine, Mason invited her over to his house to celebrate their first job together.

In the meanwhile, on her part, a small sentence he said to her like “I’d like you to always feel at ease when you’re around me, we don’t have to be friends if you don’t want to but I’d like you to be totally yourself” was what made her like him as soon as his brother Lewis introduced him to her. What he expressed was quite an easy concept not to be taken for granted as a lot of famous people would likely treat their employees as servants, making their business life miserable but that wasn't his case.

Everyone loved Mason for being a down to earth guy, a family guy that always had the most beautiful smile painted across his lips and that smile was the second thing that made her weak to her knees: it could light up a dark room faster than artificial light and warm her heart at the same speed.

The second time it was her turn so she asked him to join her in going to a club in the centre of Manchester. It was just the prelude of their game of looks, subtle and unintended touches, sweet words. All of that happened without them even realising it as it felt so spontaneous, so right.

The crucial moment in their professional as well as personal career was when the Red Devils player was asked to feature in the next Nike Underwear campaign as one of their latest posterboys.

“That’s huge, I can't believe it” She kept on saying in disbelief as he was in a delighted mood too. That was probably the biggest job she got until then and they were both buzzing.

“I’m sure all the girlies will love me even more after this shooting” You joked, alluding to the shirtless pictures of Mason that would soon reach every corner of planet Earth through the worldwide coverage they would have had.

He blushed a little and chuckled. “Yep and they’ll probably hate you a little too cause you’re stealing their place”

“Me?? I’m just doing what I’ve been hired for and just got you the biggest shooting to date”

“Yeah but don’t flatter yourself sweetheart”

Sweetheart? Y/N would have never thought of hearing that nickname coming from his mouth and above all, addressed to her. The shade of bright pink that painted her cheeks after that exchange of words, matched her geranium skirt and that combination didn’t go unnoticed to her client who smirked, quite pleased with what his sentence ignited in her.

They both gave each other knowing looks, a look that made Mason’s heart beat faster and Y/N’s legs shake.

The stylist cleared her throat with a fit of coughing before looking at the time on her phone screen, deciding it was time for her to go home before things would have gone out of your hands.

“Are you already going home?”

“Yes, I have erm - a friend over for dinner, yeah” She nodded as if she was trying to convince herself to buy her own lie. 

“Do I know her? Oh wait, is it your best friend?” The Englishman didn’t really care about her guest, he only wanted to spend a couple more minutes with her and make sure she wasn’t seeing any guy he would have to compete with.

“No no, you don’t know her…” She said dismissively, putting her bag on her shoulder.

“Is this mysterious friend a guy you haven’t told me about?” He said, crossing his hands and trying to sound as chilled as possible.

“Please! Not interested in any guy right now” Yeah, in any guy that wasn’t called Mason Mount. “Really have to go now, my house is a mess and she will be there in less than an hour… see you tomorrow, Mount, don’t be late cause we’ll check your Nike’s outfits out!”

“Don’t worry, I won’t…have fun tonight”

“Yep…thanks”

They almost whispered their goodbyes with a hint of sadness and delusion in their voices, as though neither of them wanted to leave each other nor wanted the other one to be left alone but the positions they were in forbid any kind of romantic relationship: it would have been too complicated and too risky.

The very risky thing though was the task she had to undertake the next day: some Nike people met Mason and Y/N at the sportswear brand’s headquarter in London and shared a quick chat to get to know each other better, before skipping to the part where they would explain the shooting they had in mind for Mason to be featured in.

She gulped the moment they showed them the underwear models they could have chosen among.

Y/N’s mind soon got crowded with not safe for work images, as the sight of the Manchester United player’s toned body covered only in a pair of tight boxers, smiling at her began getting more and more vivid.

She shook her head when the Mason in her mind bit on his lower lip and seductively brought his hands to his sides to take off the tiny piece of clothing covering his lower body.

“Are you okay?”

“Me? Oh yes, yes I’m so excited for this you have no idea” She laughed.

The people working with them smiled and left the room to do God’s knew what, leaving her and Mason alone.

He chuckled, lowering himself to her level so that his lips were close to her ear and whispered “Bet you’re more aroused than excited for this job”

You widen your eyes and hit him on the shoulder.

“I’m fully focused on my work, wasn’t thinking about anything vile”

“Even if you’re thinking about it that would be nothing wrong with it…I won’t tell anyone about your secret crush for me”

“Stop it! How old are you? 15??”

Mason giggled and swiftly pecked her cheek. “I love it when you get annoyed at me”

If someone would have seen that scene they would have thought they were a couple, a cute couple but sadly it wasn’t the truth and maybe would have never been…

Y/N arrived at work the day of the Nike shooting some minutes late and she entered the venue out of breath.

“Hi! Sorry everyone, stuck in traffic and it was horrible” She justified herself panting. What she just said was a white lie because she had nothing to do with London’s traffic: the night before her elder brother asked her to babysit his children because he had planned a night out with his wife and forgot to call someone to look after those two rascals that spent all the night shouting and running around the house.

She tried to say no when he asked her that favour, as she had a big day coming on but he said he really needed her help.

So she fell asleep on the sofa, after battling to put her nephews to bed, waking up just in time to go back home in a rush, begging her brother to give her a lift, and put on some knee-high boots that would have complimented that oversized grey jumper she borrowed from him to fight the coldness of the night.

Mason raised his eyebrows when he saw her, recognising immediately what she was wearing was a man’s jumper.

She styled it as if it was a dress and she looked so hot in his eyes but couldn’t stop thinking she must have spent the night with some man, that’s the reason why she was late.

The shooting went as planned: Mason looked genuinely flawless and sexy in that underwear, smiling at the camera and she kept on biting her lips as she couldn’t help thirsting over him as he looked nothing but hot ... that infatuation for him would have been the death of her.

She thanked that one person that asked for a little break because she needed a giant cup of coffee and some fresh air.

“You look good” Those were the first words she said to Mason that day.

“You too”

“No way, I look hideous as I’ve barely slept and arrived late on what’s the most important day in my career” She blurted annoyed at that, something unforgivable from her point of view.

The footballer started biting on his nails as he was clearly nervous and maybe needed some fresh air as well as she did.

“This…” The strong smell that tickled his nostrils interrupted him “...this smell, where does it come from?”

“Oh I think it’s my jumper” Y/N admitted shyly, referring to the garment that looked huge on her.

What Mason noticed made her blush, as if he caught her red-handed while doing something inappropriate and he glanced at her sideways, as if that inappropriate thing she did disappointed him somehow.

“It still smells like him...” She said under her breath but he still heard her and couldn’t help but widen his eyes in shock: in his head they’re perfect together, smiling and laughing every day, even subtly flirting so he thought she was single and he could go on courting her but now she’s wearing another man’s clothes? The poor man was confused to say the least.

“You told me you weren’t interested in any man…”

“And I’m not”

He raised his head and smiled quite relieved with the real explanation behind all of that.

“So why are you wearing another man’s jumper?”

“Oh god Mase, are you jealous?? This is my brother’s. He asked me to babysit his kids last night and took this because I was cold and in a rush so it was literally the first decent thing I’ve found”

“Oh well…I was ready to mock you for your walk of shame actually”

“No dear, you’re dying for me to tell you I haven't slept with anyone last night and now you’re joking only because you didn’t get angry” You giggled, offering him a cup of hot coffee.

“Can I take you out tonight?”

“Mason I- I don’t think that’d be a good idea, I mean we’re working together”

“I know that but I’ll do my best to keep things separated, I promise” He gave you puppy eyes, making you giggle.

“If you wanna try…”

“You don’t wanna try?”

Of course she wanted to, she'd been dying too…and she'd been dying to know what his lips tasted of too: she quickly glanced around to make sure all the people involved in the shooting were still out and unexpectedly kissed him, the coffee flavour on his lips mixing with her nude lipstick.

“Now go on posing, nothing happened!”

Nothing could swipe Mason’s smirk off his face as he brushed his thumb over his lips that now tasted like her.

“Yeah...nothing happened”

Mixing work and private life wasn’t something they were willing to do but sometimes breaking the rules has that forbidden charm that brings to one’s soul the highest of delights and that’s a risk worth taking.

[youcouldmakealife]

SOTM: Bryce/Jared, Elaine; Man of the Hour (Day, Week, Month, Year)

For the prompt: One of the articles Bryce mentions. "…like, a profile thing? How it was growing up gay in hockey, that kind of thing… A chance to establish myself as like, I am now,” Bryce says. “Kind of like — not set the record straight, exactly, but like, show I’ve matured and stuff. "

It’s the definition of a typical Vancouver day, drizzly and overcast, when I meet Bryce Marcus. He likely needs no introduction, but I will introduce him anyway: the star centre for the Vancouver Canucks who went from being the enemy while playing for the arch-rival Calgary Flames to becoming possibly the most beloved man in the city: certainly if you you asked the fans streaming out of Rogers Arena after watching the Canucks win the Cup for the third time, or the hundreds of thousands of lining Burrard to cheer on their Canucks at the Stanley Cup Parade on a beautiful sunny day this June.

