#daily wire plus

[greater-than-the-sword]

If you liked my book "The Kingdom of Heaven", don't miss this episode where Jordan Peterson interviews a former KGB agent who became a Christian after moving to the USA as a deep cover agent. It's kind of the real life version of that

[theorist-fox]

Paint

Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader

Crossposted on AO3

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

Word Count: 5.3k

Summary: You and Simon share a cigarette. He slips up, and shares something more.

18+

CW: smut, not explicit. angst. hurt/comfort. miscommunication. mutual pining. and guess what, my favorite tag, simon ghost riley is bad at feelings.

Masterlist 🦊

𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬

“Need to rest?”

You doubt he hasn’t heard you arrive, even if he’s facing the opposite way. It’s true, you could’ve gotten rid of at least the Kevlar vest or taken off your boots—but being in a safehouse doesn’t mean it’s literally safe, and you don’t like taking risks. Plus, there’s no time for getting dressed if there’s an emergency.

That's why you're sure he's heard you: boots thudding against the floor, the bulletproof vest scraping on the cotton of your uniform, the carabiners hanging from your tac belt, or the gun on your hip that clicks when you walk.

Normally, those sounds are muted; muscles and bulk don’t necessarily mean you move like a bull in a china shop. But you know the beast, now dormant, that is sitting on the floor right at your side.

Fucking bat.

He could move exclusively through echolocation, eyes closed shut; who knows? You wouldn’t put it past him.

You think you should start spreading the rumour, just to watch people shit their pants even more when he walks past. It’s already a sight you swear by, the way their faces pale while you stride beside him, dipping your chin to your chest to hide the quiet giggles—why not add some spice to it?

However, your fun thoughts are interrupted by the man himself.

“S’my turn tonight.” He replies listlessly, eyes locked on the door—armoured, triple-bolted, locked handle, and trip wire at the entrance, courtesy of Soap. He wanted to be safe, he said. Sure—being in a safehouse doesn’t necessarily mean you’re safe, you agree, but Simon always likes to take things to the next level. And Price only feeds that urge, twice as paranoid as your not-so-friendly Ghost.

His watch has started three hours ago, and would you look at that? The door is still there. Closed. Bolted shut. Unexploded. Shocking.

You wonder why the five of you are even bothering with rotations when the place is quite literally a bunker a few feet underground, and if someone were to walk in unannounced, their arse would blow up to bits thanks to Johnny’s intricate wire trap.

But oh well. Simon is like that, and Price is even worse, so you’ll give in to their wishes like Kyle and Johnny did and take it the way it comes.

Then again, sleep isn’t apparently in your plans, and four eyes are always better than two, so you plop on the floor next to Simon, legs outstretched in front of you, mimicking his posture.

You nudge his ankle with the tip of your boot, because he’s freakishly tall, and your foot won’t quite reach his. He bends his knee enough to nudge you back.

“I can take over,” you tell him, knocking the back of your head against the wall. “Can’t sleep anyway.”

You feel his eyes on you, lingering like the muzzle of a gun to your temple, but it’s just a threat—you know he won’t shoot. Though hatred is permanently carved in his eyes—some leftovers of a past life—it feels more like a burning weapon poised to pierce your head, one that never quite follows through.

He’s kinder than he looks.

“Nightmares?”

“No.”

“Go on, then.” Simon says, with a jerky nod of his jaw your way.

“Feel a little restless, I guess.” You reply with a shrug, as if this is your daily routine by now. “Not exactly a comfortable place, this one. Plus, cap snores.”

He snorts. You smile.

“Loud engine, tha’ one.” He comments, returning his eyes to the door.

“You do too, y’know? Well, you don’t snore much, but,” you gesture with your finger at your mouth, “you grind your teeth at night.”

“Ain’t snorin’, tha’.”

“Still,” you purse your lips in a cheeky smile, “Annoying—that.”

You watch him give you the side-eye of the century. The blueprint of it. But it lasts a second before he returns his focus to the door, as if afraid it might run away or something.

"No one’s makin’ ya, y’know?" he drawls. "Don’t have to sleep over—could always jog on after you’re done.”

After you’re done, he says—as if it’s a chore.

You hate when he takes ten steps back after he’s taken one forward. One day he’s all up in your business, worrying his mind and his heart, and the next he tells you to go take a hike after you’re done.

It makes your belly churn and melt like he’s pouring acid over it—you’re in too deep, and you know it. But you're too much of a coward to drag yourself out of the muck of this relationship. You’d rather sink into its depths and be swallowed whole than face the thought of never seeing him again. You’ve already come to terms with that truth—it doesn’t get easier at all, though.

Instead of biting back, you roll your head his way and smile, small and genuine.

“I like sleeping with you.”

His shoulders tighten as if he’s startled by the way you replied so transparently, but he keeps his eyes on the door, giving you nothing else to work with.

“You don’t?” You venture.

No feelings, Sarge—you can practically hear him say in the silence that hangs tersely between you. Simon will die on that hill; you’re sure of it. Even if sometimes he slips and cares, says words you’d never think to hear from his mouth, fucks you too slowly for it to be considered just sex, it’s just the way it is, the way he says.

You know he’ll never leave his shell. Where he’s comfortably lonely, where he’s secure and safe. Whether he cares for you or not, the wall’s too high to climb, too thick to blow.

But the awful person here is not him for behaving the way he does; it’s you for putting your heart through the meat grinder knowing fully well it’ll come out like butchered meat.

If you're looking for someone to hate, Simon isn't the one.

“Negative.” He drawls.

You shift uncomfortably next to him, subtly pulling away a few inches from his leg.

But then he adds, “Toss an’ turn too much. Hog the covers.”

You stiffen and scowl. “I don’t.”

“You do.”

“Well, you could always yank them back,” you reply, sounding a little too petty for your age.

Simon finally turns his head your way, but now it’s you who’s glaring holes into the (shockingly) still unmoving door. His eyes linger on your profile for a second too long, and you’re just about ready to bite back with some snarky comment about him taking a picture so it’ll last longer when he speaks first.

“Don’t have the heart to wake you up.”

You feel something inside you soften and melt. Gingerly, you turn your head his way.

Your eyes lock, and his are creased at the corners—not with a smile, but with tender attention, as if he’s taking in the details of something worth his time, his concentration.

You plaster on a smile that’s both embarrassed and pleased, as your cheeks warm over.

A soft huff to blow out the heat gathered right under your skin, and then you’re nudging his shoulder with your hand. He dramatically lolls sideways.

“That must be the nicest thing you’ve ever told me.”

He nudges you back, and you dramatically flop on your side. He snorts.

“Don’t get used to it.” He says, and gently curls his fingers around your forearm to lift you up.

You’re unexpectedly pulled in until you’re tucked in his side. The team is right behind a thin wall, and the knowledge initially turns your body into stiff marble. While their snores signal that your privacy is safe, you don’t want to repeat past mistakes. No matter how alluring those memories are.

But still—you don’t fight Simon’s hold around you; you don’t dare.

You trust his judgement and progressively melt into him, nestling your cheek on his chest as he drapes his arm over your shoulders. Nice and comfortable, in spite of how hard it is with all this stupid gear strapped on both of you. The Velcro on one of his front pockets scratches your skin, but the rest of you is so cosy that you don’t care. You toss one leg across his, and he doesn’t flinch or pull away.

“Can’t wait for evac to come get us,” you sigh. “I’d kill for a smoke.”

Simon squeezes your shoulder. You decide to take it as a green light to rest; your eyes flutter closed almost automatically, as if he’s pressed a button the moment he pulled you in. Grateful, you bask in this brief show of care—allowing Simon to take that one step forward, fully knowing he’ll just take ten steps back the next chance he gets, because that’s simply how he is.

He doesn’t add anything to your comment, probably registering it as further small talk, and you know he doesn’t care for that. He has a sort of internal threshold about how much mindless chatter he can tolerate in one sitting. You're aware of it, and you don’t mind, instead taking the quiet moment for what it is: a fragment of peace.

His heartbeat is faint to your ear, too many layers between you and his chest for you to hear it clearly. His thumb swipes softly on the fabric of your uniform. And he’s warm, like a furnace rumbling with rekindled fire. Suddenly, sleeping sounds much less of a hassle and more of a treat.

Simon’s chest rises softly under your cheek. The buzzing of the neon lights overhead turns into pleasant white noise, much like the obnoxiously loud snoring coming from the bedroom behind the wall where you and Simon are leaning.

It’s only after a few moments that he shifts—imperceptibly, like the subtle man that he is. But you catch it anyway. Spec Ops and their senses, right?

Yet you trust him, so you don’t bother opening your eyes. You count your blessings, and they are few: Simon holding you to his chest while hostiles run rampant right above your heads is at the top of the list right now, and you won’t let it slip.

But then—a tap on your nose. A featherlight touch of something papery that finely crinkles when it meets your skin. You scrunch your face and force your eyes open to see…

…a cigarette.

You blink yourself awake, though you hadn't fallen deeply enough into sleep for it to be startling.

“For me?” You ask, craning your neck to look up at him, only to find him already gazing down at you.

“If you’re polite ‘bout it.” He replies, tapping the tip of the cigarette on your nose again.

You smile. “Please?”

He hums approvingly and slots it between your lips. Plucks the Zippo lighter from one of the front pockets of his vest. Swiftly flicks it open.

The flame dances before your eyes, blue hues growing into yellows and oranges. You lean closer, allowing the tip of the cigarette to hover right into it, until the white paper burns dark, until it finally glows red.

The first drag you take feels like a warm hug. Not often do you have the chance to sit back and smoke while on the job—the glowing cherry is like a big, fat, neon arrow pointing at your head for eventual snipers. Too dangerous to even try.

But six feet underground (quite literally), inside a windowless, armoured bunker, you’re safe from unwanted scopes and deadly bullets. And your cigarette is your prize right now, so you savour it like you should.

You groan in bliss, smoke leaving your lips in foggy curls.

“Lifesaver,” you murmur, returning your head to his chest.

He squeezes your shoulder. “Easy to please.”

You snuggle closer, and he holds you there in comfortable silence. But he’s incredibly tactile tonight: fingers draw mindless circles on your shoulder, while his other hand has found purchase on your thigh, thumb swiping back and forth along the inner seam of your trousers.

It’s not sexual. You think you’d recognise when Simon’s touch turns into something carnal and covetous. No, now he’s just… touching. Sensing. Testing the softness of the meat of your thigh between his fingers, feeling the curve of your shoulder with his pads. It feels like he’s blowing softly at the cinders of a fire that’s been smothered by the more grievous events of this long operation. It torches your belly; rekindled flames gently lick at your skin, until you feel soft and malleable, warm and weightless.

You smoke peacefully, eyes occasionally fluttering closed. Subtle shivers run through you when his hand travels to your side, right where the bulletproof vest doesn’t cover. 

Three or four drags in, a gloved hand appears before your eyes. He beckons with his fingers.

A breathless chuckle. A fond roll of your eyes. You tap the column of ash off the tip and place the cigarette between them.

Simon uses his thumb to lift the mask off his face until it bunches up on his forehead. You shift enough to sit upright and tilt your head his way.

His cheeks are flushed red, irritated by the continuous rubbing of the balaclava. Slivers of paler skin stretch across his cheekbones and upper lip—knotted scars that have always been there, disrupting the growth of his stubble and the smoothness of his skin. Yet now, after tracing them time and time again, they blend in so seamlessly that you have to focus to even notice them at all. Lost their shock value, they have. Now, they’re just small pieces of a puzzle—insignificant in the grand scheme that is Simon.

He brings the cigarette to his lips. His cheeks hollow as he takes a lungful of smoke. It puffs out of his lips a moment later, as he sighs with the same relief you did moments earlier. Just like that, his apparent tranquillity infuses you with the same peace.

“Don’t finish it.” You murmur, very aware that if he did, you wouldn’t mind.

His mouth twitches, and his pupils swivel down to where you’re nestled in his side. Honey lashes fan his cheekbones, eyelids smeared with black greasepaint that makes the chocolate of his eyes look like the warmest of browns. Dark ripples mottled with gold.

“Learn to share.” He drawls, but contrary to his words, he brings the cigarette to your mouth.

You wrap your lips around the orange filter, brushing briefly with the pads of Simon’s gloved fingers. Another intake of smoke has your shoulders relax, but before you can breathe it out of your system, Simon tilts your chin up with his thumb and leans in dangerously close.

Not that you haven’t been this close before, of course. You’ve had him kissing you silly, mouthing at your skin, or drowning between your legs. But to your poor battered heart, every time feels like the first. A blessing, because you’d never trade this feeling for anything in the world. A curse, because it’s a lonely one.

Smoke billows from your parted lips into tendrils that travel upwards and sting your eyes. You don’t close them, but your eyelids fall a little heavier—though you don’t blame it on the smoke.

He nudges your nose with his, instructing you to tilt your head back.

You do.

His thumb tugs your chin, gently forcing your mouth to part. Your stomach flips and twists, leaving you dizzy and unsure of which way is which. The flames from before are melting you inside out now, burning liquid pooling at your lower belly. It makes you muscles clench, your thighs squeeze.

Simon’s eyes stay on yours as he brings the cigarette to one corner of his lips. He takes a purposeful drag. The burning paper crackles. The sound is ten times louder to your ears.

Your blood pumps madly—you feel it run and collect in the apples of your cheeks, in your head, spinning and spinning, until your thoughts are blurry and disconnected.

The arm coiled around you curves so that he can trace your shoulder, following the outline of your gear, and then his hand settles around the side of your face. He keeps you still, fingers flexed at your jaw and thumb dimpling your cheek. The cold leather of his glove should counterbalance the warmth blooming right under your skin, giving you some sort of comfort, yet it’s such a jarring contrast that it only causes the air to lodge in your throat.

The intensity in his eyes, masked by the usual indolent display, is not lost on you; he makes it impossible, unthinkable, to look away. The air around him is stuffy, almost suffocating, and the haze of the smoke, with its pungent smell, doesn’t help. Yet somehow, it makes him look so unbelievably soft, like everything around him is dimmed and unimportant. Like his eyes are all that matters, or the shape of his lips and the slight crook of his nose.

The hand holding the cigarette goes to rest on your thigh. It tenses under his touch, and he squeezes it until it softens right under his palm.

Smoke leaves his lips, then, billowing right into yours. It travels down your tongue, pungent and hot, even richer in taste after it’s been in his mouth, too.

Something tightens in your belly. Makes your head spin further and your hands tremble, as they lie rigidly at your sides. Tension spreads through your body something fierce, muscles coiled in beautiful anticipation, but the lines in your face are smoothed down when Simon brushes his thumb on your cheek.

You inhale. Nicotine travels down your lungs and inflates them with the earthy notes of tobacco, the subtle hint of mint of a gum he must’ve chewed on before, the humidity of his warm breath.

“Like that,” he breathes hoarsely, abandoning the effort of sounding even remotely unaffected.

You blink slowly, exhaling a fleeting cloud of smoke back into his mouth.

“What?” You ask, so quietly you can’t even hear it over the sound of your own heartbeat.

The cigarette is presented right next to your face, once again. The column of ash at the tip is longer than the portion still available to smoke. As Simon brings it to your lips, you see it crumble onto your trousers in your peripherals. You don’t care.

“Learn to share,” he repeats hoarsely. “Just like that.”

And he nudges your lips open by slotting the filter between them. His gaze falls on them like it’s inevitable, like his eyes are metal and your mouth is a magnet.

You take a slow drag, watching his face with hooded eyes. Simon follows raptly the way your cheeks sink, how your lips curl. He’s lost his subtlety now, more obvious when you notice the heaviness with which his throat bobs.

Gingerly, you raise a hand to hook your fingers at the shoulder straps of his vest, pulling him in. He slowly follows your lead, inching closer once more.

Smoke flows from your mouth to his, a wave of soft grey tendrils that tethers Simon to you. And he breathes it in, breathes you in, closing the gap.

His lips meet yours in a kiss that couldn’t be considered one for how faint it is. But his arm, still curled around your shoulders and holding your face steady, tightens just a fraction.

Simon brushes his nose with yours. His head cocks sideways, and he presses his mouth to you again.

You feel like every nerve ending that’s being touched is set ablaze, synapses overriding in the poor attempt to concoct a thought, a word, a breath. Nothing leaves you, if not a trembling sigh that stings with nicotine.

Simon pulls back. You whine pathetically, and you don’t care, as your eyes flutter open—you hadn’t even noticed you’d closed them at all. You trace a path from his lips upwards, studying intently the lines in his face and the way the camo paint hasn’t managed to settle in the wrinkles around his eyes, in the furrow between his brows.

Pinched, they are. As if that kiss has worried him more than any bit of sex ever could.

Your heart clenches at the thought. Writhes pitifully, as if it could talk him out of his spiral, bring him back to you, burn his lips to yours until they merge into a single fucking entity that’s impossible to tell apart.

But he nods softly, then. Your chest unravels, lightens. You nod back.

The cigarette in his hand falls forgotten on the dark concrete floor. His palm lands on your waist, fingers delicately tugging at the bulletproof vest.

His lips find you again. Softly, like he’s testing waters he’s already more than navigated—conquered, even. Mouths slot perfectly like they’ve been trying to do this thing all this time, all along.

You return his kiss with the same caution, trying to quell that fire ignited in your belly. Soft pecks echo in the quiet room, drowning the sounds of your teammates sleeping just behind the wall, the flicker of the lights overhead. Focusing on Simon’s lips, on his taste, and the slight twitch of his brow pressed to yours.

You busy your other hand by hooking it around one of the front pockets of his vest, where a magazine sits. His chest rises heavily under the press of your palm.

Without ever breaking apart, you shift until you’re on your knees, gaining the rare advantage of height. Simon tilts his head accordingly, resting it back against the wall. Your hands initially settle on his shoulders, then on the slopes of his neck, thumbing gently at each side.

He holds you uncharacteristically tender, a hand on your waist and the other on your thigh, where he pats once, twice, until you’re following silent instructions and end up straddling his lap.

Simon’s kiss never stops, nor does it deepen. He teases your lips with his own, leaving gentle pecks that have your stomach erupt in butterflies, your throat tight and suddenly parched.

