#its been a rough week lads

[battyspeak]

yeah turns out i didnt recover from arfid. i got better, as in i eat more varied foods now. but i still very much have it

[b4kuch1n]

and the storm he was driving/washed it away/in the eye there was a silence

[thegnomelord]

I REALLY LOVE THE STRAIGHTFOWARD WEREWOLVES SOAP. OMG. Its just really funny in my head, imagine the way soap would act so shameless around the reader, uncaring about the stare he got because thats just how they are! The werewolves race with their no-shit and unfiltered attitude, and oh if they take interest in you, prepare your heart especially if you has a weak one; because surely they'll cling their every waking moment with you, sniffing every spots of you that they can reach. Absurd yet endearing flirtiratios compliments would hurled at you, catching you off guard cause they just come out of nowhere. Baring their fangs at potential rivals, worst case scenario if its their own race, because they can and will get violent, best calmed the werewolves down before anything awful happened. Just a thing between werewolves to prove which one is the stronger and more qualified, whose more worthy of your love, in their point of view.

If you have the time can you make a short fic, it would be the highlight of my life for weeks!!

Okay yes but also because I love needy clingy pathetic Soap too much lol

CW: NSFW, gn reader, grinding, somnophillia, quick and rough.

You've noticed that Soap has started to act. . . strange.

He's started trying to feed you all types of stuff, mostly meat, seeking you out at all times of the day. You'll see him go out to the woods and come back with some large animal, and an hour later he'll be coming to you with a plate of food and a 'Kiss the cook' apron on (every time you have to bite back from drawing attention to the fact the arrows point down to his dick). "Hey, need that wonderful mouth of yer's to try this out." He says, watching with rapt attention as you try his food, taking every critique with a wagging tail.

And if you like his food, oh, there's a giant grin spreading across his face. "Yeah, ye like that?" He comes closer, the plate in your hands forcing distance between you two. "Reckon this cook should get a reward." He's already stepping around to press his chest flush with your back before he can finish his sentence, and you don't have the heart to stop him because the food is mouth watering and he's just scenting you, even if the occasional flick of his tongue against your nape makes you shiver. (You, again, try not to draw attention to a hard bulge grinding into your ass)

That's the other thing. He's gotten really clingy.

He's always been clingy with all the team members, nuzzling his cheek against Gaz, whining like a kicked puppy when pushes him away with a hand on his face, tail wagging as he scents Price. Usually he's satisfied after he's done scenting the lads in your team, happy to continue with his business.

But with you. . .

You can't even sit on the couch for five seconds before his burly body is snuggling up to you, taking his seat in your lap like he owns it, like he's a lap dog. Doesn't even excuse himself before his hands are groping your biceps as he nuzzles your neck. "Aye, yer so hoht," He purrs, full body rubbing against you. "Could use ye fer a blanket on cold nights." You don't know how to feel about that, his words causing your mind to stutter long enough for him to replace the scents lingering on you with his own.

And when someone enters to find you like this, he doesn't even throw them a glance, gripping onto you like a koala and all you can do is mouth a 'help me'. Doesn't work though, as the second he senses someone is getting near he's growling like a monster truck's engine, glaring at the poor sod with his face still stuck in your neck.

Or, if you're busy with something, he'll saddle up to you, ears perked up. "Oi, bonnie, hold som'ting fer me." He'll whine, tugging on your arm until you sigh.

"Fine, just give it here." You growl, holding out your arm, still concentrated on what you're doing.

Next thing you know you're cupping his jaw, his head resting on your hand. "Anyone ever tell ye, yer got perfect hands te grope with?" Johnny grins at you, that one snaggletooth fang pinching his lip, using your confusion to rub the scent glands in his cheeks against your palm, making sure you smell like him.

You shake out of your stupor and pull your hand back, resisting giving in when he gives you such a heartbroken whine. "No, Johnny." You growl and shoo him away, but he still manages to brush his tail against your leg.

You make the mistake to fall asleep on the communal couch after a grueling day of training recruits. When Johnny finds you, his nose immediately trying to get a whiff of your scent, he growls when he can barely get traces of it beneath the smell of dirt and sweat and way too many people when the only scent you should have on you is his. His inner wolf growls along with him, his ears pricking up straight, staring at your sleeping form.

He's more than happy to rectify your mistake.

He lays on top of you, purring happily to himself when you don't even shift. "Good mate," He hums to himself, wrapping around you like a blanket, face buried in your neck once again. His hands slide beneath your shirt, making him pant into your skin from the sensation of your muscles beneath his hands. He moves his body slowly, seeking to have as much skin contact as he can, mouth watering and angel bells ringing in his skull at how he can taste his scent replacing everyone else's on your skin.

He doesn't notice when he starts to nibble on your neck, but it's the sensible next move, what better way to keep competition away than let everyone know you're taken? Johnny's marks bloom across your throat as he sucks hickeys into your skin, his wolf and himself standing on common ground to make sure you're covered in his marks.

He pulls back his head to look at his work and groans, cock immediately hardening in his pants from you covered in his marks. His hips gain a life of their own, thighs gripping your own as he grinds down, already half drunk on your scent.

You wake up to find his hot breath fanning over your face, the sensation of something hard grinding against your leg dissipating any residual drowsiness. "Johnny, what the fuck?" You ask, voice rough from sleep, only now registering his weight on top of you.

"'m sorry bonnie," Johnny whines, burying his face into your neck to muffle his whining. "Just- hah- needed ye."

You grumble, but you can't hide the way heat burns through your veins at the sight of him, his face flushed, claws gripping you like you'll disappear, desperately humping against your leg.

"I can see that." You say, tensing your thigh to give aid him in his grinding, your eyes growing wide at the loud moan that escapes him, like he's a whore on camera.

"Oh, shite, thank ye, thank ye, thank ye-" He whines, his humping growing faster, butterflies fluttering in his stomach at the way you hadn't pushed him away, that you're accepting his advances, muttering 'mate' under his breath as he chases after his orgasm.

He cums before either one of you knows it, a dark stain forming in his pants as he bites down and groans into your neck. You grunt, but Soap's quick to release your skin and lap at the aching spots with his tongue, soothing the pain.

"'m sorry bonnie." He mumbles, cock still hard in his pants, his wolfish eyes settling on you. Shame nibbles on his stomach for cumming so fast when he can't smell a lot of arousal on you, his wolf growling at him to show you how good he can be.

You jump when his hand slides down to grip your crotch roughly, his pupils dilating at the way a small moan slips past your lips. "Lemme make it up fer ye yeah?"

[syneilesis]

[fic] if only for a moment

if only for a moment

Love and Deepspace | Rafayel (Qi Yu) x Main-Character!Reader | T | 3.6k words | ao3 link (with correct formatting)

Rafayel waits. And waits. And waits.

A/N: Another LaD fic!! This time it's Rafayel. Several elements of this fic are inspired by and loosely based on his story anecdotes and bond story, plus that Deep Sea card line backdrop. So more spoilers in this one, I'm afraid. I think you need to be aware of them in order to follow the flow of the fic. But if not, here's what you need to know: basically Rafayel accepts a visiting professorship at the University of Linkon to reunite with the MC/you. And the prose poetry interspersed are loosely situated in the Deep Sea card lineup setting (you can search in YouTube for the scenes. This one is a brief glimpse of the scene). That princess/knight(??) dynamic is yum yum.

If possible, please read the version on AO3. I formatted the prose poems there as if they're really prose poetry, so I'd appreciate it if you check that out. (Though there isn't too much difference between the formatting here and there, I did make the effort of coding a little 🥺)

Anyhoo, hope you enjoy, and I am sO STOKED FOR THE OFFICIAL RELEASE. rip my wallet 💸😭

JUST LOOK AT THIS MAN AND BELIEVE

There’s a type of berry in a distant land that produces a rare shade of ink that matches the color of your eyes. It takes a hundred of them to create the right hue and volume for the art that he wants to make. It comes to him in a dream: endless desert, then fireworks of verdant sparks that coalesce into stem, leaf, and, finally, fruit. Rafayel remembers that land, so much different from the iridescent blue of ocean underwater, and the acrid gold of the barren desert. His mouth filled with the succulent sweetness of the dream, the lingering sandpaper roughness of the berries on his fingers. He already knows the name of the artwork even before he’s begun—Waiting, Missing. The ache in his bones gaining form, an intangible thing taking flesh.

+

Under the ocean surface, time is muted, a deafening thickness that surrounds you with its ambiguity. On land, however, it is linear, and fast, and in a matter of blinks, Rafayel’s visiting professorship nearly wraps up.

He’s only glimpsed you once or twice. Thrice at most. The university is big, but not big enough to warrant a dearth of fateful encounters. The first time he saw you it was at a coffee shop: walking along with your friends outside, your voice mellifluous and festive wafting through the trellis of the café entrance. You were talking about him—well, about Lemuria to be specific, but these days any talk of Lemuria inevitably draws in his name.

He’s committed your schedule to memory, and yet it just seems impossible to capture a moment with you. Even just a brush of shoulders, or of sleeves—an asymptote of contact. Just navigating around your orbit, but never truly meeting.

What would it be like—finally talking to you? You in front of him, face to face? Rafayel imagines the ache of waiting fading into the background until it’s completely gone. He yearns for that feeling, the release of it. A conclusion—or maybe even a beginning.

+

i. take my hand, he told you under the glow of the lustrous moon, the only source of light that contoured the secretive valleys of his face. i want to show your highness something. there was a country, he said, beyond the undulating monochrome of the desert, blanketed by lush trees and shrubberies and flowers that buildings were made in betwixt and around them—a nation of trailing and winding architecture, a marriage of the natural and the manmade. you wanted to ask why he’d planned on taking you there, and the only answer you got was a curt turn of his head and the profile of a masked man layered by shadows and distance. it would have been nice, you thought, if the moon poured light upon his hooded gaze.

+

Eventually he begins to frequent the café. Twice a week at first—he doesn’t want to come off strong right away, of course—and then making his way up until he’s hanging out there more than his own studio. He schedules his visits around your classes, always during the ones when the probability of you dropping by the café is high and he can ‘coincidentally’ be around the same area. It’s gotten to a point that Thomas calls him out on it, and nags at him to focus more on his painting. The next exhibit is immediately after his visiting professorship after all.

“From where I’m standing,” Thomas says, “you’re not painting at all.”

Rafayel ignores him.

Five minutes later, he says, “Not painting is part of the painting process.”

Thomas rolls his eyes, but he leaves him to it.

At the café, Rafayel attracts curious looks. A few attempt to approach him, but he pretends not to see them. They linger around the periphery, like moths to flame.

And then something happens: the entrance door chimes, and you swan into the coffee shop, earphones and denim overall skirt, the kind of rosy-cheeked image Rafayel finds on teen magazines, wide-eyed and earnest. You fall in line and order when it’s your turn, and your eyes sweep across the packed café searching for a vacant seat until they finally land on him.

Rafayel’s heart stumbles.

Up close, the baby fat on your cheeks still gives you the appearance of being younger than you actually look. You turn a polite smile his way, and his heart stutters again—but this time it is taken as a warning.

“Hi,” you say, tentative. Any hint of recognition absent. “Do you mind if I sit here?”

+

ii. you're counting the steps of your inevitable parting. you're at the edge of the desert, far away from your home and its familiar scents, oriented towards a direction that promised a future sad memory, the gentle warmth of his hand, the downward denial of his gaze. this longing that grew out of your bones, aching during cold, aching during heat, aching when he looked at you with such tenderness he had to hide it through the sharp tug of your joined hands, the long strides that opened up a lonely distance. intimacy was dangerous, knowing was dangerous, the bowels of his heart like a solitary flower on a high peak. what would you do to such loneliness?