The weather is anything but glamourous today, however, and at the Marcus Matheson household, the surroundings aren’t either.

Jared Matheson, husband and teammate of Bryce, apologizes as I step over a box in their hallway. “We’re kind of in the middle of a move right now.”

They’re trading their two-bedroom condo for something ‘a little more permanent’. Both have decided that wherever their NHL careers may take them, Vancouver is going to remain home, and they’ve just closed on a house nearby.

“Bryce is weirdly excited about getting to mow the lawn,” Jared tells me as we wait for Bryce to finish getting ready. In light of the hyper-competitive Vancouver real estate market it’s entirely understandable to be excited about lawncare — it means you have a lawn to care for — but one wouldn’t have expected that to extend even to Vancouver’s sports stars.

When Bryce emerges, five minutes after my arrival, he announces himself by swearing as he trips over a box of his own, and then apologising, both for his language and his tardiness.

“He was doing his hair,” Jared says.

“I was not,” Bryce scowls, but doesn’t offer an alternative explanation.

After a quick tour of their condo, which is currently half in boxes, Bryce and I hop into his Audi S8 — naturally courtesy Capilano Audi, whose ads featuring him are inescapable during Canucks games. We drive to Richmond so he can show me his old haunts: elementary, middle, and high school — though he finished high school in Washington while playing for the Spokane Chiefs — his home rink, the Dairy Queen his mother took him after hockey games. He’s a capable, if slightly aggressive driver. I mention this because from the dire warning I received from Jared on the way out the door I genuinely believed I might not survive the drive.

Bryce finally pulls into the driveway of an unassuming but cheerful house on a quiet suburban street. The morning drizzle has faded, and the weather is now just as bright and warm as his childhood home, and the mother who raised him there. Already waiting for us on the porch, his mother Elaine Marcus offers me a glass of lemonade. “Store bought, I’m afraid,” she says with a smile. “I’m not much of homemaker.”

Over lemonade and cookies — “Also store bought,” Elaine admits, “but this bakery is very good!”, and she’s right about that — she shows me an array of childhood and teenage photos while Bryce complains to his mother that she’s ‘embarrassing’ him.

The photos are more inspiring than embarrassing: photo after photo of a beaming little boy in an equally small Canucks jersey, proudly brandishing a plastic mini-stick (Canucks branded, of course). A true example of someone who grew up to live his childhood dream.

Sadly, as he gets a older the smile disappears, as does the man beaming in the background of so many of those happy photos. His father, Ben Marcus, was killed by an impaired driver at the age of 32. It devastated Elaine and Bryce, who was only four at the time.

“It was hard,” Elaine says. “He didn’t understand. I didn’t understand, when it came down to it. It was a hard time. He wanted to play hockey all the time, it was the only thing he wanted. He was really only happy on the ice.”

“I just wanted him to be happy,” she says, smiling tearfully, and as Bryce wraps a protective arm around his mother's shoulders, I offer to give them a moment.

“It was a long time ago,” Elaine says in dismissal, wiping her eyes. “It’s just hard sometimes. Ben loved hockey, loved watching the Canucks with Bryce — he’d have been so proud to see Bryce lift the Cup for them. I am too, of course, but it was always Ben and Bryce’s thing. He would have been so proud.”

I do give them a moment then, and when I return, my lemonade has been refilled and both are all smiles once again, though Bryce's doesn't last. He cringes as we go through photos of his teen years. There’s a sullen look on his face in every picture.

And what was Bryce like as a teenager?

"I'll let him answer that," Elaine says diplomatically.

“I don’t really know,” Bryce says, looking thoughtful. “Angry, I guess. I was an angry kid. And confused.”

About his sexuality?

“Everything was confusing,” Bryce says. “But yeah, definitely that too.”

“Bryce cared so much,” Elaine says. “About everything. He still does. The world’s hardest on the people who care most about it.”

Like so many hockey players who’ve come out since Dan Riley and Marc Lapointe did in 2010, he credits their coming out as a major influence on his journey of coming to terms with his identity as both a gay man and a pro hockey player.

“You don’t really put it together,” Bryce says. He turned sixteen the summer the Leafs won the Stanley Cup, and Riley and Lapointe subsequently came out. “Like, okay, sure, you can be gay and play hockey. Except nobody thought that. I didn’t think that. If you said that, maybe I’d say okay, but I didn’t believe it.”

How, then, did he reconcile being gay and playing hockey?

“That's the thing,” Bryce says. “I didn’t, you know? I was playing hockey, so obviously I wasn’t, right? Because if I was gay, then I wouldn’t be playing, would I?”

“It sounds so ridiculous saying it now,” he reflects. “But that’s what I thought. And I wasn’t the only one.”

But even more than Riley and Lapointe blazing a trail before him, he credits meeting his husband Jared at a hockey skills camp in Calgary. In the year before he met Jared, then twenty year old Bryce was arrested twice, for assault and DWI: the latter in particular shook his mother, considering how his father died.

"I was worried about him," she says. "That's probably an understatement."

“I don’t know where I’d be if I hadn't met Jared,” Bryce says. “I genuinely don’t. I don’t think I’d be out. I know I wouldn’t be happy. You know, everyone says it isn’t like in the movies. Falling in love, I mean. That love at first sight and all that is b******t. But that’s pretty much what it was for me.”

Was it mutual?

Bryce laughs. “You’d have to ask Jared, he tells it better than me,” he says. “But no, not really. I wasn't good enough for him. I'm still not good enough for him, but I try to be."

Another warning I’d received from his husband before my tour around town? That Bryce was an incurable romantic. This warning certainly seems more warranted than the one about Bryce’s driving.

And what does Bryce think about Jared’s warning, and his additional suggestion to take anything Bryce said about him with a healthy grain of salt?

“[Jared]’s just modest,” Bryce says.

“He lights up when Jared’s around,” Elaine says. “It’s just like when he was a little boy — every time he stepped onto the ice, he beamed. It’s the same thing with Jared. He’s so happy. It’s so wonderful to see him like that.”

And how was it, not only getting to play with his husband, but to raise the Stanley Cup together?

“It’s a dream come true,” Bryce says. “Really. I know that’s such a cliche, but so is love at first sight, right? And the hometown boy winning it all for his childhood team. They’re all cliches. But they’re my life.”

“I know just how lucky I am,” Bryce says. “Winning with Jared, with this team — it’s been such a whirlwind of a year.”

I tell him to enjoy it.

“I do,” he says, smiling so widely I have no doubt he’s telling the truth. “I really, really do.”

[flowercrowngods]

Loving Eddie Munson is a full body experience. Steve can feel the lightness in his chest and the heaviness in his arms, can feel his hands tingling and his legs itching — itching to stay, to follow, to buckle and fall and float.

Eddie’s touch leaves goosebumps on Steve’s skin, his smile leaves a giddiness, his laugh a shortness of breath because, suddenly, Steve is laughing, too. Because of Eddie. With Eddie. Forgetting to breathe because he takes it away with gentle touch and playful wink, rendering Steve useless and utterly devoted.

But even when his eyes closed and they’re not touching, Steve isn’t safe from feeling this love in his entire body. Because Eddie is there. He’s always there; in his thoughts, his memories, this week‘s calendar, yesterday‘s Polaroid picture, tomorrow’s dreams.

Or here, right now, in bed, so close that warmth is radiating off him, but not close enough to touch yet. But Steve only needs to reach out with his pinkie and he could wrap it around Eddie‘s. Only needs to shift his leg just so to brush his knee against Eddie‘s thigh.

He’s there, he’s here, and Steve can feel him. Can hear Eddie’s smile in the air, can feel the the love in the safety of their little box-spring bubble, can smell belonging in his own shampoo mixed with Eddie‘s scent, can taste the words still that Eddie pressed to his lips earlier.

Loving Eddie Munson is a full body experience. All senses and more. Past, present, future. It’s all there, in the centre of Steve’s chest, slightly to the left as if always reaching for Eddie, drawn to him. Like the Fates knew upon the creation of humans that Steve’s heart would long for Eddie’s. His body would defy the laws of anatomy if it had to, he knows.

It makes him smile. It makes him want to cry, too.

Eddie is so close, so warm, so perfect and so still for once. And Steve wants to cry because the lightness in his chest needs to be filled somehow.

“You have your thinking face on, Stevie,” Eddie whispers then before Steve can lose himself in it, before he can let go and fall; fall so hard, fall without a landing, and still have Eddie catch him.

