#halving prices i mean

[scramboi]

[searching and looking at art commission prices because i wanna try opening comms soon]

[sees a professional, clean looking one]

"10$ per headshot?? on art this good?? huh?!?"

[scrolls to the bottom]

[sees "600K IDR" (40 USD) for a character sheet]

"hah org indo???

...well ig that makes sense"

[dirt-str1der]

Knows that im going into heat because im thinking about him again

[going-to-ikea-for-the-fries]

It's a Match! || 141 x Reader

[ Chapter 11 ] || [ Chapter 13 ]

Pairing: Gaz x Reader || 141 x gn!Reader Words: 1.4K~ Summary: While overcoming recent heartbreak, you decide to join Tinder in search of a rebound. Your friends advise to just Swipe Right indiscriminately... What happens when 4 soldiers from the same squad match with you? a/n: i'm in love with gaz x2 date scene fully inspired by this artwork by @mindie-arts

Chapter 12: A Date?

Sitting across from Gaz in the warm japanese restaurant under a warm-toned lamp, you find yourself a bit flustered by how cute he looks.

Sure, you knew he was cute, of course… His pictures on Tinder more than showed it. He’s the epitome of a pretty boy, all polite and sweet, smiling bright, with those warm brown eyes that look more like pools of melted chocolate that you could find yourself sinking into like quicksand.

He ordered extra meat for himself and is currently scooping it into his bowl of Tonkotsu Ramen as you regale him with your tales of your night with Simon.

“Now, hold on-” He stopped you just as you were biting into your jammy soft-boiled egg.

“Hm?” You questioned as you cocked a brow.

“So… Let me get this straight-” He said as he slowly stirred the slices of pork in the hot broth of his ramen. “You and Ghost didn’t-” He trailed off.

“No!!! I already told you!” You replied as you shoved the rest of your halved egg into your mouth and chewed.

“Hm…” Kyle replied with a bit of an awkward smile as he started softly slurping his noodles.

“Why, ‘Hm’? What does that mean?” You asked him with a cocked brow. Kyle simply shook his head and wiped his mouth with a napkin.

“I just think it’s… curious.” He admitted and shrugged. “Like… Simon is very secretive.” He explained.

“I’ve gotten that impression off him.” You replied, but Kyle nodded.

“Yeah but for a stranger, it’s easy to spot that, to understand it. But… We’ve all served with him for years now and we know nothing of him.” He explained with a shrug and an awkward smile again.

As you heard him talk, you slurped your noodles as well, holding the bowl up to your mouth as you did so.

“Soap even gasped when he found out that Ghost had a Tinder account, and the way he was chatting when he went on a date with you, well…” He trailed off and took a bite of one of his eggs as well.

“I wouldn’t call it a date.” You replied as you set down your bowl and took a sip of your drink. Across from you, Gaz did the same, sipping from his Stella Artois glass.

“You met on a dating app, had drinks, went back to yours, spent the night together… That’s a date.” He retorted and you nod your head, conceding to his point.

“Fine… I guess…” You sighed. “But I still don’t see what the big deal is.” You added. “He seems… nice. A bit weird… But nice.” You explained. “He seems like he just… needs a break.” You added and half-shrugged.

Kyle’s head dipped a bit to the side and he regarded you with gentler, softer eyes, quietly contemplating what you said.

“You’re really nice.” He ended up saying after a moment then he pressed his lips together for a moment as he watched you eat.

“Fanks.” You mumbled halfway through chewing a piece of your pork slices.

“Simon was there, you know… When you went to meet Captain Price. Just to make sure you were, you know… Normal.” Gaz quipped, which caused your eyes to widen.

“He was?” You asked sharply, your voice rising an octave for a moment.

“Ye… He… He doesn’t trust easy.” He replied.

“I’ve noticed.” You added, still a bit put off by the news. 

“Well, anyway…” He trailed off. “He uh… he came back to base after you and him left the pub and he told us you were nice, normal…” He explained. “And he said that the captain was a bit reticent to be there and you were both feeling awkward… And you so sincerely told him he could leave if he wanted to and that he didn’t need to force himself to be there.” Gaz explained.

Your eyes widened a bit and your face warmed up lightly as he revealed that he knew of how you had reassured John.

“So… I guess… I guess I see it now.” Kyle admitted. “You’re very… gentle.” He ended up after searching for the right word. “A right laugh, funny as fuck, very bratty… But… nice and kind.” He added. “It’s no wonder they both felt good with you, especially Ghost.”

“Well… thanks.” You said softly, smiling sheepishly, and he did the same as he resumed eating.

“Do you feel… good with me too?” You asked him with a cocked brow and pursed lips.

Nodding at you, Kyle smiled. “Yeah, I’d say I do.” He said as he slurped his noodles again.

You resumed eating as well and, sometimes, you’d glance at one another and smile sheepishly before looking away and focusing on your meals.

“So…” You said as you reached over and dipped a gyoza in the soy sauce. “Did you really fall out of a helicopter?” You asked, which caused his eyes to light up with amusement.

“I did.” He answered with a nod and a grin on his lips.

“How did that happen?” You cocked a brow.

-

Thirty minutes later, you and Gaz are walking side to side as you head back to work. He’s spent most of the time regaling you with stories about work (with the proper censorship of events, dates, places and people). 

You barely got a word in and yet, somehow, you don’t mind. You’re surprisingly entertained by him, by the way his eyes light up when he speaks, the way his smile grows every time a story gets a bit more action-packed…

If you didn’t know by now that he’s a soldier (and an elite one, if his stories are to be believed), you’d have called him out by now by making it all up… But he also showed you a few of his scars to prove he wasn’t lying.

As you reach the front door of your workplace, he’s just finishing up his latest story, just in time. You still have a couple of minutes to burn so you linger with him, hands clasped in front of you, as he has his own on the front pocket of his blue hoodie.

“Thanks for this.” You told him with a smile, watching as his face morphed in confusion.

“Thanks for what?” He asked you with a cocked brow and a smile on his lips.

“Well… everything? Buying me lunch, telling me so many stories, walking me to work…” You listed and chuckled. “I haven’t gotten this type of… attention in a while.” You explained.

Kyle gives you a look of disbelief. “You’ve been going out with Ghost, what do you mean you don’t-” He started but you interrupted him with a sharp ‘That’s different!’.

“Simon is very nice and I enjoyed myself greatly with him but something tells me he wouldn’t exactly want to go out for ramen on my lunch break in broad daylight, without a mask.” You quipped playfully.

“Ah- yeah, I see your point.” Kyle joked a bit.

“And, besides… I got out of a… trainwreck of a relationship recently…” You explained as you shifted your weight around on the balls and heels of your feet.

“Is that why you were on Tinder?” He asked as he dipped his head to the side in understanding.

“Mhm.” You nodded and smiled softly. “Anyway…” You trailed off. “It’s nice to have someone make time to meet up with me during lunch break and… you know… Have a date!” You replied.

“Oh it’s a date, is it?” He asked you with a smirk on his lips and a wiggling of his eyebrows.

“Oh, fuck off…” You quipped and nudged him on the shoulder with your hand. “You’re lucky you’re cute…”

Kyle’s lips parted into a boyish grin as he looked at you. “You think I’m cute?” He asked, amused.

Rolling your eyes, you nudged him again and he simply laughed playfully in response. 

Checking the time on your phone, you sighed. “I should go upstairs.” You told him and he nodded. 

“Have a good rest of your day. And text me, yeah? I’d like to repeat this.” Kyle told you and you nodded too, smiling sheepishly.

“I plan on it.” You added and leaned up, kissing his cheek, just like you did with Simon a couple of weeks before.

Kyle smiled and chuckled softly when you pulled away. He leaned close and kissed your cheek in return, causing your cheeks to burn a bit.

You waved at him and rushed back inside your workplace. Standing outside in the pavement, Kyle watched you go through the windows, with a smile and returned the wave with a raising of his hand and a single little wave before tucking his hands back in his pockets and walking off again.

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

taglist (CLOSED! not adding anyone else, sorry!): @daisychainsinknots , @bunnysdaydreams , @iite-cool , @lahniu , @pagesfalling , @tapioca-milktea1978 , @live-love-be-unique , @thelaisydazy , @littleghosthunter , @bossva , @emotion-no-hot-yes-hotel-trivago , @chamomiletealeaf , @ghosts-hoe , @kariiiel , @ltbarnes , @irregulardongyoung , @spacelia , @hayleybarnesx , @infpt-zylith , @xxshadowbabexx , @frescoisnotinthemilitary , @leeeenistop , @lucienbarkbark , @zombie-freak

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[eowynstwin]

the rain / neighbors

previous

On a cold winter's day in the early morning hours, you knock on your neighbor Captain John Price's door to make a noise complaint. - Your thighs are taut and sensitive as a yearling’s flank, ready to twitch at the barest whisper of breath. - ao3

The moment you ’re home, I’ll give you everything you want.

There’s a dangerous cast to the sky—dark, heavy, near-splitting at the seams. It’s not a night to have rejected a ride home from the station, not with those words ringing in your ears.

But when the ride was your ex, you’d rather risk getting caught in the downpour.

The pavement is hard and cold beneath your tired feet. Your whole body is sore from the long train ride home, spent stiffly across from Ben as you’d avoided his gaze, but you’d walk twice the distance home to even halve the time you’d spent with him. His sad eyes and kicked-puppy stare had been stuck to you the whole time, as if magnetized, and they weigh on you now as heavy as the suitcase you drag behind you.

This trip was a mistake. You should not have gone anywhere with Ben, professionally or otherwise. Not with how weird the energy has been between you and him, ever since you broke it off.

“Can’t you just try to be happy with me?” he’d asked you then. “I’m a good partner, aren’t I? I just want to make you happy, sweets, and it’s like you won’t even let me.”

Objectively, Ben had been the boyfriend everyone seemed to want when they talked about romance—interested and engaged, excited about a future together, sensitive and willing to talk about his feelings. He even knew where the clitoris was. There was nothing—no red flags, no warning signs—that should have scared you off.

It was just you. There was something wrong with you, because none of that made you happy—not the lunch dates, not the weekly flowers, and not even the sex. All you knew was that when he started wondering when you would introduce him to your parents, ice had run down your spine.

A bad gust of wind slaps you from behind, followed by a crack of thunder, too close for you to make it home dry. Indeed, there isn’t much time after finishing that thought before the deluge unloads, raindrops falling heavy and cold and fat as bullets.

You come to a resigned stop in the middle of the sidewalk, tilting your face up to the sky. There’s no point in rushing now—thick, late-winter clouds spread low across Liverpool, slow-moving. By all appearances intending to linger as long as possible. You’d neglected an umbrella, and your coat is nowhere near waterproof. You think of the warm interior of Ben’s car and shiver.

You want John.

You struggle to understand it. He is nothing like what you’d assign yourself for a match—there is a wide gulf of difference between you and him, too wide for you to ever expect an easy crossing. He and you should feel disjointed, incongruous, as ill-suited as a war horse might be to a hummingbird. There shouldn’t be anything you could offer each other that either would have use for.

And yet, you do. It is easy. Breathable, in a way that feels unearned enough to make you nervous.

How are you supposed to navigate something that shouldn’t be working, but is anyway? How can something feel this good with barely any effort on your part? How can you go through with this, when you’re not even sure what it means?

The rain reaches its fingers down into your collar, pools around your feet. You close your eyes and try to hear John’s voice in your head again. Soft and low over the phone, coaxing. Inviting your fears out into the open to be soothed.

You’re walking again before you realize it—one cold foot in front of the other, heavy suitcase clattering behind you, familiar with the way home even through the sheeting rain. And what feels like mere moments later, you’re walking up the steps to his front door.

The window beside it glows a soft yellow around the edges. You can’t help but stand there, frozen again as this suddenly becomes real. John, and everything he’s offered you, is on the other side of the door. All you have to do is take it. All you have to do is knock.

But John opens the door before you can even lift your hand.

“Jesus, love,” he says, the moment he looks at you.

Time slows. Warmth pours from the open portal. He looks… comfortable. Soft around the edges in blue jeans and a knitted sweater—the same one he’d worn to dinner at the pub. You hadn’t realized how much you missed him, even in the few days you’d been gone, but once your eyes land on his you don’t want to look away. The angle of his brow; the shape of his mouth beneath his old-fashioned mustache. Looking at him is like looking at your bed at the end of a long day.

“Hi, John,” you reply, smiling apologetically.

“Come on, get inside!” he exclaims, hurrying you in as thunder claps behind you.

In his flat, the lights are low. As you stand dripping on his entry, you take in an arrangement of somewhat retro furniture and sparsely decorated walls. It’s utilitarian in a way that probably isn’t meant to be; spare of anything particularly homey because the inhabitant just doesn’t have time to pay attention to it. You’ve never actually been inside before. It’s very much like John himself; tidy but old-fashioned, practical, hiding absolutely nothing.

You don’t think the candles, though, sitting on a few end tables and shelves and glowing soft gold, are his standard decor. Nor is the crystal bottle of liquor languishing in an ice bucket at the center of a small coffee table, attended by two whiskey glasses off to the side.

“When you said you were on your way I didn’t think you’d be walking,” he says, taking your luggage and setting it aside. “Why didn’t you ask me to come get you? I have a car, would’ve been happy to drive you.”

“I—” and you laugh a little nervously, magnetized to the concerned slant of his brow, “I didn’t know you had a car.”

You’re not sure you would’ve asked him for a lift even if you had known.

He draws close, so close his warmth cuts through the chill of your wet clothes, his gaze moving across you like he’s drinking you in. He cups your face lightly with one hand, thumb tracing a gentle line across your cheek. The expression on his face is almost too tender for you to bear.

“You’re here now,” he murmurs.

There’s a tremble working its way through your chest. You feel desperately seen again, recognized in a way no one ever has before. “I’m a mess, I—maybe I should go and change, come back…”

“No,” he purrs, taking your chin between thumb and forefinger. “You’re stayin’ right here.” And quite easily, John kisses you for the first time.

His mouth is warm along yours. His free hand hooks your waist, pulls you closer as he moves to cup the back of your neck. You’re so surprised you don’t react for a moment, but that doesn’t deter him; he just coaxes you into responding, sipping at your lips, teasing at the seam with the tip of his tongue.

It throws you off balance. He kisses you as if he’s known all along how to do it; as if he’s studied you, all of those mornings, noting the way your lips touch the rim of your coffee mug and the way you look up at him when he talks to you. Calculating the angles, the ways your mouths could fit together.

He shifts, angling to kiss you deeper. A wave of vertigo threatens to overtake you—your hands fly to his chest, which is broad beneath your fingers. You dig them into the cable of his sweater, a little whine escaping you, and John huffs a laugh against your mouth before greeting your tongue with his.

You have never felt as small as you do now in John Price’s hands, at the mercy of the way he holds you—like he’s planning to keep you in place until he’s finished with you.

When he finally pulls away, you have the opportunity to take a deep gasp as he chuckles again. He thumbs your bottom lip, almost playfully.

“Mm,” he murmurs. “Wanted to do that the minute you walked into the pub that night.” You don’t have time to reckon with this confession—if you can even call it that, because once he says it you realize you’ve known the whole time—before he continues. “Come on, you must be freezing. Let’s get you warmed up.”