+

Memory isn't always an infallible thing. The human brain cannot hang on to every moment of your life, though Rafayel wishes it were so. But still—to think that you would forget him, and it hasn’t even been a century. You were like a phantom thief stealing his heart in the night—no recourse, no resolution.

To wait is to be in agony, the burn of yearning locked within the heart. Rafayel has been waiting for a long time, and the only memory scorched in his heart is fire, the blaze and its blinding, all-consuming want.

What would you do to such want?

+

You have a blurry childhood, Rafayel discovers. After the first Wanderer descended on Earth, the incident strummed your memories like a stringed instrument that tired of the same chord, over and over. It had bothered you at first—not being in control of your own memories—but eventually you had learned to live with it.

“Grandma and Caleb—my childhood friend—helped me through the process,” you tell him, stirring your iced mocha with its straw. “I owe them a lot.”

Eyes cast down, but still the melancholy shadows remain in your expression. Rafayel folds his arms on the table, and leans closer.

Around them only a few people occupy the coffee shop at this time. How fortunate for Rafayel to catch you during your break while every other student is trapped in class lectures.

“There’s no use in dwelling upon what's already happened. Even sharks have to give up when their prey escapes. When you remember, it will be all the more joyous, no?”

The smile you give him is crooked, disbelieving.

“If I remember.”

“You’ll remember.” Because there’s no other choice, for you and for him. Rafayel cannot bear being shelved in the history of your smile and happiness. Waiting can only be endurable if there’s an endpoint.

+

In his studio, Rafayel begins his next painting.

+

iii. the berries tasted sweet, with an edge of sourness that clung to the bottom of the tongue. it had the exact shade of your eyes, a detail that rafayel brought up the moment he plucked it from the shrub. raising it to align with your eyes, comparing them with his artist's meticulous gaze. maybe when this is all over, i'll go back here again to extract ink from these berries, and paint a portrait of your highness using these to color your eyes. he never showed you any of his paintings, merely mentioned them in passing, and you constructed a dream of him from the throwaway words that left his covered lips. i'm not used to sitting for so long, you reminded him, and he glanced at you, then at the berry between his fingers. my memory is enough, then handed you the fruit.

+

In the few weeks of meeting with you Rafayel forgets that his visiting professorship is ending soon and he has to give out his last lecture. Thomas had asked him what his topic would be. At that point Rafayel had no answer. But now he has.

“I’ve been hearing you talk about Lemuria every now and then with your friends.” He props his cheek on his hand, tilting his head slightly and giving you a charming smile. “Interested?”

You blink. “How did you know?”

“Oh, I’ve seen you a couple of times here, and I happened to hear your friends chat about my lecture. Your points were almost accurate, I’m in awe.”

“The visiting professor—that’s you?!”

Rafayel pauses, the slosh of his drink nearly spilling on his frozen hand.

“You didn’t know?”

Sheepish, you say, “Honestly, I didn’t make the connection. Is that why plenty of people have been glaring at me as of late?”

He releases a frustrated sigh, eyes rolling heavenward.

“In any case, my final lecture is on Friday next week. It’s titled “Memory and Meaning in Lemurian Art”. Why don’t you drop by and listen, and you can tell me what you think afterwards.”

You retrieve your bullet journal to check your schedule. It’s colorful, filled with stickers and doodles that Rafayel finds endearing. Then the excited moue on your face drops into a frown, and Rafayel can foresee the next words that will come out of your downturned lips.

“I’m sorry,” you say guiltily, “but I have a major test that day, and I need to get a high score in order to pass the course.”

Rafayel exhales, long and weary, but ultimately shrugs off the apology. “What a shame, but I forgive you. Just don’t fail your exam or else my magnanimity would be all for nothing.”

+

He calls Thomas that night.

“I’ll disappear for a while once the professorship is over.”

“Hey, wait, what do you me—”

“You’ll be happy to know that this is for my next painting.”

A beat. “Okay … but for how long?”

“That’s the question, isn’t it?”

Then he hangs up.

+

He’s trying, he really does. The lecture ends to a resounding applause, and it’s mechanical how he answers the questions posed by the audience. But he’s trying, he’s trying. There’s no specter of you in the sea of faces in the auditorium. You’re at the other end of the university compound, sweating your way through your exam. He genuinely hopes you’d pass, for your sake.

Thomas had booked his flight to another country, where he’ll traverse to a land that he’d visited many times in his dreams and had woken up with a filmy, sweet-sour tang at the roof of his mouth. He’ll leave the morning after the closing dinner party the faculty has prepared for him. There isn’t time to pack much, and no time to tell you goodbye.

Rafayel guesses that it’s only fair: how would you feel waiting for him at that café, the chair across you empty, only the sunlight pooling from the window as your companion?

+

iv. parting, somebody once said, is such a sweet sorrow. much like those berries in that ever-green nation, a lingering sourness remained underneath, the sting of it reminding you every now and then. he was already mourned for even before he left. tell me what it's like—the ocean. he was elusive, untouchable in his grief. you'd heard through whispers, the story of his migration, the drowning before the drying, the unwanted journey. grief brought him to you and grief would steal him away from you, you knew, down to the cells of your body and the hopelessness in your blood. —and yet. and yet you wanted to have a taste of it, anyway.

+

The ever-green land is no longer green, or lush, or alive. Time corroded it into memory, sepia-faded, wizened. Past. The berries he’s searching for don’t grow here anymore. Everything here is empty, barren, helplessly so.

Rafayel hasn’t accounted for such development, but he should have known. Disappointment stings at his chest, and bitterly he turns away and stays at the next town over. At a family-run restaurant situated near the outskirts, he looks over the wide windows, across the highway road, beyond the jagged horizon. The painting won’t be finished, then. Another tragedy, pressed flat next to the forgetting, to the waiting, and his home.

The chef personally serves him his order and, after a shuffle of hesitation, brings up a question.

“Young man, you came from the direction of the old country, yeah?”

Rafayel meets his inquisitive gaze. “Yes, why?”

“It’s been a while since we had someone visiting that place. There’s nothing in there anymore, it’s been that way for years. Why did you go there?”

Rafayel is reluctant to say, but at the guileless set of the older man’s face, he concedes.

“I was looking for berries. The ones native there. They produce a shade that I need for my painting.”

At the mention of the fruit, the chef’s expression lights up. “Oh! I see, I see. You’re in luck, son. We grow them here at the farm. Plenty of those for everyone. How about I give you some? It’s rare meeting someone who still remembers the old country, it’s almost fate. How many did you say you need?”

Fate. Just like the time of your first meeting, as if the universe had gifted you to him. Just like the time of your parting, of your forgetting, of his waiting. Fate as a connection from you to him, red and burning brightly.

He doesn’t want to seem eager, but he knows he’s failed from the way the chef toothily grins at him.

“A hundred or so.”

The chef falters at that, jerking slightly back. But he accepts it with a nod, an avuncular smile making its way across his kind, powdery features.

“That sure is a huge number, but I think we can work something out.”

+

His painting takes a month to complete, inclusive of the time spent making the ink from the acquired berries. Sometimes, Thomas watches him paint, quiet in the background. His stays usually don’t last—a quick flash that Rafayel nearly misses, or deliberately ignores. But during the final stages of the painting process, Thomas hands him the exhibit details.

“I’m just thankful you’re on time for this one.” He sighs, relieved, then leaves.

Alone, Rafayel creates. Brushstroke after careful brushstroke, each varying by pressure and angle. He lets each layer of paint dry before moving onto the next. The berry ink—the color of your eyes—the solely different element of this painting. Center, central. The focal point. The beating heart. The years and years of waiting and longing. The form and the flesh. Alive.

This, too, is an endpoint.

+

v. can i see your face, just this once? your hands grazed his mask like a ghost wanting to touch. rafayel stayed still beneath your desirous fingers, observing, waiting, his own fingers twitching towards his dagger. even in the parting he could not let go of this distance. hopeless, hopeless. your highness would get nothing out of seeing my face. he's wrong, his eyes never left your face, and he's wrong. he didn't stop you from your grasping of his mask, and him—finally—bare and beautiful yet a little sad. you're wrong, you said, tracing his slightly parted lips with a trembling finger, you're wrong. it is everything to me.

+

The gallery is packed. No surprise there. It’s almost boring, in a way. Waiting, Missing hangs at the farthest hall in the floor, special and intimate as it should be. Thomas knows him well; otherwise, Rafayel would have whined at him to hell and back just so he could be granted this demand that is in reality a mandate.

He’s hiding from the throngs of journalists and art critics alike and sequesters himself in a corner that has a clear view of the painting. Loosening his collar and tie, Rafayel breathes and closes his eyes, leans tiredly against the wall. A few more minutes, and he’ll slink out of the building, reputation be damned.

He melts into the shadows whenever somebody passes by. He has neither time nor energy interacting with people today. Watching them through half-mast eyes, Rafayel stays in his secret place and studies with weightless detachment the people looking at the painting.

He’s made a bet with himself about the opinions of his followers and admirers. Who thinks what and why. It makes for great entertainment. The last time, a fresh-faced critic praised Rafayel’s technique as “innovative and a soul-rending reflection of the prodigy’s character.” He had laughed and laughed for hours until he couldn’t breathe any longer.

Another walks by, and before Rafayel retreats further into the corner, he glimpses a familiar gait and a familiar face.

His heartbeat races. He’s never told you that he’s holding an exhibit today. After the professorship Rafayel failed to maintain communication with you, convincing himself that it’s for the best that he protect you from afar that day onwards. It didn’t help that he had to leave as well. At the same time, you never made an effort of reaching out, and Rafayel thought that it was back to square one again, that waiting, that yearning.

But here you are right now, elegantly dressed, like someone gliding out of a dream. Rafayel swallows, his hands shake. You do not have someone else with you, and your eyes are brightly focused on Waiting, Missing, and for a fleeting moment your expression flickers into longing, strange and old and battered and sad, that it compels Rafayel to take a step forward—to you.

“Hey.”

The curious look vanishes; left no traces in your delighted face, as if it wasn’t there in the first place. “Rafayel!” you exclaim. “Long time no see! Congratulations on the exhibit; these are all beautiful.”

Outwardly he smirks, belying the torrential emotions he’s currently going through. He cants his head a little, works his charm on you. “Impressed? No need to hold back your compliments.”

Laughter, prismatic and crystalline. “Yes, yes. Especially this one—Waiting, Missing. What an interesting title. At the center, what paint did you use?”

Ah. Rafayel inhales before answering. “It’s actually ink. I had to make it from a hundred berries. It was a tedious process, but I wouldn’t use anything else. It has to be this, you see.”

“Whoa, no wonder you’d been radio silent all this time. You were creating this masterpiece.”

He hums, afraid that, if he speaks, he’d reveal too much.

“Well …” You throw a playful glance at him. “Shouldn’t we celebrate your success?”

His breath catches. “I—”

Before he manages to finish the sentence, a journalist calls out to him and that summons plenty more, swarming him with no chance of escape. It pushes you out of his peripheral vision, and Rafayel wants to shout your name, but you smile and gesture at him to entertain them first. You mouth, I’ll be back, and wander around other paintings some more.

When he finally succeeds in shaking the journalists off, he seeks you out and stumbles upon you near the exit, where there’s fewer people to pile on him.