Eddie always catches him. Even when Steve isn’t falling. That’s another thing about loving Eddie Munson.

He doesn’t open his eyes, leaves them closed, the dim light of the room painting the world behind his eyelids in a beautiful sepia tone. That’s what he wants his future to look like. Not bright and loud and colourful. Just like this. Calm, serene, quiet, and with Eddie by his side. He deserves it. They deserve it. After everything, they deserve a future that will become a sepia past, the kind that will make people feel it in their whole body, too. The kind of story that will make them smile and cry at the same time, the kind that leaves behind lightness and space and the feeling that love could conquer worlds. The story of Steve and Eddie. Sepia-pretty, full of love and adoration and tingling hands.

He hums. “Not my thinking face.”

There’s no elaboration; because while Eddie knows Steve loves him, is in love with him, irrefutably, and can’t imagine loving anything or anyone as much as he loves Eddie, Steve still can’t tell him this. It’s his little secret. His safety belt in a world that moves so fast outside of this bedroom, outside the dim light, outside the safety they’ve made for themselves and each other.

“What’s that face then?” Eddie asks, but Steve just smiles. Hums. Dismisses the question, locks away the answer.

It’s the face that says, I love you so much, I can’t even stand to look at the world because that would be one sensation too many and I would break. Surely, I would break.

Eddie, however, refuses to let him go that easily.

“Stevie,” he sing-songs, moving closer until warmth turns to touch and lips are brushing over his face in butterfly kisses.

Steve smiles, a laugh bubbling out of his chest that’s still entirely too light, and leans both into and away from the touch, shy and brave at the same time.

“Stevie, baby,” Eddie continues, brushing kiss after kiss to his eyes, his brows, the tip of his nose. So warm, so close, so much and yet not enough, but still the perfect amount.

It doesn’t make sense and it doesn’t have to, not when Eddie kisses his smiles into Steve’s skin and leaves them in his memory for all eternity. Breath has left Steve’s lungs and he only lives because Eddie kisses him, loves him, adores him so entirely.

“Tell me, tell me, tell me,” Eddie begs ridiculously — still smiling, still grinning, still laughing into Steve’s skin. Every time Eddie laughs, Steve feels so young. As though he were a little boy, because only children feel this kind of joy, this kind of safety and invincibility. That’s what people say, at least. They’re wrong. Obviously, they’re wrong, but Steve doesn’t fault them, because they don’t have Eddie Munson in their bed — and they never will.

So maybe it’s another secret of his now.

“It’s nothing,” he says, playfully pushing away Eddie’s face, only to chase after it just a second later, hovering above him. It’s Steve now who laughs into Eddie’s skin, who chases faint blushes on sepia skin with his lips and leaves a trail of kisses in a familiar path from his forehead down to Eddie’s lips; right into his heart.

He rolls his hips into Eddie’s and swallows the breathy sigh, the hum, the moan, only realising now that he was starving. He was bursting with emotion and still he was starving.

“Doesn’t feel like nothing,” Eddie breathes into his mouth, reaching for Steve’s hands with his own until their laced fingers rest above his head and he’s meeting Steve’s eyes with this rare look of quiet devotion. Staring for just one second. Two. Three.

It’s that look that makes Steve fall. It’s that look that catches him.

That makes him say, “I love you so much it’s like my body doesn’t know what to do with it.”

He doesn’t elaborate, wouldn’t know how even if he wanted to. But the way Eddie’s face shifts into something soft, something so vulnerable, makes Steve feel like maybe he’s not alone with it.

He swallows and buries his burning face in the crook of Eddie’s neck. Not shying away from vulnerability — not with Eddie, not anymore — but not quite strong enough yet to meet it head-on. Face first. Eyes open.

“That’s what that face was.”

Eddie frees his hands from Steve’s grasp only to wrap his arms around his middle, holding him tightly and securely. Like he’s loving him with his whole body, too.

“I love you, Stevie,” he says. Quietly, like it’s not for the world to hear, not right now. Like it’s only for him. Only for Steve. “So much. So, so much. I don’t even know what to do with it most of the time, either. You’re okay, baby, you’re so perfect. Don’t even have the words for it.”

“Words are overrated,” Steve says, lifting his face to press his lips to Eddie’s in a conquering kiss. Licking his way into Eddie’s mouth, he swallows any and all words that might have followed, just to make a point. But Eddie doesn’t seem to mind.

Steve pulls away just for a beat, his body still on top of Eddie’s, and rolls his hips once more.

“But you can show me.”

Oh, and Eddie does.

[mispatchedgreens]

Hi!! For the fic ask game - ↻ ouyang pov of the sparring scene in "before i come undone" please

Thank you for putting together the evilest question you possibly could, here's 1k of raw sweaty unhingedness as reward

Ouyang’s left hand knuckles still ache from punching the wall yesterday. He thinks about that, about plaster cracking under his fist and about that half a second that Zhu looked scared, how her eyes flew to his hand on the wall, centimetres away from her face. The flinch made the tendons of her neck stand out sharply against the smoothness of her throat for the shortest moment before they subsided back. Ouyang thinks about that too, about crawling in there in his entirety, about taking a nap on her molars and about feeling the vibrations of her vocals from the inside. He hates her so fucking much. Every time he thinks they’ve found a modus operandi and settled down in it, she’ll say some shit like “You’ll sing with me for this one,” and make significant and prolonged eye contact. She’ll say “The track needs it, your highness” and she’ll mean I need it, Ouyang. He knows he’s protesting for the sake of it, because Zhu gets her way as naturally as the sun rising and setting. But he doesn’t want to fucking sing. He doesn’t want to record and immortalise his disgusting high voice, while Zhu acts like his tenor. It’d be less humiliating if she asked him to go on stage naked.

And then this. I could help out. He could help out? Fucking preposterous. Ouyang looks at him. He’s a beast of a man, neck to shoulders and arms. If Ouyang were to wrap his own arms around him, he wonders how much his hands would be able to touch each other. His hands are massive too. Ouyang remembers their hands next to each on the umbrella, and the disparity of their sizes. The tiny shorts he’s wearing have managed to ride even higher up on one leg, revealing a strip of paler skin, and it’s outside of Ouyang’s powers not to imagine what it would feel like for those thighs to be pressed up against the back of his own thighs, knees against the tender, sunless flesh of the back of Ouyang’s knees, an oppressive strength that could turn Ouyang’s brain inside out, make it leak out of his ears, and leave him a receptacle for its brutality.

His eyes are smiling, even when he’s not. Ouyang feels diseased with the fact that he can’t seem to look away from his face. He hasn’t been able to look away from his face for months on end now. This isn’t a problem that Ouyang has ever experienced before. Nor has any other man looking back at him managed to make his gut tighten into a burning hot coal in the same way that Zhu can. Not like this man can.

The man blushes at Ouyang’s scrutiny and he can’t help the spark of tenderness that fizzles inside him. “You don’t have to. It was only an idea,” the man rushes to say. His voice is smooth and deep and Ouyang wants to swallow it right up.

Maybe we should fuck instead, he thinks and the thought makes fury blast through him. They’re going to spar and he’s going to win and it’s going to be humiliating.

.

The sparring mat is no lei tai. It feels flimsy like a glorified yoga mat underneath Ouyang’s bare feet, and it is level with the ground. Still, the moment that the man lowers his stance, placing his centre of gravity towards the earth where he wants to go, where he wants to send Ouyang, Ouyang’s chest tightens like taking four steps back would be a fall to the death. The bet here is becoming fast enough to be able to dart into the man’s open embrace, do damage and extricate himself before those arms clamp shut around him. Ouyang isn’t so arrogant as to think that a properly executed wrestling hold won’t keep him down, especially from someone that outclasses him so much in weight.

Ouyang circles and dances carelessly. He stays high, utilising the length of his legs, kicking and kicking some more. He doesn’t think about it. Every move he’s ever used is stored up inside of him, a horrifying concoction of styles that barely fit together. His heart beats up into his throat, almost like it’s trying to fill it with blood, like he’s going to taste blood. He reaches up fast, to slap a palm flat on the man’s ear and instead gets punched in the mouth for his trouble. It is a consuming, sharp sunburst of sensation, knuckles against lips, lips against teeth. Ouyang wants it forever.

He gets low to sweep a foot at the man’s ankles but he evades it masterfully if not a bit awkwardly. Ouyang almost smiles. The steps back have left his right side open for half a second. Ouyang springs up with the might of a diver pushing at the sandy bottom of the sea and shooting up towards oxygen. His knee connects beautifully with ribs and gut. The whites of the man’s eyes flash with the shock of it and Ouyang is so well pleased he chances a second kick while he’s up there, jabbing with the knee and then hitting with the leg extended, consecutively. It’s not nearly as powerful as the first one and on the return, the man gets him.