John helps you out of your coat, unwrapping you like peeling away a chrysalis. It exposes the thin, damp fabric of your dress to the warm air—and to his gaze—and you can’t help but feel suddenly naked in front of him. He’s revealed nothing that he hasn’t seen before, but irrationally, you want to cover your chest, or cross your arms over your stomach. Shield the most vulnerable parts of you from consumption.

John takes your hands in his and pulls you to an armchair—a comfortable, plush thing with a low back. He backs you into it so that your knees buckle, and you sit, looking up at him as he stands over you.

“First order of business,” he says.

He turns away from you to lift the decanter from the bucket, and pours a finger of liquor into a glass. You try to pretend your heart isn’t thrumming, like a bird’s beating wings behind your ribcage, as he turns back and holds out the drink, long fingers dwarfing the rim.

“As promised,” he purrs, “Balvenie.”

You accept it the glass; the scotch sparkles, amber-rich and glittering gold where the low candlelight catches it.

“It looks good,” you say, looking up at him.

There’s a pleased look on his face. “Give us a taste, then.”

Heat blooms across your face, spreads down your chest. You bring the rim of the glass to your lips immediately, still held by his gaze—

Smoke blooms across your tongue, heavy and soft, pricked with notes of honey and vanilla. You roll the scotch in your mouth, close your eyes as its warmth slides along your tongue, pressing it up into your soft palate, citrus appearing in a sudden, tangy splash. You let the drink flow into your throat and feel the smoke fill your head as you swallow.

You open your eyes and look up at John. “That’s really good.”

It shouldn’t surprise you, really, but it does: John bends over you, takes your chin in his hand, and kisses you again, dipping his tongue into your mouth as if searching for leftover drops of liquor. Your head swims; warmth suffuses you, waking up the nerves along the back of your neck. The hair on your arms stands on end as the world narrows to John’s mouth on yours and nothing else, the wet heat of his tongue, the prickle of his beard against your skin. It’s slow and molasses-sweet, rich and decadent. Thunder rumbles, far away.

“Mm. It is,” he says when he pulls away. Another brief kiss—like he can’t get enough of it, like he’s been saving up every moment he hasn’t kissed you, and is spending all of his chances now. “Promise me you’ll never drink Walker again.”

“Uh-huh,” you mumble, taking an unsteady breath.

The ends of his beard move against your face in a smile. “Enjoy that. I’ll be right back.”

He straightens, and steps away. The tug of his gravity is so strong that you list forward, toward him, until he leaves your orbit.

You look around his apartment again, helpless, as if to find some sort of anchor that isn’t John Price—he’s going to get you drunk on his presence alone faster than the liquor ever could. You catch sight of a bookshelf, sparsely populated with a short line of books; as you stare at them, trying to figure out what they are, you realize with a start that they’re all brand-new copies of what you’ve lent him.

Actium. Nafisi. Da Vinci. McMurtry. They’re all here. The textual foundation of your relationship aligned in a tidy, even row. Living here, in the center of his home.

You take another nervous sip of scotch.

John returns with a stack of clean towels, unfurls one, and drapes it over your head. But before you can tend to your hair yourself, he lays his big hands overtop of the terrycloth, pressing down into your scalp.

Your breath leaves you in a rush, depressurizing your lungs. Pure sensation dances up your spinal cord, suffusing the space between your ears, as he kneads with an even, firm pressure, massaging the water from your hair. Your eyes slide shut of their own accord. Your mouth drops open as he digs his fingers into the tense nerves down the back of your head.

The little sound that escapes the pit of your throat is utterly involuntary.

John huffs a chuckle. “That good, then?”

“Uh-huh,” you hear yourself mumble again. Somewhere in the back of your mind, obscured by smoke, you think you should feel embarrassed, ashamed of how naked your pleasure must be. But John gives you no time to ruminate.

He tilts your face upward and presses his lips to your forehead, down the bridge of your nose, gentle, soft, to your mouth. Your mouth, over and over again, as calloused thumbs caress your temples.

It’s a gentle way of taking control. You have no need to reach out with unsure hands, or stumble your way through half-desires with no time to think about them. John has seen into you, divined your quietest, sincerest needs, and feeds them back to you now like he’s only been waiting for your go-ahead to do so.

The bird in your ribcage flutters nervously. Is this really alright? Should you be letting it happen like this? Shouldn’t you be…participating, somehow, in this, other than to take what he gives you?

“John,” you start, but you have no idea what you want to say to him. “Shouldn’t I…shouldn’t—”

“Shh,” he says. “You should let me take care of you.”

John squeezes your hair one more time, then sets the damp towel aside. With an expression you can only describe as beatific, he smooths errant strands of hair away from your face, and then lowers to his knees in front of you. He touches your ankles; nods toward the glass of scotch encircled by your nervous hands. “Don’t stop on my account.”

You hold his gaze, and take a sip. The satisfaction on his face is almost too much to bear.

“Good girl,” he says. He lifts the heel of your shoe onto his thigh, smoothing his hand up and down your shin. “You’re doing such a good job, letting me do this.”

He takes your shoes off as tenderly as he’d removed your jacket, tucking away the laces and setting them off to the side. With warm hands, he rolls your wet knee-high socks down your legs, exposing your chilled calves to his palms. After he folds them and places them by your shoes, his mouth and the warm scratch of his beard meet the top of one foot…move up your instep, and to the inside of your ankle, then to your shin…up your calf…to your knee—

“Is this—” you begin, and have to swallow the trembles in your voice, “what you talked about on the phone?”

“Mm-hm,” he hums, kneading your other calf as he urges your legs to open for him.

Your breath is shallow in your lungs—as if any one too deep might startle John away from his quarry, convince him you’re not aching for this. John kisses inward along the inside of one thigh, keeping the other open with his kneading hand. The flesh molds like clay to his touch, extruding between the gaps of his fingers. He makes an appreciative sound, a hum, as he slides his hands further upward and under the damp hem of your dress, cresting the angles of your hips. Inexplicably, you go tight, anticipatory, like the skin of a grape exposed to a knife.

It isn’t like you haven’t been here before. Your sex life with Ben had been—while not particularly active—not nonexistent. And yet this feels new anyway; as if John is sweeping dust off a body long left unused. Your thighs are taut and sensitive as a yearling’s flank, ready to twitch at the barest whisper of breath.

But isn’t this new, after all? No one, not Ben or anyone else who’s ever touched you, has made you feel this way.

“Lift your hips, darlin’,” John rumbles, and for the first time you catch a hint of scouse in his accent—low, slung around his words and leaving off the hard edges. Like a vein of gold unearthed. “Bring ‘er closer to me.”

Heat blazes across your face. There’s a small end table beside the armchair; you take one more pull from your scotch glass and set your drink aside. Then you shift, edging your hips forward, tilting your pelvis—angling your pussy toward John’s face.

He kisses the crease of your thigh and groin. “That’s a girl,” he purrs, and then presses the bottom half of his face directly into your underwear, opening his mouth over the wet fabric and inhaling deeply. The panties are nothing fancy, simple cotton with a floral pattern, but his eyes slide shut in what you can only describe as ecstasy.

“It’s like you’re getting as much out of this as I am,” you say, trying to laugh, to make this feel like less than it is if only for the sake of your nerves.

“I am,” he says, rough around the edges, and pulls at the gusset of your underwear with his teeth. “I’ve thought about this every morning—” he runs the flat of his tongue along the outer seam, touching bare skin “—and every evening—” edging his fingertips into the leg hole at the top of your hip “—since I met you.”

“You barely knew me,” you whisper, trembling.

“I knew enough,” he says, lifting his face to meet your eyes—his pupils are blown wide, encased in a thin rind of blue. Delicately he takes the waistband of your panties between his fingers, eases it down. “Knew you were a good girl, who wouldn’t even fuss at mean old bastard for waking her up. Wanted to eat your cunt to apologize.”

Something flushed and hot radiates from your core, molten and liquid. “Every time you call me that I—I don’t know what to do, John, I feel…”

“Good,” he says. “Lift your hips again.”

You obey. You think you’d do practically anything, if he told you to in that voice, rough and commanding like far-away thunder. John peels your underwear from your hips, dragging it down over the swell of your bottom, closing your legs to pull them down and—you swallow—shoving them in his pocket when they’re off. Then, like opening the shutters of a window, he parts your legs again, and slots his face between them.

The first thing that strikes you is how hot his mouth. He eases a molten tongue into your folds and you watch his eyes slide shut, feel the soft groan he gives vibrate against your flesh. Your body heat blooms, sight going liquid around the edges—or maybe your temperature is just rising to meet John’s own, thermoregulating to avoid meltdown as he stokes a fire between your legs. Hot breath meets you as he opens his mouth, gets as much tender flesh between his lips as he can.

He’s slow. Exploratory. He tongues your pussy luxuriantly, indulgently, as he loops his arms under your legs to hook them over his broad shoulders, thick forearms dark with hair snaking overtop of your thighs. Holding you in place as he eats— savors . He maps your topography, delving and cresting the landscape like trying to discover every significant landmark, and finds a spot on your clitoris that makes your thighs seize up and your hips jerk under his mouth. He chuckles low against you, playfully flits his tongue across it at what you’d swear is the same rapid pulse of your heartbeat.

You look at him between your legs. The curls of his dark lashes are pretty against the pale hue of his skin, freckled with sun exposure. Fever pink spreads across his cheeks as his brow furrows in the middle, creasing as he laps at the beads of moisture pearling up from your entrance. You watch him, mouth hanging open to allow your shallow breaths to flow free—and he opens his eyes, sharp blue, meeting your gaze.

A sound escapes you, raw, rough in the back of your throat. He smiles, drags the flat of his tongue up your folds as if to show off, and strokes along the sensitive border of your mons and lower stomach with the rough callus of his thumb.

“That’s it,” he murmurs. “I’ve got you, love.” He kisses your mound and then takes your pussy, soft and slow, back into his mouth.

There’s a trembling behind your sternum. Something in you breaks open—seeps cloying and honey-gold—into your bloodstream. Your head lolls back as his tongue slips deeper into you, stoking pleasure, your old friend, your old enemy, like turning embers out of ashes. Your thighs relax over the ballast of his shoulders. They’re broad enough that even as your legs fall further open, they don’t slip off.

It’s like your body and his are dovetail joints cut long ago, yet still now slide easily into place. Your heels rest comfortably on the expanse of his back with plenty of room left over; his big hands, as they spread wide across your stomach, fit along its curves and dips like rain sliding along soft green leaves.

It soaks you to the bone, warm and deep into your marrow, filling your veins and blotting the spaces between your alveoli until John, John, John is on every breath.

You must be saying his name aloud, because John’s grip tightens around you. The flint-strike of his tongue against your clitoris, lightning-sharp, catalyzes the pleasure in your bloodstream into a tight, unfamiliar gnarl. You gasp hard, almost painfully—how long has your body been able to feel like this, somewhere beyond your reach?

Has this pleasure always lived at the end of John’s tongue, along the contours of his hands, draped over his body like a mantle?

(How can something like this be a fair exchange for books and clumsy conversation?)

Your hand flies to John’s hair as it grows—a trembling feeling that touches places inside of you that you’ve always been dimly aware of, but never have given much thought to. It loosens you at the seams, grinds the fault lines inside of you together, dislodges your inhibitions from their foundation.

“John, please,” you whimper, brows drawn together, “please, please—”

He growls against you. Grinds through your center and then sucks your folds into his mouth, grazing the hood of your clit with the edge of his teeth, teasing your entrance with the tip of his tongue—

Suddenly, it overtakes you.

Flying sparks finally catch along aching tinder. A single point of furtive, glowing heat blooms between your legs, unassuming except for that you’ve never felt it before. It only sits briefly in your folds before bursting outward, seizing every nerve ending in the immediate vicinity, blazing bright like fire spreads over paper. Then you tighten around nothing, the inside of you desperately grasping something that isn’t there, body snapping taut as you arch from the backrest, mouth hanging open as a sharp gasp dies in your throat. Sensation consumes everything. Your vision darkens; the air stills in your lungs.

The only thing spared is the heat of John’s mouth, the cords of his arms around your thighs, and the ballast of his shoulders hooked in the bend of your knees—he keeps you anchored, held together as you try to fly apart. The caress of his hands and fingers across your lower belly does not stop as his mouth continues moving over your cunt, moves until your whole body is shaking, moves as you finally gasp for air and cry out in overstimulation.

You collapse back into the chair, pushing now against John’s head even though you’re not sure you want him to stop. He resists—kissing your pussy, once, twice, three times as you come down—and then takes a wrist in one big hand and kisses your palm.

“That,” John rasps, “is a fucking climax, love.”

You swallow, throat dry and smoke-rough. Even in the aftershocks, the pleasure lingers, and you squeeze your inner muscles to hold onto it for as long as you can.

It doesn’t escape his notice. Of course it doesn’t. John’s fingers trek inward, gathering some of the wet slick between your folds and then lazily circling your clitoris.

“Look at you,” he rasps, “my poor girl needs more, doesn’t she?”

Ecstasy grips you again; you whimper as he manipulates your flesh. “John…”

“How long you been aching for it, love? Years? How long’ve you needed me, and I ain’t been there, mm?” He kisses the soft part of your lower belly. “You don’t need to worry anymore. I’m here now.”

You angle your head to look at him, running your dry tongue along your lips. What you see on his face steals the meager oxygen you’ve managed to pull in since your climax abated.

His face is flushed. Lips rosy and swollen from their work. The blue of his eyes has been eclipsed almost completely by black singularity—inescapable, unfathomable, a depth more vast than comprehension. Ready to swallow you whole.

This whole time, you’ve been afraid of John’s touch the way you are afraid of a hot bath on a cold night. There is a comfort beyond the first step into the water, languorous ecstasy waiting only for you to claim it, but the toll separating it and you—the shock of first contact, the split second of violent adjustment, makes you nearly content to remain in uncomfortable but familiar dissatisfaction.

Thunder cracks outside as you reach for him, as he reads your mind and surges forward to kiss you, hand catching the back of your neck to reel your mouth to his. You kiss each other hard and fast, over and over again, eager to end each one only so you can start the next.

Nearly content, in the end, is not content at all.

“John,” you murmur against his lips, as his hand still works your cunt, “I’m still cold.”

next

[holylulusworld]

BFG (1)

Summary: He’s new to town and just your type…

Pairing: Reacher x Plussized!Reader

Warnings: size kink, flirty reader, objectification of Reacher, language

BFG masterlist

“Fuck me, that guy could break me into two halves,” you sigh dreamily as the new face in town steps into the diner. “What a man.”

You lick your lips. He’s tall, and you mean tall when you say it. If anyone wants you to guess, you’d say he’s at least 6’5.

“Y/N, what was the price of the peach pie again?” The new waitress asks. She’s pretty and friendly but her memory is not the best.

Maybe she just smokes too much weed. You don’t blame her. This sleepy little town does this to you. If you don’t take drugs or drink, you spend the time dreaming of a different life.

You sigh again, this time out of frustration because you must take your eye off the thick hottie and turn your attention toward Sally Ann, the new waitress.

“It’s…” You tell her the price while dipping your head to glance at the newbie's ass when he passes the counter by. “Damn him, he’s thick too. What do you weigh, baby? Two hundred and fifty pounds?”

“Miss,” Sally Ann almost whimpers when this mountain of a man asks her about the peach pie. She looks a little lost, and you gladly jump in to turn his attention toward you.