You wonder if this is the moment in which he slips one hand under the waistband of your trousers, like he always does. Whether he’ll settle on teasing the blooming wetness on your knickers until he’ll feel merciful enough to travel past the cotton and plunge his fingers into you. Or if he’ll simply skew the gusset of your panties to the side and touch you, formalities set aside.

He does none of that.

Instead, his hand settles at the back of your head, the other one on your waist. You flutter your eyes open, only to find his completely shut—and if Simon Riley dares to look so peaceful, you’ll allow yourself that blessing too.

You lose yourself in him, sharing unhurried kisses only framed by the ripping sound of velcro being unstrapped—his fingers working deftly with your tac vest at your sides. You help him out, lifting your arms so he can take it off.

Simon tosses it behind you. Pulls you back down to him again, with long fingers keeping you still by your nape, while other hungry ones untuck your shirt from your trousers so they can feel your skin. Your stomach ripples when he touches it.

His palm explores, follows the curve of each fold, of each line, tracing a path that warms up under his hand and pitifully freezes when he leaves it unattended. Until the tips of his fingers reach the underline of your bra. You sigh softly in his mouth.

“Yes?” He breathes.

“Yes.” You reply.

It must make something tick in his brain, because his painfully obvious tent pressing up to you twitches under your weight.

Simon kisses you slowly as he palms at your breast right above the cottoned bra, causing your sex to flutter around nothing, yet not in a way that feels unfulfilling.

He spares no more seconds to hook his fingers around the central seam of your bra, pulling down.

He cups one of your breasts as it spills out—feeling its weight in his hand, thumbing softly at the nipple until it hardens, until you feel just enough out of breath.

You think you feel him tremble when he leaves your mouth to travel with featherlight kisses down your jaw, nipping right under the bone, where your flesh is plumper. You shiver and tilt your head to give him more room to work with, offering your neck to satiate his appetite.

His kisses are open and wet, but no less patient, as if he thinks he has all the time in the world to savour you until he’s content. He doesn’t; you know it, but you can’t summon the courage to remind him of where you are, of the possibility of onlookers.

No, because he’s tender, he’s kind, he’s bordering on reverent, as he kisses your neck, as he touches your chest.

His hand follows the indent of your spine, settling at the base of it and toying with the hem of your shirt only to lift it up and brush your skin. Hairs all over your body stand on end. You breathe heavily and slow, steadying yourself with your hands on his shoulders—your fingernails digging in as if that might help you quiet down.

“Y’ taste good," he whispers to your skin.

Your lips twitch in a smile.

“Haven’t showered in days,” you reply just as quietly.

He bites into your neck. Your spine arches in brief shock, and he keeps you from falling backwards with his palm at your back.

“An’ yet,” he drawls, pulling back just to lift those dark eyes at you, “Sweet as a peach.”

The softest grin spreads on your lips almost reflexively.

“Flattery will get you—”

“Anywhere,” he interjects, lifting your shirt to expose your chest until the fabric bunches right above your breasts.

You let him, perhaps proving him right. Even so, you cup his cheeks when he eases in closer, leaving open kisses at your sternum. The paint over his eyes transfers to your skin, leaving darkened streaks of sweat and black grease.

You briefly wonder if your neck looks the same, or if there’s any residue left on your face. If he’s unknowingly marked you in such a spontaneous way, simply because it was meant to happen. The quiver in your chest becomes easier to understand then—a sense of belonging in the shape of messy grease marks left in Simon’s wake.

He murmurs something you can’t quite place, hushed and lost in the haze that has been building in your head, in the thunder of your heartbeat. You hum inquisitively, brushing your hand through his dampened hair.

He repeats himself. You hear him now. You do—quite clearly, actually.

“Missed you,” he says.

The poor thing that’s your heart cracks fiercely. You wish it were a neat fracture, easier to piece back together, but it’s jagged and dangerously sharp instead.

“You didn’t,” you whisper. It’s a plea, because there are only so many lies you can take in exchange for a fuck.

His hands connect with each side of your waist, grasping at the flesh to keep you still. He doesn’t use that grip to grind your hips to his own, he doesn’t use it to relieve the tension of his hardened sex.

He uses them simply because he can. Because he wants to. Wants to feel you, touch you, sense where you are, while his lips explore somewhere else, where your flesh is softer and plumper, more sensitive.

“I did.” He insists breathlessly, careful not to raise his voice. “Fuck—I did.”

You push at his shoulders, but he doesn’t let up.

“You didn’t,” you repeat through gritted teeth. Tears build in your eyes much too rapidly, fuelled by the frantic beat of your heart.

He latches on to your nipple. You choke on a whine as he tugs at it softly, grasping it between his front teeth. His arms come to hold you entirely, wrapped like vines around your middle. Slowly, you surrender, ceasing your futile attempts to push him away. 

But you cry. The sting in your eyes finally finds relief as you allow fat tears to roll down your cheeks. Simon doesn’t look up at you, maybe because your sorrow translates into his guilt. However, he stops tasting you with a weary sigh, gently resting his forehead on your chest as he holds you steady.

“I did,” he croaks. "I do."

You hold him too, encircling your arms around his head and resting your cheek on top of it. His hands go from still to hesitating until he is the one who gives in, this time, and brushes them soothingly down your back.

You stay like that for what feels like hours, but judging by the lack of movements from your teammates behind that thin wall, it’s probably been only a handful of minutes. Regardless, Simon holds you through all of it. Until he feels the soft stutters in your chest quell, the sniffles abate.

Only then does he lift his head. Only then does he cup your face in his hands. Thumbs brushing your cheekbones, collecting dried-up tears. They glide on smoothly, which makes you think that maybe his greasepaint has transferred onto your skin there as well.

It shouldn’t, but your heart flips at the thought anyway.

“I'm not a good man, love.” He murmurs, eyes dark and unusually sad. “But I'm no liar.”

The earnestness in his voice almost makes you choke up again. 

You swallow it down. Inhale.

Recollect yourself. Exhale. Lean your cheek in his hand.

Your eyes are downcast, staring at the dark streaks of camo paint fading and blending on your chest.

“I know,” you croak, unsure but wanting to believe him. Almost needing to.

Simon’s hand leaves your cheek. It’s so much colder now that the air brushes your damp skin, but the ice sublimates suddenly when he taps your chin.

You lift your head and lock his eyes. They shine with something unshed, perhaps tears, perhaps words he can’t place, ones he can’t say.

“No lies.” He subtly shakes his head. “Not to ya, ya hear?”

You nod softly. “No lies.”

"Missed ya," he says again, his voice cracking in a way that makes you think this is harder on him than it is on you. "You gotta understand that. There ain’t a day goes by that I don’t."

You swallow thickly. Throat dry, tongue stuck to your palate. Eyes fixed on him, once again unthinkable to look away, but for different reasons entirely. Perhaps this is more than one step forward; perhaps this is a whole new path from which he can’t backpedal. You don’t raise your expectations, you don’t dare—but hope is as much of a bastard as it is beautiful, and it flickers back to life.

“Okay,” you reply, not feeling like you can say it back, not feeling like it could stand in front of the way he’s said it—so viscerally that it ripped at your heart.

He kisses you again, soft like before. His hands return your bra to its place, your shirt down to your hips.

You kiss for a moment more, saying everything your voices can’t, as touch returns to be the only language you both understand.

He helps you off his lap. No more words are exchanged as he dresses you up—tucking the shirt back in your pants, putting the vest around you again, making sure it fits just right when he tightens the straps at your waist.

Wordlessly, Simon invites you back to where it all started, that night. Next to him, with his arm around your shoulders, your leg across his own, and your head on his chest. His eyes on the door, focused. His watch is not over yet.

You fall asleep, coaxed by the soft brushes of his hand on your shoulder, the rise of his chest each time he breathes.

Your hand in his own, his paint on your cheek.

[ofmdrecaps]

12/11-12/2024 Daily OFMD Recap

TLDR; David Jenkins; Rhys Darby; Taika Waititi; Samson Kayo; Zayre Ferrer; Damien Gerard; Dominic Burgess; Lindsey Cantrell; Articles; Fan Spotlight: OFMD Advent Calendar: Love Notes; Daily Darby/Today's Taika;

= David Jenkins =

Our dear Pirate Nana (amladydragonfly on bsky) had a bit of a spill at Galaxy Con Columbus, and it left her with some intense bruises! She posted updates on BsKY about them and Chaos Dad, David Jenkins sent her some love--and an invitation to join the crew! You really are badass and beautiful Nana! Just FYI, Nana also wanted me to tell you all that she is doing much better, and is ok after the whole incident-- but wouldn't have been if it weren't for all the kindness of this fandom! She says she's never felt so loved-- so thank you so much crew for taking care of her and spreading so much love and joy her way! You truly are the best crew ever!

Source: David Jenkins bsky = Rhys Darby =

Anyone gotten a chance to watch This Christmas yet? I got to this weekend and it really was adorable. I love Rhys' character, and not just because it's Rhys, because he's a goofy adorable dude. Interested in some fun behind the scenes with the characters? Here's a fun vid below!

Source: Youtube

In regards to more of Rhys' animated works -- "Curse" was nominated for an emmy! Check the article out here!

Source: Instagram

- Darby Daily Doodles -

Only a few more daily doodles for this year!

Source: Darby's Free Substack / 2

- Darby Family Kittens -

Caesar has been getting into some mischief at the Darby Household. Thank you Rosie for the continued cat content!

Source: Rosie's Instagram

= Taika Waititi =

Taika got to work with some fantastic folks at Disney to help make The Boy and The Octopus happen and a lot of folks are praising the ad!

Source: Paige Bonanno

Lots of cool BTS from The Boy and the Octopus as well!

Source: PRConcierge_ Instagram

= Samson Kayo =

Samson has been very busy with the F1 movie in Abu Dhabi (and chilling with a Simone Ashley)!

Source: Samson Kayo's Instagram Stories

= Zayre Ferrer =

One of our talented writers, Zayre Ferrer has been continuing their imaginary Spin Off Series on Bsky! There are so many I'd really love to see actually-- if you'd like to follow along with all their new stuff, check out their bsky!

15: Cuna de Lobos: A New Den

16: The Wire: The Re-Up

17: Cheers: Last Call

18: The Ricardo Radio Hour

Source: Zayre Ferrer's Bsky

= Damien Gerard =

Hey! Father Teach's Black Ops 6 was nominated for a bunch of BAFTA's and he's putting up some autograph signings on his site! Interested? Check it out here!

Source: Damien's. Bsky

And as always, Damien is keeping us all up to to date on his kitties.

Source: Damien's Bsky

= Dominic Burgess =

Dominic shared another picture of his character, Beef, on the new Star Wars: Skeleton Crew show!

Source: Dominic's BlueSky

= Lindsey Cantrell =

Lindsey has been getting all those Tiny Boat certificates signed!

Source: OFMD buys Boats Instagram

== Articles ==

Thank you again to @adoptourcrew for keeping us appraised of all the articles coming out! There sure is a lot this time of year-- it makes me feel like honking!

Source: AdoptOurCrew Bsky

== Fan Spotlight ==

= OFMD Advent Calendar =

The OFMD Advent Calendar has been going strong for many days now lots of new awesome works by many of our fandom folks being released each day! It's currently going on bsky here, and hosted and Door Artwork done by TillyChMo! (You don't need a bsky login!) The first day's fic is here by kentern.bsky.social! but if you'd like to follow them on bsky they'll have new ones every day (and there are currently 17 days up!)

The 2nd Door features @tresdem.bsky.social!

The 3rd Door features @ghostalservice.bsky.social fic PLUS @kninjaknitter.bsky.social podfic!

The 4th Door features @dracothelizard.bsky.social!

Source: OFMD Advent Calendar Bsky

== Love Notes ==

Hey there lovelies! I'm trying very hard to catch up right now, hopefully it'll happen over the next couple days as home and work slows down.

Today I'd like to send out a gentle reminder to take some time for yourself this week! This is the time of year when a lot of folks are busy taking care of others, getting things ready for family or friends, and honestly, a lot of times we forget to take care of ourselves. Take a break-- take a day off work that's just for you if you have the capacity. Buy yourself a little treat, or do something on the list of chores that YOU want to get done and not that other people need you to get done.

Some of you may have TOO MUCH time for yourself and want time with others-- so be sure to reach out if you do! People get busy during the holidays and they can forget to check on folks because their minds are occupied, but I can guarantee you they think about you often, and want you to be okay. Holidays can be such a mixed bag, and not one person will have the same experiences with them, so do what you need to do for YOU. I hope you have a restful week and nothing too crazy goes on. Rest up, drink some water, and know we <3 ya. Night crew!

View this post on Instagram

A post shared by Laura Jones (@laurajaneillustrations)

== Daily Darby / Today's Taika ==

It's been a bit since I've had room for these so more gifs tonight! tonight's theme is laugh scrunches. Thank you so much to these beautiful gif creators @gottagobackintime and @ourflagmeanssara!

[sinsinsininning]

A little bit softer

Chapter 5

Eustass Kid x crewmate!fem!Reader

TW: some street harassment from an unnamed man, cursing, allusion to prev smut, very brief descriptions of sexual harassment, drinking