He dives into Ouyang’s body like he’s certain he’ll be welcomed, cradled. His arms feel like huge slabs of stone around Ouyang. It’s this that causes his breathlessness, more so than his back hitting the mats with a thud. While he could do nothing to prevent this, he can stack his odds of escape while the takedown is happening. Ouyang gets an arm inside of the hold, right along his body, to crowbar his way out of there with his shoulder. His feet slip on the man’s leg, scrambling against him to find a vulnerable spot. Their sweat makes this an unrefined business, slippery and uncomfortable, fucking glorious. The man’s hair slips out of its ponytail to stick at his brow. He tightens his hold on Ouyang and his smell is potent, all consuming, masculine and thick and Ouyang thinks if he were to open his mouth right now, he’d surely fucking moan.

The need to stay there intensifies to blind him, as a rabbit stays on the road staring at the oncoming traffic. Ouyang puts his escape plan to action, and it requires all of his might and some more of it to grapple the man into the ground. His muscles tense and tense like they’ll all tear in a second, but he does it, he puts the man face first on the ground and sits on his back, victorious. There’s a churning in his gut, a tiny summer storm, hot rain and electricity, his idiot, tiny hands grasping all of that power, all of that man, and shaping him like plasticine, putting him in his place, where he should be, where Ouyang wants him.

He leans down, his mouth tingling from his gums to his trachea, making spit like it’s waiting for company. “Got you.”

[jadehaven]

I kinda like how the show developed Galadriel and Halbrand in season 1, and Galadriel and Elrond in season 2, but I remember the "Celeborn will be back don't worry" said by one of the showrunners during comic con, and I'm a bit disappointed. He was gone for two seasons, and now we're supposed to cheer for his return, after the destruction of Eregion? I'm mean, but I don't want him to show up... 😣

*original response has been edited due to 1 piece of misinformation on the authors part*

Aight so to be honest, and I mean COMPLETELY HONEST,

I do fear this. I do fear they might bring him back. But it would be a terrible decision if they did. Here’s my top 3 reasons why it won’t work:

1) There’s too much chemistry with other characters.

- Clearly she felt something for Halbrand. It was romantically driven because there were lines such as the numenorean’s taunting Hal saying “wait till she prefers someone of better breeding.” Lol. And ofc him wanting her to be his queen, it was definitely part of the plot.

- They had her KISS another character, and not just any character, her “more than best friend” (giggling at this lmao) who ALSO led the siege of Eregion and rescued her twice and is just able to read her like and book. It wouldn’t please the viewers at this point to break up a super close, well established “friendship” after bringing them together again at the end of S2.

- If she was soooo in love with Celeborn, then there wouldn’t be opportunity for her to have this much intimacy with other male leads lol.

2) It would slow down the story line

- How would Celeborn fit into all that’s happening right now? They’d have to stop and explain everything to him. Unless somehow he magically knew already? Then he somehow takes centre stage and fights in the war of last alliance while the main protagonist just sits out?? Erm. Ok then.

- There’s been ONE reference to him. If he was more significant and they wanted folks to be gearing up in anticipation for him, then they would’ve built on it. For instance, we’ve had points from season 1 all the way till end of season 2 that have hinted at Elendil’s eventual meet up with Anarion. He’s was mentioned once in season 1 I think, then season 2, plus Elendil’s palantir vision. It would just be so odd to have Celeborn show up and suddenly “matter” after a whole season of… nothing. Not to mention what happened DURING that nothing lol.

Heheh.

Anyways.

3) He’s a very uninteresting character

- Let’s be real here. The vast majority of folks who are interested in seeing Celeborn on the show are the lorebros who don’t want the romances messing up the generational lore. Well guess what? It’s already messed up. So many characters that currently exist in the ROP timeline should not exist yet, so it’s clearly an issue the writers don’t have that much beef with. Besides, there’s nothing that significant that he did other than become Galadriel’s husband. If we had seen the two of them falling in love, flashbacks to their past together, and then have it tie into Galadriel’s revenge arc, then yeah I would be more excited to see him return. What did we get instead?

(Honestly this clam is prettier than I’d expect Celeborn to be with the way Gal described him.)

- Instead of including Celeborn in the beginning, we have instead, Elrond being the voice of reason, wisdom, affection, resilience— not to mention literally leading the siege of Eregion. In the books, Celeborn was supposed to be a part of that battle(but like, lost or something?). So they’ve already taken out one major event that would’ve made him more interesting. They’re running out of material to work with here lol.

- Showrunners are going to have to work real hard to develop a character that we know hardly anything about. It’s different than other characters that get introduced later, such as Anarion and Glorfindel. Even CIRDAN got more hype. Those characters have a long lasting record of being actually interesting enough for people to anticipate their arrival. They won’t need to do as much fleshing out because the base material has already done it. But Celeborn? Tell me where is the RIZZ because i much desire yada yada you get the joke.

Anyways. If the writers are smart, then their plans to add Celeborn will not be some grand scheming wonderous break through. It’ll just be for closure, and not much of anything else. Maybe he’ll have moved on and found another lady while Galadriel was away or something lol. MAYBE HE GOT CORRUPTED IDK.

But, they might still do it. They might just add him in to please the lorebros, shove elrond to the side and continue on with the og story.

They’d lose a lot more fans doing that then if they had Elrond and Galadriel be endgame.

There I said it.

Hopefully this sort of answers your ask, brings you some peace of mind— but I wouldn’t get too excited just yet. We’re in it for the long haul here.

xo Jade

p.s. I didn’t proofread this, hope you had fun reading my grammar mistakes. heh.

[yarameijer]

Hi! I just read through your Frigidity one shot, and I enjoyed it very much! Your writing is great! I have some asks regarding what happens after the one shot ends, though--I can't imagine the transition from Sector 5 to Raimon was easy on Tenma or Raimon.

How does Raimon view Frigidity!Tenma? I'd imagine he's more ruthless/colder now thanks to....you know.

How does Endou see him? Like, that's one of his kids that he failed. You can't tell me there isn't a little bit of protectiveness there after everything. Especially after the electrocution.

Does Dragon Link stay in touch? And do Tenma's Dragon Link teammates end up forgiving Shinsuke? Tenma did, but Dragon Link seems to be a bit more willing to be angry on his behalf.

Ooh, Frigidity, writing that one was an interesting experience, lmao. Stayed up two, three nights until like three in the morning to write it because inspiration hit me. I’m glad you liked it!! You’re absolutely right, though, Raimon and Tenma did have some challenging times in the immediate aftermath.

It takes some time for the team to get used to Tenma again, to be honest. Tenma has become a lot quieter, since his time with Fifth Sector taught him to try and not be noticed, and to observe rather than immediately speak up or face the consequences. Raimon is not used to this, since the Tenma from a few months before was always hyped up and talkative. They can tell he’s not fully comfortable around them anymore, and that hurts. Furthermore, the team has been (more or less) together all this time, so they are sort of… used to being a team without him? Tenma and Tsurugi do actually get closer, because Tsurugi is the only one on the team who understands what he’s gone through. Maybe not the exact same thing, but it’s close. He was a SEED. He’s been in Fifth Sector’s clutches too, and he knows what it’s like to still be treated with hesitance and distrust even after joining Raimon - and that is sort of the case for Tenma, too. Raimon treats him differently now, not per se with distrust, but they’re walking on eggshells for sure. They don’t know what he's been through and they’re afraid to upset him.

Endou feels very guilty, not just towards Tenma but also towards the rest of Raimon since he couldn’t protect any of them and they got taken by Fifth Sector while he was at God Eden. As we know from the story, Tenma definitely didn’t have a good time, but neither did Raimon - it’s mentioned that they got send to a ‘’re-education centre’’ in the story, which is basically just a type of indoctrination camp for Fifth Sector opposers. In the following months, Endou (and what was left of the Resistance) did everything they could to extract them, so Endou is aware of what his kids were going through - all except Tenma. To then see him with Dragon Link, as their captain, while knowing what Raimon went through (remember, indoctrination!!) he realizes they must have tried the same thing with Tenma, and they have seemingly succeeded, since he’s fighting for them and not holding back. The electrocution only makes it worse. Yeah, Endou does not let anyone touch his kids after he gets them all back.

Hell yeah Dragon Link stays in touch. They’ve got some group chats and although it’s pretty hard for all of them to meet up, Tenma sometimes visits either Seidouzan or the original Dragon Link during training, and they also have some friendly matches once in a while. They plan a training camp during the summer holidays too. Raimon actually has some issues with accepting this at first - not only because Tenma now has another team, one he in fact seems closer with than he is with them, but also because it makes them realize how hard it is for them to connect to him. He talks more when he’s with Dragon Link than with Raimon, but at the same time it’s much sharper and harsher than he ever acts with Raimon. Does Dragon Link forgive Shinsuke… depends on the person specifically, some do some don’t, but they do make it clear to Raimon that if they mess with Tenma, they’ll regret it.