“You can come over here,” you tap the counter. “This spot looks like you’ll fit in.” You grin as he chuckles at your bad joke about his size. “The seat is extra-large. One of our regulars needed a little extra space and cushion.”

“I guess he was tall too,” He asks while plopping down on the larger seat. The seat creaks under his weight and you hope he didn’t break it. Even though, you wouldn’t mind if he tries to break you.

“In size, not height,” you shrug. “That’s what I heard. This was before my time, and he died some years ago. This means, the seat is all yours now, sweetie.”

“Sweetie,” his laughter is deep and rich as he tries to not blush at your flirty banter. “No one ever called me sweet.”

“What a shame,” you pat his hand. Fuck. It looks like his hand is as big as one of your plates. “So, tell me,” you lean closer to whisper, “are you a BFG or are you a bad guy.”

“BFG?” He cocks his head. “Oh…” He chuckles again. “I’m friendly, don’t worry. I only get mad if you want to…”

“Fuck with you?” You cockily reply and mirror his smirk. “Hmm…I don’t think you could handle me, sweetie. I’m too much of a woman for most of the guys in town.”

His eyes scan your body at your words. He hums and drops his eyes to your ass. “I can handle any situation.” His face remains stoic, but his eyes give his dirty thoughts away. “Can I have a slice of the peach pie, ma’am?”

“Only if you never call me ma’am again,” you point a manicured finger at the giant. “People called my granny ma’am.”

“You don’t look like a granny to me,” he waves his huge hand to brush your concern off. “More like you are stranded in a place you don’t belong.” Ah, he tries to analyze you while checking your ass and tits out. “You’re not here for long.”

“Just like you,” you wink at him. “I’ll get you your pie now, and you better eat it up. It’s the best in town.”

“I bet he can break a bone only by grabbing you too hard,” Sally Ann watches the newbie eat his pie. “I wouldn’t want him to touch me. He looks like a brute.”

“No, sweetie,” you let your eyes wander from his broad shoulders, down to his wide back and further to his perfect ass, “he’s the kind of guy knowing how to handle a woman. I don’t think he underestimates his strength. The only problem is, he’s too big for my bed.”

“What?” Sally Ann squeaks. “Don’t tell me you want to take him home.”

“I’d take him anywhere he wants to go,” you nonchalantly admit. “It’s been ages since a real man tried to put his hands on me. This man over there has hands as big as our plates. He knows how to touch a woman.”

You bite your lower lip when he dips his head to look at you. He smirks and lifts the now empty plate. “Can I have another one?”

God, how you love a man who can eat. “Sure, sweetie,” you make your way toward him, swaying your hips on purpose. He glances at Sally Ann who looks a little scared. “How do you like your pie? Do you want some whipped cream too?”

He shrugs. “I’m not picky.”

“You can be picky,” you wink at him. “I won’t let you leave this town hungry and unsatisfied.”

His eyes darken at your words. “What can you recommend? What’s your specialty?”

“I asked you first,” you hold out your hand. “I’m Y/N, what’s your name?”

“Reacher,” he gruffly replies, but his hand takes yours. It’s huge in contrast to your hand, but warm and surprisingly gentle. “I’m here for…”

“You don’t have to tell me.” You hastily say. “I know you are not the kind of man answering questions. If you promise me to not cause trouble at the diner, you are always welcome here.”

“I can’t promise to not cause trouble but,” he squeezes your hand, “I promise that I’ll try not to cause trouble at your diner.”

“You know that this is my diner? How?”

“Sally Ann over there and the other waitresses always look at you for confirmation. The guests show more respect to you, and you don’t keep the tips. You put the money into the tip jar the waitresses share at the end of their shift.”

“You’re quite observant, Reacher.”

“I assume you took over the diner from your,” he searches your face. “Grandmother not so long ago. You still try to figure things out, but your pie tastes great.”

“She died six months ago. Granny left me her house, and the diner,” you sigh, and drop your gaze. “I left my well-paid job, and life behind. She was always good to me, and I didn’t bring it over me to sell the diner.”

“What was your job?” You’ve got the feeling the conversation turned out to be an interrogation.

“Aw, sweetie,” you wink at him, “if you want to know more about me, buy me dinner first.”

He watches you walk away, wondering if you have anything to do with the crime he investigates. Reacher shakes his head. No. You don’t look like a killer. And he doesn’t think for one second that you can break a guy’s neck.

“Hi, what can I do for you?” Sally Ann asks. She’s still intimidated by Reacher’s size or rather his cheer presence at the diner.

“Where’s Y/N?” He cocks his head to look for you.

“I don’t know. She looked pissed and went to the back entrance.”

“I-“ he gets his wallet out to throw money onto the counter. Reacher follows you out of the back entrace, searching for you.

“Whoa, watch your step,” you push your hands against his firm chest to stop him from running the poor dog over. “Hey, that’s his spot. You are not allowed to leave through this entrance.”

“I’m sorry,” he sighs. He's relieved that you are not on the run, because you are the killer. “I was looking for you. I didn’t want to piss you off asking about your job.”

“Huh? I didn’t leave because you asked me about my job,” you point out. “I saw that bastard from across the street chase this poor guy away. He was only looking for food.”

“Someone tried to hurt the dog?” He squares his jaw. “Who? What did they do?”

You crouch down to add water to the feeding bowl. “The owner of the fancy new restaurant across the street. He always shoos away the kids and pets. I don’t like that man.”

“Restaurant across the street. Got it,” he looks like he makes a mental note. “Is that little boy your dog?”

“He only comes around to get free food,” you smile as the stray feasts on the food you bought for him. “I wanted to take him home, but I guess he likes his freedom. He checks in once in a while to let me know he’s still alive.”

“A stray,” Reacher watches you pat the dog. “Maybe he’s scared of settling down. Someone must’ve chased him away before.”

“Hmm…” You nod thoughtfully and pat the dog’s head. “I only want to protect him. If he runs around town the guy from across the street will hurt him.”

“He won’t.” You feel his hand squeeze your shoulder. “I got a few things to take care of in town. Do you know a cheap motel?”

“I got a spare room I rent out,” you hastily say. “I mean, you could have it. It has got a bathroom too. You can use the kitchen if you clean it afterward. If you help me repair the sink, you can have it for free.”

He nods and holds out his hand to help you up. “I can’t tell you when I’ll be around.”

“Don’t worry,” you grab his hand to write your address on his hand. “You can come around anytime.” His eyes widen when you put a key in his hand next.

“You trust me enough to hand me a key to your home?” He looks surprised. “You’re a little careless.”

“Believe me,” you pat his chest, “I’m not careless, nor dumb. I know exactly who I let inside my house.”

Reacher quirks a brow at your words but doesn’t ask what you mean. You turn your attention back toward the dog, and he’s got work to do.

He will start with the restaurant owner across the street.

Part 2

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[helplesslypurple77]

Day 14 -Shower Sex-Hisoka/Reader

Notes:  k so suspend your disbelief that Hisoka would ever need a roommate, that man is probably rich as hell, but this is my universe and I can do anything I want.

.....

Maybe your decision to get a roommate was a mistake. It had seemed like such a bright idea a few weeks ago, when you had put the last minute listing online. Because you could have a nice, large apartment in a central location and halve the price. And maybe you could make a nice friend out of it. You were even safe, requiring an online form as well as an in person interview. You weren't too worried though, you considered yourself pretty formidable when it came to ability. 

But it was not going as well as you would have liked. You have received plenty of submissions, sure. But each one had something glaringly wrong with it. You shuffle through the forms you had printed out, sighing as each one passes through your vision. These are the better ones, you threw out the worse ones already. Now, only three remain.

The first one is a woman, who after a delightful interview where the two of you got along really well, she had informed you that she had four cats and three dogs, and a cow. And she would expect them to live with her. So she was obviously tossed. The second one had been a rather mousy looking man who had some clear stalker tendencies, and had asked you to compromise on rent. You had told him maybe, and shooed him away. 

The last option was the one you were most hopeful about. It was another man, who was set to arrive any minute now. His answers on the form were promising, of course, but also very general. That was why you had set up the in person interview. To probe people and get their general vibes. 

The doorbell rings, shaking you out of your thoughts. You jump up, straightening your dress and fixing your hair, before moving to the door. This is the last one. You send up a little prayer, begging that this one will be the perfect candidate, and open the door.

The man standing on the other side of the door with his hand on his hip is very hot. It's the first thing you notice, followed very quickly by the odd way he dresses. But have met many a weird dresser in your day so you try not to judge. 

“Are you Mr Morrow?” You question, smiling up at him. He's very tall, looming over you a bit in your own doorway.

“Yes, I was informed you were in desperate need of a roommate,” The man says, offering a hand out in front of him. “You have such a lovely nen, dear.”

You take it, wincing slightly as he shakes it. He's a dramatic one. And probably a pro hunter, given the fact that he noticed your nen. And pointed it out at all. But that doesn't mean anything, not yet at least.  

“I am. Come on in.” You say, yanking your hand out of his tight, cold grip and opening the door wide. The man breezes past you, sauntering into your house with no hint of hesitancy or fear. He shows only blind confidence, accompanied by a smirk tossed over his shoulder. He must be very strong. Or just stupid. You don't know which is better. You sigh, leading him towards the living room where you have your little interview area set up. 

“Alright Mr Morrow, could you tell me why you want a roommate?” You ask, sitting down on the couch of the cozy little living room. He sits down opposite you, in one of the cushy armchairs and crosses one leg over the other. 

“Hisoka is fine,” he says, brushing a hair through his red hair, pushing it back farther. “And it seemed fun!”

You raise an eyebrow. So he's an odd one. 

“Not for a financial need or…” You say, trying to prompt him into a more in depth answer. His smiles, yellow eyes flickering between your face and the rest of the apartment, probably taking it in. It's a nice apartment, and in a central part of Yorknew city. That's partly why you were so desperate for it. 

“Oh no, of course not. I could pay for this entire place if I felt like it.” He laughs lightly, and you chuckle. Probably a bad sign, you muse as he continues. “It's just that the address of my other residence got out and I had the most annoying visitors at all hours of the day.”

You raise your eyebrow high, so high you assume it's going to disappear into your hairline at any moment, and tap your pen. Hisoka shakes his head, pouting slightly and you kick yourself as it occurs to you once again how attractive he really is. 

“It was so inconvenient, I'm sure you know darling. So I had to move.” Hisoka says with a frown, head tilting to the side. “But I soon discovered that I had been put on a no buy list. Like a no fly list? You understand?”

He leans forward, like he's telling some great secret, and you nod with a sigh. This one is a complicated one. No matter how attractive you find his arms as they flex, or his thin waist in that odd outfit he wears, you need to remain rational and not rush such an important decision because you thought this guy was hot as fuck. Hisoka smiles, somehow not disturbing the strange symbols painted on his cheeks. 

“So I figured getting a roomie was the solution to both problems!” He says with a smile, pointing his finger in the air as if he's come up with the solution to a great puzzling problem. “No weak people will figure out my address, as your name will be on the lease. And paying you the rent mitigates the no buy list issue.”

“I see, how interesting.” You say, trying not to sound too amused. He sure is a weird one, alright. “Do you have any pets?”

“Oh no, animals don't like me.” He laughs, passing his hand through his hair again. “I couldn't tell you why, will that be an issue?”

“Oh, no.” You say, a beat of worry ticking at the back of your brain. “I don't have any pets, they make a lot of mess.”

It should probably be a bad sign that animals don't like him, but honestly all you care about is the fact that he doesn't have a pet, not any flags as red as his hair that answer might raise. 

“And you wouldn't object to sharing a bathroom?” You question. The apartment is nice, but it's a two bedroom one bath. You didn't know why, an odd design choice on the part of the former owners. Hisoka chuckles.

“Oh, not at all~” He says silkily, recrossing his legs with a flourish. “I can coexist just fine with someone as lovely as you. I hear that taking showers together conserves water~”

He shoots you a wink, a smirk flashing across his face. You laugh, trying to ignore what he's laying down on the table. It's better not to think of anything like that, lest it urge you closer and closer to just giving up and taking him on as a roommate.

“How environmentally conscious,” You say, appropriately neutral as you continue. “And may I ask what you do for work?”

“Ah work. That's a little complicated, I'm afraid.” Hisoka says, tilting his head to the side with a bit of a frown. “I suppose officially, I would classify as a blacklist hunter.”

Ah, of course. You can't really say you're surprised, but perhaps it's a bad sign for your mental health that his answer doesn't actually put you off as much as it should.

“I see,” you say, noting that down on your little notebook. Hisoka tilts his head, eyes flickering curiously.

“You don't seem at all alarmed.” He questions, yellow eyes staring directly at your face. Not dancing around your face and body, not at the wall behind you. He must be very interested in your reaction.

“It's really none of my business, as long as you don't mess with the apartment,” You explain, running a hand through your hair. “And besides, I'm a hunter as well, and you don't seem to mean any harm to me. Right now anyway.”

Hisoka blinks, letting the silence stretch on for a moment, filling the air of the cozy living room. He seems a bit surprised by your answer, for reasons you can't understand. Maybe he was surprised by your total lack of fear? Or maybe your casual attitude. It was only natural, both your parents were hunters and most of your clientele were as well. You supposed you were a bit dead to what was normal and unusual. You did make specialty weapons for people all over the world. Some of your best clientele were the infamous Zoldyck family. You were kind of used to weirdos dressed in odd costumes who wanted strange things. The only thing you might need to worry about from Hisoka was how attractive you found him. 

Hisoka chuckles. 

“How interesting~” he purrs, breaking the silence that had fallen over the room. “What a strikingly brave person you are, doll.”

“I guess,” You say, shrugging off the pet name he’s already assigned you with a sigh. “Are there any questions you have for me? It's better to settle these things before you move in.”

“Ah, so you’ll have me then?” Hisoka asks, all smiles. You nod, shuffling your papers with a sigh. It seems he really is the best option. 

“Questions, hmm.” Hisoka says, tapping his chin. You wait patiently as he considers, a bit worried. Finally, he speaks. “I have an odd friend. You don't mind him showing up out of nowhere do you?”

You sigh. You've been doing a lot of sighing lately. 

“No, not really. Tell him my bedroom is off limits though.” You say, standing to your feet. You've known your share of weirdos, and as long as this one stays out of your private spaces you're fine. Hisoka smiles, rising smoothly to his feet with a slightly unhinged smile. He held out his hand, yet again. You eye it warily.

“So, we have a deal?” He asks, angling his hand upwards slightly, palm pointing into the ceiling. His nails are a bit long, you notice absentmindedly.

You reach out, taking his hand to shake. 

“Yes, for now.” You say, “But we still need to sign the papers.”

“Yes, of course.” Hisoka supplies, mouth curving into a smile as he grips your hand, bringing it up to his cold lips. You push down a flush, biting your lips as he presses a long kiss to the back of your hand. His yellow eyes flick up, meeting your own and pinning you to the spot. Finally, after what feels like an age, he stands up, gently releasing your hand from his chilly grip. It falls to your side, and you clear your throat.

“Would you like a tour?” You ask, proud of how clear your vocal cords remain. Hisoka chuckles, crossing his arms casually.

“Sure.” He laughs.

You fear for your future self. You’ve certainly found an odd roommate. 