A/N: this one was loooooooong, sorry I’ve been struggling with work and I can’t work on this as much as I’d like too

~~~~~~

It was nothing. You thought the moment you woke up.

It was nothing. Over and over in your mind as you rolled out of bed.

It only happened because you were tired. You almost said it out loud while getting dressed, your mumbling earned you a look from House.

Because you couldn’t think of anyone else. You felt like a zombie trudging to the galley for coffee and your daily assignments.

And you couldn’t think of anyone else, because you were tired.

You rubbed your eyes and tried to not think, as Killer greeted you, the coffee still brewing.

The rest of the morning crew were giggling and chatting away, you kinda wanted to shoot one of them out of jealousy. Instead you tucked into the plate of eggs and fruit Killer placed in front of you.

He paused at your tired expression, but went back to cooking. Today would be long, you decided.

It’s my punishment for last night. You shook your head quickly to clear your mind. A few crew mates nudged each other, grinning.

“Hey sunshine,” Hop called out. “You look a little rough, long night?” Quincy giggled, you sent them both a withering glare.

“Maybe if you hadn’t chipped your sword in 5 different spots I wouldn’t have been up all night.” You grouched, she blushed and clammed up. You turned to Quincy. “Stop giggling, how the fuck did you manage to break the bolt on your gun?”

“Hee~ it’s a mystery.” She winked.

“You’re a menace.” You said, stuffing more eggs in your mouth. Killer places a mug of coffee in front of you and clears his throat, gaining everyone’s attention.

“We won’t be docking until a little past noon, if everyone gets their tasks done before that then you can do whatever you want on shore,” He paused for the usual cheers, being morning crew on shore days was the best. Afternoon crew had to do supply runs and maintenance, but at least they got to sleep in. “Now finish eating and I’ll give you an assignment.”

You don’t take your time, hoping to rush through whatever cleaning you have to do and get a nap in before docking. After rinsing your dish and chugging your coffee, you wait in front of Killer.

“You only got two chores today, mopping the hallways and helping Wire with some charting.” Killer pauses for a moment. “After that try to get some close range target practice in before going on shore. Captain wants everyone in top shape.”

You almost groan, charting maps with Wire and sharp shooting practice would easily take the full morning, if not the whole day. Maybe you can get Wire to have mercy on you, doubtful though, he’s way too passionate about maps. Killer dismisses you and you refill your mug before heading out to mop.

The hallways weren’t difficult to mop per se, but they were long and winding, plus there was frequent foot traffic to account for. Too many people walking around leads to slipping, so it was best to mop a section then go back with a towel to dry it then rinse and repeat. Your caffeine buzz gave you a burst of energy and it only took you an hour to get it done.

Now you just had to help Wire and you could nap, though you weren’t sure how you could help with charting it wasn’t your area of expertise.

Still, it was an order from Killer so you met with your tallest crew mate on the deck. There were several crew mates milling about, either working on chores or sparring. Wire was already sitting, pencil moving briskly with a smile on his face.

“You’re literally the cutest,” You said as you sat down. “Seriously I could eat you up.” He looked up at you with his heavy eyes and smiled again.

“Oh sweetie I doubt you have the appetite.” He said demurely, before the both of you burst out with laughter. Wire was easily the biggest flirt on the crew, besides you of course. He took a moment to observe you as you sat, noticing your eye bags and red sclera. “You look like you had a long night. You got a special someone I don’t know about?”

“Ha! Yeah right,” You snort, taking a sip of your now cold coffee. “You’d be the first to know if I had a new beau.”

“Oh I better be.” Part of you worried he’d start making assumptions again, but he spared you instead rifling through some papers.

“So what do you need me for? I’m not exactly a navigator.” You ask, he smiles again.

“True, but charting isn’t just marking a path on a map, it also involves some local intel.”

“Oh? How can I help then?”

“Well you know how Captain has changed course to go to the West Blue yes?”

“Uh- yeah I guess.” You feel an anxious pit in your stomach.

“Well we’re going after a specific crew, have you heard of a Captain Badger?” He asked, pulling out an old faded bounty, the picture was grainy but you’d recognize that face anywhere.

“Ummm.” You grabbed the paper, playing up your pause. “Yeah I think I have.” Wire seemed excited.

“Wonderful! Do you know where he operates out of? Or what his crew name and size is?”

You knew, but getting the words out was difficult. You didn’t think Kid had been serious about going and killer you former captain. Now you’d have to explain you past to everyone, who knows how they’d react. They’d think you were a coward. Or worse they’d pity you.

“Pretty sure he’s got a smaller crew, like less than 20 people. And I uh- I don’t remember his crew name, it was something like Wave or Tide Pirates.” You offer with a sheepish grin and a shrug, Wire tilted his head then started writing again. “Did the Captain say why he was go after him?”

“He said he wants him dead and that’d I’d know more when I need to know more.” Wire grinned. “Which is what he usually says so chances are this guy insulted him once like a year ago and now we’re gonna kill him.” He chuckled, you tried to join in but it sounded watery.

“We-Well if you don’t need anything else-”

“Oh, yes do you know where he operates out of? Does he have a base camp or anything?” Wired asked.

He wishes, you thought wryly.

“Hmmm, I think he stays around Toroa. That’s all I can remember.” You laugh shakily again and dismiss yourself. Wire frowns, he’d rather have you here while he finished the map to answer any other questions. But you seemed so unlike yourself today, he hoped you went and rested a bit.

Part of you wanted to scream, Kid was seriously delaying their journey just to go kill some guy he’s never even met. You laid back down on your bunk, Hip was getting dressed while Emma brushed her hair.

“Morning, Doll.” Emma smiled at you, you grunted out a greeting and pulled the blanket over your head. “Oooff you alright?”

“She got in late last night,” Hip answered for you, fixing her lipstick. “Let her get some sleep before we dock.” She flicked the lights off.

“Hip I could kiss you right now.” You groaned out, grateful to your friend. The two opened the door to leave, Hip poked her head back in.

“You’d ruin my lipstick~” She purred dramatically.

“Tragic, how will I ever recover?” You chuckled dryly, taking the time now to remove your outer clothes before your nap. You ended up in your underwear and a baggy top.

“Have sweet dreams love!” Hip called out, Emma slammed the door shut probably sick of your jokes.

You didn’t sleep deeply, constantly tossing and turning, you tried not to think about Kid or why he was doing all of this. It was so out of nowhere, a month ago you barely even spoke.

Eventually you settle enough to dream of nothing, of course that didn’t last long and soon enough someone was pounding on your bunk door. You jolted awake, worried there was a fight or something, and grabbed one of the many knives off the wall before yanking the door open.

Kid seemed surprised to be on the business end of your knife, you stared at each other for a bit before he started laughing. You flushed and lowered the blade with a muttered apology.

“Shit you’re a fucking sight!” He cackled, leaning against the doorway. His eyes drag up and down your form and you feel like bursting into flame when he gives a low whistle. “What’s with the get up? You trying a new look?”

You slam the door shut and go to put some clothes on, you wouldn’t bother to put clothes on if the ship was under attack. But you didn’t really feel like talking to your captain in your undergarments. At least you’d worn boxers so there was a little bit of coverage.

Kid shoved the door open as you picked up some clothes.

“Oi could’ve broken my nose!”

“Why were you pounding on my door like that?” You asked trying to yank your pants on. “Thought we were under siege or there was a fire!” He laughs again.

“Well nice to know you’re always ready for a fight!” He’s grinning and if you weren’t so embarrassed you’d have found the situation funny too. “Anyways we just docked and you weren’t on deck so I came to grab ya.”

“Thanks, Boss.” She buckle your belt, making sure it sat well on your hips before pulling your tank top on. His eyes were still watching you, you felt warm again. “Sorry, I was sleeping, didn’t hear the call on the comms.” He grinned again.

“Yeah? You were up late last night.” He didn’t say it like a question, but you still answered like it was.

“Yup weapon repair took longer than expected. Didn’t finish until late.” You yank on your boots now, he’s back to leaning on the doorframe.

“I know.” His smile was wide and at that moment you felt exposed again.

“Huh?”

“I was up and saw your dinner still in the fridge.” He shrugged. “Figured you weren’t done yet.” He didn’t reveal more, just in case you suspected it was him outside the showers last night. You feel a little bit better now.

“Yup, like I said. Took a while, I ate eventually before bed.” You kept it short, hopefully you seemed relaxed. Probably not. “You need anything else?”

He frowned at the dismissive tone, but didn’t comment just walked out towards the deck, leaving the door wide open. You sighed, glad he was gone. That conversation could’ve been much worse, you count it as a victory.

Heat popped his head in as you finished getting ready, eyes suspicious.

“You alright? Just saw Kid walk out of here like he was pissed.”

“I’m good, he woke me up from my nap and I kinda held a knife at him.” You tie your hair back away from you face with a grin.

“Woah why’d you threaten him?” He looked impressed.

“He scared me! I thought we were under attack so I was just prepared for an enemy to be at my door!” You laughed while trying to defend yourself. “I’m sure he’s pretty pissed about it. Surprised he didn’t revoke my shore leave.”

“Nah there’s no way he’d be mad at you.” Heat walked with you to the deck. “He’s probably into that typa shit.” You make a face and cover your ears as he opens the door for you, cackling at your blush.

“I don’t need to know your theories, thank you!” The deck is mostly empty, just a few people who are on duty milling about. Killer and Kid are next to the exit, talking together with Wire.

Heat walks with you to the exit, you have no plans at shore but it’s mid afternoon so there’s plenty to do. You pass by Kid without looking at him, hoping to escape without an incident. Wire waves you over and you feel like crying.

“I’ll catch up with you,” You let Heat go on without you. “Let’s meet for drinks in an hour. Same spot as last time, yeah?” He gives you a thumbs up and climbs down. You walk over to the group and nod your greeting, eyes on Wire.

“I was just letting Captain and Killer know, I’ve finished charting our course!” Wire was lit up, lidded eyes shut as he smiled and swayed. “Thank you for the help, by the way.” Kid looked bored and Killer looked….well like Killer.

“Of course, not a problem.” You desperately want to leave right now, but with 3 high ranking crew mates you knew better than to go without being properly dismissed.

“If you remember anything else, let me know! I’m hoping to figure out his crew’s name.” Wire hummed distractedly. “Maybe I can find a more recent bounty with it.”

Killer cocks his head to the side, an exaggerated confusion, while Kid just flat out gapes at you. Your smile is wobbly and you hope they don’t ask you about it. You just didn’t want more people knowing about your old captain, it’d be too much of a hassle.

“I think it may be a good idea for you and Wire to have a session together.” Killer said slowly, Kid opened his mouth but a nudge from his first mate kept him quiet. “You’ve been here for months, it’d be good for you to have a check up.”

“Oh?” Wire perked up, he knelt down so he was a little closer to your height, something he did when a sensitive moment popped up. “You know, I didn’t realize it, but we never had an official talk before have we?”

“I guess not,” You cringed, the idea of having a sorta-kinda therapy session didn’t interest you at all. “I don’t think it’s necessary.” Wire waves at you are with a smile.

“Nonsense! It’s part of my duties, plus it couldn’t hurt.” Wire patted you gently.

“So it’s decided,” Killer said. “You two make a plan for it, if there’s a problem, let me know.” He said that last part to you, you could feel it.

“Wonderful!” Wire smiled and you tried to mimic him, but it definitely looked like a scowl. Kid was frowning now as you were finally dismissed and practically ran off the boat.

“I’m getting a drink.” Kid announced, feeling pissy as he followed slowly after you. He pretended he didn’t hear Wire’s little chuckles.

You had a sizable lead on him by the time he actually dismounted, but he kept a close eye on you as you darted from stall to stall in the marketplace. It was a rare luxury to be able to choose from such a variety of stores, he found himself taking his time at certain spots. His bounty proceeds him so most places gave him a hefty discount, he grinned as he browsed a stall full of niche tools.

He hadn’t meant to get distracted from you, but he was conversing with the elderly man at the stall about which item would be the best suited for his style of work when a commotion from on the other side of the crowd started up. A man’s voice could be heard, cocky and forward. Kid could make out something about a date.

“Oh boy, looks like another young man is causing trouble.” The old man said tiredly.

“Huh?” Kid tried to peer over the crowd but the commotion was around a bend, obscuring his view.

“There’s a lot of very…insistent men around here.”

“Insistent? What the fuck does that mean.” The old man curled his lip at the cursing, but Kid was too busy being nosey to notice.

“You know, insistent…with the ladies. Especially in such a crowded place.” The man shrugged as Kid turned to sneer at him. “Try not to let it disturb your browsing. It’s a minor nuisance.”

“So you don’t try to stop it?” Kid felt himself getting angry. “Even though you know it’s a problem?”

“Not really, it really can’t be helped, especially with so many new, beautiful women coming though every day. The boys will grow out of it eventually.” The man chuckled, like he thought Kid would laugh too.

The red head snarled and shoved his way back onto the streets, easily knocking several people out of his path. He came upon the scene and nearly exploded.

Of course it was you giving him a damn head ache.

You were facing a tall, spindling young man. His face pinched in a frown as he tried to grab your arm again. You yanked your arm back, lips curled back in a sneer.

“Fuck off, I said I’m not interested.” You told the man, the crowd continued moving around you both as if they didn’t even notice. The man tried to step closer, you put your hand on your holstered knife, he paused.

“Come on now, a pretty thing like you ain’t gotta carry a knife.” You caught sight of Kid, relief flooding your face, until he started grinning.

“Nah,” Kid interrupted, stepping behind the guy. The scrawny man turned to glare at him but went pale when they made eye contact. “Pretty thing like her ‘as gotta carry a knife. Too many little shits out there tryin to be creeps ya know?” He grinned down at the guy, then walked to stand by you nudging you with his elbow.

“I think you should stab him.” Kid continued, eyes locked on you.

“Wait a min-“ The man starts.

“Unlike some people I actually try to keep a low profile on shore.” You ignore the man, glaring up at your captain. “Let’s just leave.” You move to walk off, but Kid grabs you by the belt loop, gently halting you.

“Who? Me?” He laughs, the crowd is thinning out as they sense his threatening presence. “Did you even tell him you were a pirate?” You shrugged, peering up at him now.

Oh shit, he wanted to show off for you.

“Woah a pirate?” The man, who Kid had honestly forgotten about, shouted. “No way you’re fucking lying!” Kid rolls his eyes.

“Fuck you’re annoying,” He drawls and raises his hand to the Bowie knife strapped across his chest. “I’m sick of hearing you talk. If she won’t kill ya, I sure as fuck will.” The man jumps back, knocking into someone, Kid starts to move towards him but your hand on his arm stops him.

That’s right, I’m supposed to make her not scared of me.

His pause gives the creep enough to run off blubbering and the crowd of people come forward to occupy his now empty place. Kid nervously glances down at you, wondering how much he set your relationship back. He was met with your bored stare.

“Seriously? We’ve been on shore for what? And hour?”

“Hey don’t lecture me, I’m the captain I’ll do whatever the fuck I want.” He grumbled, but allowed you to lead him down the street. Your hand was still on his arm, the one not covered by his coat, and the feeling makes him flush.

“You are, but everyone’s gonna be pissed if we have to deal with Marines already.” You press into his arm now to direct him down a smaller path. It’s less crowded so you let go of him and give a little space, he tries not to yank you back to him.

“Whatever, can’t believe you let that fucker live.” He knew he should leave it alone and just be glad you didn’t run scared from him. But he couldn’t help poking at that bear.

“If I killed every creep that flirts with me, I’d be in jail.” You chuckle a little, one look at your captain though and he looks pissed.

“Who the fuck is flirting with you all the time?” He barks and you bristle.

Oops.

He realized now it kinda sounded like he didn’t think you were attractive enough to be flirted with.

“So two seconds ago you were calling me pretty. Now I’m not?” You tried not to feel insulted but… it stung a little. You don’t know why, but you didn’t like the thought that Kid found you unattractive. It’s nothing.

“That’s not what I meant!” He tried to argue, but you spotted Heat waiting outside a bar ahead. So you took the easy way out and sped up to a jog. Kid kept his pace, but followed after you, desperate to make his case.

“Heat!” You called out and hugged your friend.

“Took ya long enough,” The stitched man smiled, then did a double take as Kid trailed behind you. “Hey captain. What’re you doing here?”

“We ran into each other,” You said dismissively, pulling Heat to the bar’s entrance. “Do they have food? I’m fucking starving.”

“Yeah I think so.” Heat glanced back to watch Kid follow you both in. “He good?” He asked you in a hushed tone as you sat down at a booth in the corner. Heat stood glancing between the two of you.

“Probably?” You shrugged. “There was a guy I got into it with, he’s probably pissed I didn’t kill him.”

Heat slid into the bench opposite from you, as Kid sat at the bar. The place wasn’t busy, but late afternoon would fade away into night soon and it’d be packed. The bartender served Kid then came over to get your order.

“Hey I remember you!” He said as he pointed at you. “You were here a few weeks ago, yeah?” You smiled politely and nodded, Heat had a guarded expression, but the guy just took your orders and left for the kitchen. Kid glanced back at you as you sipped your beer.

“Weird that he remembered us.” Heat started, you chuckled.

“I mean, you and captain are pretty memorable.”

Heat grunted but didn’t continue. The time passed by quickly, you and Heat ate and drank your beers. Slowly more patrons started trickling in, mostly your crew but some locals too. At some point you pulled out a deck of cards and started a no stakes game with Heat, hoping to improve your skills.

Kid was suspiciously quiet, you’d glance at him often, but he just drank in solitude. Occasionally a crew mate would come up and chat with him, but when they left he’d just fall silent again. He glanced at you about as often as you did him, until Killer finally joined on the stool next to him.

“Pay attention before I make us play Go Fish.” Heat admonished you, your face turned red.

“Jokes on you I’m a shark at Go Fish.” You grin at him despite the shame of being caught.

As the night finally kicks off and nearly the entire crew, minus those on ship watch, are here, you and Heat finish your game. He splits off to find Wire and you go up to the bar for some stronger drinks. There were no open spots so you tapped on Killer’s shoulder, he made space between him and Kid. You waved at the bartender, having to stand on the barstool’s foot rest to be tall enough.

“What can I get you, gorgeous?” The man asks smoothly. Both men beside you tense, but you through your head back in a laugh, the previous drinks got you a little more comfortable.

“Can I get 2 shots of whiskey and a rum and coke?”

“Of course!” The bartender starts working on that, you keep an eye on him as Killer leans to speak with Kid over your head. You can’t really hear them, but ignore to focus on the man making your drinks. “Here you go.” He places the 3 glasses down and you put a few Berries on the counter, Kid swipes them back to you quickly.

“Hey!” You and the bartender say at once, your captain sneers then throws down his own Berries.

“Shut up both of ya!” He avoids your eyes and tucks back into his drink. Killer let’s off a restrained chuckle, you can feel it more than hear it against your side. You shrug, ready to let your captain’s weird behavior go if it meant free drinks, the bartender though didn’t seem as willing.

“Aw what a gentleman,” He grins at you. “Here I thought chivalry was dead.” Kid glowered at him, but Killer shook his head, which made the redhead frown harder.

“Thanks, Boss!” You say to ease the tension, then offer him one of the shots. “This was for Heat but he ditched me, you want it?” He regards you for a moment and takes the shot without a word. He grunts at the burn and watches you take yours then take a quick sip of your coke to chase it. Killer let’s out a brisk goodbye and vacates his seat, yanking you onto it.

“This shit is cheap, let me get some of that.” He gestures to your glass, normally he wouldn’t need a chaser, but he didn’t want you running off just yet. Or worse, talking with the stupid bartender again, who seems to be hovering around you. You slide him the drink, he takes a sip and grimaces again. “Fuck that’s strong, got what? Like an spit’s worth of coke?” You nod.

“Yeah it’s kinda strong,” You make a face as you take another sip. “Maybe I just gotta stir it.” You swirl it with a straw from the bar and try again. Nope, still strong.