[fuckmeuselessdegen]

been thinking a lot about whitney and my pc, whom of which is named daiki, and the idea of forced piercing. it’s sort of like his forced tattooing event, but with an ear piercing instead. huge infodump under the cut :P

it’d be right afterschool, and daiki is about to head off to do his usual money making activities (skulduggery and whatnot), but then whitney comes around and stops him at the gate. he’s sort of like “hey slut! we’ve got places to be!” and starts dragging daiki along to high street, while daiki is sort of resigned and is like “ugh, fine.”

by the time whitney drags him into the shopping centre and to the tattoo parlor is when daiki starts to get worried. sorta starts to stop in his tracks and looks over at whitney hesitantly, saying “are you making me get another tattoo…?” since daiki already has a whitney tattoo on his shoulder.

but whitney, being the little shit he is, just grins at daiki and is like “nope, even better. we’re gonna get your ears pierced, and i’ll even be paying for it. aren’t i such a good boyfriend?” (to which daiki recoils at whitney calling himself his boyfriend. they’ve got a complicated relationship to me, i’ll probably rant about that in a later date—)

and daiki becomes even more wary. tattoos are one thing, but PIERCINGS? daiki doesn’t really mind tattoos, hell, he’s already got around 3-4 on his body in various places. but a PIERCING?

“i’d rather get a fucking tattoo on my forehead than have my ears pierced,” daiki says. whitney sort of raises a brow at him and laughs, saying “you don’t have a choice.”

he pushes daiki into the tattoo parlor and at this point, daiki is heavily debating on either fighting whitney or just sprinting the fuck out of there. but in the end, he’s just like “fucking… fine.” he’ll fucking get the piercing. he’s not paying for it and he’s gone through much worse pain, what is one little earring gonna do?

20 minutes later, and boom. he’s got a piercing on one ear lobe. just one, because daiki thinks that if he gets another on his other ear, he’d actually tear up. and during the piercing process, whitney just stands there, arms crossed and smirk on his face, clearly enjoying the power he has and daiki’s reaction.

and guess what? he even picks out a stud for daiki, isn’t that cute? he’d probably pick out a black or silver stud for him, all paid with his own money. isn’t he just the sweetest thing? (cue daiki in the background fighting for his life on the piercing chair, his nails digging into the arm rest.)

by the end of it when everything is finished, they swagger out of the shopping centre, and whitney is very pleased with the end product. can’t help but check out daiki and thinking about how they sort of match how. it’s cute.

he leans in and nips at the earlobe which daiki got his piercing on, making him flinch because i know that hurts like a bitch.

“i knew you’d look sexy with a piercing. i’ll see you around, slut. don’t go taking it off, or i’ll kick your ass,” whitney says, pushing past daiki with a playful shove of the shoulder and leaving him standing on high street, wondering what the fuck he’s gotten himself into.

[ukrfeminism]

Westminster city council and Social Work England last week became the latest to join a list of organisations – including Arts Council England, a barristers’ chambers and a thinktank – found to have discriminated against a female worker because of their gender-critical beliefs.

The social worker Rachel Meade’s winagainst the council and her profession’s regulator means she joins a select but growing group of gender-critical feminists who have successfully brought discrimination claims on the basis of their beliefs.

Gender-critical feminists believe sex is biological and cannot be changed, and disagree with trans rights activists who say gender identity should be given priority in terms of law-making and policy. Clashes in workplaces – in some cases with those who regard the focus on biological sex as transphobic – have led to a string of employment tribunals.

On Monday, a tribunal began hearing a constructive dismissal claim from Roz Adams against Edinburgh Rape Crisis Centre. Next month, Kenny McBride’s case against the Scottish government is due to be heard in Glasgow, while judgments are pending in a claim from Prof Jo Phoenix against the Open University and that of the Green party’s former deputy leader Shahrar Ali against the party.

In all four cases – and more in the pipeline – the claimants argue they were discriminated against because they hold gender-critical beliefs.

They hope to follow in the footsteps of the barrister Allison Bailey, and of the researcher Maya Forstater who obtained a landmark judgment in 2021 that her gender-critical beliefs were a protected philosophical belief under the Equality Act. The campaign group Sex Matters, founded by Forstater, has identified at least 19 current cases.

After the Meade case last week, which like several others involved disciplinary action being initiated against an employee as a result of social media postings, Westminster council said it would “consider what changes we need to make”. For the local authority it comes too late to prevent a payout, but other employers may need to learn from it.

Lucy Lewis, a partner at the law firm Lewis Silkin, said that on such a politically charged issue, employers could feel they must act quickly after a complaint.

“Because this has become a politically toxic issue, there’s a sort of temptation [on the part of employers] to take a kneejerk reaction rather than the considered view of actually, what is the impact, is there another way we can address this [other than disciplinary proceedings or suspension]?

“People are being influenced by the very public and political dialogue on this and actually there’s value in just taking a step back and understanding all the factors.”

Georgina Calvert-Lee, an employment and equality barrister at Bellevue Law, agreed that the wider debate – in which gender-critical feminists and advocates of transgender rights have been at loggerheads – may have influenced employers, but said they must adjust their behaviour in light of the case law.

“What Forstater and Bailey have done is they’ve set this very strong precedent of tolerance,” Calvert-Lee said.

“Above all, in a pluralistic society, which is what we want, you have to accept that people are going to have different views and some people are going to find their colleagues’ views completely obnoxious – but nevertheless protected because freedom of speech is something that … has been really promoted and underlined.

“It’s always been there but it’s been sort of forgotten in some of these culture wars.”

After settling a case with a gender-critical volunteer, Katie Alcock, Girlguiding UK said it remained “a home for trans people” but added: “We agree that sex and gender are different, and will reflect this in the language we use.”

After another case that was settled out of court, brought by the student James Esses, who was thrown off his course for expressing gender-critical views, the UK Council for Psychotherapy conceded it was a valid professional belief that children suffering from gender dysphoria should receive counselling rather than medical intervention and people should not be discriminated against for such beliefs. Esses’ case against the Metanoia Institute continues.

Calvert-Lee said the cases to date showed the importance of employers training staff “about what is acceptable and what’s not and what amounts to harassment and what probably doesn’t – the sort of respect they should give to each other”, as well as giving training to those staff investigating complaints.

“Whenever there’s some sort of complaint which involves a belief that’s basically pitted against another belief, they [the investigator] have to be completely neutral,” she said. “It’s not on for the investigator to come to it very overtly with their own value judgment.”

The tribunals have made clear that it is not a free-for-all but a balancing exercise. For instance, David Mackereth – an outlier in that he lost his case based on gender-critical beliefs – was found to have crossed the line by misgendering service users at the Department for Work and Pensions, making its decision to dismiss him reasonable.

Calvert-Lee believes the recent increase in cases will ultimately be a blip rather than a growing trend, as workplaces become more aware of the need to handle complaints and concerns more carefully.

The events that led to Meade’s claim came “just weeks before the Forstater employment appeal tribunal decision was given”, she said, and the results of the Forstater and Bailey cases would mean “employers will have training, and so they’re likely to fall off, you’re likely to have fewer cases”.

Lewis said there would always be “bad eggs” but compared the situation to legal cases on manifestations of religious belief at work, such as wearing a cross.

“You have a flurry of cases and people that aren’t lawyers … wonder why those cases go away,” she said. “In a common law system like ours, you have cases that set out some of the principles employment tribunals need to consider and then really good organisations like the CIPD [Chartered Institute of Personnel and Development] take all that reasoning, they give advice and training to employers and then employers are clear about what they need to do, how they should manage this kind of conflict in the workplace.”

She added that the media attention afforded to gender-critical cases perhaps suggested that they were more common than they really were. In fact, she suggested there were likely to be a greater number of claims brought by transgender people alleging harm, though many go unreported.

“The overwhelming majority of employers are not setting out to discriminate; they’re not just thinking ‘well all people with gender-critical views are bad, so we’re just going to get rid of them’,” said Lewis.

“They just have got strong alternative views in the workplace and they haven’t known how to navigate through that conflict.”