“Excellent,” he says, sidling up beside you. You turn to him and smile, and there’s that lightning-flash of something again. For one unbelievably surreal instant, Rafayel thinks that despite your hazy memories, maybe you’d been waiting for him all this time, too.

And that thought emboldens him, moving closer and closer until your bodies almost touch. An asymptote of contact. But this time, he has mustered the courage to close that unbridgeable gap.

Rafayel offers you his hand. “Let’s get out of here?”

You stare at his hand then at his face, his eyes, and a meaningful moment stretches between you and him. But even before the idea of retracting enters his mind, you grab his hand joyfully, grinning ear to ear. His heart warms, full with everything.

You squeeze his hand, ready to go. “Lead the way, then!”

+

vi. a kiss is a greeting and a goodbye, and rafayel tasted of ferocious tides even if you'd seen them only in dreams. his eyes closed, as though savoring his last moments with you, guarded till the bitter end. would that i could ask you to stay—with me. but he shook his head—a final rejection. maybe in another life. there was nobody to watch you cry, in the after.

+

Rafayel is working on a new painting—a portrait this time. The model squirms on his couch, obvious about the discomfort of posing for too long. He huffs a laugh to himself, hidden by the canvas strategically placed between them.

“I heard that,” you grumble.

“Shush, you’re breaking my concentration.”

“If that already breaks your focus then I pity the rest of the art community.” A beat, then: “Is it done?”

“Patience, my dear muse. You need endure it a little more.”

“Hmph, fine. But after this you’re treating me to an all-you-can-eat buffet.”

“All right, all right.” He shakes his head, fond. “My muse, so demanding.”

Something sweet touches the edge of his tongue, succulent with a hint of tartness. Like longing. Except now, it’s layered with something new and exciting. Something like a new beginning.

In the far distance, the sea murmurs, lit fire by the setting sun.

[scarred0and-starry]

The Valkyries-Love Languages

AN: back again to finish this prompt up with the girls! this writing style feels quite a bit different than what I did for the lads but I think I'm going to stick to this, It flows much better and is more detailed to me, hopefully it's alright. enjoy!

-starly ☆

Lily J. Evans Acts of service.

Lily is the mum friend, whether she’ll admit it or not. She’s the one with the book you didn’t know you needed, or potion ingredients you forgot to gather. It’s not her duty--just who she is. Anything to lighten the load, put a smile on your face, is more than enough for her.

“I love you but you’re running around like a fwooper with its head cut off. I don’t know why you waited so long to pack, we’re off tomorrow for Merlin’s sake.”

Marlene’s voice cut through the chaos, bemused, but fond as she lounged on her bed, Mary perched in her lap. You groan dramatically from underneath the large four poster bed, where you’d crawled to gather more of your things.

“I was stressed out with exams! I wanted to relax afterwards and now I’ve left myself with this load of bollocks!”

“Right, because cramming in a week of pranks with the boys is such a relaxing pastime,” Mary teased, her voice muffled by laughter. Marlene snorted in agreement. Your protests were interrupted by the creak of the dormitory door and familiar footsteps approaching. You didn’t need to look to know who it was.

“Still alive under there, my love?” Lily’s voice was warm, threaded with quiet amusement.

“Lil—SHIT!” In your haste to crawl out from underneath bed, you smacked your head against the frame with a resounding thud. You stayed there for a moment, flat on your back, blinking at the redhead who leaned over you with a bemused smile.

“Alive,” you muttered, wincing. “Not well.” Lily knelt, extending a hand to help you up. She didn’t let go once you were seated, her grip steadying amidst the chaos. “Maybe if you’d spent a little less time scheming with the lads, you wouldn’t be in this mess?” You groaned, flopping backward onto your bed. “Probably. But you have to admit, the Great Hall beach prank? Iconic.”

“Iconic,” Lily deadpanned, though her lips twitched. “Come on, let me help. You’ve been at this all day, and I’m free.”

“But my things—”

“I’ve got it,” she insisted, nudging you toward the door. “You need to breathe. Go terrorize someone else for a while.”

Reluctantly, you grabbed your wand. “Accio shoes!” The pair zoomed into your hands as you tugged them on, sparing Marlene and Mary a quick goodbye. But before you made it far, Lily’s voice stopped you.

“Excuse me?” She stood with her arms crossed, head tilted in mock indignation.

Grinning, you turned back and swept her into a flurry of kisses, your laughter mingling with hers. It was only after she shooed you down the corridor that she let herself relax, watching as you disappeared with an energy she couldn’t quite understand but loved all the same.

Smiling softly to herself, she began to fold a stray jumper. “What am I going to do with them?”

Mary and Marlene just smile.

Mary MacDonald Gift giving.

Mary MacDonald’s love language is gift-giving, though she’s far from flashy about it. It’s the quiet thoughtfulness behind every token that makes it so distinctly her. Whether it’s a neatly pressed flower tucked into your book, your favorite chocolate left on your pillow after a rough day, or a scarf she knitted during the long winter evenings, each gift is a little piece of her heart. She sees you. She sees you.

Mary never needed grand gestures to show her love. It was in the little things, the moments you might not even notice at first. Like the time she slipped a bundle of quills onto your desk when yours kept snapping under the pressure of exams. Or the way she always seemed to have a stash of your favorite biscuits ready, wrapped in parchment with a note that read, “just because.”

After a particularly grueling day, you walked into the dorm and spotted a small box sitting on your bed. You opened it to find a charm bracelet, simple and delicate, with a single charm—a tiny star. A small note was tucked inside. “You seemed tired today. Thought you could use a reminder that you shine even when you don’t feel it. Love, Mary."

You smiled softly to yourself, slipping the bracelet onto your wrist. When you looked up, Mary was sitting cross-legged on her bed, eyes flicking over the pages of a book, though you could tell she was waiting for your reaction.

"Mary, this is—" you started, shaking your head in disbelief.

She glanced up, her cheeks heating up just a little. "You seemed like you needed a little something. You’ve been running on empty the past few days."

"How do you always know?" you teased, walking over to sit beside her.

Mary shrugged, a small smile playing at her lips as she closed her book. "You talk in your sleep sometimes," she teased back, nudging you lightly with her shoulder.

You laughed, leaning in to kiss her softly. "I don’t know how I ever managed without you. Thank you darling. Really."

She leaned her head against yours, her voice soft as she whispered, "I just want to remind you that you’re worth it, even on the tough days."

You didn’t need more words. With her, there was nothing to prove—just the comfort of knowing she understood you in ways that only the quiet, thoughtful gestures could express.

Marlene McKinnon Physical touch.

Marlene McKinnon’s love language is physical touch, pure and simple. After a particularly brutal Quidditch match—her hair tangled with wind and sweat, bruises blooming on her skin, and the roar of the crowd still echoing in her ears—she doesn’t need words. She doesn’t even need healing spells right away. What she craves is you. The quiet warmth of your embrace, the grounding press of your hand in hers, the way you tuck her against your chest as if shielding her from the world. In those moments, nothing else matters. The pain dulls, the adrenaline fades, and all she can feel is you. Every crash, bruise, and aching muscle is worth it—because it always brings her back to this.

The crowd had roared when Marlene caught the Quaffle mid-dive, her body twisting with impossible grace, but all she felt now was the dull ache of impact. The game had been brutal—bludgers flying too close, tackles that left bruises blooming across her skin—but it was over. The victory felt hollow against the bone-deep exhaustion settling into her frame.

By the time she stumbled into the common room, the adrenaline had worn off entirely. And there you were, perched on the arm of the sofa, looking up from a book the moment she entered. Marlene didn’t say anything, just crossed the room in a few strides and melted into your arms, burying her face in their neck.

“You okay?” you murmur, fingers already tangling in her hair.

“Mm,” she mumbled, nodding faintly. Words weren’t what she needed—just this. Just the warmth of your body anchoring hers, the way your hand slid down to her waist to hold her steady. She shifted to press her weight more firmly against you, sighing deeply as the tension began to ebb away.

You chuckle softly, tossing your book to the nearest surface. “Rough game?”

“You could say that,” she replied, voice muffled. She pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, her lips twitching into a tired smile. “But I’ve got you. That’s all I need right now.”

And she leaned in again, letting the world fade away as your arms wrapped tighter around her.

Dorcas Meadowes Acts of service

Dorcas Meadowes’ love language is acts of service. She doesn’t always have the words to express how she feels, but her actions speak louder than anything she could say. Whether it’s fixing a broken broomstick when you’ve had a tough day or quietly taking on extra chores to lighten your load, Dorcas shows her love in the way she anticipates the needs of those around her. For her, love isn’t about grand declarations; it’s about being there.

Dorcas never made a big deal out of things. She wasn’t one for showy gestures or dramatic declarations of love. Instead, she showed her affection in quiet, meaningful ways.

After a long day of classes, you walked into the common room, exhausted, and found Dorcas bent over a stack of papers. Her brow furrowed as she scribbled notes, but she immediately looked up when she noticed you. "Hey, you look wiped," she said, pushing the papers aside and standing. "You didn’t eat anything at lunch, did you?"

You opened your mouth to protest, but she was already up, rummaging through the cabinets for snacks. "I thought so," she muttered to herself as she found a small jar of honey and a piece of bread, handing them to you. "Sit. Eat."

You took the food from her with a smile, watching her busy herself, pulling out a blanket and spreading it across the couch. She sat down next to you, wordlessly handing you a cup of tea before settling in close, her shoulder brushing against yours.

"You didn’t have to do all this," you said softly, feeling the weight of her thoughtfulness sink in. "You’ve got your own stuff to do, too."

She shrugged, a gentle smile on her lips. "You looked like you needed someone to just… take care of you for a bit. Besides," she added with a small laugh, "this is more my speed than all the talking anyway."

You leaned into her, feeling the steady warmth of her presence, and for once, you didn’t need anything more than that. In her quiet way, Dorcas always seemed to know exactly what you needed.

[sherlockholmes-real]

Kinktober day 6- Clothed

Sherlock BBC- Johnlock

Sherlock is notoriously an over worker. He over works himself till he passes out from exhaustion, John sees this quite often. It happens almost every other week, he knows Sherlock doesnt take care of himself but there isn't much he can usually do about it. Sherlock typically just shrugs him off.

John does like to take care of him, though. He'd never admit it, but being there for Sherlock is important to him, Sherlock is the most important person to him in the world. So when Sherlock pushes himself to his limits, Johns is there to help out. Today was especially gruesome. John had woken up from his sleep and saw Sherlock sprawled out on the couch the papers surrounding him.

"Sherlock?" John said quietly.

Sherlock glanced up to see John. His hair was a mess, and he was shirtless, something he didn't really do often. He inspected the older man looking for a sign of something off, but it didn't seem to be anything. "Yes?" He replied.

"What're you doing?' John asked yawning.

Sherlock squinted at him, "I'm working, can't you see?" He rolled his eyes.

"Yes, but, you've been awake for-," John pauses, "Like seventy-two hours."

He glances down at his watch, "Oh, I have." He sighs, "I haven't time to stop though so," He trails off his sentence with the 'so' and looks back down at the files.

"What if I make you stop?" John asked slightly.

Sherlock looked back up at him again bewildered, "What?" perhaps he hadn't heard him correctly.

"I said," John said smirking, "What if I make you stop." He takes a couple steps closer to Sherlock.

The taller man seems to be in a state of shock, was he implying what he thought he was implying? He definitely was. "I don't understand?" Sherlock replied, a tent growing in his too tight trousers.

"You understand perfectly well," John smiled growing closer till he was just at Sherlocks feet. "I need you to solve a crime for me, can you be a good boy and do that?"