“Tryin’ to get her drunk fast?” Kid shoots at the bartender, who pretends like he wasn’t listening.

“Does the lady not like her drink? I can certainly remake it for you.” He ignores Kid to speak with you, who is steadily considering murder. You wave his question off.

“Nah, it’s fine.” You’d rather just drink it, this guy was really annoying Kid and it was better if he just gave you some space.

“If you change your mind~” He winks at you and you fight back a laugh. This guy was over the top with his flirting. “Just let me know, my name is Jon.” He finally walked off to service some more patrons, the second bartender, an older woman, arrived to help with the orders.

“Fucking annoying ass dick head.” Kid mutters, you roll you eyes, but he doesn’t see it.

“He seemed nice enough.” You said lazily, eyes scanning the crowd as you stir your drink again. “Kinda cute too.”

“What? Seriously?” Kid looks you up and down like you’ve grown another head.

“Yeah, he’s nice at least.” You shrug.

“Gross. You’re way outta his league.” He needs to shut up, right now.

You’re stiff again, suddenly remembering his insult earlier. He can feel the change in you and quickly looks away, staring at his beer like it would hide him.

“Whatever.” You hop off the stool and go to leave, his hand grips your upper arm tightly. You flinch and tense, his grip softens but doesn’t leave, you let him pull you back onto the stool.

“That wasn’t what I meant… Earlier.” He said slowly, his hand slips down to hold your forearm.

“When you said I wasn’t pretty enough to be flirted with?” You clarified for him, he scowled but tried to force it away.

“I never said that!” He cuts himself off. “Look, you’re plenty pretty. I just meant that creeps shouldn’t be bothering you, ya know?” He finishes lamely, heat on his face, trying to look at you. A pause hangs in the air and he finally looks at your face, you keep it neutral for a moment.

“So… you think I’m pretty?” You ask with a grin, he snatches his hand away from you with a growl. Your face is also red, but you poke his arm playfully. “What’s next? You gonna propose?” He flushes more and grits his teeth.

“Knock it off will ya! I’m trying to be nice for fucking once!” He bats your hand off of him, hoping he seems as annoyed. “Acting all hot and cold on me.”

“Calm down, Boss. You know I don’t mean anything by it.” You hold your hands up in mock surrender. His eyes cut to you then back to the crowd.

“Yeah, I know.”

[dreaming-of-mossballs]

Porridge for— you guessed it— A Bashful Captain (Gepard x florist!reader)

Summary: After hearing the shocking news that Gepard is sick, Serval entrusts you with the task of making sure he doesn’t burn himself out while no one is watching. Good luck with that.

▸ Genre(s): fluff

▸ Word Count: 5k

▸ Tags: Gepard x reader

▸ Warnings: food mentions

A/N: I’ve been struggling to get my posts to show in the tags, so let me know if you want to be taglisted! It’s really demotivating seeing my work get demolished by the algorithm.

MASTERLIST

How nice it was to have a moment of respite after a long and arduous campaign.

At least, that’s what the captain wished he could say.

Every muscle in his body seemed to be screaming at him to stay in bed after he woke up that morning. His throat felt like it had been scraped with steel wool and then some. Plus, his body felt chilled, even after piling far more than the usual number of blankets on his bed.

“Don’t overexert yourself,” Serval had said. Aeons, she was right.

Gepard vaguely registered the fact that this combination of symptoms spelled disaster, but nevertheless, he had to get up. He drew in a deep breath in an attempt to gather the strength to hoist himself out of bed, but the air seemed to have invisible barbed wire that scoured his already painful lungs. He broke into a hacking cough that echoed throughout the estate and immediately sat up to cover his mouth with his elbow.

A knock on the door drew him out of his misgivings.

“Young master Gepard?” A concerned voice— which belonged to one of the maids— called.

Although the captain felt like his stomach was churning like butter, he shifted the blankets aside and treaded towards the door. Even the estate felt dreary that morning as the sunlight reaching through the window was weak and scattered (Due to a thick cloud covering, indicating an impending snowstorm.) The expensive plush carpet on the floor of the room did little to ease his newfound dislike of standing upright.

How silly he felt, a man who trudged through waist-deep snow on the daily, was now reduced to a sniveling mess in his family home. Gepard, still rubbing his nose, opened the wooden door slightly.

The shock on the maid’s face was evident as she caught her first glimpse of him. He really did look worse for wear, his golden hair was unkempt, his complexion was pale, and he had to lean on the doorframe to keep the room from swaying and bending inwards and—

“Um— young master. I heard you coughing,” she blurted out, eyeing his drooping eyelids. “Would you like me to fetch you a glass of water?”

Gepard raised his voice to respond but instead let out a ghastly wheeze followed by coughing that sounded like thunder. He turned his head away so as not to catch her in the blast.

“Y-yes, please,” He resumed looking at her. “That would be much appreciated,”

His voice was uncomfortably hoarse. She glanced up at him. “Would you like it with lemon or without?”

The young man didn’t get a chance to respond. His calloused hand slid down the doorframe, his vision went fuzzy—

—and then everything went dark.

The maid’s shriek echoed off the walls, causing the sparrows that perched on the windowsills to take to the sky.

Her voice turned heads, both maids and butlers alike, all throughout the manor.

(It is said that they still speak about it to this day, much to her chagrin.)

❆ — ❆ — ❆

You were convinced that work was going to give you a heart attack.

With the Solwarm festival upcoming, flower sales practically exploded. Your job as a florist was a source of many joys, but even you had your limits. Your hands were permanently stained with a mix of red and orange from all the Solarflowers you’d been handling. It looked like brilliant flames adorned your arms, but it lost its novelty after you realized you couldn’t wash it off, even with industrial strength soap.

And you had a catch-up with Gepard in three days. Just great.

He’d sent the invitation through a surprise letter a week before he came home. He said he’d be busy for a bit with mission debriefings and yada yada, but he’d like to meet at Serval’s for lunch once he got the chance.

Couldn’t he have just texted me? You snorted when you opened it. Those nobles. (You betted that he’d never gone on a date that was anything other than a fancy matchmaking dinner.)

But then you realized that was dumber than dumb. He wasn’t allowed to have his cell phone on military expeditions. You nearly smacked yourself with the first edition copy of the Gardener’s Almanac in shame.

You cast a mournful, longing glance through the paned glass windows and out at Qlipoth fort. Of course Gepard had ten thousand meetings to attend to after getting home.

A pang of pity reverberated throughout your chest. Didn’t he at least deserve a short break? He was like a herding dog that never got a day off.

You looked up from where your head was resting on the counter, feeling the warmth of a Solarflower bouquet spread across your face almost like a blush. Handing the customer’s change across the counter whilst simultaneously stifling a heartbroken sigh wasn’t much, but it was one of the hardest things you’d done all day.

I am so. Friggin. Tired. You groaned. The overcast weather was really getting to your mood.

A clatter came from the back, which caused you to prick your ears.

“Hey, (Y/N)? The plumbing in the upstairs sink broke. We’re missing the right kind of wrench. Would you mind going out and grabbing it?” Meg spoke.

“Sure,” you perked your eyebrows, eager to escape your thoughts for a split second. “What kind is it?”

Your boss handed you a paper with the details, and you swung your florist’s bag over your shoulder with newfound gusto. A trip to Serval’s workshop was exactly what you needed.

The breeze outside the shop was stagnant. It made you shudder. You couldn’t control the weather, but you could sure as hell skip to the shop to spite the bad hand you’d been dealt recently.

The bronze shop bell dinged to announce your entry. And Serval, the owner of the Neverwinter Workshop, was fast asleep on a pile of papers.

That can’t be comfortable,

“Hey, Serv—,”

She shot up from her desk faster than you could blink.

“Welcome to Neverwinter Workshop! What can I— Oh! (Y/N)! Sorry about that, I just uh… dozed off for a bit,”

You chuckled. “Not a problem. I just came by for an 18x18mm wrench. Would you happen to have one of those?”

Molly, the assistant, peeked her head in from the back. “Only a few hundred of them,”

You stared back, flabbergasted. “Why so many?”

“Miss Serval put an extra zero on the order form,” she said with a shrug.

Serval looked at you sheepishly, her blue eyes filled to the brim with embarrassment. You shot her a glance loaded with concern.

“Have you been getting enough rest?” You inquired.

“Yeah, totally! Well… The band and I have been pretty busy with rehearsal lately. Y’know, with the Solwarm festival coming up and all—,” She waved a hand in the air dismissively. “—anyways, the person who’s case you should REALLY be on is Gepard’s,”

You lifted an eyebrow at her attempt to deflect the blame. “Yeah? And why is that?”

She paused, not paying you the slightest crumb of attention before she let out an planet-shaking yawn.

“Huh? Oh, he’s sick. Real nasty case. He got it from Pela,”

“Jeez. Seriously?” You exclaimed. “That sucks. I hope he gets better soon,”

She blinked slowly and tiredly. “Yeah, yeah. We do too. He actually passed out this morning,”

Your eyes went wide.

“He WHAT???”

“Ah, well, he passed—,”

“Nope, nope, nope. I got it,” you said, rubbing your temples while staring at the floor. “Holy crap. It must be really bad then. Did he have to go to the hospital?”

Serval shook her head. “Nope, thank Qlipoth. Lynx has had to crash here so she doesn’t catch it,”

You glanced around the workshop. “She has? Where is she?”

Your friend pointed at a stack of cardboard boxes stacked beside a shelf.

“Right there,”

And clear as day, you spotted the white tufts of fur from Lynx’s hat sticking out of her sleeping bag.

❆ — ❆ — ❆

“Okay… So, let me get this straight. Gepard returned home and promptly passed out,” You gripped the edge of the reception desk so hard you thought it might splinter. “Is anyone keeping him from going to the meetings or… anything?”

“Well, yeah. He knows well enough not to spread his sickness around. What I can’t say for sure though is that he’s not forcing himself to do paperwork… and stuff,” Serval hummed to herself, sorting through another stack of papers that had been rearranged from her catnap.

You let out a withering sigh. “Someone’s gotta stop him,”

Picking up your phone, you hurriedly dialed his number. After far too many seconds, you flopped helplessly onto the desk. No answer.

“Ugh. Can’t we like… call Dunn or the household or something?” You said weakly.

“I thiiink you may be blowing this one out of proportion,” she grinned, showing her pointy canines. “Why don’t you stop by if you miss him so much? You can knock some sense into him or whatever,”

She smirked as she saw embarrassment seep into your face.

Aha! So you DO miss him,

“Yeah, if warp trotters fly, maybe,” you tried to hide your expression by running a palm over your face. “I can’t just show up unannounced,”

“You sure can! I do it all the time,” she said cheerfully. “Usually when the man of the house isn’t there, though,” A look of distaste flashed in her eyes.

“The head butler has a good memory. He should remember you. Say I sent you—,” she perked up. “Oh! Here, I’ll write you a note,”

The blonde-haired woman yanked open a wooden drawer with an ear-piercing screech and lifted a notepad and pen out from its confines. She scrawled something out quickly.

“This should do,”

You squinted at the note skeptically.

I hereby authorize (Y/N), a friend of Gepard’s, to check up on him and make sure he isn’t working himself to death,

Signed,

Serval

[A strange doodle of a smiling face holding up a peace sign]

“Now go!” She shouted, practically pushing you out the door. “Go, go, go! You got this!”

“What—? Serval, I can’t—,”

“Yes you can! Call me if they don’t let you in. Rock on!”

She dropped you unceremoniously on the stone steps outside and slammed the door.

“Cheers!” Her muffled voice called.

I really should become a matchmaker, she snickered to herself.

You looked at the note once more and wilted.

❆ — ❆ — ❆

Gepard’s residence was… exactly the same all the other times you had gone, maids and all.

It was still plenty overwhelming though. You brushed the wrinkles out of your tunic as you waited for someone to answer the door. It wasted no time swinging open with a force that could’ve flattened someone, had they been standing behind it.

You nearly squawked in fear. Didn’t these people know how to open a door normally?

While gripping your messenger bag, filled with a few things you had brought from home, you requested entry from the broad-shouldered man that answered. You had no trouble keeping your voice steady but your chest felt like it was being crushed under a metal boot as you faced him.

“Ah, yes. Anything for a friend of the young master!” The butler smiled warmly at you. He didn’t show any sign that he had picked up on your nervousness. Hah, you didn’t think you’d ever get over all these pairs of eyes on you each time you came.

But wait— a friend? Hadn’t you told them each and every visit that you were a gardener he hired?

You bit the edge of your lip but kept your mouth shut.

He motioned you inside. “He’s been resting. Please, let us walk you up!”

You kept your eyes trained on the velvet carpet draped on the stairs as you followed him up. The floorboards squeaked softly under your soles.

When you got upstairs, the curly-haired man stopped in front of a particular door. “Just go on in,” he instructed.

You thanked him and rapped on the door lightly.

“Gepard?”

He looked up from his paperwork hurriedly from where it was bent over the desk to the source of your voice.

“It’s me. Serval sent me over to check if you were doing alright,” you said, leaning your head closer to the wood.

Gepard’s brows knitted together.

If she really wanted to, she could have busted my door down like last time.

He switched off the lamp and got out of his chair.

You heard a croak that sounded like “coming” and winced away from the door. Eek. He must be in really bad shape.

The door opened, causing a breeze to hit your face. After not seeing his face for a month, this wasn’t how you expected your first meeting to go.

By Qlipoth’s grace—, you clapped your hand over your mouth to prevent yourself from saying it out loud.

Gepard’s hair was messy and his cheeks were crimson. Locks of his golden hair covered his eyes, which were puffy and red. Better yet, he was wearing a matching set of blue and white striped pajamas. You nearly gawked. At least he wasn’t wearing his uniform if he wasn’t working.

He took in a quick breath to greet you but a harsh bout of coughing cut him off. Turning away from the door, he hacked into his elbow and tried to shut it.

Without a moment’s hesitation, you wedged your buckled boot into the space between the door and the frame. That swift action shocked him out of his coughing fit.

“A-apologies, I wasn’t expecting a visit. Please step away before I give you my illness,”

“Oh! That’s why you shut the door,” Your mouth went wide. “I thought you knew the real reason why I came!”

His eyes went wide as you used your forearm to force the door open wider, a vaguely threatening gesture.

What real reason?

“Forget what I just said,” you grinned while sauntering into the room. “Anyways, my immune system is great! I used to eat dirt when food was scarce in the Underworld. It’ll take a lot more than a cold to kill me,”

“Oh my. Is— is that so?” Gepard cleared his throat, forming a fist over his mouth. He followed a few steps behind you as you went about the room.

“Yessir. I came to say hi! Nothing more. Definitely not,” You chirped, looking around his quarters (not at all suspiciously, by the way.) “How are you feeling?”

Wait, didn’t you say Serval—?

He didn’t get to finish that thought.

“Well— all right, I suppose. A little lightheaded and feverish,” his eyes trailed your form moving about. “I took some medicine earlier, and my condition has improved some. Nothing a little rest won’t fix,”

You nodded, not sparing him a glance. “Yes. Rest. Glad to see we’re on the same page here, Gepard. Hey— you moved your bamboo plant in here!” You spotted a joyful little green plant in a pot on top of his desk.

He gave you a puzzled look. Your behavior was…strange, to say the least.

“Ah, yes. I moved it because—,”

—it reminded me of you, he narrowly stopped himself from saying.

“—I read that bamboo didn’t need as much light as I was giving it, so, I figured it would be fine if I transferred it,”

You bent your knees a little to take a closer look at it. “I see. The soil looks nice. Mind if I turn on the light to take a closer look?”

“Be my guest,”

You rotated the little key that controlled the lamplight. It flicked on, spreading a warm glow onto the books and papers on the desk. A glint reflected off a dollop of ink resting on a half-written paper.

You froze. That ink is fresh.

Bristling indignantly, you whisked your head towards him. He picked up the change in mood immediately and blanched.

“I thought you said you’d been resting,” you narrowed your eyes at him.

“I have,” He paused, confused. “Well—,”

“AHA!” You shouted. “I gotcha! This ink is fresh, Captain. Don’t think you can fool me,” You said triumphantly, placing your hands on your hips.

“Serval— she did send you, didn’t she?!” He sputtered. The usual stoic captain was nowhere to be seen as he rubbed the back of his neck in shame.

“Yes. She did. But also I would’ve come either way to make sure you weren’t wearing yourself out,” you snorted playfully. “She said it was highly likely you were doing paperwork. And paperwork IS. NOT. REST.” You shook a finger at him accusingly.

Gepard flinched slightly. “I’m not exerting myself physically, so there’s no need to worry, (Y/N). Really,”

The air around you seemed to grow dark. You cracked your knuckles, staring him straight in the face.

“Sit down. Now,”

He obliged, choosing to plunk down on his bed.

“I know it feels like you’re wasting time doing nothing, but your mind needs to recover too,” you shook your head disapprovingly while giving him an exaggerated sigh. “You should know that,”

You pulled up a chair in front of him and took a seat, facing the window so he was looking at your side profile.

“I don’t care if you’re the most capable man on Jarilo-VI—,”

—and it was pretty likely that he was,

“You need time to rest, just like everyone else,” you lectured, opening one eye to peer at him teasingly.

“Right,” Gepard replied, defeated. He had nothing against you.

“Did you even wear the scarf I gave you out there?”

“I did, but I didn’t want to dirty it,” he replied. You gave him a snort, which quickly turned into laughter.

“Aww. That’s thoughtful of you,” you flashed him a smile. “I made it knowing I might have to make you another one though. Or three. Just let me know if it gets too damaged to wear, okay?”

Gepard looked down at his striped pajama pants, a small smile crossing his features. “Thank you. I appreciate it,”

His chest almost hurt with all the things he wanted to say trying to fight their way out.

“No problem. If anything, you deserve it,” you sang. “On the other hand, have you eaten anything today?”

“I haven’t,” he rested his head on his chin. “I don’t seem to have an appetite, unfortunately,”

“I see. You should get something in ya though. Natasha told me your body could use the energy,” you stated knowledgeably.

He tried in vain to stamp down the feelings in his chest that sprouted from seeing your concerned expression.

For him. You cared about him.

Aeons, he didn’t deserve this.

“You can ask the cooks to make you some porridge or something,” you suggested. “I have some instant stuff, but it might not be to your liking,”

“I’m sure yours will be fine,” he rebutted quickly. “I’d be happy to eat it,”

You looked at him disbelievingly. I’ve never seen someone so determined to eat instant porridge,

His face stayed just how it was, his eyebrows weighing heavily on his eyes, just like twin anvils.

“Yeah, ok,” you let up. “Do you have a kettle or anything close by?”

“I believe there is one in the kitchen that they use for tea. You can ask the maids to retrieve it for you,” he motioned to the left.

You shook your head and got up. What use was it to call a maid for a trip that merely entailed going up and down the stairs? (Well, there were a stupid number of stairs, but that’s a whole other issue).

Kettle, bowl, spoon, and cloth napkin in hand, you bolted back upstairs to your patient. You plugged the kettle in and set it down on a towel so the heat didn’t damage the furniture.

Tapping your feet while you waited for the kettle to boil, you took a quick glance around the room. It told you a lot you needed to know about Gepard.

Firstly, he was relatively neat. Of course the areas of high traffic, like the bookshelves and the desk, were messier, but they hadn’t more than a few specks of dust on them. His uniform was hanging off of a dark oak armoire, and his military medals were pinned on a cork board attached to its door.

Secondly, there were quite a few pictures hanging on the walls. There were a few of him at awards ceremonies, at various ages. And one of him as a cadet— and wow— he was pretty short back then. He stood almost a whole head shorter than the other guards. You almost squealed with delight.

You turned back to him, noticing his eyes were glued to where you were staring. Oops.

You hurriedly apologized for staring so conspicuously at the photographs, but he shook his head at the statement. Photos were meant to be looked at, after all.

This quickly led to a slew of questions he wasn’t expecting, such as “How old were you when you joined the Guards?” And “Did Serval ever threaten to bench press you?”.

He almost laughed at that one. Probably. His nose wrinkled a little. Or whatever. You figured he’d finally laugh for real once the moons collided with Jarilo-VI.

The kettle began to whistle.

“Ah, water’s boiling,” you said, turning towards the outlet where it was plugged in.