⚀⚀⚀

Hisoka, despite the faults and red flags that constantly run in your vision, isn't actually that terrible of a roomate. He's quite clean, and not very noisy. He does cook at all, but you don't mind cooking for two and leaving leftovers for him as he comes and goes. In return, he cleans the kitchen for you, and often the rest of the house as well. The two of you end up not seeing each other as much as you would like, only meating for meals and the occasional free afternoon of dancing around each other. It's nice, honestly. You can ignore his other faults, like the makeup skin and hair products that are mixing with your own, and the incessant flirting. He flirts so much you assume it's just how he is. Because no matter how much you wanna fuck him, you doubt its returned. Because that's the other problem. You really wanna fuck him, and it can be reliably traced to a combination of a few things. 

One, because of your new roomie, you cant bring men home to fuck anymore. 

Two, He's just insanely attractive and touchy, a hand on your waist here, a brush of your neck there, and you're losing your mind.

And three, the walls are too thin for you to masturbate comfortably. You can only masturbate in the shower now. But that in itself is a problem. You try not to shower for too long because of the water bill and so you can only get yourself off way less than you need.

But it isn't really a big deal, you promise yourself. You don't find yourself spending long bouts of time with Hisoka anyway, so your obvious desire for him isn't on display. You can only hope you can hide it for as long as the two of your remaining roomies. 

⚀⚀⚀

You survey the counters of your bathroom, the white of the countertop slowly being swallowed by skincare. Your own skincare addiction was a beast, but with Hisoka living with you the problem had only worsened. The shelves were covered in various masks and serums, the cabinets taken up by painkillers and mysterious under the counter drugs. The shelves to the side of the counter are laden in your makeup, with a small space devoted to the few products Hisoka used to draw his star and teardrop. 

You shove a couple things aside to grab your hair brush. The mirror is clean, your reflection clear in the glass, a few little sticky notes stuck to one end. You eye them, your messy handwriting noting down the things you were running low on. It was better if you left them in the mirror. You looked at it every morning and night after all when you did your skincare. 

You sigh, running a brush over your scalp in relief. The shower isn't running yet, but you're excited for the opportunity to wash your hair, and of course, to masturbate. Your body is thrumming with pent up energy as you eye yourself in the mirror. Hisoka had been especially annoying this week. It seemed he had nothing to do, so every morning when you left for work you encountered him in the living room, and he was there when you returned. 

Sometimes he was on the couch, watching reality tv in a tank top and sweats, and sometimes he was clearly just coming from the gym with sweat gathering on his arms and face. Each time he was desperately tempting, and much too flirty for your sanity. Be it a wink and a flirty comment, or a brush of your waist and a breath on your neck. He was driving you crazy. 

You sigh, shedding the towel you had been wrapped in and fold it neatly, placing it on the small shelf next to the entrance of the shower. You dig your feet ingo the bathmat, running a hand through your hair with a sigh. And then you see it.

A spider. A nasty, giant spider the size of your palm, sitting directly in the shower. In the path of your feet.

You scream shrilly, jumping backwards dramatically as you run to get as far away from the spider as possible. You hate spiders, more than anything in the world. You scream again, your shrill voice echoing off the bathroom walls.

“Hisoka!” You shriek, hugging your naked waist in fear as the spider moves a few inches closer. “Come here!”

The door slams open, Hisoka moving with a sense of urgency. His face betrays no emotion besides amusement as he takes you in, shivering and naked, glaring at the spider on the shower floor.

“Can I help you doll?” he purrs, moving closer to you across the bathroom floor. You don't even notice, too busy with your worst enemy, the giant spider watching you from the shower. The shower in the bathroom is only covered with a slight wall of glass, leaving about a space wide enough for someone to pass through comfortably into the shower cubby. It's also enough space for the spider to escape and hunt you down relentlessly. 

“Don't you see it?” You hiss, body trembling in the chilly bathroom air. You shiver, holding your arms around your waist. You seem to have forgotten your nakedness. 

Hisoka chuckles, folding his hands across his chest as his yellow eyes scan your body, pausing on all the parts of interest. He licks his lips, moving towards you across the floor. You don't notice, too busy keeping an eye on the spider. 

“Look,” you whisper. “The spider. In the shower.”

“Ah,” Hisoka says, a slight laugh contained in his voice. “Afraid of spiders, are you?”

You roll your eyes, not happy with his sarcasm.

The spider jumps, moving out of the shower cubby and towards you on the floor. You shriek, jumping backwards and into Hisoka’s arms, clinging to his muscled body as you scream.

“Ugh, it's coming this way!” You yell, hiding your face in Hisoka’s chest as your legs clench around his waist. “Just kill it!”

Hisoka laughs, the sound rattling in his chest as you cling close to him. He has his phone in his pocket, poking against your thighs. It's odd, because you don't remember this pair of sweatpants he's wearing having pockets. The spider sits heavy on your mind though, and you grip his muscled shoulders close with a whimper.

“As you wish.” Hisoka laughs, gripping your thighs and holding your body close to him. Faintly, you inhale his scent, a mix of flowers and musk and the unmistakable faint scent of blood. It turns you on as fear runs through your blood. You hid your head in his chest.

“Is it dead?” You whisper, gripping him tightly. Your heart is beating fast against your chest, begging to escape and run away from the stupid spider. 

“Yes, doll.” Hisoka purrs, other hand coming up to stroke your hair gently, an attempt to calm you down. “Your knight in shining armor has rescued you from the great threat lurking in the depths of the shower.”

You roll your eyes. He's making fun of you.

“Did you throw it away?” You question, not loosening your death grip on his shoulders. 

“Yes, I'm delighted to report it’s out of your sight.” Hisoka says, a chuckle in his voice. You pull your head away from his chest cautiously, pearing backwards and scouring the bathroom floor for any remnants of the spider. The floor is empty, only occupied with the fluffy bath mat. You sigh in relief, your chest heavy distractingly against the black tank top Hisoka wears. 

Then you realize exactly where you are. You're clinging to Hisoka like a tree, completely naked and clutching at his body. You shriek again, almost as loud as you did when you saw that damn spider and fly away from him like you've touched fire. Hisoka chuckles.

“Aw, come back.” he coos, running a hand through his hair. “You were so cute, all helpless and scared.”

You frown and bite back a groan at the same time, covering your tits and pussy with your hands as best you can.

“Get out!” You shriek, fighting back the arousal that leaks in as you take him in. 

“How rude!” Hisoka chuckles, pulling his tank top over his head. “No thank you?”

You yank your eyes away from his pale chest, as your pussy twitches with arousal. He toys with the hem of his sweatpants. As he tugs them lower, and you take in the v line pointing lower and lower, you realize he's not wearing boxers. You yank your eyes away, but it's too late. He's seen your wandering eyes. 

“The water bill is getting too high.” You say out of nowhere, body tingling with arousal. 

HIsoka tilts his head, biting back a smirk.

“Is that so?” He smirks, voice lilting seductively. “You know, I've been told showering together conserves water.”

You bite back a smile. A callback to your very first conversation. You let your hands drop, as you move towards the shower. All pretense is gone, just two people who really wanna fuck each others brians out. You giggle.

“What a clever plan.” You say, stepping into the shower and turning on the water with a sigh. Hisoka crowds behind you, smirking like the cat that got the cream. You suppose that's an accurate description for what's happening right now. 

⚀⚀⚀

“How long have you known,” You whimper, boobs and face pressed against the glass divider. Hisoka chuckles, tick chock drilling your insides as you moan loudly. The steam of the shower floats through the air, obscuring his face slightly. His hair is down, dripping with water and plastered to his face, but he doesn't seem to care. You brace your hands against the glass as he grips his hips, hitting the spot inside you that has you seeing stars.

“Since your eyes first scanned my body,” Hisoka grunts, hands gripping you so tight you’ll bruise. “You aren't exactly subtle, doll.”

“Ah, how embarrassing.” you murmur, hair falling wet and heavy down your back, tangling in your mouth. 

“Don't be too upset about it,” Hisoka murmurs, pressing his back against you as he drills deeper into you. “Your lustful glances were very mutual. You're simply a bit romantically oblivious.”

You whimper, hands scrabbling at the slick glass. The bathroom is filled with steam, the sound of the shower muffling your moans and the slapping of wet skin. You hope your neighbors can't hear you. 

“Am i?” You whimper, head falling back as his steady thrusts bring you closer and closer to completion. “I thought you were just like that.”

“I am,” Hisoka mutters, sinking his teeth into your neck. You clench down on him, body tensing as pleasure and pain erupt from the bite mark, tangling and twisting into a heady cocktail of arousal. 

“Ah, god.” You moan, nipples rubbing against the glass. “We should have done this sooner.”

Hisoka’s clawed hand reaches down, abandoning your bruised hips to rub circles into your clit. Stars burst behind your eyes, the bubbles and steam of the ballroom only adding to the floaty, dream like atmosphere. Hisoka chuckles, body hard and powerful against your own soft, curvy one. 

“I think we'll be doing this a lot from now on.” He half chuckles, half groans, body pressing against yours, pressing you to the glass.

Your lips part as you cum, screaming his name into the abyss of hot steam and powerful muscles. And as the orgasms overwhelm your body, you smile to yourself against the glass.

It seems getting a roommate was shaping up to be the best decision you’d ever made. 

.....

Endnotes: my sister is terrified of spiders. I channeled her fear for the spider bit. I don't like spiders very much, but she's genuinely terrified lol.

Also, guess who finished this before one in the morning, instead of at like three. Im hella proud of myself for that <3

[zvaigzdelasas]

Millions of solar panels are piling up in warehouses across the Continent because of a manufacturing battle in China, where cut-throat competition has driven the world’s biggest panel-makers to expand production far faster than they can be installed.

The supply glut has caused solar panel prices to halve. This sounds like great news for the EU, which recently pledged to triple its solar power capacity to 672 gigawatts by 2030. That’s roughly equivalent to 200 large nuclear power stations.

In reality, though, it has caused a crisis. Under the EU’s “Green Deal Industrial Plan”, 40pc of the panels to be spread across European fields and roofs were meant to be made by European manufacturers.

However, the influx of cheap Chinese alternatives means that instead of tooling up, manufacturers are pulling out of the market or becoming insolvent. Last year 97pc of the solar panels installed across Europe came from China.[...]

The best estimates suggest that about 90 gigawatts worth of solar panels are stashed around Europe. That solar power capacity roughly equates to 25 large nuclear power stations the size of Hinkley Point C.[...]

The sheer scale of the problem was revealed in a recent report from the International Energy Agency (IEA).

It warned that although the world was installing at record rates of around 400 gigawatts a year, manufacturing capacity was growing far faster.

By the end of this year solar panel factories, mostly in China, will be capable of churning out 1,100 gigawatts a year – nearly three times more than the world is ready [sic] for. For comparison, that’s about 11 times [!!!!] the UK’s entire generating capacity.

For some solar power installers, it’s a dream come true. Sagar Adani is building solar farms across India’s deserts, with 54 in operation and another 12 being built.

His company, Adani Green Energy, is constructing one solar farm so large that it will cover an area five times the size of Paris and have a capacity of 30 gigawatts – equal to a third of the UK’s entire generating capacity.

“I am installing tens of millions of solar panels across these projects,” says Adani. “Almost all of them will have been imported from China. There is nowhere else that can supply them in such numbers or at such prices.

“China saw the opportunity before others, it looked forward to what the world is going to set up 10 years on. And because they scaled up in the way they did, they were able to reduce costs substantially as well.”

That scaling up meant the capital cost of installing solar power fell from around £1.25m per megawatt of generating capacity in 2015 to around £600,000 today – a decrease of more than 50pc – making it cheaper than almost any other form of generation, including wind.[...]

“Up to 2012 there was a healthy looking European solar panel industry but it was actually very reliant on subsidies and preferential treatment.

“But then European governments and other customers started buying from China because their products were so much cheaper. And China still has cheap labour and cheap energy plus a massive domestic market. It’s hard to see Europe recovering from those disadvantages.”

Trying sososo hard to make this sound like a bad thing [23 Mar 24]

[fuck-customers]

I caught a coworker of mine, who has been causing everyone in the department (and also upper management) all sorts of problems for literal years, using managerial permissions to commit fraud.

I wouldn't have thought to pay attention if she wasn't a shifty jerk, and I probably wouldn't have cared if her pulling stuff like this didn't frequently and consistently cause problems for myself and my other coworkers. She's tried to throw all of us under the bus for her nonsense at least once.

The issue is, nobody has been able to prove she's doing it. She invents sale prices, voids things she shouldn't, steals and scalps merchandise, gives special discounts to her friends, etc. But "nothing" could be "proven" (aka our loss prevention department never bothered because they'd rather chase down innocent shoppers who look suitably shaggy or dirty or not white, which is a whole other story).

Well. I finally managed to get proof. Photos, a date and time to check the cameras, even a reprinted receipt of the transaction with her name on it, plus pictures of the indicated merchandise to prove she more than halved the price of high–ticket items in addition to what their actual sale was.

So explain to me why the loss prevention manager is telling me that what I submitted literally does not COUNT as proof? Spending two minutes on the camera to confirm will show that it happened, AND that the customers she rang up set off the door alarm. A door that was supposed to be locked to customers at the time, that she opened specifically for them, presumably so they wouldn't get receipt–checked at our open door. It would also show all the voids she rang up that should have demanded an override, but didn't, meaning she used her own override to authorize the changes.

I'm not sure what to do besides escalate, because that employee needs to go. Everyone agrees that she does. But I'm worried that doing so will just mark me as the problem employee between the two of us. Even the managers don't care, and are letting her still work the registers.

I should quit. This isn't the first time things have been swept under the rug that should have been dealt with, in favor of harassing employees who work hard and work beyond their position's pay or parameters. But anything that's available means either a big cut in pay, or just dealing with the same issues somewhere else.

I hate working somewhere that prefers keeping mean, dishonest people happy over respecting people who don't pose an active liability to the company (fuck capitalism and all that, but it's still annoying when I get punished for stupid stuff all the time while she gets managerial responsibilities and frames people and steals)

Posted by admin Rodney

[brokenpieces-72]

Monster!141 x jackalope/wendigo reader

The following is based on the hybrid au of @bluegiragi and includes the reader character of @diejager

TW: Mentions of trauma, some violence and mentions of death

No Going Dark

Continuation of Sizes

It goes…slow…very slow.

The Percht is a violent creature and it’s hard for you to not get defensive when it charges as soon as he shifts. Still, you do everything to show it who’s boss, and who should be in control. This does help your strength training so it isn’t a complete waste but the beast is persistent. You try to communicate with it with screeches, roars, clicking, and even cooing, but nothing seems to work. König is frustrated and keeps saying there’s no point. Nothing stops you though, and this stubbornness and determination is something Soap passed on to you. You keep going at it, getting into a fight each time, sometimes coming back to base in rougher shape than before. Hunter doesn’t bother trying to dissuade you, simply scolds you from getting into such a dangerous fight.

One day, you get lucky and the Percht doesn’t attack you. Not the first time it’s done this, as sometimes it will put you in a false sense of safety like a stalking lion waiting for the prey to make the first move before attacking. It recognizes you properly as a threat but it knows that you are not the instigator so it simply waits for you to strike first. To anyone outside the two of you it would look like animals making noises and body language at each other. You don’t share it much with others, but sometimes the wendigo is its own entity. When you shift you’re in control but sometimes it comes out as your protector. In this case, it is speaking for you.

“You…dead… “ it wasn’t a threat.

“No. I am living. The earth gives me life.”

“Monster like…me.”

“Yes. But good monster. Protect you. Protect vessel. Protect pack.” You reply.