"I-, uhm," Sherlock stutters the words hitting him like a hammer upside the hide, "Yes, that's what I was trying to do." He crosses his legs as the boner grows uncomfortably, pushing against the fabric.

"Good," John says leaning down to place a kiss to Sherlocks lips and a hand against the raging boner. Sherlock excepts the kiss gratefully, leaning in for more before John pulls away, "Solve it." He palms through the rough fabric.

"Right." His mind palace might be malfunctioning for the first time ever, he revels in the feeling of Johns hand touching him. He picks up the papers with shaky hands, "Well, uhm." He whimpers as John gets particularly rough with it, "T-the boyfriend had motive but," he moans quietly, John nods his head along looking Sherlock in his eyes, "But, it wasn't him, couldn't have been."

Sherlock thrusts his hips into Johns hand, these trousers were going to be ruined, and they were tailored to fit him so nice. "Good boy, who did it? Who killed her?" John said slowly.

"I don't- Ahh," Sherlocks eyes felt as if they rolled back into his head, "Oh." He began, "Oh! Its been right under my nose John, the whole time."

John gave him a small, "Hm?" starting to palm him a little faster.

"It was her father." He moaned a little louder, "Oh god, John."

"Look at you, smart lad, figured it out all by yourself. Do you want to be rewarded for figuring it out?" John asked him, his voice soothing. Sherlock nodded vigorously in response not even caring about his freshly tailored trousers. "Words, love. You talk so much I know you can use them."

"Yes, please," Sherlock tossed his head back closing his eyes, "Just, please let me-" He cut himself off.

"Let you what?" John asked his voice clearly teasing.

"Don't be such a tease John, let me cum." Sherlock whined, his hips thrusting up to meet Johns palm rapidly.

"Good boy." John smiled as Sherlocks hip thrusting got more frantic and his whimpers louder, until a nice big wet spot was formed in his trousers.

He was mildly annoyed at having to get them dry cleaned but it was an after thought and he'd probably make John do it anyways. After he came down from his high and John was sat next to him on the couch he turned his head to him. "What was that?" Sherlock asked.

"What do you mean?" John answered innocently.

"You know what I'm talking about." Sherlock sighed.

John smiled and placed his hand on top of Sherlocks, "I was taking care of you."

"Can I take care of you sometime?" The taller asked quietly, his voiced seemed to shake but only slightly.

"We take care of each other, Sherlock, we always have." John said matter of a factly and with that Sherlock layed his head on the others shoulder and fell asleep quicker than he would have probably liked, without changing out of his soiled mess.

[ofcartographers]

○ little lady — johnny “soap” mactavish/simon “ghost” riley — fluff

「 Soap lets out a bark of laughter before yanking out his phone from his pocket, shoving the device in Ghost’s face. “Ye mean my cat, ye daft cunt?” Displayed on his lockscreen is a picture of a pristine white cat, with its baby blue eyes boring holes into the camera, its nose upturned almost in a feline sneer — if Ghost squints he can see the inscription of ‘Little Lady’ on its bejeweled collar. --- ᴏʀ: there's a misunderstanding and Ghost thinks 'Little Lady' is Soap's girl and gets jealous 」

Ghost wasn’t typically one for water cooler gossip, especially for asinine topics such as latest shags. 

He had resigned himself to ending his workout early and perhaps later returning to the fitness center when there were less nuisances around, when a certain Scot found himself the center of attention.

“Speaking of birds, I’ve heard you got one, MacTavish?” A nameless Sergeant asks. 

Ghost decides that perhaps he can stay a bit longer and finish up his session on the punching bag. 

The Scot pushes himself up from his reclined position on the weight bench with a huff. “Yer aff yer heid!” Soap laughs breathlessly, slumping over to catch his breath from his recent set.

“You taking the piss? Who’s this ‘Little Lady’ then?” Nameless Sergeant chuffs. Ghost is beginning to dislike him. 

Soap visibly perks at the mention of the name. “Och aye! My Little Lady? Sweetest little puss you’ll ever see—” 

Ghost punches the bag hard enough to knock it off-kilter, its chains rattling loudly as it wobbles to-and-fro. The entire room falls silent and all eyes are suddenly on him. 

He says nothing and exits the room in angry strides. No one stops him.

---

It’s easy enough for Ghost to avoid certain people should he desire to do so — after all, it is one of the reasons for his moniker.

It becomes less difficult to do so when it’s a member of the 141 and Price is involved. It’s just the Captain and Ghost pouring over mission proposals and leave logistics — one of the caveats of higher ranks — when Soap decides to pop on by.

Dressed in a faded hoodie that’s seen better days and a duffle bag slung loosely over his shoulder, Soap acknowledges his two superiors with a wide grin. “Captain! LT!” He waves with his free hand.

Ghost merely gives a grunt and the slightest nod of acknowledgement in return. “Soap!” Price returns with a nod and eyes his luggage. “Heading home to Glasgow then?” He quips.

Soap chuckles and nods, thumbing his nose almost bashfully. “Aye, I’ve been away from my Little Lady too long.” Ghost tenses at the pet name, but says nothing, instead choosing to focus on the suddenly interesting paperwork that’s set in front of him.

“Good, lad!” Price nods, and Ghost swears he sees Soap preen at this. “Well, don’t let us keep you then.” And just like that, the Captain is waving him off, “Oh, and say ‘hi’ to Elsie for me.” Ghost’s head snaps up at this. Sod the paperwork.

“Will do. Ta!” Soap calls out and he’s gone before Ghost can even say anything.

Ghost feels like the wind’s been knocked out of him. “Price, you know about her?” He manages to croak out, unable to bring himself to say her name.

Price looks at him as if he’s grown three heads. “About Elsie? Of course I bloody know about her. Even met her a few times.” He scoffs incredulously and his eyes start to soften and he’s giving Ghost the same look as one would a wounded animal and— 

“I need a smoke” Ghost announces suddenly and leaves before Price can get a word in.

---

It had been a couple of weeks since the ‘incident’ in Price’s office, and a few more since Ghost had seen Soap last. He knew it was inevitable they would cross paths again, though he wasn’t quite anticipating Soap to plop down next to him in the mess hall.

A rough hand claps him on the shoulder, accompanied by the warmth of a body pressing into his side as the Scot slides into the seat next to him. “Ghost,” he regards with a nod, removing his hand after a beat too long — the warmth of his hand, immediately missed.

Like moths to a flame, Soap attracts the unwanted attention of others in the room and suddenly the empty table Ghost had been sitting at moments prior was nearly full, much to his displeasure and had resolved on finishing up his meal quickly when a nuisance makes himself known.

“Looks like someone had a good leave, eh?” Nameless Sergeant tuts from behind Soap, hooking a finger into the collar of the Scot’s t-shirt and tugging it aside to put the tanned skin of his shoulder on display.

If Ghost strains his eyes, he can just barely make out a few lines of what appear to be scratches peeking out from the now disarrayed collar of Soap’s stupidly tight t-shirt.

Soap slaps away the offending hand and struggles to tug his collar back in place. “Awa’ an bile yer heid!” He blusters, the tips of his ears now red with embarrassment.

Nameless Sergeant just laughs and slides into the open seat next to Soap. “Your ‘Little Lady’ do that t’ya?” He hums, slinging an arm around Soap’s shoulder casually. He’s much too close for Ghost’s liking and decides that he definitely dislikes the man.

Soap tenses at the contact but doesn’t move to shake him off. “Aye” He sighs and hangs his head, his hand absentmindedly fiddling with his mohawk — a nervous habit of his, Ghost notices.

Clearly the Nuisance isn’t finished digging his own grave because his next question makes Ghost freeze mid-bite. “Got any pics?” Nameless Sergeant asks and Soap nods, digging in his pocket for his phone and pulling it out for him to see. Ghost can’t see his screen — he doesn’t want to.

As soon as Soap begins swiping through his photo album, people begin clamoring around him for a glance at his Little Lady —  it’s a mixed reaction, with a few chuckles here and there with the occasional coo, which strikes Ghost as odd.

“Nice pussy,” Nameless Sergeant sniggers at a particular picture.

Ghost slams down his fist on the table, and the entire mess hall goes dead silent — all eyes are on him. 

Soap looks at him with eyes wide, his brow wrinkled with concern. “Ghost?” He asks meekly, his hand reaching out for his shoulder and—

He can’t deal with this. Ghost abruptly pushes himself up from his seat, yanks down his balaclava that’s bunched around his nose, and storms out of the mess hall. This time someone tries to stop him.

“Ghost!” Soap is yelling after him, but he ignores him and increases his strides. “Simon!” Ah, shit. His steps falter.

Soap wastes no time in catching up to him, clapping a hand on his shoulder to keep the taller man in place — Ghost doesn’t have the heart to shrug him off. “What?” He grounds out through clenched teeth.

The hand on his shoulder gives a surprisingly sharp tug and he’s now about-face with his Sergeant. “Why’re ye up to high dogh?” Soap pants, his face red — though Ghost isn’t sure whether it’s from exertion or fluster.

And because he’s a right bastard, Ghost can’t help the sneer that escapes him. “English, MacTavish,” he coos instinctively — old habits die hard.

The tips of Soap’s ears turn red and his flush spreads down his neck — ah, so fluster then. “What the fuck is your problem?” The Scot grits out slowly, making sure to enunciate each word clearly, masking his accent entirely.

Soap is attempting to stare him down and his grip that’s now fisted in the bigger man’s shirt is unyielding — stubborn bastard. “Christ, Johnny!” Ghost finally snaps. “I don’t want to hear about that shite from you. Especially about your bloody girl!” He spits, his voice laced with venom especially at the mention of Soap’s ‘girl.’ 

Soap’s eyes have gone wide and his mouth is agape — it takes a few seconds of him slowly blinking before he’s shouting. “What girl?!” He actually throws his hands up in exasperation. It’s almost comical.

Ghost arches a brow at Soap’s confusion, but chooses to remain steadfast. “Your ‘Little Lady’?” He scoffs — he still refuses to say her name.

Soap lets out a bark of laughter before yanking out his phone from his pocket, shoving the device in Ghost’s face. “Ye mean my cat, ye daft cunt?” 

Displayed on his lockscreen is a picture of a pristine white cat, with its baby blue eyes boring holes into the camera, its nose upturned almost in a feline sneer — if Ghost squints he can see the inscription of ‘Little Lady’ on its bejeweled collar.

Ghost feels gut-punched. “What?” Is all he can manage to croak out.

The Scot points an accusatory finger at the bigger man’s chest and starts laughing breathlessly. “You’re jealous!” He accuses, tears start to form in the corner of his eyes from laughter.

Ghost doesn’t say anything.

“Over a cat!” Soap howls with laughter.

Ghost bristles at this. “Shut. Up.” He hisses.

Soap continues to crowd into his space until they’re pressed chest-to-chest — the finger that was digging into his chest, now curls into his collar.  “Make me.” He breathes, peering up at Ghost through wet lashes, his doe-eyed gaze focusing on Ghost’s clothed covered mouth.

Ghost lifts up his balaclava and acquiesces, of course.

[albatris]

Hemlo I was on the bus today and was wondering about how darling Alexis was turned into a vampire can you shed some light on this perhaps maybe :)???

Hiii!!