Gepard had since settled down in bed, pulling the covers over his waist. You poured the piping hot water into the bowl carefully, the steam forming curls in the air, and covered it with a lid.

After a few minutes had passed, you set the bowl on a library book from your bag (Eek. Bad idea.) as a makeshift tray and stuck a spoon in it.

“Voilà. Enjoy!” You flung your arms in the air ostentatiously as he looked onward.

Gepard took a spoonful and blew on it gingerly. You watched him with an expectant look on your face. Although whether you were expecting something good or bad, you didn’t quite know.

He lifted it to his mouth and you zeroed in on him even harder.

“It’s delicious,” he said with conviction, meeting your eyes. You squinted at him.

“Um. Gepard, I think the fever is messing with your brain. Are you sure you can taste right now?”

“I’m sure,” he responded.

“No way!” You exclaimed, slapping your forehead. “Let me try— actually, wait. That’s a bad idea,” you sighed. “I’ll just have to believe you,”

The captain nodded affirmatively. He brought another spoonful up to his mouth and relished it, feeling the warmth spread across his tongue. You swore as you watched him savor it contentedly that you’d buy some on your way home to try for yourself.

While Gepard polished off the contents of his bowl, you yammered on about various events that had happened in Belobog while he was away. You had been saving them for when you got together for real, but you figured now was just as good a time as any.

Once he had finished, he rested the spoon on the side of the ceramic bowl.

“Thank you for coming to visit me, (Y/N),” he said gently.

“Someone had to,” you laughed while kicking your feet up. “When I heard you’d been bumbling about all day, I nearly had a heart attack!”

He ran a palm over his face, closing his blue eyes. “Yes— and I’m sorry for that,”

“I didn’t want to believe her, but you guys both have a tendency to push yourself way too hard, you know?”

“By her, you mean Serval?”

You pursed your lips at him.

“That’s how the Landaus are,” he exhaled heavily, letting out a small cough he quickly covered. “It’s… our duty to bring glory to our name, after all,”

You folded your arms. “Maybe by fighting valiantly or repairing automatons, but crawling through paperwork?? I don’t think so. Secretaries that want to help you are a dime a dozen. It’s a lot easier than risking your life in the Snow Plains,” you chortled.

“You’ve probably filled your glory quota for the next two centuries, Gepard,” you glowed. “Bronya and Pela know just how hard you work. You can always ask for help,”

Gepard sighed again. (He did that a lot.) You made a good point.

“I’m sure I’ll recover in no time, thanks to all of you,” he said sincerely. You imitated the sound of an explosion while opening your fist.

“Boom. Magic porridge,”

To your surprise, this elicited a short chuff from Gepard; This caused your breath to get lost somewhere in your throat.

It felt strange seeing him so unguarded in his bedroom with his hair unkempt, in contrast to the well-polished emblem of strength shown on the recruitment posters everywhere in the Administrative District.

You folded your hands over your lap contentedly, silently thanking Serval for clueing you in today. Out of the blue, Gepard spoke up.

“When I recover, would you like to go to the Belobog History and Culture Museum with me?”

That startled you. “Really? I have been wanting to go,” you gnawed on your thumbnail hesitantly. “But are you sure? With all the stuff you have on your plate?”

“Positively,” he replied, his blue eyes capturing all of your attention. You quickly averted your eyes before your circuits overheated. “Volunteers can bring in one guest for free. I… know we haven’t had too many chances to spend time together because we’re both busy, but I figured I’d make an offer anyhow,”

You didn’t catch the last half of that sentence over the sound of a train whistling in your ears.

This should be illegal.

Is he even hearing himself right now?? To— to spend time together?? If I wasn’t super-duper ultra perceptive, I’d think he—,

You clamped your hands on your cheeks (internally, of course) to still yourself, while the rest of you stared straight ahead.

Oh dear,

“Sure!” You blurted out, stiff as a statue.

Smooth, (Y/N).

Fortunately for you, an alert from your phone jostled you out of your internal minefield. You flipped it open while trying to expel far too many thoughts from your mind at once.

It was Serval. You popped into your messages app to see what she had sent— and in true Serval fashion— she had sent the most mind-boggling, disorienting message possible.

From: Serval at 13:44

S: how’s he doing? did u get there alright?

S: ahh you’re probably busy.

S: tuck him in for me, will u?

You nearly spit out your drink. Gepard blinked at you.

You— you can’t just SAY something like that, you cried internally. Not when my feelings are all messed up! I should get out of here before this gets any worse,

“Is something the matter?”

You sighed, long and heavy. “There’s always something, isn’t there?”

He made no move to make any inquiries.

“Anywho, I guess I should take my leave now,” you spoke, reaching down to pick up your messenger bag off the floor and rising from your seat. “before I keep you up any longer. Take it easy, okay?”

“Ah— yes,” he replied, not letting the disappointment leak into his voice. He wondered about the sudden change in mood, but he didn’t want to pry if it would cause you discomfort.

“I’ll… keep that in mind,”

You smiled warmly at him.

“Good,”

❆ — ❆ — ❆

Even though you had left with the reasoning that you didn’t want to keep him awake, Gepard was anything but tired.

His strict internal clock as a soldier was probably to blame. A sigh echoed throughout the room. It was way too quiet now. And the velvet curtains absorbed any sound too weak to escape them.

He had to do something to keep his mind active. Maybe reading, perhaps? But the only books he had on his bookshelf were on war strategy and history. Both of which were related to his job.

How about drawing?

Now, that didn’t sound too bad.

He got out of bed and picked up a pencil, a spare piece of paper, and the floriography manual you lent him, off of his desk to use as a hard surface. As he settled into his mattress, he peered out the window one last time. He spotted a familiar green beret against the tan limestone bouncing way faster than necessary down the steps leading to the plaza.

A chuckle escaped his lips.

Well, time to get started,

❆ — ❆ — ❆

You sat in the break room of the florist’s, reading the latest edition of Automatons Weekly while waiting patiently for the porridge you had bought from the grocers to finish absorbing the water.

Vaska sat across from you, drinking floral tea while flipping through Tales 2. You’d prepared a bowl of porridge for her as well, just a different flavor. Hers had flecks of green and black in it, and it smelled quite good. Rather savory, in your opinion. The one you had gotten Gepard was the plain kind.

They had a surprising amount of flavors of porridge specifically at the grocers, like cinnamon, coconut, banana, whatever. It was honestly overwhelming. The fact they spent so much time curating the porridge aisle was weird, considering they didn’t have anything worth buying from the Underworld. But nonetheless.

After lifting the lids and seeing that the grains were sufficiently cooked, you both dipped your spoons in and shoveled them in your mouth.

“Blech!” Vaska said, coughing her mouthful into a napkin. “It tastes like soap,” You looked at her wordlessly as you swallowed yours.

You pondered for a moment.

“You know… I think I’ve had dirt more flavorful,” you said, bursting into loud laughter. “And how exactly do you know what soap tastes like?”

Vaska gave you a look loaded with venom.

“Whatever. You up for some cookies?” You shrugged.

She snickered, cracking open the door to the sweets cabinet in response, and fished out a jar of Meg’s famous chocolate brownie cookies.

Well, so much for that plan.

2024 - Dreaming-of-Mossballs - Do not repost/translate without my permission - NO AI

💙 THANKS FOR READINF I LOVE YOU 💙

[diejager]

Meeting in the same line of work as an operator. But the ‘reader’ in this scenario isn’t ‘small’. Being only just a couple inches shorter then Simon, and built quite large on the ‘bulk’ side. Spoopy Operator Girlfriend that can pick you up who doesn’t like that..? Boyfriend operator who’s used to interacting with women who prefer the feminine dainty life, now they gotta deal with reader being almost the complete opposite of what he’s used too!

(plus side of having operator girlfriend, no need to worry about being gentle, especially when their covered in scars like Simon)

Guess they can count their calories together as they get ready to work out…how many calories do you think Simon eats daily…?

I know shit about calories and being/feeling tall, but I can sure can try and live my dream in this >:]

Unusual Size Cw: fluff, implied smut, hookups, Ghost being confused, tell me if I missed any.

Ghost always thought himself as the provider in a relationship, the person who cared and protected —the shield. He always thought he preferred pretty and dainty women, like those he dated in the past or the rare and occasional hookups he brought to a motel room from the bar. They were good fucks, pretty things mewling and moaning beneath him, their pleasures spurred on by his broad stature and mask, but none were permanent, always a staple of his lonely nights. Ghost - Simon - knew who he was and what he liked —or so he fucking thought. 

You came crashing through everything he thought of himself, a straight man into small and fragile women with painted nails and rouge lips. You were unlike anything he’d every seen, bulky and tall, limbs sculpted from hardened marble and mind made of rough wires. You rivaled him in size and broadness, taller than Gaz, broader than Soap and gruffer than Price. You were a carbon copy of him in your whole attire and equipment, decked in black and blues, lifting more than anyone he’d seen and broke through men like they were made of glass, shattering them in the same velocity of a bowling ball towards pins. 

And when you shrugged off your mask, he was sure that he knew at least one thing about himself, that he was a straight and confused man, bordering on bisexual with how strongly he reacted to you appearing as a male with your deeper voice and gruffness. You were practically a man.

You didn’t need protection, you didn’t need to be provided for or to be cared for. You were as independent and strong as he was, someone he could equally depend on for help and comfort, to reach for someone he knew could take him as a whole: all his fear, all his scars, all his trauma and all his regrets. Simon knew you can take all of him, following him through thick and thin to pull him back from the depths of his mind, scattering his nightmares and bringing him into your strong arms. 

Everything came so naturally with you, he trusted you with his life, having you watch his back when he cleared a room with you, and you trusted him just as much when you smiled at him before he left for overwatch. You worked together so effortlessly, he moved when you moved, and you stopped when he stopped, step for step and act for act. It came to the point where he was never seen without you and you were always shadowed by him, stuck by the hip and fingers touching, two giants in bulk and gear stomping around base with your masks pulled up and scaring people off. It was a sight to behold. 

And in moments of vulnerability, where he once thought he had to be gentle and careful, he could fully throw himself at you without the fear of hurting you, using his whole body to press you down and his strength to hold you still, fingers bruising your scarred skin and growling out your name. He didn’t have to hold back and he didn’t have to do all the work, letting you take care of him, featherlight touches and tender kisses, praising him and encouraging him to let go. He didn’t know he liked to be treated softly, to be loved and gently handled, it was such a difference of his battle-hardened facade he put up. 

He learned that he liked being reminded of his humanity, that he was flawed and that it was all right to be a wounded being. He learned that he liked you more than he did with small and dainty women, never having to hold back and being able to let go of his control. And he learned that it was fine to not conform to the imagine people had of him, to stand out for what he liked and favoured; to trust and to love; to be cared for and to be protected; and to share his pain.

Taglist: @sae1kie @yeoldedumbslut @bvxygriimes @distracteddragoness @konigsblog @im-making-an-effort @daisychainsinknots @0alk0msan @danielle143 @tuttifuckinfruttifriday @notspiders @brokenpieces-72 @petwifed @randominstake @cassiecasluciluce @hayleybarnesx @shironasumi @sparky--bunny @bloobewy @infpt-zylith @sweetnanah @aldis-nuts

[thistledropkick]

Last year, Kasai Jun was interviewed as part of the interview project DEATH, which interviews various people about death in order to find a better understanding of how to live and appreciate life.

I thought it was a fascinating interview, so I decided to translate it.

Please go visit the original interview - the photography accompanying it is absolutely gorgeous.

Also, please don't repost this whole translation elsewhere. If you want to quote an excerpt of my translation for something, please make sure to also credit the original team behind this interview and link back to the original interview.

Deathmatch Fighter Kasai Jun - 4/27/2022

“It’s not a deathmatch until you return home alive” The reason this 47 year old Charisma Wrestler continues to shed blood in the ring

Within pro wrestling, there is a genre called “deathmatch.”

An extreme set of rules that allows deadly weapons and has no disqualifications. Brawls with fluorescent light tubes, and dives onto barbed wire boards. Without hesitation, wrestlers stab their opponents in the head with fistfuls of bamboo skewers. When wound-covered bodies violently collide, shards of glass and sprays of blood shower the ringside seats.

Upon first seeing it, surely everyone thinks “Why are these people hurting each other like this?” “What the hell am I looking at?”

This is the world of the man known as “Charisma,” professional Wrestler Kasai Jun of the independent promotion Pro Wrestling Freedoms.

In November of 2009, he had a “razorblade board plus alpha deathmatch” against Ito Ryuji in Tokyo’s Korakuen Hall. Kasai, 35 years old at the time, dove from the second floor balcony, a fall of 6 meters, onto a table, aiming for his opponent Ito.

Afterwards they continued to fight with various weapons, in a match that concluded 15 seconds before the 30 minute time limit. That year, this match was awarded the Best Bout award. And Kasai, the winner of that match, became a living legend overnight.

12 years have passed since then. Kasai is now 47 years old, and he continues to rule over the world of deathmatch wrestling. Under the weight of many literal life-or-death battles, Kasai’s body no longer moves the way it did when he was young. Even so, why does he continue to set foot in such a dangerous place?

We asked “Charisma of Deathmatch” - a man who makes the crowd go mad in the space between life and death - about his views on death and on life.

Desiring to truly feel alive

- Normally, people try to avoid pain and suffering. Kasai, why do you continue to shed blood in the ring?

Hahaha. From an outside perspective, you must really wonder “Why do you keep doing something so painful” huh? That’s a normal way to feel. But from the wrestler’s perspective, it’s completely different.

In your normal daily life, do you ever feel like “Ahh, it’s so glorious to be alive”? You’d almost never unconsciously blurt out something like that.

But in a life or death battle in a deathmatch ring, after you step down from that ring, that’s exactly what you feel. “Ahh, I’m alive. I’m so grateful to be alive.” Because of that, I can’t quit.

Mountain climbers and stuntmen probably feel like this too, don’t they. Stepping into a situation where their life could end, and returning home safely. I wonder if they’re searching for that feeling of being “truly alive.”

This feeling is passed on to the audience too. Fans often tell me “Watching Kasai Jun’s deathmatch gives me the strength to continue forward.”

They say things like, “I’m being bullied at school so I wasn’t going to go any more, but now I feel like I can keep going.” Or, “It’s exhausting to keep going to work, but after seeing Kasai persevere while shedding blood in the ring, I can persevere and keep going to work.”

Recently I can’t do this much because of covid, but in the past when I’d sell merch, fans would often say things like this to me.

Because of this, it seems to me that deathmatch wrestling is simultaneously a way for wrestlers to feel truly alive, and a way for those who watch it to feel more positively about living.

- Because of the sensational way “death” is shown in the ring?

Probably, yeah. Because it looks like we’re doing something really painful.

But don’t get me wrong. We aren’t in a particular hurry to die. And we aren’t wasting our lives either. What I always say is, “It’s not a deathmatch until you return alive.”

[Note from me - this phrase (生きて帰るまでがデスマッチ) is a play on a well-known Japanese phrase 家に帰るまでが遠足 “The field trip isn’t over until we return home.” This started as something a teacher would say to students in their care, and Kasai has altered it into his motto towards both himself and other deathmatch wrestlers.]

- It’s not a deathmatch until you return alive.

If you get in a ring where you might die or get seriously injured, and you do die, or you do get seriously injured, you’re no different than a rank amateur, right? But a guy who dives into a deadly dangerous situation and returns from that ring unharmed, he’s the absolute greatest and the absolute coolest.

Like a stuntman, right? If he returns home alive, people say “amazing,” but if he dies, he’s no longer a pro.

At 35 years old, his view on life did a complete 180 during a match

But, when I was young, I thought about it completely differently. I never thought “I’m grateful to be alive.” In the ring, I did dangerous stuff and defeated my opponents. I just thought of it as my job.

The more dangerous stuff I did, the more people said “Kasai is amazing!” That felt really great. Every time I stepped into the right I thought, if something goes wrong and I die I guess that’s how it goes. I thought “Deathmatches should be a memento mori.”

- What caused such a big change in your values?

That match against Ito Ryuji in Korakuen, in 2009. It changed my mental state by 180 degrees.

The truth is, I went into that match thinking “This is my last match before I retire.” Because it was my last match, I would do everything I wanted to do. Win or lose, I went into the ring thinking “I’ll retire.”

But during the match, my feelings completely changed. I thought “If I quit like this, I’ll be half-dead.” There’s nothing else I want to do, and I’ve never felt joy like this anywhere else. It was just too much fun.

So, after the match ended with 15 seconds remaining, I announced my decision to continue wrestling. “I was thinking of retiring but, I’m gonna keep going.” That’s what changed.

- Since your values have changed so significantly from when you thought it’d be good to die in the ring, what’s your “ideal death” now?

Spending the day with my family as I always do, watching tv with an after-dinner drink as I always do, getting comfy in my futon as I always do, and passing away. That’s the best death, isn’t it.

I’ve said it before but, people who say “It’s my ambition to die in the ring” are just trying to look cool. For a pro, it all comes down to returning home alive. And so, I believe that when the life of Kasai Jun the human being comes to an end, Kasai Jun the wrestler will die as well. I want to be a pro wrestler until I die. That’s how I feel now.

When I was young, I thought the best time for a wrestler to retire was when he could still move, when people would say “It’s a shame, because there’s still more he can do.” But if that’s true, I’ve already missed my best time to retire.

Since I’ve come this far, maybe it’s better to keep doing this until my death. Since around the time I turned 40, I started thinking this way.

Gaining years = leveling up. I’ll reach my peak just before death.

- Since you’ve been doing this for so long, it’s inevitable that your body has become weaker. Kasai, how have you dealt with aging?

The word “elderly” is a concept created by human beings, isn’t it? Since that’s the case, I believe it’s something we can absolutely overcome. I don’t think increasing in age is the same as becoming elderly.

Look, it’s true that my physical stamina has decreased and my muscles have gotten weaker than they were when I was younger. But my will and my spirit have continued to grow. Instead of just breaking even, I think I’ve leveled up. 47 years old is level 47. I now see growing older as a positive, like leveling up every year.

Because of that, my peak has yet to come. I’ll reach my peak just before I die. I’ll be at my strongest just before my death. That’s the ideal I envision for myself.

There was a time when I felt insecure about my age. When I hit my mid 30s, I hated that my body was becoming weaker.

But then, while drinking at home and watching a documentary on TV about (rock musician) Yazawa Eikichi, I realized something. “If you think about it, uncool young people are uncool, and cool guys are cool even if they’re old.” Since then, my way of thinking changed. I started calling getting older “leveling up” at around that time.

[Note from me: Suzuki Minoru also refers to getting one year older as “leveling up” in the exact same way. They are friends, so I assume Suzuki got it from Kasai.]

- I'm surprised that a pro athlete who uses his body as a weapon would think of aging in that way.

Pro wrestling and deathmatch are unique among sports. Unlike say, track and field, or swimming, it isn’t a competition where every second counts. I can’t move the way I could when I was young any more, but through my facial expressions, pauses during matches, and so on, I have many ways to express myself.

A guy can be handsome, macho, with great muscles, and completely suck as a wrestler. In contrast, a guy like me who’s ugly, short, and middle-aged, can get support from the fans. It’s a completely different genre, and that’s what makes pro wrestling so interesting.

- What about your emotional struggles? In your documentary film you said you were having some difficulty maintaining your motivation, which you described as “Deathmatch Erectile Dysfunction”