[justmeinatree]

06 - the greatest show : runaways are running the night

Summary : a group of misfits, a mysterious leader, a string of murders, and a life on the road.

previous part /// jump to pt. 1

Word Count : 2k

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the first few months were an absolute whirlwind. she’s never experienced a sense of calmness in the chaos, but she is finally getting used to it. 

at first, it was all about learning how the show worked. how to set up, where to set up, how to get prepared, how to run through a show, how to tear down and pack up, how to set up the boxcars. it was a smooth operation, adding an extra set of hands proved to be a learning curve not only for her, but for the others as well. 

once she’d found her footing in that sense, it was time to join. for real, join them. she practiced over the course of a couple weeks, drawing clara, tom, adriana, sergey, even the twins. she learned not only to feel confident in her craft, but also to complete her work in a timely manner. it was one thing to hole up in her old bedroom for days, slowly chipping away at a drawing of her quirky neighbour. but it was a whole other thing to draw someone she’d literally just ran into, in under 5-10 minutes. 

once that challenge was surpassed, she had the joy of joining the show, getting a small booth of her own, letting her be outside as opposed to hidden away in a tent. this was something she was getting used to, albeit a bit slower. she’s not used to being the centre of attention, quite the opposite really, she was more comfortable laying low in the background. but harry decided to set up her booth right near his tent, something the others had lots to say about, but harry defends that it’s just because it keeps her right in the middle of all the action, where patrons can easily see and access her talent. 

and it’s worked, she gets a line up of customers every night, waiting patiently for the little bit of a personal souvenir to take home. still getting used to being the only show participant out in the open, but that too is getting easier every night as she becomes more and more comfortable in her new role. 

and eventually, it all just became routine. something she’d fallen into, comfortably, the anxiety of the new life having subsided, and a time where she could finally properly enjoy her surroundings. and she was taking it all in. 

never in a million years had she imagined herself getting the opportunity to travel all across europe. the first thing she bought being a map of the continent, pinning the cities they’ve visited along the way. she’s so far tracked her way around france, now having crossed over into italy. she’d also been collecting small trinkets from each town, displaying them all around her room, finally having created a space for herself, something that expresses who she is today.

all in all, she’s felt incredibly at home, surrounded by people who have taken her in as their own, no questions asked. she’s found herself having a very sibling esque relationship with both clara and sergey, tom having stepped in as a fatherly figure. one that’s created a welcoming, comfortable environment, something she’s noticed that he seems to provide for all of them. that is, except harry, who seems to be more of his equal, without the fatherly vibe.

she’s yet to completely figure harry out, something the others have made her come to accept, as none of them have really figured him out either. he still makes her incredibly nervous, although for different reasons now. it’s no longer in the sense of being accepted by him, and more in the sense of butterflies in her tummy, making the little hairs on the back of her neck stand on end, making her lungs constrict and her knees go weak.

they’ve spent their fair share of time together, something she gets teased for relentlessly, all in good fun though. he loves bringing her into town on their day off, showing her the cutest little shops, the sweetest pastries, the most intricate souvenirs, the best parks with the most beautiful little benches, where they spend an absurd amount of time just talking. he was like her personal worldly tour guide, one she was slowly falling for.

and christ, has she tried to keep the feelings at bay. especially when the others tell her that they’ve all tried to get with him, people with more experience and more confidence, each of them walking away with nothing more than the pit of being turned down. she knew she didn’t stand a chance, knew she’d get absolutely nowhere with this influx of feelings. but for some god forsaken reason, she still finds herself daydreaming about him whenever she’s alone in her little room.

she reminisces about their escapades through town, about the way his fingers graze her knuckles when they’re walking closely side by side, the way his smile seems to light up whenever she finds something to bring back from their little adventures. she imagines the touches meant more than just friendly pats of caring love, imagines that instead of saying goodbye at the end of the day, that he sneaks into her room, without the others seeing, curling up beside her in warm comfort for the night. she’s even started waking up from wet dreams, something she’s locking away in her secret vault of secrets.

she doesn’t want to make him uncomfortable, doesn’t want him to know that she’s feeling a certain way about him. mostly, she doesn’t want to be rejected. she thinks it’s much easier to just sit here in an imaginary world of love. considering the amount of rejection she’s suffered from her entire town, she really doesn’t think she could handle it from someone she’s grown to really cherish.

so when they make their way through the newest town, somewhere in northern italy, harry coming to find her on their day off, promising another day of adventures through the city centre, she accepts with a big smile and a quick nod of her head. 

as they follow the maze streets, thankful that harry’s here and guiding her, sure she’d get lost otherwise, she feels the sling of harry’s arm over her shoulders, gently pulling her into his side, “is it bad to say that i’m happy it’s just the two of us today ?”

she blushes, her face turned down to watch her feet as they walk, the warmth on her cheeks certainly noticeable. her chest was bursting, tummy flipping, knees going weak, overall it was an absolute miracle that she was capable of continuing to walk alongside him without so much as a fumble. “why’s that ?” she murmurs, not completely trusting her own voice at the moment.

harry shrugs, humming for a moment, as if in thought, “because i can put my arm around you without being relentlessly teased,” he chuckles, making a small joke about it, the weight of what he wants to say getting lost to his nerves.

truth was, up until now, harry had been incredibly enamoured. something about her inner beauty just shines so brightly in harry’s eyes. she’d been through a lot, little snippets of which harry’s been able to catch, although she hasn’t entirely opened up yet. and still, she’s always smiling wide, having deep meaningful conversations about anything from faith to worldly observations to education and so much more. he doesn’t think he’s ever had such fascinating chats as he’s had with her. and that says something. he’s had a lot of chats with people as he travels, but with her, he gets completely lost, hours flying by in a blink.

she’s also just so god damn pretty. harry has a crush. christ, a full on crush. it’s been absurdly long since that’s happened. he’s not even sure how to navigate it. but for her, he would try his absolute best, figuring it out along the way.

she feels her tummy flipping, her heart rate increasing, hands going tingly, her brain spinning in circles, lungs constricted tight. what was she supposed to say to that ? she loved having his arm around her, but she very well could not admit to that. she wanted to lean into him, wrap her arm around his waist, rest her head on his shoulder, maybe even place her other hand delicately against his chest for a brief moment. 

she hadn’t realized that she’d stopped walking, too focused on just formulating a reply to keep her feet moving, making harry stumble, stopping abruptly, looking down at her questioningly, slightly worried, “what’s wrong, bug ?” 

her eyes flick up to meet his, a look of confusion etching her features, “m’not sure what to say,” she admits shyly, biting her lip.

harry’s mouth quirks up, thinking she could not possibly be any cuter, feeling his heart burst a thousand times harder than it had been all day, looking at her with nothing but pure adoration.

he knows that he makes her nervous, senses her rapid heart rate each time, but he’s not too sure what to do to calm her. “s’it alright that i put my arm around you ?” he settles on, figuring it is something he should confirm. 

“yeah,” she nods, lips turning up, “it’s alright. i-“ she takes a breath, “i like it.”

he’s fucking beaming, can feel it, unable to contain his smile, “me too, bug,” he nods, pulling her in a little closer, turning to continue down the road, a stack of news papers catching harry’s attention, or more so, the headline, “hold on, pretty girl,” he hums, his arm sliding off of her shoulders, going over to take one off the top, looking over the article quickly. 

she notes the change in his demeanour the more he reads, his breathing picking up slightly, his eyebrows furrowing, his teeth gnawing on his bottom lip, his hands grasping tighter, almost ripping the thin paper. “harry ?” she asks softly, taking a few steps towards him, “what’s it say ?”

“hmm ?” harry looks up at her, almost as if he’s snapped out of a trance, giving his head a small shake, “sorry, uh, there’s been some murders,” he hums, as she stands right next to him, looking over the article for herself.

“that’s-“ she recounts quickly in her head, eyes flicking over the information with speed, “those are the last 4 cities we’ve been in,” she looks up at him almost questioningly, “what does that mean ?”

“i don’t know,” he admits quietly, softly shaking his head, “it can’t be good though,” he ads in thought.

“do you think-“ she hums, not wanting to finish her sentence, looking over at harry, worry etched in her features.

“no,” he’s quick to shake his head, determination on his face, “there’s no way, right ?” he wonders out loud. “can’t be one of us.”

“i hope so,” she whispers, biting her lip, flash of stress shooting through her spine. what was going on ?

……

A/N : a bit of a filler chapter to get to the good stuff. i hate that the moment this story comes back, it’s just a short filler (part of the reason i lacked the motivation to write it 😅) i feel bad for yall. rest assured, chapter 7 is started and coming real soon 🫶

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tags : @daphnesutton @niallthebadboi @gorlsinmultifandoms @walkingintheheartbreaksatellite @cc-horan28 @she26livesindaydreams @acesofspadess

[sporkathon-and-mel]

CHAPTER 1 : Strangers in the Night

Chapter 1 of the Sporkathon and Mel fic 'There is No Sweeter Innocence Than Our Gentle Sin"

3.8k words

“This is a love story.”

“What was that, Ryuk?” Light asks the Shinigami trailing slowly behind him.