Ya absolutely I can shed some light on this! But I'm afraid it's a pretty depressing series of events :c poor sweet darling Alexis Anders

Here is a short but tragic answer, and then a lil about what immediately follows, tw for brief talk of suicidality, coercion and animal death -

Alex was turned entirely by accident. wrong place wrong time :c

When it was 17 it was attacked by a starving vampire, one who was confused and alone n had been struggling not to hurt anyone, a schoolteacher named Amanda Fies. There was no thought behind the attack, it was just a total loss of control

A hunter stepped in before Amanda could drain Alex (Zeke's old mentor - hi Niamh!) and killed Amanda thus "saving" Alex. Truth be told, she was absolutely about to move on to killing Alex next, knowing it would turn due to its injuries. However, people showed up before she could finish the job and were all like "aaa we heard screaming oh my god that child is bleeding someone call an ambulance", so Alex was whisked away to hospital instead to deal with its blood loss and wounds

Alex dealt with the usual onset of symptoms - sunlight sensitivity, intrusive thoughts, paranoia, isolation, sensory overload, sudden bloodlust - and turned around a week later, when it accidentally killed [REDACTED] who it considered a friend and mentor and who was only there to try and help :c Whole thing is very sad and awful, Alex had a big ol' crisis about it of course and carries a severe amount of guilt, it was a terrible thing to have to go through

Alex spends its early vampire days confused and alone, all the while Niamh is attempting to track down this mystery kid she didn't get a chance to kill. She eventually catches up with Alex a few weeks later, after it had spent some time feeding on animals to try and keep from harming humans

Niamh sits and talks with Alex for a bit, and gently explains that while it can subsist on animal blood for a while, it can't survive solely on animal blood and eventually it will cave to its thirst and kill a human, and it doesn't want that, right? After all, the fact that it's even trying to live off animal blood and is willing to sit and have a civil conversation with a hunter proves it's one of the Good Ones, anyone can see that, smile? Doesn't it want to be a good person and not a monster? Doesn't it understand the only good and moral and kind thing it can do is die? Come on, it won't hurt at all, Niamh is very good with a knife, and this is The Only Right Thing To Do, Alex Knows That, Right?

So um. Yes Niamh very politely but VERY aggressively tries to persuade Alex to just peacefully let her murder it and Alex very nearly listens to her, but its nerve breaks at the last minute, possibly due to its heightened vampiric instinct for self-preservation kicking into overdrive, or possibly just because Alex is a frightened confused kid who doesn't want to die, n Alex bolts

Alex more or less abandons its entire life and skips town shortly after, scared of being tracked down by Niamh again or hurting the ones it loves. Vanishes without a trace as best it can. Then we reach the parts of Alex's story that I've already talked about, where it hops from place to place and attempts to only feed on Bad People and Criminals (and struggles with this because hardly any of the humans Alex can actually access are Bad and Criminals for funsies :c), then it goes to the wilderness for a while and tries to fight god, then it meets Quinn, yada yada

But uhhh yeah!!! yeah the tale of Alex turning is not a fun one unfortunately :(((

But!!! Of course 30-year-old Alex is in a much better place!! even if it still has a lot of work to do with its mental health!! Young Alex has a rough go of it but it's not all doom and gloom I promise

I will let the lad be happy <3333

[underwater-i-will-go]

these are my final call to do something so very unwise. or very wise, however you may few it.

(quite a rough one so please proceed with caution)

"WE'RE BACK BABY!"

is yelled through the tunnel. one player that is usually not so vocal is shouting in joy tonight. it's nick. "and a clean sheet too! good job mate!" dan shouts back giving him a quick pat on the shoulder. "you were massive tonight, you were everywhere!" nick hadn't had the pleasure of keeping a clean sheet for a while, first one this season anyway, and the joy of it is practically written all over his face. just when his teammates thought his smile couldn't grow any wider, he spotted kieran by the end of the hall. suddenly, as if everything else around him had become a blur, it was just kieran in his eyes. like a light, glowing. he just stood there chatting with eddie but all nick saw was his aura, noise around him becoming dull, voices unrecognisable as if everyone spoke a foreign language. just kieran, his light.

he wanted to run over to him, pick him up and throw him over his shoulder but although the thing they were having is basically an open secret in the dressing room, they liked the thrill of sharing small glances with each other, the quick kisses when nobody was watching. nick waited for everyone to pass on and return to their own business before slowly making his way over to kieran, who did the same. "not suspicious at all, huh. not noticeable." kieran joked when nick plunged his large body next to kieran on the wall. "just having a chat with my captain, what's suspicious about that?" nick and kieran stood shoulder to shoulder, their kits sticking to one another. "proper wet you are, should probably get in the showers?" nick pointed out. "well it rained, too. not just sweat." kieran exclaimed "but when it bothers you so much i guess i could take a shower." nick shook his head "nah. don't mind it. i do mind it on you, though."

kieran smiled, playing dumb. nick loved that. "huh? come again? what are you trying to say?" nick cupped kieran's face, his thumb slowly drawing circles on his cheek "let's swap kits?" he suggested, kieran's cheeks becoming hotter under his touch. "you wouldn't fit into mine, would you?" nick could feel himself get hard just by the anticipation, kieran's scruffy face scratching his thumb. the air was electrified, maybe it was joy of winning after so many loses, maybe it was just that it had been two weeks since they had last seen each other.

"i could devour you whole, all of you." nick said now looking down straight into kieran's blue eyes, he could tell he felt the same. sometimes this would happen - the two of them suddenly feeling this very intense urge to just get all over each other, other times it's more serene. density, lust. nick's eager to pin kieran up against the wall, right here, right there. barely able to contain himself. kieran no longer cared, the tunnel was empty and the lads had found each other continuing their celebrations in the nearby dressing room. he slapped his hand onto nick's chest, slowly dragging it downwards to his crotch, the palm of his hand covered in the mixture of rain and sweat on nick's body. his mouth opened, inhaling sharply when kieran's hand had arrived at its desired destination.

"i see you can really barely wait, huh?" the look on kieran's face darker, covered in mischief, his breath picking up pace. nick bit his bottom lip, he could feel himself get harder with every little movement kieran's hand made on his cock. kieran felt like jerking him off over his shorts right here and then, but decided against that last minute. "do you think anyone's taking a shower right now?" kieran asked unserious. nick shook his head. "more than unlikely. let's have a look?" the pair made their way over to the showers, not surprised to find absolutely no one around. the door was shut behind them quickly, wondering if they'd ever have just a little more time, they immediately pulled each others strips off, nick pushing kieran's now naked body into the first cubicle around. one final, deep look into each others eyes was followed by their lips colliding almost immediately after. nick turned on the water and their bodies were now more connected than ever - hands all over one another, nick pushing kieran against the wall so hard he could barely breathe, let alone fight him off, not he wanted it. "you're pushing really hard...give me some air..." kieran said when he finally managed to break their kiss, the steam from the hot water making it even harder to breathe. nick smiled "you don't like being pushed around, eh?" kieran shook his head and pushed the taller man down to his knees by his hair "not by you. i'm the leader." nick knew how kieran liked it, had done it many times before. he liked eye contact, he liked the power of it, a man of nick's size underneath him, swallowing his cock whole.

nick's gag reflex had been long gone from the times he'd done this, sometimes he would still cough a little, though. kieran put his hands on the back of nick's head, guiding his cock down his throat slowly, couldn't help himself but let out a little gasp when realising how easily nick took him all the way in, so obedient and eager to please his deepest needs. he kept it there for just a second, not moving, just watching nick's eyes, probably tearing up, the water washing away his tears instantly. he began pushing his cock up and down nick's throat, first slowly, then picking up speed. his hands sometimes lost grip in nick's wet hair, which irritated him. nick noticed that and placed his hands on kieran's ass for support. kieran now practically fucked into his mouth without any remorse, no longer caring if he'd gag on it. shame the water washed away the spit running from his mouth, to his chin, dripping to the shower floor as kieran began leaking precum. kieran remembered that one time nick said that it was his favourite taste, so salty yet sweet. kieran could no longer keep his mouth shut, whispering profanities into the hot air as nick let his hands wander over his kieran's back, down between his legs to grasp his balls. that was kieran's call to finally cum - with force, keeping his cock forced down nick's throat, held tightly by his hair, until he coughed and choked harshly, probably begging for him to catch a breath, but kieran wouldn't let go of him until he his greedy mouth had drained him from the last drop of his cum. when kieran had finally pulled his cock out of his throat, nick began coughing violently, almost throwing up the obscene amount of kieran's cum.

"oh did i forget to mention it's been two weeks for me? saved it all for you ..." nick kept coughing, almost concerning kieran a little. he spit the mixture of cum and spit into the drain, could've sworn there a bit of blood in there, too. kieran had done this few times before, but nick wasn't sure if he really did enjoy this treatment by him. now on all fours from coughing, he looked up to see kieran smile viciously. "you took it well. proud of you. almost." nick's shock had quickly turned into anger, turned straight into his own cock. he felt himself getting hard again, thinking of doing things to kieran he usually does not enjoy all that much. or maybe it was the idea of doing something kieran didn't enjoy, either way, he was going to act on it.

"turn around." nick got up and towered over the smaller man, feeling in absolute control all of a sudden, which, realistically spoken, he was, kieran would stand no chance against him in a physical manner. kieran's smile dropped "i'm not letting you fuck me, know i can't stand it." nick grabbed kieran by his wrists and pushed him against the wall with force, spreading his legs. "just this once. you'll like it when i do it ... different from pickford. i promise." kieran looked at him, feeling completely overpowered, in doubt, yet about to the let the heat of the moment take over. his face was fully pressed against the wall, turning his head to the side to meet up with nick's eyes. one reassuring wink from kieran, a nod. was it a nod? he took it as such, kieran had stopped fumbling around, his grip becoming looser. nick spit into his hand, spreading kieran's cheeks before pushing himself into kieran with force, a single painful gasp escaping from his mouth. nick began fucking his hole with no mercy, almost angry, only having his own pleasure in mind. nick became suddenly painfully aware of whether kieran enjoyed this at all, loosening the grip around his wrists to find him not fight him, but place his hand's on either side of nick's hips, coordinating along with nick's movements. nick laid his hands on top of his, fingers conjoined. "you feel so good ... fuck. so good." nick moaned with every push into kieran's body, him doing the same. he began kissing his mouth, sloppy and in ecstasy, their moans echoing into one another's mouths. one, two more deep thrusts until nick felt close and pulled out, didn't want to cum in his ass first time they'd done this.

he began stroking his cock with speed, knowing he was about to combust. "where should i cum? do you mind if i..." kieran spoke no word and got on his knees, opening his mouth as far as he could. nick gave himself a few more strong pumps from his fist, placing his cock straight onto kieran's tongue, watching his release rushing down kieran's throat in quick succession. he swallowed all of it, not thinking twice. when he was done he wiped a bit off the side of his mouth and gave nick an exhausted smile. "well... not sure what to say." nick felt weird about the whole thing all of a sudden, turning off the water and stepping out of the cubicle, kieran following immediately. "hey i didn't mean i didn't enjoy it, just a little. you know. we don't have to talk about it. it's fine." nick dried himself up and swung a towel around his waist, kieran doing the same.

nick didn't look back at kieran. "let's see what the others are up to. they must wonder where we are."

[necros-writing-stuff]

Okay Okay here’s my Ghost getting a noncon blowjob discord ramble - gn nurse, possibly OOC on Ghost’s behalf. He’s having a rough few days (got stabbed, having PTSD symptoms from childhood).

I won’t be using the main Ghost tags cause most people there don’t seem into the dead dove.

So the 141 got a new nurse to help out at base. They're quiet at first before opening up to everyone, but it's not hard to see that they seem to have a hard time talking to Ghost. But it's Ghost, he thinks that answering "Affirmative," to a simple question constitutes as a conversation, so no one can really blame their nurse for only giving the Lt. a brief smile as they pass him in the corridors and never more.