The Percht seems to laugh.

“Don’t need pack. Need kills. Need death.”

“No. You need pack. My pack, welcomes you. You must join. Survive.”

The Percht considers it for a moment.

“What you want?”

“You join pack.” You say. “Let vessel control. You make kills.”

The Percht stares at you and considers your proposal. The wendigo waits for its response patiently, but shifts a little. The Percht gives its answer.

“Want kills…want…control…”

“Pack is home… you join.”

The wendigo moves closer until their heads are inches from each other, before it stretches its neck to press its skull against the percht’s head. The Percht is oddly calm, and both of their bodies seem to relax for a moment. The percht’s head pushes against the wendigo but doesn’t part with it. It’s an odd moment of communalism, and one you share with König and your shared other halves.

The Percht is still known to take over, but König is able to have more control than he did previously. When Price learns about this, he is admittedly impressed, and encourages the two of you to work more. The rest of the team becomes more comfortable with König and even Rudy and Gaz give him more acknowledgement. König also becomes more comfortable with you, and you learn more about each other. Horangi’s presence is still regular, but he doesn’t feel as strong of a need to keep König in check when you and Hunter are nearby.

König returns the favour of teaching him control by teaching you how to fight bigger targets like him, in human and monster form. Soap keeps an eye on you though, still a little uneasy about König and if he has work to do, Ghost keeps watch and even offers some pointers for you.

König gets more and more comfortable with you and you with him. Seeing the pup getting closer with him makes the pack a little jealous, but less tense. On missions the two of you start to be partnered up, sometimes as clean up but usually as a destructive distraction.

When he does lose control or you’re unsure you approach and will carefully place your head against his. If he backs away it means he’s not there or someone else is nearby that’s considered a threat. If he presses back you know he’s safe.

Your relationship with König is a bit odd; you tend to him like you’re older than him. While you don’t talk down to him, and he gives the orders, when it comes to the beginning or end of missions you’re right beside him ready to help, and do check-ins during ops to see if he needs support. You’re one of the few people on base he feels comfortable around.

You encourage him to get closer with other members, specifically Rudolfo and Gaz as they tend to keep closer watch on König when they’re in the same room. Relationships go both ways though, and König’s hesitation calls for a different approach. Both men are uneasy. Yes they’re all hybrids and yes König had been showing better control, but his pleasure in his work makes them apprehensive.

“You guys came looking for me when I lost control.” You say. They look at each other.

“Yes but you weren’t mindless.” Rudolfo points out.

“He’s not either.” You argue.

“But you didn’t attack anyone. And he attacked you and could’ve killed you and us.” Gaz adds on.

“The report says he’s innocent.”

The conversation is like two older siblings trying to tell their younger sibling no over and over again. Your pleading bunny eyes is making it hard for them to stay firm. The missions and ops had been going well, and König was more cautious and careful in his rampages. They’re willing to give him some lenience, and there is some sparring between the three of them, that shows his softer side.

König learns other things about you though. He takes notice of you in the rec room, curled up on a couch napping. He gets closer and notices you squirming and moaning. Without much hesitation he wakes you. It startles you a little but you’re relieved. He doesn’t ask about it and instead asks rather bashfully if you want to rest against him. You end up laying on your side against his chest while he does some reading. You start fitting again, but it’s more violent. He holds on to you before gently shaking you. When you wake you don’t have the chance the lash out, with König using his large arms to hold you against him. You’re in tears and hyperventilating though and you make small noises that makes him concerned.

He doesn’t stop you from nestling into him, keeping a gentle hold on you. His wrap around you gets a little tighter, reminding you he’s there.

“Sorry.” You say.

“Bad Dream?” He asks, rhetorically. You don’t respond, and you don’t have to, as he put a hand on your head.

“König… don’t go into the dark alone…”

He wasn’t expecting you to say something so cryptic but he doesn’t pry at its meaning.

“I won’t… not alone.” He says. You tug at his shirt and he rubs your back and plays with your hair a bit until you’re able to fall asleep again. Soap comes in and finds you two. König’s face goes a little red while Soap just looks surprised you’re able to settle so well.

“Mind if I join ya?” He asks before sitting down on the arm rest. “She sleep the ole time?”

“N-no… she did wake up. Bad dream.” König admits.

“She ask you not to go into the dark alone?” He asks, his teasing grin turning to a serious expression. König nods.

“You know what it means?”

“I had some guesses. Kid told me her parents were off their bloody nuts, abused her and even locked er up in the basement. The only food they gave her made her a wendigo.” Soap explained. König had some guesses based on your old scars but didn’t realize it had gone so far. His hold around you gets tighter and he rests his chin on you head.

“What did you tell her…when she asked you?” Soap asks curiously.

“Told her I wouldn’t go… not alone at least.” König says quietly. He gets a pat on the shoulder from Soap.

“Want me to take her to her room?” Soap offers with his hands out. König holds you in a way that says “no mine”.

“I-I’m comfortable here. Thank you sergeant.” König mutters, starting to get sleepy himself. Soap sticks around and chats quietly with König. While Soap has left you and König together on missions before there was often a lingering bit of concern, especially after the tracking incident. You’ve only asked the two of them that question, not wanting to lose anyone else.

Your trauma is your own and you don’t share it if you don’t have to. Growing up your mother was obsessive over you, thinking you were some vessel for a creature you weren’t. You were once a jackalope through and through but now…you were a monster, after she locked you up and tossed down someone who was your friend at one point. You don’t remember their name very well, but recall them calling on you and your mother turning them away. It started your small rebellious phase, wanting to try new things and live a normal life. Only after you had to consume the food did the wendigo appear, in the horrible form you lost control over. The wendigo form you preferred manifested as a protector fighting and encouraging you to eat better. You hadn’t known much about it until recently, and assumed the one that craved human flesh was the only one there was. You don’t know how everything unfolded as everything was an on and off blur. Eventually you were taken away from your home and put into the program, and given a retainer to help you with your abnormalities.

Now you were in the custody of the 141. Soap didn’t wake you to tell you about the papers.

@yourlovely-moon @kaoyamamegami @H0n3y_L3m0n @sans-chara

[lethalchiralium]

No More | [2] | Simon “Ghost” Riley x F!Reader

a/n: WOW. i did not expect that to blow up as hard as it did. thank you so much!! [this seriously might become a series. we’ll see.] [also, that means you’re getting a backstory. a very… need for speed backstory ;)] i really do think this is shitty but that’s all part of the plan baby!

warnings: cussing, alcohol, simon drinks to forget but he always remembers, non-sexual nudity, mentions of genocide, mentions of trauma, mentions of past careers, mentions of planes, mentions of crashing, mentions of american citizenship (you don’t have to be from there if you don’t want to be! i live there and i don’t want to be here! it’s just important from a certain aspect of your previous career.) simon is also a lot more lovey when he’s drunk.

summary: He’s convinced he should leave. He’s convinced himself that you are better off without him, better alone than being hurt by a shell of a man like him. He barely got a foot out of the door before he changed his mind.

part one here! | SERIES MASTERLIST

He had more bourbon in the past two months than he’s ever had in his entire life. The sickly sweet pull and the burn down his throat was a comforting pain as agony ripped through his heart. He sat alone in your shared apartment, a dim lamp being the only light in the entire space. He hadn’t gotten sick of the bourbon like he usually does, he couldn’t move it from the coffee table - he had sat forwards, arms resting on his knees and hands dug into his hair.

He was bone tired. He hadn’t slept in two days; it was a normal occurrence now that you had gone on that mission. He had to take leave so he didn’t rip Price’s throat out for not letting him go with you. The ache in his head still hadn’t gone away with the aspirin he took a few hours ago and the full bottle of his best bourbon down the hatch. The night wasn’t flying by like it did last night, he could hear the clock on the wall tick as he wallowed in his own misery.

Sometimes it took him weeks to bring up the scalpel and separate Ghost and Simon, divide the halves into quarters and dissect what actions could have been better performed to produce a better outcome - essentially, what he did to fuck up the one good thing he had going for him, and how he could fix it. He took your words to heart, and he was taking a very long time to stew over everything he could have done that would’ve have made him look like he didn’t trust you. Simon trusted you with every fiber of his being, he loved you more than that. He knew you were an amazing fighter, your fire to help those in need could never be extinguished.

He realized later rather than sooner that Ghost was why you didn’t trust him - Ghost was protecting the person Simon loves the most. And maybe, that included when you were home too. Keeping Simon locked away so he didn’t get hurt, so Simon didn’t get hurt by you.

If he had half a bottle less, he would’ve gone up to bed - but the room felt suffocating without you. He couldn’t lay in a bed that smelled like you if it became one of the last things he had of you in case you were killed, so he had cat napped on the couch for the past nine weeks. If he had a bottle less, he wouldn’t have thought about how his absence wouldn’t hurt you as much as Ghost does - if he had the £348 he spent on alcohol back, he wouldn’t have thought how this place felt like your home. Never his, he also categorized it underneath Ghost’s half - keeping his love at arms length so his self-destruction doesn’t hurt you.

He was drunk. Piss drunk, since he had never gave himself time to sleep off the bourbon. Ghost was cracked in the middle, and Simon was punching out holes in Ghost’s façade. Ghost never allowed Simon to feel, never allowed him to connect with anyone - a self-defense mechanism. But now? Ghost was almost gone, and he felt like himself now. And God, did it hurt.

How could he have done this? How could have pushed you away so far that your rope was dwindling by a thread, how could he have hurt the one thing that made him begin to unlock the cage around his freezing cold heart? He felt it in his chest, the raw burn and tug of desperation - he knew that he had to cut the thread.

He didn’t want to, he would give anything to not let you go - but Simon couldn’t let you keep getting damaged by his defense measures.

If he had no alcohol in his system, he wouldn’t have gotten up like he did. He wouldn’t have waltzed to the guest room, messily packed his duffle and brought it to the living room. He wouldn’t have grabbed a pen and an old pad of paper. And he definitely wouldn’t have written the note he was writing now.

He folded the note, lifting up the bottle of bourbon on the coffee table and setting it down on the table, putting the bottle on the corner to hold the note down. His hand grabbed his duffle and he stood and he made his way to the front door. He slipped on his boots, only caring enough to tuck the laces into his socks before Simon went to open the door. He took the time to turn around, gazing at the dim apartment that smelled like you, that held all of your important belongings. It was the place that cradled you when you were down, the place he kept falling for you, the place he would kneel to the kiss the ground you walked on.

This was the place he loved you.

Honestly, in the back of his mind, he knew his sober ass would walk home after a week.

Before he could open the door, the lock turned and the door burst open - he threw his duffle into the adjacent kitchen and was about to fight. That was before he saw you.

Dirt and blood caked on your face, your duffle hanging from your hand, your hoodie tattered and your neck bruised - and he watched as the tears raced down your face. He could barely even begin to speak when you flung your duffle inside and dove into his chest, arms wrapped around his chest so hard, he thought you would pop his lungs.

“Baby, baby, hey,” He cooed, his hand immediately held your head against his chest - he pulled you both out of the way so he could close the door and lock it, now he was immediately sobered up. Your sobs were loud now, your hands gripped onto the back of his shirt so hard he was convinced it would rip.

He tried to pull you away but you refused, begging, “Please, pl-please don’t let me go.”

“Where’s Cerby?” He spoke gently, keeping his hand on the back of your head, feeling dirt crusted into your scalp. You must have come straight here.

“With K-Keegs.” You mumbled, muffled by his thin t-shirt with a faded band logo on it. He sighed, sad that his dog wouldn’t be home for a few days but he let the feeling go. All he needed to focus on was you, and definitely not his foolish actions from literally three minutes prior.

He hummed then, his free hand moved to underneath your thigh - he pulled it up so you would get the hint, which you did. Your arms moved from around his chest to around his neck and you jumped into his arms, caging your legs around his large waist as best you could. Both of his hands held the back of your thighs, he glanced to the kitchen and made sure both of the duffles were there and unharmed. They were, so he turned around and walked down the hallway to the bedroom he hadn’t used in since the last time you were home. He pushed the door open, turning on the warm light before walking into the ensuite bathroom.

He flicked on the light before moving to sit on the side of the bathtub, it creaked under your combined weight - you were sat firmly on his lap and his hands went to your back and head, cradling you.

“I’m gonna start a bath for you, love.” He spoke, his voice wavering with uncertainty as your arms wrapped tighter around his masked neck.

“No, no, please, don’t let go.” The tumble of words from your mouth made his grip on you tighter. He couldn’t imagine what happened, he didn’t want to - he thanked God that he decided to drink that entire bottle of bourbon a couple of hours ago. His mind was muddled, he could barely get any thought out of what could’ve happened. All he wanted to do now was help you.

He kissed the top of your head through his mask, dismissing the feeling of cloth against his lips and he gently pulled your head back, he gazed into your red-rimmed eyes. He whispered your name like a prayer, as if you were an angel - which you were to him. Even covered head to toe in dirt, blood, and grime, he would still be able to see your halo through any darkness. “Let me help, love. Let me help you feel better, then I won’t let you go for as long as you want.”

“I can’t.” The voice he heard was almost unrecognizable, he had never heard you sound so small. “I can’t, I can’t.”

He sighed, moving forwards to press the skull to your forehead - something he did when he knew you needed it. You physically relaxed when he did it, your back bent into his hand as you pushed every single ounce of weight onto him. His fingertips pressed into your spine, dragging up and down it from above your shitty old hoodie. He stayed like that for a few minutes, letting you cry against his mask. He gave you a bit of time before he pulled up your hoodie, you obliged and let him pull it over your head. You were just in your dirty black sports bra, and now he got a good look at you.

He felt bile rise in his throat. Your entire chest was spray painted in black bruises, he got a good look at the dark purplish handprint on your neck. He looked back up at you, your head faced to the side as you cried, ashamed.

“Oh, my love,” His hand returned to the back of your head, cradling it as he gazed at you. “Are you hurt anywhere else?”

You quickly shook your head, tears removing most of the grime on your cheeks. Your arms were now at your side, fiddling with the hem of his athletic shorts while you let out a broken sigh. His hands moved to lift you off of his lap, one hand didn’t stop touching you while he pulled off your boots, tossing them to the side before tugging off your holed socks. He made a mental reminder to buy you new socks at the base shop while he placed a hand on your back, guiding you with him as he moved to turn the faucet on. He turned it all the way up then back a little, the temperature you liked. He plugged the drain and put his hand underneath the flow of water, waiting for it to turn almost hot - normally, he would’ve made it extremely hot, you had always said you thought it was like being boiled like a lobster. But, he didn’t want to agitate your injuries. His hand moved from your back and didn’t break skin contact when he took your hand, still looking away from you but he still held your hand gently.

“You’re warm.” You mumbled, moving his hand up to settle on your cheek.

“I know, love.” He answered, turning back to you. His hand slipped from your face and down your side to your belt loops, undoing the buttons and zipper then pulling down your pants. He took your hands as you stepped out of your pants, watched as you kicked them behind you and he observed new pink scars, healed but still fresh. Surrounding them were black bruises, identical to the ones on your chest. He heard your whimpers of pain when you stood back up, his hand ghosted your side as he gazed at it, seeing identical black bruises again. Even if he felt sober, he knew that the adrenaline from you showing up injured would wear off and he would become sloppy. He didn’t hurry, he took his time as he pulled down the boxers you stole from him and toss them away. His hands found the bottom of your sports bra, your wince made him pause and look at your face again.