“What? I didn’t say anything! Don’t worry about it…” Ryuk intentionally rushes his words, making himself seem guilty to toy with the man in the alley with him. Light, suspicious of this, throws back a glance at Ryuk. When the look hits, Ryuk simply shrugs and rolls in the air, carefree in the night. Light rolls his eyes at the figure, a bit annoyed that he’s playing around right now, but drops the situation for the moment. After all, he has bigger things to worry about for the moment. His father’s retiring today, and someone has to take his place…

His retirement is long overdue. After so many successful years in the department, he was expected to retire nearly ten years ago, but with the Kira case only growing longer and more complex, he only chose to leave now. Now that Light’s 23 and has finished his education, Soichiro decided it was finally time to pass down the role of Detective Yagami to his son.

However, the impending promotion isn’t what’s taxing Light’s mind. Rather, his friend Misa and him had gotten into a bit of a spat over her boyfriend, Remi.

Light did not like Remi. Who would? Being an attractive actor does not make up for your downfalls, but it also doesn’t give Light the right to dislike Remi; according to Misa at least. Who cares if he’s disrespectful and prudish if he makes Misa happy, right? Light does. After everything they’ve been through together and how much it took for them to become friends, of course he cares. Unfortunately, his family doesn’t take very kindly to public arguments over private topics, so after the spat, things have been a bit tense, and are expected to continue this way tonight. Hopefully, they’ll be able to keep it together for the dinner.

“We’re almost there! I can smell it! Oh sweet apple, come to me!” Ryuk says, elongating the words in an almost sing-songy voice, floating faster to overtake Light in the alley. From the top of the alley where Ryuk floats, he can see the warm light of the restaurant, and he’ll be damned if he doesn’t find a way to sneak some food while they’re out.

After six entire years of being in close proximity, Light knows that whether there are apples in that restaurant or not, Ryuk will somehow find a way to get one. Ryuk’s mischievous laugh guides Light to the restaurant, and as he sees the entryway to the establishment glowing with the warm, yellow lighting from the inside, he knows tonight is going to be nearly insufferable.

Light can only shake his head with disdain and walk into the restaurant. It seems like Light is the last to arrive with the seven other members of his dinner party waiting in the entrance to be seated.

His father, mother, and sister are all conversing with Misa and Remi towards the front of the room, and there are two detectives from his father’s office standing just behind them, engaged in their own conversation. He doesn’t know their names, but he’s sure he’s met the girl before. The man, however, not so much. That strange posture and general air of dishevelment would be something he’d remember if he’d seen it before.

He smiles at the others and walks over to them. His father hugs him, but everyone else continues their conversations. Looks like there’s still a bit of tension about the argument. He catches an icy glance from Misa, and a cocky one from Remi, but he’s too concerned with the decorative fruit bowl on the table behind them to do anything.

A beautiful, red apple sits in the centre… With bite marks in the fake skin. A disgusted Ryuk floats above the table, hacking up pieces of styrofoam from the apple he has now realised is for decorative purposes only. If this situation weren’t so formal, Light would laugh at the stupidity of the ancient Shinigami, but instead he discretely edges over to the table and uses his body to try to cover the bitten apple. Facing the table, he turns the apple over so no one notices the damn bite marks and shoots Ryuk an angry look. Before he can move away, someone’s right behind him, talking into his ear.

“Did you… try to bite the display apple?” The disheveled detective from his father’s office asks, trying to decide if he should be off-put by Light’s behavior, or amused.

“No! Of course not! It must’ve been like that before and I just noticed it and thought I’d do the hostess a favour and you know…” A panicked Light fumbles to explain. He’s a wonderful liar as Kira, not so much as Light.

The other man chuckles at the response a little before turning to follow the group to their table. An awkward moment of eye contact with Misa is shared while deciding seats, but in the end, Misa and Remi sit together, with Remi near Light. Light can’t even find solace in his seatmate because it’s the rather strange detective from earlier, and he’s too busy talking to the lady detective to pay any attention to Light anyway. At least he’s across from his family so he won’t have to avoid eye contact with Misa and Remi the whole night.

Although, he will have to try to avoid the stares of the two Shinigami floating perfectly between the spaces of his family’s seats. Rem seems genuinely angry with him, as is to be expected after making Misa upset, but the other just looks like a deformed goldfish putting on a mask of anger. Ryuk doesn’t really care all too much about the argument, but it has given him the perfect opportunity to have some fun, so he isn’t complaining at all. Light’s sure he’ll be able to manage, but he’s not too sure if he’ll survive another argument with the look Rem’s giving him.

They take their orders and everyone at the table is making conversation. Everyone except for Light. After feeling a bit disincluded, he decides to excuse himself from the table for a short cigarette break in the alley outside the restaurant.

Of course, Ryuk followed him and was floating across the alleyu making funny faces at Light, distorting his already strange features to resemble animals and horror figures. Light tries to ignore the faces as he takes long drags from his cigarette, blowing the smoke haphazardly into the air. He never did learn how to make smoke rings.

The door into the alley opens, and a familiar figure steps through. Light quickly tries to hide the evidence of his cigarette as his father approaches, stamping out the sizzling hot cigarette and waving away the smoke.

“Light…” His father starts, the smell of smoke and the freshly stamped out cigarette on the ground very obviously tainting the alley. He gives his son a pointed look, but seeing as he didn’t come out here to scold him, he leaves it at that. “With my retirement, it’s time for you to take on the title I’m letting go. As much as I’m sure your schooling has taught you well, there is still much to learn to be a truly great detective, and I hope that with the guidance of your team, and me, that you will one day become truly great.”

The cigarette not so indiscreetly sizzles on the damp concrete, and Light gives it one last twist to try to get it to go out. His father looks down at Light’s boot disapprovingly, but continues speaking without any other mention of it.

“The team is composed of the brightest minds of our nation, and has connections to the brightest minds in the entire world. Use your resources wisely.” Light listens as his father gives him advice on how to take on the challenge of working on the Kira case, taking note of their tactics to find counters and ways to ensure his behavior is hidden from any prying eyes. Working on the team puts him at risk, sure, but it also helps him ensure his moves as Kira don’t trace back to him. Once his father’s speech on the team has come to a close, Light finally speaks.

“Thanks Dad. I promise I will do my very best to reach my goal.” Light says, appreciating his father’s obvious pride and care that made him want to give this advice to his son.

“There’s only one more thing I have to do to prepare you for the team.” His father says, placing his hand on his son’s arm. “That man in there, the detective from my team, he is the man we have worked so hard to hide from the world. Understanding the importance of this secrecy is integral for the team. That detective is L. He asks for you to call him Ryuzaki in public, but he will discuss other occasions with you later on. I trust you will make me proud.” Once he’s done talking, he turns away and goes back inside, leaving Light alone in the alley again (besides Ryuk who never seems to leave).

Light’s job just seemed to have gotten a whole of a lot easier. Now that he has close contact with L, it’s only a matter of time before he gets his name and finally, after six years, wins this never ending game. Light smiles at the knowledge that he isn’t far from winning the game he’s been playing for so, so long, and turns to go back inside.

As he’s returning inside, he can see that the drinks and appetisers have been laid out on the table. He sits back down in his seat, now slightly more cautious of the detective sitting to his right. He quietly observes the conversations at the table, without being addressed to join in, but also not choosing to join in. He surveys the mood of those at the table, as well as the actions of the man beside him.

He’s certainly a strange man, but that’s rather obvious. He’s constantly fidgeting his legs beneath the table, clearly uncomfortable in his seat. His posture is aggressively slumped, and nearly as noticeable as the dark circles under his eyes. His hair is poorly combed back, and his tie is crooked. Clearly, this man doesn’t dress for formal occasions often.

The dinner goes on with Light observing L discreetly. He doesn’t have much else to do considering he still seems to be shunned from the general conversation. All the appetisers seem to have been eaten, and all that’s left on the table is crumbs. Surely dinner will be out soon, but to avoid the awkward moments between food where Light has no one to speak to, he escapes to the alley once again.

Back in the alley, he lights another cigarette. The red glow of the cigarette is nearly the only lighting in the brick area besides the yellow light escaping through the cracks of the door leading to the restaurant.

He leans his head back against the cold, damp brick, and takes deep breaths. This night feels neverending, and he just needs a moment to decompress. Sure, smoking isn’t the best vice, but his only other real hobby is killing people, so let’s be glad he chose cigarettes tonight.

It seems, however, that Light is not allowed to have a moment of peace tonight as the door opens again, but this time, another figure enters the alley. Now, he is able to recognize the slouch and strange walking pattern as none other than his rival and soon to be colleague, L.

L walks down the short stairs to get to the ground level and quickly registers that another man is in the alley with him.