That's until he comes back passed out from a leaking stab wound. The lads had gone out drinking, just a local bar. Ghost had had a few, and as they'd started stumbling their way back to the base (walking that far seems fun when you're hammered), he'd stopped to take a piss in an alley. Hadn't seen the guy shaking behind a skip, clutching a knife. He'd had too many, letting his guard down for once in his damn life - and now he's paying for it.

Countless missions around the world. A shitty ass childhood. Nuclear bombs going off not even mile away from him. And it's some fuckin’ back-alley nutcase that manages to get a good enough hit to kill him.

Thankfully, it doesn't actually kill him. But he does feel confused when he wakes up in the medical bay, the newest nurse prodding at his side and making him wince. They flinch as soon as they notice he's awake, as if they'd been caught doing something wrong. He notices, with relief, that he's still got a mask on. Hides the quirk of his lips at seeing them so jumpy.

"You're conscious, that's good," they mutter quietly, slinking off before he can ask how the fuck he got here. He probably yelled out when he'd been shanked, the lads coming and dealing with it and dragging his sorry arse home.

The doc comes in soon enough, gives him the lowdown. He's on bedrest for the next week. Because the knife knicked his small intestine and its a bitch to heal, along with some pain meds and steroids to get him up and rolling as soon as he can manage. Shit.

Ghost hates being stuck inside. Hates that every fucking thing he does is being monitored "for his health" and that its that nurse that has to do it because doctors don't waste their time on helping patients waddle to the loo and the other nurses are on leave since the squad were all on breaks. He hates the feeling of being high on those painkillers.

And fuck Soap and Gaz, too. Coming to visit just to tease him as Ghost's personal little tender switches out his gauze. They try to get them to join in, but they just give a tight-lipped smile before finishing up and running away again.

"The fuck you even do to them? They act like you tried to kill them once." Soap shakes his head, eyes following as the nurse disappears beyond the closing door.

"Nothing I'm aware of," Ghost huffs, shifting his hips and trying to get more comfortable, ignoring the pain in his stomach, “but at least they make a nice cup of tea.” That gets a chuckle and some jokes at his “Too English” expense.

Lying in bed all day is starting to make his body ache, he wants to be out, wants to go on the longest fucking run of his life. But every time he moves there's still that telltale sharp pain.

He's stubborn. But he's not stupid. He knows to be a good boy and follow the doc's orders, or he'll fuck himself up even worse and won't be back in the field for a long, long time.

He misses it. Misses the adrenaline of it all, the justified rage that can take over him so much it plateaus out into a calm coolness that helps him kill with all that precision. Like therapy to him, that. A fucked up form of therapy, sure. But it helps him not take it out on those that don't deserve it.

The lads leave him for the night, and he sighs as he settles in to sleep. The nurse comes back, closes the curtain around his bed and mutters quietly that they'll be back at 6am to check on him, but to press the button if he needed anything. He just nods, waiting to hear the door close before he takes the mask off and places it on the side.

He's never been one to sleep much, but he comes to prefer mornings in the bay. His body feels looser then, relaxed for reasons he can't figure out. Still, he never let him self sleep in. Never slept past 5am on a good day, and it seems tonight is no different. Ghost wakes up in the pitch-blackness of the medical bay, groaning and stiff.

Because someone's between his legs with their tongue lapping at his cock like a thirsty mutt. There's a mix of feelings bubbling in his chest. Anger, sure. Confusion. Fear that he's being sexually assaulted in his own base by an anonymous abuser. He half thinks he's dreaming, but the little licks are too sharply pleasant to be imaginary.

He stops moving as the tongue halts, the owner pausing to guess if he had woken up or not. He fakes sleep, keeping his breathing even until his assailant goes back to violating him. Slowly, his hand creeps from the mattress, finding the switch for the lamp.

He flips it on, surprised to be met with the wide stare of his nurse. Deer in the headlights, that's the look.

He doesn't speak. Isn't exactly sure what to say. It being that nurse is only confusing him more. They avoid him, always. As much as they can. Yet they're the one making his dick leak pre with the sweet attention they give.

There's a long, long period of silence as they stare each other down, a game of chicken to see if he'll pounce and start pummelling or if they'll run away before he can.

He doesn't expect them to slowly start licking again, one, two, three stripes of their tongue up and down before sucking him as far into their eager mouth as he can go.

So many things he's done. So many experiences that few things surprised him anymore, yet since the night of being stabbed he's had more new experiences than in the past, oh, 5 years at least. Not good ones, that's for sure.

His breath catches as they suck particularly hard, an odd noise coming from his throat as his mouth falls open and his hips jolt.

They don't break eye contact the entire time, and he's suddenly very aware that the mask is off. But they've already seen his face - and evidently a lot more.

His brain starts working again, patterns he hadn't realised were there falling into place. He always feels better in the mornings. More relaxed, his body pleasantly tired in that way he would get after the occasional (very rare) wank he granted himself. This isn't the first time his little helper had done this. But how hadn't he noticed-

Pain meds. They'd knocked him out right good for the night. His dose was reduced this morning.

He still doesn't know what to do. It makes him feel vulnerable in a way that he hasn't felt since he was a kid, being tormented by his father - by his brother hanging down from the top bunk whispering with that mask on. He can't look away, can only stare wide-eyed as he grunts and moans before his head lolls back just from how good it feels.

He's breathing hard, the addition of his nurse's hands gently massaging the base of his cock and a thumb making tiny little teasing circles on his ball-sack sending him over the edge shamefully quickly.

They swallow everything. Pull off of him with a sickeningly wet pop before putting him away clinically as if they'd just been examining his dick for medical purposes.

"You should catch some more sleep, sir," they whisper, leaning over and clicking the lamp off before they leave him alone in that dark room once more.

He's trembling now. Stuck gazing up at the tiles in the ceiling as his head drifts away. It's not right. None of that was okay. So why the fuck didn't he do something to make it stop? Why couldn't he move, speak, fucking blink Morse code?

He’s not some kid. He’s a trained soldier, the one called when you want the job done with as few loose strings as humanly possible. With no traces, no evidence, no photos. So why?

Why does he let them do it again in the morning, with a happy little smile on their face as he wonders where the fuck Ghost went and Simon Riley took his place.

[yamatossideboob]

One Piece 1108 Spoilers!!

This week's intellectual musings:

GOOD COVER SPREAD ALL DE GIRLIES!! Tashigi may not have a Devil Fruit but somethings getting awakened for deffo here hehehe

Good mag cover art too, I love seeing Oda's colours a bit more closely

Okay yeah as *everyone* speculated, Caribou is gonna fill BB in on the Ancient Weapons :s I do wonder if he'll get some details wrong and this is a gag being set up, but unfortunately this just feels like the reason BB & co will finally upgraded to Big Bads™️ rough times ahead

For now though it's neat to see Vice Admirals scrapping, but alas! our giant pals are making shite of them

I saw someone point out last week how Dorry and Brogy might not recognise Franky bc his face isn't on his bounty poster and they FUCKING CALLED IT what a small but very good thing lmao

god OP giants are so good, ilysm lads

ahem anyway as soon as i saw scholar mentioned so significantly I got wondering, and after several microseconds realised they surely meant SAUL!! ofc this is practically confirmed on the nest page but how intriguing! how hype!!

also I love Doll even if she is a marine. I am a simple woman. I wonder will she get to meet Saul again later...

Bluegrass is so good, I love her design and power in tandem, she's so fun

I just had a thought.... the idea of self-destruct functions has been sown previously in Kuma's flashback... what if, as a way to help guarantee his personal safety prior to this arc... Vegapunk has one in HIMSELF? I can imagine it: Saturn, defeated and having let the Strawhats escape with Bonney and the giants, succumbs to blind rage and wants to deal the finishing blow to VP, who "fsr" stayed behind. However, either he or VP himself activates the self-destruct, and with Saturn reaping his own demise, VP manages to square with the devil he made deals with, and make peace with his red hands... idk. This idea just came to me, I am not much of a speculator lmao

AHEM anywayyy Saturn is fucking scary, I wonder since he's clearly losing his rag with this shower of upstarts, is his Zoan(?) fruit going apeshit?

ough yes like the lake hydra in dark souls 1, i see i see

Vegapunk for an old and mortally wounded man you're sure chatty

Okay. hear me out. I know the 'Traitor Kizaru' theory is dead in the water at this point. But... why would he hyper beam Vegapunk right through what looks like the same wound Saturn gave VP earlier? In the panel right after it looks like smoke is rising from the new wound... what if Kizaru cauterised it? Can Vegapunk survive a little longer thanks to this? I'm going cracked over here!!!

OKAY LUFFY IS GETTING SERIOUS!! BY WHICH I MEAN SILLAY!! Ohhhhhhhhhh god lads next week is going to be good

AND IT'LL BE EVEN BETTER BE WHAT THE HOLY HELL IS VEGAPUNK UP TO NOW?! HE'S GONNA DO A WHITEBEARD AND COAX THE WG INTO A SNAFU. GOOD GOD Y'ALL!!!

Next week can't come soon enough!! We might even see that giant robo again! maybe it'll be brushing its teeth! til then! 💪✖️

[soranihimawari]

ძrᥱᥲm ᥲ ᥣі𝗍𝗍ᥣᥱ ᥆𝖿 mᥱ

Or Miya Osamu comes to terms with his first love’s death

Pairing: Miya O x reader

Word count: tbd

Warnings: character death, coping via working obscene hours, dreamscape

In a house located in the southern most side of Osaka, a young ambitious man tosses and turns. Sleep has been an elusive memory as the days spread out and blur together for good debut in the culinary scene. Bringing fresh flavors and a unique spin where the food, his food, the patrons of his original restaurant sing the stories of his childhood. Of course, there was the one time here and his brother joined the Ojiros and Kitas in a camping trip where they’re taught the importance of fishing.

And sure, it was the one time in the summer where the boys made friends with the pretty young and equally ambitious cliff diver. Your bright smile in the ripples of the deep lake as you offered slivers of watermelons to the boys reflected the tenacity in them to pursue their fishing quotas. You were here to garner more experience in holding your breath underwater, so when it came time to head home you’d be able to finally free drive for oysters off the treacherous rocky cliffs—a place no child should be without proper supervision. To them, you were a superhero the likes Aquaman would fear, but to a certain quieter lad, you were lovelier than anyone (or anything) his mind could think of.

A decade later and the first in season flavor is the fruit blossom that leant a hand on your name—peaches were never really Miya Osamu’s favorite fruit until he remembered you. He found an old photograph when visiting his mother’s house after giving himself a four-day weekend. The restaurant was doing well, he even hired two managers and promoted one of his most loyal line cooks to sous chef just so he could catch a break.

Anyways, his mother is delighted to see her son return home for a few days. She prattles on about how this neighbor gained an in-law while the other became a grandparent for the second (or was it third?) time. Suffice to say, as she hands her son a cup of green tea, she takes a seat beside him. Following her son’s line of sight to the knick-knack shelf, a photograph incased behind a plexiglass frame from shop class in middle school causes his breath to hitch in his throat.

The memories come back from the time at the lake; the subsequent years afterward to make the most of their summer and spring breaks. That lake was the setting for many firsts: Atsumu being stung by a bee when he was twelve, kita catching the largest catfish at thirteen, ojiro floating on a raft, and finally you in nothing more than a modest one piece holding his hand in the camera with the widest smile on your face. Love in all its glory was the most innocent then, he thinks with a heavy brow.