Fat tears still rolled down your cheeks, silent sobs left you as you kept your eyes closed. Your hands stayed at your side until he murmured, “Raise your arms please.” You did as you were told, he tugged it off quickly but not as painlessly as he wanted. You let out a loud wheeze that echoed throughout the bathroom, he placed his hand on your side again, his presence close to you as he leaned down and shut off the water. “‘m gonna pick you up, love.”

“Okay.”

He did as he had said, gently swooping you into his arms and placing you in the warm water that reached up to your collarbone. Your eyes opened again when he retreated from the tub, your gaze watched as he pulled out a towel from the closet and began to rummage through it.

“I almost died.”

Simon visibly froze as you turned back, your gaze now staring at the light above the tub. He peered around the door, hand clutching a washcloth with a pain he couldn’t soberly place. “Do…Do you want to tell me?”

You didn’t respond. He brought all of the materials to the side of the tub, he gently pet your head.

Simon, drunk as hell, bathed you with care. He didn’t speak a word and neither did you, you stared at the wall the whole time except when he tried to wash your hair. You let him move you under the faucet, rinse your hair for five minutes because he couldn’t tell if the soap was gone yet, let him dry you with a towel and dress you in new clothes.

You could barely keep your eyes open when he carried you to bed, tucking you in before he did himself. He watched as you curled into a ball, facing him and keeping your eyes on the sheets, your hand drew circles beside your face. He turned off the lamp on the nightstand, drowning the room in darkness and settled back onto the bed, watching you with bated breath.

“Got trapped in a burning truck.” Your voice almost spooked him, his eyebrows furrowed. You just stared at the gray sheets. “RPG’d the ground in front of us and flipped it. Knocked Logan and Keegs out. Hesh got launched from the driver’s windshield. Had to drag them out and triage them in an abandoned warehouse while trying to fight off the enemy. Got captured for a week. Keegs saved me.” You sniffled a little, your hand reached for his - he instantly took it. He squeezed your hand. “Had bad flashbacks. It had been a while since I’ve got stuck under burning metal and tortured. S’why I was crying.”

“How’re the boys?”

“Watchin’ Cerby and all as stubborn as always. All fine.” You mumbled, pressing his rough skin to your chapped lips.

A deafening silence settled then, your thumb threaded over the back of his hand while he felt your breath graze it. He began to feel drowsy, the slow turn-table of dizziness was coming back from earlier and all he wanted to do was place his head in your neck and just breathe. He needed you like he needed oxygen, you touch him and he felt like it was the first breath he’s ever taken.

“Sleep, baby.” He murmured, sliding down from his sitting position, underneath the soft duvet. He moved closer to you, settling his head so that he laid face to face with you. He could barely make out your nose and cheeks in the dim moonlight, but he could see the glisten of your eyes as they gazed at his.

“I haven’t had a PTSD episode since I left the US Naval Aviation division.” The voice he heard sounded nothing like what you normally do - it was small. Broken. Damaged. An echo of you.

He furrowed his brows, he thought he knew everything about you. Both your dad and childhood best friend were pilots, but you never specified what kind - and apparently neglected to tell him that you were one too. “Why didn’t you tell me you were a pilot?”

You sniffled, squeezing his hand and ignored his question. “Got shot down over enemy territory. Crash landed and had to pry my legs from my jet as the fire burned.” The sensation of his hand being squeezed tighter made his dizzy mind think that you were angry - but in reality, the memory of burning metal against your hands made you feel scared. You wanted to pull him closer, to have him shield you from your memories. Yet you kept talking, even if you recognized the hurt twang in his voice. “Had to fend for myself in an abandoned city just over the border in Ukraine. Stayed in that town for three weeks ‘til Special Forces came and found me.” You pulled his arm to your chest, pressing his hand into your cheek. “S’where I met Price. Almost shot him too, thought he was an enemy.”

“Why didn’t you tell me about the flashbacks?” His voice was softer then, he pressed his warm palm down to your jaw. “I could’ve helped you, my love.”

“‘Cause it’s not important now.” You murmured, both of your hands cradled his. “Wasn’t even s’posed to stay with 141, meant to go back to Miramar. Meant to get back in the air.” You took a quiet breath. “I fell for you and everything I knew went up in smoke.”

His heart dropped to the floor. It thumped against it, still pumping blood but it hurt in his chest.

“If I hadn’t given it up, I wouldn’t have you.”

“I would give up anything for you.” He whispered. “Don’t give up anything for me, darling. You deserve everything you have.”

“That means I deserve you.”

“You don’t deserve me.” He immediately answered, his other hand went to settle on the duvet, tugging it up more. “You don’t deserve my problems, how fucked up I am.”

“I don’t care.”

“You should.” He settled his hand on your side, feeling you breathe underneath his fingertips. “I’ve hurt you, not on purpose but I still did it.” His thumb circled on the duvet, you barely felt it as his voice became quieter. “You really hurt me when you walked away.”

“I’m sorry.” Your voice wavered, he couldn’t bear to hear you start to cry again. He paused, hand coming from your hip to completely take off his mask - something he had never done in your presence before. He tossed the mask away onto the floor as he moved forwards, placing his lips against your moonlight dusted cheek.

“I deserved it.” He answered, settling back and pulling your hands into his chest. “Made me think for a while.”

“You’re drunk.” A statement he didn’t deny, he pulled your hands upwards to his collarbone.

“I am.”

“Because of me?”

“Because I hurt you.” He answered, now pulling your hands to settle on his cheeks. “I want you to feel that I trust you, because I do.” He began to move your hands upwards, his eyes fluttered closed as your fingertips traced his warm face, tracing his eyebrows and dancing over his eyelids.

“Simon, you don’t have to let me do this.” Your hands paused, his own grip settled on your wrists. “I want you to be sober, you’ll be mad at me tomorrow.”

He scoffed, moving his head to kiss one of your palms, keeping his eyes closed as he whispered, “I could never be mad at you. Frustrated or upset? Yes, but angry? No.” He gently rubbed your arms, hands moving to settle on your own cheeks. “I’ve decided that you need to really know how much I trust you. How much faith I have in you. How proud I am of you.”

“You hurt me for so long.” Your voice cracked so heavily, fingertips grazing his forehead and memorizing his nose, coming down to trace his lips you knew well.

“I want to fix it.” His lips kissed your palm again, eyes opening to gaze at your dimly lit face. “Give me a chance.”

“I think this is most comfortable you’ve ever been to talk about things like this.” You remarked, hands stopping on his jaw, cradling it. “I want you to show me how much you trust me, but when you’re sober.”

He nodded in return, moving forwards to place a slow kiss on your lips. His hands moved to settle on the side of your head, pulling you forward just a little. When he broke the kiss, he placed another on the tip of your nose. “You’ll know how much I treasure you until the end of time.”

“Okay.”

“Just don’t leave me like that ever again.” His voice was low, one hand going to trace down your body. “Ever.”

You nodded as you moved closer to him, chest to chest. He removed his other hand from your cheek and slid his arm under his pillow.

“Sleep, love. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

_______________

comment for part 3! (part three here!!)

—————————

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(i was not able to tag some - i apologize!)

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Copyright © 2023 lethalchiralium. All rights reserved.

[dogloveri23]

Fangs Of A Monster

Pairing: Suguru Geto x gn!reader

Warning: murder, death, angst

A/n: Welcome to the blog anniversary. It's been 4 years writing for you all. Thought I'd drop a little something for you all from today till the end of the week(hopefully ) to commemorate the day!

"Suguru? Suguru? Where are you?", you call out but I'm met with silence. The door was left wide open which was strange for Suguru's parents.

You could feel your arm hurt as you ran your fingers along the wall. You weren't the strongest sorcerer and your body knew that better than anyone. Well... anyone but Geto. You hadn't gotten the chance to head back to Jujutsu High. Not when he hadn't informed you of his status. He was not in Jujutsu High. That's all you knew.

You can sense any curse energy seeping out of the house. It was familiar but much too ominous. The house is in perfect order. Nothing spilt, nothing torn and the quiet humming of the TV but the smell was horrendous.

You take a look at the pictures on the wall and smile. You watch as they progress and look at the changes Suguru has undergone. His wide and toothy grin gradually fell into a sly and curt smile as each picture passed. When you compare it to the latest picture of him on the wall, it doesn't look anything like a smile.

"Suguru?," You cross the boundaries even further finally reaching the living room. The smell had increased ten-fold. The couch seemed empty but the table in front of it was amiss. You walk closer and are met with the lower halves of two bodies. That was what stunk. You jump back and press your arms tightly against your lips to keep you from screaming.

They were Geto's parents or at least what remained of them. "Does Geto know about this? Has he seen them?" you think. The grotesque bodies in front of you were covered in maggots and flies meaning it had been like this for a few days.

You rush out of the house with a bitter taste in your mouth. Something was wrong. A curse had clearly done it, the bite was massive, and no animal on earth could do it without some sort of assistance.

You tap violently against your screen before bringing it to your ear. You needed to see him. You needed to be sure he was ok. That he had someone near him. Someone he loved!

"Hello my love, were you looking for me," You hear him say as he approaches you in the hallway of the apartment building. You end the call and sigh in relief. He was alive but something was wrong.

"Geto! Are you hurt?," You rush to him and inspect him for any injuries it marks he did not leave jujutsu high with.

"I am fine, my love."

"Your parents, they-"

"I know"

"How are you so calm?"

"Because your parents are the same way."

"What?," You question, his statement not fully registering in your mind.

"I mean that they died the same way yours did. Did you not know? Don't tell me you came to Tokyo to search for me without ever stopping to see your parents-" He smiled. "-You really are the best partner a man could ever ask for."

Your eyes were wide when he laughed. The way he always did. He relayed the message that your parents died and was laughing!

"What is wrong with you Suguru? You can't say all that and laugh. Have you gone mad?"

"Pardon me, my love. But you can't expect me to be sad that a couple of monkeys died."

"Monkeys? What do yo-"

"I guess I'll have to say it. I killed them. I have no regrets about it either. I have a plan to erase curses from the face of the earth for good! They were a small price to pay-"

"They were my parents Geto! Our parents. You had no right to take their life!"

"They were non-jujutsu sorcerers, they bred curses and they shackled you,"

"Shackled me? You've truly gone mad Geto!"

"You told me that if I ever had anything I needed, you were in, I didn't even have to ask-"

"Not when it involves killing people! Geto! Not when it involves killing my parents and everyone you consider a Monkey!"

"You may not understand but I did it all for us. I couldn't stand to keep tasting curses, nor did I want you to keep getting hurt fighting them."

You never asked him to do this. So what if you get hurt? What if you get into a bit of trouble? You come out alive! You fell silent, a single question lingering on your mind.

"If-if I couldn't use curses, would you kill me too?", You asked quietly. You weren't sure what answer you wanted to hear. The man in front of you was nothing like the man you once knew. This man was over the edge and he intended to drag you along with him.

He fell silent, he was thinking. He had given me his answer.

"You would."

"Love I-"

"Don't call me that! Not after what you've done."

"Don't say th-"

"I shouldn't? Let me say this instead. I never want to see you again, Geto. The next time you see me, consider me your enemy."

"Love please I-," Geto can't get the words to form when you storm past him down the hallway. He feels his chest burn and suddenly it feels as though this was God's way of paying him back for his wrongs. This fate was much worse than the deaths of any of the Monkeys he had killed. He had lost the best piece of him, you.

[ofmermaidstories]

So on Good Friday I had drafted up a little post just—I dunno. It started off with me talking about my lunch (broiche toast with peanut butter, some slices of overpriced smoked cheddar and a pottle of cherry tomatoes that i’d halved and dressed with wholegrain mustard, salt and pepper and sesame oil), because i enjoyed it, and then because i had been thinking about it, i had mentioned how Australian grocery prices have climbed well above the global average.

I mentioned some of my favourite people to follow, on tiktok! Food accounts—the woman who does the Dollar Store budget videos, where she plans out meals around limited money, or accessibility. The young mum who’s videos are just her making lunch/dinner for her four little kids. The Palestinian man who used to review resturants and dishes before the war on Gaza—and who, before Tiktok took down the videos, had started posting himself making dishes from aid rations. In the end I just saved the post to my drafts because—there was no real point to the post, not really, beyond how unfair it is that food is swiftly becoming a luxury and how it shouldn’t be, for any of us, anywhere. Not us here in Australia with our 54% on average price increases, nor for American families that have to shop at Dollar Tree with their last $30 for the next two weeks.

And definitely not for the citizens of Gaza.

Israel is manufacturing a famine within Gaza’s borders. And just today, they murdered via airstrike a carload of World Central Kitchen aid workers. Seven in total, six foreign nationals and one Palestinian local. No aid organisation can operate within Gaza’s boarders without reporting their travel plans to the Israeli Invading Force. Their car was branded with the organisations logo. Israel has some of the best surveillance technology in the world—it is often the testing ground for the hot new stuff that then gets sold to the rest of our governments. Israeli knew who was in that car. And they targeted them anyway. And now because of their actions, the WCK is now “pausing (their) operations”. And who can blame them? Knowing that if you stay, you’re just putting more lives at risk—but it means how many less meals, now, less food for the Palestinians still there? All of our countries are cowards. The Australian government won’t even name Israel in its condemnation today, of the attack. The Australian government has let our only two real supermarket chains—Coles and Woolworths—create a duopoly where they can charge the public however much they want. We can’t help ourselves and we refuse to help other people—so what good are we, as a country? The boomers and the ignorant on facebook are too busy frothing at the mouth over the imaginary millionaire immigrants who come to Australia in boats and buy houses by the dozens, per family. So many of our problems—here in Australia, globally—would be solved if the majority of us realised the real enemy isn’t a people bomb-locked on their own land, or the refugees that make it here, or even each other but instead our own fucking governments, and the bastard corporations that are gripping them by the balls. I’m grateful for every meal I get to sit down to. But I would enjoy it a lot more if it were easier for all of us to eat—or if it were a CEO or politician or two on the plate itself.

[tassodelmiele]

Noisy little mess

Hi sweetie⁓

Brief intro 'cause I'm so late to do everything this monday, goddammit.

Or...

CoDdammit. Lol.

Sorry

That's a "dialogued chapter". I love dialogues.

I lllllove them.

Next time i'll give you some more action, i promise.

Maybe. I suck at scheduling things

DISCLAIMERS: GhostxYou yelling time; Price is so good at being a psychologist i don't even know why he's a soldier; Soap risking his life by being a little too funny; Gaz doesn't like coffee; dialogues that last halves of hours; roommates enjoyining their time alone; brain gets error 404 on how-to-behave correctly;

................................

Sixth part here:

................................

«I bet someone'd fought the other day»

Price appears behind you, and incredibly, it's not breakfast time: it's like 4pm, and you're not used to seeing him somewhere which is not Laswell's office.

You let the weight fall from your hand, breathing heavily; lately, gym is the only thing that allows you to not explode like a goddamn balloon in a cactus field.

You exhale: «…did he tell you?»

«Didn't need to tell me. We heard the yells»

«…ah»

He sighs, sitting on a bench. «Some things are better to be told under your breath. Particularly if they are personal. And above all, if they're the kinda things you were talking about-»

«You're telling me you've heard that i-!» You say almost in a hurry, immediately biting your lips. «…sorry Captain»

«You don't need to be sorry»

«No? And…what about being bewildered?»