“Fellow smoker?” L asks, amused. “Got a spare one? No pockets in this damned suit for a pack.” He says, gesturing to the fake pockets that Light had previously thought only existed on women’s clothing.

“Yeah, sure.” Light pulls another cigarette out of the pack and hands it over to L who places it in between his teeth. Light pulls his lighter out of his pack and lights the other man’s cigarette before taking a long drag of his own.

“Thanks.” L says appreciatively. Light assumes that this is a way that L destresses after so many years on the force, trying to analyse seemingly pointless information to gain any information possible in the situation. “So, I hear you’re going to be replacing your-”

L stops speaking when he realises that Light has already begun to move back up the steps to the restaurant. As intrigued as Light is by getting information on L, he doesn’t want to accidentally give away information about himself in a personal context immediately. It’s too much of a risk without any guaranteed reward quite yet.

“Alright then, excited to work with you too I guess.” L says sarcastically. Light turns around, not having expected any reaction from L, but sees the man half-smiling with amusement when he looks back. L has noted the strange tension with the family and finds the stand-offish behavior from Light to be funny, in a way. Without context of the argument or the family dynamic, it is certainly an amusing sight.

Once back inside, Light sees that the waitress is bringing the food to the table, but first, he notices Ryuk floating behind her, practically drooling at the apple-glazed fish someone had ordered. They’d better eat their food fast or Ryuk will.

He sits back down at his seat, and soon after L sits back down next to him. The waitress brings the final dishes over to the table, and sets them down in front of Misa and Remi. Everyone is engaged in light conversation about the weather and such surface level nonsense when chaos strikes.

“You know, a pretty girl like you shouldn’t be single. You know, if I weren’t with blondie here, things would be different.” Remi says to Sayu with a wink, clearly having had too much to drink. Everything was going so well too, but of course this entitled twat has to go and ruin it all.

Sayu, shocked, stays silent, with a disgusted look on her face. Everyone has fallen silent, watching as one watches a car crash, knowing the situation is horrific, but unable to peel their eyes away from the scene.

“Excuse me?” Light says, engaging in more than surface-level pleasantries for the first time in the night. Misa takes a sip from her glass and tries to just ignore the situation, like she usually does when Remi acts up. Most people at the table follow this movement, not knowing what to do really, and not wanting to add to the embarrassment of the moment.

“What? I was just giving her a compliment, don’t be so over dramatic. We’re all good, aren’t we? Or are you still caught up over the other day…” Remi says with that obnoxious buddy-buddy air that just makes you want to hit someone. Only the most arrogant people have that audacity to taunt someone with friendship after being so blatantly in the wrong.

Misa pushes a drink over to Light. “Let’s drink! We’re here to celebrate, after all. There’s no need for all this aggression.” She says, gesturing to the two men as she says aggression, and trying to prevent the inevitable argument. The others at the table hesitantly continue their conversations, not wanting to have a scene in a public restaurant.

Light watches as the others pick back up their conversations, horrified at the actions of the people at the table. “Are you all seriously just going to let this go? How long does this have to go on before anyone cares about it? Huh? How long does he just get to sit there and say all this stuff right in front of us and we just let him? Clearly you have all shown him his actions have no consequences.” Light starts to raise his voice. He’s not letting it go this time. He’s tired of people just letting it go.

“Just drop it Light. Please.” Sayu says, not wanting the situation to escalate more than it already has.

“No, not this time. Not only has he just disrespected Misa, but now you? My own sister? Who do you think you are ruining this event? You were only invited as a courtesy and you have the damn audacity to do this?!?!” Light’s voice continues to raise as he stands up from his seat.

“Come on man, you know I didn’t mean any harm by it. I’m just being nice, and you’re just jealous that Misa loves me, but not you.” Remi says, gesturing nonchalantly in the air like the most obnoxious and immature type of man there is.

“Excuse me? Jealous? You hit on my sister while dating my friend and you think it’s jealousy that drives me to this?” Light’s hands are firmly gripping the table, and it’s very likely the only thing keeping him from hitting the man in front of him.

“Neither of them had any objections, so yeah, it’d seem that way. Sit back down, Light. I don’t know what you think you’re doing, acting all tough.” Everyone at the table is silent as Remi speaks. Misa’s clearly on the verge of tears and the Shinigami behind her looks about ready to kill both men right now.

Light looks over to Misa watching tears well in her eyes, and without a further thought punches Remi square in the nose.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that for.” He says tauntingly at Remi, watching the blood flow freely from his clearly broken nose. Members of the table stand up in shock, ready to break up the fight, but before anyone can move, Remi is on his feet and punches Light right back.

Light stumbles backwards into the detective behind him, and hears a thud as his head connects with the man’s eye. Misa at this point has rushed out of her seat and runs towards the ladies room, Sayu following not too far behind. Remi, seeing this, runs after her.

“Wait, Misa, hang on!” He calls out, trying to catch her attention. Everyone at the table is on their feet by this point, panicking. The female detective is looking at L’s wounds, and Light’s parents are trying to figure out what to do next.

Light is lucky that fighting is not Remi’s strong suit, so his nose is just bleeding. He’s sure he felt Remi’s nose crack under his hand, and even if that’s all the good that came out of this situation, he’s glad that he caused that much damage at least.

Light turns to his parents, and sees that the celebration has been absolutely ruined. As bad as he feels for ruining his father’s retirement party, he’s glad he finally did the right thing and stood up for Misa, and Sayu.

“I’m sorry.” Light says, apologising to his parents for the party, and to L for the damage to his face. “I’ll pay you back!” He calls over his shoulder as he runs to the bathrooms, hoping to catch one of the girls there to talk to them.

Unfortunately, by the time he gets to the hall, the girls have either gone into the restroom, or left the building, and Remi is nowhere to be seen. With nowhere else to go, he turns into the restroom to wipe up the blood from his face.

In the reflection, he can see streaks of bright red painting the lower half of his face. He carefully wipes it away with a wet towel, and tries to ignore the Shinigami taunting him from behind his shoulder.

“You really let yourself get beat up by some Hollywood priss?” Ryuk mocks, floating with his head over Light’s left shoulder. Light doesn’t care about the taunts. He’s had six years to get used to them. He’s more upset that he couldn’t do anything to fix the problem completely. Remi was the type of guy that deserved to die, that was certain in Light’s head, but with him joining the Kira case, the risks were too high to do anything to him, especially now that L has seen the two together.

He sighs in slight defeat and the glass fogs up in front of his face. A knock is heard at the door.

“Light? Are you alright in there?” The voice of none other than L is on the other side of the door.

“Yeah, all good in here.” Light says, wiping the final bits of blood off his teeth before throwing out the towel and opening the door. “I guess that wasn’t the best way to make a first impression.” He says to L, knowing that if he doesn’t do this right, it’ll be suspicious. New guy who gets into fights over his strong morals has no remorse for his violent behavior is certainly suspicious.

“Eh, you’ll have more time to show us who you really are.” L says in response, handing Light his belongings that he left at the table prior.

“Yeah, thanks.” Light says, turning towards the red exit sign down the hall. “See you around, Detective Ryuzaki.” He says before walking around the man to get to the exit.

L smiles to himself, glad to have such an intriguing new member on his team. Tonight was amusing, and if nothing else, he feels safe in guaranteeing that the amusement will continue with this new member.

As Light steps outside, the cold air hits his face and burns like alcohol on his wounds. He winces, but walks forward into the light of the street lamps. From down the street, the light on top of the only taxi in sight flicks off, indicating they have a passenger. Looks like he’s going to walk back home too now.

He looks down the street again in hopes of seeing another taxi, but he catches a woman waving at him from the occupied taxi. It’s Misa, and she’s waving him over.

“Hey! Light!” She calls, gesturing for him to come to the taxi. He picks up his pace and gets over to the taxi where he can see that there is no Remi in sight. “Get in.” She says to him, grabbing his arm to pull him into the cab.

“Hey, I’m sorry-” He starts, but is cut off by Misa.

“Don’t. We’re not going to talk about it, okay?” She says, rather sternly.

“Okay…” Light says, admittedly confused, but glad to not have to explain his behaviors quite yet.

They sit in silence for a few minutes, the driver taking them to their respective abodes. Some odd church choir music rings out from the speakers in the car. Rather dramatic, but at least there’s something to fill the quiet.

“That detective guy was pretty interesting, don’t you think?” Misa says with a girl-talk smile that only the two friends share while gossiping. If only she knew how interesting he really was…

“Yeah, he’s definitely interesting…” Light responds. The music switches to a song with heavy bass, and Ryuk pops his head over the seats from the trunk.

“This is going to be so much fun.”

“What was that?” Light asks, again; and again, he gets no answer. Leave it to the death god to be mysterious…