Yeah, well, that can definitely be a problem. When you’re young, you’ve just got piles of hopes and dreams and things you want to do. But as the years go on, and as you accomplish those things, you can kind of get lost.

What’s helped me increase my motivation has been the existence of people who make me think “I absolutely don’t wanna lose to this guy” or “I don’t want this guy to take all the best stuff for himself” In my case, for example, that’s been (fellow PW Freedoms deathmatch wrestler) Takeda Masashi. Or, although he’s from another organization, New Japan Pro Wrestling’s El Desperado.

That’s why for the past 3 or 4 years, I’ve been asking people to “stimulate me.” I want intimidating people to keep approaching me. Well, on the other hand, if they take the most delicious part for themselves, that’s a problem.

A fear of death led to a “selfish life”

- Incidentally, perhaps it’s too late at this point, but do you worry about being injured or dying?

I said it already but, “It’s not a deathmatch until you return alive.” Since I’m a pro, I have the skills required to do this without death or injury. 

But, it’d be a lie to say “I’m not afraid.” Even now, for several days before a match I get so stressed that I can’t sleep. Despite how I look, I get plenty scared. Much of my life has been driven by a strong fear of death.

- How do you mean?

It sounds silly, but when I was in grade school I believed in “The Prophecies of Nostradamus.” Have you ever heard of it? “In the year 1999, all of humanity will be destroyed.” Every night I shook with fear in my futon, thinking that my life would end at the age of 24.

Propelled by that fear, I concluded, “If the earth is gonna get destroyed anyway, I should quit studying. Instead I should use the rest of my remaining lifetime to do stuff that I like.” I completely quit studying, and instead spent all my time watching pro wrestling, which I loved.

Conversely, my fear of death also led me to become a pro wrestler. After graduating high school, I got a job in Tokyo as a security guard, but I gave into temptation and visited brothels daily. One day I happened to be reading a magazine with an HIV checklist inside, and almost every item applied to me.

At that time, I still thought “AIDS = death” so I thought “Oh, this is AIDS.” “Oh, this is how I’ll die.”

Luckily, when I got tested the result was negative, but after preparing myself for death, I thought “I really should do what I want” and knocked on the door of Big Japan Pro Wrestling. My life has always been influenced in this way.

- I get the impression that many wrestlers die at an early age. Since then, your fear must have increased.

Nah, that’s not really true. I’m surprisingly practical about the deaths of others. I just accept it, like “That’s the kind of life you lived.” I suspect my fear of death isn’t a fear of death itself, but a fear of becoming nothing.

- A fear of becoming nothing.

I’m no (actor and spiritualist) Tanba Tetsuro, but if after you die, you go to the spirit world, and cross the Sanzu river, that’s not all that scary is it? I wouldn’t go so far as to say “it’s fine if I die” but there’s some kind of hope or meaning. But if “After death, you become complete nothingness” “After death you feel no joy or sadness” I think that’s really scary.

But these days, I don’t experience that fear of death as much as I used to. If after this interview a dump truck hits me and I die, I wouldn’t have any regrets. I could say I did what I wanted to do.

Pro wrestling is a business where you depend on your popularity with an audience, but I’ve never tried to flatter the audience to get sales or support, or thought about how to increase my popularity. Ultimately, Kasai Jun puts himself first. I’m my own number one.

To die without regrets is to win at life

- But, if someone wanted to imitate your way of life, I think most people would be profoundly afraid of not getting by financially, or of being rejected by society. Why do you think you remain stoic in the face of such fears?

What’s there worth imitating about me? If you’re selfish like me and you can change it, you should want to!

But, this is probably related to that “fear of becoming nothing” I mentioned earlier. Ever since I was little, I’ve thought stuff like “This whole world isn’t real” and “Maybe all of this is just a dream.”

Nothing in this world is certain. Since that’s the case, all you have are your own body and your own feelings. In short, I don’t believe in anything but myself, so I put myself first.

- So in order to “feel truly alive” you throw yourself into the painful world of deathmatch wrestling, which leads us back to where we started.

That’s right. I guess you could say that pain is the only thing I believe.

But when I was young, I did understand the fear of not making enough money to survive. When I was around 30 and my son had just been born, I was seized by that fear.

Really, I was broke, and I couldn’t even pay into the National Pension Fund like I was supposed to, so I went to the ward office and said “I do intend to pay, so please wait a little.” I thought to myself, “Living is so expensive and so difficult.”

- A deathmatch fighter scary enough to quiet a crying child, with such an everyday problem.

Three years after my debut, when I was around 27, I was badly injured. I quit Big Japan, and after a year’s absence, I transferred to a different group called Zero-One.

Zero-One was founded by ex-New Japan Pro Wrestler Hashimoto Shinya, and the pay was good compared to Big Japan, and they held a lot of shows, so I could wrestle frequently. The environment there was very pleasant.

But, due to the policy of the organization, I couldn’t do the deathmatches that I love. During that time as a “salaryman wrestler,” I survived, but I think deathmatch fighter Kasai Jun, pro wrestler Kasai Jun, was completely dead.

“I really should do the pro wrestling I want to do,” I thought, and I quit Zero-One, and persisted with the pro wrestling that I love. Maybe that’s why I feel like I can now “die without regrets.”

Ultimately, if you live your own life as you wish, and think “I have no regrets” when you die, you win. Maybe people today have lost sight of the essence of what it means to live. It’s fine to work hard at your job, but if you’re spending every day miserably, is that kind of life really okay with you?

I’d rather live for 20 years and laugh every day than live for 100 years and never smile. If you’ve lived for 100 years and never laughed, that’s the same as being dead, isn’t it?

~

写真：本永創太 ~ Photographer: Motonaga Souta

執筆：鈴木陸夫 ~ Author: Suzuki Atsuo

編集：日向コイケ（Huuuu）~ Editor: Hinata Koike (Huuuu)

[the-hole-in-terzos-shoe]

Intro to Romantic Literature: Prologue

Professor!Terzo x TA!Reader (pretty gen for this part, but the main fic describes fem parts)

CW: implied smut, MDNI, 18+ only please, romantic tension, professor Terzo is a tease ✨

Word Count: 1.2k

I have been working on a Professor Terzo fic for MONTHS now, literally months. I'm getting close to the end, and this prologue popped in my head at 5 o'clock this morning, so I had to scribble it down. Plus, I think it'll make a cute little teaser 🥰 enjoy!

Intro to Romantic Literature: here!

Every day feels like a big day as you barrel towards the end of your degree. The pressure of arranging your final portfolio of works, defending final arguments, typing papers... it's all really starting to get to you.

𝘐𝘵'𝘭𝘭 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘣𝘦 𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘴𝘰𝘰𝘯, the bittersweet thought crosses your mind. You'd finally be done with all this stress and move onto the ease of a consistent career, but you'd also be leaving behind the best job you've ever known. Leaving 𝘩𝘪𝘮 behind.

In fact, you're so lost in your thoughts, collecting and organizing papers and files so efficiently--you could do it in your sleep at this point--that you don't notice him staring at you, the pained expression on your professor's face that would tell you it eats him up to see you like this: so stressed you're ready to snap.

He reads you like the many leaves and pages studied in his romantic literature class, like a poem written just for him. You recite your feelings to him daily without knowing it; it's in the way you walk, the way you hold yourself, the way you tilt your head when you rest the tip of your pen on your bottom lip, lost in thought on the class discussion at hand.

Sauntering into his office, you drop your shoulders as you flop into his soft leather chair, taking a deep breath before sorting papers accordingly: lesson plans in the bottom right desk drawer, books on the bookshelf, papers to be graded in the third slot of the black wire rack, anything needing immediate attention left squarely on his desk in plain sight.

"Grazie, stellina," his voice snaps you back to reality, immediately causing your cheeks to flush at the nickname. 'Little star' is what it means. It makes you feel like a teacher's pet, which would've bothered you if it had been anyone else; however, it makes you feel special to earn attention from him. "La mia brava ragazza, you always do such a good job for me." He leans in the doorway, running a hand through his graying locks.

"Thank you, Professor Emeritus," it comes just above a whisper, and you look down at the desk briefly before standing to make your exit.

"Ah, ah, ah, not so fast," he murmurs, catching your waist as you try to pass him in the little room. Spinning you around, he pins the back of your thighs to the desk before leaving some space between you... Just enough space to be respectful, but a clear indication that you're not getting out of this so easily.

You're so caught up in the intoxicating scent of his expensive cologne that you hardly hear him when he asks how you've been. "Hm?" you reply, playing naïve.

"Tesoro, please, I can't have my favorite student looking as distracted as you've been lately," he starts, but you interrupt him.

"I'm not your student, I'm your teaching assistant," you remind him with a light hearted smile.

"You are still learning things, no?" he cocks one thick black eyebrow in that way that always makes your heart skip a beat, his intense white eye putting you in checkmate.

"I suppose so," you whisper, looking down at his ridiculously shiny loafers.

His fingers under your chin direct your stare back up, "What has you so distant, eh? Would you like to talk about it, cara? Confess your sins... So to speak." He winks at you, earning a small huff of a laugh from you.

"What are you, the Pope?" you joke.

His eyebrows quirk in an unreadable way, but he stays silent, urging an answer from you.

"I've just been really stressed with school," you finally concede, letting out a breath you'd been holding.

"Have I put too much on you?" he worries about the workload he's given you cutting into your schedule.

"No!" you look up at him almost desperately, "No, I enjoy this position so much. It's everything else. The final papers, getting good grades, trying to graduate." You choke on the last few words; it was something you'd been emotional about the last few weeks, plus your professor had your guard down.

"Don't cry, tesoro," he commands softly, but it's already too late as tears flood your waterline. Without a second thought, he cups your face in his hands, wiping away anything that threatens to spill across your cheeks. Wrapping a protective arm around your waist, he pulls you flush to his chest before fishing a handkerchief from his pocket, because of course he has one, and dabbing softly under your eyes before offering the piece of silk to you.

"Thank you," you stutter, clutching the cloth in your hand. Hesitantly, you glance up at him before laying your head on his chest, folding your arms under his in a hug.

His hand on your waist falls to caress the small of your back while the other cradles your head, while you regulate your breathing. You can't say for certain, but you think you feel a whisper of a kiss placed on the crown of your head. Holding each other like that for however long, you don't know, but when his fingertips gently start to massage your scalp, you let out an involuntary moan.

Your cheeks blush pink again, meeting a much more heated look in his mismatched eyes. As his warm hands move to grasp at your hips and waist, suddenly all of your worries melt away, as the only thing you can think about is him hoisting you up on the perfectly organized little desk and having his way with you, your panties tossed aside in his office chair, and you laid back and arched up into him while he works every tension from your needy body.

Your fantasy fades away when Professor Emeritus's hand cups your chin again, fingers pressing into your jawbone in a dominant way to lift your face to his. Your gaze wanders to his plump lips... how many times you've thought of having them on you.

His thumb gently strokes your cheek as he leans impossibly closer, and one of your hands smoothes over his firm chest.

But before he makes a move that he can't come back from, he presses the pad of his thumb firmly against your supple lips, stopping himself from crossing the line, even though he so badly wants to... wants you.

He gives you a solemn nod before putting some distance between your bodies, "I hope you're feeling a little better, after our, uh... chat, stellina."

"Uh huh..." is all you manage to breathe out before straightening up. "Yes, sir."

Offering a reassuring squeeze to your shoulder, he carefully presses a kiss to your cheek before sending you on your way.

Tonight, you'll tell yourself that you misread the situation, that he was only trying to be a kind and caring professor, but somewhere deep down inside you, under lock and key, you know that isn't true. Especially because you felt something hard graze against your hip as you squeezed past him and out into the hallway, but you put that thought far behind you as you head back to your dorm.

[slylock-syl]

Hey Syllll! Long time, no chat! I just wanted to get this off my chest before i go ham trying to figure out what i wanna commission from you soon.

I have been reading Undersource for years now, and i think we've both come a long way since then! God, that feels weird to say, i'm not even old enough to drink yet lmao. But! I am old enough to spend my money responsibly now, which is nuts given that my responsible spending is now aimed at getting art of my blorbos LOL.

You've grown as an artist so much since i first started reading- i think that was around... the pirate arc? Not sure! But i do remember the early days of me having discord, during the EKD server category era. But anyways, i know the way you drew our favorite skeletons was different back then, and it's all gotten so much smoother in that time. You're also (at least seemingly) taking way better care of yourself! You've set boundaries, you've set more time for yourself and not the blog, and you're still happily chugging along, after all these years. Not to mention you're working on this side story now, which i'm fairly certain you've been looking forward to for a while.

How's that sleeping though? Do you still have the sleep cycle of an austalian? Can't say i'm any better, im slowly becoming nocturnal again lol. Some things NEVER change.

Anyways. All this to say: im really proud to have been part of this little community for so long. To see the comic and its artist come so far. Even if im not a diehard fan anymore, im glad i can still take a little time every weekend to realize "OH, U/S shoulda updated!" and run over here. Thanks for giving me a good starting point of community on this god damned hellsite.

(Here's to sleepy 5 am "you're great" asks LMAO)

sjksdhLKSDJFHG THIS IS SUCH A SWEET MESSAGE OMG-

Hi Azzy! :D I'm glad you still like my work even after all this time! Thank you for sticking around! :D

I have been taking better care of myself these days! I'm (only sometimes begrudgingly XD) going on daily walks (Pikmin Bloom is really helping with that, I love Pikmin they're so cute), and made some new friends! When I first started this blog I was convinced I had to constantly/frequently produce content, and I time went on I slowly realized that wasn't really viable, so I slowly trimmed down the workloads for better manageability, I'd say it's helped a lot! Even if it may not look like it sometimes XD

There was a point before I adjusted my work schedule where I figured out that I may have been riding a creative burnout for a long while, as when I looked back it felt like my work had begun to visually stagnate. I think at the time I was cramming working on the comic update across only 3 or 4 days (Wednesday/Thursday to Saturday mornings, sometimes down to the wire), with several hours of just constant work (plus any distractions and 3 daily asks) because I was procrastinating so badly X'D I'm still recovering from the visual stagnation, but I'm definitely trying to experiment where I can! I may not be the best at it but I hope I'm improving at least ksjdghLSDGH My current schedule is MUCH more spaced out and much more manageable, spanning Sunday to Friday and broken down into stages for each day, and Saturdays are my designated day off~

As for the side story, it's one I've had around for quite a while and have been excited to finally show off! There were a few people who were interested in it when it was first teased, though I've no idea if they're still around, if they are I hope they're enjoying the story so far as well! 💜

Oddly enough my sleep schedule is no longer on Cthulhu Standard Time SKSDJGHDLG We had a TON of construction going on in the house the past few months and it was way too awkward to sleep with a bunch of strangers either being in or near my room, as well as making a LOT of noise sjkdhgLKSDJG There was a brief section of time where I'd actually go to bed at a "normal" time and get up at like, 9 or 10 am X'D Though it's slowly sneaking it's way into afternoons to 3 or 4 AM after I feed the kitties, kinda like my old college schedule XD

Thank you again for liking my work and sticking around! I really appreciate it!! :D

I may not be anywhere near whatever my "peak" was a few years ago, but I'm still happy to keep going for those who still come around! 💜

[hunterssm00n]

Open Season

He was a hunter; a good one. He would catch me either way - it was only a matter of time. I was his prey, and this was his favorite game. | Jason/OC |

part 1 of 2

also on ao3: here

*cw include consensual noncon, predator/prey, consensual primal play kink, size kink, strength kink, roleplay, and thigh riding* MDNI - 18+

♡˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ♡

hunterssm00n © All rights reserved by me. I do not allow this work to be used or adapted in any way without my permission.

/ / The Hunter & The Hunted / /

I ran as quickly as possible through the nighttime woods, my flashlight the only thing allowing me to see where I was going. Adrenaline pumped through my veins, making me stay fast and aware of my surroundings. I tried to look for the trip wires, but with my minimal lighting and the speed with which I was moving made it even more difficult to spot them. I knew where a lot of them were, from our daily walks around the campgrounds, however, I did not know where all of them were. But he did. 

At first I had debated whether or not to take the flashlight, but now I was glad to have it. At least I had some sort of advantage with it - if one could call being able to actually see where they were going an advantage. The reason I had thought about even leaving the flashlight back at the cabin was because he could also very clearly see the beam of light bouncing through the dark trees, therefore making it even easier for him to be able to pinpoint exactly where I was. Plus, he turned the power lights surrounding parts of the campsite area on to make it easier for me to see where I was going. Even still, those lights reach everywhere, and they didn't run through the entire property, so the small beam from the flashlight really did help, and I'd ended up taking it regardless of the risks. Plus, I had deduced that he would be able to find me, pinpoint my exact location, and catch me with or without being able to see the light from the flashlight. He was a hunter; a very good hunter. He would catch me either way - it was only a matter of time. I was his prey, and this was his favorite game. 

I came up to a fork on the path, left or right. One would take me down to the lake, while the other would take me to the arcing entrance to the camp. Camp Crystal Lake. I knew I didn't have much time to decide, so I veered left towards the lake. I had gone towards the entryway last time and hadn't made it very far. Now a plan was forming in my head, much like the cramp that was forming in my side. I jumped over the first trip wire, easily spotting it with my light. I ran to the second one about thirty meters away, this one closer to the forest floor, and deceptively hidden. I barely slowed as I came up to it, grabbing onto the thin rope material and yanking on it, hard. Then I turned right to cut through the dense woods where there was no path, intending to loop back and cut through to get to the main path towards the camp entrance. It wouldn't take him long to figure out what I'd done, but at least it would give me some extra time... maybe. No matter what I did, it wouldn't take him long to find me, either. He had tunnels that led everywhere throughout the property, and he knew this area like the back of his hand. 

Suddenly, I felt my foot catch on something and I nearly went down. Stumbling, I grabbed onto some nearby thin branches for support, and once I regained my footing I looked down and pointed my flashlight at the ground just behind me, already knowing what I would see. A small, thin piece of rope was tied between bases of two trees, spanning about six feet across the forest floor. "Fuck," I cursed. How had I missed it? I'd been so careful. 

No time to dwell, I knew I had to keep moving. I debated backtracking towards the lake path, but he might be there already, since I had tripped the first wire purposefully as though I was going in that direction. I picked up my pace again and continued running towards the main path, careful to watch where I was running and leaping over anything that looked like it may been covering a possible wire. 

I was just coming up on the old bus that had been turned on its side, briefly debating hiding in there, when I saw him. The top half of his body rose out of the open bus doors that were facing the sky, and it appeared that he was standing on one of the steps that was leading out of that particular exit. Watching, waiting... for me. He hadn't come out of the bus completely just in case I had ended up backtracking - he was exposed just enough so that he could watch and lie in wait, and if I went a different way he could slip back into the tunnels to listen for me from there. This man was the master of this land. He could do all of this with his one good eye closed.    