He frowns. And you find the intimacy of the gym, combined with Price's soft eyes and his bear you're so tempted to pet, comfortable enough to open up a little.

As if you've not behaved like an open book since you'd made the first breakfast with the Task Force.

«Look» you preempt every possible objection about not being professional on a military base (since you know you're not) «I don't wanna be a burden, or cause problems. I-I know you've already got plenty of them…»

And he anticipates you with a sigh: «…but?», knowing so well you're about to stream out a flow of that sort of thing girls tell their besties at pajama party nights.

«But…but I don't know how to handle the Lt! I…just don't know. It seemed to me we got along well but, apparently, we weren't. We are not. I mean» your hands gesticulate above you to draw the speech in the air «one day he almost broke my arm, then he helped me get rid of some sort of stalker, but the day after he offended me and told me to shut my mouth. I don't know! I don't know how the hell I am supposed to-»

«Is this bothering you?»

«Yes!» You almost yell, emptying your lungs with a sigh.

Price's humming fills the silence for a while. «Ok. I'll make sure to put you under someone else's supervision-»

«No»

You bite your tongue again, and he smiles under the bear; you know he did. He was expecting your answer, but doesn't need to make you feel bad about how much of a childish behavior this is. He pats your shoulder: «Ghost speaks through sarcasm. Not that easy to handle. But if he doesn't ignore you, then he likes you. That's what we've learned 'bout him»

«What about him being touchy?»

Now you can add to your "goal list of the year" that you've made Price slightly blush; and he can't deny it, even if he hides the red under a bear scratching. He doesn't even ask you about the kind of "touchy" behavior you're speaking of, so you imagine that, somehow, he already knows…things.

«Again» he sighs. «Does this bother you?»

Fists are clenched around the thumbs, squeezing them hard, and your sight is focused on the weights abandoned on the floor. You feel some sort of heat climbing up your tights thinking about how much Ghost's touch did notbother you. But your brain doesn't allow you to admit it. 'Cause it bothers you not being able to find him bothering just enough to officially make him stop, and you're just hoping he'll quit somehow 'cause old memories and vices are frighteningly awakening in you. 

«It would be better» and saying this costs you a lot of swallowed cravings «if he stops»

«Mh» 

It doesn't seem like he is falling for it. But he doesn't ask further.

«I'll speak to him»

And you can just give your beautiful Captain the best smile you've got.

«I just can't believe that bloody woman is a…whatever»

«People in bed are different from people in war, Lt»

Ghost glares at Soap through his fifth coffee of the day.

«Why, thank you, Sergeant. I'll engrave your pearl of knowledge on my tombstone» 

«It'll be ma pleasure»

«What is it?»

Two pairs of eyes turn at Gaz, who's peeking from the opposite side of the table. None of them is a "snack" kinda guy, but this afternoon really calls for a break.

And Ghost's drinking coffee. Again.

The Lt. gazes back at Kyle.

«What?»

«You're not drinking tea anymore» he claims, suspicious.

«Are ya afraid I'll turn into a Scottish?»

Soap grins: «aha, not funny», as he rummages through the pile of recruits' tests that need to be checked. «Look, look at this, bloody Jesus, I-» He tooks away one sheet in particular, waving it around. «How the hell is she capable of runnin' like a-a...dunno!»

«Who're you talking about?»

«Our laddie» He spits out with a smirk. «Christ, she does have working lungs, look at her running test results!» 

«'Course she has, or she won't be able to yell like that»

The whole office turns silent around Price's words. He enters with a smirk, nodding at his desk full of plastic glasses.

«When did the tea party start?»

«Sorry Cap., promise we ain't eaten all the cupcakes»

He grunts, heavenly sliding on his goddamn chair (spared by the misappropriation). He waves his head at Ghost:

«I've got complaints»

That makes him say his second: «…what?» in, like, two minutes.

«Our little one» Price explains «is politely asking you to stop being…you know what»

«An asshole?» is Johnny's supposition.

«A shithead?» is Kyle's.

«Surely someone's gonna be bloody dead meat» is Ghost's ultimatum. 

«I've spoken» are Price's last words, before he stretches his limbs so hard his bones crack, making Gaz shiver with a: «damn Cap., go see a fucking osteopath»

Then a mumbling is heard from Ghost's mask, almost chomped in his teeth as he tried not to let his thoughts hiss out of his mouth. But he fails, and everyone can hear: «fucking child, not grown enough to tell me by herself»

It makes Soap almost burst into a laugh he chokes in his guts, exploding in a sudden cough. 

«Ya ok bud?»

«Aye, aye…'s just…» Johnny takes a breath, gaining some air. «'S funny to look at you two playing the “cordless phone” game»

Ghost doesn't like this. Not a bit, not a single word.

«What do you mean?» He snaps.

«Why don't you just talk frankly to her?»

«I've nothing to say»

«Bullshit. You've been yelling at each other for one week»

«You're a bloody blabbermouth»

«'M sorry, it was impossible not to hear you. Why are ye even so mean to her? You two started well»

«I'm not here to make friends»

«Maybe ye could get a girlfriend instead»

«Johnny»

Price intervenes before Ghost decides his knife fists better in Soap's throat than in his hand. Captain gives his boys one of his gazes. 

«That doesn't have anything to do with you, so, even if you know every crumb of this shit cake…shut your holes. 'K?»

And they do it. They shut up, since they neither want a telling-off from their Cap., nor Ghost's knife in their butt.

The day was kinda ruined, though. At least, Simon's day. And he spends the rest working hours glaring back at everyone, avoiding speaking and trying to shut the echo of Soap's voice in his head. 'Cause he hates to admit it (and he wouldn't do it even under torture) but that goddamn man was right: it was just a matter of speaking with her honestly. Without being a dick.

Fuck; that last part could have been a problem.

The fact is…problems that are killing his synapsis are actually two.  

Price managed to get one of them, and maybe it's pretty obvious even for the rest of the team. But the other mental pirouette is what is really eating him alive. And he doesn't have enough teeth to clench, cheeks to devour internally, fists to smash on the door to avoid thinking about it.

'Cause one thing is liking you.

One other is wanting you. In a bad, absolutely not polite and caring, incredibly violent way.

Abstinence surely is one of the worst tortures. He's used to it, though: both to abstinence and torture. So it shouldn't be a problem, but it is, and he can't deal with it, he can't accept it, it's just unbearable and…and…

And Ghost almost starts to think everything is so overwhelming at the point of giving him hallucinations, as he hears…something.

Something familiar.

He stops next to a door, and it takes him one second to realize what door it is, and who's behind that door.

And what sound he had just heard. 

And in that one second of chaotic information riddling his brain…he hears it again.

A moan. A cute one, so muffled and soft that it was almost inaudible.

His eyes slid to the room door. 

That's your room. 

And, if he remembers well, the big crazy woman of your roommate is currently out on a mission. Therefore, you're alone.

All alone.

Absolutely alone.

So alone that you're, evidently, enjoying your moment of privacy a little too much.

He's about to knock at your door, or to burst in, he doesn't know, he'll figure it out somehow, but as his hands brush against the door knob there's another moan, so soft, so gentle that he thinks he's hallucinating.

"Why are you doing this to me?"

«What are you…doing?»

He jumps, his heart skips a couple beats as he jerks alarmed eyes to look at who's just appeared next to him.

He almost faints when he sees you. Thank god the mask is covering his face, otherwise you would see a jubilance of embarrassment and fear, red and deathly white.

You're standing, a toothbrush in your hand and in your feet the insecurity of someone who doesn't know if to make an u-turn and pretend you've seen nobody, or stay and wait for an excuse.

Him too, he seems to choose the "excuse" kinda behavior: he coughs, straightening his spine at his limit to stand taller, more confident. 

And he talks, but words are not as dry as he would like: «I came to see y-TO» he suddenly withdraws «to make sure you're going to be at the meeting tomorrow mornin'» the last few words become a mutter.

Silence follows. Moments of strange silence, oddly, densely fluffy, as if you're looking at the scene from above a cloud.

W H A T 

That's what your mind is flashing while you're discharging your incredulity on the poor toothbrush.

«I…» You start, with the intention of saying something sensible, really, to make the most of this occasion and let him know how fucked it's his way to handle people, sarcasm or not. «We just-like-we've almost…in your…yesterday» you start all over again «you've treated me like a wannabe whore»

He immediately hurries: «Wasn't my intention to-»

«I'm sorry if it wasn't, you'd done it» You shut him. You shut your goddamn Lt., and this isn't even the first time. «I can't hold up with this anymore»

«With what?»

«You» You spit, clenching your fist around the toothbrush. «With you, ok? I-I-look, i know this couldn't-you're my superior, I'm sorry if I'm being…disrespectful? I'm sorry» words start to rush from your lips, eyes are wandering around, in search of a cute way to avoid yelling at him again. «But you're so…»

«…So?»

«Unreadable. Unbearable» adjectives slip through your mouth, sharpened and straight to his heart. Or at least you hope. «I can't work with nerves at a razor's edge»

«I supposed you already knew we've to work under all conditions»

«These are not normal conditions, don't just spit the whole thing out»

«Explain, than»

«You know!» You muffle the voice. «Stop teasing me, 's like you've got some sort of dual personality! Anyway, I've already spoken with Price and-»

«He'd told me» He cuts your speech. «But I'd rather your pretty voice gives me clarifications»

«We've already fought on this point, like, five times!»

«What point»

«You make fucking fun of me!». This time you yell, then immediately bite your lips. You feel like he's teasing you, and obviously the joke's always on you. «That's the point! And all 'cause-'cause I've moaned once, and somehow now you hate me because I've made you turned on!»

«I-»

«First you treat me like some kinda hoe, then you protect me from stalkers, but one minute later you make fun of-of-! Do you know» you're rushing disconnected words, and your toothbrush is pointed at his face threateningly «how fucking difficult it was for me to open up about my goddamn kink? Do you know??»

«Listen-»

«But I've done it! I've done it 'cause you're a superior of mine, and I want, I swear to god, I WANT to respect you, to-to trust you and be at ease with you like I used to till a bloody week ago!!»   

You're breathing so heavily your lungs' movements are making your whole body wave. Stern, ice-cold eyes are locked on him, and you don't even know how you've managed to gaze at his mask for so long.

There are times in which you need to make a choice in a matter of seconds. Simple ones: putting salt first in the pot, or going first with pasta when water boils; wait a little at the coffee machine to make the espresso a long one; going to the bathroom before putting nail polish; picking up the book you're supposed to study instead of the phone with you're gonna fuck around with for the rest of the day…

Simple things. Ordinary choices.

Like biting your tongue before talking shits (that's what you're not doing), or speaking before it's too late (that's what he's not doing).

And you two face each other in a silent sights fight, spiced with rage and frustration, every muscle tensed and every fist clenched, teeth tight and cheeks chomped from the inside.

You'd like to burst into tears.

He'd like not to be a dick. For once.

And the whole situation is unlocked by another sudden, soft moan from the room. 

You instantly get red in every inch of skin; he widens his eyes, just able to say:

«What the fuck-»

«Sorry» you're so fucking embarrassed you can't even stand his sight anymore. «Sorry, i-i've…i've given Bernie some "solo-time", and she…uhm…apparently-»

«Hold on». His tone changes so suddenly, turning into a hurried, awkward question: «Is Bernadette Kelly inside?»

«Y-yeah»

«Wasn't she supposed to be on a mission?»

«She was a substitute, in case Fisher couldn't do it. But he managed to go»

«…oh»

«…oh?»

He's lucky the black makeup disguises his redness so well, since he can feel how hot his face is under the mask, as he wonders how it could have ended if he had rushed inside the room to Bernadette touching herself.

«…ok. Well, no. But…ok, 's ok» He mumbles to himself, allowing his brain two seconds to readjust the thoughts's stream. 

«Ok?»

It pisses you off so much you don't know where to restart the angry mood. 

And you do it in the worst way possible, blowing out a mean: «you've thought it was me, didn't you? Were you ready to scold me again 'cause "I haven't got enough dignity to be a soldier", and then feel allowed to touch me?»

You're ready for everything, you're wearing armor in berserk mode: you can face him yelling at you, threatening, flirting, scolding, putting blame on you, taking you at gunpoint, punching you or throwing a burrito at you, you don't care.

You're ready. You're waiting.

Aaand waiting.

Aaaaaand waiting.

'Cause he's not moving, so frozen in place you're wondering if he's still breathing.

Ghost's not an evil man. He's not violent, he's not an asshole.

He's just having a metaphorical system error in his software that's reminding him he has not, in his goddamn entire life, dealt with such a duty. 

And he doesn't know how to: he doesn't know if it's better a silenced gun or a sniper, to do stealth or to burst in the house with a grenade; he doesn't know if it'll be a dangerous mission or a walk in the park kinda thing.

He doesn't' know, 'cause his only way to solve these problems is being a dick and waiting till the counterpart gets enough of him, and just leaves him alone.

But this time he doesn't even know if he wants to be left alone.

And so, with his mind blown up and just your toothbrush in his eyesight…

He left.

Without a word.

He turns his heels, leaving you in the corridor.

................................

[felixcloud6288]

Dungeon Meshi Miscellaneous Monster Tales 1

Oh cool. There's bonus content about the monsters.

Walking Mushroom

Makes perfect sense that there are different breeds of walking mushroom. Wish I was a mycologist right now so I could appreciate this a bit more.

H-how much does that book cost? 1,238G?

Meanwhile the various meals at the dining hall ranged from 160-190 G while there was a meat bun soup that cost 210 G and those came with free travel rations.

Let's say 200G is equivalent to $10 US. In other words, 1G = $0.05. That book would cost $61.90.

Also the actual price says 1,238 G+. Is that a premium currency or is there a sales tax involved?

Slimes

This one's really interesting. Most slimes are parasitic. They effectively act like stomach cells and steal portions of their host's meal for themselves. Their mucous layer is probably meant to protect them from their host's digestive system similar to how our own stomach cells produce a mucous to protect them from stomach acid.

Maybe some species have a more mutualistic relation with slimes. Maybe the slimes help break down certain compounds the host can't break down, similar to how our guts are full of bacteria that break down tons of things for us.

Imagine being a poor little critter that got eaten by a frog. Then when you end up in its stomach, you then get eaten by a slime in the frog's stomach.

Man-Eating Plants

Laios just won't stop talking about how shadowtails ensnare their victims. He does bring up an interesting point that they can adapt to any creature when determining how to restrain their victims.

Maybe that shadowtail that grabbed Marcille was feeling around her to determine things like muscle-tone, body thickness, and joint articulation so it could find the best ways to restrain her.

Breeding shadowtails so they keep their restraining instincts but no longer have the parasitic aspect could be useful for things like capturing animals to relocate them or maybe to design specialized casts for broken bones. But realistically, the main draw would definitely be for kink and Marcille is a kink-shamer.

Mandrake

So mandrakes having human-looking appearances is pure coincidence. But farmers like trying to grow them into human shapes for the equivalent of the county fair.

But how do they harvest them without the mandrakes screaming?

Basilisk

So there IS a hen version of the basilisk.

Baby basilisk is so cute.

Basilisks hatching back-first just adds to the confusion of which is the head and which is the tail. Chickens and snakes both break out of their eggs using sharp implements to break the egg (snakes have egg teeth specifically to help them cut through the shell). If it hatches from the back, then its birth feathers are probably fairly sharp.