“Nothing is ever truly lost,” his mother’s voice pulls him out of his thoughts. “It’s been a long time since the peaches blossomed.”

“…yeah,” he frowns into his mug.

When Osamu returns home later that week, his sleep pattern changes. It’s a rough couple of weeks following since everything is going so well, when the other shoe bound to drop slammed through his psyche in the form of this dream. The same one he had after hearing the sudden news.

“Local authorities say the girl tried to break up a knife fight between her two cousins only to get stabbed near a critical vein this causing her to bleed out,” his mom is relaying the news and Atsumu is on the other line breath trembling. “Her cousins were always troublemakers apparently, but why would they bring a pocket knife with them?”

Osamu knows his brother isn’t taking this well because for what it’s worth, being friends with both of them was quite fun. He reminisced being able to take walks with you on the bike path at the camp site: you tell him about the subject’s you’re studying now in your second year of high school, even more exciting was that your parents (as long as it doesn’t distract you from your studies) has slowly you to start going on group dates.

You laughed at the way Osamu pouts, giving you the little courage needed to be bold—you still hold his hand mentioning that you have this crush on a guy, “about yay high, with the eyes of a storm settling on them,” you brush your free hand over his bangs. “also, judging by the way he’s looking at me right now, i think he feels the same…”

Osamu’s not embarrassed or anything, he just agrees to put some truth to the statement when he bends down slightly to kiss your cheek whispering, “ya can’t call me out like this, yn-san.”

And sure, you both were sixteen at the time, both not ready to realize that perhaps this might be the last season break you’d see each other due to other obligations thanks to volleyball and diving season (you were on the platform division for indoor pool diving) were going to begin. Come the end of the bike trail, you hear Atsumu, Kita, and Aran not too far from their site exchange ghost stories. You laugh a bit, turning to osamu as though you’re asking whether or not you should join them, you don’t though, because Osamu pulls you to the side.

“Eep!” Sturdy hands this time find your waist to steady you and you see the humor reflect in Osamu’s face. He caught you off guard when he pulled his little stunt and you almost tripped over his feet.

“Shh, don’t want ‘em t’see,” his breath is warm against your Cupid’s bow. You lean back a bit perplexed, yet your heart jumps from your chest cavity to your throat before Osamu steals it away when he kisses you for the first time; an innocent peck turns into several before you initially with his help, deepen it. His hands traverse upward, touching your shirt along the way, yours too do the same, taking a hand through the back of his hair. The closer he holds you, the more you have trouble breathing because for an athlete you sure did forget the importance of breathing a bit here. Giving you pause to collect yourself, Osamu smirks at your flustered appearance. You’re prettier than those fans of his at school, so much more he thinks when he curls a finger to caress your cheek.

“We-we should go,” you confess, shyly pressing your face against his shirt.

“Mm. Wonder what story Kita’s going to tell to scare ‘Tsumu shitless,” Osamu says. This causes you to laugh as you shake free of his embrace to walk a few paces ahead.

“A ghost one, that’s for sure,” you reply prior to turning around to break into a short jog, waving to the other boys to announce your and Osamu’s return.

The memory of the first time Osamu kisses you is a constant daydream he has in his office. He’s balancing the books wishing he had your talent for liking math, business math more specifically. Though it’s one bonding experience after the other as you lot grew older, you seemed to have called him out of the blue once. He answered with a curious grin. You mention you’re visiting next weekend, mentioning something or other about your youngest godmother’s baby shower happening in a suburb nearby. Osamu asks you if you’d like to catch up, you agree joking around saying, “wouldn’t your girlfriend get jealous you’re spending time with your first love?”

“Bold o’ ya to assume yer not still my girl,” he loved hearing the way your breath hitches before you scold him. He imagines the blush on your fished features deepening before you stutter out a gentle good bye on the line.

You were supposed to meet up a few days ago; you never showed up. That night, the mom of the miyas makes a heartbreaking call. Upon hearing your passing, Osamu and Atsumu, along with their mother eventually make the trip to pay their respects. Kita and Ojiro also arrive together. It’s been less than a half day at school, but seeing the hall only half full kind of made Osamu’s blood boil a bit.

You had a bright smile that could rival the sun, so why isn’t you life more celebrated? You looked like you were filled with greatness with eyes as wide as the moon itself.

Perhaps that’s why, as the bed springs creak when Osamu turns over, he sees your twenty-six year old self stand in front of him. He recognizes the setting behind you: vinyl covered chairs, small and medium tables scattered about, the chimes on the door that go off when the fire opens, the smell of rice wine vinegar—his subconscious leads you meet him at Onigiri Miya.

“You mad lad,” your voice echoes in this dream. Your smile is infectious as you raise an arm to tick your hair behind your ear. “You actually did it.”

He’s standing stock still as you approach him. You’re close enough he swears he’d kiss you if only that would bring you back to life.

“‘Samu, you and I both know I’ve been gone a while,” your voice confidently reminds him. He glances down a bit sheepishly unwilling to let any more foolish thoughts wash up on his face.

“But this,” you guide one of his hands to your chest. “This was always yours even when we were kids.”

At your ghostly confession, Osamu finally, finally cracks—he cries the longer you’re presence lingers in this dream. Is this how your memory will live on for him? You tap his shoulder telling him “it’s alright” and as his shoulders shake a little more, you willingly become more solid as you embrace him.

“Let it all out,” you encourage him to hide his face in the crook of your neck. It isn’t long thereafter your lips entice his skin where the barely there stubble pricks your Cupid’s bow. As he calms himself down you ask him to tell you updates about the others. He tells you how Atsumu and Aran went pro and about how kita bought his grandparents farm so they can retire in peace. You hum and nod appropriately as the stories progress and his hand never leaves yours. It is a sublime feeling knowing how you rub soothing patterns over his knuckles.

Unbeknownst to you both, as the sun comes up in the real world, Osamu and by extent, you, turn transparent little by little.

“Samu, i don’t want to go,” your voice is cracking the lighter you become. You looked terrified as you grip his shirt. You’ve been dead for almost half a decade now and the thought of being separated from the person whom loved you the longest causes you to gain the closure you needed to cross over. “I’m sorry i never showed up. My cousins were fighting over something stupid, i didn’t even know one of them joined a yakuza branch after coming back from overseas…i would of really liked to try your food, hah.”

You seemed disappointed, yet Osamu calls your attention deftly saying your name at first, a whispered confession second. You affirm how you’d have returned his affection of it weren’t for your family squabbles.

“I know,” he dips his head to press a last kiss to the corner of your mouth. “I know baby, but we both can’t stay.”

For a moment, you’re both solid again. You thank the lords of the underworld and afterlife for this moment. You have to say the next part though it’s hard to describe because with seeing your first love, your transition to being nothing more than a peacekeeper in the heavenly realm will begin.

“I won’t be coming back Samu,” you whisper. “You’re my ‘unfinished business.’”

“Ya really gotta stop making me bawl like a child,” Osamu chuckles peppering kisses all over your face. With one final drag of his lips down your nose does he cups your face and raises your lips to be closer to his again.

With this, your lips press against the other’s, slightly deepening the longer your body lingers in Osamu’s hold. He kisses you the same like that first time in the bike path, holding your neck steady whispering an airy, “rest easy” and “wait a bit for me, yeah?” You nod, kissing him in between responding with a mirthful voice, “i will” and “live a long life for me.” Your lips stay on his a short while longer until the impression is nothing but a memory for either of you.

“Against all odds, l’ll come back to you Miya Osamu.” Your voice rings in his ear, a warmth like a chaste kiss calms his furrowed brow a bit more. His hands grip the comforter before they relax as sleep contours for a few more minutes.

It’s five-thirty in the morning when Osamu wakes, he traces his lips wondering if you knew how much you inspired him to continue his pursuits in his culinary track.

And sure enough, a few days later, at Onigiri Miya, your portrait hangs next to Atsumu’s (the next franchise location has a bronzed peach blossom under the store marquee) with a permanent plaque of your name and the kanji for “everlasting inspiration” is debuted on the eve of your birthday that very month. Your family comes to visit on the day of your birthday like it’s always a new tradition to come celebrate your birthday at the restaurant—your parents stand looking at your photo with pride as both your mom and Osamu’s mother grip your first love’s hand.

[tunglo]

My latest research subject is leading me on a wild ride. Herbert Dyer first comes to light as an ‘extraordinary boy medium’ at the age of 17 in 1928, allegedly channeling the spirit of his dead brother Leslie in their Llanhilleth terrace. Harry Price comes over from London to investigate and the story is reported all across the national and regional press...

But by 1929 he’s in the local papers for theft and in March 1931 he’s back in court for sleeping rough after his father kicked him out for threatening ‘to do him in’ along with his younger sisters. Local newspapers - not connecting him to the poltergeist case - reported: After the magistrates had deliberated in private, the chairman said they had decided to place the defendant on probation for 12 months, and the father would be bound over in the sum of £10 to be responsible for him. The father: 'I refuse to be bound. I cannot accept the responsibility. He will never enter my house again.' Supt. Shelswell suggested that the case should be adjourned for a week to enable the police to make inquiries into the lad's conduct, and the magistrates agreed to this. Addressing the father, the Clerk (Mr. M. F. Carter) said that as the lad's parent he had a responsibility towards him. He would have to accept the responsibility for the next seven days or he would get in trouble.

In 1932 he’s fined £25 for stealing parts from his job at a Dagenham factory. By August 1933 he’s joined the blackshirts and is in court for car theft!

CINDERFORD FASCIST. BOUND OVER FOR DRIVING AWAY A CAR. Oxford city court was crowded with black-shirted fascists to-day, when a 21-years-old Fascists recruit, Herbert Dyer, of Cinderford, Glos., was bound over for driving away without permission, a woman organiser's car. Dyer, who said that he found the car unattended in an Oxford street, and was going to return it to its owner, was stated to have a mania for driving.

That December he stole another car and was sentenced to four months hard labour. When he gets out he just does it again, and again - and again. In February 1936 he was sentenced to another six months. In January 1937 he’s facing yet another stretch when he writes to the Bench for clemency:

Dyer, who pleaded for another chance, said in a letter to the Bench that he had always tried to go straight in life, but unfortunately the Magistrates before whom he had been brought had never given him a chance. "I have never had that one chance which would make a man of me and also make my mother proud of me, and myself a happy man." The letter went on to say that Dyer had written the Home Secretary respecting his case, but he was unable to help in any way. "What I want is to lead an honest life, but if I go to prison again I shall have all my spirit taken out of me," concluded Dyer in his letter.

He duly used that chance to commit the same crime again in the June and was sent to Pentonville prison. There he claimed he was beaten by the wardens and his girlfriend, 16 year old Nellie Graham of Stepney, gets their local MP to conduct an investigation on Herbert’s behalf in December 1937.

That is where I lose track of him. I know he’s alive in 1959 because he sends flowers ‘from Brother Herbert’ to his older sister Bertha’s funeral. But what was he up to in the meantime...

[adzeisval]

Race Against the Clock

Time for Whumptober! Sixteen year old Izzy Hands and fourteen year old Edward Teach end up on the same pirate ship and quickly bond. What will they become? Also on AO3. Tag for this will be #forged together.

Izzy Hands was in a dire situation, one that was likely going to end his life but he couldn’t help but think that at least he was going to be reunited with his family. It was the only hope, the only bright spot he could focus on as he waited to die. 

The merchant ship had gone down fast; torn apart on a sandbar, sinking with all but five hands on board. Izzy had only been on the ship three months, his family had been gone four months and now he was going to join them. 