I was certain he had spotted me long before I'd noticed him standing there, stock still - a predator lying in wait - but as soon as he saw me finally see him, he slammed both of his large hands down on the bus on either side of the opening, and heaved himself out in one swift movement. I skidded to a stop on the leaves and twigs beneath my sneakers, and immediately turned back to run the opposite way with a shriek. It was so over now; he'd already caught me. Over my breathing and pounding footsteps on the forest floor, I heard a heavy thud from somewhere behind me, knowing that meant that he had jumped down from the top of the bus and was giving chase. It's over, it's done, I'm done- About another five seconds went by before the heavy pounding footsteps behind me caught up to me. Closer, closer, right fucking behind me- And then it really was over. Impossibly strong arms, thick with muscle and sinew, wrapped around my waist and my shoulders and pulled me back against his equally hard, sinewy body that was much larger and taller than mine, and that was it. He'd won, again. 

Continuing the game, I fought and screamed in his grip, struggling against his vice-like grip. Only, I wasn't struggling as hard as I could have, or fighting like I knew I could have, for fear of actually hurting him. Though, he'd actually huffed in amusement the other night when I'd mentioned that to him, like the thought of tiny little me attempting to hurt big, bad Jason Voorhees was a humorous notion (the nerve). He held onto me tightly, but not tight enough to hurt me; definitely not squeezing the life out of me like he could have. He always held me tightly, like he was scared that if he didn't then I would run from him like everyone else did. But I wouldn't. He hoisted me up easily in his muscular arms and began carrying me back towards the bus, like my flailing in his arms wasn't bothering him in the least. He was so damn strong - and god, it was hot. I'd never known someone so strong, in every way. It was such a turn on for me. 

When we made it back to the bus he slung me over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, and when I let out a squeak of surprise I heard him huff in laughter from underneath his mask. I never quite got used to his view of things from up here - six feet and five inches of lean, sinewy muscle - it was like being in a tree that could overlook everything. It was even better, if I could even call it that, when he started climbing the side of the bus, using one hand to anchor me to his shoulder - hand, palm flat on my ass, naturally. While I continued to 'struggle' on top of his body, I was a little more wary now, just because of our rapidly ascending climb - because he wasn't going slow. This game was made to simulate him hunting down someone; an actual trespasser on his land - so I had to actually run away from him (or try to, at least), and if (when) he caught me, I had to struggle and fight like I was fighting for my life. And this also meant that he actually had to do everything he would normally do: track me, listen for me in the tunnels, hunt me down, and eventually attack. Everything he would normally do, that is, except he would never hurt me. Ever. So while he did all of this, he was very careful not to hurt me in any way. It amazed me sometimes how someone so strong and big could be so gentle.

Once we reached the top of the bus, Jason flipped me down from my perch on his shoulder to hold me in his arms, clutching me to his chest. His hard muscles bulged against me from the very little effort he was using to carry my squirming form with him; thick, strong arms enveloped me completely and held me against him. It felt so comforting, so good, being held to his chest like this. He had been touch-starved from his younger years, so he would use any excuse he could to touch me; to be close to me. And now that a different kind of touch had been introduced into our relationship, he would use any excuse to have that, too. And any excuse to play his favorite game.

Glass from the long since shattered windows crunched under his bootsteps as he carried me down the dark tunnel, and that was the only sound aside from both of our heavy breathing and my heart absolutely pounding in my ears. I grabbed onto the bus seats as he carried me down the walkway, trying to hang onto them to slow us down - to slow him down. His arousal was hard and hot against my hip, and very large. I knew he was going to split me in half when he finally got me back to our cabin, and there was nothing I could do about it. And I loved it. I loved this game just as much as he did.

Somehow I managed to wedge both of my legs and arms on either side of the narrow bus walkway, effectively stopping him in his tracks. Had I been a normal victim of his, he would have plowed right through me without any hesitation, and in the process he'd have made it well known to me that any offending limbs were sure to either be broken or completely ripped off. However, since it was me, he had to find a different way to get me to let go. He stopped in his tracks, his heavy boots on the old glass and metal interior causing the whole bus to shake. He was naturally big and heavy, but he could be nimble and light as a cat if he needed to be. Yet another attribute that made him dangerous. Now, he didn't need to, and I could hear his harsh breaths rasping through the mask, and I knew it wasn't from the exertion of chasing me and carrying me, if the size and heat of his hard on was anything to go by. He let go of one hand from around me and tried to gently but firmly pry my wrists away from where I was gripping onto one of the padded seats to our left. I took this opportunity to push off of the other wall (which actually would have been the ceiling had the bus been upright) with my legs, trying to knock us off kilter and maybe escape out of his other arm while he was off balance. No such luck, as that other arm held me even tighter to his broad chest while his left side was pushed into the bus seats lining the wall. He grunted at the impact, and shifted to use both hands to hold onto my squirming body to ensure that I couldn't break free. I couldn't escape him; there was no escape from him. I reached out to whatever I could grab onto, my fingers scrabbling off of multiple surfaces in any attempt to find purchase-

Then without warning, he lunged to his right and pushed me back against the opposite wall that my feet had been touching, faster than it should have been possible for someone his size to be capable of moving. Back up against the cool, sloping metal, my feet not touching the ground at all, the top of my head still barely reached the chin of his hockey mask, and my eyes were level with his collarbone. His chest was heaving before my eyes, his hands gripping my waist to keep me pinned, and I almost forgot to be fighting him for a moment, because I was so aroused by him; by his sheer size and strength. By the time I remembered what game we were playing, I was nearly jolted out of my skin when he slid one of his thighs between my legs. Immediately, the contact of his hard, muscled tree trunk leg touching the sweet spot at the crux of my thighs had me tensing, my muscles locking up with the feeling of pleasurable pressure on my wet, sensitive area. My panties were going to be soaked through to my jean shorts I was wearing, and maybe even through both of those to the material of his pant leg. The thought made me shiver. 

I couldn't help arching my back into his touch, and by doing so forcing my hips to angle down and my clit to press against the hard muscle of his thigh. I nearly squealed when he shifted his leg, brushing it in a back and forth movement to further stimulate me. Pushing my hands against his chest, I tried to get him to let up; he knew how sensitive I was, and he loved to use this knowledge to his advantage. More than anything, his goal was to please me; to make me feel good, and he always did just that. As was my goal with him, because I wanted to show this big boy just how good touching could be, to make up for all of those years he'd been alone. He liked to tease me a little, but usually gave up on the act pretty quick, unable to not give in to my begging and pleading. Ultimately he wanted to give me pleasure rather than deny it. When he did tease, he found my super sweet bits and just played and played and played me like an instrument until I was singing, screaming- And then he would do it again, and again. This man was big, fast, and a quick learner; the deadliest hunter, and me, the luckiest prey. His goal was to make me cum as many times as possible until I was crying and practically begging for him to stop. He was just too good to me, quick to learn and eager to please. He treated me like a goddamn princess, and when he sat me on his throne... ohh boy.

"Jason," I whimpered, clutching his broad shoulders tightly at the feeling of his hard thigh working against my nub. He shuddered at hearing me saying his name, muscles ripping against me and underneath my palms. He knew that was a good sound. It had taken a little bit for him to understand the difference between noises of pain and noises of pleasure. In the end, the easiest thing to do had been for me to come up with a safe word, "banana bread", and he knew as long as I didn't say that, then it meant he was hearing good noises. I was not known for being very noisy in bed, so he tried to pull those noises from me as much as possible. He wanted to hear it all: the moans, the cries, the screams, because those were all indications that he was doing a good job - that he was succeeding in making me feel good. Such was his goal, to make sure I felt as good as possible. And if that meant drilling his fingers into me and rubbing my clit till I was crying, or fucking me to within an inch of my life on the forest floor, he was down. Because getting me off got him off. He was the kindest, sweetest, most generous person I had ever known - and all of those things applied both in and out of the bedroom. 

He growled, actually growled, and his grip on my waist grew tighter. I knew I was going to have bruises there tomorrow in the shapes of his fingers, yet another way he would leave his mark on me. I could practically hear his inner thoughts: Control yourself, CONTROL YOURSELF- so that he didn't just rip all my clothes off and take me right here. I couldn't help myself - I gripped his shoulders and started grinding myself against his thigh, the pleasure between my legs so sweet. "Jason, please, I'm- It feels so good-" I knew I was pushing him, taunting him, which was exactly the point. I knew it wouldn't take much for him to tear my clothes off and fuck me right here, in this cramped, dirty, flipped over bus, no matter how tight a squeeze it would be for him to do so. But I also knew he wanted to get me back to our cabin, back to our bed, because he loved the sight of me laying underneath him while he absolutely railed into me. 

I thought this would make him just flat out give up and grab me bridal style and run me down through the tunnels to our cabin, and I had no doubt that it would eventually happen, but for the time being I was surprised at his restraint, and what he actually did instead. His big hands slid down my waist to my hips to cup my rear, and he took over, pulling and pushing my body back and forth to help grind me down onto his leg. The sensation was making me near delirious, the back and forth rhythm he was creating so good, too good. I realized then what his goal was for the moment: to make me cum so that I would then be more pliable in his arms, so he could get me down into the tunnels and back to the cabin without issue. Most time he enjoyed the struggle and the fight, but tonight it seemed he just wanted to get me back home. The sooner I was beneath him in our bed, the better. 

I wasn't long for holding out; soon my pussy tightened and clenched around nothing, and pleasure exploded across my clit, my body bowing forward as I squealed into his hard chest. My fingers gripped his heavy shoulders, and his pace of dragging me back and forth across his leg did not relent, even though he knew I was cumming - even when my muscles eventually relaxed and my hands loosened their grasp on him. That was something we were still working on: when to stop, and when too much was too much. I didn't want to upset him because I knew he only wanted me to feel good, so I had been continually trying to think of ways to broach the subject without upsetting him. For now, though, I just pleaded his name. "J-Jason, it's too, it's too much," I gasped out, trying to pull my over sensitive lower half away from his hard, muscular thigh. Thankfully he relented, ceasing moving me back and forth across his leg, but still holding his hands on my hips to keep me steady between him and the wall. He held me while all of my muscles turned to liquid, and I was still sagged forward onto him, my cheek against his chest as I struggled to regain my breathing, my heart rate steadily slowing the longer I sat there. Jason's hard on was absolutely burning against my other leg, but yet he was still waiting patiently for me to recover. 

And when our eyes met, chests heaving, breath mingling from our closeness, I knew that he wasn't even close to being done with me, and that tonight was far, far from over.

♡˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ♡

part 2 coming soon

[mariacallous]

“King of Toxic Masculinity” Gets Hacked

Hacktivists have breached an online “educational platform” founded by the misogynistic right-wing influencer Andrew Tate reportedly revealing the email addresses of hundreds of thousands of users as well as the contents of the platforms’ private chat servers. Data from the hack, first reported by the Daily Dot, has now been published by the transparency nonprofit Distributed Denial of Secrets.

Andrew Tate, the so-called “king of toxic masculinity,” is currently under house arrest in Romania and faces two separate criminal charges, including allegations of forming an organized criminal group and trafficking women across Romania, the UK, and the US.

The compromised platform, a subscription-based service known as The Real World (formerly called Hustler's University), describes itself as a “global community” focused on “personal growth.” According to its website, members receive expert training, mentorship, and access to a wide range of educational courses for around $50 per month.

According to the Daily Dot, hacktivists announced their breach of the platform on Thursday by disrupting the course's main chatroom with a barrage of uploaded emojis while Tate was livestreaming an episode of his show Emergency Meeting on Rumble. The emojis included a transgender pride flag, a feminist fist, an AI-generated image of Tate wrapped in a rainbow flag.

Data from the breach, verified by WIRED, includes more than 700,000 usernames and reportedly includes messages from 221 public and 395 private chat servers. An analysis by the Daily Dot reveals a mix of content within the chat logs, ranging from motivational quotes and personal progress updates to grievances about the “LGBTQ agenda.” WIRED is continuing to analyze the leaked material.

[lemontines-writing-corner]

[DISCONTINUED] yandere! wally darling x detective! reader au (Omniscient Series)

PROLOGUE

NEXT

authors note: please keep in mind some parts aren’t going to be canon to the Welcome Home plot. I am fully aware Wally Darling is NOT yandere canonically this is just an au/head-canon. Also! To keep in mind this is all fictional and yandere media is not something to be taken seriously romantically in reality. If you do please seek help. With that I hope you enjoy the prologue of this story !

wally darling belongs to @/partycoffin please be sure to support his works!

TW: PILLS MENTION/SCOPOPHOBIA/DESCRIPTIVE GORE MENTION/HORROR THEME MENTION/RELIGION/CULT(?) MENTION!!!/SLIGHT MENTION OF DEPRESSION

I woke up to a pitch black place. My vision is covered in darkness but my feet told me otherwise, stepped onto a puddle of black ooze. Panicking I tried to escape and call out for help, the black sticky ooze smelled of old books and wires, I blinked looking down and suddenly seeing written scripts, but they were all drawn with eyes. The red plastered all over them, I couldn’t move I was stuck to one place as I heard the telephone ring.

I was unable to see where the telephone is. I only hear the ringing getting louder and louder, my ears starting to get engulfed by the sound of the telephone ringing as I heard whispers all around me. I can’t hear what they say as I begin to sweat and tried to get out of the black puddle that has glued me in one place.

My vision blurred taking my eyes off the ground, looking up to see an unknown figure. Almost getting close to me…

The sound of my alarm woke me up as I sat up in cold sweat, taking a few breathers as I rubbed my face against my hands. Sighing in relief and exhaustion, I then got up and turned off my alarm getting ready for the day at work. Skipping breakfast was a usual thing for me because I didn’t have any appetite or the energy to make one. Instead I just drink coffee to make me awake and alerted through the whole morning at least.

Stopping at my destination which was the police department. I looked for a car garage and parked there, being in a busy city can be draining and exhausting. The smog in the air, constant cars running and stopping from each traffic light, people interacting, usual same routine almost everyday 24/7 plus overtime.

Ever since I’ve gotten this job, it’s been restless. To add the cherry on top I still have to pay my college expenses from the classes I took and supplies I borrowed in order to pass my classes to get a damn bachelors degree. Being a kid you dreamed big and now once you’ve reached that dream it suddenly doesn’t feel all bright and colorful. It might be me who is just grown up and still unsatisfied of my own life, feeling stuck in one place.

As I reached to the police department, entering in and greeted a few people who were in the office. Trainees, private investigators, police officers, you can name it all in this office, they’re all under the branch of law enforcement.

I looked at my dark green door as I twisted the knob of my own office, sat down and turned on my computer as I decided to cut on the tv that was hung up on the far right corner of my door, listening the news to see what was happening today locally.

“Breaking News, crime rate has suddenly gone up more than the past month. Crime investigators have been trying to keep track of homicide rates, although the traces have lead to the unknown, most of them died in there homes and child abduction cases has risen up. Police has warn everyone in the city to lock up your doors and be alert of your surroundings, if you see anything suspicious please call ***-***-**** to report anonymously.”

The news station then shifted back to the daily weather and updates around town. Starting up my computer to scroll through the files of missing persons, recent ones were children. When children comes up to the topic it becomes morbid, usually very heartbreaking to lose your child. Dead or alive.

A knock on my door made me pull away from the computer screen. I looked up to see my partner, who is a police officer holding a file labeled as evidence. “Another one Ruby?”, I responded as she took a seat and looking across from me.

“You know how it goes around this job”, Ruby opened the manila folder, showing two dead parents that have their eyes taken out, a mother laying dead in the bathtub, drowned and in a paralyzed limped state. The father who was put in a closet and tied in an intricate way that you need a pair of garden scissors to open through that loop. Supposedly died of blood loss as I saw his side stabbed deep into his lower abdomen. I looked over a family photo, two kids. One boy and one girl.

“Any information about them?” I took the paper of their information. “Family of four, both parents work and kids go to school, the oldest is about 10 and the youngest is 5. Mr. and Mrs. Caddel, children’s names are Brian and Catherine”, I closed the manila folder and nodded. “I was wondering if you’re up to take this murder case. This has been reoccurring around the city and people need answers”, I looked up at Ruby, “I’ll take it.”, Ruby smiled at me and got up closed the door, “Don’t fail me now kid!”. I rolled my eyes, although she makes a point because she’s much older than me.

I sighed and felt a headache shot up in me, I grabbed my painkillers under my desk cabinet and took one and drinked my bottled water that was already sitting on my desk. “This is going to be a long tiring week for this case huh?” I said to myself…

footnote: you have reached the end of the prologue! Critic is allowed as I appreciate the feedback^^

I’m sorry if you didn’t like the 1st person point of view. But I wanted you guys or y/n to get the feel of what’s going on, information about yourself, the settings in a descriptive way as possible.

this won’t be a romantic story as it will go darker. With that thank you so much for reading the prologue!

[the-garbanzo-annex-jr]

by Nellie Bowles

→ Hard right goes White Genocide: The right-wing brand of antisemitism is people saying something to the effect of: Jews hate white people. And we’re seeing that a lot right now, all of a sudden, in very mainstream places. 

Let’s start with The Daily Wire: Candace Owens, a charismatic black conservative, has been harshly critical of Israel. Daily Wire co-founder Ben Shapiro, an observant Jew, was recorded��at a private event saying her rhetoric was “absolutely disgraceful.” Candace Owens then posted: “You cannot serve both God and money. Christ is King.” Okay. Random time to bring that up, but okay? 

Then Candace went on former Fox News anchor Tucker Carlson’s new online show. And there, things got weirder. Here’s Tucker Carlson admonishing the Jewish philanthropists who are now refusing to donate to Ivy League schools. Those donors are put off by the woke antisemitism, but Carlson is mad they supported the modern Ivy League to begin with.

“I get why donors are mad. I have no problem with that at all. However, then I thought, well, wait a second, if the biggest donors at, say, Harvard, have decided well, we’re gonna shut it down now, where were you the last ten years when they were calling for white genocide? You were allowing this. And then I found myself really hating those people, actually. You’re okay with that? On what grounds were you okay with that? You were paying for it, actually. As you were calling my children immoral for their skin color. You paid for that. So why shouldn’t I be mad at you? I don’t understand.”