The basilisk anatomy is just giving me more questions. Both halves have their own stomachs but the chicken half also has the craw and gizzard. This means both halves are equipped to eat whatever they would normally eat.

Since the snake has its own stomach, is it able to stretch its body to fit large meals like real snakes? And if the snake half eats something, can the whole basilisk go long periods without eating while the snake-half digests its meal? Or does the snake have a heightened metabolism since it's part of a (presumably) warm-blooded creature? Maybe the snake half is responsible for eating large prey. Meanwhile, the chicken half supplements its diet by eating smaller prey and plant matter.

Living Armor

Okay. I was wrong. The whole body is part of their shell. They aren't just inhabiting an existing suit of armor. And this likely means the individual Living Armors treat themselves more like pieces of a whole rather than as a colony of individuals helping each other. I guess each suit of armor is a colony of siblings. Maybe a small cluster of them are specialized toward breeding purposes.

There is a non-zero chance that adventurers influenced the evolution of Living Armor. They only need to develop to the point they can move so there's no reason to develop all these elaborate art patterns like the lion-head colony had. Maybe around the same time humans began making iron armor, Living Armor started to emulate human designs because the Living Armor mistook adventurers in full plate for a large breedable colony and they wanted to mate with them. This in turn put pressure on the Living Armor to structure itself to look more like adventurer armor to compete with adventurers for mates.

...

Wait! What if the swords are the sperm-producing parts of the colony and them trying to stab people was part of their courtship rituals? Or maybe they think of adventurers as rival Living Armor colonies.

Or maybe I'm just wrong and the sword is just a sword. Maybe Living Armor already looked like that before adventurers came around and adventurer armor took inspiration from Living Armor instead.

Laios has me trapped in his rhythm. I genuinely want to know how Living Armors breed. Based on their behaviour, all of the Living Armors likely share parentage with the egg sacs. So does the egg-layer lay its eggs in the egg sac and then all the others deposit some sperm to inseminate the eggs, or do the other Living Armors impregnate the egg-layer? And does the chosen egg-layer create the shield as part of the egg-laying process? If the biggest colony lays and protects the eggs, then that means it has more Living Armors that can be converted into a shield without compromising the body structure.

I still want to know what and how they eat.

back

[summerwritesfics]

🗺️I Swear When I Grow Up I Won’t Just Buy You A Rose

Pairing: Raiden/Kuai Liang Length: 1772 Words Rating: Teen Warnings: Modern AU, Flower Shop AU, Florist!Kuai Liang, First Meetings, Meet-Cute, Gift Giving, Fluff AU-Gust 2024 Day 17: Flower Shop

AU-Gust 2024 Masterlist

Notes: Okay gonna be real with you, I have no idea about the pricing of flowers especially the pricing of flowers in dollars, and my attempted research on the topic kept coming up with wedding prices. So, I have no idea if what I wrote here is a reasonable price or flowers, or if it’s too little. If someone would like to correct me, feel free, but I swear I tried 😭 Title is from The Gambler by Fun.

“I never know what to buy people for their Birthdays,” Kung Lao complained, placing his arms behind his head as they walked down the street.

Raiden chuckled and said “it’s not that hard, is it? You always manage to get me stuff I like.”

“That’s different, I’ve known you forever. I could give you a somewhat interesting looking rock and you’d be over the moon with it.” Well, he supposed Kung Lao had a point there. For him it was always the thought that counted in terms of gifts. “But we’ve only known Kitana and Mileena for a couple of months. What the heck do I get?”

“You could go halves with me on some flowers,” Raiden offered, thinking it was the easiest option. Lao was right, they hadn’t known the sisters that long, but he had talked with them enough to realise they both like flowers.

“No offence, but I don’t want to be that basic.”

“Are you calling me basic?” Raiden gasped in mock offence.

“I mean I’m not calling you complex,” Lao replied with a cheeky smirk. Raiden rolled his eyes.

“Well, have fun figuring out what non-basic gift you’re going to buy them,” Raiden claimed as they came to the flower shop he’d had in mind. Lin Kuei Florals was a relatively new shop, a small family run business from what he could tell. He was all about supporting small businesses rather than corporate conglomerates. “I’m gonna go buy my flowers now.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m gonna go see if I can find something in that clothes shop over there.” Lao pointed in the direction he was going.

Raiden just shook his head as he went to enter the flower shop. As he stepped in he was immediately met with the floral smell, making him glad he didn’t have any allergies. It was a small shop, but absolutely packed to the brim with plants of all kinds. It wasn’t just bouquets either, there were some plants in pots, including succulents and cacti. There were some cute hanging baskets, and even a rack of seeds.

“Welcome to Lin Kuei Florals, how may I help you?” A voice called to him from the counter, and when Raiden looked up, he actually felt himself go a little hot.

The man behind the counter was a bit shorter than Raiden, wearing his long hair up in a bun. He had a scar over the one side of his face, and two flowers, one yellow, one blue, tucked into his ear. Usually, Raiden wasn’t one to be distracted by someone’s looks, but something about this man made him feel dizzy.

“Are you alright sir?” The man asked, sounding genuinely concerned. Raiden’s eyes flicked to a little name tag on the man’s apron that read “Kuai Liang”.

“Ah. Yes. Sorry,” he said in a hurried tone as Kuai Liang came from behind the counter to approach him.

“Is there anything I can help you with?” Kuai Liang asked, tilting his head slightly.

“Uh. Flowers.” Raiden wanted to just slap his face with his hand because of course he wanted flowers, that’s why he was in a flower shop. Kuai Liang probably thought he was stupid or something.

“Well, you’re definitely in the right place for that,” Kuai Liang giggled, and it just made him even cuter to Raiden. “Any particular flowers you’re looking for?”

“Pretty ones?” Oh. Good. If Kuai Liang didn’t already think he was a moron he definitely did now. “I’m so sorry. I’m not normally this dumb, I just have no idea what I’m actually looking for.”

Smooth. Maybe Raiden had saved himself there.

Maybe.

“I’m guessing you’re buying them as a gift for someone?” Kuai Liang enquired, reaching for a notepad in his pocket and a tiny pencil.

“Yeah, I’ve got these two friends, they’re twins so their birthday is coming up.” He rubbed the back of his head. “I know they both really like flowers so I thought a bouquet might do it.”

“Any ideas what kind of flowers they like?” Kuai Liang scribbled something down on his notepad.

“That’s the thing, I think it’s like… All flowers.” He tried to think of something that might help Kuai Liang out. “Ah, one sister really likes the colour blue, while the other loves pink.”

“Were you hoping for separate bouquets for them?” He continued to ask, writing more things down.

“Yes I think that’d be for the best.” He was sure, being twins, they got people treating them like they were the same person all the time. And even in the few short months he’d known them, he’d definitely come to appreciate that for all their similarities, they were still quite different people deep down. “So maybe one with mostly blue flowers and the other mostly pink?”

“Alright, give me a minute.”

And like that, Kuai Liang was darting around the shop, picking up various items. Raiden watched in silence as he grabbed ribbons, pruners, and paper. Then he started going between flowers. He grabbed some deep blue ones, paired with some lighter blue and some that were bordering purple. A couple of smaller white flowers too. He put them on the table together, before returning to look around again. This time he was gathering flowers of various pinks, some deep magenta and some more dusky baby pink. He also grabbed a couple of yellow flowers.

“What do you think? Before I commit to putting them together?” Kuai Liang asked, taking a step back to really observe them. Raiden wandered to join his side, looking over. He really didn’t know much about flowers, or which ones look good together, but even he could admire these flowers all complimented each other.

“They look amazing,” Raiden whispered. His personal favourite of the flowers was actually the smaller white ones, there was something delicate and sweet about them. “How long have you been doing this?”

“Ah, well, I’ve done some casual courses for flower arranging.” Kuai began to wrap the blue bouquet up, in a light pink paper Raiden now noticed. “But I’ve loved plants since I was a child, and my Mother brought me a pack of wildflower seeds to grow.”

“So, is this your shop?” He asked, because from what he knew this was a family owned business.

“Technically it’s my elder brother’s I suppose, but he did buy it for me, so.” Kuai shrugged, wrapping a sparkly blue ribbon around the bouquet and tying it in a bow. “My younger brother helps me out sometimes, but he isn’t quite as interested in plants as I am.”

“Huh.” His brother must be pretty loaded to just casually buy him a shop. Still he didn’t voice that, instead saying “you definitely seem to know what you’re doing.” He frowned, remembering something he’d read about once. “Is that stuff about flowers having meanings true or is that just a myth?”

Kuai Liang laughed as he moved onto the pink bouquet, wrapping that one in a light blue paper.

“There are some agreed upon meanings, but they’re not nearly as important as fiction would make you believe,” he said while smiling ear to ear. “That said if you ever need a bouquet to be extremely passive aggressive towards someone I can definitely help you with that.”

Raiden spluttered and covered his mouth with his hand. As he stood trying not to laugh, Kuai Liang finished up the second bouquet, scooping them both up and handing them to Raiden. They were beautiful and he was certain Kitana and Mileena would love them.

“Thank you so much,” he replied, following Kuai Liang over to the counter. “You’re amazing.” He realised what came out of his mouth and his face dropped, Kuai Liang was looking at him with an amused smile on his face. “They- they’re amazing. I mean. Sorry. Sorry.”

What is wrong with me today?

“Well, that comes to $60 all together,” Kuai Liang stated without missing a beat. Raiden reached into his pocket, passing Kuai the money he required. He opened the cash register, placing the money in and waiting for a receipt to print. Once it had, Raiden noticed he picked up a pen from the desk and wrote something on it. He didn’t think too much of it, probably just had to tick some boxes or something. He took the receipt as Kuai Liang passed it to him and said “thank you and I hope your friends like them.”

“I’m sure they will.” He gave a little bow of respect. “Thank you again.”

He might have rushed a little too quickly to the door so as not to make even more of a fool of himself. He gave a massive sigh as he went back out into the fresh air. From across the street, he saw Kung Lao.

“Hey- wow.” Kung Lao stood mouth agape at him. “Okay, going to be honest, those are way nicer than I was expecting.” He put his hand under his chin, and smirked. “How much did those cost you?”

“$60,” Raiden explained and Kung Lao blinked.

“Wait? Seriously? Only 60? When I looked it up online it was all saying in the 100’s?” Kung Lao questioned and Raiden snorted.

“You probably got results for wedding bouquets, they always put up the price for weddings,” he laughed, but it seemed Kung Lao wasn’t having it.

“Let me see the receipt.” Lao held out his hand to demand it. Raiden rolled his eyes and placed it into his hand.

Lao looked at it, eyes scanning before he reached the bottom and his eyebrow raised.

“Uh. Raiden? Have you actually looked at this?”

Raiden was confused, taking the receipt back and scanning it himself. Down at the bottom, in handwriting, was a series of numbers, sighed “call me ;) KL xx”.

“Oh.” He chuckled nervously, and there was the heat again, only now he could feel it down his neck and chest as well. His eyes were wide as he looked at Kung Lao. “Oh.”

“Seems like you managed to pick up more than flowers, huh?” Kung Lao gave him a very pronounced overdramatic wink and Raiden groaned.

“Shut up,” he muttered as he began to walk off, but he carefully put the receipt in his pocket so he didn’t lose it.

“I get to be your best man right?” Lao continued and Raiden groaned.

“Shut uppppp,” he whined, trying to drown out Lao’s teasing. Despite that though, he did find himself smiling. Maybe his awkwardness had come off as charming or otherwise endearing. It didn’t matter, all he knew was he was definitely giving that phone number a call later.

[stephensmithuk]

The Man with the Watches

Originally written in 1898 as part of a series of short stories called Round the Fire. Doyle needed money to complete a house he was building in Surrey. Insert your own jokes about actors, bad movies and extensions here.

Rugby is a town in Warwickshire, 83 miles north of London. Yes, it is where the sport of rugby is named after - more specifically Rugby School, a famous private school.

Smoking areas in British trains were gradually abolished from the 1980s, the final ones going in 2005 (GNER and Caledonian Sleeper). I have a 2000 GB-wide timetable showing where smoking was still permitted. In some cases, the trigger for the ban was the move to air-conditioned stock that would result in the smoke circulating in the rest of the train.

A Gladstone bag was a rigid-framed small suitcase that could be opened into two equal halves, named as such due to its used by William Gladstone, four-time British Prime Minister, who would start his final ministry later in 1892.

The guard's van on passenger trains was generally a specific section of a carriage that also had a caged area for carrying luggage, parcels and caged small animals.

Willesden Junction is located in Harlesden, NW London. It no longer has any platforms on the West Coast Main Line, with Avanti and London Northwestern Railway trains going straight past it. Its passenger service today is made up of London Overground Lioness line services from Euston to Watford Junction, Overground Mildmay line services from Stratford to Richmond or Clapham Junction and the Underground's Bakerloo Line from Harrow and Wealdstone to Elephant & Castle. The first and third share the same tracks, while the second operates, on lines shared with freight trains, on separate "High Level" platforms. There is a depot for Overground trains nearby.

Non-gangwayed stock i.e. carriages with no connection between them even for emergency use, continued to be built into the British Railways, with quite a few of the "first generation" of diesel and electric multiple units being built this way. Most got gangways in later refurbishments, but the Class 205 DEMU, bar one example (205205) altered in a refurbishment trial, would carry on without them until final withdrawal in 2004. Most of the survivors then promptly ended up in the hands of heritage railways.

The Bible Society of London was founded in 1804 with the aim of providing affordable Bibles in people's own languages, after the 1800 case of a woman called Mary Jones, who saved up for six years then walked 26 miles to buy a Bible in Welsh. It is still active today.

The London to Rugby line had been widened to four tracks in the 1870s. From west to east, the tracks go: Down (Northbound) Fast - Up (Southbound) Fast - Down Slow - Up Slow. Ergo, you cannot move between two Down trains without a big leap. (https://www.opentraintimes.com/maps/signalling/lec2#LINK_1)

A bunco-steerer is a swindler.

Green goodsmen operated a scam in which people were offered purportedly counterfeit notes printed using stolen plates (so appearing genuine) at a cheap price, being shown actually genuine notes in a bag. During negotiation, the bag was switched for one containing worthless goods, like sawdust or green paper. Having been duped out of real money, the victims were reluctant to report this to police as attempting to purchase fake money was illegal.

Card-sharping is cheating at cards using various means, including cutting bits of cards to mark the ones you would want. Vegas casinos frequently deliberately cut corners off used cards being sold to tourists to prevent them being snuck into their games.

Tammany refers to Tammany Hall, the corrupt political machine that had ran New York City, for much of the 19th century, leveraging support from Irish immigrants by providing them with jobs for example. It had been temporarily ousted from power after the Lexow Commission of 1894-95 into police corruption; to wit, promotions were being sold for large sums of money and officers got that through extracting protection money from brothels etc. However, it would come back in the 1898 elections and retain control with occasional breaks until 1961, when Carmine DeSapio was ousted as its leader. It then lost power and had gone by 1967.

Travelling salespeople would carry samples or models of their products on their trips, sometimes in branded containers. This has largely become a thing of the past, but is still around.

Northumberland Avenue used to have a lot of high-class hotels, but these have mostly gone. Some were taken over for government use for a while, including by the War Office.

"Mary Jane" appears to have been a slang term for a male prostitute; Mary Jane Kelly was the final victim of Jack the Ripper.