They were floating in a too small dinghy in water that was still rough in the middle of the ocean. No oars. No water. No hope. Such a dinghy would be all but impossible to spot if a ship did pass by. 

Sixteen years of life was not much, but it was more than his siblings got. Izzy closed his eyes and pictured his family. He tried to focus on happy times, not how it all ended. Happy times; his mother singing, his father’s laugh, his siblings crowded around him. He tried to think of that but other things slipped in. Fever. Sickness. All five of his family members gone in less than two weeks. Debt. Losing his home. Going to sea was his only option. 

The sea began to calm and night fell. Izzy tried to sleep. He’d gotten used to the rolling of the sea at long last, but there really wasn’t any way to lay down and it didn’t really feel safe to. He must have looked like he was sleeping though because his crewmates were talking. 

“If we draw lots we can easily make sure its the lad,” One said. 

“Little runt won’t put up much of a fight.” 

“The fuck I won’t,” Izzy thought, but he knew they were right. If they were going to kill him he wouldn’t stand a chance. He wouldn’t make it easy but they’d likely get him in the end. 

Morning came and the others kept looking at each other and then at Izzy. They were going to make a move soon. 

“Look we…” 

“There’s a ship!” 

Izzy saw the ship, sailing in their direction. He felt a little blossom of hope in his chest; maybe they would be noticed and saved. 

“Fuck, pirates!” 

“We should try not to be seen….” 

“What?” Izzy said, “And wait to die in this dinghy?” 

“Hands they are pirates.” 

“And our only chance to survive,” Izzy said. 

“Knew there was something wrong with this kid, we should cut his throat so he can’t call out for help.” 

Izzy looked around at the men he’d been sailing with the past few months and didn’t understand them at all. There was a ship, they could be rescued, they could live. And pirate ships had to dock now and then didn’t they? They could get away or…well what the fuck was so different about pirates? What was so bad about them? 

Izzy was only sixteen years old, he’d survived a fever that had killed his entire family, and he was fast becoming aware of a burning desire to fucking live. Didn’t really matter who he served under did it? As long as he worked hard, did his best. And lived. 

Luck was on Izzy’s side; the ship came close and stopped, sending out a party of three pirates in a dinghy. 

“Well what do we have here?” one of the pirates asked. 

“We don’t want anything to do with your kind, just leave us.” 

All three pirates laughed and the one spoke again, “You’ll die out here in that thing. No other ships nearby.” 

“We’ll take our chances.” 

The pirate shook his head, “You will die, we could use some extra hands.” 

“Be gone.” 

“Last chance,” the Pirate said. 

Izzy shifted and stood.

“Hands don’t you dare, you disgrace! You get caught with that lot and you’ll hang.” 

Maybe he would. Maybe he’d go down in another storm, be cut to ribbons by a sword, get shot in a raid. But that would be in the future. He wasn’t afraid of work, he wasn’t afraid of a fight, and as desperately as he missed his family he wanted to live.

“You really want to turn into one of them, Hands?” 

“I want to live,” Izzy said and leapt from the dinghy just as his fellow merchant sailors tried to stop him. He wasn’t the best swimmer but he managed to get to the pirate dinghy and was pulled up into the boat. 

“Good choice lad,” one of the pirates said. 

“We’ll see to it that you’re hung Israel Hands!” his former crew yelled as the dinghy started to row back toward the pirate ship. Izzy wondered if he’d made the wrong decision, wondered if he could really be a pirate. 

“Don't worry about them lad, they won’t make it. No other ship around for miles and another storm is coming in.” 

Izzy nodded. 

The ship was a small one once he got up on it, with a crew of only eight pirates. They gave him a tour, gave him some water and hard tack and then set him to work swabbing the deck. 

They were right about the storm, it battered the ship and there were moments when Izzy wondered if he was about to be shipwrecked yet again. 

So many changes in such a short time. From dock worker with a family he loved dearly to homeless and put to sea as a merchant sailor and now to a pirate. 

“I’m alive,” Izzy reminded himself. 

They were at sea for two weeks and hadn’t seen a single ship until they were suddenly almost to port. The Captain called Izzy into the cabin as soon as land was sighted. 

“We’re docking on the Republic of Pirates, and I’m afraid this is where we part ways young Mr. Hands.” 

“Oh? Did I do something wrong?” 

“No, just bad luck lad. This ship is near to breaking apart and we’ve got other ventures to get to and, look I need you to know we took you in to save you but sometimes a pirate has to make some coin. Captain Hornigold is looking for some young pirates to train up for his fleet and he’ll pay good coin for you. Now that don’t mean he owns you Hands, but it might be a good place to learn your way in pirating.” 

“Yes Captain,” Izzy said. He wasn’t sure how he felt, another change so soon, but he understood well enough. It was a different world than he was used to but there were still rules and way things were done and he could learn and work and live. 

Izzy tried to take in all the new sights and sounds of  the Republic of Pirates but there was just too much going on to see it all. He was more than a little nervous about all the new things around. 

“Got one for Hornigold,” The Captain announced and Izzy tried not to look as nervous as he felt. 

“Little on the small side, how old are you runt?” 

“Sixteen.” 

The men laughed and Izzy blushed and felt his temper rising. 

“Ah, little bit of fire in that runt though, we’ll take em.” 

Coins were exchanged and then Izzy was moving on again. It was only midday but he was exhausted. So much uncertainty of late. Izzy took a deep breath. He could do whatever he had to. He was going to survive and live. 

There were about a dozen young pirates on the deck of the ship as Izzy arrived. Over the day another six joined. Izzy kept to himself and watched the others. He wasn’t sure if he should look at them like competition or crewmates or what yet. He imagined if one did well in training they’d get a better ship assignment and he knew just from stories that Captain Hornigold had a lot of ships. 

A woman came out, dressed in brown leathers with weapons on her belt. She was short with dark hair braided behind her back. 

“Alright! Line up over here you dogs. I’m First Mate Hall, you will refer to me as such or as sir, anything else out of your yappers will get you a lashing.  And yes I did say sir, none of this ma’am shit I am not your fucking mother so get that through your thick heads. You will follow every fucking order, do as your told, or you’ll get a lashing. Captain Hornigold only wants the best and I’ll make you into the best or throw you to the sharks. Follow me for bunk assignments then we’ll get you useless dogs working!” 

Below deck there was a line of bunks built into the wall and then a hammock above each bunk. Hall called out names and pointed until there were only two names left. 

“Alright last bunk, Israel Hands, Edward Teach.” 

Izzy went to the bunk with the other boy, Edward, and they looked at the set up and then at each other. There were low arguments between the others as to who was getting the bunk and who was getting the hammock. 

“We don’t have to sleep in the same spot, switch out you know?” Edward said. 

Izzy nodded, “Works for me.” 

“Alright dogs, lets get to fucking work!” 

Izzy fell in line with the other young pirates with Edward by his side.

[ostensiblynone]

Larry Quirk, [Mike] Connolly's fellow Hollywood journalist, heard a number of reports of Connolly's "amorous activities." If gossip about Connolly at gay parties was as rampant as Quirk remembered, it could easily have reached the ears of a tipster for Confidential.

"Eddie Goulding [the director] told me one young actor did something cruel to Mike," Quirk said. "The actor wanted Mike to do something at a studio for him, while Mike wanted to have sex with the actor. He was angry when Mike didn't keep his promise to help him. So to get even he put sneezing powder on his penis in advance and then let Mike go down on him. Mike ended up sneezing and coughing for a week." "There used to be a place on Wilshire," Quirk continued. "It wasn't a bathhouse because there weren't baths, but a gym with lots of commodious private 'dressing cubicles.' I know Mike went there because I saw him there, leaving someone's cubicle. Another time I was with a young man who told me he had been picked up by Mike on Hollywood Boulevard," said Quirk. "Mike had a masochistic side; he liked danger. His favorite line was, 'Are you an actor? If not, you should be.' Eddie Goulding also told me Mike had a habit of picking up rough trade, and some of the boys would try to blackmail him. Eddie said Mike almost got himself killed once by a scruffy lad who pulled a knife on him. Another guy robbed him. I think he may have been arrested once, but pulled strings to get off or have the record expunged." If there is no surviving record of Connolly's having been arrested by the vice squad, it is clear from his column that he held a grudge against the Los Angeles police. He often took potshots at them, such as "L.A. vice squad's new theme song: Hello, Young Lovers, Wherever You Are," or "Vice squad has put on fourteen extra men and given them a list of all bars on the side streets between Santa Monica and Sunset." Connolly's friend David Hanna said the vice squad (known simply as "vice") was a constant danger to gay men. "The vice squad was there and had to be kept busy," Hanna recollected. "It was aggressive in its pursuit of gay people in any way it could get them because they were so easy to get." Connolly frequently passed along police stories to readers, such as the night "the sheriff chased a covey of customers out of the Interlude" or "Beverly Hills cops are vice-campaigning with a vengeance" or "Vice squadders have drilled tiny peepholes into most of the town's most notorious saloons." These items were all related in neutral language, but in each case it was gay establishments and patrons that were being targeted and raided. … A number of lawyers in Los Angeles, including Wendy Stewart and Harry Weiss, handled gay cases. Greg Bautzer, the top facilitator of deals in the entertainment industry, was counsel to the Hollywood Reporter and would have had the connections to protect Connolly's good name had the need arisen. Connolly dropped Bautzer's name in the column several times per week in an attitude bordering on worship, even though Bautzer was not an entertainer in need of publicity. Other individuals who were not lawyers were also known as someone to see in times of extraordinary need. Singled out in Connolly's column was Kemp Niver, who won a special Oscar in 1954 for inventing a process that converted old paper film into projectable film. Niver had also been a private investigator in Los Angeles, one of the few, according to Connolly, who "has never been corrupted by these scandal magazines" and who "has also acted, for many years, as a 'laundryman' here, helping to keep certain reputations clean. It has cost him plenty of work but he has never learned how to say no to anyone in trouble.'"

—Mike Connolly and the manly art of Hollywood gossip by Val Holley, published 2003

[violentviolette]

literally nothing makes me more fucking angry than people making me feel like everything is all my fault and im the cause of all the bad shit in their lives

my mom has made me feel that my entire fucking existence. she couldnt abort me so she got stuck with my abusive dad (he would reproductively abuse his girlfriends and get them pregnant on purpose without their consent and then force them to get abortions to assert control and dominance. his gf before my mom had 3 abortions, my mom tried to abort me but her insurance denied it and then she changed her mind and decided to have me. my dad broke up with her and wasnt there for my birth and only got back together with her after i was born and his mom forced him to) and then i went on to amount to nothing and make zero money and couldnt save her from poverty and my dad and all of the negative life choices she made and so im a failure. because i was supposed to fix everything but i didnt so my entire existence is pointless because i fuck everything up and so im the reason everyone is miserable

i never fix anything, i just make everything worse, im a failure on every level

and i know now that thats fucked and not true at all, i know my fathers abuse and my mothers poor choices are not my fault or my responsibility. i know i didnt ask to be born and so my existence isnt the problem

i know all of that but it still doesnt stop those feelings from fucking rising up everytime im in a situation where im getting blamed for everything. especially things that arent my direct fault or are out of my control. i cant force other people to do things, i cant magically make situations not exist or fix peoples teeth or make work obligations dissapear. i cant fix any of that so im just a fucking failure

i know none of that is my fault but lately i just. feel like a useless failure who cant seem to manage even a single good thing for anyones life and whose existence is entirely worthless and that fucking sucks