Candace Owens replies: “And obviously, you have a ton of white people that are asking that question, and they’re being called antisemitic, and I think that’s wrong. I think these are meaningful questions that deserve to be answered.” 

Adding to the chorus now is Elon Musk, the owner of Twitter/X. First, a random Twitter user responded to a prompt about what Hitler got right (I wish I was kidding) and wrote the following: “Jewish communities have been pushing the exact kind of dialectical hatred against whites that they claim to want people to stop using against them. I’m deeply disinterested in giving the tiniest shit now about western Jewish populations coming to the disturbing realization that those hordes of minorities that support flooding their country don’t exactly like them too much.” Then Elon Musk himself responded to that random user, writing simply: “You have said the actual truth.” 

And then here’s Charlie Kirk, founder of conservative youth group Turning Point USA, defending Musk: “It is true that some of the largest financiers of left-wing antiwhite causes have been Jewish Americans.” It’s not news that American Jews tend to be liberal. What’s being implied now (and in some cases said quite out loud) is something different, a deep and old conspiracy. And everyone toying with it knows that.

America: we’ve got it all. We’ve got Soviet antisemitism against Israel and Jewish particularity; we’ve got right-wing antisemitism around the question of do Jews want to kill white people and also are they white or what? The gang’s back together. And Jews are screwed.

→ Recess jihad: A Brooklyn parent group has been organizing students to protest the war. The teachers are on board. And so we have scenes out of Brooklyn this week of 700 students from some 100 schools marching, yelling pro-peace slogans like “Fuck the Jews.” Or there’s this great call and response the kids were doing as they marched. Call: Takbir! Response: Allahu Akbar! The kids stopped by some Jewish-owned businesses and did their chants. It was organized by the official parent advisory board, which is funded by taxpayers. I used to think “children are the future” was a hopeful phrase. . . anyway. Takbir! 

→ This man was almost the UK’s prime minister: This week, longtime Labor Party star Jeremy Corbyn refused to call Hamas a terror group, even as a very assertive Piers Morgan pushed him. It’s fun TV to watch because Morgan asked and asked (14 times!) and Corbyn refused, got mad, and eventually just crossed his arms and rolled his eyes. 

But we already know the answer. Here’s Jeremy Corbyn in 2009: “Tomorrow evening it will be my pleasure and my honor to host an event in Parliament where our friends from Hezbollah will be speaking. I’ve also invited friends from Hamas to come and speak as well. . . . the idea that an organization that is dedicated towards the good of the Palestinian people and bringing about long-term peace and social justice and political justice in the whole region should be labeled as a terrorist organization by the British government is really a big, big historical mistake.” 

Kumbahezbollah. 

And this week Corbyn’s brother, former politician Piers Corbyn, called October 7 a “false flag” operation. “The whole thing, whatever happened, was done with the connivance of the government of Israel or they used what happened as a pretext, it was a prepared thing. . . . It was a false flag operation. . . . A bit like Pearl Harbor.” Just like Pearl Harbor. Looks like brother Corbyn has been watching a little too much TikTok. 

In America, presidential candidate and professor Cornel West said this week that the Hamas terrorists were love warriors: “We dish out love warriors and freedom fighters every generation, which means that we stand in solidarity with anybody who’s occupied.” 

[gurugirl]

So I'm conflicted. I messaged you a while ago that I was talking with a guy 25 years older than me. We exchanged pictures and I wasn't attracted to him. I broke things off with him but didn't tell him why. I used an excuse that, while true, wasn't the reason I didn't want to talk anymore. I missed talking to him, so after about a month I started messaging him again. I've never had anyone talk to me the way he does. We text all day, even when we are both at work. We text about everything. Like our lives, daily stuff, childhoods, and sex stuff. I don't think we have disagreed on anything yet. I don't know if I like him or just that he is the only person to be nice and seem to care about me in the not just friends sense. There are so many things to think about with him. He has two kids. I am only 7 years older than his son. I wouldn't want to start out as anything serious with him but I've never even been on a date before and he has been married and had children. Plus there is the whole could I become attracted to him. When I first saw his picture it was an instant no from me but after looking at them over and over again I can see maybe some attachment growing. I'm just looking for any sort of advice. I don't want to hurt him just because I can't figure my shit out. Any idea of how to figure this out? What do I do or ask him or myself? I've never done this with someone my age so it feels even more confusing with someone older. He always says he likes talking with me and is thinking about me. I get a thoughtful message that is different every morning. First thing at around 7am even though he knows I won't respond until hours later. How can I tell if I like this because its from him and not just because it is happening at all? Sorry for the long-winded ask. I'm just very confused and no one in my real life even knows he exists. It isn't something I want to bring up if it isn't ever going to turn into a real thing. What would you do and how would you go about figuring it out? Also I can't remember if I mentioned it in the past but for reference I'm 30 and he's 55.

Hi hon! I think I remember you telling me your age and his.

It sounds like you genuinely enjoy his "company" or like how he treats you and you two get along really well so to me it makes sense you'd want to keep talking because you formed a bond of some sort. But when it comes to matters of the heart that's where stuff really gets confusing. You have established you like him as a companion or friend but you're not attracted to him.

I've had friends in the past that I liked so much that I was confused by what my feelings were for them (I couldn't tell if it was romantic or just like close friends) and in the end it wound up boiling down to me just really really liking them as a friend but it was mistaken for more because it was kind of intense. I'm not sure if that's kind of how you're feeling for this man or not but I can see it happening and I empathise with you bc that's super confusing. The guy that I was very close friends with wound up liking me as more than a friend and I sort of forced myself to want to be with him romantically bc I wanted to keep his friendship and not lose him, and also thought surely I'd eventually find him attractive bc I liked him so much but that never happened and I couldn't get past not having that physical attraction.

While I don't feel like looks are everything, for me personally, if I were to be considering seeing someone romantically I'd need to find that physical attraction after my experience. I don't think you can force something like that or that one day you'll wake up and find him handsome. But who knows? Maybe that wouldn't be the case for you. We are all wired differently. I met a couple a few years ago where the woman told me that she never found her husband to be "good-looking" but that she adored him and everything else about him made him attractive to her (he was also much older than she was).

I fear this is one of those things that you'll just need to try and be honest with yourself about (which is so hard when you're confused about it) and maybe even him as well. Being that he's 55, I'd hope he's not expecting a 30 year old to find him terribly attractive. I bet he's aware that you'd have that hurdle to figure out.

I don't know how you should go about it in your situation. I just know for me I would want to be at least somewhat physically attracted and I don't think it's something I can force. But since you're so conflicted about this and no one else knows about him, would it be the worst thing to talk it out with him? You trust him (it sounds like) and you two know a lot about one another so maybe just tell him how you're feeling. It'll give him perspective maybe and if he's a truly stand-up guy he won't try and persuade or pressure you or anything like that. It'll be more like a frame for him to view the relationship so you two are on the same page, or at least he can understand your view of things. Maybe you'll find clarity that way, by talking it out with him.

Thank you for the update! I hope my rambling made sense and that you can find some clarity in your situation somehow 💕

xoxo

[justtosealmyfate1]

HP, the press and what is means to be a celebrity: meta

One of my favorite topics is the media and how that would play out in the Potters’ lives post-war. I touch upon this in the reaction to Albus and Scorpius getting together. There’s a media whirlwind after the photos of the two of them kissing are released. 

(this is about my fic, the fates, which is about when Albus and Scorpius’ relationship is found out.)

A lot of HP fics take the tone of “the media is so intrusive and ruining everyone’s life” which is fair to an extent, and also the precedent JKR set with Rita Skeeter’s character in the original books. She’s clearly a parody of British tabloid writers. Celebrity is also explored differently across fics. In the books, Harry is very famous, and a politically important figure. He’s always in the newspaper! The Minister of Magic is coming to his Christmas dinner to court him! This notoriety would only grow after he defeats Voldemort. I see Harry as (this sounds so dramatic for talking about a fictional character) an Obama, Nelson Mandela, Malala type of celebrity. A political figure, a hero, a survivor but also a mainstay in popular culture. Plus, he’s married to an attractive Quidditch player, and I’m sure they captivate the world with their Posh and Becks, Taylor and Travis type love. This is all to say that I think the Potters are megacelebrities, and Albus is a celebrity child who would reap the rewards and face the consequences of that. 

The American media landscape (while of course not without its flaws) is very different from the British media landscape, particularly the tabloids. British tabloids are crazy. It’s brutal. The Daily Mail is a disgrace to journalism. I think this culture would also bleed into Wizarding media. 

However!!...the relationship between celebrities and celebrity media is symbiotic. The “royal reporters” at the Daily Mail aren’t actually doing any journalistic work (even though they should be… like tell me what the fuck is going on with Kate Middleton), they’re being fed stories by the palace. This absolutely happens in the US too. Publicists will feed stories to friendlier publications, like People. When “a source close to Taylor Swift” is telling Entertainment Tonight exclusively that Taylor and Joe Alwyn broke up, it’s her publicist. 

What does this mean for the Potters? Well, they absolutely need a publicist, they need to be working with a PR team and they need a media strategy. It’s funny to think about that in the context of the books, but that dynamic was seen in the Order of the Phoenix. Harry’s “PR team” of Hermione and Luna got Rita Skeeter to write a story about Voldemort’s return. That’s political news, not celebrity gossip, but it shows that Harry knows how to use the media to get what he wants. While I don’t think as an adult he’d be doing the Wired Autocomplete interviews, he’d know how to navigate the press to further his agenda and protect his family’s image. 

I think the Potter children would be pretty protected from the press. Rita Skeeter wrote in her 2014 Quidditch World Cup article that the Potters are wizarding royalty, which informs my opinion of how the mechanisms of their celebrity would play out. I wrote in the fates that Harry and Ginny release curated photos of their children in exchange for not taking paparazzi photos of them, a la the royal family. While Harry is more of a statesman-like celebrity, who has a carefully crafted image and is more likely to be seen at charity events, diplomatic summits and ceremonies, Ginny is different. As a Quidditch player she’s more of a traditional celebrity. She’s canonically popular but a guarded person. She strikes me as the type of celebrity who masterfully makes you think you know her, but you actually know nothing at all. 

As for the kids, I think there would be a lot of media attention and interest in them. Would they lean into that, like North West, or shy away from it? I think they’d shy away from it, especially Albus. I think James would be more open to press attention. 

The three press stories I wrote for the fates all reflect different types of celebrity news. There’s the traditional, factual Daily Prophet article, the Daily Prophet opinion piece, and the Simmering Cauldron radio show. The Simmering Cauldron is entirely based on Wendy Williams. Don’t tell me she wouldn’t do something exactly like that! The DP article is expository, and then the opinion piece is meant to showcase the discourse surrounding their relationship. 

There’s a whole debate to be had about how celebrity children should be treated and the role of celebrities in our culture in general, and Albus and Scorpius are great vehicles to explore this.

[coochiequeens]

A TIM sexually assaulted a girl and a teacher who told a grand jury the truth about another incident of sexual assault was fired. At least someone in the school was more concerned about the truth then perverts or maintaining a woke image.

LOUDOUN COUNTY, Va. — A jury of six women and one man on Friday found ex-Loudoun County Public Schools Superintendent Scott Ziegler guilty of using his position to retaliate against a teacher for cooperating with a grand jury investigating how the district handled sexual assault.

After a four-day trial plus a day of deliberations, the jury found that Ziegler wrongfully fired a teacher who had disclosed to Virginia investigators about mishandling of sexual assault in her classroom. Ziegler was convicted of using his official position to retaliate against someone for exercising their rights, and acquitted of punishing someone for testifying to a jury, both misdemeanors.

Ziegler could face up to 12 months in jail, a $2,500 fine, or both. Sentencing in the trial will occur on January 4, 2024, Judge Douglas Fleming Jr. said. Ziegler’s victim, former special education teacher Erin Brooks, clasped her hands in front of her mouth in emotion after the verdict was read.

Prosecutors appointed by Attorney General Jason Miyares, a Republican, said that after they began investigating the school district’s coverup of a bathroom rape, they spoke with Brooks, who disclosed an unrelated instance of mishandling of sexual assault by school administrators. Brooks was then fired by Ziegler for cooperating with the special grand jury.

Out of all of LCPS’ 15,000 teachers, Brooks was singled out for firing by Ziegler at a school board meeting in June 2022, prosecutors said. Ziegler told board members he fired Brooks for giving private information to a conservative activist, and for giving private information to the grand jury, school board member John Beatty testified.

Ziegler’s alleged claim that Brooks had given information to a conservative activist turned out to be false, and it would be illegal to punish her for telling the truth to a jury she’d been subpoenaed by, prosecutors argued.

At trial, school board member Brenda Sheridan, a Democrat who was chair during the gender-fluid rape coverup, was asked under oath about Ziegler’s closed-door statements that amounted to a confession. She did not deny Beatty’s version, but instead refused to answer, saying that because division attorney Robert Falconi was in the room during the discussion, she believed she could invoke attorney-client privilege.

Ziegler, who was wearing earrings and nail polish, did not testify at trial.

Falconi convinced the board to drop their questions about Brooks that June night by falsely saying she could simply appeal.

LCPS, often through its then-attorney Falconi, repeatedly attacked, tried to shut down, and obfuscated to the special grand jury, which Republican Gov. Glenn Youngkin promised to convene following the Daily Wire’s October 2021 expose of a “genderfluid” rape coverup.

The grand jury previously said it would have indicted Falconi for witness tampering because of his central role in the rape coverup, but were hamstrung by the fact that Virginia doesn’t have a witness tampering law.

Though Ziegler’s defense attorney Erin Harrigan said in opening arguments that she would show that Ziegler fired Brooks for invading the privacy of her student assailant, she failed to produce evidence that private information was shared or that a policy was violated. None of the witnesses could point to a policy that Brooks violated.

Prosecutors laid out a devastating timeline of retaliation against Brooks, who was trying to get administrators to do something about the fact that a student with intellectual disabilities was grabbing the genitals of her and her teaching assistant Laurie Vandermeulen dozens of times a day, while making crude motions with his tongue. Administrators offered the educators a piece of cardboard called “no-no hands,” and told them to hold it in front of their groins. They also offered to buy them dog groomer aprons to wear to “slow down penetration,” they said.

At a loss for what to do, Vandermeulen asked a frequent speaker at school board meetings, Ian Prior, to read a letter to the school board expressing that there were two teachers who were being sexually assaulted in class and needed help.

Vandermeulen also sent a record of the assaults she was facing to her personal gmail after fearing a coverup was afoot, which Ziegler’s attorney initially tried to portray as “smuggling” private information, but ultimately failed to show that Vandermeulen violated any policy.

On March 22, 2022, principal Diane Mackey gave Brooks a glowing evaluation. That night, Prior made the speech, which contained no identifying information about the student, the teachers, or even the name of the school. Prior didn’t know any details about the student and Vandermeulen asked him not to use any names. He only said that teachers had filed a Title IX complaint on a certain date that he hoped the school board would look into.

Mackey saw the school board speech and the student was moved out of Brooks’ classroom the next day, but Brooks became the target of ruthless animus from school administrators.

Soon after, Brooks asked Mackey for a day off to testify to the grand jury, and Mackey demanded to see the subpoena. Ziegler asked HR whether Brooks was a probationary employee, meaning she would be easy to fire. Mackey spoke to Ziegler about Brooks, then falsely testified to the grand jury that she had not, she acknowledged this week, chalking it up to a memory error. Mackey also spoke about Brooks to Falconi, the attorney who prosecutors said was Ziegler’s “right-hand man.”

In May, Mackey wrote a negative evaluation and letter to Ziegler recommending that she be fired. Ziegler used the letter the same day to have her fired, suggesting he was waiting on it.

Prosecutors said the year-end evaluation of Brooks showed that school officials had “fabricated” the allegations retroactively to justify Ziegler’s desire to fire her, given that she had a stellar record and had been named Special Ed Teacher of the Year the prior year.

The evaluation focused squarely on the student who was the subject of the trial, saying she had failed to manage his behavior and failed to implement “plans” like the cardboard. It, and Ziegler’s attorney, suggested that Brooks had caused the student to sexually assault her by making him frustrated by refusing to give him an iPad.

The year-end evaluation posed a major timeline problem for the defense: The student never set foot in Brooks’ classroom in between her glowing March evaluation and negative May one. Yet the May one was full of allegations involving her handling of the student that were absent from, or outright contradicted by, the earlier evaluation.

“She made it up after the fact. Isn’t it brazen how she did this?” prosecutor Brandon Wrobleski asked. “‘We can’t have more sexual assaults coming out. Anyone who brings sexual assaults to public attention is gone.’ That’s what happened here,” he said. “Look a how well the Family works together when a dissident speaks out. She goes from Teacher of the Year to fired,” he said.

Ziegler’s attorney Harrigan explained the discrepancy in closing arguments by saying that in between the two evaluations, Mackey had seen that the student supposedly did not assault his new teacher, leading to a conclusion that Brooks and Vendermeulen must have been to blame for their own assaults.

Prosecutor Theo Stamos said the defense had offered no “motive” why Brooks and Vandermeulen would voluntarily cause themselves to be sexually assaulted or deprive him of an iPad communication device–Brooks was actually such a proponent of the communication aid for disabled students that she led a training on it.

The defense’s evidence that she had caused the assaults by failing to implement administrators’ “plans” or not provided him an iPad was based on fleeting observations from a handful of administrators who had stopped in Brooks’ class for a few minutes, and whose testimony at trial suggested that the defense had overstated or misrepresented their observations.

Harrigan emphasized in closing arguments that the law about an employer punishing someone for jury testimony talks about punishing them for being absent. Ziegler was found not guilty of that charge, perhaps because jurors believed he was retaliating against Brooks for what she said to the grand jury, not for taking a day off work to do it.

A month after his January 4 sentencing, Ziegler will face a separate trial on a final misdemeanor charge that was at the core of The Daily Wire’s 2021 story: His false statement at a school board meeting that there had been no sexual assaults in LCPS restrooms–part of a screed denigrating parents who were concerned about a transgender policy being discussed–when in fact he knew that a skirt-wearing boy had anally raped a ninth grader in the girls bathroom just weeks prior.

Harrigan said she plans to file a “somewhat legally complex” “motion to set aside the jury’s verdict.”